October 29, 2025. The flames licking at a police vehicle on Dar es Salaam’s Nelson Mandela Road did more than just consume metal and rubber. They consumed the last vestiges of hope for a democratic transition in Tanzania. Black smoke billowed into the afternoon sky as hundreds of young Tanzanians chanted one phrase: “We want our country back.” A gas station soon erupted, its destruction no accident. Polling stations were vandalized, campaign posters of President Samia Suluhu Hassan ripped to shreds and thrown into fires. The commercial capital was unraveling, and it was only 3:00 p.m.
By 6:00 p.m., a curfew would be declared. By 7:00 p.m., the internet would go dark nationwide. Tomorrow, military boots would appear on streets everywhere, places they hadn’t been seen in decades. International flights would be canceled, the US embassy would order its personnel to shelter in place. And then would come the gunfire.
Two days later, no one could agree on how many people were dead. The United Nations said at least 10. Amnesty International counted at least 100. The main opposition party, Chadema, claimed approximately 700, with about 350 in Dar es Salaam alone, over 200 in Mwanza. Diplomatic sources, speaking off the record, said they could verify dozens. Meanwhile, the Tanzanian government remained silent. No official casualty figures, no statements addressing the violence, just provisional election results scrolling across state television: Hassan winning by commanding margins.
Ten deaths or 700? That’s not a margin of error. That is a 70-fold gap. That is two different realities, two different countries, two completely incompatible versions of what just happened. And in that gap, in that space between 10 and 700, between what the government claims and what the opposition alleges, between what international observers can verify and what witnesses on the ground are saying, you can see the entire crisis unraveling before your very eyes.
But how did we get here? How did a woman once praised as a reformer preside over one of the most systematic eliminations of democracy in modern African history?
In this post, I want to examine what is really behind the revolution sweeping through Tanzania right now. The questions are many: Why are the people protesting? Who is behind this revolution? What are their demands? Who is Samia Suluhu Hassan, and why do Tanzanians want her out? Is she really a dictator? Who were the victims of her purge, and how is she responding to all this protest? Most importantly, who benefits if her government falls? This is the story of Tanzania and her continuous struggle for freedom.
Where is Tanzania on the Map?
Tanzania, with its 67 million people, is East Africa’s second-largest economy. A country that survived the Cold War without civil war, it built the Uhuru Railway when Western powers refused to help. It hosted Nelson Mandela during his exile. A nation known across the continent for stability and peace. But at the center of this stability for 64 uninterrupted years is Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM), the party of the revolution. CCM has ruled Tanzania since independence in 1961, making it one of Africa’s longest-ruling parties. For two generations, CCM was Tanzania, and Tanzania was CCM.
But then in 2021, something changed.
The Reformer’s Retreat: From “Mama Samia” to Hardliner
It is March 19, 2021. Samia Suluhu Hassan has been sworn in as Tanzania’s sixth president. She is crying, her voice breaking as she takes the oath of office. Her predecessor, John Magufuli, died suddenly two days ago—complications, the government says, though there are whispers no one dares say out loud that it was COVID, the disease Magufuli spent his final years denying existed.
Hassan is 61, a former clerk, a mother of four, a woman who worked her way up through education and persistence in a system that didn’t always make space for women like her. And now she’s Tanzania’s first female president. In her address to the nation, she promises something different: “Four Rs,” she calls them – Reconciliation, Resilience, Reforms, Rebuilding. And at first, she delivers.
In July 2021, COVID vaccines start arriving. Magufuli had banned even mentioning the pandemic; Hassan soon joins COVAX and begins distribution. Media bans are lifted, outlets that had been silenced for years broadcast again. Political prisoners are released. Then, in January 2023, the six-year ban on political rallies is lifted. Opposition parties can now hold public gatherings for the first time since 2016.
International observers celebrate. Western diplomats praise her pragmatism. Development partners increase engagement. Hassan’s soft-spoken style, her emphasis on dialogue, her collaborative approach—it all suggests Tanzania is emerging from Magufuli’s shadow into something more open, more democratic. “Mama Samia,” they start calling her, a term of respect, of hope.
But watch what happens next.
By mid-2023, something begins to shift. She brings back Magufuli-era hardliners to her government. Cabinet reshuffle, then another, then another—four times in 2024 alone, a frantic pace that suggests either internal power struggles or a deliberate purging of anyone who took the reform rhetoric seriously. In August 2024, she dismisses ministers who had advocated for greater political openness. She appoints Paul Makonda to a prominent position, a man the US State Department has sanctioned for documented human rights violations. The democratic opening is narrowing, then closing, then slamming shut entirely. By October 2025, the hope that first greeted her had curdled into something else entirely.
The Fixed Election: An Opposition Decapitated
October 29, 2025. It is morning. Polling stations are opening. Hassan is facing 16 candidates. Their names are on the ballot, their faces on posters in some neighborhoods. But the truth is, none of these guys are household names. None have substantial campaign infrastructure. None have the resources or recognition to mount a serious challenge. By multiple accounts, they barely campaigned at all.
Meanwhile, something is strangely missing from this ballot. Someone is missing. Where was Chadema, the Party for Democracy and Progress—Tanzania’s main opposition party, the political force that won 40% in the 2015 presidential election, the organization that has spent three decades building grassroots support across the country?
They were disqualified on April 12, 2025. Officially barred from participating in the election for “refusing to sign an electoral code of conduct” the party deemed fundamentally rigged.
This is Tundu Lissu, Chadema’s charismatic chairman, a lawyer and former Member of Parliament. In 2017, he was shot 16 times in a failed assassination attempt outside his home in Dodoma. He would later spend years in Belgian exile before returning to lead Tanzania’s pro-democracy movement. He was one of the characters the people looked forward to seeing on the ballot. However, on April 9, 2025, Lissu was arrested and sent to prison, charged with high treason, a capital offense carrying a possible death penalty, for giving speeches calling for electoral reforms. Over 200 international lawyers assembled for his defense, recognizing immediately the political nature of his prosecution.
But Lissu is not alone on the strange absentee list. Zitto Kabwe, the ACT Wazalendo party candidate, a former CCM minister who had defected in August 2025 after publicly criticizing President Hassan’s government, stands disqualified twice. First on August 26 for allegedly not meeting party membership requirements. Then, when Tanzania’s High Court overturned that disqualification on September 11, ruling it unconstitutional, the electoral commission simply disqualified him again on September 15 for procedural irregularities.
The election that was meant to be Samia Suluhu Hassan’s first since inheriting the presidency has taken a controversial turn where it appears she’s choosing her opponents and getting rid of those she doesn’t want to run against.
Freedom House, the international organization that tracks democratic freedoms worldwide, downgraded Tanzania from “Partly Free” to “Not Free” in 2024. Ironically, this downgrade didn’t happen under Magufuli, the president widely criticized as authoritarian. It happened under Hassan, a woman praised as a reformer. Tanzania joined a grim category: nations where elections are held but citizens are not free.
The question formed in the minds of observers, journalists, and ordinary Tanzanians: “How did a woman once celebrated as Tanzania’s first female president, as a symbol of democratic possibility, preside over this systematic dismantling of political competition?” The answer lies in what happened in the months before October 29—in the pattern of disappearances, torture, and elimination that created what activists would call a wave of terror.
The Wave of Terror: A Timeline of Disappearances and Eliminations
To understand why Tanzanians believe Samia Suluhu Hassan systematically eliminated her opponents from the race, you need to observe the timeline of these events leading up to the election. These events didn’t happen in isolation; they built systematically toward October 29.
First, on April 9, 2025, Tundu Lissu stood before supporters at a rally in Bonga, advocating for “No Reforms, No Elections.” This was his campaign. His message was straightforward: without fundamental changes to electoral laws, without an independent electoral commission, without constitutional reforms limiting executive power, any election would be illegitimate. That evening, the police arrested him. He was soon charged with high treason and three counts of publishing false information under the Cybercrimes Act. A speech at a rally—meant to be criticism of the government or advocacy for institutional reform, especially since Tanzania is a democracy—was now considered an offense against the state.
Three days after Lissu’s arrest, electoral authorities officially disqualified Chadema from participating in elections. The stated reason was that the party refused to sign an electoral code of conduct. The actual reason was that the party’s leadership recognized that code as designed to constrain opposition while giving the ruling party unlimited operational freedom.
Then the disappearances accelerated. On July 26, 2024, Don Gipana, a Chadema youth activist, disappeared after police arrest. His family filed reports, his colleagues organized searches, but his whereabouts remain unknown. August 18, 2024, John Kito, Chadema’s youth leader, vanished while planning demonstrations. The same day, Jacob Godwin, Chadema’s secretary, was abducted. Both remain missing.
But one case would break through the wall of silence. It would become impossible for even Tanzania’s censored media to ignore. On September 6, 2024, Ali Muhammad Kibo, a 69-year-old senior Chadema member and former military intelligence officer, boarded a bus traveling from Dar es Salaam to Tanga. Witnesses reported that armed men in white Land Cruisers—vehicles matching those used by Tanzanian police—suddenly surrounded the bus at a checkpoint. They dragged Kibo off in front of dozens of passengers who could do nothing but watch.
On September 7, 2024, his body was found in Uswahilini, a district of Dar es Salaam. The post-mortem examination documented severe beatings, torture, and acid burns on his face. The acid was allegedly poured on him while still alive, making identification deliberately difficult. The brutality wasn’t incidental. This seemed like a message. President Hassan publicly ordered an investigation. The US Embassy called for an independent, transparent investigation, noting that “murder and disappearances of this kind should have no place in a democracy.” International human rights organizations demanded accountability. However, no arrests have been made, no findings published, no accountability delivered.
The pattern was unmistakable. The United Nations Working Group on Enforced or Involuntary Disappearances documented over 200 cases since 2019, with a sharp acceleration under Hassan’s presidency. The Tanganyika Law Society confirmed 83 disappearances since Hassan took office in 2021. The Legal and Human Rights Centre tallied approximately 100 cases between 2015 and February 2025. Armed men, unmarked vehicles, opposition figures targeted—youth activists, party officials, critics of government policy—all vanishing into a system where courts ruled detention unlawful but no one faced consequences. Where investigation was promised but never delivered. In the 25 days before October 29, Chadema documented 52 abductions.
But the purge didn’t stop with opposition members. It crossed a line that shocked even those familiar with CCM’s methods. On October 6, 2025, Humphrey Pole Pole disappeared from his home in Ununio, Dar es Salaam. Pole Pole wasn’t an opposition leader. He was a former CCM stalwart, former ambassador to Cuba and Malawi, former secretary for ideology, propaganda, and training within the ruling party. A man who had dedicated decades to CCM service. In July 2025, Pole Pole had resigned from his ambassadorship and published a statement criticizing Hassan’s government for “placing individual interests ahead of institutional integrity.” He reportedly spoke of corruption, of democratic backsliding, of principles betrayed. When family members entered his residence on October 6, they found broken doors, electrical wires cut, and large amounts of blood throughout the house. Pole Pole was gone. His sister Christina had been abducted three months earlier on July 17, beaten and questioned about Humphrey’s whereabouts—a warning he apparently didn’t heed. The family filed a Habeas Corpus petition. On October 24, Tanzania’s High Court dismissed it, stating there was no evidence the government was responsible. Amnesty International expressed being “deeply alarmed” that Humphrey might have been forcibly disappeared and possibly assaulted. His current status remains unclear. There are conflicting reports suggesting he may be dead, but no body has been recovered. No official statement issued either.
The Humphrey Pole Pole case sent a message more chilling than any opposition disappearances: even sincere CCM members weren’t safe. Even decades of party loyalty offered no protection. Dissent from any quarter would be met with violence.
And then came August 11-12, 2024. Authorities arrested over 500 Chadema supporters in Mbeya ahead of International Youth Day celebrations. An additional 107 arrests occurred in Iringa the same day. The celebrations never happened. September 23, 2024, police arrested approximately 60 people in Dar es Salaam ahead of protests against the disappearances. The protest had been banned. The arrests preempted any demonstration.
The pattern was systematic: identify potential resistance, eliminate it before it materializes, use state violence to create a climate of fear so comprehensive that ordinary citizens practice self-censorship, not because they are told to, but because they have internalized the cost of speaking.
By October 29, 2025, when voting began, Tanzania’s opposition had been decapitated: leaders jailed or missing, grassroots organizers disappeared, party structures banned, youth movements infiltrated and arrested, media censored. This seemed like a fixed election even before the first vote was cast. When the morning of the voting arrived with muted anticipation, some already knew what was going to happen.
Polling stations opened across Tanzania. Hassan faced only token opposition—those 16 candidates from minor parties, none with resources or recognition to mount a serious challenge. Early reports indicated low turnout, particularly among youth. Many young Tanzanians simply stayed home, recognizing the futility of voting in elections without real choice. Others cast ballots while expressing skepticism their vote meant anything.
Then in the afternoon, the streets of Dar es Salaam ignited.
The Uprising and the Crackdown: “We Want Our Country Back”
It started in pockets—in Bagamoyo, Gongolamboto, Kijitonyama. Hundreds of predominantly young people took to the streets. They blocked roads with burning tires. They vandalized polling stations. They tore down campaign posters bearing Hassan’s image. They chanted, “We want our country back!” The movement quickly spread: Mwanza, Tanzania’s second-largest city on Lake Victoria’s shores; Arusha, the safari gateway in the north; Morogoro, Dodoma; smaller towns across the mainland; even Namanga, the border town with Kenya, saw demonstrations spill across the international boundary.
Security forces responded with tear gas. When tear gas failed to disperse crowds, they escalated to live ammunition. Witnesses reported sporadic gunfire throughout Dar es Salaam’s protest zones. People ran, people fell. In the chaos, with no independent journalists allowed to cover events, with internet connectivity already beginning to fail, accurate documentation became nearly impossible.
At 6:00 p.m., Inspector General of Police Camillus Wambura declared a curfew in Dar es Salaam. Anyone on the streets after 6:00 would be arrested—or worse. The nationwide internet shutdown became total. NetBlocks, an organization monitoring internet freedom globally, confirmed this disruption. Mobile data services failed. Social media platforms that weren’t banned before were now inaccessible; reports indicated that X (formerly Twitter), Telegram, and Clubhouse had been blocked for months. Now JamiiForums, Tanzania’s popular local discussion platform, went dark. Foreign journalists had been banned from covering the election on the mainland. Access to major television stations was cut. State media continued broadcasting as normal, showing provisional results: Hassan winning commanding majorities in constituency after constituency.
And then came October 30, when the military entered the picture. This represented a significant escalation. Tanzania had largely avoided military involvement in domestic politics for decades. Now, military boots patrolled the streets of the commercial capital. Army vehicles blockaded major roads. Checkpoints appeared at key intersections, at roads leading to the airports, at government buildings. Army Chief General Jacob John Mkunda appeared on state television. His statement was brief and pointed. He said, quote, “Some individuals took to the streets on October 29th and engaged in criminal activities. These are criminals, and such actions must be halted immediately.” Criminals, he said, not protesters, not citizens, not young people demanding their democratic rights. Criminals. The characterization mattered. It justified the violence that followed. It framed lethal force not as state repression but as law enforcement.
Work-from-home orders were extended for civil servants. Schools and universities postponed reopening indefinitely. International flights were canceled; airports in Arusha and near Kilimanjaro closed entirely. The US Embassy soon issued a shelter-in-place order for all personnel, instructing American citizens to avoid downtown Dar es Salaam entirely.
October 31, three days into the crisis. Provisional results continued streaming across state television: Hassan winning overwhelmingly. CCM securing parliamentary seats by massive margins. In semi-autonomous Zanzibar, CCM’s presidential candidate won with 78.8%—a result the opposition parties immediately declared massive fraud.
And the death toll? That is where the story fractures into competing realities. Chadema, the banned opposition party, operating on the ground and through diaspora networks, claimed approximately 700 people had been killed so far—350 in Dar es Salaam alone, over 200 in Mwanza. The party spokesman, John Kito, told AFP journalists that the actual figure could be higher because killings might be occurring during curfew hours. The United Nations human rights office reported receiving credible reports of at least 10 deaths in Dar es Salaam, Shinyanga, and Morogoro. Amnesty International documented at least 100 fatalities by October 31, though later estimates suggested the organization considered this a conservative minimum. Diplomatic sources cited by multiple international news agencies indicated credible evidence pointing to dozens of deaths, though they declined to provide specific figures on the record.
As for the Tanzanian government, it remained silent. No acknowledgment of deaths, no statement addressing the violence either. Foreign Minister Mahmoud Thabit Kombo would later claim in a message to diplomatic missions that the government had no official figures and that “he had not seen these 700 anywhere.”
The gap between these figures is stunning. From the UN’s confirmed minimum of 10 to the opposition’s claim of 700 represents a 70-fold difference. This is not a margin of error. That is information warfare.
Multiple hospitals and health clinics, when contacted by journalists, stated they were too afraid to talk. Medical professionals feared retaliation if they provided casualty data. The internet blackout meant no social media documentation either, no citizen journalism, no independent verification. Foreign journalists were banned from coverage. Domestic media faced censorship, and the government provided no transparency.
Democratic governments facing crisis typically acknowledge casualties, promise investigations, and seek to rebuild public trust through transparency. Authoritarian governments suppress information, create competing narratives, ensure the truth remains forever contested. In the darkness of Tanzania’s internet blackout, truth became the first casualty of this crisis. And without truth, without agreed facts, without baseline reality, how can a nation heal? How can perpetrators be held accountable? How can victims’ families find justice? The answer is they can’t, which is precisely the point.
Why This Matters: A Regional Tipping Point
This isn’t just about Tanzania. The crisis unfolding in East Africa’s second-largest economy represents something larger, something that extends beyond one country’s borders, one president’s decision, one election’s outcome.
Consider the demographics, for example. 65% of the East African Community’s population is under 30 years old. Projections indicate 75% will be under 25 by 2030. This isn’t a youthful population; it is a generational tsunami. Millions of young people across Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Tanzania, Burundi—entering political awareness in an era of social media, global connectivity, and visibility of democratic standards practiced elsewhere. These young people watch each other every day. They learn from each other’s movements. They coordinate across borders through platforms their governments struggle to control.
In Kenya, for instance, the “Gen Z” protests erupted in 2024 against President William Ruto’s government over corruption, economic mismanagement, and perceived disconnection from ordinary people’s struggles. Young Kenyans took to the streets, organized through social media, demanding accountability from leadership that had governed in an increasingly detached manner. In Uganda, Bobi Wine, a musician turned politician, leads the People Power Movement against Yoweri Museveni’s 40-year rule. Despite violent suppression, despite arrests and torture, despite Wine himself being shot and brutalized, the movement persists because it taps into generational frustration with “bad leadership” plaguing Africa. In Mozambique, post-election violence in 2024 left dozens dead after disputed results; young people refused to accept what they viewed as a stolen election. And in Madagascar, just in October 2025, the same month as the Tanzania crisis, youth-led protests succeeded in overthrowing President Andry Rajoelina—not through a military coup, not through external intervention, but through sustained popular mobilization that made governance impossible.
Tanzania’s youth watched Madagascar. They saw that successful resistance was possible. They saw that presidents who appeared invulnerable could fall when people refused to accept illegitimate authority. So when Hassan eliminated Tanzania’s opposition from the ballot, when she jailed leaders on capital charges for speech, when she deployed military forces against protesters, she sent a message to Tanzania’s youth. But she also sent a message to young people across the region.
If Hassan consolidates power through violence, if she successfully suppresses this uprising, if the international community accepts her fraudulent election, the message is clear: authoritarian control works, youth movements can be crushed, democracy is negotiable. But if Tanzania’s protests succeed, if sustained pressure forces genuine reforms, if Hassan is held accountable, if democratic space reopens, the precedent shifts dramatically. Then the message becomes: resistance works, youth power matters, democracy can be reclaimed.
The stakes are high, and they extend beyond symbolism. The East African Community Headquarters sits in Arusha, Tanzania. Regional integration depends on Tanzania’s stability. Plans for an EAC monetary union, creating a common currency across the region, require political predictability. The proposed political confederation that would deepen cooperation among member states assumes functional governance in all participating nations. So if Tanzania descends into prolonged crisis, if economic activity collapses under sustained protest and government crackdown, if refugees begin to flow into Kenya, Uganda, and Rwanda, all regional integration initiatives face jeopardy.
For Tanzania’s Maasai communities, approximately 100,000 people disenfranchised through voter registration manipulation, facing forced evictions from ancestral lands in the Ngorongoro Conservation Area, this crisis represents an existential question about who belongs in their own country. For Tanzania’s journalists, practicing self-censorship to avoid detention, watching colleagues disappear for covering opposition activities, unable to perform the basic democratic function of holding power accountable, this crisis determines whether journalism survives. And for ordinary Tanzanians, living in a climate of fear where speaking critically in public could result in disappearance, where political participation means risking violence, this crisis is about whether they can shape their own future or must accept rule by force.
The question isn’t just what happens in Tanzania. It is what happens next across an entire region where youth populations are demanding change, where ruling parties have held power for decades, where the model of liberation-era parties maintaining permanent dominance faces a fundamental challenge from connected, organized, angry young people who don’t remember the independence struggle and don’t accept its leaders’ claim to perpetual authority.
Geopolitical Calculations: The Great Power Game
While Tanzanians protest and die in the streets of Dar es Salaam, great powers are calculating their interests.
China has invested deeply in Tanzania over decades—$7 billion in 2019 alone, 1,274 registered projects worth $11.4 billion total. Tanzania represents a key node in China’s Belt and Road Initiative, the ambitious global infrastructure and development project that extends Chinese influence across Africa, Asia, and beyond. The People’s Liberation Army provides “most of our military equipment,” according to a Tanzania People’s Defense Force statement. This isn’t just a commercial relationship; it is a strategic partnership. China has reportedly considered Tanzania for a potential PLA military facility, one of only three African nations under such consideration alongside Angola and Equatorial Guinea. A Chinese military facility on Tanzania’s Indian Ocean coastline would fundamentally alter the strategic balance in the region. It would give China power projection capability into East Africa and the critical shipping lanes carrying oil from the Middle East to Asian markets.
But Tanzania has shown independence that complicates simplistic narratives. In 2020, President Magufuli canceled a $10 billion Chinese Bagamoyo port deal, calling the conditions “tough conditions that can only be accepted by mad people.” The willingness to reject Chinese investment when terms were deemed exploitative demonstrates Tanzania isn’t a simple client state. But if Hassan’s fall and a democratic transition brings opposition to power, China’s position becomes uncertain. So the question becomes: would a Chadema government maintain Chinese partnerships or seek to rebalance toward Western engagement? The answer likely depends on practical considerations. Chinese infrastructure projects provide tangible benefits, but Chinese loans carry strings, and Chinese diplomatic support comes with expectations of UN voting alignment.
India watches carefully on the other side. In October 2023, India and Tanzania elevated relations to a “strategic partnership,” diplomatic language indicating deepening security and economic cooperation. India seeks to counter Chinese influence across the Indian Ocean region through its “Security and Growth For All in the Region” (SAGAR) vision. The competition over Bagamoyo port remains active, with Indian companies potentially offering alternative development partnerships. For India, Hassan’s fall could create opportunity. A new Tanzanian government seeking to diversify away from Chinese dominance might turn to India as a counterbalance—or it might not. It depends entirely on what interests the new government prioritizes.
And then we have Western powers that face contradictions. Currently, the Trump 2.0 administration has retreated from global democracy promotion, according to multiple foreign policy analysts. However, their recent utterances suggest the West is paying close attention to what is happening in Tanzania. The US Embassy’s shelter-in-place order during the October protests. The embassy’s calls for an independent investigation into Kibo’s murder, stating “murder and disappearances of this kind should have no place in a democracy.” Belgium, Sweden, Germany, and Ireland—they all withdrew election observers. The European Parliament has declared Tanzania’s election a fraud, conducted in an “atmosphere of repression, intimidation, and fear.” These actions reveal an awareness that Tanzania’s democratic collapse threatens Western interests, and they will be willing to push for some form of favorable government in the country.
Well, the African Union, which is now nothing more than a club of presidents shielding each other, has remained silent. Same as the Southern African Development Community (SADC). Although for these guys, if SADC criticizes Hassan, what precedent does that set for Museveni in Uganda, Kagame in Rwanda, or Zimbabwe’s ZANU-PF?
Who Benefits?
So the question becomes, who benefits if Hassan falls?
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First on the list is the opposition parties, Chadema and ACT Wazalendo, who obviously gain the opportunity to compete for power in genuine elections.
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Youth democracy movements across the region gain inspiration and prove that sustained resistance works.
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Civil society organizations and independent media gain the freedom to operate without fear.
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And then there are the foreign businesses that have been harmed by Hassan’s July 2024 ban on foreigners operating in 15 economic sectors; they could regain market access.
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Maasai and other indigenous communities can gain the possibility of halting forced evictions and restoring land rights.
And there’s another question: who benefits if Hassan consolidates her power?
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The simple answer here is the CCM elites, who will get to maintain their 64-year party dominance.
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Security personnel involved in disappearances and torture, who could avoid accountability if Hassan survives.
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And then there’s potentially China, though Chinese pragmatism means they’ll likely work with whoever governs.
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Authoritarian leaders regionally can also gain precedent that violent suppression succeeds.
But the most important constituency isn’t in geopolitical actors. It is the ordinary Tanzanians—67 million of them. For these people, Hassan’s fall or survival determines whether they live in a democracy or a dictatorship. Whether disappeared family members receive justice or are forgotten. Whether young people inherit a country they can shape or an authoritarian system they must endure.
And as these young people cry out on the streets for their country, one is left to wonder: How did Samia Suluhu Hassan become Africa’s most feared female dictator? What led to this sudden transformation in her style of governance?