With only weeks left before Tanzanians head to the polls, the political atmosphere in Dodoma feels more like a courtroom than a campaign ground. The trial of opposition leader Tundu Lissu on charges of treason has thrown the country’s democracy into a tense spotlight, igniting debates about whether Tanzania is walking toward a free election—or a predetermined one.
Lissu, a prominent figure of the opposition Chadema party, is no stranger to confrontation. His fiery speeches and sharp criticism of President Samia Suluhu Hassan’s government have made him both a hero and a target. The state now accuses him of inciting violence and threatening national unity after remarks he made during campaign rallies. But many Tanzanians and foreign observers see the case as a classic example of lawfare—using the courts to achieve what ballots might not.
In the packed courtroom in Dar es Salaam, the tension was palpable. Supporters wearing Chadema’s signature red shirts gathered outside, chanting “Haki! Haki!” (“Justice! Justice!”) as police cordoned off the area. Inside, Lissu sat calmly, occasionally flashing a wry smile as prosecutors read out what they claimed were “subversive statements” intended to provoke unrest. His lawyers insist the charges are politically motivated, designed to weaken the opposition ahead of a tight election season.
The government, for its part, insists it’s merely upholding the rule of law. “No one is above the Constitution,” said government spokesperson Hassan Abbas. “The law applies to all Tanzanians equally.” But critics point out that “equal” enforcement tends to skew in favor of incumbents. Over the past decade, opposition figures in Tanzania have been routinely harassed, detained, or barred from running on technicalities. Lissu himself survived an assassination attempt in 2017, when gunmen sprayed his car with bullets outside parliament.
That event made him a symbol of resistance. After years in exile for medical treatment, his return was met with massive crowds and renewed hope among Tanzania’s reform-minded youth. But now, his legal troubles risk derailing that momentum. The treason charge—one of the most serious offenses under Tanzanian law—carries a possible death penalty, though it’s rarely enforced. More importantly, it keeps him tied up in court instead of on the campaign trail.
Political analysts say the case mirrors a broader regional trend of incumbents using judicial and security institutions to constrain opponents. From Uganda to Zimbabwe, charges of sedition, treason, or incitement have become familiar tools in the African political playbook. “The courtroom has replaced the ballot box as the new battleground,” says Dr. Lydia Nyerere, a political science lecturer at the University of Dar es Salaam. “It’s a subtle way of eliminating threats while maintaining the façade of democracy.”
Meanwhile, the international community watches cautiously. The European Union and Amnesty International have both expressed concern over what they call the “shrinking civic space” in Tanzania. The U.S. embassy issued a diplomatic but pointed statement urging authorities to “ensure due process and a level playing field for all candidates.” Within the country, however, reactions are more divided. Some citizens see Lissu’s fiery rhetoric as reckless, especially in a nation that has prided itself on stability since independence. Others believe silencing dissent is far more dangerous.
In downtown Dar es Salaam, taxi driver Ali Mussa summed it up simply: “We love peace, but peace without fairness is just fear.”
As the trial drags on, the timing is impossible to ignore. The election commission has confirmed that voting will proceed as planned, even if major candidates are entangled in legal battles. Chadema supporters fear the case will sap morale, discouraging voters who already distrust the process. Yet, paradoxically, the spectacle may also boost Lissu’s popularity. In the age of social media, every court appearance becomes a rallying moment hashtags like #FreeLissu and #JusticeForTanzania trend daily on Tanzanian Twitter.
The government’s gamble seems to rest on fatigue that voters will tire of protest and prefer the stability of the ruling Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM). But history shows that such trials often produce unintended consequences. Opposition martyrs, after all, rarely fade quietly.
As one Chadema youth leader told Reuters outside the courthouse, “You can jail a man, but you can’t jail an idea.”
For now, Tanzania waits. Whether this courtroom drama ends in conviction, acquittal, or a political deal, the damage to public trust is already done. The trial may decide more than Lissu’s fate it could determine whether Tanzania’s democracy survives its own contradictions.
