Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa [1st ed.] 9783030463427, 9783030463434

Table of contents :
Front Matter ....Pages i-xvi
Introduction (Awino Okech)....Pages 1-11
Youth-Hood, Gender and Feminist Dissent (Awino Okech)....Pages 13-34
Student Movements and Autocracies in Africa (Wadeisor Rukato)....Pages 35-60
Fallist Feminist Futures in South Africa (Princess Mpelo Malebye)....Pages 61-80
A Revolution Deferred: Sexual and Gender-Based Violence in Egypt (Radwa Saad, Sara Soumaya Abed)....Pages 81-106
The Revolution Continues: Sudanese Women’s Activism (Sarah O. Nugdalla)....Pages 107-130
Women and the Anglophone Struggle in Cameroon (Zoneziwoh Mbondgulo-Wondieh)....Pages 131-147
Democratic Reversals in Burundi (Patrick Hajayandi)....Pages 149-172
The Rise and Demise of the “New Dispensation” in Zimbabwe (Moses Tofa)....Pages 173-199
Embodying Protest: Feminist Organizing in Kenya (Felogene Anumo, Awuor Onyango)....Pages 201-224
Back Matter ....Pages 225-258

Citation preview

GENDER, DEVELOPMENT AND SOCIAL CHANGE SERIES EDITOR: WENDY HARCOURT

Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa

Edited by Awino Okech

Gender, Development and Social Change

Series Editor Wendy Harcourt The International Institute of Social Studies Erasmus University The Hague, The Netherlands

The Gender, Development and Social Change series brings together pathbreaking writing from gender scholars and activist researchers who are engaged in development as a process of transformation and change. The series pinpoints where gender and development analysis and practice are creating major ‘change moments’. Multidisciplinary in scope, it features some of the most important and innovative gender perspectives on development knowledge, policy and social change. The distinctive feature of the series is its dual nature: to publish both scholarly research on key issues informing the gender and development agenda as well as featuring young scholars and activists’ accounts of how gender analysis and practice is shaping political and social development processes. The authors aim to capture innovative thinking on a range of hot spot gender and development debates from women’s lives on the margins to high level global politics. Each book pivots around a key ‘social change’ moment or process conceptually envisaged from an intersectional, gender and rights based approach to development.

More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14999

Awino Okech Editor

Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa

Editor Awino Okech Centre for Gender Studies SOAS, University of London London, UK

Gender, Development and Social Change ISBN 978-3-030-46342-7 ISBN 978-3-030-46343-4 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Foreword

Non-violent uprising—through which citizens challenge oppression and promote social and political change—has been a recurrent theme throughout history. In the last decade of the twentieth century, while mass protests and people power toppled many tyrannical regimes in Eastern Europe following the end of the Cold War, a different dynamic obtained in some other parts of the world. With few exceptions, most noticeably in South Africa, which witnessed the end of apartheid, the end of bipolar rivalry opened the gateway to armed insurrection against erstwhile authoritarian states in Africa. The continent drew the world’s attention to a scale of humanitarian tragedy not seen in the previous era, at the core of which was the abuse of young women and men in war. The recruitment of young people under the age of 18 years as soldiers in war and the impunity that accompanied the astronomical rise in sex and gender-based violence in war presented an important challenge for the international community at the turn of the century. Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa brings into focus, the transformations that are occurring in a continent where generalised state of armed conflict has steadily given way to a different kind of state-society relationship. From an initial marker of democratic transition, in which organised civil society was the space in which governments were held to account, we have seen a shrinking of civil society space due to either cooptation or a reclaiming of that space by a new authoritarian drift. This is, however, not limited to Africa, but also an emerging trend in other v

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regions of the world. In place of organised civil society, young men and women, that were easy prey to government and political opposition at war only a few decades ago, have reclaimed their agency. No longer are they pawns in political fights that destroyed their future and offer them no societal recognition in the present day. This book aptly captures the turning of the tide in places like Tunisia, Ethiopia, South Africa and Sudan. African youth, including student movements, with no assigned or formal roles in society take to the streets to protest the injustices of their time. This new generation social movement and its dynamic engagement with technology and the social media space gives it an edge not seen in the previous era. To be sure, the experiences brought to the fore in this book neither glorify nor underestimate youth protests aimed at political change. Rather, it shows how youth protests led to a changing of the guards in some places while they were reined-in elsewhere. Such outcomes are interesting in and of themselves. But this book opens the door to much more. It is one of the first to connect two previously separated areas of debate—youth and gender—in discourses of societal transformation. It runs a conceptual thread through the impacts of youth-hood and gender on the question of nation and state building. And in so doing, it unearths the points of convergence and divergence between these two arenas across time— conceptually and practically. The convergence is found in the collective aspiration of youth and their pursuit of freedoms and social justice regardless of their genders. However, the persistence of patriarchy reinforces age-old structures of gender inequality that relegate young women and gender non-conforming people to periphery of leadership spaces once the revolution has been won or lost. Another factor sets Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa apart. It demonstrates a new approach to scholarship and academic leadership in which emerging scholars are mentored and enabled to contribute their knowledge through continuous accompaniment, from research to publication. The capacity gap evident in the dearth of research and publishing opportunities for early career researchers and academics has remained a persistent challenge among a young generation of Africans. By giving space and voice to young Africans to research and write their own experiences, this book marks the arrival of a new generation of leading African academics. It is a record of emerging practice. I commend the individual authors in this book—mostly earlier career researchers located in Africa—for undertaking this valuable study. And I congratulate the

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editor, Awino Okech, for being brave enough to undertake this important study, choosing to work with new but no less credible young African authors when many of her peers opt to publish with well-established authors located in the West. This makes an important statement and it is a sign of a changing mood among a new generation of African scholars. London, England

Professor ’Funmi Olonisakin Professor of Security, Leadership & Development; Vice President & Vice-Principal International, King’s College London

Acknowledgements

This book is a labour of love that has been in the making for over three years. The impetus for this work started in 2016 when I hosted a panel of young South Africans based in London who had been part of the Fees Must Fall protests in South Africa. This conversation was part of the Centre for Gender Studies at SOAS bi-weekly seminar series. I was struck then, as I had been when the protests unfolded in 2015, by the limited conversations across African contexts on the historical role of student movements and academics in driving academic freedom and Africanisation of universities. I thought it would be a good moment to revisit and re-engage contemporary struggles in Africa as they manifested through student movements and protests generally. I was clear that I wanted to centre young people’s voices, early career academics who were thinking through their role and the utility of direct action in social transformation across Africa. As most curated projects go, deadlines are not met, people fall off by the wayside, previously “hot” protests such as the Oromo protests dissipate and more importantly the task of finding people who can do the diligent work of linking gender or feminist analysis to conversations on protests and social transformation was not always easy. Consequently, I received great submissions with wonderful political analysis but not necessarily a gendered take on what it meant for the construction of our societies. I have nonetheless retained two such chapters in this volume because they offer interesting insights on youth-hood, social movements

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

and dissent in two African countries that I consider important to keep an eye on. This book is therefore a culmination of starts and stops and a curation of material that speaks in varying ways to the title of this book. I would therefore like to begin by thanking all the initial contributing authors Felogene, Awuor, Radwa, Sara, Zoneziwoh and Patrick for their patience. The book is finally here. I also want to say a special thank you to Sarah Nugdalla, Princess, Moses and Wadeisor who I put pressure on to turn around existing work or develop new work within what were punishing time frames. A special thanks to the anonymous peer reviewers who offered insightful and thoughtful feedback on the book proposal. I take full responsibility for the final product presented here. Aspects of this book have been discussed in various workshops and conferences as part of testing the value of its contribution and engaging with potential end users. I would like to thank the African Leadership Centre and Shuvai Nyoni for inviting some of our contributors to participate in meetings and discuss their chapters. I hope you enjoy this book as much as we have enjoyed putting it together. Awino Okech

Contents

Introduction Awino Okech

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Youth-Hood, Gender and Feminist Dissent Awino Okech

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Student Movements and Autocracies in Africa Wadeisor Rukato

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Fallist Feminist Futures in South Africa Princess Mpelo Malebye

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A Revolution Deferred: Sexual and Gender-Based Violence in Egypt Radwa Saad and Sara Soumaya Abed

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The Revolution Continues: Sudanese Women’s Activism Sarah O. Nugdalla

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Women and the Anglophone Struggle in Cameroon Zoneziwoh Mbondgulo-Wondieh

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Democratic Reversals in Burundi Patrick Hajayandi

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The Rise and Demise of the “New Dispensation” in Zimbabwe Moses Tofa

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Embodying Protest: Feminist Organizing in Kenya Felogene Anumo and Awuor Onyango

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Conclusion

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Index

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Notes on Contributors

Sara Soumaya Abed is an Egyptian feminist and human rights researcher based in Cairo; she holds an M.A. in Human Rights from UCL, University of London. Sara Soumaya is a member of Operation Anti-Sexual Harassment & Assault (OpAntiSH). She has worked with HarassMap and is a former Teaching Assistant at the British University in Egypt (BUE). She was also involved in a rights-based approach—project for refugee survivors of SGBV at CARE International in Egypt. Her work has been published in Kohl: a Journal for Body and Gender Research. Her research interests include but are not limited to: anthropology of body and performance, gender, state and resistance, gender and sexualbased violence, sexual and reproductive rights, domestic workers, migrant workers, sex workers and labour rights. Felogene Anumo is a feminist activist with experience in advancing gender and economic justice through activism, advocacy, research and capacity strengthening of feminist-led organising. Her roots in feminist movement building were planted at the University of Nairobi where she served as the Women Students’ Chairperson across seven campuses. Felogene currently works for the Association of Women’s Rights and Development (AWID) as co-lead for the Building Feminist Economies (BFE) Program and is the immediate former Manager of the Young Feminist Activism Program at AWID. Prior to joining AWID, she worked with Women in Law and Development in Africa—Kenya Chapter (WiLDAF-K) and the African Women’s Development and Communication Network (FEMNET). xiii

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Patrick Hajayandi works at the Institute for Justice and Reconciliation as the Senior Project Leader for the Great Lakes Region of Africa. He holds a Master of Arts degree in Political Science from Rostov State University in Russia. He has worked a lecturer at the National School of Administration in Bujumbura-Burundi and as a Consultant and Researcher for Transitional Demobilization and Reintegration Program (TDRP) of the World Bank. At the Institute for Justice and Reconciliation, Hajayandi’s main project for the Great Lakes Region is to contribute to developing young people’s leadership and ownership for peacebuilding processes in a context of Regional reconciliation. Princess Mpelo Malebye is a feminist from South Africa. She has a Masters in Gender Studies and Law from the School of Oriental and African Studies in London. Malebye completed her undergraduate degree in Gender Studies, Sociology and Psychology at the University of Cape Town and her BA (Hons) in Psychology at the University of Witwatersrand in Johannesburg. Princess has worked as a research assistant for Kike Consulting, Media Monitoring Africa and the Knowledges of Power project (National Research Foundation funded). Malebye is currently a research and policy analyst for the Commission for Gender Equality, South Africa. Zoneziwoh Mbondgulo-Wondieh is the executive director of Women for a Change, Cameroon (Wfac), a feminist organisation that works in and with communities of grassroots women around their sexual and reproductive health rights, leadership and development. Zoneziwoh holds an M.Sc. in Sex, Gender and Violence, from the University of Aberdeen, Scotland; Bachelor’s Degree in Environmental Sciences, University of Buea, Cameroon. Zoneziwoh is a Chevening Scholar, a Women’s Fellow with the African Leadership Centre, Kenya, and a Mandela Washington Fellow for the Young African Leaders Initiative, a flagship programme of President Barack Obama. Sarah O. Nugdalla is a gender consultant and researcher from Sudan. She holds an MA in Gender Studies from SOAS University of London and a BA in International Relations from the American University of Sharjah. Nugdalla’s research interests are grounded in the relationship between gender, Islam and the state, and has written extensively on gendered citizenship and feminist activism in Sudan.

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Awino Okech is a lecturer at the Centre for Gender Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS). Her teaching and research interests lie in the nexus between gender, sexuality and nation/state making projects as they occur in conflict and post-conflict societies. She continues to contribute to knowledge production and transfer through her affiliation with the African Leadership Centre at King’s College London. Dr. Okech also has a professional history of gender and conflict programming work in Africa with a range of international and national organisations. Awuor Onyango is a Nairobi-based writer and multidisciplinary artist somewhat trained in English and French laws, Fine Art and Film. Her practice is concerned with claiming public space disallowed to people considered black, woman and other, whether the space is intellectual, physical, in memory or historical. She’s uses (digital & video) installation, experimental film and self-care to explore the transgression, shame and discomfort of the black feminine. Recent exhibitions include Chale Wote (Accra 2016), BodaBoda Lounge (15 spaces in Africa 2016), SHE: Artists (London, 2016), Chouftouhanna (Tunisia 2016), Digital Art Festival (Kenya 2016), To Revolutionary Type Love (Nairobi, 2017), Images of Tomorrow (London, 2017) and Node Forum for Digital Arts (Frankfurt/Nairobi 2017). Wadeisor Rukato is a Peace, Security and Development Fellow at the African Leadership Centre (ALC) and is based at King’s College London. She has a Master of Arts degree in China Studies, with a concentration in International Relations, from Peking University’s Yenching Academy (2017). Her broad research interests include: the security dimensions of Africa-China relations; the multiple roles of youth in peace, security and development in Africa; and the effectiveness of experiential peace education programmes in community building. Radwa Saad is a Doctoral Researcher in the Africana Studies and Research Centre at Cornell University. She holds an M.Sc. in Security and Development from King’s College London and is an alumni fellow of the African Leadership Centre’s Peace Security and Development programme for African Scholars. Her research interests include Afro-Arab relations, regional integration efforts in Africa and protest, social movements and revolutions as state-building processes. Moses Tofa holds a Ph.D. in Political Studies from the University of Johannesburg and a Ph.D. in Peace Studies from the University of

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KwaZulu-Natal. He is a Postdoctoral Fellow in Peace, Security and Development with the African Leadership Centre, Nairobi. He worked as a Senior Researcher with the Centre for Conflict Resolution and the Mass Public Opinion Institute. Moses has also taught politics and international relations at the University of Zimbabwe and the Women’s University in Africa.

Introduction Awino Okech

In April 2012, I was in a meeting convened by the African Union in Tunis to reflect on the wave of popular uprisings that swept through Egypt and Tunisia. During the meeting, an African diplomat questioned whether these protests could be understood within the African Union’s Unconstitutional Change of Government (UCG) framework. The UCG framework is anchored in the 1997 Lomé Declaration, which was designed to codify constitutional means, also understood as elections, as the only acceptable method of changing governments. The Lomé Declaration considers the following actions against a democratically elected government as unconstitutional: military coup d’états; interventions by mercenaries, armed dissident groups and rebel movements; and the refusal of an incumbent government to relinquish power to the winning party after a free and fair election (see Dersso 2016). There was a robust debate in Tunis on what it meant to consider citizens who rise against a government they put in power through the vote as unconstitutional. Where does constitutionality lie if not in the hands of the populace who cede certain rights to leaders through negotiated processes such as elections? Where do regimes derive their legitimacy if not from citizens?

A. Okech (B) SOAS, University of London, Centre for Gender Studies, London, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4_1

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Fast forward to September 2013, I am sitting in my car in Nairobi traffic. I hear a news report on the radio about the Nairobi Governor Evans Kidero who slapped a woman member of parliament in the full glare of the press. Rachel Shebesh the parliamentarian in question had gone to his office to discuss the salaries of striking Nairobi city council workers. On Twitter there was video evidence of the said slap in circulation. The viciousness of the slap, the look on his face as he did it remains etched in my memory because women die daily due to violent men. Why did this slap matter? It was illustrative of the larger continuum of technologies of violence that shape how women navigate their lives in most of our societies. That the television cameras did not deter the governor was a pointer to how disposable and perhaps inconsequential he saw the woman in front of him. That there would be no consequences was evident in his press remarks fifteen minutes later stating that he had no recollection of the event as he smiled at the cameras. This was rudimentary patriarchy at play. #KideroMustGo became the rallying call through which civil society actions occurred both online and offline. We re-opened public debate on violence against women and on the question of leadership, ethics and integrity. It is October 2015 and an image circulates on Twitter from what was the Rhodes Must Fall protests in Cape Town. In this picture, a group of predominantly black students who went to the Rondebosch police station to demand the release of their comrades are surrounded by a human shield of white students. The purpose of this white shield around black bodies was to prevent the threat of violence by the police against the black students. It is not surprising that the police moved away from a threat of violence to dialogue once the human white shield was formed. The strategy that informed the action captured in that picture was shaped by an understanding of the history of race and racialisation in South Africa that attaches value to white bodies. These white students understood that their lives were not considered as easily disposable as those being shielded. There were of course other layers of power playing out between those who were being shielded and those protected by the shield. In both “groups” of students were children of African National Congress elite and the son of the then vice chancellor of the University of Cape Town. These dynamics cannot be ignored as factors that shaped the shift in how the police chose to proceed. Three years later in South Africa, #TotalShutdownSA emerges as a call for all women to shut down the country at the start of Women’s Month— August 2018. Across the country, simultaneous protests were held with

INTRODUCTION

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the tagline “my body not your crime scene”. This was a protest organised in response to the epidemic of femicide across South Africa with the goal of withdrawing women’s labour thus bringing key economic activities to a halt. An economic boycott as a strategy was chosen because those involved read non-action by the state on violence against women and gender non-conforming people (see Howa 2018). These among many other examples capture how dissent is spurred and momentum built to challenge state and non-state actors across Africa. Whether it is a constituency-specific demand such as that epitomised by women’s rights organisations in Nairobi calling for Kidero to go or the actions of Mohamed Bouazizi in Tunisia responding to an ineffective and unresponsive regime or the evolution of Fallism through university protests demanding free education in South Africa, citizens are rising up and speaking back to entrenched systems of power. This edited volume emerges from an interest in tracking these and other forms of dissent and resistance to autocracies across Africa. In the last ten years, the African continent has witnessed the agency demonstrated by youth challenging electoral and broader governance deficits. These deficits are manifest in the manipulation of elections through power-sharing agreements, voter fraud and the engagement of sophisticated international actors who mobilise technological warfare in electoral processes. The Cambridge Analytica debacle in Kenya and Nigeria among many other countries globally was illustrative of the risks associated with data being publicly available to the highest bidder (Madowo 2018). Popular protests have increasingly played a role in getting strongmen out of office and/or pushing governments to pay greater attention to the loud murmurs of discontent that will not wait for the performance of the next election cycle. It is evident that the pursuit of Africa’s freedom and self-determination is being waged on the streets and squares of African cities and towns. Citizen and/or youth-driven mobilisations for change are not a new phenomenon in Africa. Klopp and Orina (2002) note that the first clash between the state and students at the University of Nairobi in Kenya took place in 1969 when an opposition party leader was prevented from speaking at the then University College of East Africa, Nairobi. This led to demonstrations by students who eventually boycotted classes and were expelled from the institution. However, there are two major observations worth making about the current trends of youth-led mobilisation. The first is that this current moment represents both a shift in mobilisation and the nature of the struggles being waged against political

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regimes. We are witnessing wide-scale mobilisation that occurs beyond organised civil society organisations and universities as sites for political action. The protests are shaped by a demand for accountability. Between 2008 and 2019, more than half of the countries on the continent experienced anti-government protests with close to 3477 protest events reported in Nigeria in 2017 (see ACLED 2018). The factors that shape protests in each country differ but most circulate around the political and economic compact with the state. In Niger, there were protests against President Tandja’s 2009 attempt to remove presidential term limits. In 2011, Mauritian youth protested against government corruption, while in Djibouti, Lesotho and Sudan economic questions contributed to the direct action of unions, student movements and nongovernmental organisations. Beyond the examples above, we can also look to #AgeLimitBill #Kogikuteko in Uganda, #HalteauTroisiemeMandat in Burundi, #Togodebout and #FaureMustGo in Togo, #ThisFlag in Zimbabwe, and Y’en a Marre in Senegal as hashtags that captured national concerns about the abuse of constitutional procedures to increase presidential terms with total disregard for citizens’ voices in electoral processes. The contestations around the state/society social contract were also catalysed by escalating cost of living and widening inequalities linked to the absence of service delivery associated with inefficient and often corruption-laden political programmes. The link between protests triggered by a demand for accountability to the crackdown on civil society organisations and human rights defenders has also become more obvious. This is evident in the trend of various African governments blocking internet access and public broadcasting during election periods as was witnessed in Kenya, Uganda, Cameroon, Democratic Republic of Congo, Ethiopia, Gabon, Burundi, Zimbabwe and Chad. Blocking internet access matters given its importance in building transnational mobilisation and enabling the democratisation of information across and within countries. In addition, legislation around communication platforms have become commonplance with regimes such as Tanzania imposing punitive charges on social media platforms such as YouTube and WhatsApp that have helped to democratise information. While government regulators and corporate firms operations remain uninterrupted, “netizens” are hindered (Dahir 2018). These “shutdowns” are punitive and are intended to diminish the potential of citizens to mobilise

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in defence of their rights. Examples of such legislation include Tanzania’s Electronic and Postal Communications (online content) Regulations 2017. Consequently, the nature of demands by citizens and the agility of political actors responses has led to an evolution of the leadership of movements away from the “big chief” with followers towards more devolved organising clusters that represent the unique interests of diverse constituencies. While civil society organisations (CSOs) remain relevant, the changing political landscape across the globe, with greater authoritarian drifts, has required a shift in how organised civil society operates and a broadening of how civic space is claimed (see CIVICUS 2019). Activism in some contexts has been driven underground while, in some contexts, civil society organisations are experienced as being removed from the needs of the people, because they have been co-opted by the regime or are beholden to the neoliberal development agenda (see Tadros 2014). Consequently, these protests tell an important story about the power of citizen’s voices in an environment that has for the last twenty years been predominantly structured around organised civil society as a third force. Within this new mode of organising, transnational connections have been enabled by technology. From WhatsApp groups that bring people together to strategise and garner support across national and international boundaries to Twitter that acts as an archive and a discursive space, social media has connected the streets, squares and diasporic voices into new communities and activism. The second observation concerns the sophistication of political elite power networks. Across the continent, we are witnessing the gains from people-led protests being quickly usurped by the deep state who prop up alternates to ousted political elites. A key feature of the deep state is the coup-not-coup phenomenon witnessed in Egypt in July 2013 and in Zimbabwe in November 2017, where the military steps in to “safeguard” the interests of the people and restyle themselves as civilian actors ready to take power in the elections. A focus on the regimes alone leaves out a fuller understanding of national and global actors that influence the sustenance of a political regime in power. The importance of defining social movement outcomes beyond the removal of one person and an election cycle is a key issue that emerges across the protests we examine in this book.

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These two observations also lead us to the missing analysis of protests in Africa—gender. The production of gendered identities and women as a specific constituency is often exiled to the periphery of current analysis of protests in Africa. The African continent is replete with examples women actively intervening in the public sphere to challenge the state of their nations. For example, the Lagos Market Women Association (LMWA) protested and petitioned against British colonial power on pricing restrictions and regulations during the colonial period. The coordinated resistance ensured that the structure of that economy remained intact and void of colonial control (Johnson 1982). In 1951 Freetown, Sierra Leone, ten thousand women protested increasing food prices. Led by Mabel Dove Danquah and Hanna Benka-Coker, the Sierra Leone Women’s Movement petitioned the colonial government to allow women to regain monopoly on trading certain items (Steady 2005). In Namibia, women activists insisted on decentralising power monopolised by men following independence in 1990 and mobilised for representation in the electoral and legislative processes (Bauer and Okpotor 2013). These examples of women’s collective action offer evidence of early protest action on the continent that centred social transformation. Consequently, the contributions in this book take the observations above into account as they grapple with three interrelated questions. The first question is how political movements that seek to build transformative societies confront co-option into the very systems of capital and patriarchy upon which discontent is brewed. Underlying this interest in uncovering a structural agenda for transformation is an analytical interest in gender. Specifically, how women’s demands for freedom and change brought about by conservative ideas about gender identity, roles and responsibilities find space in what are often named as “revolutionary” moments. What we have observed is that the gendered script that shaped revolutions reverts to reaffirming the patriarchal state as one in which younger (male) patriarchs rotate in, while women and gender non-conforming citizens remain on the periphery of the state/society contract even when change is argued to have arrived. The second question concerns how we move from recognising the power of citizens’ voices and immediate gains in terms of changes of guard at state houses towards centring a socio-political programme within and beyond the state. This is a more difficult question to arrive at firm conclusions on because it requires a robust understanding of the political actors operating in the moment both nationally and internationally.

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Given state capture in some contexts, these actors morph consistently. This question is linked to third, which is an interrogation of what the new generation of protests tell us about youth as drivers of change and a generation in pursuit of inclusive political programmes. Collectively, this book intends to make three contributions. First, we examine the recalcitrance of patriarchy by attending to how youth-hood and gender mediate both the participation and resistance by young men and women challenging state power. In this regard, we explore why new generation protests produce the same outcomes in relation to gender equality as old generation movements. While many norms shift, gendered norms are re-asserted in movements that are supposedly pursuing change. However, in acknowledging this patriarchal recalcitrance, various contributors see the opportunities that emerge with a new generation of activists who centre a strong understanding of gender freedom in their public engagement. Second, in relation to youth-hood, the authors challenge the links between the youth bulge and societal grievances as creating greater possibilities for conflict. Instead, we ask what are the new generation of protests telling us about youth as drivers of change and a generation in pursuit of inclusive political programmes? Third, the authors explore what protest actions reveal about new configurations of democratic and structural change during and in the aftermath of protests.

Book Structure This book is structured around nine chapters excluding the introduction and conclusion. Methodologically, each chapter adopts a different approach. While some chapters are rooted in empirical studies from select countries, others adopt a critical engagement with public discourses on the youth-hood, protest, gender and change as they manifest in mainstream media and grey literature. Chapter “Youth-Hood, Gender and Feminist Dissent” lays out the conceptual contours of the book through an engagement with how constructions of youth-hood, the youth bulge and the demographic dividend have been challenged by protest action across the continent. This chapter situates scholarship on youth-hood as useful to understand the form and nature of feminist protest action across Africa. What is changing, what are the factors driving these shifts and what lessons can be drawn from feminist transformational action in a constraining environment?

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Chapter “Student Movements and Autocracies in Africa” offers a historical mapping of both university student movements and youth-led protests challenging autocracies in Senegal, Tanzania and Sudan from the period before independence to the present day. Rukato considers the intersections of youth-hood, power and higher education institutions in these three countries to highlight the continuities and disjunctures in how university student movements have challenged autocracy. Rukato considers how “successful” students’ protests can be in shifting political bases of power. In chapter “Fallist Feminist Futures in South Africa”, Malebye focuses on #RhodesMustFall and #FeesMustFall to examine the complex relationship between student movements on decolonosing higher education and the realities of marginalised groups specifically black women and nonbinary people participating in these movements. Malebye is attentive to the question of emotional labour as a central part of how embodied activism was imagined by the feminist factions of the Fallist movements. The invisible nature of emotional labour and its impact on women, queer and non-binary people’s contributions to protests is an important part of thinking through the limitations of transformative imaginaries within radical movements. In chapter “A Revolution Deferred: Sexual and Gender-Based Violence in Egypt”, Egypt and the January 25th 2011 revolution is the site through which Abed and Saad unpack how pervasive forms of sexual violence influenced women’s contributions and activism. Abed and Saad argue that sexual violence served as both an obstacle and an opportunity that enabled women to reap sociopolitical gains central to resolving deeprooted gender inequalities, which otherwise may have been lost in the backdrop of the revolution. The protests are viewed as a missed opportunity for women to advance a long-term gender agenda that would secure women’s empowerment in the aftermath of protests. However, in rallying their efforts to resist sexual violence, Abed and Saad argue that women have made significant gains in reclaiming their rights as equal citizens within the public sphere. Through Nugdalla in chapter “The Revolution Continues: Sudanese Women’s Activism”, the evolution of Sudanese women’s activism in the last two decades beginning with the facets of the regime’s Islamisation project sets off our interpretation of latter-day protests that ousted Bashir. Nugdalla’s analysis provides the foundation for examining the laws that engineered the policing of women in the public sphere and state targeting

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of feminist movements and activists. Nugdalla links the political goals of Islamisation in Sudan to the control of women’s bodily autonomy and the subsequent activisms that eventually culminated in the #FallThatIsAll movement that successfully led to the ouster of the Bashir regime. In chapter “Women and the Anglophone Struggle in Cameroon”, we travel to Cameroon where Zoneziwoh reflects on how women participate in collective struggles against injustice and inequalities but often do not draw attention to the oppressions they face. Drawing on an ethnosociological study grounded in social protesters’ perspectives, Zoneziwoh examines how women’s issues have been constructed over thirty months of the conflict in Cameroon and if the prevailing narratives of the conflict have amplified women’s experiences of inequalities and daily injustice. In chapter “Democratic Reversals in Burundi” Hajayandi centres his analysis on a post-conflict context Burundi in which the repression of protests refocuses the battleground for dissent in the formal political sphere. Through Burundi, he offers an analysis of two parallel trends in the country’s politics: the first trend is how electoral boycotts and the lack of participation in the governing institutions by the political opposition have contributed to democratic reversals and reinforced political instability. Second, how the authoritarian tendencies of the ruling party lead to the same outcome by eroding democratic values. The failure to actively participate in political life, the authoritarian attitude of the leadership and the focus on power and wealth rather than on responding to the needs of the people are at the core of the democratic reversals. Tofa in chapter “The Rise and Demise of the “New Dispensation” in Zimbabwe” focuses on the Zimbabwean regime’s response to the August 1st protests that followed the July 2018 contested presidential elections. The departure of Robert Mugabe following a coup in November 2018 was characterised by the euphoria of a “new dispensation”. Emmerson Mnangagwa took over from Mugabe championing the “new dispensation” mantra, claiming that Zimbabwe was moving away from the toxic politics which had characterised the Mugabe era. This chapter examines how the deep state functions to repress citizen voices and how the weakening of organised civil society organisations complicates the ability of the regime to exercise targeted repression. Tofa examines what the response to the August 1st protests communicates about the “new dispensation” mantra.

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Finally, in chapter “Embodying Protest: Feminist Organizing in Kenya”, Anumo and Onyango analyse the political mobilisation, organisation and institutionalisation of feminist social movements and activism in Kenya. They historicise women and protests in Kenya’s political imaginary asking and answering the following questions: Who gets to protest? Who do protests leave out? How has new media reconfigured political performance? Which protests are heard and by whom? Which voices are spoken for, over or silenced in the process? What lessons are drawn from different organising strategies: overt and covert, planned or spontaneous forms of protest? Emerging in all chapters is the question of how powerful interests, which are constantly morphing place citizen and regional accountability institutions on the back foot. In addition, the contributors highlight the role of discourses that circulate around state sovereignty, gender and respectability contribute to rewriting historical and contemporary gains for women and gender non-conforming groups. The chapters in this book grapple with reversals and it is easy to conclude with doom and gloom. However, in the concluding chapter, I ask what does success look like for feminist and youth movements working towards change and transformation? It is an invitation to seize the opportunities created by citizen led protests and other forms of public dissent, to imagine futures that are not based on our losses but those that draw on the wins even if they are viewed as limited.

References Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project (ACLED). (2018). https:// www.acleddata.com/trends/. Bauer, G., & Okpotor, F. (2013). “Her Excellency”: An Exploratory Overview of Women Cabinet Ministers in Africa. Africa Today, 60(1), 77–97. CIVICUS Monitor. (2019). People Power Under Attack. https://monitor.civicus. org/PeoplePowerUnderAttack2019/. Dahir, A. L. (2018, January 18). There’s a Decades-Old Law Threatening Digital Freedom in DR Congo. Quartz Africa. https://qz.com/1187727/the-drcongo-is-using-a-decades-old-law-to-shut-down-the-internet/. Accessed April 23, 2018. Dersso, S. (2016). Unconstitutional Changes of Government and Unconstitutional Practices in Africa. World Peace Foundation. Report on the Future of Peace Missions in Africa. https://sites.tufts.edu/wpf/files/2017/07/2.UCG-Dersso-f.pdf. Accessed January 26, 2020.

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Howa, R. (2018). Why We Are Calling on Women to Shut Down SA on August 1. https://www.iol.co.za/news/south-africa/western-cape/why-weare-calling-on-women-to-shut-down-sa-on-august-1-16275576. Johnson, C. P. (1982). Grassroots Organizing: Women in Anticolonial Activity in Southwestern Nigeria. African Studies Review, 25(2–3), 137–157. Klopp, J. M., & Orina, J. R. (2002). University Crisis, Student Activism, and the Contemporary Struggle for Democracy in Kenya. African Studies Review, 45(1), 43–76. Madowo, L. (2018). How Cambridge Analytica Poisoned Kenya’s democracy. Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/global-opinions/ wp/2018/03/20/how-cambridge-analytica-poisoned-kenyas-democracy/. Accessed January 26, 2020. Steady, F. (2005). Women and Collective Action in Africa: Development, Democratization, and Empowerment, with Special Focus on Sierra Leone. New York: Springer. Tadros, M. (2014). Settling After the Revolts? Egypt’s Political Settlements and Violent Transition (IDS Evidence Report 57).

Youth-Hood, Gender and Feminist Dissent Awino Okech

Introduction One way of reading the fact that protests have become a feature of Africa’s political life is to see it as young people’s desire for freedom from Uhuru 1 leaders. Uhuru leaders are those who took power immediately after flag independence and the generation of leaders who were born at the height of Africa’s flag democracies who have now been co-opted into formal power through a system of patron-client politics. The streets and squares have become the sites from which a nuanced analysis of youth exclusion and de-legitimised leadership has emerged. The discontent with poor service delivery, unemployment and the inefficacy of the political class has been at the centre of the charge for uhuru. Citizen mobilisation has challenged the idea that access to government is only based on engaging instruments of governance, which function and are responsive to “organised” communication such as lobbying and advocacy. The irresponsive nature of regimes has re-centred direct action as a means for citizens to 1 Uhuru is a Kiswahili word for independence. The term Uhuru is used in this paper to signify the freedom.

A. Okech (B) Centre for Gender Studies, SOAS University of London, London, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4_2

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surface concerns around their governments. In the same breath, it has raised salient debates around how changes to state power can occur outside military coups and the ballot. We can acknowledge that African youth have been key to spearheading demands for change and effectively leading to the ouster of “life presidents” from Egypt, Tunisia, Burkina Faso to Senegal (Manji and Ekine 2011). However, an examination of trends across Africa shows that these struggles have been “taken over” by the old guard or “third forces” (Manji and Ekine 2011). This is most prominent in countries such as Egypt and Zimbabwe where the people’s demands were effectively taken over by the military. Consequently, it has been difficult to pin down the desired political direction of the masses in countries where direct action has led to regime change. Additionally, the connection between youthhood and protest action has also been underpinned by how youth-hood and the youth bulge are discursively anchored in the public imaginary. Discourses on youth-hood in Africa are largely viewed from the grievance and conflict perspective, thus positioning youth as a problem rather than a resource (see Urdal 2006). As a result, it has become useful to some political actors to project protest action as a consequence of angry youth who cannot be trusted with the larger goals of governance. Connecting youth-hood to violence has been useful to sidelining the very youth who have been at the forefront of change as was the case in Tunisia and Egypt where the old guard resumed power (see Manji and Ekine 2011). These contestations for power and space have surfaced how youth enter political spaces: as saboteurs, as political actors whose politics open up discourses on the nature of society in its broadest and most specific terms. Popular protests have rescued youth agency away from the narrative of militarism and violence to one that locates creative masses on the periphery of the (un)employment bracket. An important feature of protests particularly in Tunisia, Egypt, Burundi and Sudan to name a few is the long-standing concern on gender equity. While the “squares” epitomised a unified approach to the challenges of democratisation, the post-uprising space has led to massive reversals in women’s rights. These public reversals are evident in new laws, which reintroduce conservative interpretations of women’s rights by reconstructing gender roles in addition to the overt violence that women and girls experience in the public protest space. It is the intransigence of patriarchy that interests me. Through examples of feminist protest action organised to challenge violence against women and the misogyny that

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accompanies it, I illustrate how dissenting feminists carve space to successfully challenge patriarchy one case at a time. Rather than see a case by case approach as a deficit, I view it as an opportunity that expands gender discourse and feminist community building. Consequently, I problematise what success means for feminists in contexts where counter-movements can quickly mobilise emotional and cultural resources to subvert feminist gains. I focus on two case studies from Kenya, #KideroMustGo and #JusticeforLiz, because they illustrate the role of social media in broadening public discourses on violence against women. However, while social media as a sphere of influence is constructed as a theatre for youthful activism, it also reproduces the violence that activists who focus on building movements offline encounter. In examining these continuities of violence against feminists in online and offline spaces, the objective is to trace the technologies of violence that patriarchy relies on to reproduce itself and therefore reverse freedoms for women. In doing so, I excavate the patriarchal discourses that sustain and subvert women’s freedom. These patriarchal discourses mobilise youth-hood and modernity as a basis to contest the changing nature of gender power relations. However, an examination of feminist dissent cannot occur in a vacuum. Therefore, the sections that follow examine the literature on youth-hood in Africa, the production of gender and social media as a site of feminist dissent, which lays the foundation for the case studies that this chapter focusses on.

Youth-Hood as Containment Youth as a category has been argued to be extremely difficult to pin down, because of the multiplicity of identities that are encapsulated within it. Demographically, young people have captured the attention of researchers and governments due to their sheer numbers and what those numbers translate to in terms of their entry into and out of zones of life that were historically designated as belonging to “adults”. Youth-hood cannot simply be based on chronological age. Social and cultural variables such as gender, religion, class, race and ethnicity play an important part in defining who is regarded or considers themselves as a youth (Aguillar 1998; Kurimoto and Simonse 1998). It is also important to note that the way young people are perceived does not necessarily coincide with their self-definitions. Honwana and De Boeck (2005) contrast Western (middle-class) notions of children and childhood as a “carefree, secure

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and happy phase of human existence with the reality of children in many other parts of the world, where young children share the responsibilities of providing food or income, taking care of siblings and (partially) running the household. In non-Western contexts, emphasis is placed on roles rather than on age” (Honwana and De Boeck 2005, p. 15). As Durham argues, “youth is a ‘social shifter’: it is a relational concept situated in a dynamic context, a social landscape of power, knowledge, rights, and cultural notions of agency and personhood” (Durham 2000, p. 1). An extensive study on youth vulnerability and exclusion offers insights into how context-specific peculiarities result in different meanings ascribed to youth. Carried out across seven countries in West Africa, the YOVEX study2 points to how youth-hood is embedded in systems of patronage and exclusion as well as social mechanisms security and dispute resolution (Ismail et al. 2009). In the countries surveyed, youth policies become the avenues through which exclusion and inclusion occur. Youth policies act as normative frameworks that shape the parameters for state definitions of youth-hood by identifying target populations, articulating the obligations of government towards youth, prioritising areas of intervention, drawing up sectional plans and maintaining institutional arrangements (Ismail et al. 2009, p. 39). Policies targetted at youth also reflect understandings of youth-hood as a secondary position in society, “with the state as adult and donor, and young people – despite their burgeoning numerical majority – as a social sub-group requiring control, leadership, opportunities for work, and moral and social conditioning” (Ismail et al. 2009, p. 39). This secondary position becomes glaring when the tension between age as a key descriptor and its ability to be plied for elite gains emerges. Scholars argue that normative conceptualisations of youth-hood in Africa must therefore be situated within larger political economy questions, specifically the impact of structural adjustment programmes (SAPs). El-Kenz (1996) demonstrates how SAPs made youth in Africa resort to new modes of livelihood hinged on survival on the fringes. The SAPs’ emphasis on macroeconomic stability and financial cuts on public expenditure such as education and public sector employment disproportionately affected the youth segment of the population. The 2 I draw on the YOVEX study for its breadth in examining questions of exclusion and vulnerability. While this is done for seven countries in West Africa, similar studies on Southern and Eastern Africa are few and far between.

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consequence was lack of access to post-secondary-level education and structured vocational skills training due to privatisation of what were hitherto public services. Reduced access to state-funded education and socio-economic opportunities contributed to stalling and/or postponing the transition to adulthood (see Chigunta and Mkandawire 2002; Ismail et al. 2009). The privatisation of education increased the cost of higher education, and with limited scholarship schemes, there were limited safety nets to capture youth from poor backgrounds. It is these high levels of exclusion brought about by a combination of national and international policy approaches that are argued to make youth in Africa susceptible to internal armed conflicts, resource depletion, competition, scarcity, economic stagnation and marginalisation (Urdal 2006, p. 607). A socio-economic environment framed by masses excluded through weak governance structures and ethno-nationalism cultivates a survival economy. The social exclusion and marginalisation that youth encounter as a result of the collapse of social, economic and political institutions and the failure of the economic system to generate sufficient livelihood opportunities explain youth’s increasing involvement in conflict and war situations all over Africa (Chigunta and Mkandawire 2002). War is perceived as an option that requires few skills and provides quick returns, and young combatants can rely on the gun to bring them money and respect, which they cannot acquire through prolonged youth-hood (Chigunta and Mkandawire 2002).

Subversion and Peripheral Power The protests in Egypt and Tunisia, the pre-2012 elections experience in Senegal and the 2008 post-election crisis in Kenya, amongst others, point to the fact that acute under-representation and inactive participation of youth in formal decision-making institutions and processes (other than voting) are in fact indications of structural and systemic contradictions. Obi (2006, p. 4) suggests that these contradictions are shaped by inter-generational relations that are a central part of social change which operates alongside class, ethnicity, race and gender as bearers of change. The limited participation and trust in formal politics by youth, as was witnessed in the North African uprisings, have been argued to correlate with the informal (and sometimes illegal and extra-judicial) involvement of young people in politics. The mobilisation of youth through undefined roles as political party thugs, members of youth wings and party enforcers has been linked to contexts where youth are less

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enthusiastic about formal politics (see Ismail et al. 2009; Momoh 2000). This does not make countries with higher levels of youth confidence in formal politics immune from political patronage or political violence. Where youth participation and co-option into formal power has been mediated through national youth councils, they are heavily politicised or rarely represent the interest of mainstream youth because they are beholden to those in power. Often state-sponsored activities that flow from youth policies work within unofficial/informal patterns of privilege and influence, rather than in opposition to them (Ismail et al. 2009, p. 40). Where youth initiatives exist, they fall prey to mismanagement, thus leading to profound scepticism. This has resulted in a circle of mistrust over the resources allocated to sustain youth-led initiatives. An examination of government-led youth initiatives across West Africa points to the fact that rather than being legislative priorities most are watereddown initiatives of public pronouncements by the ruling elite (Ismail et al. 2009). These initiatives are often intensely politicised serving instead as avenues for corruption, distribution of rewards and loyalty particularly during election periods. Most youth beneficiaries of government programmes tend to be members of the ruling political parties, or recommended by political (ethnic, religious or customary) elites, or youth targeted in periods leading to elections (Ismail et al 2009, p. 40). The use of age criterion to control access to decision-making appears to underlie societal (adult) perception of youth as unruly, irresponsible or incapable. It also confirms the existence of “a patriarchal gerontocracy that gives authority to male adults and elders, respectively; and shapes the nature of inter-generational power relations” (Ismail et al. 2009, p. 37). A survey of the proportion of people defined under national policies as youth in formal government positions across seven West African countries reveals either the complete absence of young people or their inconsequential presence amongst legislators, ministers and cabinet members. The manipulation of age-based criteria serves the function of exclusion by placing restrictions on political aspiration and participation in decision-making processes except through voting. Where age criteria create the possibility for the election of youth and their participation in decision-making processes, the nature of politics—money-driven, corrupt, subject to manipulation—undermines their significant involvement in formal power. Social and political capital cultivated through a complex web of informal relationships, referrals and recommendations often constructed around ethnic, religious, geographical, political and kinship

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ties serves in most contexts as a necessary precondition for accessing government-led youth programmes. The politicisation of youth policies and their entry into formal politics points to how youth are prepared to perpetuate power relations and elite power interests. However, this preparation for power occurs in an environment in which discourses on youth-hood are linked primarily to young men.

Violence and Digital Feminist Dissent The masculinisation of youth-hood as a category has led to the exclusion of young women both from discourses on youth-hood and from spaces designed to benefit youth as a demographic. In addition, when discourses on youth are so strongly linked to violence whether associated with a militant status through membership of ethno-nationalist militias, vigilante groups or youth wings of political parties, they have the net effect of excluding young women’s experiences. Consequently, the gendered nature of the ascriptions of youth-hood cannot be wished away. The notion of freedom therefore becomes critical to defining youthhood since it limits the possibilities for exposure, access to innovation and knowledge. Gender roles, such as unpaid care work and domestic chores, leave women with less time for organising and restrict their social mobility. These gendered restrictions limit the ability of young women to develop social networks and the social capital that accompanies it. Consequently, young women tend to move out of the youth bracket faster than their male counterparts of the same age. Coupled with marriage at an early age, young women are generally considered outside of the youth bracket regardless of how young they are (Chigunta et al. 2005). Conversely, while young men acquire status through marriage, their ability continue to negotiate youth-hood continues uninterrupted. Young men continue to ply prolonged youth-hood irrespective of other social and economic descriptors such as marriage and children and this is evident in how youth wings of political parties across Africa are filled with older men who despite societal status are still “youth”. On the other hand, women’s reproductive and social roles are defined, surveyed and controlled with the intention of managing their public participation. In this context, digital spaces have proved to be useful platforms for movement building for young feminist activists. Blogs, Twitter and Facebook communities have become important platforms for building political activism around feminist concerns. Young feminists have claimed

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digital platforms to construct new ways of building feminist activist communities for (Keller 2012). Studies on young women and online spaces point to the double-edged nature of the internet, since it offers space for “education” or “expression”, and yet simultaneously bears the potential for violence, addiction and degeneration, particularly for youth (Dryer and Lijtmaer 2007). WomensNet, a South African-based NGO working across the African continent, points to the ways in which the anonymity of the web, and its ability to shrink distances, also means that perpetrators can use it to harass, stalk and find victims (WomensNet.org). The evolution of big technology especially with platforms such as Facebook and Google has brought to the fore the question of data protection, privacy, agency and consent amongst others. In addition, the anonymity of the net provides an opportunity for predators to shape-shift and fly under the radar. The wealth of information, visual and textual circulating on the internet, also reifies violence thereby contributing to new misogynistic cultures such as the disturbing phenomenon of “rape sites”—where acts of rape are recorded with the perpetrators identity masked or video games that advocate for gender-based violence (see Maltzhan 2005). Lumsden and Morgan (2017) in their study titled Media framing of trolling and online abuse: silencing strategies, symbolic violence, and victim blaming highlight the threats of rape, murder and body-shaming as commonplace responses to gendered “missteps”. These actions play into the hands of patriarchal pillars of respectability and honour politics (Oinas 2015). An initiative that epitomises the work to build new communities is the development of Feminist Principles of the Internet published by the Association for Progressive Communications (APC). Grounded in a gender and sexual rights lens of internet-related rights, the goal of initiatives like this is to engage with the dangers associated with technological innovations, while mobilising the possibilities they offer for transnational solidarity and organising (APC 2016). Take Back the Tech (TBTT) is another example of a campaign that aims to “empower users to use new information technologies for ending violence against women through mapping the intersection between gender-based violence and technology” (takebackthetech.net). The TBTT campaign through an interactive map based on Ushahidi3 allows internet users to share their stories, local news and 3 Ushahidi means “testimony” in Swahili, was initially developed to map reports of violence in Kenya after the post-election fallout at the beginning of 2008 (http:// ushahidi.com).

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personal experiences of gender-based violence (takebackthetech.net). It is worth noting that while initiatives to map online violence have taken off as a basis to protect activists, feminists have deployed the very tactics used to shame them against patriarchy. There are three examples that illustrate these subversive responses. In 2015, in South Africa, we observe a nude protest by Ndlovu, Sara Mukwebo and Lerato Motaung during the Fees Must Fall protests which was designed to halt the violence targeted at students by the police. In Egypt, during the protests which led to the fall of Hosni Mubarak, popular blogger Aliaa Magda Elmahdy posted a nude photo of herself on her blog to draw attention to the violence, racism, sexism, sexual harassment and hypocrisy of society. Elmahdy’s action received widespread criticism leading to death threats resulting in her fleeing Egypt (Natalle 2015). Eileraas (2014) points to how Elmahdy’s action pushes us to think closely about body politics and the theatre of the political. In uploading this photograph, Elmahdy was making a statement about the highly sexualised topography of the resistance movement at the time. Stella Nyanzi’s case in Uganda also offers insights into the convergence between state power and punishing transgression. Nyanzi’s case offers two entry points for these insights. The first entry point was a nude protest staged in response to a labour grievance against her manager Mamdani and therefore her employer Makerere University. Nyanzi’s action was considered “controversial” because she was viewed as an educated woman who had other tactical “options” to resort to, to resolve her grievance. The history of women’s nudity as a protest mechanism is one that predates Nyanzi and forms part of a historical arsenal that African women of a certain age have used to challenge state power by disrupting notions of respectability and morality. The second entry point was Nyanzi’s incarceration which is informed by a trend across the continent of insecure regimes using information and communication laws to restrict the use of social media. Nyanzi who was sentenced to eighteen months in prison under the misuse of telecommunications act for “insulting” the president illustrates how different regimes are finding “innovative” ways to punish dissent (Okech 2019, p. 26). While the naked female body as a powerful interlocutor for dissent is deeply embedded in African narratives of resistance, the sexualisation of the female body today has erased these histories. Consequently, the patriarchal logic that shapes responses to nude protests sits between assertions of acceptable tools that “modern” women should use to express discontent and notions of respectability that imbue the naked female body

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with shame. The intersection between embodied protests, and violence— through incarceration, threats of violence illustrate how discourses and experiences of dissenting young women are gendered in nature. The threat that young women pose is constructed as societal transgression which isn’t co-opted into the mainstream as male youth are. Male youth are constructed as dangerous because of the link to violence that is opportunistically mobilised by political elite. Young women’s transgression on the other hand is a challenge to societal structural power that is socioculturally dangerous but cannot be considered criminal. In thinking about embodied resistance, the next sections of this chapter illustrate how gender violence is a tactical response to transgressive bodies. Lewis (2009) views the subversion of power through spectacle, such as women mobilising their naked bodies in resistance, as a politics that undermines the foundations of the hegemony of repressive regimes (see also Tamale 2016).

The Gubernatorial Slap and the Grass Cutters On 6 September 2013, raw footage of Nairobi Governor Evans Kidero viciously slapping Rachel Shebesh, the Nairobi women’s representative, was circulated in the Kenyan mainstream media. Shebesh had gone to Kidero’s office to discuss the salaries of striking Nairobi city council workers. As her group approached the governor’s office, a scuffle ensues at the door with his security personnel pushing her group away. Kidero appears at the door, seems to listen to Shebesh, the scuffle around them continues and then we see a visibly angry governor slap Rachel Shebesh.4 A few minutes later, the governor is interviewed by the press outside his office. When asked about the violence enacted by him on a fellow Nairobi leader, Kidero laughs and says he has no recollection of the event.5 A few hours later, the governor who had no recollection of the slap goes to the central police station with his wife in tow to report an assault against him by Rachel Shebesh. Proof of this violence is based on a medical examination report from a clinic in the outskirts of Nairobi. Kidero had now remembered that he slapped Shebesh but it was caused by her grabbing his private parts. It is notable that the governor’s office is in the city centre, 4 Footage of the incident can be seen here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v= kGL2rSNgsNQ, last accessed January 18, 2020. 5 Footage of Kidero denying that the incident happen can be seen here https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=ImFwI_HhR3kLast, accessed January 18, 2020.

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which is fifteen minutes away from three large private hospitals including the country’s largest public referral hospital Kenyatta National Hospital but he chose to get a medical report from a clinic forty minutes away. A month later, on 7th October 2013, the Daily Nation carried an article by Njeri Rugene about the gang rape of a young girl in Busia County. The young girl called Liz (not her real name) was accosted by six men who raped her and threw her into an abandoned pit latrine as she walked home from a funeral. Liz suffered extensive injuries to her spine including fistula. Liz identified her rapists who were arrested by the police but were subsequently released with an order to slash grass at the police station. Two processes designed to bring attention to the extent of violence against women emerged. They started off as social media engagements using the hashtags #KideroMustGo and #JusticeforLiz, respectively, but were quickly accompanied by coordinated offline action by formal organisations and independent feminist activists. In focussing on these hashtags, there are two main areas of analysis that I focus on. First, is to illustrate the role that Twitter played as a site for articulating feminist dissent on violence against women and the possibilities it created for transnational organising in the #JusticeforLiz case. Second, I analyse the choices that feminist activists made in using these cases as symbolic of larger systemic issues. I choose these examples because I was actively involved in the “boiler room” conversations for #KideroMustGo and in the early mobilisation for #JusticeforLiz until it took a legal dimension and was therefore actively coordinated by a women’s rights organisation with a legal mandate.

Where Kenyan Women Stand On 6 September 2013, I wrote the article Where Kenyan Women Stand which became a key document that the #KideroMustGo group used to frame the problem with the “gubernatorial slap”. In it I described the violence against women as a crime that is normalised in our society through cultural, legal and social loopholes that explain away why men resort to violence against women. In drawing attention to the structural (patriarchal) roots of violence against women, I was keen to show that Kidero’s actions should not be treated as isolated but as part of a culture that accepts violence as a way to dialogue with women. The group which was composed of individual activists and organisations such as Coalition on Violence Against Women (COVAW), Centre for Rights Education and

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Awareness (CREAW) and African Women’s Development and Communication Network (FEMNET) insisted that the Nairobi governor should step aside until investigations were concluded. The counter charge of violence by Shebesh against Kidero complicated what was a clear-cut matter to us; Kidero had slapped Rachel Shebesh and this was a criminal act. The second complication arose from the high levels of tolerance that Kenyans have for violence against women. Our call for Kidero to vacate office until investigations were concluded were met with a negative chorus on Twitter and Facebook that deployed three major arguments which were all designed to explain his actions as acceptable. The first group compared Kidero’s actions against those who were charged with causing the 2007–2008 post-election violence. If the two actors Uhuru Kenyatta and William Ruto, who were named by the International Criminal Court as criminally liable for Kenya’s post-election violence, were running the country, why should we ask Kidero who “merely” slapped an unruly woman to step down? In the court of public opinion, he was declared a lesser evil. The second set of arguments located this mobilisation for Kidero to face criminal charges as a class-driven campaign. We were argued to be “middle class women making noise because one of us was hit”. Key to this argument was the erasure of the history of activism that organisations such as COVAW had done for over two decades. Finally, despite ideological clarity about the role of violence against women as a patriarchal tool, Shebesh was considered too risky. This meant that the possibilities of mobilising broad-based human rights support were reduced. A sample of tweets below illustrates these viewpoints. @DVK 6 10 Sep 2013 This #KideroMustGo nonsense is stupid. Shebesh and her accomplices were making too much noise… woman needed a slap! @KideroEvans @CM 30 Sep 2013 More Replying to @ZShebesh is hardly the type of woman based on whom a mans character can be judged. She’s had kedo [about] 10 slappers so far. Sad. @mwk 9 Sep 2013 #KideroMustGo where? shebesh is the one who should go..if she knew how to act right we wouldn’t even be here!..leave the man alone

6 Twitter handles have been anonymised.

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For slapping a rowdy Shebesh? No, he’s on[e] of the best managers we have around #KideroMustGo go where? #LeaveKideroAlone.

The “risk” Shebesh posed is also captured by a 16 September 2013 Standard newspaper article by Nikko Tanui titled Some women need to be slapped back to their senses. Despite noting at the beginning of the article that he did not condone a man slapping women for whatever reason, he went on to chronicle instances that would warrant a woman being slapped back to their senses. Physical violence was framed as key to disciplining women who demonstrated that they were unable to exercise “proper” femininity. Shebesh was framed as the antithesis of a “good Kenyan woman” because “she is too aggressive and needed to be tamed”. Consequently, Kidero’s action was a positive assertion of masculinity and male authority, because violence by men against wayward women is deemed acceptable. What started off as a social media response quickly translated into coordinated offline action led by organisations such as COVAW, CREAW, FEMNET and independent activists like me. For a newbie to social media organising, it was interesting to see how the hashtag was hijacked by opposing groups to challenge our position. Shebesh was contacted to ensure that she did not distance herself from the issues being articulated by the #KideroMustGo group. Even though the campaign was not about her, her case was illustrative of the problem. However, the public statements focussed on violence against women, the systemic nature of violence and the continuum of violence that women face in private and public. The Kenya Demographic Health Survey (2015) produced a year after the Kidero slap noted that thirty-six per cent of men believe wife beating is justified for at least one of the specified reasons.7 Fortytwo per cent of women believe wife beating is justified for at least one of the specified reasons (KDHS 2015, p. 284). Forty-five per cent of women aged 15–49 have experienced physical violence since age 15, and 20% experienced physical violence within 12 months prior to the survey. The main perpetrators of physical violence against women are husbands (KDHS 2015, p. 291). Amongst women who have never been married aged 15 years or older who have experienced sexual violence, 43.8% of the perpetrators were strangers, followed by friends or acquaintances (14.4%), 7 If the wife burns the food, argues with him, goes out without telling him, neglects the children, or refuses sexual relations.

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current/former boyfriend (8.2%), family friends (6.9%), teachers (5.8%) and father/stepfather (4.7%), amongst others (KDHS 2015, p. 297). The statistics demonstrate the prevalence of violence against women and accompanying societal perceptions. It was therefore not surprising that the perspectives sampled in the tweets above featured as a response to the #KideroMustGo campaign.

Beyond Social Media Given the nature of social media which often works to focus attention on a subject intensely for a short period, using mainstream media became an important part of our strategy. There were two major factors that were considered—the viewership and listenership of the programmes that were targeted. We focussed on early morning talk shows on the large television and radio stations. We were clear that different people would be asked to speak on different shows so that the campaign was not linked to only one organisation. As the media campaign progressed, some members of the group argued that having men in some of the media appearances as members of the campaign would be important. There were differing views on the usefulness of this approach. However, there was consensus that it was important to challenge the public perception that this case was only receiving massive attention from middle class women because of the profile of the woman at the centre of it. It was therefore tactically useful to have men speaking up against the violence thus debunking the idea that only women care about this. Men’s voices would also challenge the perspective that men would only speak up when the victim was less “problematic”. The act of men who work on issues of violence or governance more broadly articulating a clear position against violence and positioning themselves as allies would shift the trajectory of the debate. We successfully got slots in top morning and radio shows including discussions with radio DJs such as Shaffie Weru whose shows would be considered “less serious” because they were not geared towards catalysing serious topical conversations. Once the media interviews reached their saturation point because of the way news cycles work, we stepped up our practical actions. Part of this work involved engaging with the Nairobi County assembly to understand where they stood on the matter. For this strategy two events converged, a governor that was already besieged in the county, evidenced by striking city council workers, and an act of violence that was gaining

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traction with civil society activists. The members of the county assembly begun proceedings for an impeachment motion against Kidero. Whether the attempted impeachment was due to the violence against Shebesh or it became a useful narrative for his political opponents to mobilise, we will not know. The attempted impeachment motion cited the Shebesh case but it failed. There are two major events that worked together to halt the #KideroMustGo campaign and both illustrate how heteropatriarchy works. As the campaign for #KideroMustGo picked up, a story appeared in the newspapers linking Shebesh to an assault of her security guard. A month later, private pictures of Shebesh with a male member of parliament Mike Sonko were “leaked” to the media. Both Shebesh and Mike Sonko were married to other people so logic would dictate that the pictures should have had a negative impact on both their reputations. However, given societal double standards centred on women’s respectability, morality and the surveillance of their sexuality, these pictures had a greater impact on Shebesh’s credibility than on Mike Sonko (City News 2013). The leaked photos obscured the conversation about violence against women and leadership integrity, and in its place, the morality of women took centre stage. In one fell swoop, the conversation fell back to “women who deserve to be slapped”, in effect that there were some women who deserved to be protected and herein lies the case of Liz from Busia. As the momentum on #KideroMustGo begun to wane due to the events I describe above and it appeared as though a private mediation process was afoot, Liz’s case was brought to our attention.

Justice for Liz On 7th October 2013, Njeri Rugene wrote an article about Liz,8 a 16year-old girl who was gang raped and thrown into an abandoned toilet in Busia in the western part of the country in June 2013. Rugene contacted COVAW asking them to intervene given the work that had been done on #KideroMustGo. The same set of organisations and individuals launched the #JusticeforLiz campaign. The momentum that was built around this campaign illustrates some of the systemic issues that surround how violence against women is dealt with and/or reconciled in society.

8 Not her real name.

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The same set of actions were taken up in this campaign with the main difference being a global petition set up by Nebila Abdulmelik that gathered 1,787,332 signatures from across the globe (see Avaaz 2013). Liz came from a poor family who had been failed by a system that is not designed to protect people who “do not know people”. Liz was the perfect person to contrast against Shebesh because she was constructed as helpless and undeserving of the crime that was committed against her. The penalty meted out by the police officers—slashing grass—did not match the legal provisions for rape and other forms of sexual violence9 . The global reach of the petition and global media attention on international channels such as Al Jazeera and BBC meant that this case attracted interest beyond the country. The campaign also organised a march to deliver the petition to the chief of police. The fact that the day of the march coincided with a Pan-African meeting convened by FEMNET in Nairobi meant that the protest march had an African face to it demonstrating transnational solidarity and a connection on the question of violence. It is possible to argue that Liz was an “easier” case to work with. There was a clear case of assault, the family wanted justice, and there were no powerful actors who could intervene to harm Liz’s reputation and therefore stop the process. The public also felt empathy for Liz. Organisations such as Equality Now stepped in to lead the legal components of this case, and two years later in April 2015, the three men were jailed for fifteen years (Gander 2015). I want to focus briefly on a tactical matter that arose during planning discussions for the march to hand over the petition. There was a debate about visuals for this campaign and additional hashtags. In a conversation with a well-known male photographer cum social mobiliser, some members of the team were persuaded that the use of #ProtectOurPanties alongside an exhibition of women’s panties outside the office of the commissioner of police would send a powerful message. The panties like nude protests offer an embodied understanding of the violation, by drawing on notions of intimacy, privacy and the transgression of personal space. In a context in which underwear is considered a deeply personal clothing item because of its proximity to sexual organs that are both revered when it comes to their potential to serve a reproductive function 9 The Protection Against Domestic Violence Act (2015); the Prohibition of Female Genital Mutilation Act (2011); Sexual Offences (Medical Treatment) Regulations (2012) and the Sexual Offences Rules of Court (2014).

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and abused when sexual violation is concerned, what does asking predominantly male decision makers to protect them mean? The imagery was powerful for both the discomfort and empathy it would create. While there was no disagreement about the exhibition, I had concerns about the hashtag #ProtectOurPanties given that this campaign came on the back of #KideroMustGo. Our lessons from #KideroMustGo illustrated how quickly twitter hashtags can be co-opted by opposing movements and/or used to advance a campaign different from the one intended by the hashtag initiators. #ProtectOurPanties easily lent itself to being usurped and corrupted. The message could be too easily co-opted to one about morality and women’s sexual safety in designated spaces and in particular circumstances, leading to a polarity that pits Liz’s abuse as unacceptable and the violence against Shebesh as acceptable. In calling for someone to protect “our” panties, we were inevitably not sending the core message about the importance of women’s bodily integrity and autonomy irrespective of the circumstances. Protecting our panties suggested asking patriarchs to keep our bodily autonomy safe for us, acting as custodians of our bodies, thus taking power away from women who call for an environment that respects them. In effect, we would shift focus away from interrogating the environment that creates gender violence, thus moving this from a question of the structural dynamics that generate societal security to one about women’s sexuality being protected. The message about the police and justice system effectively addressing the environment that generates power over women through rape would be sidestepped by this hashtag. In demanding protection in these broad terms, conditions could be placed on whose panties deserved protection. Subliminally, we would be sending a message about choice. If I choose not to wear panties, do I not deserve to be protected? If choose to wear “wrong panties”, what happens then? In the end, the hashtag was abandoned. The #JusticeforLiz campaign can be considered a good illustration of how one social media campaign can influence another one. Njeri Rugene’s attention was drawn to COVAW largely due to the work they were doing on the #KideroMustGo campaign. The combination of strategies—twitter, mainstream media and petitions—did not only sustain momentum on the case but also reach out to different audiences. These campaigns also illustrated deeper societal cleavages in relation to violence against women. The #JusticeforLiz campaign tagged at emotional heartstrings more than the #KideroMustGo campaign. The use of “it could be your sister” appealed

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to the primal instincts that catalyse men to protect women who are related to them. This protection also extends to the idea that the respectability of women in your life cannot be questioned and if it is, you must protect them. However, the respectability of “other” women can be questioned. This approach to responding to violence against women means that systemic violence is re-framed as isolated and the result of individual criminal acts. Violence against women is therefore uprooted from a broader patriarchal operational framework. A pick and choose approach to violence against women fails to see the similarities between policemen who believe that slashing is sufficient punishment for gang rape and the governor who resorts to a slap to resolve demands for a collective meeting by county colleagues.

Conclusion In an ever-changing continent where shifting norms and accompanying struggles to challenge old ways are being contested, youth are an important demographic to pay attention to. However, while youth-hood is considered a gender neutral or all inclusive category, it is a highly masculinised one. References to youth and platforms for youth are more often than not dominated by young men. Consequently, negative conceptualisations of youth-hood are shaped by images of violent young men on the periphery of African societies, excluded from state resources. Missing in this debate is how women and girls experience and challenge exclusion. There are four main observations to take away. First, in a context where young women dissent and contest gender power relations they are considered dangerous for their insistence that a slap such as in the case of #KideroMustGo warrants a resignation. Second, in thinking about gender, youth-hood and protests, the digital sphere cannot be underestimated as an important mediating tool. Social media platforms facilitate greater transnational solidarity within a single country where geographical divides can create city-centric approaches to issues. It also expands national concerns to a global audience thus drawing both political and economic resources towards shared feminist concerns. The #JusticeforLiz and #KideroMustGo campaigns illustrate the power of social media and how feminists have effectively taken up this tool to advance social justice concerns framed by gendered exclusion. Third, as has been explored in this chapter, because of the opportunities that digital and online platforms have created to democratising dissent, they

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have attracted greater scrutiny by governments. The increasing layers of surveillance by state and non-state actors means that these tools may no longer be as open and as available as before. We have witnessed governments in Kenya, Uganda, Cameroon, DRC, Ethiopia, Gabon, Burundi, Zimbabwe and Chad fashion a range of “communication laws” intended to control and track how citizens use public social media platforms such as YouTube and WhatsApp (see Dahir 2018). However, there is a different level of surveillance that operates within these platforms, which is the use of misogyny to curtail feminist campaigns and push women out of the digital sphere thus silencing them. The two case studies examined in this chapter perfectly contrast how acceptable gender norms are rewarded with public “approval” with greater public acceptance of violence directed at “wayward” and “unruly” women. The disciplinary role that violence plays against women who are read as acting contrary to acceptable norms speaks to the pervasiveness of patriarchal discourses that see morality and respectability as pivotal to sustaining conservative gendered norms. The tacit belief that some violence by some men against some women is acceptable is to distinguish unacceptable violence as isolated, criminal and not rooted in a structure that sees violence as important to defining gender power relations. This binary understanding of violence targeted at dissenting women evacuates the structural underpinnings of gendered violence. Fourth, it is easy to illustrate how patriarchy reconstitutes itself when faced with resistance, which I have done in this chapter. A focus on patriarchal gains leaves little room to acknowledge the shifts however minute they are, that feminist action facilitates. In the final sections of this conclusion, I will focus on what both case studies tell us about feminist success in contexts where there are more emotional, human and financial resources available to feminist detractors. There was the major win of a legal judgement in Liz’s favour. However, success is also evident in three different ways. The first is in the organic and quickly mobilised group of feminist activists who worked together outside formal institutional affiliations to build two campaigns back to back. In the course of our collective action, we witnessed the removal of institutional constraints that often curtail civil society mobilisation, a dynamic that is created by the increasing NGO-isation of movement work. Through our organic actions, we witnessed the co-creation of knowledge and shared responsibility towards a singular objective. This was done without turf wars and institutional branding because what brought us together was not engineered by an

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organisational activity but by an injustice. At the centre of this success was an illustration of what it takes to build movements—a clear purpose, a collective analysis of the problem and a clear strategy for its resolution. The second way in which success was evident in organisations quickly reallocating institutional resources to the campaigns. A key contributor to the failure of movement-related work is the competition for scarce resources. This scarcity approach to funding feminist movements results in project-based approaches to structural issues rather than funding longerterm strategy work, which on occasion requires opportunistic engagement with campaigns such as the ones explored in this chapter. When organisations see collective action as part of strengthening individual mandates rather than in competition, it enlarges space for dissent against patriarchal counter-movements. The third way success was evident was in the mobilisation of social capital. At the height of the Shebesh campaign, we were able to mobilise an unlikely voice of support through a newspaper article10 by Professor Anyang’ Nyong’o in 2013 who was the secretary general of the political party Kidero belonged to. In it, he argued for the recognition of the systemic use of violence against women in our societies. The use of social capital is one that feminist activists have found important for political struggles. In a conversation with Iheoma Obibi in 2015, she pointed out how important individual social networks became in the fight against the Mini-skirt Bill in Nigeria (see Bakare-Yusuf 2012). In centring the importance of seemingly small feminist victories, we illustrate how the intransigence of patriarchy in an ever-changing sociopolitical and economic environment can still be dealt a blow through committed feminist engagement even through seemingly one-off actions.

References Aguillar, M. (Ed.). (1998). The Politics of Age and Gerontocracy in Africa. Trenton: Africa World Press. Association for Progressive Communications. (2016, August). Feminist Principles of the Internet version 2.0. Available at https://www.apc.org/en/pubs/ feminist-principles-internet-version-20. AVAAZ. (2013). Justice for Liz. https://secure.avaaz.org/campaign/en/liz_ ftw_1/?copy. Accessed January 19, 2020. 10 Unfortunately, this article is no longer available online.

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Bakare-Yusuf, B. (2012). Of Mini-Skirts and Morals: Social Control in Nigeria. https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/5050/of-mini-skirts-and-morals-socialcontrol-in-nigeria/. Last accessed January 26, 2020. Chigunta, F., & Mkandawire, R. M. (2002). Emerging Issues and Challenges for Young Women and Men in Africa. The Livelihood Pathway Series. CYF/ILO/CIDA/IDRC. Chigunta, F., Schnurr, J., Wilson, D. J., & Torres, V. (2005). Being “Real” About Youth Entrepreneurship in Eastern and Southern Africa Implications for Adults, Institutions and Sector Structures. Geneva: International Labour Organisation. City News. (2013). Who Posted Naked Photos of Shebesh Online? https://www. sde.co.ke/thenairobian/article/2000114349/who-posted-naked-photos-ofshebesh-online. Accessed January 18, 2020. Dahir, A. L. (2018, January 18). There’s a Decades-Old Law Threatening Digital Freedom in DR Congo. Quartz Africa. https://qz.com/1187727/thedr-congo-is-using-a-decades-old-law-to-shut-down-the-internet/. Accessed January 19, 2020. Dryer, J. A., & Lijtmaer, R. M. (2007). Cyber-Sex as Twilight Zone Between Virtual Reality and Virtual Fantasy: Creative Play Space or Destructive Addiction? Psychoanalytic Review, 94, 39–61. Durham, D. (2000). Youth and the Social Imagination in Africa. Anthropological Quarterly, 73(3), 113–120. Eileraas, K. (2014). Sex(t)ing Revolution, Femen-izing the Public Square: Aliaa Magda Elmahdy, Nude Protest, and Transnational Feminist Body Politics. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 40(1), 40–52. El-Kenz, A. (1996). Youth and Violence. In S. Ellis (Ed.), Africa Now: People, Policies and Institutions (pp. 273–287). Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann. Gander, K. (2015). Justice for Liz: Rapists Jailed for 15 years Following Protests Over Grass-Cutting Punishment. Independence. https://www.independent. co.uk/news/world/africa/justice-for-liz-rapists-jailed-for-15-years-followingprotests-over-grass-cutting-punishment-10174293.html. Accessed January 18, 2020. Honwana, A., & De Boeck, F. (Eds.). (2005). Makers and Breakers: Children and Youth in Postcolonial Africa. Oxford: James Currey. Ismail, O., ‘Funmi, O., Picciotto, B., & Wybrow, D. (2009). Youth Vulnerability and Exclusion (YOVEX) in West Africa: Synthesis Report. Conflict Security and Development Group (CSDG) Papers (21). Keller, J. M. (2012). Virtual Feminisms: Girls’ Blogging Communities, Feminist Activism, and Participatory politics. Information, Communication & Society, 15(3), 429–447. Kenya National Bureau of Statistics. (2015). Kenya Demographic and Health Survey 2014. Nairobi: Kenya National Bureau of Statistics.

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Kurimoto, E., & Simonse, S. (1998). Conflict, Age and Power in North East Africa. Oxford: James Currey. Lewis, D. (2009). Gendered Spectacle: New Terrains of Struggle in South Africa. In Ann Schlyter (Ed.), Body Politics and Women Citizens: African Experiences. SIDA: Stockholm. Lumsden, K., & Morgan, H. (2017). Media Framing of Trolling and Online Abuse: Silencing Strategies, Symbolic Violence, and Victim Blaming. Feminist Media Studies, 17 (6), 926–940. Maltzahn, K. (2005). Digital Dangers: Information and Communication Technologies and Trafficking in Women. AWID and APC. https://childhub.org/ en/system/tdf/library/attachments/awid_digital_dangers_infor_and_comm_ technologies_and_trafficking_in_women_20060117.pdf?file=1&type=node& id=17501. Accessed January 18, 2020. Manji, F., & Ekine, S. (Eds.). (2011). African Awakening: The Emerging Revolutions. Oxford: Pambazuka Press. Momoh, A. (2000). Youth Culture and Area Boys in Lagos. In Athairu Jega (Ed.), Identity Transformation and Identity Politics Under Structural Adjustment in Nigeria (pp. 200–226). Nigeria: Nordiska Afrikainstiutet & CRD. Natalle, E. J. (2015). FEMEN and Feminism Without Boundaries. Women’s Studies in Communication, 38(4), 380–383. Obi, C. (2006). Youth and the Generational Dimensions to Struggles for Resource Control in the Niger Delta Prospects for the Nation-State Project in Nigeria. CODESRIA Monograph Series. Dakar: CODESRIA. Oinas, E. (2015). The Naked, Vulnerable, Crazy Girl. Girlhood Studies, 8(3), 119–134. Okech, A. (2019). Fight for Justice: Trends Shaping Feminist Resistance and Resilience in Africa. Nairobi: Urgent Action Fund Africa. Rugene, N. (2013). Brave Busia Girl Battles as Her Rapists Go Scot Free. Daily Nation. http://www.nation.co.ke/lifestyle/DN2/When-rapists-goscot-free/-/957860/2022572/-/skd9s8z/-/index.html Accessed January 18, 2020. Sommers, M. (2015). The Outcast Majority: War, Development and Youth in Africa. Athens: University of Georgia Press. Tamale, S. (2016, October, 28). Nudity, Protest and the Law in Uganda. Inaugural Professorial Lecture, Makerere University. Urdal, H. (2006). A Clash of Generation’, Youth Bulges and Political Violence. International Studies Quarterly, 50(3), 607–630.

Website https://www.takebackthetech.net.

Student Movements and Autocracies in Africa Wadeisor Rukato

Introduction This chapter offers a historical mapping of student movements and youthled protests against autocracies in African countries. It focuses on student movements in Senegal, Tanzania and Sudan from the period before independence to the present day to consider the intersections of youth-hood, power, higher education institutions and the state in each of these cases. It highlights the continuities and disjunctures in the ways that university student movements have challenged autocracy to consider how “successful” student protests can be in shifting political bases of power. The concept of autocracy is sometimes used interchangeably with concepts like “dictatorship”, “authoritarian regime” and “non-democracy” (Frantz 2016). The working definition for autocracy is “government by a single person or a small group that has unlimited power or authority, or a country or society that has this type of government” (Cambridge Dictionary 2019). Additional characteristics of autocracy are the restriction of political pluralism, the repression of mass mobilisation and the absence of an electoral process (Frantz 2016). Different forms of autocracy exist on

W. Rukato (B) African Leadership Centre (ALC), King’s College London, London, UK © The Author(s) 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4_3

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a scale of severity; thus, totalitarianism can be distinguished from authoritarianism as two differently severe forms of autocracy. Authoritarianism specifically refers to “arbitrary governmental authority” (Toth 2017). A distinction is made between students and youth as social identities. While the categories are bound by a shared youth-hood, youth is a broader category under which students exist. It is also suggested that students and youth more broadly have not been equally prominent in challenging autocracy at all times. This is because university students have the ability to leverage a distinct “student power”. This power exists because of the ways that relationships between students, universities and the state enables students to exert influence in society. Student power is not at the disposal of youth more broadly. However, in many instances, it has been the shared youthfulness and resulting mutual interests between students and other young people that have enabled them to collectively mobilise against an identified target or towards the attainment of a shared goal. This chapter, therefore, covers both student and youth protests/movements, highlighting instances in which they have been mutually reinforcing and instances in which either of these two categories has played a more prominent role. This chapter is structured in four main parts. The first part locates the university in post-independence African countries to highlight the factors that have defined the relationships between universities and the state. The second part considers contributing factors to the emergence and decline of student movements, and the continually changing relationship between students and the state since independence. Part 3 considers the evolution of student/youth protests/movements in three country cases, namely Senegal, Tanzania and Sudan. It examines the peculiarities of their role in challenging autocracy. The fourth part considers whether a decline in the “elite” status of students and the evolving relationship between students and the state has made youth, as a broader category, better positioned to use protests and movements as tools to challenge autocracy. The conclusion highlights trends, similarities and disjunctures in the role of student movements in challenging autocracy in the respective countries.

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Higher Education in Post-independence Africa In Ancient Egypt, premodern Ethiopia and precolonial Islamic Africa, ancient traditions of scholarship and institutions for advanced education existed before the “deflection of the African historical trajectory by European imperialism” (Lulat 2005, p. 42). Nevertheless, the early emergence of modern universities in African countries is directly tied to colonialism, and many contemporary African universities are adaptations of colonial projects (Hanna 1975, p. 11). The end of World War II (WWII) brought with it a proliferation of higher education institutions in many African countries. Nearly 15 years later, the decolonisation and independence movements that swept the continent starting in the late 1950s ushered in an important transition period for these universities. Africa states were tasked with defining what an African university was and what its relationship with society would be (Hanna 1975, p. 11). At independence, the new leaders of independent African states adopted statist “development models … that emphasised state control of economic activities, while minimising market processes” (Mbaku and Ihonvbere 2003, p. 3). In terms of an ideal political system, African leaders including Tanzania’s Julius Nyerere, Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah and Mali’s Modibo Keita considered the single-party political system as the structure of government most fit to promote “peaceful coexistence of groups and sustainable economic growth and development” (Mbaku and Ihonvbere 2003, p. 4). The combination of statism and one-party political systems enhanced the ability of ruling elites to establish and entrench authoritarian and autocratic rule (Mbaku and Ihonvbere 2003). Autocratic state governance had direct implications for academic freedom and the ways that universities were administered. In Kenya, for example, after independence, the university system was quickly embedded within the wider system of the repressive rule of the state and the government deeply permeated the running of the five public universities and colleges that were established in the country from 1970 (Klopp and Orina 2002, p. 72). One way this happened was through a decree establishing that the Kenyan president would be appointed chancellor of all public universities and colleges in the country. This gave whoever occupied that seat, and the government more broadly, the ability to appoint and dismiss vice-chancellors, to nominate members of the university council and, in some cases, to influence administrative matters or student admissions/affairs (Sifuna 1998, p. 178).

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By the late 1980s, many African countries were heavily indebted to external donors including the International Monetary Fund (IMF), the World Bank (WB) and other bilateral and multilateral creditors, and many were experiencing economic stagnation (Schraeder 1995, p. 1160). During the subsequent period of structural adjustment that started in the mid-1980s, African countries made significant disinvestments from social spending. Implemented by at least 30 African governments (Caffentzis 2000, p. 4), the WB and IMF’s Structural Adjustment Programs (SAPs) imposed conditionalities on states that included the “removal of subsidies to students for food and accommodation, a currency deflation that raised the cost of educational materials, and cuts in government funding of education” (Caffentzis 2000, p. 4). The debt crisis and the imposition of SAPs were central economic contributing factors to the subsequent institutional decline that occured at universities across Africa (Atteh 1996, p. 36). As far as the relationship between university spaces and student protests is concerned, the post-Cold War push for democratisation in African countries was important because it prompted “the rise of increasingly organised and vocal pressure groups within African “civil society” that sought the liberalisation of their respective political and economic systems”. Students and youth were among these groups (Atteh 1996, p. 36).

Situating Student Resistance Historically, student movements in Africa have at times been classified into the following three phases: 1900–1935; 1935–1960; and 1960–1975 (Boahen 1994, p. 10). In the first phase, there were very few student movements in Africa as a whole. There was one in Ethiopia, which is recorded as having been active between 1925 and 1935, but none at all in British colonial Africa (ibid.). In former French colonial Africa and North Africa student movements also existed and were active during this first period (ibid.). The objectives of these early student movements were social and cultural, rather than political (ibid.). In the second phase from 1935 to 1960, the formation of African student movements grew considerably, mirroring the post-World War II expansion of higher education institutions on the continent. While some student movements were both established and based in African countries, many were established and based in European countries, and most notably France, by African students studying and living abroad. The objectives of this second phase

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of student movements were distinctly political rather than cultural (ibid., p. 15). Some of these movements initially demanded a reform of colonialism, while others quickly became “radicalised”, demanding the full overthrow of the colonial system. To this extent, student movements played a decisive role in the independence movements in French Africa and the Maghreb (ibid., p. 16). According to Boahen (1994), in British colonial Africa, with the exception of the West African Student Union (WASU), formal “student movements did not play [a] role in the struggle for independence” (ibid., p. 16). This does not, however, diminish the role that students as a social category unaffiliated to any formal group played in supporting independence movements through other forms of resistance and protests. In the third phase identified by Boahen (1994) spanning the first 15 years of independence between 1960 and 1975, student movements in former British colonies remained relatively conservative throughout the 1960s, while those from former French colonies and Ethiopia specifically tended towards increased radicalism and militancy in the 1970s (ibid., p. 14). In the later parts of the twentieth century, the prominence of formal student movements witnessed a decline across parts of Africa. Given the distinction made between movements and protests, Boahen’s mapping of student movements does not reflect the simultaneous and often related manifestations of student protests in African countries both before and since independence. Thus, while student movements perhaps saw a decline after the 1970s, protests remained a prominent form of activism for students across the continent. Federici and Caffentzis (2000), who track the chronology of African university students’ struggles from 1985 to 1989 in the backlash towards SAPs, identify at least 142 (Federici and Caffentzis, pp. 11–150) distinct instances of student strikes, demonstrations, protests and resistance against the state both on and off university campuses in countries across the continent including Kenya, Tunisia, Congo, Zimbabwe, Mali and Nigeria. The next section of this chapter discusses three case studies to explore the complex intersections between youth-hood, power, higher education institutions and an autocratic state.

Senegal Abdoulaye Bathily et al. (1995) track the history of the Senegalese student movement from what they designate as its inception in 1903 up

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until 1989. Their definition of “movement” is broad, and it speaks to the emergence, activities, contributions and dissolution of a series of different formal student organisations in the period observed. They describe the student movement as having a series of distinct phases between 1903 and 1989: the period of assimilation (1918–1947); the period of nationalisation (1946–1960); the anti-imperialist period (1960–1975); and the corporatist set back (1974–1988). According to the authors, the roots of the movement lie in the establishment of Ecole Normale William Ponty in Senegal in 1903, the “first French West Africa higher education institution” (Bathily et al. 1995, p. 371). The period of assimilation was defined by the tensions experienced by Senegalese students in either actively choosing to assimilate with the French colonial establishment on one hand, or attempting to resist this and instead drive forward a nationalist agenda on the other (Bathily et al. 1995, p. 371). Students who had previously attended educational institutions set up by the French, like Ecole Normale William Ponty, formed alumni and other associations that enabled them to distinguish themselves from other social groups, and through which they exchanged views with their peers. In the period of nationalisation, Leopold Senghor and other African politicians seated on the French Constitutive Assembly pushed for the setting-up of a “genuine higher education system in French black West Africa” (ibid., p. 375) which led to the later establishment of the University of Dakar in 1957. With this, and in the context of the post–World War II sociopolitical context, there was an expansion of student associations that were formed by and centred around the new class of university students in Senegal. The Association des Etudiants Africain (African Students Association) was formed in 1945 by Senegalese students in France and was the first black students’ association in France (ibid., p. 376). It rejected the Union Francaise (French Union) under which France’s West African Colonies were classified from 1946. It also advocated for the improvement of students’ learning conditions and their independence from political parties (ibid., p. 377). By 1952, the association had evolved into the Association des Etudiants Senegalais en France (AESF) (Association of Sengalese Students of France). A particular feature of the Senegalese students’ movement at that time was the divergences in the interests between Senegalese students’ associations formed and based in the metropole (France) and those that emerged and were based in Senegal. For example, during the nationalisation period, students in France became more quickly radicalised towards nationalism, pan-Africanism and Marxism than the students in

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Senegal, who still clung onto the privilege of association with the French that came with access to education. Students in France “already felt the need for independence in 1953, [but] it was not until 1957-1958 that those in Dakar started showing a clear inclination towards this view” (ibid.). The Association Generale des Etudiants de Dakar (AGED) (General Association of Students of Dakar) which was formed in 1950 was instrumental in leading demands to the colonial administration to provide education in Senegalese universities of a quality that matched the education at universities in the metropole. This led to calls to democratise education (ibid., p. 379) and later it led to calls for independence and nationalism. The increasing radicalism of the student movement attracted the attention of political parties who sought to infiltrate the movement in order to expand their bases within local constituencies. The Rassemblement Democratique Africaine (RDA), a political party formed in 1946, “was the first to apply a strategy of infiltration into the student movement” (ibid., p. 380). Ultimately, the period of nationalisation witnessed a shift in the Senegalese student movement from an ambiguous and varied association with the colonial system, to a stronger and more consistent recognition by students that they were in a position to lead or contribute to the country’s liberation. The post-independence period in Senegal, like many other African countries, was characterised by a proliferation in higher education and a surge in enrolment numbers. Over time, the ability of the state to continue to subsidise education was put under strain. The politics of the student movement became increasingly defined by both anti-capitalism and anti-imperialism. Its anti-imperialist stance was reflected by its empathy with and explicit support for countries like Congo, Ghana and South Africa, whose politics were still being directly interfered with by international actors. The continued attempts by political elites to permeate the student movment also meant that it tended to “position itself in the limelight of political action whenever partisan political opposition could not express itself openly” (ibid., p. 379). The movement has thus been criticised for being infiltrated and manipulated by opposition parties in Senegal, and this was often evidenced by the convergence in the profiles of student activists and “the intellectuals [that formed] the bulk of the opponents to the government” (Bathily et al. 1995, p. 397). During this time, student

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action took the form of protests and demonstrations that were increasingly met with government brutality, threats of cuts to government funding to students, the suppression of scholarships, and harsh applications of the law (Bathily et al. 1995, p. 395). Senegal gained independence in 1960. During the anti-imperialist period between 1960 and 1975, the student movement was primarily shaped by an anti-Senghor movement and was concerned with the termination of the French influences at the University of Dakar. A notable high point in this regard is the May 1968 student protests which culminated in a general protest that challenged the Senghor regime. The key mobilising actors in this regard were the Union des etudiants de Dakar (UED) (Dakar Students Union) and the Union Democratique des Etudiants Sénégalais (UDES) (Democratic Union of Senegalese Students). A central cause of the protest was the anti-imperialist ideological orientation of students and other groups who sought the attainment of authentic independence and the dismantling of the neocolonial state. Student frustrations found mutuality with working-class disaffection that, among other factors, was a result of the “agricultural crisis [that] contributed to growing tensions in Dakar and rural parts of the country” (Libcom.org, 2016) and general economic deterioration that had caused a severe decrease in purchasing power since 1961 (ibid.). An immediate cause of the general protest was the government’s introduction of a reform that cut student scholarships to one-third in 1968 (Levi and Thiam 2018, p. 183) and the failure of negotiations between the UED, UDES and the government on this issue. When the state brutally shut down the initial protests by declaring a state of emergency and deploying the army onto university campuses, the Union nationale des travailleurs du Senegal (UNTS) (National Union of Sengalese Workers) subsequently called for a strike in solidarity with the students (Bianchini 2016, p. 95). Senghor’s government enlisted the assistance of the French Army to break up the general protest and simultaneously opened talks with the UNTS in a scheme to disrupt the alliance between workers and students. Mutuality between the protesters was further weakened when the government entered into negotiations with the UDES. Ultimately, the lack of a consistent unifying goal among the different student organisations, the workers’ unions and the different underground opposition organisations resulted in the gradual waning of the student protests by 1970 (Bathily et al. 1995, p. 396).

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During the period identified as the corporatist setback between 1974 and 1988, contextual factors in Senegal had led to the gradual proletarianisation of students (Bathily et al. 1995, p. 398). The emergence of opposition parties and the opening up of democratic spaces, for example, diminished the students’ ability to express a political agenda. Fragmentation of the movement into multiple and competing associations also led to increased difficulty in successfully orchestrating mass mobilisation of students around a single cause. Thus, strikes that emerged between 1975 and 1977 were primarily corporatist and were conducted with limited success in the attainment of desired outcomes. By the late 1980s, unemployment was rife in Senegal and students who bore the brunt of graduating with no job prospects increasingly coalesced with other unemployed youth. Another high points in the Senegalese student movement was the 1988 protests against the disputed outcome of the general election (Zeillig 2007, p. 184) in February of that year. In this instance, students successfully extended the objectives of the movement from a focus on their own interests to those of the broader society. Students were able to influence the appointment of key staff at the University of Dakar, including the viceprincipal (Zeillig 2007, p. 185). Senegalese students also played a central role in the country’s democratic transition of 2000 in which Abdoulaye Wade was elected as president. Students primarily contributed to the outcomes of the election through their mobilisation efforts and by acting as the “principal organisers and propagandists of Wade’s campaign” (Zeillig 2007, p. 183). It is also suggested that the presence of student activists at polling stations helped to prevent serious electoral fraud (ibid.). In return for their contributions, students held Wade accountable for improving conditions at the university, making it clear that the same movement that had supported his election could equally turn on him if he reneged on commitments to increase financial support to students. However, the student demands inherited by Wade had existed for decades prior to his election. This, in addition to the proposed increase in university fees under the government’s national plan for education, sparked the 2001 student protests in Senegal through which students expressed their grievances over the lack of improved material conditions at universities. At the height of the protest a student, Balla Gaye, was shot and killed in clashes with riot police. The strike came to an end in 2003 after Wade instituted a variety of university reforms. The end of the strike also saw an increased uptake of former student leaders into government positions.

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At this point, it is instructive to consider the nature of student protests post-2005 with a focus on highlighting the emergence and impacts of alternative youth movements. For one, to the extent that universities in Senegal still face structural challenges and education funding remains low (Zanoletti 2018), university student and teacher strikes are still a common form of collective action in Senegal. For example, “in 2014, one third of protests in Senegal were focused on education sector issues, and this figure rose in 2015” (ibid.). There was a break in this trend in 2016 and 2017 as demonstrations and protests focused on the parliamentary elections. However, in 2018, education-related protests outnumbered all other protests in Senegal (ibid.). According to Zanoletti (2018), the strains on funding to the education sector are “heightened by the shrinking labour markets, weak public sector recruiting, and reorientation of government spending towards the security sector” (ibid.). Despite being centred on education, these protests reflect wider disaffection and discontent in Senegal. Most recently, in 2018, a teacher’s strike over economic indemnities (ibid.) cascaded into a student strike over the resulting delay in exams. Students also demanded for the government to make payments toward student grants at Gaston Burger University in Saint-Louis. Clashes with security forces led to the killing of a student which resulted in a flare-up of the protests across other academic institutions. As far as the material demands of students are concerned, there has been little change in the tune and character of student engagement with the state around the provision of adequate funding. In terms of braoder youth-led political activism in Senegal, Y’en a Marre (We Are Fed Up) is a rap music group and civic youth movement that has contributed significantly to mobilisation and the cultivation of a youth consciousness. The “Y’en a Marre Movement” emerged in the context of former President Abdoulaye Wade’s attempt to change the constitution and run for a third term in June 2011 (United Nations Regional Information Centre for Western Europe 2019). The Movement’s founders are rappers who already had a broad youth audience and a listernership that resonated with the messaging in their music. Remarking on how the movement was started, its founders said: “we discussed the fact that a group of imams from Guediawaye had mobilized themselves to speak out against the constant cuts in electricity. So, we said to ourselves – if the elderly are taking a stand, how come we, the young, don’t?” (ibid.). Besides a press release that was issued by the movement’s

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founders about its establishment, the protests of 23 June 2011 presented an ideal opportunity for the movement to establish itself legitimately by attracting followers in the context of crisis. Y’en a Marre is specifically described as a civic movement. Examples of the movement’s civic engagement activities include persuading people to register to vote and discouraging them from selling their electoral cards for quick money (ibid.). Having recognised that an estimated one million plus youth hadn’t registered for the election, the organisers distributed flyers, rapped about the country’s situation and collaborated with media on awareness raising initiatives (ibid.). While it would appear that Y’en a Marre is a political movement, its leaders have made it explicit that the movement is less about politics than it is about conscientising people towards a “New Type of Senegalese (NTS)” (ibid.), who is “responsible and conscious, [and] who participates in society” (ibid.). The movement has reached as far as Mali and Togo. It, therefore, has transnational bearing—interestingly similar to the early Senegalese student movement which necessarily accounted for the concerns of other West African students.

Tanzania The University of Dar es Salaam (UDSM), the first university in Tanzania, was established in 1961 and initially existed as the University College, Dar es Salaam (Centre for World Class Universities 2014). UDSM was initially affiliated with the University of London before becoming a constituent College of the University of East Africa in 1963 (ibid.). It was only in 1970 that UDSM “was formally established by Act of Parliament No. 12 of 1970” (ibid.). From the onset, the post-independence Tanzanian government included the university in its policies on human resource development and “viewed the university as a key institution for its policies on national development” (Brooke-Smith 1978, p. 143). As was the case in many other African countries at the time, youth who had access to university education immediately became part of a bureaucratic and social elite whose position in society was qualified by particular material, social and professional expectations. In addition to acquiring the necessary skills and expertise for contributing to the governance of Tanzania, university students were necessarily expected to “have an ideological lead in promoting socialism” (Brooke-Smith 1978, p. 144). The orientation of UDSM was,

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therefore, directly shaped by the visions of President Julius Nyerere and the ruling party, Chama Cha Mapinduzi. For example, the Second-Five Year Plan in Tanzania included a manpower plan which stipulated that the curricula at UDSM ought to be “directly and sharply focussed on job requirements” (Brooke-Smith 1978, p. 143). As far as envisioning what higher education would like in Tanzania, there was a clear deviation from the “heritage of western intellectual detachment and objectivity” (Brooke-Smith 1978, p. 149). The constitution of higher education in Tanzania was therefore directly controlled by political decision-makers, and because of this, university education had considerable implications for how national politics was shaped. The tethering of higher education to national development in terms of high-level manpower also meant that UDSM was a factory that produced an educated elite. The desire of this elite to be independent from the country’s political elite would, however, become a source of tension between grduates and the state. Among the most prolific clashes between students and the state in Tanzania are the October 1966 national service demonstrations, at what was then still the University College of Dar es Salaam and still part of the University of East Africa. In October 1966, the “National Services Law” was passed, requiring “all young Tanzanians, including university graduates, to spend 2 years in some form of service being paid 40% of what they would otherwise be earning in civilian life” (Brooke-Smith 1978, p. 144). In opposition to the legislation, on the 22nd of October 1966, over 412 students marched to the State House to present their grievances and demands to the government, stating that if they were not met, “the battle between the political elite and the educated elite” (ibid.) would continue. According to Ivaska (2005), the statement by students about their explicit opposition against the political elite was an indication of the degree to which students considered themselves to be in a vertical rivalry with the government. President Nyerere reacted to the demonstrators’ criticism against low mandatory natoional service and low governmnt wages by cutting government salaries by 20% (Brooke-Smith 1978, p. 145), expressing that he had heeded students’ demands. At the same time, however, he summarily expelled 338 of the students from the university. The aftermath of the 1966 crisis resulted in the establishment of a counter-hegemonic group called the “United African Student’s Revolutionary Front” (USARF) (Ivaska 2005, p. 101). The organisation consisted of Marxist intellectuals and one of its primary goals was to raise the “awareness of the people

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with regards to socialist ideology” (Mwollo-Ntallima 2011). Like many student organisations of its kind at the time, the USARF was comprised of students from countries in East and Southern Africa including Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe and Sudan. African statesmen including Yoweri Museveni and John Garang were among its members (Academic Dictionaries and Encyclopedias 2019). Publication was a key tool for USARF’s activism. Particularly renowned is the organisation’s magazine Cheche which, along with other publications, reflected the USARF’s interpretation of the situation in Tanzania (Brooke-Smith 1978, p. 146) and criticised the “course of Tanzanian policy and leadership as being ineffectual, moderate and a revisionist sell-out” (ibid.). This was particularly in the context of the governments increasing partiality to neoclassical economic policy. The president publicly discredited the USARF in 1970. The organisation and the publication Cheche were subsequently banned which was a major blow to the already marginal left activist effort. When UDSM became a self-sufficient university in 1970, the Dar es Salaam University Students’ Organisation (DUSO) was formed (Mwollo-Ntallima 2011, p. 37). Throughout the 1970s, DUSO members protested for greater inclusion in decision-making about the university and “matters of democracy and participation, academic freedom, political killings and arrests of political figures” (ibid.). In 1978, DUSO was banned and all student affairs were forcibly made the responsibility of the government affiiated Tanganyika African National Union Youth Leageue (TYL). There was a ten-year period between 1978 and 1988 when all student associations were banned and only in 1991 were students granted the permission to form the Dar es Salaam University Student’s Organisation (DARUSO) (Mwollo-Ntallima 2011, p. 38). Incidences of student protest and activism at UDSM have continued since then. However, the issues that have prompted demonstrations have been less political than they were in the 1970s, and are now primarily concerned with issues related to the governance of the university. Student protests in 2010 at the UDSM expressed disaffection over the government’s management of its cost-sharing scheme (Benbow 2011, p. 1) which was borne out of the privatisation of higher education. According to Benbow (2011), the recent student protests in Tanzania have largely

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been about “pocketbook issues” (Benbow 2011, p. 2). Additionally, Tanzanian students no longer enjoy the benefits of large-scale public recruitment by the state and, therefore, increasingly need to navigate the contemporary job market which is generally either competitive or deficient in the availability of opportunities. More recent student protests in 2011/2012 took on a particularly violent character and clashes between students and security forces were common. Suspensions and expulsions of protesting students were used to reprimand, punish and make an example of dissenters. In 2012, the UDSM adopted a “suspend, expel and blacklist” policy in an attempt to restore order at the institution (Mchome 2012). An after-effect of these protests was the securitisation of university spaces. Fast forward to the present context under President John Magufuli, there has been a gradual reduction of personal freedoms, democratic spaces and an increase in incidences of political violence against those who are deemed to be a threat by the government. This is the context that contemporary forms of student activism in Tanzania need to navigate.

Sudan Sudan is a fascinating case to observe the role of the university and student/youth activism against autocracy. If not for the history of student involvement in opposition to autocracy in 1964 and 1985, then for the fact that in 2018/2019 students/youth contributed significantly to the protests that led to the successful deposition of long-term dictator Omar Al-Bashir. This section focuses on student/youth protests in Sudan before the secession of South Sudan in 2011 and protests in Sudan since. The history of the North-South divide in Sudan defined the ways that education was leveraged as a political tool in the country. Historically, schools in the north of the country were administered in Arabic, with a curriculum that reflected the region’s Islamic heritage (ibid.). Schools in the south of the country had been established and run by Christian missionaries, with English being the language of instruction. Even in 2011, at the time of the South Sudan’s independence, levels of literacy and educational attainment in the two countries reflected the “distinct policies pursued by British governors during the period of the Anglo-Egyptian condominium” (Bishai 2008, p. 2). The administration of education in the South by the British was such that the education was both of poor quality and not broadly accessible. A

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political implication of this was the resulting limited ability of Southerners to effectively represent themselves and their interests in the government in Khartoum. The severity of this situation is made clear by the fact that, when Sudan gained independence in 1956, “there was not a single university in the entire South” (ibid.). Due to the various conflicts in South since then, access to education has remained extremely limited. Britain’s administration of the North was quite the opposite. Sudanese who lived in the capital city, Khartoum, had the potential to be part of the country’s elite. This was both because of the benefits conferred by living in the centre and because of more ready access to education. Gordon Memorial College, which would become the University of Khartoum in 1956 when Sudan gained independence, had already been established in 1902 for the purpose of educating and training North Sudanese. According to Bishai (2008), the positioning of the University of Khartoum had important ramifications for the future politics of Sudan for two reasons. Firstly, the students who attended the university developed a sense of “Sudanese identity” (Bishai 2008, p. 3) that was particularly informed by both their privileged access to education and “their own Arabised and Islamicised culture” (ibid.) which necessarily failed to incorporate the South. Secondly, university graduates were specifically being trained for incorporation into the civil service. The ability for “their conception of the nation’s identity [to become] the dominant cultural narrative” (ibid.) had direct implications for the brand of nationalism that would emerge Sudan, and the subsequent attempts to unify the nation that would lead to a civil war (ibid.). Autocracy, military rule and conflict have played a central role in the politics of Sudan since independence. In 1958, the post-independence government was ousted in a military coup. A year before independence in 1955, the First Sudanese Civil War had started after “southern insurgents, called the Anya Nya, fought against the [government of Sudan] for greater autonomy” (Zapata 2011). The first civil war ended in 1972 with the signing of the Addis Ababa Declaration which granted South Sudan greater autonomy. At this time, Jaafar Nimeiry was the president of Sudan after having taken power through a coup in 1969. Both the 1956 constitution and the Addis Ababa Agreement failed to sufficiently address the issue of whether Sudan should be a secular or Islamist state. Islam has always been a minority religion in the predominantly Christian South.

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In 1983, “President Jafaar Nimeiry declared the nationwide application of sharia law and revived efforts to impose the Arabic-language and Islamic-themed curriculum on the South” (Bishai 2008, p. 3). He also defaulted on provisions made in the Addis Ababa Agreement for a referendum in Abyei that would allow population of the area on the north-south border to decide whether it would remain part of the north or be administered as part of the south. This sparked of the second civil war between 1983 and 2005. While a peace agreement had been signed between the government of Sudan and the Sudan People Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A) in 1989, a coup led by recently deposed Omar Al-Bashir toppled the government and nullified the peace agreement (Zapata 2011). The second civil war ended with the signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement in 2005 (ibid.), and in 2011, South Sudan successfully gained independence from the North. The secession of South Sudan led to a drop in the flow of oil revenues to the North, which resulted in the government instituting austerity measures in the form of cuts in fuel and other subsidies. In 2015, Omar AlBashir was re-elected in an election that many deemed to be a “political charade” (Smith 2015). In addition to the repressive authoritarian politics of the country, the economic malaise in Sudan continued to be the cause of significant disaffection. In December 2018, a series of ongoing protests that are now part of what is popularly known as the Sudanese uprising were immediately prompted by a government increase in fuel and bread prices but were more fundamentally informed by already existing fatigue and despondency among the people about the sociopolitical context in the country. The culmination of the three months of protests against Bashir’s thirty-year rule was a military coup on the 11th of April 2019 that effectively removed him from power (Al Jazeera 2019). Students in Sudan have been key actors in challenging the dictators that have ruled the country and they remain active as the country attempts to crawl its way toward some semblance of civilian rule in the post-Bashir context. The University of Khartoum in particular has been an important site for the emergence of contesting and oppositional voices to the autocratic state. In 1964, it was students who led the protests that eventually ousted the first president of Sudan, Ibrahim Abboud. The protests were prompted by a series of events linked to what was dubbed the “Southern Problem” which was essentially the dispute between the Arab North and Christian South of the country around the North’s attempts to “Sudanize” the South (Global Nonviolent Action Database, n.d.).

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Public discussion on the issue was permitted at Khartoum University by the regime and students eventually concluded that the issue would not be resolved if the Abboud regime remained in place. The government subsequently banned further meetings, however, students still continued to organise. When police attempted to disperse a meeting held by the Khartoum Students’ Union on the 21st of October 1964, they opened fire and a student was killed. The following day, the funeral for the slain student took the form of a protest led by university faculty, in which more than 30,000 people were present (ibid.). The protest turned into a general strike that included the buy-in of professionals and opposition parties and had the army split in terms of allegiance. Out of this emerged the United National Front, which was a multi-stakeholder organisation representing the interests of different actors who had bought into the protest. The United Front called for a general strike that lasted until the 30th of October, eventually resulting in the establishment of the transnational government (ibid.). In April 1985, rising food prices and disaffection with the Nimeiry dictatorship reached a high point when the government announced further increases in the prices of basic goods. This led to the emergence of a general strike that began with spontaneous student demonstrations (Global Nonviolent Action Database, n.d.). It was specifically students from the Islamic University of Omdurman (ibid.) who marched through Khartoum and were later joined by workers, the unemployed and professionals as the strike grew. The Communist Party also joined and later, the SPLM was brought on board too (ibid.). With the involvement of the political parties, workers’ unions and professional associations, the campaign gradually became more organised. The military, having met with the opposition leadership, eventually orchestrated the coup that deposed Nimeiry. The Sudanese uprising in 2019 demonstrated the contribution of students, intellectuals and academic institutions in the challenging of the dictatorship of former President Al-Bashir. Students were among the groups of protesters in Atbara, who in December 2019 stood united with the groups of citizens who marched against the bread price hikes announced by the government (Sudan Tribune 2018). Lecturers at the University of Khartoum, which has historically been the “most important hub of intellectual opposition” in Sudan (Berridge 2019), were also involved in the uprising and marches, and the University itself has been “at the centre of important debates about Sudan’s immediate political future” (ibid.).

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During Sudan’s recent uprising, the Sudanese Professionals Association (a coalition of different Sudanese trade unions) largely took on the role of organising and giving structure to the protest movement. This again shows how mutuality between youth, students and other social groups is critical for driving widespread uptake of protests against authoritarian governments. In February 2019, as the protests mounted, the government shut down all 38 universities in the country (Abd El-Galil 2019).

University Students in Africa: An Elite No More? To the extent that student protests and movements emerge out of particular sociopolitical contexts, it is important to consider how students have been situated within society over time, and how this has shaped their ability to engage in collective action against autocrac governments. There is general agreement in the literature that, in the early years after independence, university students in Africa existed as an elite within African societies. Leo Zeillig, who has written extensively about student protests and activism in Africa since independence has, at different times, referred to students during this period as “a pampered section of society being educated to run the post-colonial state” (Zeillig 2007, p. 21) and “a transitory social group, who held well-founded expectations of rewarding and high-status employment after graduation” (Zeillig and Dawson 2008, p. 1). Hanna (1975) observes that African university students were “disproportionally elite in background, mature and urbane in experience, and likely members of their countries’ social (and perhaps political) elite” (Hanna 1975, p. 23). The elite and politically privileged status enjoyed by African university students in the post-independence era was the result of many overlapping factors including: access to state-funded education and attendant material benefits; the almost automatic granting of future membership among the country’s political, occupational or wealth elites (Hanna 1975, p. 36) after graduation; the general respect that would be conferred on graduates by members of their communities because of the cultural status of education; the state’s need for graduates for implementing national development visions (Zeillig and Ansel 2008, p. 32); and the limited access to education for ordinary youth in the period before the rapid expansion in higher education in African countries in the 1970s and 1980s. Students also existed as a group distinct from workers, professionals and other groups within society. For example, Zeillig and Ansell

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(2008) argue that students were a transient social group that was primarily involved in social reproduction with little contribution to economic reproduction in their countries. This was advantageous because it enabled students to “organise [effectively] without the discipline [and restraints] of a workplace” (Zeillig and Ansel 2008, p. 32). This, in addition to the elite status of students, enabled them to wield greater influence vis-à-vis other groups in society (for example, workers and professionals) in terms of navigating their relationship with the state. Because of this, Zeilig and Ansell argue that in Africa, “… students have often seen themselves as a vanguard, representing the interests of workers and peasants” (ibid.). Hanna (1975) adds that African students were historically politically “important” because of their ability to shape and lead public opinion and their role in the emergence of a tradition of activism and defiance in African universities (Hanna 1975, pp. 2–5). Reflecting on the initial elite status of students in post-independence African countries is a somewhat wistful exercise because of how quickly this privileged status was subsequently challenged. Post-independence leaders in African countries regarded education and formal schooling as central to the development of the state (Boyle 1999, p. 19). Equality of formal education took political salience and resulted in the accelerated development of school infrastructure. The prioritising of universal access to education diminished the former “pro-elite bias” (Boyle 1999, p. 25) that previously buttressed the privileged position of students. The rapidity and scale of the expansion in education access and infrastructure quickly overburdened the existing capacity of state budgets to both continue expansion and adequately maintain what infrastructure had already been put in place. This, coupled with rapid population growth (and a subsequent continued increase in demand for education resources), institutional corruption at the state and university levels and declining overall quality of education, resulted in a steady deterioration of conditions at universities. The implementation of SAPs caused massive state disinvestment from public education and spurred the onset of privatisation of education. In this context, those who could not afford to pay for high-quality private education had to straddle the options of either falling to the periphery or accessing education in under-resourced and often run-down public institutions. Presently, “educational opportunity, [which was] heavily influenced in the past by expansionist efforts of public or corporate actors such as states, churches and non-governmental organisations, evolves under the new influence of revenue-generating and

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-seeking private individuals providing fee-based educational opportunities for local elites” (Boyle 1999, p. 31). Market considerations now play a more dominant role than public policy decisions in determining the supply of quality education resources in many African countries (ibid.). This has prompted the emergence of a new kind of class formation that has eliminated the former ability of university students to exist as an elite simply by virtue of being enrolled. One now needs to already be part of a wealth or social elite to access education in the first place. Thus, conceptions of students have shifted from notions of students as elites to notions of students as clients of higher education institutions (Bianchini 2016, p. 18). In the current context, “economic wealth has begun to surpass, even replace, [all other factors] in determining the breadth of one’s educational opportunities” (Boyle 1999, p. 29). Because of this shift in social positioning, there has been a gradual decline in concern about the potential of students to organise in order to agitate in some African countries and a subsequent rise in interest in the how youth who lack access to formal education or jobs might contribute to political unrest. Currently, the issues around which young people are protesting continue to include demands for jobs and opportunities, access to political spaces and democracy, the addressing of corruption and inequality and the end of autocratic rule. Issues around access to and the quality of tertiary education in African countries have increasingly amplified the shared frustration and disillusionment of those who are in universities with those who are not. An increased focus on “youth” as a social category can be seen in the salience of the youth bulge discourse and the increasing anxiety among entrenched political elites about the demonstrated potential of youth to challenge autocracy, depose leaders and make demands of the state. The Arab Spring in 2010 and the emergence of the itoyen movement in Burkina Faso in the same year are recent examples of movements in which youth have made active demands for radical social, political, institutional and economic reforms in their countries. That being said, the 2014 #RhodesMustFall movement in South Africa that spread across university campuses in South Africa and allied universities in Western countries is a reminder that the university and students in particular do still have a distinct role to play in challenging autocracy and the status quo. It is also a reminder of the diverse realities in African countries that make certain ‘types’ of youth best positioned to lead activism against the autocracy at different time; an important reminder that context matters.

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At this point, some important questions to consider include: (1) Are youth movements or protests now more effective than student protests in the context of the relative decline of universities and general lack of access to higher education in African countries? and (2) What does “student power” now look like in different contemporary African societies?

Student Movements and Meaningful Political Engagement All three case studies raise questions about how to define the place of students in politics and the extent to which political “groundedness” can contribute to increased effectiveness of student movements. What seems to be clear is that while students are still organising effectively on campuses to petition for democracy, accountability and service delivery within the university context, there are fewer instances in which student movements are organising effectively, in line with a particular ideology, in order to engage the state on their visions for society. Thus, unlike the example of the Senegalese student movement that was proactive, sustained and for a long time had an ideological orientation, students seem to come together to challenge state authority in moments when external factors cause sufficient disaffection. The Senegalese case also illustrates the ability of political parties to infiltrate student movements to drive their particular agendas. Students who participate and lead movements and protests remain vulnerable to co-option by the state given the increasingly corporatist nature of student protests and movements. Another important lesson from the Senegalese case is how the voices of students can be diminished when a robust and vocal opposition exists, which raises questions about the relationships between student movement, ruling elites, and political actors in the opposition. All three cases show how, given the transitory nature of students as a social category, it remains unclear how they can sustain meaningful, impactful agendas beyond periodic, reactive protests if there is no ideological basis that supports their organising. Interestingly enough, the imposition of socialism as the guiding ideology in Tanzania illustrates how, if the ideology adopted by a student movement does not exist or emerge organically, it won’t work. Both the Sudanese and Senegalese cases illustrate the central role played by other social groups, including academics, professionals, workers, the opposition and the military in the building of a critical mass that can adequately challenge despots and autocratic

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systems. In Sudan in 1964, 1985 and in the 2018/2019 Uprising, the intervention of military establishments who were previously loyal to the regimes in power supported the momentum of built by mass civil disaffection enable the toppling of authoritarian regimes. In all three cases, however, the effectiveness of building mutuality with actors across society has not guaranteed that the demands by students, youth and the people for a more democratic and accountable government are met. In Senegal, in the May 1968 protests, the mutuality between students and workers was definitive for the ability of what grew into a general protest to rattle the Senghor government. However, to the extent that issues related to funding and administration of universities continue to come up as drivers of student protests, it is important to consider what kind of outcomes are sufficient for constituting a meaningful challenge to an autocratic state, or for deeming a protest as successful. This is in no way to diminish the valid claims students have about conditions at their universities. However, given how university administrations and the state either react violently to these claims or acquiesce to student demands by providing superficial solutions to entrenched institutional problems, it is important to consider how seriously state actors take students as a potential threat to their established authority. Following from this, all three also illustrate the tools at the disposal of the state for dealing with student and youth protests. Among these tools, negotiation and co-opt sometimes feature, but heavy handed, violent crackdowns or punitive measures are most commonly administered. This shows the very limited room for negotiation that has existed for students and youth to meaningfully engage in dialogue with state actors about the conditions at universities and about structural reform of the state and society more broadly. This is the case both when student movements and their members avoid cooption, and when they are successfully bought off and softly silenced. The Sudanese case in particular highlights the important role that state security actors like the military and the police can play in either stifling or strengthening the success of mass movements and protests. This is an interesting area for further research given how this show of support has also been the channel through which military elites have established and entrenched themselves as within politics. The case studies in this chapter illustrate the complex relationship that exists between universities, students and the state in African countries. It has been shown how, in post-independence Africa, the historical timeline of a country determines and defines the emergence, character and

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effectiveness of student movements/protests. The prevalence of autocracy in many African states has meant that, when student protests are not directed at the challenging of issues that exist at the university level, they tend to be directed towards demands for democracy, accountability and better living conditions. The role of students as actors well positioned to use protest and organised movements to bring about political change has continuously been challenged since independence, suggesting a waning in ‘student power’ over time. To this extent, youth protests that bring together young people who are not enrolled at universities with those who are have, in most cases, become more prominent than student protests more specifically. The relationship between the state and the university continues to have significant influence on the capacity of universities to exist as spaces for radical and revolutionary thought. Given the increasingly heterogenous country contexts across Africa, and despite the value of making region-wide observations where they may exist, further analyses of the interactions between universities, students and the state in Africa need to be context specific, country specific and issue specific.

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Ivaska, A. (2005). Of Students, “Nizers”, and a Struggle over Youth: Tanzania’s 1966 National Service Crisis. Africa Today, 51(3), 83–107. Klopp, J., & Orina, J. (2002). The University in Crisis, Student Activism, and the Contemporary Struggle for Democracy in Kenya. African Studies Review, 45(1), 43–72. Levi, J., & Thiam, M. (2018). Post-script: Dakar, 1968. Ufahamu: a Journal of African Studies, 40(2), 183–187. Lulat, Y. G.-M. (2005). A History of African Higher Education from Antiquity to the Present. Westport, CT: Praeger. Mbaku, J. M., & Ihonvbere, J. O. (2003). Introduction: Issues in Africa’s Political Adjustment in the “New” Global Era. In J. M. Mbaku & J. O. Ihonvbere (Eds.), The Transition to Democratic Governance in Africa: The Continuing Struggle. Westport, CT: Praeger. Mchome, E. (2012). Tanzania: Taking a Hard Line on Student Protests. All Africa. https://allafrica.com/stories/201201170675.html. Accessed June 1, 2019. Mwollo-Ntallima, A. (2011). Higher Education and Democracy: A Study of Students’ and Student Leaders’ Attitudes Toward Democracy in Tanzania, University of Western Cape. Accessed June 2, 2019. Schraeder, P. J. (1995). Understanding the “Third Wave” of Democratisation in Africa. The Journal of Politics, 57 (4), 1160–1168. Sifuna, D. N. (1998). The Governance of Kenyan Public Universities. Research in Post-compulsory Education, 3(2), 175–212. Smith, D. (2015). Sudan’s Omar Al-Bashir Extends 26-Year Presidency with 94.5% of the Vote. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/world/ 2015/apr/27/sudan-bashir-elected-majority-vote. Accessed June 3, 2019. Sudan Tribune. (2018). Large Protests Erupt Across Sudan over Price Hikes. http://www.sudantribune.com/spip.php?article66796. Accessed June 3, 2019. Toth, G. A. (2017). Authoritarianism. Max Planck Encyclopaedia of Comparative Constitutional Law. https://oxcon.ouplaw.com/view/10.1093/lawmpeccol/law-mpeccol-e205. Accessed May 31, 2019. United Nations Regional Information Centre for Western Europe (UNRIC). (2019). The Movement Y’en a marre—“We’ve Had Enough”. https://www. unric.org/en/right-to-participation/28099-the-movement-yen-a-marreweve-had-enough. Accessed May 30, 2019. Zanoletti, G. (2018). Senegal Education Protests. ACLED. https://www. acleddata.com/2018/05/25/senegal-education-protests/. Accessed May 31, 2019. Zapata, M. (2011). Sudan: Independence Through Civil Wars, 1956–2005. Enough Project. https://enoughproject.org/blog/sudan-brief-history-1956. Accessed June 2, 2019.

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Fallist Feminist Futures in South Africa Princess Mpelo Malebye

Introduction The call to decolonise universities in South Africa was propelled into public discourse through the collective struggle of students and workers under the banner #RhodesMustFall (#RMF) at the University of Cape Town (UCT). #RhodesMustFall as a movement emerged publicly on 9 March 2015 when a student flung the contents of a pota-pota (portable bucket toilet) on the statue Cecil John Rhodes that sat proudly at the foot of the upper campus overlooking the city. The statue not only memorialised Rhodes but celebrated his legacy which was particularly harmful to African people. The statue was symbolic of a painful history characterised by brutality on Black people. The movement began to grow and protests across the campus emerged. The subsequent call to decolonise the university was reflective of larger structural issues that are visible in the city of Cape Town. The city still embodies historical inequalities that form the very fabric of motionless transformation processes and practices. Apartheid spatial planning in Cape Town ensured that resources are ample for those closest to the mountain and dwindle as you move further away from the city (Du Plessis 2014). As Jennifer Nash asserts while race seems

P. M. Malebye (B) Johannesburg, South Africa © The Author(s) 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4_4

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to be a way of talking about body difference, yet it is actually about a historically contextual method for distributing resources, benefits and power (Nash 2013, p. 126). The student-worker movement viewed the university as an institution that is rooted in white supremacist capitalist heteropatriarchal systems that actively resisted transformation (UCT Rhodes Must Fall Mission Statement, 2015). This prompt began the politics of Fallism and shaped the new wave of decolonisation discourse in radical student movements across the country (Abdulla 2017). #FeesMustFall emerged later in 2015 following the University of Witwatersrand’s (Wits) decision to increase tuition fees for the prospective year by 10.5% and demand payment of an exorbitant upfront fee (Naicker 2016). Student Representative Council (SRC) President Shaeera Kalla explains that several council members voted in favour of the increase despite the SRC’s request for adequate reasons that they were not given before the first #FMF protest on October 14th 2015. The End Outsourcing protest led by workers on outsourcing of labour by the university and precarious employment took place on October 6th. This built momentum for the first protest of #FMF on October 14th. Staff, students and workers organised and mobilised through protest action on campus gaining nationwide support across universities and with the public at large. The sustained collective call led to a national shutdown after two weeks that resulted in a national march to the Union Buildings to demand fee-free, decolonised quality education. Former President Jacob Zuma announced that there would be no fee increase in 2016. The National Student Financial Aid Scheme (NSFAS) would be given additional funds by the government and a ministerial task team was set up with various stakeholders to engage further (Business Day, 11 October 2016). While many students were elated about the announcement, the pursuit of a fee-free decolonised quality education had not been achieved. The announcement was a gain that would incrementally lead to the holistic call. The task team resolved that households with a joint income of less than R600 000.00 would enjoy free education and each university could increase fees by up to 8% at their discretion (Mail & Guardian 2017). This resolution reignited nationwide resistance because it did not resonate with the call for fee-free decolonised quality education. For example, those characterised as the “missing middle” would not enjoy free education and would still not be able to fund their education. The nationwide resistance by students was met with heavy-handed

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law enforcement responses including deploying the police and private security personnel across campuses. Many students were arrested, with a number facing ongoing legal battles. Students activist Kanya Cekeshe was only released from prison in December 2019 after his arrest in December 2017. In 2018, the State of the Nation address by President Cyril Ramaphosa affirmed the announcements made by the former president noting that the ANC-led government would gradually phase in free education. This move was intended to reinforce the assurances made during their 1994 election campaign which promised free quality education for all. The Constitution cements this promise in Chapter 2 Section 29(1)(b) of the Bill of Rights in 1996 (Constitution of the Republic of South Africa 1996). While the widely supported #FMF movement deals primarily with higher education, the movement directed the public’s attention to a wider set of concerns across society, including student housing (#Shackville) and gender-based violence (#RUReferenceList) on campuses. The scope of struggles advanced by Fallist movements generated widespread support due to their connection to larger social issues. The university became a microcosm of the issues faced by the society. The South African rainbow nation that was coherent and flourishing was slowly unravelling through the student movements. Scholars have debunked the myth of the Rainbow Nation a term coined by Archbishop Desmond Tutu that rests on the notion of unity in diversity and aims to create a sense of cohesion (see Gqola 2017). The Fallist movements have been engaged in dismantling this idea of nationwide camaraderie by exposing lived realities as far from reaping the benefits of the gold at the end of the rainbow. The gold, instead, is inherited trauma from a violent history of apartheid and a concealment of ongoing violence through the illusions of freedom. These legacies of trauma do not only affect students, but are a feature of the South African landscape. Through their mobilisation, the Fallist movement’s encourage us to engage critically with the history of South Africa and its contemporary manifestations, the role of the state, white supremacy and patriarchy and the meaning of universities. During #RMF, I was an undergraduate student at the University of Cape Town and a postgraduate student during #FMF at Wits. My personal experiences and investment within the movements albeit limited have shaped my devotion to the call for all injustice to Fall. The time spent engaging in protest action, classroom discussion, family debates

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and continuous collective consciousness-raising has shaped my investment in Fallism as an ideology. This chapter focuses on #RhodesMustFall and #FeesMustFall to examine the complex relationship between student movements pushing for decolonisation of education and the realities of Black women and non-binary people in these movements. Material for this chapter is drawn from an analysis of articles from the 2017 3–4 issue of Agenda entitled Feminisms and women’s resistance within contemporary African student movements as well as the book Writing and Rioting: Diaries of Wits Fallists, specifically the chapter Gender, Power and Identities. I engaged closely with how struggles on gender challenge progressive social movements in South Africa. This chapter begins by outlining the history of epistemic violence in higher education in the contemporary South Africa. The next section focuses on the state, institutional resistance and gender in social movement building generally and protest action specifically. The final section covers the embodied labour within the Fallist movements and sharpens the analysis on the relationship between gender, social movement building and sustaining feminist futures as part of decolonisations.

Violent Epistemic Legacies The Fallist call to decolonise universities echoes a long-standing debate by scholars across the continent (Biko 1978; Wa Thiong’o 1992; Mamdani 1996; Mbembe 2001; Ndlovu-Gatsheni 2013). The central argument pursued by these scholars and Fallists is that the “knowledge” disseminated in our education system upholds colonial and apartheid histories through the damaging depictions of Black people, inaccurate ahistorical accounts of the continent or the persistent reductionist approaches to gender (Lewis 2008). The epistemological premise that Fallist feminists began from is this: colonialism shaped the racist, patriarchal, heteronormative, ableist, classist, knowledges that are legitimised in higher education spaces and continue to be perpetuated even under the guise of the democratic rainbow nation that is South Africa. As such, epistemological uprooting is the logical conclusion. Fallists were highlighting what Spivak (1988) calls epistemic violence—how marginalised groups in society are silenced, actively unheard or rendered impossible in the different frameworks of knowledge and its production. The role of colonialism and apartheid in South Africa is central in disappearing and erasing knowledges. Under apartheid, the racially segregated schooling

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system ensured that education resources were unequally distributed. The Bantu Education Act of 1953 and the Extension of Universities Act of 1959 legalised the segregated schooling system. By 1967, the National Education Policy Act solidified the racial segregation of educational institutions through the apartheid racial categories—Africa, Coloured and Indian. Through this legislation, nineteen universities were exclusive to white people, two reserved for Indians, two exclusive to Coloureds while six were reserved for Africans—further specified by ethnic groups Sotho, Zulu and Xhosa (Albert 2018). The term historically Black universities comes from these categories. This enabled the unequal distribution of resources based on the hierarchical racial order of the apartheid state wherein African people were at the bottom. Now, historically white institutions continue to flourish based on their legacy of abundant resources supplied by the powerful and continue to herald their Eurocentric ideologies and gatekeeping while historically Black institutions—including Indian and Coloured universities—are riddled with the consequences of systemic under-resourcing and stifling. The new constitution aimed to integrate the schooling system and distribute resources across institutions in an equitable and just manner. The vastly different experiences of higher education institutions based on their histories have proved to be a key point of departure for the Fallist movements as illustrated in the extracts below. The very basis of the universities are underpinned by epistemic violence that has come to shape the higher education in South Africa and knowledge production more broadly. Fallists have drawn a straight line between colonialism, the establishment of separate facilities during Apartheid, the type of knowledge created and their experiences of “post-Apartheid” higher education. The dysfunction in historically Black universities was characterised by the lack of resources, even under post-apartheid governments (Sehoole 2013). At historically white institutions, a different set of issues is prevalent. These institutions are built on the glorification of their colonial and benevolent resistance of apartheid. While Black students and academics have since been allowed to enter these institutions, the space is still alive with messages of exclusion and not belonging as pointed out by Xaba (2017) below. The difference between historically white and Black institutions is epitomised by how class struggles define the experiences of higher education. Student activists Xaba (2017) and Khan (2017) note:

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At historically white universities racism, exclusionary language policies and colonial symbolism form part of the national call for free education. At historically Black universities, however, other issues that form part of protest include basic functioning of universities, better resources such as accommodation and access to technology and the return of student activists who were excluded for ongoing protests years before FMF. (Xaba 2017, p. 98) Colonisation is less visible at a Black university is embedded in more clandestine ways than a giant statue at the front of campus. The statue that sits at the entrance of UWC is of the worker student struggle, which exists in sharp contrast to that of Cecil John Rhodes. The immediacy of decolonisation is subdued at UWC, as it is painted as the historical hub of antiapartheid resistance and bush protests. (Khan 2017, p. 115)

A longer history of activism symbolised through the worker-student struggle statue referenced by Khan is steeped in these racialised historical dynamics that shaped the formation of universities. Both Xaba and Khan highlight the distance between the two types of institutions, thereby revealing the retention of age-old oppressive systems long after apartheid was over. Hotz (2017) underscores how the resistance to structural transformation seen in the representation of faculty members is evidence of the legacies of racialised institutional structures. #RhodesMusttFall (#RMF) for example pointed to the painfully slow process of transformation in the hiring of black academics at the University of Cape Town yet it claimed to be Afrocentric. The increased hiring and retention of Black academics are not only about numbers but also a process that brings African realities in the academy. Hotz notes that the limited shifts in faculty and student body replicates broader malaise in the society. A faculty that looks the same as it did in 1960, 1970 and 1980 under Apartheid. Maybe here are more Black academics, maybe there are more Black students, but the reality is the funding has not changed, the education hasn’t changed, departments haven’t changed and the way they view protest, the way they view change, etc. has not changed. How are we supposed to produce legal minds that are supposed to be the new generation of thinkers is unfathomable to me when we are just taught to be cogs in a corporate machine. (Hotz, p. 125)

For example, in May 1968 a Senior Lecturer in Social Anthropology, Prof. Monwabisi Archibald Mafeje was unanimously appointed by UCT Council. Shortly after his appointment was withdrawn due to pressure

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from the apartheid government regarding the appointment of Black academics. Students and staff rejected the university’s decision and occupied the administrative building against this racist action (Ntsebeza 2014). The same administrative building renamed by Fallists as Azania House was occupied by students during the #RMF protests on 20 March 2015 in a bid to force the university to comply with the call to decolonise. Both occupations in 1968 and later in 2015, were centred around staff diversity, the nature of knowledge transfer at the university and the historical lethargy of the university to change. Azania House became a space of community, learning and movement building. Khumo Sebambo aptly articulates that “Blackness was not only imagined in this space, it was also performed. Azania House allowed us to free alternative versions of Blackness otherwise denied by UCT” (Sebambo 2015, p. 109). The role of representation is important particularly when specific groups and experiences have been systematically excluded (Kessi 2013). While many of the discussions regarding representation centred around race, gender is an integral part of representation. Fallist feminists underscored the importance racial, gender diversity in universities.

Institutional Resistance and Masculinised Violence A core tenet of Fallist feminism is intersectionality which draws attention to the structural inequalities that render some identities more susceptible to exclusion than others and how these experiences shape knowledge production. In South Africa, the interscetion between gender, race and class as underpinning experiences of exclusion was an important analytical and organising point. A great deal of violence has been systematically orchestrated and continues to be inflicted in higher education institutions across South Africa. Various forms of violence work together at different points to hold steady systems of oppression (Galtung 1969). For the Fallist movements, the violence holds up white supremacist ableist classist heteropatriarchy. Structural violence as latent and not immediately identifiable yet has devastating results for human life. The violence is in the very fabric of societal structures and institutions and in the very culture of how things operate (Galtung 1969). The concealed, normalised and legitimised structures create and facilitate the inequalities in society and enable the manifestation of unequal life outcomes (Crenshaw 1991).

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Structural violence is about powerful systems and institutions that legitimise injustice. The unnoticeable violence that rests at the hands of both the state and university together sustains this order and finds a home on the bodies and in the lives of Black people, particularly Black women and non-binary people. This includes protest action was met with violence by university aided by the police that is particularly gendered. Before the removal of the Rhodes statue at UCT in February 2015, UCT issued an interdict against students (High Court of South Africa, case 2648/2016, 2016). 16 students were named on the interdict and the 17th respondent was highlighted as “those persons who associate themselves with any unlawful conduct at any of the university premises”. The university resisted the demands of the movement through litigation. The interdict was a means to divide the movement, instil fear and isolate participants in an attempt to suffocate the calls made by Fallists. Across the country, heavy police and private security presence was visible and physical violence spread like wildfire (Rayner et al. 2017). Protest action continued across the campus and the university management requested the aid of riot police (Petersen and Mzantsi 2015). I remember seeing academics outside Azania House form a human chain to protect students in the dead of night against police that resulted in the discharging of teargas canisters and indiscriminate chasing and arresting of students. Throughout these protests, visuals online and on national television showed scenes of young people being bulldozed and arrested by police and scrambling for cover from rubber bullets, stun grenades and teargas (News24 2016). These images resembled those on the 1976 Soweto Youth Uprisings against the state resisting Bantu Education (eNCA 2015; Evans 2015). This mass protest action saw scores of young people injured, brutalised and killed by the Apartheid police forces (Goba 2016; Business Tech 2016; Mlambo and Peters 2016). Many students likened the heavy hand of the police across campuses to the brutality shown by the apartheid police. The parallels are undeniable as both experiences are about the cruel intervention by the state on peaceful protest action by young people (Fekisi 2018). This brutality against Fallist protesters by the state was endorsed by the university management. In the beginning, the university administration attempted to shut down these protests through emails. This was then escalated to police presence and private security on campus. The pressure had been mounting on the state and universities to act on student demands, however the response by both parties became incrementally violent. Protest action was forcefully disrupted which often led to injuries.

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The violence endorsed by the state which relied on the endorsement of the university management and enacted by the police force, forms part of a network of a hierarchical distribution of power. “The police continued firing rubber bullets, chasing and displacing us. The university immediately passed and implemented a rule that prohibited students from gathering in groups of three or more” (Ndlovu 2017, p. 72). Writing about the Fallist movement at the Cape Peninsula University of Technology (CPUT), Sandile Ndelu (2017) emphasises the relentless pressure applied by students on the university for #FreeDecolonisedEducation! #EndOutsourcing! #FreeRegistration. The response of the university management was “sanctioning the use of force by the police, commissioning the use of force by private security offices, securing interdicts and instituting disciplinary procedures against protesters” (Ndelu 2017, p. 13). The physical violence endured by students and approved by the university through the state, forms part of a network of violence that Fallists saw as necessary to dismantle or reveal in the quest for decolonisation. Mazini (2017) argues In a nutshell, the police are only there to protect one structure - that is, white supremacy that continues to be violent to Black bodies in various ways. The structure, manifests as the university, an institution that Black people have historically been denied access to, a structure defined by Eurocentric modes and standards of knowledge…the police have been perpetrators of violence in a physical sense, and their presence on campus brought up the memory of collective violence that Black people have historically been subjected to at their hands. (Manzini 2017, p. 85)

Manzini (2017) expands on the role of the state and universities endorsement of police violence. Violence and race become inextricably linked during protest action. Furthermore, the police continued to act as gatekeepers of the racialised legacy in South Africa. The oscillating relationship between ensuring the protection of white supremacist structures and the brutalisation of Black bodies during these moments of conflict was at play during these protests. The police symbolise and act as guards of oppressive systems that have historically had Black people as receipients of state brutality and continue to do so in the post-apartheid era. Boikhutso Maubane (2017) picks up on these legacies through an examination of the national protest action on 23 October 2015 that turned violent at the

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Union Buildings that was blamed on the Tshwane University of Technology (TUT) students. Maubane describes the responses to the protest in two WhatsApp groups. The impression from those two WhatsApp groups was that TUT students were perceived as “too violent” and “they messed up a peaceful protest.” My thought processes were as such: perhaps these young Black people from TUT identified more with the youth during the apartheid era; perhaps they faced more intense frustrations within their learning space… it not that their violence only symbolises their agony, for which redress is long overdue? (Maubane 2017, pp. 106 and 109)

The protest at the Union Building was attended by various universities and members of the public. I attended the protest, which degenerated into chaos with rubber bullets shot at people, property burnt and stun grenades thrown into the crowd. Maubane writes about Wits students being encouraged to distance themselves from the violence as this was not the way that Wits students behaved. Violence was associated with students at historically Black institutions that still endured the neglect of the state and was characterised as typical behaviour of Black people. TUT—a historically Black institution—is one of the many institutions that are plagued with minimal investment of government resources. Maubane (2017) poses pertinent questions regarding state-generated violence and the legacies of violence endured by students as a result of post-apartheid state negligence. While the focus is on the response of students, an analysis that pays attention to how the legacies violence imprint in the society’s memory, illustrates the conditions that engender violence. Hotz (2017) engages this further Management should never have called police and private security on students. The trauma will never be erased from our bodies and from our consciousness ever again. We have been irrevocably changed and scarred by what has happened to us over the last two years. Instead of shaping who we become, we have become what we have become in spite of the institution. (Hotz 2017, p. 124)

Hotz (2017) places responsibility on the shoulders of university management in becoming part of the institutions that inscribe violence as a way to respond to student grievances. Violent interventions and responses to them as Xaba (2017) suggests can also become part of a socio-cultural

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response that reproduces militarisation as the only conflict resolution and resistance tools. Granted that a response to State violence is appropriate, the ways in which the movement sometimes responded has (most times) produced problematic iconography of cisgender Black men who perform hyper-masculinities. Moreover, the response to the violence of the State and the university has taken the form of militarised masculinities…feminine, queer and nonmilitarised forms of resistance are dismissed by the patriarchs of the movement…I remain critical of certain factions within the movement who are opposed to responding to the State and universities outside heteronormative, cis-normative, able-bodied tactics of resistance. (Xaba 2017, pp. 101– 102)

Cock (1992) argues that following resistance to Apartheid, South Africa has been in a militarised state of everyday masculinist violence. There seems to be a relationship between the violence during apartheid and the legacy of that violence that reproduces violent militarised masculinities. According to Xaba (2017), the movement reproduced these apartheid legacies by embodying problematic gendered performance of violence. This militarised masculinised violence made invisible responses that deviated from them especially from women and non-binary people who were on the frontline of the movements. Be that as it may, Fallist feminists have resisted singular expressions of gender and insisted on making visible and celebrating gendered diversity.

Embodied Resistance and Gendered Subversion Making visible and foregrounding gender diversity was illustrated during a nude protest. On Tuesday, 4 October 2016 at Wits, students and staff clashed with police on campus during protest action. Stun grenades, tear gas and rubber bullets had been flying across the sky and landing on bodies throughout the day. The sheer brutality of force exerted by the police exhausted students and heightened the reality of the call for fees to fall. In an attempt to have the police ceasefire, Hlengiwe Ndlovu, Sarah Mokwebo and Lerato Motaung take charge of the picket line topless (Shikwambane 2016). Ndlovu (2017) discusses the objective of the nude protest

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The aim of the nude protest was to stop the violence between armed police firing stun grenades, teargas, and rubber bullets, and students (mostly male), who retaliated with stones and sticks. We were tired of running from police who had been shooting at us since early morning: we no longer had energy to fight on. We were tired of carrying our injured comrades, of encouraging each other in moments of breakdown and panic attacks. (Ndlovu 2017, p. 68)

Ndlovu (2017) addressed the violent environment that had persisted all day and the exhaustion that they felt. At the Inaugural Professorial Lecture entitled Nudity, Protest and the Law in Uganda at Makerere University, Sylvia Tamale (2016) underlines that African women use nudity as resistance under extreme circumstances and that it is very often their last resort. Ndlovu (2017) writes about the negative responses online and public media reporting on their bodies. The discussion quickly moved from the protest and the movement to their bodies. Much of the response focused on body-shaming and underlining the ways in which their bodies had not reached the standards of the sexualised male gaze. Reports of the nude protest underscore the prevailing notions of African women’s bodies that are grounded in colonialist views (Amadiume 1997). Jimlongo (2018) notes that the construction of African women’s bodies as innately sexual and uncivilised is a colonial construct. Naked bodies, particularly those of women in public, are constructed as “profane, indecent, shameful and sexual, never to be displayed in public” (Tamale 2016, p. 53). The trio endured criticism that reflects not only the patriarchal expectations of women’s bodies but also what is considered appropriate behaviour on the picket line. Foucault (1980) argues that the body is vested with power and power is dynamic. Women’s bodies powerfully transformed the picket line and subsequently lowered violence. Nudity as a form of resistance rejects the idea that the female body is passive, powerless and simply a sexual object for men’s consumption. The naked body undermines normal modes of resistance and subverts power through a different kind of politics (Lewis 2009). Tamale (2016) highlights that when women bare their naked bodies in public it is not to illicit sexual commentary. Instead, they are summoning dominant-gendered norms to deliberately confront and resist them. A participant in Khan’s study captures this aptly

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Black bodies that aren’t cis het men build the foundation of the movement, and then patriarchy does what it does, and then those bodies leave. And it makes it seem as if the men did the groundwork when they didn’t. It happens universally. Things are built by us and then patriarchy does the most and we are like wow we can’t do this thing. When do we stop leaving? (P6, UC, January 2017). (Khan, p. 119)

The labour that is often done in the background much like that described by Hlengiwe Ndlovu (2017) prior to the nude protest or following the departure of students from Luthuli House (ANC Headquarters) is disregarded, ridiculed or ostracised. The labour that is considered to matter is when cisgender Black men are at the forefront of picket lines, in front of podiums and crowds or in stakeholder meetings. Writing about the gender biases in African history, Zeleza underscores that women “are either not present at all, or they are depicted as naturally inferior and subordinate, as eternal victims of male oppression” (Zeleza 2005, p 207). Khan’s (2017) participant engages the reality that women and non-binary people are pushed out of movements or leave because of the different forms of violence that they experience. Womxn are agentic and labouring and the recognition is not there. Much of the labour is done by womxn who are nameless and faceless…Many felt silenced and used because their bodies were often on the frontline of the protest, with little recognition of the work they had done. (Dlakavu 2017, p. 118)

Dlakavu shows how the invisible labour that takes place beyond the picket line has not been included in the immediate public narrative of the movement. Public memory completely neglects the labour done by Black women and non-binary people in liberation movements (Hassim 2018). Dlakavu further notes that the labour that sustained the movement, for example preparing meals during sit-ins and meetings, was ridiculed, and dismissed by many within the movement (Dlakavu 2017). History remembers men at the centre of the movement and women’s labour is often isolated and glorified as the work of the individual rather than collective efforts (Dlakavu 2017). Hlengiwe Ndlovu (2017) picks up on this As womxn of Wits #FeesMustFall we have refused that our bodies be constructed in less capable ways. We have understood and reconstructed our bodies beyond mere social constructions and defied social norms by

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asserting them (dressed or naked) on the picket line alongside our male comrades. (Ndlovu 2017, p. 72)

This reconstruction of bodies as powerful tools of resistance and intimate sites of knowledge remains a critical part of Black women and nonbinary people’s activism and memorialisation. By centring nude bodies, these activists debunk myths about appropriate and celebrated ways of social movement building. These approaches also challenge the erasure of women and non-binary activists’ experiences through voice and visibility. Shange points out that “this resistance isn’t new, but the recognition is” highlighting the various forces that have contributed to the erasure, silencing, relegation and co-optation of labour in social movement building (Shange 2017, p. 60). Black women and non-binary people have played, have always been central, pertinent and crucial throughout activist spaces and have only recently been publicly acknowledged and celebrated as such. Consequently, the development of the Trans Collective at UCT and the Trans Collective during the #RMF was a revolutionary moment within the movement calling for the degendering and decisgendering of the mainstreamed decolonial discourse (Ramaru 2017). This occurred at a time where there were attempts to write out the labour of trans, nonbinary and intersex people within the movement. The Collective drew attention to the collusion between patriarchy and white supremacy at UCT and within the movement (Van Heerden 2016). A protest staged during an exhibition—evidencing their erasure—was an important intervention and call to be heard as part of decolonisation (Omar 2016). Decolonisation demands the dismantling of hetero-patriarchy in intimate and political ways and a divergence from benevolent notions of inclusion (Okech 2013). The Trans Collective’s visibility, labour and resistance implored the movement to be vigilant to its own internalisation of violent patriarchy and take seriously the need to complicate the embodied nature of structural oppression. Anzio Jacobs asserts that, “These contradictions[…] required marginalised bodies to once again speak out against their marginalisation, but worse yet, to carry the yoke of educating those who were unwilling to learn…” (Anzio Jacobs 2017, pp. 117–118). The process of (un)learning, or purging as Ramaru (2017) notes, requires a willingness to learn. The unwillingness, underlined by Anzio Jacobs, speaks to a comfort and refusal to challenge oppressive systems. The Trans Collective questions why a movement that was centred on the

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experiences of Black people in South Africa ended up with, cisgender men as the face of Black people and cisgender women as the face of women. Through the Trans Collective, these notions of static identities were dismantled and the Fallist movement was pushed to engage more closely with what intersectional identity meant for decolonisation. The Collective of trans, non-binary and intersex students at the university addressed the imperial erasure of African trans narratives and engaged in a processes of knowledge making as well as movement building about trans histories on the continent (Matebeni 2009; Msibi 2011). By underlining the diversity in Blackness, the fluidity of gender and sexuality was asserted as African and attention drawn to the need to amplify these silenced experiences as a key part of decolonisation. For self- identifying Queer/LGBTIA+/feminist student activists, the purpose of highlighting an intersectional approach to protest is vital… it insists that if this battle for free quality and decolonised education is to be won, it can only be achieved once all protestors alike adopt an approach to protest which is nuanced, more thoughtful, and considerate even of others. (Anzio Jacobs 2017 p. 120)

The perpetual strong arm of patriarchy on African women and non-binary people’s efforts is powerful and has shaped a legacy that has informed our current knowledge systems. Fallist feminists spoke back to this refusal to see women and non-binary people in higher education institutions.

Conclusion So we, Black women, Fallist women, women like us are not only on the streets, not only shutting things down or engaging in direct action or protests. We have also made the political investment of writing, filming and documenting Black women’s efforts in the Fallist movements, because we don’t want to fall into the same trap that Black women within movements - not only in South Africa, but the wider African continent and diaspora have fallen into, and that is erasure. (Dlakavu et al. 2017, p. 106)

The Fees Must Fall movement in South Africa became the largest postapartheid social movement. The student-led movement built alliances with workers and staff against the commodification of education and untransformed institutions. It is therefore no surprise that this movement

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gained mass traction as it resonated with broader societal concerns about racialised economic inequalities. The Fallist movements also insisted on the intrinsic link between capital, class and patriarchal ideologies in the epistemological injustice in the post-apartheid South African university. Consequently, we witnessed collaboration between students, workers and a deliberate push by Fallist feminists for queer, non-binary and women to be seen. A more fundamental push and indeed success of the Fallist feminists was the recognition of the logics of patriarchy—violence, misogyny, toxic masculinity—that were becoming visible in the Fees Must Fall movement were recognised and addressed. That the experience of violence is gendered and that it produces gender was a central issue raised by Fallist feminists. Fallist feminists made this visible by centring body politics and the resistance to women, queer and non-binary bodies as evidence of the repercussions of challenging the manifestations of hetero-patriarchy in institutions of higher learning. Doing embodied gender politics as epitomised by Fallist feminists is evidence of the possibilities of justice that is rooted in non-violent traditions. It challenges “fears” and accompanying sexualisation of women’s bodies as objects that can only be sexualised or abused and not as political emblems in and of themselves. Fallist feminists subvert these normative perceptions of gendered bodies by politically charging female and nonbinary bodies. Finally, the violent and masculinised picket lines, which devalued gendered, became part of the political and ideological fight that Fallist feminists waged as they engaged the broader question of a decolonised education system. In effect, rather than capitulating to the demand that one struggle should be concluded before patriarchy and its bedfellow’s sexism and misogyny are addressed, Fallist feminists insisted that these were part of the foundational issues that would continue to make a decolonised education system exclusionary, violent and harmful. In this regard, Fallist feminists reflecting on and seeking to make visible invisible feminist labour was a bold intervention in movement building processes that continuously insist that the gender struggle must be waged later. Fallist Feminists argued if not now, when?

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A Revolution Deferred: Sexual and Gender-Based Violence in Egypt Radwa Saad and Sara Soumaya Abed

Introduction Egypt’s Jan 25th revolution in 2011 set a new precedent for women’s activism. In Tahrir Square, the central landmark of protests, women camped in tents alongside men, engaged in direct confrontations with security forces and played a crucial role in mobilizing protestors. The public sphere, typically a signpost of women’s marginalization and exclusion, had large numbers of women engaged in revolutionary protests alongside their male counterparts. Particularly in periods where nationalist sentiments were high, state and civil society actors even encouraged women to participate in protests in ways that defied conventional gender norms. Their contributions, however, did not come without a cost; women have and continue to face many obstacles hindering their access to the public sphere and political spaces, with sexual violence emerging at the forefront of this struggle.

R. Saad (B) Cornell University, Ithaca, NY, USA e-mail: [email protected] S. S. Abed Cairo, Egypt © The Author(s) 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4_5

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Women were subject to various forms of sexual violence ranging from mob attacks to direct sexual assaults perpetrated by security forces during the Jan 25th revolution and subsequent uprisings. The ubiquitous and indiscriminate nature of the violence affected female protestors from all walks of life, cutting across ideology, religion and other probable divisions. In a deeply patriarchal society where sexual violence is a widespread phenomenon, it is difficult to distinguish between sexual violence committed directly by state officials, by mobs operating on behalf of state officials and opposition groups or by autonomous opportunists. Perpetrators often acted with impunity, thereby allowing sexual violence to prevail as a political tool of intimidation that was strategically exploited by actors with varying interests. Sexual violence therefore played a critical role in influencing the process and outcome of women’s activism during the revolution. The contributions and limitations of women’s participation in revolutions are largely explored in existing literature from different viewpoints. Much attention has also been given to the underlying causes and implications of sexual violence. However, there is an inextricable link between sexual violence and revolutionary outcomes, particularly in the Egyptian context that requires further exploration. This chapter examines how pervasive forms of sexual violence influenced women’s contributions and activism in the Jan 25th revolution. It argues that sexual violence served as both an obstacle and an opportunity that enabled women to reap sociopolitical gains central to resolving deep-rooted gender inequalities, which may have otherwise been lost in the wave of nationalist discourses. The protests were events that unleashed further attacks on women to advance a gender-centric agenda that would empower them in the aftermath of protests. However, the collective experiences of sexual violence inadvertently gave rise to a brand of feminism centered around confronting the phenomena and its root causes. This chapter is structured around three sections. Section I provides an overview of women’s role in revolutions and delineates some of the circumstances under which revolutions, particularly those with a nationalist undercurrent, can result in long-term emancipation of women. Section II identifies four waves of Egypt’s Jan 25th revolution and maps the nature of women’s contributions and experiences with sexual violence in each wave. Section III demonstrates how sexual violence became a important milestone in women’s activism by serving as an impetus for the

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revival of a unified feminist movement tackling the root causes of gender inequality. It must be noted that the Jan 25th Egyptian revolution is an ongoing process that is still being defined and recreated. Far from being a linear process, it is convoluted by discontinuities, fluctuations in representation and participants as well as oscillating—and at times—polarizing narratives competing for historical preeminence. The segmenting of the revolutionary protests into 4 waves is merely an attempt to extract the continuity necessitated for analysis. It does not imply that these waves are fixed or absolute. Given the subject of analysis, the waves were demarcated according to the different regimes in power, and as will be demonstrated, to the nature of sexual violence attributed to each regime. The time span covered in this analysis begins from the official start of the revolution on Jan 25th, 2011, until the official election of Egyptian President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi in June 2014. Sexual violence will be defined as any sexual act committed against someone without the subject’s freely given consent. The focus will be primarily on sexual violence committed against women and girls on the basis of their gender, including but is not limited to rape, virginity tests, sexual assaults, mob assaults, domestic violence and physical assaults, forced prostitution, sexual slavery, sexual torture, mutilation, forced abortion or forced pregnancy and sexual humiliation (Butter et al. 2007, p. 672; Leiby 2009, pp. 446, 451).

Gendering a Revolution A revolution is a radical and often violent attempt to ‘change in the dominant values and myths of a society, in its political institutions, social structure, leaderships and government activity and policies’ (Huntington 1968, p. 246). During the revolutionary process, people are united under a common cause that seeks to construct or reconstruct the nation. In their most crude form, revolutions are instances where ‘obedience is put in abeyance and disobedience is unleashed in the form of rebellion against established orders and practices’ (Badran 2016). In revolutions espousing a nationalist or militant agenda, disobedience is typically non-gendered. A heightened sense of belonging, obligation and attachment to a country allows people to perceive themselves as a homogenous entity, overlooking divisionary differences including gender (Mazloum 2015). During the nascent stages of an uprising, an egalitarian atmosphere is created where

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social conventions, cultural medians and gender norms are temporarily adjourned. Since nations are constructed and reconstructed in processes that are neither fixed nor temporal, they risk periods of rebellion and disruption (Cole and Kandiyoti 2002). The non-gendered nature of rebellion albeit relatively successful in producing and liberating nations from oppressive power struggles can be counterproductive for the emancipation of women. History is rife with examples of women being at the forefront of nationalist revolutions, only to be pushed back to the private sphere once the immediate aims of revolution are secured. Feminist scholars have generally noted that revolutions with a nationalist undercurrent tend to be masculine projects that advance masculine interests (Ranchod-Nilsson and Tetreault 2000; Moghadam 1997; Enloe 1990). At the very least, this is because the notion of the ‘nation’ itself is highly gendered, assuming stereotypes that limit the scope of women’s inclusion in the public sphere. The female body, rendered passive, dependent, maternal, private and domestic, is part in parcel of the discourse utilized to discourge their participation in the political activties of the nation (Sinha 2004). In a similiar vein, the nation is often portrayed as a feminine entity whose survival is dependent upon the procreation of loyal citizens. Its ‘honor’, is therefore in constant need of safeguarding by its male counterparts. Such analogies can be seen during the 1919 revolution in Egypt, where several Egyptian women were subject to rape by British soldiers. The interpretation of the incident was such that the rape of ‘our women’ metaphorically became the rape of ‘our nation’, which disgraced the national family honor. The instilled notion of ‘honor’ was used to mobilize male supporters who believed they had a duty to support, defend and protect their nation against the dishonorable British Occupation (Ramdani 2013b). The conceptualization of the nation is gendered and directly contingent upon the construction of masculinity and femininity. In emphasizing the maternal roles of women, one emphasizes their domestic duties in the private sphere and takes away from their claim to equal rights and opportunities in the public sphere. The common denominator among successful revolutions is the dismantling of an existing system and the formation of a new one through a redistribution of power in favor of previously disadvantaged groups (Moghadam 1997, p. 138). The ultimate challenge for revolutionaries is creating new norms before obedience is restored (Badran 2016). Despite being at the forefront of many revolutions, women of

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all groups rarely benefit from this reallocation of power due to several structural barriers. Firstly, in the male-dominated process of articulating the national project and its demands, women are often alienated (Walby 1996). Secondly, the illusion of unification prevalent in nationalist movements discourages women from participating as interest groups; instead they participate as individuals operating within a male-dominated framework (Wael 2014). Their participation is endorsed if it seeks to advance existing nationalist goals and shunned when advancing alternative feminist agendas that confront patriarchal power relations. Thirdly, it is commonly assumed within nationalist doctrine that the liberation of women is directly tied to the liberation of a nation from ideological constructs that disadvantage large groups of people such as colonialism and capitalism. However, the aftermath of nationalist fuelled revolutions has disproved this predicted nexus. Gender inequalities, deeply rooted in social and political relations, are likely to remain untouched even after the ideological reconfiguration of the state (Suneri 2000, p. 145). Unless the breakdown of power is addressed, cultural and political variables will jointly reinforce the marginalization of women from the public sphere. Since the deliberative processes through which nationalist projects are articulated typically unfolds in the public sphere, the less access women have to the public sphere, the greater their exclusion from political processes in the aftermath of revolutions (Yuval-Davis 1997, p. 2). While revolutions present strategic opportunities for women to challenge such gendered norms, such gains are often short-lived. Revolutions can paradoxically produce a state of instability and chaos that induces actors to make inauspicious political settlements that result in greater long-term marginalization and oppression. As will be demonstrated in the case of Egypt, the state of political upheaval following the aftermath of the Jan 25th revolution generated a greater demand for stability that inversely prompted widespread support for repressive state and security apparatuses (Luckham 2017). It shifted public opinion in favor of highly exclusive and violent political settlements. As noted by Tadros (2017), the perceived threat of disintegration into civil war emanating from the events occurring in neighboring countries such as Syria and Libya, drove citizens to support a political settlement that endorsed violence as a means of restoring stability in aftermath of the popular uprising on June 30, 2013. The marginalization of women’s interests during the revolutionary process in turn allows men to reap the benefits of revolution, while undermining or overtly denying women’s contributions. Once primary goals

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are achieved (often in the form of regime change), women’s efforts are measured in relation to the success ensued by men (Wael 2014). Despite an active presence in national struggles and public resistance, women are largely absent from the historical discourse of revolutionary events. Their presence in popular narratives is cast as either bearers of the fort for men when they are not in the limelight or as mothers, wives and extended relatives of great leaders (Tillinghast and McFadden 1991). Nonetheless, women have consciously exploited gender roles to justify their presence in revolutions, in ways that were empowering. For instance, an examination of women’s participation in Egypt’s 1919 revolution reveals how such representations of women as ‘mothers of the nation’ were strategically advanced to legitimize their presence in the nationalist movement. Women from all walks of life, particularly writers and activists, stressed that in their unique capacity as ‘mothers of the world and child raisers’, they could play a critical role in the nationalist movement by ‘imbuing their children with love for the nation, and teaching national songs and stories’. By proving that women possess political influence, they utilized their gendered role as ‘mothers of the nation’ to venture out of the private sphere and secure their place alongside their male counterparts. Such approaches, however, become inefficacious when taken up by male leadership in the aftermath of a revolution, whereby women are elevated and awarded not based on their individual contributions, but in relation to the Martyrdoms of their sons (Abdo 1991). It thus comes as no surprise that following Egypt’s nominal independence in 1922, Egyptian male nationalists effectively abandoned women campaigners despite their efforts, leading women to confront the unavoidable reality; to prosper they needed to create their own independent political movement (Ramdani 2013b). Despite the given odds, the transformative power of a revolution can advance women’s rights under specific conditions (Molyneux 1986; Moghadam 1995). For political activism to translate in emancipating policies, gender equality must be engrained into the initial demands of a revolution or be accompanied by a broader ‘feminist/gender revolution’ (Badran 2016). Gender revolutions are continuous long-term projects that should exist before and after political revolutions. Unlike political revolutions that easily be quelled through coercion, unmarked gender revolutions cannot (Badran 2016). To this end, women’s participation in a revolution must serve a dual purpose: to participate as revolutionaries as well as gender activists advancing a broader long-term agenda.

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Their participation should be structured as an organized unified front exploiting their revolutionary presence as leverage in advancing their predefined gender goals (Moghadam 1995, p. 329). For this to happen, a vibrant and consolidated women’s movement must be prevalent prior to the outbreak of a revolution such that the revolution becomes an imminent opportunity that can be strategically manipulated to advance a gender-centric agenda. The subsequent section explores the extent to which women’s participation in the Jan 25th revolution was rooted in a feminist consciousness backed by a gender-centric agenda.

Four Waves of Egypt’s Revolution Wave 1 The first wave commencing Egypt’s Jan 25th popular revolution lasted for 18 days and led to the ousting of Mubarak on February 11, 2011. Constituting one of the biggest non-violent revolutions in modern-day history, millions of Egyptians from a range of socioeconomic classes protested in almost every major town and city. The motivation behind the protests was clearly articulated in two chants: “The people want the fall of the regime” and “Bread, freedom and justice”. These 18 days can be characterized by what Tadros referred to as ‘the time and space bound moral economy of Tahrir square’. This moral economy embraced a constellation of actors involving the youth, the masses, the military and women (Tadros 2012, p. 3). Writings pertaining to this period describe a heightened sense of unity, patriotism and egalitarianism. The participation of previously marginalized groups resulted in a ‘transcendence of relations of power’ that curtailed the prospect of domination and conflict (Yuval-Davis 2011, p. 14). Women, constituting nearly half of protestors, played a crucial role in directly confronting police brutality, mobilizing protestors and securing the premises of Tahrir Square where they camped alongside men for days, despite societal taboos (Hafez 2012). The romanticism of unity and the valorization of women’s status in Tahrir Square during this period, however, posed a double-fold dilemma for academics. On the one hand, the euphoria surrounding the revolution induced many to turn a blind eye toward the internal divisions that later surfaced once the preliminary goal of ousting Mubarak was achieved. Indeed, the heightened degree of patriotism allowed people to stay

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away from the ‘politically reprehensible’ (Eagleton 2000, p. 309). On the other hand, it also overlooked the divisions and disparities looming outside of Tahrir Square. As Engy Ghozlan, a prominent women’s rights activist, notes about her experience in the Tahrir Square: I think people exaggerate. There is this fascination and Tahrir fetish that I am not a fan of. Yeah it was good. It was a good eighteen days. I mean I smoked in Tahrir and it was fine and I remember thinking “this is crazy; I’m smoking in Tahrir and no one is looking or saying anything to me”. And I was never sexually harassed there either. But the moment you left Tahrir, you would get harassed again. So just because Tahrir was good didn’t mean Egypt on the whole was in a good place during those days. (Kadry, A., Personal interview with Engy Ghozlan, December 15, 2013)

Although reported sexual violence remained scarce during this period, a few attacks were waged to deter influential female protestors. This is demonstrated in the use of sexual violence by police officers to terrorize female activists such as Mona Prince—a prominent writer and university professor—who was sexually assaulted by the police on the first day of the Jan 25th revolution (Marroushi 2015, p. 13). Another renowned example is that of Lara Logan, a South African journalist who was publicly beaten and sexually assaulted by mob groups in Tahrir Square during the celebrations that followed Mubarak’s ousting. It was assumed that the perpetrators were state officials and the media accused her of being an Israeli spy to justify the acts of violence to which she was subjected (Marroushi 2015, pp. 3–4). These patterns of sexual violence committed by regime affiliated mobs and the police resembled those of the ‘Black Wednesday incidents’ in 2005, where sexual violence was used as a political weapon to intimidate female protestors.1 These situations demonstrate the complexity that arises when attempting to identify notions of accountability. In many cases, it is 1 The Black Wednesday incident refers to an event in which both policemen and the ruling NDP members sexually assaulted female protestors in 2005 at a press syndicate. On that day, activists were demonstrating against the constitutional amendments that allow Mubarak’s son to run for presidency. When the case was mishandled, four female journalists filed a complaint before the African Commission for Human and Peoples. After eight years of investigations, a verdict was issued accusing the Egyptian government of complicity, marking a profound achievement for the Egyptian anti-sexual violence movement. This ongoing pattern was utilized during Mubarak’s administration up until the 18 days of Tahrir (Kirollos 2013).

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obvious that the state security apparatus was involved in human rights violations against women—long before the Jan 25th uprising until the ousting of Mubarak. The accounts of Mona Prince and Lara Logan reveal that sexual violence—mostly in the form of mob assaults and harassment against women—was utilized by the state (principal) via their agents (e.g., police officers, state-led media) to deter opposition (Marks 2013; Leiby 2009). The occurrence of these politically motivated forms of violence awaiting women as soon as they leave Tahrir Square during the first 18 days of the revolution, was therefore anticipated. Overall, the use of sexual violence against women inside Tahrir Square during these 18 days was rare and failed to have any major implications on the ways in which female protestors organized themselves. The communal nature of the protests and the need to protect the egalitarian image of the square limited the scope of sexual violence. The square was engrossed with a high degree of nationalist sentiments thereby detering any sort of violence perpetrated by the state and/or bystanders, or in some cases, turning a blind eye towards the few acts of sexual violence that did occur. Wave 2 The second wave of the uprising from February 2011 until June 2012 was the transitional period headed by the Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF)—a 20-member body comprised of all four branches of the Egyptian military (Roll 2014, pp. 25–27). Sexual violence during this period was overtly endorsed by security forces to dissipate the presence of female protestors. Largely due to its decision not to attack protestors and side with the masses, the military was able to emerge as ‘guardians of the revolution’ (Karon 2011). This reputation, however, was threatened by the political and economic instability that ensued. The swift shift from a depoliticized to a hyper-politicized public sphere inevitably produced an era of instability. Age-old ideological rivalries between Islamists, Leftists and the military surfaced and communal strife began to unfold. In holding itself hostage to the supervision of the transitional political processes such as the drafting of a constitution and parliamentary and presidential elections, the SCAF became the target of the opposition protests it desperately attempted to quell (Elgindy 2012). The mishandling of sensitive situations during this period, the alleged attempts to control the constitutional drafting process while securing

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the military’s privileges, along with the military’s overt alliance with the Muslim Brotherhood, induced the second uprising to emerge—as a continuation of Jan 25th—against the military rule. In response, the SCAF conceded to some of the demands including sacking the government, appointing a new prime minister and conceding power to an elected president by July 2012 (Elgindy 2012). Nonetheless, the absence of the same diversity, scope and sense of patriotic unification prevalent in Jan 25th led to political polarization and protracted social conflicts since the SCAF is a relatively respected state institution. Furthermore, the Muslim Brotherhood—a highly influential figure at the time both quantitatively and ideologically—did not endorse the protests. In the period immediately following Mubarak’s resignation, it became increasingly clear that sexual violence was politically coordinated. Gang rapes in and around Tahrir Square increased, creating a climate of fear and intimidation for female protestors. As tensions between revolutionaries and the army intensified, the armed forces and riot police explicitly waged a series of sexual assaults targeting female protestors. One of the most notable instances of sexual violence during this period occurred in March 2011 when the military detained 17 women at a protest and subjected them to forced virginity tests. Former head of military intelligence and current President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi defended these actions on the ground that the army was protecting itself from false accusations of rape. Such logic rooted in patriarchal conceptions of ‘purity’ assumes the faulty premise that only virgins are capable of being raped. Another prominent example of sexual violence is popularly known as the ‘blue bra’ incident that was captured in a video and circulated on social media. The video depicted a veiled female protestor who was violently beaten, stripped naked and dragged across the street by military forces. The images of the women quickly became a powerful symbol of the military’s abuse of power and rallied cries from thousands of Egyptian women who joined the protests demanding the end to military rule (Trew 2013; Elmohandes 2014). This form of systematic and institutionalized sexual violence used against women human rights defenders was similarly demonstrated in several other incidents during the events of November 19 and December 16, 2011. Reports of sexual, physical and verbal assaults by police forces and individuals in civilian attires were documented. The

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violations included rape threats during arrest, as well as degrading and inhumane treatment in detention (Nazra 2011b). Wave 3 The third wave of protests occurred during the short-lived period of the first democratically elected president, Mohamed Morsi’s rule from June 2012 until June 2013 (The New York Times 2014). Political conflict in this context was mainly between different factions of society, including opposing state actors, but intensified after Morsi’s decision to pass a controversial presidential decree. Sexual violence was initiated mainly by mob attacks yet strategically overlooked by the regime. Two crucial factors espoused a sense of alienation that invoked the emergence of widespread protest movements once more. Firstly, the Muslim Brotherhood’s stronghold on the legislative and executive branch led to what many refer to as ‘the brotherhood of society’ and speculations that the group was not interested in the greater good of society, but in advancing its own interests. Secondly, a controversial presidential decree in which Morsi granted himself and the Islamist-dominated constitutional assembly extensive new powers beyond judicial accountability, was interpreted as a regression into another era of tyranny (Kirkpatrick and El Sheikh 2012). The nature of protests during this period was highly sporadic. On one side of the spectrum, many took to the streets to protest against Morsi’s presidential decrees. On the other side, Muslim Brotherhood supporters protested in favor of Morsi, leading to a violent confrontation between the two groups. Equally important was the fragmentation of society beyond street politics. Islamist groups—albiet being perceived as monolithic entity—were highly divided. After suffering a political defeat in elections, secular parties were equally, if not more divided. Furthermore, the Muslim Brotherhood and the military were also in conflict behind closed doors. The public space became an avenue through which a plethora of conflicting interests and political projects was contested (Kirkpatrick and El Sheikh 2012). The regime’s failure to assert control over all states apparatuses coupled with its eagerness to maintain a democratic image, made it reluctant to overtly deploy violence against protestors. Instead, the mob assaults— prominent during Mubarak’s reign—became more frequent and gruesome (Ramdani 2013a; Amnesty International 2013). The rise in mob

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assaults prompted the rise of grassroots volunteer groups such as Operation Anti-Sexual Harassment (OpAntish), Tahrir Bodyguards and AntiSexual Harassment movement. These groups were comprised of organized diverse clusters of people from and attempted to secure protest spaces by physically intervening to extricate women from what was referred to as ‘circles of hell’. Their presence served to combat attempts that aimed to discourage women from protesting (Kingsley 2013). Many human rights groups such as Magda Adly, a medical professional with non-governmental organization (NGO) El Nadeem Center for Rehabilitation of Victims of Violence, believe that these types of assaults were part of an ‘organized attack on women’ seeking to generate fear in the square and break their ‘political spirit’. Volunteers, from intervention groups, testified that most of the incidents were organized and systematic: hundreds of men would surround a woman, strip her naked and proceed to assault or rape her using their hands and/or sharp objects. This recurrent pattern described as the ‘circle of hell’ by activists targeted women and young teenage girls indiscriminately (Marroushi 2015, p. 4; Kingsley 2013). Yasmine El-Baramawy, a thirty-year-old musician who was raped in November 2012 decided to make her case public. El-Baramawy and many other survivors who joined the movements to fight sexual violence became a source of inspiration to women in Egypt and to the movement. Their commitment to ensuring that women will not be excluded from the ongoing struggle made them symbols of strength and resistance. Yasmine’s testimony along with many others highlighted the organized nature, speed and efficiency of violence, indicating they were strategically coordinated attempts to discourage women from political participation (Trew 2013). The Muslim Brotherhood-dominated Shura Council members (Egypt’s upper house of parliament) during this period argued that by choosing to be involved in the protests and being caught on-site, they had inflicted danger upon themselves (Ramdani 2013a). The notion of accountability for mob assaults remains very complex despite the overt presence of organized and systemic attempts to disseminate fear and terror. In addition, the victim blaming response of the Shura Council and Muslim Brotherhood members suggests that they either had prior knowledge about the incidents and/or condoned the occurrence of such crimes in pursuit of political interest. Their stance inflamed one of the

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biggest transnational protests in the history of the Egyptian feminist movement (Zohney 2014). Wave 4 The final stage of protests to be examined is the 2013 mass uprising that inaugurated the popularly supported coup from June 2013 until present (The New York Times 2014). During this period, a rampant form of topdown nationalism resurfaced that allied the state with large segments of society. The perception of a common enemy and ‘othering’ of the Muslim Brotherhood became an amalgamating force between the state and society against a third party. The largest degree of participation in protests and the highest level of sexual violence are both eminent in this stage. Activism was endorsed and encouraged for a select group of women who shared the regime’s militant vision of dismantling the Muslim Brotherhood while sexual violence reached its peak, particularly against women and girls who endorsed alternative views. Mass frustration and discontent with Morsi’s rule led to the emergence of a grassroots movement entitled Tamarod. The movement collected 22 million signatures from Egyptians in favor of an end to Morsi’s rule and called for mass protests on June 30 that was met by millions of protestors (Abdel Gawad 2013). Although exact figures from this period are highly contested, the scene of protests was unprecedented in size and scope, surpassing those during the 18-day revolution that toppled Mubarak. Former Field Marshall Abdel Fattah el-Sisi’s decision to stage a coup against Morsi in response to the protests allowed him to emerge from the situation as a heroic nationalist icon. Immediately after the coup, Sisi called on his supporters to grant him a mandate to fight ‘terrorism’—a term he attributed to the activities of the Muslim Brotherhood. This mandate was interpreted as a green light to violently dismantle the Muslim Brotherhood. Sisi’s readiness to wage war against the Muslim Brotherhood and restore political stability is arguably one of the biggest pillars that enabled his rise to power as president. His military background and stance against the Muslim Brotherhood were backed by a nationalist resurgence that evoked the days of Nasser. This brand of nationalism was contingent upon a cult of personality and resembled strains of militarism, populism and anti-foreign backlashes (Dunne 2015). Whereas Jan 25th was a conflict between the people and the state, June 30 appeared to be a coalition between the people and the state

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in confrontation with a common enemy, the Muslim Brotherhood. This coalition was sustained through a rampant wave of violence and state-led propaganda that greatly contrasted the peaceful modes of dissent prevalent during Jan 25th. The nationalist sentiment of Jan 25th was derived from the bottom-up but the nationalism expressed on June 30 was topdown and highly dependent on Sisi’s cult of personality. The fight against terrorism quickly became a scapegoat to silence any form of dissent. Actors who opposed state-led media propaganda were immediately portrayed as terrorists, Muslim Brotherhood allies and/or traitors, with all three labels being used interchangeably. As noted by Mostafa (2015): Media outlets such as newspapers, journals and TV channels are overwhelmingly in support of the Sisi regime and increasingly showing the 2011 revolution’s supporters as traitors and agents of foreign countries, to the extent of portraying the revolution as a big conspiracy against Egypt. In this sense, the media channels are mobilising their means and resources not only to erase the revolution from Egypt’s history but in fact to distort it, to make it look as a diversion, a disruption and a conspiracy.

This surge of protests is one where images of women utilizing the public sphere for political expressions are most pervasive. In the state and society’s alliance against the Muslim Brotherhood, women constitute Sisi’s biggest support base. The term ‘Sisi’s Women’ was derived through the circulation of videos, whereby women were publicly voicing their support for the president and dancing in celebration of his candidacy at the voting polls (Zaki 2015). In hopes that Sisi would adopt a more progressive stance on gender than his predecessor, women responded to his call to protests in large scale and even organized autonomous women’s marches. For example, former MP Margaret Azer’s mobilized over 800 women, many of whom proudly carried banners of Sisi (Rabie 2014). Such expressions of support captured by domestic media outlets sought to reaffirm a ‘gendered’ component in the June 30th events by reinforcing the notion that women played a crucial role in toppling the Muslim Brotherhood. This sense of state-endorsed feminist mobilization does not come without its setbacks. Firstly, while women are cast as nationalist actors with significant leverage power, those who utilize the public space to express opposition to the regime risk violent forms of crackdown. This is evident, for example, in the Rab’a massacre where state security allegedly

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killed 800–1000 protestors, many of whom were women and children, and in the infamous image of political activist Shaimaa Al-Sabbagh shot dead in a rally commemorating the Jan 25th revolution. Secondly, the crackdown on civil society and the protest ban imposed by Sisi following his election is likely to have detrimental effects on women, limiting the scope of individual and collective activism. Lastly, although the regime has capitalized on images of women expressing support for the regime via the public sphere, the state remains unable to secure their protection within these spaces. This is demonstrated in the numerous incidents of sexual violence that took place during June 30 waged or aggravated by individual bystanders. According to ‘Egypt: Keeping Women Out – Sexual violence in the Public Sphere’, a report which presented over 250 cases, from November 2012 to July 2013, societal impunity results in the acceptance and continuity of sexual violence against female protestors (FIDH 2014). In the period from 28 of June to 7 of July, 2013—when President Morsi was forced to leave office—a total of 186 cases of sexual violence were reported (out of 500 cases from February 2011 to January 2014) varying from sexual assaults to rape while people were celebrating Morsi’s departure in Tahrir Square. This number merely represents the reported cases by EIPR, Nazra for Feminist Studies, OpAntish and other concerned groups; there may be other cases that were not reported due to difficulties in spotting all the incidents (Kirollos 2013; Marroushi 2015, p. 4; Trew 2013). Ahmed Ezz, an intervention team leader, he testified that: “The attackers are always armed, carrying knives, sticks, everything except live firearms. Sometimes there are hundreds of people surrounding the girls so we are trying to expand the numbers in the intervention teams” (HRW 2013). This also applies to women protestors/supporters from the Muslim Brotherhood—following the forced departure of Morsi—who were groped and sexually assaulted by Special Forces in August 2013. Similarly, females protesting the protest law were also assaulted in front of the Shura Council in November 2013 upon their arrest (Elmohandes 2014). During the departure of Morsi until present, numerous cases of sexual violence against women occurred. This mostly varied from mob assaults/rape to physical sexual harassment by Special Forces. It is obvious that the same repeated pattern was deployed against women protestors as a tool of political and psychological intimidation serving to deter their participation in political affairs. In many incidents, indiscriminate

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bystanders would join the attacks, which reinforces the notion that such incidents are not only political but also a societal matter.

Sexual Violence as Obstacle and Opportunity Revolutionary forces did not view gender equality as a critical demand underlying the success of the revolution. The fact that gender equality was not at the core of the revolution’s demands became evident when just weeks after the Jan 25th revolution, women were atttacked whilst marching in a protest in light of international women’s day. The sharp contrast between these attacks and the egalitarian nature of Tahrir square just weeks before, demonstrates that people are willing to support ‘women as revolutionaries but not as activists asking for women’s rights ’ (Sholkamy 2014, p. 169). The result is what Moghadam (1995) considers a patriarchal revolution, decreasing the likelihood of positive gender outcomes. This occurrence is not new to the history of women’s activism in Egypt. The historical development of the state often compelled women activists to continuously align themselves with established nationalist movements, first the anti-colonial and later anti-Zionist struggles that limited their ability to prioritize gender issues without facing accusations of imitating or siding with the West (Hatem 1993). In addition, a strategic brand of ‘state feminism’ was levied by former President Gamal Abdel Nasser in post-colonial Egypt where the state effectively appropriated discussions on women’s issues. It was not until the late 1980s where former President Mubarak’s loosened restrictions on civil society, that a semi-independent feminist movement began to exert influence. The main components of this feminist movement were issues related to women’s bodies such as FGM, reproductive rights and honor killings (Al-Ali 2000; Kamal 2016). Despite the relative success in tackling these issues, efforts were scattered and subject to state manipulation, thereby restricting the rise of a fully independent feminist movement that can effectively exploit the political openings generated by the Jan 25th revolution to advance a gendercentric agenda. Within the realm of their participation as revolutionaries during the Jan 25th events and onward, women encountered obstacles that led them focus on what Molyneux (1986) coined ‘practical gender interests’, namely physical security. Practical gender interests are a response to immediately perceived necessities and threats identified within a specific context that coincide with socially accepted gender roles in society. They

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do not seek to challenge—although they are a reflection of—the gendered divisions of labor and women’s subordinate position in society. In this sense, they may not explicitly endorse a strategic and long-term agenda for gender equality. Although the suffering of women is a direct product of skewed power relations in patriarchal hierarchies, the issues are rarely framed as such and activism instead seeks to address immediate needs. From the very start of the revolution, it became apparent that sexual violence would be the biggest threat to undermining women’s activism in political protests. Among the most leading faces of the revolution was Asmaa Mahfouz, a young woman with ties to the workers’ unions. Mahfouz issued a clarion call on Facebook that quickly went viral, urging everyone in the nation to rise and join the protests. In the call, she wittingly argued that: Whoever says women shouldn’t go to the protests because they will get beaten, let him have some honor and manhood and come with me on January 25th … If you have honor and dignity as a man, come and protect me, and other girls in the protest. (as cited in El Zahed and Wall 2011, p. 1339)

The notion of chivalry was a perennial theme throughout the different waves of the revolution that was both exploited and resisted by women. On the one hand, Asmaa Mahfouz’s comments demonstrate the ways in which women drew on traditional gender norms and interests, to justify their presence, mobilize protestors and urge men to join the battle against sexual violence. On the other hand, women at the forefront of anti-harassment initiatives that would later surface opposed chivalric means of responding to sexual violence. This was particularly evident in women’s opposition to men forming circles around them to shield away perpetrators of violence. In initiatives, such as OpAntiSH, there was an obstinate insistence to include women in intervention groups rescuing women from sexual violence after long discussions with their male counterparts (Pratt 2020; Nazra 2011a; Antoun 2011). Despite the disparate approaches to addressing the issue, a consensus was reached that sexual violence was an issue of priority for women, society and revolutionaries alike. When it became clear that their physical presence in the protests was under continual threat due to various forms of sexual violence,

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women rallied their efforts to affirm their status as equal activists alongside men. Sexual violence was condemned—if not least—for jeopardizing their activism. The ensuing revolutionary chants deeming women’s bodies a ‘red line’ sent a clear message that the issue is of national concern (Kirollos 2016, p. 63). Inadvertently and perhaps serendipitously, a ‘feminist surge’ was resuscitated by the efforts of young women to combat sexual violence. Badran (2016) described the feminist rival as: A feminism rebooted in the volcano of violence. It rises from deep within the patriarchal culture and the vortex of political struggle. It is a feminism that insists that gender, human beings as men and as women, must be included along with class, race or ethnicity, and religion in the effort to move from patriarchal authoritarianism toward the realization of an egalitarian culture in the state, society, and family.

The focus on ‘practical needs’ namely physical security paradoxically gave rise to an invigorated and unified feminist movement capable of operating in the open-ended arc of a broader, long-term feminist revolution. In resisting the most covert surface-level manifestations of sexual violence, the movement was forced to enter broader discussions regarding the oppressive patriarchal structures that enable sexual violence to prevail. The occurrence of dreadful acts of sexual violence in Tahrir Square— the primary symbol of the revolution—invoked an immediate reaction from a plethora of social actors (Kirollos 2016, p. 63). Women human rights defenders developed and shared a feminist analysis of aggression situated in the culture and sociology of their context. This common understanding, if properly channeled and sustained, could serve as the gateway through which the root causes of gender inequality are created and sustained. The exertion of women and human rights groups in highlighting and condemning sexual violence subsequently played a pivotal role in shifting Egypt’s legal culture in favor of women’s issues (Kirollos 2016, p. 62). In partnership with the Ministry of Interior establishment, a unit was established to monitor crimes of violence against women in May 2013. The adoption of a national strategy to combat violence against women led by the National Council for Women in May 2015 also signifies a step in a positive direction. The movement against sexual harassment has gained increasing momentum over the past few years, to the extent that Cairo University has established an anti-sexual harassment unit to combat sexual

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harassment and violence against women on campus in 2015. Perhaps the biggest accomplishment was the amendment of article 306 in the Egyptian penal code in 2014. The amendment directly criminalized sexual harassment for the first time in Egyptian legal history (AhramOnline 2014; El-Rifae 2014; Kirollos 2016, p. 59). Although the new law fell short of acknowledging other types of sexual violence such as anal rape, marital rape and domestic violence, it is nonetheless a significant milestone in altering the legal culture in favor of women (Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights 2015 and Kirollos 2016, p. 56). In a context where a reported 99.3% of women have experienced sexual harassment at one point in their lives, such measures to curb sexual violence are likely to radically affect women’s access to the public space and beyond (UN Women Survey as cited in Kingsley 2013). The emphasis on ‘practical gender interests’, however, came at the expense of women’s incorporation into other channels of influence (Alexander and Apell 2016). In the first parliamentary elections following the ouster of Mubarak, women constituted merely 2% of the 508 seats. Furthermore, in the committees that drafted the 2012 (suspended) and 2014 constitutions, women failed to occupy more than a handful of seats ranging from 5 to 10%. It is important to note, however, that exclusion from formal political challenges in the aftermath of the Jan 25th revolution was not unique to women. The serendipitous nature of the revolution did not allow enough time for various groups to organize themselves. As a result, post-revolutionary elections failed to empower leftists, youth nor women all of whom were at the forefront of the revolution (Alexander and Apell 2016). Nonetheless, there is a common understanding that sexual violence is directly contingent on women’s inclusion in the public sphere and hence any type of political representation afterward. If the momentum in the movement against sexual violence is sustained, it is likely to pave the way for gender mainstreaming in formal political channels. Whereas sexual violence was conventionally considered a taboo issue, the experiences they faced during the Jan 25th revolution and the subsequent uprisings destigmatized the fear of speaking out against the topic. The scope and coordination of efforts directed against sexual violence are so conspicuous that it has been categorized as the ‘4th wave of feminism’ in Egypt (Kamal 2016). With the exception of established Islamist groups, few civil society actors were able to effectively exploit the political openings posited by the

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revolution to advance their interests. The accumulated efforts of the antisexual violence movement before and during the revolution made this one of the few gains of the revolution. The conspicuous, grotesque and indiscriminate nature of sexual violence that surfaced during the revolution was effectively highlighted, framed and analyzed to induce sustainable change. Such successes however, remain highly subject to the question of political intent, implementation and accountability. These challenges surface when examining the way the state has dealt with several cases of violence that has been filed under the sexual harassment law. For instance, the state’s response to cases of public mob assaults during the last 5 years— one perpetrated against a female student in Cairo University and another against a woman walking from a wedding in the governorate of Zagazig— reveal that the discourse of victim blaming and shaming is still being adopted by state officials (Kirollos 2016, p. 59; Nazra 2017). Skepticism toward the law’s implementation should remain pervasive especially since those meant to be implementing it are the same ones abusing it. Nonetheless, if the anti-violence against women movement operates with a sustained momentum, there remains a likelihood that such laws translate into more tangible gains in the quest for gender equality in Egypt.

Conclusion The chapter has demonstrated that sexual violence was paradoxically one of the biggest obstacles and opportunities for women’s emancipation in the Jan 25th revolution. Women protestors from all walks of life were subject to indiscriminate and brutal forms of violence by state and societal actors alike. The nature of political conflict played a crucial role in determining the scope of violence. More overt forms of sexual violence conducted directly on behalf of state forces to deter women’s activism are prevalent in periods where the state is in direct conflict with protestors. This is demonstrated in the cases of virginity tests, ‘the best of all girls’ incident, mob assaults and the selective endorsement of violence against oppositional female protestors or those who do not endorse a ‘state feminism’ viewpoint. Furthermore, the state’s indirect endorsement of sexual violence in the form of societal impunity has enabled the practice to become a societal epidemic as much as it is a political one. The practices of autonomous opportunists and apolitical bystanders who joined the mob assaults as opposed to deterring them reflect the extent to which sexual violence is a widespread societal phenomena.

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The case of Egypt reinforces the notion that while political revolutions tend to draw women into the public sphere in large, they often fail to emancipate them despite their significant contributions. The failure of Egyptian women to join the protests as gender activists advancing a broader gender revolution undermined their long-term gendered interests and security. During periods characterized by an upsurge in nationalist sentiment as prevalent during the Jan 25th revolution, women were encouraged to defy gender norms and utilize the public sphere for political activism. The endorsement of their presence in revolutionary movements, however, does not guarantee their protection. Indeed, the lowest period of reported cases of sexual violence was when a bottom-up strand of nationalism reached its peak during first wave of the Jan 25th revolution. However, sexual violence reached its peak in a period where nationalist sentiment was relatively high (albeit a more top-down strand of nationalism). Even as the state encouraged women to enter the public sphere and join the rank of protestors, it failed to guarantee their security. Nonetheless, such collective experiences of sexual violence faced by women in revolutionary protests movements inversely have a positive effect on the activities of Egyptian feminists and women’s rights activists. In the years prior to the Jan 25th revolution, women and human rights groups have endured several struggles to bring the issue of sexual violence to mainstream public discourse. With little success in the past, the Jan 25th revolution and all subsequent uprisings presented a golden opportunity for the fruits of such efforts to finally be reaped. In rallying their efforts to fight sexual violence, women have made tremendous gains in reclaiming their rights as equal citizens within the public sphere. The coordinated efforts in the plight against sexual violence have resulted in unprecedented sociopolitical and legal gains. Whereas impunity for sexual violence within both the private and public sphere has been the norm, the legal climate is gradually shifting in favor of accountability. The political support accumulated in favor of ending sexual violence could potentially serve as the gateway through which other rights can be pursued later via increased participation in public affairs. Although the revolution failed to address many of the grievances expressed by revolutionary actors such as police brutality, political freedoms and social justice, the fight against sexual violence emerged as one of the few wins from it.

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The Revolution Continues: Sudanese Women’s Activism Sarah O. Nugdalla

Introduction The months following December 2018 were a defining moment in Sudan’s history characterized by what seemed to be unthinkable—the fall of Omar Al-Bashir’s 30-year rule. The wave of anti-government demonstrations in Sudan began over the rising cost of living and escalated into nationwide calls for Bashir’s removal. Beginning as random and disjointed protests in various parts of the country, the uprising quickly became coordinated with millions taking the streets. The main organizing body of the movement was the Coalition of Freedom and Change, a collective of professional organizations operating as unofficial unions forming neighbourhood resistance committees, organizing mass strikes and drafting protest schedules that were disseminated through social media, galvanizing the masses under the hashtag #TasgotBas translating to #FallThatIsAll (Elhassan 2019). Central to the documentation of the #FallThatIsAll uprisings has been the celebration of women through international media, the Sudanese diaspora and within the movement. The once vilified, ridiculed and de-legitimized roles of women activists were being crowned the title

S. O. Nugdalla (B) Khartoum, Sudan © The Author(s) 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4_6

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‘Kandaka’, a name given to Nubian queens of ancient Sudan (Abdulbari 2019). Though the resurfacing of the term was well received in the movement, closer engagement with its usage poses reservations. By capturing a single romanticized period in which women were exalted in Sudanese history, irresponsibly neglects to engage with the subsequent violent realities that constitute the history of Sudan today. That is, between the usage of the title Kandaka in the 2018/19 uprisings and that of ancient Sudan, there exists a history of violent lived realities of women, namely of women activists that are conveniently overlooked in the present moment. Moreover, the sentiments attached to the claiming of the movement’s many Kandaka’s are deeply entrenched with an overwhelming sense of pride, patriotism and glorification for ‘our women’. The underlying ownership in the language amplifies the already grounded ownership of women within society that exists beyond Al-Bashir’s regime and cannot be simply undone by his removal. It is important to note that although the harsh treatment of women activists was undoubtedly crafted by the Islamist regime’s practice, it was very much cradled ‘by a society steeped in misogyny’ (Malik 2019a). Interrogation of the drastic change in narratives and discourses surrounding women’s roles as activists as mirrored in the language reveals how their activism and subsequent fame is legitimized to a patriarchal end. This chapter historicizes the evolution of Sudanese women’s activism in the last two decades, beginning with the facets of the regime’s Islamization project. This provides the foundation to analyse the laws that engineered the policing of women in the public sphere followed by an examination of women’s activism through key mobilization points of the Sudanese women’s movement. I highlight the ways in which the political context in Sudan has influenced space for activism and uncover the overlooked nuances emerging from the #FallThatIsAll movement that successfully led to the demise of the Islamist regime.

The Islamization Experiment A characteristic shared by many religious fundamentalists is the need for a construction of an imagined Islamic society unblemished by modern ideas (Moghissi 2004, p. 60). In the Sudanese context, this took place through the re-implementation of Islamic Law as part of a larger civilization project (Al- Mashru Al-Hadari) that set out to ‘civilize’ the population under the umbrella of Islamism in 1989 headed by former president

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Omar Al-Bashir (Badri and Tripp 2017, p. 143). In Sudan, the civilizing project entailed the imposition of cultural homogeneity, demonstrated through the heavy pan-Arab and pan-Islamic rhetoric classifiable by the forcing of ‘Arab’ identity on indigenous groups across the state (Osman 2014, p. 44). The Islamization of public conduct was institutionalized in a separate set of public order laws in 1996. The implementation of the public order regime embodied a particular set of values designed to control gender relations within society and signify state engagement in regulation of the personal. Additionally, an independent committee was formed to monitor and uphold the public appearance—or what Nageeb refers to as the ‘Islamic outlook’ of the city (2004, p. 21). The morality sentiments attached to the laws serve to distinguish between the good (moral) and bad (deviant) citizen, with their application anchored in hierarchies of gender, class and ethnicity. This tailored notion of morality permeated through institutions such as mosques, the media and education system. In addition, the established courts, committees, police and security services designed to cater to the regulation of public moral conduct (Nageeb 2004, p. 20). In this narrative, all men take on the role of social and religious protectors and thus, are awarded the entitlement to ‘correct’ women’s sense as per state regulations. This could be described as a manifestation of ‘biopower’, evident through all aspects of society, biopower is ‘an explosion of numerous and diverse techniques for achieving the subjugations of bodies and the control of populations’ (Foucault 1978, p. 140). As a concept, biopower reveals how women’s bodies are faced with becoming subjects of collective concern and interest evident through tireless regulation (Miller 2007, p. 351). This highlights how these gendered notions are not limited to the public sphere and in fact carry weight in all spaces. The public order laws purport to be applied to all equally, however, the reality of the public order regime is that while the nature of the legal prohibitions leads to their frequent violation, they are not consistently enforced (SIHA 2017, p. 5). A gendered analysis of the laws exposes how socio-political discourses harvest the avenues through which women’s bodies are able to exist in certain spaces. Although all women are exposed to the law, particular groups such as alcohol brewers, and sellers, tea sellers, students and activists are rendered the most affected (SIHA 2017, p. 5). This is arguably attributed to the nature of their lifestyles that requires their presence in the public sphere, leaving them more susceptible to the violence perpetuated by the laws. Engagement with Article 152

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that speaks to the vague notion of ‘indecent/immoral dress’ which may ‘cause annoyance to public’s feelings’ discloses how the desired woman citizen is achieved through projecting Islamic norms of morality on women’s bodies (Sudan Criminal Act 1991). Behind the guise of morality the female body is forcibly concealed, making women’s dress a symbol of ‘cultural authenticity expressed in Islamic terms’ (Kandiyoti 1991, p. 3). What this seeks to unravel is how modes of dress and its inscriptions over women’s bodies lead us to the interwoven nature of morality and modesty. More specifically, how the state allocates policies that mould women’s social and moral judgement if not adhered to. Similarly, Article 151 speaks to the prohibition of ‘gross indecency’ revealing the perpetrator as ‘whoever commits any act contrary to another persons modesty’ (Sudan Criminal Act 1991). The impact of this vague provision is that fails to delineate the acts that could be ‘contrary to another persons modesty’ making it prone to subjective interpretation by public order police, who routinely arrest individuals on the above basis for acts that should not be criminalized (SIHA 2017). The penalties for breaking the laws are limited to imprisonment, physical punishment by means of lashing and/or flogging or a monetary fine. Unpacking this closely exposes the inherent unequal design and application of the law that is rooted in classed structures. Nageeb (2004) notes that upper-class women are able to avoid engaging with the law as they manoeuvre the city in private transportation and are employed in private institutions. This effectively highlights how working class women are the most vulnerable to the violence perpetuated by the laws. Accordingly, for these groups of women, paying a monetary fine is not a viable option, resulting in forced imprisonment or subjection to physical abuse. An examination of these dynamics indicates the inextricable link between state violence, formal law and material realities. Furthermore, the prevalence of a non-Muslim Sudanese population cannot be understated when assessing the Islamization project and the policy packages that accompanied it. A presidential decree in 1991 obliged women to an Islamic dress code, through the wearing of a hijab or headscarf. Effectively forcing the heterogeneous cultures prevalent in Khartoum to adhere to Islamic modes of dress, regardless of religious background. The Public Order Act provided a disguise for the detaining and humiliation of women, namely those visibly identifiable as non-Arab (Osman 2014, p. 53). This crucial factor proves especially necessary to an understanding of which groups were disproportionately affected by the Islamic hegemony and how experiences of groups varied. This includes

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the Christian population from South Sudan, Nuba Mountains and the small but, prominent Coptic population. The already marginalized roles of non-Muslim and non-‘Arab’-speaking Sudanese groups were further aggravated by the regime change. The Islamic rhetoric mobilized in post-1989 Sudan was heavily infused with the Arabization of identities, resulting in the erasure and silencing of groups who did not ethnically or religiously ‘fit the part’. The abovementioned laws sought to force adherence to what is deemed Islamic, and in theory ‘Arab’, on the vibrant population (Osman 2014). Resisting adherence to these policies became punishable by law, therefore fortifying their marginalization. The public order regime underlines how gendered moral bodies are disciplined by the state in a fashion that normalizes and naturalizes particular ways of being. Hence, resulting in the repression of those who do not subscribe to state-definitions of the norm through various methods of control, marginalization, silencing and abuse. A deeper engagement reveals how classism and regional hierarchies further aggravate the laws governing the gendered composition of Sudanese citizenship. The exclusionary formation of Sudanese citizenship, established through gendered and classist provisions, fiercely regulated by the state and other actors, served as fuel for Sudanese women’s organizing.

Sudanese Women’s Activism In masking the systems that disenfranchise women citizens, the state produces a shared experience across women. Recognizing womanhood as a site from which alliances are possibly built the following section explores women’s complex responses to exclusion by honing in on particular moments of women’s organizing. It is important to reiterate that the women’s movement in Sudan has proven to be more issue-driven as opposed to ideologically grounded (N. Khidir, personal communication, July 31, 2018).1 Therefore indicative of the fact that acceptance of a single ideology is not a prerequisite for solidarity to resist women’s issues in the Sudanese context. During the early years of the Islamization project, the regime placed a ban on the activities of political parties and dissolved all existing NGO’s, forcing a re-registration with the Humanitarian Affairs

1 This chapter draws on research conducted for my MA in Gender Studies with Sudanese women activists based in London.

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Commission (HAC) and the completion of a strict security screening process in order to resume activities. The new constraints on political parties had serious implications on women’s initiatives, as it severed the channels of women’s activism that traditionally existed within party margins. However, even after the ban was lifted, parties faced regulation and were immobilized by the regime, further dimming women’s activism within them. A combination of factors, namely resentment with the oligarchic nature of male-dominated parties resulted in the rise of youth and women’s groups ‘characterized by a dismissal of organized politics and a distrust of international organizations’ (Kadoda and Hale 2015, p. 219). Establishing of new grounds for women’s activism witnessed the formation of mutual solidarity and self-help organizations that seemed relatively safe from government retaliation. Badri (2008, p. 11) documents that— despite the registration restrictions imposed by the state—the number of registered NGOs dealing exclusively with women‘s rights issues rose to 37 by 2003. Women-oriented NGOs therefore constituted the bulk of civil society, proving to be the most active (Hale 2015). Women expelled from their jobs in 1991 by the government managed to move their talents to women-oriented NGOs, efficiently injecting knowledge from their experiences in the male-dominated civil service sector and the previous achievements of the women’s movement within these spaces (Badri 2005). The transition of spaces occupied by women activists was accompanied by a notable change in the nature of activism. With substantial changes made in the political structure of the state post-1989, issues such as rape, sexual assault and the policing of women in public took precedence. Therefore, replacing previous focus on women’s education and rights to hold public office. It can be argued that the altering of foci and new space for activism opened doors for Sudanese women’s mobilizing across difference as the formerly exclusive nature of the women’s movement took a turn for the better. These changes were reflected in the language used by actors, transitioning from identifying as part of a particular party ideology to more neutral titles as evident in the adopting of the term nashitaat (activists) (Hale and Kadoda 2013, p. 1).

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Engaging the State Rape Reform: Article 149 Previous research on the Sudanese women’s movement attributes the failure to introduce legal changes to the fragmented nature of the movement along political lines. However, this was challenged in the later years of the regime. Driven by NGO and non-party affiliated actors, organizations strategized agendas aimed at law reform. This is evinced in the organizing around Article 149 of the Criminal Act of 1991 that defines rape as a crime, but characterizes it as zina (adultery) in which the woman has not consented. The punishment for zina amounts to one hundred lashes for unmarried women and death by stoning for married women (Salah 2015). Under this law, a woman who was raped could be tried for zina if her lack of consent was not proven. Proof of rape under Islamic penal codes in Sudan necessitates a confession from the rapist, or four witnesses to the rape. This condition places women who bring a charge of rape to courts in a precarious position as they can easily be subjected to the harsh punishments of zina (Peraira and Ibrahim 2010, p. 930). Evidently, the law that conflated rape with adultery was high on the agendas of a number of organizations for years. One may argue that the increased levels of rape and gender-based sexual violence in Sudan’s conflict-ridden region of Darfur served to catalyse women’s organizations in Khartoum to prioritize the reform of Article 149 (N. Elkhalifa, August 6, 2018). The urgency of the matter eventually led to the crafting of an alliance, spearheaded by Salmmah Women’s Resource Centre, constituting a number of advocacy workers that operated as ‘Alliance of 149’ (Gayoum 2011). The law pertaining to adultery and rape in Sudan was confronted with the galvanization of efforts led by Salmmah in coordination with international partners such as Women Living Under Muslim Laws and Refugee International. The alliance comprised of roughly sixty Sudanese activists along with women activists from the continent including Senegal, Nigeria, Mauritania and Morocco who were facing similar challenges under Islamic laws (Tønnessen and al-Nagar 2015, p. 14). The demand for legislative changes was articulated in the alliance’s launching of the 2010 campaign, which created a platform for discourse between governmental representatives and women’s organizations. Women activists shed light on legal amendments in other Islamic countries such as Pakistan, where the synonymous interpretations of rape and zina within law was amended in 2006, to urge similar reforms in Sudan.

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Salmmah’s role in coordinating consultations between Pakistan and Sudan facilitated the exchange of strategies between activists and lawyers. Such processes were rooted in the recognition of correlations between the Sudanese Criminal Act of 1991 and the Pakistani Hudud Ordinance of 1979 (Tønnessen and al-Nagar 2015, p. 13). Ultimately, the correspondence between women’s rights groups from Sudan and other countries strengthened the launching of the Sudanese campaign in 2010 (Gayoum 2011), and increased awareness regarding the negative impacts of harmonizing rape and adultery. In 2015, the alliance celebrated the longawaited amendments to the law that reflected the differentiation between zina and rape. The amendments additionally expanded the range of social acts deemed to constitute rape and replaced the vague reference of ‘sexual intercourse’ to a more extensive definition of rape as a sexual contact by way of penetration to the body, including the use of an object (ACPJS 2016). However, it is important to note that although the scope of what constitutes rape was broadened the restrictiveness of evidence standards still applies. Therefore although the law was reformed, with proof of some gains, it did not completely dismantle the premise from which the law emanates.

Article 151 (3) Accompanying the amendments to the law on rape in 2015 was the addition of a clause to Article 151 (listed above) concerning sexual assault, the new clause reads: (3) A person who commits sexual harassment is anyone who carries out an act, a speech or behavior that is a temptation or an invitation for someone else to practice illegitimate sex, or conducts horrendous or inappropriate behavior of sexual nature that harms a person psychologically, or makes them feel unsafe. This person will be sentenced to a period of no more than three years and lashing. (Sudan Criminal Act 1991)

The clause was informed by the coordinated advocacy of Sudanese women activists, who tirelessly worked towards transformative reforms that served to better prevent and respond to sexual violence, but more importantly, to hold perpetrators of abuse accountable by law (ACJPS 2016, p. 1). As of date, three cases of sexual assault on women in public transportation in

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Khartoum have been taken to court under the new law, activists have celebrated this achievement however; remain concerned with the language of the law (E. B., personal communication, August 4, 2018). Following the tropes of ambiguity in the examined laws above. The clause reads in a confusing manner, as it speaks to the behaviour of the committer of sexual harassment as causing temptation and/or invitation for someone else to take part in assault. Making it difficult to delineate between the victim and the perpetrator. Other critiques of the law view the use of the word ‘temptation’ as implying that sexual assault can be prompted, allowing perpetrators to defend their actions by claiming they were lured or ‘tempted’ by the victim’s dress or mere presence (Salah 2015). Therefore arguing that the language of the law accommodates misogynistic arguments thus broadening policing of women’s clothing and behaviour, cushioned by the claim for women’s protection.

‘Lubna’s Trousers’ In 2010, Lubna Hussein, Sudanese journalist, was arrested at a restaurant in Khartoum under the aforementioned Article 152 for ‘indecently’ wearing trousers in public. Evidently, Lubna’s arrest is not unusual to women in Khartoum where the policing of women’s dress is rife, however, Hussein’s choice to be imprisoned despite her diplomatic immunity (provided by her position as UN staff) is what makes this case of heightened interest (Hawkesworth 2012, p. 120). Hussein’s decision was strategic as it acted to expose the gendered and classist nature of the law. This was achieved by the launching of an international media campaign, anchored in publicizing the consistent disenfranchising of particular groups of women under the regime’s interpretation of Sharia law. The case popularly referred to as ‘Lubna’s Trousers’ garnered international responses and is perhaps one of the most well-documented cases regarding women’s interactions with the public order laws in Sudan. However, what this analysis seeks to pinpoint is how individual acts can have a ripple effect in women’s organizing. Hussein’s individual efforts set alight conversations on wider issues related to women’s bodily agency and law enforcement’s targeting of women in the public for what is vaguely defined as immoral. In seizing this energy, local feminists mobilized outside of court hearings and continued to address the case after her release through informal and formal channels. Among the initiatives born in solidarity with Lubna was Khartoum based women’s organization Mubadarat la li-Qahr al-Nisaa

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(No to Women’s Oppression Initiative), which flourished in the following years as demonstrated in its organizing of sit-ins, press conferences, and demonstrations on a number of issues including against the conflict in Darfur, the Nuba Mountains and South Kordofan (Ali 2015, p. 172) The initiative stands as one of the most active in civil society spaces, existing as a safe zone for women activists—throughout Sudan’s regions—in need of protection and advice on how to advance resistance (T. A., personal communication, August 2018). Fadlalla (2011), drawing on Lubna’s case, outlines the complex position of Sudanese women as being caught between misogynistic regimes that challenge their mobility and Western rescue narratives. France’s memorable intervention with Lubna’s case was demonstrated by an invitation of residence. In addressing Hussein’s case former French president Nicolas Sarkozy publicly spoke to France’s identity as a ‘liberated woman ready to rescue her sisters, who have been forced to wear the burqa by their misogynist Muslim leaders’ (Fadlalla 2011, p. 167). This seemingly heroic claim cannot be divorced from the larger political atmosphere in which Islam is deliberately measured by the practice of Islamic regimes. The complex positioning of Muslim women in the international landscape emerges as a constraint to women’s activism at the local level. In organizing towards revealing the injustices endured by women living under Islamic laws, activists are met with narratives that condemn Islam. It becomes apparent that efforts within activist spaces are impeded upon by perceptions held regarding Islam’s entanglement with the law. It can be argued that at the local level, the processes of intricate engagement and separation of theology from the oppression of women occurs (N. Elkhalifa, personal communication, August 6, 2018). However, from a Western ‘saving’ narrative, as evinced in Lubna’s case, the process of liberating women is achieved through the removal of the subject from the oppressive Islamic regime under the guise of protection. It is worth noting that efforts have been focused on forming spaces that mediate the challenges faced by women activists working in Islamic contexts. One such effort is the aforementioned transnational solidarity network, Women Living Under Muslim Laws that has acted as a collective space for women ‘whose lives are shaped, conditioned or governed by laws and customs said to derive from Islam’ (WLUML, n.d.). The legislative strands of the above discussion draw attention to how moral preoccupations with women’s bodies and movement find home in the law. By codifying these particular notions of gender and sexuality,

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the state mobilizes heteronormativity in a fashion that nurtures its patriarchal goals and desires. Finally, we are able to tease out two key features of state-building used in the Islamization project in Sudan, the use of women’s bodies as an instrument to map the terrain and define the boundaries of the project; and the codifying of laws that serve to regulate women’s behaviour and sexuality to guarantee women’s adherence to the tasks involved (Peraira and Ibrahim 2010, p. 929). With an understanding of this, the following section will explore the impediments to women’s activism and their experiences of the erasure of civic space.

Gender and ‘Closing Civic Space’ In the case of Sudan, the ways in which these organizations and movements utilize public space was notably dangerous in the face of Islamist authorities. The challenging yet seemingly safe operation of women’s activism outlined in the previous section came to a halt when the government administered a clampdown on a number of NGOs in 2009, ceasing their activity and liquidating assets (Hale 2015). The draconian government crackdowns espoused the sudden closure of a number of organizations, mass surveillance of activities, raids and the criminalization of activists. Authorities additionally placed greater restrictions on the media, limiting freedom of expression by suspending newspapers and warning editors against the publishing of subjects that ‘cross red lines’ (HRW 2016, p. 12). Effectively creating a dangerous and precarious environment for occupiers of civic space. By recognizing the intensity of government crackdowns on civil society, it becomes evident that there exist shades of shrinking space. That is to say that although the closing of space is experienced by all of civil society, the application of these processes is gendered. Women activists report their experience of government surveillance of activities as notably different than their male counterparts. I was working on a case with a total of nine lawyers, three women and six men. The first day on the job one of the women lawyers faced verbal abuse from Security Council. The third day another woman was arrested and questioned by authorities. By the fifth day a fabricated case against me appeared. We were all working together but the three women activists involved only faced the challenges. Nothing happened to the men, even when dealing with us as a group the police would refer to the men as “asatza” (teachers) as a form of respect, and to us women as “banat”

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(girls) to degrade us. Do you see? There even exists a lack of acceptance of our roles as activists. (E. B., personal communication, August 4, 2018)

The stifling of women’s voices is undoubtedly linked to the moral fashioning of women in Sudanese society, as authorities use social conventions to harass women, threatening to tarnish their reputation by labelling them as deviant. The distinctive treatment of women in activists’ circles is mirrored in the language used when identifying them. The referral to women activists as ‘banat ’, a term used to identify young girls and when used to describe older women carries a demeaning connotation, is a deliberate act underpinning the idea that they have strayed away from their roles and are in need of discipline. This is to demean their presence in activist spaces and re-inscribe their social positioning as ‘less’. This underlines state construction of women’s citizens that trickles down into society’s expectations; these expectations are extended to other social actors, making the threat of ruining reputations a source of trauma for many women activists. As a result of the growing stigmatization on activism there exists greater anxieties around activists challenging narratives about gender said to be rooted in the Islamic faith, effectively ‘crossing a red line’. Moreover, they often face the criticism of being labelled traitors of their culture and by extension, religion (HRW 2016). In extreme cases, this takes the form of branding women activists enemies of the state, importing foreign beliefs that are aimed at disturbing the peace. An interview with Darfur based lawyer and feminist activist revealed the drastic measures undertaken by the government to impede her work: During my involvement in the documentation of testimonies by rape victims in Darfur, I was called to testify that the cases were fictive and that the chief lawyer played a vital role in their fabrication. My law license was revoked and I was taken from El-Fasher (West Darfur) to Khartoum as a witness, if I refused to testify then I would be convicted with reason. I was held in solitary confinement for seventy-nine days. I faced abuse during this time a lot of which was racialized “You people from Darfur are the killers of the killer!” “You whores from Darfur”. In refusing to testify I was later convicted with crimes against the state and forced to flee. (T. H., personal communication, August 1, 2018)

The racial slurs used against categories of women activists finds its roots in the aforementioned homogenizing efforts by the state that cemented

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regional hierarchies on the basis of ethnicity and race. This process produced stereotypes that facilitated the exclusion of women outside of the Northern—‘Arab’—Muslim category, regarding them as ill-fitting to the constructed moral Muslim woman citizen. This underlines the multidimensional experiences of oppression directed at women activists from marginalized regions of Sudan. The clampdown on civil society in part succeeded in impeding the efforts of activists and resulted in grave implications for the women’s movement at large. Firstly, the closure of organizations hindered the movement’s activity and space for organizing and strategizing. Secondly, the threat of exile and imprisonment resulted in the loss of many key activists, who through years of engagement acquired knowledge and formed important alliances. As a result of the threat permeating activist spaces, there existed serious insecurities around the leaders who remained, lawyer and feminist activist Najlaa Elkhalifa stated: The government has created an environment of lack of trust within activist spaces. You see the same faces at every workshop, owning the knowledge and not willing to transfer it in fear of getting tangled up with the authorities. (personal communication, August 6, 2018)

This was crippling for the future of the women’s movement as the dissemination of information, knowledge transfer and evaluation are critical to feminist movement building. Due to the the lack of trust, the process of collective reflection and access to past projects- that often act as ‘building blocks’ for future organizing- are lost. Thirdly, and perhaps the most difficult implication to overcome, the substantial cutback of funds that previously supported the agendas of various organizations. In a deliberate strategy aimed at deterring the efficacy of women’s rights activism, the Humanitarian Affairs Act (HAC) law prohibited organizations from receiving funding from foreign donors unless authorities approve it. Activists described foreign funders as ‘fatigued’ with Sudan, seeing as many have pulled out over recent years (E. B., personal communication, August 4, 2018). Moreover, the shrinking of civic space, specifically the attack on women activists cannot be understood in a vacuum. There exists a link between the erasure of civic space and alternative state agendas. This link reveals that the framing of women activists as foreign agents polluted with Western ideals is part of establishing the fiction of a threat from an external force. In founding this illusion of threat, the state mobilizes

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‘authenticity’ discourse as a response. The formation of national consciousness grounded in authenticity is a mechanism used to re-establish hierarchies on the basis of gender, class and sexuality. This results in the celebration of some roles while establishing grounds for regulating others (Hawkesworth 2012). This is seen in the dismissal of women’s resistance as foreign, which undermines home-grown initiatives and rationalizes the labelling of women activists as deviant and immoral women with imperialist goals that are not welcome in an authentic Islamic society. An understanding of this exposes the weakness of the state and views the curtailing of freedoms as a desperate measure undertaken to re-assert patriarchal order (Okech 2017, p. 17). Therefore, the crackdowns underscore the regimes growing fragility and defensiveness towards voices of dissent and justify its actions behind the curtain of protecting nation. The mere existence of an active women’s movement causes anxiety to the patriarchal state in profound ways (Moghadam 1998, p. 216); this anxiety is then expressed through a frantic attack on civic space. Nevertheless, for many women activists, the growing phenomenon of closing space for civil society represents an extension of the difficulties they have faced for years. The experiences of silencing, erasure and harassment have revealed their resilience demonstrated by their ‘resourcefulness and determination’ in the light of impediments placed on their activism (Mama Cash and UAF 2017, p. 33).

Confronting Erasure Despite determined efforts to shrink civic space in the later years of Al-Bashir’s regime, activists in Sudan sidestepped government pressures aimed at immobilizing them and transitioned into new modes of resistance. While many moved into undocumented underground activism others used varying tactics to ensure their work continues. At the height of government surveillance on civil society, new organizations surfaced by resorting to the altering of mission statements to disguise their feminist agendas when registering with the Humanitarian Affairs Commission (HAC). Existing organizations used the same method by tweaking the descriptions of events to bypass government raids (N. Elkhalifa, personal communication, August 6, 2018). Former Salmmah Women’s Center staff, Zeinab Elsawi spoke to this tactic stating:

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At times we would change the titles of our conferences in order to ensure that the government would issue visas to our participants. We achieved a lot by operating in this way. If the question is whether the government threatening our work is stopping it, the answer is no. The work is being done and it will continue to be done. We will get our rights, whether they like it or not. (personal communication, August 4, 2018)

This method of concealing feminist agendas, albeit to keep the movement alive, questions the consequences of reducing the visibility of feminist agendas for the future of the movement. In order to sustain muchneeded resistance, actors in the movement are forced into depoliticizing language by distancing themselves from naming their agendas as feminist, resulting in the movement’s limited action, reach and thus impact. This is to argue that the new modes of resistance were accompanied by a new set of constraints. Although the essence of resistance prevails, the commitment to claiming feminist agendas is hindered at the hands of the state, begging the question of how sustainable these methods are to achieving political guarantees for women. The dilemma remains on whether these tactics of bypassing government surveillance are successful in realizing the feminist project of radical transformation. Although many of the alliances formed as an outcome of shrinking space are centred on the protection of women activists, other organizations made use of local resources and established creative alliances to continue their activities (E. B., personal communication, August 4, 2018). Many organizations made use of local resources and established creative alliances to continue their activities. In 2013, Salmmah Women’s Resource Center organized the ‘One Billion Rising’ event in collaboration with other civil society and youth groups (Hale 2015). The coordinators orchestrated a ‘dance for freedom’ performed by hundreds of women from diverse backgrounds and age groups. In mediating shrinking space, the event was held at Al-Ahfad University for Women, an institution with a historical commitment to raising feminist consciousness (as evinced in its compulsory gender studies course for all of its students) demonstrating a far-reaching yet low-costing event. Founded in 1997, Salmmah’s mission was anchored in organizing on gender-related issues and grounded its work in feminist theory. In fulfilling its promise, Salmmah’s organization housed a library for gender studies. Open to all, the library was complete with archives of Sudanese women’s histories that facilitated research on

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gender, with Ahfad students being noted as frequent visitors (Z. Elsawi, personal communication, August 4, 2018) At face value, these collaborations may seem coincidental or even logistical; however, the relationship between Salmmah and Ahfad University speaks to the marriage of activism and the academy. The existence of the library on Salmmah’s grounds allows us to complicate the perceived domain of theory and re-imagine what it means to theorize. African feminists in particular have spoken to the binary of activism and the academy, attributing the division to Western, patriarchal systems of knowledge production that are rooted in particular forms of knowledge building. Gqola (2001) renounces this binary, highlighting its limitations that are fixated in the exclusion of other sites of knowledge, particularly knowledge that exists in activism. Rejecting this binary fosters the growth of theorizing and mobilizing that together are the key to uprooting oppressive structures. The penetration of activism and academia in this example draws us to the need of knowledge production to permeate public discussion and is born from an understanding that a movement grounded in theory is undeniably more impactful. Although the sudden closure of Salmmah in 2014 meant the existence of the library is no longer, Ahfad University continues to take part in the One Billion Rising event annually (Z. Elsawi, personal communication, August 4, 2018). Therefore, acknowledging how shrinking space has resulted in alternative methods of keeping feminist knowledge’s alive. It is this persistence of activists organizing despite the regimes silencing methods that brings us to the mobilizing efforts of the uprisings beginning December 2018. With an understanding of this, the following section will circle back to the uprisings that led to the removal of the military Islamist regime.

The ‘Revolution of Consciousness’ Similar to recent and historical popular uprisings on the continent the masses emerging in the #FallThatIsAll movement reflect the vigour and commitment by the youth to reclaiming spaces, narratives, histories and re-imagining of their futures (Kadoda and Hale 2015, p. 215). The youth primarily characterized as ‘rotten’ and ‘degenerate’ over several decades in Sudan have undone this discourse through their labour that primarily built the remarkable movement and its insistence on peaceful protest action. In rising to their generational challenge, the Sudanese youth led and realized what many believed was impossible. The chants and slogans

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of the uprisings used on the ground and on social media reflected the youthfulness of the movement in the use of slang and wit to express their claim to power. It is this invigorating action that revived older generations who had in essence thrown in the towel on Sudan and accepted the eternal reign of the Islamists. Grounded by the digital space, the movement relied heavily on technological advancements in awareness-raising namely through artistic content. Arguably the most powerful mode of resistance in the movement, the art revolution spoke to the suppression of creativity under Al-Bashir’s rule. At the main protest site, the General Military Headquarters, protestors exemplified a reclaiming of space through the establishment of art galleries, makeshift clinics, classrooms, libraries, food stalls, awareness-raising sessions, discussion corners as well as musical and theatre performances, sparking a renaming of the movement to the ‘Revolution of Consciousness’. Moreover, the rejuvenating energy was not limited to protestors on the ground as the solidarity of the Sudanese diaspora channelled the ongoings in Khartoum through the organizing of protests and fundraising to sustain the movement from afar. The contributions of the diaspora speak to a sincere sense of connectedness and exemplify resistance that occurs beyond geographical location. Though there is much to be said on the solidarity existing in the movement and its accomplishments beyond the removal of Al-Bashir, no political uprising comes without its difficulties, ones that despite the joys must be underlined. The following section attempts to untangle overlooked experiences that have been subsumed under the larger achievements by reflecting on issues that emerged within the movement, asserting that gender struggles exist at the centre of every space.

Maydanik At the beginning of protest action in December 2018, women constituted more than half of the bodies at the frontline. In an effort to break their spirits, the regime’s forces systematically targeted women activists as a way to destabilize the movement as it evidently was grounded on their presence (Abdalaziz et al. 2019). This took form in the detaining, beating and rape of women protesters, representing a heightened version of the experiences of women activists over the years. Despite its efforts, the forces of the government tired as the revolution proved relentless. However, the abuse faced by women protesters was not exclusive to state power and

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was strongly experienced from within the movement. This draws us to think about the layers and complicated ways in which movement building is experienced by different bodies. Despite the power in numbers congregating to achieve a single goal, women’s occupancy in protest spaces is met with harassment and assault of their bodies. Bringing the issues of women’s harassment by their comrades who are men to the forefront, at a time where action is contingent on collective unity, complicates the narrative. As a result, the issue of the gendered bodily experience of mobilizing is swept under the rug, as it does not affect the collective. Women’s issues and experiences of bodily violence within movement building are relegated by the insistence that state violence constitutes something more important and therefore takes precedence. Central to this process is the use of nationalist sentiments to silence women’s experiences of harassment in order to focus on the goal of the collective. The documentation of these experiences is limited as the power of mainstream history insists on a sense of patriotism that sidelines gendered and classed experiences for the movement. Within this framework, the power to bring alight issues is afforded to certain bodies, reminding us that power is pervasive even when there seems to be a single goal. In speaking back to the sidelined issues of sexual harassment on protest grounds, women activists began a movement within the movement, calling for an inward reflection on protest action and gendered oppression. Resulting in the formation of Maydanik (gendered word translating to ‘her space’) a safe zone for women located at the main protest site, providing victims of sexual harassment with legal and psychological support. The space intended to allow for discussion on the gendered experiences of the movement, particularly the pervasiveness of sexual harassment. The introspection on the gendered experiences in protests spaces speaks to the added layers of labour and exhausting of energies devoted to humanizing women’s experiences in spaces that are intended to be about freedom. The issues that necessitate the formation of Maydanik within a movement complicate the notion of ‘freeing spaces’ as it calls into question which bodies are able to exist ‘freely’ within those sites.

Sudan Women for Change The unprecedented commemoration of women as the drivers of the revolution proved conditional after the toppling of the regime and negotiations for a civilian transitional government began. As the boundaries

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of women’s involvement were drawn, the bubble of women’s fame quickly deflated. Nevertheless, the sidelining of women in the transitional process did not go unchecked as a collective of organizations under the name Sudan Women for Change led a press conference reiterating their list of demands in a declaration sent to internal and external entities. Additionally, a live recording of the press release was shared on Twitter along with a copy of the declaration open for signatures. It is important to note that the message was not targeting the military council leading the transition period, but was directed to all forces of change within the movement. Drafted in collaboration with a diverse number of youth organizations, civil and political groups from across the country—the declaration touched on varying issues relating to women in the ongoing movement and their experiences of harassment, the transitional period, as well as women’s roles in the structures to come. Operating on three levels the declaration addressed the securing of rights to women within the Sudanese constitution in accordance with regional and international standards, women’s active and impactful participation in the political sphere and in everyday life, as well as, women’s social and economic revolution (Noon Movement 2019). Discussion around these three levels took seriously the position of marginalized women, the question of access and recognition of the varying needs of women as a result of their diverse lived experiences. In responding to questions of the purpose of a women’s declaration (independent of the larger declaration by the Coalition of Freedom and Change) at the press conference, organizers juxtaposed women’s roles as the backbone of the revolution with their invisibility in the negotiation process as the flame that ignited a woman’s revolution within the revolution (Noon Movement 2019). The timeliness of the press conference spoke to women’s firm rejection of being famed for labouring in the movement with no political guarantees, causing them to call for the concretization of the slogans and chants that elevated women in the uprisings. In speaking to their unyielding dedication to securing women’s rights, a representative of Sudan Women for Change, Nahed Jabrallah stated, ‘We will not get involved in any compromises, and we will not tolerate any attempt of manipulation in this regard’ (Sudan Female Activists Seek Half of Transitional Authority 2019). The drafting of the demands by women’s groups across Sudan’s diverse regions represents yet another instance in which women’s movements are required to labour in reminding the collective of their hard-won rights. The need to devote their efforts to

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mobilizing independently symbolizes the resilience that exists at the heart of feminist mobilizing,

Alaa Salah---The ‘Icon ’ A turning point in the documentation of women protesters in Sudan was the capturing and mass spread of an image of Alaa Salah, a young protester photographed by Lana Haroun. Initially receiving little media attention, the anti-regime protests that were ongoing for months took centre stage as the masses had been awakened by the captivating image of the woman dawning white, standing on a car leading the crowd in chants. The spread of the image at an overwhelming speed corroborated false beliefs of women’s political activity as somehow new and exceptional. The image was met with notable admiration by Western(ized) media as it disrupted the over-exhausted and repetitive narrative of the voicelessoppressed-Muslim-woman. Nevertheless, what is of interest here is the overlooked nuances served by the image at the local level. Salah’s photograph garnered substantial attention by fellow Sudanese within protest spaces and in the diaspora as her image became the centre of WhatsApp group discussions, Twitter threads and Instagram reposts—carrying the common theme of how the woman in the image represents the ‘future’ of Sudanese women. Although not dismissing the powerful message delivered by the image, the iconization of Salah as embodying the ‘future’ on Sudanese platforms accentuated the erasure of the faceless and nameless women who historically laboured in building the foundations for women protesters like Alaa Salah to proudly occupy. The discourse surrounding the image effectively played into the widespread participation of muting Sudanese feminist histories of knowledge and movement building in academia and mobilizing spaces. As previously stated, among the chief missions of the Islamization project under Al-Bashir was the forced Arabization of Sudan’s diverse population and the violent suppression of those who were ethnically or religiously ill-fitting to the narrative. In acknowledging Sudan’s violent history of ethnic and tribal hierarchies, deeper engagement with the image exposes how it has served to simplify a complex narrative of the historical erasure of marginalized communities in Sudan. The Northern and ethnically ‘dominant’ culture in the image illustrates the iconization of a particular kind of Sudanese woman as the face of the movement. Malik (2019b) uncovers this irony by underlining that the white garment worn

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in the image traditionally represents the uniform dress of Sudan’s professional women, pinpointing how the image is deeply entangled with the ethnic and classed structures of Sudanese society and thus far from representative of women in the movement or Sudan at large. This understanding calls attentiveness to the ways in which the exception and fame of an individual are often awarded to certain pockets of society ‘the bourgeoisie, the educated and the photogenic’ (Malik 2019b). As Sudan is on the brink of social change, with women from marginalized communities labouring in its transformation the image robs their labour from inclusivity and celebration in the immediate narrative. The irony rests in the fact that the image assuming to represent a revolution of change is continuing with the upholding of the very divisions that drove it.

The Revolution Continues The goal of overthrowing Al-Bashir and the ferocious oppression accompanying his administration has begun to be realized. However, ideas of women’s position in society cannot be reversed with the removal of the regime as the dominant structures that underpin women’s oppression remain. What the analysis of Sudan’s #FallThatIsAll uprising has aimed to underline is that the sustenance of feminist movements and resistance is constant, the labour is constant, be it under repressive regimes or popular uprisings. Therefore, dismantling patriarchy in its various forms is an exhausting and ever-changing journey as the mechanisms available to it evolve. In understanding the various factors that play into the difficulties that exist within movement building, the powerful tools of resistance utilized by women activists in the Sudanese example remind us of the uncompromising labour of feminist movements in making their transformative agendas visible so not to be watered down by the collective. In recognizing how the state mobilizes gender to construct its citizens, this chapter set out to provide an interrogation of women’s relationship to the state by exploring the policies that—by design—cement-gendered divisions. This understanding facilitated discussion on how women’s bodies and ideas of respectability, good-moral-‘Arab’-Muslim woman, are employed by the state as sites of control. Therefore, revealing the mobilizing foci of the Sudanese women’s movement in the years following 1989. By looking at important moments of women’s mobilizing, the analysis revealed how even through the successes, the patriarchal foundation of

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the state remains intact. Moreover, an examination of the government’s efforts at impeding women’s mobilizing demanded an understanding of state fragility and how this materializes into the branding of women activists as enemies of the nation. A deeper look at the difficulties facing women activists within the #FallThatIsAll movement served to underline the stubbornness of patriarchy irrespective of women’s central roles, the labour and resistance continues in all spaces. Finally, what the Sudanese example has illustrated is the use of global feminist imaginings to advocate for reform and enact change at the national level. Additionally, that the spirit of resistance prevails despite continued erasure, silencing and harassment. However, reliance on this spirit alone cannot achieve the ultimate goal of dismantling patriarchy.

References Abdalaziz, S., Elbagir, N., & Nasir, S. (2019). They Tried to Use Rape to Silence Women Protesters. It Didn’t Work. Retrieved from https://edition.cnn.com/ 2019/05/17/africa/sudan-protests-asequals-intl/index.html. Abdulbari, N. (2019). Why Women Led the Uprising in Sudan. Retrieved from https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/2019/04/12/why-women-leduprising-sudan/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.056ca258e060. African Center for Justice and Peace Studies. (2016). Sudan’s New Law on Rape and Sexual Harassment, One Step Forward Two Steps Back? Retrieved from http://www.acjps.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/Sudan%E2%80%99snew-law-on-rape-and-sexual-harassment-One-step-forward-two-steps-back_-. pdf. Ali, N. M. (2015). Gender, Race, and Sudan’s Exile Politics: Do We All Belong to This Country? Lanham: Lexington Books. Badri, B. (2005). Feminist Perspectives in the Sudan: An Analytical Overview. Berlin. Badri, B. (2008). Feminist Perspectives in Sudan. In B. Badri (Ed.), Sudanese Women Profile and Pathways to Empowerment (pp. 42–70). Ahfad University for Women. Badri, B. Y., & Tripp, A. M. (2017). Women’s Activism in Africa: Struggles for Rights and Representation. London: Zed Books Ltd. Elhassan, S. (2019). Sudan’s Revolution Isn’t a Fluke, It’s Tradition. Retrieved from https://www.okayafrica.com/sudans-revolution-isnt-a-flukeits-tradition/. Fadlalla, A. (2011). State of Vulnerability and Humanitarian Visibility on the Verge of Sudan’s Secession: Lubna’s Pants and the Transnational Politics

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Noon Movement. (2019). [Press Release]. Retrieved from https://twitter.com/ noonforwomen/status/1123561020423790593. Okech, A. (2017). On Feminist Futures and Movement Imperatives. Development, 60, 12–17. Osman, A. (2014). Beyond the Pan-Africanist Agenda: Sudanese Women’s Movement. Achievements and Challenges. Feminist Africa, 19, 43. Pereira, C., & Ibrahim, J. (2010). On the Bodies of Women: The Common Ground Between Islam and Christianity in Nigeria. Third World Quarterly, 31(6), 921–937. Salah, W. (2015). Amendments to Sudanese Criminal Law. Retrieved from https://www.opendemocracy.net/north-africa-west-asia/walaa-salah/newamendments-to-sudanese-criminal-law. Strategic Initiative for Women in the Horn of Africa, Redress Trust. (2017). Criminalisation of Sudanese Women: A Need for Fundamental Reform. Retrieved from http://sihanet.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/ Criminalization-of-Women-in-Sudan.pdf. Sudan Criminal Act, Federal Ministry of Justice. (1991). Retrieved from https://www.ilo.org/dyn/natlex/docs/ELECTRONIC/80450/118284/F1325877900/SDN80450%20Eng.pdf. Sudan Female Activists Seek Half of Transitional Authority. (2019). Retrieved from https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/20190508-sudanesefemale-activists-claiming-half-of-transitional-authority/. Tønnessen, L., & al-Nagar, S. (2015). Women and Girls Caught Between Rape and Adultery in Sudan: Criminal Law Reform, 2005–2015. Retrieved from https://www.cmi.no/publications/5661-women-and-girlscaught-between-rape-and-adultery. WLUML. (n.d.). Retrieved from http://www.wluml.org/node/5408.

Women and the Anglophone Struggle in Cameroon Zoneziwoh Mbondgulo-Wondieh

Introduction When I began this research in 2017 as part of my Masters programme, speaking about the crisis in Cameroon was a taboo. Anyone who spoke about the crisis was either a supporter, a traitor or liable to being arrested by the armed forces or attacked by non-state armed groups. There was hardly a middle ground for those of us who were concerned about addressing inhumane practices, particularly those experienced by women and girls. Between April and June 2017, I returned to Cameroon for my fieldwork. Nothing was the same. I felt like a stranger in a community I have lived in for almost twenty years. People I have known for years were either arrested (now released), emigrated, forcefully displaced or in exile. I sensed that everyone was scared. It has been over three years since the crisis began in September 2016, when a street protest by common law lawyers turned into a full-blown civil war with the creation of separatist movements calling for a complete secession of English-speaking parts from French Cameroon. This chapter examines how women participate in collective struggles against injustice and inequalities. It draws on an ethno-sociological study

Z. Mbondgulo-Wondieh (B) Women for a Change, Cameroon (Wfac), Buea, Cameroon © The Author(s) 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4_7

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grounded in social protesters’ perspectives in Cameroon. I investigate how women’s issues have been articulated and constructed between October 2016 and May 2017. Most importantly, I am interested in understanding whether the prevailing separatist narratives have amplified women’s experiences of inequalities and the daily injustices they face. Two questions were addressed regarding the nature of women’s participation in the ongoing political crisis in Cameroon. First, did the involvement and participation of women and men in the protests trigger to some degree, a gendered consciousness among the protesters? Second, did the struggle make the public aware of the varied forms of inequalities and discrimination experienced by women in their daily lives? I draw on women’s personal experiences and eye witness accounts of the crisis to analyse how the crisis could catalyse discussions around women’s oppression in all spheres of life. A range of methods were used to collect the data analysed in this chapter. Sixteen people were interviewed, 10 women and 6 men. The choice of participants was informed by Boler’s (2008) argument that during hard times, especially when in oppressive environments, people develop tactics to overcome the oppression. Participants were therefore selected based on individual tactics they used as well as their engagement with social media platforms to express their views on the crisis. The ten women were chosen based on their frequent contributions and outspokenness about the ongoing crises. Additional data was drawn from social media posts on platforms such as Facebook, Twitter and WhatsApp messages as well as government communiques. Social media was intended to give me a sense of the protesters frustrations and to examine whether, in the context of the Anglophone crisis, the motivations to protest were different between women and men or the same. Understanding how men and women perceived this crisis was important to understanding the role of women throughout the crisis. Given that citizens attitudes and behaviour change over time, women’s roles can at some point be in opposition or congruent with the system (Bernhard and Karakoç 2007, p. 540). In addition, articles and opinion pieces published in local newspapers and blogs were also analysed in the course of this research. 70 copies of print newspapers from The Post Newspaper and L’effort Camerounais published between October 2016 and May 2017 were examined to assess how they articulated women’s subordination and oppression in the ongoing protest. Data was also gathered from both official government websites and five separatist Facebook groups. The separatist

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groups include Southern Cameroons Ambazonia Consortium United Front (SCACUF), Movement for the Restoration of the Independence of Southern Cameroons (MoRISC), Ambazonia Governing Council (AGC), SCACUF TV and the Southern Cameroons European Women.

The Anglophone Crisis Konnings and Nyamnjoh (1997) note October 1961 as the birth of the Anglophone crisis otherwise known as the Anglophone problem in Cameroon. This was the year the Federal Republic of Cameroon was formed, through a reunification of the French parts of Cameroon and the English-speaking parts of Cameroon, which were originally separate territories under British and French administration, respectively (Konnings and Nyamnjoh 1997, p. 208). Kamerun which today is known as the Republic of Cameroon was a German protectorate around the 1880s. By 1916, it was occupied by the British and French. One fifth of the landmass constituted the English-speaking (Northwest and Southwest regions) Cameroon and French Cameroon made up the four-fifths of the entire territory (BAPEC 2017). Konnings and Nyamnjoh (1997, p. 211) argue that the hegemonic dominance of francophone in the country gradually created resentment and a sense of inferiority and marginalisation of the Anglophone Cameroonians. As these feelings continued to mount, the government (whose administration is over 90% francophone) did nothing to address the inequalities. Cameroon’s first President Ahmadou Ahidjo, who ruled for almost two decades (1960–1982), is described as having denied the existence of an “Anglophone problem”. Efforts to suppress the tensions led to President Ahidjo forming alliances with a few English-speaking elites who were awarded “prestigious positions in the state apparatus previously reserved for francophone only, and to repress all actions designed to change the status of the Southern Cameroons” (Konnings and Nyamnjoh 1997, p. 208). It is noteworthy that the incumbent President Biya has not addressed the unequal power relations and inequalities experienced by the Anglophones in Cameroon. The Anglophone crisis has therefore come to represent a deeper sense of Anglophone separatism and the lack of national integration (Konnings and Nyamnjoh 1997, p. 229; Morse Yonatan 2017). Fifty years later, the “Anglophone consciousness” has developed with young people, women and children engaged in the secessionist agenda (Konnings and Nyamnjoh 1997).

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This is not the first time a secessionist movement has emerged in the country. In the late eighties and early nineties, secessionist groups, such as “the Free West Cameroon Movement (FWCM) and the Ambazonia Movement (AM), led by Fon Gorji Dinka advanced outright secession” (Konings and Nyamnjoh 1997, p. 217). Over the years, other secessionist groups have emerged such as Ambazonia, Southern Cameroon National Council (SCNC); Southern Cameroons People Organisation (SCAPO); British Cameroon Independent Action Group (BRICAMIAG) led by Nkwutio Feko; AGC, and most recently, Southern Cameroons Ambazonia Consortium United Front (SCACUF) and Movement for the Restoration of the Independence of Southern Cameroons (MoRISC).

Women and Protest Action Women in Cameroon have always been politically active but seldom does this political activism translate into specific strategies that effectively address the concerns of women and girls. The participation of women in social protests in Cameroon goes back to the nineties during the struggle for multiparty democracy, which also coincided with the emergence of the secessionist struggle and groups such as the Ambazonia Movement (AM) of Barrister Fon Gorji Dinka (Konnings and Nyamnjoh 1997). In the 1990s, women acted independently against repressive political upheavals which emerged from presidential elections between the incumbent president and the opposition leader John Fru Ndi (Tripp et al. 2009). Women actively mobilised and organised for political representation, freedom of speech and democratic practices in Cameroon. For instance, Collectif des Femmes pour Le Renouveau (CFR) was banned in 1991 by the Ministry of Territorial Administration for being “too political” (Tripp et al. 2009). Female militant groups such as the Anlu, Titi-Koli and Takembeng were politically conscious and active in political processes in the country but hardly did the political consciousness translate to transforming gender equality. The Takembeng—a secret female cult—made up of mostly grandmothers past menopausal age and are all widows, are known for their nude protests (Swift 2017). In the nineties, at the height of the political crisis between the incumbent president and the leading opposition candidate Ni John Fru Ndi of the Social Democratic Front (SDF), the Takembeng played a crucial role in restoring peace and stability across the North-West regions which were the epicentre of the political crisis.

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As Swift notes (2017), the intervention of the Takembeng and Anlu women in addressing the political upheaval of the 1990s crisis came “after the onslaught of post-electoral violence in 1992, [when] a group of elderly women in Cameroon’s Social Democratic Front (SDF) played a critical role in catalysing peace […]. These women led silent morning protests, including nude protests while displaying peace symbols. Swift (2017) further notes that many believe that it was the fear of their supernatural powers that prohibited military forces from arresting Ni John Fru Ndi. In this context, Cameroonian women demonstrated their political strength and ability to mobilize vis-a-vis the sacred and the spiritual”. It is this history women’s mobilisation in Cameroon that shapes my interest in understanding how contemporary forms of engagement by women have enlarged or created the space for dialogue on gender inequalities in society or within struggles for social transformation.

From Strikes to Secession It was not until January 2017 when the issues around secession emerged through what started as a lawyers and teachers strike in November 2016. The protest escalated in January 2017, following the government’s violent response to the strikes. In the same period, the government banned the major organisation leading the strikes, the Cameroon Anglophone Civil Society Consortium (CACSC), a coalition of teachers, lawyers and other interest groups. Within the period of the ban, four of the movement leaders were arrested and held at the central prison in the capital city of Yaoundé for over seven months. They were Agbor Balla Nkongho, an international human rights lawyer; Justice Ayah Paul Abine, Deputy Attorney General and former Member of Parliament; Mancho Bibixy, radio talk show host and Dr. Fontem Neba, a senior lecturer at the University of Buea.1 Mancho Bibixy was sentenced to 15 years in prison. An International Federation for Human Rights (FIDH) press release published in June 2018 states that Mancho was fined a total of 268 million francs CFA as damages requested by the civil party and 204 million as

1 By the time this research was conducted, they were still in prison. Their release came at a time when this paper was undergoing peer review. Even though Agbor Balla, Justice Ayah and the others were released, it is estimated that there are over five hundred people detained in Buea, Bamenda and Yaounde Central Prisons.

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damages requested by the State, on charges of “acts of terrorism”, “hostility against the homeland”, “secession”, “revolution”, “propagation of false information”, “failure to hold his national ID card”, “contempt of public bodies and public servants”, “depredation by band”, “resistance” and “insurrection” under the Law on the Suppression of Acts of Terrorism No. 28 of 2014 and Cameroonian Criminal Code. The same period when the CACSC leaders were arrested was also marked by a three-month Internet shutdown in the two English-speaking regions of Cameroon. A ministerial communique was issued stating that President Paul Biya had ordered the Ministry of Telecommunications to instruct all telecommunications companies across the country to shutdown Internet across the two English-speaking regions of the country (Minpostel 2017; Simo and Jones 2017). It is estimated that these two regions constitute about 20% of the total population, that’s roughly eight million people (News24 2018). A 2017 report by Internet without Borders, estimated that the Internet cut cost local businesses, particularly those whose daily subsistence relies on digital marketing an “estimated 44,000,000 CFA Francs, which translated to $723,000 or 675,000 euros” (Shaban 2017a). Strike leaders like Tassang Wilfred, Barrister Bobga Harmony who escaped arrest self-exiled in Nigeria. However, their freedom in Nigeria did not last long. In January 2018, a highly secretive extradition mission to Nigeria was executed arresting at least 46 of the exiled protesters. They were extradited to Cameroon where they were kept incommunicado for almost 10 months only appearing in court to face charges of terrorism, secession and ongoing unrest across the English-speaking regions of the country. They are still awaiting judgement. Rampant arrests and the absence of a mutual dialogue led to the protests rapidly escalating into a secessionist struggle. Secessionist ideologies propagated by a group of English-speaking Cameroonians pointed to the government’s abuse of their rights and dignity. There was no reason to continue responding to instructions from a government which insisted on violence, abuse and intimidation instead of dialogue and equal treatment (Shaban 2017b). As one protester acknowledged: The radicalisation of Southern Cameroonians is the direct result of Biya’s intransigence towards the struggle and as days go by, more and more Southern Cameroonians both home and abroad become radicalised. Many

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who were moderates have seen themselves becoming nationalists within [a] few months. (Bareta August 13, 2017)

Women’s Leadership in the Crisis Since the crisis began, women in all their diversity have been on the frontline, as carers, decision makers and activists leading change. According to B,2 a legal professional, Women - be they - young girls, elderly women, business women, mothers, have played an incredible role in sustaining the struggle. They have been very active during street protests (case of female lawyers, church groups), as well as respect of ‘ghost towns3 ’ […] and while some have been in the street, some have supported in nurturing and caring for children including their sick and injured ones both at home, and hospital.

Women’s participation has ranged from organising lamentation campaigns, outreach activities, to serving as host families for internally displaced people, holding public candle vigils, national prayers and fasting. Some of these actions have been driven by groups such as the Cameroon Women Peace Movement (COWPEM), and the Southwest and Northwest Women’s Task Force (SNWOT), which were established in 2019 and 2018 respectively. SNWOT remains one of the biggest women’s movement, with over 150 women leaders in one of conflict-affected regions. It was also the first women-led local peace building network created purposefully to address the ongoing armed conflict in the country who called for a ceasefire from parties to the conflict. Since the creation of SNWOT, it has scheduled several meetings with the parties in conflict, calling for a ceasefire and dialogue (SNWOT Press Release paper 2018). On 10 December 2018 to commemorate the UN Human Rights Day, SNWOT convened a press conference calling on state officials to see “women as an integral part of the solution to the Anglophone crisis”. In June 2018,

2 B (M, age above 36 years old) is a Barrister/Lawyer. Interviewed face-to-face on 5 July 2017. 3 Ghost town days are Mondays, and on Mondays, most cities in the conflict areas faced total shutdown.

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they organised the first humanitarian support to internally displaced persons and host families before the state launched their Emergency Humanitarian Assistance. In addition, digital platforms such as Twitter and Facebook have also served as alternative spaces for women to share personal experiences, frustrations as well as address critical issues such as the effect of protests on livelihoods, schooling and families welfare. The online space has provided women, including young women with a transnational platform to lead campaigns, circulate petitions and organise protests against rising insecurity in the country. These actions have influenced media coverage and public conversations on the crisis. For instance, the campaign to boycott the March 8th International Women’s Day 2019—a civil protest led by the presidential candidate and activist Kah Walla. Walla—called on all women across the country to wear Black on 8 March 2019 instead of the colourful fabric and boycott the women’s day parade which is often presided over by the First Lady Chantal Biya. The aim of this boycott was to signal to the general public as well as political elites that women were angry with the current state of affairs in the country. The boycott participants also called for an end to the armed conflict that has led to over 1 million internally displaced people, 279 refugees in neighbouring countries and almost 4.3 million people in need of humanitarian assistance and need (OCHA 2019). In spite of actions like that of Kah Walla, SNWOTs, leadership of women in all peacemaking processes remains peripheral. As A24 notes: Since the escalation of the struggle from November 2016 till date, most of the visible negotiations between government and leaders of various Associations including the banned ‘Consortium’ have constituted mainly of men. In fact, I did not see any meeting between government and teachers or lawyers representatives with women at the helm, talk less of women expressing their voices on behalf of their colleagues, children, etc. that have been experiencing same social injustices and marginalization in Cameroon.

4 A2 (Male, age 30–35 years old) is an activist and scholar. Interviewed by email on 12 July 2017.

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The viewpoint above is a clear indication of how society defines female and male leadership, what is expected of them and how it is communicated (Connell 2008). Even though women including young women have been vocal about the crisis, their participation and protest actions continue to be linked to their gender roles as wives, mothers, sisters and carers. In situations where societal destabilisation emerges such as from protests which are also interpreted as a masculine activity, women tend to shoulder a new role that is considered not part of their daily routine. Research participants repeatedly talked about women being overburdened since the crises began. J6,5 a journalist and blogger notes that ‘women have been left with little choice but to take up new roles which were traditionally meant for men [as heads of the family and households], since their husbands are in exile, imprison or hiding’. In an interview with J5,6 a senior journalist and blogger, he noted: It’s been very difficult for women back at home. The majority of these women whose men have been detained, are going through untold pain. Some travelled to the capital city Yaoundé, every blessed week with food to their husbands, sons who are being kept captive in the dungeon of Kondegui prison.

When these societal structures are weakened, it alters the pre-existing unwritten rule of men being the head/leader of the family and household. The assumption in the views expressed above, is that women are temporarily filling the gap either because their men have been killed in the conflict or because the woman needs to ensure that the family stays alive while the man goes to war. West and Blumberg (1990, p. 26), in their essay on Women and the Socialist Protest of 1871–1921, note that even when the world manages to see women as leaders, or when women take up leadership, it is assumed that “men are unavailable”, either because men lack the interest to pursue the cause, or men have been repressed, imprisoned or have died. Women’s roles can only be interepreted within this binary of gender roles and their efforts are lost in the language and images of peace builders who are not political actors. In the ongoing Anglophone crisis, the proactive involvement and engagement of women 5 J6 (Male, above 35 years of age). Interviewed by email on 20 July. 6 J5 (Female, age above 35 years old). Interviewed by face-to-face on 18 July 2017 in

London.

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in calling for ceasefire and pushing for dialogue should have led to their inclusion as a key pillar in the political process. However, in all the strategic stages of the “attempted” peace processes, women, especially young women, remain marginal. As remarked by one of the interview participants: When I look at the leadership of the struggle, I think if women were involved or consulted from the beginning, it would have been easier to knock out detractors from the struggle, who have changed the core purpose of the strike by introducing their own agenda A.7

A similar sentiment is expressed by E8 who adds: Even among government officials, the only visible woman present during negotiations was the Minister of Basic education whose voice I have never heard compared to that of her male colleagues representing the Secondary and Higher Education. This triggers the question as to whether only men are being affected by the struggle as well as whether only men can provide solutions to current struggle and how sustainable such solutions could be.

The public absence of women in mainstream peacebuilding engagements in the crisis illustrates the role that women are generally restricted to. As Derayeh (2010) observes in her work on women’s representation, it is very common to see women during and after unrests being represented as wives, mothers, sluts, sex slaves, rape victims, magicians, sisters, powerless, naive, innocent, vulnerable and weak. A situation Anzaldúa (1996) describes in her poetic essay, on what it means to live in the borderline, that women’s participation and contributions to strategic conversations and issues is one that is always placed on the fence. However, some research participants argued that the absence of women’s participation and gender equality discourse can also be explained by the failure of women activists to centralise these issues. According to A1, The few women talking about the ongoing crisis are those who are social activists and are simply using their social platforms to address this 7 A1 (Female, age above 35 years old) interviewed 15 July 2017 through Facebook audio call and a follow-up by email. 8 E (Female, age above 35 years old) is an entrepreneur. Interviewed on 11 August face-to-face in Edinburgh.

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issue…they are all talking about it from a generic perspective, not about women’s issues. As much as their voice captures and highlights on the existing problem, it doesn’t enable us to address the problem. For, there is little to say about the voices and experiences of the women in the market and how it [this conflict] is affecting them and if they were brought in, what is their take on it….?

This view is indicative of a societal perception that for gender issues to be part of public debate it is the role of women to ensure that it happens. Gender and women become conflated, thus ignoring male power, privilege and violent masculinities as part of the problems that generate gender inequalities. The failure of gender activists to articulate women’s rights and gender equality concerns means that these issues remain on the periphery. This suggests a broader societal blindness to how gender also produces the very inequalities around which the Anglophone crisis demands are rooted. The resolution of the Anglophone crisis through more robust inclusion or secession will not automatically resolve gender inequality. Gender equality must therefore be central to how a free and just Anglophone Cameroon looks like. Consequently, women’s actions remaining on the periphery of the broader actions taken by citizens as part of the Anglophone crisis is a weak point in the broader struggle for Anglophone Cameroon’s freedom.

Backlash: Online Violence and Cyberbullying To understand how structural factors reinforce the peripheral engagement with women’s rights issues in the Anglophone struggle a deeper look into how violence and exclusion works is required. A few research participants offer a different reading of why women experience marginality and their limited influence persists. Women research participants interviewed for this study argue that when they take the lead, they encounter backlash. Participant A5 and AA7 observe. Women often face personal backlash when they step across certain boundaries. For instance, ‘cyber bullying directed towards us when we say things not found acceptable is usually directed at our person, our “virtue” rather than actually critical of opinions we assert’. On one hand, I am happy to have been instrumental in what we call a ‘winning struggle’, however, on the other hand, I sleep with my eyes open, not knowing what they might do to me the next minute. People are calling

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me names, threatening my existence, whereas others are appreciating and saluting my courage. In all, you ask yourself in those lonely me time ‘am I doing the right thing?’ ‘What if this whole struggle ended in a sham?’ But in all, being a part of this struggle makes me feel fulfilled, courageous and brave. - AA7.9

According to B6,10 the whole situation has been traumatising for many of the women. This is a sentiment that is shared by AA7,11 who explains: My experience has been filled with mixed emotions. On the one hand, am happy to have been instrumental in what we call a ‘winning struggle’, however, on the other hand, I sleep with my eyes open, not knowing what they might do to me the next minute. People are calling me names, threatening my existence, whereas others are appreciating and saluting my courage. In all, you ask yourself in those lonely me time ‘am I doing the right thing?’ ‘What if this whole struggle ended in a sham?’ But in all, being a part of this struggle makes me feel fulfilled, courageous and brave.

A5 adds: I have witnessed so much sexism in a movement claiming to liberate a heterogeneous group of people that I am becoming dubious of the success of it. It has made me a bit more apathetic.

The question of backlash against women protestors sits at the heart of why women’s participation in the Anglophone crisis has been hampered. It also explains why women’s concerns have remained in the periphery of the Anglophone struggle. In addition, it illustrates why the impact of women’s rights activists remains on the margins of mainstream protest action. When different women groups and networks like SNOWT have spoken out against the conflict, they have encountered abuse, harassment, threats of physical attacks and are targets of hate speech. These experiences point to the gendered nature of backlash, which relies on morality as a basis for conservative interpretations of femininity, womanhood and 9 AA7 (Female between 30 and 35 years old), blogger, interviewed face-to-face in Cameroon in 17 June. Follow-up by email and WhatsApp call in July. 10 B6 (Female, age above 36). Interviewed by email on 11 August 2017. 11 AA7 (Female between 30 and 35 years old) blogger, interviewed in Cameroon on

17 June with follow-up on email and a WhatsApp call in July 2017.

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girlhood. The discourse on morality is deliberately designed to enhance the surveillance of women and manage the terms on which their public engagement occurs. It is therefore no surprise that the protest actions that women choose to use are those that adhere to the societal ideals of acceptable women’s protest action—wailing, lamentation and prayer. In this context, women’s protests actions become constructed as apolitical, non-threatening and supportive. They do not appear to challenge dominant perspectives of politics and economics in the country. It is also no accident that there is a tacit expectation that women should wait to be invited to participate in mainstream state and non-state actor led processes because of a deep-rooted societal perception of men as the guardians of public space. The intergenerational nature of transgression is also clear here. Younger women who actively mobilised digital platforms such as Twitter, WhatsApp groups and Facebook as the core site of their activism are more likely to face cyberbullying and the accompanying misogyny that has been observed by (Lumsden and Morgan 2017) as central to how new online communities are responding to feminist mobilisation. The translation of offline hate for women who “transgress” into online spaces is a major factor in understanding the limitations of women’s impact in the Anglophone crisis. The experiences by Cameroonian women activists are affirmed by the UN special rapporteur on the situation of human rights defenders who argued in 2019 that women who defend human rights are the first to come under attack, with a rise in misogynistic, sexist and homophobic speech. The report continues: Public shaming, attacks on women’s honour and their reputation, doxing or publishing their personal details on the internet, sexual violence and attacks against their children and loved ones, are used to silence women human rights defenders. (UNCHR 2019)

The absence of collective strategies to challenge actions that threaten and marginalise women’s rights activists needs to be understood within the wider context of insecurity and violence that characterised the Anglophone crisis.

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Conclusion This study offers three major conclusions and lessons for women’s rights activists engaged in protest action for social change. The first conclusion concerns the centrality of gender equality to citizen led protests. In Cameroon, gender equality was invariably not the focus of the contentions expressed during the Anglophone crisis. Both protesters and secessionists articulated a range of issues connected to historical injustices, abuse of human rights and sectoral demands that touch on inequalities arising from ethnicity or language, which lead to unfair distribution of wealth and resources. However, none of these articulations viewed gender as a critical mode of analysis to understanding exclusion, oppression and societal inequalities. Inequalities resulting from the social construction of gender norms were lost in these demands. Even with the massive involvement and active participation of women in the protests, the conversation is yet to exclusively highlight the inequalities faced by women and girls. Secondly, my research reveals that seldom do visions for societal transformation translate into challenging stereotypical gender norms which impede women’s rights and women’s agency. The responses to women protestors during the crisis as well as the marginalisation of women’s interventions as part of broader societal demands illustrate the low level of gender awareness of the public. It also illustrates deep-seated patriarchal ideas about gender inequalities being part and parcel of how societies ought to function. This is evidenced by the fact that the demands posed by protesters do not critically interrogate conservative gender views or norms nor did they amplify concerns related to gender as a social relation that produces inequality or women’s specific concerns such as equal political representation and participation. Finally, I observe that unlike historical political crises where frontline leaders were usually older people, the advent of social media has expanded the engagement of younger women who are claiming their civic rights and democratic freedoms of speech and organising. However, within the framework of this crisis, social movements have still not successfully linked Anglophone marginalisation and the inequality between women and men, given. In essence, the possibilities for building transnational intellectual communities that has been made possible in other African contexts did not occur in Cameroon.

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It is also clear that social media was instrumental in amplifying voices of younger women and feminist activists in particular. A significant portion of the data I drew on for this research came from tracking debates on the Anglophone crisis on various social media platforms. Digital activism created the opportunity for protestors to bring attention to severe human rights abuses and violence. However, the nature of backlash faced by women who used these platforms for their activism points to the pervasive nature of structural violence. This structural violence can be argued to be at the heart of the Anglophone crisis and it was reproduced and used against women who were mobilising for change but who were viewed as “transgressing”. The failure and possibly inability to interrogate the violence produced within movements that are meant to pursue justice and freedom resulted in the further marginalisation of feminist activists in mainstream movements and the marginalisation of feminist protest action where it occurred. Consequently, the opportunities to initiate public dialogue and subvert gender power relations were lost.

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Democratic Reversals in Burundi Patrick Hajayandi

Introduction This chapter offers an analysis of two parallel trends in Burundi’s convulsed politics: firstly, how electoral boycotts and the lack of participation in the governing institutions on behalf of the political opposition have contributed to democratic reversals and have reinforced political instability. Secondly, how the authoritarian tendencies of the ruling party lead to the same outcome by eroding democratic values. I argue that, democratic reversals in Burundi have been a result of anti-democratic decisions based on the absence of ideology, the failure to actively participate in political life, the authoritarian attitude of the leadership and the focus on power and wealth rather than on responding to the needs of the people. I also underline that these wrong decisions have been made by both the incumbent regime and the leadership of the opposition, who have equally played a negative role in progressively undermining the country’s nascent and fragile democracy. There is a general assumption that political parties play a positive and crucial role in the consolidation of democracy. The centrality of political parties appears in defining policies, participating in electoral competitions

P. Hajayandi (B) The Institute for Justice and Reconciliation, Cape Town, South Africa © The Author(s) 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4_8

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and, when in the opposition, holding the government and the ruling parties accountable in the management of the public goods. In the context of Burundi’s politics, the role of political parties and their leadership is proving to be controversial and counterproductive, especially when it comes to consolidating democracy. Political parties and their leaders are at the very centre of processes that contribute to democratic reversals. This is true with regard to both those controlling power and those working in the political opposition. The leaders of political parties play a major role in eroding democratic values, as they tend to apply anti-democratic methods such as electoral boycotts, exclusion of critics and floor crossing which generate disorder inside and outside of parties. On the one hand, the ruling party called the National Council for the Defence of DemocracyForces for the Defence of Democracy (CNDD-FDD) and its allies are developing an increasingly autocratic system in which the opposition has less political space and almost no clear role to play, although this is tempered by the reliance of the country on external support often accompanied with some conditions. In some instances, it is becoming difficult for the ruling party to accept a minimum of political tolerance. Therefore, several opposition leaders and civil society activists have found themselves under strong pressure for their views and activities, especially if they are perceived to be undermining or threatening the existing authority. The political opposition—which includes such prominent parties as the Front for Democracy in Burundi (FRODEBU), the Union for Progress and Development (UPD), the Movement for Solidarity and Development (MSD), the Union for National Progress (UPRONA), and some coalitions—has been boycotting elections and refusing to participate in the governing institutions or simply to join the parliament even when it had secured some seats. Thus, it unwillingly gave to the ruling party the freedom to make all decisions affecting the country without any challenging voice. The opposition is also failing to develop a clear political agenda or to propose any viable alternative to the existing establishment. The opposition is turning its back to the electorate or is simply ignoring the importance of involving supporters in developing new strategies. The message from the opposition parties is mostly addressed to what is generally referred to as the international community, and not to the potential electorate, while insisting on the protection of human rights, good governance and accountability. Such values are undoubtedly very important in a democratic dispensation. But when the population is extremely poor and its basic needs are not adequately met, these values

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remain elusive. This is a reason why it becomes imperative to understand first what is viewed by the population as priorities and to address these and then proceed with the promotion of values above mentioned in a sequenced move. The attitude and behaviour of many leaders of political parties in Burundi as described above represent the main reason for democratic reversals. It is not unusual to use violence in resolving internal problems while weakening party structures. The absence of internal democracy, a penchant for authoritarianism and the tendency to cling onto power for some leaders often provoke the creation of splinter groups—a phenomenon which generally contributes to the increase of the number of political parties. Political parties show a lack of clear ideology and seem to be unable to articulate rational programmes and policies that could mobilise citizens’ genuine support which goes way beyond the patron-client relation (Adejumobi and Kehinde 2007). The local population, of which more than 80% lives in rural areas (World Bank Report 2018), can only be convinced by concrete projects that would address the day-to-day challenges such as food security, access to water and electricity, medical care, education for children, road infrastructure among others. The unresponsiveness to the needs of the population (the electorate) becomes a serious problem that undermines democratic consolidation as it often provokes the population’s indifference or even the rejection of the very exercise of democratic rights such as the participation in electoral processes (Ottaway 2000). Two mutually reinforcing dynamics have been crucial in the context of Burundi’s democratic reversals: firstly, the opposition has destroyed the existing checks and balance system by its absence in the national parliament, which is the organ that controls the work of the government. It has failed to bring alternative solutions and has remained disconnected from the electorate’s needs, while seeking legitimacy solely from the international community. Secondly, the ruling party and its allies have seriously reduced the political space, have attempted to silence criticism and have cut off possibilities of improving the leadership through a contradictory debate and a healthy competition. This behaviour has been detrimental to democratic consolidation. In April 2015, when the general assembly of the CNDD-FDD decided to present the incumbent President Pierre Nkurunziza as a candidate for his re-election, the decision sparked some of the most violent protests Burundi has ever seen since the country became independent in 1962. Organised and coordinated by a group of civil society organisations and

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political opposition parties, the protests were carried out in some parts of the capital city of Bujumbura, with roadblocks, burning of tires and, ultimately, with confrontations between protesters and the police forces deployed to restore order. The protests were presented as an expression of the refusal against the third term of the president in office. Although the decision to carry out protests evolved around the fight against the third term, in reality this was a continuation of a deeply rooted political malaise that started at the end of the transitional period in 2005 with the coming to power of the CNDD-FDD. Five years later and following the withdrawal from the electoral process in May 2010, the existing political crisis and malaise deepened. This electoral boycott and the politics of the empty chair by the opposition became a tragedy for Burundi’s fragile democracy and a strategic mistake. It allowed the ruling party to strengthen its grip on all key levers of power. Consequently, the opposition was sidelined and even lost contact with its own electorate. This analysis is an attempt to understand two parallel trends in Burundi’s convulsed politics: firstly, how electoral boycotts and the lack of participation in the governing institutions on behalf of the political opposition have contributed to democratic reversals and have reinforced political instability, and secondly, how the authoritarian tendencies of the ruling party are dangerously leading to the same outcome by eroding democratic values. I argue that democratic reversals in Burundi have been a result of anti-democratic decisions based on the absence of ideology, the failure to actively participate in political life, the authoritarian attitude of the leadership and the focus on power and wealth rather than on responding to the needs of the people. I also underline that these wrong decisions have been made by both the incumbent regime and the leadership of the opposition, who have equally played a negative role in progressively undermining the country’s nascent and fragile democracy. This chapter is divided into five sections. In the first section, I give an overview of the theoretical aspects of the key concept, namely the meaning of democratic reversals. The second section is an overview of historic events that explain the dangerous path Burundi took towards democracy and stability and the reason behind its convulsed politics. In the third section, the consolidation of democracy is analysed with an emphasis on the place of the Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords. The fourth section deals with electoral boycotts, and lack of participation as contributing elements towards democratic reversals. The fifth and last part looks at the status quo of the power-sharing arrangements in the context of democratic regression.

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On Democratic Reversals Democratic reversals refer to a process whereby a political regime backslides from democracy to an undemocratic regime, such as authoritarianism. Democratic reversals are often the result of contradictions in the process of democratic transition, where tensions between progress and regression coexist. This is observable in a context of emerging democracies such as those in Africa and elsewhere in the developing world (Kanyinga and Okello 2010). According to Kanyinga et al., ‘Africa’s experience with transition from one party and military regimes to multiparty democracy suggests that electoral moments have become perilous liminal moments of transition that comprise two competing possibilities: a consolidation of democratic gain, or a reversal of democratic gains’ (Kanyinga and Okello 2010, p. 4). When democracy was first introduced in many African countries, the conditions to make it work properly were not present. The political, economic and social contexts were not adequate and could not readily allow the emergence of a new breed of political actors that see their mission beyond identity politics. As a result, these shortcomings prepared the ground for democratic reversals. While describing the various aspects of the ‘third Wave of democratization’, Samuel Huntington presented a number of key factors that generally lead to democratic reversals (Huntington 1991, p. 18). They include the weakness of democratic values among the key elite groups, economic setbacks which have a serious impact on social conflicts, and the breakdown of law and order which are caused by insurgencies or acts of terrorism. (ibid.). There are three types of democracy that are often found in Africa. Depending on the attitude of the opposition a democratic regime can shift from one type to another, either consolidating or eroding the democratic process. The three types of democracy include the liberal democracy, the electoral democracy and the electoral autocracy (Lindberg 2006). Democratic reversals are linked to the breakdown of democratic systems through a systemic deterioration and an executive strangulation of political rights, civil liberties and the lack of the rule of law. While the executive power often plays a leading role in fostering democratic erosion, it would be unjust to ignore the equally negative role of the inefficiencies of the opposition, especially when it is fragmented and lacks a clear vision or alternative policies. As McFaul puts it in the case of Russia, he noted that democratic erosion occurred not only because of the Kremlin, but also

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because of how ineffectively the opponents to the Kremlin performed (McFaul 2000). And the same could be applied to the Burundi context: the inability of the opposition to present a common front, the miscalculation, and ultimately the immature decision to withdraw from an electoral process allowed the ruling party to gain more power and to make bold steps towards authoritarianism while gradually eroding democratic foundations. What makes the situation in Burundi even more perilous is the linkage to the country’s history of violence, exclusion and political struggle between the elites from the main social groups, the Hutus and the Tutsis. In the next section, we will analyse the historical events that shaped Burundi politics and the difficult context in which a convulsed democratic process emerged.

Burundi Politics and Political Crises: A Historical Perspective For a better understanding of the reasons behind democratic reversals and the seemingly unending political crises in Burundi, retrospection is important into the country’s politics and its twisted history of injustice, impunity, violence, power struggle and lengthy peace negotiations. Historically, the various crises and conflicts that took place in Burundi have been motivated by the lack of true democratic and inclusive institutions. The post-independence institutions’ exclusive policies led to frustrations over access to power, unequal opportunities and a sense of marginalisation of some groups from political and socio-economic life. The chronic instability has been linked to what Ndikumana called an ‘institutional failure’ for a very long period. According to Ndikumana, this institutional failure was caused by the privatisation of some key state institutions such as the army, the judiciary and the education system. This was reinforced by various forms of discrimination (Ndikumana 1998). Some of the memorable tragic events that shaped political life in Burundi include the assassination of two prime ministers—the prince Louis Rwagasore in 1961 and Pierre Ngendandumwe in 1965. These tragedies were followed by massacres and genocide, perpetrated mainly against the Hutu population in 1965, 1969, 1972 and 1988. With the end of monarchy in 1966 and the declaration of Burundi as a republic under military rule, the exclusion and repression against the Hutus increased. The successive military juntas under the leadership of Micombero, Bagaza and Buyoya maintained a political environment

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where the Hutu population had an extremely limited place. The executions of Hutu officers in 1969, the genocide perpetrated against Hutu intellectuals in 1972, and the segregation within the army and the education system during the Bagaza era (1976–1987) or the ‘Ntega and Marangara massacres’ under Buyoya regime in 1988, are but a few of the events that perpetuated and crystallised ethnic antagonism between Hutus and Tutsis (Lemarchand 2002; Iwacu Magazine 2015). In June 1993, the victory of the Front for Democracy in Burundi (FRODEBU) party and Melchior Ndadaye as the newly elected and first Hutu president were presented as an important democratic event and a turning point in the history of the country. This major shift in the political landscape followed political reforms introduced by Buyoya early in 1992 in the context of the global wave of democratisation across the African continent. Nevertheless, the new regime was rapidly considered to be a threat to the privileges of the members of the ancient Tutsi establishment. This negative attitude would be channelled into the military coup that took the life of President Ndadaye on 21 October 1993 and became a watershed event that plunged the country into a violent civil war. The war lasted for more than a decade and claimed the lives of an estimated 300 000 people (Uvin 1999; Lemarchand 1996; Wolpe 2011). The military coup and the civil war affected greatly how Burundians perceive elections and the meaning of democracy, thus leading to the development of controversial political behaviour especially among the elite. The violence, suffering and destruction caused by the civil war required the international community to intervene and support a peace process. The peace process was initially led by the United Nations in the aftermath of the 1993 military coup. One of the results of the UN’s initiative in attempting to resolve the 1993 political crisis was the formation of a Convention of Government facilitated by Ambassador Ahmedou OuldAbdallah—the representative of the UN Secretary General in Burundi in 1994 (Ould-Abdallah 2000; Curtis 2003). The violent and fragile environment the new government worked in created propitious conditions for another military coup led by Pierre Buyoya in July 1996 (Ould-Abdallah, op. cit.). The coup was condemned by international and regional actors who imposed an economic embargo on Burundi. At the same time, the return of Buyoya to power coincided with the radicalisation of the armed movements, the deepening of the crisis and the elaboration of new initiatives for peace in Burundi. From 1996 to 1999, the former president of Tanzania, the late Mwalimu Julius Nyerere tried to mediate the crisis and

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help to find a lasting solution for the Burundi crisis after his appointment as facilitator. Following Nyerere’s death in 1999, Nelson Mandela, the former South African president, took over the mediation process. His relentless efforts in helping Burundi to find a negotiated settlement paid off when an agreement between political forces was signed (Wolpe, op. cit.). The Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords, signed on the 28 August 2000, became a reason for optimism for Burundi and for the Great Lakes region, despite the many challenges that were still ahead. One of such challenges was to find a space for the myriad of small political actors (parties, associations, pressure groups) who needed to be included in the new dispensation after the signing of the peace agreement. In fact, the negotiated settlement required the creation of new political positions to accommodate some parties (which were extremely vocal but not popular) which otherwise would not qualify to be in government or other state institutions. The new dynamic led to the proliferation of smaller political parties which did not necessarily support the access to power through elections. They did not believe in elections but in transitional institutions. The new actors did not have any ideology. And although they claimed to fight for democracy, their true objective was to secure a position within the transitional government and access the benefits attached to it. The consequence was the multiplication of political actors without any understanding of what democracy truly entails or with values at odds with democratic processes. This progressively prepared the ground for democratic reversals.

The Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords in the Consolidation of Democracy The signing of the Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords (Arusha Accords in short) in 2000 represented a significant milestone in Burundi’s political life. It set a new direction for the country, by proposing a new political framework that allows the political class to meet the aspirations of the majority and the needs of the minority (Lemarchand 2006). The Arusha Accords created a new political system referred to as a consociational or representative democracy (Lijphart 1977). The Arusha Accords were signed by several political actors including two important groups: the G10 and G7, claiming to represent the pro-Tutsi and the proHutu parties, respectively, along with the government and the parliament (Vandeginste 2009, p. 72). After the signing of the Arusha Accords, a

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transitional government was established for a period of three years during which democratic institutions were to be restored. It was planned that, at the end of this transitional period, a new constitution would be established, and general elections would be organised for a new political order to emerge. Despite the importance which is reserved for the Arusha Accords in the current political crisis back in 2000 when they were first signed, the Accords suffered from a number of shortcomings. There were many reservations expressed by the negotiating parties, especially the members of the G10 who were reluctant to sign the agreements (Chretien 2000). Other shortcomings were related to the inability of the Arusha Accords to stop the ongoing fighting and to ensure a sustainable ceasefire. In fact, when the signing ceremonies were held in Tanzania, the armed groups such as the CNDD-FDD and the FNL-Palipehutu were still very much involved in war around the country (Curtis 2003). The cornerstone of the Accords was, however, the institutionalisation of inclusivity and participation of a range of actors who, so far, had been left behind or excluded from the political game. The most important component of the accords was the power-sharing arrangement favouring an open, democratic and inclusive political space (Dersso 2016). Through a system of ethnic quotas, the Arusha became a reference in determining how the marginalised groups were to be integrated in sociopolitical life. It also played a significant role in structuring and elaborating the now old constitution which was voted by referendum in February and promulgated in March 2005 (Curtis 2012; Vandeginste 2015a). Even though the signing of Arusha did not lead to the end of hostilities, they became an important reference and a guiding framework for a series of agreements which followed the peace process, and which contributed to ending the decade long civil conflict (Vandeginste, op. cit.). The end of hostilities came in 2003 with the signing of the Global Ceasefire Agreement between the Transitional Government of Burundi and the main armed movement—the CNDD-FDD. After the Global Ceasefire Agreement was signed on 16 November 2003 in Dar es Salaam, there was a serious shift on the battlefield as the ceasefire took hold and as new actors appeared on the political stage. The CNDD-FDD transformed from its previous status of an armed movement into a political party and was granted political positions in the transitional government (Nindorera 2012). Defence and security reforms were also launched together with the demobilisation and reintegration process. The former Burundi Armed Forces (FAB) was

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dismantled and a new army—the Burundi National Defence Forces—was created drawing troops from the former rebel groups and former army members (Samii 2014). During the period of the civil war, the CNDD-FDD, the Front for National Liberation (FROLINA) and the Forces Nationales pour la Liberation-Parti pour la liberation du peuple Hutu (FNL-Palipehutu) were considered as pro-Hutu movements. With regard to the law established in 2003 concerning the structure and functioning of political parties, the ethnic reference was not acceptable. A movement or a political party which did not promote openness, inclusive membership for all ethnic groups could not be registered by the Home Affairs ministry. This was an incentive for political actors to drop ethnic politics while adopting a more inclusive attitude that could eventually help in diffusing ethnic tensions and cleavages. The transformation of former pro-Hutu armed groups into new political parties generated the need to open up membership to other ethnic groups. This was a necessary step in meeting the requirements of new law introduced by the Home Affairs ministry (Nindorera, op. cit.). This new dynamic radically transformed the political landscape. The transformation that took place within Burundi politics at that period tends to be overlooked when analysing the current political dynamics. However, it is precisely this type of institutionalised inclusion that played a major role in making an unprecedent shift from ethnic cleavages towards a political struggle that transcends ethnicity, regions and other differences. In the new context, the likelihood of ethnic violence and mass killings is strongly minimised. Today, it is not difficult to notice that Hutus leaders fight against Hutus and Tutsis against Tutsis in a bid to access power. For instance, the main political adversary to President Pierre Nkurunziza is considered to be Agathon Rwasa, the historic leader of the Forces for National Liberation movement (FNL). Both these political leaders are Hutus, and they vie for the same Hutu electorate. Some political movements failed to adapt to this new political environment and the new rules of the game. The traditional parties, such as UPRONA and FRODEBU, as well as many other smaller parties, did not manage to adjust to the new political landscape as the CNDD-FDD did. A number of opposition parties seem to have been accustomed to being granted positions without being obliged to go through the constraints of an electoral battle. This has been a consequence of a compromised democracy and repetitive transitional power arrangements which,

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to a certain degree, are at odds with democratic values. As rightly noted by Stef Vandeginste (2015a), sharing positions in government and accessing power through negotiated agreements and as political appointees have become part of the mindset of the political elite in Burundi. In the past ten years, it has been difficult to find a political party with a vision for the country and with a realistic political program. Appointing leaders has taken away the incentive to compete through elections, a process which implies the developing of programs that can help in addressing the needs of the population. While the Arusha Accords contributed to easing ethnic tensions, they have also helped create a lazy political class which strives to access power, not through elections but through constant negotiations and in a non-democratic way. The new breed of politicians which emerged from the peace process and the transitional arrangements has become a threat to democracy. Considered in this way, the Arusha has had both a positive impact on Burundi’s political landscape and its transformation and a negative one on democratic consolidation. During the 2015 crisis in Burundi, the Arusha gained significant attention at the international level thanks to the activism of the opposition parties and the civil society. They came to prominence during the contradictory interpretations of then constitution around clauses related to the number of presidential terms in office. The clarity of the Arusha regarding the limitation of presidential terms provided a better and comfortable explanatory ground for the opposition, while the ambiguity found in the constitution favoured the position of the ruling party which defended the decision to present President Nkurunziza for a third term in office. Even though Arusha Accords enjoyed an international legitimacy which is linked to the role of the international community played in supporting the Burundi peace process, at home the agreement has been linked exclusively to elite interests. Between 2000 and 2001, the Arusha Accords allowed returning politicians to enjoy protection while the population in rural areas was still paying the heavy price of war. During the years of transition and in the framework of the Accords, many individuals who had no popular credibility were granted political positions and immunity. While the political elite in urban areas enjoyed the benefits of the accords, it is unclear what gains the rural population found in the agreement (Curtis 2003). The too much attention paid to the interests of the elite by the Arusha Accords and the quasi-indifference towards the needs of the average citizen has developed a disconnection

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between the two social classes. Today the political elite and in particular the leadership of political parties is not in a position to articulate a programme focused on the needs of the ‘small people’. Such a negative dynamic destroys the channels of communication between the political leaders and their electorate, a situation which leads to democratic erosion. The significance of Arusha Accords started to diminish when opposition parties stopped being part of the governing bodies as a form of boycott. Consociational or representative democracy can work only when participation in the decision-making institutions is maintained and encouraged by all political actors. When some actors refuse to participate, they destroy the whole democratic architecture founded on consociationalism thus causing the loss of democratic gains.

Electoral Boycott In his analysis of the effects of electoral boycott and the contestation of a vote’s outcome, Lindberg discusses the role of opposition parties in institutionalising democratic elections (Lindberg 2006). He argues that the choice to participate or not in an electoral process can have long-lasting effects on the consolidation of democracy or on the reinforcement of an authoritarian regime. When opposition parties refuse to participate in an electoral process, the people have no possibility to make a choice among competing forces. And when the people cannot make a choice of their leaders, they are deprived of their right to keep the leadership accountable. This is one among many ways that lead to democratic reversals. According to Lindberg, there is an approach of opposition parties towards electoral competition which seems to be repeated in many countries, leading to devastating effects and which undermines democracy. Opposition parties are increasingly using the approach of boycotting elections not necessarily because of fraud or rigging (even if this is true in many cases) but because sometimes the leaders of the opposition simply want to discredit the incumbent regime, especially when they have no chance to win. Another strategy which is used by the opposition parties during the elections is the contestation of electoral results. In this case, the opposition parties participate actively in the electoral process but when the results are proclaimed and when the tendency shows that the rival (which often is the ruling party) is winning, they reject the outcome, arguing that the vote has been rigged or manipulated. In such a situation, the

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ruling party together with the electoral commission are discredited, especially in the eyes of the international community (Lindberg op cit). The aim of this strategy is to prevent the winner of the elections from being recognised as holding legitimate power. This is the pattern adopted by Burundi’s opposition parties during the 2010 general elections. In May 2010, the results of the first round of general elections in Burundi showed that the ruling CNDD-FDD was comfortably leading with more than 60% of the votes. When the electoral commission announced the results, the leaders of 12 opposition parties immediately rejected the results and then decided to withdraw from the electoral race. The withdrawal of the opposition parties from the electoral process was triggered by what they described as a massive electoral fraud though ballot stuffing, vote buying and intimidation tactics. Consequently, they refused to acknowledge the victory of the CNDD-FDD—which came out with a landslide victory with 64% of the total vote (Rapport UE MOE 2010). The FNL of Agathon Rwasa was second with 14.15%, the FRODEBU with 5.43% and UPRONA with 6.25%. Other opposition parties garnered below 5% of the votes required to participate in the institutions, as shown in the report produced by observers from the European Union (Rapport UE MOE op cit). At the same time, it is very important to note that, when put together, the total score of all opposition parties represented 35%, a very comfortable percentage, should they have managed to present a common front. These elections, the second in the post-transition period, were considered to be a significant milestone in consolidating democracy and a political test of how solid Burundi’s democratic process was becoming, and how mature the political elite was. The anti-democratic behaviour observed during elections is linked to what is at stake. In a number of emerging or transitional democracies, which include Burundi, and where the State is the most important player in politics and in economy, the control of its apparatus becomes a matter of life and death (Adejumobi and Kehinde 2007). The electoral competition becomes a bloody struggle about two things: power and money. This has a serious impact on the attitude and the behaviour of those participating in an election. The attitude of the ruling party and the reaction of the opposition during the different steps of the electoral process in 2010 showed that they both were engaged into a zero-sum game where the winner takes it all. But the attitude also showed a lack of political maturity and a serious commitment to consolidating democracy (Palmans 2012).

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First, the CNDD-FDD was accused of using intimidation tactics in an attempt to coerce people into voting for its candidates. The ruling party was also accused of harassing opponents as a way of discouraging them. Several cases of opposition figures being imprisoned were recorded. The intimidation and the use of force were preferred strategies aimed at silencing opposing forces. There were also multiple attempts to control the electoral process entirely in order to be certain of the victory. The attempts included the nominations at the electoral commission (CENI) of people who were close to the ruling party. Similar and other decisions initiated by the ruling party led to the deterioration of the political climate as elections approached and tensions heightened. When the results were announced on the 24 May 2010, the political context was already explosive. The reaction of the opposition further worsened the situation, as they claimed that the vote was rigged, but failed to present proofs of their claim. Second, there was a decision of the opposition parties to withdraw from the electoral process which became a disaster with consequences that went beyond the elections. The participation of opposition parties, especially in fragile or emerging democracies, is very important. It contributes to institutionalising democratic elections (Lindberg 2006). For consolidation of democracy it is important to ensure the openness of the political space and the possibility of political competition. The decision to boycott elections is generally prompted by different motivations. It can be motivated by the need of the opposition to challenge the results in order to gain political advantage or simply to undermine the political rule and legitimacy of the winning rival (Lindberg 2004, p. 10). In the case of the 2010 electoral boycott, the opposition parties in Burundi were expecting the international community to intervene and to put pressure on the government so that it could halt the elections, appoint new members in a reshuffled electoral commission and restart the process. In such a short period, it was impossible to respond to such a demand. The CNDD-FDD-led government rejected categorically any form of negotiation that may question the results of the election. Consequently, the opposition opted not to participate in any governing institution. The decision of the opposition not to participate in active political life, despite having a combined result of 35% and the control of the capital city, was a fatal error. In this way, the opposition parties excluded themselves from the political scene and they compromised the possibility of a fair electoral competition in the future. They also prevented the electorate

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from having even a small margin in choosing their leaders. The immediate consequence of this decision was the consolidation of CNDD-FDD’s power and control in every political area as it strived to fill in the void left by the opposition. The boycott and the call to the international community to intervene in Burundi’s electoral dispute was perceived by the ruling party as a threat to its legitimacy and prompted violent reaction against some leaders and other members of the opposition. The crackdown pushed most of opposition leaders into hiding or in exile (Butenschon et al. 2016, p. 50). The control over the entire political sphere favoured the autocratic tendencies of the CNDD-FDD, which had been seen since the party’s arrival to power. But the real effects of the 2010 boycott became evident in the preparations for the 2015 elections as the opposition leaders struggled to get even a simple authorisation to run their electoral campaign meetings, especially in rural areas. As a result of boycotting elections in 2010 and refusing seats in the parliament, the opposition was unprepared for the next elections. The context of electoral competition had dramatically changed in favour of the ruling party and the opposition was extremely weakened. As the new electoral period approached the lead role in denouncing the autocratic methods of the incumbent regime was played not by opposition political parties but by organisations from the civil society and the non-governmental media. In the run-up to 2015 elections, the tensions around the third term in office for President Pierre Nkurunziza dominated the political life in Burundi. The electoral process was rendered fragile by street protests, violence, repression and an attempt to overthrow the president. The electoral protests on the streets of Bujumbura, the crackdown on demonstrators and the rapid escalation of the political crisis that affected Burundi were incentivised by several factors. The first factor is related to controversies that were based on the Burundi 2015 Constitution and the conflicting interpretations of the articles and clauses related to term limitations for the president. Burundi’s Constitution, which is an offspring of the Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords, was voted by referendum in March 2005 at the beginning of the post-transition period. The controversies related to the constitution revolved around articles 96 and 302. Article 302 in particular seems to entertain some uncertainty as it discusses how the first president in the post-transition would be voted in (Burundi Constitution 2005). There was also a contradiction over the status of the Arusha Accords vis-a-vis the constitution, showing a tendency to give to the accords a supra-legal status above the constitution, a fact

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which is contested by the ruling party and its supporters (Vandeginste 2015b). The ruling party—the CNDD-FDD—has never felt truly part of the Arusha Accords and has always showed disdain for it. The Party feels the accords do not take into account the interests of the simple peasants on the hillsides of Burundi. According to some of its cadres, the constitution of Burundi should have priority over the Accords as the supreme law of the country. The second factor that led to the street protest was related to the difficult conditions many Burundians, especially the youth, live in combined with the lack of real opportunities for employment or business. Burundi is ranked as one of the most populous nations in terms of the number of people per square kilometre. Its population of more than 11 million is composed mostly of young people who represent more than 60% (World Bank Report 2018). The unemployment rate is high: in 2007, it was at 21% and since then few jobs have been created (ICGLR Report 2014). The current political crisis played a negative role in halting investment plans in different infrastructures such as the East Africa road projects, energy sector and tourism, which could have created a significant number of jobs and help to address the unemployment problem (Dom 2014). The third factor seems to have been related to the failure of the regime to fight against corruption, impunity, nepotism and lack of accountability. Despite being able to restore security and some degree of stability across the country and the efforts made to meet the needs of rural communities particularly with the building of schools and health centres, the CNDD-FDD has not succeeded in creating an attractive environment for business and investment. This has been due to recurring problems of corruption, energy shortages, heavy and less transparent administrative procedures, etc. These and many other problems may have contributed to the anger that pushed some young people to take to the streets. The electoral boycott and the refusal to participate in government institutions represent now a regular pattern of political action increasingly used by opposition parties in Burundi. Failing to evaluate the undermining effect on democracy, opposition leaders have used this same tactic again and again without realising that they were contributing to democratic reversals. By refusing to join the parliament, the opposition reduced the possibility of maintaining in place a system of checks and balances against the ruling party. The 2010 electoral boycott became a serious political miscalculation. It compromised the grand coalition and the elite cooperation introduced by the Arusha’s power-sharing arrangement. Since then, the ruling party—the

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CNDD-FDD—has managed to consolidate its grip and control on most key political and strategic positions. The tactic of the ‘empty chair’ has not yielded any plausible dividends, apart from the marginalisation of the opposition. It also has cleared the space for authoritarian tendencies of the ruling party to take root unopposed and in a more profound way. A lot of achievements linked to democratic consolidation were lost.

From Power Sharing to Democratic Regression Several analysts consider that since accessing power, the CNDD-FDD has demonstrated a tendency to employ authoritarian practices which threaten the fragile consociational democracy and its power-sharing arrangements (Curtis 2012; Palmans 2010; Vandeginste 2009). In the context of Burundi politics, the power-sharing arrangements constitute one of the key elements of a peace process seeking to end one of the deadliest civil wars the country ever knew. They were introduced during the Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords which defined the contours of the Burundi’s consociational democracy as we discussed earlier. The powersharing arrangements were engineered in order to address the problems posed by a decade of civil war and a recurrent political instability and to contribute to a larger process of state-building and democratic consolidation. According to Prof. Vandeginste, the first issue was solved while there is still a long way to go in order to bring an enduring solution to the second one (Vandeginste 2009). It is important to underline that the signature of the Accords occurred in the absence of the key armed movements which at the time were reluctant to join a peace process they considered as flawed. In particular, the CNDD-FDD, which was considered to be the largest armed movement, never truly subscribed to the Accords and never felt compelled by them as they were considered merely to be dividing the political cake between the competing political elites and their networks (Vandeginste op cit). Indeed, the Arusha Accords seem to have privileged the reduction of tensions between contending political factions made essentially by the elite, through the creation of a broad system of governance that could accommodate almost every leader threatening to derail the peace process. In this way, some of political actors who were totally unknown in the country emerged with important ministerial portfolios in the government or other key positions in the administration.

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Thus, a notable weakness of the power-sharing arrangements in Burundi was the promotion of incompetent and corrupt leaders who had no popularity to some of the highest positions in government. For this very reason, the Arusha Accords are still considered to be an elitist initiative which did not take into account the grievances, needs and concerns of the population and were thus lacking popular legitimacy. Curtis considers that it is possible the CNDD-FDD won the first post-transition elections in 2005 because Burundian citizens were disillusioned by the outcome of Arusha Accords from which benefited only a tiny group of the political elite (Curtis 2012). Apart from the political leaders who were granted juicy positions in the state apparatus and whose life positively improved thanks to the power-sharing arrangements, the day-to-day life of the population did not change in any way. Some improvements in terms of security were felt across the country with a sense of relief after the signature of the Global Ceasefire Agreements between the transition government led by President Domitien Ndayizeye and the leadership of the CNDD-FDD led by Pierre Nkurunziza in 2003. After the signature of this agreement, the CNDD-FDD went through a process that led to its transformation into a political party, ready to compete in the elections that were planned in 2005. In the run-up to the 2005 elections, Burundi’s political landscape changed in a radical way. Before this period, the political scene was dominated by two key actors—the Frodebu and the Uprona parties which claimed to represent the interests of Hutu and Tutsi, respectively (Palmans 2010). The political competition was bipolar and was presented as a Hutu-Tutsi competition to access power. The arrival of the CNDD-FDD on the political stage changed the balance of power and the older setting. First of all, the CNDD-FDD came with a significant number of Hutu and Tutsi in its ranks. Secondly, it went after the same Hutu electorate as the Frodebu, thus shifting the cleavages from a Hutu-Tutsi competition to a Hutu-Hutu competition. Also, because of the power sharing, there was a myriad of small parties such as the MRC which were threatening Uprona and which targeted the Tutsi electorate as well. And because a lot of interests of the old establishment were at stake, the use of all dirty tricks including violence became inevitable. With the 2005 electoral victory of the CNDD-FDD, the use of violence did not cease. It rather increased. In fact, since the CNDD-FDD came to power, it has been accused of keeping the bush era reflexes (Ntibantunganya 2007). However, it is very important to emphasise that

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the use of violence is observed with all political tendencies, whether in government or in the opposition. The belief in the use of violence seems to be common among the Burundi political elite. Nevertheless, the CNDD-FDD has been pointed at mostly because of its position as the ruling party. Obviously, because of this position, the CNDD-FDD seeks to consolidate its control over the state institutions and the country as whole and it does not exclude the use of some coercive measures towards opponents. This has been a subject of much criticism and an ongoing problem which tends to reduce the political space and infringe democratic rights for other actors. The reduction of the political space, the quelling of dissenting voices, the use of repressive methods in some circumstances constitute the new context in which democratic gains are being reversed. This is fuelled mainly by the actions of the ruling party which is taking advantage of the weaknesses and internal divisions of the opposition. The authoritarian stance of the CNDD-FDD started soon after acquiring power democratically through the elections (Rufyikiri 2016). The party dominated the parliament and was in a good position to impose its decisions. This situation was exacerbated by the failure of the opposition to present a common front and coordinated efforts to prevent antidemocratic decisions and measures from being taken. However, the context in which the CNDD-FDD started to exercise power was very delicate. The party had its own internal problems which later led to a split into two factions—one supporting President Nkurunziza and the other standing behind Hussein Rajoub who was at the time the president of the ruling party. The opposition also had similar problems. The period between 2006 and 2007 saw the removal of Alice Nzomukunda from her position as the second vice-president of the Republic, the demise of 22 members of parliaments who lost their seats, many resignations from the cabinet and a lot of government reshuffling. At a certain point, the FRODEBU and some members of UPRONA decided to quit the coalition government thus bringing the State institutions to a halt. This was a turning point and a setback in the democratic process as it signalled a major disfunction of the grand coalition within the consociational democracy engineered just a few years earlier. The political class as whole lost the vision and the understanding of their assignment. From this period, democracy started to unravel.

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The 2010 elections were perceived as the ultimate test of democratic strength and vitality in Burundi. It is believed that if a country can peacefully hold two consecutive elections after a transition period, it becomes democratically mature. Burundi failed the test unfortunately. During the pre-electoral period, both the ruling party and the opposition were unable to protect the foundations of a democratic rule. On the one hand, the ruling party tried to impose several decisions without consulting its partners in government. The decisions included the adoption of new draft bill establishing the electoral commission (CENI) and the new electoral code. The CNDD-FDD tried to impose its text and to decide on the members composing the executive bureau of the electoral commission. Other issues leading to heightened tensions concerned the distribution of the ID card, the refusal to allow meetings of opposition parties in some areas controlled by the members of the ruling party or the attempts to divide parties into smaller splinter groups. On the other hand, the opposition appeared to be disoriented without any appealing political programme that could attract the electorate. The opposition remained politically weak due to internal problems related to an incompetent leadership, lack of vision and parties dominated by personal interests rather than national ones. The opposition continued to demonstrate widening division and a failure to unite as one entity capable of standing against the heavy weight that the CNDD-FDD had become. The endemic problem of floor crossing continued to prevail as a sign of the lack of political culture. The only thing all opposition parties shared was the hatred of the CNDD-FDD but that was not enough to change the situation. Based on the perceptions from the electorate in Bujumbura (where most intellectuals live), the leaders of the opposition parties believed that the victory was on their side in the 2010 elections. They totally ignored the fact that more than 80% of the population lives in rural areas and that this makes the base of the CNDD-FDD. In May 2010, when the results of the communal elections were released the opposition leadership could not believe them. They contested the outcome, claimed the election was rigged and finally decided to boycott the whole electoral process. In this way, they significantly compromised the future of democracy. The attitude of ruling party and the reaction of the opposition leaders during the 2010 elections confirmed that the political class in Burundi was not mature. In 2015, the decision of the ruling party to put forward the candidacy of President Pierre Nkurunziza for a third consecutive term in office

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has been considered by many as a serious blow to the democratic edifice which was already not standing on firm ground. The political crisis that erupted after the 2015 electoral controversies has had devastating consequences on the political, economic, social and other spheres of the country and damaged its standing internationally, in part due to activism of the opposition groups and also due to ongoing anti-democratic practices within. They have also weakened further the status of democracy in Burundi. As the country gears up for the 2020 elections, the political and social context look uncertain. The opposition is in an extremely weakened position while the CNDD-FDD seems to be almost the only important player on the political field. It is still difficult to evaluate the strength of the new party—the Congress for National Freedom (CNL)—created by Agathon Rwasa and recently registered by the Home Affairs ministry. Its viability will partially depend on the ruling party being able to create an even playing field for all political forces in the country. Otherwise we may continue to witness democratic reversals.

Conclusion The weakness of democratic values among the political elite, as noted by Huntington (1991), appears to be one of the leading factors explaining democratic reversals in Burundi. Interestingly, both the ruling party leadership and the leaders of the political opposition are equally responsible for this democratic erosion. On the one hand, the ruling party is progressively destroying the foundation of democracy with undemocratic practices such as closing up the political space, limiting the freedom of expression and assembly, or using the party youth to limit the access to the electorate for opposition parties. The ruling party has been encouraging if not provoking the split of existing parties into several wings. As a result, the opposition has been weakened and left in a position where it cannot compete properly during elections. On the other hand, by opting to withdraw from ongoing electoral processes or by initiating electoral boycotts, the opposition parties have isolated and marginalised themselves. The ‘empty chair’ strategy has had adverse effects such as eroding the confidence of the electorate and allowing the ruling party to occupy all strategic positions. The irrational decisions of the opposition parties to stay out of the governing institutions have been counterproductive. They are gradually destroying a system of checks and balances against the

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incumbent regime which could eventually prevent the regime from turning fully autocratic. Today, there is a need for the key political actors—the ruling party and the opposition—to re-evaluate the strategy used to retain or to access power and look at how their actions are affecting the democratisation process. Instead of discussing the sharing of political position, a new debate is needed around how to improve governance, how to be accountable and how to develop projects of general interests. Pressing issues also include the creation of opportunities for the youth which represents more than a half of the population. In order to address these problems, combined efforts from both the ruling party and the opposition are necessary. The weak economic performance of the incumbent regime is a clear sign that it needs to encourage the participation of every single citizen in developing the country. The opposition should also adopt a more constructive approach and participate in the edification of the nation, even when it does not control some of the key political spheres such as the presidency. The opposition can still contribute in other positions such as the parliament or within local government institutions. It is always possible to make a positive contribution when you are part of a project, but it is impossible to influence or even to know what is inside a system when you observe it from the outside. It is really important that the opposition continue to be part of political life, and that the ruling party make efforts to keep the political playing field even.

References Adejumobi, S., & Kehinde, M. (2007). Building Democracy Without Democrats? Political Parties and the Threat of Democratic Reversal in Nigeria. Journal of African Elections, 6(2), 95–113. Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords for Burundi. (2000, August 28). Butenschon, N. A., Stiansen, O., & Vollan, K. (2016). Power-Sharing in Conflict Ridden Societies and Democratic Stability. New York: Routledge. Chretien, J. P. (2000). Le Burundi après la signature de l’accord d’Arusha. Politique Africaine, 4(80), 150. Curtis, D. (2003). The Peace Process in Burundi: Successful African Intervention? London School of Economics, Issue No. 24. Curtis, D. (2012). The International Peacebuilding Paradox: Power Sharing and Post-conflict Governance in Burundi. African Affairs, 112(446), 72–91. Curtis, D. (2015). Development Assistance and the Lasting Legacies of Rebellion in Burundi and Rwanda. Third World Quarterly, 36(7), 1365–1381.

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The Rise and Demise of the “New Dispensation” in Zimbabwe Moses Tofa

Introduction In November 2017, Zimbabwe witnessed what many thought was the dawn of a new dispensation after 37 years of authoritarian rule. However, the “new dispensation” turned out to be a “curse”. The history of violence, political intolerance, and polarisation in Zimbabwe is rooted in the ruling party, the Zimbabwe African National Union–Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF)’s view of opposition parties as an existential threat, not only to itself, but also to the state itself. ZANU-PF views opposition parties as counter-revolutionaries that work with the “enemy” to “reverse the gains of independence”. Since 1980, ZANU-PF sought to establish itself as the only political party with the “right” to exist and rule Zimbabwe. This claim is based on its participation in the liberation struggle. The party sought to establish a legislated one-party state. With its landslide victory in the 1980 elections, the one-party state agenda became more conceivable, but the opposition Zimbabwe African People’s Union– Patriotic Front (PF-ZAPU) remained the only major hurdle. The 20 parliamentary seats which were reserved for the white population were

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a temporary impediment because they were to be legally abolished in 1987. The “opportunity” to “crush” PF-ZAPU presented itself following the outbreak of dissident insurgency in Matabeleland and parts of the Midlands province in the early 1980s. The dissidents committed ignominious acts of brutality which include rape; murdering of villagers and commercial white farmers; assault; torture; maiming; destruction of villages and state infrastructure; attacking travellers; enforced disappearances; beatings; armed robbery; and harassment of civilians (CCJP and LRF 1997). ZANU-PF claimed that the dissidents were trained, deployed, and funded by PF-ZAPU with a view to overthrow the government. The government responded by embarking on a Machiavellian-style counter-insurgency campaign commonly referred to as Gukurahundi because of its ferocity and celerity. Gukurahundi “is a Shona word meaning the rain which washes away the dirt” (Ngwenya and Harris 2015, p. 36). The campaign was implemented by a North Korean trained 5th Brigade. According to Ncube (1991), the people of Matabeleland and parts of the Midlands province endured a scale of violence which can scarcely be differentiated from that which was inflicted on the people of Zimbabwe by the colonial state. Ncube maintains that from the beginning of 1983, the Fifth Brigade committed atrocities in which, within weeks, it had massacred more than 2000 civilians, beaten, tortured, and raped scores of civilians and torched hundreds of thousands of homesteads. It is estimated that at least 20,000 people were killed (CCJP and LRF 1997). While other parts of the country were “moving on”, Matabeleland and parts of Midlands province were going through what was to be the darkest chapter of Zimbabwe’s post-independence history. After tortuous negotiations, the two parties signed a unity agreement in December 1987. One of the provisions of the agreement was the establishment of a de jure one-party state constructed along MarxistLeninist principles. However, Edgar Tekere formed the opposition Zimbabwe Unity Movement (ZUM), in 1988. This was after his expulsion from ZANU-PF for criticising Mugabe and the party. Tekere was a former ZANU-PF secretary general and luminary liberation fighter. ZUM was the first credible opposition political party to be formed after independence. It was expected to pose a serious challenge to ZANU-PF, especially during the 1990 general elections. ZANU-PF responded to the

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ZUM challenge by claiming that the party was working with the “enemy”. Extensive violence was used against ZUM. ZUM participated in the 1990 elections and disintegrated immediately thereafter. It was until 1999 that a formidable opposition party was formed in the form of the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC). In 2000, government lost a constitutional referendum. The MDC and civil society (particularly the National Constitutional Assembly) campaigned for a “no” while government campaigned for a “yes” vote. It was the first time that ZANU-PF lost an election. This coincided with the instant popularity of the newly formed MDC, especially in urban areas. Like other opposition parties, the MDC was described by ZANU-PF as an existential threat. It was regarded as a “Western-sponsored” puppet of “sell-outs” whose agenda is to “reverse the gains of independence”. Unlike other opposition parties, the MDC was considered a real threat because for the first time since independence, ZANU-PF faced the real threat of losing power. ZANU-PF considers its fight against the MDC as a fight against western imperialism, particularly Britain. For that reason, “ZANU-PF and government launched a fierce and violent attack” against the MDC (Chung 2006, pp. 312–313). The security sector, particularly the army, war veterans, the CIO, and the police took an increasingly prominent role in state politics, ostensibly to protect ZANU-PF. Government introduced a national youth training service in 2001 as it became clear that the majority of the youth were inclined to support the MDC. ZANU-PF argued that the youth lacked the knowledge, experience, and appreciation of the war of liberation. The programme was widely criticised because its “graduates” came to be popularly referred to as “green bombers” because of their notoriety in the perpetration of violence against MDC supporters. During election times, the “green bombers” embarked on door-to-door campaigns of terror, searching for any opposition materials such as t-shirts, hats, whistles, and membership cards. Those found in possession of such materials were tortured, harassed, maimed, or killed (Tofa 2013). Ranger (2004, p. 219) argues that the youth militia became available “to discipline their own parents, to attack the Movement for Democratic Change supporters, and to intimidate teachers and other educated civil servants in the rural areas”. Morgan Tsvangirai (the founding president of the MDC) and other opposition leaders were beaten up, jailed and tried for treason. Many opposition leaders and activists were charged with the offence of intending to subvert a “constitutionally elected government”. ZANU-PF’s

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response to opposition parties, particularly the MDC, deepened polarisation in Zimbabwe. Polarisation is one of Zimbabwe’s entrenched problems. It occurs when individuals or groups take irreconcilable positions on a subject matter. In Zimbabwe, citizens are divided into the two main camps, ZANU-PF and the MDC. Polarisation is not always bad. When managed progressively, it can promote the meaningful contestation of ideas with the result that progressive policies can be formulated and implemented. However, in the case of Zimbabwe, polarisation has reduced politics, and particularly elections, to a matter of life and death. The stakes are so high that the electoral system has been reduced to a zero-sum game in which the winner takes all while the loser loses all. In this context, ZANUPF uses different forms of electoral malpractice to retain power. It “throws away” the script of democratic politics. On the other hand, the opposition always contest the process and outcome of elections. It views ZANU-PF as the enemy of social, economic, and political emancipation. Disgruntled by what it regards as the subversion of the democratic will of the people from election to election, the opposition always “withdraws” its consent to be governed. This includes taking steps to make sure that ZANU-PF fails to deliver economic progress. Such steps include advocating for the isolation of Zimbabwe and the closure of all lines of credit. It considers ZANU-PF’s failure as “irrefutable evidence” that the party is illegitimate and unable to deliver a “new Zimbabwe”. After every election, it is common to hear opposition supporters and leaders claiming that “you (ZANU-PF) can rig the elections, but not the economy”. On the other hand, ZANU-PF claims that the protracted economic crisis is not a result of bad governance, but of the sanctions. It blames the MDC for the imposition of sanctions. For example, in a press statement, Simon Moyo, who is ZANU-PF’s Secretary for Information and Publicity, stated that “it must be recalled that the current economic environment is a direct result of the illegal sanctions which were lobbied for imposition by the MDC political party”.1 The opposition has also threatened retribution against ZANU-PF politicians, including that they will be send to the International Criminal Court for prosecution. Levitsky and Ziblatt (2018, p. 213) state that “if we view our rivals as a dangerous threat, we have much to fear if they are elected. We may decide to employ 1 Simon K. Moyo made this allegation while addressing the press. He is ZANU-PF’s Secretary for Information and Publicity.

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any means necessary to defeat them…”. This is essentially the situation with ZANU-PF leaders. They have interpreted threats by the opposition to mean that losing power is an existential threat, not only because they may be jailed and prosecuted, but that they will also lose their material possessions. ZANU-PF uses the opposition’s actions and threats to cement its claims that the opposition is the “enemy of the state”. The perceptions of mutual threat have caused a vicious cycle, but it is the ordinary people who suffer. Levitsky and Ziblatt (2018, p. 67) argue that “when societies grow so deeply divided that parties become wedded to incompatible worldviews, and especially when their members are socially segregated that they rarely interact, stable partisan rivalries give way to perceptions of mutual threat”. They emphasise the importance of “mutual toleration” in a democracy. This occurs when parties accept each other’s right to exist, operate, compete for power, and govern.

The November 2017 Coup The circumstances which led to the November 2017 coup are twopronged: the factionalism in ZANU-PF and the military’s involvement in state politics. In terms of the military, it has always been involved in state politics, especially following the formation of the MDC. In fact, the military became one of the biggest impediments to democratic transition. Since 2000, there have been reports that the military conducted mobilisation campaigns for ZANU-PF, especially in rural areas. According to Masunungure (2009, p. 44), the year 2000 “was a turning point in civil-military relations. With the emergence of the MDC challenge, the military’s involvement in political life became increasingly open”. In 2002, the Joint Operation Command (JOC), which comprises of heads of the army, police, air force, prison service, and the CIO, declared that the security establishment would not accept, support, or salute anyone who do not have liberation war credentials. This “declaration” was made with reference to Morgan Tsvangirai of the MDC (Alexander and Tendi 2008). JOC was the same institution which perpetrated violence and engineered the strategy to delay the announcement of the 29 March 2008 presidential election in which Mugabe had been defeated by Tsvangirai (Alexander and Tendi 2008). JOC was also involved in the violence which took place towards the 27 June 2008 presidential run-off elections. Senior military figures “vowed”

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to “crush” the MDC and to “go back to the bush” in the event of an MDC electoral victory. During the run-up to the run-off election, a brutal campaign of terror code-named operation Makavhotera Papi (Who did you vote for during the March election?) was carried out by the army, the police, the CIO, war veterans, and the youth militia (Chitiyo 2009). Its purpose was to “punish” those who had voted the MDC during the 29 March election. It therefore targeted those areas where the opposition had won, particularly with an overwhelming majority. In some gruesome cases, the violence-mongers would hack the arms of their victims either from the wrist (what they called a “long sleeve”) or from the elbow (what they called a “short sleeve”—Tofa 2013, p. 96). According to Chitiyo (2009, p. 6): This operation involved a combined forces military assault on the rural areas, particularly in Masvingo, Mashonaland South province, and Manicaland. These were former ZANU-PF strongholds that were to be punished for voting for the MDC in the March elections. The operation was prepared by the military but involved the police, CIO, war veterans and the dreaded ‘Green Bomber’ youth militias. Schools were turned into military headquarters, and the provinces became ‘operational zones’. Senior army staff coordinated the strategy, the aim being to terrorise people into voting for ZANU-PF in the June run-off election, or to force long-time MDC supporters to flee the area and thus lose the chance to vote.

Although Tsvangirai had initially decided to participate in the run-off election, the MDC realised that the cyclone of violence which had engulfed the country had made it impossible for elections to be conducted. In his letter to the Zimbabwe Electoral Commission (ZEC) which was dated 25 June 2008, Tsvangirai justified his decision on the following reasons: the partiality of the Zimbabwe Electoral Commission (ZEC), the disfranchisement of MDC supporters, the party’s inability to campaign in rural areas because of violence, (the MDC claimed that at least 86 of its supporters were killed; 10,000 homes were destroyed; 200,000 people were displaced and 10,000 people sustained serious injuries) the threats of war made by Mugabe and ZANU-PF, the involvement of security forces in the campaign of terror, the MDC’s lack of access to the media, and the banning and disruption of its rallies across the country (Tofa 2013). However, ZEC declared that the elections were to be held despite Tsvangirai’s last-minute withdrawal. The “elections” (which came to be popularly referred to as “a one-man race”) were conducted and Mugabe

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was declared the winner. The stalemate between ZANU-PF and the MDC led to the formation of the Government of National Unity (GNU) in 2009. During the course of the inclusive government, security chiefs refused to salute Tsvangirai, blocked his attempts to interact with security institutions, and ridiculed him for demanding security sector reform on the reasoning that Zimbabwe has one of the most professional security forces in Africa (see Chitiyo 2009). The MDC also demanded a code of conduct for security forces, especially in respect of elections. However, ZANU-PF resisted this demand. In many cases, senior military figures openly declared that they will “defend the revolution”. On 27 May 2011, the then army commander brigadier-general, Douglas Nyikayaramba, stated that Tsvangirai was “a security threat” because he wanted to effect “an illegal regime change” in Zimbabwe (The Newsday, 24 June 2011). Nyikayaramba said that Mugabe should be allowed to be Zimbabwe’s life president, arguing that: Why do you want to force him (Mugabe) to go? Where were you when he crossed into Mozambique and why didn’t you go? If you can change your father in your family, then we can do the same, but has anyone changed his or her father just because he is old? Until your father dies only then can you have a step father-that is that. (The Zimbabwe Independent, 27 May–2 June 2011)

However, as the factionalism in ZANU-PF deepened, some of the war veterans and senior military figures fell out of Mugabe’s favour. Mugabe became more biased towards the youth with the understanding that they had emerged into a decisive constituency in electoral competition. The factionalism witnessed the expulsion of Joice Mujuru in December 2014, at the instigation of Grace Mugabe. Emmerson Mnangagwa succeeded Mujuru. However, within a few years, he was accused of factionalism. On 5 November 2017, Mnangagwa was expelled from government. Within a few days, he was also expelled from ZANU-PF. The charges included that he lacked probity in the execution of his duties, that he discharged his duties in a manner which was inconsistent with his official duties, and that he was disloyal, disrespectful, deceitful, and unreliable. On 13 November 2017, Constantino Chiwenga, who was the Commander of the Zimbabwe Defence Forces, delivered a press statement on the political situation in Zimbabwe. He claimed that ZANU-PF had been infiltrated by counter-revolutionaries whose agenda was to destroy

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the party from within. He also stated that the army was obliged to take “corrective measures” when the “gains of the liberation struggle are threatened” and that the military would not hesitate to “step in” and “protect our revolution”. This was an open and direct military intervention in the succession race in ZANU-PF following the expulsion of Emmerson Mnangagwa. However, while the statement was a matter of protecting factional interests, Chiwenga used the language that made it to appear as if the army sought to protect the interests of the nation. On 15 November 2017, the Zimbabwe National Army (ZNA) staged a coup with a view to oust Robert Gabriel Mugabe, who had ruled the country for the past 37 years. Knowing that an outright coup will be condemned by SADC, the African Union, and the international community, the army decided not to make it a fully fledged coup. It arrested Mugabe, placed him under house arrest, and assured the nation that he and his family were safe. The army claimed that it was merely “targeting criminals around Mugabe”. The major challenge for the army was to influence Mugabe to tender his resignation under section 97 of the constitution. Under this provision, the president sends a written notice of resignation to the Speaker of Parliament. The Speaker is required to give public notice of the resignation within 24 hours. In order to force Mugabe to resign, the army used a multi-pronged approach. On the one hand, it used threats against Mugabe. These include physical violence against him and his family, seizure of his material possessions, withdrawal of state security, and loss of his presidential benefits in the event that he is removed by other means. The army also realised that people across the political divide wanted Mugabe to go. It therefore allowed citizens to march in demand of Mugabe’s resignation. Opposition supporters, social movements, civil society, and other constituencies enthusiastically participated in the 18 November march. For the army, this was helpful in sending the message that it was the people of Zimbabwe who wanted Mugabe to go. The army used this to defend the narrative that its action was not a military coup. However, Mugabe refused to resign despite the pressure. It was at this stage that the army decided to use the impeachment process. This constitutional process consists of three major stages. First, members of the National Assembly and the Senate must vote together as a joint body. A simple majority (more than 50%) should support a resolution which recommends the removal of the president. Under section 97 of the constitution, the resolution should be based on one or more of the following reasons: serious misconduct; failure to obey,

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uphold, or defend the constitution; wilful violation of the constitution; or inability to perform the functions of the office because of physical or mental incapacity. Second, once the resolution has been passed, a ninemember committee of both the National Assembly and the Senate should be appointed. This committee must have proportional representation of the parties represented in parliament. Given the composition of parliament during that time, the committee was supposed to compose of representatives from ZANU-PF, MDC-T, and the smaller MDC formation. Third, the committee should conduct investigations to establish whether the reason(s) cited as justification for the removal of the president are justified. After this process, it presents its recommendation to parliament. If the recommendation is that the president should be removed, both the National Assembly and the Senate must sit together in a joint session to vote on the motion of removal. To pass, the motion must be supported by at least two-thirds majority of the parliamentarians and senators as one group. This shows that it was impossible for ZANU-PF to use this route without the cooperation of the opposition. It was at the beginning of the impeachment process that Mugabe tendered his resignation. By mobilising its supporters to march and by agreeing to participate in the impeachment process, the opposition played a crucial role in the removal of Mugabe. The opposition also celebrated the resignation of Mugabe and attended the inauguration of Emmerson Mnangagwa. However, ZANUPF later claimed exclusive ownership of the removal of Mugabe. In fact, before the impeachment process started, Patrick Chinamasa dismissed the role of the opposition in the process despite that it was clear that ZANUPF needed the opposition. The opposition’s actions showed that it was in support of the Mnangagwa regime. There are a number of reasons why the opposition participated in the removal of Mugabe. First, it has traditionally regarded Mugabe as Zimbabwe’s problem incarnate. Its message was mainly based on the “Mugabe must go” mantra. The departure of Mugabe was therefore regarded by the opposition as a significant achievement. The opposition lost sight of the view that it was not about Mugabe, but the system. Second, the opposition’s ask was the formation of a GNU which it wanted to be included. The resignation of Mugabe was characterised by the euphoria of a “new era”. Many Zimbabweans regarded the coup as a necessary evil. The Mnangagwa administration was generally accepted, including by the opposition and the international community. Despite that Mnangagwa is

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regarded as the chief enforcer of Mugabe’s toxic politics, there was so much good will and optimism that he would take Zimbabwe towards the path of recovery. At the bare minimum, particularly for the opposition and its support base, the expectations were that Mnangagwa would eliminate the iniquitous human rights violations had which characterised Mugabe’s rule, that he would implement genuine democratic reforms, that he would promote the rule of law and the conduct of free and fair elections, that he would restore the wretched economy, and that he would restore Zimbabwe’s relations with the international community. It was from this perspective that many citizens, including a significant part of the opposition, believed that his administration should be given a chance. However, there were others who believed that nothing good could come from Mnangagwa’s administration. To add to this pessimism, many Zimbabweans became concerned that after the coup, the army would play a more active role in the politics of the nation. They wondered whether, a few months after the coup, the army would give away through the ballot what it had seized through the gun. Upon taking over from Mugabe, Mnangagwa peddled the “new dispensation” mantra, under which he claimed that Zimbabwe was “open for business”. He embarked on a diplomatic offensive to re-engage the international community. However, he did not include the opposition in his government. He squandered the goodwill by deciding to finish Mugabe’s term and go for elections. It was at this point that the opposition, which had displayed traits of opportunism, got disappointed. In December 2017, the US Senate Committee on Foreign Relations invited the MDC Alliance and civil society to make presentations about the political situation in Zimbabwe after the November coup. Nelson Chamisa and Tendai Biti of the MDC Alliance, as well as Dewa Mavhinga of Human Rights Watch, attended and gave their testimony. From their presentations, they argued that the sanctions which the USA imposed on Zimbabwe should remain in place as an instrument to force the implementation of democratic reforms, particularly before the 2018 election.

The Zimbabwe Electoral Commission and the August 1st Protests The Zimbabwe Electoral Commission (ZEC) is the fulcrum of Zimbabwe’s electoral system. It is the single most important institution which is responsible for the management of elections. The August 1st protests

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should be examined within the context of ZEC’s management of the 2018 elections, which was perceived as opaque and grossly biased towards ZANU-PF. The conduct of elections in Zimbabwe is characterised by the perception that ZEC is unable to manage the conduct of free, fair, and credible elections because it is biased towards ZANU-PF. In the run-up to the 2018 election, the opposition pointed to a number of irregularities and anomalies which had a bearing on the credibility of the election. One of the major problem related to the voters’ roll. The voters’ roll has always been at the centre of election-related disputes in Zimbabwe. It has been characterised by serious anomalies which eroded its credibility. The integrity of the voters’ roll is crucial in the conduct of free and fair elections. ZEC is required under the Electoral Act to provide a searchable and analysable voters’ roll to interested parties for inspection and verification purposes. However, ZEC violated this constitutional responsibility during different electoral periods. During the 2013 election, it failed to provide the electronic copy of the voters’ roll. It only availed the printed copy of the voters’ roll two days before the election. This made it impossible for parties to inspect and verify it. This raised the suspicion that the voters’ roll was manipulated by ZANU-PF, especially through ghost voting. During the 2018 election, ZEC refused to release the voters’ roll, particularly to the opposition. It provided a copy of the voters’ roll to ZANU-PF. The voters’ roll was eventually provided to all parties after an outcry, particularly from the opposition and civil society. ZEC kept on giving conflicting statements about the voters’ roll. It was not surprising that after the election, the opposition argued that the voters’ roll which was provided to parties prior to the election was not the one which was eventually used during the election. Apart from the voters’ roll. The design and printing of ballot papers were also characterised by opaqueness. ZEC made it incredibly difficult for parties to witness the printing of ballot papers. During the 2013 election, ZEC printed excessive extra ballot papers, raising the suspicion that they were used for manipulating the election. To assuage these fears and build trust during the 2018 election, ZEC could have allowed the parties to witness the printing of ballot papers. The ZEC Chairperson, Justice Priscilla Chigumba, appeared in a picture in which she was wearing a scarf which is associated with Mnangagwa. This was seen by the opposition and its supporters as confirmation that she was associated with ZANU-PF’s

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presidential candidate and therefore biased. Section 11(3)(c) of the Electoral Law prohibits a commissioner from “knowingly wearing any badge or article of clothing that is or is reasonably likely to be associated with a political party or candidate contesting any election…”. ZEC did not conduct itself in a manner that demonstrates independence, fairness, and impartiality. The opposition believed that ZEC was grossly biased. Despite ZEC’s opaque management of the elections, the period leading to the 2018 election was characterised by great hope and expectations among both seasoned and young voters. It offered the opportunity to break from contested elections, polarisation, and violence. The election was historic in that for the first time since 2000, Robert Mugabe and veteran opposition leader, Morgan Tsvangirai, did not participate. Tsvangirai had died of cancer in February 2018. The political atmosphere was peaceful and conducive for the exercise of democratic freedoms. The opposition was able to campaign freely, including in those areas in which it was traditionally unable to do so. The opposition was highly energised and it had the biggest and most impressive rallies. Voting took place peacefully throughout the country, although there were incidents of intimidation and policing of the rural vote by traditional leaders. In the area of election observation, one of the major distinguishing characteristic of the election was that it was the first time that western observers were accredited to observe Zimbabwean elections after close to two decades of frosty relations. When ZEC announced the results of the presidential election, it declared that Emmerson Mnangagwa of ZANU-PF had won with 50.8% while Nelson Chamisa of MDC Alliance had lost with 44.3%. However, when Chamisa filed a court petition which sought the nullification of the presidential election results, ZEC changed its initial results two times, claiming that it had made some “clerical errors”. Chamisa claimed that the discrepancies could not be explained as random or clerical errors because they revealed a pattern in which Mnangagwa’s votes were increased while his votes were deflated. To date, it is not possible to state the actual percentage of votes which Mnangagwa got in the 2018 election. There were a number of irregularities which tainted the credibility of the election. These include some ghost votes which came from unregistered polling stations and the discrepancy amounting to 40,000 votes between presidential and parliamentary votes tally. ZEC failed to explain these discrepancies because it did not record them on Form PE2005/AA as required by the law. In some constituencies, the number of people

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who voted exceeded the number of registered voters. There were 16 polling stations which had identical results for parliamentary, presidential, and local council elections, including spoilt papers. ZEC did not explain this. There were signed and stamped but unpopulated V11 forms. These forms are supposed to be signed after they are populated with the actual results. There were constituencies where V11 forms were not posted outside polling stations as required by the law. There were also reports that some opposition polling agents were victimised and forced to sign VII forms whose results had been manipulated. In this context, it was reasonable for opposition supporters to believe that the presidential election was rigged. It was this belief which caused the August 1st protests. Various observer missions, particularly from the west, concluded that the election was not free and fair. For example, the European Union Observer Mission (2018, p. 1) concluded that “many aspects of the 2018 elections in Zimbabwe failed to meet international standards” and that “the final results as announced by the Electoral Commission contained numerous errors and lacked adequate traceability, transparency and verifiability”.

The August 1st Protests On 1st of August 2018, Zimbabwe witnessed a wave of protests in Harare. Various opposition supporters gathered in Harare Central Business District and demanded the immediate announcement of the presidential election results. The protests were based on the belief and fear that ZEC was manipulating the outcome in favour of ZANU-PF. These fears grew as ZEC took time to announce the outcome of the presidential election. The belief and fears had their foundation in the way that ZEC had conducted itself, as well as its management of previous elections, particularly the 29 March 2008 election. In this election, the parliamentary election results were announced immediately after voting. However, ZEC withheld the presidential election results for more than a month. The results were announced on 2 May 2018 following sustained pressure. ZEC announced that then opposition presidential candidate, Morgan Tsvangirai, had polled 47.3% and that Robert Mugabe had polled 43.2%. Under these circumstances, Tsvangirai could not be declared president because the law requires the winner to poll 50% plus one vote. The inordinate delay of the results raised serious suspicions that ZEC had manipulated the results in order to avoid an outright victory by Morgan Tsvangirai.

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From the way people voted in the 2018 election, evidence suggested that there was a tight contest between Nelson Chamisa of the MDC Alliance and Emmerson Mnangagwa of ZANU-PF. The August 1st protests were intended to “defend” Chamisa’s votes in order to avoid what happened in 2008. The protests turned violent as the protesters destroyed property. The police intervened to restore law and order. Later, the police requested the intervention of the army. The army was deployed in the streets of Harare. The main explanation which was used to justify the deployment of the army was that the police had failed to disperse the protesters. The army used disproportionate and brutal force. It used live ammunition against unarmed and fleeing civilians. At least six civilians were shot dead and many others were injured, most of them severely. According to the final report of the Commission of Inquiry (2018, p. 47): It is undisputed that six people died as a result of gunshot wounds, and according to the evidence from the two major hospitals, twenty three people were injured as a result of gunshots and one person of assault. As noted above, in addition to these persons, there were eleven persons who did not attend these hospitals, who were injured as a result of actions of the military and the police. The total number of persons injured is therefore thirty five.

Videos which were captured by the media show utmost savagery. In particular, one video shows a soldier on a kneeling position, incessantly and indiscriminately shooting protesters who were fleeing, seeking to kill as many as he could. The rogue soldier only stopped when he was restrained by his superior. Some of the people who were going about with their business were beaten and harassed. What followed was the arresting, beating, torture, and harassment of opposition politicians, some of whom were forced into hiding. There were reports of soldiers who went to high density suburbs to beat and harass residents. These violent acts were committed by the police and the army. The hope of a new dispensation dissipated. Countries which had decided to “do business” with the Mnangagwa administration changed their position. Apart from the shootings, so many continuities made it difficult to believe that Mnangagwa’s regime represented a “new dispensation”. The opposition and civil society continued to be viewed as “regime change agents” who are “enemies of the state”. The human rights crisis continued and worsened. The militarisation of the state took a new height as the army assumed a new form of

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entitlement. There were also continuities in the economic crisis, the leadership crisis, the constitutional crisis, the political crisis, and most importantly, the crisis of legitimacy. In fact, some citizens began to claim that Mugabe’s leadership was better.

The “Third Force” Narrative The government’s brutal response to protests was based on the false narrative that opposition parties and civil society organisations are “regime change agents” which are used by a “third force” to make the country ungovernable. What this basically means is that where there is an opposition party which has the constitutional right to exist, government sees a sinister “third force” which is disguised in the form of a local opposition party. It is this “third force” narrative which is used to brutalise the opposition in the name of defending the independence, sovereignty, and territorial integrity of the country. What it means is that when the government responds to protests, it conceives itself as responding to some “third force”. This explains why the anti-riot police often mercilessly beat protesters. The regime has offered no definition or clarity of what constitutes the “third force”, leaving it to mean almost anything. The problem with this narrative is that it insinuates that the people of Zimbabwe cannot challenge or criticise the government without someone telling them to do so. They cannot express any grievances unless they are influenced and funded by a “third force”. In April 2019, while addressing a press conference, Cain Mathema, Minister of Home Affairs and Cultural Heritage, claimed that: It is disturbing to note that ZRP and other security services have gathered intelligence to the effect that a group of foreign nationals wants to facilitate a three-day civic organisation workshop in Bulawayo in May 2019… The main agenda of the workshop is to mobilise and capacitate civic organisations and individuals to stage purported effective demonstrations and disturbances to overthrow the ZANU-PF Government. (The Herald, 30 April 2019)

Such claims are often made to validate the third force narrative. When this narrative is applied to the August 1st protests, it means that the protesters did not protest because they independently believed that the presidential

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election was being rigged. They cannot know when an election is rigged or not. But even if they know, they cannot make the decision to protest. From this view, it was a “third force” which influenced them to protest. In other words, when the soldiers opened fire, in their minds, they were not shooting Zimbabwean citizens who have the constitutional right to peacefully protest, but some sinister force which found expression through “sell outs”. For the regime, since the “third force” cannot be seen or touched, the best way to deal with it is to “crush” those who are “used by it” to make the country ungovernable. The “third force” narrative is also used by the regime to evade accountability. The regime uses it to trivialise and even ridicule demands by concerned citizens. Citizens cannot have legitimate demands, says the narrative. They have to be docile, no matter their conditions and accept that ZANU-PF is the only party which is patriotic and able to govern the country in accordance with the principles and values of the liberation struggle. In respect of the August 1st protests, government argued that the protests were organised by leaders of the main opposition party, the Movement for Democratic Change Alliance (MDC-A). The opposition argued that the protests were spontaneous and not necessarily premeditated. In fact, in defending the position that he did not mobilise the people to protest, Nelson Chamisa, the president of the MDC-A, argued that there was no need for the people to protest before the results had been announced. What followed was a public outcry as citizens sought answers to a number of questions. These include that: Why was the army deployed, who deployed it, and who gave the order to shoot to kill? The public also called for the identification and prosecution of those responsible for the shootings. Following this public outcry, Mnangagwa established a six member Commission of Inquiry in terms of the Commissions of Inquiry Act (Chapter 10.07). The Commission was established on 12 September 2018. The purpose of the Commission was to investigate the circumstances which led to the protests and shootings. It had the following terms of reference: 1. To inquire into the circumstances leading to 1st August 2018 postelection violence; 2. To identify the actors and their leaders, their motive, and strategies employed in the protests;

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3. To inquire into the intervention by the Zimbabwe Republic Police in the maintenance of law and order; 4. To investigate the circumstances which necessitated the involvement of the military in assisting in the maintenance of law and order; 5. To consider whether the degree of force used was proportionate to the ensuing threat to public safety, law, and order; 6. To ascertain the extent of damage/injury caused thereof; 7. To investigate into any other matters which the Commission of Inquiry may deem appropriate and relevant to the inquiry; 8. To make suitable recommendations; and 9. To report to the president in writing, the result of the inquiry within a period of three months from the date of swearing in of the Commissioners. The Commission was chaired by Kgalema Motlanthe, the former president of South Africa. Other members of the Commission were Rodney Dixon; Chief Emeka Anyaoku, former Commonwealth Secretary General; Davis Mwamunyange, former Chief of the Tanzania People’s Defence Forces; Charity Manyeruke and Lovemore Madhuku of the University of Zimbabwe; and Vimbai Nyemba, former president of the Law Society of Zimbabwe. While the majority view was that it was necessary to establish a Commission to inquire into the violence, opinion differed in terms of Mnangagwa’s motive of establishing the Commission as well as the capability of the Commission to be independent and impartial in its inquiry. Some believed that Mnangagwa was sincere and that he wanted to pursue justice. Others held the view that Mnangagwa wanted to use the Commission to put the blame on the opposition’s door, and to redeem his (tainted) image, especially in the eyes of the international community. This is particularly because the violence had undermined Mnangagwa’s diplomatic offensive to re-engage the international community. The violence also heavily influenced the views of observer missions in respect of the credibility of the election. Mnangagwa wanted the election to “cure” the crisis of legitimacy which stood in his way since the November 2017 coup. It was therefore in the best of his interests for the election to be declared peaceful, free, and fair. But they failed the test. The argument that Mnangagwa was not sincere was primarily anchored on a critique of the composition of the Commission and its terms of reference. In terms of the former, critics argued that the Commission

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composed of some local Commissioners whose capability to be independent and impartial was questionable. For example, Charity Manyeruke (who is now Zimbabwe’s Ambassador to Rwanda) is a confessed member of ZANU-PF. She is in the party’s leadership structures and she has allegedly been involved in planning and instigating political violence. In fact, while giving his testimony before the Commission, Jim Kunaka, a former ZANU-PF youth leader who is renowned for having led a violent-mongering group called Chipangano, stated that he took some of the orders to perpetrate violence against the opposition from Charity Manyeruke. It is difficult to see how she could have been an independent and impartial Commissioner. Another Commissioner, Lovemore Madhuku, had participated in the 2018 election as a presidential candidate of the opposition National Constitutional Assembly (NCA). As a result, there was room for him to be conflicted, especially considering that he had made some remarks in respect of the election and its outcome. In terms of the Commission’s terms of reference, critics argued that there was emphasis on the need to identify the people who mobilised the protesters. This is especially considering that the killing of civilians should have been the centre of the Commission’s inquiry, particularly identifying the soldiers who shot and killed the civilians, and establishing who deployed the army and who ordered the army to shoot to kill. Critics also argued that because Mnangagwa was responsible for the deployment of the army, he was conflicted and therefore could not set up a Commission to investigate him. This was one of the main reasons why the MDC-A leadership had resolved not to participate in the Commission’s hearings. However, they eventually gave their compelling testimonies “under protest” because they wanted to honour the invitations from the Commission. The Commission conducted its work. During the hearings, the army shamelessly refused that it was responsible for the killing of civilians, despite overwhelming evidence. It invented ridiculous theories, that the opposition was responsible for the shootings. This was not surprising, given the cultures of impunity and unaccountability which characterise leadership in the Zimbabwean context. It was also not surprising that state pathologists claimed that some of the victims had wounds from stabbing and not gunshots. The Final Report of the Commission was publicised by President Mnangagwa on 18 December 2018. This was a good departure from the past, where such reports were not made public because of the fear

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of being exposed. In particular, reports by the Dumbutshena and Chihambakwe Commissions of inquiry into the Gukurahundi atrocities were never made public. The report on the 1st August shootings contains some useful findings and recommendations, but it is also conspicuously silent on crucial issues. The Commission concluded that the deployment of the army was constitutional and necessary for two reasons: the police had failed to disperse the protesters and the protests posed serious security threats. It also concluded that the protests were instigated by the opposition. It stated that: The pre-election period was peaceful but the utterances by MDC Alliance leaders at various campaign rallies and press statements to the effect that they would not accept any election result which was not in their favour made the likelihood of post-election violence possible. The Police had gathered intelligence that supporters of the MDC Alliance took the utterances by their leaders seriously and intended to demonstrate in the event that their presidential candidate lost the elections.

The finding above was not surprising, especially to those who had argued that the Commission was primarily set with a view to blame and witchhunt the opposition. It is also difficult to draw a discernible connection between the (alleged) utterances which were made by opposition leaders during campaigns and the actual protests. The Commission also revealed that the army was deployed by Mnangagwa. This was an interesting finding because after the shootings, Mnangagwa’s actions implied that he had not deployed the army. This led to speculations that Vice President Constantino Chiwenga was responsible for the deployment of the army. This view was widely held, especially considering that it was Chiwenga who deployed the army to execute the coup of November 2017. It was therefore insincere for Mnangagwa to feign ignorance as to who had deployed the army. This is especially considering that some critics (including a case which was put before the court) had argued that it was not proper for Mnangagwa to set up a Commission, given his role in the deployment of the army. Responding to the court case, judge Mangota exonerated Mnangagwa, stating that he had not deployed the army. While senior military commanders had blatantly refused that the army shot and killed the civilians, the Commission found that the army and the police were responsible for the shooting and beating of protesters. This shows that the testimonies which were given by the military commanders

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during the hearings were embarrassing, misleading, and dishonest. In democratic, accountable, and progressive political establishments, senior military commanders would not make such openly false testimonies, or they will at least resign when such falsehoods are exposed. Interestingly, the Commission also found that the deployment violated the Public Order and Security Act in that the soldiers were not placed under the command of the police regulating authority of the district of Harare. They were under military command. While this action makes the deployment illegal, the Commission was hesitant to conclude that the deployment was illegal. The Commission concluded that the use of live ammunition and physical objects against civilians was unjustified and disproportionate. It stated that “the use of live ammunition directed at people especially when they were fleeing was clearly unjustified and disproportionate” and that “the use of sjamboks, baton sticks and rifle butts to assault members of the public indiscriminately was also disproportionate”. However, despite these findings, the government did not apologise in respect of the shootings and beatings. Apart from this, the government has made no efforts to prosecute the soldiers who killed or injured civilians. For many critics, the Commission of Inquiry was a mere wastage of taxpayers’ money, especially given the lack of political will to promote accountability and to implement the recommendations of the Commission. Barely six months after the August 1st shootings, the country witnessed another wave of #shutdown protests from 14 January 2019. The protests were in response to the announcement (on 12 January 2019) by President Mnangagwa that the price of fuel had been increased. The price of diesel was increased to $3.11 per litre and $3.31 per litre for petrol. This was an increase of more than 140%. The government’s argument was that the increase would contain fuel consumption levels. This was following months of shortage of fuel. Zimbabweans were outraged, not only by the increase in fuel prices, but by the apparent failure by government to address economic challenges, to decisively deal with corruption, and to move away from toxic politics to democratic and inclusive politics. Unlike on August 1st, these protests took place in many parts of the country, especially in Harare and Bulawayo. The protests turned incredibly violent. There was extensive destruction of property which was characterised by torching of toll gates, police stations, private and public vehicles (including a ZUPCO bus and police vehicles), barricading of roads, burning of tyres, and widespread looting of retail outlets. In Bulawayo, a police

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officer was severely attacked and he later died of the injuries. The police was deployed, and in some cases, it was overwhelmed by the protesters. For the second time within 6 months, the army shot and killed civilians. While the actual number of people who were extrajudicially killed has remained unknown (largely because some witnesses and families of the deceased were afraid of speaking out), at least 17 people were killed (Zimbabwe Human Rights NGO Forum 2019). The police and the army went on a campaign of terror in which known and suspected opposition supporters were hunted down and brutalised. Scores were severely beaten, abducted, arrested, and detained without trail. The government also ordered a shutdown of the internet and all social media platforms. Reminiscent of the Gukurahundi atrocities, a myriad atrocities were committed under the cover of darkness. There were reports of soldiers raping women. Eleven women testified to a British television broadcaster, ITV that they were raped and sexually assaulted by members of the army and police. The Zimbabwe Human Rights NGO Forum (2019) received 17 cases of sexual assault, including rape; 26 reports of abductions; 81 cases of gunshot related assaults; 51 reports of destruction of property by members of the army and the police; and 586 cases of torture and assaults, including dog bites. The Zimbabwe Human Rights Commission (ZHRC), a constitutional body whose mandate is to promote, protect, and enforce human rights and fundamental freedoms, stated that the military and police used systematic torture against the opposition and civil society, including children. Days after the protests had ended, the army and the police continued to beat, harass, abduct, and torture citizens. They broke into people’s homes, mostly during the night or early in the morning, to commit these violations. Detainees were systematically refused bail. In fact, the country was under a de facto state of emergency which was characterised by suspension of human rights, the use of excessive force, de facto curfews, denial of the freedom of movement and communication, mass detentions, and systematic denial of bail. President Mnangagwa threatened the organisations which legally represented the victims of state brutality and those which offered medical assistance. He even boasted that “we crushed” our enemies.

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Social Movements and the Quest for Change Zimbabwe witnessed the emergence of a number of social movements such as #This Flag, #Tajamuka/Sesijikile, Zimbabwe Yadzoka/Mayibuye iZimbabwe, and #Thisgown. An analysis of Zimbabwe can be used to gain insights into social movements and the quest for transformation, especially in authoritarian African contexts. First, social movements in Zimbabwe offered citizens the alternative space to exercise their anti-hegemonic agency outside the confines of organised civil society and official opposition. Since the attainment of independence in 1980, the civic and political space was monopolised by these “conventional actors”. Opposition to the ruling party emanated from civil society and the opposition. From the late 1980s, civil society organisations such the Zimbabwe Congress of Trade Unions (ZCTU), the National Constitutional Assembly (NCA), and the student movement organised mass demonstrations and stay-aways which were historic in their push for political transformation. In fact, civil society became a “hotbed” of (political) dissent such that it acted as the “de facto opposition”. Like the opposition, civil society came to be regarded by government as an existential threat. It was not surprising that civic organisations provided the bedrock for the formation of the opposition MDC. When the MDC was founded in 1999, it worked closely with civil society in the elusive search for democratic change. From 2000 onwards, the atmosphere of hope and change was palpable as the agenda for transformation gained ground against what is viewed as an insurmountable authoritarian regime. However, the opposition and civil society encountered some chapters which were characterised by frustration, fatigue, lethargy, and despondence. These developments were caused by a range of factors. The chief one being the failure to deal with leadership change within these organisations. They struggled with a deep culture of entitlement which made it difficult for new individuals to take leadership positions and generate new ideas. This frustrated some aspiring leaders, particularly young ones. The frustration manifested in many ways, especially splits. With respect to MDC, the party encountered a split after the 2013 elections. Some party leaders who were frustrated by the electoral outcome began to call for leadership renewal. The pro-renewal faction accused Morgan Tsvangirai of compromising the party’s founding democratic ethos by adopting the politics of personality cult (Moore 2013). The faction believed that although the elections were rigged, the poor showing of the MDC

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was largely a result of leadership failure. It also believed that leadership renewal was the only way through which the party would restore confidence and hope. In a letter which was handed to Morgan Tsvangirai by Elton Mangoma (who was the party’s deputy treasurer general, the pro-renewal faction argued that there was a “crisis of leadership, crisis of expectations, and above all, a crisis of confidence in the party, externally and internally” and that Tsvangirai should “step aside and allow progress by the democratic forces” (The Herald, 27 January 2014). Similarly, after the 2013 elections, the civic movement also experienced a sense of disorientation and desperation such that it sought other forms of political renewal (Raftopoulos 2014). The use of a human rights narrative to contest the legitimacy of the ZANU-PF regime had been undermined (Ncube 2013, p. 122). In this context, the civic movement needed to rethink the articulation between human rights and redistribution questions (Ncube 2013). The outcome of the 2013 elections left the opposition and civil society severely weakened such that many believed that Zimbabwe was on its way back to the de facto one-party system (Chitiyo and Kibble 2014). The rupture of relations between the MDC and some civil society organisations further caused a crisis of confidence in the opposition and civil society. For example, during the 2000 constitutional referendum, the NCA and the MDC advocated for a “no” vote. This collective effort was successful. Because of the concrete alliance between the two institutions, many members of the NCA were also members of the MDC such that the former came to be “seen as an extension of the MDC” (Kagoro 2004, p. 250). However, the relations between the two ruptured as the MDC engaged in constitutional reform talks with ZANU-PF, particularly when it supported constitutional amendment No. 18 of 2007. The NCA criticised the MDC of having “abandoned” a people-driven constitutionmaking process. During the 2013 constitutional referendum, the NCA campaigned for a “no” vote while the MDC campaigned for a “yes” vote”. The NCA argued that the constitution-making process was driven by political parties which “smuggled” their positions into the constitution. It was enraged by what it regarded as the MDC’s “selling out” of the constitution-making process. It was in this context that during its 28 September 2014 congress, it decided to metamorphose into a political party. After its transition, the NCA vehemently refused to work with the MDC. Other organisations such as the ZCTU and the Zimbabwe

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National Students Union (ZINASU) boycotted the constitution-making process on the reasoning that it was not “people-driven”. They also campaigned for the rejection of the coalition authored draft constitution during the 2013 referendum. It can be argued that some of the social movements emerged partly because of the frustration and crisis of confidence in the official opposition and civil society because of the aforesaid factors. The rise of social movements also reflect the youths’ disgruntlement over exclusion in political parties and civil society. Social movements therefore offer the excluded youths an “alternative space” to express themselves and exercise their agency in respect of different aspects of the Zimbabwean society. Social movements enable citizens to pursue objectives which are hardly distinguishable from those of official opposition and civil society, but as ordinary citizens and not necessarily as disciples of political parties or members of civil society. Second, the rise of social movements presented an unfamiliar challenge to ZANU-PF. Over the years, ZANU-PF had perfected the “authoritarian art” of repressing opposition and civil society. It used formal and informal mechanisms such as draconian legislation, infiltration, violence and intimidation, cooption, “capture” of state media and other institutions, politicisation of food aid and development projects, the use of traditional leaders to “police” the rural vote, gerrymandering of constituency boundaries, and ballot staffing. However, when social movements such as #ThisFlag movement and Tajamuka emerged, the regime was not sure of how to define and deal with them. To try and make its work easy, the regime simply regarded social movements as part of “regime change agents” who are used by a “third force” to effect “illegal regime change”. The regime used some of the “tools” which it used against the opposition and civil society such as violence and intimidation. However, these “tools” have their limitations when applied to social movements. Social movements are not as structured and hierarchical as opposition parties and civil society. This makes them more capable of mobilising quickly and responding to events rapidly and radically than civil society and political parties. Most importantly, they mobilise using the social media. The regime responded by efforts to criminalise the “abuse” of social media, issuing warnings and threats, and even claims that it can see all communications which take place on social media. However, it is difficult to regulate social media without fundamentally violating human rights, including those of regime supporters. The regime has continued to struggle to deal with the “engine” of social movements. For these reasons, social

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movements represented an “unconventional enemy” of the regime. However, like opposition parties, one of the limitations of social movements is that they largely mobilise the urban population. This is largely because they rely on social media and they do not have the resources to take their campaigns to rural areas. However, social movements such as Zimbabwe Yadzoka have made some commendable efforts in implementing education and advocacy campaigns that target rural areas. The movement conducts door-to-door campaigns in rural communities to teach citizens about democracy, human rights, voting, and resisting authoritarianism. Social movements also struggle with crafting well-defined ideological orientation, making it difficult to be clear about what they represent. Third, unlike civil society and opposition parties, social movements have tended to have the capacity to mobilise people from different political parties. Traditionally, when mass protests and stay-aways are led by the opposition and/or civil society, it is opposition supporters and sympathisers who participate in these events. Because of entrenched polarisation, it is difficult for the opposition or the ruling party to mobilise people across the political divide to participate in their events. Social movements are sometimes able to do so, despite that their objectives are hardly distinguishable from those of civil society and the opposition. This is because they are largely built around issues which affect citizens regardless of their political affiliation. Their focus on cross-cutting “citizens issues” enable them to mobilise citizens, including those who had become docile due to violence, intimidation, and coercion by government. There were cases when citizens protested without being mobilised by any other actor. Such “citizens protests” were witnessed in areas such as Beit Bridge in July 2016, when the people protested against government decision to ban some imports from South Africa via statutory instrument 64. On 6 July 2016, social movements called for a mass stay-away from work under #ZimShutDown2016. Civil servants participated in the stay away such that in the health sector, government deployed the military to provide services. The shutdown was historic because for the first time in decades, citizens participated in the stay away without the leadership of political parties or civil society. Civil society, opposition parties, and the ruling party “stood on the terraces” and watched a “new phenomenon”. Social movements are a useful alternative of fighting against a well-established and deeply rooted electoral authoritarian regime.

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References African Union Election Observation Mission Report: Zimbabwe. (2013). Alexander, J., & Tendi, B. M. (2008). A Tale of Two Elections: Zimbabwe at the Polls in 2008. Concerned Africa Scholars, Bulletin No. 80. Chitiyo, K. (2009). The Case for Security Sector Reform in Zimbabwe (Occasional Paper). Royal United Services Institute. Chitiyo, N., & Kibble, S. (2014). Zimbabwe’s International Re-engagement: The Long Haul to Recovery (Chatham House Report). The Royal Institute of International Affairs. Chung, F. (2006). Re-living the Second Chimurenga: Memories from the Liberation Struggle in Zimbabwe. Sweden: The Nordic Africa Institute/Weaver Press. European Union EOM Zimbabwe Harmonised Election 2018 (Final Report). International Republican Institute and National Democratic Institute Zimbabwe International Election Observation Mission Final Report (2018, October). Kagoro, B. (2004). Constitutional Reform as Social Movement: A Critical Narrative of the Constitution-Making Debate in Zimbabwe, 1997–2000. In B. Raftopoulos & T. Savage (Eds.), Zimbabwe: Injustice and Political Reconciliation. Institute for Justice and Reconciliation: Cape Town. Levitsky, S., & Ziblatt, Z. (2018). How Democracies Die. New York: Crown. Masunungure, E. V. (2009). A Militarized Election: The 27 June Presidential Run-Off. In E. V. Masunungure (Ed.), Defying the Winds of Change: Zimbabwe’s 2008 Elections. Harare: Weaver Press. Moore, D. (2013). Zimbabwe’s Democracy in the Wake of the 2013 Election: Contemporary and Historical Perspectives. Strategic Review for Southern Africa, 35(2). Ncube, W. (1991). Constitutionalism, Democracy and Political Practice in Zimbabwe. In I. Mandaza, & L. Sachikonye (Eds.), The One-Party State and Democracy: The Zimbabwe Debate. Harare: SAPES Trust. Ncube, C. (2013). The 2013 Elections in Zimbabwe: End of Era for Human Rights Discourse? Africa Spectrum, 48(3), 99–110. Germany Institute for Global and Area Studies. Ngwenya, D., & Harris, G. H. (2015). The Consequences of Not Healing: Evidence from the Gukurahundi Violence in Zimbabwe. African Journal on Conflict Resolution, 15(2), 90–109. Raftopoulos, B. (2014). Zimbabwean Politics in the Post-2013 Election Period. Africa Spectrum, 49(2), 91–103. Ranger, T. (2004). Nationalist Historiography, Patriotic History and the History of the Nation: The Struggle Over the Past in Zimbabwe. Journal of Southern African Studies, 30(2), 215–234. Report of the Commission of Inquiry into the 1st of August 2018 Post-election Violence. (2018).

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Embodying Protest: Feminist Organizing in Kenya Felogene Anumo and Awuor Onyango

Introduction Protest, whether individual or collective, brings the public’s attention to neglected or marginalized causes, making these issues the subject of public contention and policy deliberation. On the flip side, protest may also incite backlash, leading to state-sanctioned violence, repression, surveillance or other disciplinary measures. This chapter analyses the political mobilization, organization and institutionalization of feminist social movements and activism in Kenya. It answers the questions: Who gets to protest? Who does protest leave out? How has new media reconfigured political performance? Which protests are heard and by whom? And as such, which voices are spoken for, over or silenced in the process? What lessons are drawn from different organizing strategies: overt and covert, planned or spontaneous forms of protest. The category of gender has been a central component in generating and organizing personal, cultural and political identities in Kenya since

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the pre-colonial period. Throughout Kenyan history, there are instructive examples of women and women’s movements that have repurposed the dominant social constructions that regulate the female body in line with patriarchal principles and reclaimed their voices as political citizens to shape public debate. We use the word “repurposed” as opposed to defiance to further illustrate the subversion and continued engagement with the normative protocols informing the spaces within which the female, and therefore, via proxy, the female nude body is permitted to exist and thus contribute to progress and emancipation. This chapter looks beyond the aesthetics of the femme corporeal to explore the dimensions, contestations and manifestations of centring the female body with regard to feminist activism in Kenya. Protest is herein defined as a form of individual and collective noninstitutionalized direct political action aimed at affecting cultural, political, popular practices and social processes, which therefore challenge the status quo or decisions that are seen as unfair (Della Porta and Diani 2006). We include in our definition of protest, contentious actions by individuals and collectives ranging from mild forms of action, such as petitions or boycotts, to more routinized forms, such as demonstrations, to even illegal or violent forms (Barnes and Kaase 1979). This definition of protest allows us to explore instances of the female body as the subject of protests. We draw on Habermas (1984) idea of “dramaturgical action” which is action directed, articulated to produce a political effect through a performative act. This allows us to include instances of contentious actions by individuals, a historical form of protest in Kenya that doesn’t fit within the previously mentioned routinized forms of protest. We highlight examples of the ways that politics of protests and gendered bodies are inextricably linked, with the body as the medium of protest. Following this, we interrogate the politics of “inclusivity” and the role and limitations of the internet in revolutionizing and reconfiguring these protests. Finally, we explore the disposability of female body in protest and call for a duty to care in protest, whether for female or othered people. This chapter demonstrates that centring the female body, whether covert or overt, planned or spontaneous, remains an effective strategy to make political claims, reclaim public and political spaces and denounce oppressive conditions and regimes.

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Ownership of the Femme Corporeal The consideration of the body as female and thus detrimental if not a secondary or tertiary source of progress and emancipation is counter to our aim to centre the female body in “dramaturgical action of political persuasion”. However, it provides a potent space from which one can better understand the motivations of this centring, the performance, the performative and essentially the underperformed and excluded/othered. In understanding performance as structured behaviour, we make space for both the normative protocols and resistance to them. Ketu Katrak speaks of the “politics of the female body” where the most oppressive patriarchal and political interpretations of female sexuality are located in the arena of “cultural tradition” particularly when women are expected to be the “guardians of tradition” in anti-colonial struggles (Katrak 2006, p. 157). A woman’s identity is constituted by the sociocultural perceptions that define her and how these perceptions eventually force her to conform to socially sanctioned and acceptable norms of her society. Kenyan women continue to be “subject to the continuous ‘play’ of history, culture and power” (Hall 1990, p. 225). The use of guturamira ng’unia to unseat Wang˜ u wa Makeri and Cierume and how it is been repurposed by the Release Political Prisoners movement and in sex boycotts is relevant in analysing how ideas of femme corporeal are being repurposed in a patriarchal postcolonial Kenya.

Exposing the Vagina as Dramaturgical Action Contentious action can occur within, during, as a form of or outside of protest and as we focus on some historic accounts of dramaturgical action, we explore the role of various ethnic traditions and the space they made for these actions, specifically the spaces in which the female body was systemically erased from. We explore the ways in which the cultural beliefs around exposing the vagina have been used to oppress contentious action and then repurposed to agitate for freedom. By centring the female body, these separate but connected acts of resistance, knot traditional beliefs of nudity and gender into a provocative political moment. Through the use of bodies as “weapons’ of protest, they managed to subvert their stereotypical roles of motherhood and subjugation to shape and influence the relationship between public space and gendered order.

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The colonial period in Kenya, not only saw women further marginalized from political power but this period marked erasure of women from his torical accounts. While the presence, voices and agencies of many women in the struggle for equality and freedom remain largely invisible, normative discourses elevate the political activisms of Wang˜ u wa Makeri and Cierume as the only two women appointed as “headmen” during the entire colonial period (Wanyoike 2002).

Wang˜u wa Makeri Wang˜ u wa Makeri was a powerful matriarch who ruled the Agikuyu community. Wang˜ u wa Makeri was appointed by the British authorities, after recommendation by a male Chief, Karuri wa Gakure. She was alleged to have ruled with a lot of brutality especially towards men with this narrative shrouded in a lot of myths including that during meetings, she sat on men’s backs and not chairs (Wanyoike 1995). Consequently, her leadership journey was punctuated with numerous threats to unseat her of the position so as to maintain male hegemony and power. This included the plotting of a coup d’etat by men who strategized to impregnate all the members of the women’s council simultaneously thereby “physically” weakening them at both family and governance level (Wanyoike 1995). Eventually, Wang˜ u was ousted when she would one day join a maleu who had already only dance “Kibaata”.1 In an act of protest, Wang˜ demonstrated that women could lead and was carrying out assumed masculine roles in the community was lured to the dancing and joined Chief Karuri on the dance floor. It is alleged that this was possibly a conspiracy to trick Wang˜ u to join Karuri in the dance so that she would be condemned by the community and deposed, which she fell for by intoning: Kinya o uguo MuruwaGakure Kinya o uguo

Go on Dancing that way Son of Gakure Go on Dancing that way. (Wanyoike 1995, p. 46)

This act of joining the dance and subsequent rise of her skirt constituted cultural abomination. Wang˜ u was forced to resign (Oduol 1993). It’s 1 The dance, which had both political and military significance, was used to assemble community members and thereby a platform to share significant political and socioeconomic messages (Ndungo 2006).

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important to note that the “rise of her skirt” suggests a possible exposing of her vagina, which was considered a curse. In this instance, Wang˜ u joined the dance floor with the aim of shifting the cultural practices that erased female bodies from spaces of power. It was these very practices, rooted in the abomination that was exposing the vagina that led to her unseating. It is also important to note the involvement of the vagina in the deployed strategy of impregnating all members of the women’s council.

Cierume Cierume was a leader from the Embu community, who was revered for her perseverance and bravery. Cierume used a stick meant for performing traditional dances, rather than sword or bow and arrows, to fight alongside men during the war. When the colonizers arrived, they made Cierume “headman” (Wanyoike 2002). In this new “formal” leadership role, she continued to face repression from men of the community. Eventually, they tricked her that the District Commissioner (DC) in Embu had ordered them to go to his office naked. Cierume did not accept to attend the said meeting. As there was no such thing as “naked meeting”, the men took advantage of her absence in the meeting to talk ill of her and to have the DC unseat her (Chesaina 1997). In this instance, Cierume is aware of the implications of her nudity in that space of power. Her decision to boycott the meeting allows the men to unseat her, while speculation suggests that if she had gone for the meeting naked then the curse would have been invoked and she would face the same fate as Wang˜ u wa Makeri.

Mary Muthoni Nyanjiru In popular recorded history, women’s roles were constructed as complementary in the pre-colonial period (Kameri-Mbote and Kiai 1993). During this period, women did majority of the care work while men took lead of religious, economic and political decisions. This was espoused to be the case across the country except among three communities—Kikuyu, Ameru and Akamba—where women were organized in women’s councils (Presley 1992). However, in these cases, the role of the councils was limited to women’s affairs only.2 They were also governance structures that 2 For example, among the Kikuyu, these women councils were responsible for specific ceremonies and rituals including healing rituals, birthing ceremonies and female circumcision (Presley 1992).

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“checked” women’s behaviour and often came together to discuss concerns and challenges and stipulate way forward on matters pertaining to family, agriculture and rituals (Furedi 1973). Harry Thuku was arrested in March 1922 for his political agitation and protest against the forced of labour of women and children (Rosberg and Nottingham 1966). Upon learning of his arrest, the Kikuyu women were provoked to join the resistance action. The women agitated for the release of freedom fighter Harry Thuku, who often aligned and rallied alongside the women’s struggles, and several other political and labour union leaders by the colonial administration. About 200 women joined and eventually led the gathering of approximately 8000 protesters to the present-day Central Police Station in Nairobi to free Thuku. As negotiations wore on and frustrations rose, Mary Muthoni Nyanjiru resorted to a Kikuyu curse (guturamira gunia), lifting her dress over her head and shouting “you take my dress and give me your trouser. You men are cowards. What are you waiting for? Our leader is in there. Let’s get him” (Ibid., pp. 51–52). This revolutionary act of putting her body on the line revitalized the crowd who now followed her surging forward, demanding and agitating for the release of Thuku et al. Upon seeing their resolve, the British police as well as British settlers panicked and opened fire on the crowd. Muthoni Nyanjiru was among the first to die (Wipper 1982). Nyanjiru’s act of resistance triggered action that permeated to the Mau Mau revolution and eventual Independence of Kenya (Kanogo 1987). Underlying the often told and carefully recounted cultural knowledge of Mary Nanjiru, Wang˜ u wa Makeri and Cierume reveal and underscore the relationship between female bodies, power and public space. The scorn, outrage and aggression directed at the women were intended to discipline them at the site they had chosen to express their resistance and protest (Bordo 1993). In her essay “Silence is A Woman”, Mwangi argues that both cultural narratives utilize the overt form of storytelling to perpetuate male domination and subtly threaten and block any thoughts harboured by women to ascend to power: In her words, “It inscribes the collective memory of matriarchal rule with the mark of illegitimacy and perversion” (Mwangi 2013). These revolutionary acts of protest would be evoked 70 years later by a group of elderly Mothers of political Prisoners including political activist, environmentalist and Nobel Peace Laureate Wangari Maathai.

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Release Political Prisoners In February 1992, sixteen3 elderly Mothers of the Release Political Prisoners movement organized a hunger strike as they demanded for the release of their children, 52 political prisoners who had been charged on the basis of political crimes at the height of crackdown on political dissent in Kenya (Maathai 2006). They employed various political performances to this end including a hunger strike and carrying out peaceful sit-ins (Nasong’o and Ayot 2007). On the fifth day into the hunger strike, they were attacked by the Kenya police. Tear gas canisters lobbed at them, gunfire shots rent the air and the elderly women, mostly between the ages of 60 and 70 years old, were savagely beaten (Warah 2011). In the same way that Nyanjiru’s nakedness galvanized the crowds into riot, Ruth Wangari Wakaba wa Thungu’s stripped, resulting in, an albeit forced detente with state violence that saved the lives of many that day. Three of the protesting mothers stripped their clothing, shook their breasts, and shouted, “What kind of government is this that beats women! Kill us! Kill us now! We shall die with our children!”4 Another similarity between Nyanjiru and Wakaba is that they were both “Mau Mau Women”.5 Upon seeing the women’s nakedness, the police retreated and left the scene. Wakaba notes that the (four) policemen who didn’t turn away were Kalenjin and therefore didn’t necessarily understand the curse implied by her nudity. The brutal repression and state-sanctioned violence sponsored against the mothers and their supporters made the news headlines, sparking further protests all over Nairobi. Citizens joined the mothers in the protests and often demonstrators had to be dispersed by riot police (Woman 1996). Release Political Prisoners continued to 3 Monica Wang˜ u wa Wamwere, Milka Wanjiru Kinuthia, Gladys Thiitu Kariuki, Priscilla Mwara Kimani, Josephine Nyawira Ngengi, Rosemary Nyambura, Nancy Njeri Muchima, Margaret Wanjiru Kariuki, Leah Wanjiru Mungai, Veronicah Wambui Nduthu, Ruth Wangari Wakaba wa Thungu, Wahu Kaara, Wangari Maathai, Njeri Kabeberi, Nyambura Kariuki, Nduta wa Koigi. 4 Global Nonviolent Action Database: Kenyan mothers win release of political prisoners and press for democratic reform, 1992–1993, http://nvdatabase.swarthmore. edu/content/kenyan-mothers-win-release-political-prisoners-and-press-democratic-reform1992-1993 (retrieved 29th November 2016). 5 Many of the mothers were Mau Mau women in the 1950s. They had been involved in the armed uprising against British imperialists and their African collaborators, or home guards. Brownhill S. Leigh and Turner E. Terisa. Subsistence Trade Versus World Trade: Gendered Class Struggle in Kenya, 1992–2002. Volumes 21/22, Numbers 411.

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raise the profiles on the circumstances surrounding the arrest of their children and continually attended court hearings. On June 24, 1992, the first four of the political prisoners were released. The act of making their bodies a political vehicle, the Mothers of Political Prisoners, invalidated and challenged gender and social categories.

Guturamira Ng ’unia Wangari Maathai explains the curse as by “exposing their bodies, and more particularly their vaginas, the women were showing disgust and contempt for sons who had the nerve to come and beat their own mothers”. In Kikuyu tradition, they were cursing the men, saying, “I have no respect for you. I wish I had never given birth to you” (Zwartz 23rd May 1992). The significance of naked protest and genital cursing continues to remain significant in history and has worked in different times and places. During the Liberian civil war, Nobel Peace Laureate, Leymah Gbowee threatened to strip naked in attempt to foster a conversation between the warring parties into peace deal agreement (Gbowee 2013). Similarly, in 2002, female activists in the Niger Delta used nudity to protest the pollution and devastation of the environment as a result of actions of oil companies (Ihayere et al. 2014). For more than week, the women held hostage 700 workers and successfully blocked production of half a million barrels of oil a day. In 2015, women in Amuru a district in northern part of Uganda staged a naked protest against a decision by the Ministry of Lands to delineate the border of two districts which they feared would result in their mass evictions. The exercise was later abandoned through a directive by the ministers (Tamale 2016).

Sex Boycotts In January 2008, Kenyans began the year on the brink with the harsh reality of a post-election violence that left over 1000 people dead and more than 350,000 displaced (Waki 2008). The violence followed a contested Presidential election in December 2007 by leading candidates MwaiKibaki of the Party of National Unity (PNU) and Raila Odinga of the Orange Democratic Movement (ODM). They both run under various platforms with the former pledging an increase in economic growth under his tenure while the latter promising constitutional reform and more effective anti-corruption austerity measures. However, on the campaign trail, both

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candidates in both overt and covert means invoked ethnicity and the fear of ethnic hegemony or transposition to fortify their support base (Chege 2008). Pre-election polls showed a country almost evenly divided and a contest too close to call (Abdi and Deane 2008). The post-election violence that followed the 2007 elections marked the enduring tensions and challenges that Kenya faces in relation to the fragility of its democratic trajectory. The violence following the December 2007 election was not the first of its kind—the 1992 and 1997 elections saw a similar level of death and displacement (Waki 2008). A Human Rights Watch report6 advances that while other forms of abuses such as destruction of property, displacement and lives of lives became the hallmark of Kenya’s conflict during this period, widespread gender-based sexual violence was less visible but just as devastating with estimates that at least 900 cases of sexual violence occurred with a majority of cases were on women and girls with perpetrators including and members of Kenya’s security forces (HRW 2017a). Where police brutality and repression had been used overtly to evacuate women from the politico-public sphere and send them back to their traditionally gendered duties, public backlash covertly reinforced the very same. In April 2009, ten7 Kenyan women organizations under the banner G10, led Kenyan women into a seven-day sex boycott calling for dialogues to end continuous wrangles between the then-co-principals, President Mwai Kibaki and Prime Minister Raila Odinga (Pambazuka News 2009). The call came approximately eighteen months after the country was plunged into post-election violence due to disputed December 2007 General elections. The boycott was supported by Prime Minister’s wife, Ida Odinga and the coalition offered to compensate sex workers who joined in the strike. The sex boycott attempted to not only redefine the

6 The report documents patterns of police using excessive force against protestors, militia groups and humanitarian workers as the main perpetrators of the violence (HRW 2017a). 7 The G10 coalition steered by Coalition of Violence Against Women (COVAW), CAUCUS for Women Political Leadership (CAUCUS), Centre for Rights, Education and Awareness (CREAW), Federation of Women Lawyers Kenya (FIDA-K), Tomorrow’s Child Initiative (TCI), Women in Law and Development (WILDAF), African Women and Child Features (AWC), Development Through Media (DTM), Young Women Leadership Institute (YWLI), Maendeleo Ya Wanawake and the National Council of Women in Kenya (NCWK) were driven by “vision of a society where women wield political power”, and their mission was to “connect women’s voices and action to leverage an expanded and redefined political space” (Pambazuka News 2009).

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public space of Kenyan democracy and by doing so they were successful in disrupting the dominant narrative that political spaces are ostensibly gender neutral or masculine. When protest is expressed through the body, especially the female body, it is more difficult to tolerate because it challenges the existing order (Young 1990). The resistance to boycott was indicative of women’s subjugation, where men were reaffirming women’s subordination to the nation and were laying claim to possession of the female body. Though successful in its objectives, the sex boycott elicited backlash in equal measure, revealing the link between the female body, identities and the state in post-colonial Kenya.

Protests and Student Riots It is during this moment that Felogene was thrust into student politics and elected twice, first as Treasurer then Chairperson, to represent women students’ fraternity at the University of Nairobi8 under the banner Women Students’ Welfare Association (WOSWA).9 Traditionally, the student movement in Kenya has influenced and continues to shape the political landscape.10 The University of Nairobi student leadership has grown to assert its position as the mouthpiece of other university student bodies across the country attributed to the strategic location of its mother varsity popularly known as main campus within Nairobi Central Business District (CBD), its valiant leaders and the unrivalled democratic space it enjoys.11 8 Kenya’s oldest university established in the year 1956 as the Royal Technical College in Nairobi and arguably “the premier institution of higher learning in the country” (Magoha 2008). 9 There are over 140 registered associations and clubs at the University of Nairobi registered under the Dean of Students’ office. Among these, the Women Students Welfare Association (WOSWA) which has been in existence since the 1980s is the only body representing women students and supposed to cater for their welfare across the six colleges. Similarly, the Student Organisation of Nairobi University (SONU) established in 1982 with representation across the six colleges, continues to influence and determine policy formulation and implementation (UoN 2005). Together, SONU and WOSWA are the central bodies representing University of Nairobi students and the student. 10 The primary function of student governments is to represent and mediate students’ interests in the university’s governance. Student associations frequently initiate and organize student protests which are politically potent and cannot be easily overlooked by national governments (Mulinge and Arasa 2017). 11 It is currently comprised of six colleges: the College of Agriculture & Veterinary Sciences (CAVS), the College of Architecture & Engineering (CAE), the College of

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Students’ participation in institutional governance often adopts both formal and informal mechanisms ranging from student governments such as student unions, councils and associations, in the former and a range of protest forms from cooperative-informative to militant in the latter (Luescher 2005). Student leaders sit on formal university structures such as Senate, Council and other institutional forums (Hames et al. 2005). According to the previous vice-chancellor and current Cabinet Secretary at the Ministry of Education, Professor Magoha, the university leadership recognizes student representation and continuously strives to include student leadership in the governance structures (Mulinge and Arasa 2017). Usually, university management will respond to student unrests by calling the police to intervene, an action that can easily lead to incidences of sexual- and gender-based violence and loss of student lives (Mulinge and Arasa 2017). The quest for student representation in Africa dates back to the 1920s, where early African student movements in Europe main focus was to improve sociocultural welfare conditions rather than pursuing political objectives. This ranged from agitating for better student conditions such as improved accommodation and acquisition of hostels to a push for the education of Europeans in African heritage (Luescher et al. 2016) By 1952, the first significant student protest in Africa took place at Makerere College, and this was a protest against the quality of food (Byaruhanga 2006). Following this, the students would later engage in politically motivated and ideologically inspired protests focusing on the struggle for independence in Africa and pan-African struggles across the continent in the 1960s (Luescher et al. 2016). For example, the Student Union of Nairobi University (SONU) would at this time agitate for the Africanization of the system of education and a decolonized curriculum (Munene 2003). The character of student representation took a dramatic shift from the 1970s following the founding of the University of Nairobi in 1970. (Luescher et al. 2016) While the 1970s and 1980s in Africa were characterized as an era of increased authoritarianism and disintegration of national coalitions (Nyong’o 1989), universities were the incubators of critical thought that often took up the role of opposition that often led to numerous protests

Biological & Physical Sciences (CBPS), the College of Health Sciences (CHS), the College of Education & External Studies (CEES) and the College of Humanities and Social Sciences (CHSS) (Kiiru and Luescher 2011).

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as a result of confrontations by students and academic staff (Mamdani 2008). In post-colonial Kenya, both the governments of founding President of Kenya Jomo Kenyatta and the following President Daniel Arap Moi were marked by dictatorship, censorship and suppression, universities through both academic staff and student movements became the voices of dissent (Mulinge and Arasa 2017). While in the 1960s and 1970s, student movements were portrayed as the “vanguard of the revolution” what emerged in the 1980s narrowed their focus to welfare issues (Luescher et al. 2016). It is also during this period that the ruling party at the time in Kenya, KANU, sought to establish its party branches and district associations in universities across the country resulting in persecution of students and student leaders who refused to comply by this “state-crafted student leadership architecture” (Luescher et al. 2016). This period saw an increase in the privatization of university education as well increase in loan allowances (Chege 2009). By 1987, the Student Organisation of Nairobi University was banned and with a new vacuum in students’ leadership. The government through the university management took the opportunity to promote newly founded ethnic associations (Kiai 1992). The introduction and existence of ethnic-based associations curtail student’s capacity to forge a united front as a strong umbrella organization that could provide visionary leadership for both students and citizen (Nduko 2000). It therefore followed that what was at play in the national stage inevitably had its effects on the various student bodies in the country. The 2010 student elections at the University of Nairobi were characterized by fracas and violence that had never been witnessed before. These elections were purported to be a replica of the 2007 National Presidential elections that birthed the post-election violence in the country (Luescher et al. 2016). This was later confirmed in a report by Kenyan parliamentary committee that reviewed cases of university riots in 2010 and confirmed that was happening mirrored the country’s political trends of political divisions based on ethnic differences which threatened the stability of the universities (Luescher et al. 2016). Being a student leader during this period, made Felogene fully aware of what it means for a female body to navigate movement politics, public protest and other disruptive fields of activism. It was a violent experience marked with complex gendered experiences that tended to position men and women students differently. The constructed roles during

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pre-colonial Kenya as experienced Muthoni Nyanjiru, informed and influenced by patriarchal norms, were prevalent in the institutional culture at the university. Institutional culture refers to a set of formal rules and procedures, practices and structures operation within an establishment which inform an institution’s accepted way of doing things (Onokala and Onah 1998). The way institutional power is distributed and organized is fundamental in understanding the unevenness of the playing field. The construction of heterosexuality has been “normalised” and masculinity often undermines women’s capacity to engage in decision making (Pereira 2007). WOSWA was formed in recognition of the institutional culture which often silenced women’s voices.12 This compartmentalization of “women’s issues” at an institutional level was also seen in the mixed gendered SONU. There was an unspoken consensus on the allocation of positions within the Executive Committee, where it was expected that women would run for positions such as the rather “house-wifery” electoral positions of Organising Secretary, Gender Secretary and Secretary for Health, Accommodation and Catering. The very nature of SONU organizing, the more “powerful” positions of Chairperson and Secretary General became unofficial male seats. Over time, SONU has become monopolized by male members and thus a reluctance to challenge the status quo. Caroline Othim among the few women who contested for the position of Treasurer in the April 2010 SONU election remarks, “Being a woman is a challenge because many men believe leadership is their preserve. One has to be strong and determined to rise above stereotypes and other obstacles” (The Standard Newspaper 2010). Student organizing mirrored the traditional gendered division of labour which were evident in the behind-the-scenes theoretical deliberations to the more visible frontlines of protest, structural and systemic-gendered inequality therein. For WOSWA, the dominant patriarchal institutional culture meant that political performances were expected to be based on reinforcing and in most cases contradictory body politics. On the one hand, protests where the female body was the subject matter, for example, violence against women/girls (VAW/G), sexual and reproductive health and rights, were

12 The University of Nairobi website describes WOSWA as an organization that was “…established out of the realization that female students at the University were marginalized and had special problems that needed special attention. While being represented within the students’ union they sometimes require special attention the like of which can only be addressed within a forum dealing with them specifically” (emphasis added).

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often expected to be led by the WOSWA. Recall, WOSWA was the body of student leaders expected to work on special problems that needed special attention. On the other hand, WOSWA was constantly negotiating for political space within the public sphere whose dominant social construction aims to regulate the female body in line with patriarchal principles. There was resistance and often it was met with repression, highhandedness and in some cases state-sanctioned violence, usurping power and their voices often relegated to the sidelines. Reinforcing the idea that a woman in public political life contravened her proper space within the realm of domesticity.

Protests and the State State terror is an ancient strategy implored by regimes that are paranoid about any dissenting voice or views. Kenya has a litany of unresolved murders of people who stood for something and threatened the status quo. Amnesty International ranked Kenya top in Africa in cases of police shootings and killing of civilians.13 In late 2017, there were several protests due to a highly contested Presidential elections in Kenya between two leading candidates incumbent President Uhuru Kenyatta and leading Opposition leader Raila Amolo Odinga. The August 8, 2017 elections were declared null and void by Kenya’s Supreme court, a decision that has made history with Kenya being the first African country to overturn Presidential election results (Ombuor 2017). This period was also marked with police brutality and bloodshed.14 “The brutal crackdown on protesters and residents in the Western counties [of Kenya], part of a pattern of violence and repression in opposition strongholds, undermined the national elections” (HRW 2017b). On August 11 and 12, 2017, according to victims of police beatings and witnesses to the events, police conducted house-to-house operations in the town of Kisumu, using lethal fire against unarmed protesters, violently storming into homes at night, looking for and beating mainly men, extorting money, stealing electronic goods, and in some cases raping women. In Siaya County, police dispersed crowds 13 The report indicates that by October 2016, a total of 122 extrajudicial killings had been reported in Kenya, out of 177 cases in Africa (Amnesty International 2017). 14 In a press statement on August 12, 2017, the Kenya National Commission on Human Rights reported 37 people “felled by bullets during protests” and 126 injured during protest after the announcement of the presidential elections (KNCHR 2017).

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of protesters at market centres along Kisumu’s Busia Road and pursued them into villages, throwing teargas into homes and beating residents (HRW 2017b). Six-month-old Samantha Pendo was a victim. Eyewitnesses told researchers that on August 11, police violently attacked her family, kicking, slapping and beating with gun butts and batons everyone in the house, including the baby. A nurse at Aga Khan Hospital said that the baby had a fractured skull and was in critical condition. The baby died in the hospital on August 16. Where live bullets and the full force of the state are used to quash protests, it’s imperative to consider the state of care for the protesting body and the body peripheral to the protest. When protesters are deemed disposable bodies, they have to be prepared for bodily harm or even death. The Kenyan constitution categorically states that every single Kenyan has a right to life and absolutely no one has the power to take that life away. What the constitution doesn’t say is that this right to life is directly dependent on your social status, affluence, last name and political affiliation. In Kenya, as in South Africa and other places, protesters are often misrepresented in mainstream media as hooligans and do not have the support of the slightly inconvenienced public. A brief look at the media representation of protesters where Black bodies are involved, including the Black Lives Matter Movement (USA), the Fallist movements (South Africa) and the National Resistance Movement (Kenya) highlights a tendency by the media to misrepresent protesters as angry, unreasonable, hooligans, “marauding barbarians”, for example, that need to be put under harsh state-control. A Kenyan media station posed the question “Should Live Bullets be used in anti-government protests?” without a modicum of consideration for whom the live bullets would be used against. Due to the backlash from the public, the media station pulled down the poll and associated contents. In Nairobi and most parts of Kenya, economic rights are upheld over the human rights of protesters. The police, whose only legal mandate is to accompany and protect protesters, often turn on them with teargas, batons, boot kicks and live bullets. In 2016, Charles Owino, the then police spokesman said “It does not matter the level of agitation, but if you threaten the life of any police officer then you have yourself to blame” (The Star 2016). Protest is considered the work of the disposable poor and bodily harm as well as psychological harm is expected of protest work. It becomes imperative to consider the female body in these protests, to centre the performance and expectations of femininity, not just in protests

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formed, run and for the female body but also in that which the female body appears. The illusion that protests are full of male bodies is one that contributes to the erasure of the female as critical contributors to reform. Since corporeality is already considered female and regressive, consciousness male and progressive, the words female and body come to mean the same thing, rendering protesting female bodies in detriment where history is concerned. In the words of Simamkele Dlakavu and Pumla Gqola, What is not often detailed is how Black women have actively contributed and in most instances, carried movements fighting for Black justice and an end to racialized inequality. We don’t highlight their physical and intellectual labour; this erasure furthers the perception that Black women are always the ones complaining and dividing Black liberatory movement spaces instead of building them (Chinguno et al. 2017)

Protest in the Age of Internet Due to the misrepresentation or rather allegiance of traditional media to state power, social media has been considered by many the only reliable news source as far as death tolls during protests are concerned. Usergenerated content on social media is increasingly appreciated as a democratizing force in the way information is produced, distributed and consumed, thus an important site for political organising. In Kenya, social media has been key in directing traditional media towards stories worth highlighting as well as in signalling bodies traditionally erased from protests. The case of “stone throwing bae”, a woman who was photographed wearing a grey t-shirt and black knee length pants throwing a stone at anti-riot police as a crowd of men watched is a fitting example. The photograph went viral under the hashtags #StoneBae and #StoneThrowingBae. As Simamkele states, historically, Black women’s political agency and efforts were easily erased in public memory. (Chinguno et al. 2017) The picture, posted on 2017 on Facebook by Victor Nakhisa, was originally captioned “Woman’s Stamina…Throwing stones can be a good fitness exercise. Kisumu city”. Later captions and comments ranged from “what men can do women can do better” to “give me this one please” to “run for your dear life if you meet her”. The image drew mixed reactions, with most confirming Simamkele Dlakavu’s view that: “because patriarchy pretends that Black women do not constitute spaces, that they are not building structures nor providing logistical

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leadership that carries movements” (Chinguno et al. 2017). The idea, let alone image, of a female throwing stones at anti-riot police threatened this position of the patriarchy. Michelle Wallace states that “It comes automatically to nationalist struggles to devalue the contribution of women as well as gays or anybody else who doesn’t fit the profile of the noble warrior or the elder statesman” (Wallace 1990). The picture of Ruth Wangari wa Thungu, the woman who stripped naked to perform the guturamira curse on the police in the 1992 hunger strike and protest, is also considered iconic in the history of female protest in Kenya. (Brownhill and Turner 2004) However, she remained unnamed and unlauded to this day for her work in that protest, as did the other protest organizers, just as #StoneBae remains unnamed. Women participating in protest are usually erased or viewed under the patriarchal lens as “light labour” or of little contribution to the protest itself. Despite the photograph as evidence of #Stonebae’s participation in the protest, most of the commentary is geared towards the devaluation of this participation. The original caption itself, likening hard protest work to a fitness regime, nods towards the patriarchal and sexist erasure of women in protest sites. Whereas the image went viral, the mechanisms behind it going viral and the commentary remained linked to the patriarchal lenses that rejects nonmale bodies as critical participants in protest movements. In 2014 when a video of a women being stripped by matatu touts went viral, almost instantaneously, Kenyan women took to the streets to march against the sexual harassment and violent attacks on women for being “inappropriately dressed”. Offline action was reinforced by online efforts through the hashtag #MyDressMyChoice. Soon the hashtag generated global outcry and backlash in equal measure. A group of anti-protesting men came up with a hashtag #NudityIsNotMyChoice. #MyDressMyChoice was a spectacular homage to gutaramira ngania.

The Disposable Female Body Patriarchal norms make protest spaces very unfriendly particularly where non-male bodies are concerned. This is despite a shared cause and experience of indiscriminate use of violence by the state. It becomes important to distinguish between women-led/feminist protests which disrupt patriarchal thinking around female bodies and protests in which women attend and lend their bodies and voices to despite the likelihood that these women will be erased and their contributions devalued. An example of

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women in organization, mobilization and administration of protest movements such as Faith Mutembei of National Resistance Movement (NRM) and Angela Davis of the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) to student movements such as in SONU and WOSWA highlight a further binary in which it seems there is little space in history for women outside of the “woman by a strong man’s side” and “superwoman” divide. It has been argued that the 16 women of the 1992 freedom corner protest were harder to recall than Wangari Maathai because there is no space in public history for more than one woman at a time (if any at all). Yet even this “superwoman” has her work devalued as was the case with Wangari Maathai and the Kenya government until she won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2004. Female organisers within protest movements face backlash. This backlash is in part due to barriers such as: time, geographical distance, education, language and communication technology which produces cyberviolence. Some of the most common forms of cyberviolence include threats to life, cyber stalking, sexual harassment and blackmailing women by sharing intimate photos. Moreover, ICTs remain powerful tools to monitor and restrict the legitimate activities of protesting bodies. As the uptake of new media for political mobilization increases, so does the Kenyan government’s increased efforts to tighten its grip, control and restrict organising. The State is increasing the utilization of cybertechnology to silence dissent and curtail freedoms. With social media, female protest organizers are subject to cyberbullying and threats that can be taxing on them. A glance at Faith Mutembei’s Facebook profile documents comments calling her a traitor as well as a lost child that God cannot save among more colourful terms. Awuor posed the question in a public forum inquiring what form of care protesters and protest organizers were afforded, by the state and protest organizers themselves. Most if not all laws regarding protests are about quashing protests, not protecting protesters. They are instructions and bylaws on how protests can or should be conducted as opposed to a statement on the rights of the protesters. Most media representation of protest is centred around fear of disrupting the economic rights of those who are not protesting. President Uhuru Kenyatta once announced that the opposition leader “should take responsibility for the damage being caused to the economy through his actions”, once again prioritizing economic rights over human rights (President.go.ke 2020). During the Fallist movement, President Zuma reminded the students that defacing a statue was a crime, paying

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little regard to what that meant (SABC Digital News 2015). Most opinion editorials around the issue were about losing the academic year and wasting the scholarship money/fees. A dominant narrative in Kenya is that protesters are hooligans, vandals and miscreants therefore deserving of State brutality and extrajudicial killings. It’s important to note that this has been the historical position taken by state powers, especially when we talk about women-led protests. Muthoni Nyanjiru died Wangari Maathai met with violence and until recently it was impossible to name all 16 protest leaders of the “freedom corner” protest movement in 1992 because of fear of retaliation from the state. We state all this to show that black female bodies are not under any special consideration where protest is involved. The state, especially in Kenya, unleashes its full force on all protesters regardless of their gender identity. It is therefore impossible to consider the female body in protest as occupying a space less-involved than the male. It is impossible to claim that the male body is centred as the recipient of harm during protest whereas the female is less likely to meet state-sponsored violence. In consideration of the 1992 Freedom Corner protests, the women were silenced by government retaliation and threats. Their family members were often picked up by the police, some raped using bottles, others brutalized in different ways. The work of protest in Kenya not only endangers the protester but also their family. It further endangers those peripheral to the protest itself, as is the case in Western Kenya, with baby Pendo being brutally murdered by state forces.

Care and Protesting Bodies Questions remain about the level of care that is present or needed in organizing, mobilizing and documenting protests. Despite negative press coverage for the Fallist movement in South Africa, there was advice given by an elderly mother regarding protest practice. Some of this advice, about getting to higher ground because chlorine gas sinks, form a system of care and exchange of wisdom between former protesters to current protesters. It served to prepare the protesters, at least skill-wise and mentally, for the

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labour that is protest work.15 Questions around whether there was preparation or after-care post-protest were met with disbelief. The protester isn’t human, doesn’t exist outside of the protest and therefore should count themselves lucky to come out of the protest alive. To question whether there can be any consideration for the humanity of the protester, especially the female protester who is disrupting the system along with people who still exercise patriarchal thinking against her contributions, seems untoward in a space where a protester isn’t considered human. To ask that there be care, from the state, the police, the protest organizers and amongst protestors, seems an implausible task. At the moment, there is no space in the Kenyan imaginary to view care as central to protest work. There is equally limited space in the global imaginary for care directed at the female, othered, black body.16 Whereas there seems to be an unspoken understanding within Nairobi protest organizers that self-care is integral and, that one can and should only volunteer their body and voice to the form or protest and extent to which they are comfortable or capable, the mandate to care for bodies engaged in street protests is still lacking. Inquiries as to what kind of preparation or post-protest care was available to protesters are met with shock. In the same breath, it is expected that Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) and Rights Watch groups would care for or at least document the plight of those who were injured, raped, otherwise traumatized or died. The kind of emotional labour expected of the female body within protest organizing, protest sites and after protest whether they or their dependents are injured or killed, for example, is wholly unaccounted for both through legal recourse and to some extent within organizing itself. Where is the space for the physical and emotional trauma to be addressed after the protest march? Where is the space for the aggrieved female body to rest? In what ways are protesters guarded from or prepared for victimization, unlawful arrest and other forms of harm?

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Conclusion

How do you conclude a book with contributions that offer diverse accounts of very different contexts? The objective of this book was not to offer a set of policy propositions and my intention is not to summarise the conceptual pathways that each chapter may have opened up for a reader. However, a conclusion needed to be written so I have approached this task by identifying set of key themes explored by different chapters. Rather than treat each chapter in an isolated fashion, I draw out lessons based on what I consider shared analytical strands. These lessons are designed to speak to anyone interested in considering why gender disappears in discourses on youth-hood, protests and change or anyone who thinks about direct action as a critical tool for dissent. In doing so, let me return to a moment that captures my approach to drawing out conclusions. In the summer of 2017, I travelled to Atlanta, Georgia where I visited the National Centre for Civil and Human Rights. In this well curated museum, visitors were taken through a visceral journey of the civil rights movement in the USA and the Jim Crow laws that shaped the resistance. One of the most well-known protest actions other than the bus boycotts were sit ins to protest segregated lunch counters in restaurants. In the museum, you listened to the preparation that protestors were given before embarking on the sit in. It was mental and physical preparation. Protestors were required to be mentally prepared for the racist abuse that would come their way and the physical harm that © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4

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you were likely to face. In the museum, there was a lunch counter that simulated the experiences that those who signed up for the sit-ins had to go through. It was an invitation to step into the shoes of the brave civil rights activists. I sat down and followed the instructions before me. I put the headphones on, placed my hands on the counter, and closed my eyes. I was not prepared for what would follow because I felt every breath and every kick to the chair. It felt as though it was happening in real time. I did not last five seconds on the chair. It was all too much. I eventually returned to the counter simulation forty minutes later if only to prove to myself that I was strong enough to withstand the experience. It was not easier the second time around but I stuck it out. After that visit the tradition of organising that contemporary movements such as BlackLivesMatter became clearer to me. I understood why BlackLivesMatter had developed Healing Justice Healing Action and Conflict Resolution toolkits (n.d.). The Healing in Action toolkit centres an awareness of the self in relation to the collective and the demands that come with direct action. Both of these resources go into some fair detail about how roles are assigned, to the importance of food and hydration, to managing conflicts within the group and how those can harm action and the community resources to support protestors when they are arrested. I return to this experience and memory because it speaks directly to a theme raised in four chapters in this book and this is the notion of preparation, safety and care for protestors. In Malebye’s chapter on South Africa, they raise the question of safety and care through an exploration of invisible labour and the militarised violence that protestors encountered as part of the FeesMustFall protests. The non-violent nude resistance by feminist dissenters as well as the insistence on acknowledging invisible labour was a conversation about whether movements account for the mental, physical and emotional costs that come with protesting. This is an issue that is also picked up by Felogene and Awuor in their chapter on Kenya. Granted a distinction needs to be made between large-scale protests that have different centres of organisational power and groupcentred protests such as FeesMustFall where there are centralised sites of information dissemination and organisation. The key lesson articulated in both these chapters is not a question of better protest organisation but the fundamental silence about who protestors are and how the harms that are experienced on a physical and mental level are always shaped by gender, race and class. These chapters require us to think about the importance of factoring in a strategy for healing and support within political mobilisation

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processes. The underlying argument is that patriarchal logics often shape political mobilisation even where it is designed to achieve social transformation. The absence of collective care as a strategy for political organising and an inattentiveness to the legacies of structural exclusion on women and non-binary people is a direct result of the patriarchal underpinnings of protest movements. The emphasis on collective care is based on a longstanding feminist position that positions the gendered body as a political site (see Enloe 1990; Kandiyoti 1991; Yuval Davis 1997). By acknowledging the body as a political site means recognising that different regimes deposit their patriarchal anxieties on it and this often happens through material and discursive debates on respectability, morality, nature and societal order. Social justice movements reproduce these patriarchal anxieties, which makes the insistence by feminists on care as an important part of organising a radical act that disrupts patriarchy. A second important lesson that is picked up Zoneziwoh, Nugdallah, Saad and Abed in their respective chapters on Cameroon and Egypt is the tactical use of physical and other forms of sexual violence to remove women from spaces of resistance. The terms on which this exclusion occurs is based on an old patriarchal tactic of mobilising violence to both reproduce gender identity—by this I mean using violence to clarify the roles that a society decides women and men are meant to play. In disciplining women through violence for physically being present at protests there is a tacit message being sent about the public sphere as a masculine sphere. Violence also serves a disciplinary function by silencing women who dissent and constructing their actions as gender transgressions. The experiences of women protestors in Cameroon, Sudan and Egypt illustrate how violence used by state and non-state actors serves the purpose of driving women out of public spaces of dissent, marginalises their dissenting actions and leads to a self-perpetuating cycle where women default to traditional strategies of engagement. These traditional strategies tend to reinforce women’s identities as mothers, sisters, wives. Women are constructed as vulnerable individuals who are left behind as sons, brothers and husbands are incarcerated or face the brunt of state violence. It erases the women who bear the brunt of state violence whether that occurs through incarceration, death or harassment. Zoneziwoh picks up on cyberviolence as a new avenue that is used to silence activists who have actively used social media to mobilised across borders. Autonomous online spaces (much like the existence of autonomous feminist spaces such as the African Feminist Forum), such as closed WhatsApp or Facebook groups serve the purpose of insulating feminist organisers from

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online misogyny thus allowing them to regroup, re-strategise and replenish for broad-based engagement. The importance of these online spaces for the pursuit of healing justice (Black Lives Matter, n.d.) is conscious effort to not reproduce the very violence targeted at oppressed people on oppressed people. The lesson drawn from Egypt, Cameroon and Sudan is the need to be attentive to how historical violence is reproduced within social justice movements with little interrogation of how power is being exercised in non-transformative ways. The language of transformation is present in the demands and not in the actions and ways of working that drive these movements. A third lesson that arises directly from the Sudan and Egypt chapters is the role of state surveillance in directly subverting feminist gains during and after the revolution moment. In the Sudan chapter, Nugdalla offers us an extensive view of the convergence of legal, extra-legal and transnational mechanisms deployed by the Bashir regime to run feminist activists and institutions to the ground. In the Sudanese case, the reach of the state can be seen in the fear that activists who fled the country still feel given the broader family networks who still navigate life in Sudan. We observe the carefully designed strategy by the Bashir government to decimate feminist activism through various surveillance technologies such as punitive laws targeting women’s dressing and movement, legislation that curtailed organising and cancelling the registration of civil society groups. To understand what it means to reclaim space for progressive women’s rights demands in a post-Bashir environment requires a recognition of the history of subversive action by radical feminist voices and the systematic effort by the state to silence these voices. A fourth lesson illuminated in the chapters by Tofa, Rukato and Hajayandi is the absence of a political strategy. Hajayandi’s chapter on Burundi asks us to consider whether election boycotts as a political strategy serve the purpose of enlarging democratic space or simply enable authoritarian regimes to run roughshod over the populace. The Burundian example mirrors similar examples across Africa such as opposition candidate Raila Odinga’s refusal to participate in the re-run of the Kenyan presidential elections in 2017 and a similar action by Morgan Tsvangirai in the 2008 run-off in Zimbabwe leading to an unchanging status quo. Hajayandi invites us to consider whether a political strategy that does not achieve its objectives of delaying and/or rewriting the terms of political engagement is a sound strategy. The issue of ineffective strategies is also observed in citizen—largely youth—driven protests. Citizen led protests

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as shown by this book are brought together by shared concerns such as high levels of corruption, unemployment, high cost of living and general economic impoverishment. However, the characterisation of people led movements as “leaderless” has left them open to being usurped by the military, incumbents when opposition parties boycott elections or the old guard embedded in the state. While youthful protestors have been clear about what is wrong, which is often epitomised by the type of leadership that characterised old regimes, these movements are not designed as vehicles for transforming and taking power. In the end, frustration, willingness to act and the numerical might of youth is exploited to get a recycled political class into power. From the coup not coup in Zimbabwe and Egypt to the opposition boycott in Burundi, the gains from the street or non-institutional sites of dissent are lost once there is a change of guard and the cycles of punitive violence continue. While it is important to know what one is against, the failure to build a clear political project around what one wants to see explains why citizen led protests do not turn the removal of a president into long term political transformation that centres their demands. The fifth lesson is about claiming victories. It is easy in a book that problematises resistance to feminist visions of freedom and violence to end with a sense of despair. This despair is shaped in part by how deeply entrenched patriarchy is and its intransigence. However, to give in to despair would ignore the labour of feminist dissenters and the shifts in debates and public discourses that have emerged because feminists dared to organise. I return to the Black Lives Matter Healing in Action toolkit that asks how we can draw energy from naming and developing visions rather than our wounds, to illustrate that the contributions in this book tell us something about feminist dissent and emancipatory futures. The first vision of an emancipatory future is one in which women and nonbinary people say that their presence and voice is not negotiable. It is easy to view visibility and direct action by women as a goal that should not be lauded in 2020 yet in a global environment characterised by an increase in anti-gender rhetoric (see Corredor 2019) this presence cannot be dismissed. The second emancipatory vision lies in the connections that are made across physical spaces within the country and across state borders to build transnational virtual communities of action. These virtual communities of action have been an essential lifeline for feminists that mobilise both intellectual and financial resources towards a time-bound campaign. The third and final emancipatory vision is connected to voice and discursive

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space. If as is argued by Rane and Salem (2012) and Lumsden and Morgan (2017) that the digital sphere is a site of gender violence, then the insistence by feminists on taking back that space says something about the resilience of feminist activists and the fear that is generated by feminist discourses produced in that space. That “toxic feminist” has become a catch phrase is indicative of the expansion of feminist discourses in the public sphere and therefore a concerted challenge to patriarchy. Feminist action is challenging the status quo in ways that are destabilising for those who hold onto the little enclaves of patriarchal power. There is a generational claim that I want make in relation to this “success”. Younger feminists are leading the charge boldly by speaking up, stepping forward and claiming space. Fallist feminists in South Africa illustrate what happens when passionate activism is linked to conceptual analysis. Strategies become more complex and the analysis about the root causes of the problems become more robust and grounded in histories of knowledge production and activism. I end this book with an invitation to draw energy from our victories as a pathway to developing feminist visions if you end this book and ask what do we do?

References Black Lives Matter. (n.d.). Healing in Action: A Toolkit for Black Lives Matter, Healing Justice and Direction. https://blacklivesmatter.com/wp-content/ uploads/2018/01/BLM_HealingAction_r1.pdf. Last accessed January 29, 2020. Corredor, E. (2019). Unpacking “Gender Ideology” and the Global Right’s Antigender Countermovement. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 44(3): 613–638. Enloe, C. (1990). Bananas, Beaches and Bases: Making Feminist Sense of International Politics. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kandiyoti, D. (1991). Identity and Its Discontents: Women and the Nation. Millennium: Journal of International Studies, 20(3): 429–443. Lumsden, K., & Morgan, H. (2017). Media Framing of Trolling and Online Abuse: Silencing Strategies, Symbolic Violence, and Victim Blaming. Feminist Media Studies, 17 (6), 926–940. Rane, H., & Salem, S. (2012). Social Media, Social Movements and the Diffusion of Ideas in the Arab Uprisings. Journal of International Communication, 18(1), 97–111. Yuval-Davis, N. (1997). Gender and Nation. London: Sage.

Index

A Abdulmelik, Nebila, 28 Abine, Ayah Paul, 135 Activism anti-regime struggles and, 3, 4, 14 citizen mobilisation, access to government and, 13 citizen’s voices, diminished power of, 4, 5 civil society organisations, changing role of, 3–5 co-opted struggles, old guard/third forces and, 13 counter-discourses, emergence of, 2 democratisation of information and, 4 direct action and, 13 government accountability and, 4 hashtag protests and, 4 military-into-civilian actors and, 14 regime power networks, success of, 2–3, 13 state power, means to change in, 14

transnational mobilisation actions and, 4 underground situatedness of, 5 union activism, 4 See also African governance; Internet; Protest; Social media platforms; Student movements against autocracies; Women’s rights movements; Youth activism Addis Ababa Agreement, 49, 50 Adly, Magda, 92 African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights, 88 African Feminist Forum, 3, 229 African governance accountability demands and, 4 anti-government protests, incidence of, 4 anti-regime struggles, shift in, 1–4 British colonial pricing restrictions/regulations and, 6 citizen/youth activism and, 1, 3, 13

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 A. Okech (ed.), Gender, Protests and Political Change in Africa, Gender, Development and Social Change, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46343-4

231

232

INDEX

civil society organisations, changing role of, 4 communication laws, passage of, 4, 13 communication legislation, dissent management and, 4 constitutional procedures, abuse of, 4 coup-not-coup phenomenon and, 5, 14 economic concerns and, 3, 4 external donors, indebtedness to, 38 flag democracies and, 13 gender struggles and, 6, 14–15 global political landscape, changes in, 5 governance/electoral deficits and, 3 hashtag protests and, 4 human rights defenders, crackdown on, 4 inequalities, widening of, 4 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4–5 “life presidents” and, 14 lobbying/advocacy communications and, 13 military-into-civilian actors and, 5, 14 nationalist discourse/democracy, limitations of, 4 patron client politics and, 13 protests, reasons for, 3 single-party political system and, 37 social spending, disinvestments from, 38 university administration and, 37 university students, waning elite/privileged status of, 46–49 women’s collective action, social movement development and, 6

See also Autocracies; Deep state; Democratic governments; Protest African National Congress (ANC), 2 African Women’s Development and Communication Network (FEMNET), 24, 25, 28 Ahidjo, Ahmadou, 133 Al-Bashir, Omar, 48, 50, 51, 107–109, 120, 123, 126, 127 Ali, N.M., 116 Al-Sabbagh, Shaimaa, 95 Ambazonia Governing Council (AGC), 133 Ambazonia Movement (AM), 134 Amnesty International (AI), 214 Ansell, N., 52, 53 Anti-Sexual Harassment movement and, 92 Anyaoku, Emeka, 189 Anzaldúa, G., 140 Apell, R., 99 Arab Spring, 54 Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords, 152, 156–160, 163, 165 Association des Étudiants Sénégalais en France (AESF), 40 Association for Progressive Communications (APC), 20 Association Generale des Étudiants de Dakar (AGED), 41–42 Atteh, S., 38 Authoritarianism, 36 Autocracies, 3 academic freedom/university administration and, 37 authoritarianism and, 36 civil society organisations, changing role of, 2 corruption-laden political programmes and, 4 definition of, 40

INDEX

elections, manipulation of, 3 governance/electoral deficits and, 3 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4–5 “life presidents” and, 14 popular protests, role of, 3, 4 power-sharing agreements and, 3 scale of severity of, 36 single-party political system and, 37 statist development models and, 37 totalitarianism and, 36 youth activism against, 3, 4 See also African governance; Deep state; Protest; Student movements against autocracies Azer, Margaret, 94

B Badran, M., 83, 84, 86, 98 Badri, B., 109, 112 Bagaza, Jean-Baptiste, 154 Bantu Education Act of 1953, 65, 68 Bareta, M., 137 Bathily, A., 39–43 Benbow, R., 47, 48 Benka-Coker, Hanna, 6 Bernhard, M., 132 Berridge, W., 51 Bianchini, P., 54 Bibixy, Mancho, 135 Bishai, L., 48–50 Biti, Tendai, 182 Biya, Chantal, 138 Biya, Paul, 133, 136 Black Lives Matter Movement, 3, 215, 230 Black Wednesday incidents, 88 Blumberg, R., 139 Boahen, A., 38, 39 Boler, M., 132 Boyle, P., 53, 54

233

British Cameroon Independent Action Group (BRICAMIAG), 134 Brooke-Smith, R., 45, 46 Burkina Faso Balai Citoyen movement and, 54 “life president” in, 14 Burundi anti-government protests in, 4 communication laws and, 31 gender equity concerns and, 14–16 #HalteauTroisiemeMandat and, 4 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 See also African governance; Burundian democratic reversals Burundian democratic reversals, 151 anti-democratic practices and, 149–152, 168–169 Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Accords and, 152, 156–160, 163, 165 assassinations and, 154 Burundi Constitution and, 163 Burundi National Defence Forces, formation of, 158 checks and balance system, destruction of, 151, 164, 169 citizen groups/social classes, disconnections among, 160 civil war and, 155–156, 158, 165 Congress for National Freedom party, 169 consociational/representative democracy system, creation of, 156–160, 165, 167 consolidation of democracy, analysis of, 152, 156–160, 165 consolidation of democracy, roadblocks to, 149, 151, 153–154, 158–160, 162–163 Convention of Government, failure of, 155

234

INDEX

convulsed politics, reasons behind, 149, 152, 154 coup activities and, 155–156 defence/security reforms, demobilisation/reintegration process and, 157 democracy/stability, path toward, 152, 164–165 democratic reversals, theoretical aspects of, 159–160, 166–171 democratic values, eroding of, 149–150, 152, 169–170 economic conditions/employment prospects and, 164 electoral boycotts and, 149, 150, 152, 160–165, 169 electorate, priorities/needs of, 150–152, 168 “empty chair” politics and, 152, 165, 169 ethnic quotas, marginalized groups’ inclusion and, 157 external support, conditional nature of, 150 Forces for National Liberation movement and, 158 Front for Democracy in Burundi party, victory of, 155–156 genocide/massacres and, 154 Global Ceasefire Agreement, signing of, 157, 165–166 historic political crises/conflicts and, 154–156 Hutu-Tutsi ethnic antagonism and, 154, 155, 158, 166 inclusive political entities, institutionalisation of, 157–158 intra-ethnic group political adversaries and, 158 leadership, power/wealth focus of, 149, 152 military juntas, role of, 154

multiparty democracy, perilous transitions to, 153 National Council for the Defence of Democracy-Forces for the Defence of Democracy ruling party and, 150–152, 157, 158, 162–169 opposition leaders/civil society activists and, 150, 159 opposition leadership, nonparticipation/inefficiencies of, 153, 168 opposition political parties, constructive role of, 149, 151, 163 participatory/representative democracy and, 156, 160 peace initiatives and, 155, 166 political parties, role of, 149–151, 156, 158, 160, 163 post-independence institutions, failure of, 154 power sharing arrangements, status of, 152, 157, 164, 165–169 privatisation trend and, 154 protesting Nkurunziza’s re-election and, 151 radicalized armed movements and, 155 ruling party authoritarian tendencies and, 149, 152, 159, 161, 165 splinter groups, creation of, 151, 168 third-wave democratization process and, 153 viable alternatives, existence of, 150 violence/dirty tricks, use of, 166–167 See also Burundi Buyoya, Pierre, 154, 155

INDEX

C Caffentzis, G., 38, 39 Cambridge Analytica debacle, 3 Cameroon communication laws and, 31 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 See also African governance; Cameroonian Anglophone women’s struggle Cameroon Anglophone Civil Society Consortium (CACSC), 135 Cameroonian Anglophone women’s struggle, 133–134 acceptable women’s protest action and, 143 Anglophone consciousness, secessionist agenda and, 133 Anglophone crisis, development of, 137 Anlu women, role of, 135 arrests/fines for activists and, 136–137 backlash to, 141–143, 145 Cameroon Anglophone Civil Society Consortium, banning of, 135 Cameroon Women Peace Movement and, 137 Collectif des Femmes pour Le Renouveau, banning of, 134 cultural integration, lack of, 133 cyberbullying/online violence and, 141–143 Emergency Humanitarian Assistance initiative and, 138 exiled protesters, extradition/trials of, 136 Federal Republic of Cameroon, formation of, 133 female militant groups, political consciousness/activity of, 134

235

Francophone Cameroonians, hegemonic dominance of, 133 French Cameroon, secession from, 131 gendered leadership expectations, division of labour and, 134, 135 gender inequity concerns and, 135, 141 intergenerational transgression and, 143 International Women’s Day, boycott of, 138 Internet in English-speaking regions, shutdown of, 136 lawyers/teachers strikes and, 135–137 marginalized Anglophone Cameroonians and, 133, 138 media coverage/public conversations, political consciousness and, 134, 138 oppressive contextual factors, utilized alternatives to, 132 peacemaking processes, women’s leadership in, 138, 140 political representation/freedom of speech/democratic practices, goals of, 134, 144 public space, male guardians of, 143 radicalisation of Southern Cameroonians and, 136 sacred/spiritual forces, political strength and, 135 secessionist struggle, government abuse/intimidation and, 134 separatists/secessionist groups in, 133 Social Democratic Front and, 135 societal transformation, challenged stereotypes and, 144

236

INDEX

Southwest and Northwest Women’s Task Force and, 137 Takembeng female cult, role of, 134 technology/social media resources and, 144, 145 transnational intellectual communities, absence of, 144 violence online/cyberbullying and, 141–143 women, protest action and, 139, 142, 143, 145 women’s frontline leadership and, 134–135 women’s participation/contributions, borderline presence and, 140 See also Cameroon Cameroon Women Peace Movement (COWPEM), 137 Cekeshe, Kanya, 63 Centre for Rights Education and Awareness (CREAW), 24 Chad communication laws and, 31 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 See also African governance Chamisa, Nelson, 182, 184, 186, 188 Chigumba, Priscilla, 183 Chinamasa, Patrick, 181 Chitiyo, K., 179 Chiwenga, Constantino, 179, 180, 191 Chung, F., 175 Cierume, 205, 206 CIVICUS, 5 Civil rights movement (US), 1, 227 Civil society organisations (CSOs) anti-regime struggles and, 3 changing role of, 4, 5 citizen’s voices, diminished power of, 4, 5

co-option of, regime propaganda and, 6 global political landscape and, 5 mobilisation, changing nature of, 3 neoliberal development agendas and, 5 violence against women and, 2, 3 Coalition of Freedom and Change, 107, 125 Coalition on Violence Against Women (COVAW), 23, 25, 27, 29 Cock, J., 71 Collectif des Femmes pour Le Renouveau (CFR), 134 Colonialism assimilation pressures and, 40 decolonisation/independence movements and, 37, 39 market pricing restrictions/regulations and, 6 modern African universities, emergence of, 37, 39, 52 post-colonial single-party political system and, 37 Senegalese higher education system and, 39–41 statist development models, adoption of, 37 student movements, demands of, 36, 38–40 student movements, rarity of, 39 Conflict Resolution toolkit, 2, 228 Congo See Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) Congress for National Freedom party, 169 Coup d-état, 1, 14, 155, 180 Coup-not-coup phenomenon, 5, 14 Curtis, D., 155, 157, 159, 165, 166

INDEX

D Danquah, Mabel Dove, 6 Dar es Salaam University Students’ Organisation (DUSO), 47 Davis, Angela, 218 Dawson, M., 52 Deep state, 5 coup-not-coup phenomenon and, 5, 14 military-into-civilian actors and, 5 ousted political elites, alternates to, 5–6 protest, ineffectiveness of, 3 regime power networks, success of, 1–4 See also African governance; Autocracies Democratic governments changing governments, means to, 1 civil society actions and, 2 counter-discourses, emergence of, 2 democracies, types of, 153 democratic reversals, theoretical aspects of, 153–154 dissent/citizen uprisings and, 3 elections, relinquished power and, 1 electoral autocracy and, 153 electoral democracy and, 153 flag democracies and, 13 liberal democracy and, 153 Lomé Declaration and, 1 regimes, legitimacy of, 1 representatives, abusive treatment of, 1 third-wave democratization and, 153 unconstitutional acts against and, 1 violence against women, debate about, 2 women’s status in, 2 youth activism and, 3

237

See also Autocracies; Burundian democratic reversals Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) communication laws and, 31 international actors, political interference by, 41 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 student protests/strikes and, 38 See also African governance Derayeh, M., 140 Dinka, Fon Gorji, 134 Diouf, M., 39, 40 Direct action, 4, 14 Dissent See Civil society organisations (CSOs); Feminist dissent; Protest; Student movements against autocracies Dixon, Rodney, 189 Djibouti anti-government protests in, 4 See also African governance Dlakavu, Simamkele, 73, 75, 216 Dramaturgical action, 202, 203, 211–212 Durham, D., 16 E Eagleton, M., 88 Egypt Arab Spring and, 54 co-opted struggles, old guard power and, 13 coup-not-coup phenomenon and, 5, 14 formal political decision process, youth under-representation in, 18 gender equity concerns and, 14–16 “life president” in, 14 military-into-civilian actors and, 14

238

INDEX

Mubarak’s fall, protests around, 21 youth activism and, 14 See also African governance; Egyptian women’s activism Egyptian women’s activism, 84 accountability, elusive nature of, 88, 91 anti-sexual violence movement and, 97–100 autonomous activism, Sisi’s curtailment of, 94 Black Wednesday incidents and, 88 “circle of hell” behavior pattern and, 92 civil society crackdown/protest ban and, 94–96 egalitarian atmosphere, nascent uprisings and, 83, 87, 89, 98 El Nadeem Center for Rehabilitation of Victims of Violence and, 92 feminine nation, safeguarding of, 84 feminist consciousness, pre-existence of, 87 feminist mobilization, state endorsement of, 94, 100 feminist movements and, 83, 96, 98 4th wave feminism and, 99 gender-centric agenda, advancement of, 82, 87, 96–100 gender inequalities, deep-rooted nature of, 82 gender roles, women’s exploitation of, 86 ideological rivalries, opposition protest movement and, 89 masculine interests in revolutions and, 84–86 Morsi, coup against, 91–93 Mubarak, ousting of, 87–91, 93, 99 Muslim Brotherhood, role of, 90–95

National Council for Women and, 98 nationalist revolution, women’s temporary emancipation and, 84, 100 “nationhood”, gendered conceptualization of, 84 ongoing revolution, discontinuities in, 83 Operation Anti-Sexual Harassment and, 92 patriarchal society, norm of sexual violence and, 82, 85, 96 phase one revolution, regime change/bread, freedom, justice issues and, 87–89 phase two revolution, transition/military guardianship role and, 89–91 phase three revolution, initial democracy/societal factional conflicts and, 91–92 phase four revolution, top-down nationalism/state-society alliances and, 93–96 phases in revolutionary process and, 85, 87–96 power reallocation, women’s exclusion from, 84–86, 99 private sphere, women’s relegation into, 86 public sphere, women’s activism in, 84 Rab’a massacre and, 94 rape in war, national affront of, 84 repressive security apparatuses/governance and, 85–86, 89 revolution, dismantled systems/power redistribution and, 84

INDEX

revolution, women’s place in, 83–87, 99 sexual harassment, criminalization of, 99 sexual violence by mobs and, 91–92, 95, 100 sexual violence, definition of, 83 sexual violence, obstacle/opportunity of, 82–83, 96–100 sexual violence, political weapon of, 82, 88, 90 Sisi, heroic nationalist icon role of, 92–93 Sisi’s Women, “restored” public sphere presence and, 94 Supreme Council of Armed Forces and, 89 Tahrir Bodyguards and, 92 Tahrir Square protestors and, 81, 87–90, 95, 98 Tamarod grassroots movement and, 93 terrorism, fight against, 94–95 transformative power of revolution and, 86 2011 Revolution and, 81–83, 87–96 victim-blaming response and, 92 virginity tests, patriarchal conceptions of purity and, 90, 100 See also Egypt; Feminist dissent; Women’s rights movements Eileraas, K., 21 El-Baramawy, Yasmine, 92 Electronic and Postal Communications Regulations of 2017, 5 El-Kenz, A., 16 Elkhalifa, N., 113, 116, 119, 120 Elmahdy, Aliaa Magda, 21

239

El Nadeem Center for Rehabilitation of Victims of Violence, 92 Elsawi, Zeinab, 120, 122 El-Sisi, Abdel Fattah, 83, 90 Empty chair politics, 152, 165, 169 End Outsourcing protest, 62 Equality Now, 28 Ethiopia communication laws and, 31 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 student movements in, 38 See also African governance Extension of Universities Act of 1959, 65 Ezz, Ahmad, 95 F Facebook, 3, 19, 20, 24, 132, 138, 143, 229 Fadlalla, A., 116 #FallThatIsAll uprisings, 107, 127–128 Fallism See South Africa; South African Fallist feminism Federici, S., 39 #FeesMustFall movement, 2, 21, 64, 66, 73, 228 Feko, Nkwutio, 134 Femicide social capital, mobilization of, 19 South Africa and, 3 Feminist dissent acceptable dissent, tools of, 21 digital spaces, movement building and, 20–21 digital technology-related rights, gender/sexual rights lens and, 19–22 embodied protests, societal transgression and, 22 feminist gains, subverting of, 15

240

INDEX

Feminist Principles of the Internet and, 20 gender roles, re-construction of, 14, 19 hetero-patriarchy, processes of, 27 #JusticeforLiz campaign and, 15, 23, 27, 29, 30 Kenyan case studies and, 22 #KideroMustGo campaign and, 14–17, 23, 25–27, 29, 30 mainstream media, harnessing of, 22–23 masculinisation of youth-hood and, 19–22, 30 momentum, development of, 27 nude protests and, 21, 71–74, 76 patriarchical tactics, use of, 21 patriarchy-decided respectability and, 20, 31 patriarchy, intransigence of, 14, 32 #ProtectOurPanties campaign and, 28–29 resistance movements, sexualised topography of, 21 social media, broadened public discourse and, 15 societal structural power, challenges to, 22 state power, punishing dissent and, 21 systematic violence, reframing of, 25 Take Back the Tech campaign and, 20–21 violence against women and, 2, 3, 14, 20, 23–26 women’s freedom, closure of, 15 women’s rights, reversals in, 14–15 youth-hood status, gendered nature of, 19 See also Cameroonian Anglophone women’s struggle; Egyptian women’s activism; Gender;

Kenyan feminist protest embodiment; South African Fallist feminism; Sudanese women’s activism; Youth-hood Feminist Principles of the Internet, 20 Fifth Brigade atroc, 174 Forces for National Liberation movement, 158, 161 Foucault, M., 72, 109 #FreeDecolonisedEducation!movement, 69 Freedom Corner protest, 218–220 Free West Cameroon Movement (FWCM), 134 French Constitutive Assembly, 40 Front for Democracy in Burundi (FRODEBU), 150, 155, 158, 161, 166, 167 ’Funmi, O., 16

G Gabon communication laws and, 31 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 See also African governance Garang, John, 47 Gaye, Balla, 43 Gbowee, Leymah, 208 Gender, 6 apartheid spatial planning/Cape Town and, 61 conservative gendered norms and, 14 digital sphere, mediating tool of, 30–31 digital technology-related rights, gender/sexual rights lens and, 20–21 gender-based violence, digital technology and, 20–21

INDEX

gender equity concerns, citizen protests and, 14–15 gender power relations, changing nature of, 15 gender roles, re-construction of, 14 male youth, linkage to violence and, 22 misogynistic digital culture and, 20 “nationhood”, gendered conceptualization of, 84 violence against women and, 2, 3, 14, 20, 23–30 women’s rights, reversals in, 14–15 youth-hood ascriptions, gendered nature of, 19 youth-hood, masculinisation of, 19–22 See also Feminist dissent; Youth activism; Youth-hood Gendered identities, 6 Gender non-conforming people, 3, 63, 64, 67, 70–71 Ghana international actors, political interference by, 41 single-party political system and, 37 See also African governance Ghozlan, E., 88 Global Ceasefire Agreement, 157, 165–166 Global Nonviolent Action Database, 50, 51 Gluch, T., 83 Governance See African governance; Autocracies; Deep state; Democratic governments Gqola, P.D., 122 Green Bomber youth militias, 175, 178 H Habermas, J., 202

241

Hale, S., 112, 117, 121, 122 Hall, S., 203 Hanna, W., 37, 52, 53 Harmony, Bobga, 136 Haroun, Lana, 126 Harris, G.H., 174 Hassim, S., 73 Hawkesworth, M., 115, 120 Healing Justice Healing Action toolkit, 2, 228 Higher education See Student movements against autocracies Honour politics, 20 Honwana, A., 15 Hotz, A., 66, 70 Howa, R., 3 Human rights activism, 4, 24, 90 Human Rights Watch (HRW), 182, 208–211 Huntington, S., 153, 169 Hussein, Lubna, 115–116

I Ibrahim, J., 113, 117 Ihonvbere, J.O., 37 International Monetary Fund (IMF), 38 Internet anonymity aspect of, 20 archive function and, 5 corporate-government collusion, shutdown strategy and, 4 democratisation of information and, 4 discursive space on, 5 double-edged nature of, 20 Electronic and Postal Communications Regulations/Tanzania and, 5 feminist activists, movement building and, 20

242

INDEX

Feminist Principles of the Internet and, 20 gender-based violence and, 20–21 misogynistic cultures, contribution to, 20 netizens, diminished power of, 4 predators on, 20 protest movements and, 216–218 public access, blocking of, 4–6 rape sites and, 20 social media platforms, punitive charges on, 4 state/non-state surveillance of, 31 Take Back the Tech campaign and, 20–21 transnational mobilisation actions and, 4, 5 violence against women and, 20–21 Internet without Borders, 136 Islamization experiment, 108–111 Ismail, O., 16–18 Ivaska, A., 46 J Jabrallah, Nahed, 125 Jacobs, C.A., 74 Jim Crow laws, 1, 227 Jimlongo, G., 72 Jones, A.M., 221 #JusticeforLiz campaign, 15, 23, 29 K Kadoda, G., 112, 122 Kadry, A., 88 Kalla, Shaeera, 62 Kanyinga, K., 153 Karakoç, E., 132 Katrak, Ketu, 203 Keita, Modibo, 37 Kenya Cambridge Analytica debacle and, 3

communication laws and, 24 formal political decision process, youth under-representation in, 18 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 #JusticeforLiz campaign and, 15, 23, 28–31 #KideroMustGo campaign and, 15, 23–25, 27 leader ethics/integrity, questions about, 2 patriarchy, evidence of, 2, 21 post-election violence and, 24 proper femininity and, 25 student protests/strikes and, 42 technologies of violence and, 2 United African Student’s Revolutionary Front and, 46 university student protests and, 8 university system, repressive state rule and, 37 violence against women, perpetrators of, 25 violence against women, tolerance for, 2, 24 women government agents, abuse of, 2, 19 See also African governance; Kenyan feminist protest embodiment Kenya Demographic Health Survey (KDHS), 25 Kenyan feminist protest embodiment, 201 Black liberatory movement spaces, building of, 216 bodies in protest, care for, 202, 215, 218–220 Cierume/headman and, 206, 208 contentious actions of individuals and, 202, 203

INDEX

disposable female bodies and, 215, 217–219 dominant patriarchal constructions, repurposing of, 202, 203, 212–214 dramaturgical actions, political effect and, 202, 203, 211 embodied resistance action and, 206–208, 210, 214, 216–217 female bodies, public space/power and, 210, 215–217 female body, feminist activism and, 202, 217 female “headmen” and, 204–205 female sexuality, oppressive patriarchal/political interpretations of, 203, 213 femme corporeal, ownership of, 202, 203 Freedom Corner protests and, 219, 220 gender-based sexual violence and, 209 gender category, personal/cultural/political identities and, 202 gender/social categories, challenging/invalidating of, 207–208 genital curse/naked protest, significance of, 205, 208, 217–219 institutional culture/power and, 213 Internet/social media resources and, 216–217, 219 Maathai, Wangari and, 206, 207, 218, 219 matriarchal rule, supposed illegitimacy/perversion of, 206

243

Mau Mau revolution/Kenyan independence and, 206 media misrepresentation of protesters and, 216–218 Mothers of Political Prisoners and, 206 Nyanjiru, Mary Muthoni and, 205–208, 213 Party of National Unity vs. Orange Democratic Movement, post-election violence and, 208–210 police/state violence, embodied protest and, 207–208, 214–215 pre-colonial women’s roles, complementary nature of, 205, 213 protest, definition of, 202 Release Political Prisoners movement and, 203, 207–208 sex boycotts and, 203, 208–210 socially sanctioned/acceptable patriarchal norms and, 203, 207, 213 state-sanctioned terror and, 214–215 student protests/riots, 210–214 vaginas, dramaturgical action of, 203, 205, 208–210 Wakaba wa Thungu, Ruth Wangari, 207–208, 217 Wangu wa Makeri/headman and, 205–206 Women Students’ Welfare Association, student protest movements and, 210–211, 213 women’s councils, function of, 205 women’s marginalisation/erasure from history and, 204, 215–216, 217 See also Feminist dissent; Kenya Kenyatta, Jomo, 212

244

INDEX

Kenyatta, Uhuru, 24, 214, 219 Khan, K., 65, 66, 72, 73 Khidir, N., 111 Kibaki, Mwai, 208, 209 Kidero, Evans, 2, 3, 22, 24 #KideroMustGo campaign, 14–26, 27, 29, 30 Klopp, J.M., 3, 37 Konnings, P., 133, 134 L Lagos Market Women Association (LMWA), 6 Leiby, M.L., 83 Lesotho anti-government protests in, 4 See also African governance Levitsky, S., 177 Lewis, D., 22 Life presidents, 14, 178–181 Lindberg, I.S., 153, 160, 162 Lobbying communications, 13 Logan, Lara, 88, 89 Lomé Declaration, 1 Lulat, Y. G-M., 37 Lumsden, K., 20 Lunch counter sit-ins, 1, 227 M Maathai, Wangari, 207, 218, 219 Madhuku, Lovemore, 189, 190 Mafeje, Monwabisi Archibald, 66 Magufuli, John, 48 Mali single-party political system and, 37 student protests/strikes and, 39 Y’en a Marre Movement and, 4, 44–45 See also African governance Malik, N., 108, 126, 127 Mandela, Nelson, 156

Manyeruke, Charity, 189, 190 Marroushi, N., 88, 92, 95 Masunungure, E.V., 177 Matandela, M., 75 Mathema, Cain, 187 Maubane, B., 69, 70 Mauritania anti-government protests in, 4 women’s activist alliance and, 113–114 See also African governance Mazini, N., 69 Mbaku, J.M., 37 Mbodi, M., 40 McFaul, M., 153 MDC Alliance, 182, 184, 186–188, 191 Mercenary activities, 1 Micombero, Michel, 154 Mitchell, N.J., 83 Mnangagwa, Emmerson, 179–184, 186, 188–193 Moi, Daniel Arap, 212 Mokwebo, Sarah, 21, 71 Montgomery bus boycotts, 1, 227 Morgan, H., 20 Morocco women’s activist alliance and, 113–114 See also African governance Morsi, Mohamed, 91, 93, 95 Mostafa, D., 94 Motaung, Lerato, 21, 71 Motlanthe, Kgalema, 189 Movement for Democratic Change (MDC), 175, 178–180, 194, 195 Movement for Solidarity and Development (MSD), 150 Movement for the Restoration of the Independence of Southern Camaroons (MoRISC), 133, 134 Moyo, Simon, 176

INDEX

Mubarak, Hosni, 21, 87–91, 93, 96, 99 Mugabe, Grace, 179 Mugabe, Robert Gabriel, 180, 181, 184, 185, 187 Mujuru, Joice, 179 Museveni, Yoweri, 47 Muslim Brotherhood, 90–95 Mutembei, Faith, 218, 219 Mwamunyange, Davis, 189 Mwollo-Ntallima, A., 47 #MyDressMyChoice protest and, 217 Myikayaramba, Douglas, 179 N Nageeb, S.A., 109, 110 Nash, J., 61 National Centre for Civil and Human Rights, 1, 227 National Council for the Defence of Democracy-Forces for the Defence of Democracy (CNDDFDD), 150–152, 157, 158, 170 National Council for Women, 98 National Education Policy Act of 1967, 65 National Resistance Movement (NRM), 215, 218 National Student Financial Aid Scheme, 62 Ncube, W., 174 Ndadaye, Melchior, 155 Ndayizeye, Domitien, 166 Ndelu, S., 69, 75 Ndi, John Fru, 134, 135 Ndlovu, Hlengiwe, 21, 69, 71–73 Netizens’ voices, 4 New communities, 5 New dispensation See Zimbabwean new dispensation’s demise Ngendandumwe, Pierre, 154

245

Ngwenya, D., 174 Niger anti-government protests in, 4 See also African governance Nigeria anti-government protests in, 4 Cambridge Analytica debacle and, 3 Lagos Market Women Association protests, 6 student protests/strikes and, 39 women’s activist alliance and, 113–114 See also African governance Nimeiry, Jaafar, 49–51 Nkongho, Agbor Balla, 135 Nkrumah, Kwame, 37 Nkurunziza, Pierre, 151, 158, 159, 163, 166–168 Non-governmental organisations (NGOs), 4, 20, 92, 221 Noon Movement, 125 Nyamnjoh, F., 133, 134 Nyanjiru, Mary Muthoni, 205–206, 213, 219 Nyanzi, Stella, 21 Nyemba, Vimbai, 189 Nyerere, Julius, 37, 46, 155 Nyong’o, Anyang’, 32

O Obibi, Iheoma, 32 Obi, C., 17 Odinga, Ida, 209 Odinga, Raila Amolo, 208, 209, 214 Okech, A., 21 Okello, D., 153 One Billion Rising events, 121, 122 Operation Anti-Sexual Harassment (OpAntish), 92 Orina, J.R., 3, 37 Osman, A., 109–111

246

INDEX

Othim, Carline, 213 Owino, Charles, 215 P Patriarchy conservative gendered norms and, 31 gender power relations, changing nature of, 15 hetero-patriarchical processes and, 27 honour politics/pillars of respectability and, 20–22, 93 intransigence of, 14, 32 patriarchal gerontocracy and, 18 #ProtectOurPanties campaign and, 28, 29 related women, protection of, 30 systematic violence, reframing of, 25 tactics of, feminist use of, 21 technologies of violence and, 2 violence against women and, 2, 24–27, 30 Peraira, C., 113, 117 Picciotto, B., 16 Prince, Mona, 88, 89 #ProtectOurPanties campaign and, 28–29 Protest accountability demands and, 4 anti-government activism, 4 citizen’s voices, diminished power of, 4 civil society organisations, changing role of, 4 colonial market price fixing and, 6 communication legislation, dissent management and, 4 constituency-specific demands and, 3 counter-discourses, emergence of, 2

democratisation of information and, 4 digital sphere, mediating tool of, 30–31 discontent, government responsiveness to, 3, 6 diverse constituencies, interests of, 5 food price increases and, 6 funeral protests and, 51 hashtag protests and, 4, 23, 29 leadership, devolved organising clusters and, 5 momentum, growth of, 3 outcomes, beyond-ballot definition of, 5 people-driven movements, constituents of, 5 regime power networks, success of, 3–5 sites for political action, shift in, 4 state power, delegitimisation of, 7 strongmen in office, banishment of, 3 transnational mobilisation actions and, 4 wide-scale mobilisation and, 4 youth activism and, 3, 4. See also Activism; Cameroonian Anglophone women’s struggle; Civil society organisations (CSOs); Deep state; Egyptian women’s activism; Feminist dissent; Kenyan feminist protest embodiment; South African Fallist feminism; Student movements against autocracies; Sudanese women’s activism; Women’s rights movements; Zimbabwean new dispensation’s demise

INDEX

R Race apartheid spatial planning/Cape Town and, 61 Fallism, evolution of, 3, 62–66 police brutality, threat of, 2 resources/benefits/power, distribution inequities and, 64–66 white bodies, shield function of, 2 Rainbow Nation myth, 63, 64 Ramaphosa, Cyril, 63 Ramaru, K., 74 Rane, H., 5, 232 Ranger, T., 175 Rebel movements, 1 Release Political Prisoners movement, 207–208 Revolution of Consciousness, 122–123 Rhodes, Cecil John, 61, 66 #RhodesMustFall movement, 8, 54, 61, 66, 67, 74 Rugene, N., 23, 27, 29 Ruto, William, 24 Rwagasore, Louis, 154 Rwasa, Agathon, 158, 161, 169

S Salah, Alaa, 126–128 Salem, S., 5, 232 Salmmah Women’s Resource Centre, 113–122 Schraeder, P.J., 38 Sebambo, K., 67 Senegal anti-government protests in, 8, 43 anti-imperialist student movement and, 39–41 assimilation pressures and, 39–41 Association des Étudiants Sénégalias en France and, 40

247

Association Generale des Étudients de Dakarand, 41–43 broader societal concerns, student alignment with, 43–44 civic youth movement in, 44 corporatist setback, proletarianization of students and, 43 École Normale William Ponty, establishment of, 39–41 election results, student involvement in, 43–44 formal political decision process, youth under-representation in, 18 fragmented student movement and, 43 “life president” in, 14 nationalisation, socio-political context and, 40 New Type of Senegalese and, 45 post-independence period, higher education expansion and, 41 Rassemblement Democratique Africaine, infiltrated student movement and, 41 student movements in, 38, 39, 55 student power, meaningful political engagement and, 36 student/teacher strikes, collective action and, 44 unemployment in, 43 Union Democratique des Étudiants Sénégalais and, 42 Union Des Étudiants de Dakar and, 42 University of Dakar, establishment of, 40, 42 university reforms and, 43 women’s activist alliance and, 113–114

248

INDEX

working class disaffection, government repression and, 42 Y’en a Marre movement and, 4, 44–46 See also African governance Senghor, Leopold, 40, 42 Sex boycotts, 203, 208–210 Shange, N., 74 Sharia law, 50, 115 Shebesh, Rachel, 2, 22, 24, 25, 27–29, 32 Sholkamy, H., 96 Sierra Leone Freetown food price protests and, 6 See also African governance Sierra Leone Women’s Movement, 6 Sifuna, D.N., 37 Social contract, 4 Social media platforms Cameroonian Anglophone women’s struggle and, 133, 135, 136, 143 communication legislation, dissent management and, 4 digital sphere, mediating tool of, 30–31 discursive space on, 5 female body, sexualisation of, 21 feminist activists, movement building and, 20 hashtag protests and, 4, 23–27 hashtags, hijacking of, 25 Internet access, blocking of, 4–5 Kenyan female protest actions and, 217–219 Mini-skirt bill, fight against, 32 misogyny-based curtailment of campaigns and, 31 punitive charges on, 4 social media campaigns, crossinfluencing of, 29

transnational mobilisation actions and, 4, 5 violence against women, broadened public discourse on, 15 See also Feminist dissent; Internet Social movement development, 6, 194–197 Sonko, Mike, 27 South Africa black bodies, relative value of, 2, 3 Fallism, evolution of, 3 #FeesMustFall nude protests and, 21, 72–75 femicide in, 3 free education, demand for, 3 gender non-conforming citizens and, 3 international actors, political interference by, 41 liberation movement in, 5 police violence, student protests and, 21 #RhodesMustFall movement and, 54, 61 Soweto Youth Uprisings and, 68 white bodies, value of, 2 women as political actors and, 4, 6 women’s labour, withdrawing of, 3 Women’s Month shutdowns and, 2 WomensNet non-governmental organization and, 20 See also African governance; South African Fallist feminism South African Fallist feminism apartheid spatial planning/Cape Town and, 61 apartheid, legacy of violence and, 67–71 Azania House, decolonial education/praxis and, 67 Bantu Education Act/Extension of Universities Act and, 65

INDEX

249

masculinised violence and, 67–68, Black women/gender non71 conforming people, inheritance of traumas and, 64 National Education Policy Act and, 65 Black women/gender nonNational Student Financial Aid conforming people, liberation Scheme, role of, 62 movement labour by, 72–74 protest action, state-endorsed colonial/apartheid histories, educaviolence against, 69 tion system “knowledge” and, racial/gender diversity, importance 64 of, 67 decolonisation discourse, new wave Rainbow Nation, post-apartheid of, 62, 64, 66, 69 coherence myth and, 63, 64 decolonising the university and, #RhodesMustFall movement and, 66–69 61, 66, 67, 74 embodied resistance, nude protests segregated education system and, and, 22, 71–74 64–65 End Outsourcing protest and, 62 social movement building, co-option epistemic violence, legacies of, of labour in, 73 62–65 structural transformation, systematic Fallist feminist epistemological resistance to, 66–67 premise and, 64, 70–71 structural violence, legitimised Fallist feminists, actions by, 70–72 injustices and, 67–70 #FeeMustFall movement and, 66, student housing concerns and, 63 68–71 The Trans Collective and, 74–75 #FreeDecolonisedEducation!movement violence convergences, systems of and, 69 oppression and, 67–69 freedom, illusion of, 63 white supremacist capitalist hetgender-based violence and, 63 eropatriarchal practices and, 67, hierarchal identity construction, 69 resource distribution systems See also Feminist dissent; South and, 65–67 Africa historic university role, current Southern Cameroon National Council environment and, 64 (SCNC), 134 historically Black universities and, Southern Cameroons Ambazonia 65–66 Consortium United Front historically silenced voices, (SCACUF), 133, 134 embodiment of, 64, 74 Southern Cameroons European inequity, persistence of, 65 Women (SCEW), 133 institutional resistance and, 62–68 Southern Cameroons Peoples Organisation (SCAPO), 134 liberation movement background labour, disregarding/ridiculing Southwest and Northwest Women’s of, 72–74 Task Force (SNWOT), 137

250

INDEX

Soweto Youth Uprising, 68 Structural Adjustment Programmes (SAPs), 16, 38, 53 Student movements against autocracies academic freedom/university administration, autocratic rule and, 37 activist students/anti-government intellectuals and, 41–43, 51 African students, waning elite/privileged status of, 48–50 anti-imperialist focus and, 39–41 assimilation pressures and, 40 autocracy, working definition of, 35 broader societal concerns, alignment with, 43–45 civic youth movement/Y’en a Marre Movement and, 44–45 civil society demands, liberalised political/economic systems and, 38 civil wars and, 48–49 colonialism, educational divides and, 48 corporatist setback, proletarianisation of students and, 43 counter-hegemonic student group, establishment of, 46 coups and, 49–51 democratisation of education, demand for, 38 economic stressors and, 44–45, 47 education spending/student subsidies, cutting of, 38 election results, student involvement in, 43–44 European bases, study-abroad students and, 38 funeral protests and, 51

general strikes/student demonstrations and, 50–52 market forces, educational opportunities and, 48 modern African universities, emergence of, 37 multiple student organisations, lack of unifying goal and, 42 national debt crises, institutional decline and, 38 nationalisation, socio-political context and, 40, 41 National Services Law, national service demonstrations and, 46 pocketbook issues and, 48 political elite vs. educated elite, explicit opposition between, 46, 52 political parties, infiltration push and, 41–43 post-independence Africa, higher education in, 36, 41, 45, 49–50 professionals/opposition parties, buy-in of, 45, 51 protest, student activism/strikes and, 38 publication activity and, 47 radicalisation of student movements and, 40 repressive state rule, university systems and, 37, 50 ruling party ideology, higher education orientation and, 42, 46, 47, 55 Senegalese student movements and, 39–45 social reproduction vs. economic reproduction, involvement in, 52–53

INDEX

statist development models/singleparty political system and, 37 Structural Adjustment Programs and, 38, 39, 53 student associations, banning of, 43, 45 student movements, decline in, 39 student movements, phases of, 39–41 student power, meaningful political engagement and, 36, 42, 54–56 student/teacher strikes, collective action and, 44 students vs. youths, social identities of, 36, 43 Sudanese student movements and, 35, 48–50 suspend/expel/blacklist policy and, 48 Tanzanian student movements and, 36, 45–46 working class disaffection, mutuality with, 42 youth, new political power of, 48–59 See also African governance; Autocracies; Youth activism; Youth-hood Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), 218 Sudan Abboud regime and, 51 Addis Ababa Agreement and, 49 anti-government protests in, 4 Anya Nya southern insurgents and, 49 civil service candidates and, 49 civil wars in, 49–50 coup-not-coup phenomenon and, 5 coups in, 49, 50

251

dictator Al-Bashir, deposition of, 48 economic stressors and, 50–51 education, North-South divide and, 48 election charade in, 44 gender equity concerns and, 14–15 Khartoum Students’ Union and, 51 North/South unification efforts, civil war and, 49 oil revenue flows, austerity measures and, 50 peace agreement, signing of, 50 secular vs. Islamist state, question of, 49–50 Sharia law, imposition of, 50 South Sudan, secession of, 48, 50 South Sudan, Sudanization of, 49 student movements in, 35, 43–45 Sudanese identity, development of, 49 Sudan People Liberation Movement/Army and, 50 Sudan Uprising and, 50, 51 transnational government, establishment of, 51 United African Student’s Revolutionary Front and, 46 United National Front strike and, 51 University of Khartoum, political impact of, 49–51 See also African governance; Sudanese women’s activism Sudan Criminal Act of 1991, 110, 114 Sudanese women’s activism, 108 activism goals/process, transformation of, 108, 111–112, 120–128 Al-Bashir, fall of, 107, 123, 127 alliance of women activists and, 113–114

252

INDEX

Arabization of identities, erased/silenced groups and, 111 Article 149/rape reform and, 113–114 Article 151/gross indecency prohibition and, 110, 114 Article 152/indecent/immoral dress and, 109, 115 authenticity discourse, foreign ideals pollution and, 120 biopower, manifestation of, 109 Christian population and, 111 civic space restrictions, gender-based processes and, 117–120 Coalition of Freedom and Change and, 107, 125 Coptic population and, 111 cultural homogeneity, imposition of, 109 erasure pressures, new modes of resistance and, 120–122 #FallThatIsAll uprisings, Revolution of Consciousness and, 107, 127–1284 feminine state-regulated correctness and, 109, 111 feminist movement building and, 119, 127 foreign agent status, Western ideals influence and, 119 gender relations/personal conduct, state regulation of, 109 government surveillance/restrictions, gendered nature of, 117–120, 121–122 Humanitarian Affairs Commission and, 112, 120 indecent/immoral dress in public and, 110, 115 Islamic regime’s misogynistic practices and, 108, 115, 115

Islamised public conduct, public order laws and, 109, 110, 115 Islamization experiment, “civilization” of the population and, 108–111 issue-driven women’s movement and, 111–113, 119, 120, 125, 127–128 local-level activist spaces and, 116, 118, 119 Lubna’s trousers case and, 115–117 masculine social/religious protector role and, 109 Maydanik/safe zone, formation of, 123–124 minority groups, marginalization of, 111, 119, 126 moral vs. deviant citizens and, 109, 118, 120 non-Muslim Sudanese women, public order regime/Islamic hegemony and, 110 One Billion Rising events, 121, 122 patriarchal order, threat to, 119–120, 124–128 patriarchal systems of knowledge production and, 122 political activities/parties, constraints on, 111–112 public appearance, Islamic outlook regulation and, 109 public order laws, gendered analysis of, 108–111 rape/adultery, penal code treatment of, 113–114 rape/sexual assault amendment and, 114 Salah, anti-regime protest icon and, 126–127 Salmmah Women’s Resource Centre action and, 113–114, 121 Sharia law and, 115

INDEX

spaces occupied by activists, transition of, 111–112 Sudan Criminal Act and, 110, 114 Sudanese citizenship, gendered/classist provisions for, 111 Sudan Women for Change collective and, 125 transitional civilian government, sidelined women activists and, 124 upper class vs. working class women, state-perpetrated violence and, 109–111 violent lived realities, women activists and, 107–108, 125 Western rescue narratives and, 116 within-political party activism, limitations on, 111–112 Women Living Under Muslim Laws and, 113, 116 women-oriented NGOs and, 111, 112 women’s disenfranchisement, shared experience of, 111–112, 115–117 women’s social/moral judgement, state policies about, 109–110 women’s/youth groups, mutual solidarity/self-help organizations and, 111, 115, 116, 123 youth-led Revolution of Consciousness, technology tools/art revolution and, 122–127 See also Feminist dissent; Sudan; Women’s rights movements Sudan People Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A), 50 Sudan Women for Change collective, 125 Suneri, L., 85

253

Swift, J., 134, 135

T Tadros, M., 85, 87 Tahrir Bodyguards, 92 Take Back the Tech (TBTT) campaign, 20–21 Tamale, S., 72 Tandja, Mamadou, 4 Tanui, N., 25 Tanzania communication legislation, dissent management and, 4 Dar es Salaam University Students’ Organisation and, 45 educated elite vs. political elite, explicit opposition between, 46, 52 educated youth, bureaucratic/social elite and, 45 Electronic and Postal Communications Regulations and, 5 left activist effort, blow to, 47 national development policies and, 45, 46 National Services Law, national service demonstrations and, 46 neoclassical economic policy and, 47 pocketbook issues, protests over, 48 privatisation of higher education and, 47 ruling party ideology, university orientation and, 46 Second Five Year Plan, job requirements-curricula alignment and, 46 single-party political system and, 37 student associations, banning of, 40 student movements in, 35, 42–43

254

INDEX

suspend/expel/blacklist policy and, 48 United African Student’s Revolutionary Front/counterhegemonic group and, 46 University of Dar es Salaam and, 45 Technologies of violence continuum of, 2, 3 data, public availability of, 3. See also Internet; Social media platforms Tekere, Edgar, 174 #ThisFlag movement, 4, 196 Thuku, Harry, 206 Tofa, M., 178 Togo anti-government protests in, 4 #FaureMustGo and, 4 #Togodebout and, 4 Y’en a Marre Movement and, 44 See also African governance Totalitarianism, 36 Toth, G.A., 36 The Trans Collective, 74–75 Transformation agenda, 6 Tripp, A.M., 134 Tsvangirai, Morgan, 175, 177–179, 184, 185, 194, 195 Tunisia co-opted struggles, old guard power and, 13 coup-not-coup phenomenon and, 5 formal political decision process, youth under-representation in, 18 gender equity concerns and, 14–15 ineffective/unresponsive regime in, 3 “life president” in, 14 student protests/strikes and, 39 youth activism and, 14

See also African governance Tutu, Desmond, 63 Twitter, 2, 5, 19, 23, 24, 29, 125, 126, 132, 138, 143 U Uganda #AgeLimitBill protest and, 4 anti-government protests and, 4 communication laws and, 31 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 #Kogikuteko protest and, 4 See also African governance, 4 Uhuru leaders, 13 Unconstitutional Change of Government (UCG) framework, 1 Union activism, 4, 194, 196 Union for National Progress (UPRONA), 150 Union for Progress and Development (UPD), 150 United African Student’s Revolutionary Front, 46 Urdal, H., 14, 17 V Vandeginste, S., 157, 159, 164, 165 Violence gender-based violence and, 20, 21 Internet platforms, double-edged nature of, 20 patriarchal society, norm of sexual violence and, 82, 85, 90, 96–98 rape, power over women and, 23, 83, 90–92, 95, 99 rape sites, digital platforms and, 20 technologies of violence and, 2 victim-blaming response and, 92

INDEX

violence against women and, 2, 3, 14, 20, 23–26, 30, 89, 95, 99 violence, disciplining women with, 25, 31, 83 youth-hood discourses, grievance/conflict perspective and, 14 youth-hood discourses, violence associations/women’s exclusion and, 19–20 W Wade, Abdoulaye, 43, 44 Wakaba wa Thungu, Ruth Wangari, 207–208 Wallace, M., 217, 218 Walla, Kah, 138 Wangu wa Makeri, 206 Wanyoike, M.W., 205 War civil wars and, 49–50, 155–156, 158–170 youth involvement in, 17, 178, 179 youth militias and, 175, 178, 190 West African Student Union (WASU), 39 West, G., 139 WhatsApp, 3–5, 31, 70, 126, 132, 143, 229 Wilfred, Tassang, 136 Women’s lives gender equity concerns, citizen protests and, 14–15 gender roles, re-construction of, 14, 19 technologies of violence in, 2, 3 violence against women and, 14, 20, 24–30 women as political actors and, 6, 14 women’s rights, reversals in, 14–15 youth bracket, premature exit from, 19

255

youth-hood masculinisation and, 19 See also Feminist dissent; Patriarchy; Women’s rights movements Women’s rights movements, 3 collective action, social movement development and, 6, 192–196 colonial market price fixing and, 6 decentralised political power, insistence on, 6 digital spaces, movement building and, 20 electoral/legislative spaces, representation in, 3 food price increases, protest against, 6 Lagos Market Women Association and, 6 Sierra Leone Women’s Movement and, 6 trade items, regained monopoly on, 6 See also Cameroonian Anglophone women’s struggle; Egyptian women’s activism; Feminist dissent; Kenyan feminist protest embodiment; South African Fallist feminism; Sudanese women’s activism; Women’s lives WomensNet.org, 20 Women Students’ Welfare Association (WOSWA), 210–214, 218 World Bank (WB), 38, 164 Wybrow, D., 16 X Xaba, W., 65, 66, 71 Y Y’en a Marre Movement and, 4, 44–46

256

INDEX

Youth activism, 3, 4, 14 Arab Spring and, 54 Balai Citoye movement and, 54 co-opted struggles, old guard/third forces and, 13 direct action, citizen mobilisation and, 14 gender equity concerns, citizen protests and, 14–15 “life presidents”, ouster of, 14 military-into-civilian actors and, 14 privatization trend, education opportunities/public services and, 17 protest action, angry youth actors and, 14 safety net programs, limited access to, 17 Uhuru leaders, desire for freedom and, 13 youth agency, reconceptualisation of, 14 youth exclusion/de-legitimised leadership, emergence of, 13, 16, 19 youth policies, state normative frameworks and, 16 See also Activism; Feminist dissent; Gender; Protest; Student movements against autocracies; Youth-hood Youth-hood age criterion, access to decision process and, 18 ascriptions of, gendered nature of, 19 conceptualizations of, Structural Adjustment Programs and, 16 conflict/war situations, involvement in, 17 digital sphere, mediating tool of, 30–32

formal decision process, underrepresentation/inactive participation in, 17–18 freedom, notion of, 19 identity category of, 15–16, 19 informal political involvement and, 17 masculinisation of, 19 men, prolonged youth-hood of, 19 national youth councils, politicized initiatives and, 18 political economy concerns/vulnerabilities and, 16 power relations/dominance, elite power interests and, 19 public expenditure decreases, disproportionate effects of, 16 secondary societal status and, 16 social exclusion/marginalisation and, 16, 17, 19 social/political capital, prerequisite of, 18, 19 survival economy, factors in, 17 violence-focused discourses and, 19 women, exclusion of, 17, 19 youth-hood discourses, grievance/conflict perspective and, 14, 21 youth initiatives, mismanagement/politicization of, 18 youth vulnerability/exclusion and, 16–17, 18 YOVEX study conclusions and, 16 See also Student movements against autocracies; Youth activism YouTube, 4, 31

Z Zambia

INDEX

United African Student’s Revolutionary Front and, 46 See also African governance Zeillig, L., 43, 52, 53 Zeleza, P.T., 73 Ziblatt, Z., 177 Zimbabwe communication laws and, 31 coup-not-coup phenomenon and, 4, 14 Internet access/public broadcasts, blocking of, 4 military-into-civilian actors and, 14 student protests/strikes and, 39 #ThisFlag protest and, 4, 196 United African Student’s Revolutionary Front and, 46 See also African governance; Zimbabwean new dispensation’s demise Zimbabwe African National UnionPatriotic Front (ZANU-PF), 175–181, 183–186, 188, 190, 195, 196 Zimbabwe African People’s UnionPatriotic Front (PF-ZAPU), 173, 174 Zimbabwean new dispensation’s demise, 181 August 1st/2018 protests and, 183–191 Beit Bridge protest and, 197 brutality/harassment, perpetration of, 174, 177–179, 186, 187, 193–195 Chipangano youth group, 190 Commission of Inquiry responsibilities/report and, 188–191 consent to be governed, opposition withdrawal of, 176

257

contemporary Zimbabweian violence/polarisation and, 184, 190 counter-revolutionaries, infiltration by, 179 coup, Zimbabwe National Army’s staging of, 180–183, 189, 196 democratic mutual toleration, absence of, 177 dissident insurgency/early 1980s and, 174 economic crises, protracted life of, 176, 187 economic sanctions, imposition of, 176, 182 electoral malpractice tactics and, 185 factionalism in the ruling party and, 173, 194 Fifth Brigade atrocities and, 174 Government of National Unity, formation of, 179 “Green Bomber” youth militias and, 175, 178 Gukurahundi/Machiavellian-style counter-insurgency campaign and, 174, 191 high-stakes electoral system, zero-sum game of, 176–178 impeachment process, stages in, 180–182 January 2019 #shutdown protests and, 192–194 Joint Operation Command declaration and, 177–178 liberation war credentials, credibility and, 177 “life president”, argument for, 178–180 Makavhotera Papa campaign of terror and, 177–179

258

INDEX

Marxist-Leninist principles, one-party state and, 174–177 MDC Alliance and, 182, 186, 187–191 military-civil relations, state politics and, 177–178, 179, 182, 191, 192–193, 197 Mnangagwa regime, opposition support of, 181 National Constitutional Assembly opposition party and, 190, 194, 195 “new dispensation” mantra, Zimbabwean new era and, 182–184, 186 November 2017 coup and, 177–181, 189, 191 one-party state agenda and, 173 opposition as enemy of the state and, 176, 177–178, 193, 197 opposition voters, brutal punishment of, 185 run-off election, one-man-race reality of, 177 social movements/civil society dissent, citizens’ issues and, 188–194 #ThisFlag movement and, 196 2018 elections, dashed hope and, 183

Western imperialism, fight against, 175 white population, parliamentary seats for, 173 youth militia and, 175, 178, 190 Zimbabwe African National UnionPatriotic Front and, 175–181, 183–186, 188, 190, 195, 196 Zimbabwe African People’s UnionPatriotic Front opposition government and, 173 Zimbabwe Congress of Trade Unions and, 194, 195 Zimbabwe Electoral Commission, August 1st/2018 protests and, 182–184 Zimbabwe Electoral Commission, prejudice/partiality of, 182, 183–185 Zimbabwe Human Rights Commission and, 193 Zimbabwe National Students Union and, 195 Zimbabwe Unity Movement opposition party, formation of, 174–177 #ZimShutDown2016 mass stay-away protest, 196–197 Zimbabwe Unity Movement (ZUM), 174–178 Zuma, Jacob, 219