A scene from Scandinavia with Simon Reeve, a BBC TV series, shows a mother and her daughter arguing over whether the Somalis who migrated to Sweden actually belong to the Scandinavian nation. The mother, addressing her daughter who is part of criminal activities, is categorical in her insistence that the children, though born in Sweden, must understand that they’re just “refugees and guests” there. Her daughter says no, insisting that she’s Swedish because she was born in Sweden. She says she has never been to Somalia in her whole life. Her mother calmly reminds her that it doesn’t matter, as even a child born to a refugee is considered a refugee. The daughter, frustrated, wonders, “How?” Her mother replies: “That’s how the world works. It may be hidden, but that’s the reality.”
But is it? Well, a caller told LBC’s Tom Swarbrick that he “cannot stand it when Indians [in the UK] say they’re English. It really, really, really frustrates me.” The bewildered Swarbrick responds, “Why?” And the caller continues: “I’ll say to [the Indians]: Look yourself in the mirror, get a picture of your parents and look at them. Are your parents Indian or not? Yes, they are. My friend, you’re Indian.” Then he drops this banger: “Just because you’re born in a country, it doesn’t mean you’re from that country.”
Okay, if Somalis can never be Swedes and Indians can never be English, is it possible for a black or brown person to be a Briton? Can a black, brown, or white person be Chinese? Narrowing it down to Tanzania, can a brown, white, or yellow person be Tanzanian? And, staying within Tanzania, can people not directly affiliated with the ruling party consider themselves, or be considered, Tanzanians?
Andrew Tate, who is half-black and half-white, believes his son could never become Chinese, no matter how long he lives in China or how many generations of his family settle there. He also believes Russia doesn’t consider Black people as “Russians,” no matter how long they live there. Suella Braverman, of Indian ancestry, insists she can never truly be English, despite her parents immigrating to Britain in the 1960s, her being born there, and even serving as the country’s Home Secretary. Meanwhile, in Tanzania, a significant majority reject the idea that white, brown, or yellow people can be considered Tanzanian at all. Just because you were born here, it doesn’t mean you belong here!
Could they be right? Take Tanzania, for example: Who truly belongs, and who doesn’t? What factors—if any—decide this? Ethnicity and race, as I mentioned earlier, are undeniably part of the equation. But I believe it runs deeper than skin colour. It extends to political allegiance—or even the absence of it—and one’s willingness to voice it openly. In an authoritarian system like ours, all these factors (and more) can be weaponised against those who dare to think independently.
Race and ethnicity
Let me return to the weaponisation point later—but first, I want to explore why race and ethnicity remain decisive factors in determining who “belongs” in Tanzania. Does anyone genuinely believe Tanzania is less racially and ethnically diverse today than it was sixty years ago? If not, then why could white and brown Tanzanians serve in cabinets, parliament, and even defence and security organs in the 1960s and 70s, while today, such representation seems unthinkable? Consider the civil service today: How racially diverse is it? And crucially, how does this lack of representation shape perceptions of who can truly be Tanzanian?
Tanzania’s obsession with racial “purity” as a marker of belonging isn’t just theoretical—it plays out in brutal, everyday ways. When football giants Simba and Young Africans feature brown children in promotional campaigns, public outrage erupts: Why weren’t “real” (read: black) Tanzanian kids used? When I criticised the opposition party CHADEMA’s No Reforms, No Election slogan, supporters dismissed me as “not Tanzanian enough” because of my brown skin. Even Issa Shivji—one of Tanzania’s most revered intellectuals, albeit of Indian descent—was reduced to a “foreigner” by a ruling-party activist during the UAE port deal debate, who sneered that he should “be grateful the government lets him stay here.” Shivji, in the new introduction to the 50th anniversary edition of his celebrated Class Struggles in Tanzania, describes the criticism directed at him as “racist,” and was pleased by the solidarity he received across the spectrum, when many people on social media roundly denounced the man he describes as “intellectually bankrupt.”
Or take Richard Mabala, the celebrated Tanzanian educator and author. The moment he critiques government policy, his critics don’t engage his arguments. Instead, they reach for the oldest trick in the book: “What does this mzungu know about Tanzania?” Never mind that he’s spent decades shaping the minds of Tanzanian children through his books and pedagogy. His whiteness, suddenly, becomes his only relevant credential. These aren’t even isolated incidents!
This begs the deeper question: Is there a connection between these grassroots prejudices and the systematic erosion of racial diversity in public office? As Tanzania grows increasingly diverse, how does the government perceive this disconnect? The 1960s saw brown ministers and white MPs and cabinet ministers—today, such appointments would be unthinkable. Is this regression accidental, or a quiet endorsement of popular bigotry? Couldn’t strategic inclusion—appointing white, brown, or Asian Tanzanians to visible roles—actually disarm prejudice before it hardens into outright hatred? Or does the state benefit from maintaining this racial hierarchy? I’m thinking aloud here, but the pattern is too glaring to ignore.
Political allegiance
But race and ethnicity alone don’t dictate belonging—not here, not anywhere. As I hinted earlier, pigment is just one piece of the puzzle. In Tanzania, your politics might matter even more. Swim against the current of the ruling party’s ideology? Suddenly, your ancestry gets scrutinised extra hard. “True Tanzanian” becomes a shifting label, applied only to those who toe the line.
In Zanzibar, for instance, true belonging carries a party card. To be CCM is to be Zanzibari—to oppose it is to forfeit not just government jobs, but the very documents that certify your citizenship. Try applying for a national ID as an opposition member and watch how quickly bureaucratic hurdles become political barriers. Now imagine doing this while brown. Suddenly, the discrimination compounds: your politics render you disloyal, while your race renders you perpetually foreign. The system works exactly as designed—to filter out “undesirables” through layered exclusion.
READ MORE: It’s About Time Authorities Come Out Clean on Enforced Disappearances in Tanzania
While Tanzania Mainland’s political exclusion operates with subtler machinery than Zanzibar’s, the pattern holds: opposition supporters exist as second-class citizens. The litmus test for full rights isn’t just active CCM support—it’s the absence of any hesitation in performing loyalty. Magufuli made the calculus explicit: his government would only develop districts that voted CCM, telling opposition strongholds to “fend for themselves.” Though President Samia seems to avoid such brazen rhetoric, evidence exists that CCM’s patronage system has always flowed along the same electoral maps. National budgets, road projects, and even disaster relief quietly follow the party’s political arithmetic. The message is clear: citizenship here comes with partisan strings attached.
Tanzania’s quasi-federal union between Tanganyika and Zanzibar is not just a political arrangement—it is a fault line of belonging. Deep-seated prejudices fester on both sides, often erupting in ways that expose the fragility of the so-called “United” Republic. Take the recent port deal controversy: Tanganyikan critics accused President Samia of favouring Zanzibar’s interests, framing her support for the deal as proof that Zanzibaris “don’t care” about the mainland. Others went further, questioning why Zanzibaris even hold cabinet positions—as if the Union government were meant to be an exclusive club for Tanganyikans. These are not just political disagreements; they are eruptions of a dangerous, divisive logic that threatens the very foundation of the nation.
Zanzibar’s prejudice against immigrants from Tanganyika, on the other hand, mirrors the xenophobia faced by African migrants in Europe—only here, it is intra-national, layered with religious intolerance. Mainlanders are accused of “stealing” jobs and spouses, diluting the archipelago’s Islamic identity, and even eroding its “civilisation.” This anxiety has fueled vigilante enforcement of Sharia law, including the arbitrary imposition of Ramadan fasting rules on non-Muslims, prompting rare government condemnations of such abuses. The bigotry is so entrenched that even opposition figures pander to it: on October 1, 2024, CHADEMA’s Zanzibar leader Hashim Juma framed youth unemployment as an Islamic issue, appealing to President Samia’s faith—a dog-whistle to Zanzibari nativism that forced his own party to distance itself. These tensions reveal a grim truth: in Zanzibar, belonging is conditional not just on origin, but on faith.
Selective application of laws
Tanzania’s legal system also institutionalises discrimination through the selective application of laws, systematically targeting political opposition. This repression takes multiple interconnected forms: the Magufuli administration’s five-year blanket ban on opposition rallies stripped parties of their constitutional right to assemble, while security forces routinely arrest and detain opposition members on trumped-up charges—including treason—for actions that would go unchallenged if committed by ruling party loyalists.
Beyond physical suppression, the state weaponises financial mechanisms by withholding legally mandated public funding to opposition groups, starving them of operational capacity. Electoral processes are similarly manipulated, with defence and security organs openly interfering in elections, from voter intimidation to outright violence, to guarantee CCM victories. Most chillingly, the enforced disappearances of opposition supporters and critics persist, with authorities demonstrating deliberate indifference to investigations, leaving families trapped in perpetual uncertainty. Together, these tactics reveal not mere bureaucratic bias but a calculated system of legal warfare designed to eliminate dissent through lawfare rather than legitimate governance.
READ MORE: Tanzania’s Crackdown on Dissent and the Mathematics of Violence
Yet, despite these systemic exclusions, Tanzania’s political leadership continues to invoke a hollow vision of national unity—one that glosses over the lived realities of millions. The government claims to act in the name of “the people” while perpetuating structures that fracture society along racial, ethnic, and political lines. This contradiction forces a fundamental question: Who, exactly, counts as Tanzanian in the eyes of the state? What does national belonging truly mean when it can be stripped away the moment you dare to dissent? When patriots—respected thinkers, leaders, and ordinary citizens alike—find their very right to belong scrutinised, contested, or even revoked simply for holding unapproved views, can we still call this belonging at all?
Until this is answered, the rhetoric of unity remains not just empty, but cruel. After all, disappointment stems from failed expectations. If the state insists on narrowing the boundaries of belonging, it should at least do so openly, so those excluded can stop clinging to a citizenship that exists in name only. Clarity, however painful, would at least free us from the illusion that we were ever meant to be included.
Khalifa Said is the Editor-in-Chief of Dar es Salaam-based digital publication The Chanzo. He’s available at Khalifa@thechanzo.com or on X as @ThatBoyKhalifax. These are the writer’s own opinions and do not necessarily reflect the viewpoint of The Chanzo. Want to publish in this space? Contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com for further inquiries.
One Response
Brilliant exposition by Khalifa. If one’s ethnicity or ethnic origin determines his/her nationality or national loyalty then Trump should be deported to Germany and King Charles as well who belongs to the German house of Hanover. Biden should be expelled to Ireland and Obama to Kenya, Rishi Sunak to Punjab and Castro should have gone back to Spain. In Tanzania Wangoni should return to South Africa and Wambulu to Iraq, Joseph Mungai to Kenya and Bashe to Somalia
In short, this kind of thinking is illogical, racist and discriminatory nonsense, rubbish