Political Transitions

Sudan's military leaders are prioritizing their own interests over that of their country. International actors should pressure the regime by raising the cost of doing so.

The coup in Sudan shows that the military members of the transitional government were never truly committed to implementing democracy in the manner sought by protesters who forced Omar al-Bashir from power in 2019.

The eventual succession to Paul Biya, Cameroon's president since 1982, will likely prove a critical moment for Cameroon and its overlapping political and security crises.

Reports of a failed coup attempt in Sudan make clear the fragility of the transitional government, which is riven by civil-military tensions.

Reflections on the shortcoming of U.S. policy in Afghanistan have brought lessons that can be used to rethink American policy toward Somalia.

The recent coup in Guinea is part of a resurgence of "coup culture" in West Africa.

Hakainde Hichilema's win in Zambia's presidential election allays some fears of democratic decline, but his administration will inherit economic problems from incumbent President Edgar Lungu.

The scope of the conflict that began in November between Tigrayan and Ethiopian federal forces is expanding, with military pursuits taking precedence over dialogue.

In the Democratic Republic of Congo, opaque dealmaking facilitated the transfer of power from Joseph Kabila to Felix Tshisekedi. It is not too early for policymakers to encourage a more democratic process in 2023.

The murder of Haiti’s embattled president stands to deepen the country’s political, economic, and humanitarian crisis.

South Africa is a democracy conducted according to the rule of law with a genuinely independent judiciary. While post-apartheid South Africa has made progress in addressing extreme poverty among the black majority, the white minority (just under 8 percent of the population) dominates the economy and enjoys a first-world standard of living, while that of the black majority has been compared to Cameroon. The African National Congress (ANC), the party which has dominated government since the end of apartheid in 1994, is a mélange of democratic and "liberation" assumptions and procedures. Once multiracial, the ANC is now largely a Black political party. During the 2009–2018 presidency of Jacob Zuma, it became deeply ensnarled in corruption and steadily lost the support of the electorate. Zuma is widely regarded as personally corrupt. Cyril Ramaphosa, a close associate of Nelson Mandela, campaigned within the party to unseat Zuma and clean up the corruption, not least to stimulate foreign and domestic investment in the economy. Ramaphosa only narrowly won, and Zuma retains considerable influence. Nevertheless, Ramaphosa's victory was the occasion for the longstanding criminal proceedings to go forward against Zuma for corruption, specifically involving bribes paid by a French company to secure defense contracts more than a decade ago. There have since been many courtroom dramas: the latest is that Zuma's trial has been postponed until July 19. In effect, Zuma and his lawyers have sought to make the case a political rather than judicial one. If convicted, Zuma would likely go to jail. As part of his ANC cleanup, Ramaphosa has also suspended Ace Magashule—a close Zuma ally also credibly accused of corruption—from his position as the ANC secretary-general. Zuma, Magashule, and others are seeking to recapture somehow the ANC and ultimately force out Ramaphosa. For the time being, Ramaphosa has the upper hand. The backstory is that the ANC is deeply divided. One wing, associated with Zuma, sees Black poverty as best addressed through vast expansion of the state in the economy, with it becoming an employer of last resort, and massive programs of transfer payments for the redistribution of wealth. It is often impatient with constitutional and legal provisions that protect private property and limit what the state can do. Similarly, it sometimes resents the independence of the judiciary. This wing is "populist," and has been associated with the Zulu ethnic group, which makes up about a quarter of the population. It is often conservative on social issues, disliking, for example, gay marriage. On the other hand, it is home to many female politicians. The other wing, now associated with Ramaphosa, seeks to address poverty by diversifying the economy, largely through private investment, to spur growth. That wing sees corruption as a significant bar to the investment the economy needs if it is to grow fast enough to reduce poverty. On social issues, it is broadly progressive and seeks to downplay ethnic identities. As with democratic politics anywhere, numerous other factors shape the ANC, including personalities and personal ambition. For example, in the 2018 contest to lead the party, Ramaphosa's chief opponent was Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma, an ex-wife of Jacob Zuma but a formidable politician in her own right. The business community generally favors the Ramaphosa wing, with its greater openness to international trade and investment. But the Zuma wing remains in many ways the voice of the townships and rural dwellers left behind in post-apartheid South Africa.

The ripple effects emanating from the death of Chadian President Idriss Déby on April 20 are only beginning to be apparent. Most immediately, the future of Chad has been thrown into question. Déby reportedly died while on the frontlines fighting rebel forces, just days after cementing his continued grip on power through a staged election devoid of both integrity and suspense. On the one hand, dissolving the parliament and installing a military officer from Déby’s family at the head of a Transitional Military Council is not much of a departure from the way Chad has been governed for decades—it simply sheds the institutional and electoral window dressing that has adorned the military dictatorship. But on the other hand, there was a clear constitutional prescription for how the country was to be governed in the event of the president’s death, and it has been completely disregarded. There may be a great deal of continuity in Chad’s immediate governing arrangements, but it is difficult to argue with the Chadian opposition leaders who have called the developments “an institutional coup d’état.” The repercussions may be felt far beyond Chad’s borders. Should Chad become significantly less stable, it will mean that one of the region’s most competent militaries will have less attention to devote to efforts to combat transnational terrorist threats. Equally, the casting aside of the constitution in Chad could be bad news for Sudan’s fragile transition, in which would-be democrats must find themselves feeling increasingly lonely as many bordering states move in decidedly authoritarian directions. Chad has historically played a complicated role in Darfur, where resurgent violence has tested the Sudanese state’s ability to deliver security for all of its citizens. Instability and the potential for explosive power struggles in Chad complicate the picture and add to the list of pretexts military and militia actors may use to insist that they remain the dominant actors in Sudan’s government. This week’s events in Chad also serve as a reminder that no leader is a permanent fixture on the world stage. It is easy for policymakers in Paris or Washington to forget that the bargains they strike in the name of ensuring stability—or regional influence—can have shorter shelf lives than anticipated when they depend on one strongman’s ability to keep all opposing forces in check. All of the costs, in terms of undermining governance and human rights norms that Chad’s external partners purport to champion, remain to be paid. But the international security gains may prove far more ephemeral.

Chad strongman Idriss Deby's death on April 20, allegedly in combat with rebel forces that had crossed over from Libya, is bad news for the immediate struggle against jihadi radicalism in Nigeria, Niger, and Cameroon. The news is also unwelcome for France and the United States. Deby had been a staunch ally against jihadi radicalism in the Sahel, and especially against Boko Haram and its factions. His army, the beneficiary of substantial French investment, is commonly regarded as the best in the region. Chad hosts the headquarters of the French Operation Barkhane, numbering just under 5,000 fighters. Deby cooperated with the U.S. military, allowing it to maintain a drone base to aid in the fight against jihadism. The French government has stated that "France lost a brave friend" and that France supports Chad's "stability and territorial integrity." Deby is an example of the dilemma faced when the United States, France, and other Western powers tie themselves to autocratic strongmen—for that is what Deby was. He ruled Chad for a generation, faced numerous attempted coups, and manipulated the constitution and the electoral process to, in effect, make himself president for life. He also accumulated an estimated personal fortune of $50 million in one of the poorest countries in the world. Domestic opposition had been growing. His immediate placeholder, the "National Council of Transition," appears to be beholden to the military. It has made Deby's son the interim president, itself a coup: under the constitution that role falls to the speaker of parliament. For now, it looks like the essence of the Deby regime will continue. But what about the rebel columns advancing on N'Djamena? The ambitions and grievances that drive them presumably do not go away with Deby's death; France and to a lesser extent Nigeria will likely be decisive as to what happens next on that front. As for the Chadian people, initial reports are of fear of the unknown, especially the possibility of civil war. This publication is part of the Diamonstein-Spielvogel Project on the Future of Democracy.

Tundu Lissu, in an interview, comments on expectations for President Samia Suluhu Hassan, a Zanzibar native who was sworn in following former President John Magufuli’s death as Tanzania’s sixth—and first female—president.

This is the first half of a two-part interview conducted by Nolan Quinn, a research associate for the Council on Foreign Relations’ Africa Program, and reviewed by Ralph Bunche Senior Fellow John Campbell. The interview was held on March 19, 2021—the day after Tanzania President John Magufuli’s death was announced. The second half will be posted in the coming days. Mr. Lissu has confirmed as accurate the quotes attributed to him in this post. “Well, we are not trying to overthrow the government, are we? No? Right, so let’s do it on the record.” -- Tundu Lissu Tundu Lissu, a Tanzanian opposition leader, does not aim to overthrow the government, but he nonetheless has big goals for his home country. Following the death of Tanzania’s authoritarian President John Magufuli, an avowed COVID-19 skeptic who likely died of the disease, Lissu plans to return to Tanzania to fight for democratic progress in a country that has experienced rapid democratic backsliding in the last five years. “President Magufuli’s passing gives us an opportunity to return to the status quo ante. And I won’t stand for anything less.” Lissu, a member of the opposition Chama cha Demokrasia na Maendeleo (the Party for Democracy and Progress, CHADEMA), has spent his political career, which includes a ten-year stint in parliament, fighting for a more accountable polity in sub-Saharan Africa’s fourth most populous country. And it nearly cost him his life. In September 2017, he was shot sixteen times in what is widely seen as an assassination attempt orchestrated by the Magufuli government. But Lissu survived. And three years and more than twenty operations later, he returned to Tanzania from Belgium last year, where he had been seeking medical care, to contest the presidential election held in October. After attracting huge crowds as he toured the country to campaign, he was defeated in a contest marred by intimidation and fraud, handing Magufuli another five years in office and forcing Lissu back into exile. But following the president’s untimely demise, Lissu is plotting his return. Asked whether his plans upon returning to Tanzania are more in line with activism or a re-entry into politics, his response was simple: “Is there a difference?” Removing the Velvet Glove In a previous interview with the Africa Report, Lissu said that while it was “very easy to point an accusing finger at Magufuli,” the former president also had “not changed a single provision of the constitution, and those powers were created by Mwalimu Julius Kambarage Nyerere,” Tanzania’s revered first president. Hence, talk of a return to the status quo ante seemed, at first, insufficient. “Tanzania has always been authoritarian and violent,” Lissu explained. “There is continuity from the colonial to the post-colonial government. Both have lacked accountability and did not care about rights.” “But what Magufuli did is he removed the velvet glove from the iron fist that has always been the Tanzanian state. He turned the security services above and beyond just the opposition.” And, by using the organs of the state to take aim at civil society, musicians, and private citizens, Lissu thinks, counterintuitively, that Magufuli created an opening for more lasting—and positive—political change. “Magufuli squandered his political capital with his ruthlessness. The Magufuli project was over. And then, even before he died, COVID had finished him politically.” And now, after five years of the president’s “reign of terror,” Lissu sees a growing consensus that “the only way to prevent another Magufuli is a new constitutional and political order.” Reforming the Constitution “Tanzania has needed a new constitutional order for a long time,” according to Lissu, “and the introduction of multi-party democracy in 1992 made calls for reform louder, but not many people took reformers seriously.” This was due, in part, to the perception among many Tanzanians and donors that despite the dominance of the ruling Chama cha Mapinduzi (the Party of the Revolution, CCM)—the party has, in one form or another, been in power since independence in 1961—Tanzania had continued to democratize under Magufuli’s predecessors, President Benjamin Mkapa (1995-2005) and President Jakaya Kikwete (2005-2015). After Magufuli, however, “the case for a new constitution is unanswerable.” Lissu believes that even Kikwete, who he accuses of torpedoing the constitutional reform process in 2014, along with the faction within CCM that aligns closely to him would now support a new constitution. Asked what needed to be changed, Lissu answered that, first and foremost, a new Tanzanian constitution should do away with “the imperial presidency put into place by Julius Kambarage Nyerere.” The “presidentialism” enshrined in the constitution should be abolished, Lissu said, as “giving enormous power to one person is dangerous in unstable societies,” as Magufuli so brutally demonstrated. “Do we need a president that has the power to appoint officials all the way down to the district level?” Lissu asked rhetorically. He argued that Tanzania needs to “devolve and decentralize” power closer to where it is exercised, thus helping build “accountability from the bottom.” Asked what a better system of government would look like in Tanzania, Lissu said that Tanzania should opt for a parliamentary democracy in which “parliament is the true center of power and the head of state is answerable every day to parliament.” “The 1961 constitution gave us parliamentary democracy,” Lissu continued, “but it lacked a bill of rights.” Since the bill of rights was incorporated into the constitution in 1984, Lissu argues that “a parliamentary democracy now would be on a different plane than 1961.” Lissu cares little about whether the head of state will retain the title of president. More important, he says, is function. “In South Africa, they have a president, but he can still face a vote of no confidence just like the prime minister in London. Impeachment is impossible politically. We saw that even in the United States with Donald Trump. Impeachment is not a sufficient check on the power of the president.” Beyond abolishing the imperial presidency, Lissu also sees need for a revisiting of the relationship between Zanzibar, the semi-autonomous archipelago that merged with the mainland—then known as Tanganyika—in 1964. “I feel more strongly about the question of Zanzibar than even many Zanzibari nationalists,” Lissu suggested. “The 1964 Zanzibar Revolution was a coup funded, armed, and supported by mainland Tanganyika to overthrow the legitimate government of Zanzibar. The only way to maintain the Union since then has been through violence,” illustrated most recently when at least nine people were shot dead by police in Zanzibar in the run-up to the October elections. Lissu, objecting to CCM’s use of force to control Zanzibar, said he supports Zanzibari calls for independence. “Since 1984,” when changes to the Zanzibar Constitution further extended CCM’s influence over the islands’ politics, “there have been calls for a looser union which have not diminished.” Lissu pointed out that many mainland Tanzanians dismiss these calls outright, on the view that accepting a looser union is merely a halfway point to independence—and he agrees. But “it is up to Zanzibaris to decide whether they want to remain in the union and, if so, under what arrangement.” This publication is part of the Diamonstein-Spielvogel Project on the Future of Democracy.