War, Erasure, And The Politics Of Culture In Sudan

BY LARISSA-DIANA FUHRMANN

This article examines contemporary cultural erasure in Sudan. It highlights resilient Sudanese efforts and international collaboration, positioning cultural heritage as essential infrastructure for truth-telling, reparations, and inclusive post-war nation-building. It advocates for urgent policy integration to counter polarization and historical revisionism for a plural future.

Two millennia of inhabitation by indigenous groups, immigrant and diaspora communities, and many others who made the land their home have shaped Sudan’s cultural legacy along the two Niles. Today, over 120 languages connect Sudan’s territories and diasporas, exemplifying the country’s immense diversity as the result of its complex history. However, contemporary legislation, such as the “Strange Faces Law,” questions who is truly Sudanese, leading to the arrests of people suspected of being from Darfur or Kordofan based on their facial features and skin tone. As such laws polarize the country and the Sudanese Civil War ravages it, Sudan must act against them to preserve national unity.

In April 2023, the war in Sudan erupted in the capital, Khartoum, between the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), commanded by General Muhammad Hamdan Dagalo Musa (Hemedti), and the Sudan Armed Forces (SAF), led by General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan. Former President Omer Al Bashir integrated the RSF into the SAF in 2018, but the RSF retained operational autonomy, funded by gold mines under its control. The RSF itself evolved from the militia Janjaweed, infamous for atrocities committed in Darfur since the 1990s. The escalation of the rivalry between al-Burhan and Hemedti has led to the current violent conflict. Thus far, combatants have deliberately targeted health and education systems, and essential services have collapsed.

The conflict ranks among this century’s most urgent humanitarian crises, and yet, international intervention remains limited, forcing Sudanese-led initiatives, such as the Emergency Response Rooms and Community Kitchens, to carry the burden of humanitarian response with minimal resources and a heavy reliance on volunteer work and donations from the diaspora. The limited array of international responses focuses on immediate needs such as medical care, shelter, food, water, sanitation, and education. As a result, the significant and often irreversible damage to Sudan’s cultural heritage and artistic community receives less attention and support. This overlooked destruction and subsequent inaction, however, fuel cycles of violence and erode community cohesion, positioning policies that safeguard Sudan’s cultural heritage on a broader scale as a prerequisite for post-conflict recovery.

Mapping the Damage: Tangible and Intangible Losses

Destruction and theft of cultural heritage have a long history as deliberate strategies to exert power in Sudan. Such policies of erasure and marginalization trace back to colonial-era policies where Khartoum, as a central hub of administration, utilized them to oppress and ostracize Darfuri, South Sudanese, and other peripheral histories.

Today, the RSF targets archives, libraries, and museums as tools to control memory and legitimize their dominance, often under the pretense of revenge against the Khartoum elites who have long sidelined the rest of Sudan. UNESCO’s risk and damage assessment and Sudanese-led initiatives confirm that out of 139 at-risk heritage sites—museums, world heritage sites, archeological sites, and important private collections—ten museums and cultural centers have been looted, stolen from, and vandalized in the past 1,000 days. However, due to present-day access constraints, especially in areas where active fighting continues, significant data gaps create an incomplete picture of damage. Satellite imagery, crowdsourced reports, and diaspora efforts are beginning to fill these information gaps, suggesting the true scale of damage far exceeds current estimates.

For example, RSF forces looted the National Museum in Khartoum in June 2023. A video circulating on social media shows fighters entering the bioarcheology lab of the museum, opening storage containers with mummies, and claiming the mummies were victims of the dictatorship of al-Bashir. The director of the National Museum, Dr. Ghalia Jar Al-Nabi, reacted to the viral clip, stating that she is “worried about where else they might have gone in the museum that no one filmed, and what else they are going to do.” Director Ikhlas Abdellatif of the Sudanese National Corporation for Antiquities and Museums (NCAM) accused RSF forces of smuggling artifacts to Chad and South Sudan for sale to art dealers and private collectors. Some artifacts have resurfaced on platforms such as eBay.

Additionally, the destruction of institutions such as the National Recording Office in Khartoum, which held unique documentation dating back to the mid-19th century, has resulted in the loss of vast amounts of data. Erasure of records prevents the uncovering of continuities of violence perpetrated by colonial powers, past abuses of power by Sudanese governments, corruption, or even legal precedents, effectively erasing the historical basis for current legal and social rights.

Sudanese cultural heritage faces threats not only through active displacement and destruction, but also through targeted violence against artists, musicians, poets, archivists, and other cultural workers. The yearly parade in Omdurman on the day of the Prophet’s birthday exemplifies events that have not been celebrated since the outbreak of the war. Smaller religious and linguistic communities in places including the Nuba Mountains and Darfur risk outright extinction amid mass displacement and death, with over 50 Sudanese languages at risk. Unlike traceable artifacts, these losses erode irreplaceable networks, transmission chains, and social spaces. Policy must therefore target both material safeguards and living practices to rebuild and restore cultural infrastructure.

Sudanese-Led Preservation Efforts

Several initiatives demonstrate that targeted local engagement and international collaboration can effectively combat cultural erasure in Sudan. They provide policy models that should be better supported by international donors.

Safeguarding Sudan’s Living Heritage (SSLH) is an initiative funded by the British Council and run by Sudanese archivists and cultural workers who conduct research, create maps, and curate exhibitions. They collaborate with vulnerable communities in Sudan and in exile to document their culture and help build resilience. The SSLH is one of the only groups currently dedicating its efforts to safeguarding intangible heritage on a global scale. Similarly, Blue Shield Sudan, established in December 2024, constitutes the first nationally coordinated cultural protection body founded during the Sudanese conflict. Led by Professor Intisar El-Zein Soghayroun, it connects various initiatives in Sudan that defend cultural identity.

In a more decentralized way, neighborhood committees, women’s groups, and youth groups have recorded stories from community members. Local radio stations, podcasts, and social media channels run by Sudanese creators have served as the vessels of this preservation, broadcasting oral histories and music as acts of resistance. Examples include private initiatives that contribute to the archiving of knowledge and raising of global awareness, such as Omer Al Tijani’s “Sudanese Kitchen” cookbook and Hana Baba’s “Folktales from Sudan” podcast.

Individually, visual artists, filmmakers, photographers, and performers document and preserve wartime life, atrocities, flight routes, and stories, as well as life in exile. Artists have employed street art and graffiti, as well as digital art, to commemorate massacres and disappeared persons in Sudan. These initiatives have revealed the potential and power of Sudanese art to connect the diverse population and overcome the ongoing crisis. They ultimately contribute to fostering community and preserving cohesion in a country increasingly torn apart by war.

These efforts, from nationally coordinated heritage protection such as the SSLH to grassroots storytelling, such as the podcast and book project, illustrate a diverse and community-driven movement resisting Sudan’s cultural destruction. They show how creative resilience and civic solidarity can preserve plural identities during active conflict and with minimal resources. Building on these examples, it becomes clear that integrating cultural preservation efforts into policy frameworks is not only valuable and possible but also necessary.

Importantly, Sudan acceded to the 1954 Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict and has recently joined the 1970 UNESCO Convention on the Second Protocol on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property. These actions strengthen Sudan’s legal and institutional framework for protecting cultural property and create a base for international collaboration to counter illicit trafficking. As such, they enable a greater cooperative breadth within which cultural preservation initiatives can be coordinated and integrated, and ultimately constitute the legal foundation of any future policy.

Why Prioritize Culture: Rationales for Policy Integration

The widespread destruction and displacement in Sudan have created a critical threat to tangible and intangible heritage. While much has been destroyed, scaling Sudanese-led efforts, such as Sudan Memory and SSLH, will support long-term holistic recovery. International donors, UN agencies, and regional bodies should integrate cultural safeguarding into their humanitarian and reconstruction frameworks. These actions should become a core element of post-conflict resilience.

Effective steps could include deploying cultural emergency response teams. Composed of expert units for on-site urgent recovery, stabilization, or excavation of artifacts or sites, such teams would support the data-mapping of endangered sites. Their deployment with coordination clusters, humanitarian working groups like the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, local NGOs, or civilian initiatives networks, would cement preservation as a key function of operations.

As the effectiveness of deployments would face the constraints of distance and active conflict, funding for “low-tech, low-visibility” tools like digitization kits, secure cloud storage, and training and micro-grants for community archiving could supplement the capacity for preservation in empowering existing local networks to scale their proven practices. Cultural workers and artists should be recognized as critical civilian responders. Offering training programs in artifact restoration techniques, documentation, and conservation would help build durable skills that remain within Sudan, irrespective of international partners’ willingness to invest in broader initiatives. Donors such as UNESCO and national authorities like the NCAM can facilitate partnerships with museums, universities, and digital preservation institutions to provide knowledge exchange and emergency technical support.

Finally, a coalition of international and domestic actors should implement fast-tracked emergency protection measures to prevent further looting. Temporary relocation, digital “mirroring” (rapid 3D digital replicas of artifacts produced for safe virtual access), or “cultural protection corridors” (secure pathways like humanitarian corridors linking sites for monitored movement) for endangered materials and personnel would reduce the prevalence of trafficking. Such measures should, however, be tempered by binding return and ownership guarantees to avoid their exploitation. Supporting monitoring initiatives between cultural institutions and international observers of these processes could further coordinate disparate initiatives.

Conclusion

Lasting culture counters the serious threats enabled by targeted cultural destruction, including historical revisionism, polarization, and weakened social cohesion. Examples such as Afghanistan and Iraq show how heritage demolitions and bans on cultural or religious practice serve to erase collective memory and undermine diverse identities. Conversely, in Sudan, shared narratives, mourning rituals, and cross-community dialogues via cultural practices soften polarization, trauma, and cycles of revenge, forming a foundation for reconciliation and transitional justice after prolonged conflict.

Today, warring factions in Sudan use cultural erasure to silence resistance and diverse voices. Funding preservation now will determine who gets remembered, whose suffering remains legible, and which futures seem viable. Preserving Sudan’s cultural artifacts and traditions amid war does not merely serve a nostalgic purpose. It ensures any political settlement rests on plural memory, rather than silence, amnesia, or erasure.

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Africa Shaped The Global 2030 Development Agenda. How It Can Influence What Comes Next

African countries need to agree on priorities to avoid accepting choices made elsewhere. Ian Panelo, Pexels

BY HAFTE GEBRESELASSIEGEBRIHET AND DAN BANIK

All United Nations member states adopted the 17 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) in 2015. They cover poverty, health, education, inequality, climate change, peace and other global issues. The goals are now approaching their 2030 deadline.

The goals matter because they shape national plans, international cooperation and decisions about development funding. The question of what should follow them can no longer be postponed.

The UN has already begun preparing for that discussion. The Pact for the Future invites the High-level Political Forum, under the auspices of the General Assembly, to consider in September 2027 how sustainable development should be advanced by 2030 and beyond.

This gives the African Union and its member states about a year to agree on their priorities and influence the debate before its main ideas are settled.

Will Africa help write it, or simply respond to it?

We study Africa’s leadership in global development debates. A recent study led by Hafte Gebreselassie Gebrihet examines how the Common African Position, a shared set of African priorities for the negotiations that produced the SDGs, influenced the post-2015 development agenda. It shows that Africa has helped shape a global development framework before. In 2014, African governments adopted the common position while negotiations on the goals were still under way. It gave African negotiators a shared set of priorities before the final agreement was reached.

Entering the process with an agreed position gave them more influence. It identified structural transformation, decent work, science and technology, peace and security, environmental sustainability, development finance and more equitable global partnerships as priorities for the continent. Several of these ideas were later reflected in the SDGs.

This mattered because African governments had long been treated more as implementers of global development agendas than as agenda setters. Structural adjustment programmes in the 1980s and 1990s introduced major economic reforms across the continent with limited regard for African priorities. The Millennium Development Goals later focused global attention on poverty, health and education, but offered little space for a coordinated African role in defining the agenda itself.

The Common African Position changed that pattern. It showed that influence begins before leaders arrive at a summit, when priorities are defined, coalitions are built and negotiating language is drafted.

That lesson matters again.

Can the African Union do it again?

The Common African Position was not the product of easy agreement among African governments. It followed two years of political organisation and consultation.

The AU Assembly gave the African Union Commission responsibility for identifying continental priorities with member states and regional economic communities. The assembly also created a committee of ten heads of state and government. Liberia’s President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf led it. The committee coordinated African leaders and built support beyond the continent.

Parliamentarians, regional organisations, civil society groups, women and young people, trade unions, academics and businesses contributed to consultations at national, regional and continental levels.

African and UN institutions provided technical support. After the common position was adopted, the AU Assembly told member states to speak with one voice. It also asked the committee to develop a plan for advocacy, negotiation and alliance building.

A similar effort is possible today. Africa still has time to shape the process.

The Addis Ababa Declaration, adopted in April 2026 at the Africa Regional Forum on Sustainable Development, calls for active and collective African engagement in shaping the post-2030 framework.

The declaration links the process to African priorities and the AU’s Agenda 2063. It sets out initial ideas for the next framework. It also asks Mauritius to present the declaration and its main messages at the 2027 summit and other international meetings.

But the declaration is a starting point, not a new common position.

Turning it into a formal continental negotiating position will require leadership from heads of state. The African Union Commission must coordinate the process. Governments must also consult widely and agree on priorities.

The next framework will be negotiated under very different conditions. Climate change has intensified. Debt has increased. Aid budgets are shrinking. Competition among global powers is changing international cooperation. New technologies are also creating opportunities and widening inequalities.

Africa’s experience with the Common African Position points to five ways the continent can strengthen its influence when negotiations begin.

Five crucial steps

1. Agree on priorities early

African leaders adopted the common position before the global goals were finalised. They entered the process with a common understanding of their priorities and interests.

The post-2030 framework may sound distant. But the ideas that will shape it are already being discussed. By the time governments enter formal negotiations, many of the main proposals will have been developed, debated and revised.

African governments should begin that work now, before the main choices are made.

2. Speak with one voice

The African Union has 55 member states. They have different political systems, economies and development priorities. Complete agreement is neither realistic nor necessary. But the 2014 experience showed that African countries can gain influence by agreeing on their main priorities.

A coordinated position gives negotiators greater leverage than dozens of separate national interventions. It also shows that certain concerns are continental rather than national.

This will matter in debates over climate finance, debt restructuring, access to technology and reform of international institutions.

3. Align the post-2030 agenda with Agenda 2063

Africa does not need to invent a new vision for itself every time the international community develops a new framework. It already has one.

Agenda 2063 sets out the African Union’s long-term aspirations for an integrated, prosperous and peaceful continent driven by its own citizens.

Building on Agenda 2063 would give the African position both continuity and political credibility.

The task is to ensure that the next global framework reflects priorities Africa has already chosen.

4. Focus on a limited number of strategic priorities

A long list of demands would weaken Africa’s negotiating position. A future common position should not include every challenge facing the continent. It should focus on issues where African countries have urgent needs and shared interests.

The priorities should include development finance, climate adaptation, debt sustainability, technological capacity and reform of global institutions.

A shorter list would help African negotiators defend each priority more consistently. It would also make it easier to build alliances and keep attention on the issues that matter most.

5. Move from reacting to agenda-setting

Africa’s influence increased when it helped define the debate rather than reacting to proposals developed elsewhere.

For decades, African countries have often been portrayed as recipients of development agendas designed by others. The Common African Position challenged that assumption. It showed that African governments can shape international priorities when they enter the process early, coordinate their positions and connect their concerns to wider global debates.

Before the 2027 SDG Summit, the African Union and its member states should agree on a concise post-2030 position rooted in Agenda 2063. Otherwise, Africa risks returning to a familiar role: accepting choices that were made elsewhere.

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Better Parenting Starts With Knowing What Works. We Tested A Project In 8 African Countries

BY INGE VALLANCE AND GENEVIEVE HAUPT RONNIE

Raising adolescents can be difficult under the best of circumstances. On top of that, some families are also dealing with poverty, unemployment, conflict, displacement, illness and climate shocks. In these conditions, caregivers may receive very little support themselves.

Governments and NGOs are increasingly using parenting support programmes as part of efforts to reduce violence against children and improve adolescent wellbeing. These programmes help caregivers and adolescents strengthen relationships, communicate better, solve problems together and manage conflict. They are typically delivered in small groups over several weekly sessions by trained facilitators.

Many parenting programmes are first tested in rigorous studies. Families are randomly assigned to receive the programme or to a comparison group. This is a way of finding out whether a programme is the real cause of improvements. The trials usually take place under carefully managed conditions.

As researchers who study parenting programmes, we wanted to answer an important question: can a parenting programme that works in a carefully controlled trial still benefit families when it is delivered at scale through routine government and NGO services?

Our recent research examined this question across eight African countries.

Our findings

Rather than running a new experiment, we analysed data collected as part of large-scale programme delivery. We brought together information from more than 120,000 adolescents and caregivers across the eight countries. We also examined how families’ experiences changed after they took part in a programme. Existing government and NGO services in Botswana, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Eswatini, South Africa, South Sudan, Tanzania, Zambia and Zimbabwe delivered the programmes. These countries provided a variety of settings.

We found consistent associations with improvements in parenting, mental health and violence prevention. Across the eight countries, caregivers and adolescents reported lower levels of physical and emotional violence after taking part in the programme. We also found improvements in parenting practices, including more positive involvement and better supervision of adolescents. Caregivers reported lower parenting stress and fewer depressive symptoms. Also, adolescents reported improvements in depressive symptoms and behavioural problems.

Finding that programmes can make a difference under real-world conditions is important because interventions that work well in research studies often become less effective when expanded into routine service delivery.

Parenting support programmes

Parenting support programmes vary, but many share a similar approach. “Evidence-based” programmes have been rigorously evaluated and shown through research to improve outcomes for children and families.

They are practical, skills-based programmes. They help caregivers and adolescents communicate better, manage conflict at home and reduce harsh punishment. They also build more supportive relationships. Sessions may include role-play, problem-solving activities, or discussions about handling stress, peer pressure or family finances.

Importantly, these programmes are not about “perfect parenting”, nor are they about blaming caregivers. Many families are parenting under extremely difficult conditions with very limited support.

The programme we studied, Parenting for Lifelong Health for Teens, was developed with the World Health Organization and Unicef. It was first tested in South Africa before government and NGO services took it up in several African countries. It has also been delivered in Southeast Asia and Latin America.

Why scaling up is difficult

Expanding programmes sometimes means delivering them with fewer resources, less supervision or more interruptions. Staff may have varying levels of training and support. In humanitarian settings, conflict, disease outbreaks or climate disasters may disrupt delivery.

That is why we wanted to understand whether parenting programmes could still be useful when delivered in real-world conditions.

The programmes in our study were delivered in very different contexts. Some took place in areas affected by conflict and displacement, including parts of South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Others were delivered during COVID-19 lockdowns. In Botswana, South Africa and Zimbabwe, delivery moved to phone and WhatsApp. Limited internet connectivity and access to data often hampered this.

The study focused mainly on adolescent girls and their caregivers because many of the wider service programmes were designed to support girls facing risks linked to violence, HIV and social vulnerability.

What we found

Overall, physical abuse scores were around two-thirds lower after programme participation, although the extent of change varied between countries and contexts. We saw positive changes across this wide range of settings, from conflict-affected communities to pandemic situations.

Emotional abuse and approval of corporal punishment also declined across countries.

We saw similar patterns in reports from both caregivers and adolescents. This matters because it suggests the findings were not limited to one group reporting more positively after participating.

We also found substantial differences between countries in baseline levels of violence, mental health distress and family stress. This is important because there is no single “African context”, and programmes need to work across very different social and economic realities.

Why this matters

In many African countries violence prevention, mental health and family support tend to be treated as separate areas of policy and practice. But everyday family relationships connect them. Parenting support is gaining recognition as one way to prevent violence.

Our findings suggest that helping caregivers and adolescents build more supportive relationships can improve wellbeing and safety.

There are limitations to our study. We cannot conclude that the programme was the only cause of improvements. But the consistency of the findings across countries, organisations and participant groups suggests that evidence-based parenting programmes can be helpful when delivered at scale in challenging conditions.

In recent years, governments globally have made commitments to preventing violence against children. That is only the first step. Governments also need approaches that are practical, scalable and realistic to deliver through routine systems. Our findings suggest that evidence-based parenting support can be one of these approaches.

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The Gambia’s Hidden History: How A Tiny River Basin Influenced Colonial Trade And Slavery

A mural at a slave house on Janjanbureh Island, once known as Georgetown, in The Gambia. Peter van der Sluijs/Wikimedia Commons

BY PAPA CHERIF BERTRAND BASSENE

SENIOR LECTURER, UNIVERSITE

CHEIKH ANTA DIOP DE DAKAR

The Gambia is often portrayed as little more than a geographical oddity, a strip of land engulfed by its much larger neighbour Senegal. It was once the centre of Senegambia, administered by Britain between 1765 and 1779. But there is another way of looking at it which reveals its importance and adds to current reflections on reparations for slavery.

Pape Chérif Bertrand Bassène has studied the history of The Gambia and southern Senegal. He argues that British and Portuguese sources point to the existence of “Sierragambia” – a dynamic Mande-Atlantic connection and maritime corridor extending from the Gambia River basin, through the Casamance and Cacheu networks, down to the Sierra Leone River estuary, which later became the Abolitionist Laboratory Loop.

This independent coastal region played a decisive role in the Atlantic’s political, commercial and anti-slavery dynamics. Here, French-British rivalries intersected with African political agency long before the abolition of the slave trade. Whether through strategic alliances or fierce resistance, Bassène argues, African societies played an active, structuring role in transforming the Atlantic system into a network of exchange. We asked him to fill in the details.

How did you go about your research?

My research draws on two sets of European archives: British archives on The Gambia, and Portuguese sources on The Gambia and Guinea-Bissau. I analysed them alongside the historiography of Senegambia rather than in isolation.

Rather than treating these records as objective accounts, I approached them as geopolitical narratives. These require critical interpretation, informed by insights from historical linguistics; by analysing Atlantic, Mande, and Bak languages, I trace the etymologies, shifting meanings, and social realities hidden behind European denominations and colonial administrative categories.

These sources help reveal how coastal trading networks developed. They also show how waterways were controlled by “Banhüns” (Baynunks) or “grumetes/gourmets”. Europeans used these terms for the local intermediaries who connected them to the Atlantic slave trade.

The sources show African political structures remained strong and were able to negotiate, resist, or exploit imperial rivalries.

What was the crisis between the French and British colonial forces all about?

Between 1779 and 1785, “Sierragambia” was a space where Franco-British rivalries intersected with African political agency, before the abolition of the slave trade.

In 1779, French forces destroyed Fort James on the Gambia River, ending Britain’s Province of Senegambia. But the French administration could not establish lasting control. British ships quickly returned and resumed their operations.

This rivalry reached its peak in October 1780. The French naval warship Le Sénégal boarded four English vessels at the mouth of the river. Britain responded quickly.

On 2 November 1780, the ship HMS Zephyr, supported by the privateer Polly (a civilian vessel), attacked the French ship. Twelve French sailors were killed and 28 wounded. The British lost only two men. Le Sénégal was captured and taken to Gorée, the slave trading island. It exploded shortly afterwards.

What role did Gambian communities play?

Portuguese sources describe precolonial Casamance in today’s Senegal as a territory fiercely guarded by coastal societies. There was no easy access. Europeans had to pass through the Banhuns-Grumetes, intermediaries from local communities, and Portuguese “lançados” (exiles). These various actors controlled the backwaters, filtered trade flows, and dictated the terms of barter.

The 1780 episode was shaped by an African initiative, a strategic alliance between British sailors and the Joola people of Fogni (the southern part of the Gambia River). Trapped along the river, the British sailors secured logistical and military support from the Joola. Rather than a victory decided purely by British maritime superiority, the capture of the ship Le Sénégal was engineered by a local African alliance that stripped the French of mobility and logistics. Africans created the tactical conditions that made British interception possible.

Coastal communities refused to supply the French. They harassed French rowboats, and disrupted the slave trade. On the north bank, the Niuminkés generally supported France. On the south bank, the Fogni communities allied with Britain. Their actions helped shape the territorial status quo ratified by the Treaty of Paris in 1783.

Although this treaty kept Albréda north of the river under the French flag, Paris had no real control over the river.

The agreement brought only a temporary pause to the conflict between the French and the British. It continued for decades.

How did this play out in the slave trade?

After losing its American colonies, Britain realigned its economic priorities. As it became an industrial power, it used the abolitionist movement as a tool to weaken its economic rivals. Sierragambia proved fertile ground for this project. Britain had already built strong ties with local communities.

The founding of Bathurst (present day Banjul, the capital of The Gambia) in 1816 should not be seen just as colonialism imposed from the outside. It was, rather, a legal formalisation of a preexisting political autonomy.

The colonial order that took shape in the 19th century grew out of forms of local autonomy that coastal communities had built during the slave trade era.

Even though the Barra Fort on the north bank of the Gambia River served to protect trade routes, the southern region became a space of emancipation, dissent and social change.

Freed captives, coastal communities and local authorities came together to strengthen their room for manoeuvre in the face of European powers. The Gambia developed a political identity distinct from its neighbours.

Further south of Banjul, the French attempted to replicate this model by planning to create a “village of freedom” on the Carabane island.

What does this tell us about reparations?

As debates over the memory of the Atlantic slave trade gather pace, calls for reparations are growing louder.

Yet a crucial part of west African history remains trapped in an outdated framework shaped by the types of sources historians have traditionally used.

The “Sierragambia” concept invites us to rethink borders and territories in west Africa. Borders are not simply lines drawn at European imperial conferences. They are also a result of complex interactions shaped by the Atlantic system, African diplomatic choices, and local power dynamics.

Recognising African agency also changes the way we think about reparations today. It moves us beyond a simple story of powerful oppressors and passive victims. The collapse of the Atlantic slave trade was not decided only in London or Paris. It played out on the ground, driven by local resistance and global economic shifts.

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Jobs Abroad Or Jobs In Africa? Why A Focus On Work In Other Countries Shouldn’t Replace Opportunities At Home

Thousands of African nurses are recruited to work in western countries every year. Wikimedia Commons

BY MICHAEL BOAMPONG, DANIEL ASAMAH AND MELISSA MOUTAAN

African governments are increasingly encouraging young people to work abroad. To address youth unemployment at home, for example, Ghana and Kenya have expanded labour mobility agreements with other countries. These include Spain, Qatar and Caribbean states.

Agreements with Gulf countries have largely focused on construction and service-sector jobs. But newer partnerships with Caribbean countries are targeting skilled professionals like nurses and healthcare workers.

These arrangements can create structured pathways for people to work abroad, often in sectors where labour is in high demand.

Many African countries have large and growing youth populations struggling to get decent jobs. Meanwhile, wealthier economies face ageing populations and labour shortages. Evidence suggests that 71.7% of young adult (25-29) workers in sub-Saharan Africa are engaged in “insecure” work. At the same time, countries across Europe and elsewhere need labour in sectors such as care, agriculture and construction. Matching workers to labour shortages abroad appears to offer a practical solution.

But a deeper question emerges. What are the long-term development implications of governments promoting overseas employment as an economic strategy?

We study migration governance and youth aspirations in Ghana. We have examined how governments, international actors and young people understand the role of migration in development. Drawing on documentary analysis, interviews with policymakers and migration stakeholders, and ethnographic research with young people in Ghana, our recent research found that policymakers increasingly adopt an “economic gains” lens. They view migration as a source of remittances, skills and investment. On the other hand, young people’s aspirations to migrate remain rooted in limited opportunities and broader socioeconomic realities.

Our study focused on migration governance rather than labour mobility agreements themselves. However, it raises the question of what happens when seeing migration as an economic resource begins to shape labour mobility policy.

The drivers

In Ghana, remittances account for 6% of the country’s GDP. In 2024, this was about US$4.6 billion. It was far more than foreign direct investment and official development assistance combined that year. Expanding overseas employment is therefore seen as increasing these inflows while easing pressure on domestic labour markets.

One example of the implications concerns the protection of migrant workers.

Recent research from Kenya has shown how governments may encourage overseas employment even when protections for migrant workers remain uneven. This is an important concern, but misses a larger issue.

Broader development trade-offs can receive less attention. Even where labour mobility agreements are relatively well regulated, they may still contribute to structural challenges at home, such as the loss of skilled workers in critical sectors like health and education.

Ghana provides a clear example. The country is already experiencing a significant outflow of health professionals. Records show 500 nurses have left every month in recent years to work abroad. At the same time, health systems at home remain under pressure, with high patient-to-healthcare personnel ratios and limited resources.

This has prompted wider debates about ethical recruitment from countries already facing healthcare workforce shortages. Promoting further migration, even under formal agreements, raises important questions. Can countries sustain essential services while easing the departure of skilled workers? And how do these policies affect long-term investments in human capital?

What happens when migrants return?

Our research also highlights the importance of thinking about migration as a broader development process rather than simply movement across borders. As labour mobility expands, the question of what happens when migrants return is becoming increasingly important. Many migrants eventually return home, bringing skills, experience and financial resources.

Return migration can support entrepreneurship, innovation and local development. But these outcomes are not automatic. The UN World Youth Report on Youth and Migration suggests that returnees often require effective reintegration support and access to economic opportunities to translate the skills and experience acquired abroad into local development gains. Policies such as skills recognition and access to finance can help make this possible.

Rethinking labour mobility

One implication of our research is that migration policies should be embedded within broader development strategies rather than judged only by their immediate economic returns. This does not mean labour mobility should be discouraged. Rather, it should complement (not replace) investments in decent work, skills development and strong public institutions at home. Labour mobility is therefore not inherently negative. When well designed, it can contribute to both individual and national development.

For this to happen, it needs to move beyond a narrow focus on job placement abroad.

First, strategic partnerships between governments, employers, education and training institutions, recruitment agencies and international organisations are essential. This could involve jointly designed training programmes, mutual recognition of qualifications, and agreements where destination countries invest in training skilled workers in origin countries.

Second, reintegration needs to be taken more seriously. Providing access to finance, training and employment opportunities for returnees can help translate migration experiences into local economic development gains.

Third, labour mobility should not replace domestic job creation but complement it. Governments need to continue investing in sectors that can offer young people decent work at home, rather than relying on migration as the primary solution to youth unemployment or underemployment.

The key question is how migration fits into a broader development strategy.

Labour mobility can create opportunities for individuals and families. But it cannot substitute for long-term investments in decent work, education and economic transformation at home.

If treated simply as a short-term solution to unemployment, labour mobility risks deepening inequalities and weakening already fragile systems. When embedded in a broader development strategy, it can contribute to more inclusive and sustainable growth.

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Ugandan Women Work In The Middle East Even Though They Face Abuse. They Told Us Why

Migrant work, inside and outside Uganda, is one of the many things people do to cope with dire economic situations. Unsplash

BY HANNE O. MOGENSEN AND JULIANA A. OBIKA

Labour migration from Uganda to the Middle East has surged since the early 2000s, with many young women travelling for employment as domestic workers. Most of these jobs are in Oman, Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia.

However, researchers, journalists and organisations like Human Rights Watch and the International Labour Organisation have documented the widespread abuse and exploitation of Ugandan migrant domestic workers by their employers.

Cases include physical, sexual and psychological abuse, and restrictions on movement. Collectively, these accounts point to conditions that have been described as “modern slavery”.

The Ugandan government has attempted to regulate recruitment agencies and negotiate bilateral agreements on working conditions. It’s had limited success.

Networks of authorised and unauthorised recruitment agencies, and rows of posters in Kampala, continue to lure women with promises of well-paid domestic work in the Middle East. This is despite reports of exploitation surfacing regularly in Ugandan media.

Governments and organisations should protect the rights of migrant domestic workers. But it’s equally important to recognise these women as active agents, not just victims.

We are social scientists who research changing gender relations in Uganda. In a recent paper, we studied women’s decisions to migrate to the Middle East for domestic work. We wanted to understand why so many do so even though they are aware of the risks.

Between 2018 and 2022, we interviewed a group of Ugandan women who had worked in the Middle East. We use the term “Middle East” broadly because our focus was on the women’s experiences rather than the differences between the countries where they worked.

We were interested in why they’d migrated and how their experiences abroad affected their lives back home.

Their stories revealed striking contradictions. They spoke of slavery, humiliation and confinement, but also about “becoming somebody” through migrant domestic work.

This points to the reforms needed to improve working conditions abroad and expand opportunities at home.

Gender shifts

In countries where a majority of the population depends on the informal sector or subsistence agriculture, migrant work offers unmarried women, in particular, a rare opportunity to earn an income.

In Uganda, family identity and social status are traced through the father. Marriage has traditionally been formalised through the payment of bridewealth by the man’s family to the woman’s family.

Formalised marriage has become less common in recent decades, however. In the 1995 census, 64% of Ugandan women aged 15-49 described themselves as “married”, while 9% said they were “co-habiting”. By 2016, only 30% of women considered themselves married, while 30% were co-habiting.

The Uganda Bureau of Statistics stopped distinguishing between marriage and cohabitation in 2022. But close to 40% of the population considers itself neither married nor cohabiting.

During our fieldwork, we found that men are finding it increasingly difficult to pay bridewealth. As a result, many women spend their adult lives in a blend of partnerships; men go in and out of their lives while they remain with their children.

Women in our study linked their decision to migrate to the Middle East to men’s failure to live up to the ideal of being providers. They saw migration as a way to gain control over resources rather than waiting for a relationship to be formalised with a man who would then provide for them.

As one of our respondents stated:


First find yourself some money – marriage will always be there.

The women saw themselves as people who had taken their future into their own hands.

They readily acknowledged the harsh realities of the work. Many spoke of losing their freedom and encountering degrading attitudes towards women and, at times, racism. Yet, as one woman put it:

First get yourself the Arab experience then maybe you will become the lucky one who manages to move on to something else.

They hoped migrant work would be the first step towards a new life. And for some women in our study it did happen. They got better jobs in other countries.

Many however, did not. They returned several times to the Middle East before eventually settling down in Uganda.

Some returned home with savings, which they couldn’t do on a Ugandan wage. Earnings in the Middle East vary widely, so getting precise amounts proved difficult. And at home, they faced competing demands, like sharing resources with relatives and trying to build a permanent home of their own.

Even though many women never marry, motherhood remains a powerful social expectation. One in three Ugandan households are headed by women, according to the 2022 demographic survey. We found that even more women are actually heads of households even if a man is around some of the time.

Ugandans may say that a woman is “fathering a home” in the sense that she is building a house for herself and her children, making decisions and controlling resources. Not everybody succeeds in doing so, even after years in the Middle East. But some do. And the hope is there.

Power dynamics of migration

Recruitment agencies and other intermediaries profit from those hopes. The women’s “Arab bosses” may make possible the lives they aspire to build, while sustaining exploitative and oppressive labour relationships.

These experiences are shaped by wider global inequalities.

European countries are part of this unequal system. They restrict opportunities for low-wage migrants through tightening immigration policies. In doing so, they reinforce inequalities in who can move, where they can work and under what conditions.

The women in our study didn’t describe themselves as trying to challenge global inequalities or transform existing power structures. Rather, they sought greater control over resources and decision-making within their families and communities.

Their main motivation was to provide for their families. Yet they are also reshaping power and gender relations in Uganda and beyond.

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Racism At The World Cup Is An Ugly Reality. How To Understand Where It Comes From

BY CHRISTIAN UNGRUHE

RESEARCH FELLOW,

UNIVERSITY OF PASSAU

No African teams made it past the quarter-finals of the 2026 men’s football World Cup, but their strategic and tactical play left a lasting impression.

The success of African teams doesn’t come out of the blue, it’s the result of a long process. It’s therefore surprising that African football remains underrated and downgraded by experts, often in a manner that reveals their ignorance both to African football and history. At times, their comments have a highly problematic racist tone.

This was the case with former star player Bastian Schweinsteiger, now a longtime commentator for a German TV network. Ahead of a group stage match against Côte d’Ivoire, he was asked what Germany’s team could expect. He responded:

A bit African football, a bit unorthodox, a bit wild … perhaps also not so conditioned by tactics. We must be prepared for it to be unpredictable.

Setting aside the fact that the German team was often the weaker side – both tactically and in terms of style of play – this characterisation is inappropriate and offensive. It’s based on a stereotyped, colonialist view of Africa.

On the one hand, Schweinsteiger faced criticism that his statement was racist.

As Cote d’Ivoire’s manager, Emerse Fae, said:

It is odd he would speak that way. We could call it racist … I can only hope it is a clumsy statement, rather than something going on in his mind.

On the other hand, there were many people on online forums and social media who wondered why Schweinsteiger’s statement was considered racist, as did his broadcaster, ARD.

Schweinsteiger responded weakly to the criticism:

I was talking about football, not people. This is a football analysis – nothing more, nothing less.

I often hear this kind of downplaying when football in Africa and its people are subtly devalued. As an anthropologist, my research focuses on the migration of football players from various parts of Africa and on the forces that have shaped the evolution of African football, especially the modern game. A key focus is on racialisation, othering, and racism experienced by players.

The research shows that African footballers, and Black players more generally, face different forms of racism.

On social media, they frequently encounter open and hostile rejection and insults. A recent example is the offensive post by Paraguayan senator Celeste Amarilla, after her country’s loss to France. She described Kylian Mbappé as a colonised Cameroonian, desperately trying to pass himself off as French … resentful, arrogant and ugly.

Players from Africa also face structural disadvantages in the football industry. This is evident in shorter contracts and lower salaries, as well as peripheral playing positions and less consideration for coaching and administrative roles, as various studies show.

After all, they are also constantly confronted with more subtle forms of everyday racism, which manifests itself in their abilities and qualities being devalued. They are often reduced to their physical appearance, their intelligence denied.

Everyday racism is often expressed subtly and white people like Schweinsteiger are often not aware of its racist connotation. Therefore, the question of whether Bastian Schweinsteiger is a racist or not is not the crucial one (he most likely is not).

The key question is rather why these stereotypes are repeatedly expressed in football and why, for many people, they seem to reflect reality rather than appear problematic. To understand this, we need to do justice to Africa’s diversity and further look at the continent’s colonial history.

Colonial stereotypes

For one thing, simplistic statements like Schweinsteiger’s disparage football across an entire continent without making any distinctions. There is just as little such thing as an “African” style of football as there is a “European” one. This does not do justice to a complex reality and it reveals either ignorance or indifference.

Second, describing African football as “unorthodox,” “wild,” and “not characterised by tactics”, perpetuates stereotypes from the colonial era that extend beyond the sport. My study of African footballers in Germany shows how the players are vulnerable to broader, structural vulnerabilities in Europe.

How many view African migrant footballers is grounded in colonial thinking. European colonisation legitimised itself by ranking people. The enlightened European, capable of reflection, and the uneducated African, who must be tamed.

Starting in the 1920s, colonial administrators deliberately used football to subjugate Africans. Sport was used to teach team spirit and rules to the allegedly naïve, raw and perhaps threatening African in order to turn him into a person loyal to the colony.

Openly showing resistance was dangerous. But interestingly, this happened on the football field. Studies outline how some Africans didn’t try to play by the rules. They tried to make feints, dribbles, and tricks – on the one hand to entertain their own people, but also to display defiance.

During the struggle for independence, football was then used by some African countries to foster a sense of national and pan-African unity. After all, colonial borders had been drawn arbitrarily. National football teams were important, but so was the style of play – integrity and technical skill presented an alternative to the colonial image.

Over the years, national playing styles have developed in various ways. They are influenced by cultural values, transnational linkages and the game becoming professionalised. However, the original mix – powerful bodies, skillful dribbling, and a childlike, naïve approach – has become ingrained in European minds.

Slow poison

At first glance, subtle disparaging remarks like Schweinsteiger’s may not seem to be as racist as the open insults and degrading comments seen every day in football and society. But they are hurtful. And because they are firmly embedded in the social knowledge of European countries, they are hard to erase

Rather, they are a creeping poison that, when constantly reproduced, shapes a society’s collective consciousness. As my research has found, such remarks not only disparage football in Africa but also shape the general perception of a continent that is allegedly backward at every level.

To tackle the powerful colonial-era image of an African inferiority, it is important to take action against all forms of racist disparagement in football and beyond, whether they are unintentional, subtle, or explicit.

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Racial Stereotypes Of African Footballers Persist. A World Cup Is A Good Time To Talk AboutThem

Assumptions about natural differences between black and white athletes are entrenched in the global talent trade. Florian Schmetz/Unsplash

BY UROCS KOVAC AND IKECHUKWU EJEKWUMADU

With a Somali referee being denied entry into the US, and the surge of online racist abuse after 2026 World Cup matches, racism and exclusion in football are once again in the news.

Overt anti-Black racism in football is well reported and researched. Less visible but important structural issues remain little scrutinised, though.

The 2026 World Cup is a perfect moment to examine the deeply entrenched – but often hidden – logic of the global market of footballers that reproduces racist stereotypes about Black athletes.

Assumptions about natural characteristics of African athletes persist in football transfers. Africans are often regarded as physically strong athletes with raw talent that are lacking in discipline and technical refinement. But these assumed characteristics are far from natural – they are actively nurtured.

One of the less obvious places that this happens is in west African football academies that seek to empower young footballers, but effectively reproduce stereotypes.

We are a sport sociologist and an anthropologist who have been researching football-related migrations from west Africa to Europe since 2014. We’ve worked with aspiring footballers in Nigeria, Senegal and Cameroon. Most recently, we interviewed coaches at four football academies in Nigeria, as well as 24 football migrants in Europe. We asked the coaches about their selection strategies, and the footballers about their aspirations and career paths.

Our combined findings show that racial inequality still exists in global football. It can be detected in young footballers’ dreams, football academies’ business models, and the demands of the global market.

Strikingly, it is often reproduced through practices that are framed positively – opportunity, empowerment, inclusion – rather than through overt racism alone. This makes racial inequality in football particularly durable – it happens through strategies that many experience as allowing for social mobility.

This matters, because we cannot fully comprehend racism in sports without understanding the deeply rooted dynamics that fuel it.

‘Whiteman country’

In many west African countries, football has become one of the most attractive ways for young men to migrate overseas. Confronted with a lack of stable economic opportunities and glaring global inequalities, they seek “greener pastures” overseas, where they hope to start earning a living and providing for their families.

The footballers travel everywhere, including Asia and the Gulf States. But the most desirable destination remains Europe. This is because of the enormous popularity of European elite football leagues and the visibility of elite African footballers in European clubs. There’s a perception that European football offers the best prospects for social and economic mobility.

In western Cameroon, Europe is often called “whiteman country”. It’s a catch-all term for “the west” that has ambiguous connotations. Young people see it as a place of prosperity, comfort and economic opportunity, but also of anti-Black racism, overwork and inequality. Many see it as a key destination – often unavailable because of strict border policies – that holds opportunities.

Natural athletes

Myths about Africans as being natural-born athletes persist in the global market.

For instance, one European coach we interviewed in Cameroon emphasised that Africans were immensely talented – they had “rhythm in their blood”. They also reportedly lacked discipline. The coach consistently compared European footballers – allegedly untalented but inclined to work hard – with African players – supposedly very talented but not geared to hard work.

In Nigeria, coaches we interviewed routinely emphasised that Africans had “natural” abilities for sports. Most prominent were myths about physical strength and endurance that were supposedly inherent in African bodies.

Moreover, talented young players were often labelled as “diamonds in the rough”, raw materials with potential but in need of refinement. The labels make for disturbing parallels with images of Africa as full of natural minerals ready to be exploited.

These examples are not isolated or anecdotal – racial stereotypes about African athletes have been documented in studies over and over and over again.

They are also not isolated to football. Similar myths have been documented in many disciplines, like boxing, rugby, American football, and long-distance running.

Cultivating difference

These stereotypes have a profound influence on how football talent is nurtured on the continent.

Our interviews reveal that football academies in Nigeria strategically cultivate footballers that fit global stereotypes of the Black athlete. This is to create value in the global market.

They argue that physical qualities are the most important thing foreign scouts look for in African footballers. So academies strategically select young men who are physically strong, tall, and with high endurance. In the process, they may overlook players with high technical skills and tactical awareness.

In one instance, an academy spent years developing players, but found it difficult to sell the small players, despite their technical prowess. They eventually disbanded the team and selected a new crop of youngsters. This time they had to be at least six foot tall.

The academies, we found, also model the development of players on successful African internationals. They might focus on scouting and developing defending midfielders – a position that benefits from exceptional physical strength. Or they nurture physically imposing strikers like Romelu Lukaku or Victor Osimhen. The academies say they’re exploiting and creating a niche in the global market that’s especially fitting for Africans.

This matters, because football academies, coaches and agents play key roles as gatekeepers in the global market. They promise young footballers – often from underprivileged backgrounds – empowerment and inclusion through access to global markets.

The market is big and complicated, and not all academies reproduce these tropes – at least not consciously. But racial stereotypes clearly continue and have a profound impact on how athletes are selected and cultivated.

Racial capitalism

For a long time, prominent postcolonial thinkers have developed theories about the racial order of the global economy.

US political scientist Cedric Robinson used the term “racial capitalism” to explain how capitalism was built on a foundation of colonialism, slavery, and racial differentiation. That created a society where racialised groups are exploited to extract profit. Capitalism exploits people on the basis of imagined racial differences.

Indian feminist critic Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak wrote about “strategic essentialism” to highlight how people may deal with these structures. Marginalised groups sometimes use simplified ideas about who they are. This can help them gain recognition or improve their opportunities.

These ideas are remarkably relevant nowadays, and essential for understanding how racial inequalities endure through sports.

Global football shows how markets commodify bodies, commodify difference itself, and continue to fuel these inequalities. It also shows how people respond to this, and how talk of empowerment and inclusion can reinforce inequalities.

These issues are made visible through sport, but they are not exclusive to it. They are also not inevitable.

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DRC Has Taken Rwanda To The World Court Over Genocide Again. A Law Scholar Explains What’s Different This Time

The Peace Palace in The Hague, Netherlands, which is the seat of the International Court of Justice. Wikimedia Commons

BY KERSTIN BREE CARLSON

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR INTERNATIONAL

LAW, ROSKILDE UNIVERSITY, DENMARK

The Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) filed a lawsuit against Rwanda at the International Court of Justice at the end of June 2026. The 60-page complaint alleges acts of genocide and other atrocity crimes by Rwandan forces and their intermediaries dating from 1996 to the present day.

The DRC has twice before brought similar cases against Rwanda at this court. Both failed on questions of jurisdiction. So, what explains yet another case against Rwanda? Kerstin Bree Carlson, a scholar of international justice and author of a book on international law in Africa, examines this history and what’s behind the DRC’s confidence in its latest push.
What did the DRC’s previous cases involve?

The DRC has twice tried to bring Rwanda before the International Court of Justice in relation to violence carried out or backed by Rwanda on its soil. It was unsuccessful both times.

In 1999, the DRC brought claims against Rwanda, Burundi and Uganda before the court over the armed invasion of its territory. It sought reparations for armed aggression and intentional acts of destruction and looting.

It later dropped its claims against Rwanda and Burundi because neither country had consented to the court’s jurisdiction.

The case against Uganda went ahead, and in 2005 the court ruled in the DRC’s favour. It found that Uganda was responsible for acts of violence in the country. In 2022, the court ordered Uganda to pay US$325 million in reparations, marking a significant victory for the DRC. Kampala paid the first instalment of US$65 million that year.

In 2002, the DRC resubmitted claims against Rwanda.

The DRC invoked eight international treaties, including the Genocide Convention. This is a UN treaty that entered into force in 1951 and establishes genocide as an international crime.

The International Court of Justice dismissed the DRC’s case on jurisdictional grounds, which drew criticism. The court said it lacked the authority to hear the dispute because Rwanda had entered a “reservation” when it joined the Genocide Convention, rejecting the court’s jurisdiction under the treaty. In the 2006 ruling, a majority of International Court of Justice judges recognised the validity of this reservation.
What has happened in the past 20 years that might change the outcome?

First, in 2008 Rwanda withdrew its reservation to International Court of Justice jurisdiction under the Genocide Convention and the Convention on the Elimination of all forms of Racial Discrimination (which came into force in 1969). That means that the jurisdictional hurdle relating to Rwanda’s consent is resolved.

The DRC has invoked both these treaties in its current submission to the court.

Second, in 2008 Rwanda became a party to the Convention Against Torture (which came into force in 1987). Claims made under this UN treaty do not need to meet the same rigorous “intent” standard that genocide claims do. Further, the court’s jurisprudence is well established under the torture convention. For example, claims under this treaty played a critical role in efforts to bring Chad’s former president Hissène Habré to justice.

The DRC has invoked this history in its submission.

Third, international law has evolved. Recent cases like The Gambia’s suit againt Myanmar (2019) and South Africa’s case against Israel (2023) have expanded the Genocide Convention’s reach.

Together, these factors suggest that the DRC’s third attempt may have a stronger chance of clearing the jurisdictional hurdle. However, whether this would eventually lead to a judgment against Rwanda is much harder to predict.
Why has the DRC turned to international law?

International law, the law of nations, creates all nations as equals. The International Court of Justice is the oldest, most established global arbiter of disputes between them.

There are two principles of international law that play out in this case.

First, states are generally bound only by obligations they have explicitly accepted. This includes agreeing to the jurisdiction of the court. Second, international courts have no police force or other means of enforcing their judgments. It is up to states themselves to comply with court rulings. This compliance includes a duty on other states not to recognise as lawful situations created through serious breaches of international law.

Although the court cannot compel states to act, its opinions matter. They represent the most authoritative statements of international legal norms. In other words, International Court of Justice judgments represent the clearest statements we have regarding how international legal principles apply in practice.

Recognising international law’s persuasive power is key to understanding why the DRC has repeatedly turned to the International Court of Justice and other international courts to seek rulings against Rwanda and its proxies. These include the International Criminal Court and the African Court on Human and People’s Rights. International lawfare represents a principled battle for recognition and legitimacy.
Why does the case matter?

The DRC’s creative legal attempts to bring Rwanda to justice in relation to its engagement in and support of armed conflict in the DRC over the past several decades are efforts to invalidate violent incursions on its soil. It also seeks to reassert its sovereignty by having Rwandan-backed violence recognised as illegal by international law’s apex court.

As I have argued before and in my book examining international law in Africa, the power of international law resides in states’ agreements to use it in place of violent conflagration, and to be bound by it.

Rwanda challenges these standards in both regards. Credible allegations of Rwandan-backed massacres in the DRC date from 1996 through to the present day. Despite being the recipient of significant international legal investment, Rwanda resists participating as a good international citizen. So far, neither Rwanda nor its allies are addressing or redressing its behaviour.

By contrast, the DRC is expanding international law’s promise and potential by applying it as intended. International law derives its power chiefly from the expectations it creates.

The DRC is not blameless in the three decades of violence its submission describes. But by framing that violence through the lens of international law, the country helps legitimise alternatives to violence.

Serving A State That Couldn’t Pay: Why South Sudan’s Civil Servants Didn’t Quit During The War

Public administration, Yambio, Western Equatoria, South Sudan. Emmanuelle Veuillet, Author provided (no reuse)

BY EMMANUELLA VEUILLET

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR

UNIVERSITY OF JUBA

When civil war broke out in South Sudan in December 2013, civil servants found themselves at the centre of a deep political and economic crisis.

The state was, and remains, the largest employer, surpassing private companies and NGOs. In 2015, the approved national budget accounted for 465,041 government personnel. Over 85% were engaged in security-related functions. Despite the absence of official statistics, observations confirm that the civil service has not shrunk over the years.

As the conflict became increasingly politicised and shaped by ethnic divisions, civil servants had to navigate shifting loyalties and growing insecurity.

The war also triggered an economic collapse. In 2015, the South Sudanese pound lost nearly 90% of its value against the US dollar. Trade routes were disrupted. Domestic production of products declined and shortages of imported goods fuelled hyperinflation.

The near-total collapse of oil exports – the government’s main source of revenue – severely weakened state finances. By late 2015, the government was effectively bankrupt and increasingly unable to fund the public sector.

This resulted in long delays in civil servants’ salary payments from several months to a year. Hyperinflation also eroded the value of wages.

This did not lead to a mass exodus from the civil service, however. During my PhD fieldwork, I found that many civil servants chose to stay. As a political sociologist, I was interested in understanding their decision to remain in a broke administration during such challenging times. I explored the little-known wartime experiences of ordinary middle-ranking civil servants to make sense of it.

Drawing on 22 months of fieldwork in South Sudan, I found that civil servants chose to remain in government because – despite the absence of a salary and direct income – their jobs provided benefits. These included social status, and access to networks and opportunities. The job provided a sense of normality, too, during a period of political upheaval. It was also a realistic route to paid employment in a hoped-for future. Other options were scarce.

The civil war formally ended with the 2018 peace agreement, but South Sudan remains mired in political and economic crises. My findings help explain why, despite repeated shocks, state institutions have endured.

The study

I collected the data in my study between 2017 and 2022 in the region of Western Equatoria in South Sudan. The region doesn’t have oil resources, hosts a variety of ethnic groups and plunged into war later than many others. I relied on observations from various administration offices at county and state levels, and informal conversations held during these visits.

As part of my research, I followed the stories of six civil servants – two women and four men – from different departments and directorates at the county and state levels. They held different grades within the administration. They were aged over 30 and held at least a high school certificate.

The findings

My study shows that civil servants’ attachment to a state with no money was shaped by material, social and political factors.

Before the war – from independence in 2011 to 2013 – even lower-ranking government jobs provided civil servants with a modest but stable standard of living. For instance, a cleaner (grade 16) in public administration earned around US$180 to US$200 at the time. But after the conflict began, that economic security disappeared.

By April 2017, a director’s monthly salary (grade 3) could only buy a 20kg bag of rice and a 10kg bag of red beans. An administrative officer’s (grade 12) salary could barely pay for 2kg of rice.

All civil servants had to look for other sources of income for daily survival. These included farming, small-scale businesses, and renting or selling properties. The economic security attached to a position in the civil service had vanished.

Yet civil servants continued to go to the office because it still gave them access to other forms of resources, helped them maintain their status and preserved an appearance of normality.

The benefits included:

access to opportunities, such as NGO trainings and workshops that provided per diems for the period of participation, or a certificate of attendance that could be added to a CV

the knowledge and power to help people and do favours, which helped them cultivate social networks that could be used to access goods, services or credit

preserving social position and maintaining practices that reinforced a sense of normality, both in the eyes of others and for themselves


a shared experience which fostered forms of solidarity and mutual understanding among civil servants. They organised social activities and support mechanisms, such as savings groups, among themselves rather than with other social groups.

A desired future

Despite the South Sudanese government’s withdrawal from many of its social responsibilities, civil servants continued to imagine a different kind of state. Those I interviewed shared a vision of a strong and functioning state.

It was often accompanied by a sense of self-fulfilment, as they imagined themselves helping to build such a state. Maintaining the functioning of state institutions and preserving some level of public service during the crisis became a meaningful commitment, a survival strategy and an investment in upward mobility within a “wished-for state”.

The decision to remain in this career was also shaped by a lack of alternatives, however. Middle-ranking civil servants had relatively low levels of formal education and lacked the networks needed to secure other employment. The private sector has remained small because of a difficult business climate and a lack of economic diversification.

The total collapse of a functioning state would mean the disappearance of their jobs – which helps explain their efforts to keep the administration going.

The economic crisis in South Sudan raises questions, however, about how long civil servants can continue to sustain state institutions.

In many cases, salaries have gone unpaid for more than a year. And cash shortages in banks prevent civil servants from accessing whatever funds may be available to them.

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