Sean Jacobs's Blog, page 6
July 15, 2025
Against climate resilience
Photo by Andrew Slifkin on Unsplash. In 2016, Achille Mbembe wrote Africa in the New Century, offering a critical analysis of the continent���s resilience amid globalization and the enduring legacies of colonialism. In this bold and evocative piece, Mbembe critiques the Hegelian apocalypse that portrayed Africa as an ���Unhistorical, Undeveloped Spirit, still involved in the conditions of mere nature��� and subverts Western narratives of Africa���s predicament in shaping its future during the age of the climate crisis. While recognizing Africa���s disproportionate vulnerability to climate change, Mbembe argued that the continent holds some of the most potent solutions to the global ecological trap overshadowing the twenty-first century. Mbembe���s insights remain relevant today, particularly in discourses on resilience building, where Africans are often portrayed as victims rather than agents in responding to and shaping solutions to climate change.
Over the past two decades, resilience building has gained impetus in development policy discourses addressing adaptation, disaster risk management, agriculture, and economic stability. Despite its conceptual ambiguities and its widespread use as a development buzzword, resilience functions as a risk-management framework designed to anticipate, avoid, plan for, cope with, recover from, and adapt to climate-related shocks and stresses in the Anthropocene. The United Nations, the World Bank, and international donors are increasingly funding projects to build resilience in ���vulnerable��� environments, pledging to strengthen capacities and empower communities to adapt and recover from climate crises. However, designing and financing resilience is deeply rooted in neocolonial domination, power, and knowledge production, often obscured in policy discourses.
By situating resilience governance within broader African historical and contemporary political contexts, I illustrate how resilience building does not always empower vulnerable populations but serves as a mechanism for reinforcing neocolonial hegemonic dependencies. I call for a decolonial consciousness that interrogates the historical roots of marginalization in order to reconceptualize, reimagine, and rewrite dominant discourses on resilience in Africa. In doing so, I position African (indigenous) populations not merely as passive recipients of externally imposed aid but as active agents who, despite structural and systemic constraints, continuously resist, adapt to, and contribute to alternative forms of resilience rooted in local knowledge, lived experience, care, and reciprocity.
From 1960, when several African countries gained independence to the outbreak of COVID-19 in 2020, there have been over 500 scholarly works focused on African resilience. Throughout history, Africans have embedded resilience in their institutions, governance, and cultures, adapting to environmental, social, economic, and political challenges. A significant body of scholarship on resilience in Africa challenges persistent myths that portray African peoples and histories as static, devoid of agency, or inherently violent. Across the continent, indigenous knowledge systems have long played a crucial role in environmental adaptation and ecological preservation. Communities have used traditional methods to interpret ecological indicators���such as animal behavior, plant phenology, and celestial patterns���to predict rainfall, navigate extensive periods of drought, and respond to shifting climatic conditions. These practices, deeply rooted in local cosmologies and oral traditions, offer flexible, context-specific strategies that have sustained livelihoods for generations and continue to shape adaptive responses in the face of contemporary climate challenges.
However, these forms of ���resilience��� are rendered problematic from a development perspective precisely because they are unproven, unregulated, and not captured in techno-political registers. As a result, local knowledge systems and adaptive strategies are not often recognized in policymaking, and interventions focus on Eurocentric and scientific knowledge. These forms of Western knowledge ignore contextual knowledge and place climate change solutionism within the logic of capitalist modernism and neoliberal governance, arguing that the same capitalist systems that created the climate crisis possess the requisite qualities to address it. Such discourses neglect political concerns with the history of the climate crisis, placing technological innovations and experts as the solution. This reflects how resilience and adaptation governance obscure the long histories of epistemic violence and the asymmetrical power relations between the colonizer, experts, and African indigenous populations who are beneficiaries of resilience programming.
The postcolonial landscape of climate governance in Africa is shaped by Western hegemony, engendered as a result of colonialism and imperialism where, in its aftermath, Africans are perceived as vulnerable victims of the ecological crisis in need of aid from Western colonizers who evangelize themselves as liberators, experts, and arbiters of the truth. Crucially, contemporary rationalities of resilience programming end up reproducing neocolonial mechanisms in postcolonial Africa. It is worth noting that financial assistance from the West comes as loans, with only a limited portion allocated as grants. Funds allocated for climate change mitigation often come with conditions that, for instance, require the establishment of carbon markets or adopting renewable energy technologies sourced from donor countries, reinforcing dependencies and external control. African countries facing existential climate threats swiftly accept them, but these conditionalities pose significant threats to national sovereignty. These conditionalities risk reproducing patterns of environmental governance that limit African agency, constrain policy space, and prioritize global climate objectives over the lived needs of vulnerable communities.
Climate finance, ostensibly designed to support developing economies to build resilience, has instead entrenched global inequalities, increased the debt crisis of Africans and reinforced neocolonial economic structures. Evidence of this is compelling: While developed countries claim to have met their 2022 climate finance target with $115.9 billion, 71 percent of this amount was delivered as loans���many at market interest rates���thereby intensifying the financial burdens of vulnerable developing countries, particularly across the African continent. The World Bank���s West Africa Food Systems Resilience Project (2022���2027), which seeks to integrate climate-smart technologies to build the resiliency of farmers to tackle the problem of food insecurity in Ghana, Togo, Burkina Faso, Niger, and other countries, is funded through concessional loans. However, these loans perpetuate a cycle of dependency among recipient countries and beneficiary farmers and communities, subjecting them to discipline and control to ensure compliance with the demands of funding institutions.
Furthermore, neocolonialism in resilience building in Africa emerges in the marginalization of local knowledge and agency during project design and implementation. Thus, while many resilience projects assert their aim to empower communities, they frequently overlook the indigenous knowledge of the very people they purport to serve, thereby perpetuating injustices and neocolonial subjectivities. As I argue elsewhere, this reveals forms of coloniality where, in attempting to build resilience, experts homogenize African realities and apply the same solutions across diverse cultures. Local knowledge within African communities is dismissed as unscientific and inferior (what I term the ���coloniality of knowledge���), which excludes these communities from decision-making (coloniality of power), and benefits are distributed unequally���privileging a select few while marginalizing many (coloniality of being). This top-down approach often leads to maladaptation and various forms of community resistance across the continent. Resilience interventions in Uganda have been shown to undermine local livelihoods, including among the Karamojong pastoralists and Batwa forest-dwelling communities. They highlight how long-standing indigenous knowledge systems have been overlooked in the process, thereby entrenching structural injustices, exacerbating inequalities, and ultimately reinforcing cycles of skepticism and resistance.
My research illustrates how the Frafra people in the Upper East Region of northern Ghana actively resisted aspects of the Increased Resilience to Climate Change in Northern Ghana project (2016���2022), implemented by the UNDP and the government of Ghana under the Adaptation Fund. This resistance manifested in various forms���such as rejecting project structures, boycotting commissioning events and new farm lands, and self-mobilizing to rectify dam flaws���demonstrating a critique of externally driven adaptation frameworks in Africa and a reaffirmation of local knowledge and priorities. Local resistance to the resilience project, I posit, characterize how social exclusion and injustices in climate policy illustrate the postcolonial development landscape of a colonized African continent, depicted in decades of technification, failed climate adaptation interventions, and stagnant development.
Given that Western neoliberal paradigms of climate governance have not abated in resilience praxis, the only security for African communities lies in the formalization, ownership, and affirmation of indigenous knowledge systems, cultures, and ontologies of resilience thinking. Only through this can Africans navigate the escalating challenges of climate change while resisting external pressures and emerging forms of control.
Echoing Achille Mbembe���s call for Africa to reclaim itself as a site of autonomous development, self-invention, and political imagination beyond the tutelage of the West, I propose Africanization as a way of decolonizing resilience discourses and policy in the age of climate change. As Mbembe suggests, Africa must learn to become a center unto itself, a site where new imaginaries, new concepts, new thinking, and new practices are tested and experimented with. This perspective calls for a fundamental shift away from externally imposed developmental scripts of resilience governance, towards approaches grounded in Africa���s own ecological knowledge systems, social histories, and political aspirations.
Africanizing resilience involves rethinking Western dependence in resilience building while placing value on Afrocentric agency, epistemologies, ways of knowing, and ways of being. I argue that recognizing indigenous Afrocentric identities and epistemic systems through decolonial methods and ontological plurality can be juxtaposed with Euro-Western universality as a critical paradigm to decenter the modernist hegemonic world order in the contemporary structures of resilience-thinking in the Anthropocene. African people have their own traditions, narratives and practices of resilience, which enable them to nurture their abilities and joint agency. Ama Mazama places agency at the heart of Afrocentricity, strengthened through ideals of resilience, initiatives, and choices in circumstances where Africans are involved. This deconstructs the edifices of aid dependency and places Africans at the helm of their own realities and contemporary philosophies in an enlightening manner.
Decolonizing resilience offers a non-homogenizing ground to reconceptualize and rethink neocolonial subjectivities and power disparities in resilience projects across Africa. This involves disrupting dominant ways of seeing and representing Africa and cultivating resilience in pluriversal approaches that resist the reproduction of (neo)colonial logic and principles in climate governance.�� Without this, I caution that resilience praxis risks becoming devices of neocolonial hegemony and sociopolitical injustice, perpetuating the very vulnerabilities they seek to address in the Global South.
July 14, 2025
After the coups
Niamey. Image �� Catay via Shutterstock.com In the early morning of July 26, 2023, Niger���s Presidential Guard stormed the Presidential Palace in Niamey and detained the democratically elected head of state, Mohamed Bazoum. What followed was a high-intensity standoff between Niger���s coup leaders and the regional bloc of which it was a member���the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS). The leadership of ECOWAS threatened a military intervention to restore democratic rule if President Bazoum was not reinstated by August 6. Yet the deadline passed without incident, and over the months that followed a historic split emerged as Niger, Mali, and Burkina Faso, all coup-afflicted ECOWAS states, formed a mutual defense pact dubbed the Alliance of Sahel States (Alliance des ��tats du Sahel or AES) in opposition to ECOWAS��� mandate. In January 2024, the three countries announced their intent to formally withdraw from the bloc.
After a mandatory one-year transition period, the AES countries finalized their withdrawal from ECOWAS on January 29 of this year. Despite long-term ambitions, the AES as a regional bloc faces an uncertain future. All three member countries are battling terrorist insurgencies in addition to severe climate threats and various levels of isolation from regional partners like ECOWAS, the African Union, and former allies in Europe. The bloc recently created a joint military force of 5,000 troops, yet it remains significantly smaller than the 13,000-strong UN peacekeeping mission that left the region in 2023. To fill the gap, the AES countries are partnering with mercenary corps such as Russia���s Wagner Group������an approach that has yielded mixed results at best. Moscow recently subsumed the Wagner Group���s regional operations into the more integrated Africa Corps, a division under more direct supervision of the Russian Ministry of Defence���but reports from June 2025 indicate the Africa Corps continues a pattern of mass atrocities associated with the Wagner Group���s operations in Mali.
Nevertheless, an effective response to the terrorist threat permeating the borders of the AES is urgently needed. At the same time, AES leaders cannot lose sight of the institutional frameworks required to entrench the alliance and ensure longer-term regional stability. Striking the balance between these two priorities is a task that will test the alliance���s cohesion, political will, and ability to deliver security and governance where previous regional efforts have fallen short. Failure to balance security and structural priorities will undermine the very metrics the AES regimes use to legitimize their own rule and cast the survival of the alliance into doubt.
��Though the coup leaders may feel victorious after successfully staving off ECOWAS��� threat of military intervention in 2023, the path toward securing their rule remains a difficult one. A decades-long Islamist insurgency has taken advantage of the recent instability to begin formalizing control over considerable swaths of the Central Sahel. Alongside the Islamist insurgency, Mali, Niger, and Burkina Faso have all experienced declines in foreign investment, restricted access to offshore funds, and reduced intra-regional trade. As a result, they are experiencing currency destabilization and high rates of inflation.
Given this murky financial and security outlook, the credibility of AES countries rests in large part on their ability to deal with the separatist threats within their borders. This does not bode well for the new regimes: about half of Burkina Faso is beyond government control, and last summer, dozens of soldiers from the Malian government and Russia���s Wagner Group were killed in northern Mali in a devastating ambush by Tuareg rebels. In 2024, the Armed Conflict Location and Event Data Project (ACLED) aggregated reports of political violence in Burkina Faso, Mali, and Niger to indicate that insecurity in the Sahel is worse than ever. If military leaders in AES countries seized power under the pretext of restoring safety and order, they are failing their claimed mandates. Framing their takeovers as anti-imperial or anti-Western will do little to assuage citizens��� concerns in the long term. Pledges to invest in rural agriculture and mineral refining may offer additional sources of legitimacy but stand to make little headway amid pervasive insecurity. A Burkinab�� initiative to distribute free tractors to farmers, for example, reads more as economic populism than genuine agricultural reform, given the established position of jihadist groups in the country���s rural farming regions.
As a regional bloc, the AES is a reflection of the collective effort of the AES countries to entrench their regimes. However, the success of this effort will depend on their ability to become financially independent from the regional communities they have broken away from. Most immediately, that means ECOWAS, but the alliance has increasingly shunned most forms of multilateralism in favor of retrenchment and greater reliance on its ally, Russia. Recent trade initiatives with Morocco and China present alternative sources of partnership but face a long road to implementation amid conflicting priorities and regional insecurity. More crucially, such agreements cannot function as a replacement for the institutional structures needed to stabilize governance in the Sahel. The AES has stated its intention to establish a shared investment bank, a common market, and a monetary union, but without international support and a dramatic reduction in violence across the region, these aspirations feel increasingly remote. And yet, the institution-building required to make these multinational efforts effective is as critical to the alliance���s survival as it is difficult to implement.
A discussion of the origins of similar regional organizations provides a helpful point of comparison for the challenges that lie ahead for the AES. The East African Community (EAC) first emerged in the 1960s as a means of promoting cooperation between Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania. While today the EAC is an integral pillar of African multilateralism, the original iteration faced disparities in development, ideological differences, and weak institutional frameworks that led to its collapse after just a decade. It was only with the establishment of the 1993 Tripartite Commission for East African Cooperation that the involved parties began reconstituting the EAC as it exists today.
The history of the EAC presents a helpful but sobering point of comparison for the AES: a crucial component of the EAC���s success was the improved security environment around the time of its revival in 2000. EAC leaders learned much from the collapse of their first attempt and laid out concrete plans for the formation of a secretariat, a legislative assembly, and a court of justice in their 1999 re-establishment treaty. By contrast, international isolation, a deteriorating security environment, and a volatile political climate present challenges to the AES that the EAC did not face to the same degree in its second incarnation.
��If the history of the EAC���s development is any barometer, until AES governments can address insecurity in the Sahel, we should not expect significant progress toward the regional bloc���s stated economic and social goals. The coup leaders must be clear-headed about this reality. At the same time, they must recognize the urgency of transitioning the alliance from a reactive military coalition to a lasting regional institution���and the challenge this transition poses.
Given this, the G5 Sahel presents an interesting parallel to the AES, as both alliances are security-focused in their origins. The G5 Sahel, however���an alliance formed by the governments of Burkina Faso, Chad, Mali, Mauritania, and Niger in 2014���subsequently struggled to pivot toward governance and broader institutionalization. While the G5 Sahel was primarily intended as a counterterrorism force, it had clearly stated intentions of catalyzing economic development and cooperation that extended beyond military matters. Nevertheless, the narrow scope of its operations in the short term meant that minimal resources were dedicated to other aspects of its mandate. Once it became clear the countries��� efforts were failing to bring greater security to the region, confidence in the alliance faltered. The G5 Sahel was additionally heavily reliant on Western assistance at the expense of member state coordination and local involvement in counterterrorism operations, much in the same way as the AES relies on assistance from Russia.
The examples of the EAC and the G5 Sahel show that regional blocs that balance immediate security needs with broader goals of economic and political integration and back them up with realistic implementation plans are the ones that tend to see success. Additionally, there must be a balance between transactional foreign partnerships and those that aim to be more sustainable and consistent over the long term. Failure to open channels for dialogue with their neighbors further isolates the junta leaders and leaves a diplomatic and security vacuum that paves the way for greater regional instability. Given that the Sahel sits at the epicenter of terrorism in Africa, if not the world, such a course of action is detrimental to all with a stake in the stability of the region.
As the AES grapples with the task of institutionalizing governance and addressing insecurity, its leaders must be clear-eyed about their partners and the challenges that lie ahead. Their departure from ECOWAS was fueled by idealism and revolutionary spirit, but if the AES is to be successful in facilitating its stated objectives and meeting the needs of its members, it must be grounded in pragmatism and compromise. AES leaders must urgently prioritize the existential security threat within their borders, at the same time as they take concrete, immediate measures toward the establishment of resilient institutions of governance.
If the experiences of other African multilateral institutions are instructive, then it is unlikely AES will be able to achieve this independently; the alliance will have to look beyond transactional mercenary contracts and mining licenses to engage meaningfully and sustainably with regional partners. Failure to do so will lead the AES down the path of failed organizations like the G5 Sahel, or worse.
July 12, 2025
The quiet violence of peace deals
Goma, DRC, 2018. Image �� Denys Kutsevalov via Shutterstock.com Peace deals are often announced with handshakes, photo ops, smiles, and celebratory headlines. They are moments of spectacle that are framed as victories of diplomacy and stability. While some peace deals ought to be celebrated, behind the press conferences and applause, we must also ask: What is actually being exchanged in the name of peace? Whose lives continue to be disposed of in the name of peace deals?
During a press briefing on�� Friday, June 27, US President Donald Trump announced that a peace deal between the Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda has been signed. In his announcement to the press, Trump stated that though he does not know much about the conflict in eastern Congo, it was one of the worst wars he has seen and that he also happened to have someone who was able to settle it���his senior Africa advisor, Massad Boulos. He then asserted that as part of the deal, the United States will also be getting the mineral rights from the Congo. While there is much to unpack in the details of the deal, Trump���s casual remark about securing mineral rights cannot be overlooked, especially as this agreement, like many before it that have failed, is being celebrated as a victory not just for the people of eastern Congo but for the world.
But if war has truly ended, why must peace always come in exchange for minerals?
This deal, which was finalized in Washington, raises critical questions about the meaning of peace. Trump claims the conflict has ended, yet mineral extraction in the DRC�� has long functioned as a form of war, one waged not just with weapons, but through dispossession. For decades, the Congolese people have lived with the consequences of violent extraction: displacement, environmental degradation, forced labor, and the erosion of community life. The minerals being handed over in this agreement have already been at the center of a�� war, one that dispossesses people of land, health, and future. What is framed as peace is in fact the continuation of imperial violence, where the tools of war this time will be contracts and Western�� corporations.
In her book��Remaindered Life, Neferti X. M. Tadiar writes that ���we live in a time when every day brings ample evidence of the disposability of human life. It is a casual use of the word���human���for the very disposability of this life.��� Dispossession, in this context, is not only historical, it is ongoing. ���A war of dispossession,��� Tadiar reminds us, ���is the mode of accumulation dominantly understood as the ���original��� or ���primitive��� basis of the rise of capital, even as those who struggle to survive in this moment know intimately well that a racist, sexist war of dispossession is the beating heart of contemporary global capitalism.���
The DRC, with the world���s largest reserves of cobalt, diamonds, zinc, and uranium,�� continues to be a site of imperial hunger, where the lives of the Congolese people are rendered expendable in service of global supply chains and Western profit. More than 40,000 children alongside adult mining workers continue to work in mines under toxic, inhumane conditions. These children and the communities they are part of live what Tadiar calls ���remaindered lives���: lives marked as disposable, wasteful, or necessary only insofar as they serve capital. Peace deals in this global system are often nothing more than a pause in direct confrontation so that the violence of extraction may continue uninterrupted.
Tadiar writes that ���waste is the object of the new imperialism,��� and in the Congo, both the land and its people have long been treated as waste, exploited, paid below minimum wage, and left behind. The mines that produce cobalt for phones and electric cars are surrounded by devastated ecosystems, sick workers, and impoverished communities. Trump���s so-called peace deal cements a long-standing imperial relationship: the extraction of value from African soil without regard for the people who live on it.
The assertion that this peace deal has finally culminated the conflict�� in the DRC distracts from the real terms of the deal: a reinforcement of Western control over Congolese land and labor. Tadiar reminds us that capitalism ���sustains its dominance, often at the cost of intensified inequality and environmental degradation.��� In the DRC, the cost is borne by children and communities who inhale dust and dig for minerals to power devices and enrich Western economies. To declare victory while announcing rights to minerals is to declare the rights to the human lives in Congo. Mineral extraction cannot be separated from the Congolese people, who labor under extreme conditions to produce that wealth. Tadiar observes that ���people constantly make do to get by; it is they who have to fine-tune the art of revaluing modernity���s waste into the arts of life making.��� In the DRC, mining has become survival. Entire communities rely on artisanal mining not out of choice but out of necessity, forced to convert waste���environmental, economic, and social���into survival.
Tadiar pushes us to see that ���capital has for centuries profited from the disposability of human and nonhuman lives.��� Trump���s announcement is not a rupture from this history; it is a continuation of it. The DRC does not need peace deals that convert its minerals into bargaining chips. It needs sovereignty, environmental justice, and a world that stops treating African life as collateral damage in the pursuit of global convenience.
To call this a successful peace deal and a final end to war is to misname the ongoing violence in the DRC. The war over minerals in Congo has never ceased; it has only taken different forms. Today, it is waged not only through armed conflict but through the quiet violence of environmental degradation, economic exploitation, and peace deals that continue to prioritize imperial gain over human lives.
July 11, 2025
In death, we part
Edgar C. Lungu during UNHCR's 64th Executive Committee Meeting in NY, Sep 2013. Image credit JM. Ferr�� for UNHCR via Flickr CC BY-NC 2.0. Thursday, June 5 At our shared office space, my colleague suddenly interrupts an otherwise casual afternoon chat:
���Have you heard what people are saying on social media? Edgar Lungu has died.���
Instantly, the mood shifts. From lighthearted banter to dead seriousness. Everyone looks up from their screens, and within a few minutes, phones start to ring: A mother wants to reach her son. A neighbor calls in with the latest news:
���Is it really true? Has Lungu died?��� someone in front of me asks.
Diamond TV and News Diggers are the first Zambian media to break the story. No one at the office dares to post anything about the former president���s death on the WhatsApp threads which are now burning with rumors.
Just a few weeks earlier, the government passed the so-called Cyber Security Act, granting the authorities new (and broader) powers to restrict freedom of speech if deemed necessary to maintain law and order.
Twitter crashes. I refresh and refresh, but in vain.
Several Zambian media outlets now report Lungu���s death, and a video circulates showing the former president���s daughter, Tasila Lungu, confirming the sad news.
To the astonishment of many, President Hakainde Hichilema is yet to say a word. Even the state broadcaster, ZNBC, hesitates surprisingly long before announcing what, after a few hours, seems inevitable.
Well, Hichilema and Lungu had, to put it mildly, a rather tense relationship. During Lungu���s seven years in power (2015���2021), he used nearly every opportunity to persecute Hichilema, most famously when the latter spent three months in the cells after overtaking Lungu���s presidential convoy.
After Hichilema took over the keys in 2021, the roles were, broadly speaking, reversed.
Lungu was now on the receiving end of political harassment. His morning jogs were banned by the authorities when too many Patriotic Front supporters began following him, cheering him along the streets of Lusaka���s Ibex Hill neighborhood. Lungu was also denied entry to a major church service in Ndola, and during the lunch break of a court case in Lusaka, where he was being questioned for one of his many misdeeds during his tenure, he was forbidden from simply taking a walk. The government feared his stroll around High Court could spark unrest (don���t ask me exactly how).
The evening of Lungu���s demise, his former party, Patriotic Front (PF), hosts a memorial event streamed live on Facebook. Acting PF President Given Lubinda delivers a speech which I at first believe to be a sermon, politics and Christianity often separated only rhetorically.
PF declares the party secretariat to be Lungu���s official mourning place, and, minutes later, I realize that a real pastor (whatever that means) has been invited into the secretariat.
Now, a race to invoke God in the most convincing way has begun, PF and the government each wanting the man upstairs to help them solve the puzzle of Lungu���s sudden departure.
Friday, June 6It���s now a regional and international event. Al Jazeera, New York Times, BBC. They all report on Zambia���s late president.
The same goes for Zimbabwe, Zambia���s southern neighbor, whose recent history is marred by autocracy, economic collapse(s), and interference in its neighbors��� domestic affairs.��
Zimbabwe head of state Emmerson Mnangagwa quickly declares that Lungu ���fought for justice and unity across our region,��� and that his ���legacy will continue to inspire us all.��� Many Zambians roll their eyes, wishing for Zimbabwe to kindly mind their own business (they rarely do that).
President Hichilema declares Belvedere Lodge, a state-owned hotel in Lusaka���s upscale area of Kabulonga, as the official mourning place. PF has, as mentioned, already picked another location, parallel systems of mourning thus geographically encapsulated.
Today, needless to say, Lungu dominates the front pages of all national newspapers.
During my lunch break, I pop into the local supermarket for a fresh paper, not usually on high demand, only to find The Mast, the government-critical daily, alone on the shelves. Social media might be entertaining, but paper print is apparently (and fortunately, the freelance journalist must add) more valued in times of political turmoil.
Saturday, June 7Sport matches, festivals, and public events are now canceled. Flags fly at half-mast in the capital and across the country. We are mourning.
President Hichilema declares seven days of national mourning in a press release in which he says very little.
No one knows exactly when the former president will be buried or how the funeral will unfold. The government is widely criticized for its poor communication. Or rather, for barely communicating at all!
Lungu���s cause of death has now become a political hot potato.
The late president suffered from what is believed to be an esophageal condition that required treatment in South Africa, and on several occasions, the government allegedly denied him permission to travel. At least that���s what the Lungu family���s spokesperson, lawyer Makebi Zulu, wants us to believe:
���Had the state granted his request to leave for treatment, the former president might still be alive,��� Zulu says, followed by the government���s foreseeable denial.
The investigative newspaper, News Diggers, publishes an editorial insisting that ���this is not a time for politics,��� which is, of course, exactly what is now happening. Patriotic Front is fragmented to the core, split into at least two, probably more, factions. Now, they are fighting for Lungu���s seat at the top of the pyramid, just a year before the presidential election kicks off.
Meanwhile, the influential pastor Charles Musonda publicly urges PF to name Lungu���s successor without much delay. The party responds with a classic: ���An announcement will be made soon.���
Sunday, June 8The uncertainty surrounding the state funeral only deepens, especially after the Lungu family, through spokesperson Makebi Zulu, announces that they want to personally transport the body back to Zambia. Only then, they say, can the government proceed with its state protocols, once the late president���s remains have safely touched Zambian soil.
But why, we wonder?
The family���s message is polite, but the subtext is loud: We���ll handle this part ourselves, thank you.
Rumors swirl that a few PF members have already made their way to South Africa. What exactly they���re doing there remains rather unclear. Logistics, support, or maybe just a quiet political pilgrimage. Either way, the plot is thickening, and the government, once again, seems one step behind events.
Monday, June 9PF holds not one, not two, but three press conferences at their party secretariat. The battle to become Lungu���s successor is intensifying.
Meanwhile, the late president���s family claims they���ve been pressured into cooperating with the government���s funeral plans. We don���t really know what to believe at this point.
Staff at the South African hospital where Lungu died report having been intimidated and threatened by Zambian authorities. According to sources at the hospital, government officials supposedly attempted to repatriate Lungu���s body to Zambia without the family���s consent.
Also, one of the acting PF presidents, Given Lubinda, is allegedly contacted by the government to help plan the funeral logistics. He declines, with a flourish, saying the state has never officially recognized his PF leadership. So why should he start cooperating now?
The government-aligned Times of Zambia goes to press with the front-page headline: ���Let Us Mourn in Peace.��� Most people agree, really.
In the meantime, a PF politician offers a quite different, controversial take: if President Hichilema is so desperate to hold a state funeral, he should pick one of his own ministers and ask them to commit suicide. Then he can get his ceremony.
I call my journalist friend Given Chikeu on the Copperbelt to ask what people there make of that quote. He immediately bursts into laughter: ���A political thriller is unfolding, and we���re all in it.���
PF loyalists are convinced the former president was poisoned. Things are escalating. Fast.
Tuesday, June 10Today, former Vice President Enoch Kavindele says aloud what everyone���s thinking: PF needs to stop exploiting Lungu���s death for political gain.
Given Lubinda confirms he���s in contact with the Lungu family but still has no idea when the late president���s body will be returned to Zambia. At least, that���s what he says.
At the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart in Pretoria, a memorial service is held. Lubinda sits beside the family in the front pew, practically under the pulpit. The service is live streamed to Zambian homes as Lubinda opens with an emotionally charged speech:
���Why was he not allowed to seek medical attention? God, tell us why? Why? Tell me why,��� Lubinda pleads melodramatically before asking again: ���Why? Even in death, he was treated differently.���
Lubinda argues that Lungu was never given the chance to run on the very roads he himself had paved during his presidency, a direct nod to the ban on the former president���s morning jogs.
���Why wasn���t his death announced by the government, like those of other presidents? It took more than 48 hours for a government official to declare seven days of national mourning,��� he laments, then asks:
���Is this how deeply rooted hate can be?��� In the background, women weep softly. Lubinda continues:
���Three times denying a former president access to medication. That is what happened to the man. The spirit of Edgar Chagwa Lungu is not dead. More Edgar Chagwa Lungus shall rise. His resilience and courage shall rise, and no one, no one, has the ability to stop it.���
���Your spirit will flourish, Edgar Chagwa Lungu. Go well, we will not let you down. The fight has only begun.���
Esther Lungu, the widow, rocks back and forth, grief etched into every inch of her body.
The next speaker is Zambia���s former high commissioner to South Africa. The political tension briefly dissipates as Lungu is remembered as a family man and a man of the people:
���Ordinary Zambians saw themselves in him, and he saw them.��� Sincerity has finally shown itself, and while streaming the ceremony, I, for a short moment, find myself with wet eyes behind my laptop.
Well, tomorrow, Lungu is getting repatriated to Zambia. It might be a unifying moment after all, I post on Twitter (or X, or whatever, Musk), accompanied by a picture of one of Lusaka���s many gorgeous sunsets.
Wednesday, June 11Late in the morning, the government announces that Lungu���s repatriation will not happen today after all.
���Any inconvenience caused is deeply regretted,��� writes the secretary to the Cabinet robotically in a press release.
We wonder. What exactly is going on here?
Meanwhile, a memorial service takes place in Ndola, attended by prominent figures among the mourners.
At one of the PF events, supporters shout down a Tonga song playing over the speakers. The party later issues a public apology. Beneath the political surface, a simmering ethnic tension bubbles, one that Zambia rarely discusses openly.
Thursday, June 12I���m barely awake when the Lungu family spokesperson announces that the family does not want President Hichilema ���anywhere near the body��� of the late president. Full-scale drama (the phrase ���anywhere near the body��� later becomes iconic, which, if I ever have grandkids, they���ll surely grasp the meaning of).
On social media, it circulates that the family���s funeral conditions have been rejected by the government. Among them: the right of the family to select the speakers at the funeral and for ceremonies to be held not just in Lusaka but also in Ndola and Eastern Province. Conditions the government couldn���t accept.
Late in the afternoon, it���s announced that Hichilema will address the nation at 7 p.m.
Zambians across the country are ready in front of their TV screens when the president, a full hour late, appears in a carefully edited and amateurly choreographed broadcast on ZNBC. Disappointingly to many, including myself, the president utters nothing concretely about funeral arrangements but merely urges the nation to unite around the funeral:
���I will not accept lawlessness,��� President Hichilema concludes.
Friday, June 13My Yango driver (Yango is a popular, Russian-owned co-driving service in Zambia and beyond) jokes that the president might as well have sent a voice note on WhatsApp. The speech, after all, contained barely any substance.
���Next time, he doesn���t need to keep the whole nation waiting in front of their TVs to say so little,��� the driver laughs. I find it hard to disagree.
Edgar Lungu���s son, Dalitso Lungu, and several other close family members reportedly had their passports confiscated when they traveled to South Africa. A smaller media outlet published the story, which Dalitso is now allegedly suing. He insists the claims are false and demands five million kwacha (app. USD 210,000) in damages for the ���emotional distress��� caused to him and the family.
Meanwhile, Parliament is heating up. A PF member representing the Lusaka district of Matero asks the vice president, Mutale Nalumango, whether the government plans to honor the family���s wish that the president shouldn���t be ���anywhere near the body��� (again, iconic words).
A visibly moved vice president rises from her seat and delivers a long, fiery speech. The atmosphere feels something in between a family reunion and a political showdown:
���Those who try to politicize the president���s death are worse than Satan himself.���
She turns toward the PF member on the balcony and says:
���We may disagree politically, but when you die, I will be your mother.���
In the afternoon, President Hichilema visits Belvedere Lodge, tightly guarded by political allies and security forces. Like many others, the president signs Lungu���s memorial book, and in an interview with the press, he repeats the same message from the day before: It���s all about unity and togetherness.
Blablabla, still no concrete details on when the funeral will take place, and we are slowly losing patience with this whole thing when President Hichilema receives a ���special envoy��� from Zimbabwe in State House. The group is led by Zimbabwe���s vice president, Constantino Chiwenga, who has traveled up north to offer condolences:
���At one time, we were known as the same state. We still remain the same. What affects Zambia also affects Zimbabwe. We cannot just pretend nothing is happening and stay home. We know a funeral will happen soon, but we wanted to come early to pay our respects,��� Chiwenga starts.
Hichilema responds:
���When people say there are conflicts between Zambia and Zimbabwe, I always say there can be no conflicts. When you raise your finger at someone across the river, you are raising your finger at your nephew or uncle.���
Beneath the surface, however, relations between the two countries are less warm.
The president struggles to hide an irritated grimace, perhaps trying to suppress his fresh memory of Zimbabwe President Mnangagwa telling Russian President Putin that the US has been militarizing Zambia to consolidate power in the region and isolate Zimbabwe.
Zambia last year called on the African Union (AU) and the Southern African Development Community (SADC) to mediate talks between the two countries.
Saturday, June 14On a cold winter day in the capital, I drop by Belvedere Lodge to sign Edgar Lungu���s memorial book. I take a seat on a row of chairs, waiting for my turn. Under a pavilion, a table is set up with candles flickering softly. Everyone gets a full page in the book to sign. The president���s portrait is framed by a wreath of white flowers, and for a long time, I hesitate to write something meaningful to our late president.
Between 1:30 and 2 p.m., free food is offered to all visitors, but I arrive a bit late, so the place is rather empty. People come to sign the book, but they also come to eat. Oh, most definitely, they come to eat.
In front of the state-owned lodge, a choir of women dressed in chitenge fabric assembles. A handful of men stand before them, pounding large drums, searching for the perfect rhythm to keep the Lungu memory alive, since the food has now finished.
Later that day, Paramount Chief Mpezani of the Ngoni people, who are primarily found in Zambia���s Eastern Province, Malawi, South Africa, and beyond, declares that there has been ���enough drama.��� At a press conference that he himself announces, he urges peace and unity:
���Young politicians��� must stop politicizing Lungu���s death, he says.
By mid-evening, word leaks that government talks with the Lungu family have reached an advanced stage. Hallelujah (!!!). Cabinet Secretary Patrick Kangwa calls for calm, promising the nation will be updated soon.
Sunday, June 15It���s finally happening!
Early in the morning, the government announces that an agreement has been reached with the family.
At long freaking last.
The ten-point deal includes, among other things, a nonnegotiable family demand: President Hichilema will not attend the funeral. The family insists the president stay away, no exceptions.
To avoid further confusion, the family and the government will jointly select who gets to speak at the funeral. Even the resting place of the former president is split between the two parties. The government wants Lungu displayed at Mulungushi Conference Center, Zambia���s finest conference venue, while the family insists he be transported to the late president���s former residence every day after the Mulungushi display.
Family spokesperson Makebi Zulu firmly denies rumors that the family tried to blackmail the government as part of a deal to have outstanding charges against them dropped. Among other charges, the late president���s widow, Esther Lungu, is accused of vehicle theft.
Tuesday, June 17One day before Lungu���s remains were scheduled to leave South Africa, a Zambian government agency announced that the road partially leading to his residence would be closed for maintenance. For a full week. A coincidence? I think not.
Wednesday, June 18Early morning, I try to secure media accreditation for the airport. Lungu���s remains are set to arrive around 2 p.m. I text the Zambian Association of National Information Services (ZANIS), but it���s a no-go. I���m too late, damn.
However, I barely have time to stew over the accreditation refusal before news breaks: The family has rejected the repatriation, claiming the government has failed to meet its obligations under the agreement. Lungu���s remains are going nowhere, a spectacular event given that Zambian (online) media has already published pictures from the runway of the airplane, which had rolled out to fly the late president���s remains back home.
The government has announced that only invited guests will be allowed when the former president���s body touches Zambian soil, to be received with full military honors The government���s decision to block public access to receive the body, along with militarizing the airport grounds (Airport Road is full of men in uniform) has supposedly angered the family.
Moreover, one of the sore points is the Road Development Agency���s June 16 announcement of roadworks along the planned funeral procession route leading to Lungu���s old residence, allegedly done without consulting the family beforehand.
���It is our hope that someday his remains will be repatriated back home and buried,��� says family spokesperson Makebi Zulu (���Someday.��� Many Zambians take note of that word: ���Someday.���)
Thursday, June 19HH apologizes to South Africa and officially ends the seven days of mourning. No more sad music on the radio. That���s a plus.
The South African government had rolled out the red carpet and made extensive preparations, including military honors from its Defence Force, all ultimately in vain.
In a speech to the nation, the president states that the government has done everything in their capacity to collaborate with the family but ���the country cannot afford a state of indefinite mourning,��� he says.
In the streets of Lusaka, funeral fatigue reaches new heights. Many had expected the dispute would now finally be over and that people could move on. No such luck.
Around the same time, the family announces they now want to bury Lungu in South Africa. The funeral is scheduled for June 24.
All of Zambia���s former presidents are buried at Embassy Park in Lusaka. Lungu now might be the first exception.
Tuesday, June 24In Johannesburg, minutes before the funeral (like, literally minutes) is about to take place, Zambian Attorney General Mulilo Kabesha files a case in a high court in Johannesburg.
The Zambian government wants the funeral canceled, and while mourners dressed in black coats wait in the cathedral, the funeral ceremony is���no longer to the disbelief of anyone, really���halted.
The attorney general later presents three reasons for filing the case and stopping the scheduled funeral of Zambia���s sixth president:
The need to grant Lungu a state funeral with full military honors, andA precedent from a previous court ruling involving the family of first republican president Kenneth Kaunda against the State, and lastlyPublic interest (whatever that means. By now, we all just wanted to think about something else!)For most Zambians, the attorney general���s move comes as a surprise. Just days earlier, the president had unanimously ended national mourning and declared that the government had exhausted all channels to secure a state funeral, widely interpreted as a let���s-get-on-with-our-lives statement.
Now, Kabesha and the government jump back into the ring. Why? We don���t really know.
Tuesday, July 1In a characteristic marathon-long write-up, Zambia���s by far finest political commentator Sishuwa Sishuwa states that in his view ���the decision by Kabesha to sue the Lungu family in South Africa over his remains has little to do with any of the official reasons provided��� above.
Instead, Sishuwa sees three reasons behind the government���s lawsuit.
While the first are legal coercion and the second political positioning (campaigning for the August 2026 presidential election just a few months down the line), the third is the by far most interesting point of analysis.
Thus, Sishuwa alludes that there���s a spiritual warfare ongoing between President Hichilima and the Lungu family:
���The family seems to firmly believe that there are items from Lungu���s body that may be taken for ritual purposes by Hichilema if the President is anywhere near the corpse or if it is left, even briefly, in the sole custody of the state,��� the political analyst writes.
Apparently, Sishuwa continues, there ���appears to be a general belief that Lungu may have been eliminated by actors linked to the State, one that is accompanied by another belief: that individuals who may have contributed to his death are set follow him to the grave imminently unless certain rituals are done to immunize themselves, using his body items, from premature departure from the Earth.���
While I���m scrolling the five points in the agreement that the family later claimed the government had breached, it���s clear to me that several of these clearly state that the family would at no point allow the government to be alone with the body. Interesting.
Back to Sishuwa. He writes:
���The family���s insistence on always guarding the body, chartering a private aircraft for its transportation to Lusaka, and resisting government-led funeral arrangements may be interpreted as precautionary actions rooted in these fears. Even the family���s court-endorsed decision that no one should secure access to Lungu���s body throughout the court proceedings without their authorisation is rooted in the same fears. Similarly, Hichilema���s apparent determination to secure access to the body, despite the family���s objections, has further fuelled public suspicion, particularly in a society where past political transitions have often been accompanied by accusations of spiritual warfare.���
Moreover, it has come to the fore that government agents allegedly, and ultimately unsuccessfully, tried to steal Lungu���s corpse from the South African mortuary in which he was kept. This has only reiterated the vague rumors that President Hichilema believes in the occult.
However, it should be noted that political dissatisfaction and witchcraft accusations in Zambia have a close historical bond. Thus, an unpopular politician is more likely to be associated with juju, witchcraft, magic, sorcery, or any of the other demeaning colonial terms for contemporary African religion, frequently demonized by Christian pastors.
���While such fears may seem extreme, they are deeply rooted in Zambia���s political imagination and have shaped the family���s refusal to hand over the remains,��� Sishuwa Sishuwa concludes.
Thursday, July 3So, well, here we are.
It���s early July, nearly four weeks after the tragic passing of the late president, and yet his body hasn���t returned to the country he once governed.
In a way, none of this is surprising. Lungu���s and Hichilema���s battle was always deeply personal, and with current levels of suspicion and distrust, who knows what the next weeks will hold?
We do know, however, that a full court hearing will take place on August 4 in Johannesburg, and, as Arise News recently wrote:
���As the legal battle continues, one thing is clear: even in death, Edgar Lungu remains at the centre of Zambia���s political crosscurrents.���
July 10, 2025
Whose game is remembered?
Jacques Touselle Photographs: box 146 [c 1981-1982], British Library, EAP054/1/138. Republished under fair use. ��� Lucille Clifton
they ask me to remember
but they want me to remember
their memories
and i keep on remembering
mine.
Since the 1970s, African women���s football has significantly grown, succeeded, and inspired. Women were always playing, winning, and emerging, but not much was being recorded. Names and stories of Perpetua Nkwocha, Mercy Akide, or Florence Omagbemi are underreported in world football, and yet they are continental icons.
The question now is: what does it mean to win and shine if your stories are not being preserved? Digital platforms, historical timelines and institutional materials have a male-centric focus that celebrate African stars such as Didier Drogba, Samuel Eto���o or George Weah who rightfully deserve their place in the Hall of Fame of African football history. But we have a responsibility to look at what���s being erased in our collective memory and give tribute to those who built the game and who are often forgotten. As the British sociologist, Stuart Hall stated ���Power works through classification���through what is named and what is being invisible���
The spotlight never shines on its own. The direction of its beam is a construct of decades of practices, habits, and thoughts that normalize erasure of other stories, notably of African women���s football, where memory is fragmented and scattered. Erasure is the result of policies that intentionally choose what to remember, what to celebrate, and what stories to tell.
Yet, the Women���s African Cup of Nations (Wafcon) is a central scene where athletes may reshape social identities, rethink what it means to belong, and reimagine football in the public space. Moreover, the Wafcon now unfolds on a global stage where the different agendas of global governing bodies conflict through the hosting of simultaneous international tournaments that overlap one another�� ��� The 2025 FIFA Club World Cup, the 2025 UEFA Women���s Euro, and the 2025 CONCACAF Gold Cup are all competing for the footballing world���s attention.
In the midst of the struggle for visibility, political influence, and accumulation of economic capital, CAF with Wafcon needs to find its place or face erasure. They need to compete to be at the center of mass spectatorship or they will be condemned to the periphery. And the consequences of that are significant. With the absence of archival materials, there are no foundations for alternative narratives that can engage with a global audience, no cultural legitimacy for local spectators, and no platform on which long-term investment can be built.
According to Daniel Fabre, a French ethnologist, archiving is a social practice. A process through which societies decide to preserve what is “interesting” and what is not. In doing so, the archives become a space where a society tells its own story, and creates a shared ���collective biography.��� When it comes to football, the archives play a central role in narratives and legacy. They shape how the game is socially constructed, culturally embedded, and collectively remembered.
However, questions arise about the preservation of archives, specifically who owns the narrative and who decides what gets preserved and what does not. Archiving is power that shapes legacy and tells story. Memory matters and is the starting point of cultural legitimacy. With digitalization, content increases. But the medium is fragile. Lacking an institutional project of archiving, the Women���s African Cup of Nations is exposed as being less relevant, not yet legitimate, or worse, instrumentalized. The stories of African Women���s football live on servers that crash, timelines that disappear, and posts that get lost in the algorithm.
African governing bodies need an institutional project that encompasses both physical and digital infrastructure to preserve the work these women are creating now. Preserving African football memory is strategic and critical to owning the narrative and being culturally rooted to build a meaningful legacy.
For instance, before the 2022 Wafcon, CAF launched a social media initiative entitled ���It’s time is now��� with a re-branded Instagram, TikTok, and X profile. Punchy content was regularly streamed; however, two years later, CAF failed to stage the 2024 Wafcon on time and with no reasonable explanation. While we have seen FIFA collect and preserve its archive on an app named FIFA+���where you can watch full matches as far back as the 1954 FIFA World Cup���CAF has done little to value or treasure the Wafcons of the 1990s and the people who put this tournament on the map.
African women���s football also shapes shifting social identity. Players construct fresh belongings by unlocking new routes of success and new roles in the community that reinvent traditional expectations. The Wafcon garners respectability on the field, not in fulfilling patriarchal injunctions. An athlete can belong to her family not in being a good daughter or a good mother but by being a provider, a symbol of pride, and a cultural face in her community. Players such as Asisat Oshoala, Barbra Banda, or Rasheedat Ajibade are role models, not because they are women who succeeded against all odds or begged for a place in the game. Their presence alone is an obvious and compelling statement. They inspire through their work ethic and professional commitment.
The tournament also reflects the dynamics of mobility through football, and mobility starts within the country, from small towns to major urban centers. You can choose to win where you are born or go abroad in search of new horizons. The development of Moroccan football reflects both local and international dynamics. Domestically, players such as Nouhaila Benzina and Fatima Tagnaout contribute to the Rabat-based club l���AS FAR, while abroad, Ghizlaine Chebbak, Rosella Ayane, and Ibtissam Jraidi make their mark in Spain, England, and Saudi Arabia, respectively.
The policy of articulating local talent and capitalizing on the diaspora is a common thread in the development of Moroccan football for men and women. It bridges the local and the global and introduces transnational belonging into the African game. Asisat Oshoala and Ibtissam Jraidi set the example by tracing new routes for other players to thrive and succeed elsewhere, whether it is in the Middle East or in East Asia. These pathways decenter the European gaze that presupposes that only destinations in the West are guarantors of success. These players build bridges between Africa and Asia that redefine what and where success may be found.
African football needs to confront how erasure has shaped the past in women���s football, how players are actively building its current memory, and how identifying the new is reshaping boundaries. That is not done by romanticizing the struggle or pandering to heroism. We need to rethink football at the core of public life, where governing bodies, brands, sponsors, and public authorities are responsible for building infrastructure that narrates, collects, and designs the future of women���s football on African terms locally, but also to establish its status on a global stage.
This year’s Wafcon tournament in Morocco is a test case���an opportunity to begin a cultural reinvention of the game and the stories it tells.
July 9, 2025
The sound of black identity
Leia em portugu��s aqui.
For the first time, on November 20, 2024, the Dia da Consci��ncia Negra (Black Consciousness Day) was recognized as a national holiday in Brazil. The date marks the death of Zumbi dos Palmares, the leader of the largest Brazilian quilombo, who was beheaded in 1695 by the Portuguese Crown���his head displayed as a trophy in a public square (to dispel, it is said, the myth of his immortality). The quilombo was a community of enslaved people who escaped from white-owned plantations, where they were kept imprisoned in the senzalas, the quarters designated for them���hence the name of a classic (and controversial) Brazilian text, Casa-Grande & Senzala (1933), by sociologist Gilberto Freyre.
The day aims to celebrate the fight for racial equality, to commemorate the resistance of Afro-descendant peoples, to promote concrete actions of reparation, as well as to increase Black representation in Brazilian society. The documentary Black Rio! Black Power!, directed by Emilio Domingos, achieves this goal by telling the story of a cultural movement that remains underappreciated. The culmination of 10 years of research, the film has screened at 24 international festivals and won several awards. When talking about Rio de Janeiro, the most obvious associations are samba, bossa nova, and, more recently, funk ��� little is said about soul. However, not recognizing the thread of continuity between them ��� and also with hip hop ��� would be like calling funk ���a child of an unknown father.��� And Furac��o 2000, the record label and producer of the dance parties from that era, represents exactly this line of continuity.
According to journalist Silvio Essinger (O Batid��o do Funk, 2005):
the choice of 1976 as the milestone of the movement is because it was the year it became visible beyond its own attendees, thanks to the report Black Rio: the (imported) pride of being Black in Brazil, by Black journalist Lena Frias, a specialist in Brazilian popular music, and photographer Almir Veiga, published in Jornal do Brasil.
In reality, these were years in which ���the phenomenon of Black dance parties on the outskirts of Rio��� began to draw the attention of the authorities. Brazil was under a dictatorship, and the military viewed with suspicion a movement that brought together more than 15,000 young Black people from the suburbs, who not only danced but also organized politically.
It was the time when the Black civil rights movement was gaining strength in the United States, and many African countries were gaining independence. A newspaper report, featured in the documentary, defines the movement as ���A Brazilian version of the racial movement made in USA.��� The public order authorities already identified Rio de Janeiro as the epicenter of the ���new trend.��� Although the�� Department of Political and Social Order (Departamento de Ordem Pol��tica e Social or DOPS) had infiltrators at the parties, and Dom Fil��, the leader of the movement and protagonist of the documentary, reports having been kidnapped by the military police, the authorities of the time underestimated the power of the phenomenon.
Fil�� describes the impact of Soul Grand Prix parties:
Between 1972 and 1975, almost a million young people received, through dance, a cultural shock, an identity shock, a critical thought about what it means (he did not use the verb in the past…) to be Black in this racist country,
These parties took place at the Rocha Miranda sports gymnasium, in the northern zone of Rio de Janeiro������our Maracan��,��� as one of the interviewees puts it. Projected on the walls of the stadium were images of James Brown, Aretha Franklin, the idols of the attendees, along with footage of themselves recorded during the parties��� ���this way people felt seen, and Black pride was born.��� Along with that, affirmative messages were launched that strengthened the Black aesthetic, which frightened society (even in 2002, Black saleswomen at boutiques in Rio���s South Zone were required to straighten their hair or, at the very least, braid it). The right to aspire to social mobility was being claimed. ���The first Black engineer I met was Fil��; our destiny was to have a subordinate place,��� says one of the interviewees.
The leader of the movement acted as an MC, and his role was ���to deliver a positive message,��� so that the youth could raise their self-esteem in a society that did everything to destroy it. It was Rio���s answer to Jesse Jackson and Nina Simone. For attendees of Soul Grand Prix, the Black Panther Party was a reference. At the time, the Brazilian secret services produced a dossier���made public only in 2021���with the surreal title: Black Racism in Brazil. As Fil�� explains:
This agency has received information that a group of young Black people is forming in Rio, with an intellectual level above average, with the intention of creating a climate of racial struggle between whites and Blacks in Brazil. It is said that the group is led by a Black American who controls the money, which appears to come from abroad, possibly from the USA. Some of the group���s objectives would be: to kidnap the children of white industrialists, to create neighborhoods exclusive for Blacks, and to form anti-white groups among Blacks. The dossier is unsigned.
As the dictatorship supported the thesis of racial democracy through the myth of miscegenation, those anti-racist demonstrations were seen as the importation of a problem that ���did not exist��� in Brazil. According to the regime, it was the Black people themselves who created the racial problem in the country. During the same period, the government did everything it could to prevent Abdias Nascimento, the intellectual and Pan-Africanist activist, and founder of Teatro Experimental do Negro (Black Experimental Theater) in Rio de Janeiro, from participating in Festac77, the second world festival of Black and African Arts and Culture, held in Lagos. Nascimento would publish an account titled Sitiado em Lagos (Besieged in Lagos) in 1981.
From Soul Grand Prix emerged Banda Black Rio, one of the greatest instrumental references in Brazilian popular music. But it was not the dictatorship that ended the soul movement, rather the imposition of disco music by record labels and TV stations. ���We didn���t fit the style of disco music. Disco was John Travolta.��� Thus, Soul Grand Prix passed the baton to the disco era, which would later give rise to funk carioca, and Fil�� left the scene, releasing the LP Soul Grand Prix 78. In the words of�� dancer and choreographer Aenor Neto: ���Fil�� is our Zumbi.”
Black Rio! Black Power! screens in Johannesburg on July 11 (8 p.m SAST) at the Afrikan Freedom Station (29 Edward Rd, Sophiatown). A screening in Cape Town at Bertha House will be announced shortly.
No ritmo da identidade black
Read in English here.
Pela primeira vez no ano passado (2024), em 20 de novembro, o Dia da Consci��ncia Negra foi reconhecido como feriado nacional no Brasil. A data remete �� morte de Zumbi dos Palmares, l��der do maior quilombo brasileiro, que foi decapitado em 1695 pela Coroa Portuguesa, tendo sua cabe��a exposta como trof��u em pra��a p��blica (diz-se que isso foi para dissipar o mito de sua imortalidade). O quilombo era uma comunidade majoritariamente composta de pessoas escravizadas que fugiam das fazendas de propriedade de brancos, onde eram mantidas presas nas senzalas, os alojamentos designados para elas ��� da�� o nome de um texto cl��ssico (e controverso) brasileiro, Casa-Grande & Senzala (1933), do soci��logo Gilberto Freyre. O objetivo do dia �� celebrar a luta pela igualdade racial, comemorar a resist��ncia dos povos afrodescendentes e promover a����es concretas de repara����o, bem como aumentar a representa����o negra na sociedade brasileira.
O document��rio Black Rio! Black Power!, dirigido por Emilio Domingos, resultado de dez anos de trabalho de pesquisa, que circulou por 24 festivais nacionais e internacionais, ganhando diversos pr��mios ��� cumpre esse objetivo ao contar a hist��ria de um movimento cultural que ainda �� subestimado. Ao falar do Rio de Janeiro, as associa����es mais ��bvias s��o com samba, bossa nova e, mais recentemente, o funk, pouco se fala sobre soul. No entanto, n��o reconhecer o fio de continuidade entre eles – e tamb��m com o hip hop – seria como chamar o funk de “filho de pai desconhecido”. E a Furac��o 2000, gravadora e produtora dos bailes daquela ��poca, representa exatamente essa linha de continuidade.
Segundo o jornalista Silvio Essinger (O Batid��o do Funk, 2005), “a escolha de 1976 como marco do movimento se deve ao fato de ter sido o ano em que ele se tornou vis��vel para al��m de seus pr��prios participantes, gra��as �� reportagem Black Rio: o orgulho (importado) de ser negro no Brasil, da jornalista negra Lena Frias, especialista em m��sica popular brasileira, e do fot��grafo Almir Veiga, publicada no Jornal do Brasil.”
Na realidade, esses foram anos em que “o fen��meno dos bailes black na periferia do Rio” come��aram a chamar a aten����o das autoridades. O Brasil estava sob uma ditadura empresarial-militar, e tais governantes viam com desconfian��a um movimento que reunia mais de 15.000 jovens negros da periferia, que n��o s�� dan��avam, mas tamb��m se organizavam politicamente. Era a ��poca em que o movimento pelos direitos civis da popula����o negra ganhava for��a nos Estados Unidos, e muitos pa��ses africanos conquistavam a independ��ncia. Uma p��gina de jornal exibida no document��rio define o movimento como “Uma vers��o brasileira do movimento racial made in USA“. As autoridades da ordem p��blica j�� identificavam o Rio de Janeiro como o epicentro da “nova tend��ncia”. De fato, embora o Departamento de Ordem Pol��tica e Social (DOPS) tivesse infiltrados nos bailes, e Dom Fil��, l��der do movimento e protagonista do document��rio, relate ter sido sequestrado pela pol��cia militar, as autoridades da ��poca subestimaram o poder do fen��meno.
“Entre 1972 e 1975, quase um milh��o de jovens receberam, atrav��s da dan��a, um choque cultural, um choque de identidade, um pensamento cr��tico sobre o que significa (ele n��o usou o verbo no passado…) ser negro neste pa��s racista”, �� assim que Fil�� descreve os bailes do Soul Grand Prix, que aconteciam no gin��sio esportivo Rocha Miranda, na zona norte do Rio de Janeiro, “nosso Maracan��”, como um dos entrevistados coloca. Em uma das paredes eram projetadas imagens de James Brown, Aretha Franklin, os ��dolos dos frequentadores, junto com filmagens deles mesmos gravadas durante os bailes: “assim as pessoas se sentiam vistas, e o orgulho negro nascia.” Junto com isso, mensagens afirmativas eram lan��adas que fortaleciam a est��tica negra, o que assustava a sociedade (mesmo em 2002, vendedoras negras em butiques da zona sul do Rio eram obrigadas a alisar o cabelo ou, no m��nimo, tran����-lo).
O direito de aspirar �� mobilidade social estava sendo reivindicado. “O primeiro engenheiro negro que conheci foi Fil��; nosso destino era ter um lugar subordinado”, diz um dos entrevistados. O l��der do movimento atuava como MC. “Meu papel era entregar uma mensagem positiva”, para que a juventude pudesse elevar sua autoestima em uma sociedade que fazia de tudo para destru��-la. Era a resposta do Rio a Jesse Jackson e Nina Simone. Para os frequentadores do Soul Grand Prix, o Partido dos Panteras Negras era uma refer��ncia. Na ��poca, os servi��os secretos brasileiros produziram um dossi��, tornado p��blico apenas em 2021, com o t��tulo surreal: Racismo Negro no Brasil.
Como Fil�� explica
Esta ag��ncia recebeu informa����es de que um grupo de jovens negros est�� se formando no Rio, com um n��vel intelectual acima da m��dia, com a inten����o de criar um clima de luta racial entre brancos e negros no Brasil. Diz-se que o grupo �� liderado por um negro americano que controla o dinheiro, que parece vir do exterior, possivelmente dos EUA. Alguns dos objetivos do grupo seriam: sequestrar os filhos de industriais brancos, criar bairros exclusivos para negros e formar grupos anti-brancos entre os negros. O dossi�� n��o �� assinado.
Como a ditadura apoiava o mito da democracia racial atrav��s da tese da miscigena����o, aquelas manifesta����es antirracistas eram vistas como a importa����o de um problema que “n��o existia” no Brasil. Eram os pr��prios negros, segundo o regime, que criavam o problema racial no pa��s. No mesmo per��odo, o governo fez de tudo para impedir que Abdias Nascimento, intelectual e ativista pan-africanista, fundador do Teatro Experimental do Negro no Rio de Janeiro, participasse do Festac77, o segundo festival mundial de Artes e Cultura Negras e Africanas, realizado em Lagos (Sitiado em Lagos, 1981).
Do Soul Grand Prix surgiu, em 1976, a Banda Black Rio, uma das maiores refer��ncias instrumentais da m��sica popular brasileira. Mas n��o foi a ditadura que acabou com o movimento soul, e sim a imposi����o da disco music pelas gravadoras e emissoras de TV. “A gente n��o se encaixava no estilo da disco music. Disco era John Travolta.” Assim, o Soul Grand Prix passou o bast��o para a era disco, que mais tarde daria origem ao funk carioca, e Fil�� saiu de cena lan��ando o LP Soul Grand Prix 78. Nas palavras de Aenor Neto, dan��arino e core��grafo: “Fil�� �� o nosso Zumbi.”
Voc�� pode assistir ao filme em: Joanesburgo Afrikan Freedom Station,�� 29 Edward Rd, Sophiatown. Data: 10.07.2025. Hora: 19:00 para come��ar ��s 20:00.
July 7, 2025
Sovereignty or supremacy?
Central Johannesburg. Image �� View Apart via Shutterstock.com My recent writings on South Africa have focused on one persistent theme: sovereignty. National sovereignty. Economic sovereignty. Cultural sovereignty. The right to define ourselves beyond the grasp of imperial powers and their lingering influence. But lately, I���ve been wondering if we need to talk about mental sovereignty too, because some of my countrymen are clearly struggling with that part.
We live in a country where crime and corruption are daily realities. We endure the consequences of unethical leadership, trapped between parties that see us either as voting fodder or pawns in personal power games. It���s understandable, maybe even inevitable, that frustration with leadership can sometimes turn people toward more conservative or populist politics. That happens everywhere. What���s harder to stomach is watching people cross the line not into healthy skepticism, but into something much darker.
Over the last two years, but more so across the last seven months, I���ve noticed an uncomfortable trend: a fascination with far-right politics, especially the version popularized by Donald Trump. And it���s not just some white South Africans clinging to fantasies of the old order; it���s cutting across race and class lines. Black, Brown, and Indian South Africans. Everyone seems to want a piece of the ���Make America Great Again��� fantasy, even though it has nothing to do with us here and everything to do with protecting white supremacy over there.
Why? Because colonization isn���t just about stealing land or extracting minerals. It is psychological. Long after the empire packed up its flags and monuments, it left behind something more dangerous: a mental operating system. A Eurocentric, colonial worldview; one that persists in today���s media, education, and foreign policy, conditioning us to distrust our own and admire the conqueror.�� And now, that system is working exactly as intended; many have become unpaid interns in global reactionary politics.
Worse than colonization is how well they taught the colonized to love their chains. The tragedy isn���t just that some admire their oppressors, it���s that they fight for them. This isn���t just colonial residue; it���s mental conquest, loyalty manufactured by those still exploiting us.
Let���s be clear: Trump promised a lot; better health care (he is destroying it), infrastructure renewal (it became a punch line), and ���draining the swamp��� (he filled it with cronies). What did he actually deliver? Imperialism. Racism. White nationalism and direct support for ethnic cleansing. Encouragement for armed militias. Dog whistles so loud they shattered eardrums.
And yet some South Africans still cheered him on. Not because of trade policies. Not because of ���conservative values.��� But because, deep down, some people were more comfortable with his race politics than with any version of African self-determination. Trump gave them permission to say the quiet part out loud, to recycle colonial talking points with a fresh coat of American paint.
And once you show that side of yourself, once you publicly admire a man who told white supremacists to ���stand back and stand by,��� there���s no easy way to pretend you don���t mean it. The screenshots are there. The tweets don���t delete themselves. And the rest of us are watching.
This isn���t just a South African problem. Look around the Global South: in Brazil, Bolsonaro ran Trump���s playbook like a tribute act. In India, Modi���s Hindu nationalism overlaps with white-supremacist narratives from the US. Kenyan influencers flirt with alt-right memes. Even in West Africa, you���ll find admiration for Trump���s strongman image among certain circles. It���s empire by other means���not military occupation, ideological occupation. Colonialism 2.0.
And the irony? While some South Africans were online singing Trump���s praises, the US under his administration was busy backing exploitative trade deals, enforcing financial restrictions on African economies, propping up ethnic cleansing, and manufacturing consent for wars against countries in the Global South who dared defy US hegemony. And yes, keeping ���shithole countries��� exactly that���in their eyes, anyway.
So, where does that leave us? Are we fighting for sovereignty or just shopping for new colonial masters with better branding? You can���t claim to be anti-imperialist while cosplaying as a MAGA influencer. You can���t shout about decolonization one day, then boost global alt-right content the next. Pick a side.
For South Africans of color, aligning with this global reactionary project is like trusting the same system that once dispossessed us. For white South Africans who���ve embraced this far-right turn, it exposes what many feared: that ���economic anxiety��� wasn���t the full story; it was about maintaining racial privilege all along.
But here���s the thing about siding with global white supremacy: It doesn���t love you back. You might wear the hat. You might post the memes. But to them, you���re still Black, Brown, Asian. Still foreign. Still expendable. So, to those still flirting with imperial nostalgia wrapped in red caps: Choose sovereignty. Choose discomfort. Choose truth.
The work of real sovereignty is hard, messy, and uncomfortable. It means confronting corruption at home without running into the arms of racists abroad or their acolytes here at home. It means holding your leaders accountable without selling your future to people who see Africa as nothing more than a resource pit or a charity case.
The masks are off now. We see who���s who. The only question is whether those who flirted with this project have the courage to admit it, or whether they���ll keep doubling down, hoping nobody noticed.
Spoiler: We noticed.
Decolonization doesn���t end when the statues fall. It begins when we stop kneeling to the ones still standing in our minds.
July 4, 2025
Afrophobic metamorphosis
Young men offer a mobile garden cleaning service to residents in the suburbs of Johannesburg, April 2025. �� Richard van der Spuy / Shutterstock.com As South Africans, we seem to have stubbornly enduring hostility toward African migrants. The xenophobia on display in May 2008 is not the same as the kind witnessed today. With the onboarding of Afrophobic sentiment to the digital space, we now see an emerging implicit effort to engage in a form of self-deceptive moral disengagement. Finding themselves having to justify what was once more reprehensible, Afrophobes who organize rallies through social media are now aware of the implications of being labelled an Afrophobe���yet still want to do the thing without being called the thing.��
Of late, the Afrophobe relates to his Afrophobia by rendering the noun a misnomer, contesting its meaning, rationalizing it, and calling it by a different name: patriotism. Beware, reader, of these strategic shifts in rhetoric that are used to Trojan-horse what still constitutes the dehumanization, harmful stereotyping, and disregard for human dignity of African migrants. Afrophobia now wears a cloak of rationalizations that make inconspicuous the very dangerous disdain for African migrants.
The infamous May 2008 xenophobic attacks, which claimed 62 lives and displaced more than 100,000 African migrants, are perhaps the most heart-wrenching in recent memory. Jephias Matunhu observed that these attacks emerged from ���the failure of the South African government��� to manage society.��� The failure was identified as the South African government���s inability to manage the poverty crisis in South Africa, which continues to disempower and dehumanise the majority of the population. Perhaps due to the insurmountability of the poverty crisis, those who participated in the May 2008 xenophobic attacks may be redirecting their indignation, considering it more manageable to concentrate their outrage into a conspicuous, eradicable target: the African foreigner. African foreigners, accused of taking lower wages and bringing crime with them, are considered to be exacerbators of the poverty crisis whose absence would, in a crudely utilitarian sense, be preferred.
In intellectual circles and civil society groups focused on the protection of non-nationals, Afrophobic behaviors are met with some reproach and condemnation. The groups acknowledge South Africa as a society deeply afflicted with violent tendencies, calling for the government to take impactful steps to counteract xenophobic narratives and sanction those who engage in xenophobic actions.
Despite the reproach it has been met with, Afrophobia has continued apace in South Africa:�� Operation Dudula’s 2023 vigilantism and expelling of foreign nationals from Soweto on account of their ���hatred of foreigners;��� the emergence of new political parties platforming anti-African-immigration, and the establishment of the #PutSouthAfricaFirst movement online are just a few examples.
Operation Dudula marked a pivotal moment shift: sporadic xenophobic “attacks” morphed into a formalized paramilitaristic ���civil movement,��� and the phantasm of the African immigrant was crystallized. The African immigrant, as a status occupiable by anyone not ���visibly��� South African, was concretized as the primary site of crime, the destroyer of South African lives, and, according to Operation Dudula, ���the root cause of economic hardship in South Africa.���
Operation Dudula evoked images of ���cleaning up communities,��� ���making communities safer,��� and ���reclaiming country and community.” Costumed in military camouflage, members of Operation Dudula posed as the bastions of law and order, a force that would exorcise illegal foreigners from South Africa. Such actions should be understood in context: South African citizens see themselves as taking the state’s functions into their own hands���ensuring economic well-being, protecting the country, eradicating crime, and controlling migration. There has been a significant effort to reframe Afrophobia as an effort to restore law and order. We have witnessed a move from using derogatory terms like kwerekwere to the legalese of ���illegal alien��� and ���undocumented immigrants.��� This new language is not accidental. It���s employed to disarm potential critics of xenophobia. It conjures up a Manichean divide where to be Afrophobic is to be on the right side. It congeals anti-immigration sentiment with the preservation of law and order. South Africans thus take on a new status from xenophobic attackers to defenders of the law and South African society. The cognitive dissonance is immaterial, and the law and its protection of the rights and dignity of immigrants are rendered immaterial. Calls for expelling migrants are intended to be indistinguishable from calls for law and order.
How so? Being an illegal or undocumented African migrant is an imposed identity, a presence that the African immigrant carries with them, regardless of their actual immigration status or desire for legality. At the Home Affairs office in Marabastad, outside Pretoria, many hungry and desperate African migrants, some seeking legality for years, gather daily, even stampeding for a chance at legal status. The African migrant���s desire for legality, of course, is impotent in disarming Afrophobic sentiment, and this demonstrates a clear shift away from the purely economic justifications for the violent dislike of African foreign nationals. It would be remiss to treat this narrative shift as merely accidental.
Bastein Dratwa, compiling a digital ethnography of the burgeoning Put South Africa First (PSAF) movement, demonstrates how hatred of African migrants and calls for their exodus are linked to patriotism and the protection of South Africa���s future. Informed by modern slavery replacement conspiracies, which claim that foreigners are wilful modern slaves secretly conspiring to take over the country, PSAF activists fly the South African flag while touting Afrophobic sentiment to position themselves as patriots and guardians.�� They insist that ���South Africa needs to prioritize South Africans.��� As such, African migrants are considered an imminent threat to South Africans, allowing themselves to be exploited so they can eventually take over the country and make the children of South Africans slaves in turn. The African migrant stands no chance against this frenzied mindset that perpetuates an imagined, imminent danger, which needs to be controlled and contained.
On social media, these anxieties manifested as an online immigration panopticon, where Chidimma Adetshina���s daring to be Miss South Africa resulted in many South Africans becoming fly-by-night forensic investigators seeking to simply ���check��� if Adetshina was, in fact, legally in the country. This resulting frenzy was symptomatic of a polycrisis of capitalism���the desire to simultaneously locate and eradicate our anxieties. It is for this reason that the ���illegal��� migrant is a target to be sniffed out and removed. Concentrating the polycrisis into an identifiable, perceptible and expendable entity, one simultaneously exercises power over it, obliterates it and calms the concomitant anxieties associated with it.
Afrophobes are self-conscious individuals explicitly aware of how they are perceived by those who fight against their message. They respond defensively, seeking to retain the initial impulse of Afrophobic indignation and sentiments while finding ways to make them appear reasonable and justified in the face of potential public scrutiny. There���s a psychic need to save face, a deep-seated desire to convince oneself that one is doing the right thing, a desire to justify the harming of others, and to wash off the ���stink��� of Afrophobia by positioning the defense of African migrants in South Africa as unpatriotic, debasing, and being on the wrong side of the law.
Beware, reader, of the excavation and contestations of meanings, which seek to make it more challenging to call Afrophobia by name. The compelling narratives of cleanliness, legality, patriotism, and protection are intentionally appropriated to be alluring, bias-affirming, and disarming of moral conscience. Those committed to pan-Africanism cannot engage as if nothing has changed. The pan-Africanist ought to be equipped to dismantle the new alluring presentation of Afrophobia. A good place to start might be to strike a delicate balance between being empathetic to the socioeconomic hardships faced by the majority of South Africans and stressing the importance of preserving the human dignity of every person within South Africa���s borders. Indignation should be reserved for the government���s pursuit of neoliberal policy and its failure to confront the capitalist exploitation of workers that underpins the enduring economic crisis.
July 3, 2025
The world isn’t broken, it was built this way
Photo by Marcel Strau�� on Unsplash. Much of what we accept as global ���progress��� today rests on invisible systems of extraction, debt, and control. Beneath the surface of development promises lie patterns of engineered poverty, intentional designs masked as economic aid. I wanted to understand how entire nations rich in resources, like Congo, the Philippines, and many others across Africa and the Middle East, were left in ruin. How economies were engineered to starve.
Reading Confessions of an Economic Hit Man by John Perkins gave language to what I had always sensed but couldn���t yet name. The book didn���t just explain what���s happening or why it happens���but showed how it works. How the trap is set. How countries are offered loans under the promise of development, and then, when the economy inevitably fails to meet those projections, the debt becomes a tool of leverage. A means of control.
This model of empire does not rely on visible occupation. Instead, it enlists economists, consultants, and development agencies to do the work of colonization. These actors, knowingly or not, maintain the illusion that what is being offered is progress. But the progress is selective. The wealth often stays in the hands of a small elite, while the rest of the population are left to deal with the consequences: famine, poverty, crumbling health care, and rising debt. These aren���t just economic outcomes. They shape people���s lives, bodies, and futures in deeply uneven ways.
We���ve seen this strategy unfold before. In Vietnam and Iraq, the pattern repeated. First come the economic hit men offering loans too large to repay, tied to development projects designed to benefit foreign companies. If leaders resist, the CIA-backed forces are sent in���coups, assassinations, destabilization. And if that fails, the military steps in under the banner of liberation and democracy. Iraq was never about weapons of mass destruction. It was about reshaping an entire economy: rewriting oil laws, enforcing sweeping privatization, and funneling reconstruction contracts to US corporations. None of it was accidental. The script is clear: seduce, threaten, invade. Always in the name of democracy, progress, or humanitarian concern, which, as Perkins notes, ���is almost laughable given how these missions unfold in the most brutal, inhumane ways imaginable.���
In places like Sudan, the tools have shifted���less about development banks, more about proxy wars and resource deals. Gold is smuggled out while militias are armed by Gulf powers, and economic collapse becomes the backdrop for a new kind of control.
Think about Gaza. In 2023, while the world watched in horror, something else moved beneath the rubble. Gaza, long portrayed as poor and dependent, sits on rich offshore gas reserves. But Palestinians have never had real control over them. Deals were made���with British companies, with Israeli conditions, with foreign hands���but never with Gaza itself. And when economic pressure failed and resistance held, the narrative shifted: terror, security, retaliation. Then came the force. In a moment of global energy crisis, Gaza���s gas mattered again. This wasn���t just war. It was extraction���without consent, without sovereignty.
The book is not perfect. It is shaped by the personal guilt of the author, whose perspective as a former ���economic hit man��� is at times self-centered. Still, the structural pattern it reveals aligns with decades of postcolonial (���if we can even call it that while colonization is still ongoing���) and economic critique. It confirms what many in the Global South have long argued: that underdevelopment is not a natural condition, but the product of external manipulation.
As I read, I kept thinking about the systems I tried to understand, each time a new report on Al Jazeera News came talking about the refugee crisis, or the poor conditions of third-world countries. It came with every question I asked about how people could suffer so deeply simply for being born in the ���wrong��� place and time. And then I started seeing it more clearly: the geopolitics of extraction. The role of multinational corporations. The way development is explained through numbers that often hide more than they reveal. I thought about how hard it is to talk about all this with people who���ve only seen empire as something civilizing or good. How words like ���growth��� and ���stability��� are used to disguise control.
What I learned broke something open. The world isn���t broken. It was built this way. Intentionally. Precisely. Systematically.
The clarity I gained was not comfortable. It rarely is. But it did affirm something essential: that the chaos and inequality we witness are indeed not accidents but part of a broader logic, a system maintained by those who benefit from it, and enforced through institutions that present themselves as neutral.
Understanding this is not enough. But it is necessary. Because without it, we risk mistaking symptoms for causes. We risk believing the narrative that some countries simply failed, that some peoples are perpetually in crisis, that some lives are less valuable than others.
This is what I return to now. Not only the desire to know, but the responsibility that comes after. To look beyond the surface. To make visible what was always meant to remain hidden. Not for the sake of knowledge alone, but because clarity, real clarity, disrupts. And from the disruption, there may still come the possibility of justice. If this is the part they allowed us to know, what���s still hidden?
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