By Adonis Byemelwa
President Samia Suluhu Hassan’s address to elders in Dar es Salaam on December 2 2025, began with a warmth that felt deliberate, almost disarming, before she moved into the urgency of her message.
She spoke not with the cadence of a politician repeating rehearsed lines, but with the steadiness of someone who believed deeply in what she was trying to explain.
“What happened after the October 29 election was not an accident, not frustration, not confusion,” she said, her tone even but unmistakably emphatic.
“It was an organised attempt to destabilise this country.” That one line, delivered without theatrics, set the stage for the rest of her remarks: Tanzania, she warned, had faced a coordinated effort to shake its foundations, and she would not allow such an attempt to succeed under her leadership.
There was a grounded certainty in the way she spoke, as if the events of the past weeks had moved from noise to clarity in her own mind.
And as she continued, it became clear that this was a speech shaped not only by crisis management, but also by broader reflection on sovereignty, responsibility, and the future of the nation’s political culture.
As she stood before regional elders and senior government officials, she explained that the mobilisation of young people onto the streets was, in her view, not an expression of organic discontent but a planned push to topple the government by force.
The suggestion was stark, but she did not try to soften it. She pushed back firmly on criticism that security agencies had used excessive force, countering with a question that cut through much of the debate: “What is ‘less force’ when groups arrive prepared to burn the country?”
It was a line delivered calmly, almost conversationally. Yet, it carried the weight of someone trying to spell out the limits of state restraint when confronted with what she described as an attempted uprising.
Her words suggested not only frustration with the criticism but a desire to shift the conversation toward the reality she believed the state had confronted.
That frustration extended beyond domestic voices. Samia addressed, head-on, remarks from foreign governments and some religious leaders who had criticised the government’s handling of the unrest.
“We do not interfere in other nations’ internal affairs,” she reminded them, “and we expect the same respect.” It was one of the most precise articulations of her stance on sovereignty to date.
Her argument drew on a broader regional sentiment: that African states, even while cooperating closely with international partners, deserve political space free from external prescriptions. She went further, noting that Tanzania’s relationships abroad are built on mutual benefit, not instruction.
“We work with partners in a win-win relationship,” she said, “not a teacher–student one.” The line resonated partly because it expressed a sentiment many Tanzanians hold privately, the belief that development cooperation should not translate into political oversight. But it also signalled that her administration would continue to push back on what it perceives as overreach.
Her comments about foreign critique flowed naturally into her response to domestic religious criticism, particularly from Catholic bishops who had condemned the conduct of security forces and the narrowing of political space. She did not name them, but her meaning was clear enough that no one in the room needed clarification.
“Advice is welcome,” she said, deliberately measured. “Directives are not.” The distinction mattered: she was positioning the state as a listener, but not a subordinate.
It was one of the moments in the speech where her tone carried both courtesy and firmness, a blend that has become something of a signature during tense political moments.
For her supporters, it sounded like responsible leadership; for her critics, it risked sounding dismissive. Yet it was consistent with her broader argument that the state had responsibilities it could not outsource, particularly in times of instability.
When she turned to the role of young people in the unrest, her voice shifted again, this time toward something closer to concern than reprimand. She described many of the youths involved as having been “coached like parrots,” repeating phrases and demands they barely understood.
The phrasing was blunt, but it opened into a deeper reflection on civic education and the gap she believes Tanzania has allowed to widen.
She said the nation was paying the price for leaving young people to “raise themselves” without adequate guidance in navigating political messaging. It was one of the more introspective parts of her speech, acknowledging state shortcomings even as she held organisers responsible for manipulation.
By connecting the unrest to broader structural issues, she repositioned the crisis not just as a security challenge but as a generational one, requiring long-term investment rather than temporary enforcement measures.
To that end, she pointed to the establishment of a Ministry of Youth, describing it as an intentional effort to shape civic understanding among the next generation.
“Peace is not kept by force alone,” she said. “It is kept by raising a generation that understands its responsibility to the nation.” Here, she sounded less like a president reacting to a crisis and more like a leader mapping out a long-term strategy.
The creation of the ministry had drawn mixed reactions in the weeks prior, with some viewing it as an attempt to placate young people after the unrest, while others saw genuine potential in its mandate. Her framing suggested she belonged firmly to the second camp.
Reactions to the speech began circulating online almost immediately, and although they varied, they reflected the complexity of public sentiment rather than simple approval or disapproval. A Tanzanian in Arusha wrote that “chaos is expensive” and that even those uncomfortable with the president’s tone understood the fear of instability.
A university student in Morogoro countered that calling the entire unrest a “project” felt like a way of avoiding accountability for how security forces acted, a reminder that younger citizens remain wary of power even when they agree with the need for peace.
A Kenyan political commentator viewed the speech as “the classic stability argument,” cautioning that such arguments rely heavily on public trust in institutions.
And from the diaspora, a young Tanzanian in the UK wrote that Samia’s comments about youths being coached struck a familiar chord, recalling how easily political passion can eclipse understanding when one is young.
Taken together, these reactions painted a portrait not of a population uniformly persuaded or uniformly resistant, but of a society wrestling with its own anxieties, hopes and memories. And in many ways, that complexity mirrored the speech itself.
Samia’s remarks were neither defensive nor triumphant; they were forceful, reflective and unmistakably inward-looking. By blending blunt warnings with invitations to collective responsibility, she attempted to define the moment not as a political rupture but as a national crossroads.
Her closing words, “Protecting this country is a duty we share”, carried both reassurance and expectation. It was a reminder that, in her view, stability is not merely the work of the state but the outcome of a society choosing peace over manipulation, clarity over confusion and long-term unity over short-term political gain.
