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#FeesMustFall: Where Do We Go From Here?

Rufaro Samanga on what's happened to South Africa's student protest movement six months after Fees Must Fall first began

Photo by Kgomotso Neto Tleane. Students march from Wits to the University of Johannesburg on Thursday, October 22, 2015. Courtesy of the photographer.


This week marks six months since the Fees Must Fall movement first began at the University of Witwatersrand in Johannesburg. In the op-ed below, Rufaro Samanga, General Secretary of the Student Forum, shares her take on what's happened in the half year since and the current state of the Fees Must Fall movement in South Africa.

In 1976, South Africa experienced one of the greatest student uprisings during the then Apartheid regime. Black students disagreed with being taught in a strictly Afrikaans medium, a language they neither understood nor with which they wanted to relate. Afrikaans was, after all, the language of their oppressors.

Although their protests were peaceful, police opened fire on the students, killing many and injuring even more. Images of police flogging, firing at and arresting students were forever impressed upon our minds and stowed away in the archives of our painful history as a country. Only three decades later, we bore witness to the rise of a similar student movement in a more modern era––the birth of #FeesMustFall.

The Fees Must Fall movement was formed by students in response to the 10.5 percent fee increase proposed by university management at various tertiary institutions across South Africa. After much campaigning to raise funds for financially-strapped students, the Student Representative Council (SRC) at the University of the Witwatersrand (Wits) conceded that such campaigns were unsustainable and would not constitute long term resolutions to the continuous fee increases that were financially crippling students already immersed in an ocean of student loan debt.

Once the protesting had officially begun, universities across the country were effectively shut down with access onto and off campuses being prevented and the academic calendar grinding to a screeching halt. These protests culminated in a historic march by thousands of students to the Union Buildings in Pretoria in an attempt to force the South African government to oppose the fee increases.

Victoriously, the president announced that fees would not be increased for 2016 as proposed by university management. The celebrations were short-lived, however, as student leaders felt that a commitment to fees for the following year only was again an unsustainable resolution to a larger crisis at hand. Student leaders also felt that owing to the support that the movement had accrued nationally, they now had sufficient leverage to hold the government at ransom and demand free education. Needless to say, the desire to continue protesting for a cause that now seemed too ambitious in the short term versus wanting to continue with the academic calendar resulted in a chasm forming within the student community.

Fast forward to 2016 and the Fees Must Fall movement has all but lost traction. It is no longer being spearheaded by the SRCs at various universities but has instead been hijacked by a handful of radical students whose actions seem to be fuelled by ulterior motives that are contrary to the spirit of the movement itself. Although tuition fees were not increased this year, as per the agreement of October 2015, the bone of contention lay in the inability of many students to pay their upfront registration fees albeit having signed temporary waivers of the fees earlier on this year. This then resulted in several incidents of violence, vandalism and most notably arson. Many have now distanced themselves from the movement entirely as they feel that it has morphed into an attempt to use the valid frustrations of students as an excuse for criminal behaviour.

Following a court interdict granted to the university, Wits prohibited the disruption of activities by any individuals with the threat of prosecution if found doing so. However, a mob of approximately one hundred and fifty students, the majority from external institutions and not Wits itself, entered the main campus and fired smoke grenades in the main library, forcing both students and staff to be evacuated. The mob proceeded to interrupt lectures and remove students from laboratories where practicals were underway. Fire extinguishers were removed from the greater part of the lecture theatres on the east half of the campus and subsequently used to vandalise the Senate House of the university, the building where the Executive Council and key student service offices are located. The mob then set a lecture theatre alight and dispersed before police officers arrived at the scene. Campus security was able to extinguish the fire, though it was too little too late.

Similarly, at the University of the North West (NWU), protesting students torched the administration building and science centre as well as a car. The students were dispersed by police with teargas and rubber bullets, though a considerable portion of the campus went up in flames.

At the University of Pretoria (UP) both students and workers were protesting. Aside from the demand to restructure fees and payment plans, the students also protested in favour of changing the university's language policy to being predominantly English as opposed to Afrikaans. The workers were demanding an end to outsourcing and seeking to be directly employed by the university rather than private companies. Emergency services were called in on several occasions owing to some students being injured. Similar events occurred at both the University of Johannesburg (UJ) and the University of South Africa (UNISA).

Just as the University of Cape Town (UCT) emerged from their own #RhodesMustFall, they too became embroiled in the violent protests of Fees Must Fall. There was a standoff between police and students as various art, paintings and busts of historical figures, were vandalised, a bus and pick-up truck torched and the office of the Vice Chancellor petrol bombed––fortunately in his absence.

A macroscopic view of the movement nationwide reveals tremendous chaos and a conspicuous lack of focused leadership. Those students who have taken it upon themselves to continue the movement in this manner seem to harbour ambitions of using the publicity of their actions as platforms to jumpstart their political careers in the motherbody of the political party with which they are affiliated at university. Others seem to desire being esteemed in the history books as 'revolutionaries' leading the biggest student movement of the century thus far.

Recent attacks, however, on feminist, queer and transgender students displayed the clear absence of directionality within the movement. The spirit of the original movement embodied diversity. It sought to bring together students from a diverse spectrum on the common ground of possible financial exclusion at tertiary institutions. It did not seek to exclude or victimise students based on gender, sexual orientation or background. Many feminists took to social media to express their disgust in light of misogynistic attacks citing how there was no room for patriarchy within a movement that had itself been the brainchild of female student leaders.

In addition, many politicians attempted to ride on the coattails of the Fees Must Fall movement in an effort to garner public support for the nearing elections. Many were curtly dismissed by students. Critics have suggested that the near anarchist nature of the movement is a deliberate attempt on the part of government to distract the public from more immediate issues, particularly with regard to the alleged corrupt governance of President Jacob Zuma. Furthermore, many feel that some students within the movement may have been deployed by the ruling party to specifically draw unwanted attention from the president, especially following the recent call for his impeachment. This holds weight as many of the protesting students are often not affiliated with the universities at which they are protesting and thus begs the question as to whether they are actual students to begin with. Case in point is alleged student and activist Vusi 'Old Man' Mahlangu who was purported missing following an abduction at gunpoint during the protests. Twitter was immediately aflame with #BringBackVusi in an effort to raise awareness of his disappearance and assist police in finding him. After only a few days, it was uncovered that Mahlangu had staged his own abduction and was subsequently charged with perjury and defeating the ends of justice.

Given the historical context of South Africa and that more than 80 percent of the population is Black, it is a huge injustice that thousands of students be denied access to universities on the basis of financial exclusion, albeit the fulfilment of all other academic admissions criteria. We cannot allow our academic institutions, spaces that encourage free thought, expression and questioning, spaces integral to any society, to become elitist. However, what the Fees Must Fall movement desperately needs is sound and focused leadership with clear objectives and realistic action steps. It needs student leadership without political undertones; leadership genuinely concerned with the student agenda. And lastly it needs leadership that will be able to discern constructive from destructive behaviour so as to reinvigorate public support and instil confidence in the valid cause for which this movement was born.

The road ahead for students across the nation is an arduous one. However, I feel because of the injustices of the past that have ultimately resulted in the current socio-economic status of the majority of students, that although the arc of the moral universe may be long, it will, it must eventually bend toward justice.

Rufaro Samanga is an intellectual, aspiring literary great, feminist and most importantly, a fiercely passionate African.

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Photo courtesy of Sam Soko.

Interview: Sam Soko is the Kenyan Director Behind Sundance Hit, 'Softie'

We meet filmmaker Sam Soko who has made a stirring documentary about the Kenyan protest leader Boniface Mwangi

Filmmaker Sam Soko didn't intend on making a documentary about Kenyan photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi.

The original idea he had was to make a manual of sorts, a short video guide, on how to protest, the do's and don't's. Soko, himself an activist artist who cut his teeth convincing friends to let him create political music videos for their apolitical songs, knew Mwangi's experience on the streets both photographing protests and staging them meant he had a lot to share with others.

But then came the blood. A thousand litres of it, to be precise. And the pigs. Dozens of them, with words like MPigs written on them. Like the graphic photos Mwangi had become known for taking—it was a sight you couldn't look away from. It was a protest Mwangi organized, in 2013, to decry corrupt members of the Kenyan parliament who had decided to increase their salaries, 2 months after taking office. And at his side, through the thick red liquid of it all, was Mwangi's wife, Njere, ready to be arrested with him.

"Once I was witness to his relationship, I started seeing him as a family man," Soko tells OkayAfrica. "Because he's planning a protest and all, but when you look at the footage, you start seeing the kids and you start seeing Njere. That's when it started hitting me, in the sense, that she was with him in such a crazy space."

Soko formed a creative and activist hub, called PAWA 254, with Mwangi, as they became part of the groundswell demanding democratic reforms in a country still left scarred from the division sewed between Kikuyu and Luo people by British colonizers. "We had a new Constitution at the time, and there was this hope that we finally could picket without being tear-gassed or being beaten, Like, our civil liberties could be held up." Instead, the government strengthened its police force into a notorious organization condemned by human rights activists. "That's very salient in the film," says Soko. "If you see how the police dress, for instance, at the beginning, it's very different; they become more militant towards the end."

Soko's debut feature-length documentary, Softie, which became the first Kenyan film to ever premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, earlier this year, is at once a love story between Mwangi and his wife and their three children, but also between Mwangi and his beloved Kenya, under president Uhuru Kenyatta. Central to the film is the tussle between how these different loves bump up against each other: what comes first — love of country or love of family?

We spoke to the Nairobi-based director about making the film, which opens in virtual cinemas, starting this Friday, September 18th.

Boniface Mwangi with his wife Photo courtesy of Sam Soko


OA: Early on in the film, we learn how steadfast Boniface Mwangi is — he talks about being willing to die for the ideals he believes in, which made me think of Nelson Mandela and his Rivonia Treason Trial speech. Boniface is someone in the present day who still shares this belief?

When we were working on the edit, and kind of crafting and thinking about what the story was going to be, something that we found that was really, really interesting is, with a lot of the stories, like the story of Nelson Mandela, you'd never see the other side. That's something we see later, up ahead, as a retrospective. We'd hear about Martin Luther King and then we'd read about Coretta Scott in, I think, 1990, like, 'Oh, this his was her struggle.' That sort of thing. But for me, Boniface and Njere represented a present day reality struggle that showcases what Mandela was going through, what Martin Luther was going through. That was kind of like unravelling the curtain; when you see Martin Luther marching, Coretta's at home, trying to help their kids do their homework. And this is the reality.

OA: And the film poses that question of love for your country versus love for your family, and which one should come first?

Exactly. They see it in different ways. Boniface sees it that if you improve the country, you improve the lives of those who you love. Njere's like, you have to have your family's back first. And that means everything else comes second. And she's right; she's not wrong. And he's not wrong.

OA: The film really is privy to some really private moments in Mwangi's life — how did you gain his trust?

When we started filming the short video, he was really involved with the protests, and we started doing the protests with him. So we were—quote, unquote—in the trenches with him in the protests, and somehow that's how he kind of welcomed us to his home. When you've been with someone in the streets, and you're tear-gassed together more than once, you already have a common bond. But then I started developing a relationship with him that was beyond the streets. Just checking up on him and asking, what's going on, what's taking place? That sort of thing. I think it took a while. And I think even from Njere, we kind of developed a kind of camaraderie that was separate from my relationship with Boniface, because I would actually be like, 'Hey, he said that, how does that make you feel?' And not necessarily on camera. But over time, he kind of accepted us to be there with a camera. At some point, I kind of felt like they were talking to me, and not necessarily the camera; like, the camera is kind of this thing that's there, but not there. That kind of trust, again, was built on a respect that I have for them and their values and what they're doing. I think that's something they saw. It made them trust me with their story and trust me with their family.

You're the director of the film, but you're also producer, writer and cinematographer. Did Boniface's own style as a photojournalist influence you in any way?

The film has three cinematographers, and a lot of my cinematography is within the intimate moments, because that's when they would only engage with someone they trust. But him being a photographer actually, to a point, made the work a bit hard because he's constantly looking at how you're doing it. He's in your face about the angle. He's like, 'Hey, why are you standing there, you should be there.' But in some places he did help 'cause he's been filming in the streets and filming protests for a very long time. So when you're there filming, he'll easily tell you, 'Dude, don't stand there. They're about to start tear-gassing. Go to the other side.' And it's weird, when you're on the other side and you're filming, and all of a sudden you see tear gas, you wonder, 'How the hell did he know?' You do that 234 times and you start knowing yourself, 'Oh, this is how,' and he was really helpful in that sense.

I can imagine that filming during the protests must have been one of the big challenges of making this film but what else did you struggle with? There were death threats for Mwangi, did that happen to you as well?

It's so funny, when you're filming and when you're in the protests, it's adrenaline talking. So you're not really thinking about whether you're going to be okay. This one time, I got arrested because the cop said I was a spy for the protesters. [We had everything] from cameras breaking to sound equipment messing up, but when it became a more political story, with death threats, it became scary even for editing the film. Because you don't know who's watching you. This one time, I was with him in the car, filming, and we were being followed. So we kind of had to be very careful who we are telling about the story. It was a very deep secret that we were making this film and there are people who are watching it now asking, 'How could you keep this from us from all these years?' Because we had to do that. Especially when the family was in the US. We had to do that for the sake of safety for him, Boniface, for his family but also the film team. I remember doing the pitches with different names. But then we were also lucky that we had our co-producing partner in Canada, Eye Steel Film, so they were able to house the edit there. I went to Canada to edit and that kind of also gives you a kind of freedom to think and work and create. That was the reality, and now I think we have PTSD from the film. I can't film another protest. I'm sorry. I'm out. Like, it tapped me out.

There are similarities to the Black Lives Matter protests here in the US, against police brutality and violence but the slogan takes on a different resonance in places like Kenya, where the police force is particularly heavy-handed. How do you see these protests as being similar but also different?

There are two things that you learn with the film. One, our voices can never be silenced. They will try, but I think humanity is like a pressure cooker. The more you boil us, the more you put that heat, the more explosive we become. And through people like Boniface's life, you see that there are human beings who exist, who do extraordinary things.

The other thing is the idea of activism doesn't necessarily just speak to the person who's on the street. It doesn't necessarily speak to the person who's holding the placard. An activist is someone like Njere and her life, and her family. And Khadija [Mohamed, Mwangi's campaign manager]. She's such a strong and powerful activist in her own right. She was Boniface's campaign manager for free. The work they did was so powerful. And you have these other people in the background who are doing such incredible things. The sum total of what they've done is [to] instigate… We have an election next year, but I am so sure that we are going to have so many candidates who are going to be like, 'We want you to donate to our campaign. We have these values and beliefs; this is what we want to do.' That is how we need to go about change or add on to the conversations of change.

The same thing that's happening with the Black Lives Matters movement. Yes, there are people going to the street and we should keep going to the street. But we need to push people to engage in policy and make sure these policy changes are made.

We need to stand for what we believe in, as filmmakers in spaces where we feel oppression exists. Like the rules that have come out with the Academy Awards, these are rules that should be celebrated because they add on to that conversation of diversity and representation. All these things—that sum total—is what makes the difference. It's going beyond the streets and going beyond our Tweets, going beyond our Facebook messages, making films and sharing films. We just need to keep pumping up the volume, keeping the heat up, keep pushing. It's gonna take a while, but we'll get there.


Photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi during a protest in Nairobi, Kenya Photo courtesy of Sam Soko


That's where you as a filmmaker come in—this film was the first Kenyan film to get into Sundance, where it won a special editing prize.

There's another film I'm producing and, and, yes, I had my film at Sundance, that's great. But there's this other filmmaker who's making another film, and it's so cool, and this is the thing—we need to keep bouncing off this energy and this light and this vibe, and just keep pushing and making sure that the wheels keep turning. That's what we're all about.

How do you renew your strength, as a filmmaker but also as a Kenyan and as an African?

Being a Kenyan is hard. I think being an African is hard. Like, it's hard. There's a line I heard Boniface say once: 'I love my country, but I am afraid of my government.' But the way in which, personally, I find energy is when I meet new filmmakers, or you know, people who are like starting out and they want to make films that sound totally crazy. And they believe that they can do it. And I'm like, 'yes, yes, keep going!' We are planning to do a premiere. We have not confirmed the date yet but we're thinking it's around going to be early October in Kenya, because Kenyans haven't watched it. The government gave us an adult rating. They're putting us on the same level as porn.

This is the same government that banned Wanuri Kahiu's Rafiki because of its homosexual theme…

Exactly, that's what we're getting but the lemonade that we've made out of all this is, 'Guess what? This is cinema!' We're going to take it to a cinema. People are going to come to watch it in a cinema or watch it at home or watch it in the best way possible. And the people who've watched it have appreciated it as a film and a story, and their story. They've seen a reflection of themselves. That gives me so much joy because the Kenyans who've watched it, when they give you feedback, they say, this is truth; this is our truth. And they don't see just an activist. They see a couple struggling with love. They see our history in the last 10 years. And they're like, 'What the hell, we lived this?' and they see the things that are unresolved — and many things are unresolved. Seeing that reaction gives me so much strength and hope. But it's hard. It's very hard. Because, you know, you have to wake up and see the policeman getting a bribe. And you're like, 'Homie??'


"SOFTIE" Movie Poster



Watch the trailer for Softie here.

Softie | Official Trailer | A film by Sam Soko www.youtube.com

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