<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><title type="text">Africa Is a Country</title><id>https://africasacountry.com</id><updated>2026-11-06T17:10:02.723841Z</updated><link href="https://africasacountry.com"/><logo>https://africasacountry.com/static/img/logo/logo-type.png</logo><subtitle type="text">Not the continent with 55 countries</subtitle><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/11/picturing-the-bandits</id><title type="text">Picturing the bandits</title><updated>2026-11-06T17:10:02.723841Z</updated><author><name>Terna Iwar</name></author><author><name>Sa’eed Husaini</name></author><author><name>Emeka Ugwu</name></author><author><name>OAG</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div><p>In June, the <cite>Guardian</cite> published <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2026/jun/01/nigeria-bandits-crisis-batsari-katsina-state">“Brutal and Emboldened: How Nigeria’s Bandit Crisis Spun Out of Control,”</a> a report from Katsina State in Nigeria’s northwest, where communities in local government areas such as Batsari have struck peace deals with the armed groups that have terrorized them for years. The photographs were taken by Terna Iwar, an Abuja-based photographer and artist who traveled with the <cite>Guardian</cite>’s West Africa correspondent, Eromo Egbejule, and a local stringer — without a security escort — to meet one of those groups under a neem tree near the border with Niger.</p><p>On the latest episode of the <cite>Africa Is a Country</cite> podcast, the Nigerian Scam talks to Terna about that encounter: why he kept his camera in plain sight from the moment he arrived, how the group saw itself (as protectors of their communities, not bandits or terrorists), and what the peace deal actually gives them. Access to shops and medicine, and an end to their families’ shame, are on the table; disarmament is not, since other armed groups are still out there. Terna describes a landscape of abandoned towns and clinics, electricity poles without cables, and border posts that barely function. He also reflects on the central dilemma of conflict photography: how to portray people as more than one-dimensional without losing sight of the horrific acts they have committed.</p><p>Listen to the show below, and <a href="https://aiac-talk.captivate.fm/listen">subscribe</a> on your favorite platform.</p><div style="width: 100%; height: 200px; margin-bottom: 20px; border-radius: 6px; overflow: hidden;"><iframe allow="clipboard-write" frameborder="no" scrolling="no" seamless="" src="https://player.captivate.fm/episode/767783db-92e2-4f2d-aa6b-844ea038f7c2/" style="width: 100%; height: 200px;"/></div></div><section id="sec-1"><header><hr/></header><dl><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Well, look, I guess we should talk banditry and photography, which are some of the key words for the day. So yeah, we’re talking about banditry and shooting the bandits, quote, unquote, today. And the conversation is with a longtime comrade, collaborator, or friend, Terna Iwar, who’s also a well-known photographer, artist, and creative. So, Terna, thanks for coming on the show, man.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Thank you for having me.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Homecoming in some ways, right?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>In many ways, yes.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>We hope. So feel free to raid the fridge. You don’t need to take your shoes off. The normal protocol. So, this is inspired by a recent article, <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2026/jun/01/nigeria-bandits-crisis-batsari-katsina-state">“Brutal and Emboldened,”</a> a <cite>Guardian</cite> article about how Nigeria’s bandit crisis is spinning out of control. We want to talk about banditry, but not necessarily only about the dynamics and history and stuff. We’ve had part of that conversation previously with James Barnett, and we’ll have more of that kind of more historical, if you will, conversation going forward. But I think part of what we want to dive into is a bit of the experience, right, of encountering this camp, going to the camp, and shooting, or photographing, the bandits — and then, of course, your assessment, based on that experience, of what the hell is going on with banditry in Nigeria. I’m sure there’ll be elements of the conversation maybe you don’t want to get into right now. We’ll respect that, but of course, as detailed or as granular as you want to get, there’s space for that. And so, just by way of a little bit more background, Terna was part of a team that went up to Katsina, if I’m not mistaken, and had an exclusive interview with at least one camp of AK-47-wielding bandits. Got their perspective, but also kind of hung out with them. They seem pretty relaxed in the photos, and I guess it’d be interesting to get your take on how you got them to be so chilled out in the photos, and what they thought of you as well, shooting at them from the camera. So I don’t know, man. Maybe by way of intro, you could just talk a little bit about how you got into this and what that was about, and how freaked out were your parents hearing that you. . . .  However you want to get into it.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Well, again, thank you for having me. Talking about the work I do is not something I often get to do, so I think this might even help me metabolize what that was like. So Eromo, the West Africa correspondent for the <cite>Guardian</cite>, reached out. We’d been talking back and forth for a while about potential stories and stuff that I was working on, what I was interested in doing, and when this came up, he thought that it would be a great fit, since a lot of the work that I’ve been doing in photojournalism revolves somehow around conflict. I just kind of found myself shooting a lot of conflict stuff, banditry, the aftermath of people’s lives changing in the most horrific, drastic ways. Initially, because of the nature of the story, it was very, very tightly kept. I didn’t even know specifically where we were going, but I knew the situation in Katsina, where I think 23 different local governments all have very intense bandit problems.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Yeah, that’s insane.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>And I had heard that there were efforts to curb that locally, not on a state or national level. And then in having conversations with Eromo, he let me know that there are groups of bandits that have accepted a peace deal with the local communities, for varying reasons. They chose to accept a peace deal. And so the goal was to go there, speak to the bandits, speak to the people that negotiated, speak to the communities, try and understand: What is this peace deal? Why would these bandits accept a peace deal? And why are they in banditry to begin with? Going there, we had a stringer, a contact on the ground, that helped us navigate. Of course, there were talks of, should we go with security? Should we not? Ultimately, we decided not to, because we felt very strongly at the time that showing up to these places with police or military would clamp down on the story and would basically make everyone unwilling to speak. And so we went there.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>I mean, probably it would have slightly increased the shootout possibility, right? I don’t know if you guys were thinking that, but it would seem to me.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Maybe if they were active bandits, then for sure. They would probably feel like we’re entrapping them or something, or it was a sting operation. But they had already accepted a peace deal. Reaching them was a whole different thing. We went to a community outside of the mining town, Nahuta, I believe before getting to Batsari, and we had to take a bike. I think it was like a 40-minute bike ride out of town to get to the mining town, and then another 15 minutes to get to where they were, because part of the deal was that they are not allowed to be in town within specific times, and I think they are not allowed to come into town with their weapons. Basically, their movement within the mining town and any town is very restricted, just so that everybody feels comfortable. And so we had to go out to them. Initially, I think they even wanted us to meet them at their base camp, but we eventually negotiated a neutral place, under a neem tree, to meet them.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Yeah, that’s nuts. So you did meet them, and — could you just talk us through, before we get to the meeting itself and what the vibe was like there, what were you thinking that morning, when you guys were going to head out to go meet up with bandits? Was there any part of you that was thinking, <em>Damn, this could be it</em>? Or were you feeling pretty confident about the peace deal? Were you like, N<em>o, it’s fine, the peace deal will keep things safe</em>?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Well, I think a thing about it, for me specifically — I can’t speak for anyone else — is if you’ve done your due diligence, you can only work based on the information that you have. And the information I had was these people were willing to talk. They had accepted the peace deal. That was the information I had. And not to say journalists are never betrayed, or that the people who are willing to talk to you might not turn on you, but from everything I had read and researched, it wasn’t a very common occurrence. And it seemed to me like a lot of these groups do want to tell their story. They have a need to be out there just as much, or to be seen as people rather than boogeymen. I think every terror group out there, at least in this day and age, is trying to sanitize itself in one way or the other. And plus, if you’re going to do this type of work, you can’t think of the worst-case scenario. You take it into consideration. You list all the things that could go wrong, and then you work to minimize your risk. We did do a very thorough risk assessment before we went there.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>No, fair enough. At one level, it sort of sounds like a more intense version of living in Nigeria, doesn’t it?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>That is exactly right. That is exactly right.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>It’s not like anybody’s guaranteed anything, really. No, that’s a fair point. When you talk about them wanting their story to be told — of course, there’ve been a few investigations that have talked to them directly. There was, of course, the BBC documentary. Different group — I think that was a Zamfara group, right? And now Katsina. And James Barnett and Murtala Ahmed Rufa’i and various people have been talking to them. We interviewed James Barnett a while back. But this is as close as we’ve gotten, in a way — having someone who’s within our ranks very much face to face with the bandits. And it’s that face-to-face element I want to now explore. I suspect OAG wants to come in with questions. But so you arrive at the neem tree, and it’s a bunch of guys. Some of them have dreads, the kind of military uniforms in some cases. What was your first impression seeing the guys, and how did you folks feel received? And sorry, how did you feel about the camera? Did that require extensive negotiation?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Well, not even. Whenever I go to any place where it’s fairly dangerous — well, depending on the kind of danger — I don’t want to hide. In this particular case, I wanted them to see the camera and be comfortable with the fact that there is a camera on the scene right from the jump. So I didn’t put it in my bag. It was right in front of me, facing everyone, from even before we got to Batsari. And then when we got to Batsari, because we had to wait a little bit, I was already taking pictures, I was already making images, walking around, familiarizing myself, and in a very large way, familiarizing anyone that would come up to us with the camera. If I had gotten there, and then after they start talking, I suddenly whip out a camera, I’m sure they would be like, W<em>ait, wait, wait, what’s happening here</em>? But right from arrival, the camera was very visible. And then I asked them directly — or, well, asked — but basically I raised it up, and I was like, “I’m here, notice me,” and I immediately started taking pictures. So I think there is a little bit of audacity, but also you kind of have to sensitize people to the camera. Even if it wasn’t bandits, if it was anyone, a camera suddenly being put in your face is not nice. It’s actually quite aggressive.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>That sounds like experience talking, because now that you say it, it makes perfect sense. But one might have been tempted to be a bit shy with it, or, as you say, pull it out of your bag mid-conversation. But I can see how that would be maybe a terrible idea. So now I’m really curious about — no, let me let you keep going. I thought you were going to say something.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>I was going to say that it is a good point about being shy, because I’m not generally the very forward, aggressive type. So I think maybe some of the ways in which I interact with these guys are very careful, even as I’m trying to capture stuff that can be dangerous.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Right. And so I’m curious about what their impressions of you guys were, and whether they made jokes, or how they read you guys in this.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>I would give a lot of credit to the stringer. I think he did a lot of work to familiarize himself with them, or to get in their good books, because when we got there, they were very prepared to have a conversation. I would even imagine that they went out of their way — not that I know what they do all day, but I would imagine that they moved things around to make it happen. Before we got there, we were told that we should bring Coke, Fanta, and bread, because it’s apparently a very strong sign, and a thing that a lot of these bandit groups love. We didn’t, but we were told that that would help in the appeasement. But when we got there, they were relatively welcoming. Of course, there were some people that were very standoffish. There were some people that were giving us not very good looks. But in the main, they were very welcoming. I think even later on, at some point, they offered us Coke and food, when they were going on break and for prayers.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>That’s interesting, and again, it doesn’t necessarily align with the portrayal that one generally gets from a distance about what these guys are like. Even the talk about Coke and bread — in the civil society kind of reports, there’s a lot of emphasis laid on drugs and people being kind of out of their minds and being a bit reckless, but the guys you’re describing don’t sound exactly like that. So what were your first impressions, really? From the pictures, clearly the guys were armed. But beyond those basic facts, did they appear and give off a vibe that you expected? Did anything stand out?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>In many ways, yes. I would say I’ve been to a prison or two before, and I’ve shot many different places that were going through very tough times, and what I found is most people in most places are not that different. The circumstances and the things they do might be different. Look, what I’ll say is, in all my time on this earth, I’ve met maybe two people who I looked into their eyes and I knew this person had killed a person. I just knew. But most people don’t wear either their atrocities or their traumas on their sleeve. They find ways to bury all of that very deeply. And when you meet them, you don’t know what someone is or what they’ve done. It was no different with these guys. They just seemed like regular people, until you started talking to them about what they are doing. Because ultimately they are still bandits, peace deal or no peace deal. It’s not until you get into the details, into the weeds, that you realize, okay, this person — we don’t see the world the same way. But first impressions are always like, yeah, regular guy.</p></dd></div><div><dt>OAG</dt><dd><p>A guy you could play football with.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Yeah, you could literally. And they start telling you about their own hopes and dreams, and you’re like, okay, regular guy. But then, if you talk about the other stuff, their banditry and their way of life and all that, it’s very horrific. So in some ways I wasn’t surprised. I was a little bit surprised by their unwillingness to engage with what they were doing, but people always make excuses and rationalize all kinds of things.</p></dd></div><div><dt>OAG</dt><dd><p>It’s interesting, what you’re saying about them not engaging with what they are doing, and the general perception of what people think. But let’s step back and zoom in on them. Do they keep tabs on the political scenery — the bandits, I’m saying, who we are assuming have some sort of amnesty going on? Are they interested in Peter Obi, or are they Obidient? Would they like for Kwankwaso to be there? That type of thing. And do they maybe think they’re going to graft into the political thing, like voting? If they’re not going to do that, then is it going to be by way of arms? Because people that are looking to have their sins forgiven and maybe at some time be reintegrated back into society — do they see themselves. . . .  Maybe the broader question I’m asking is: Do they see themselves participating politically, voting, then at some point integrating back into society and being normal, in quotes? Their hopes and aspirations of being normal, and not staying in the bush forever. Did you get a sense of that from the discussion?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Yes, there is an awareness. Actually, I would say there is a very strong awareness of social injustice — social injustice in that they and their people have been disenfranchised by the government. That was a thing that they kept coming back to when we were discussing why they are doing what they are doing. There was a very strong emphasis from them that the government has failed them. That was part of why they said they were doing what they are doing, and part of why they kept doing it, because they said successive governments would make promises and would never keep them. There was even a little bit of lamentation there, where they were like, they’ve tried to talk to the government, and there are a lot of people that don’t want to engage. Now, I should say, there are, I think, over 30 different bandit groups. We were told that there were many, many bandit groups, some operating across different communities. Some have basically made a community their home base. And so nothing that these guys say speaks for all these bandit groups, but for these guys specifically, this is what they were talking about. They had tried to talk to the government. They’d tried negotiating with the government even before they became bandits. It was because the government was not fulfilling their end of the deal. They talk about how they took up arms to begin with to try and protect their people, ostensibly from other bandit groups.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Right. So they were vigilantes in some way, previously.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>They much prefer that term, <em>vigilante</em>, to <em>bandits</em>. Because the leader of the group, Abu Radde, said he really didn’t like the term <em>bandits</em> or <em>terrorists</em>. It makes them upset. They are not criminals.</p></dd></div><div><dt>OAG</dt><dd><p>What would he have preferred?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Well, they feel like they are doing all of this to protect their people.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Yeah. So the vigilante or community security kind of thing.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>They didn’t use the term <em>vigilante</em>, but they did say they are doing it to protect their people.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Right. Pretty crazy. No, OAG, let me let you in.</p></dd></div><div><dt>OAG</dt><dd><p>Yeah, but in the face of insecurity, do they have an idea of how they’ve been branded, and how the federal government, or maybe even the state government, is working to kind of flush them out? Do they understand the kind of negative PR they are getting?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>They understand that very clearly. Yes.</p></dd></div><div><dt>OAG</dt><dd><p>So that’s my point. If they are seeing it this way, and the bloodshed component of their work is becoming more pronounced these days — I know they said they’ve tried to talk to the government — have they explored maybe other ways? I know it’s just political, but maybe forming a political pressure group or something, without the violent aspect. That’s why I was asking more about their politics.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>You’re trying to push your own solution, right? They need to register with INEC.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>No, I don’t think they are thinking in terms of political solutions at all. They are done with that. I think they’ve done what they’ve seen other communities do, and what they know how to do. It seems like the logical conclusion, or the logical next step, for them is to take up arms, not explore politics or go into politics or try and change things through the system.</p></dd></div><div><dt>OAG</dt><dd><p>So did they come up with any form of suggestions that would make them consider dropping their arms, or anything that they want the government to do for them to then consider dropping their arms? Did they mention anything?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Well, I think that is included in the peace deal. The peace deal does not include disarmament. They find themselves in a situation where all of them have families. They have parents who are part of communities that I believe they’ve also terrorized. So their families are now pariahs, or were pariahs, and part of what they wanted was for their families to be able to move around without feeling shame. One. And for they themselves to gain access to, well, the amenities of civilization: be able to go to the shop and buy something, buy biscuits, be able to get medication — just the benefits that you get from living as part of a community with some sort of economy. And in exchange, they agreed not to terrorize anyone. They refused to give up their guns, because they said there are other groups that are still — because remember that they are still herders, specifically. They are still herders, and I believe — well, maybe not them, I don’t know — but they are protecting their cattle from rustlers and other bandit groups. So they said that they can’t give up their weapons because these other groups are not giving up their weapons, and they need to protect themselves. But it comes back to — that’s why they couldn’t come into town, because they can’t come into town with their weapons.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Right. All this talk about the government — their views on the government — sort of inspires a certain question. Because all this time, actually, we’ve said very little about the security agencies. You mentioned you considered the pros and cons of having some of them around, but looking at the images you shared, it doesn’t really look like there’s much security presence. And even in the story you’re telling, of them feeling the need to stay armed because there are other armed groups, nowhere are they mentioning going to report to the police. As somebody living in Nigeria, we can all imagine why that’s the case. But I just wonder, going out there, how remote or ungoverned, quote, unquote, do these spaces appear? Was there any government presence at all? Did you see schools out there, or electricity? Or are they really just kind of out there, cut off from the governed bits of Nigeria?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>To a large extent, I think the <cite>Guardian</cite> did a fantastic — well, it is part of the body of work that we’re doing, but they put out an article talking about the insecurity across the Sahel, and a thing that they found is that the Sahel and these northern parts of Nigeria are places that the government doesn’t really penetrate into. I think either th ey find it difficult to govern, or there are not enough resources, natural resources, there for them to really care about. Or, for whatever reason, there is very little presence of the government or any governing structures there.I didn’t see a school. But again, we stopped off in town — we took a car, stopped off in the township, and then took a bike, almost 40 minutes, 30, 40 minutes’ bike ride into the wilderness, really. And we passed through several abandoned towns. We even passed through an aid center — it used to be a hospital, or a clinic, sorry — that was abandoned when bandits had destroyed it. We passed abandoned towns, abandoned clinics. On our way there, we saw signs of burgeoning development, in that there were electricity poles that had been placed to take light to certain remote areas, but there were no cables on them. So I guess maybe that project was also abandoned. This area that we’re in, I would say, is really just abandoned. The government is not — or maybe they tried at some point in time, but they are not trying to connect these areas to the rest of the country. And where we actually met them was even more remote. Just bare fields and trees for miles around.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Right. Okay.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>And plus, where we were is very close to the border. In fact, before we went to meet them, we did go to three different border points with Niger. There’s not very much there either.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Even the people who live there?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Yeah, people live there, but yeah.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>So would you know it’s a border, or is it that people just say, “Hey, this is a border”?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>No, we went to the known ones. The main one — as I understand it, not a lot of people use it, but it’s very official. The road is done, the gate is very big, there is security there. They check whatever they are checking. They inspect cars and all that. Very built-out situation. The second border crossing we saw was basically three security guys and a hut with a plank across. The third one had a customs office, and this was the one that is close to Batsari — well, closer, a couple of miles away from Batsari. They had the customs building there, but as far as I’m aware, it’s not operational. Perhaps it is. I don’t know. But it didn’t seem like it was operational.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Right. And how you’re describing it, it also didn’t seem like if you rode through with 100 guys on motorcycles and AKs, anything would really stop you. You could probably just keep going.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Plus, how do you police miles and miles of — you could drive a kilometer on either side of any one of these borders, cross, and no one could stop you. It’s not like there’s a long fence. Well, it’s only America that can do such a thing.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>And even there.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>And even there, you could drive on either side of the border and just cross. Which is literally what these guys do.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>I mean, who can blame them? Borders, of course, classically an administrative fiction more than anything. Really fascinating. I know we’ve kept you for a while. Just another couple of questions before we let you go. I want to come back to seeing this through the lens of a photographer, but one more detail that stuck in my mind is this mining question. Because you stopped by a mining town, and for a lot of Nigerians, one easy explanation of banditry — even for some kinds of left analysts, or at least let’s call them anti-imperialist analysts — has been that this is all about mining: that there are foreign interests in cahoots with certain domestic interests that control the mines, and the bandits are just a distraction, or they’re just the security guys that make sure that the illicit mining global conglomerates or cabals continue to extract their coins from these areas. Not to force you to respond to all of that, but how did the mining element seem connected, if at all, to the lives of these guys? Do these guys mine, or do they go around the mines? Or did it feel like two different dynamics altogether?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>The guys at the mines were very clear, and they were very insistent, that the bandits, Abu Radde’s group, have nothing to do with their operations.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Interesting.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Yeah, they were very insistent that that was the case. I can’t say anything to that, because to my mind, I don’t see how that could be. But they insisted that that’s the case — that they don’t interfere, and they’ve never interfered, and they don’t pay a tax to the bandits.</p></dd></div><div><dt>OAG</dt><dd><p>Let me just jump in. Is there a general message that they have? Because with social media and all, we see it — and it might not be the same ones you’re talking about — but we see them flaunting money, even doing giveaways and all that. And I think popularity and fame is starting to creep in with bandits now. So do they have a general message which they’re trying to pass across? And what would their vision of the future be like? Because I’m sure they don’t want to be bandits — well, I don’t want to say I’m sure they don’t want to be bandits forever — but what would their picture of the future be like, coming from your interaction with them and the feelers that you got from them?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>From them, I didn’t get very. . . .  I mean, Abu Radde himself was very excited to be going on Hajj. This is one of the things that he was very excited about now that there is a peace deal. There was another young guy — I think he’s like 17, even — who had left school to join Abu Radde’s gang, and he seemed excited to go back. Well, if not excited, he was very interested in the idea of going back to school. He left in SS1 or so. So a lot of the guys that we spoke to — these are the kinds of things that they cared about in their future.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>It almost seems like banditry is kind of a part-time thing, or a transitional thing, for a lot of people. They’re doing it, but it’s not the only thing they do, or the only thing they want to do. It’s just kind of part of their hustle. Not to be simplistic, but is that unfair?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>I would say it is not unfair, in that my impression is, if they felt like they had other options, they wouldn’t be bandits.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Got it.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>But banditry is a thing where, once you step in, you’re already in. Like podcasting — you’re staying. You can’t be a bandit part-time, I don’t think so, and it doesn’t seem like they even are bandits part-time. But it is also true that they want more for themselves than being bandits. It seemed, again, from their perspective, from what they were saying, that this is not the life that they chose — or they chose that life because they had no choice. When we asked them, “Okay, so what about all the people that you’ve killed, all the destruction, death?,” their simple answer, which again was an avoidant thing, was, “Things happen.” Things happen. But they kept coming back again to the fact that they are only doing this because the government has failed them.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Emeka Ugwu</dt><dd><p>I joined late, and I’ve been listening for the most part, trying to get a sense of where the conversation is coming from and where it’s going. So my own question is maybe a spinoff from my failure to get a holistic grip of the conversation. But I’m interested, ideologically — and I don’t want to label it Islamic — in ideas about what awaits them in the afterlife. So my question is: Is there any sense that these guys don’t have a sex life? Do they have conversations about women? Are they getting married?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>There are a lot of them that are married.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Emeka Ugwu</dt><dd><p>No mass marriage, all that?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Well, I don’t know. Abu Radde, I know, is married. I know a couple of the other guys are married. I don’t know about the young guys. We asked them what they do for fun, and they said that there’s this game that they play where they basically beat each other to impress women. I’m blanking on the word.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>I’ve seen this.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>I think it’s a game of endurance, where they are whipping each other. I found that fascinating.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Emeka Ugwu</dt><dd><p>Isn’t that more of a cultural thing? Because right from when I was young, they’d say if you want to marry, in some parts of the north, you endure some kind of beating. I don’t know if that’s more cultural than anything else.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Yeah, I only bring that up because Emeka was asking about marriage. So clearly they’re — </p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Interested in babes. Some of them are married. As elsewhere in the world, there are cultural particularities around courtship. I’ve heard of <cite>Shadi</cite> before. I’ve seen some videos, too, of guys in the Sahel putting on what looks like makeup and dancing in a row — guys who dance the hardest.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Emeka Ugwu</dt><dd><p>Would that be a tribal thing, I would think? Would that be right?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>I mean, so this relates to maybe my penultimate question, which is around swag. They were dressed cleanly in the pictures you took.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>They had brand-new bikes.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Right. The bikes were new. The military fatigues were sort of sharp. They looked kind of ironed, and they were also kind of posing. There was a guy who was rocking a mean-ass cigarette. They had gloves and stuff. The guys had dreads. Can you talk us through the swag a bit? Because I kind of felt like they were swagging out a little bit. Not to summarize it, but was there an element of coolness at play here?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>I think the particular guy you’re thinking of, with the long dreads and the dark shades — I think that’s just him. He’s also the one that I mentioned was interested and a little bit excited about going back to school. So I don’t know about. . . . </p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Youthful exuberance.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Yeah, I think maybe he’s at that point in his life, and, being not far from, I guess, the wider culture, there are things that he’s interested in that maybe some of the other guys aren’t.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Right. So he might have a TikTok account, maybe.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>But there is a thing about uniforms, especially military uniforms. Despite the fear that they evoke in Nigeria, I think there’s a way in which uniforms have been designed to look sharp. It’s hard to see a person in fatigues that does not look a certain kind of imposing and sharp. I guess my question would be, how did they get access to it? I’m thinking about that now, and I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me then.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>As with a lot of vigilante or community protection kinds of groups, they seem to end up with one form of uniform or the other. In a way, these things are things you can buy in the market too. Even the army guys buy their own uniforms in the market.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Emeka Ugwu</dt><dd><p>Ah, so true. The same way army personnel buy their own.</p><p>So, staying on this swag thing. I’d imagine that bandits who are — I don’t even know whether to call them bandits — but young and have TikTok accounts, there would be some trend within the larger society. Of course, because of location, that would be hard. But when they raid, they make money. That’s why they flaunt it. Flaunt it for what? For who? What are they flaunting? Are they telling the Nigerian population that banditry pays? Or are they trying to use TikTok the way I think it’s used within that generation — some of them use it to show off, maybe to impress women? I think some of these social media platforms really promote stuff like hookup culture. Or is it that these guys are not even participants in this? I think some research has suggested that that’s why they go and kidnap schoolgirls. I’m not saying this particular group that you’ve spoken to, but I’d imagine they want to wear some of the trendiest sunshades, boots. Because at the end of the day, why is it a racket that pays, and why is it something that they are drawn to over time, to the point where they feel the urge to show off their loot — again, not this particular group, but even some bandits that rustle cows? Or I don’t know whether vigilantes are paid for any of the work that they do, at least up in that region. Because I’m almost certain that vigilantes in the southeast who look out for bandits, or who are trying to act as security against bandits — I don’t know how well they are paid, if they’re even paid. I’m sure they are not paid well.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>I think there are a bunch of different types of these bandit groups. There are the ones that are very Islamist in what they’re doing — they’re pushing the religious agenda. And then there are other ones who are, I think, doing it for money. These guys, again, say that they’re doing it to protect their people and to protect themselves from other bandit groups.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Emeka Ugwu</dt><dd><p>And their cows.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>And their cattle, yeah.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>In their own self-conception.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>In their own mind, yeah. In their own self-conception, yes. But I think the broader thing here, to your question, Emeka, I think there is a culture in Nigeria of money above all, and it might be that these groups that are celebrating and boasting on social media are tapping into something that is a broader occurrence in Nigeria. It’s hard to be young on social media and not buy into the broader value system that is being promoted.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>My final question, and probably should be our final question, just because we’ve kept you for a while. It’s maybe a general question that you’ve encountered before, around conflict journalism and conflict photography, but I wonder how you think about it in this case. Talking to you now, I feel some sympathy for these guys, right? I think you’ve kind of humanized them, because they don’t really look like this sort of bloodthirsty — </p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>It’s not by intention.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>No, but if you explore anybody’s perspective enough, they come across as not just irrational and bloodthirsty — </p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Not one-dimensional.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>That’s the main thing, really. They come across as not one-dimensional. They’re multidimensional suddenly. And of course, looking at the images you took of them, too, they’re respectful images, right? You’ve not treated them as clowns or African savages. In the pictures, they look human. They just look like people one might meet. I guess the question is an ethical one. You’ve also highlighted that these are people who have — in their own telling, and the groups that they affiliate with, or bandits more generally, as we all know — committed some pretty heinous atrocities. How does one strike the balance? As a photographer, how do you think about managing that tension between trying to portray people as people, meaning not one-dimensional, but then also grappling with the tragedy and the trauma that this whole phenomenon has brought about? I’m sure there’s no easy answer to that, but I just wonder what your thinking on that is.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>That is one of the central questions for me, actually, because at every point in time, I’m very aware of who these guys are, or what they have done, right? I see my work — as passé or as bland as it may sound — as witnessing what is happening, carrying a story back so that everybody else can understand. I try very hard not to place judgment on whoever the subject is. I think a part of what I’m doing requires me to be able to understand the person in front of me in a way, but at the same time, not pass judgment. I don’t want my subjective perspective to taint or to paint or to color the work I’m doing. Inevitably, it’s hard to do that, and I guess even the fact that I’m trying to understand who I’m working with, the people that I’m taking pictures of, also comes out in the images. But really, ultimately, I’m there to witness and to tell the story as I’ve seen it. If I had gone there and the feeling of the place was very tense and violent, and you could smell the smoke in the air and see death in these people’s eyes, the images probably would have shown that. That wasn’t what I saw. But the thing that I worry about is this humanizing aspect, right? Because I do see them as more than one-dimensional. But at the same time, it’s important to hold several ideas in your head at the same time. These are human beings that have wants, needs, desires. They want more for themselves. They believe it is their right, and I can see how that is true for almost anyone. But at the same time, they committed horrible, irredeemable acts, and that also has to be front and center and reckoned with. And sometimes I worry that the work I’m making does not actually properly capture both sides. But in going there, I have a way in which I approach making images, and so far it’s worked. It allows people to open up. It definitely allowed them to feel a bit more comfortable with me, which I think is only a good thing.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>I agree. I think it’s credit to your skills and experience, and it’s helpful for observers, because it doesn’t do us any favors to try to simplify them or see them in a one-dimensional register. I think it is important to actually try to grapple with that tension, and not resolve it so easily either way, because that doesn’t lend itself to sustainable solutions either. So I think you’ve done very important work here — of course, you and the <cite>Guardian</cite> and Eromo.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Excellent work by Eromo. He’s amazing.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Absolutely, and he’s somebody we’d be very keen to talk to as well. But not only because you’re our guy, but also because I think the photographer’s lens — a picture says a thousand words, for sure, but getting the context of how those pictures were taken, and why, and what the moment felt like, is also very enriching. So, look, thanks for making the time to have this conversation.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>No, thank you for having me.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Amazing. Hope we can have it again, maybe on a slightly lighter subject matter. Emeka, any final thoughts? Vote of thanks?</p></dd></div><div><dt>Emeka Ugwu</dt><dd><p>No, that’s it.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>Fair enough. Okay, Terna, nice one, man. We’ll let you go. Stay well.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Terna Iwar</dt><dd><p>Stay safe, folks. Cheers, guys.</p></dd></div><div><dt>Sa’eed Husaini</dt><dd><p>All right, man. Take care, fellas.</p></dd></div></dl></section></div></content><published>2026-11-06T15:23:57.63Z</published><summary type="text">A peace deal in Katsina, Nigeria, lets one armed group buy biscuits and plan for Hajj, but not lay down its weapons. Photographer Terna Iwar tells the Nigerian Scam what he saw.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/11/the-left-can-defeat-reactionaries</id><title type="text">The left can defeat reactionaries</title><updated>2026-11-05T14:22:48.988069Z</updated><author><name>Branko Marcetic</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>The United States left has been so conditioned in the Trump era to look aghast and horrified at election results that it is still hard to fully believe the outcome of the November 3 midterms. Yet those historic events really did happen: Donald Trump and Republicans suffered a historic rebuke from voters, handing Democrats wins up and down the ballot all across the country, flipping both chambers of Congress in their favor, and handing them the largest congressional majorities they’ve had since Barack Obama’s election.</p><p>In many ways, the result is simple. Across poll after poll leading into the election and exit poll after exit poll leading out of it, the message from voters was the same: they think the economy sucks, they think prices are too high, and they’re angry at Trump and blame him squarely for this entire situation. To send this message, voters turned out in droves to hand power to a Democratic Party that these same polls show they have very little love for, sometimes viewing the Dems even more dimly than they do Trump.</p><p>Democrats were expected to take the House. They were <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2026/09/30/how-many-house-seats-will-democrats-win-polls-may-already-know/">not expected</a> to win a majority of more than 250 seats in it, as estimates at the time of writing had them winning. Nor were they expected to win a Senate majority, let alone a Senate majority of at least 54 seats. And they were not expected to flip deep red seats across the country, to sweep Republicans from control of Texas at nearly every level of power, and to win a <a href="https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/democrats-win-governorships-in-texas-and-other-gop-controlled-states-in-rebuke-to-republicans">majority of the country’s governorships</a>, achieving <a href="https://www.ncsl.org/state-legislatures-news/details/2026-state-legislative-elections-the-results-and-what-they-mean">wins and trifectas</a> in states they’ve been practically locked out of, sometimes for decades. Obama referred to his 2010 midterms rout as a “shellacking.” These midterms were an annihilation.</p><p>This is not just good news for Democrats. For the US left, which operates within these Democratic majorities at both the state and federal levels, the results present a historic opportunity to turn its political priorities from words into tangible reality across the country, further building the power it has patiently and, for a long time, quietly been constructing from the ground up these past <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/10/sanders-anniversary-socialists-elections-dsa">10 years</a>.</p><p>That includes at the federal level. Even though Trump has two more years in the White House, and Democrats are threatening to zealously turn their powers of oversight on the vast record of abuse and criminality he’s racked up during that time, there is some, extremely slim reason to believe something could actually get done.</p><p>Trump <a href="https://x.com/politico/status/2117840712855113793">phoned</a> Politico on election night to make clear he was open to working with the Democrats and didn’t “want to be just sitting there for two years vetoing everything.” The last time Trump was in the White House with a Democratic-controlled House, during the pandemic, the United States saw the largest expansion of the welfare state in decades. Trump’s ideological malleability and the fact that he is currently looking at a legacy as a historic failure presents at least the possibility of an opening for something better to happen.</p><p>It’s an opening the left will be able to take advantage of, too. The left will enter this new Congress with far more formidable numbers than it’s had in decades: at least seven members of the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA), creating the historic opportunity to form, for the first time, a distinct <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/11/democratic-party-congress-socialist-caucus-dsa">socialist caucus</a> in Congress and a Squad-like progressive “<a href="https://www.politico.com/newsletters/playbook/2026/09/29/matt-gaetzs-advice-for-the-dem-revolution-01096630">Bloc</a>” that could have as many as 20 members.</p><p>The massive Democratic House majority means “the Bloc” will not have the expected leverage of being able to block House Democratic leader Hakeem Jeffries’s bid for Speaker, or to hold up legislation Freedom Caucus–style. But it will have influence. Much of the generous pandemic policies of 2020, including both Trump and, later, Joe Biden’s stimulus checks, originated with the public demands of socialist and progressive members of Congress that later found their way into legislation on the back of their clear public need and popularity.</p><p>This time, the left will be making these arguments in a world in which socialists have already transformed the way even centrist Democrats talk about politics. The party’s years-long obsession with “norms” and rescuing democracy having largely faded into the background in favor of the affordability-focused and anti-billionaire rhetoric <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/11/mamdani-midterms-trump-affordability-socialists">popularized</a> by, respectively, New York’s socialist mayor, Zohran Mamdani, and the socialist duo of Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez on their “Fighting Oligarchy” tour.</p><p>Just as importantly, it’s a world in which the left, thanks to a spate of major wins on November 3, has thoroughly discredited the arguments used to marginalize and dismiss its basic case.</p><p>No left-wing victory of the night was bigger than Abdul El-Sayed’s Michigan Senate win over Republican Mike Rogers by a whopping seven points. It was the exact, hefty margin El-Sayed himself had <a href="https://x.com/AbdulElSayed/status/2051104145474466216">promised</a> he would win by back in May and defied the incessant predictions that he would end up badly underperforming.</p><p>There was arguably no more important race this year than for the purple state’s Senate seat: for the US left, which sought to prove progressives could run and win outside of blue strongholds; for corporate Democrats, a segment of whom feared losing the ability to fearmonger about supposedly risky left-wing candidates; for the pro-Israel lobby, which feared that the success of a stridently pro-Palestinian message would obliterate its claim that blind fealty to Israel was “good politics”; for Trump and the MAGA movement, whose loss of the key state could be a harbinger of even worse political defeat to come.</p><p>El-Sayed’s win has confirmed all of these. It represents not just a failure for MAGA, in the form of now two-time loser and career-long warmonger Mike Rogers. It’s an absolute disaster for the pro-Israel lobby and the American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC) in particular, which blew tens of millions of dollars over the course of both the primary and general to defeat El-Sayed and tried every trick in the book to defame and make voters, particularly Jewish ones, fear him.</p><p>Instead, both <a href="https://forward.com/news/860246/michigan-jewish-vote-el-sayed-rogers-poll/">exit polls</a> and <a href="https://www.yahoo.com/news/politics/articles/el-sayed-won-west-bloomfield-153020549.html">voting data</a> indicate El-Sayed comfortably won Jewish voters despite this ugly, Islamophobic campaign against him. He outperformed Kamala Harris in the heavily Jewish Oakland County, the home base of his Democratic primary rival, Haley Stevens, who humiliated herself trying to kneecap him in the final days of the race.</p><p>Catastrophically for the pro-Israel lobby, he did all this while maintaining an unabashed opposition to further US aid to Israel, proving unambiguously that left-wing criticisms of Israeli policy are not only broadly shared by voters in battleground states, but that they are shared by Jewish voters, too.</p><p>That he managed this is especially impressive given that, unlike his Democratic colleague running for governor, El-Sayed had to overcome not only an <a href="https://www.wsj.com/livecoverage/midterm-election-results-2026-latest-updates/card/michigan-senate-race-saw-most-ad-[spending](https://www.axios.com/local/detroit/2026/10/15/senate-race-ad-spending-181-million">avalanche</a>-on-election-eve-XsnwXX3fPTPpiTU18nRE) of big money spending but also members of his own party working around the clock to sabotage him, from Stevens’s last-minute endorsement of Rogers to Rep. Hillary Scholten’s <a href="https://x.com/penningtonkm/status/2117025921760702585">support</a> for a <a href="https://jewishinsider.com/2026/11/nonnegotiable-movement-michigan-senate-rogers-emma-lazarus-protest-vote/">write-in campaign</a> against the Democratic nominee in the final days.</p><p>Democratic defectors to the GOP had a variety of motives, but at least some of them made publicly clear they hoped El-Sayed’s defeat would nip the growing Democratic opposition to US aid to Israel in the bud — something they were willing to elect a candidate who included <a href="http://metrotimes.com/news/u-s-senate-candidate-rogers-taps-students-who-defended-hitler-group-chat-and-spread-misogynistic-comments/">actual antisemites</a> in his campaign to do, as well as to empower an administration that makes common cause with literal neo-Nazis and white supremacists. Instead, they lost and disgraced themselves for nothing.</p><p>El-Sayed also did it on a progressive platform of Medicare for All and taxing the rich, two ideas that, when Bernie Sanders first popularized them in 2016, the public was told were too controversial with swing voters and risky to run on. A decade later, these ideas have such widely understood, popular support that Republicans didn’t even bother attacking them. Instead, they put all their eggs in the race-baiting basket, making El-Sayed’s Arab ethnicity and Muslim faith the overwhelming focus of their attacks in what turned out to be one of the most shockingly racist election campaigns this century — and another disgraceful failure.</p><p>El-Sayed’s win wasn’t the only bright spot for the left on election night. There was also Troy Jackson’s win in Maine, who succeeded where four others had failed in unseating the seemingly untouchable 30-year Republican incumbent Susan Collins from her Senate seat. Though Jackson, an 18-year state legislator and former state senate president and Democratic leader, was far from your typical image of a left insurgent, he quickly consolidated socialist and progressive backing after former nominee Graham Platner’s personal scandals pushed him out of the race.</p><p>Though not a socialist, Jackson’s genuine working-class background — as a fifth-generation logger who <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/07/maine-jackson-logging-workplace-struggles">entered politics</a> to win collective bargaining rights for his fellow woodworkers — and robust progressive record made him closer to the kind of candidates the left hopes to see in power. In the end, Jackson was able to secure victory by neutralizing Collins’s ability to run up big scores in otherwise blue-voting areas.</p><p>The other major progressive win was by James Talarico, who became the first Democrat to win a Texas seat in 38 years, part of a historic blue sweep across Texas that saw Democrats end nearly three decades of GOP rule of the state. Talarico is <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2026/08/06/us/texas-senate-talarico-paxton-taxes.html">not a socialist</a>, despite <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2026/09/01/politics/james-talarico-progressive-comments-kfile">old comments</a> criticizing capitalism that briefly became a campaign issue, and like El-Sayed, he took pains to <a href="https://time.com/article/2026/10/05/democrats-in-key-senate-races-embrace-capitalist-label/">insist</a> that he was a capitalist. Even so, he was backed by groups like <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/DVeCPEfFNfh/">More Perfect Union</a> and the <a href="https://thehill.com/homenews/campaign/5752263-pccc-endorses-talarico-texas-senate/">Progressive Change Campaign Committee</a> and drew support from prominent socialists like <a href="https://dallasexpress.com/state/socialist-piker-to-talarico-win-texas-senate-race-remember-who-got-you-there/">Hasan Piker</a>, who has said that the left was “the force that backed him early on” and “allowed him to win.”</p><p>Maybe more important, Talarico ran on a <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/03/texas-primary-talarico-class-christianity">class-based message</a> decrying “<a href="https://jamestalarico.com/why-im-running/">billionaire mega-donors</a>” — one of whom, Elon Musk, lit at least <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cv8ez3p3ge5ko">$47 million</a> on fire trying and failing to beat him — and insisting that the fundamental political divide in the United States was “top versus bottom,” a more progressive message than many Democrats ran on even in solid blue states. So his emphatic 12-point victory over the scandal-plagued Ken Paxton is a victory for the kind of populist message the left has long advocated, even as Talarico did things like refusing to back Medicare for All and <a href="https://www.newsweek.com/talarico-to-skip-bernie-sanders-texas-rally-as-senate-polling-lead-tightens-12569008">declining</a> to campaign with Bernie Sanders when he visited the state.</p><p>Speaking of Sanders, as of the time of writing, 17 of the 21 candidates endorsed by the socialist senator have won their races, while only two have lost, and two are in races that are still to be called. Sanders’s endorsements were less straightforwardly left-wing than those of organizations like DSA or Justice Democrats. They included candidates like El-Sayed and Jackson, but they also included more establishment candidates like Minnesota Senator-elect Peggy Flanagan, who beat corporate-friendly rivals in their primaries. They ran the gamut from DSA candidates like New York’s <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/07/valdez-dsa-labor-organizing-congress">Claire Valdez</a> and Colorado’s <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/06/melat-kiros-congress-colorado">Melat Kiros</a> to candidates like Rebecca Cooke, the less progressive candidate in her primary but someone who <a href="https://wisconsinexaminer.com/2026/11/04/rebecca-cooke-flips-wisconsins-3rd-congressional-district-for-democrats/">flipped</a> a Trump-voting, rural Wisconsin district that for decades was represented by a Democrat.</p><p>They also included William Lawrence, the Sunrise Movement cofounder who has flipped a swing district in the swing state of Michigan despite having one of the more left-wing résumés of any Democratic candidate — something that, like El-Sayed, we were told would make him a guaranteed loser. The fact that Lawrence left DSA mid-campaign and had to distance himself from <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2026/09/04/politics/william-lawrence-michigan-midterms-kfile">old tweets</a> that included calls to nationalize the fossil fuel industry should not take away from the magnitude of his win. On the back of a <a href="https://michiganadvance.com/2026/10/27/lawrence-delivers-campaigns-closing-message-as-he-preps-for-final-election-push/">progressive populist</a> campaign that pushed a <a href="https://theintercept.com/2026/11/04/will-lawrence-michigan-midterms-data-centers/">data center moratorium</a> and <a href="https://michiganadvance.com/2026/10/07/michigan-advance-fact-check-tom-barretts-voting-record-and-will-lawrences-goals-for-healthcare/">Medicare for All</a>, Lawrence won a purple district that used to belong to the Democrats’ patron saint of centrism, former CIA analyst Elissa Slotkin.</p><p>Even some of the defeats were surprisingly good for the left. In ruby-red Florida — where Republicans outnumber Democrats by 1.5 million and a Democrat hasn’t won statewide office since 2012 — DSA member Angie Nixon lost by less than three points, little different from the two-point losing margin of the ex-Republican candidate who Democrats ran for governor. The state’s last four Democratic losing margins for Senate are 13, 16, 0.2, and 8 points. And that’s after being outspent nearly four to one and getting no help whatsoever from the national Democratic Party, which should be kicking itself for missing the opportunity to win another gettable Senate seat.</p><p>That a DSA member would even be competitive in Florida — the heartland of right-wing Cuban extremism and the home of both Marco Rubio and now two Bolsonaro sons — would have sounded laughable five years ago, or even five months ago. That Nixon could do this well with this little help will, together with El-Sayed’s win, make it that much harder to argue that the socialist label is an inherent electoral liability.</p><p>It should spark some soul-searching among the Democratic establishment and its decision to preemptively write off the race as a foregone loss. But it will no doubt also spark debate within the socialist movement, too, given Nixon’s result was built partly on distancing herself from alienating positions like defunding the police and abolishing prisons. Her strong showing, along with the success of other left-wing candidates who similarly moderated or eschewed contemporary left orthodoxy on some issues, points to the benefits of DSA candidates having the flexibility to tailor campaigns to local electorates.</p><p>The US left also suffered a defeat of sorts in Nebraska, where independent Dan Osborn fell short at a second tilt at a Senate seat in a state where a Democrat hasn’t won statewide election for 20 years. Osborn, a union leader who led a successful 2021 strike against Kellogg’s over planned benefit cuts, was something of a proof of concept for the left: that, as per <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/09/data-elections-working-class-voters-politics">research</a> from the Center for Working-Class Politics, the way to win in such states is to run genuine working-class candidates with populist platforms outside of the Democratic Party brand.</p><p>To some extent, both of Osborn’s campaigns proved this true. The last four Democratic losing margins in Nebraska Senate races were 41 points, 19 points, 24 points, and 16 points; by contrast, Osborn has fallen short by roughly the same, single-digit margin of seven points both runs. Clearly, if pro-working-class candidates are going to flip a deep red state like Nebraska, Osborn’s campaign is a model for how to do it.</p><p>But a losing margin is still a loss. Despite combining left-populist policies like “right to repair” with centrist messaging on issues like immigration — Osborn famously ran ads declaring he backed Trump’s border wall — the former union leader was unable to shake attacks that he was a secret Democrat. A particularly damaging set of “<a href="https://www.wsj.com/politics/elections/democrats-backed-an-independent-in-nebraska-leaked-tapes-make-him-a-risky-bet-b50e8e11">scandals</a>” had Osborn on tape bashing the border wall and other Trump policies and using insulting language about his voters. On top of an avalanche of <a href="https://nebraskaexaminer.com/2026/10/30/nebraska-senate-race-is-one-of-the-most-expensive-political-races-in-state-history/">outside spending</a> aimed against him, it proved too much to overcome.</p><p>These are on top of a few other stinging defeats for the left, including Justice Democrats–backed Justin Pearson’s <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/elections/results/2026/11/03/tennessee-9th-house-district-live-updates/">razor-thin loss</a> in Tennessee’s Ninth District, who looked like he might be able to overcome a Republican gerrymander thanks to a surge in black voter turnout.</p><p>Socialists may instead be heartened by the <a href="https://nwitimes.com/news/state-regional/government-politics/elections/article_eb5269d2-8c4c-4951-8b6c-7a3591a229b7.html">victory</a> of Scott Houldieson over a Trump-endorsed candidate in the Republican-held Indiana First Senate District. Houldieson, a union autoworker who cofounded and led the <a href="https://jacobin.com/2023/03/uaw-convention-bargaining-shawn-fain-reform">reform effort</a> within the United Auto Workers that resulted in <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/10/uaw-elections-fain-barofsky-labor">Shawn Fain’s</a> leadership of the union, easily flipped the seat with a 14-point victory on the back of an affordability-focused campaign. Though not DSA-backed or a statewide race, it is to some extent a vindication of the kind of approach the left believed would see success in Nebraska.</p><p>Meanwhile, as usual, socialists and progressives continued their steady accrual of elected office at the state and local levels.</p><p>As of the time of writing, DSA has <a href="https://2026.electoral.dsausa.org/">notched</a> 130 wins in everything from state legislatures and city councils to mayor’s offices and ballot measures, with 42 losses and 58 races still to be decided. While Angie Nixon fell short of her Senate bid, environmentalist Ashley Herrmann <a href="https://www.wfla.com/news/battleground-florida/dsa-endorsed-candidate-flips-florida-house-seat-in-hillsborough-county/">became</a> only the second socialist to win elected office in Florida and the first to be elected to its state legislature in more than a century, flipping a swing district that the Republican incumbent had won with <a href="https://floridapolitics.com/archives/829369-ashley-herrmann-stuns-danny-alvarez-flips-republican-held-hillsborough-house-seat/">58 percent</a> of the vote two years earlier. Other notable socialist wins included <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/04/levertis-bell-kentucky-state-election">Robert LeVertis Bell’s</a> election to the Kentucky state house and Mathewos Samson’s <a href="https://atlanta.capitalbnews.org/black-democratic-socialist-wins-georgia-general-assembly-race/">election</a> to the Georgia General Assembly, which, together with Gabriel Sanchez’s reelection, makes him one of two socialists in the state legislature.</p><p>Particularly notable are several mayoral races that were foregone conclusions after the primaries. <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/07/george-dc-mayor-housing-statehood">Janeese Lewis George</a> is now officially Washington, DC’s first socialist mayor, having won on the back of an <a href="https://streetsensemedia.org/article/janeese-lewis-georges-plans-on-homelessness/">affordable housing</a> plan that combines “abundance”-style reforms with expanding rent stabilization. In Providence, Rhode Island, socialist <a href="https://jacobin.com/2026/08/morales-providence-election-democratic-socialism">David Morales</a> has similarly cruised to an expected win and, together with a socialist-led city council, will now work to pass a robust rent control measure in the housing-crisis-stricken city — a measure the incumbent mayor he successfully primaried had vetoed.</p><p>More complicated is the Los Angeles mayoral race, where socialist City Councilor Nithya Raman was on track to unseat Karen Bass at the time of writing as Los Angeles mayor. Raman’s candidacy was the subject of <a href="https://www.vanityfair.com/story/nithya-raman-dsa-endorsement-at-risk-los-angeles-mayor">some controversy</a>, after she was endorsed by the local DSA chapter despite <a href="https://forward.com/news/860396/la-mayor-race-raman-takes-lead/">not fully embracing</a> the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions movement against Israel and not being questioned about it, leading the DSA’s National Political Committee to nearly <a href="https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2026-11-02/dsa-narrowly-votes-against-rescinding-nithya-raman-endorsement-in-la-mayors-race">strip her</a> of the endorsement, an effort that failed by one vote. If Raman does win, she’ll be the first candidate to unseat an incumbent LA mayor in 21 years.</p><p>This is on top of a host of progressive ballot measures pushed through by majorities of voters countrywide: the <a href="https://www.npr.org/2026/11/03/g-s1-151063/missouri-abortion-ban-transgender">defeat</a> of an abortion ban ballot measure in Missouri, a <a href="https://news.bloomberglaw.com/esg/montana-bans-dark-money-setting-up-challenge-to-citizens-united">successful ban</a> on dark money in elections in Montana, and divestment <a href="https://www.providencejournal.com/story/news/politics/elections/issues/2026/11/03/providence-votes-to-divest-from-israel-companies-and-countries-committing-genocide/92564882007/">from Israel</a> in Providence, to name a few. Maybe most notably, ballot measures restricting the construction of data centers have so far <a href="https://datacentersontheballot.com/">won overwhelmingly</a> around the country, 38 to one, with eight still to be counted — a clear public vindication of a position championed and popularized by the broad left.</p><p>For the past decade, socialists and progressives have often had good election nights even when the Democratic Party has suffered, and they have had bad nights while Democrats rejoiced. The 2026 midterms may be the first election where both the left and the centrist party establishment have seen historic wins in tandem.</p><p>Over the past two years, the US left showed it was the force most willing to fight against Trump’s right-wing assault and to come up with an effective argument — affordability and fighting oligarchy — to do it. This election finally proved that left policies and rhetoric are not the electoral liability Democratic voters have been told for decades they are.</p><p>For decades, Democratic voters have had to make the agonizing decision every election to choose between their heads and their hearts. The left may have just freed them of it.</p></div></content><published>2026-11-05T14:22:48.988069Z</published><summary type="text">From Michigan to Maine, candidates running on Medicare for All, taxing the rich, and opposing further aid to Israel won in the United States midterms, dismantling the claim that socialism is an electoral liability.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/11/nigerias-petrol-subsidy-was-also-an-electricity-policy</id><title type="text">Nigeria's petrol subsidy was also an electricity policy</title><updated>2026-11-04T13:50:17.275189Z</updated><author><name>Fikayo Akeredolu</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>As long as households and businesses in Nigeria depend on generators and cannot rely on the grid for electricity, some form of fossil fuel subsidy will always be necessary. Despite the costs, and despite what the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund (IMF), and the climate research community say. This is because fossil fuel subsidies, in my opinion, are the country’s largest and most decentralized electricity access program, and any attempt at reform without explicitly accounting for this will fail. This essay explains why.</p><p>As a starting point, I need everyone to read Dr. Neil McCulloch’s book <cite><a href="https://practicalactionpublishing.com/book/2642/ending-fossil-fuel-subsidies">Ending Fossil Fuel Subsidies</a></cite>. The book explains how subsidies are effectively a political prosthetic. Imagine you run a developing country with weak administrative capacity. You cannot reliably deliver schools or clinics, but you need to give citizens something that shows you are on their side and ensures you stay in power. Cheap energy through fossil fuel subsidies is the one thing you can deliver somewhat easily. Weak states, like Nigeria, lean on subsidies because a subsidy is a substitute for the public goods the state cannot otherwise provide.</p><p>Citing a Nigerian study, he shows that the subsidy mostly benefits the rich — the bottom 40 percent of households consumed only 3 percent of petrol, while the richest fifth captured around 27 times more benefit than the poorest fifth. By 2018, Nigeria was spending roughly $300 million a month on the petrol subsidy, more than its entire budget for basic education. Considering all of this, anyone can see that the subsidy is a bad political and economic deal.</p><p>Beyond the numbers, there is the climate change literature. McCulloch notes that fossil fuel subsidies are sometimes a key blockage to the wider development of renewable energy. Cheap petrol and diesel weaken the incentive to switch to cleaner alternatives. The reformist logic follows rationally — remove the subsidy, allow prices to reflect the true cost of fuel, and households and businesses should begin moving toward cleaner energy. And this logic from the literature is intuitive. But it makes assumptions that anyone who truly understands Nigeria will tell you just do not apply.</p><p>It assumes grid electricity already exists and the question is simply how it should be generated. But for many Nigerians, electricity means a petrol generator. Remove the subsidy and the choice is not necessarily dirty electricity versus clean electricity; it is instead between some electricity versus none.</p><p>The reformist logic also assumes a certain level of demand elasticity. The assumption here is that people can meaningfully reduce their demand when prices rise. But if petrol is running the generator that powers your home or business, there is only so much consumption you can cut before you have a bigger problem. It also assumes a substitute is readily available. A higher petrol price only pushes someone toward solar and electric vehicles if solar and electric vehicles are actually affordable, available, and accessible. It assumes subsidy removal mainly hurts a powerful fossil fuel industry. In Nigeria, it also hurts households and small businesses that rely on petrol generators because the grid does not work. And probably most importantly, it assumes a state government capable of capturing the savings from subsidy removal and redirecting them transparently, efficiently, and effectively into the transition.</p><p>If the assumptions do not hold, how exactly is the price signal of subsidy removal supposed to work? Post subsidy removal, what was the immediate short-term plan for providing electricity? If you make petrol for running generators more expensive, yes, the price signal should move people to cleaner sources, but are the cleaner sources within a price range that allows everyone to make the switch?</p><p>As someone who has lived in Nigeria, sat through more blackouts than I care to number and then gone on to do a PhD on this topic, I think that there was a key part of this debate that analysts, international financial institutions, and policymakers did not seem to fully reckon with. And it is this — on a not insignificant note, Nigeria’s subsidy was about generating electricity just about as much as it was a fiscal matter. Effectively, Nigeria’s petrol subsidy was a key part of its electricity policy.</p><p>And recommending and enacting its removal without explicitly accounting for this made the average Nigerian’s life worse. I say the average Nigerian because following the subsidy’s removal, some people did make the switch to solar. But it was mostly the wealthy households and larger businesses concentrated in wealthy urban areas with poor grid access.</p><p>Removing the subsidy in May/June 2023 did not end a regressive transfer. It sorted the country by those with enough wealth to exit a failing system by going solar and stabilizing their costs and those without who were left with neither cheap fuel for their generators nor the means to replace them. The subsidy removal worsened energy inequality/poverty.</p><p>Yes, the subsidy was terrible for the budget and for the country’s long-term prospects and it benefited mostly the rich. But it was all most people, especially the poor, had. The grid reaches too few and works too rarely, and the generator economy — the so-called “shadow grid” — grew in the gap. Expensive, dirty, and improvised, but a system that tens of millions got their power from. The subsidy for the most part held it together. Removing it the way it was done broke the system further, and the breakage fell hardest on the people the subsidy reform claimed to be for.</p><p>On page 98, Dr. McCulloch writes, “the trick is not to stop subsidies — it is to swap them for something people value more.” And yes, this is the way successful subsidy reform happens. But it exposes the Nigerian problem. The swap only works if there is something people value more than what the subsidy was giving them. So what do Nigerians want more than electricity? Cheaper food, maybe, or cash. But every one of those runs into the same wall: the state has to be able to deliver it. A swap is only as good as the government’s capacity to hand over the other side of the trade. Could the Nigerian government reliably hold up its end of the subsidy removal deal per assumption?</p><p>The answer is a resounding no. Per <a href="https://guardian.ng/politics/subsidy-politics-fiscal-gain-household-pain-shape-2027-election/">the government’s own numbers</a>, the conditional cash transfer scheme reached only 5.5 million households, about 37 percent of the 15 million it targeted. <a href="https://guardian.ng/politics/subsidy-politics-fiscal-gain-household-pain-shape-2027-election/">The Auditor General of the Federation later reported</a> that ₦33.75 billion paid to 3.29 million households in 2023 could not even be authenticated. So it is not just that the amount was too small, it is also that part of what did go out cannot be traced.</p><p>A state that cannot transparently deliver targeted transfers is not in a position to remove a subsidy that only targeted transfers could soften. A state that is not actively investing in improving the grid and public electricity supply should not be removing the subsidy that allows the people to self-supply their electricity.</p><p><a href="https://www.imf.org/-/media/files/publications/cr/2024/english/1ngaea2024001.pdf">The IMF</a> said the subsidies “are costly, and do not reach those that most need government support.” The World Bank, in the December 2022 <cite><a href="https://openknowledge.worldbank.org/server/api/core/bitstreams/cc0fc367-206a-5244-88e7-99c743c815b2/content">Nigeria Development Update</a></cite>, called the subsidy “unsustainable, opaque, wasteful and regressive expenditure on the premium motor spirit, PMS or petrol, subsidy” and said “richer Nigerians benefit significantly more from it than poorer Nigerians.” Both institutions are right on these counts. They go on to recommend the phase-out of the subsidies. Each institution is careful to say that there must be compensation. Both institutions asked the government to remove the distortion caused by the subsidy but to make sure to protect the poor. In fact, the IMF asks that the safety net should be built and working before the subsidy is removed. There are two problems with this.</p><p>First, both institutions are assuming a level of state capacity everyone knows the Nigerian government does not have. In the same December 2022 <cite>Update</cite>, the World Bank refers to Nigeria’s “legacy of weak governance and poor track record of macroeconomic policies” twice. In the June 2022 <cite>Update</cite>, the World Bank, using Afrobarometer data, concludes Nigerians do not trust the government to use any resources saved from removing the petrol subsidy for causes that would benefit the population at large. How can we ask a distrusted state with a “legacy of weak governance and poor track record of macroeconomic policies” to credibly deliver this kind of reform?</p><p>It should shock no one that the government appears to have done the opposite of what the IMF recommended. It removed petrol subsidies in May 2023 and the safety net still had not reached most of its targets years later.</p><p>Second, both institutions, in my opinion, insist on seeing the subsidy mainly as a fiscal problem. The World Bank estimated that keeping the petrol subsidy will cost Nigeria ₦4.8 trillion in 2022, equivalent to roughly 2.5 to 2.7 percent of gross domestic product in forgone government revenue. They argue that money spent keeping petrol cheap was money not going to schools, clinics, or roads.</p><p>But this framing misses something important because it does not replace the electricity the subsidy was helping people produce for themselves. Because like I keep explaining, the petrol subsidy in Nigeria is also an electricity subsidy.</p><p>You can see the gap in the IMF’s own language. In its <a href="https://www.imf.org/-/media/files/publications/cr/2024/english/1ngaea2024002.pdf">2024 Article IV Consultation</a> it refers to “fuel and electricity subsidies” as two separate items on three occasions. And on paper they are, but in everyday life, they are not. Millions of Nigerians rely on petrol generators because the grid is unreliable or unavailable. To the IMF’s credit, they recognize the need to protect electricity access, including through a “lifeline tariff” for poorer consumers. But that only helps people who have a working grid connection. What is the equivalent for the <a href="https://documents1.worldbank.org/curated/en/099740006132214750/pdf/P17782005822360a00a0850f63928a34418.pdf">85 million Nigerians without grid electricity access</a>, or for households that get only a few hours of grid power a day?</p><p>So what should have been done to remove the subsidy without worsening energy poverty? Before there was even talk of removing the subsidy, there should have been a focus on bringing down the cost of household and business solar power and financing it for people who cannot pay cash, getting installers and supply chains into the regions that have none, and setting up the payment and identification systems and proving they work at scale for cash transfers to poorer households. There should have been significant investment in the grid to replace privately generated electricity with public supply.</p><p>Instead of this, the government went the other way. In March 2025 it <a href="https://www.dw.com/en/nigerias-solar-boom-faces-cost-and-policy-barriers/a-77122375">announced plans</a> to ban the importation of solar panels, arguing this would build up local manufacturing. The problem is that local production can meet only a small share of national demand, so the practical effect of a ban is scarcity and higher prices. <a href="https://guardian.ng/news/solar-panel-import-ban-may-trigger-150-price-surge-worsen-energy-cost-crisis/">Analysts warned</a> it could push the cost of a solar installation up by as much as 150 percent. The subsidy that made generators affordable was mostly gone, and the state’s response to the alternative that could have filled the gap was to make it more expensive.</p><p>Despite how it is titled and how it reads, this essay is not a defense of fossil fuel subsidies. The subsidy in Nigeria is regressive, corrupt, expensive, and overdue for reform. This essay is instead asking that before we talk about reforming the subsidy, we need to do a better job of understanding what exactly the subsidy is doing and the ways government failure makes it a necessary evil.</p><p>Any attempt to reform the subsidy that does not start by accounting for its role in electricity generation is most likely to fail. It is Nigeria’s largest and most decentralized electricity access program, delivered through the pump thanks to a failing power sector.</p></div></content><published>2026-11-04T13:50:17.275189Z</published><summary type="text">When the grid fails, a fuel subsidy can double as an electricity policy. What happens to the people who rely on it when the state removes it before building anything to replace it?</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/11/there-are-no-apolitical-girls-in-war</id><title type="text">There are no apolitical girls in war</title><updated>2026-11-05T19:01:29.215078Z</updated><author><name>Doha Ali</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div><p>“Doha, come sit with us. We need to talk to you.”</p><p>I was 15 years old, had just finished high school, and was getting ready to start university in Sudan. My mother knocked on my bedroom door and asked me to come into the living room. My parents were waiting for me.</p><p>“We need you to understand something important,” my father began. “When you go to university, don’t talk about politics.”</p><p>I remember asking the only question that made sense to me. “What is politics?”</p><p>My father paused for a moment before answering. “Politics is the art of what is possible,” he said. “It’s how people pursue what they believe can be achieved.”</p><p>I stared at him, trying to make sense of words that felt much too big for a 15-year-old. Before he could explain any further, my mother interrupted him.</p><p>“No,” she said quickly. “Politics is what old people talk about.”</p><p>She looked directly at me. “You shouldn’t talk about it. Bad things can happen if you do.”</p><p>That was the lesson I understood.</p><p>Politics was dangerous.</p><p>Looking back, I realize that my parents were not trying to teach me politics. They were trying to teach me how to survive.</p><p>The conversation was not unique to me. My older brother had already had it. So had my sister. When I arrived at university, I discovered that almost all of my friends had grown up with some version of the same warning.</p><p>We learned where not to stand on campus. We learned to walk past the “political corners” without slowing down. We learned that curiosity could be mistaken for affiliation, and that sometimes the safest opinion was no opinion at all.</p><p>I became very good at being what I thought was an apolitical girl.</p><p>Even when I began working in human rights and activism, I carefully separated my work from politics. I spoke about dignity, equality, and justice, while convincing myself that these belonged to a different conversation altogether.</p><p>Looking back now, I smile at the contradiction.</p><p>What are human rights in a country where people are taught not to have opinions?</p></div><section id="sec-1"><header><hr/></header><div><p>The 2019 revolution unsettled the belief I held all my life about avoiding politics.</p><p>Suddenly, politics escaped our living room.</p><p>For the first time in my life, I witnessed people debating it in cafés, on buses, in university hallways, and in the streets. Conversations that had once been whispered became public. My political realization was clearly shaped: politics does not belong to politicians; it belongs to all of us, and we can shape it together.</p><p>The streets became classrooms. Neighborhoods became places of organizing. Around me, people argued, dreamed, volunteered, fed each other, protected each other, and imagined a country that felt possible.</p><p>For the first time, I felt as though I had permission to talk politics without immediately looking over my shoulder.</p><p>But permission is not the same as understanding.</p><p>People often say that understanding the past helps us understand the future. Yet Sudan’s history felt less like a straight line than a circle: military rule, uprisings, coups, moments of hope, and promises that always seemed to collapse back into the familiar.</p><p>But the revolution changed something deeper than the government. It changed what those outside of institutional power believed they were capable of. I had never thought of myself as a political actor, but suddenly questions of how my neighborhood was organized, protected, and cared for felt like questions I could participate in answering. We were not simply demanding that someone else build a different Sudan; we were beginning to practice it ourselves.</p><p>Later, I came across the “Revolutionary Charter for Establishing People’s Power.” What stayed with me was not simply the language of a political document, but the idea behind it: that the people who had filled the streets could also become the people who shaped what came next.</p><p>Looking back, I wonder if that was what frightened those in power most: not simply that people were demanding change, but that they had discovered their own power to organize without waiting for permission — to build networks, provide care, protect their neighborhoods, and imagine political alternatives from below.</p><p>And perhaps this is what makes popular movements so threatening to systems built on concentrated power.</p><p>You can suppress a protest.</p><p>You can arrest a leader.</p><p>You can overthrow a government.</p><p>But what happens when people have already discovered that they have power together?</p><p>Then came the coup of 2021.</p><p>But the coup did not erase what had happened in 2019. If anything, it deepened the determination of many people to resist. The streets filled again. The organizing continued. The language of resistance changed, but the belief that another Sudan was possible did not disappear.</p><p>And then came the war.</p></div></section><section id="sec-2"><header><hr/></header><div><p>During the first weeks of the war in April 2023, time stopped making sense.</p><p>Our lives became organized around survival.</p><p>We waited for water that only came for a short time before dawn. My mother and I played Ludo on a board we had drawn by hand to make the endless hours pass. Whenever the electricity returned, everything else stopped. We rushed to charge our phones, download messages, and discover who had managed to leave Khartoum, who was still trapped, and who had disappeared from our screens.</p><p>Those moments became our connection to the outside world.</p><p>Somewhere between waiting for water, rolling dice across a handmade board, and searching for familiar names online, one question settled into my mind and refused to leave.</p><p>How did we get here?</p><p>At first, I thought I was asking how a war had started. But I was not an outsider looking in; I had spent years on the ground, organizing, listening, and navigating the realities of Sudan myself. Yet, so much of what was happening did not make sense. The more I searched for the missing pieces in the history I thought I knew, the more I realized I was asking different questions.</p><p>How could a militia become powerful enough to wage war against Sudan’s national army? Why is the story of this war being told as though one side represented the nation and the other simply threatened it? And why did we stop asking what both sides have done to the people they claim to represent?</p><p>Every article I opened answered one question and created another.</p><p>The story clearly had not begun in April 2023. It stretched back years.</p><p>My father once quoted a saying often attributed to Imam Al-Shafi’i:</p><p><em>“My opinion is correct with the possibility of being wrong, and the opinion of others is wrong with the possibility of being correct.”</em></p><p>He told me that the moment someone believes their opinion is the only truth, dictatorship begins.</p><p>Sudan knows dictatorships well. One of them was Omar al-Bashir, who seized power in a 1989 military coup. Under his rule, the Janjaweed militia was used to fight rebel groups in Darfur. Over time, those forces evolved into what would later become the Rapid Support Forces.</p><p>Yet even this history did not fully answer my question.</p><p>I expected the answers to be found inside Sudan. Instead, every path I followed seemed to lead somewhere else.</p><p>The deeper I read, the more often Europe appeared in a story I had always believed belonged only to Sudan.</p><p>I wasn’t looking for European migration policy. Yet somehow, it kept appearing in the story.</p><p>That was how I stumbled across something called the Khartoum Process, also known as the EU-Horn of Africa Migration Route Initiative, a political dialogue launched in 2014 between European and African states to cooperate on migration along the route between the Horn of Africa and Europe.</p><p>What followed was a growing European investment in managing migration in Sudan. Through programs such as Better Migration Management, European funding supported capacity-building, training, information-sharing, investigations into trafficking and smuggling, and efforts to strengthen border management. Sudan had become important not only because people were leaving it, but because people were passing through it.</p><p>And this is where the story became uncomfortable.</p><p>The people being asked to help Europe control its borders were not operating in some neutral security system. They were part of a state security apparatus with a long history of violence and repression. The RSF was itself deployed along Sudan’s borders to stop irregular migration and combat trafficking. European policymakers knew the risks. In 2016, members of the European Parliament were already questioning how EU migration cooperation could prevent equipment and training intended for border control from being diverted toward repression.</p><p>The EU has repeatedly insisted that it did not fund the RSF. That distinction matters, and I am not arguing that Europe created the RSF. But I began to ask a different question: what happens when the desire to keep migrants away from European borders turns a violent security system into an international partner?</p><p>What happens when governments that are willing to use violence against their own people are nevertheless treated as necessary partners because they can stop people from moving?</p><p>This became harder to ignore when I looked at Omar al-Bashir. The ICC had issued a warrant against him, including charges of genocide, yet European cooperation with Sudan continued. At what point did stopping migration become important enough to make cooperation with a regime accused of genocide acceptable?</p><p>I am not arguing that migration policy alone sustained Sudan’s security system. Rather, migration control is one example of how international actors continue to engage with, build the capacity of, and legitimize Sudan’s security institutions, helping create the conditions in which this war became possible. Sudan’s political and military elites bear their own responsibilities. But they did not operate in isolation from the international systems that helped make their power possible.</p><p>Power is rarely built through a single cheque, an agreement, or a foreign government. Sometimes it is built through years of political relationships that make certain actors more powerful, more legitimate, and more useful to the outside world.</p><p>I thought I was researching Sudan.</p><p>I didn’t realize I was beginning to uncover how decisions made far beyond Sudan had become part of the conditions that made this war possible.</p></div></section><section id="sec-3"><header><hr/></header><div><p>Eventually, I crossed the border into Egypt.</p><p>The road out of Sudan was marked by checkpoints. At some, it was the RSF. At others, it was the military. The faces and uniforms changed, but the feeling did not.</p><p>I did not feel safe at either checkpoint.</p><p>It wasn’t because I believed the two forces were the same. They weren’t. The Sudanese Armed Forces are a national institution, and I know that there can be no future Sudan without a national army. But at that moment, I could not bring myself to choose between the two sides because, for me, choosing either side meant accepting a war that I did not believe should define Sudan’s future.</p><p>I didn’t want Sudan to be ruled by the RSF. I didn’t want Sudan to return to military rule either. I wanted something else.</p><p>I wanted the Sudan I had seen become possible in 2019: a Sudan where civilians could determine their own future, where people could organize themselves, resist military rule, and believe that the country belonged to them.</p><p>And then I crossed the border.</p><p>I believed I had reached safety. Instead, I found myself confronting a different kind of confinement.</p><p>Before the war, I never dreamed of leaving Sudan. Many people my age did. They spoke about scholarships, jobs abroad, and better opportunities elsewhere. I understood why. Sudan was never an easy place to build a future. But I never shared that dream.</p><p>I wanted to stay. I wanted to become rooted in that place.</p><p>Home, to me, was never a house. It was the one place where belonging required no explanation. I didn’t have to earn it. I didn’t have to prove I deserved to be there. I could fail, begin again, change my mind, and still know I belonged.</p><p>I didn’t realize then that belonging itself could become political.</p><p>Crossing the border wasn’t only the loss of a country. It was the loss of that effortless belonging.</p><p>I was no longer trapped by shelling and checkpoints, but by visas, residency requirements, shrinking opportunities for movement, and the knowledge that my future depended on decisions made in distant capitals.</p><p>For the first time, I understood that migration policies are not experienced as documents. They are experienced as the limits placed on an ordinary life.</p><p>At first, I didn’t have the language for what I was feeling.</p><p>I only knew that something had shifted.</p><p>A few years earlier, I had a flight connection through Egypt. I left the airport for a few hours, wandered around the city, bought a few things, and returned in time for my next flight. I entered the country in less than 10 minutes. No one asked how long I intended to stay. No one questioned why I was there.</p><p>After the war, the same border felt almost unrecognizable.</p><p>It took me a week of daily visits to obtain residency. Every morning I woke before dawn and joined hundreds of other Sudanese people already waiting outside the immigration office. We arrived around four in the morning and often stayed until late afternoon, only to be told to return the next day and begin again.</p><p>What struck me most was what we were waiting for. Not citizenship. Not permanent protection. Not even freedom of movement.</p><p>We were waiting for a document that would allow us to remain without fearing another forced displacement. A document that would allow us to keep a functioning phone line that would reconnect us with family scattered across different countries, for the chance to exist legally for a few more months.</p><p>Even after I received it, I never left the house without checking several times that my passport was in my bag.</p><p>What if I forgot it? What if I was stopped? What if one missing document was enough to uproot me all over again?</p><p>That was when I understood something I had never considered before: crossing a border does not always end displacement; sometimes it simply changes its shape.</p><p>For generations, Sudanese people moved between Sudan and Egypt with a familiarity that reflected the long history connecting the two countries. Suddenly, we were being spoken about through a different vocabulary: numbers, quotas, security, migration management.</p><p>Somewhere along the way, I stopped being a neighbor.</p><p>I became a migrant.</p><p>A refugee.</p><p>A potential burden.</p><p>The conversations around us increasingly revolved around pressure on jobs, pressure on housing, pressure on public services. I found myself wondering how quickly a person could become a problem simply by crossing a border they never wanted to cross in the first place.</p><p>I want to be careful here. This is not a story about Egypt rejecting Sudanese people. My experience in Egypt was also shaped by kindness, generosity, and people who welcomed us. Ordinary Egyptians were often navigating their own economic hardships while extending compassion to strangers.</p><p>The story is bigger than Egypt.</p><p>And that is where my personal experience began to lead me back to the question I had been asking in Khartoum.</p><p>How did we get here?</p></div></section><section id="sec-4"><header><hr/></header><div><p>The more I tried to understand why displacement still felt like confinement, the more I found myself reading about migration policies again and the relationship between Europe and countries such as Egypt, Sudan, Libya, and Niger.</p><p>That was when I came across a term I had never heard before. Border externalization.</p><p>At its simplest, border externalization is the practice of moving migration control beyond a country’s own borders. Rather than preventing migration only at European frontiers, European governments increasingly invest in stopping migration much earlier, through partnerships with countries that people pass through long before they ever reach Europe.</p><p>The border, I realized, no longer begins at the Mediterranean. It begins in places like Khartoum. It continues through Cairo. It stretches across deserts, checkpoints, visa offices, and residency queues.</p><p>What surprised me most was not only that these policies shaped the journeys of people hoping to reach Europe, but also shaped the lives of people like me, who were not trying to reach Europe at all.</p><p>I had escaped one war only to discover that I was now living inside another political system — one that quietly determined where I could move, how long I could stay, and whether I could build a life again.</p><p>The more I learned, the more another concept emerged alongside border externalization: the securitization of migration.</p><p>Migration was increasingly discussed not as a human experience, but as a security problem.</p><p>Refugees became statistics.</p><p>Migrants became risks.</p><p>Movement became something to contain.</p><p>I found myself wondering what happens when people begin to see you first as a category and only later, if at all, as a person.</p><p>The irony was impossible to ignore.</p><p>The very policies designed to manage migration had become part of the story that uprooted so many of us in the first place.</p><p>Without ever intending to, I had gone searching for the politics of Sudan. Instead, I found myself studying the politics of borders.</p><p>For years, I believed that understanding Sudan required understanding Sudanese politics.</p><p>The war taught me otherwise.</p><p>To understand why I was trapped inside my home in Khartoum, I had to understand decisions made far beyond Sudan. To understand why I felt trapped again after crossing the border, I had to understand migration policies designed far beyond Egypt.</p><p>The deeper I looked, the more I realized that migration policy was only one thread.</p><p>Sudan’s war is often described as a civil war, or as a humanitarian crisis. I struggle with both descriptions. Calling it a civil war makes the conflict sound internal, as though Sudan’s future is being decided only by the two armed forces fighting on its soil. But this is also a proxy war: a war sustained by regional and international actors pursuing their own interests through Sudanese territory, resources, and armed actors. The war is being fought in Sudan, but its conditions do not exist only within Sudan.</p><p>Yet, the danger of describing Sudan only through its external actors can make Sudanese people disappear from the political story altogether. Because what is at stake is not simply which armed force wins, or which foreign power gains influence.</p><p>The people who filled the streets in 2019 were not fighting simply to replace one ruler with another. They were fighting to break a cycle: the cycle in which military power repeatedly interrupts civilian politics, takes control of the state, and decides the country’s future for its people.</p><p>That is why I struggle with the idea that this is simply a war between two generals. What about the Sudanese people who wanted neither? What about the Sudan they were trying to build?</p><p>A Sudan governed by civilians. A Sudan where sovereignty means more than the ability of armed institutions to control territory. A Sudan where people who had spent decades being told that politics belonged to generals discovered that politics could belong to them too.</p><p>The war is not only destroying lives. It is threatening the possibility of breaking the cycle.</p><p>When we call Sudan “the world’s largest humanitarian crisis,” the focus naturally shifts to aid, displacement, food insecurity, and emergency response. These realities demand attention. But humanitarian language can also flatten history. It can make war appear as though it erupted on its own, disconnected from the political choices, international partnerships, economic interests, and regional power struggles that helped shape it.</p><p>It can shift the question from why are we at war, and how do we stop it? to how do we continue responding to the consequences of war? And there is a danger in that distinction. Because if we only manage the humanitarian consequences, we can end up managing an endless war.</p><p>Wars do not simply happen; they are built. Sometimes they are built through weapons. Sometimes through money. Sometimes through diplomatic agreements signed years before the first shot is fired. Sometimes through migration policies that reward stability at any cost, even when that stability depends on empowering those willing to use violence.</p><p>That does not mean Sudanese people are passive victims of decisions made elsewhere. Sudan has its own political history, its own actors, and its own responsibilities. But refusing to look beyond Sudan means refusing to see the whole picture.</p><p>The more I searched for answers, the more countries entered the story. Each revealed another thread connecting Sudan to a much larger political landscape.</p><p>And I finally understood why the question I had asked while sitting in my dark house in Khartoum — “How did we get here?” — could never be answered by looking at Sudan alone.</p></div></section><section id="sec-5"><header><hr/></header><div><p>I spent years believing that politics was something I could choose not to discuss. I now understand that it was never something I stood outside of. It shaped the country I called home, the war that forced me to leave it, and the borders I encountered afterwards.</p><p>Perhaps that is another part of what I had been searching for all along. Not only how Sudan arrived at war, but how the story of Sudan itself is told. What we choose to remember, what we choose to leave out, and whose voices we choose to hear are all political choices.</p><p>When I was 15, my mother told me that politics was what old people talked about. She was trying to protect me from the consequences of speaking.</p><p>But perhaps that is what I misunderstood.</p><p>Politics was never simply something people talked about. It was something that determined who could speak, who could belong, who could move, who could stay, and ultimately who could decide what Sudan would become.</p><p>I became political not because I chose politics, but because war made it impossible to remain outside of it.</p><p>There are no apolitical girls in war.</p><p>Only girls who eventually discover that politics has been shaping their lives all along.</p></div></section></div></content><published>2026-11-02T15:08:29.349Z</published><summary type="text">To understand the war in Sudan requires looking far beyond its borders, without losing sight of the people who believed that another Sudan was possible.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/the-arithmetic-of-el-fasher</id><title type="text">El Fasher, a year later</title><updated>2026-10-30T15:12:48.733757Z</updated><author><name>Ahmed Ismat Ahmed</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div><p><cite>Nasr City, October 26, 2026</cite></p><p>Today is the anniversary, and I still don’t know what that word is supposed to do for anyone.</p><p>I was in Cairo when the city fell. I disappeared there — not in any way a person standing outside me could have seen — and I am not leaving that out, as if the one doing the remembering were a pane of glass. But El Fasher sits on an older arithmetic, and the arithmetic is where I have to start.</p></div><section id="sec-1"><header><h2>The old arithmetic</h2></header><div><p>I was in the street in Omdurman on International Women’s Day in 2019, a month before they finally put Omar al-Bashir out of the palace he had occupied for 30 years. Three out of every four people in that crowd were women. The proportion mattered because NISS — the National Intelligence and Security Service, Sudan’s secret police, who have spent decades learning exactly where a society keeps its weight — knew where to look. They find it. Then they go after it.</p><p>So they started arresting the women.</p><p>There was nothing accidental in this, and nothing hidden. They were not ashamed, because shame requires believing someone is watching who matters, and they did not believe that. If the police took a man that day, it cost almost nothing to get him back: a friend, a cousin, anyone his age from his own street could walk into that station the same afternoon and walk him out again, because a man’s word, in that system, was still worth something on its own. A woman could not do this. A woman arrested had to produce a man — a father, a brother, a husband, some uncle twice removed — because the state had built itself, brick by brick, on the conviction that a woman’s name, standing alone, was not collateral enough to release a woman’s body.</p><p>I watched it work. I watched women I knew go quiet in the weeks after, not because they themselves had been taken, but because they understood, suddenly and completely, that the price had changed shape under their feet. It was no longer only her own body in the cell. It was her family’s name, dragged into a police station because she had been standing in a square where the government had decided women should not stand.</p><p>That is the oldest trick this state has ever run. I have come to call the thing that runs it a machine — not a government with occasional failures, but an arrangement built to find whatever a population has left, and take it. The war now being fought in Darfur did not invent the trick. The Rapid Support Forces (RSF), the paramilitary formed from the Janjaweed — the militias the state itself armed in Darfur two decades ago — inherited it, and scaled it, until a tactic became the way a siege was built.</p></div></section><section id="sec-2"><header><h2>The city</h2></header><div><p>The siege had an address. Most people who will read this have only ever met it as a dateline, and a dateline doesn’t let you feel what was emptied.</p><p>Darfur is the west of Sudan. It is about the size of Spain, pressed up against Chad, Libya, and the Central African Republic, far enough from the Nile and from Khartoum that the center has always been able to treat the distance as a kind of ownership. Farmers and herders live there — Fur, Zaghawa, Masalit, Berti, Borgo, Rizeigat, and more peoples than a briefing ever bothers to list — Arab and non-Arab, in categories the last century hardened and this one found useful. They have shared land, and they have fought over land, and since 2003 they have done both inside a counterinsurgency. The rebellion started the way rebellions in that region usually start. The center took men for its wars and sent almost nothing back. Bashir’s government answered by arming militias, the ones the world learned to call the Janjaweed, and aiming them at the communities the rebels came from. Hundreds of thousands died. The world said genocide, and then largely changed the channel. The militias were not disbanded. They were paid, given rank, and renamed. The Rapid Support Forces are that renaming. Their commander is Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, Hemedti, and he is at war with the army that made the renaming official. El Fasher is where that arrangement came back to the ground it was built on.</p><p>The city is older than any of these men. It was the capital of the Fur sultanate, the place Darfur governed itself from, until that was broken from the outside in 1874. Ali Dinar put a sultanate back together in what was left and held it until 1916, when the British killed him and took Darfur into Sudan. After that El Fasher was no longer a capital in the old sense. It was the town where the new state proved it could still reach the west: an administrative post, and the home of the army’s 6th Infantry Division. As long as that division was standing there, Khartoum could still say the west was inside the country.</p><p>By the second year of this war, it was the last place in Darfur where that was still true. Nyala had gone. El Geneina had gone, and with it a campaign against the Masalit that anyone willing to look already knew how to name. Zalingei had gone. What was left was a headquarters, an airport, a city swollen with people displaced by the wars before this one and then by this one, and the roads.</p><p>Whoever held those roads held the last lock on a corridor running from Khalifa Haftar’s eastern Libya down through North Darfur toward Nyala, with branches toward Chad. Gold moves on them. Weapons move. Fighters move. The army needed the headquarters, because a flag on the 6th Division was the last way to say that west of Kordofan this was still one country. The RSF needed the corridor. They also needed something the army did not. A garrison can change hands in a day. A population that still believes it can come back and call a place its own takes longer, and the siege was how they worked on that.</p></div></section><section id="sec-3"><header><h2>The siege</h2></header><div><p>What the RSF has done to women across Darfur is the old arithmetic, taken all the way to its end: that you can control a population by making its women afraid. Afraid to flee, afraid to stay, afraid of the simple fact of being visible in daylight.</p><p>I have tried, more than once, to sit with the numbers long enough that they stop being numbers, and I am not sure I have ever once succeeded. Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) <a href="https://prezly.msf.org.uk/msf-sudan-new-report-there-is-something-i-want-to-tell-you-surviving-the-sexual-violence-crisis-in-darfur">documented 3,396 survivors</a> of sexual violence who reached the organization’s own clinics in North and South Darfur between January 2024 and November 2025. Survivors, they are careful to say, not incidents, and only the ones who could get as far as a door. Of them, 97 percent were women and girls. Armed men carried out more than 95 percent of the assaults recorded in North Darfur. The report takes its title from a survivor — “There is something I want to tell you. . . . ” After the city fell, those clinics treated more than 140 people who had reached Tawila in November alone. Almost all of them had been attacked by armed men. Many of them on the road.</p><p>The UN’s own investigators have verified patterns of gang rape and sexual slavery, part of a campaign they later concluded <a href="https://www.ungeneva.org/en/news-media/news/2026/02/116043/sudan-hallmarks-genocide-found-el-fasher-un-investigators-detail">bore the hallmarks of genocide</a>. Most of what they verified traces back to the RSF and the militias riding with it.</p><p>The number is the edge. The point of the siege is what the edge is for. A woman who cannot cross her own neighborhood without calculating what waits past the checkpoint has already been removed — from the market, from the clinic, from the street, from every place I have ever believed a republic has to live, if it is going to live anywhere at all. I do not use that word lightly, or as a figure of speech. I mean the kettle, the stall, the gate where people fed each other without being asked. The world people build underneath the one that is trying to kill them. A siege’s first target is always that world, because that world is the only proof a population has that it does not need anyone’s permission to survive.</p><p>And the siege did not begin with a massacre. It began the way these things begin, with hunger, and with a word withheld.</p><p>In February 2024, MSF estimated that around 13 children were dying each day in Zamzam camp, just south of the city — at least one every two hours — and said the severely malnourished who had not yet died would die within weeks if they could not reach treatment. <a href="https://www.wfp.org/news/famine-confirmed-sudans-north-darfur-confirming-un-agencies-worst-fears">Famine was not declared there until August</a>. It was the first place in this entire war where the word was finally permitted to be official. The children had not been waiting on the paperwork. The paperwork had been waiting on them.</p><p>In April 2025, six months before El Fasher fell, the RSF stormed the camp. The UN Human Rights Office <a href="https://www.africanews.com/2025/12/19/sudan-un-says-rsf-killed-1000-civilians-in-zamzam-refugee-camp-in-april/">later documented more than 1,000 civilians killed</a>. Hundreds of them were summarily executed. People were killed in the market. A market is where a besieged population keeps the last thread of an ordinary life, and the logic of a siege is to find every thread a people have left and cut it. More than 400,000 people were driven out within days, toward Tawila and into El Fasher — a city that was already starving, and that would fall with them still inside it.</p><p>The UN would later say that what was done in the city mirrored what had been done in the camp. I do not think Zamzam was a prelude. I think Zamzam was El Fasher, rehearsed first on people the world had already quietly decided it could afford to lose.</p></div></section><section id="sec-4"><header><h2>The fall</h2></header><div><p>By the last week of October 2025, what remained of El Fasher had gone 18 months without reliable food, without medicine, cut off from the rest of the country the way you cut a limb off and tell yourself the body will manage. They had pushed earth up around it, and people who tried to leave were shot along that earth. The final offensive ran from October 24 to 30. The killing crested on October 26. The army’s retreat is dated to October 27. I am writing on the second of those days, a year on, and I still do not know what an anniversary is supposed to accomplish for the dead, except to force the living to do the arithmetic again, out loud, on a date.</p><p>When the garrison left, the plan reached the end it had been built for.</p><p>A city is rooms, with people inside them who had, until recently, every reason to believe the rooms would hold.</p><p>On October 26, RSF fighters turned heavy weapons on <a href="https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2026/02/sudan-rsf-violations-capture-el-fasher-amount-war-crimes">about 1,000 people sheltering in Al-Rashid dormitory</a> at El Fasher University. Witnesses, independent of each other, put the dead in that room at around 500. The UN’s report records another mass killing at the university the same day: around 600 people executed where they had taken shelter, about 50 of them children.</p><p>Two days later, fighters went into <a href="https://www.who.int/news/item/29-10-2025-who-condemns-killings-of-patients-and-civilians-amid-escalating-violence-in-el-fasher--sudan">the Saudi Maternity Hospital</a> — the last hospital in the city still working, in a place whose clinics had already been hit again and again since the siege began. The World Health Organization’s count is no fewer than 460 people — patients, and those who had stayed to care for them instead of fleeing. A hospital is where a person goes because some part of them still believes, against everything, that there is one room left that will not be turned into this. El Fasher did not have that room left. Not one.</p><p>Then the numbers, which are not one number.</p><p>Everyone wants a figure that can be defended. That is what a fact-check wants. It is, God forgive me, what my own training as a journalist wants. In February 2026, the UN Human Rights Office <a href="https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2026/02/sudan-rsf-violations-capture-el-fasher-amount-war-crimes">published</a> what it could document from more than 140 survivors and witnesses: at least 4,400 people killed inside the city between October 25 and 27, and more than 1,600 killed on the roads as they tried to leave. In the same breath, in the same finding, it said the real toll of that week was undoubtedly higher. The hospital is not inside those three days. October 28 sits outside them. So does everything the interviews could not reach, which is most of what happened.</p><p><a href="https://www.jurist.org/news/2025/12/yale-researchers-document-evidence-of-mass-killings-in-sudans-el-fasher/">Yale’s Humanitarian Research Lab</a>, reading the ground from orbit because no one could walk it and live, identified at least 150 clusters of objects consistent with human remains between October 26 and November 28. The same report said the images could not be turned into a count. It assessed that the RSF had likely killed tens of thousands — burning, burying, moving bodies until piles visible one week were gone the next.</p><p><cite>The Guardian</cite>, on December 5, <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/world/africa/2025/12/05/at-least-60000-murdered-in-sudanese-city-which-resembles-a-slaughterhouse/">reported</a> a closed briefing to British MPs. Sarah Champion, who chairs the House of Commons International Development Committee, said an academic there had called 60,000 killed in three weeks a low estimate. Not a figure Parliament adopted. Not Yale’s figure. Not the UN’s. One is a documented minimum for three days, and it distrusts itself. One is a month of disposal, and it refuses to be a toll. One is an estimate offered in private, for a different stretch of days. Defend any of them as the number and you have given it work it cannot do.</p><p>I used to want the distance between them to prove a last stage of the operation: an arithmetic made impossible on purpose, so the argument would never close. I cannot show that order. I won’t invent it. There was a systematic effort, visible from space, to manage the dead. There is, a year later, a quarrel about which figure may be said out loud. A massacre everyone can settle on a number for is a massacre someone has lost control of. That sentence is mine. The record’s sentence is the gap, and the gap needs a different word than killing.</p><p>Mustafa Hijazi, the Lebanese psychologist whose work on the psychology of oppression is widely read across the Arab world, spent a career trying to build a vocabulary for what long oppression does to a person, and English has no clean twin for the word he eventually chose. He did not use it in the book that made his name. That book was about <em>qahr</em>: oppression, subjugation, a pressure that at least still recognizes you enough to require your submission. Decades later he decided <em>qahr</em> was not a wide enough net, and he reached for <em>hadr</em>. He meant something beyond subjugation: the withdrawal of recognition altogether. A life converted, as he put it, into a discarded number. He was writing about poverty, and dictatorship, and what the long afterlife of colonization does to a person’s sense of being worth counting at all. He was not writing about mass graves. I do not know a better word for a human being caught between 4,400 and an estimate of 60,000 that no office will sign. <cite>Qahr</cite> killed them. <cite>Hadr</cite> is what the rest of us do to them afterward, every time we let the counting stand in for the reckoning.</p><p>A year on, <a href="https://www.amnestyusa.org/press-releases/sudan-el-fasher-civilians-suffer-unlawful-killings-detention-and-torture-one-year-after-citys-capture-by-the-rsf-new-testimony/">Amnesty International</a> — from testimony gathered in August and September 2026 — cites figures from humanitarian organizations working in the city: fewer than 70,000 people still there, against a pre-war population of more than a million. I am not going to subtract one from the other and call the result the missing. “Pre-war” and the day the siege closed were not the same city. People had already fled into El Fasher from the rest of Darfur and stayed. The dead, the fled, and the remaining do not resolve. Neither confirmed dead nor confirmed living, they remain an absence where a population stood, without even the dignity of a number.</p></div></section><section id="sec-5"><header><h2>Disappearing</h2></header><div><p><cite>Hadr</cite> was not only done to the dead. Some of it was done to me, and I am done leaving that implied.</p><p>I disappeared the way I have disappeared before. Not with any ceremony. A thread slipping loose somewhere behind the sternum, so quietly that you only notice it afterward, the way you only notice you were holding your breath once you have already let it out. I stopped answering messages. I let the phone ring itself out. I told people I was working, and some days that was even true, in the way that keeping your hands busy can be true while the rest of you has already left the room. Mostly I was just gone. A street can look fully occupied from the outside while every house on it has quietly, completely emptied.</p><p>I am Sudanese, and I have watched enough other Sudanese people do this exact thing by now to know it is not a personal failing. It is what happens when a body finally runs out of the part of itself that knows how to grieve in public, in real time, on a schedule, while the people around you expect you to produce an explanation for numbers that should never have required an explanation from anyone.</p><p>I only found a name for it years after I had already lived it. Not in the later book, the one about <em>hadr</em>, but in the earlier one, which Hijazi wrote on what it does to the inside of a person to live under someone else’s boot. He called it escape — one of exactly two moves left open to anyone who has run entirely out of room to fight back. The other, he wrote, is identification: borrowing the logic of whoever is crushing you, because at least their logic still has power running through it, and yours, by that point, has none. I took the first. I have spent this year looking, longer than I wanted to, at men who took the second.</p><p>He had another name, from that same book, for the month I had after the city fell. A disturbance of continuity. The past stops leading anywhere, and the future stops being a place you are still allowed to arrive at. You live inside a fog with no before and no after, an unbearable present you survive one hour at a time, and nothing more ambitious than that. He did not write it about me. I do not know a more exact description of the month I had.</p><p>We keep calling this resilience. I have come to hate that word. It gets handed to us like a compliment, by the same hand that keeps doing the breaking. Nobody told me, when El Fasher fell, that it was allowed — that it was all right — to simply stop. So if you are the kind of person who disappears the way I do: it was all right. It still is.</p><p>What brought me back was not a decision, because I do not think I had one left to make. It was smaller than that. A friend who kept texting me without once asking for anything back. Someone who called and stayed on the line while I said almost nothing at all, for as long as I needed to say nothing. I have come to believe that is the only cure there actually is for this particular kind of disappearing. Not time. Never time. Someone who simply refuses to let your silence mean that you are gone. It is the same republic: people who decide, without being asked, that you still count.</p><p>I am writing this because the people who died in that dormitory, and in that hospital, and the women this war has tried to silence by the oldest means it has, do not get to wait until I feel ready. The only thing I have left to offer them, from this distance, in this language, is a record. This happened. Here. To people who had names. Somebody’s son. Somebody’s patient. Somebody’s entire reason for getting up that morning. The record does not stop at the rooms. It has to say what the land had been prepared, for years, to allow inside them.</p></div></section><section id="sec-6"><header><h2>What the land was for</h2></header><div><p>The dead in El Fasher were mostly Zaghawa. The dead in El Geneina, in 2023, were mostly Masalit. Both are non-Arab peoples of Darfur, and the men with the rifles treated that fact as the whole explanation. I have never found a history that lets it be.</p><p>Witnesses say the fighters moving through the city had already decided, before they arrived, that no one left inside counted as a civilian. Everyone who remained was a soldier, in their language. That sentence is not a description of a battlefield. It is a permission slip — the same permission slip Khartoum wrote for Darfur in 2003, the campaign the world eventually agreed to call genocide, back when it needed men willing to burn a village all the way down so its people could never come back and call it theirs again.</p><p>The British, once Ali Dinar was dead, did not see a plantation, the way they saw the cotton at Gezira. They saw a buffer: men recruited cheaply, a population run through chiefs — <em>nazir</em>, <em>omda</em>, <em>sheikh</em> — paid a salary and told the office was tradition. It was administration, with a tribal face. Mahmood Mamdani, in <cite>Citizen and Subject</cite>, calls the result a bifurcated state. Citizens at the center, who can reach a court. Subjects at the edge, who can reach a chief set over them and nobody else. Birth decided whether a grievance would ever arrive somewhere built to hear it. The arrangement outlived the British by 60 years. Darfur is where it still tests what it can get away with.</p><p>Land and water were real grievances, and so was a Sahara moving south. Hunger is not a metaphor. For decades they passed through a system that could see a person only as a tribe. Khartoum armed the men who held the grievance, gave them a story about which neighbors were properly Sudanese, and called that a policy. Not an ancient hatred of herders and farmers, turning itself on. A state, burning the cheapest fuel it had.</p><p>In the man with the rifle, Hijazi’s second move is what the fuel feels like. Identification: you adopt the logic that broke you, because no other logic has looked like power, and you aim it sideways — at whoever has less cover than you — rather than up, at the room that armed you. Recognition, the first move, is a resistance committee, the kind that organized neighborhoods in 2019, or a kettle at a gate no ministry appointed. What was done to you was built, and built things can be unmade. Both moves come from the same neglect. They live on the same streets.</p></div></section><section id="sec-7"><header><h2>Abu Lulu</h2></header><div><p>In the last week of October, one of those streets had a man on it with a camera.</p><p>Abu Lulu’s name is Al-Fateh Abdullah Idris. He filmed himself executing civilians in El Fasher. <a href="https://www.internazionale.it/ultime-notizie-reuters/2026/05/18/commander-who-was-filmed-killing-civilians-in-sudan-is-back-in-combat-sources-say">Reuters has verified</a> four videos of him, on October 27, shooting at least 15 unarmed captives. All of them were in civilian clothes.</p><p>He had been filming for months before that. In August, inside the city, he questioned a trader who owned a restaurant and asked the man’s tribe. The man said he did not know where the army’s commander was. He said he had a restaurant. <cite>Sudans Post</cite> and <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/features/2025/11/4/arrest-of-abu-lulu-does-little-to-distance-rsf-from-sudan-massacre">Al Jazeera</a> do not fully agree on the name he gave when the question came. They agree on the kind of answer the question was built to pull out of him — a non-Arab person of Darfur — and they agree on what happened next. Abu Lulu shot him at close range. He told the camera that since the Rapid Support Forces had existed, he had never spared a prisoner. Not one.</p><p>He kept filming as the city fell. On a livestream he said he had killed more than 2,000 people, lost count, and would begin again at zero. <a href="https://www.aol.com/articles/job-only-killing-sudans-brutal-003103968.html">BBC Verify</a> recorded what he said to a man who was begging, and a fighter beside him who tried to step in. The captive had pleaded that they knew each other, that he had called out to him days before. Abu Lulu waved the fighter off. “I will never have mercy,” he said. “Our job is only killing.”</p><p>I keep coming back to the word job. Not grief, which would have had a dead person of his own somewhere behind it. Not a feud a family could tell you the beginning of. Not an order he could later say he hated and followed anyway. The job.</p><p>In the hours before there was an arrest or a statement, I watched accounts loyal to the RSF celebrate him. They called him <em>faris</em>, knight, and turned him into generated images, copper, a figure for a monument rather than a charge sheet. On the livestream where he boasted of the 2,000, men attached to the force called him a hero. Where there was anger, the anger was that he kept filming, not that he kept shooting. They were saying what he did was all right.</p><p>He had already done this in public in August. The handcuffs didn’t appear until the end of October, after the videos from the fall had gone around the world and the force needed to be seen taking account of something. A spokesman said Abu Lulu had never been inside the RSF’s command. An allied militia leader, in their telling, who had borrowed the name. There was an arrest, and handcuffs for the cameras, and a promised investigation.</p><p>Gedo Hamdan Abu Nashuk, the RSF’s commander for North Darfur, was walking with Abu Lulu on the morning of October 27. Reuters put him within 40 meters of two of the executions, in the same two-hour window. That same day the <a href="https://www.info-res.org/sudan-witness/reports/how-the-rsf-seized-el-fasher-mass-detentions-executions-and-the-glorification-of-violence/">Centre for Information Resilience</a> placed Abdelrahim Dagalo — Hemedti’s brother, and the force’s deputy — inside the headquarters of the 6th Infantry Division while the city was being taken.</p><p>The Security Council <a href="https://english.alarabiya.net/News/middle-east/2026/02/25/un-security-council-sanctions-four-of-sudan-s-rsf-commanders-over-alfashir-atrocities">sanctioned Abu Lulu in February 2026</a>, together with Dagalo and two other commanders.</p><p>In May 2026, <a href="https://www.internazionale.it/ultime-notizie-reuters/2026/05/18/commander-who-was-filmed-killing-civilians-in-sudan-is-back-in-combat-sources-say">Reuters reported</a> that he was out and fighting. Nine sources described a release and a return to the front in Kordofan. Three of them — an RSF commander, an officer close to the leadership, and a researcher in contact with the committee charged with investigating him — said Abdelrahim Dagalo gave the order. Separately, another commander and a relative said he was released on the condition that he not film and not be filmed. Reuters did not establish that those were Dagalo’s words. The RSF called the report of a release completely false: he had remained in custody since the arrest, the force said, and he would face a special court with the others accused of violations in El Fasher.</p><p>They are arguing about where he is being kept. They are not arguing about the man who said he had a restaurant.</p><p>I used to think the worst of what this does to a man was his honest belief that he had done nothing wrong. The belief is real. I watched people mean it. What I no longer think is that the institution needs the belief. It can let fighters call a man a knight, and let a spokesman say the man was never theirs. If the sources are right and the denial is not, it can have the deputy commander free him and then tell the public he is still in the cell. He did not arrive over El Fasher out of nowhere. He is what a long series of reasonable decisions, each of them made in a room, leaves standing in a street.</p><p>I understood the rooms differently after I heard him. Not as what happens when fighters lose their heads on the day a garrison falls. The garrison was what the army was holding. The 18 months before it fell were pointed at something else — a population that would not be able to stay, or come back, or keep a market, or trust a hospital that still believed it was a hospital. They attacked Zamzam’s market in April. They shot the roads in October. The ward was two days after the dormitory. At the end of that, the roads are still there, and the gold is still there, and there are fewer people left who can stand on either of them and say the place is theirs.</p><p>That is <em>hadr</em> worked from the other direction. A government can spend generations deciding which of its people are citizens and which are only fuel, and some of the fuel will do the violence and experience it as the way the world has always been. Nothing in that sentence defends a dormitory or a hospital. It refuses the easier account, in which the evil of those rooms needs no past.</p><p>Abu Aqla Keikal commanded RSF forces in Gezira until he defected to the army in October 2024. Fighters under him are accused of mass rape in the towns they held. He is not a clean witness. In May 2025, in a closed meeting with journalists in Port Sudan, he said Hemedti ran the war himself — the calls, the ammunition, the uniforms — and that when the rapes were put in front of him, the tears came and the words did not. He said he had not commented on the silence. His office, the same day, called the published account excerpted and fabricated, and promised a tape. I have not seen the tape. I will not build a commander’s knowledge on a story his own office disowned. I will not pretend the story was never told.</p><p>The pay does not depend on it.</p><p>The RSF lacks the things that matter in an army here: wages that arrive whether or not you steal, and a court that can overrule your commander. Men who have worn the uniform describe being paid late, or in money the war has already destroyed, or not paid, and sent to take the rest from the battlefield — ransom, gold, whatever a town still contains. That is the wage, not a problem the wage is waiting out. Try Abu Lulu honestly, all the way down, and the tribunal has to ask his whole rank the question the videos already asked in public. There is not enough rope in Darfur for that answer. You would not be disciplining a fighter. You would be indicting the pay that keeps him facing your direction. That is the old meaning of militia, whatever it is wearing: it answers to whoever pays it this week, and both of the things it exists to do — fight, and extract — require that nobody above the fighter can tell him no and be obeyed. Darfur had not been given the courts the center was given. The RSF did not invent the absence. It enlarged it, from a province stripped without an accounting to a force that strips without one. The design held. The uniform changed.</p><p>One floor higher, the failure is different, and I won’t write it as if it were. Since 2005 the International Criminal Court has had jurisdiction over Darfur, on a referral from the Security Council. On October 6, 2025, three weeks before El Fasher fell — not during the week of the offensive — it <a href="https://www.justiceinfo.net/en/150592-icc-kushayb-guilty-of-crimes-against-humanity-in-darfur.html">convicted Ali Kushayb</a>, a Janjaweed commander, for killings and other crimes committed in 2003 and 2004. The sentence came in December. It is the only conviction that mandate has produced. In January 2026 the deputy prosecutor told the Council that her office assessed war crimes and crimes against humanity in the capture of the city, and was working toward individual responsibility. The lag is shameful on its own: a verdict about the previous war, delivered while this one was still starving a city, and a briefing months later still at the work of naming commanders. It is not the same act as killing people and then denying the count. The two acts land on the same dead. That is the charge. Coordination is a different allegation, and I don’t have it.</p><p>El Fasher was the last ground the army held in Darfur. Whoever held it held the gold there, and the roads out to Chad and Libya, and the buyers who have not needed to ask where the metal came from. The RSF inherited that use of the land. A buffer you can take from is worth more, to whoever controls it, than a buffer left in peace. I cannot make every line of that inheritance neat. I can say what stood at the end of the line. A city starved for a year and a half. A camp next to it where, months before famine was a word anyone official would use, the children were already being counted by the hour.</p></div></section><section id="sec-8"><header><h2>The women who absorb it</h2></header><div><p>What I know about the cost of a closed room, I did not learn from a report.</p><p>My mother was pregnant with me, and still finishing her degree, when a government she had no hand whatsoever in choosing decided what the next decade of her life was going to cost her. Nobody consulted her in the room where that decision was made. Nobody ever does. She carried both of us through everything that came after, the pregnancy and the degree both, because someone in that room had decided she only got to keep one of the two, and she declined to agree. I have no more complicated word for it than that.</p><p>I did not understand, until much later, that this was not only her story. It is the only story I have ever actually learned how to tell about Sudanese women, and it has been true, without a single exception, of every one I have met since this war began. A decision is made in a room none of them were in. A militia is outsourced instead of disbanded. A shipment of weapons clears a port where nobody asks the hard question. An arms embargo is debated for another month, because another month of debating it costs the people in the room nothing. Far from that room, a woman absorbs what was decided. Not as a symbol of anything. With her body, and her time, and the work she had been studying toward before the decision arrived and insisted on coming first.</p><p>This is the part of <em>hadr</em> that does not need a massacre to operate. It is what gets done, every day, more quietly, to the living women left holding what the dead left behind. The labor doubles, because a closed room created it. Then the doubled labor is praised as strength, and nobody asks who gave the room the right to decide any of it without her sitting there.</p><p>Rape as a weapon of siege is not new. The RSF has found a crueler practice of an argument Sudanese women have already been winning, slowly, for longer than this force has existed in any uniform. Absorbing a decision made in your absence is not the same thing as agreeing to it. It is never the same thing.</p><p>I am not interested, tonight, in performing a hope I do not feel. I am angry, and I intend to go on being angry. Anger is the only thing still standing upright in me, after everything else that was supposed to carry me through this year has given out underneath me. I still don’t know what the word anniversary is supposed to do. I know what she did.</p><p>She did not wait for anyone’s permission to decide when she was finished absorbing what other people had signed. If <em>hadr</em> is what was done to El Fasher — a people reduced to a disputed figure, an absence the world still cannot agree how to count — then refusing it is not a speech. It is her, decades on, still finishing what she started. Still here. A woman insisting, against every room that ever tried to decide otherwise, on being counted as a person, and not as an outcome.</p></div></section></div></content><published>2026-10-30T15:12:48.733757Z</published><summary type="text">One year after the Rapid Support Forces took the city, the fight over how many died has become part of the crime.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/tanzanias-peace-was-never-peaceful</id><title type="text">Tanzania’s peace was never peaceful</title><updated>2026-10-29T15:01:49.962299Z</updated><author><name>Alicia Houser</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>One year ago, on October 29, 2025, the sound of bombs and bullets rang out around Dar es Salaam and several other cities across Tanzania. Before last year’s election, Tanzania had enjoyed an international reputation as a peaceful haven in an often tumultuous region. Foreign governments and tour companies certainly helped craft this image, but so did Tanzania’s government and population. Since I started visiting the country in 2017, people have often cited <em>amani</em> (peace) as one of Tanzania’s best attributes. People attributed this purported peace not to satisfaction with the government or living conditions, but to fear. <em>Watanzania ni woga</em> (Tanzanians are cowards), my friends tell me self-deprecatingly. This fear belies the peaceful image Tanzania has cultivated overseas. </p><p>Histories, or perhaps more accurately colonial histories, place Tanzania in the category of African countries that peacefully acquired independence. To consider Tanzania’s transition to independence as peaceful is to take a short view of history. This narrative ignores the Hehe killed during seven years of fighting against the Germans, which ended in 1898 with <a href="https://mkwawa.com/chiefmkwawa">Chief Mkwawa</a> killing himself rather than surrendering and his skull being taken to Germany. It ignores the organized resistance that involved the entire southern half of Tanzania, the <a href="https://theconversation.com/300-000-tanzanians-were-killed-by-germany-during-the-maji-maji-uprising-it-was-genocide-and-should-be-called-that-217712">Maji Maji</a> war of 1905–1908, which some consider the first Pan-African anticolonial resistance movement. The Tanzanian historian Gilbert Gwassa estimated that 300,000 Africans died in this movement, most of them from starvation. The narrative of peaceful transition also ignores the roughly 600,000 Africans who died as a result of <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-33329661">World War I</a> military incursions on Tanzanian soil. In these three events alone, almost one million would-be Tanzanians lost their lives to colonization. </p><p>I was in Dar es Salaam last year during the election. The internet cut out at about noon, and the sounds of bombs and bullets started around 1pm and continued off and on for another four days. Without internet, radio, or television, I got my news the old-fashioned way: through other people. My friends in Arusha and Moshi sent frequent messages, and I went out to my courtyard and sat with my neighbors who were connected to other cities across the country. We exchanged what we had heard: someone’s niece had stepped outside her apartment in Dar and encountered a body, Muhimbili Hospital was overflowing, bodies were being stacked outside mortuaries, ballot boxes had been burned. There would be no votes to count. By day three of the lockdown, rumors were circulating that the government was preparing for a prolonged battle, and that Dar’s drinking water might be poisoned. By day five, the store next door to me had sold out of airtime, water, sodas, and milk. Amid the fear, though, was excitement.</p><p><cite>Watanzania wameamka,</cite> one of my neighbors said proudly. Tanzanians have woken up. A neighbor who stopped by noted that <em>hakuna mafanikio bila</em> sacrifice. No success without sacrifice. Another neighbor said she was going to give 10,000 shillings to any <em>bodaboda</em> and <em>bajaji</em> drivers (the motorcycle and three-wheeler taxi drivers who ferry much of urban Tanzania) she saw; they were the ones leading the protests.</p><p>On day six, Mama Samia — as President Samia Suluhu Hassan is popularly known — was sworn in as president at a ceremony closed to the public. The sounds of bombs and bullets had fizzled out over the days, and the morning marking one week since the election radiated with the usual city sounds of buses, <em>bajajis</em>, and <em>bodabodas</em> that had gone quiet for so long. The halt in violence did not result from any recognition by Samia of the illegitimacy of the election, which did not include any candidates from the country’s main opposition parties. The electoral commission barred Chadema, the largest of them, and disqualified the candidate of ACT-Wazalendo. After days of police shooting <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c3vn4rlqd52o">live rounds</a> into crowds and indiscriminately killing <a href="https://www.thecitizen.co.tz/tanzania/news/national/mother-recounts-dreams-of-her-daughter-killed-in-unrest-5259528">civilians</a> caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, the protests stopped. Tanzanians decided they did not want to die. After the election, there was a general feeling of “Where do we go from here?”.</p><p>Months before the election, in March of last year, I attended a memorial event on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro in Old Moshi, remembering the 19 area chiefs whom the Germans hanged on March 2, 1900, on accusations of subversion. One of the elders recalled a phrase he heard often growing up, anytime a bad event happened: <em>Hatujazika babu zetu</em> (We have not yet buried our grandfathers). </p><p>What if we apply that thinking to the 2025 election? What if we consider the violence of 2025 not only as a result of the intimidation, <a href="https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2025/10/tanzania-fears-mount-over-disappearance-of-government-critic-humphery-pole-pole/">abductions</a>, and <a href="https://www.npr.org/2025/06/07/nx-s1-5425361/torture-treason-trials-tanzania">political violence</a> President Samia’s regime has enacted, but also as a product of decades of unaddressed generational trauma still lingering from the violence Tanzanians experienced under colonization? This kind of recognition would require formerly colonizing powers to share in the responsibility for election violence and do more than issue statements of condemnation. Addressing generational trauma requires addressing the continued damages caused by colonization. How can a country peacefully move forward when its people haven’t yet buried their grandfathers?</p></div></content><published>2026-10-29T15:01:49.962299Z</published><summary type="text">A year after security forces opened fire on protesters across Tanzania, the violence looks less like a rupture than the return of a colonial past.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/its-not-the-refugees-its-the-austerity-measures</id><title type="text">It’s not the refugees, it’s the austerity measures!</title><updated>2026-11-05T19:02:09.774829Z</updated><author><name>Wini Omer</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div><p>A Sudanese journalist, with whom I worked for two years at the same newspaper, told me when I contacted him to check on his situation after the last wave of attacks against refugees in Libya: “We are trapped in our homes. We can’t leave. I didn’t send my kids to school since the beginning of this wave of violence. The situation is difficult beyond imagination.”</p><p>The Sudanese who left Sudan seeking refuge in Libya, amid very violent clashes that started in April 2023 and continue to this moment, are facing violence, danger, and hatred in what was supposed to be a safe refuge. But this reality is not exclusive to Sudanese refugees, and the violence is indifferent to other nationalities who are fleeing conflicts, war, and instability at home: Ethiopians, Eritreans, and refugees from the Central African Republic.</p><p>In Libya, African refugees faced waves of violence, the latest in June this year. Despite competing for power, Libya’s rival authorities in the east and west have united in stoking anti-migrant rhetoric and launching a violent campaign of mass detention and expulsions against migrants and refugees, as a recent <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2026/07/02/libya-anti-migrant-rhetoric-fuels-abuses">Human Rights Watch report</a> has indicated.</p><p>In Egypt, a <a href="https://eipr.org/en/publications/unprecedented-crackdown-refugees-and-migrants-egypt">crackdown campaign</a> led by security forces, accompanied by social media hate speech against Sudanese and Syrian refugees, intensified on the ground, blaming them for the rise in living costs, mainly rents, groceries, and basic life needs. As a result of systematic brutality, between January and June 2026, <a href="https://rpegy.org/editions/%d8%a7%d9%84%d8%ad%d8%a7%d9%84%d8%a9-%d8%a7%d9%84%d8%ab%d8%a7%d9%86%d9%8a%d8%a9-%d8%b9%d8%b4%d8%b1-%d9%85%d9%86%d8%b0-%d8%a8%d8%af%d8%a7%d9%8a%d8%a9-%d8%a7%d9%84%d8%b9%d8%a7%d9%85-%d9%88%d9%81%d8%a7/">12 Sudanese passed away in Egyptian detention centers</a> and police cells, including a child of 17. Refugees processed for deportation are forced to sign voluntary return declarations.</p><p>Sudan hosts one of the largest refugee and asylum-seeker populations in Africa, mainly South Sudanese, Ethiopians, and Eritreans, who currently face detention and <a href="https://kedencentre.org/reports/%D8%A3%D9%85%D9%86%D9%86%D8%A9-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%88%D8%AC%D9%88%D8%AF-%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%A3%D8%AC%D9%86%D8%A8%D9%8A-%D9%81%D9%8A-%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%B3%D9%88%D8%AF%D8%A7%D9%86-%E2%80%93-%D8%A8%D9%8A%D9%86-%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%A5%D8%B9%D8%A7%D8%AF%D8%A9-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%82%D8%B3%D8%B1%D9%8A%D8%A9%D8%8C-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%82%D9%85%D8%B9-%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%AF%D8%A7%D8%AE%D9%84%D9%8A%D8%8C-%D9%88%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%AA%D8%AD%D8%B1%D9%8A%D8%B6-%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%B4%D8%B9%D8%A8%D9%8A">forced deportation</a> from the capital, Khartoum, to refugee camps close to the borders with their countries of origin, after the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) regained control of the capital. This step was taken following a growing political rhetoric that profiled them as criminals and blamed them for the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) controlling Khartoum. Accordingly, they were deported to refugee camps in White Nile State, Al-Gadarif State, and Kassala State, camps that lack all basic human needs and restrict freedom of movement and the right to work. Many South Sudanese mothers were deported while their children were not allowed to accompany them, leaving them in limbo.</p><p>Such rhetoric, mainly produced and shared by pro-SAF individuals and platforms, provides the military establishment with a popular cover to reproduce its symbolic authority. It is also used by some actors within the army as a tool to bolster its legitimacy against the Rapid Support Forces, portraying it as the guardian of national sovereignty and the representative of the “authentic Sudanese” against the “foreign threat.” This reflects a deeper attempt to regain control over the state and society at a moment of total collapse of political and legal frameworks.</p><p>For many of these refugees, especially the Eritreans, returning is not an option, considering the human rights situation in Eritrea. But according to media reports, both Eritrea and Sudan are <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/may/07/eritrea-accused-of-forcibly-repatriating-civilians-caught-up-in-sudan-fighting">complicit in the repatriation of civilians from Sudan</a> back to Eritrea.</p><p>Whether it is the systematic violence against Sudanese refugees on the continent, or the deliberate violence against African refugees in Sudan, these incidents reflect one broader reality in which violence is used and reproduced either by state actors or by the citizens of the host countries to whom the refugees sought safety within the African continent. This reality raises a critical question about how to understand such incidents, the politics behind them, and why we are seeing them now.</p></div><section id="sec-1"><header><h2>Shifting the blame</h2></header><div><p>Have the refugees led to the economic crises in Egypt, Libya, or Tunisia? Or are these crises a direct result of the state’s social and economic policies?</p><p>In Egypt, the last ten years have witnessed a high level of dependence on debt; Egypt has become one of the IMF’s largest borrowers, while social expenditure, including social protection, health, and education, has shrunk, accompanied by political oppression. Those debts have been invested in projects lacking a developmental dimension, such as <a href="https://www.brettonwoodsproject.org/2024/07/economics-is-political-the-imfs-programme-in-egypt-cant-succeed-without-reforming-both/">the new administrative capital</a> project, which is expected to cost up to $300 billion by the time it’s finalized. The new capital is home to Africa’s tallest <a href="https://www.thenationalnews.com/arts-culture/2021/06/29/iconic-tower-tallest-skyscraper-in-africa-rises-from-the-desert-in-egypts-new-administrative-capital/">tower</a>, the world’s longest <a href="https://www.enr.com/articles/54154-worlds-longest-monorail-takes-shape-in-egypt">monorail</a>, and a new presidential palace commissioned by President Sisi. This tells the story of the political crisis through spatial isolation: Government ministries and parliament have been moved kilometers away from the historic urban spaces where demonstrations and revolutions were shaped. It is also heavily securitized through surveillance and the military, shifting budgets away from serving the people toward strict monitoring. State resources and national debt constrain the broader economy and exacerbate poverty and social inequalities.</p><p>Higher external debt interest payments, in addition to the <a href="https://annd.org/debt_tax/en/publications/details/sovereign-debt-crisis-in-egypt">cost of arms imports</a>, which increased by 215 percent in 2013–2017 compared to 2008–2012, led to an economic crisis. Debt has also been a tool for maintaining a grip on citizens, while the military’s economic empire has expanded. It’s also worth noting that 1,365 conditions were imposed by the IMF and World Bank on MENA nations over the last 15 years, enforcing austerity, privatization, and deregulation. Conditionality has shaped the social and economic realities in many countries across the globe.</p><p>The state has slowly <a href="https://www.madamasr.com/en/2026/05/13/news/u/sources-govt-considers-ending-in-kind-bread-subsidy-in-coming-fiscal-year/">moved away from the bread subsidy system</a> over the past ten years of International Monetary Fund–guided policy adjustments. This economic crisis has also contributed to the <a href="https://erf.org.eg/publications/international-migration-during-economic-crisis-in-egypt/">rise in immigration rates</a> among Egyptians to Gulf countries and beyond.</p><p>This pattern aligns with Samir Amin’s critique: Peripheral states are integrated into global capitalism in ways that prioritize capital accumulation and elite prestige over popular welfare.</p><p>In Libya, the political and economic crises have intersected, creating a hostile environment for refugees. The cash-flow crisis stemming from multiple changes to national currency notes, high unemployment rates, deterioration of social services, electricity instability, and a health-care system that is not adequately accessible to the population have compounded the situation. All of these crises are a direct result of years of conflict and political instability.</p><p>It’s also a direct consequence of imperialist intervention in Libya. NATO and US military operations in Libya, the sanctions, and the border-engineering policies financed by the EU have all resulted in building a racist architecture. Resources received from the EU were used to establish influential militias, including the Libyan Coast Guard, now running smuggling and human trafficking economies that are <a href="https://www.occrp.org/en/daily/8175-un-sanctions-human-traffickers-in-libya">sanctioned by the UN</a>, even as they continue to receive EU <a href="https://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/frontex-europes-border-agency-fire-aiding-libyas-brutal-migrant-detent-rcna6778">funding and training</a>.</p><p>Similarly, Tunisia has been <a href="https://carnegieendowment.org/middle-east/research/2025/02/a-path-out-of-tunisias-economic-crisis">trapped in debt</a>. The social justice demands that ignited the 2010 revolution were not addressed; instead, an oppressive system is maintaining itself.</p><p>Such crises have led to high unemployment rates and rising poverty, fueling both the desire among young people to emigrate and scapegoating narratives against refugees promoted by those who stayed.</p><p>The South African case provides a clear example of this shift in blame. In a country with an unemployment rate of over 43.7 percent, protests against migrants have intensified in recent months, primarily led by the <a href="https://marchandmarch.org.za/about">March and March</a> movement, blaming African migrants for unemployment, poverty, crime, and lack of public services like education and health care. They called on the government to deal with the influx of migrants and protect opportunities. While it’s understandable that material despair and fear drive these protests, the root causes of this compounded crisis cannot be ignored. That includes the legacy of apartheid and the lack of economic justice post-independence. The white population, which constitutes 8 percent of the whole South African population, controls around 80 percent of the land, leaving the majority of the population, Black and coloured, with no ownership of land or means of production. With little being done to implement the social justice agenda in the post-apartheid state, wealth has remained concentrated among the same elite class, while the majority remain impoverished.</p><p>Adopting social and economic policies that impoverish people and limit their access to social services and basic needs is a key feature of the approaches in Egypt, Tunisia, Libya, and South Africa, among many other countries. This strategy is universal and aims to collectively punish populations to protect the systems that exploit them.</p><p>Refugees are being blamed for the difficult material conditions of citizens in crisis-affected countries, even though these conditions have their own political and historical structural causes and are closely linked to the political economies of states that are often highly dependent on the profiteering monetary and financial policies of international financial institutions.</p></div></section><section id="sec-2"><header><h2>Politics of hate and fear</h2></header><div><p>But how are the political and economic crises entangled with hatred or fear of refugees?</p><p>Sara Ahmed’s <cite>The Cultural Politics of Emotion</cite> sheds light on how an anti-refugee sentiment is built, encouraged, and used to justify violence against them, and how building a national identity comes at the cost of the safety of refugees.</p><p>Fear is employed as a tool of political economy and as a technique of governance. In the Egyptian case, fear of refugees burdening the state’s budget is used to justify current social and economic crises and to trap people into relying on the political elite, represented by those in government, to resolve the refugee dilemma. Sudanese, Palestinian, and Syrian refugees have been labeled as such, and Sudanese refugees have lost their lives due to the security policies and interventions that forcibly deport them. A recent anti-refugee narrative relates to fear of what is called the “Afrocentrism discourse,” as many social media accounts share concerns over deliberate efforts by Black refugees to change the culture and demography of Egypt.</p><p>Fear of demographic change is echoed more loudly in official political speeches in Tunisia. President Kais Saied <a href="https://www.reuters.com/ar/world/WWACYV66ERN2LJRCPMGJIMSQWQ-2023-02-21/">reflected on</a> this specific issue during an official speech, while the crackdown on human rights activists continues, and voices that criticized the economic situation in Tunisia are silenced. Additionally, a <a href="https://www.newarab.com/news/tunisian-lawmakers-remarks-rape-and-migrants-spark-outrage">Tunisian MP used racist language to deny reports</a> on female refugees being sexually assaulted in Tunisia.</p><p>In Libya as well, such discourse spreads on social media, provoked by politicians seeking to build constituencies based on this fear.</p><p>On the other hand, Egyptian media portray refugees as the <a href="https://www.youm7.com/story/2024/5/27/%D8%A3%D8%B3%D8%AA%D8%A7%D8%B0-%D8%A7%D9%82%D8%AA%D8%B5%D8%A7%D8%AF-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%84%D8%A7%D8%AC%D8%A6%D9%88%D9%86-%D9%8A%D8%AD%D9%85%D9%84%D9%88%D9%86-%D9%85%D8%B5%D8%B1-%D8%A3%D8%B9%D8%A8%D8%A7%D8%A1-%D8%A7%D9%82%D8%AA%D8%B5%D8%A7%D8%AF%D9%8A%D8%A9-%D8%B9%D9%84%D9%89-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%85%D9%88%D8%A7%D8%B2%D9%86%D8%A9-%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%B9%D8%A7%D9%85%D8%A9/6589508">main cause of the crisis</a> and as a burden on the social infrastructure, such as health and housing. On social media, these campaigns were led by <a href="https://x.com/matsda2sh/status/1745050076030898638">pro-regime influencers</a>, as some fact-checking platforms have indicated.</p><p>Syrian refugees and immigrants in Egypt also suffer from this manufactured fear through campaigns, including calls to boycott their businesses, accusing them of hijacking market opportunities.</p><p>Similarly, in Sudan, long before April’s war, refugees have faced accusations of immorality and been labeled as a danger to the Sudanese community’s values and social cohesion. Burdening refugees with the responsibility of security and treating them as a threat to national security are also narratives used, especially by the Sudanese army, to justify the forcible deportation of refugees to camps.</p><p>Such narratives act as a political strategy: Fear is engineered to elicit collective emotions and utilized in political discourse to mask the flaws of political regimes.</p><p>Fanon’s critique of postcolonial elites is relevant in the contexts above; he argued that elites turn the people against imaginary enemies. In this case, refugees are those imaginary enemies.</p></div></section><section id="sec-3"><header><h2>The failures of neoliberal policy</h2></header><div><p>The shared economic model of these states centers on austerity and privatization policies that aim to limit state spending on social infrastructure and services, while using securitization and violence to suppress any attempts to protest against these policies. This explains why Egyptian arms deals increase as the economy deteriorates.</p><p>Refugees are usually forcibly displaced by economic collapse, structural adjustment, climate harm, and governance failure. They are then governed through restrictive asylum regimes, border controls, and humanitarian management. So neoliberal policies help produce displacement and then shape how displaced people are subsequently controlled.</p><p>In other cases, we have seen the externalization of borders as a strategy that has allowed states to avoid direct responsibility for violating refugees’ rights. The EU is infamous for leading such strategies. Such policies often come with loans and financial support to the targeted origin and transit countries.</p><p>Tunisia has also received such support, leading to a refugee crisis, as thousands are <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLb5Mq-cyOo">trapped in Tunisia</a>, most of them from sub-Saharan Africa, in a very dire situation, while some have been dumped into the Algerian desert to face their fate.</p><p>Previously, the Rapid Support Forces received EU support to control borders in eastern and western Sudan. The Khartoum Process, which evolved into a regional agreement, brokered this deal and provided funding for border externalization.</p><p>The European Union Horn of Africa Migration Route Initiative (the <a href="https://www.khartoumprocess.net/">Khartoum Process</a>) is a political cooperation platform launched on November 28, 2014, in Rome. It connects countries along the migration route from the Horn of Africa to Europe.</p><p>Libya’s decision to ban the entry of citizens from four African nationalities — Sudan, Eritrea, Ethiopia, and Somalia — is also understood as part of these broader policies. Libya was actually among the first countries to receive EU funds to control the influx of refugees at its borders. Meanwhile, <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c86vpq42dl0o">Greece is recruiting mercenaries</a> to push back refugees. Alongside these trends, <a href="https://www.europarl.europa.eu/news/en/press-room/20260611IPR45214/new-eu-system-for-return-of-illegally-staying-third-country-nationals">the EU Parliament’s recent law</a> reveals a similar stance, with members shouting “send them back” as a law to return refugees was adopted.</p><p>From Europe, to Africa, to Southeast Asia, refugees are facing violence, exclusion, and impoverishment. These are the direct social damages of neoliberal policies, generating economic exploitation and social exclusion, and stripping refugees of their dignity and their lives, as is happening right now in Egypt, in Libya, and on the coasts of the Mediterranean Sea.</p><p>The Sudanese refugee crisis was ignited by the ongoing war in Sudan; it’s rooted in a long history of conflicts that have driven thousands to leave their homes in search of refuge and dignity. The crises in Sudan that have led to conflict can’t be understood without tracing the histories of austerity, uneven development, and state violence.</p><p>Sudanese refugees deserve safety and protection, just like refugees on the African continent and beyond.</p><p>Political rhetoric centered on anti-Blackness and blame-shifting must be dismantled to center critiques on the role of capitalism and neoliberal policies. Systems that exploit refugees as cheap labor and as bodies that should produce surplus value must be exposed.</p><p>Instead of considering refugees as the problem, we should view them and their vulnerabilities as manifestations of social and economic crises manufactured by neoliberalism, and as direct products of political decisions that fail to center care, justice, and economic sovereignty. The nation-state survives by dividing people, provoking hatred and fear, and stoking competition. We, the oppressed people, must resist.</p></div></section></div></content><published>2026-10-28T16:51:29.253Z</published><summary type="text">Rather than the cause of Africa’s economic crises, refugees are themselves victims of the political and economic decisions that produce displacement, deprivation, and insecurity.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/moroccos-long-game</id><title type="text">Morocco’s long game</title><updated>2026-10-27T15:59:37.244364Z</updated><author><name>Elyas Mabchour</name></author><category label="Culture" term="Culture"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>“A bad system will beat a good person every time.” The words of Dr. Deming, a pioneer of systems thinking, perfectly encapsulate the problems faced by Moroccan football throughout the 2000s. </p><p>At the turn of the century, on paper, it seemed like Moroccan football was in a pretty good place. In 1998, it was ranked 13th globally by FIFA. The team’s performance at the 1986 World Cup, when Morocco became the first African and Arab country to advance to the knockout rounds, was monumental.</p><p>Despite these early successes, Morocco would subsequently not qualify for a World Cup for the next 20 years. By 2014, Moroccan football would hit rock bottom, with FIFA ranking it 81st in the world — a precipitous decline. </p><p>But as many of us know, by 2022 Morocco had risen to the top of international football. The team defeated major World Cup players, such as Portugal and Spain, becoming the first African and Arab country to advance to the semifinals. </p><p>To me, the answer to Morocco’s football transformation comes down to one thing: systems (and I think Dr. Deming would be happy with that conclusion).</p><p>The reason behind Morocco’s 2000s decline was simple: Morocco relied on a series of golden generations that emerged around the end of the 20th century. After <a href="https://documents1.worldbank.org/curated/en/488061468324562691/pdf/multi0page.pdf">Morocco entered a World Bank Structural Adjustment Program to address the country’s debts in 1983</a>, key sources of state funding for local sport were cut off as the country recovered economically. Without an effective system for replacing players as they retired, the sport would naturally start to decline. </p><p>Morocco’s rise after that initial decline was more complex. As I began exploring this story, I came across a turning point: the 2008 Skhirat Conference. Recognizing football’s unique position to drive national pride and social cohesion across a young demographic, the King took the rare step of intervening directly, calling for reforms in football governance and investment at all levels in what is now known as the <a href="https://www.cnom.org.ma/index.php/en/royal-letter-2008">Royal Letter 2008</a>. The letter attributed the sport’s decline to corruption and mismanagement, as well as the decentralized nature of sports across the country. The King argued that Moroccan football’s problem was not talent, but the absence of a national system to develop it. </p><p>The first and most consequential change was the appointment of Fouzi Lekjaa as president of the Royal Moroccan Football Federation (FRMF) in 2014. Despite Lekjaa’s middle-class origins, the Berkane native very quickly took to politics, developing his reputation as a shrewd and clever leader. Lekjaa spent years as Director of the Budget at the Ministry of Economy and Finance, while on the pitch, he served as president of RS Berkane, bringing crucial fiscal governance to state sports policy and guiding his club to a historic 2012 Botola Pro promotion. As FRMF president, Lekjaa stated that going forward, <a href="https://inside.fifa.com/advancing-football/fifa-forward/news/moroccan-footballs-continuing-success">Moroccan football would rely on a three-pronged approach: facilities, talent, and well-trained staff.</a> </p><p>An early example of this approach was the opening of the Mohammed VI Football Academy in Salé in 2009 as a 140 million dirham ($14.4 million USD) project aimed at developing homegrown talent. In the following years, alumni such as Azzedine Ounahi and Youssef En-Nesyri would go on to represent Morocco at the 2022 World Cup, while many others joined the U17 and U20 teams.</p><p>The federation pushed clubs to strengthen their youth-development structures, creating more organized pathways to identify and train young players, while academy staff scouted talent nationwide. The academy’s first director, Nasser Larguet, would travel the country with his team, observing 15,000 young players and ultimately selecting 37 to come and train at the academy. This pipeline showed Morocco could grow talent at home, rather than relying solely on the diaspora. </p><p>Yet, the diaspora remains a major source of talent for Moroccan football. The 2026 World Cup prompted headlines that <a href="https://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/soccer/worldcup/2026/06/29/morocco-roster-around-the-world-netherlands-world-cup/90734778007/">Morocco was the first team in World Cup history to feature a lineup of players who were all born outside of the country they represented</a>. But this headline reflects a longer-term strategy: with around 15% of all Moroccans living abroad, primarily in Europe, Morocco spent years building an extensive diaspora scouting and recruitment network. <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/athletic/7430756/2026/07/09/morocco-world-cup-brahim-yamal-bouaddi/">The system would identify eligible talent at a young age, with coordinator Rabie Takassa saying that their network identifies talent as early as eight years old</a>. By leveraging both home-grown and diaspora talent, Morocco built two talent pipelines that fed into national teams, broadening the pool of players available to the federation.</p><p>This system would go on to work. Yassine Bounou was ranked 4th on the list of the 2026 tournament’s top-performing goalkeepers, according to the <a href="https://www.fifa.com/en/tournaments/mens/worldcup/canadamexicousa2026/power-rankings">FIFA Power Rankings</a>. He spent years playing with Wydad AC in Casablanca before transitioning to European football. Through the other pipeline, Brahim Diaz would develop his skills at Málaga CF and then Manchester City’s academy, representing Spain multiple times at the youth level. Both opted to play for the Moroccan national team at the senior level. </p><p>Some may argue that Morocco is simply witnessing another “random” golden generation. Yet the U20 team’s 2025 World Cup victory and the senior team’s 2026 quarterfinal run suggest a more systematic change. Morocco proved it could consistently play at the level of football’s best, matching Brazil and defeating the Netherlands. The Kingdom exited the tournament ranked 6th globally by FIFA, a striking contrast with its 81st-place ranking in 2014.</p><p>The challenges facing African football often extend beyond a lack of talent to the systems needed to develop players and bring them to the global stage, especially at a senior level. <a href="https://www.espn.com/soccer/story/_/id/37534716/age-old-debate">Nigeria, for example, holds the record for the most U-17 World Cup wins, but this hasn’t translated to comparable success at the senior level</a>. The gap highlights a broader challenge facing African football federations: developing talent at the youth level is only a part of the task. Moroccan football offers a case study for the rest of the continent, an example of how systems can drastically improve a country’s football fortunes. </p><p>Morocco would begin its journey to becoming a football powerhouse when it stopped waiting for golden generations to spontaneously emerge and began building the systems needed to constantly find and develop the talent required to compete at the highest level. </p></div></content><published>2026-10-27T15:42:55.424Z</published><summary type="text">How Morocco stopped waiting for golden generations to emerge and began building the systems needed to compete at the highest level.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/eyes-open-in-addis</id><title type="text">Eyes open in Addis</title><updated>2026-10-26T14:39:14.111097Z</updated><author><name>Rachel Dubale</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>If I squeeze my eyes shut and cover them with my hands, perhaps all of this will disappear. My father used to tell me something similar when, at an age perhaps already too old for it, I would whisper to him: “I’m afraid of the dark.”</p><p>“<cite>Richo</cite>,” he would say, “why in the world would you be scared of the dark? The dark is something we can make and unmake. See?” He would then cover my eyes with his big, calloused hands. “I made the dark for you.” And so I would fall asleep, covering my eyes with my hands and making my own dark.</p><p>So many years have passed since then — years in which I have learned not only how to make my own dark, but how to fill my eyes with the brightest colors: the green of my fields, the yellow suns of the Antilles, and the red of those tomato sauces shared over plates of pasta with the people I love.</p><p>With time I have also learned, and wanted <em>more</em> and <em>more</em> and <em>more</em>, to see and live those same colors lined up in a row: green-yellow-red. And again: green-yellow-red, the flag of my country of origin, Ethiopia. Sometimes for a few months at a time, during summers spent in the capital; sometimes buried in tedious readings, retracing its legendary history; other times — for longer, for months — trying to learn its script, so curved, as I did when I lived in Addis Ababa from September 2022 into 2023.</p><p>That time, in 2022, when I spent several months in the capital, is perhaps one of the times I most distinctly remember feeling like a child again: trying to memorize the <em>fidel</em>, the Ethiopic script, from the blackboard, slowly reading one letter after another, and then hoping that somehow a sentence that made sense in Amharic would come out of my mouth.</p><p>Perhaps it was also one of those times when, unconsciously becoming a little like a child again — learning how to read and write in a new language, discovering everything from scratch — I decided to do what my father had told me years before and cover my eyes with my hands.</p><p>By the time I arrived in Addis Ababa, the war in Tigray — mainly, but not solely, pitting Tigrayan forces led by the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) against the Ethiopian federal government — had been going on for almost two years. Just two months later, in November, the two sides signed the so-called <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2022/11/2/ethiopias-warring-sides-agree-cessation-of-hostilities-au">Pretoria Agreement</a>, committing to a permanent cessation of hostilities. And yet, even in the capital, at least to me, the war and the tensions it had brought to the surface continued to come in fragments.</p><p>I remember, in order:</p><p>When the war came knocking at the edges of the city. That January of 2023 I was walking through the streets of Asko, right at the edge of the capital, wearing a traditional Wollo dress from the Amhara region.</p><p>All dressed up with my cousins, we hummed songs to celebrate Timket, the Ethiopian Orthodox festival marking the baptism of Jesus in the River Jordan, and were laughing our heads off about who had been hit by the most lemons — during Timket, young men traditionally toss lemons or limes toward girls they are interested in, as a sort of courtship — when some police officers on the street told us to keep it down. “And then,” they added, “you should be ashamed of wearing those clothes. We are celebrating Timket, not one particular ethnic group.” Ouch.</p><p>It took me, in fact, a little while — and an explanation from my cousins — to understand what I had initially taken as an insult to my sense of style. The traditional Amhara dress, it turned out, was not read simply as a dress but almost as a political statement in support of Amhara identity amid tensions around ethnicity — who was who, who was supposedly better than whom — that had been growing for years and that the war in Tigray had only exacerbated.</p><p>Funnily enough, this happened just as Amhara forces, which had fought alongside Ethiopian federal troops during the war, were reportedly <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2023/1/13/amhara-forces-leave-northern-ethiopias-tigray-region">beginning to withdraw</a> from parts of Tigray, seemingly in line with the provisions of the Pretoria Agreement. Yet on the streets of Addis, some of the tensions left by the war were proving harder to leave behind.</p><p>Something similar happened, for similar reasons, when I was denied access to my own home. Every March, Addis Ababa dresses itself in green-yellow-red to commemorate the majestic victory at the Battle of Adwa in 1896, when Ethiopian troops, led by Emperor Menelik II and Empress Taytu Betul, defeated the invading Italian army. Yet that year, even a victory remembered as pan-Ethiopian seemed to <a href="https://borkena.com/adwa-victory-celebration-marred-as-government-forces-attack-addis-ababa-residents/">fracture</a> along ethnic lines. Menelik, celebrated by many as a symbol of Ethiopian independence, was also remembered by others for the violence and dispossession that accompanied his empire’s expansion into territories inhabited by different ethnic communities in what is now Ethiopia.</p><p>By then, displaying images of Emperor Menelik and Empress Taytu, or even the plain Ethiopian flag without its central emblem, had become politically contentious, as these symbols were increasingly associated with competing visions of Ethiopian identity. Printing presses and shops selling them were reportedly forced to shut down.</p><p>And by Adwa Bridge, where I lived, the roads had been blocked amid the tensions around the celebrations, and so, for hours and hours, my flatmate and I tried to make our way home but were not allowed through, left outside waiting until it was dark and then darker.</p><p>And finally, the countless times when, beyond the celebrations, the war found its way into people’s mouths, as they told me how they tried, and tried again, to reach their loved ones in the North, where phone lines had been cut off for much of the war.</p><p>Yet, as unreal as all of this felt to me, I realize now how little it changed in my everyday life. As with the thousand other incredible injustices of the world, I carried on with my life, while kilometers away from me, within the very same borders, thousands of people were being hit, dispossessed, and killed (among other things).</p><p>Four years have passed since then and now history repeats itself: I find myself, again, in Addis Ababa. Across the country, fighting has erupted again between federal and Tigrayan forces, with former enemies joining forces against the government under a new coalition calling itself the <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2026/9/21/ethiopian-armed-groups-forge-alliance-against-government">Alliance for Survival</a>. But this time I am better trained: I can now read with ease all the news I have to compile for work in Amharic: <cite>Turmoil in Tigray</cite>; <em>More than 700 patients crowd hospitals in the northwest of the country</em>; <cite>War in Ethiopia intensifies</cite>; and so on.</p><p>I have been thinking nonstop, day and night, for weeks now. Among the many angry yet simple realizations that seem to come only at night is the thought that, in the years since the signing of the Pretoria Agreement, we had perhaps allowed ourselves to close our eyes, mistaking the absence of full-scale war for peace. Yet beneath the surface, so much was still boiling: disputes over territories that remained contested, disagreements over disarmament, mistrust, and ethnic divisions — the very ones that had made their way even into the streets of Addis. Only this time — <em>oh, this time</em> — if I squeeze my eyes shut and cover them with my hands, none of this will disappear. What is happening in the country forces me to keep my eyes open, as something that once seemed so far away makes its way into the capital, now more forcefully: evening checkpoints for residents, rumors traveling faster and faster, or <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c3vgygpqky9zo">explosions</a> — still unconfirmed — heard near the military headquarters.</p><p>And so news reports and newspapers — myself among them, now — proclaim a war at the gates. But whose gates? Those of an Addis, where perhaps it had already been knocking: in the clothes we were told to be ashamed of wearing, in the roads that kept us from our homes, in the mouths of those trying, and trying again, to reach their loved ones in the North.</p><p>These days I keep wondering how much of what we are living through is really “sudden.” The dark is something we can make and unmake, my father used to say. He was right. We, myself included, have made the dark for ourselves: While conflict staggered between Tigray, Amhara, and the <a href="https://acleddata.com/update/clashes-tigrays-disputed-territories-threaten-peace-deal-february-2024">contested territories</a>, displacing millions of people; while recent attempts at mediation collided with mistrust and accusations of <a href="https://www.thereporterethiopia.com/52693/">partiality</a>; while signed agreements seemed to give us just enough hope to look away.</p><p>Only this time, as the explosions grow louder, we are forced here, in Addis, in Ethiopia, to try to keep our eyes open while elsewhere the world can keep sleeping.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-26T14:39:14.111097Z</published><summary type="text">In Addis Ababa, the war in Tigray once arrived only in fragments. What happens when the dark we made for ourselves no longer holds?</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/how-a-child-inherits-care</id><title type="text">How a child inherits care</title><updated>2026-10-26T13:26:10.770972Z</updated><author><name>Ahmed Ismat Ahmed</name></author><category label="Culture" term="Culture"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>We are sitting at Gallal. It’s in Madinaty, on the edge of Cairo where the buildings are all new and the streets are too wide. The tea is too sweet the way Sudanese tea is supposed to be too sweet when someone else makes it for you. Mahmoud is across from me.</p><p>I don’t remember either of us standing up. Only the hug itself, which went on long enough that an Egyptian girl at the next table put down her phone and started crying. She didn’t know us. She cried because whatever passed between two men holding on to each other in the middle of that cafe was apparently visible even to a stranger who had no context at all.</p><p>Mahmoud went red immediately — a Sudanese man has no idea what to do with a stranger’s tears — so he pulled out his phone, opened Facebook, and muttered that she was probably crying over some relationship, while the screen in his hand played footage of Khartoum burning. We’re good at that silence now. The silence of being physically tethered to one place while completely living inside another. I kept thinking: Does everyone I love do the same? Carry so much that they stop feeling it, until a stranger has to cry for them?</p><p>The screen lights up. The wallpaper is a photo of my grandfather’s class in Wadi Halfa, built after the water took Halfa Dagheim. The first time my grandmother told me about it, she didn’t say “displacement.” She said, “We left the house, and the water took it.” Halfa Dagheim was going to drown for the High Dam — a decision made far away by people who would never bear its cost. When they moved to Wadi Halfa, there was only dust. The first shared project families built was a school. The teacher was my grandfather Ahmed, an English teacher. He gathered children under a tree and started. I inherited that before I understood it. Not money. Not land. The habit of starting under a tree when the official map says your town should no longer exist.</p><p>The waitress calls me <em>ya walad</em> even though I am 29. That word makes me think of my mother. Her father died during her certificate exams. She carried grief silently and kept studying until she earned admission to veterinary school at the University of Khartoum. She graduated while pregnant with me. I came from that lineage of exhausted people who kept choosing endurance.</p><p>When I entered the University of Khartoum in 2015, I thought I was entering a sanctuary. The conversations that shaped us happened beside roads, under trees, around tea stalls that surrounded campus from every direction. The women who ran them knew who was always late, who never had money, who argued too much, who quietly listened. They knew us better than the administration.</p><p>For a long time I thought we had to be hard to win. I thought we had to stop feeling to keep going. I was wrong. The only thing that ever saved us was the opposite. The tea. The sitting together after. The hand that was out before you asked. They can turn violence into money. They can turn gold into weapons. They cannot turn care into money. Care refuses to be bought. That is why they fear it.</p><p>In the republic of the unimportant — at the tea stalls, in the resistance committees, in the unions that kept meeting in borrowed rooms after being banned — we kept a different ledger. Not gold. Who was missing, who needed medicine, who hadn’t eaten. That ledger didn’t make anyone rich. It kept people alive.</p><p>At Gallal, Mahmoud orders a second tea without asking me. He knows I will want it. We have this habit from Khartoum — you order for the other person before he finishes, so he doesn’t have to say he wants more but has no money. He pushes sugar toward me. That small push is the whole essay. You notice who needs sugar and you push it without making a speech.</p><p>And finally — to the child walking into a school that hasn’t been built yet, with a notebook slipping against his arm. Inside, a poster on the wall is crooked. Someone taped it in a hurry and left one corner hanging. He will stop, shift the notebook to the other arm, and straighten it without thinking. He learned that from someone who sat next to him when he cried. That is ordinary. That is how a child inherits care.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-23T18:04:21.426Z</published><summary type="text">Across generations of displacement, struggle, and war in Sudan, ordinary acts of care become a form of inheritance that no violence can erase.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/why-does-tunisia-become-african-only-when-europe-needs-it-to-be</id><title type="text">Why does Tunisia become African only when Europe needs it to be?</title><updated>2026-10-23T18:19:02.133609Z</updated><author><name>Saif Eddine Ghobr</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>Tunisia is an African country that has spent much of its modern political imagination looking north. That sounds like a question of identity. In reality, it is a question of power — and more precisely, a practice of domination through classification.</p><p>For decades, Tunisia has imagined its economic future through the Mediterranean: European markets, French education, tourism, and European investment. Africa has often appeared somewhere beyond the Sahara, associated with instability, migration, and security.</p><p>Europe, however, possesses its own geography of Tunisia — one that shifts depending on what Europe needs from it. When Brussels discusses trade, investment, and political cooperation, Tunisia is a Mediterranean neighbor. When Europe discusses migration, border control, Libya, or the Sahel, Tunisia becomes something else: an African frontier state.</p><p>This is not a mere contradiction. This is a deliberate mechanism of geopolitical subordination through classification. Europe does not need Tunisia to be culturally European; it needs Tunisia to be strategically African when African space becomes relevant to European security.</p><p>The economic relationship makes this asymmetry impossible to ignore, revealing a genuine policy cage. The European Commission identifies the EU as Tunisia’s largest trading partner. In 2025, the EU accounted for 59.5% of Tunisia’s total trade. Some 73.2% of Tunisian exports went to the EU, while 49.6% of imports came from the European market. The EU is also Tunisia’s largest foreign investor, holding 85% of the country’s foreign direct investment stock.</p><p>These figures do not merely describe a successful trading relationship; they reveal an extraordinary concentration of Tunisia’s external economic relations in Europe. When three-quarters of a country’s exports depend on one economic space, that relationship ceases to be mere commerce and becomes an instrument of control, shaping industrial priorities, investment decisions, and the political imagination of what is economically possible.</p><p>Europe consequently becomes not simply Tunisia’s largest market, but its economic horizon — where economic dependence transforms into geographical dependence. Africa becomes secondary, not because it is irrelevant, but because Tunisia has spent decades learning to imagine prosperity through a northern market. As Kwame Nkrumah warned in 1965, the most insidious form of domination is control through financial and structural instruments, not direct conquest.</p><p>The contradiction becomes sharper when migration enters the picture, exposing the biopolitics of European border management. The EU’s relationship with Tunisia increasingly includes border management, migration control, and the fight against migrant smuggling. European support has included equipment, training, and operational assistance to Tunisian security and coast guard structures.</p><p>From Brussels’ perspective, this is cooperation. From a geopolitical standpoint, it is the externalization of Europe’s borders. Europe is not merely helping Tunisia secure its own territory; it is moving part of Europe’s migration-control architecture southward, closer to the routes through which migrants attempt to reach European territory. This is the essence of extraterritorial sovereignty as described by Giorgio Agamben in 2005: the European state exercises its power over human bodies beyond its borders.</p><p>This changes the meaning of Tunisia’s geography. Tunisia is no longer simply a neighbor across the Mediterranean; it becomes part of a European security perimeter without becoming part of Europe itself. Tunisia consequently occupies a peculiar geopolitical position: its economic relationship with Europe is framed as partnership, while its position on migration is treated as strategic infrastructure. The Mediterranean neighbor becomes the African frontier.</p><p>Yet another geography is beginning to emerge — one that challenges the idea of Tunisia as merely Europe’s southern security buffer. In June 2026, AfCFTA Secretary-General Wamkele Mene visited Tunisia. The visit concluded with an agreed action plan aimed at deepening Tunisia’s trade across Africa.</p><p>This matters because it offers Tunisia a role fundamentally different from that assigned to it by the European migration agenda. The African Continental Free Trade Area offers Tunisia the possibility of becoming an economic actor within Africa, rather than a buffer between Europe and Africa. The African Development Bank is pursuing a similar regional logic. In June 2026, the Bank held consultations in Tunis for a new North Africa Regional Integration Strategy designed to deepen economic integration within North Africa and between North Africa and the wider African continent.</p><p>This is a radically different understanding of Africa. Africa is not merely the place from which Tunisia receives migrants, security risks, or instability. It is a market. It is a network of cities. It is a space for investment, industrial partnerships, logistics, technology, and political influence. The question is whether Tunisia will treat this geography as a strategy, or merely as an alternative whenever its relationship with Europe becomes difficult. There is a danger in treating Africa as a Plan B, because if Tunisian policymakers look south only when European markets become restrictive, African integration will remain a reaction rather than a strategy.</p><p>The choice is not Europe or Africa. Tunisia does not need to abandon its European relationship; its economic links with Europe are too deep, and its geography makes the Mediterranean an unavoidable part of its foreign policy. But Europe cannot be Tunisia’s only horizon.</p><p>The real choice is between being an object in someone else’s geography and becoming an actor in one’s own. If Tunisia is African only when Europe needs a border guard, its Africanness has been reduced to a function. If Tunisia discovers Africa only when it needs new markets, Africa becomes a fallback rather than a strategy.</p><p>Europe does not merely change Tunisia’s label; it confiscates Tunisia’s agency. By defining Tunisia as Mediterranean when it needs a market and African when it needs a buffer, Europe ensures that Tunisian sovereignty remains conditional — subject to the external power’s geopolitical needs. This is not partnership; it is strategic subordination. Africa is too often presented in European policy as a space from which problems arrive: migrants, instability, terrorism, trafficking, and energy insecurity. But Africa is also a political and economic project being built. The AfCFTA is an attempt to create a continental market; regional integration initiatives are attempting to connect North Africa more effectively with the rest of the continent.</p><p>Tunisia is already inside this geography. The question is whether it will remain inside it mainly as a recipient of European security policy, or whether it will begin to act as an African state pursuing its own economic and geopolitical interests. The problem, therefore, is not that Tunisia has forgotten that it is African. The problem is that Tunisia has not yet decided what being African is for — and has allowed external powers to determine when each geography is politically useful.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-23T15:45:01.441Z</published><summary type="text">Tunisia is a Mediterranean market when Brussels wants trade, and an African frontier when Brussels wants border control.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/deported-to-liberia-again</id><title type="text">Deported to Liberia, again</title><updated>2026-10-21T13:03:00.398439Z</updated><author><name>Natalia Cintra </name></author><author><name>Tosin Durodola</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>In 1816, a group of white people in the US created the <a href="https://history.state.gov/milestones/1830-1860/liberia">American Society for Colonizing the Free People of Color of the United States</a> (later simply the American Colonization Society), aimed at resolving the “problem” of a growing population of free black people in the country. Both slave owners, fearing that large numbers of free black people would lead to slave uprisings, and some white abolitionists, who viewed their presence as either a security threat or a barrier to emancipation, joined hands in a plan to quite literally deport free black Americans and freed slaves to a settlement they hoped to create in the African motherland. </p><p>This is the origin story of the African state of Liberia, one where race, racism, and anti-black slavery meet yet another type of forced movement: deportation. And in a continuum with centuries past, the African continent, which had solved a problem of lack of (free) labor for white US elites and landowners, now solved yet another perceived problem for their descendants: a population of free black people they considered undesirable. As Jonathan Ort <a href="https://africasacountry.com/2025/09/colonize-then-deport-now">has shown</a>, today’s deportation system revives that colonial blueprint.</p><p>A little more than 200 years later, an overwhelmingly white US executive power again uses Liberian territory as a deposit for its undesirables, with one difference: the constructed enemy deported from the white nation is another racialized figure, the immigrant. The US has <a href="https://migration.ubc.ca/wp-content/uploads/sites/42/2026/01/CMS-Migration-Insights-Series_January-2026.pdf">historically applied a racialized migratory policy</a>, restricting on racial and class grounds those welcomed into the nation while profiting from the cheap undocumented labor those restrictions produce. Many of these workers are non-white immigrants from Latin America, a pattern shaped by geographical proximity and by a long <a href="https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/19436149.2025.2578046#abstract">US imperial presence in the region</a>. Continuous political and economic interventions have fueled conflicts, generalized violence, and socioeconomic chaos in Latin America while enriching the US, and those fleeing have formed a cheap workforce in the north as temporary laborers, undocumented workers, and asylum seekers. However, <a href="https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/campaigns/2025/12/why-systematic-racism-has-a-lot-to-do-with-migration-and-asylum-systems/">migrants have become the scapegoats</a> for everything that challenges the US’s self-perception of “greatness.” And while the US has long detained and returned Latin Americans, the current government has not only entered <a href="https://english.elpais.com/usa/2025-12-08/the-us-opens-a-new-era-of-interventions-in-latin-america.html">a new era of interventions in the region</a> but also further escalated forced returns.</p><p>Thus far, the second Trump administration (Trump 2.0) has signed largely secretive bilateral agreements for (forced) returns with at least 35 countries, overwhelmingly in the Global South. Migrants, including asylum seekers and people whom US judges have protected from return to their home countries, are the bargaining chips in these unequal agreements. Partner countries end up taking part in one of the cruelest return practices the US has used: removing people with almost no warning and little chance of defense to countries where they have no ties and may face inhuman treatment or torture, as <a href="https://www.africanews.com/2026/09/29/un-experts-say-us-deportations-to-third-countries-cause-cascade-of-rights-abuses/">UN human rights experts warned</a> in September.</p><p>In a chilling roundabout way, Liberia once again becomes a place where unwanted deportees arrive on its shores, with little to no say in the matter, and with no medium-term plan for their protection and well-being, or that of local communities. On August 18, 2026, <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2026/8/18/liberia-to-take-1200-deportees-from-the-us">Liberia’s government announced</a> that it would accept up to 1,200 third-country nationals, one of the largest agreements struck by Trump 2.0. Two days later, about 20 people landed at Roberts International Airport; <a href="https://www.thirdcountrydeportationwatch.org/liberia">14 stayed</a>, from Cameroon, Eritrea, Venezuela, Honduras, Colombia, Brazil, and Guatemala. Most had won US court protection against return to their home countries because they faced persecution or torture there, and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vjJX3YMICk">some only learned their destination mid-flight</a>. None of the Latin Americans interviewed wants to remain in Liberia. Housed in a hotel and fed by the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vjJX3YMICk">International Organization for Migration</a>, free to apply for asylum but unable to work, they have been <a href="https://english.elpais.com/international/2026-09-12/deported-from-the-us-to-liberia-they-had-us-chained-up-the-whole-trip.html">separated from their families</a> and long for a safe place with ties, a shared language, the right to work, and a community. Is Liberia that place? And what does their arrival mean for Liberians?</p><p>The imbalance of power between Liberia and the US is part of the answer. In June 2025, a State Department memo <a href="https://frontpageafricaonline.com/news/liberia-included-on-a-list-of-36-countries-for-potential-us-travel-ban-foreign-minister-nyanti-says-government-is-engaging-the-trump-administration-on-the-matter/">placed Liberia among 36 countries</a> facing a possible US travel ban and suggested accepting deportees as a way out. Washington had already <a href="https://allafrica.com/stories/202502250392.html">cut aid</a>, and the health compact that replaced USAID provides <a href="https://allafrica.com/stories/202603240251.html">US$124 million over five years</a>, roughly 63 percent less than before. Since signing the deal in September 2025, Liberia has received <a href="https://www.thirdcountrydeportationwatch.org/liberia">US$5 million</a> to manage third-country nationals and an extension of Liberians’ US visitor visas from 12 to 36 months.</p><p>Focusing only on US leverage obscures the choices of Liberia’s own government. Officials insist there is <a href="https://prospect.org/2026/08/20/liberia-joins-trumps-third-country-deportation-network/">“no quid pro quo”</a> and describe the arrangement as humanitarian. However, Liberian scholar Robtel Neajai Pailey <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/opinions/2026/9/24/liberia-is-squandering-the-moral-authority-it-claims-at-the-un">argues</a> that the executive bypassed the legislature, which the Constitution requires to ratify such agreements, and kept the terms from the public. This also raises the question of how the benefits and costs are distributed. Easier mobility and closer ties with Washington serve the state and Liberians who travel, while the immediate consequences fall on deportees separated from their families. If arrivals approach 1,200, accommodation, health care, and access to work will become questions for Liberian communities too.</p><p>Liberians have raised concerns about the agreement from the outset, especially its secrecy and the implications for local communities. Many first learned about it through the media. William Sando, president of the University of Liberia Student Union, <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2026/8/22/not-a-small-issue-people-deported-by-us-to-liberia-face-uncertain-future">told Al Jazeera</a> that he first encountered the news on Facebook and questioned where the deportees would live and whether those who remained would be allowed to work. In Monrovia, food vendor Yarssah Jallah <a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/2026/08/20/world/first-us-deportees-arrive-liberia-liberians-want-answers/">described the arrangement</a> as “risky for us,” citing concerns about drug use and the lack of information about those being received. Clara Mallah of the Center for Transparency and Accountability in Liberia <a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/2026/08/20/world/first-us-deportees-arrive-liberia-liberians-want-answers/">questioned</a> why the US could not accommodate the deportees itself, while Senator Samuel Kogar <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2026/8/22/not-a-small-issue-people-deported-by-us-to-liberia-face-uncertain-future">asked</a> whether the agreement had been presented to both Houses of the Legislature, describing it as “not a small issue.” All of this points to a lack of transparency, the bypassing of democratic procedures, the passivity with which Liberians are treated by their government, and how little warning they were given — warning that might have helped ease some common misconceptions and stereotypes about migration and migrants.</p><p>These concerns extend to Liberia’s capacity to accommodate the arrivals. Eddie Jarwolo of the civil society organization NAYMOTE Partners for Democratic Development <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2026/8/22/not-a-small-issue-people-deported-by-us-to-liberia-face-uncertain-future">criticized</a> the lack of a publicly available plan explaining how the government would provide accommodation without further pressuring public services. Similarly, <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2026/8/22/not-a-small-issue-people-deported-by-us-to-liberia-face-uncertain-future">Representative Anthony Williams raised questions about housing, health care, and screening</a>. At the same time, opposition politician Joshua Tom Turner <a href="https://frontpageafricaonline.com/liberia-nlp-standard-bearer-calls-for-reversal-of-decision-in-1200-deportees-deal-says-its-impact-could-be-bad-for-the-country/">warned</a> that the arrival of large numbers of deportees could place additional pressure on employment and heighten social tensions without adequate public consultation and safeguards. These are reasonable concerns in a country already facing <a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/2026/08/20/world/first-us-deportees-arrive-liberia-liberians-want-answers/">unemployment</a> and reductions in US development assistance.</p><p>Although the government maintains that the US and an international partner will cover accommodation, food, and onward travel, questions remain about the duration of that support and the arrangements for those who eventually remain in Liberia. This is a particular concern given that these Latin American migrants may have specific needs due to language, cultural differences, and a lack of social support — a whole ocean of distance separates them from Liberians, which in turn shapes needs that Liberia may not be able to meet. There is also a risk that public frustration over an agreement reached without adequate consultation could be directed toward deportees who had no say in their transfer. For now, both Liberians and those sent to the country are left confronting the consequences of decisions over which they had little influence. In this game between one nation-state and another, Latin American deportees, on the one hand, and Liberians, on the other, stand at the margins of decision-making, in a process that structurally silences them and renders them invisible, while asking them to bear the direct consequences of those decisions.</p><p>Liberians know this uncertainty from their own experience. When refugee status ended for Liberians across West Africa in 2012, many who stayed in countries such as Nigeria were promised residence papers by the Economic Community of West African States that <a href="https://academic.oup.com/rsq/article/42/4/429/7334524">never fully arrived</a>. Liberia itself ended refugee status for the Ivorians it hosted only in <a href="https://www.unhcr.org/africa/news/speeches-and-statements/high-commissioner-thanks-communities-and-government-liberia-hosting">2022</a>, and the UN Refugee Agency, according to <a href="https://www.thirdcountrydeportationwatch.org/liberia">Third Country Deportation Watch</a>, is not currently operating there. An offer of asylum without the institutions to deliver it risks repeating a past pattern of protection promised on paper, with nothing secure to follow.</p><p>The past is close at hand. Under an 1819 law, the US sent Africans rescued from illegal slave ships to Liberia, <a href="https://www.cambridge.org/core/books/abs/liberated-africans-and-the-abolition-of-the-slave-trade-18071896/fugitive-liberated-congoes-recaptive-youth-and-the-rejection-of-liberian-apprenticeships-185861/97C2BCA7ADE06CCAC7601A3A0D8D35D0">whatever their origin</a>, and settlers built on land <a href="https://history.state.gov/milestones/1830-1860/liberia">coercively</a> obtained by a US naval officer from a local ruler, facing armed resistance from autochthonous communities for years. Christina Sharpe calls this living <a href="https://www.dukeupress.edu/in-the-wake">in the wake</a> of slavery. Two centuries on, deportees from Latin America and Liberians asked to receive them live in that wake together, bridging past and present, the Americas and Africa, through the experiences of people whose lives are being shaped by decisions made elsewhere.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-21T13:03:00.398439Z</published><summary type="text">Two centuries after the American Colonization Society shipped free black Americans to Liberia, Washington is sending its unwanted there once more.  </summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/what-nollywood-owes-the-ancestors</id><title type="text">What Nollywood owes the ancestors</title><updated>2026-10-20T19:51:45.25619Z</updated><author><name>Babatunde Opeyemi Salami</name></author><category label="Culture" term="Culture"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>In June 2025, in Lagos, I sat down with custodians of Yoruba masquerading traditions, and I asked each of them a version of the same question: “What do you think about masquerades appearing in Nigerian films?” Each time, the answer was a flat no.</p><p>I grew up in Lagos and have spent years studying Yoruba masquerading traditions, particularly <cite>Eyo</cite> and <cite>Igunnuko</cite>. With support from the Ebrahim Hussein Fellowship and the Aliko Songolo Award, I conducted formal interviews at the Bajulaye and Alagbeji palaces and at the Igunnuko shrines in Epetedo and Alaguntan to understand where this resistance comes from. More importantly, I sought to know what it means for Nollywood to keep returning to these figures despite the pushback.</p><p>Foundational cultural theorists of the 1930s and 1940s grappled with a similar question of what happens when a sacred or ritual object is copied, restaged, or transferred into a new medium. In 1944, Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer believed that mechanical reproduction drains ritual objects of their meaning, while Walter Benjamin had argued the opposite about a decade earlier. For Benjamin, reproduction could free art from ritual’s grip rather than hollow it out. The reality of this tension is a concept that my fieldwork explores.</p><p>To understand the resistance to masquerade remediation in film, you first have to understand what a masquerade is to its custodians. In Yoruba tradition, the <em>egungun</em> is not a costume design. It’s what a family member becomes after death, made visible. <cite>Ile</cite>, the family compound and infrastructure of domestic life, is what produces a person worth remembering. A properly raised person becomes, after death and burial within that same compound, an ancestor (<em>alaale</em> or <em>babanla</em>). The cloth used to bury them, <em>ago</em> or <em>eku</em>, is equal to the same cloth a masquerade wears.</p><p>Therefore, a masquerader is not an actor playing an ancestor; the masquerade is treated as an ancestral presence, returned. These masquerades are called <em>ara orun</em> (heaven dwellers), and their presence has two faces: the ancestral side is what is made public, danced and seen at a festival, while <em>orisa</em> is the sacred essence beneath it, hidden and guarded. None of this starts on the day a masquerade appears. It starts with the <em>ile</em>, a life, a death, a burial, a cloth. Once you skip that, what is left on a screen is the shape of a masquerade without the systems that make one real.</p><p>Interestingly, motion has always been the story of Yoruba masquerades. Scholars trace the tradition from the Nupe to the Oyo, who developed traditions like Ololu, still performed in Ibadan today. From Oyo it moved south, reshaped by Ijebu, home to the <cite>Agemo</cite> and <cite>Eyo</cite> masquerades. Historical accounts credit two Ijebu brothers, Malaki and Ejilu, with carrying Eyo onward to Eko, old Lagos, where it grew into the festival celebrated today. Therefore, studying masquerade in Lagos already means studying something remediated many times over, long before a camera entered the picture.</p><p>Following this trajectory, screen media is the newer remediation, and it works differently. Abba Makama’s <cite><a href="https://africasacountry.com/2020/10/identity-and-displacement-in-makamas-the-lost-okoroshi">The Lost Okoroshi</a></cite> (2019) turned a security guard into a purple ancestral spirit, putting a masquerade at the center of a very modern Lagos story. <cite><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jagun_Jagun">Jagun Jagun</a></cite> (2023), the Netflix epic produced by and starring <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Femi_Adebayo">Femi Adebayo</a>, leaned hard on Yoruba spiritual and masquerade imagery and became one of the biggest Yoruba-language releases in years. <cite><a href="https://guardian.ng/news/gangs-of-lagos-producers-to-apologise-over-portrayal-of-eyo-masquerade/">Gangs of Lagos</a></cite> is another Nigerian film that significantly employs the image of a masquerade tradition. Masquerades also appear constantly in music videos, almost always as background texture, with no voice of their own.</p><p>The rare film attempts have drawn public criticism and lawsuits from masquerade societies and state authorities, as in the case of <cite>Gangs of Lagos</cite>. However, nothing comparable has happened to a music video. The traditional masquerade falls under the supervision of a secret cult called <em>awo</em>, which sets the pace and protects <em>orisa</em>, the sacred core of the tradition. A film crew doesn’t move at that pace, and it certainly doesn’t answer to that authority.</p><p>Furthermore, the filmmakers see it differently. In my interviews with them, both Adebayo and Makama were clear that they aren’t trying to reproduce a masquerade as it exists. They’re making something new, despite drawing on existing traditions. Makama has said plainly that he wants Nigerians, especially younger ones, to reconnect with traditions that colonial-era religion spent decades demonizing. However, that doesn’t necessarily mean consent from the people who consider these figures sacred.</p><p>Film isn’t the only place where masquerades reappear. I spent time at the <a href="https://www.jrandlecentre.com/">John Randle Centre for Yoruba Culture and History</a>, the National Museums in Onikan and Ibadan, and the <a href="https://nikeartfoundation.com/">Nike Art Gallery</a>, all of which hold masquerade pieces. These vitrine spaces offer another kind of remediation, arguably a stranger one than film. It removes a masquerade from <em>ile</em> entirely and places it in a non-performative state. There is no dance, no voice, no direct exchange with the living, which is the entire point of a masquerade at a festival. No lawsuits follow a museum acquisition in Lagos. If the objection to film is about skipping the machinery that makes a masquerade real, a glass case skips all of it. In fact, it rarely draws any objection. This evidences the tension I raised earlier.</p><p>As I wrapped up the interviews, I realized it might be useful to revisit the classical debate among Frankfurt School scholars. I think Adorno and Horkheimer would read the custodians’ “no” as evidence that mechanical reproduction erodes what makes a masquerade real. Benjamin would push back, insisting that sacrificing authenticity at the altar of accessibility is fine. My take on this is simple. If masquerading traditions have never stood still, then the question is not whether they should be remediated. Perhaps the more important question is how screen remediation can demonstrate genuine care and respect for tradition while remaining committed to social function.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-20T19:51:45.25619Z</published><summary type="text">Masquerade custodians in Lagos keep saying no to Nollywood. Nollywood keeps returning to masquerades anyway.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/the-radical-openness-of-the-popular-economy</id><title type="text">The radical openness of the popular economy</title><updated>2026-10-19T16:46:44.488529Z</updated><author><name>Samuel Giraut</name></author><author><name>Semhar Haile </name></author><author><name>Mwangi Mwaura </name></author><author><name>David Njenga</name></author><author><name>Elvira Pietrobon </name></author><author><name>Pierre Wenzel</name></author><author><name>AbdouMaliq Simone </name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>Urban Africa is constantly finding ways to thicken urban life with new resourcefulness: from makeshift maker labs to the vast associations of traders with their own home-grown, expansive financial systems — where remittances circulate alongside locally generated credit and savings — to self-generated webs of electricity and water provisioning under the radar, to neighborhood investments in shared containers of imported goods, to local circuits of production and distribution of foodstuffs, intermingled with diverse labor arrangements across regions and borders. These are what we call popular economies.</p><p>Residents inhabit environments replete with different land statuses, regulatory frameworks, histories of economic specialization, repositories of cultural memory, behavioral styles, and social arrangements. Urban popular economies entail how these various components of an archive are pieced together and interrelated to produce specific mobilities and access to resources and opportunities. It is a move toward an expanded diversification of how accumulation, social reproduction, and livelihood get built. African cities are renowned for their informal sectors, self-built neighborhoods, as well as histories of piracy, brigandage, circumvention, smuggling, and subversion. The popular economy intersects with these elements in a continuous unfolding and elaboration of more overarching efforts to create distinctive processes of urbanization within and outside the hegemonic structures of capital accumulation and political domination.</p><p>In April 2026, researchers and activists from various African cities gathered in Nairobi to reflect on the popular economy. They explored questions related to orientations, practices, political engagements, and spatial arrangements that might offer ways to inhabit contemporary urban conditions differently. If the future, as a horizon of multiple disjunctions and possibilities, is captured by the reign of probabilities and adversarial networks, then what is the terrain of the improbable? Given the multiple temporalities that characterize territorial operations underpinning popular economies, can we think of a way of life not indebted to calculation, redemption, or culmination?</p><p>Popular economies and their various forms of organization seek different ways of inhabiting the present and thus recuperating the insurgencies of both pasts and futures. Euro-American notions of the human have long emphasized a progressive, developmentalist trajectory of improvement and enhanced capacity: a life moving toward a straight timeline, toward the fulfillment of unbounded human potential. This has intensified global turbulence, unsettled ways of living among the majority, and withheld the time needed for society to be a living force in itself — generating vulnerabilities and fragmentation on a planetary scale.</p><p>As Timothy Mitchell argues in his book <cite><a href="https://www.versobooks.com/en-ca/products/3452-the-alibi-of-capital">The Alibi of Capital: How We Broke the Earth to Steal the Future on the Promise of a Better Tomorrow</a></cite>, this temporal movement acts to constitute a future from which a wide range of payments can be extracted; a future already encumbered by debts continuously owed to those who acquired, at a discount, the rights to those payments. This is a violence done to time itself, one that limits future dispositions to a mere surplus of the present. The future is foreclosed, not primarily through the threat of extinction, but rather through an investment in what can be extracted from that future and monetized now.</p><p>This same logic operates at the level of knowledge. Dominant knowledge functions as information: in <a href="https://www.editionsladecouverte.fr/la_communaute_terrestre-9782348072383">Achille Mbembe’s</a> terms, a juxtaposition of words stripped of ambiguity, which reduces the capacities of all localities when circulated and imposed. Pattern recognition becomes geared toward preemption; time is reoriented to the number of steps a program needs to reach completion, and space to the memory required to scale a specific function to execute a program — all of this coupled with increasingly enormous expenditures of energy, as <a href="https://www.bloomsbury.com/us/technol%C3%B3gos-in-being-9781501362279/">Wolfgang Ernst</a> and <a href="https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/1369118X.2024.2413118">Rob Kitchin</a> have shown. Localized knowledge has been generalized to the scale of what <a href="https://www.openhumanitiespress.org/books/titles/bifurcate/">Bernard Stiegler</a> called a biospheric locality, an upscaling made possible by reducing knowledge to data amenable to computation and by eliminating whatever resists that reduction. Localities become points along the same line, subject to measures of comparability and proportion — the more or less — with the subsequent fight to become more than what is lesser. Understanding one’s place in the world increasingly means referring to that with which one is apparently not.</p><p>Under such urban conditions, the “popular” takes place as a fundamental displacement, a shifting of what is vital, valued, and necessary into something besides these attributions. It entails a mode of conveyance, a leap that extends the efforts of survival into uncharted terrain and relations that are pursued opportunistically. It involves people using the terrain, institutions, networks, and other resources available to them as a means of piecing together a territory of operations that takes the stuff of the city — its materials, events, bodies, and spaces — and associating them, moving through them in unconventional and improbable ways.</p><p>When one navigates diverse urban spaces, it is evident how people spend time in seemingly useless activities and groupings. They may have their stores, jobs, houses, and responsibilities, but spend time in conversations and exchanges that seemingly produce nothing. But it is within these thousands of micro-exceptionalities to productive behavior that capacities for a cross-fertilization of knowledge and transactions off the map are forged; capacities that, in many cases, are translated into enhanced provisioning of various urban services and logistical actions. This creates new spaces that move beyond social and material boundaries. Itineraries take precedence over location, redefining entangled geographies around restive temporal lines and generating forms of <a href="https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/full/10.1177/0042098020905442">extension</a> through which residents stretch their life-worlds across circuits legible only in fragments.</p><p>What takes shape in these territories of operation will often remain opaque, indeterminate, but generative of tensions that provisionally resolve themselves through unanticipated breakthroughs and messy negotiations. What ensues is an always-new logistics of urban living, a way of decoupling the future from capitalist logics of foreseeability and from knowledge reduced merely to authoritative or actuarial information. These operations may or may not endure, may or may not produce something substantial, but they provide important knowledge and confidence for subsequent efforts. It is this mutuality, never depending on any one person alone, that gives the city its “popular way,” where everybody counts for something, and no one is left to carry that weight through individual agency alone.</p><p>The continuous mutating experiments of popular economies always take place within new forms that extract the energies, times, and hopes of the urban majority. Ways of life and survival practices become market frontiers through means that move across legality and plunder, law and crime, deals and the use of force, as research on informal real estate in <a href="https://www.semanticscholar.org/paper/Informal-Real-Estate-in-S%C3%A3o-Paulo%E2%80%99s-peripheries%3A-a-Guerreiro/91ce8d461c0db90cc559af4c44e2749bf1c6ceb3">São Paulo’s peripheries</a> has shown. In part, this is precipitated by the attainments of popular economies themselves in terms of significant increases in the accumulation and diversification of wealth. These attainments might not mitigate precarity at all and instead open the way to new forms of capture: predatory real estate markets and forms of entrepreneurialism that fracture webs of social intimacy. Belonging or exclusion are violently imposed through discriminatory legal and political frameworks that sort “insiders” from “outsiders” within popular territories. These practices of delineation fall hardest where urban popular economies operate, where goods, money, and people move interdependently.</p><p>In addition, generalized militarization across urban territories is not only an intensification of domination, but also continuously transforms what people desire and how, targeting the capacity for innovation and adaptation that makes popular economies vital. Contemporary modalities of territorial control and articulation take on diverse forms of rentier extraction and management of circulation. They increasingly rely on nebulous borders among legal and illegal, public and private, formal and informal spheres. They function more as markers to navigate divergent flows of authority and resources, where the assemblage of efficacy requires not consolidation but excess, the capacity to go beyond what is inscribed as normative protocols, standards, and operating procedures. As urban governmentality becomes the “curation” of multiple knowledge resources, technological innovations, military logics, and continuously refigured alliances among different financial and political resources, do popular economies still manage to simultaneously circumvent, appropriate, and transform these logics?</p><p>Popular economies are centered on a necessary shared practice, rather than adherence to a specific, consensually agreed-upon protocol. Sharing means not the conjoined implementation of a specific task with a clear meaning, but a sense of the task derived in the performance of doing together or just being on the same beat of time. Within the processes of self-built urban neighborhoods or extensions, the mobilization of labor, the acquisition of materials, the designation of a plot, the articulation to sources of needed inputs, the modalities and rights of access, the curation of what is to be visible and sayable, the explicit and tacit responsibilities of each to each other, the deflections of interference or scrutiny — none of these were separate tasks available for a division of labor, but were worked out in terms of each other, generating an archive of localized meaning continuously updated as the implementation of these different “tasks” generated both anticipated and unanticipated implications. This is where the radical openness of the popular economy lies: things and people unpredictably brought together around a shared meal, on the market, in the street.</p><p>And yet this continuous sharing is under threat of fracturing. Popular economies have always been heterogeneous; at times, these heterogeneities operate as fractures. Take the various forms of self-valorization ranging from the demonizing of one’s peers to the indifference toward any form of collective progression. Take the lures of inhabitants into various security apparatuses, and, at the same time, the intensification of counterattacks, where conflict and violence become the very modality of popular endurance, while wars, genocides, extreme forms of violence, and sieges stretch the lifelines of many people. It is important, then, to think and work through these contrasting, often contradictory forms of self-valorization, especially as the fault lines become increasingly racialized.</p><p>This is the task we set ourselves at the end of our week in Nairobi: not to resolve these fractures, but to hold them alongside the radical openness from which they emerge, to expand our understanding of popular living and its territories, and of their unraveling into ever-changing constellations.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-19T16:46:44.488529Z</published><summary type="text">From traders’ credit circles to self-built water networks, Africa’s urban majority keeps finding ways to thicken city life. Can these popular economies still decouple the future from capital’s calculations, even as they open new frontiers for capture?</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/is-khawa-khawa-a-north-african-myth</id><title type="text">Is "khawa khawa" a North African myth?</title><updated>2026-10-16T16:08:50.392757Z</updated><author><name>Yasmine Benabderrahmane</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>In the haze of <em>el ghorba</em> — the strangeness and alienation of living abroad — I gravitate toward the Maghrebi diaspora. For a moment, we relax our tongues from the unnatural twists of Arabic dialects foreign to us and speak in the Maghrebi <em>darija</em>s. Desperate to latch onto whatever whispers of home exist elsewhere, we claim that we are <em>khawa khawa</em>.</p><p>Among the Algerians, Moroccans, and Tunisians, <em>khawa khawa</em> is an official nod to an unofficial alliance, loosely translating to <em>brotherhood</em>. It is an ode to our shared cultures and history in the face of North African identity discourses.</p><p>But what began as a salve for colonialism was lost in the monotonous chants for brotherhood.</p><p>Before the 19th century, North African states were “undefined” to European cartographers and authorities alike. Hence, like the concept of the Middle East and the Sahel, the Maghreb was prone to imperial invention. Unsurprisingly, this coincided with the Scramble for Africa — when the insatiable greed of European colonial powers took interest in dividing the African continent among themselves.</p><p>Encompassing other colonial legacies, the borders born out of the Scramble engineered the ethnic rivalries that persist in Africa today. Through the newly devised borders and the infamous “divide and conquer” regimes, the Maghreb was branded as distinct.</p><p>Despite the existing racial diversity of the region, the French colonial regimes rebranded the Maghreb as a biracial society: Amazigh or Arab. While the Amazigh identity was mislabeled in proximity to the whiteness of Europe, the Arab identity became an accusation of settler colonialism. North Africa became a geographic body for the Francophonie world, distanced from its neighboring regions’ cultures, politics, and society.</p><p>In 1962, Algeria — the last of France’s Maghrebi colonies — declared independence. In the years that followed, the Maghrebi people looked inwards and toward rebuilding the identity of North Africa. Thus, <em>khawa khawa</em> was born and reinforced by the diaspora that fled their homes in the wake of political instability. It became a card dealt in moments of desperation to bond to something, or someone, that vaguely resembled home.</p><p><cite>Khawa khawa</cite>, and the brotherhood that blossomed with it, became the means to redress an identity obscured by European colonialism.</p><p>True <em>khawa khawa</em> culture demands communal harmony void of ego. But when politics becomes inevitably entangled in the national identity of communities, the culture of Maghrebi brotherhood falls flat.</p><p>Shortly after 1962, newly independent Algeria and Morocco fell into border disputes. The following decades spiraled into attempted land grabs, fits of cultural monopolies, and accusations of expansionist ambitions. In response, the people cried out <em>khawa khawa; our governments do not define our brotherhood</em>!</p><p>But too often, the politics override the social bonds of Algerians and Moroccans (and occasionally, Tunisians). With the rise of the internet, discourse shifted, and social media became a useful mirror for the abstractions of the Maghrebi identity.</p><p>Most recently, the <em>khawa khawa</em> culture was dramatically pronounced dead on social media platforms, following the 2025 African Cup of Nations (AFCON). Almost overnight, the football tournament became a litmus test for Algerian-Moroccan relations and spiraled into a warped perception of North African relations. A futile online back-and-forth that began as shared banter turned into personal attacks and political scrutiny.</p><p>The post-AFCON <em>guerre</em> between Algerians and Moroccans — which coincided with the recent <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/10/31/un-security-council-supports-moroccos-plan-for-western-sahara">UN support</a> for Moroccan plans over the Western Sahara, disapproved by the Algerian government — is a recurring phenomenon of how Maghrebi culture wages war parallel to the political tensions of its respective countries. Despite the adamant denial, online Maghrebi communities fall into the habit of using our governments to verify the authenticity of <em>khawa khawa</em>.</p><p>The problem rests in the fact that both communities — Algerian and Moroccan — fall into the habit of claiming the minority of hateful comments as the consensus among the entirety of both nations. We see assertions made that we cannot prove, except that they are too insulting and their wounds far too inflicting to recover from. It has become a pattern of malice between both nations that resurfaces regardless of how loudly <em>khawa khawa</em> is chanted.</p><p>Perhaps the fault is also in the fragility of how we materialize our cultural bonds. We claim that <em>khawa khawa</em> is an Islamic brotherhood, yet some grow secular. In the absence of religious backing, <em>khawa khawa</em> becomes a proverb of the old world. Then, we claim that <em>khawa khawa</em> is a call for pan-Arabism, yet some grow weary of Arabization. In the face of the Amazigh renaissance, <em>khawa khawa</em> becomes a proverb of the imperial world.</p><p>Perhaps, much like the colonists, we, too, have confined the Maghrebi identity to arbitrary borders of existence, repackaged in the <em>khawa khawa</em> culture, while we feed into the delusions of European-drawn borders. And so, <em>khawa khawa</em> becomes a hollow reminder of colonial fractures.</p><p>While we cannot divorce our identities from politics, the Maghrebi community must forgo the egos that are founded in political symbolism. We should understand that an enforceable unity can exist if we acknowledge that each community upholds legitimate, separate interests.</p><p>As long as we treat <em>khawa khawa</em> as nothing more than a symbolic slogan that dissipates under the legacy of French colonialism and the futility of online disputes, Maghrebi relations will live on as a North African myth of brotherhood.</p><p><cite>Khawa khawa</cite> is a brotherhood that encompasses the lived and nuanced identities of the Maghreb; let us not reduce it to mere grounds of conflict for North African communities.</p><p>Alas, in <em>el ghorba</em>, it is always among the Maghrebi diaspora that I find remnants of my home.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-16T16:08:50.392757Z</published><summary type="text">Political rivalries increasingly overshadow the bonds between Algerians, Moroccans, and Tunisians, as social media amplifies the contradictions of Maghrebi identity.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/reading-list-anooradha-iyer-siddiqi</id><title type="text">Reading List: Anooradha Iyer Siddiqi</title><updated>2026-10-15T16:48:55.487087Z</updated><author><name>Anooradha Iyer Siddiqi</name></author><category label="Culture" term="Culture"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>We are taught to think of a refugee camp as an object produced in an instant, only in response to an emergency — one brought on, perhaps, by those seeking refuge. We are taught that refugee environments are provisional and abject, moreover, to be naturalized as such within the African landscape — <em>as</em> the African landscape. We are taught to misread migrant spaces as lacking history or architectural expression. To counter these misdirections, <cite><a href="https://www.dukeupress.edu/architecture-of-migration">Architecture of Migration: The Dadaab Refugee Camps and Humanitarian Settlement</a></cite> looks closely at the complex settlements, ecologies, domesticities, archives, and material aesthetics. In Ifo, Dagahaley, and Hagadera camps, established in 1991 by the Kenyan government and the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees at Dadaab, Kenya, in lands shared with Somalia and Ethiopia, the book finds African, Muslim, and Afro-Asian aesthetic worlds and a historical repository of partition, sedentarization, and migration. Dadaab forms a material afterlife of events long unfolding, through colonial and postcolonial time and space, and in multiple registers, aesthetic as well as social.</p><p>My book is grounded in 14 years of feminist and critical collective practice and research (see <cite><a href="https://www.upress.umn.edu/announcing-a-new-series-cohabitations/">Cohabitations</a></cite>, <cite><a href="https://thegodown.org/dadaab-commons/">Dadaab Commons</a></cite>, <cite><a href="https://we-aggregate.org/project/on-collaborations-feminist-architectural-histories-of-migration">Feminist Architectural Histories of Migration</a></cite>, <cite><a href="https://www.socialdifference.columbia.edu/projects-/insurgent-domesticities">Insurgent Domesticities</a></cite>, and <cite><a href="https://sofheyman.org/events/settlement-symposium">Settlement</a></cite>). While researching in dozens of archives and libraries in Africa, Asia, and Europe, and interviewing hundreds of women practicing architecture and art, representing governments, cultural institutions, and nongovernmental agencies, or living life in refugee camps, I read many books! If the anticolonial thought in Frantz Fanon’s <cite>Black Skin, White Masks</cite> and Walter Rodney’s <cite>How Europe Underdeveloped Africa</cite> anchored my work, its everyday tugs and buoying came from feminists.</p><figure><img alt="Isnina Ali Rage, wearing a red headscarf over a black headband and a blue scarf, sits on a sofa covered in red patterned fabric. She is mid-conversation, one hand stretched out with the palm open." height="900" loading="lazy" src="https://media.africasacountry.com/images/2026/10/667401661497-medium.png" width="671"/><figcaption>Ifo camp Chairlady Isnina Ali Rage. Photo by author, 2011.</figcaption></figure><p>My study of the handcrafted acacia camp environments and interviews with many of their builders — including Ifo Chairlady Isnina Ali Rage and shopowner Shamso Abdullahi Farah, and Dagahaley farmer Maganai Saddiq Hassan — gave shape to a consciousness rooted in the social and ecological worldmaking of African, Muslim, and Global South feminists. Let me begin with three. Sylvia Tamale not only insists on decolonizing master narratives that suppress multiplicity in <cite><a href="https://darajapress.com/publication/decolonziation_and_afro-feminism/">Decolonization and Afro-Feminism</a></cite>, but through her years of activism in Uganda and beyond, plants the working and thinking of African feminists on the ground, in the natural environment. This perspective is hardly limited to African feminists, as Radha D’Souza demonstrates in the <a href="https://framerframed.nl/en/court-for-intergenerational-climate-crimes/">Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes</a> — based on her book <cite><a href="https://www.plutobooks.com/product/whats-wrong-with-rights/">What’s Wrong with Rights?: Social Movements, Law and Liberal Imaginations</a></cite> — which foregrounds the workhorse labor and the place of the indigo plant (Comrade Indigo) within majority-world feminist intellectual commitment; she dispenses with reductive “West versus Rest” critiques through the perspectives of European underground and Third World intellectuals in the co-edited <cite><a href="https://www.bloomsbury.com/us/decolonizing-knowledge-9798765125458/">Decolonizing Knowledge: Looking Back, Moving Forward</a></cite> (<a href="https://www.bloomsburycollections.com/monograph?docid=b-9798765125496">open access</a>). Further articulating the vitality of social difference to inform constructions of knowledge, Saba Mahmood argues that those constructions must assert against universalizing epistemes, secular as well as religious, in her foundational work on Cairo’s women, <cite><a href="https://press.princeton.edu/books/paperback/9780691149806/politics-of-piety">Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject</a></cite>.</p><figure><img alt="A store with a corrugated metal front, a peaked roof, and a wooden awning over a small table, set in a fence of woven acacia branches. Long, low corrugated-roof shelters stretch behind it on either side, above bare red earth" height="675" loading="lazy" src="https://media.africasacountry.com/images/2026/10/036326434651-medium.jpg" width="900"/><figcaption>Store and shelters designed and built by Shamso Abdullahi Farah, Ifo camp. Photo by author, 2011.</figcaption></figure><p>From there, global Black feminisms were my north star. Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor’s <cite><a href="https://granta.com/products/dust/">Dust</a></cite> dwelt within the landscapes of Kenya’s Northeast, the erstwhile colonial “frontier” constituted of migratory lifeways and marabou storks; her habitations haunt my book’s histories of land, emergency territory, and sedentarized pastoralists. <cite><a href="https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374531157/loseyourmother/">Lose Your Mother: A Journey Along the Atlantic Slave Route</a></cite>, Saidiya Hartman’s attempt to fill in the blank slate of the historical record and her own life, helped me think with the stories of enslaved children freed from Indian Ocean <em>dhows</em>, raised near Bombay, and resettled near Mombasa: the negotiation between rescuer and rescued in the East African abolitionist settlement of Freretown that forms Dadaab’s prehistory. My book stands on the shoulders of Mabel O. Wilson’s work on: (1) spatial agency, as rooted in the bodies of builders and the physical labor of construction, in an essay on the “provisional demos” of the African American protest camp in <cite><a href="https://www.routledge.com/Design-Displacement-Migration-Spatial-and-Material-Histories/Lichtman-Traganou/p/book/9781032046952">Design, Displacement, Migration: Spatial and Material Histories</a></cite>, and (2) the inseparability of racial thought from modern subjecthood and the architectural discipline, which grew together out of Enlightenment reason and abstraction, in <cite><a href="https://www.ucpress.edu/flyer/books/negro-building/paper">Negro Building: Black Americans in the World of Fairs and Museums</a></cite> and the co-edited <cite><a href="https://upittpress.org/books/9780822966593/">Race and Modern Architecture: A Critical History from the Enlightenment to the Present</a></cite>.</p><figure><img alt="A black-and-white archival photograph, mounted in an album and labeled “Frere Town,” looking down through palm trees onto a calm bay. A boat with several people in it crosses the water toward a curved beach backed by dense trees and a few buildings." height="666" loading="lazy" src="https://media.africasacountry.com/images/2026/10/745589592519-medium.jpg" width="900"/><figcaption>“Frere Town,” courtesy of National Museums of Kenya, Nairobi. Sibbie (née Bazett) Burns Photograph Album, Album II, c. 1892–late 1890s.</figcaption></figure><p>My book argues that the humanitarian environment, intended as temporary, paradoxically affects settlement. Architectural historians develop a feminist provincialization of their field in grappling with migration’s immanence to settlement. In <cite><a href="https://arthistory.northwestern.edu/people/faculty/hollyamber-kennedy.html">Fallow Fields: The Remnant Landscapes and Residual Architectures of Imperial Germany’s Settler Frontier</a></cite>, Hollyamber Kennedy articulates the displacement and unsettlement of people in German South West Africa (Namibia) and Eastern Prussia (Poland) together, within the nineteenth-century development of state policy to sedentarize and fix populations, eradicating migratory ways of life. <cite><a href="https://birkhauser.com/en/book/9783035613773">Open Architecture: Migration, Citizenship, and the Urban Renewal of Berlin-Kreuzberg by IBA-1984/87</a></cite>, Esra Akcan’s study of the International Building Exhibition (a historical landmark of both architectural modernism and social housing), is a story of migrant inhabitation. In <cite><a href="https://press.uchicago.edu/ucp/books/book/chicago/R/bo17090075.html">The Remittance Landscape: Spaces of Migration in Rural Mexico and Urban USA</a></cite>, Sarah Lynn Lopez tracks economic flows in built environments on either side of a fraught border.</p><p>My book argues that longstanding refugee settlements — aid environments long utilized to slowly confine migrants and police the border — are not de facto architectures to be understood teleologically, as if brought by people upon themselves, but instead predicated upon foundational partitions. This thinking draws on Vazira Fazila-Yacoobali Zamindar’s positioning of partition not as an event but as a concept, in <cite><a href="https://cup.columbia.edu/book/the-long-partition-and-the-making-of-modern-south-asia/9780231138468/">The Long Partition and the Making of Modern South Asia: Refugees, Boundaries, Histories</a></cite>. In it, the violence of a partition is not a vague consequence of border conflict, but the direct result of bureaucratic shaping, as states attempted to resolve political uncertainty — debunking the myth that India and Pakistan somehow emerged fully formed as partitioned states, but rather, partitioned through a process of urban shaping. This is so with Palestine, Ireland, and Somalia itself. Safia Aidid’s <cite><a href="https://www.artsci.utoronto.ca/about/glance/new-faculty/2022-23/safia-aidid">Pan-Somali Dreams: Ethiopia, Greater Somalia, and the Somali Nationalist Imagination</a></cite> shows a political imaginary of possible futures based on territorial unification, conceived in reaction to a colonial present; Greater Somalia was not merely a nationalist movement but, following Raymond Williams, “a structure of feeling.” My book argues in favor of such feeling, which overcomes the partitioning principle, toward a straddling collectivity.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-15T16:48:55.487087Z</published><summary type="text">What if migrant environments, so often cast as scenes of abjection, border transgression, criminality, and placelessness, are instead repositories of knowledge, craft, and refined domesticity?</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/death-as-liberation</id><title type="text">Death as liberation</title><updated>2026-10-14T15:38:23.332852Z</updated><author><name>Eliel Peterson</name></author><category label="Culture" term="Culture"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>Death as liberation is hardly a comfortable political proposition to digest. In a world where Black death is often the common condition, there is a well-established insistence on our living. So what do we make of two of Africa’s greatest filmmakers, Ousmane Sembène and Souleymane Cissé, whose earliest cinematic visions, expressed through their respective debut features <cite>Black Girl</cite> (1966) and <cite>Den Muso</cite> (1975), center on the suffering, alienation, and eventual deaths of Black women?</p><p>Sembène’s <cite>Black Girl</cite> is preoccupied with racial violence and the economic exploitation that continues to structure relations between Senegal and France. The film follows Diouana, a young Senegalese woman who accepts employment with a white French family and travels to Antibes believing she is embarking on a new life. While Cissé’s <cite>Den Muso</cite>, turns inward, examining interpersonal violence and the ways patriarchal power consumes family life and communities, weakening the broader social fabric of a nation. The film follows Tenin, a mute young woman who becomes pregnant after being raped, exposing the brutal underbelly of the patriarchal violence imposed upon her. Despite the differences in their circumstances, both films position death as a troubling possibility of liberation for their central characters.</p><figure><img alt="Close-up still from Den Muso showing Tenin looking downward with a subdued expression, her head resting against one hand and a thin braid falling across her forehead." height="368" loading="lazy" src="https://media.africasacountry.com/images/2026/10/002248512921.jpeg" width="543"/><figcaption>Tenin (Dounamba Dany Coulibaly) in a still from Souleymane Cissé’s <cite>Den Muso</cite> (1975).</figcaption></figure><p>The history of Black resistance has not solely been confined to the preservation of life. From enslaved Africans who leapt from ships during the Middle Passage, to those who faced death in the fight against their oppression, <em>It is true</em> that to rather die than to endure is not a popular or digestible form of liberation. Although these acts are not equivalent, nor do they carry the same weight as the deaths of these fictional characters, Sembène and Cissé, raise an uncomfortable question: what does life mean for a person stripped of agency, recognition, and self-determination?</p><p>For Diouana and Tenin, freedom remains out of reach because of the structures governing their everyday lives that continually deny these women full humanity: Tenin’s father and her rapist, Diouana’s white employers. This sustained stripping of humanity produces what I would argue is already a death, albeit a social one, that precedes their physical endings. Sembène and Cissé challenge audiences by asking what is living for the dehumanized. Diouana travels to France only to find her livelihood replaced by isolation and unpaid, alienated labor, while Tenin’s body becomes a site upon which familial and communal shame, punishment, and control are dumped. Death, therefore, is at the core of both films from the outset, existing not only as a shocking culminating event, but as a condition of violence. By the end of each film, Sembène and Cissé are not arguing over whether death is a worthy or noble choice for self-liberation; rather, they position the act of self-annihilation as the only remaining form of control available to their characters, and as an indictment of a society in which death is the only option. </p><p>It is understandable to recoil at the self-inflicted violence that ultimately claims both Diouana and Tenin. One might ask why their rage is not directed solely towards those who harmed them. Why does Tenin’s retaliation extend beyond her rapist? Why doesn’t Diouana exact revenge on her employers and flee France? These questions linger because death feels like an unsatisfying conclusion, one that denies us, as audiences, the catharsis of resistance. We want these women to fight back and survive. We want their suffering to lead somewhere other than death. Yet perhaps the more daunting question is not why these women die, but whether we find their deaths more difficult to accept than the suffering that precedes them. What is ultimately more uncomfortable to confront: their deaths, or the conditions that made life itself unbearable?</p><p>Neither film offers an uncomplicated answer. To read Diouana’s and Tenin’s deaths as acts of liberation is not to suggest that their deaths resolve the violence they endure, or that self-annihilation is freedom in any complete sense. Their deaths do not dismantle the structures that dehumanized them. What death offers these women, perhaps then, is not freedom but a final assertion of agency within those systems. This is what makes their endings so devastating: the possibility of control emerges only when the possibility of living on their own terms has been all but extinguished.</p><p>Decades later, <cite>Black Girl</cite> and <cite>Den Muso</cite> remain essential viewing, not only for their place in the landscape of African cinema, but for their boldness in confronting the most uncomfortable, divisive, and difficult questions surrounding post-independent life. Both films position death as a troubling yet legible response to systems that make life itself untenable, refusing a comforting resolution. Sembène and Cissé began their careers with audacious visions and hard questions, a truth that held throughout their working lives.</p><p>Long live the giants of African cinema, and may their audacious clarity continue to shape how we see, think, and imagine our world.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-14T15:38:23.332852Z</published><summary type="text">Ousmane Sembène’s and Souleymane Cissé’s debut features end with women who choose death. What is more uncomfortable to confront: their deaths, or the conditions that made life itself unbearable?</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/forward-but-for-whom</id><title type="text">Forward, but for whom?</title><updated>2026-10-13T14:43:58.437281Z</updated><author><name>Afolabi Adekaiyaoja</name></author><category label="Culture" term="Culture"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>I have spent this week reflecting on African football. Qualifiers for the next Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON) have begun, the identity of the reigning champions still awaits a ruling from the Court of Arbitration for Sport, and Nigeria begins its campaign without a federation board, after its president and executive committee <a href="https://africa.espn.com/espn/story/_/id/49750811/entire-nigeria-fa-board-resigns-world-cup-x2-wafcon-flops">resigned in August</a> — a rare case of Nigerian football administrators paying a price for failure, though, as I will argue, not quite the accountability it first appears. None of it can be separated from the politics and money that will shape next year’s FIFA presidential election.</p><p>Weeks after the 2026 World Cup in North America, FIFA unveiled a plan to sell a stake in the tournament’s commercial rights to private investors. The proposal would have seen a new entity, FIFA Forward Enterprise (FFE), take over FIFA’s broadcast, sponsorship, ticketing, and licensing operations. FIFA would keep control and sell minority stakes to outside investors, raising up to $4.2 billion against a $20 billion valuation. The lead investor was reportedly <a href="https://www.insideworldfootball.com/2026/08/14/infantino-only-told-mas-he-had-cancelled-ffe-once-thrive-had-pulled-out-of-the-deal/">Thrive</a>, a firm founded by Joshua Kushner, whose brother Jared is US President Donald Trump’s son-in-law. To win the member associations’ approval, FIFA promised to raise each one’s development allocation for 2027–2030 from about $8 million to $20 million, with an optional further $20 million paid up front. But the backlash, largely led by UEFA, the European confederation, was swift and relentless. Within days, FIFA president Gianni Infantino <a href="https://www.itv.com/news/2026-08-01/gianni-infantino-says-fifa-have-scrapped-world-cup-investment-plan">withdrew the plan</a> and has spent the weeks since trying to salvage his presidency and avert a challenge that previously seemed impossible.</p><p>During this period, Africa’s confederation stood firmly with Infantino. Several federation presidents backed him publicly, and Samuel Eto’o, the Cameroonian legend who now runs his country’s federation, <a href="https://www.beinsports.com/en-mena/football/articles-video/eto-o-urges-support-for-fifa-president-infantino-2026-08-24">went further</a>, arguing that the plan could have done a great deal for smaller federations. FIFA’s crisis meeting was held in Rabat rather than Zurich, and the executive committee of the Confederation of African Football (CAF) later met there and <a href="https://en.le360.ma/sports/caf-reaffirms-support-for-infantino_CKTBUFIRTVESHEE3F6F2AE4YJM/">unanimously reaffirmed its support</a> for him. Much of the commentary has cast this as a deferential, even subservient, relationship, with Africa as a continent unable to stand up for “true footballing values” once money is on the table.</p><p>But Africa’s relationship with FIFA did not begin in deference. UEFA may have threatened a boycott this summer, but in 1966 it was African federations, led by Ghana’s Ohene Djan and Ethiopia’s Yidnekatchew Tessema, that boycotted World Cup qualifying ahead of England ’66 because they had been made to share a single qualifying place with Asia and Oceania, while Europe had 10 of the 16 spots. The boycott worked: Since the next tournament, in 1970, Africa has had at least one guaranteed place. In 1974, the same bloc helped the Brazilian João Havelange defeat Stanley Rous for the FIFA presidency. Rous had spent years trying to keep apartheid South Africa, already shut out by CAF, inside world football.</p><p>However, Havelange’s victory set the terms of the bargain that has governed FIFA-Africa relations since. He campaigned on the promise of expanded tournaments and development for the Global South. He delivered them, but he also brought a culture of patronage that defined his 25 years in power. Sepp Blatter, his long-serving general secretary, inherited the same structure when he succeeded him in 1998, and used it to peel away African federations even though CAF officially backed UEFA’s Lennart Johansson. In 2002, when CAF’s own president, Issa Hayatou, contested the presidency, he was beaten heavily, deserted by members who preferred the patron they had to the African they might have had.</p><p>Under Infantino, FIFA has become even more involved in Africa’s management. In 2017, Madagascar’s Ahmad Ahmad unseated Hayatou as CAF president, a result Infantino reportedly supported, and in 2018 Ahmad declared Africa’s support for Infantino’s re-election a year early. In 2021, Infantino cast a long shadow as rivals stood aside and endorsed Patrice Motsepe, the South African mining billionaire, as new CAF president, after FIFA had sent its own secretary-general, Fatma Samoura, to run CAF’s affairs for six months in 2019, and after Ahmad was banned by FIFA’s ethics committee. Motsepe’s tenure has recorded successes, but critics still cast him as Infantino’s puppet in Cairo.</p><p>The politics of football on the continent have changed too. Back then, many political leaders saw football as yet another theater of development and anti-imperialist engagement. Now the game has been ceded to career football politicians, who have mostly traded votes for development money and loyalty. That may sound like an indictment, but the trade is also pragmatic: African federations need FIFA’s money more than most, and a grant that more than doubles is a powerful inducement. Spread across the continent, that money can also reorder established hierarchies and make African football more competitive, which is the strongest case for the bargain. The deeper issue is what the game’s surplus is made of. Africa develops talent and exports it, with the value mostly realized in Europe by the clubs that buy and sell it, and the leagues that broadcast it around the world.</p><p>The 2026 World Cup puts that case to the test. Nigeria and Cameroon, with eight AFCON titles between them, failed to qualify. This followed repeated challenges within Nigeria’s football management, including three coaches in a single qualifying campaign, several disputes over unpaid wages and bonuses, and a <a href="https://www.opinionnigeria.com/nff-president-gusau-eight-board-members-resign-amid-mounting-pressure/">security agency investigation</a> into how a ₦17 billion government fund meant to settle them was spent. That investigation is also why the board’s resignation is not quite the accountability it looks like. Ibrahim Gusau and his colleagues stepped down after weeks of reports that they were being pressured to go, and the National Sports Commission <a href="https://von.gov.ng/?p=632112">promptly suspended the election</a> to replace them. FIFA treats government interference in federations as grounds for suspension, leaving Nigerian fans caught between administrators no one can remove and a state that removes them through pressure. Eto’o, Cameroon’s federation president, has fought openly with the sports ministry, including over who should coach the national team. Their size, pedigree, and economic weight ought to make them less dependent on FIFA’s money than most, which makes their loyalty harder, not easier, to explain.</p><p>Compare them with Comoros, a two-time AFCON qualifier, and Cape Verde, whose debut World Cup run to the round of 32, unbeaten in a group with Spain and Uruguay, won over neutrals everywhere. The president of the Comoros federation has told reporters that his federation has struggled to make ends meet, while FIFA’s own announcement of the plan held up Cape Verde as an example of how a decade of Forward funding enabled the debutants to qualify for the tournament.</p><p>Infantino’s strongest ally remains Morocco, whose federation president, Fouzi Lekjaa, was one of the first to pledge his support. Rabat will host the next FIFA presidential election, and Morocco has lobbied hard to stage the final of the 2030 World Cup, which it cohosts with Spain and Portugal. Morocco has gone from missing four straight World Cups to reaching a semifinal in 2022 and a quarterfinal this year. It is also, for now, Africa’s champion, though not because of anything that happened on the pitch. Senegal won the Cup of Nations final in Rabat in January, but CAF’s appeal board later ruled that Senegal had forfeited the match because its players left the field in protest at a late penalty, and recorded a 3–0 win for Morocco. <a href="https://www.africanews.com/2026/07/24/world-sport-court-sets-date-for-senegals-afcon-appeal-hearing/">Senegal’s appeal goes before the Court of Arbitration for Sport on October 8</a>, and this contested status does not help change the impression that FIFA’s most important African ally holds the continental title by an off-pitch decision.</p><p>These examples seem to make a neat case for either prudent FIFA-backed spending, like Cape Verde’s, or prudent football management, like Morocco’s. But the binary does not hold. Cape Verde may owe some of its success to FIFA funding, which supported pitch infrastructure and coach-training courses, but it also owes much to its strategy of building a national team from its diaspora in Portugal and the Netherlands. Morocco’s state-of-the-art Mohammed VI Football Complex, along with its recruitment from the diaspora, has also enabled it to field competitive teams across genders and age groups, culminating in last year’s men’s U-20 World Cup title. Neither project was authored by FIFA, and FIFA cannot take credit for either.</p><p>What African football actually shows is that competence and patronage are not opposites. They can work together. Morocco’s long-term planning has bought it leverage, and this summer it spent that leverage on loyalty. Nigeria and Cameroon, their administrations in disarray, needed the grant too badly to spend their votes on anything else. The strong and the struggling ended up in the same place, and none of them used their position to ask FIFA for anything. Cape Verde and other emerging football nations face a different test: whether they can turn a diaspora-built national team into lasting domestic pipelines. This complicates any simple reading of the $20 million grant as a bribe, and shows how one continent’s support can conceal very different interests and motivations.</p><p>None of this makes UEFA football’s moral arbiter. It saw off the Super League in 2021, then catered to the whims of its super clubs by expanding the Champions League to 36 teams. Europe’s biggest clubs, meanwhile, are represented by a body led by Nasser Al-Khelaifi of Paris Saint-Germain and Qatar Sports Investments. Gulf money sat on both sides of this fight. Africa has no more reason to trust European piety than FIFA’s generosity.</p><p>The FFE plan was, in effect, a scheme to sell the rights to that flow of value. African federations were right to take its money seriously, and they do not deserve to be tarred as sellouts for doing so. They went wrong by handing over their votes without asking for anything in return.</p><p>An Infantino re-election would cement a FIFA politics built on courting Africa’s substantial 54 votes. Leverage of this kind is not a problem in itself: UEFA leverages its markets, Asia leverages its growing investment and viewers, and South America has long utilized its marketable stars. The question is whether Africa uses its own leverage for anything that lasts. Infantino has proposed an <a href="https://www.local10.com/sports/2026/09/21/infantino-open-to-an-independent-fifa-governance-review-after-backlash-over-failed-project/">independent review of FIFA’s governance</a>, to go before the FIFA Council on October 15, and has assured every association that its treatment will not depend on its position on any proposal. The fact that he felt the need to say so is telling.</p><p>Africa’s football leaders could spend this leverage on loyalty or, as they did in 1966, to build something more structural. They could press for more independently audited development funding that avoids pitches built as political enterprises, seek larger shares of transfer fees for academies that produce players, and assert a real voice over a calendar that caters to Europe and is not truly global. None of these would come as a gift from a patron; they would have to be demanded.</p><p>Football’s capacity to do good in harsh economic conditions is undeniable. But there is a difference between development that is authored and owned on the continent and development handed down as patronage. The question African fans and the administrators who answer to them should be asking is how to make those administrators start asking for something in return that no one in Zurich can simply give as a gift.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-13T14:43:58.437281Z</published><summary type="text">Africa’s football federations stood by Gianni Infantino through FIFA’s sell-off scandal. What would it take for them to spend that leverage on something that lasts?</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/we-are-not-a-novelty</id><title type="text">We are not a novelty</title><updated>2026-10-12T15:56:21.355032Z</updated><author><name>B Camminga</name></author><category label="Politics" term="Politics"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>Trans and gender-diverse people are routinely told that what they are is new — a sudden emergence, a recent contagion. In South Africa, this claim circulates with increasing force: In the <a href="https://www.dailymaverick.co.za/article/2025-06-29-christian-fundamentalist-hate-against-transgender-people-explained/">surge of Christian fundamentalist organizing against trans rights</a>, in the transphobic slurs directed at a trans contestant on <cite><a href="https://www.mambaonline.com/2026/02/09/update-big-brother-mzansi-hands-out-strikes-after-homophobic-and-transphobic-slurs/">Big Brother Mzansi</a></cite> earlier this year, and in the pronouncements of <a href="https://africasacountry.com/2025/07/helen-zilles-transphobia">prominent political figures</a> who have characterized transgender rights as a form of <a href="https://www.dailymaverick.co.za/article/2025-11-09-watch-a-global-anti-woke-campaign-sa-included-is-pushing-to-strip-women-of-their-rights/">“woke” ideology</a>. The implication is always the same: that we are a novelty. And novelties do not deserve the weight of rights.</p><p>The historical record tells a different story.</p><p>In 1815, a young British military surgeon arrived at the Cape Colony. <a href="https://thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/james-barry">James Barry</a> was cantankerous, flamboyant, and conspicuously short. During his time at the Cape, he performed what is believed to be the first cesarean section in southern Africa in which both mother and child survived. The child was named after him: James Barry Munnik, who would grow up to become the grandfather of J. B. M. Hertzog — founder of the National Party in 1914 and one of the principal architects of apartheid.</p><p>J. B. M. was also the namesake of the hertzoggie, the apricot-jam-filled tartlet. When he reneged on promises, the Cape Malay community responded with the <em><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hertzoggie">twee gevreetjie</a></em>: a coconut-topped protest cookie whose name means, in Afrikaans, “two-faced” or “hypocrite.” On the eve of his death, Barry made one request: that no clothing be removed and that he be buried as is. The request was not honored. It was discovered that Barry was what we might now understand as a man of trans experience. His legacy is deeply ambivalent — he was a colonizer, an agent of empire. But his presence in the historical record asks us to complicate our timelines.</p><p>In <a href="https://www.degruyterbrill.com/document/doi/10.3138/9781487517298-008/html">1966, Joan Kruger, Edna Hobles, and Sonia Kola</a> were arrested under legislation known as the Disguises Acts — a set of pre-Union laws dating back to 1891 that criminalized “masquerading as women.” The three were well known enough to have been featured in <cite>Drum</cite> magazine that same year. Joan and Edna were eventually released. Sonia was charged. The distinction was this: Joan and Edna had no prior arrests. Sonia did. And she would not stop wearing dresses. <cite>S v. Kola</cite> (1966) became the case that set the precedent for what would later be amalgamated into the Prohibition of Disguises Act (1969).</p><p>Access to alternatives was starkly racialized. Gender-affirming surgery had been available to white people in South Africa since at least the early 1950s, and by 1974 the state had become directly involved — funding reassignment surgery under the belief that it constituted a cure for homosexuality. For Sonia, as a South African of color convicted in 1966, none of that access was available. She had her dresses.</p><p>What the case produced was a legal trace that ran forward through decades of jurisprudence — cited by Edwin Cameron in arguments that extended constitutional protection of sexual orientation, and by Justice Laurie Ackermann in the majority judgment that gave that protection a broad reading. A case about a woman who would not stop wearing dresses became part of the constitutional fabric of the new South Africa.</p><p>In 1992, Michelle Emmerich — a trans woman, an ANC member, and a civil servant — faxed a proposed <a href="https://archive.wethepeoplesa.org/index.php/handwritten-fax-from-satru-with-a-two-page-document-proposed-gender-rights-article-in-a-bill-of-rights-for-a-new-south-africa-from-michelle-j-emmerich-and-newspaper-clippings">Gender Rights Article</a> to the <a href="https://sahistory.org.za/article/convention-democratic-south-africa-codesa">Convention for a Democratic South Africa (CODESA)</a>, hoping it would be included in the Bill of Rights. No one responded. She was told she was too emotional and should tone it down. In her own words: “I for one sticks out like a sore thumb. I have decided to call it a day. Just imagine, being the only [transgender] human rights activist in the ANC.” And so she quit, leaving almost no trail. That unanswered fax, now archived at <a href="https://archive.wethepeoplesa.org/index.php/letter-signed-by-michelle-j-emmerich-from-satru">Constitution Hill in Johannesburg</a>, is a marker in the record, evidence that the argument for an expansive understanding of gender was already being made in 1992, long before it found a hearing.</p><p>Before any formal trans organization in South Africa, there was a small group known as <a href="https://transintersexhistory.africa/1982-founding-of-the-phoenix-society-an-underground-network-of-transgender-and-transsexual-people-and-transvestites-and-crossdressers-during-apartheid-south-africa/">the Phoenix Society</a> — founded in the 1980s and composed of white transvestites, crossdressers, transsexuals, and those who called themselves “transgenderists.” They communicated through veiled messages in magazines and their own publication, <cite><a href="https://www.digitalcommonwealth.org/search/commonwealth-oai:2z10xx55x">FanFare</a></cite>. A short documentary about the group was made for the South African Broadcasting Corporation program <em>50/50</em> — and never aired. Some members believe this was the result of an intervention by the apartheid security police.</p><p>The Phoenix’s membership is largely lost to history. But one name has survived: <a href="https://zagria.blogspot.com/2014/10/charl-marais-1958-2013-teacher.html">Charl Marais</a>, who in his own words was “the only female to male person that they knew of and also, in that day and age, I was the only Coloured there.” Charl would go on to become a pioneering writer and editor of <cite><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Trans-Transgender-Stories-South-Africa-ebook/dp/B00E0FMD6K">Trans: Transgender Life Stories from South Africa</a></cite> — one of the first works to put trans South African lives on the record, in their own words.</p><p>These are not the famous names. They are not the landmark cases. They are not even necessarily people with uncomplicated politics. But here is what their stories show: trans and gender-diverse people in South Africa have not merely survived its history — they have shaped it. The claim that trans identity is new is not only historically inaccurate; it erases a history of people doing the quiet, stubborn, necessary work of existing, and who, in doing so, shaped something larger than themselves.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-12T15:56:21.355032Z</published><summary type="text">Trans and gender diverse people are routinely told that what they are is new. In South Africa, they have not merely survived history, but they have also shaped it.</summary></entry><entry><id>https://africasacountry.com/2026/10/utopia-is-not-a-metaphor</id><title type="text">Utopia is not a metaphor</title><updated>2026-10-09T19:55:08.482851Z</updated><author><name>Marta Mboka Tveit</name></author><category label="Culture" term="Culture"/><content type="xhtml"><div xmlns=""><p>The recent popularity of the term “Afrotopia” inspired me to revisit Thomas More’s original <cite>Utopia</cite> (1516). Rereading the novel led me to rethink what we mean when we talk about ideology, future-casting, and visioning as praxis.</p><p>“Utopia” or “utopic” is today a widely used term across a variety of fields and contexts. People often use the term derogatorily, as a tired metaphor, carrying connotations of naiveté or veiled dystopian impulses. It gestures vaguely toward paradise, toward the promised land, but carries with it a whiff of the opposite. Don’t be naive, the contemporary connotation seems to say; don’t fall for the lies, don’t dream too big. Recently, daring scholarship has given the term a new, promised-land spin: for instance, in Felwine Sarr’s bold essay <cite>Afrotopia</cite> (2020), a poetic call for an African utopian philosophy of self-reinvention for the 21st century, and, more recently, in Joseph Agbakoba and Marita Rainsborough’s <cite><a href="https://www.routledge.com/Beyond-Decolonial-African-Philosophy-Africanity-Afrotopia-and-Transcolonial-Perspectives/Agbakoba-Rainsborough/p/book/9781032683447">Beyond Decolonial African Philosophy</a></cite> (2025).</p><p>But reading <cite>Utopia</cite>, I was surprised by how concrete and policy-oriented the novel is. Its protagonist, Raphael Hythloday (sort of an early anthropologist), is in a debate with a fictionalized version of More himself and some others, and ends up talking about his visit to an island called Utopia, a visit that has profoundly changed him. Hythloday talks about how they organize life there, and how it’s going really well. In other words, the book is, thin veil of fiction aside, a set of policy recommendations. Utopia is an imagined place that has implemented these recommendations, which, as More understood them, result in a more egalitarian, life-supporting society. That’s all it is — no soaring, elusive nothing.</p><p>Thomas More (1478–1535) was a Renaissance man and deeply Catholic. An English lawyer, scholar, statesman, and writer, he entered royal service under King Henry VIII, eventually rising to the high office of Lord Chancellor in 1529. In 1516, when he wrote <cite>Utopia</cite>, he was living through the transition from the late medieval period to the early Renaissance, when society was rigidly hierarchical, dominated by the monarchy, the nobility, and the powerful Church. Corruption and the abuse of power were widespread among both political and religious leaders. More himself would pay for his convictions: in 1535 he was beheaded for refusing to accept Henry VIII as head of the Church in England.</p><p><cite>Utopia</cite>, it turns out, was not written as a metaphor for paradise, or some other magical place to house lofty dreams and impossible longings. It was written for those trying to organize. Like “utopia,” “democracy” or “the democratic society” has conventionally become a vague, transcendental thing, an ideal to be striven for but never reached, perhaps even unreachable. Yet early Athenian democracy was grounded in concrete institutional reforms rather than abstract ideals. In the early sixth century BCE, Solon’s reforms, widely understood as a foundational precursor to democracy, addressed both economic and political inequalities through specific measures: the <em>seisachtheia</em>, which canceled debt bondage; the establishment of legal recourse for broader segments of the citizen body; and the organization of political participation according to wealth classes, as Aristotle records in the <cite>Constitution of the Athenians</cite>.</p><p>The Athenians, we are told, would sweep a rope dipped in red dye through the crowds in the marketplace to herd people into the public meetings. That’s not mystic, timpani-and-marble, city-on-the-hill, shining-Athena stuff. That’s sandal prints in mud, overturned fruit stands, snotty crying children, slippery bodies slapped together — overcrowded, stinky, sweaty, loud democracy.</p><p>Perhaps there is something useful to be reminded of here in the current moment, which is calling for a radical reimagination of social order. Neither Athenian democracy nor More’s <cite>Utopia</cite> was originally introduced as an ideal, a shining, vague star in the distance to reach toward. They were policy recommendations for the then and there, for a place and time, suited to fit a certain group. What would the equivalent place-and-time, tailor-fitted African societal epitomes look like?</p><p>Resetting the mechanisms of collective visioning requires, first of all, setting aside some of the major constraints of the present. Forget the debt for a minute. Leave the contract negotiation for tomorrow. Put that blaring traffic cone from across the Atlantic on mute. These powerful forces are always at play, always going to be there; it’s always urgent. But to truly re-vision what is wanted and needed from the inside, to build with intention, they must be temporarily suspended.</p><p>External power and pressure cannot be the only determining factors for shared vision, nor can “the way things are now” determine collective desires. Or else, what was all that marching and demonstrating and bloodshed for? Pragmatism and realism have their uses, but they can also get in the way of expansive, rooted visioning. They are most useful as tools for moving toward those visions from the distressing present, not for formulating them. So the question becomes: if external pressures and powers were not a factor, what would African societies be like, and, more importantly, what should they be like?</p><p>Second, resetting visioning may require new categories and taxonomies, and categories of categories. Kwasi Wiredu, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, and other giants, as well as Sabelo Ndlovu-Gatsheni more recently, have written in depth about the colonization of mindscapes: how historical forces have shaped how people think, express themselves, perceive the world, perceive themselves, and imagine. The long process of resetting may require a further retreat from the schemas of the development industry and the dominant dichotomies one is used to thinking with: citizen/noncitizen, nation-state/statelessness (see Achille Mbembe on <a href="https://africasacountry.com/2018/11/the-idea-of-a-borderless-world">a borderless world</a>), precolonial/postcolonial, rural/urban, energy-rich/energy-poor, East/West, socialism/liberalism, global/local — yes, perhaps even Marxism and class struggle. Gender categories may be rethought, along with sociomaterial relations, patronage, even good and evil, and the by-now-exhausted twins “modernity” and “tradition.”</p><p>The names and categories should be reimagined from within. As Ndlovu-Gatsheni puts it in <cite>Epistemic Freedom in Africa</cite> (2018), “seek ye epistemic freedom first.” This may necessitate a rebuilding, exactly, of the infrastructures of receiving and categorizing knowledge: new categories and stories for making worlds, for creating shared horizons and imaginaries, and ultimately, methods for making those visions into realities.</p><p>Some key questions rise to the surface. Both the Athenian and Utopian visions go beyond negative utilitarianism, beyond survival and minimizing suffering, striving instead for bespoke systems to suit the population in question in a specific space and time. (Whether the visions came true, whether they really were what they said they were, and whether they worked well for most people in that place and time are valid questions, but separate ones, for tomorrow. There is no monitoring and evaluation in visioning.) Like the Utopians or the Athenians, one might ask: what kind of infrastructures (in a broad sense), systems, and institutions will work to the greatest benefit of all for the particular group in question, in this particular space and time? If external pressures and powers did not exist, what would African societies be like, and what should they be like? What can African philosophy and philosophers contribute to setting the future trajectory of our species and the planet, and how?</p><p>Inspiration might be drawn from precolonial cosmologies and the like, but that is only inspiration, for the population in question is not a precolonial one. The answers might not look like Western-style liberal democracy. Neither need they look like a society based (only) on sharia law, kings, dictators, elders, do-gooder regimes, or the various manifestations of puppet regimes or rule-by-consultancy (Sarr writes helpfully on the latter two). Maybe it turns out that the problems that are made into problems are not really problems at all — maybe the real problems are other problems.</p><p>Perhaps new visions can be sparked by taking seriously “fringe” degrowth ideas such as basic income, circular economies, energy cooperatives, <a href="https://bidce.org/en/experience/86">green currencies</a>, a <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/katharinabuchholz/2025/06/06/majority-of-millionaires-supports-wealth-tax/">wealth tax</a> or <a href="https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0921800918314836">income caps</a> as proposed by the convivialism movement, four-day weeks, or the promotion of non-wage-labor existences, to name a few. Or perhaps resetting visioning results in ideas that are not currently thinkable, where African societies and African thought light the way in the search for new paradigms of what it means to live well and of ways to organize societies.</p><p>The material point is that the present global upheavals represent a moment of possibility to fundamentally rethink sub-Saharan African societies, and the very processes by which they are formed, reaching far beneath surface-level reforms. Such processes might benefit from a “science fictionality” moment, a term associated with <a href="https://www.jstor.org/stable/4240545">Istvan Csicsery-Ronay Jr</a>. (see also <a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/391474375_The_Role_of_Science_Fiction_in_Enhancing_Critical_Thinking_and_Ethical_Imagination_in_Education">the role of science fiction in enhancing critical thinking</a>), given the ideological acrobatics of the present. They might also benefit from a bridge to Africanfuturist thinking, to borrow a term associated with the artist Pamela Phatsimo Sunstrum and popularized by the writer Nnedi Okorafor. Articulated through storytelling, Africanfuturism, as <a href="https://nnedi.blogspot.com/2019/10/africanfuturism-defined.html">Okorafor defines it</a>, is specifically and directly “rooted in African culture, history, mythology and point-of-view as it then branches into the Black Diaspora, and it does not privilege or center the West.”</p><p>In addition to the fate of More and many visionaries like him, the biggest tragedy of articulated visions is something else: that they show us, time and again, how close we are to getting it right, to making better real. Radical reimagining, in art, storytelling, and scholarship, can allow further reflection on the nature of visioning itself, and a rereading of past visions, in whose ruins we are currently residing. There is space now to re-examine history and to make bricolage from past and present ideologies, without being blind to the subtle and treacherous nature of visions and of visioning itself.</p></div></content><published>2026-10-09T19:55:08.482851Z</published><summary type="text">Thomas More’s Utopia was not written as a metaphor for paradise, but  for those trying to organize. What would an African equivalent look like?</summary></entry></feed>