Political Transitions

Anthony Carroll is founding director of Acorus Capital, a private equity fund investing in Africa, and a vice president of Manchester Trade Limited, an international business advisory firm. He has over forty years of experience working with Africa and is an adjunct professor at Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies. Andrew Mlangeni’s death last week represents something of a passing of the guard for South Africa’s liberation struggle. Andrew was the last living defendant of the 1963 Rivonia trial, which resulted in the sentencing of Andrew and ten others, among them, Ahmed Kathrada, Walter Sisulu, Govan Mbeki and, most famously, Nelson Mandela. In a highly publicized trial, the defendants were found guilty of sedition and conspiracy. The Rivonia trial and the Sharpeville massacre, which occurred three years earlier, were turning points in the world’s view of apartheid South Africa. The images of unarmed protesters being shot in the back and the regal presence of Nelson Mandela in a Pretoria dock shouting “Amandla” were indelible. Andrew and seven co-conspirators were arrested in 1963 at Denis Goldberg’s Lilliesleaf Farm in Rivonia, a suburb of Johannesburg. Goldberg, who died a few weeks ago, was a fellow member of the uMkhonto we Sizwe (UK), the armed wing of the African National Congress (ANC). Denis was arrested along with Rusty Berstein, Bob Hippler, Arthur Goldreich, and later Harold Wolpe. All were members of the Jewish left that supported the ANC by offering legal counsel, modest shelter, and even more modest finances to a movement always on the run.  At the time, the only unknown outcome of the Riovonia trial was whether the key defendants would be sentenced to death. Perhaps due to the international attention of trial, a sympathetic judge, and an all-star defense team, Andrew and his co-defendants were spared the death penalty, but received life sentences. What always struck me about Andrew Mlangeni was his humility and integrity. Unlike Govan Mbeki, Walter Sisulu, and Nelson Mandela, Mlangeni was from the Orange Free State and later moved to Soweto with his widowed mother. Owing to poverty, he dropped out of school to help support his mother by working as a golf caddie, factory worker, and bus driver. He became active in the labor movement, but his frustration with the oppression of apartheid and the horror of Sharpeville caused him to be among the first members of the UK. Andrew was trained in China and later secreted back into South Africa. Two years later, he began a life sentence on Robben Island following the Rivonia verdict.  For over twenty years, Andrew Mlangeni occupied the cell next to Nelson Mandela on Robben Island. Like Mandela, he generally lacked bitterness and was optimistic about the peaceful evolution of a democratic and non-racial South Africa. In 1994, he was elected to serve in South Africa’s first multi-racial parliament and remained an icon of the liberation struggle without ever intending to be so. His autobiography is entitled “Backroom Boy.” About four years ago, I had the opportunity to meet Ahmed Kathrada at the Lilliesleaf Farm at an event honoring the contributions of the Norwegian people to the anti-apartheid struggle. Just months before, Ahmed had openly criticized the administration of Jacob Zuma and the diversion of some ANC leaders from serving the people of South Africa to serving themselves. Andrew also found the courage to speak out against the predatory nature of the Zuma presidency and ANC leadership, who, he said, ”were no longer interested in improving the lives of our people.” It was again the courage of Kathrada and Mlangeni that helped South Africa to bring down a corrupt regime, this time that of Jacob Zuma, and bring to power credible leadership that they had long fought and suffered for.

From the dismal domestic disarray that continues to sicken and kill Americans across the country to the dysfunction at the UN Security Council and brittle fractures in international cooperation, it is easy to get discouraged about the state of the world and America’s place in it. But the future provides an opportunity to rethink tired approaches, reimagine international relationships, and pivot toward a policy agenda that meets the challenges of climate change, democratic erosion, widening inequality and metastasizing violence. That rethink requires a reckoning with the African continent, not as a venue for competition with China or proxy conflict, but as an increasingly consequential force in shaping the future. By 2050, a quarter of the world’s population will be African. The continent’s youthful and growing labor force will stand in stark contrast to the aging populations of other regions, and they will be rightly skeptical of international institutions and agreements that deny the region the same agency and voice that others enjoy. The United States should welcome rather than resist a more assertive Africa, because ultimately we confront global challenges that we cannot address alone. There are new partnerships to be forged on the continent in service of shared interests, but one prerequisite to maximizing the potential of U.S.-Africa relations is a concerted effort to support the transformative transitions currently underway on the continent. The United States cannot afford to be a bystander to these dynamics. Nowhere is this more true than in the greater Horn, where Sudan and Ethiopia are both in the throes of high-stakes, fragile transitions. For decades, Sudan was a force for instability, undermining the region’s norms and institutions. But a stable, inclusive, and democratic Sudan, with its links to the Middle East and the rest of the Sahel, could be a bulwark against a transactional model of international relations that undermines the links between the governing and the governed. That promise will never be realized if the civilians fighting for leverage in its transition cannot deliver the kind of international support needed to ease the shock of structural reform.  In Ethiopia, where the next few years were always going to be messier than some of the rose-tinted analysis suggested early in Prime Minister Abiy’s tenure, the continent's second-largest population is rewriting its national narrative in search of greater political and economic freedoms and a new method of managing its diversity. That project, which could drive growth and promote stability far beyond Ethiopia's borders, cannot succeed if it is entirely personalized. Support for a reform agenda that is inextricably linked to an inclusive politics is an investment that is needed today to yield critical opportunities in the future.  Too often overlooked is Angola, where the transition underway since President Lourenço assumed power after José Eduardo dos Santos’s 38 year tenure has been far less dramatic but no less important. Angola faces formidable headwinds, having built its economy around an oil industry now in decline and its political system around patronage that benefits only a narrow slice of the population. But the will to curb corruption, diversify the economy, and build internal strength to match the external heft that Angola can bring to the region is precious; it should be met with a serious commitment to ensure that the Angolan people see concrete benefits of reform as the long process of structural transformation unfolds. Supporting transitions that bring more stability, prosperity, and justice to the region is a long-term and labor-intensive undertaking. It will require sustained support from Congress (which fortunately has demonstrated leadership on some of these issues), energized and consistent high-level diplomacy, and thoughtful coordination with other actors interested in the region’s future, particularly other lenders, who are essential to ensuring that debt burdens do not strangle critical reform efforts. It will also require innovation and a concerted effort to engage a broad range of voices and perspectives. The United States must heighten its sensitivity to the aspirations and concerns of young Africans, not just political elites, in order to genuinely understand where interests are shared and where they diverge, and to improve our understanding of what sustainable stability requires.

The startling death of Burundian President Pierre Nkurunziza earlier this week raises new questions about the future direction of his country. Nkurunziza’s legacy is not a happy one. After taking office in 2005, and particularly when he insisted on running for a third term in 2015, he isolated his country, violently silenced his critics, and repeatedly used fear and intimidation as governing strategies, touching off violence that led hundreds of thousands to flee the country. While many observers were surprised when he chose not to run for a fourth term this year, most expected that he would continue to wield power from retirement, limiting the autonomy of his hand-picked successor, Evariste Ndayishimiye, who handily won the election in May. Despite the turmoil associated with his tenure in office, Nkurunziza’s death will be a source of alarm for many. Conflict-weary Burundians will not relish the prospect of a power struggle among those seeking to fill the vacuum he left.  His sudden demise, reportedly due to a heart attack, may also prove fodder for conspiratorial thinking that can be poisonously weaponized by those seeking power at any price. The overall lack of transparency in Nkurunziza’s Burundi has heightened this risk.  Take the widespread conjecture around his wife’s health as one example. The first lady was hospitalized in Kenya when her husband died, and many reports suggested that she was suffering from COVID-19 (several suggest that this was the real cause of her husband’s death, as well).  Burundian authorities deny this was the case, but in a country where the official policy has been to suggest they enjoy divine protection from the virus, skepticism abounds. Nkurunziza believed that he faced enemies within his borders and beyond them (relations with neighboring Rwanda are particularly tense), and given the limited credibility of official statements, his surprising death provides space for alarming speculation. But it is also possible that this week’s developments will create new opportunities for a less repressive future.  While powerful military factions will not offer total freedom to any new leadership, the absence of the “supreme guide”  hovering over the shoulder of President-elect Ndayishimiye could allow for a shift in direction. Consensus might be built to ease the country’s isolation as a means of stimulating the economy and easing the desperate poverty of many Burundians.  Political skill will be essential to finding a way forward, but provided he is sworn in as planned in August, Ndayishimiye may find his presidency more consequential than originally planned.

Neil Edwards is an intern for the Atlantic Council's Africa Center in Washington, DC. He is a master's candidate at the School of International Service at American University. This April marks the twenty-six-year anniversary of the Rwandan genocide and twenty years since Paul Kagame took the reins as president. For much of that time, Kagame imposed limits on the political process, democratic debate, and opposition figures. He justified these limits by saying that the country was too fragile, the wounds too fresh, and the competitive aspects of democracy too divisive for a country emerging out of a genocide. Many Rwandans, and much of the world, accepted that logic, including the United States, which was likely constrained by its failure to act during the genocide and also its decision to block the United Nations from doing so. But when does that grace period end? Although the wounds of the genocide still persist, Rwanda is young: two-thirds of the country are under the age of thirty. In other words, a vast majority of the nation was born after or were infants during the genocide. While most of this generation does not have memories of the atrocities and certainly, none were perpetrators, they still must endure the strict policies of the Kagame regime. Rwanda’s institutions are staunchly loyal to President Kagame. Members of parliament—63 percent of whom are women, three times the world average—are necessarily loyal to the ruling Rwandan Patriotic Front party, rather than to the constituents who elected them. The judiciary is not independent and has aided the regime’s political imperative by filing spurious charges, jailing, and in some cases carrying out extrajudicial executions. The military, which patrols the country and is accused of unlawfully detaining and torturing people in military camps, often targets those with dissenting opinions. These institutions have enacted and helped enforce limitations on freedoms and expressions. Fierce critics of the Kagame regime, many of whom were initially Kagame’s allies, have all faced spurious charges, extended jail time, and even death. In 2017, prior to the presidential election, Diane Rwigara, a female candidate, was arrested alongside her family for tax evasion and inciting an insurrection. She spent over a year in prison. Similarly, Victoire Ingabire Umuhoza, a female presidential candidate in the 2010 election, was arrested and served eight years of a fifteen-year sentence on charges of terrorism and threatening national security. These charges are also widely understood to have been ginned-up for political purposes. In February 2020, Kizito Mihigo, a popular gospel singer was found dead in his prison cell. Kigali police claim that he hanged himself, although critics believe he was murdered. Mihigo had released a music video in 2014 that challenged the official government narrative of the genocide, which led to his arrest. The stories of Rwigara, Umuhoza, and Mihigo are merely the most high profile examples of the fact that the country is not healing; rather, there is increasing impatience with the constraints on democracy. Instead of seeing the Kagame administration’s oppressive approach to opposition as a mark of strength, young Rwandans may increasingly see this as a sign of political fragility. Kagame presents himself as an indispensable ally of the United States—crucial for the security of the Great Lakes. But what happens when Kagame steps down, as he promises to do in 2024, or at a later date? His departure will likely leave a gaping power vacuum. Hence, institutions must be strengthened and reformed to prepare the country for his eventual departure. Kagame has not groomed a successor and Rwanda’s popular political elites have been systemically sidelined via exile, targeted assassinations, or jail. So, who will be the future leaders of Rwanda? It is time for inclusive institutional reforms to promote civil society and encourage the younger generation to voice their visions for the future. With support from the Rwandan government, this would result in the natural, non-threatening emergence of political parties and a new wave of candidates running for the office of the presidency. This would also engage and unite the country in selecting the next president—assisting Rwanda in its long-held goal of fostering social cohesion in the process. If these institutional reforms are not adopted, Rwanda may face the same fate of Zimbabwe, where, despite a 2017 military coup, the subsequent death of Robert Mugabe, and the transition of power to President Emmerson Mnangagwa, the institutional legacies of repression live on. The United States and other friends of Rwanda should set a clear and unified policy that encourages the Rwandan government to adopt inclusive institutions and permit the growth of civil society in order to prepare it for life after Kagame. This would promote the enduring stability and security of Rwanda and the Great Lakes region. 

Thirty years after South African President F.W. de Klerk ordered his release from Cape Town’s Victor Vorster Prison, Nelson Mandela’s reputation as a genuine hero of the twentieth century holds up. With de Klerk and others, Mandela led the successful transition from apartheid to non-racial democracy, forestalling the race war that many thought was inevitable. Nelson Mandela’s outreach to the privileged white minority preserved South Africa’s modern economy, unlike in Zimbabwe where liberation movements expelled or made settlers unwelcome and the economy collapsed. His unswerving commitment to democracy and the rule of law grounds South Africa’s constitution, which is regarded as among the world’s best in terms of protecting human rights. Nelson Mandela faced criticism from Robert Mugabe, the deceased Zimbabwe tyrant, and many others. That criticism was and still is, essentially, that Mandela conceded too much when he agreed to continued control of the economy by whites and that he did not follow a policy of redistribution of white wealth to the black majority. These criticisms are ahistorical. The transition was a negotiated settlement between the liberation forces of which his African National Congress was the most important. The apartheid-era National Party maintained control of the state and its security apparatus. In other words, the end of apartheid did not represent the liberation movements’ defeat of the National Party. Without the compromises Mandela made, a peaceful transition would have been unlikely and the prospect of a race war and economic collapse would have increased. Today, South Africa faces slow rates of economic growth, the persistence of poverty, especially among the black majority, and poor governance exemplified by the Jacob Zuma administration. Despite these challenges, the institutions established by the constitution enables South Africa to persevere, because it provides a framework for addressing the challenges that persist. 

Alexander H. Noyes is a political scientist at the nonprofit, nonpartisan RAND Corporation. After thirty-seven years in power, President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe was toppled via a military coup in November 2017. His successor and former vice president, Emmerson Mnangagwa, promised a break from Mugabe’s authoritarian rule and economic mismanagement, declaring a “new Zimbabwe” that is “open for business.” After two years in power, to what extent has Mnangagwa delivered on his promises? In short, it’s bleak.   In a RAND study published this week—based on interviews I conducted in Harare, Zimbabwe, with politicians across the political spectrum—I systematically assess Zimbabwe’s political and economic reform efforts that Mnangagwa has been touting over the past two years. I found very little genuine progress, along with an uptick in repression and a rapidly declining economy that is near collapse.   On the political front, reform promises are severely lagging. The report assesses five main reform areas, including elections, legislation, the security sector, judiciary, and repression. The research revealed very few tangible steps toward reconfiguring Zimbabwe’s autocratic system. Repression has increased and the military is ascendant.    Despite some progress in certain areas, Mnangagwa’s economic reform efforts are either incomplete or falling short across a variety of sectors. A new currency regime has been hit by runaway inflation, corruption continues unabated, land reform is incomplete, the mining sector is increasingly militarized, and the privatization of state assets has been fraught with false starts. Rampant political interference and intraparty splits underlie the country’s stunted progress. As an adviser to Mnangagwa put it: “Politics dictates and distorts economics” in Zimbabwe.   Although Mnangagwa has repeatedly deployed flowery reform rhetoric, his administration’s piecemeal actions belie any movement toward genuine political or economic reform. There is a wide gap between the government’s reform rhetoric and the reality on the ground. The government’s well-rehearsed slogans appear to be largely political theater targeted at the international diplomatic community and potential investors. Even where limited progress has been made, such steps appear to be largely cosmetic. A serving member of parliament characterized Mnangagwa’s political reform efforts as putting “mascara on a frog.”   With the old guard and the military still firmly in power—and both benefiting from their perches atop the highly cartelized-and patronage-based economy—genuine reform is unlikely in the next one to three years under present conditions in Zimbabwe. The country is likely to continue down a path of political polarization, protests, political violence at the hands of the state, and economic deterioration.   Zimbabwe has tremendous potential, with rich natural resources and one of the most educated populations in Africa. How can the United States and international actors help arrest this downward spiral and support Zimbabwe’s recovery? Although Zimbabwe does not have much strategic value to the United States, America is the largest bilateral donor to Zimbabwe and holds some leverage.   Politics and economics are inextricably linked in Zimbabwe and the country will be unable to recover unless the two sectors are addressed in tandem. To help the country recover from years of mismanagement, corruption, and state violence, international actors—including the United States—would be wise to push the government in a coordinated fashion to implement genuine political, economic, and security reforms.   Genuine reforms would go a long way toward putting Zimbabwe on a democratic path, lessening high levels of political polarization, and repairing the collapsing economy. A good starting point would be pushing the government to respect its own constitution, allow for peaceful protest, fully repeal repressive laws, and hold security forces accountable for human rights abuses and the killing of unarmed civilians. International democracy and governance assistance should be increased, with a particular focus on professionalizing political parties. A cooling-off period of one to five years before military officials can join politics would also help to disincentivize more coups and security sector involvement in political processes.   The international community should also proceed with extreme caution on economic support for the government, withholding support for debt relief or any new lending until clear and unambiguous progress has been made on reforms and respect for human rights.   Mnangagwa is attempting to have his cake and eat it too, paying lip service to reforms in the hope of securing international support but staunchly refusing to implement any measures that might harm his and his closest supporters’ political and economic interests. 

This week’s remarkable court ruling in Malawi, which annulled the 2019 presidential election and called for new polling, may hold important lessons for other societies experiencing declining trust in their leaders and political processes. Last May, the Malawi Election Commission declared that incumbent President Peter Mutharika had won another term, bringing in 38.6% of the vote, followed by 35% for Lazarus Chakwera and 20% for Mutharika’s estranged former vice president, Saulos Chilima. But on Monday, a five-judge panel unanimously ruled that the integrity of the May 2019 election result was “seriously compromised,” placed blame squarely on the shoulders of the Malawi Election Commission, and determined that the announced result “cannot be trusted as a true reflection of the will of the voters.” Unquestionably, Malawi’s judiciary deserves admiration and respect for its independence and professionalism, even in the face of attempts to sway judges with bribes. But the people of Malawi, one of the poorest countries in the world, are a real source of inspiration as well. Popular concern about their democracy was not a partisan affair; according to an Afrobarometer survey conducted late in 2019, 73% of Malawians assessed that the quality of their national elections had declined—and that number even included over half of those aligned with President Mutharika’s party. Only 40% of Malawians believed that the Malawi Electoral Commission is a neutral institution guided only by law, whereas 68% believed in the neutrality of the courts. The highly-anticipated judicial decision came on the heels of months of popular protests, many focused on rejecting dodgy electoral results, but others aimed at demanding more respect for human rights from the police force, an end to corruption in government, and better service delivery from government. When the primary institutional mechanism intended to let people hold their government accountable—the electoral process—failed them, Malawians did not retreat into cynicism or decide that democratic governance had no value. Nor did they conclude that since the international community, shamefully, was fully prepared to accept dodgy election results, they might as well do the same. Instead, they organized and kept demanding changes.   The path forward remains difficult. President Mutharika has indicated that he intends to appeal the decision. New elections will be costly to organize, and there is no guarantee of a more competent, professional, and independent electoral commission next time around. The court’s ruling also introduced a degree of confusion as to whether a majority or a plurality of votes will be required to secure victory in future polls. Past embarrassments have proved insufficient to motivate international election observation missions to change their ways, particularly in the SADC region, where accommodating elites has become an ingrained habit. But the people of Malawi’s belief that government should be accountable to them, that their laws should apply to even the most powerful citizens, and that they have the capacity and responsibility to demand better in the future, is a hopeful sign for democracy in a dark time.

The year ahead for Zimbabwe is looking grim. The vast majority of its people will continue to suffer, and its leaders will continue to blame others for their own failures. Friends of Zimbabwe in the United States had hoped that the end of the Mugabe era and the glaring unsustainability of the country’s economic governance model—which has resulted in a shrinking economy and one of the world’s highest inflation rates—would trigger meaningful reforms that could attract international support. As 2020 begins, those hopes have been thoroughly extinguished by President Mnangagwa and his ruling ZANU-PF party, who have established a record of violently intimidating political opponents, protecting corrupt command economy schemes that benefit elites, and disregarding the country’s own constitution. Nearly 8 million Zimbabweans, roughly half of the population, are food-insecure, as years of drought have devastated the country's agriculture. Zimbabwe’s plight is one of many painful testaments to the consequences of climate change in a region that contributed very little to the problem. But the effects of the drought are so severe because the country is in such a vulnerable and weakened state, the result of decades of self-serving leadership. Some suggest that the dire conditions in the country could prompt another party-managed leadership transition. But changing faces at the top of a structure that offers economic opportunity only to the well-connected few cannot bring relief to the country. Only a genuine commitment to a different kind of governance, one that prioritizes citizens’ needs and the rule of law, can lift Zimbabwe out of the painful rut in which it is mired. Zimbabwe’s neighbors in southern Africa have shown little appetite for wading into the country’s toxic politics, but the drag that Zimbabwe’s crisis has on regional growth cannot be completely ignored. Thus former South African President Thabo Mbeki has begun talks with government and opposition leaders in a regionally-backed attempt to find a political framework for the country’s recovery. While few expect miraculous results, it is important to remember that Zimbabwe’s situation is not, and has never been, hopeless.  Many people are simply struggling for survival, but others, like participants in the Citizen’s Manifesto movement, continue organizing to articulate a way forward for the country. Brave lawyers, journalists, community organizers, and others continue to defy intimidation in exposing government corruption and incompetence and insisting on justice. Of course, a robust and expeditious international response to the country's urgent humanitarian needs is essential. But it will be equally important to elevate the voices of Zimbabwean civil society in the difficult year ahead to stave off resignation and find a way out of the crisis. 

Adam Valavanis is a former intern with the Africa Program at the Council on Foreign Relations. He received a master’s degree in conflict studies from the London School of Economics and Political Science. The Gambia has found itself on the brink of a new political crisis, just three years after the dramatic fall of longtime strongman Yahya Jammeh. Last Month, protestors filled the streets of the capital Banjul, demanding President Adama Barrow’s resignation. Barrow originally agreed to stay in power as a transitional authority for three years, stepping down on January 19, 2020. But earlier this year, Barrow began to lay the groundwork for extending his tenure in office. In late December, Barrow formed a new political party, the National Peoples Party, which would allow him to contest next year's presidential election.  Barrow came to power in January 2017, after a surprise victory over Jammeh at the ballot box. Jammeh, stunned by his loss, initially refused to concede to Barrow, forcing the Economic Community of West African States to intervene on Barrow's behalf. Jammeh then fled to Equatorial Guinea, where he resides today. Betrayed by his refusal to honor their agreement, the coalition of parties that supported him in the 2016 election has begun to turn their backs on Barrow. His team has made it clear that he will remain in office until the 2021 elections. They argue that the agreement in 2016 has no legal basis and since he won the election, he is entitled to serve his full term. Barrow's time in office has been a mixed bag. His greatest achievement has been the Truth, Reconciliation, and Reparations Commission (TRRC), launched in 2018. Since its formation, the TRRC has uncovered many of the abuses of the Jammeh regime, having heard from some of the country's most notorious hitmen. Many observers welcomed the TRRC, viewing it as the start of a new chapter in the country’s political history. The commission is expected to release its final recommendations this year. While the TRRC has proven wildly popular in the country, issues such as corruption and economic stagnation persist. Barrow had promised to create jobs and repeal Jammeh-era laws during the 2016 campaign, but very little progress has been made to that end. Some Gambians feel disillusioned under the Barrow regime, seeing it as more of the same.  Barrow's broken promises, particularly his decision to renege on his promise to serve just three years and the potential that he seeks reelection in 2021, have stalled efforts to restore public trust in the government. His self-interest is doing long-term harm to consolidating democratic gains in a country long troubled by authoritarianism. Compounding this unease, there has been recent reporting that Jammeh is seeking reentry into the country following his three-year exile.

Every four years, U.S. presidential candidates compete in a series of state contests to gain their party’s nomination. The political process is one of the most complex and expensive in the world.

Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed’s ambitious reform plans for Ethiopia will be tested in the year ahead. Since taking the helm of government in April 2018, Abiy has been a whirlwind of activity, opening up political space and economic possibilities in his country. But Ethiopia’s complexity, and the way the lessons of its history have been framed, present real challenges to Abiy’s audacious overhaul and his stated goals of bringing more unity to the state, more dynamism and opportunity to its economy, and more justice to its people. Abiy has stressed the importance of unity to Ethiopian politics. His new Prosperity Party represents a fundamental change from the ethnic federalist model that has dictated how politics have been organized in recent decades and has been regularly presented as the solution to the restiveness that plagued the country in earlier eras. In practice, this change not only threatens the interests of those who benefited from the old system; it changes the nature of the Ethiopian national project. In turbulent times it may well be a tougher sell than ethno-nationalism, which can be stoked at will by the prime minister’s opponents. Delivering on his economic promises will be critical to maintaining support, but this too is not an easy task. Opening up to more foreign investment and more competition makes sense, but it comes with risks and painful transitions. It may not be possible to maintain growth at the projected, optimistic levels in the year ahead, and while international support is on the table, it will take even more significant and clearheaded support from abroad to ease the way toward sustainable prosperity. Finally there is the issue of security. For now, dismantling the machinery of repression has meant weakening the state’s ability to maintain order. While the internal displacement crisis of 2019 has abated in large measure, the perils of disorder loom over plans for some 50 million Ethiopians to cast their ballots in May’s general elections. Abiy is encouraging Ethiopians to revise their idea of what the state represents, but he has to ensure that providing security is a bedrock, dependable element of his work in progress. 

2019 brought spectacular change to Sudan. It’s hard to overstate the astonishing distance the country has traveled over the past year. Recent headlines feature reports of truly unfettered humanitarian access, the conviction of former President Omar al-Bashir on corruption charges, and concrete steps on the part of the state to promote religious tolerance. While Bashir must answer for many more crimes, all of these developments would have seemed the stuff of fantasy not long ago. The courage of the Sudanese people, and their capacity to envision a different future for themselves, are genuinely inspiring. But the challenges ahead are vast, and next year may feature fewer celebrated gains and more murky choices. It will take persistence, focus, and good judgement on the part of reformers and their champions in the international community to make irreversible progress in 2020. The transitional plan, laid out for Sudan by the uneasy coalition of security forces and civilian agents of change, envisions an end to the many conflicts on Sudan’s periphery as a precondition for political progress and real democratic accountability. That formula is both understandable—premature elections in a country at war with itself can exacerbate instability—and perilous, as it creates endless opportunities for spoilers to derail the country’s progress, whether they are self-starters or are encouraged to do so by security elites seeking a rationale to retain power. These armed groups have long resisted a truly odious state, but that does not mean they are particularly virtuous or visionary. Good faith peace talks make sense, but careful judgement will be needed to assess progress. At the same time, the goodwill enjoyed by transitional authorities will dissipate if they cannot deliver concrete economic improvements. But untangling the corrupt networks that have siphoned off so many of Sudan’s riches for so long and distorted the economy so grotesquely will be a long slog. Necessary reforms need to be cushioned by international support to avoid straining the population to the breaking point. A sense of urgency is necessary, particularly in Washington, to normalize Sudan’s standing with international financial institutions and to find creative bridging mechanisms in the meantime. An exchange of ambassadors is a welcome and necessary step, but only a preliminary one. Intense, sustained interagency work and close collaboration with Congress, where there are several thoughtful advocates for a reformed Sudan, will be required in the year ahead.

Burkina Faso is in trouble. The shocking ambush of a Canadian mining company’s convoy earlier this month was part of a relentless series of deadly attacks perpetrated both by terrorist organizations and by domestic criminal groups that has claimed hundreds of lives, forced nearly half a million people from their homes, and gravely shaken domestic and international confidence in the country’s security services. But it was not so long ago that Burkina Faso was inspiring champions of democracy and setting an example for civil society movements around the world. Fed up with 27 years of Blaise Compaoré’s corrupt presidency, and angered by his attempt to extend it, in 2014 citizens rose up in an extraordinary movement to insist on a change not just in leadership, but in the way that the country was governed. Balai Citoyen (Citizens’ Broom) did not just want Compaoré to step down. They called for an urgent focus on addressing poverty, creating opportunity for young Burkinabe, and building more resilient and unbiased state systems of accountability. So how did the situation turn from one full of hope for positive change to today’s atmosphere of crisis? Many African leaders argue that the messy fallout from the West’s 2011 Libya intervention is to blame for the crisis in Burkina Faso, and indeed Libya’s instability has been devastating to security across the Sahel. It is also true that Compaoré often preferred to make accommodations with violent movements terrorizing neighboring states rather than oppose them. But Burkina’s insecurity today is also a direct result of the rot at the core of state institutions that was enabled by Compaoré’s style of rule. For years, opposition was demonized and state security was personalized, with funding and support funneled to those closest to the strongman at the top. When that system, which had become increasingly unstable over time, toppled, the fallout entailed the fragmentation of intelligence capacities, tension and underperformance among defense forces, and ongoing mistrust among security elites. As the international community debates how best to help stabilize Burkina Faso, policymakers should also reflect on the toxic legacy of the Compaoré era. Turning a blind eye to autocrats who can keep a lid on violence (at least the kind that is not state-sanctioned) is deeply shortsighted, because no one leader’s self-serving system lasts forever. The security sector reforms required after decades of such a system are painful and slow, and building trust and communication among those left to pick up the pieces can be equally difficult. These weaknesses are easy for terrorists and criminals to exploit, and the violence can make it even harder to get governance reforms and service delivery right. Disorder and insecurity are surely the enemies of the kinds of changes the people of Burkina Faso had hoped for. But it was the old way of maintaining order that has made this problem so hard to solve.

Election fraud allegations have prompted President Evo Morales to resign with no clear successor, plunging Bolivia into political uncertainty.

Despite some important progress toward a transitional framework for Sudan—on July 5, the civilian-led forces of the Freedom and Change coalition and the Transitional Military Council signed a deal on the structure for a three-year preelection period—the country’s future remains deeply uncertain. Last week’s reported coup attempt, however dubious, is a reminder of how spoilers, real or imagined, can become a pretext for tightening the grip that the military, and particularly the brutal Rapid Support Forces, have on the country, suffocating the possibility of democratic change.  The international community must remember that it was an economic crisis that was at the heart of former President Bashir’s ouster. Elites in the security services, aware of the $50 billion-plus debt burden and the absence of deep-pocketed rescuers willing to bet on Bashir, recognized that their interests could not be served by the status quo, and so, at least for a moment, found common cause with the brave Sudanese citizens who had taken to the streets. Those same elites should be reminded that economic lifelines will be linked to real transition milestones going forward. They need reasons not to stall progress, as well as reasons to isolate and abandon those who would. The United States should not rely on Gulf States to send this message, or on Gulf money to incentivize democratic progress. We may share an interest in a stable Sudan, but the degree of repression we will tolerate in exchange is not the same, or at least it shouldn’t be. Lasting stability and growth in Sudan requires structural reform and a response to popular demands for a new basis of political legitimacy. As the transitional timeline takes shape, the United States should be prepared to commit real resources toward compelling progress and fidelity to commitments agreed upon by all parties, and it should rally others to do the same.