African solidarity with Gaza doesn't downplay African conflicts

Taking the helm of the Centre for African Studies at the University of Cape Town in August 2023, I inherited more than just a title. Hosting the very first meeting of the African Humanities Association that December was among my immediate responsibilities. This was not merely another academic gathering; it marked a significant moment, building on a half-century legacy stretching back to the 1973 founding of the Council for the Development of Social Science Research in Africa (CODESRIA). Since then, cross-border African academic institutions have blossomed, united by a shared mission: to elevate the global standing of knowledge produced on our continent and to fiercely advocate for the intellectual heft of African scholarship. 

As December arrived, and with it our pivotal meeting, the world's gaze was fixed on the repercussions of the 7 October attack and the unfolding horror in Gaza. Beyond the shocking casualty figures from relentless Israeli bombardment, reports were emerging of widespread destruction of educational institutions and the tragic assassinations of respected university deans and researchers. 

Just before our gathering, a prominent African scholar and member of the organising committee proposed a powerful gesture: a statement of solidarity from our new association condemning the bloodshed and devastation in Gaza. But this was met with firm objections that prevented its formal presentation to the wider assembly; the initiative never made it beyond the executive committee. In the end, the scholar could only read a personal statement during the plenary, and the ensuing discussion made it clear that the majority present were uncomfortable with the association issuing such a declaration. 

A compromise was eventually reached: the statement would be published on the Association’s website, with individuals free to sign it if they wished. But this decision unsettled several academics, including the esteemed Tanzanian thinker Issa Shivji. In his keynote address, Shivji passionately evoked the anti-imperialist, liberationist spirit that defined his generation—a spirit that, in the 1970s, compelled them to answer Egyptian radical economist Samir Amin’s call to establish CODESRIA. Amin and his peers understood that Africans had to craft their own narrative, forging a post-colonial path to dismantle colonial structures and break free from intellectual dependence. 

So, why the objections during the African Humanities Association’s plenary? That is the question that concerns us here. First, we ought to be clear: these were not objections stemming from pro-Israel sentiment. Yes, some African academics may hold such views—perhaps for religious reasons, such as Christian Zionists—but such perspectives were not openly voiced in our discussions. 

Two main points of contention stood out. Firstly, the case of Palestine is highly sensitive, and it was argued that issuing an official statement on it might undermine the fragile cohesion being built within a nascent association still finding its footing. Better, then, to steer clear. 

The second, and more forcefully articulated, contention stemmed from a sense of troubling selectivity—the ubiquitous “what about...?” query. Why, some asked, should we issue a statement on Gaza when our own continent is bleeding from overlooked conflicts—from eastern DRC to southern Cameroon, Sudan, Ethiopia, and northern Mozambique? Isn’t focusing solely on Gaza simply perpetuating an old, even racist, stereotype that downplays the horrific death and destruction occurring in Africa itself? Why, these academics questioned, had those pushing for Gaza solidarity not shown similar fervour for the tragedies crushing their own people on the continent? 

These were deeply legitimate questions—brutally honest reflections on a long history of dehumanising African lives. And that dehumanisation, sadly, continues to shape how Africans view one another. Given that the African Humanities Association was founded to counter the silencing of African voices, it was perhaps inevitable that calls for Gaza solidarity would trigger these complex, uncomfortable questions—questions that echo through other African academic forums as well. 

Consequently, I have noticed some pro-Gaza solidarity events in South Africa now showing sensitivity to this critique by adopting more “inclusive” slogans. For example, one event proclaimed: “Liberate Congo, Liberate Sudan, Liberate Palestine.” Another simply bore the title: “Solidarity with Gaza and Congo.” 

... when African solidarity with Palestinians in their anti-colonial struggle is merged with other African conflicts that demand a different kind of attention—like Sudan or the DRC—through the “what about?” logic, it becomes, essentially, a confused answer to an important, legitimate question. 

Distinguishing struggles, not diminishing them 

While it is vital to acknowledge these legitimate anxieties, what truly concerns me about this type of response is the problematic blurring of distinct struggles. Yes, the conflicts in Gaza, Sudan, and Congo share the mass slaughter of civilians as a stark commonality—but the reasons for this bloodshed are fundamentally different, demanding distinct approaches and forms of support. 

Palestinians are dying in a liberation struggle against an occupying, settler-colonial power. So, “Liberate Palestine” makes perfect sense. In contrast, what is unfolding in Sudan and Congo stems from the unfulfilled promises of post-colonialism, the failures of decolonisation, and deep-seated conflicts rooted in complex questions of national belonging—of who holds power, and who feels oppressed. To equate “Liberate Palestine” with “Liberate Sudan and Congo” as though they express the same kind of struggle is an oversimplification. It contributes nothing to—and ultimately hinders—a genuine understanding and effective resolution of Africa’s intricate conflicts. 

While anti-colonialism is a direct fight against an external occupier, post-colonial decolonisation begins when the coloniser leaves. The latter involves transforming resistance into a project of building new national freedom: dismantling the colonial legacy in economics, culture, politics, and even in our collective understanding of citizenship and belonging. 

Therefore, when African solidarity with Palestinians in their anti-colonial struggle is merged with other African conflicts that demand a different kind of attention—like Sudan or the DRC—through the “what about?” logic, it becomes, essentially, a confused answer to an important, legitimate question. 

African solidarity with Palestinians is not just about human rights violations; it is about anti-colonial liberation solidarity. As Nelson Mandela famously said: “We know too well that our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians.” This was not mere rhetoric, but a profound recognition that the fight against apartheid in South Africa was but one battle in a global war against all forms of colonialism. 

Therefore, the question we, as Africans, must honestly ask ourselves is this: when we declare solidarity with Palestinians and then add that we must also stand with, say, the Congolese—are we, perhaps inadvertently, perpetuating a worrying lack of genuine understanding and interest in African conflicts themselves? Are we reducing everything to a single, simplistic formula: “solidarity with”? And do we truly grasp the meaning of solidarity when the conflict involves African factions warring amongst themselves over power, land, or identity? Who do we stand with when the lines between victim and perpetrator blur overnight? 

While solidarity with Gaza is a clear stance against settler colonialism, the conflicts in Congo demand from us a rigorous intellectual effort to grasp their intricate structure. It requires bolder political action and the generation of alternative knowledge that dismantles ready-made solutions. 

We urgently need to make African lives—and their loss—visible, so that we can restore the humanity of African experiences and elevate the continent’s challenges to universal concerns, not merely African ones. But this crucial effort to counter the historical silencing of African conflicts, born from centuries of dehumanisation, will not be achieved through mere declarations of solidarity within the continent. Symbolic alignment alone is insufficient to address the deep roots of this marginalisation. What is required is a far more profound engagement: analysing the origins of these conflicts and dismantling the stereotypical narratives that surround them. 

As African academics, we must be sensitive to these challenges. African conflicts are often gravely misunderstood—or reduced to simplistic caricatures—in the eyes of the outside world, neatly fitted into globalised human rights narratives of “good versus evil” or “oppressors versus victims”. Remember the international outcries to “Liberate Darfur” and “Liberate South Sudan”? What was the outcome? We are now witnessing the unraveling of South Sudan. The lesson here is stark: be careful what you wish for. 

If we wish to declare solidarity with the Democratic Republic of Congo today—particularly with regard to the chronic conflict in the Kivu region—that solidarity will be far more meaningful if it is coupled with a genuine call to understand the complexities of North and South Kivu. This means grappling with a long history of conflict tied to citizenship and belonging, intertwined regional histories, and international interventions that fuel the violence—from Rwanda’s civil wars to the displacement of millions across Congolese borders. These factors have driven diverse groups into conflict, fuelled by deep-seated struggles over identity, belonging, citizenship rights, and land sovereignty. 

Hence, while solidarity with Gaza represents a clear stance against settler colonialism, the conflicts in Congo demand from us a rigorous intellectual effort to grasp their intricate structure too rather than throwing out slogans. They require bolder political action and the generation of alternative knowledge—knowledge that dismantles ready-made solutions and allows us to reimagine new possibilities for building a cohesive political community. 

We can stand with Palestinians in liberation solidarity, recognising our shared histories of colonialism, settlement, and forced displacement. At the same time, we must confront the silencing of African conflicts and the tragic loss of life they entail—not through abstract statements of solidarity, but through meticulous research, profound intellectual sensitivity, and a critical re-examination of how to realise the grand liberation aspirations that post-colonial generations, coming to power in the 1950s and 60s, articulated but largely left as unfulfilled promises. 

From our vantage point in history, we can agree with Frantz Fanon: liberation movements often lacked the “courage to invent the future” because they never truly completed the project of dismantling colonial structures. The colonial legacy still profoundly shapes our political systems, frames our notions of citizenship and belonging, and tragically reproduces the very patterns of conflict in post-colonial societies—albeit in new forms and with local faces. 

What we must absolutely avoid is allowing our legitimate concern about the invisibility of post-colonial African conflicts—a concern born of a long history of marginalisation and the dehumanisation of African life—to devolve into a competitive equation, in which we consciously or unconsciously begin to pick and choose who deserves our solidarity.