There are moments in a nation’s life when words lose their power. Today, as a Tanzanian, I struggle to find language that fully captures what we feel. I have chosen to focus on the feelings because in times like these, we usually ignore or forget the psychological effects, and instead, we tend to prioritise official statistics on property and infrastructure damage and, to a certain extent, death statistics.
The grief, the tears, the anger, and the fear that ripple through our country are too heavy for speech. Someone once said, tears are words of the heart that the mouth cannot conjure. Ours is a nation that has mastered the art of smiling through pain – we hide sorrow behind polite words and calm faces while the storm rages inside. But clearly, our fake smiles have disappeared.
For decades, we proudly called Tanzania kisiwa cha amani – the island of peace. That name was not just a slogan; it was a part of our national soul. Yet today, that island carries a deep stain. Patriotism now demands that we rebuild the foundations of real peace – not the fragile peace born of fear, silence, and empty promises, but the lasting peace that grows from truth, justice, and trust.
The week the ground shifted
What unfolded between the afternoon of October 29 and November 3 has no precedent in our history. Those six days turned our country into a landscape of panic, tears, and mourning.
October 29 was supposed to be a day of civic celebration – the day we elected our President, Members of Parliament, and Councillors. For weeks, security organs had warned of possible unrest, assuring citizens that they were well prepared to protect life and property. The incumbent President, who was also the ruling party’s candidate, promised a smooth and peaceful election — hakutakuwa na nywinywi wala nywinywinywi – no one would be harassed or intimidated on their way to perform their constitutional duty to vote.
The morning began like any other Tanzanian election day. A few early birds cast their votes moments after polling stations opened, others trickled in after sunrise, and others planned to vote later in the day, waiting for the heat to ease. Those who had voted proudly posted selfies, purple fingers raised high, encouraging others to do the same. For a few hours, peace seemed to hold.
Then, just around 11 a.m., the air shifted. Crowds that had been walking calmly toward polling stations started gathering in the streets. At first, the pictures and videos circulating on social media showed people singing patriotic songs beside military trucks, smiling and waving. But as the Swahili saying goes, panapofuka moshi, moto uko karibu – where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
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Soon, the streets erupted. The unrest spread like a grassfire in the dry season. Some election officials abandoned their posts; some tore off their identifying vests and caps and ran. A few police officers, fearing for their safety, removed their uniforms and blended into the crowd – askari kanzu, soldiers in plain clothes.
The smiles disappeared, replaced by fury and confusion. Tires and mattresses burned at street corners, their thick smoke turning daylight to dusk. People screamed and scattered; others fell. Property and public infrastructure were destroyed. By nightfall, Dar es Salaam, Arusha, Mwanza, and a few other towns had descended into chaos.
As the day wore on, many tried desperately to return home, some on foot, others on motorbikes or packed buses. Not everyone made it. By evening, the streets lay empty except for the flicker of flames and the echo of gunfire and tear-gas explosions that shook the air like thunder during the rainy season.
Children, at first thinking the bangs were fireworks – like the ones they hear at Diwali or New Year’s – quickly realised something was terribly wrong. Parents whispered frantically on their phones, urging loved ones to stay indoors, locking doors, switching off lights.
Even the crows, normally unbothered by city noise, flitted restlessly from branch to branch every time gunshots or tear gas explosions went off. The proverb kunguru mwoga hukimbiza ubawa wake – “a timid crow flaps its wings in fear” — suddenly felt alive in the night air.
When silence fell
By dusk, the government announced a nationwide curfew. For six days, Tanzania held its breath. Movement was restricted; checkpoints appeared like mushrooms after rain. Armed soldiers and police patrolled neighbourhoods, their eyes sharp, their guns ready. Ambulance sirens became the soundtrack of our days and nights, carrying unknown fates – were they rushing the wounded, or collecting the dead?
Internet services were shut down. Phones went silent. Families couldn’t reach each other. The country slipped into a darkness deeper than any power blackout – it was a spiritual and emotional blackout. Parents tried to comfort terrified children; youth hid indoors, unsure who to trust. We jumped at every distant pop of gunfire, our stomachs twisting in fear. For six endless days, Tanzania trembled.
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When calm finally returned, it was an uneasy calm – the silence that follows a storm but still smells of rain.
The mother of violence
As the nation looks for someone to blame, we must ask the harder question: how did we get here? Such turmoil doesn’t appear overnight. It simmers quietly, like embers under ash. It is the harvest of years of broken promises, unheeded cries, and lost hope.
The witch (mchawi) is not some hidden hand. The witch is false promises; the healer (mganga) is integrity.
Today’s Tanzania has an entire generation of young people armed with education but denied opportunity. They hear leaders boasting of economic growth while they can barely afford a meal. The GDP numbers look impressive, yes, but the price of food, rent, and transport keeps rising faster.
Take the bodaboda riders: many survive on energy drinks and painkillers, riding from dawn till midnight just to make enough for supper. Parents soothe hungry children with piriton or diluted porridge (uji), hoping they’ll sleep through hunger until morning. These are not the stories of a thriving nation.
Politicians have turned promises into a political art form, not a moral contract. Every election season brings new vows – jobs, loans, better hospitals, reliable water and electricity. But when the cycle ends and the old struggles remain, citizens feel abandoned. Youth, seeing job opportunities given through bribery or favouritism, lose faith. “Why did we believe them?” they ask.
When even the observers from SADC and the African Union declare that our elections did not meet democratic standards, the message is clear: the ballot box no longer feels sacred. And when peaceful expression is closed off, anger finds other routes. As we say, fukara hana ustaarabu – “a hungry person has no civility.”
Blame the instigators?
Violence is not a language – it is what people turn to when all other languages fail. Yet each time unrest breaks out, leaders are quick to condemn “troublemakers” who, they say, “incite the people against their beloved government.” But can a content citizen truly be incited? A full stomach doesn’t riot.
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These events would not have unfolded if people felt heard, respected, and included. When citizens see tangible results from their labour, when they feel that the government listens and admits mistakes, trust is restored. We have seen in the past how community dialogues and listening tours have helped rebuild that trust. The government must not tire of talking with its people – not at them.
True peace cannot be guarded with scolding, bludgeons, guns, and tear gas. Peace grows from justice, humility, and truth. When the state uses force instead of wisdom, it plants seeds of resentment, not stability. As the saying goes, nguvu ni moto uwashao moto – “force is fire that begets fire.”
During the chaos, bullets and tear gas were used freely. Young people, women, and even children ran for their lives. Some were shot, others trampled. Some died in their homes, not in the streets. Each bullet that left a gun tore through more than flesh; it wounded the nation’s spirit. Those who saw their friends fall will never again believe easily in promises of peace.
We may say now that “the situation has calmed,” but hearts have not. Resentment lies beneath the surface like molten lava under a volcano. Unless we seek genuine healing, another eruption is only a matter of time.
Failing our youth
Too often, our leaders dismiss young people as lazy, unserious, pleasure-seeking, or indisciplined. Yet words shape reality – maneno huumba. When leaders repeat such labels, they crush hope.
But ask yourself: who built the system that shapes these youth? From home to school, we force obedience, not cultivating curiosity; instil fear, not confidence. Our education system rewards memorisation, not imagination. Then we release young graduates into a world of bureaucracy, corruption, and impossible startup costs. When they protest or demand answers, we call them troublemakers.
Youth don’t need police batons; they need to be heard.
Across the world – in Kenya, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, and Madagascar – youth frustration has ignited political upheavals. Each began with unemployment, inequality, and the sight of leaders “eating chicken from the bone” (kula kuku kwa mrija, as our elders say) while ordinary citizens starved. Tanzania must learn before history repeats itself on our soil.
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Instead of pointing fingers, we must examine causes. Why do young people feel invisible? Why do new governments always promise renewal yet deliver repetition? The answer is simple: we have failed to be accountable. Our promises have become choruses without melody. Reports from the Controller and Auditor General (CAG) pile up year after year, gathering dust while citizens’ complaints remain unresolved.
We must balance the development of things (maendeleo ya vitu) with the development of people (maendeleo ya watu). Citizens, especially the youth, will believe again only when they see change in action, not speeches.
The path to healing
Tanzania needs healing – not cosmetic healing, not “funika kombe mwanaharamu apite” (cover the pot so the shame passes), but deep, honest healing.
Those who lost loved ones must be allowed to mourn with dignity. The injured must receive treatment and comfort. The nation deserves the truth about what happened – not silence or spin. Without truth, there can be no forgiveness; without justice, no peace.
As our elders say, mkubwa ni jaa – greatness lies in humility. The government must find the courage to admit mistakes, to listen, and to correct course. Power is not measured by the number of soldiers it commands but by the compassion it shows to the wounded and the grieving.
Politicians, across all parties, must remember that politics is meant to serve people, not wound them. But this healing journey is not just for politicians; it belongs to all of us. Every citizen has a role: to listen more, to care more, to act with empathy.
If we truly want to prevent another crisis like October 29, we must start not with more police, but with conscience. Peace is not enforced by guns; it is cultivated through fairness.
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We must return to the promises we made – and keep them. Restore public trust with deeds, not declarations. When citizens feel valued, they will defend their nation with pride. When they feel oppressed, they will see the government as an adversary. No bullet can kill the anger born of injustice.
Real peace is when citizens have justice, when youth have opportunity, and when leaders have humility. We must stop searching for a witch to blame. The real witch is the way we have failed our young people — by silencing, sidelining, and suffocating them.
If we wish to remain the island of peace we once were, we must start rebuilding it today — through truth, compassion, and accountability – before another drop of blood stains our soil.
Baruani Mshale is the Director of Learning and Strategy at Twaweza East Africa. He can be reached at baruani.mshale@gmail.com or on X as @BMshale. The opinions expressed here are the writer’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of The Chanzo. If you are interested in publishing in this space, please contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com.
