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TRUMP’S ‘NEW’ AFRICA STRATEGY: The myopia of another game

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Trump’s new Africa strategy seems more to be concerned with checking China’s growing influence in Africa. By ALY VERJEE

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FROM BIRTHER TO MORE OF THE SAME: American foreign policy in the Age of Trump and its impact on Kenya
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It need hardly be said that it has been a bizarre time to be living in the United States, not least to be an Africanist in Washington, DC. Relentless, polemical discussions about race, immigration, border security, and trade colour in all directions the foreign relations of the United States, even if they are not as often and as prominently invoked against Africa and Africans.

In the context of the Trump administration, Africa, if it is remembered at all, is mostly recalled in indifferent, if not ignominious contexts: the infamous expletive the president used to describe the continent; the easing of restrictions on the importation of trophies of endangered animals; First Lady Melania Trump’s wardrobe; the abortive visit of Donald Trump’s first Secretary of State, Rex Tillerson, who lost his job while in Nigeria; the ambush death of U.S. special forces in Niger.

It was in these circumstances, which the moderators politely avoided, that Ambassador John Bolton, the national security advisor to President Trump, articulated the U.S. administration’s “new” Africa strategy in Washington, DC. It was a moment of anticipation: what would Bolton say? What would be new? Surely Bolton, a foreign policy veteran, would try to reassure those in the audience and beyond that when it came to Africa, the United States now had a sober, succinct policy, putting to rest the memorable moments of the past two years as aberrations or mere failings of public relations.

What the audience heard was indeed a strategy, partial and contradictory though it was. But perhaps more significantly, Bolton’s speech said as much about the self-image of the United States, at least as imagined by this administration, as it did about Africa: a benign, non-imperialist great power, an obviously and inherently better trade partner, but also an assertive state morally justified in ratcheting up competition against China, Russia, and, presumably, any lesser nation.

China, Russia and the African omission

Bolton mentioned China fourteen times in his speech, with one additional mention of Beijing. Russia was mentioned six times. With the substitution of a few examples in the text, this could have been a speech about Latin America or Asia, and the U.S. competition against its rivals for strategic advantage in those regions.

Only Djibouti, Libya, Mali, South Sudan, Western Sahara and Zambia were mentioned individually in the speech. As members of the G-5 Sahel Joint Force, Mauritania, Niger, Chad, Burkina Faso, and Mali (again) merited mention. This was not only a version of America First; it was a speech with little sustained inclusion of the thoughts or views of Africans, with only the pretence of consideration of African agency. To announce an Africa strategy without mentioning Ethiopia, Kenya, Nigeria, or South Africa, let alone the African Union, is odd. But then Africans were not necessarily the key audience for this message.

Bolton mentioned China fourteen times in his speech, with one additional mention of Beijing. Russia was mentioned six times. With the substitution of a few examples in the text, this could have been a speech about Latin America or Asia, and the U.S. competition against its rivals for strategic advantage in those regions.

Bolton argued that in Africa, China was a bad actor. There were “disturbing effects of China’s quest to obtain more political, economic, and military power,” he said. Russia was engaged in “corrupt economic dealings…with little regard for the rule of law or accountable and transparent governance…It continues to sell arms and energy in exchange for votes at the United Nations—votes that keep strongmen in power, undermine peace and security, and run counter to the best interests of the African people.”

History, of course, offers numerous examples of U.S. engagement and interference in Africa since the end of the colonial era, since the end of the Cold War, since 9/11. It would be an understatement to say that not all of these episodes have been benign or motivated by altruistic interest. The point is not to recount these familiar cases but to make the obvious more obvious: one can debate America’s interests, but to conclude that they are always noble is a delusion, and to cast stones at one’s rivals smacks of hypocrisy.

General Thomas Waldhauser, the head of the U.S. Africa Command, noted in September 2017 that the U.S. goal was “to work with China in Africa as fellow stakeholders in peace, security, and stability on the continent”. For Beijing, Bolton’s gauntlet raises doubts as to whether this is still the case.

What the Trump administration should realise is that in a choice between the U.S. and China, it is far from assured that every African country would choose the United States. In this metastasised version of the great game, which treats Africa as just another theatre of U.S. engagement with Beijing and Moscow, most African states would rather not have to choose sides. But if they did, heed the annual pilgrimage of African leaders to Beijing: Washington may find its creed is far less compelling.

Take infrastructure. If transactional behaviour is the name of the game, then there is a simple question to pose: Will the United States commit to build and fund better stadia and state houses, roads and bridges and railways, dams and power stations than the Chinese? To the scale that the Chinese have built all over the continent? On a continent full of Chinese concrete, calling Beijing corrupt and self-interested will not wash. Americans have plenty of self-interest too.

Take infrastructure. If transactional behaviour is the name of the game, then there is a simple question to pose: Will the United States commit to build and fund better stadia and state houses, roads and bridges and railways, dams and power stations than the Chinese?

The contradictions of Bolton’s principled themes

One could argue that Bolton’s overall themes are, in principle, sound. And to be fair, in those principles, coupled with the White House fact sheet (issued subsequent to Bolton’s speech) the strategy offers much continuity, at least in theory. As Bolton himself argued, “…the strategy addresses three core U.S. interests on the continent”:

  • First, advancing U.S. trade and commercial ties with nations across the region to the benefit of both the United States and Africa.
  • Second, countering the threat from radical Islamic terrorism and violent conflict.
  • And third…that U.S. taxpayer dollars for aid are used efficiently and effectively.”

These are points that would not have been out of place for the Obama, Bush or Clinton administrations. Hardly anyone in the United States opposes aid efficiency, an effective counterterrorism policy or greater American prosperity. However, a deeper look reveals plenty of contradictions between the rhetoric and reality, offering more questions than answers.

Take the threat of terrorism. As the White House fact sheet explains, “the United States will continue to help our African allies build security forces to counter these threats and strengthen the rule of law.” Yet in August of this year, the Defence Department announced plans to cut the number of U.S. forces deployed in Africa. As the New York Times reported, “officials said they expected most of the troop cuts and scaled-back missions to come from Central and West Africa, where Special Operations missions have focused on training African militaries to combat the growing threat from extremist Islamist militant groups.” Is the new strategy a reversal of these earlier plans? Can more training be done with fewer forces?

Or take peacekeeping. Bolton said the U.S. will “re-evaluate its support for U.N. peacekeeping missions. We will only back effective and efficient operations, that we will seek to streamline, reconfigure, or terminate missions that are unable to meet their own mandate or facilitate lasting peace.  Our objective is to resolve conflicts, not freeze them in perpetuity.”

The recipient of his peacekeeping ire was the relatively tiny 458-member United Nations Mission for the Referendum in Western Sahara (MINURSO), established in 1991. MINURSO has failed not because of any inherent deficiency in peacekeeping practice, but largely because of Moroccan intransigence.

Leaving aside the fact that the oldest and most entrenched U.N. missions are in conflicts outside Africa (for example, the U.N. Military Observer Group in India and Pakistan (UNMOGIP), established in 1949; the U.N. Peacekeeping Force in Cyprus (UNFICYP), established in 1964; the U.N. Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL), established in 1978), how different is this strategy from the peacekeeping review that has preoccupied the outgoing U.S. Ambassador to the U.N., Nikki Haley, for much of her time in New York, and which has led to cuts to the U.N. mission in the DR Congo and the beginning of the end of the U.N.-African Union. Mission in Darfur? Is this continuity or change?

In April 2017, Haley told the Security Council that “we cannot continue these massive missions forever…the simple fact is that in many cases, U.N. peacekeeping is just not working.” It was a statement Bolton could have made. Twenty months later, it’s not clear that the Trump administration’s aspiration to “see more cooperative regional security organizations” like the G5 Sahel Joint Force will overcome the real dilemmas of peacekeeping in difficult places. As AMISOM in Somalia, AMIS in Darfur, IGAD in South Sudan and ECOMOG in Liberia and Sierra Leone have shown, regional security initiatives are no panacea.

It’s the economy, stupid?

Maybe, it’s all about the money. In that respect, Zambia’s December 15th rebuttal of Bolton’s assertion of the details of its debts to China is instructive. Zambia does, indeed, face a debt crisis. And although Lusaka has clearly managed its public finances poorly in recent years, no rescue effort from the West has materialised: Zambia has yet to find a path to financing from the International Monetary Fund (IMF).

There’s no prize for guessing which country holds the greatest influence at the IMF. It is, of course, the United States. Obviously, most African countries want to avoid predatory lending arrangements, whether made in Beijing or elsewhere. Whether the solution is in Washington is another matter, as both Lusaka’s statement, and the IMF’s non-response, by implication, question. Nor are memories of the structural adjustment programmes and the Washington Consensus yet distant.

Bolton might argue that it is unfair to be tagged with these failed policies of the past, even as he repeated an old conditionality: to “focus our economic efforts on African governments that act with us as strategic partners, and, which are striving toward improved governance and transparent business practices.”

He might point to his wish for new trade agreements, increased reciprocity, and broader market access. However, although the fact sheet mentions the landmark Clinton-era African Growth and Opportunity Act (AGOA), which has helped some African countries to improve their exports to the U.S., this law is not based on reciprocity – it recognises that weaker African economies do need preferential access to a much bigger U.S. market to see any benefit at all. Although AGOA has been reauthorised until 2025, it is unclear what the new strategy means for legislation. Will the law be revised? And if so, how? Akin to the revisions made to the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA)? Or along more dramatic lines?

Inconvenient a fact though it may be, for many African countries, the often relatively modest volume of U.S. trade is even more resource-focused than China: $6.9 billion of the $7.1 billion worth of goods the U.S. imports from Nigeria consist of “mineral fuels”. The top U.S. imports from Cameroon are mineral fuels, wood and wood products, cocoa and rubber. From Ethiopia, coffee, mostly unroasted (losing Addis much of the value chain), with manufactured goods (knit apparel and footwear) a distant second and third.

The truth is that most of the world has exploited Africa’s natural resources, and, in this respect, the U.S. is not much different. Though Bolton noted a new initiative, “Prosper Africa”, that would “support open markets for American businesses, grow Africa’s middle class, promote youth employment opportunities, and improve the business climate”, details of how this would be done are so far sparse.

Very few jobs in the United States rely on the export of goods and services to Africa. In 2015, the latest year for which figures are available, the total number of U.S. jobs supported by exports to Africa was 229,214, or about 2 per cent of comparable jobs and not many more than those dependent on exports to the CAFTA-DR group of Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and the Dominican Republic, with a collective population 50 million. Without a credible and specific plan to improve exports, it’s hard to see how these numbers will changes dramatically.

The truth is that most of the world has exploited Africa’s natural resources, and, in this respect, the U.S. is not much different. Though Bolton noted a new initiative, “Prosper Africa”, that would “support open markets for American businesses, grow Africa’s middle class, promote youth employment opportunities, and improve the business climate”, details of how this would be done are so far sparse.

After the rhetoric

With his attack on China, Bolton grabbed the headlines. The ambiguities went unaddressed, and the opinions and concerns of Africans themselves were not the central theme.

Though more details will eventually emerge, and inconsistencies may be resolved and contradictions rebutted, the foundation of this policy will remain shaky. In the age of Trump, the U.S. has axiomatic problems in its international relations: in how it is perceived, in how others understand its intentions, in its credibility, in its reliability. To be successful, any Africa policy would have to surmount these limitations. Even if the incongruities are overcome, it is far from certain that this strategy can or will do so.

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Aly Verjee is a fellow at the Rift Valley Institute.

Politics

Kenya Chooses Its Next Chief Justice

The search for Kenya’s next Chief Justice that commenced Monday will seek to replace Justice David Maraga, who retired early this year, has captured the attention of the nation.

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Kenya Chooses Its Next Chief Justice
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Since Monday, the 12th of April 2021, interviews to replace retired Chief Justice David Maraga for the post of the most important jurist in Kenya and the president of the Supreme Court have been underway.

The Judiciary is one of the three State organs established under Chapter 10, Article 159 of the Constitution of Kenya. It establishes the Judiciary as an independent custodian of justice in Kenya. Its primary role is to exercise judicial authority given to it, by the people of Kenya.

The institution is mandated to deliver justice in line with the Constitution and other laws. It is expected to resolve disputes in a just manner with a view to protecting the rights and liberties of all, thereby facilitating the attainment of the ideal rule of law.

The man or woman who will take up this mantle will lead the Judiciary at a time when its independence and leadership will be paramount for the nation. He/she will be selected by the Judicial Service Commission in a competitive process.

KWAMCHETSI MAKOKHA profiles the ten candidates shortlisted by the JSC.

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IMF and SAPs 2.0: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are Riding into Town

Stabilisation, liberalisation, deregulation, and privatisation: what do these four pillars of structural adjustment augur for Kenya’s beleaguered public health sector?

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IMF and SAPs 2.0: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are Riding into Town
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The International Monetary Fund’s announcement on the 2nd of April 2020 that it had approved a US$ 2.3 billion loan for Kenya prompted David Ndii to spell it out to young #KOT (Kenyans on Twitter) that “the loan Kenya has taken is called a structural adjustment loan (SAPs). It comes with austerity (tax raises, spending cuts, downsizing) to keep Kenya creditworthy so that we can continue borrowing and servicing debt”, adding that the “IMF is not here for fun. Ask older people.” With this last quip, Ndii was referring to the economic hardship visited on Kenyans under the structural adjustment programmes of the 80s and 90s.

Well, I’m old enough to remember; except that I was not in the country. I had left home, left the country, leaving behind parents who were still working, still putting my siblings through school. Parents with permanent and pensionable jobs, who were still paying the mortgage on their modest “maisonette” in a middle class Nairobi neighbourhood.

In those pre-Internet, pre-WhatsApp days, much use was made of the post office and I have kept the piles of aerogramme letters that used to bring me news of home. In those letters my parents said nothing of the deteriorating economic situation, unwilling to burden me with worries about which I could do nothing, keeping body and soul together being just about all I could manage in that foreign land where I had gone to further my education.

My brother Tony’s letters should have warned me that all was not well back home but he wrote so hilariously about the status conferred on those men who could afford second-hand underwear from America, complete with stars and stripes, that the sub-text went right over my head. I came back home for the first time after five years — having left college and found a first job — to find parents that had visibly aged beyond their years and a home that was palpably less well-off financially than when I had left. I’m a Kicomi girl and something in me rebelled against second-hand clothes, second-hand things. It seemed that in my absence Kenya had regressed to the time before independence, the years of hope and optimism wiped away by the neoliberal designs of the Bretton Woods twins. I remember wanting to flee; I wanted to go back to not knowing, to finding my family exactly as I had left it — seemingly thriving, happy, hopeful.

Now, after eight years of irresponsible government borrowing, it appears that I am to experience the effects of a Structural Adjustment Programme first-hand, and I wonder how things could possibly be worse than they already are.

When speaking to Nancy* a couple of weeks back about the COVID-19 situation at the Nyahururu County Referral Hospital in Laikipia County, she brought up the issue of pregnant women having to share beds in the maternity ward yet — quite apart from the fact that this arrangement is unacceptable whichever way you look at it — patients admitted to the ward are not routinely tested for COVID-19.

Nancy told me that candidates for emergency caesarean sections or surgery for ectopic and intra-abdominal pregnancies must wait their turn at the door to the operating theatre. Construction of a new maternity wing, complete with its own operating theatre, has ground to a halt because, rumour has it, the contractor has not been paid. The 120-bed facility should have been completed in mid-2020 to ease congestion at the Nyahururu hospital whose catchment area for referrals includes large swathes of both Nyandarua and Laikipia counties because of its geographical location.

According to Nancy, vital medicine used to prevent excessive bleeding in newly delivered mothers has not been available at her hospital since January; patients have to buy the medication themselves. This issue was also raised on Twitter by Dr Mercy Korir who, referring to the Nanyuki Teaching and Referral Hospital — the only other major hospital in Laikipia County — said that lack of emergency medication in the maternity ward was putting the lives of mothers at risk. Judging by the responses to that tweet, this dire situation is not peculiar to the Nanyuki hospital; how much worse is it going to get under the imminent SAP?

Kenya was among the first countries to sign on for a SAP in 1980 when commodity prices went through the floor and the 1973 oil crisis hit, bringing to a painful halt a post-independence decade of sustained growth and prosperity. The country was to remain under one form of structural adjustment or another from then on until 1996.

Damaris Parsitau, who has written about the impact of Structural Adjustment Programmes on women’s health in Kenya, already reported in her 2008 study that, “at Nakuru District Hospital in Kenya, for example, expectant mothers are required to buy gloves, surgical blades, disinfectants and syringes in preparation for childbirth”. It would appear that not much has changed since then.

The constitution of the World Health Organisation states that “the enjoyment of the highest attainable standard of health is one of the fundamental rights of every human being without distinction of race, religion, political belief, economic or social condition” and that “governments have a responsibility for the health of their peoples which can be fulfilled only by the provision of adequate health and social measures.”

The WHO should have added gender as a discrimination criteria. Parsitau notes that “compared to men, women in Kenya have less access to medical care, are more likely to be malnourished, poor, and illiterate, and even work longer and harder. The situation exacerbates women’s reproductive role, which increases their vulnerability to morbidity and mortality.”

With economic decline in the 80s, and the implementation of structural adjustment measures that resulted in cutbacks in funding and the introduction of cost sharing in a sector where from independence the government had borne the cost of providing free healthcare, the effects were inevitably felt most by the poor, the majority of who — in Kenya as in the rest of the world — are women.

A more recent review of studies carried out on the effect of SAPs on child and maternal health published in 2017 finds that “in their current form, structural adjustment programmes are incongruous with achieving SDGs [Sustainable Development Goals] 3.1 and 3.2, which stipulate reductions in neonatal, under-5, and maternal mortality rates. It is telling that even the IMF’s Independent Evaluation Office, in assessing the performance of structural adjustment loans, noted that ‘outcomes such as maternal and infant mortality rates have generally not improved.’”

The review also says that “adjustment programmes commonly promote decentralisation of health systems [which] may produce a more fractious and unequal implementation of services — including those for child and maternal health — nationally. Furthermore, lack of co-ordination in decentralised systems can hinder efforts to combat major disease outbreaks”. Well, we are in the throes of a devastating global pandemic which has brought this observation into sharp relief. According to the Ministry of Health, as of the 6th of April, 325,592 people had been vaccinated against COVID-19. Of those, 33 per cent were in Nairobi County, which accounts for just 9.2 per cent of the country’s total population of 47,564,296 people.

The Constitution of Kenya 2010 provides the legal framework for a rights-based approach to health and is the basis for the rollout of Universal Health Coverage (UHC) that was announced by President Uhuru Kenyatta on 12 December 2018 — with the customary fanfare — as part of the “Big Four Agenda” to be fulfilled before his departure in 2022.

However, a KEMRI-Wellcome Trust policy brief states that UHC is still some distance to achieving 100 per cent population coverage and recommends that “the Kenyan government should increase public financing of the health sector. Specifically, the level of public funding for healthcare in Kenya should double, if the threshold (5% of GDP) … is to be reached” and that “Kenya should reorient its health financing strategy away from a focus on contributory, voluntary health insurance, and instead recognize that increased tax funding is critical.”

These recommendations, it would seem to me, run counter to the conditionalities habitually imposed by the IMF and it is therefore not clear how the government will deliver UHC nation-wide by next year if this latest SAP is accompanied by budgetary cutbacks in the healthcare sector.

With the coronavirus graft scandal and the disappearance of medical supplies donated by Jack Ma still fresh on their minds, Kenyans are not inclined to believe that the IMF billions will indeed go to “support[ing] the next phase of the authorities’ COVID-19 response and their plan to reduce debt vulnerabilities while safeguarding resources to protect vulnerable groups”, as the IMF has claimed.

#KOT have — with outrage, with humour, vociferously — rejected this latest loan, tweeting the IMF in their hundreds and inundating the organisation’s Facebook page with demands that the IMF rescind its decision. An online petition had garnered more than 200,000 signatures within days of the IMF’s announcement. Whether the IMF will review its decision is moot. The prevailing economic climate is such that we are damned if we do take the loan, and damned if we don’t.

Structural adjustment supposedly “encourages countries to become economically self-sufficient by creating an environment that is friendly to innovation, investment and growth”, but the recidivist nature of the programmes suggests that either the Kenyan government is a recalcitrant pupil or SAPs simply don’t work. I would say it is both.

But the Kenyan government has not just been a recalcitrant pupil; it has also been a consistently profligate one. While SAPs do indeed provide for “safeguarding resources to protect vulnerable groups”, political choices are made that sacrifice the welfare of the ordinary Kenyan at the altar of grandiose infrastructure projects, based on the fiction peddled by international financial institutions that infrastructure-led growth can generate enough income to service debt. And when resources are not being wasted on “legacy” projects, they are embezzled on a scale that literally boggles the mind. We can no longer speak of runaway corruption; a new lexicon is required to describe this phenomenon which pervades every facet of our lives and which has rendered the years of sacrifice our parents endured meaningless and put us in debt bondage for many more generations to come. David Ndii long warned us that this moment was coming. It is here.

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East Africa: A ‘Hotbed of Terror’

African states are involved in the War on Terror more than we think. They’re surrounded by an eco-system of the war industry.

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East Africa: A ‘Hotbed of Terror’
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In late January, reports circulated on social media about a suspected US drone strike in southern Somalia, in the Al-Shabaab controlled Ma’moodow town in Bakool province. Debate quickly ensued on Twitter about whether the newly installed Biden administration was responsible for this strike, which was reported to have occurred at 10 p.m. local time on January 29th, 2021.

Southern Somalia has been the target of an unprecedented escalation of US drone strikes in the last several years, with approximately 900 to 1,000 people killed between 2016 and 2019. According to the nonprofit group Airwars, which monitors and assesses civilian harm from airpower-dominated international military actions, “it was under the Obama administration that a significant US drone and airstrike campaign began,” coupled with the deployment of Special Operations forces inside the country.

Soon after Donald Trump took office in 2017, he signed a directive designating parts of Somalia “areas of active hostilities.” While the US never formally declared war in Somalia, Trump effectively instituted war-zone targeting rules by expanding the discretionary authority of the military to conduct airstrikes and raids. Thus the debate over the January 29 strike largely hinged on the question of whether President Joe Biden was upholding Trump’s “flexible” approach to drone warfare―one that sanctioned more airstrikes in Somalia in the first seven months of 2020 than were carried out during the administrations of George W. Bush and Barack Obama, combined.

In the days following the January 29 strike, the US Military’s Africa Command (AFRICOM) denied responsibility, claiming that the last US military action in Somalia occurred on January 19, the last full day of the Trump presidency. Responding to an inquiry from Airwars, AFRICOM’s public affairs team announced:

We are aware of the reporting. US Africa Command was not involved in the Jan. 29 action referenced below. US Africa Command last strike was conducted on Jan. 19. Our policy of acknowledging all airstrikes by either press release or response to query has not changed.

In early March, The New York Times reported that the Biden administration had in fact imposed temporary limits on the Trump-era directives, thereby constraining drone strikes outside of “conventional battlefield zones.” In practice, this means that the US military and the CIA now require White House permission to pursue terror suspects in places like Somalia and Yemen where the US is not “officially” at war. This does not necessarily reflect a permanent change in policy, but rather a stopgap measure while the Biden administration develops “its own policy and procedures for counterterrorism kill-or-capture operations outside war zones.”

If we take AFRICOM at its word about January 29th, this provokes the question of who was behind that particular strike. Following AFRICOM’s denial of responsibility, analysts at Airwars concluded that the strike was likely carried out by forces from the African Union peacekeeping mission in Somali (AMISOM) or by Ethiopian troops, as it occurred soon after Al-Shabaab fighters had ambushed a contingent of Ethiopian troops in the area. If indeed the military of an African state is responsible for the bombing, what does this mean for our analysis of the security assemblages that sustain the US’s war-making apparatus in Africa?

Thanks to the work of scholars, activists, and investigative journalists, we have a growing understanding of what AFRICOM operations look like in practice. Maps of logistics hubs, forward operating sites, cooperative security locations, and contingency locations―from Mali and Niger to Kenya and Djibouti―capture the infrastructures that facilitate militarism and war on a global scale. Yet what the events of January 29th suggest is that AFRICOM is situated within, and often reliant upon, less scrutinized war-making infrastructures that, like those of the United States, claim to operate in the name of security.

A careful examination of the geographies of the US’s so-called war on terror in East Africa points not to one unified structure in the form of AFRICOM, but to multiple, interconnected geopolitical projects. Inspired by the abolitionist thought of Ruth Wilson Gilmore, who cautions activists against focusing exclusively on any one site of violent exception like the prison, I am interested in the relational geographies that sustain the imperial war-making infrastructure in Africa today. Just as the modern prison is “a central but by no means singularly defining institution of carceral geography,” AFRICOM is a fundamental but by no means singularly defining instrument of war-making in Africa today.

Since the US military’s embarrassing exit from Somalia in 1993, the US has shifted from a boots-on-the ground approach to imperial warfare, instead relying on African militaries, private contractors, clandestine ground operations, and drone strikes. To singularly focus on AFRICOM’s drone warfare is therefore to miss the wider matrix of militarized violence that is at work. As Madiha Tahir reminds us, attack drones are only the most visible element of what she refers to as “distributed empire”—differentially distributed opaque networks of technologies and actors that augment the reach of the war on terror to govern more bodies and spaces. This dispersal of power requires careful consideration of the racialized labor that sustains war-making in Somalia, and of the geographical implications of this labor. The vast array of actors involved in the war against Al-Shabaab has generated political and economic entanglements that extend well beyond the territory of Somalia itself.

Ethiopia was the first African military to intervene in Somalia in December 2006, sending thousands of troops across the border, but it did not do so alone. Ethiopia’s effort was backed by US aerial reconnaissance and satellite surveillance, signaling the entanglement of at least two geopolitical projects. While the US was focused on threats from actors with alleged ties to Al-Qaeda, Ethiopia had its own concerns about irredentism and the potential for its then-rival Eritrea to fund Somali militants that would infiltrate and destabilize Ethiopia. As Ethiopian troops drove Somali militant leaders into exile, more violent factions emerged in their place. In short, the 2006 invasion planted the seeds for the growth of what is now known as Al-Shabaab.

The United Nations soon authorized an African Union peacekeeping operation (AMISOM) to “stabilize” Somalia. What began as a small deployment of 1,650 peacekeepers in 2007 gradually transformed into a number that exceeded 22,000 by 2014. The African Union has emerged as a key subcontractor of migrant military labor in Somalia: troops from Burundi, Djibouti, Ethiopia, Kenya, and Uganda deployed to fight Al-Shabaab are paid significantly higher salaries than they receive back home, and their governments obtain generous military aid packages from the US, UK, and increasingly the European Union in the name of “security.”

But because these are African troops rather than American ones, we hear little of lives lost, or of salaries not paid. The rhetoric of “peacekeeping” makes AMISOM seem something other than what it is in practice—a state-sanctioned, transnational apparatus of violent labor that exploits group-differentiated vulnerability to premature death. (This is also how Gilmore defines racism.)

Meanwhile, Somali analyst Abukar Arman uses the term “predatory capitalism” to describe the hidden economic deals that accompany the so-called stabilization effort, such as “capacity-building” programs for the Somali security apparatus that serve as a cover for oil and gas companies to obtain exploration and drilling rights. Kenya is an important example of a “partner” state that has now become imbricated in this economy of war. Following the Kenya Defense Forces (KDF) invasion of Somalia in October 2011, the African Union’s readiness to incorporate Kenyan troops into AMISOM was a strategic victory for Kenya, as it provided a veneer of legitimacy for maintaining what has amounted to a decade-long military occupation of southern Somalia.

Through carefully constructed discourses of threat that build on colonial-era mappings of alterity in relation to Somalis, the Kenyan political elite have worked to divert attention away from internal troubles and from the economic interests that have shaped its involvement in Somalia. From collusion with Al-Shabaab in the illicit cross-border trade in sugar and charcoal, to pursuing a strategic foothold in offshore oil fields, Kenya is sufficiently ensnared in the business of war that, as Horace Campbell observes, “it is not in the interest of those involved in this business to have peace.”

What began as purportedly targeted interventions spawned increasingly broader projects that expanded across multiple geographies. In the early stages of AMISOM troop deployment, for example, one-third of Mogadishu’s population abandoned the city due to the violence caused by confrontations between the mission and Al-Shabaab forces, with many seeking refuge in Kenya. While the mission’s initial rules of engagement permitted the use of force only when necessary, it gradually assumed an offensive role, engaging in counterinsurgency and counterterror operations.

Rather than weaken Al-Shabaab, the UN Monitoring Group on Somalia observed that offensive military operations exacerbated insecurity. According to the UN, the dislodgment of Al-Shabaab from major urban centers “has prompted its further spread into the broader Horn of Africa region” and resulted in repeated displacements of people from their homes. Meanwhile, targeted operations against individuals with suspected ties to Al-Shabaab are unfolding not only in Somalia itself, but equally in neighboring countries like Kenya, where US-trained Kenyan police employ military tactics of tracking and targeting potential suspects, contributing to what one Kenyan rights group referred to as an “epidemic” of extrajudicial killings and disappearances.

Finally, the fact that some of AMISOM’s troop-contributing states have conducted their own aerial assaults against Al-Shabaab in Somalia demands further attention. A December 2017 United Nations report, for example, alleged that unauthorized Kenyan airstrikes had contributed to at least 40 civilian deaths in a 22-month period between 2015 and 2017. In May 2020, senior military officials in the Somali National Army accused the Kenyan military of indiscriminately bombing pastoralists in the Gedo region, where the KDF reportedly conducted over 50 airstrikes in a two week period. And in January 2021, one week prior to the January 29 strike that Airwars ascribed to Ethiopia, Uganda employed its own fleet of helicopter gunships to launch a simultaneous ground and air assault in southern Somalia, contributing to the deaths—according to the Ugandan military—of 189 people, allegedly all Al-Shabaab fighters.

While each of the governments in question are formally allies of the US, their actions are not reducible to US directives. War making in Somalia relies on contingent and fluid alliances that evolve over time, as each set of actors evaluates and reevaluates their interests. The ability of Ethiopia, Kenya, and Uganda to maintain their own war-making projects requires the active or tacit collaboration of various actors at the national level, including politicians who sanction the purchase of military hardware, political and business elite who glorify militarized masculinities and femininities, media houses that censor the brutalities of war, logistics companies that facilitate the movement of supplies, and the troops themselves, whose morale and faith in their mission must be sustained.

As the Biden administration seeks to restore the image of the United States abroad, it is possible that AFRICOM will gradually assume a backseat role in counterterror operations in Somalia. Officially, at least, US troops have been withdrawn and repositioned in Kenya and Djibouti, while African troops remain on the ground in Somalia. Relying more heavily on its partners in the region would enable the US to offset the public scrutiny and liability that comes with its own direct involvement.

But if our focus is exclusively on the US, then we succumb to its tactics of invisibility and invincibility, and we fail to reckon with the reality that the East African warscape is a terrain shaped by interconnected modes of power. The necessary struggle to abolish AFRICOM requires that we recognize its entanglement in and reliance upon other war-making assemblages, and that we distribute our activism accordingly. Recounting that resistance itself has long been framed as “terrorism,” we would do well to learn from those across the continent who, in various ways over the years, have pushed back, often at a heavy price.

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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