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The Sussexes’ Plight: Intra-Aristocratic Anglo-American Sibling Rivalry

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Although it is tempting to believe that defending Meghan Markle against racism is also asserting the dignity of the people of colour, the reality is anything but.

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The Sussexes’ Plight: Intra-Aristocratic Anglo-American Sibling Rivalry
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To the frustration of many, the world’s media is engaged in the gripping reality show-cum-soap opera surrounding Oprah’s interview of the Sussexes last week. To such people, it is a waste of the world’s energy and resources to focus on private matters. Instead, they say, we should discuss important issues affecting ordinary people and the planet.

However, British royal family matters are as political as it gets. Not because it matters who gets married and how many children are born, but because the whole performance of the intrigues of the British royal family is a part of the cultural system that legitimises global capitalism. As John Davis wrote in Counterpunch last year, the royal family serves a political purpose, which is to justify “Britain and its cruel inequities”. Through the fanfare of royal rituals, tabloid frenzy and fairy tale weddings, the royal family “stifles overt class dissent, forever bubbling beneath the surface of British society.”

But it is not only in British society where this class dissent bubbles under the surface. The peoples of the global south also have a bone to pick with the British monarchy for the extractive oppression and poverty under which they still live. That would explain why the hostility of the royals and the British press towards Meghan Markle is particularly annoying to people of African descent.

More enraging are the childish tantrums of the British press. Ever since it was announced to the public that Meghan was Harry’s fiancée, the press has attacked her with racist and sexist tropes—calling her a Jezebel, a gold-digger—all the while denying that these attacks have anything to do with her skin colour. To add insult to injury, Meghan’s slanderers refuse to be reminded that the inauthenticity of which they accuse Meghan barely compares to the crimes committed by Britain, or to Prince Andrew’s close links to a convicted sex offender. The trauma could not get worse when we find even Kenyans taking the same position.

The British royal family serves as the cultural custodian of the global system of inequality and exploitation.

This amnesia and split consciousness is not an accident but part of the deliberate strategy to turn attention away from the harmful impact of the British monarchy. As Davis writes, the royal family’s display of grandeur and tradition accounts for the spectacular dissonance between the British Empire’s rhetoric and its actions. And once we accept that an insanely wealthy family is separate from the exploitation on which that wealth is built, we go down the slippery slope of excusing all manner of injustices which were necessary for the royal family to gain that wealth.

The lengths to which the defenders of the British royal family would go to attack Meghan also proves that the British monarchy’s identity is not only racial. It is also so fragile that a drop of black blood in Meghan’s children is enough to give the House of Windsor migraines. But this fragility is familiar. It has been lived in the “one drop rule” that governed slavery in the United States, where any hint of black parentage automatically meant enslavement.

It is also told in the European fairy tale of The Princess and the Pea, about a queen who confirmed that a young woman was a princess worthy of marrying her son after the young woman passed the test of delicateness. The test was to sleep on a heap of soft mattresses under which a pea had been hidden. The next morning, the young woman innocently complained of a restless night, proving that she was delicate enough to have been an aristocrat. In the same way, the British monarchy is extremely sensitive to race, because race is the foundation of the hierarchy which decides who works and is disposable, and who enjoys the fruit of that work.

This fragility entails a life of cruelty, even for members of the royal family. Every human aspect of the lives of the members of the royal family must be controlled, down to the last detail. The misery is masked by a cult of mannerisms and traditions, regularly pumped into the public discourse by the British press. But beneath the glamour, the quaint mannerisms and the stories of decadence, members of the royal family suffer cruelty and betrayal. This is the misery which Princess Diana unhappily lived and from which she tragically died. Diana’s son and his mixed-race wife Meghan are now the next in line, after Diana, to refuse this mistreatment.

However, this is the same cruelty that billions of people of colour around the world have suffered through kidnappings, dispossession, impoverishment and discrimination for at least four centuries so that the British monarchy can live in luxury.

The British monarchy is extremely sensitive to race, because race is the foundation of the hierarchy which decides who works and is disposable, and who enjoys the fruit of that work.

This latest royal family drama is therefore of interest to Kenyans, because it allows us to reflect on the absurdities that dominate our life, even decades after supposedly attaining independence. It so happens that at this very moment, Kenyans are being bulldozed into accepting, through the Building Bridges Initiative (BBI), a return to the aristocratic colonial system where power and wealth are distributed based on inheritance.

In addition, the government has replaced the 8.4.4. system of education with an aristocratic competency-based curriculum (CBC) education system which basically seeks to condemn the bulk of Kenyan children who attend school to a future of semi-skilled labour. This shift back to the aristocratic system is being facilitated by a new Kenyan upper middle class which is consolidating its power through the cruelty of neoliberalism and managerialism. There are parallels between what is happening with the Sussexes and what is happening in Kenya with BBI and CBC.

Kenya: the white man’s country

The curse of Kenya is not only to have been colonised, but to have been colonised by British colonists who were elites in their own country. Queen Elizabeth II ascended to the throne while on a visit to Kenya. Even within the tiny European community in Kenya, the class differences were stark. When Kenya became a colony in 1920, writes Bruce Berman, the colonial government was markedly aristocratic, because the British government recruited the bulk of its colonial administrators from the upper levels of British society, and especially from Oxbridge and public schools. Before then, colonial administrators had been largely drawn from members of the British lower and middle classes who had either been staff of the Imperial British East Africa Company, or had served in the Boer War in South Africa.

This class difference also applied to land allocation. The only British settlers allowed to settle in Nanyuki and the surrounding areas came from aristocratic backgrounds. Lower class British nationals and Boers could not own land there, and the few who lived there did so as squatters. The area is still largely inhabited by these elites, and to this day, a British Army Training Unit is stationed in Nanyuki to protect this class. Most of the conservation industry—whose access to land is embedded in colonial tropes about saving Kenyan wildlife from Africans—is located around that area. The icon of that industry is the Craig family, founder of the Lewa Conservancy. Their daughter Jessica Craig is Prince William’s ex-girlfriend.

The class bias of the colonial elites against lower class British settlers is evident in the British government’s opinion of the latter as “unnecessarily arrogant, high-handed and brutal in dealings with Africans”, and in one colonial governor’s reference to them as “cowpunchers”. The lower class British settlers often complained of discrimination by the colonial government, for example in the employment of British-born Europeans as opposed to Kenyan-born ones. The tussle for power within the European community produced the absurd situation where each side claimed that they were the real defenders of African interests and African culture.

The curse of Kenya is not only to have been colonised, but to have been colonised by British colonists who were elites in their own country.

This colonial legacy has meant that the Kenyan elite are not simply colonised; they are decidedly aristocratic in their thinking. Even as they pay lip service to African culture, they voice racist attitudes towards fellow Kenyans. Meanwhile, English afternoon teas are returning to Kenyan hotels, and African Kenyans even attended teas hosted as watch parties during the Sussexes’ royal wedding.

And Kenyan institutions remain viscerally cruel to ordinary Kenyan citizens. For instance, the recruitment of the Kenyan police still includes the demeaning slave-auction habits of inspecting the teeth of recruits, which produces that unsurprising result that poor young Kenyan men literally suffer the same murder at the hands of the Kenya police as blacks do in the United States. Similarly, it is not uncommon for government policies to be announced to the public with demeaning lectures and threats. In the months following the COVID-19 pandemic, the bulk of the coronavirus casualties among the Kenyan poor were those who had been killed by the police in the enforcement of the lockdown.

Kenyan public life is extremely cruel. It is a daily dose of violence that combines physical force with death by a thousand small cuts. Daily interactions cannot proceed without Kenyans first asking insidious questions about one’s name or where one grew up in order to determine where the other is positioned on the class hierarchy. Social and gender roles have become such hot potatoes that mention of gender descends into bile, insults and fights. It is so bad that when a woman was hacked to death in public in Eldoret, there was no public mourning or introspection about the loss of our soul and the loss of somebody’s life. What followed, instead, was a debate about the oppression of men and the devaluation of women’s lives.

Most of Kenya’s schools are still modeled on elite British schools such as Eton and Winchester, even though most schools can hardly afford to provide the bare minimum to ensure decent living standards for students. The discontent of teens living in poor conditions leads to frequent—and often deadly—student riots. And even though adolescents die from injuries inflicted by bullying or fires, the government and the parents remain committed to protecting the elite system, probably due to pressure from the alumni of those schools, many of whom now dominate the corridors of state power.

The icing on the mud cake is that we have now installed a new school system whose philosophy is spectacularly similar in orientation to what the British wanted for Africans in the 1920s. The Kenyan government has openly articulated its desire for an education system in which 60 per cent of children are condemned to a future of low paying, semi-skilled labour, and this has been met with celebratory compliance from the Kenyan middle class.

This colonial legacy has meant that the Kenyan elite are not simply colonised; they are decidedly aristocratic in their thinking.

In legal circles, the British horsehair wig returned to the Kenyan justice system in 2016, after having been temporarily retired by the first chief justice under Kenya’s 2010 people-centred constitution. As the second chief justice was sworn in wearing the full British regalia, the president of the Law Society celebrated in a tweet: “The honour of robes and wigs for learned friends is back”. In response to enquiring members of the public, he said that they had no social standing to “determine the regalia for advocates and judges” because law “is not menial work”.

Perhaps the most blatant evidence of British upper-class sensibilities in Kenyan institutions and public life is in tourism. The Kenya government still uses 19th century colonial tropes to advertise the country as a tourist destination, including offensive phrases such as “ancient tribes” to refer to the Maa peoples, and celebrating colonial settlers such as Karen Blixen. “Safari” now means tourism for rich whites seeking to fulfil fantasies of shooting wildlife in an African continent with no Africans, or with only Africans whose attire suggests separation from modernity. During her visit to Kenya in 2018, Melania Trump was taken on the stereotypical safari adorned in a pith helmet, itself “a symbol of how race and colonialism ghosts shape the African landscape when it comes to safari, poaching and trophy hunting”. 

These dynamics are replicated politically through proposed constitutional reforms that are designed to secure the entitlement of the Kenyan elite. The reforms are being bulldozed by the current president, a blue-eyed boy born to a wealthy landowner who was Kenya’s first president. The president has also filled the top posts in his administration with families whose patriarchs, like his own, enjoyed privileges under colonial rule.

Global problem

Kenya is simply one of many countries and territories worldwide where Britain has exported its form of social organisation. Centuries ago in the US, the framers of the constitution publicly expounded on the values of liberty while also voicing aspirations for English aristocratic manners, values, consumerism and style, all of which were funded by the labour of enslaved Africans.

In China, the British aristocratic model in education has become so successful that British elite schools have found a market there.

The British royal family therefore serves as the cultural custodian of the global system of inequality and exploitation. As David Graeber observed, Britain has attained this status because it is the country whose ruling class has seemed to best stave off what almost every other power in the world lives in fear of: the democratic will of the people. From the days when Edmund Burke developed a political rationality to ensure that the French Revolution did not cross the English Channel, Britain’s monarchy has maintained a rigid class system side by side with a semblance of democracy.

The Kenyan government has openly articulated its desire for an education system in which 60 per cent of children are condemned to a future of low paying, semi-skilled labour.

Most monarchies in continental Europe—distant relatives of the House of Windsor—have not been as successful in maintaining the British formula. They have conceded much more to popular government and socially driven policies than Britain has. Their royal weddings do not mesmerize the world, although Sweden does try to catch the world’s attention once a year using the Nobel Prize (see my article The Nobel Prizes, Racism, and the Economy of Prestige). As aging monarchs in continental Europe abdicate rather than die on their thrones, the British nonagenarian monarch remains firmly seated on hers.

Graeber also identified British class privilege as responsible for the growth of the world’s rentier class, and of the City of London’s status as the world’s financial capital. London is the city where people make profits from rent (real estate or patents), speculation, or stashing the wealth in tax havens, safe from the vagaries of democracy. In other parts of the world, Graeber argued, magnates live under the spectre of social challenge to their wealth, but in London, “you can get Mary Poppins, you can get the nannies, the maids, the butlers . . . they really know how to do that. They do it with a smile.” Similarly, Peter Jukes, commenting on the British media, observed that, “For all our rebelliousness, we are quite an obeisant and sycophantic society. We are a monarchy, after all.”

Meghan’s pushback against the monarchy therefore appears to be a pushback against an unjust system that exploits the world’s black and brown peoples. But regardless of the catharsis we derive from seeing equally powerful centres of power square it off, it is important to remember that the Sussexes are not challenging the monarchy from the outside. Rather, they are reforming it from their base in America.

The Oprah Effect

The Sussexes’ interview with Oprah had more significance than just media ratings. As Ash Sarkar brilliantly put it in her interview with Novara Media, the message which Meghan and Harry sent with this interview is that they had crossed from one aristocracy into another. But this intra-aristocratic spat is not a split, as the hysterical British press, parasitic reporters of the royals, would have us believe. Rather, the tension across the pond is a sibling rivalry between the British monarchy and the American billionaire aristocracy.

Even before the marriage, the British royals and the American billionaire and cultural elites have enjoyed mutual relations. British royalty still featured in the pages of American entertainment news, attended Hollywood gala events, and as Prince Andrew did, kept company with the wealthy US underworld. American billionaires such as Bill Gates have been knighted at Buckingham Palace. Even the flamboyance, especially the ball gowns designed by haute couture designers, is an American adaptation of European court fashion.

However, as Sarkar noted, there are differences between the American and British aristocracies. Entry into the American aristocracy is still largely decided by industry as opposed to the UK where it is decided by birth. The American aristocracy is therefore more multi-racial than the British one. And while the British aristocracy maintains a stiff upper lip, the American one engages in fun with Ellen or goes to Oprah for confession.

If anything, it appears that Meghan’s expectation upon joining the royal family was that the cultural weight she brought from Hollywood—with stars such as Oprah, Gayle King and Serena Williams on the Sussexes’ wedding guest list—was going to be the substitute for not being white and British. And that probably explains Oprah’s dramatic reaction in the interview when Meghan talked of queries about the skin colour her unborn child. After all, for people like them, skin colour remains the only obstacle between them and complete assimilation into racialised capitalism, as opposed to most people of colour who have to face, in addition, barriers such as poverty, limited education and police violence. For Oprah, a horrifying experience of racism was being snubbed at a Swiss luxury goods shop, where an attendant declined to show her a bag costing $38,000 because the attendant thought that a black woman could not afford it.

One would even say that at the core of Meghan’s treatment is the possibility that the Windsors sense that what is at stake is not simply a visibly black child; it is also a collapse of the feudal logic of the aristocracy. The battle of the Sussexes is, in fact, a battle for supremacy between the feudal and the commercial logics of Anglo-American capitalist aristocracy. From the 19th century, the British monarchy has avoided being submerged by the rise of the industrial-commercial aristocracy by maintaining its hold on the symbolic power of awards, costumes and rituals at old institutions such as prestigious universities. However, this symbolic power has also remained essentially white.

Entry into the American aristocracy is still largely decided by industry as opposed to the UK where it is decided by birth.

But there is a practical convenience in the identity of European aristocracy being white. By remaining white, the aristocracy could stave off revolution from its white working classes by convincing them that the latter were superior to exploited blacks and therefore need not seek solidarity with them. The US may have blacks like Oprah and the Obamas ascend to the aristocracy, but it compensates for this leeway with more violence, such as the incarceration of predominantly black people, and more vicious union-busting to prevent working class solidarity across race. As the fate of the political campaigns by Bernie Sanders and Jeremy Corbyn attests, both countries remain united in crushing any political mobilisation by the working classes.

For the British royal family, therefore, the skin colour of Meghan’s children has political implications. Allowing black blood into the British aristocracy potentially breaks the racial pact of white supremacy which sustained slavery and empire, thereby releasing the white working class to find multi-racial class solidarity as the aristocrats have found with the marriage of the Sussexes.

Marriage across the pond

On the other hand, one could also read the Sussexes’ interview as the consolidation of the two aristocracies. Anglo-American capitalism is badly in need of cultural legitimacy. The wealth of the world’s top handful of people still remains immorally equivalent to the bottom half of the world’s population, and this cruel system is crushing the ability of the planet to host human beings. For Americans who proclaim the principle of pulling oneself by the bootstraps, defending this inequality is getting increasingly awkward. American capitalism needs a cultural justification that goes beyond the humour of Ellen and the cuddling from Oprah, into love and family life.

That would explain two series being aired on Netflix: The Crown which glosses over the atrocities of the British Empire, and Bridgerton, the brainchild of yet another black queen of television drama, Shonda Rhimes. As argued in the Oprah magazine (no surprise), Bridgerton multi-racialises European aristocratic culture, with the promise that a multi-racial aristocracy is no different from a multi-racial professional office. That argument is essentially asking black people to substitute their memory and current lived experience for the audacity of hope to one day live like the Oprahs and the Obamas of the world.

A multi-racial global aristocracy is no substitute for the reality of global inequality that remains thoroughly racialised. Moreover, racial inequalities do not disappear under neoliberalism, despite having a generous sprinkling of people of colour at the top.

Allowing black blood into the British aristocracy potentially breaks the racial pact of white supremacy which sustained slavery and empire.

Marketisation and bureaucratisation, the American route into the aristocracy, are very deceptive. While the American version does allow more people of colour to rise to the top through achievements in politics, education and culture, it simultaneously reduces the racial diversity at the entrance. One cannot rise up the ranks without getting their foot in the door first, and what neoliberalism does is to block the doors of the temple of social mobility by privatising all social services, forcing people into low pay, gig jobs, and the burden of debt. For every Oprah, Beyoncé, Obama and Serena, there are millions of black people whose similar work ethic and equal excellence are crushed by difficult living conditions and limited opportunities.

In other words, while we must call out the racist treatment of the Sussexes, we must also add that their plight is an intra-aristocratic, and fundamentally Anglo-American sibling rivalry. With more blacks like Meghan, their refuge Tyler Perry, and their confessional priest Oprah, all now connected to Buckingham Palace from the “promised land” of a black former US president and a current black and female vice-president, it is tempting to believe that defending Meghan against racism is also asserting the dignity of the majority of the people of colour.

The reality is almost anything but. We still live under a cruel economic system that squeezes more out of us and makes us more miserable, while the rich accumulate more wealth, and the planet continues to send distress signals. The tragedy across the world, including Kenya, is that the neoliberal ideology has created a new middle class that is committed to enforcing a system of cruelty from behind the scenes, away from the gossip, glamour and glare of aristocratic life, while displaying their sorrows and angst on public media. The good news is that all these shifts are a sign of the continued decline of the Anglo-American empire.

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Wandia Njoya is a scholar, social and political commentator and blogger based in Nairobi, Kenya.

Culture

The Colston Four and the Lawful Excuse: Toppling Imperialist History

Peaceful social change starts with landmark actions that receive international attention and change public perceptions.

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The Colston Four and the Lawful Excuse: Toppling Imperialist History
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The so-called Colston Four, young white British activists who were prosecuted for vandalising the statue of seventeenth century slave trader Edward Colston and throwing it into a harbour in Bristol, England, in 2020 have been acquitted of the charges in a landmark case.

The accused were charged with criminal damage. They did not deny toppling the statue, but argued (among other things) that their actions were justified on the grounds that Colston’s crimes were so horrific the continued presence of his effigy on our streets was offensive, abusive and distressing. Its presence was a hate crime; by removing it, they were preventing a more serious crime. To widespread surprise, the jury accepted “lawful excuse” as a defence.

The verdict has prompted uproar among Tory voters, Tory MPs and the right-wing media, outraged (as they see it) that this is a victory for so-called “wokery”, the Left, and mob rule. Prime Minister Boris Johnson even waded in to say that people should not “go around seeking retrospectively to change our history”.

On the Left, the verdict has been hailed as a triumph for morality, people’s justice, and a partial payback for historical crimes.

Millions of British have learned more about their nation’s dark history and heritage in a few days than they ever learned in years at school. The very fact that the issue has sparked furious public debate is a significant step on the road towards decolonization. Media that would not normally cover history and heritage has devoted pages, and hours of airtime, to discussion of the toppling and subsequent case. Predictably, some say the verdict has “ignited culture wars”. In fact, these were pre-existing – fomented by Johnson’s government, which even has a culture wars unit within the No. 10 policy unit (ironically led by a former communist), and stoked incessantly by right-wing newspapers like the Daily Telegraph, whose online comment threads went into meltdown after the verdict.

I will describe the initial event before going on to discuss the trial and its wider significance.

The toppling of the statue 

At a Black Lives Matter (BLM) demonstration in Bristol on 7 June 2020, following the murder of George Floyd, the bronze statue of Colston was ripped from its plinth and thrown into the River Avon. Colston was a shareholder in, and (for a while) deputy governor of, the Royal African Company, responsible for enslaving and shipping to the Americas an estimated 84,000 Africans, of whom some 19,000 died en route. He was also a philanthropist who used his tainted wealth to benefit Bristol, and this was why the statue was erected in his honour in 1895. Schools, hospitals, churches and other buildings bore his name. All have since been renamed.

For years the people of Bristol had complained about the statue, and asked the council to remove it. When all appeals failed, some decided to take matters into their own hands and pull it down. The effigy found a fitting resting place in the harbour from which Colston’s slave ships had sailed. The council, led by black mayor Marvin Rees (who, incidentally, supported the prosecution), arranged for it to be dredged up, and the red paint-spattered statue ended up on its side in a local museum, alongside educational materials explaining the wider historical context, and BLM placards from the protest. In response to those on the right who angrily called this “an attack on history” and the attempted “erasure” of history, Bristol-based British-Nigerian historian and broadcaster David Olusoga declared, “This toppling is not an attack on history. It is history.” Olusoga was called as an expert witness for the defence at the trial.

The trial

The accused chose trial by jury in order to have their day in court. The alternative was to appear before a lower magistrates court, as some of their fellow protesters had done. (They were found guilty and lightly sentenced to community service.) As is usual in jury trials, a presiding judge can direct the jury to come to a particular decision, and give guidance on points of law. The judge told jurors they must decide the case on the basis of the evidence before them. He expressed concerns that undue pressure was being placed on them by defence barristers.

The defendants argued that they were acting to prevent the more serious crime of public indecency. Their lawyers claimed that the council’s failure to remove the statue, despite 30 years of petitions and other pleas, amounted to misconduct in public office. Throughout the proceedings, observers say it felt as if Colston and the council were the ones on trial. The defendants also argued that the citizens of Bristol were the owners of the statue (since their forebears had erected it in the first place), and that the majority of citizens would support their actions. Their third main argument was that they had lawful excuse; a conviction would mean that their freedom of expression and assembly under Articles 10 and 11 of the European Convention on Human Rights had been interfered with.

The effigy found a fitting resting place in the harbour from which Colston’s slave ships had sailed.

One of the defendants, Sage Willoughby, told the court: “Imagine having a Hitler statue in front of a Holocaust survivor – I believe they are similar. Having a statue of someone of that calibre in the middle of the city I believe is an insult…” Outside court, after the verdict, Willoughby took the knee.

Attorney General Suella Braverman has said she is considering referring the case to the Court of Appeal because the verdict is “confusing”. But it cannot be changed. Braverman has been accused of political meddling. If the case does go to appeal, the judges will not rule on whether the jury’s decision was correct, only on whether there was an error in law in the directions given to the jury.

In press coverage and responses to it, Professor Olusoga (who has won numerous awards for his work) has been the target of highly personalised attacks on his integrity and alleged “bias”. One Telegraph reader, for example, wrote online, “From what I have read his evidence amounted to a diatribe denouncing Edward Colston as a mass murderer. I think his contempt for our history is evident.”

The wider significance

The protest was part of the international BLM protests following the murder of George Floyd. The statue toppling was even mentioned at his funeral.

Some critics have mocked the Four for being white and having posh names that suggest they are middle class and therefore privileged (Rhian, Milo, Sage and Jake). “They should be patriotic to their race!” declared one Daily Telegraph reader, enraged at what he saw as class and race traitors. “None of the defendants were black. Rather, as you can tell from their names (including Milo Ponsford and Sage Willoughby) they were almost comically typical of a certain rah, right-on Bristol type,” wrote Telegraph columnist Douglas Murray. But protesters at the rally that day included many whites, as well as people of colour and mixed heritage, reflecting the city’s multicultural population. The same applied to other BLM rallies, in the UK and US, following the death of Mr Floyd. A rainbow crowd was also seen at protests in Oxford, by members of the Rhodes Must Fall movement, calling for the removal of the statue of Cecil Rhodes from the façade of Oriel College. The whiteness of the Colston Four can be seen as a positive – indicating that people of all ethnic backgrounds are uniting to call out racism, colonialism and historical injustice.

The trend towards multiracial protest is positive for the entire decolonization process. (Not that past protests, such as those that took place during the American civil rights movement, were not also multiracial.) For one of the most insidious and long-lasting impacts of colonialism was to create binary opposites rooted in race and (notional) racial difference. Both black and white are still locked into this binary opposition, to the detriment of everyone. It is part of the right-wing racist narrative to keep black and white in separate boxes, and to oppose multiculturalism and miscegenation. This was very evident in the media coverage and other right-wing reaction to this verdict.

The defendants argued that they were acting to prevent the more serious crime of public indecency.

This outcome, and the toppling that preceded it, are part of an irreversible global move to decolonise. This includes action to decolonise the curriculum in schools and higher education; the work of the National Trust in Britain to educate visitors about the tainted wealth, often derived from slavery, upon which many stately homes were built (moves much hated by the right, which has tried to sabotage the Trust’s management); and the increasing trend towards the repatriation of stolen artefacts held in British museums. Controversy still rages over the question of returning the Elgin Marbles to Greece.

The Labour Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, has set up a Commission for Diversity to work to improve diversity in the capital’s public realm and increase public understanding of existing statues, street names, building names and memorials. It was not created, as some right-wing critics claim, to decide upon the removal of statues. The BBC has recently dropped the acronym BAME (black, Asian and minority ethnic) because it is “problematic” and could cause “serious insult” to people who may feel they are being referred to as a homogeneous group. After Floyd’s murder, footballers, black and white, chose to kneel before games as an anti-racism gesture, out of respect for BLM and Mr Floyd. White England manager Gareth Southgate supported his players in this, and led them in kneeling before Euro2020 matches. Players from Scotland, Wales, Belgium, Portugal and Switzerland also chose to kneel. A poll of football fans in nine European countries found majority support for “taking the knee”, with opposition coming only from a vocal minority. Racing driver Lewis Hamilton, who has increasingly “come out” as an anti-racist and BLM supporter, has set up a mission to empower underrepresented groups, and persuaded Formula One to become more diverse as a sport. Sportsmen and women have a proud history of using their high profiles to forge political change and raise awareness of racial inequality, from athlete Jesse Owens at the 1936 (Nazi) Olympics, to Muhammed Ali to American National Football League star Colin Kaepernick.

In Britain, all these moves are predictably slammed by many Tories as “cultural Marxism” and “wokery”, which they believe is a US import along with BLM – a familiar trope that blames foreigners (especially non-whites) for all social ills and unwelcome social change. (A surprise abstainer is George Osborne, former Tory Chancellor, now chairman of the British Museum, who hailed the Colston verdict as “brilliant”.) Although we have a very right-wing government, disaffected Tory and Brexit voters constantly call on Johnson – who some voters laughably regard as a socialist – to push back against “wokery”, defund the BBC, and root out “woke Lefties” who are believed to have “infested” higher education, the BBC, quangos and many of our public institutions. Despite his blustering rhetoric, even Johnson is unlikely to do any of this.

One of the most insidious and long-lasting impacts of colonialism was to create binary opposites rooted in race and racial difference.

These moves towards decolonisation may seem piecemeal and minor. But peaceful social change starts with landmark actions that receive international attention and change public perceptions – often via shock tactics. Changing the public narrative can eventually forge real change in attitudes and behaviour. As for the role of historians in forging change, it is our job to repeat as many times as necessary: history is being made, remade, unmade, reassessed, re-analysed and re-written all the time. It is not untouchable and unchangeable, as many on the right would argue. As David Olusoga wrote after the toppling of the Colston statue: “It was one of those rare historical moments whose arrival means things can never go back to how they were.”

Meanwhile, the value of the Colston statue has reportedly increased fifty times. As prosecution witness Jon Finch, head of culture and creative industries at Bristol City Council, says: the statue has greater cultural value than ever before, in that it now speaks to Bristol’s “past, present and future”.

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Culture

The Politics of Street Names

Street names are political weapons. They produce memories, attachment and intimacy—all while often sneakily distorting history.

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The Politics of Street Names
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June 18, 1940 is well known throughout Francophonie: it is the date of Charles de Gaulle’s famous speech calling for resistance against France’s occupation by Nazi Germany and its ally, the Vichy regime. The then-governor of Chad, Felix Eboué, was one of the first political leaders to support de Gaulle; he proclaimed his support from Brazzaville, the capital of “Free France” between 1940 and 1943. To this day, in Dakar and Bamako, as in all the metropole’s cities, at least one street name references the event. On the other hand, who remembers Lamine Senghor’s scathing indictment of French colonialism—which he urged to “destroy and replace by the union of free peoples”—before the League Against Imperialism in Brussels on February 11, 1927? Two public addresses calling for resistance to servitude: one proudly displayed around the empire, the other pushed into oblivion.

Recent movements like Rhodes Must FallFaidherbe Must Fall, and Black Lives Matter have forced us all to face the political nature of odonyms (identifying names given to public communication routes or edifices), carriers of a selected and selective memory. If a street, a square, a bridge, a train station, or a university proudly carries a name, it is because someone decided it would. In Senegal, historian Khadim Ndiaye insists that “it was when the power of the gunboats defeated all the resistance fighters that Faidherbe’s statue was erected in the middle of Saint-Louis as a sign of rejoicing.” “Lat Dior was assassinated in 1886,” he adds, “and the statue was inaugurated on March 20, 1887 . . . to show the greatness of the metropole.”

To live on Edward Colston Street, Léopold II Avenue, or Jean-Baptiste Colbert Boulevard is to adopt, through time, a geographical identity based on that given name. One starts becoming accustomed to its sound, as it takes a life of its own; generating scenes of endless discussions around tea, of traffic jams on the way home from work, of bargaining with the local shopkeeper. Everything from the bakery, pharmacy, and police station to the hotel, ATM, and gas station bear its shadow. A name that produces memories, attachment, intimacy—all while sneakily erasing its backstory. Rhodes? Ah, my college years! Pike? Good times we had around that statue! Columbus? What a lovely park that square had!

Odonyms have the power of not only negating history but also distorting memory. May 8, 1945 is synonymous with both liberation and carnage. In Europe, the date marks the surrender of Germany and the victory of the Allied powers. In Algeria, for having dared to demand their liberation from the colonial yoke during the parade celebrating the end of the war, thousands (probably tens of thousands) of Algerians were killed in the cities of Sétif, Guelma, and Kherrata. Two memories face each other between the May 8, 1945 bus stop in Paris or the May 8, 1945 square in Lyon on the one hand, and the May 8, 1945 airport in Sétif or the May 8, 1945 university in Guelma on the other. Moreover, the “liberation” commemorated through the avenue running alongside Dakar’s port celebrates that of France in 1944–1945, not Senegal’s. This “liberation” occurred when the country was still a colony, its children subject to the Code de l’indigénat (Native Code), and its soldiers—at the Thiaroye camp, on December 1, 1944—coldly executed in the hundreds for demanding their compensation for fighting in the French army.

As sociologist Alioune Sall Paloma argues, “naming is an act of power.” Odonyms can thus equally be used by officials to seize historical legitimacy over a popular figure or event. Despite being attacked throughout his life, everyone in Senegal now seems to erect multifaceted thinker Cheikh Anta Diop as an unquestionable reference. How is it, then, that the country’s largest university—that happens to bear his name, on an avenue named after him, which now also hosts a statue of him—does not teach his groundbreaking work? Or that, in February 2020, five high schools in the country were renamed after authors Aminata Sow Fall and Cheikh Hamidou Kane, filmmaker Ousmane Sembène, sculptor Ousmane Sow, and revolutionary leader Amath Dansokho, all while artists barely manage to survive from their work and the political principles these namesakes stood by are today systematically scorned?

There is also a lot to say about many heads of states’ obsession with “going down in history.” In Cameroon, the largest football stadium in the country, built for the 2021 African Cup of Nations, honors current lifetime president Paul Biya. In Côte d’Ivoire, after only two years in office, Alassane Ouattara gave his name to the university of Bouaké. In Senegal, under the impetus of his brother—also involved in politics and at the center of a 2019 multibillion-dollar oil scandal—President Macky Sall now has a high school named after him in the capital’s suburb.

Decolonization—a term increasingly abused and gutted of its meaning—supposes the conservation and promotion of Africa’s multidimensional heritage. Material heritage is decolonized through, in particular, the rehabilitation of emblematic sites and buildings and the restitution of its cultural heritage trapped in Western museums. Decolonizing immaterial heritage requires the repatriation of audiovisual archives seized by foreign funds and a thorough refoundation of odonyms. Finally, human heritage is decolonized by concrete support to artists and young creative souls, so that no one can claim, when it will be too late: “They did their best, despite the obstacles. If only we had uplifted them during their lifetime.”

This post is from a partnership between Africa Is a Country and The Elephant. We will be publishing a series of posts from their site once a week.

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The Case for Reparations and Revisiting Colonial Atrocities

The mass atrocities of the 1899 French invasion of what is Niger today are finally being treated with the gravity and consequence they deserve in Western popular histories.

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The Case for Reparations and Revisiting Colonial Atrocities
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In the spring of 1979, Moussa Ali, now 85, was plowing his parched field on the edge of a two-house hamlet in the Sahel of Niger. Suddenly, his hoe rang with the sound of metal. Intrigued, he dug down and found a cache of ancient bullets and spent cartridges. “Then I knew that the story our grandparents told us must be true,” Moussa recalls.

The story Moussa heard as a child was the story of the Battle of Koran Kalgo. In July 1899, his ancestors’ village was attacked by a well-armed French invasion force. If Moussa had had access to the French colonial archives in Aix-en-Provence, he would have read the terse French dispatch from that day: “Enemy held their ground despite a murderous battery. A small village of 600. Storming it cost us 2 dead, 14 wounded. All inhabitants killed, village set on fire.”

He also might have gone on to read the diary of the French officer sent to find this murderous force after rumors of its atrocities had reached Paris. “Towards midday we arrived at what used to be the village of Koran Kalgo. Now it was just smouldering ruins. An old man sitting in the ashes told us the invasion force had passed through four days ago. Two little girls, about 10 years old, were hanging from a tree at the village entrance. Everywhere I saw dead bodies of men in their prime, their great shields lay alongside. Some had had time before dying to find the shade of a spindly bush.”

Crowd on a hill © LemKino Pictures.

Crowd on a hill © LemKino Pictures.

Moussa had kept the bullets for over 40 years, wanting to preserve the evidence of this monstrous history. We were the first people outside his village to ever come asking about the massacre. We were in Niger to make a BBC documentary, African Apocalypse, on the murderous invasion of 1899 and its continuing impact on people today.

We sent a photo of one of the bullets to a historical munitions expert, Curtis Steinhauer of Cartridge Corner. Its markings were clear, and we received this remarkable reply: “‘4-85’ means the bullet was made in April 1885. ‘ART’ indicates it was made for the artillery division. ‘D’ signifies the manufacturer, Société Électromécanique of Dives in Normandy. And ‘EG’ is the company that supplied the casing’s metal, Eschger, Ghesquière & Cie of Biache St Vaast, near Calais.”

This bullet is just one testament to a more brutal history. Paul Voulet, the French commander in 1899, is believed to have killed tens of thousands of Nigeriens as he sought to take control of Lake Chad for France before the British got there. Niger’s main highway follows the exact route of his massacres. In fact, it created the colonial and still-current border with Nigeria.

Last month in New York, Fabian Salvioli—the United Nations Special Rapporteur for the Promotion of Truth, Justice, Reparation and Guarantees of Non-Recurrence—presented a report entitled “Transitional justice and addressing the legacy of gross violations of human rights and international humanitarian law committed in colonial contexts.” Unrestricted access to official archives in the search for truth is one of his many recommendations.

Transitional justice might seem a strange concept in the context of century-old abuse, but, as Salvioli points out, “the colonial transfer of wealth and racist oppression have created a legacy of social, economic and cultural exclusion whose effects have been felt for generations.”

Old man in doorway © LemKino Pictures.

Old man in doorway © LemKino Pictures.

Moussa Ali has lived that legacy. In the 1980s, he traveled to France, looking for work. He was unable to access a visa and, when discovered, he was instantly deported back to Niger. “They can come here,” he says, “but we’re not allowed to go there. It’s shameful!” For 40 years, he has had little choice but to eke out a living in his deserted village, five kilometers from the nearest water well.

At every village along the road, we met communities who feel that the day Voulet arrived marked the first day of their impossible present. According to the UN Human Development Index, Niger is the least developed country in the world. France granted Niger independence in 1960, but only if they entered into a defense treaty which required that Niger prioritize French national security interests. Today, although a third of France’s electricity is reportedly generated by Nigerien uranium, less than 20% of the country’s 25 million people have access to electric power. As Ta-Nehisi Coates puts it in “The Case for Reparations,” “plunder in the past made plunder in the present efficient.”

© LemKino Pictures.

© LemKino Pictures.

In our film, the Sultan of Birnin Konni states that Voulet and his men killed between 7,000 and 15,000 people over three days of rampage. “He found us rich and left us poor,” he adds. In fact, the sultan believes that Voulet’s actions constitute a crime against humanity. “If they occurred today,” he says, “Voulet would be taken before the International Criminal Court at The Hague.”

Salvioli’s report acknowledges the obvious fact that given the time elapsed, prosecution of colonial perpetrators is most often no longer an option. “Given this limitation,” he writes, “it is even more important that other components of transitional justice are properly developed.”

Also last month, representatives of the affected Nigerien communities (with whom we worked on our film) spoke alongside Salvioli at “Racial Violence and Colonial Accountabilities,” a global webinar at the New School of New York. These advocates are demanding a public apology from France accompanied by a full investigation of the truth of what happened—something neither France nor Niger has ever done. They also demand a process of memorialization with full community participation. There are monuments across Niger to French officers who died in the colonial conquest; Voulet’s grave is still preserved in the village where his African troops, sickened by his excesses, finally mutinied and killed him. But there is not a single memorial to those who died resisting the bloody invasion. As Hosseini Tahirou Amadou, a history teacher and one of the Nigerien community representatives, says, “It’s as if all the Africans who died were not actually human beings.”

It’s not just Niger, either. Also at the webinar, Professor Ousseina Alidou, a Nigerien specialist in postcolonial gender studies at Rutgers University, remarked that years later, Africa still remains “marked by coloniality and its afterlife.”

The time since George Floyd’s murder have shown us the urgent need for global humanity to transition out of an unjust world forged in the fires of colonialism. The communities of Niger, silenced for so long, are now beginning to play their part in making that transition a real possibility.

This post is from a partnership between Africa Is a Country and The Elephant. We will be publishing a series of posts from their site once a week.

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