For quite some time, politics was treated as a taboo subject, something many people deliberately avoided in Tanzania. In 2025, however, that narrative shifted dramatically. Across social classes, from the middle class to others, people who once shied away from political discussions now find themselves unable to escape them.
I remember a moment in a WhatsApp group when a colleague casually remarked that he did not associate himself with politics. I responded instinctively: my life—if not all our lives—is political every single day. Politics is not confined to parliaments or rallies; it shapes livelihoods, dignity, security, and survival. My professional life is a living testament to this truth.
Global shift, my experience
I am a direct victim of the political shifts triggered by Donald Trump’s policies on U.S. foreign assistance. As 2025 began, my hopes and carefully laid plans were abruptly shattered. My former USAID colleagues across the globe share this sentiment. What unfolded in January 2025 was not a routine policy transition; it was a rupture that exposed the fragility of democratic values when confronted with raw power.
When I first read Project 2025—the blueprint for Trump’s second-term governance—I sensed a shift coming. Yet I never imagined the magnitude of its real-world consequences. Seasoned professionals within USAID reassured us that change was normal with a new administration. This time, however, it was different. What we witnessed was not reform but a disturbing tilt toward oligarchic tendencies, in which democratic institutions bent under the weight of concentrated executive power.
It was deeply unsettling to watch a country long regarded as a global beacon of democracy struggle to uphold its own constitutional safeguards. Institutions we believed were resilient appeared paralyzed, unable—or unwilling—to exercise the authority vested in them.
For those of us at USAID, the experience was distressing. The humiliation was particularly profound for our U.S. colleagues, who felt stripped of dignity by their own government. Each day began with fear. Before even stepping outside, it was essential to check emails from Washington, D.C., to understand how the day would unfold at the office. Sometimes, a tweet from Elon Musk would foreshadow an email we would receive later, signaling another difficult day ahead.
The process was marked by a shocking lack of professionalism and a disregard for human dignity—both for American civil servants and for Foreign Service Nationals who had loyally supported U.S. missions around the world. At one point, a glimmer of hope emerged when we were asked to justify why our countries deserved U.S. funding. This question was framed as whether such support would make America “stronger, safer, and more prosperous.”
As a Tanzanian, this rhetoric felt familiar. I found myself thinking of Chief Mangungo and Karl Peters—colonial logics repackaged in modern language. While some may argue that donor funding has always been transactional, under Trump, the imperial whim is unapologetically explicit. One example is the ill-fated peace agreement between Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo, a case of shallow, interest-driven diplomacy.
It is evident that we are living through a new era—perhaps a post-democratic moment, or at least a period of profound democratic confusion. Around the world, demagogues with authoritarian tendencies, such as Trump abroad and in our region, have risen to power through democratic processes. Elections remain procedurally intact, yet substantively muffled.
The island of peace
Returning home to Tanzania, 2025 has been equally transformative—and troubling. We are often called “kisiwa cha amani”, the island of peace. I have long questioned this label. The 2025 elections marked a turning point. On election day and in the days that followed, the country descended into darkness—both literal and metaphorical—as internet access was shut down.
Ironically, even those who paid for satellite television were left in informational limbo, forced to rely on foreign media while local outlets focused narrowly on announcing presidential results. Meanwhile, stories circulated through text messages, of gunfire, of deaths, impossible to verify or witness without social media.
In my neighbourhood, the sounds of tear gas canisters and gunshots became routine. Within two days, dread turned into ugly familiarity. This was no longer something we watched happening elsewhere; it was unfolding outside our doors.
This was supposed to be a democratic exercise, free and fair elections. Yet reports from SADC and the African Union expressed dissatisfaction. Condemnations emerged both domestically and internationally. The elections left the nation deeply divided, emotionally drained, and fearful of what lay ahead.
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During those days of darkness, daily life came to a halt. People could not work. Schools closed. Economic survival became uncertain. And the silent questions lingered: what about patients in hospitals? What about women in labour? These are the unseen costs of a collapsed democratic process.
The convergence of global and domestic events forced me into deep reflection. What happens when democracy is hollowed out? Trust erodes. Diplomacy becomes transactional. Citizens lose faith in their governments. And the fundamental question emerges: who should be the gatekeepers of our democracy?
Is it political parties? If so, we must interrogate their ideologies and values, if they still have any. The example of Trump is troubling: a leader lacking a coherent ideology and often contradicting himself. He took office as an anti-war advocate, yet in the same year, he authorized strikes on Iran’s nuclear facilities.
What about back home? Should we trust our political parties to safeguard democracy? For years, we have relied on them to represent democratic ideals and present candidates capable of addressing citizens’ needs and aspirations. A political party, as a gatekeeping institution, has a great role in keeping dangerous figures away from the center of power.
Democracy
Yet the challenge does not rest solely with the parties. Voters also face a crisis of choice. Do they truly have the capacity and space to judge candidates fairly? Overreliance on the will of the people can be dangerous, as it may lead to the election of a demagogue who threatens democracy itself. That democratic space—necessary for informed choice—has been eroded by the massive influx of money into electoral processes.
Money is undermining the traditional role of political parties in identifying and nurturing capable leaders. From internal party processes to national campaigns, money has become the devil of the day. Whether in CCM, CHADEMA, or ACT Wazalendo, complaints are strikingly similar: those without financial muscle are sidelined, regardless of merit or commitment.
This is how individuals of questionable integrity—armed with money or fame—force their way into politics. I refer to them as outsiders who may bring their own agendas that contradict the party’s values and ideology. I remember a friend who ran for a councillorship seat in the 2025 elections but was unsuccessful during the party’s internal selection process. Reflecting on his defeat, he bitterly remarked, “I will teach my children three things: to work hard, to have wisdom and good judgment, and a little mischief.” Although it sounds humorous, this statement captures the moral confusion of our current democratic moment.
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In our context, the most pressing issue—particularly for opposition parties—is the decline in institutional capacity. This weakening has been intentionally fostered through restrictive laws, such as the Political Parties Act. Cases like the treason charges against Tundu Lissu, the CHADEMA Chairman, and the disqualification of Luhaga Mpina from ACT Wazalendo in the presidential race are not just about individual cases; they represent a broader pattern of systemic impunity.
Without strong political institutions, especially a viable opposition, democracy cannot survive. Citizens are left without real alternatives, meaningful choices, or a strong voice of their own.
Perhaps the most unsettling realization of 2025 is this: democracy is no longer guaranteed by process alone. As the book How Democracies Die puts it, a democratic breakdown does not need a blueprint; it can result from unanticipated events and escalating tit–for–tat between a norm-breaking leader and a threatened public establishment.
In that sense, it requires constant vigilance, ethical leadership, and institutions courageous enough to resist power when it overreaches. Without these, democracy does not die overnight—it erodes quietly, until one day politics is no longer something we debate. It becomes something we endure.
Fortunata Kitokesya is a lawyer and human rights expert. She is available at fortukito@gmail.com or on X as @fortunatak. 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.
