When the Internet Went Dark: Tanzanians Speak from the Silence amidst Political Unrest

‘Ten people died in our village. The police are everywhere. Shida Kubwa (“big problems” in Swahili),’ Moses told me when the line finally connected. Our call lasted barely two minutes. He described the nearby district where we once travelled together as a scene of smoke and torched vehicles.

It had taken me days of failed calls before his voice finally broke through the static. Moses lives in a rural region of mainland Tanzania, which I’ve chosen not to name for his safety. Until recently, the same region had been my home during seven months of fieldwork for my thesis. Now, it has become one of the epicentres of unrest after the country’s most disputed election in decades.

Shops were shut and raided by policemen. ‘They told everyone to stay home,’ he said. ‘Thank God, we are fine.’

When Silence Becomes a Weapon

Tanzania, long considered one of East Africa’s most stable regimes, has prided itself on peace since its independence in 1961. However, the calm was shattered on October 29th, when the government imposed a nationwide curfew and an internet blackout following national elections.

President Samia Suluhu Hassan of the Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM) was declared re-elected with 98% of the vote. The election was marred by the disqualification and arrest of key opposition figures. Tundu Lissu, leader of the CHADEMA party, was detained and charged with treason; Luhaga Mpina of ACT-Wazalendo was barred from running on procedural grounds.

In the days that followed, widespread protests erupted across the country, leaving more than 700 people dead; Human rights groups cited more than 1000 casualties. According to John Kitoka, spokesperson of CHADEMA, there were 350 casualties in Dar es Salaam and more than 200 casualties in Mwanza. During rare moments of internet access, Tanzanians turned to social media to share updates under the hashtag #SiriniNamba (‘the answer is the number’), a defiant symbol of accountability in a democracy where many felt their votes — and voices — no longer counted.

As a result of the internet shutdown, the only way I could speak to my friends was through ‘Yolla’,  an old-school internet calling app that somehow still worked, though mostly for a brief time. Friends I spoke with told me about a brutal incident by the army and police, which forced protesters who ignored the curfew to retreat, and described the hardship of living under a curfew in a country that had no coups or large-scale civil protests since its independence in 1961.

Tanzania now finds itself at a crossroads. Beneath the façade of calm that is now restored, the manufactured victory has exposed not only the fragility of political freedom and civil liberty, but also the political tension that has been simmering for the past months since the arrests of opposition leaders. The tension has now erupted into open distrust between the state and its citizens, casting doubt on Tanzania’s democratic trajectory.

Living under curfew and indiscriminate shootings

Six hundred kilometres away from Moses, in Bagamoyo, my Swahili teacher Raheem finally picked up after five failed attempts.

‘It’s calm here,’ he said. ‘But the shops are closed. I still have some food left… after that, I don’t know.’ He spoke of police patrols, arbitrary detentions, and the strange quiet that blanketed the coastal town. We tried to laugh, remembering the time I confused kunywa (‘to drink’) with kunya (‘to relieve oneself’) in a restaurant. As we spoke about life’s unpredictability, he mentioned the selfie I had sent him from a bomb shelter in Israel, where I had taken cover only months earlier during the Iran-Israel conflict. Raheem laughed with his usual cynical humour. ‘Maybe your father can come build us some here,’ he said softly. ‘I wish we had them now,׳’ and we burst out laughing.

He told me that local television stations, including channels such as BBC Swahili, had stopped broadcasting news. Some of them switched to a loop of upbeat music videos. ‘We don’t know what’s happening anywhere else,’ he said. ‘Even fear feels quiet.׳

A Brief Window of Truth

On Friday, the blackout lifted for just 16 minutes.

Some Tanzanians in the diaspora were able to contact their family and friends, updating them about the events throughout the country. In that brief window, Juma logged onto social media. What he saw broke the illusion of calm: bodies lying in the streets of Dar es Salaam, protests in Dodoma, Mwanza and Arusha. He showed me a video on X of a dead body that was taken on the streets of Dar es Salaam.

We also shared our mutual surprise — not only about the police brutality but also at the anger shown by the protesters. In recent days, social media coverage of the crisis has focused on the theme of institutional violence; yet Juma also expressed concerns over the damage caused by opposition supporters: ‘Some of the protests were not peaceful. Shops owned by ruling party supporters were set on fire, as well as police stations and billboards of the president.’

After the Blackout

The internet was only partially restored on Monday evening, shortly after the inauguration of President Hassan. When I finally managed to call my friends on WhatsApp, they still couldn’t download or share photos or videos on any platform. An hour before the ceremony, many residents had received a text message warning:

‘Avoid sharing pictures or videos that may cause panic or degrade a person’s dignity. Doing so is a criminal offence. If you are found guilty, strict legal action will be taken against you.’

I had lost count of the messages I’d sent during the blackout. When the connection returned, all of them arrived at once — a flood of blue ticks that brought little relief, but anxiety still existed. Most of them still felt intimidated to share their thoughts. One brave friend in Dar shared her fears from army officers that were still patrolling the streets on Monday evening: ‘They are checking random phones on the roads and IDs. Rumours are going around that we need to delete any pictures or videos of the protests. If they see any of it in your phone, they arrest you.’

The violence and damage caused by the opposition are still a concern in Dar. My Swahili teacher in Bagamoyo texted me on Friday about the aftermath of a city that is yet to return to its normal state. Protests ended, he said, but many community services were burned. Many gas and bus stations, torched by protestors, are still not functioning.

While many had already lamented the decline of free speech in Tanzania, local media coverage in the wake of the unrest reveals a more complex picture. The Citizen — one of the country’s largest newspapers — has begun reporting on the shared grief of communities mourning protest victims, as well as the ongoing search for those still missing. After facing criticism for its silence during the blackout, The Citizen issued an apology on Wednesday, writing: ‘Our silence was not an abandonment.’ The paper cited the nationwide internet shutdown and strict media regulations that had prevented journalists from carrying out their work. It also reported that more than 200 people had been arrested and charged with treason, which is an offence that carries the death penalty in Tanzania.

‘In our culture, taking part in protests was something we feared and always tried to avoid,’ Juma said over the phone. ‘But people have changed. They believe it’s time to make noise for a different kind of leadership.’ He paused before adding, ‘And this time, they act without fear.’