The Conversation – Africa – Page 28

August 25, 2025

Sex workers in colonial Senegal were policed by France – book explores a racist history

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Caroline Séquin, Associate Professor of Modern European History, Lafayette College

Desiring Whiteness is an award-winning book by historian Caroline Séquin. It explores the intertwined histories of commercial sex work and racial politics in France and the French colonial empire, particularly in Senegal. We asked her five questions about her study.

How was sex work regulated in France?

A new system controlling commercial sex developed during Napoleon’s Consulate in the early 1800s. It was first implemented in Paris, then across France. Known as regulationism, it tolerated, rather than banned, commercial sex. But under specific conditions.

It licensed brothels, so long as the women who sold sex (it was assumed men didn’t) were registered with the vice police. They had to undergo a regular gynaecological exam to detect any sexually transmissible infections (STIs) they might inadvertently pass to their clients.

At the time syphilis was a serious public health threat. Doctors didn’t know how to treat it. Women caught with an STI or who broke the regulationist rules were interned in hospitals or prison without proper trials.

Historians have shown how regulationism was an arbitrary and flawed system. It unfairly targeted mostly working-class women for the benefit of male heterosexual desire.

What form did it take in the colonies like Senegal?

After the abolition of slavery in 1848, French colonial authorities adopted the regulationist regime that had been developed in France.

The French empire at the time included Martinique, Guadeloupe, French Guiana, Reunion, and some coastal regions of Algeria. In addition were French trading posts in Senegal and India, and several protectorates in the Pacific.

So, in Senegal regulationism was adopted in Saint-Louis and Gorée Island. There the French had built trading posts which they converted into colonial territories around the same time.

Regulationism became a way to control the bodies of formerly enslaved women. Colonial authorities saw them as a public health threat to the French men present in the region. They feared that, after abolition, women would resort to commercial sex as a means of survival. This would contribute to the spread of STIs. They extended these policies to all of colonial Senegal a year after abolition.

How did Senegal’s sex workers respond?

Not in the way that colonial authorities would have hoped. Many of the African women who were accused of engaging in commercial sex evaded the mandatory health checks or police registration. For example, they relocated to other areas to avoid detection.

And although the new colonial decree allowed for the creation of brothels, it appears none existed in the colony until the early 1900s. Authorities routinely lamented how the African women who sold sex did so “clandestinely”. Meaning outside licensed brothels and colonial control.

One shouldn’t dismiss the reality that some of these women were likely wrongly accused of being sex workers. Gender and racial bias shaped how medical and colonial authorities viewed Black women.

I haven’t found any evidence of brothels staffed with African women in Dakar or across colonial Senegal. All licensed brothels were staffed with European women and their services were reserved exclusively for European men.

The sexual reputation of white women greatly mattered to colonial authorities as it was supposed to reflect French moral superiority. Nonetheless, they tolerated their sexual activity because brothel keepers denied African male clients access to their businesses. This helped prevent interracial sex.

Sex with a white sex worker was preferrable to sexual or conjugal relationships developing with African women. Given the widespread assumption at the time that men had natural sexual needs, brothels were perceived as a “necessary evil” to maintain the social, moral, and racial order.

So, the regulation of commercial sex became an essential tool for the upholding of colonial rule. This increasingly relied on strict racial hierarchies and the preservation of French whiteness.

How does this play out today?

The regulationist regime was legally abolished in France – and colonial Senegal – in 1946. However, a few years after decolonisation and Senegal’s independence in 1960, a new law was established by Senegalese authorities. It required sex workers to be registered (with medical authorities, rather than police) and regularly checked for STIs. Those who failed to comply risked being jailed.

This is strikingly similar to the regulationist system established during the colonial period and it still stands to this day.

This was a different path than that taken by other African countries formerly under French colonial control, which associated regulationism with colonial oppression. They moved to eliminate it after independence. Some scholars, however, have lauded Senegal’s regulationist style laws as one of the main reasons why the country has the lowest reported HIV rate in the continent.

What do you hope readers will take away from your book?

The regulation of commercial sex was not simply about controlling women’s bodies and sexuality. It was also about policing racial relations.

As colonial discourses about race shifted and interracial sex and intimacy became increasingly frowned upon from the late 1800s, French authorities relied on commercial sex to limit the development of more sustained forms of intimacy across racial and colonial boundaries. In their view these threatened to dilute the myth of French whiteness by creating multiracial offspring.

What this meant for who could sell and buy sex in brothels differed in colonial Senegal and France. But, in the end, the racial logic that undergirded metropolitan and colonial brothels was the same.

So, my book contributes to an ever-growing scholarship that has debunked the myth of France’s colour blindness, by uncovering how the regulation of commercial sex was just one of the many ways in which racial difference and hierarchies were produced and upheld in the century following the abolition of slavery.

In that sense, France was not exceptional but rather similar to other imperial nations like the United States, where the control of sex and conjugality became crucial for the racial project of white supremacy in the aftermath of the abolition of slavery.

Caroline Séquin does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Sex workers in colonial Senegal were policed by France – book explores a racist history – https://theconversation.com/sex-workers-in-colonial-senegal-were-policed-by-france-book-explores-a-racist-history-262999

August 25, 2025

Namibia celebrates independence heroes, but glosses over a painful history

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Henning Melber, Extraordinary Professor, Department of Political Sciences, University of Pretoria

Namibia celebrates 26 August as Heroes’ Day. It recalls the first military encounter between the South African army and members of the South West Africa People’s Organisation (Swapo), Namibia’s liberation movement, in 1966. Initially a German colony (1884-1915), the country was then administered by South Africa, which refused to give up the occupation.

Since independence in 1990, the heroic Swapo liberation narrative has also been inscribed in Heroes’ Acre, a monument built by North Korea.

The institutionalised public commemoration in Namibia today – rightly – recalls the sacrifices of those who were willing to fight for self determination. At the same time, it glosses over the toxic impact of the way warfare was conducted. Those involved in the struggle for independence were far from innocent in the execution of the military resistance. Yet their violations of human rights were never addressed.

This ambiguity was visible in 2025 in a public controversy when tribute poured out to the late Solomon Hawala, whose combat name was Jesus. He was a leading fighter in Swapo’s military wing, known as PLAN.

He also had a bloody track record of eliminating fellow Namibians in exile.

The celebration of Hawala finally moved me to resign as a member of Swapo, an organisation I joined when I was 24 years old. I set out my reasons in an interview accessible on YouTube.

Since the late 1970s I have specialised as an academic in Namibian history and politics. Since the early 1990s I have engaged with the traumatic side of so-called liberation. More recently I wrote a book chapter giving voice to the victims.

Patriotic history versus struggle realities

The history of liberation movements displays their authoritarian nature. Their camps in southern Africa forged bonds of comradeship. For Mozambique’s Frelimo, the African National Congress, Swapo, the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola and Zimbabwe African People’s Union, Tanzania’s Kongwa camp in the 1960s provided a first operational base in preparation for the armed struggle abroad.

The movements then started to arrange for their own bases in host countries.

In the early to mid 1970s Swapo established the Old Farm outside Lusaka in Zambia. This was followed by Nyango. Finally, a Health and Education Centre was established in Angola’s Kwanza Zul.

The administration and management required strict discipline and reinforced repressive hierarchies.

There were several times in Swapo’s exile history when internal critics were silenced. Testimonies of the early stages in the late 1960s and early to mid 1970s offer insights by those persecuted. These included the former Swapo secretary for information Andreas Shipanga, the first generation Swapo member Hans Beukes, the former Swapo Youth League activist Keshii Nathanael and one of the first PLAN cadres, Samson Ndeikwila.

Speaking out and thereby disclosing the crimes, the Namibian chaplain in exile Salatiel Ailonga and his wife Anita were forced to seek refuge elsewhere.

Some scholars have drawn attention to the plight of the dissidents. The first waves of repression triggered two of those academics in solidarity with the liberation struggles to ask questions about liberation and democracy.

These earlier events were only a prelude to the “spy drama” in the 1980s. This was a chapter of horrendous crimes, mainly committed by a group of PLAN members at the camp in Lubango in southern Angola.

Over 1,000 Swapo members were incarcerated in dungeons. Their fate was most likely triggered by setbacks in the border war in southern Angola between the South African army and PLAN units backed by Cuban forces. In 1978, the South African army had attacked a Swapo camp at Cassinga in Angola, killing hundreds of women and children.

Members of the higher ranking Swapo military, the so-called securocrats, blamed spies for the disaster and other military setbacks. They tortured the accused to extract confessions and to implicate others. With no proof of guilt, people were often executed, disappeared or died of neglect in the dungeons. Numbers of the missing with no traces were estimated by the surviving victims at around 2,000.

Victims were, in the main, rank and file Swapo members. That South African spies had most likely penetrated the higher echelons of the movement was ignored.

Some of the victims, like Oiva Angula, have published accounts of their suffering.

Those who pointed out the unfolding terror were dismissed by the international solidarity movement as anti-Swapo propaganda. This included the early revelations by Siegfried Groth, a pastor for the refugees in Zambia. He was blamed for besmirching the image of the freedom fighters.

Glorification of the perpetrators

With the passing on of the first generation of struggle stalwarts, the number of posthumously celebrated heroes increased. Many of the veterans were put to rest in full honour by state funerals.

Hawala passed away aged 89 on 11 August 2025. Until his retirement in 2006 he had been the chief of the defence force.

President Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah recognised his

distinguished military service, steadfast leadership and unwavering dedication to the cause of Namibia’s liberation and nation-building. His legacy remains a symbol of courage, patriotism, and commitment to the ideals of freedom and independence.

This triggered a public debate. It brought back memories of heinous crimes in which he played a crucial role. Named the “Butcher of Lubango” by those who survived the ordeal, he was the personification of a brutal and ruthless system targeting those accused of spying and those who dissented with the leadership.

In his defence, a former Swapo MP pointed out that he was merely acting on Swapo’s instructions. People, he argued, “were killed with the knowledge of senior Swapo leaders”, and some of these were already buried at Heroes’ Acre.

Unheroic heroism

The survivors of the dungeons who are still alive were in shock over celebrating Hawala. But as they also pointed out, he personified a system.

I argued along similar lines when I was interviewed about my resignation from Swapo after more than 50 years as a member. Before the announcement that Hawala would get a state funeral I had urged in an article that his death should be an opportunity to finally address the plight of his victims. Instead the blinkers remained.

This motivated my letter of resignation: I had joined Swapo for believing in its slogan “Solidarity, Freedom, Justice”. Out of loyalty to these values and as a matter of – albeit belated – restoration of moral integrity, I had no choice but to depart.

Praising the perpetrators as heroes adds insult to injury to their surviving victims. Such denialism and amnesia lies like a lead cloak over truth and reconciliation. It shows the limits to liberation when Heroes’ Day is celebrated.

Henning Melber was a member of SWAPO from 1974 until August 2025..

– ref. Namibia celebrates independence heroes, but glosses over a painful history – https://theconversation.com/namibia-celebrates-independence-heroes-but-glosses-over-a-painful-history-263654

August 24, 2025

250,000 Ethiopians migrate every year: what drives them and what needs to change

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Girmachew Adugna, Advisory Board Member, Research Center for Forced Displacement and Migration Studies, Addis Ababa University

Migration is increasingly replacing the traditional, education-focused life paths that shaped previous generations in Ethiopia. In the past, becoming a civil servant after completing secondary and tertiary education was seen as both socially respected and economically rewarding.

Although access to education at all levels has expanded in recent decades, its value has diminished as many graduates struggle to find employment and decent livelihood opportunities. In Ethiopia, individuals under the age of 30 comprise approximately 70% of the total population, and the urban youth unemployment rate stood at around 25.3% as of 2022.

The consequences are often tragic.

Irregular migration involving overcrowded and unseaworthy boats is responsible for a rising number of deaths at sea. In the first six months of 2025 alone, more than 350 migrants lost their lives while attempting the crossing over the Gulf of Aden and Red Sea from the Horn of Africa. A tragic incident on 3 August claimed the lives of around 102 migrants, most of whom were Ethiopian.

I have been studying Ethiopian migration for more than a decade. In this article, I explore why many people choose irregular migration over legal pathways. I also consider what the Ethiopian government should be doing to manage the increasing number of young people choosing to leave the country for work.

Ethiopia serves as a country of origin, transit and destination for migrants. About 250,000 Ethiopians migrate annually.

Given the human toll of irregular migration, more must be done to tackle its root causes.

Based on my research findings, creating decent job opportunities in the country is crucial, so that young people can see a future without the need to leave. At the same time, for those who do wish to migrate, legal pathways must be made more accessible, safer and more efficient.

Equally important is expanding these migration pathways beyond domestic work to include skilled and semi-skilled workers and sectors that typically employ male migrants in destination countries. Those sectors include construction, agriculture and driving.

The drivers

In the early and mid-2000s, young men could migrate legally to Gulf countries. Saudi Arabia was the preferred destination for jobs such as driving and security work. Ethiopia imposed a temporary ban on labour migration to the Gulf countries from late 2013 to early 2018 over reported abuses and deaths. During this period, many individuals migrated through irregular channels, and those patterns became entrenched over time.

The number of women migrants is increasing, however, now accounting for a third of migrants on these routes.

The driving causes of migration from Ethiopia have always been complex. Factors include limited job and livelihood opportunities, conflict and instability, high unemployment, pressure from family and peers, hopes for a better life abroad, and a sense of hopelessness about a decent future at home.

In some parts of the country, a culture of migration has taken root, with migration perceived as a quick and effective way to earn income and generate broader benefits for both migrants and their families. Within these communities, having a family member abroad is increasingly regarded as a symbol of social status.

Lack of opportunities is central. It is evidenced by high youth unemployment and scarcity of quality jobs. Rural poverty, slow industrial development, and obstacles to starting businesses intensify the push factors.

Secondly, the ongoing conflict in the Amhara region and parts of Oromia, and escalating tensions in Tigray have created insecurity and disrupted livelihoods. This makes public services inaccessible and prompts many young people to migrate in search of safety and stability. Young people in conflict-affected regions face a stark reality: either join armed conflicts that seem never-ending or struggle to make a living.

Thirdly, rules set by government that allow Ethiopians to migrate legally have tightened. Standard requirements for applicants involve numerous documents and pre-departure training. The documents include ID cards, passports, educational qualifications, health certificates and a certification of competence. Some of these are not readily accessible for many aspiring migrants. The cost of a passport, for instance, is prohibitive for most. So instead, people are driven to irregular and often perilous migration options.

Legal migration offers limited opportunities. Existing bilateral agreements with Middle Eastern countries primarily cover domestic work, which largely absorbs women.

The routes

The route that has become common over the past decade involves crossing the Red Sea to reach Saudi Arabia through war-torn Yemen. Known as the eastern route, this path is one of the most dangerous, claiming the lives of many young men and women.

Since 2014, the International Organisation for Migration has recorded 76,524 migrant deaths worldwide. Of these, over 1,098 occurred by drowning at sea off Yemen along the eastern route. In 2021, the Ethiopian Central Statistics Service reported that over 51,000 Ethiopian migrants had gone missing after leaving the country in the previous five years.

Ethiopian migration from southern regions to South Africa – known as the southern route – is the second largest irregular migration corridor. The last is the northern route, towards Europe via Sudan, Libya and the Mediterranean Sea.

The answers

Now more than ever, Ethiopia needs to create greater economic opportunities at home. This can be done by expanding opportunities in the agriculture, industrial and service sectors. The government should also support skills training and entrepreneurship together with access to basic services in the countryside.

Secondly, legal pathways must be expanded. This can be done by establishing more bilateral labour agreements. Currently, Ethiopia has agreements with Saudi Arabia, UAE, Jordan, Lebanon and Kuwait. It is close to finalising one with Oman. But these agreements mostly cover domestic work.

In contrast, the Philippines has signed labour agreements with over 30 countries. These include several European countries and cover a broader range of opportunities.

Third, these agreements must expand the job opportunities that young people can apply for, for example, skilled and semi-skilled jobs in construction, retail and agriculture. This would offer young Ethiopians more diverse employment opportunities abroad.

Legal migration pathways should be streamlined, time-efficient, and accessible to the majority of aspiring migrants. Equally important is the need for targeted, tailored, and comprehensive awareness-raising initiatives at the household, school, and community levels to ensure informed decision-making around migration.

Girmachew Adugna does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. 250,000 Ethiopians migrate every year: what drives them and what needs to change – https://theconversation.com/250-000-ethiopians-migrate-every-year-what-drives-them-and-what-needs-to-change-263465

August 24, 2025

Data that is stored and not used has a carbon footprint. How companies can manage dark data better

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Hanlie Smuts, Professor and Head of Department, University of Pretoria

In today’s world, huge amounts of data are being created all the time, yet more than half of it is never used. It stays in silos, or isn’t managed, or can’t be accessed because systems change, or isn’t needed because business priorities change. This “dark data” accumulates in servers and storage devices, consuming electricity and inflating the digital carbon footprint.

It may appear harmless, but this growing mass of digital waste has consequences for the environment. Storing unused or obsolete digital data requires constant power for servers and cooling systems. This drives up electricity consumption and greenhouse gas emissions. Dark data alone is estimated to generate over 5.8 million tonnes of CO₂ annually. This is the equivalent of emissions from 1.2 million cars per annum.

Dark data also accelerates e-waste from hardware replacement and depletes resources through manufacturing, such as using recycled raw materials, and water-intensive cooling.

Organisations collect vast volumes of information during routine operations. But it might never be analysed or repurposed. System log files that track user activity, errors and transactions remain untouched after initial storage. We’re talking about every email, photo, video, or unused spreadsheet saved on a server. Think of it like forgotten boxes stored in a warehouse, except this warehouse uses energy all the time. Managing dark data is not only a matter of working efficiently; it is a pressing sustainability issue.

The solution lies partly in effective knowledge management practices.

This means making an effort to reduce the environmental impact of digital systems, particularly those related to data storage and usage. Organisations should collect, manage and retain data with energy consumption and carbon emissions in mind.

My research aimed to find ways to do this. I collected 539 quantitative and qualitative questionnaire responses representing North America at 31.9% (172), followed by Europe at 21.5% (116) and Asia at 19.9% (107). Africa (10.8%) and Australia (9.8%) were represented too, while South America (5.8%) and Antarctica (0.4%) had the smallest shares.

The findings highlighted the need for data governance, data security and continuous learning within organisations. It showed the value of energy efficient information technology practices, centralised knowledge repositories and working across disciplines to address dark data risks.

My research also provided organisations with guidelines to make digital decarbonisation part of the way they operate and make decisions. This would improve organisational efficiency, reduce carbon footprints and promote the reuse of valuable data insights.

The digital dilemma: more data, more emissions

As digital technologies become more embedded in everyday operations, the demand for data storage and processing power surges. Globally, data centres already account for about 2% of greenhouse gas emissions, equal to the environmental impact of the aviation industry. The figure is expected to double by 2030 as digital adoption accelerates.

But dark data isn’t getting much attention. This is because it is mostly unstructured, hidden in legacy systems or backup servers. Information technology and sustainability teams tend to overlook it. It’s expensive to manage and easy to ignore. But it consumes costly storage space and drives up energy bills for powering and cooling servers. It also requires ongoing backup, security and compliance measures despite delivering no business value.

Knowledge management to tidy up dark data

Knowledge management strategies can address the dark data problem. Knowledge management acts like a smart organiser for all the information that organisations hold. It makes it possible to find hidden or forgotten files buried in systems, understand whether the data is useful or outdated, and decide on the best course of action. That can be by turning valuable data into insights or securely deleting what’s no longer needed.

This reduces wasted storage, cuts costs, lowers the environmental impact and ensures that the information kept actually supports better decision-making.

We recommend two things organisations can do: classification and streamlining.

1. Classification: organise, tag, and unlock value

Classification is the first step in bringing order to data chaos. It involves discovering, tagging, categorising and assessing data to determine its relevance and value. Artificial intelligence (AI) and machine learning can help with this.

This approach not only reduces waste, but also unlocks hidden opportunities. For example, previously unused customer feedback data can be analysed for product innovation, or old project documentation can inform new initiatives.

2. Streamlining: stop hoarding, start reducing

Streamlining is about developing leaner, cleaner data environments. It calls for robust data governance, including clear retention policies, regular audits and employee education on digital hygiene. Using AI tools, organisations can identify duplicated, outdated, or irrelevant files and automate their safe deletion.

It’s not just a technical process. It involves cultivating a culture that values purposeful data usage and discourages unnecessary hoarding. When employees understand the environmental cost of unmanaged data, they become more responsible stewards of digital information. The outcome is a more agile, cost-effective and sustainable data ecosystem.

One example of an organisation doing this is the car brand, BMW Group. It’s made digital decarbonisation part of its production processes.

Google has invested in sustainable IT practices, including energy-efficient data storage and processing. The data centres of the company have been carbon-neutral since 2007, and it is working towards running its operations on 100% renewable energy.

Let data work smarter, not harder

Digital sustainability does not demand that organisations do less; it encourages them to do better. Rethinking dark data management is a step towards reducing digital emissions and conserving resources.

Through knowledge management strategies like classification and streamlining, organisations can turn an overlooked liability into a strategic asset.

Data should serve us, not burden us.

Hanlie Smuts does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Data that is stored and not used has a carbon footprint. How companies can manage dark data better – https://theconversation.com/data-that-is-stored-and-not-used-has-a-carbon-footprint-how-companies-can-manage-dark-data-better-262966

August 24, 2025

The Gambia’s new constitution has stalled again – 5 reasons why and what that means for democracy

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Satang Nabaneh, Director of Programs, Human Rights Center; Research Professor of Law, University of Dayton School of Law, University of Dayton

The Gambia’s post-dictatorship democratic transition recently suffered a setback. The Constitution of the Republic of The Gambia (Promulgation) Bill, 2024 failed to pass its second reading in the national assembly.

Passing the bill required the support of at least 75% of The Gambia’s 58-member parliament, including the speaker. Now, there’s uncertainty over the country’s democratic reforms.

This leaves The Gambia governed by the 1997 constitution drafted under Yahya Jammeh’s military junta. The 1997 constitution was widely seen as a tool for executive overreach. It didn’t have term limits, stalled key democratic reforms and lacked sufficient protection for human rights and democratic principles.

Failure to pass the new constitution is a setback to the “New Gambia” agenda, a campaign promise of the 2016 ruling coalition, which included the drafting of a new constitution and ensuring accountability for past human rights violations, and could lead to renewed political tension.

Proponents hailed the proposed new constitution as a step towards institutionalising checks and balances and strengthening civil liberties. Critics pointed to a lack of transparency, the absence of broad stakeholder consultation, and specific controversial clauses.

Those clauses included the removal of a retroactive presidential term limit, the weakening of checks and balances by reducing parliamentary oversight on appointments, and the potential erosion of judicial independence.

I am a Gambian legal scholar, researcher and human rights practitioner and I have been tracking The Gambia’s journey to solidify its democracy since the dictatorship of Jammeh. In this article, I present five of the most important things to know about this constitutional reform effort and why it failed to advance.

New constitution triggers and why it failed

1. Unfulfilled search for a new foundation:

A truly democratic constitution has been a central promise since the ousting of former president Jammeh in 2017.

An initial 2020 draft, the product of extensive nationwide consultations, also failed to pass. There were disagreements over provisions like retroactive presidential term limits. But the 2024 bill continues to face political and social hurdles.

The 1997 constitution presents a paradoxical approach to democratic governance, particularly in its mechanisms for political transition and constitutional amendment. For example, it has stringent requirements for constitutional change: a three-quarters majority vote from all national assembly members across two readings.

It also requires a national referendum, with 50% voter participation and 75% approval.

A high bar for constitution amendments can protect against impulsive alterations. But it also puts disproportionate power in the hands of a parliamentary super majority. This politicises constitutional reform, making it contingent on party allegiance and strategic manoeuvring rather than a broad national consensus.

An arrangement like the one in The Gambia could hinder the natural evolution of democratic governance and limit the nation’s capacity to adapt its basic law to the changing will of the people.

2. Unresolved concerns over presidential powers:

A key reason the 2024 draft faced such strong opposition related to presidential powers. The 2020 draft sought a two-term limit with a retroactive clause (meaning President Adama Barrow would not be able to run in the 2026 election). But the 2024 draft removed this retroactive counting.

This remained a point of contention, fuelling fears of potential term limit manipulation. More broadly, the bill proposed removing parliamentary oversight for all appointments, including ministers, the Independent Electoral Commission and independent institutions.

It also sought to grant the president more power over national assembly members. These proposals were viewed as undue centralisation of authority and a regression from the 1997 constitution.

3. Unaddressed threats to judicial independence:

The bill’s stated goal of judicial independence was undermined by certain provisions. The 2024 draft removed the requirement that the national assembly confirm the appointment of the chief justice and Supreme Court judges.

It also removed the citizenship requirement for the chief justice. Given The Gambia’s recent history where foreign judges on politically appointed, renewable contracts served as a tool of repression and eroded public trust, these changes therefore raised alarm about judicial impartiality and the erosion of oversight.

The bill left out Chapter V on “Leadership and Integrity” which was in the 2020 draft. This chapter, which outlined a framework for public officer conduct and aimed at combating corruption, was seen as vital for accountability.

4. Contentious provisions on human rights and civil liberties:

While the 2024 draft generally aimed to modernise fundamental rights and introduce additional socio-economic protections, it also contained specific restrictions that human rights advocates criticised. These included an increase in police detention periods from 48 to 72 hours, and perceived limitations on the rights to education, to petition public officials, and to freedom of assembly.

Provisions affecting citizenship by marriage (doubling the waiting period for foreign spouses to gain citizenship) and limiting media ownership and operation to Gambian citizens sparked debates over inclusivity and media freedoms.

These clauses likely contributed to the insufficient votes for the bill to pass.

5. Public fatigue amid the bill’s failure:

The failure of the 2024 constitution draft bill to pass second reading reflects a complex and polarised public discourse. While the government championed the bill as essential for stability and a modern republic, the main opposition, the United Democratic Party, opposed it.

Numerous civil society organisations expressed concerns about the diluted democratic safeguards and expanded presidential powers. In the end, a perceived lack of genuine public participation prevented its advancement.

The way forward

This outcome shows a division among the public. Some are tired of the drawn-out constitutional reform process. They want stability now. Others want to keep pursuing a genuinely transformative constitution.

This division is made worse by widespread disillusionment due to economic hardships and slow progress with various reforms since the post-dictatorship transition began.

The failure of the 2024 bill leaves The Gambia in a state of uncertainty about its foundational legal framework.

As I have noted elsewhere, it’s time for all to commit to an inclusive reform process.

Satang Nabaneh does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. The Gambia’s new constitution has stalled again – 5 reasons why and what that means for democracy – https://theconversation.com/the-gambias-new-constitution-has-stalled-again-5-reasons-why-and-what-that-means-for-democracy-261809

August 21, 2025

How Nollywood films help Kenyan housemaids make sense of their lives

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Solomon Waliaula, Associate Professor, Department of Languages, Linguistics and Culture, Maasai Mara University

Nollywood, Nigeria’s prolific video-film industry, has been popular in Kenya since it was introduced to east Africa at around the turn of the century.

These low-budget, high-output films and TV series immediately struck a chord with ordinary people in lower income brackets. Although new Nollywood productions can be slick, high budget affairs, the bulk are not about high production values. They’re about real-life stories and social issues that are easy to relate to.

At first Nollywood films were screened in informal video-halls in poorer Kenyan communities, offering a unique going-to-the-movies experience. But in the first decade of the new millennium, TV stations began screening them. In Kenya, Nollywood was most popularly known as “Afrocinema” on TV, and it was soon a daily affair.

One of the audiences that has emerged are young women, often in their teens, working in urban Kenyan homes. Known as housemaids, they come from humble and materially deprived backgrounds and occupy a precarious position in the homes they work in. Their daily routine is a blend of domestic chores including childcare, cooking, cleaning and running errands for the family.

Employed through an informal system of social networking and patronage, housemaids don’t necessarily bring any training or experience to their jobs and generally aren’t offered employment contracts. The power is in the hands of the employer and there is little job security.

These young women were the subject of my recent study in the Kenyan city of Eldoret for the book Contemporary African Screen Worlds.

I explored the housemaid’s fandom of Nollywood films, as part of a decade-long study of electronic media audiences in the city.

It became clear that housemaids saw themselves as socially inferior to the families they worked for. Their identity as domestic labourers masked their identity as real people. Their social identity was defined by, and reducible to, their daily job card.

I found that they developed a special relationship with Nollywood cinema. This love of the movies (fandom) offered much more than leisure and companionship. Nollywood stories are a medium through which they could transcend the limits of their situations and aspire to other, more desirable worlds. Nollywood on TV helped them make sense of their lives.

The research

Twelve participants took part in the study, most of them housemaids, some former housemaids. All were drawn from similar neighbourhoods. Research mostly involved observing their working lives along with in-depth, unstructured interviews.

To establish some of the specific lessons the housemaids of Eldoret learnt from Nollywood, I asked each to discuss any two films that they considered as educational. I noted that there were some significant patterns.

The lessons raised were connected to the housemaids’ immediate life experiences, and many of the films mentioned seemed to explore the social impacts of poverty, and how it affects family relationships. The social costs of poverty on the family is a popular Nollywood theme.

Another kind of story that appealed to participants was the Cinderella tale. In these films, the orphaned girl living in abject poverty eventually becomes a princess.

Dina recalled a film that told the story of a poor woman whose father died and his extended family kicked her and her mother out. They moved to a slum. It so happened that she was actually destined to be a princess, but her father died before telling her the news. Her paternal grandmother eventually tracked her down, to link her up with her prince.

Most of the housemaids I’ve talked to over the years have clearly expressed their admiration for this Cinderella narrative in Nollywood stories. They can project themselves into her situation and use her experience as a source of hope for a better future.

Real life stories

But there were many other ways that housemaid fans of Nollywood said they saw their real lives in the films. One told me:

I used to watch films that presented young women who underwent life experiences that were like mine. But within the stories, their lives turned round, yet mine did not…

But then things changed:

I had reached the very end of my tether when God turned my life around. I met a man in church that proposed to me and we got married two months later. This is when I looked back and realised God had used Nollywood to prepare me for my portion.

She added:

The very first Nollywood film I watched was about a married couple who stayed with the wife’s mother, who ended up taking over her daughter’s husband. But the wife was a prayerful woman, and she consulted her pastor to intercede for their marriage as well. It worked.

True to Nollywood’s often melodramatic form, the mother became mentally deranged, drank a poisonous concoction and died.

I remember many other Nollywood stories that had been about the virtue of patience and waiting for God’s time.

In her case, Nollywood had helped her face her situation for what it was, and, in her view, it helped to keep her positive.

Why this matters

An exploration of the housemaids’ own understanding and use of Nollywood cinema becomes a medium through which to engage with the housemaids’ world – as well as their aspirational identities.

This is a social category of people that occupies a place of absolute subservience and has been forced by circumstances to live invisibly. Electronic media fandom is one of the few avenues where they can momentarily rise above their immediate circumstances.

The routine nature of the housemaids’ lives, coupled with limited social interaction and the pressures of long working hours, is a danger to mental health. For them Nollywood fandom served as a healthy antidote.

Solomon Waliaula received funding from the International European Research Council as a contributor to the book Contemporary African Screen Worlds: Decolonizing Film and Screen Studies (2019-2025).

– ref. How Nollywood films help Kenyan housemaids make sense of their lives – https://theconversation.com/how-nollywood-films-help-kenyan-housemaids-make-sense-of-their-lives-262059

August 21, 2025

Enslaved Africans, an uprising and an ancient farming system in Iraq: study sheds light on timelines

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Peter J. Brown, Honorary Fellow in Archaeology, Durham University

Written accounts tell the story of the Zanj rebellion – a slave revolt that took place in the late 9th century in southern Iraq. Some of the rebels were enslaved Africans working in various sectors of the local economy.

Thousands of ridges and canals still stand today across a floodplain in southern Iraq. They’ve long been believed to be the remains of a massive agricultural system built by these enslaved people. Creating them, and farming here, could have been what drove the rebellion that’s often thought to have led to the rapid decline of the historic city of Basra and the local economy.

For the first time, our archaeological study offers a firmer timeline for when farming occurred across this landscape. This also allows an insight into how the Zanj rebellion affected the region.

We dated four of the 7,000 abandoned ridge features which cover a large swathe of the Shatt al-Arab floodplain, attesting to a period of agricultural expansion.

Our study finds that this agricultural system was in use for far longer than was previously assumed, calling into question the impact of the rebellion on farming and the local economy.

Our findings enhance our knowledge of the landscape history of southern Iraq and draw attention to the historical significance of landscape features which have often been overlooked.

The secret of the abandoned ridges

Abandoned and eroding earthworks litter the floodplain of the Shatt al-Arab – the river forming at the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates. This flows through southern Iraq out into the Gulf and the Indian Ocean.

Most noticeably, groups of massive, raised, linear ridge features, some of which extend for over a kilometre, are arranged in regular formations. Among these features, the remains of dried-up canals and smaller, adjoining, secondary water channels can be traced.

Today, agriculture in the floodplain is restricted to the band roughly within 5km of the river. But the abandoned features relate to farming in the past across a much larger area. While we don’t know exactly what was grown, cereals like barley or wheat, dates or sugarcane are the most likely crops.

Accounts from travellers who visited the area, as well as historical maps, indicate that the modern agricultural pattern has existed, essentially unchanged, at least since the 17th century. So, the features we see in the landscape today must have been constructed, in use, and abandoned in an earlier period.

New scientific evidence for the dating of these features helps us to understand when this occurred and the historical circumstances around this phase of agricultural expansion.

In 2022, we excavated small trenches into the top of four of the ridges. This allowed us to extract soil samples from their cores. Using a method called optically stimulated luminescence dating, individual grains of soil could be analysed. This allows the length of time since these grains were exposed to sunlight to be calculated. As our samples came from inside the ridge features, where they would have been permanently hidden from the sun, these samples should give the date when the soil was originally deposited.

The Zanj rebellion

Until now, no significant fieldwork had been carried out to investigate these features. However, these traces of pre-modern farming have often been linked with one particular historical episode – but without concrete evidence. Documents from the early Islamic period (from about the mid 7th to mid 13th century) provide a detailed account of a slave revolt in southern Iraq during the late 9th century, between 869 and 883.

The Zanj Rebellion saw large groups of slaves rebel against the forces of the Abbasid Caliphate – which ruled most of the Islamic world. The rebellion included violent episodes, including the sacking of the nearby city of Basra and clashes with the forces of the caliph sent to suppress the revolt. This threw southern Iraq into turmoil.

An illustration of a ship with African men captive, some boarding boats as men in tunics try to control them and another ship approaches. — An Arab slave ship in the Red Sea in the 1500s or 1600s.
New York Public Library

The identity of the Zanj people involved in the uprising has been a focus for debate. “Zanj” is an Arabic term used throughout the medieval period to refer to the Swahili coast of east Africa, though it was also used to refer to Africa more generally. As a result, the Zanj have typically been regarded collectively as enslaved people transported to southern Iraq from east Africa.

While the evidence for slaving traffic between Africa and Iraq during the early Islamic period is uncontroversial, the scale of the trade has been questioned. Based on genetic evidence, and the logistics of shipping large numbers to the Gulf, it has been argued that the majority of African slaves at the time of the revolt came from west and western central Africa via Saharan trade routes, rather than coastal east Africa. Importantly, the people involved in the revolt were not all African slaves – some seem to have been local farmers – so the rebels were a mixed group.

We know little about what the group known as the Zanj were doing before the 869 revolt. Their presence in Iraq is documented for centuries beforehand – smaller scale rebellions occurred in the late 7th century but only a few details are available about the lives of the slaves before the 9th century rebellion.

Some were involved in tasks like transporting flour. Others were dispersed in groups of 50-500 in work camps across the floodplain. Details relating to life within these camps are unavailable yet the written sources suggest the slaves were treated poorly by the “agents” who oversaw them. Other than for agriculture, it’s difficult to explain why such camps would have existed across this zone.

What we know about the Zanj fits closely with the scale of the landscape features visible today. Large numbers of labourers would have been needed, both to transport the soil forming the raised ridges and to farm the areas in between. This must have been enormously difficult work.

Unanswered questions

It’s often been assumed that the Zanj rebellion caused a significant decline in the region’s economy, including activities like farming. Our results, however, indicate that the earthworks date to the period after the rebellion.

While some samples date to the period immediately after the rebellion, others gave dates from a century or two later, in the 11th, 12th or 13th centuries. Rather than features created in one go, these traces in the landscape were likely added to over a longer period – perhaps as part of the annual farming cycle.

This means the samples we dated likely do not relate to the earliest farming activity but provide a “snapshot” of ongoing work. Since some of the features date to shortly after the rebellion, the slaves discussed in the written sources were likely involved in creating these ridge features. However, farming across this landscape certainly continued for a significant period after the revolt’s conclusion.

Be it climatic change, the impact of a pandemic, or wider economic and political shifts, exactly why such a large area of farmland was later abandoned remains an unanswered question. One which requires further research to answer.

But, by more definitively linking these landscape features to their historical context, we are one step closer to understanding social and economic processes in southern Iraq during the medieval period.

Archaeology adds another dimension to what we know about a historical event like the Zanj rebellion.

Peter J. Brown receives funding from the Gerda Henkel Stiftung.

– ref. Enslaved Africans, an uprising and an ancient farming system in Iraq: study sheds light on timelines – https://theconversation.com/enslaved-africans-an-uprising-and-an-ancient-farming-system-in-iraq-study-sheds-light-on-timelines-262977

August 21, 2025

Grandparenting from a distance: what’s lost when families are separated, and how to bridge the gap

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Sulette Ferreira, Transnational Family Specialist and Researcher, University of Johannesburg

Becoming a grandparent is often envisioned as a deeply intimate, hands-on journey, holding a newborn, sharing first smiles, witnessing the first wobbly steps. It is traditionally grounded in physical presence, marked by spontaneous visits.

For many grandparents whose children have emigrated, however, these defining moments often unfold not in person, but through screens, filtered through time zones, digital platforms, and a lingering sense of distance.

This is true in South Africa, a country with rising emigration, especially among young families. Over a million South Africans now live abroad. This has systemic, multigenerational effects.

In a recent study I explored the impact of global emigration on the relationships between South African grandparents and their grandchildren born abroad. I examined what it means to step into their grandparent role role from afar, often for the first time, and how the absence of physical closeness reshapes intergenerational relationships.

I have published various articles on migration and intergenerational relationships in transnational families. I also run a private practice that focuses on the emotional challenges of emigration.

As part of my PhD study, I conducted in-depth interviews with 24 South African parents whose adult children had emigrated. This project laid the foundation for my broader research programme on the emotional effects of migration. This research article is based on the experiences of 44 participants.

For these grandparents, emigration represents more than just geographical separation. The familiar rhythms of hands-on grandparenting, from spontaneous visits to shared celebrations, are disrupted. With it comes a layered and ongoing sense of loss, not only of everyday interactions with their grandchildren, but also the gradual fading of a cherished role once grounded in physical presence and routine connection.

The findings show that the absence of physical proximity creates profound emotional barriers, especially during the early, most formative years of a grandchild’s life. Yet despite this distance, grandparents are finding creative and meaningful ways to remain emotionally present.

In transnational families, grandparents serve as custodians of cultural continuity and emotional support as well as active agents reshaping the meaning of grandparenthood in the context of global migration.

What grandparents had to say

The central question of my research was how distance reshaped the role of some grandparents in South African families. It further investigated how grandparents adapted and renegotiated their roles across different stages of their grandchildren’s lives.

The selection criteria included: being a South African citizen; speaking fluent English; living in South Africa; being a parent whose adult child(ren) had emigrated and lived abroad for at least one year; and being from any race, culture, gender; socio-economic status; aged between 50 and 80 years.

I supplemented interviews with qualitative surveys distributed via my online support group.

Grandparents reported various challenges,such as the loss of everyday involvement, the emotional strain of distance, and difficulties with digital communication that required ongoing adaptive strategies to sustain connection.

The study shows how distance does not necessarily weaken intergenerational bonds but requires grandparents to redefine presence.

My research made it clear that the place of birth is a pivotal factor in shaping the grandparent-
grandchild bond.

Grandparents of children who are born in South Africa and move to another country later are often involved from the beginning. They assist with daily care, celebrate milestones and enjoy spontaneous visits. These everyday interactions nurture strong emotional ties.

As Annelise, a participant, shared:

When your grandchild is born here, you know them from birth, you see them every day, you share in everything.

When these grandchildren emigrate, the rupture can be profound. Grandparents not only lose regular contact but also their role as hands-on caregivers.

When grandchildren are born abroad, a different emotional journey unfolds. Joy and excitement are often tempered by longing and sadness.

The reality of nurturing relationships across borders forces grandparents to redefine their roles.

For many families, pregnancy strengthens the bond between generations, especially between mothers and daughters. This phase is typically marked by shared rituals, which shape both maternal and grandparental identities. Rituals foster emotional connection and a sense of belonging.

But for grandparents who are separated, these moments may be replaced by screenshots and voice notes, making milestones feel distant and intangible.

This early absence can feel like an exclusion from grandparenthood itself, as if the role is denied before it has even begun. The phenomenon aligns closely with US psychologist Pauline Boss’s concept of ambiguous loss, grief without closure.

Despite this, many grandparents remain actively involved. Some grandparents become what US sociologists Judith Treas and Shampa Mazumdar call “seniors on the move”, becoming more mobile, structuring their lives around flights, visa renewals and seasonal caregiving.

But the challenges are big.

Staying close from far away

Sustaining a relationship across borders is tough.

Two key strategies emerged in my research: virtual communication and transnational visits.

All those I interviewed used technology extensively: weekly Zoom story time, recorded readings, or care “parcels” filled with letters, recipes, or handmade crafts.

In-person visits were limited by a mix of financial, logistical, emotional, and relational barriers.

The flights are just too expensive, and with my health, I don’t think I could manage the trip. It breaks my heart, but it’s just not possible. I don’t think I will ever see him again.

I also found that the role of parents was key. Through sharing photos, initiating calls, and keeping grandparents present in everyday conversations, some parents helped emotional bonds flourish.

My daughter and son-in-law are both very good at sending me photos and videos regularly … They both know how much I miss being with my two grandkids, so they keep me updated … They also phone weekly and encourage the children to be focused on our calls.

Takeaways

Transnational grandparenting challenges the traditional script of hands-on involvement. It calls for a reimagining of presence.

My research shows that grandparents are doing that through creativity, emotional elasticity and enduring love. They are forging a new kind of grandparenting across continents: one where connection transcends distance.

Sulette Ferreira is a research fellow at the University of Johannesburg.

– ref. Grandparenting from a distance: what’s lost when families are separated, and how to bridge the gap – https://theconversation.com/grandparenting-from-a-distance-whats-lost-when-families-are-separated-and-how-to-bridge-the-gap-263279

August 21, 2025

Wheelchair basketball: what can be learned from a South African athlete’s journey to France

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Phoebe Runciman, Associate Professor and Research Chair at the Division of Sport and Exercise Medicine, Stellenbosch University

Wheelchair basketball is one of the fastest-growing Para sports in the world. Over 100,000 athletes compete in national and international competitions and at the Paralympic Games and Commonwealth Games. In Africa, there are 26 national wheelchair basketball federations.

But the level of support and resources available for athletes with disability (Para athletes) varies greatly between the global north and south, shaped by gaps in healthcare, infrastructure and policy.

In African countries the sport is often underfunded. In 2022, for example, South Africa’s sports and recreation budget was 15 times lower than France’s.

Many Para sport athletes from the global south must pay for their own travel expenses and equipment. This limits their access to quality training and support, affecting their performance.

But little is known about what it’s like for Para athletes to move between countries, especially from the global south to the global north.

My case study (on page 83 of the PDF) followed Sphelele Dlamini, a 29-year-old South African wheelchair basketball player who grew up in an underdeveloped area in KwaZulu-Natal province. He was born with a condition that led to the amputation of both legs below the knee.

After beginning his sporting journey in South Africa, Dlamini moved to France in 2022 to play professionally.

His experience reveals what Para athletes can expect as well as what they gain and what they leave behind when crossing borders in search of better opportunities. Dlamini’s journey highlights how cross-border moves may offer access to resources and more recognition, but also involve cultural challenges, adaptations and identity shifts.

His story can inform the support needed from organisations helping Para athletes to navigate these transitions so that they can compete at their full potential.

What must happen for athletes to shine

Dlamini’s story highlights four key factors that must be addressed to make a difference in the lives of South Africa’s Para athletes.

1. Public services

Firstly, the South African government and schools need to address the shortage of public services for people with disability. This includes creating accessible infrastructure, disability-inclusive healthcare and social support services.

Overcrowding and limited public services have been part of Dlamini’s daily life. For people with disability, townships can be especially challenging environments.

These are residential areas that were designated for Black South Africans under apartheid, South Africa’s former system of white minority rule. Townships were deliberately underdeveloped and under-resourced and they remain structurally disadvantaged today.

As Dlamini told me in an interview for my case study:

With the things that are happening in the township, it’s wild, it’s always busy.

He shared a home with 11 family members and described his upbringing as “an ever-changing environment that never settled down”.

2. Funding and promotion

Secondly, Para sport requires more financial support and promotion to build a more inclusive society – funding and competitive opportunities.

Dlamini had all but stopped playing competitively:

I spent about two years without playing. Then suddenly, I got a chance to go to France.

In France he found himself in what he called “a different type of chaos”. Training schedules were intense, and “there was hardly any free time”. Although the move was a breakthrough, the years of limited game time had caused some self-doubt for him.

This highlights the need for investment in Para sport in countries like South Africa, so that athletes can develop locally and have greater chances of international success.

3. Athlete and coach education

Thirdly, athlete and coach education is critical. Dlamini’s move to France was self-driven with no formal pathways or international exposure. He reached out to coaches directly:

I sent them emails and sometimes I would write to them on Facebook.

In much of the global south, Para sport relies on volunteer coaches with limited access to networks. Despite having no video footage, a French coach gave Dlamini a chance. In the global north, building a portfolio through documented game performance is standard, but this kind of athlete education is rarely emphasised in South Africa.

Countries like France also have established local clubs, with leagues that create pathways for regional, national and international competitions – and opportunities for professional contracts. Athletes receive a salary and games are streamed with backing from sponsors.

4. NGO support

Securing a spot on a French team didn’t mean Dlamini’s challenges were over. While his new club offered a salary, they couldn’t cover the cost of travel to France. It was Jumping Kids, a South African non-governmental organisation (NGO), that stepped in and paid for his air ticket, visa, flights and insurance.

Dlamini first connected with Jumping Kids in 2014, when the organisation visited his school. He was selected to receive prosthetic legs and has remained in contact with them ever since. Today, he is one of the NGO’s ambassadors, alongside Paralympic athletes like Ntando Mahlangu and Arnu Fourie.

NGOs like this are a lifeline that need to be funded and supported, particularly in countries like South Africa where there are gaps in formal support.

Why Para sport matters

For many Para athletes, support starts at the school level. South Africa has 465 special needs schools catering to a range of disabilities. These schools often provide the first exposure to sport, as they did for Dlamini:

That’s where I saw people who were similar to my situation.

Research shows that sport gives individuals with disability a sense of belonging. This sense of inclusion, however, is difficult to achieve when environments are inaccessible.

In France, Dlamini felt that his skills were recognised and everyday life felt more navigable:

I really enjoy having the access [to public transport] and being able to move around and do things easily, without having to bother any other person.

Compared to South Africa, where players often share wheelchairs and go months without formal competition, France offered both structure and dignity.

However, in hindsight, Dlamini says he can look back at the setbacks and challenges he faced in South Africa, and view them from a different perspective:

I can never really judge it because, I may never know, maybe I was getting prepared for that journey.

Sphelele Dlamini’s story is one of resilience. Despite the odds, he created his path to play professionally. His journey highlights the determination required of athletes from the global south, and the systemic barriers they face that hinder development and progress in sport.

While NGOs continue to fill critical gaps, long-term progress in Para sport requires structural investment.

Faatima Adam, a biokineticist and PhD candidate, contributed to this article.

Phoebe Runciman does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Wheelchair basketball: what can be learned from a South African athlete’s journey to France – https://theconversation.com/wheelchair-basketball-what-can-be-learned-from-a-south-african-athletes-journey-to-france-261593

August 20, 2025

Elite schools in South Africa: how quiet gatekeeping keeps racial patterns in place

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Samantha Kriger, Lecturer, Cape Peninsula University of Technology

In South Africa, children’s admission to a particular public school is decided by province. Each provincial education department manages its own digital admissions system. The Western Cape province introduced an online admissions portal in 2018 which became fully operational in 2024. The aim was to make school placement more transparent. This is important because historically, under apartheid, South African education was racially segregated and unequally funded. White schools received the best resources.

Education researcher Samantha Kriger took a closer look at what actually happens in admissions to schools in the Western Cape that used to be exclusively white (known as Model C schools). She set out her findings in a book coauthored with education academic Jonathan Jansen. Though Who Gets In and Why was published in 2020, she says the circumstances remain the same in most of these schools. Here she answers some questions about what she found.

How is the admissions portal supposed to work?

Parents apply online to a minimum of three and maximum of ten schools, via the Western Cape education department admissions portal. The schools receive the applications via the portal and assess them based on provincial guidelines. That implies schools can discriminate between applications.

Schools submit a list of accepted, declined and waiting-list learners to the province via the portal.

Why and how did you research school admissions?

We wanted to know why formerly white schools still looked much as they had under apartheid (with high enrolment of white pupils).

The initial research included school data from the Centralised Education Management Information System, the official data management system used by the Western Cape Education Department. This digital database records and tracks all key information about learners, teachers and schools in the province. The data revealed that many former “Model C” schools continued to preserve their historically exclusive enrolment criteria.

Under apartheid Model C schools were whites-only public schools. In 1990 they were semi-privatised, giving their governing bodies greater control over finances, admissions and staffing.

We used a qualitative case study approach, focusing on 30 historically white primary schools in the wealthier southern suburbs of Cape Town. All the schools allowed us to visit and shared information about their admissions processes.

As researchers we visited sites and interviewed principals, admissions officers, staff and stakeholders (such as estate agents and provincial education officials). We also analysed school documents and enrolment data. The study used pseudonyms to protect participant anonymity.

We then analysed admissions practices in relation to broader political, policy and socio-economic contexts.

Some of the schools were wealthy institutions, as measured by the school location and facilities, tuition fees and the range of extramural activities that they offered. Others were not wealthy.

What did you find?

The majority of the schools maintained their white enrolment. This was not simply the result of lingering residential segregation, but was often tied to school-level practices and socio-economic gatekeeping.

These schools frequently employ subtle, yet effective, admissions strategies that indirectly exclude lower-income, predominantly Black families. For example they choose applicants from specific feeder areas with high property prices, emphasise English or Afrikaans proficiency tests, or charge high school fees. Strong alumni networks and parent bodies, historically dominated by white families, also play a role in sustaining existing demographics by influencing school governance and admissions decisions.

South Africa’s public education policy promotes equal access. Yet we found that, in practice, these schools filter who gets in.

In South Africa, prior to 1994, the racially segregated education system privileged white learners while systematically underfunding schools for Black African, Coloured and Indian communities. More than 30 years later, deep inequalities persist because race and class remain closely linked.

High-fee former white schools often exclude, in practice, many Black, Indian and Coloured families who cannot afford the costs or meet other socio-economic entry barriers.

Admissions criteria such as language preference, application deadlines, early registration practices and school proximity can function as indirect mechanisms of exclusion.

For example, many parents are unaware that certain schools “lock in” preferred candidates years before formal Grade R or Grade 1 enrolment. This often occurs through unofficial feeder systems, where pre-primary schools enrol children as young as two years old, typically at a substantial financial cost. By the time applications open to the general public, most places have already been informally allocated.

This dynamic is evident in high school admissions too. Preference is frequently given to learners from designated primary schools. Candidates without prior affiliation may stand a chance only if they bring added value, such as athletic excellence, or musical or artistic abilities that align with the school’s interests.

These practices can unintentionally disadvantage families from lower socio-economic backgrounds who engage the system later or lack access to early-stage enrolment opportunities.

Language requirements are often framed as necessary for ensuring that learners can cope with the school’s curriculum. But they may indirectly exclude applicants from homes that mostly use African languages. For many black African families, especially those from lower-income or rural backgrounds, limited exposure to English or Afrikaans before school entry can disadvantage their children in admissions assessments or interviews.

The emphasis on early “lock in” and complex documentation also benefits families who are digitally literate, well-resourced and socially networked.

Another troubling finding was the role of parental profiling in admissions. Some schools assess the social standing of families, including their income, occupation, and perceived “fit” with the school’s culture.

Why does it matter that school admissions work this way?

The implications are serious. While the constitution and education policy mandate non-discrimination and the right to basic education, the reality is that access to elite public schools remains stratified. This is not only by geography or academic ability but by social capital. The effect is to reinforce existing race and class divides.

If transformation in education is to be more than cosmetic, policies must be matched with oversight, transparency, and a commitment to dismantling the quiet mechanisms of exclusion.

Samantha Kriger does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Elite schools in South Africa: how quiet gatekeeping keeps racial patterns in place – https://theconversation.com/elite-schools-in-south-africa-how-quiet-gatekeeping-keeps-racial-patterns-in-place-258720