Tanzania at 61: A Union Forged in Hope, Now Demanding Balance and True Partnership
May 12, 2025
By Adonis Byemelwa*
Officially, the union is held up as a symbol of harmony—proof that unity in diversity can succeed where others have fractured
On April 26, 2025, Tanzania turned 61. Not as a simple post-colonial African state, but as a united republic—an audacious blend of two distinct nations, Tanganyika and Zanzibar, whose leaders dared to forge a political union at a time when others were splintering. That choice, bold and arguably improvised, created a new country stitched together by idealism, pragmatism, and an urgent need for stability.
If history is any guide, in 1964, just months after a fiery revolution shook Zanzibar and only three years after Tanganyika gained independence, Julius Nyerere and Abeid Amani Karume came together to sign the Articles of Union.
It was a bold, almost improvised move—two leaders from vastly different political and cultural backgrounds agreeing to unite their nations at a time of escalating global tension. The Cold War was sweeping across the Indian Ocean, and this union provided both stability and strategic strength.
Tanganyika, a vast mainland still finding its post-colonial footing, and Zanzibar, a small but storied archipelago with centuries of trade, identity, and resistance, couldn't have been more different. Yet in just 11 brief articles, they forged a pact—one many doubted would last. But here we are, more than six decades later, still under one flag. It’s a remarkable feat, though not without its scars.
Officially, the union is held up as a symbol of harmony—proof that unity in diversity can succeed where others have fractured. And in many ways, it has delivered: one language, one defense force, one passport. For much of Africa, that level of integration is enviable.
But scratch the surface, and the cracks begin to show. Over time, the quiet discomforts have grown into louder discontent, especially on the Isles. Walk through Stone Town or catch a conversation on a dhow in Pemba, and you’ll hear it—concerns that Zanzibar’s voice is often drowned out, its identity softened under a union that doesn’t always feel balanced. It’s not anger as much as a longing for fairness, for mutual respect, for a union that truly feels like a partnership rather than an arrangement.
The current union structure is broken, it’s top-down, it’s outdated, and it fails to reflect the aspirations of the people, on both sides, says Zitto Kabwe, leader of ACT-Wazalendo
The complaints don’t come from the fringes either. Opposition voices on both sides of the union—mainland and Isles—have grown increasingly sharp. In Zanzibar, there are calls for greater autonomy, sometimes even secession. On the mainland, there’s fatigue—a feeling that Zanzibar gets the benefits of sovereignty without carrying the full weight of responsibility.
His party, with strong roots in Zanzibar, has been among the most vocal in demanding reforms. Their push isn't just rhetorical. In 2014, under the stewardship of retired Prime Minister and judge Joseph Warioba, a constitutional review commission laid out a bold vision for restructuring the country’s political architecture.
Warioba, calm and analytical, saw the cracks before many others did. His commission didn’t call for the breakup of the union, but for its deep redesign. “We proposed a three-government structure,” he explained in a recent interview. “One for Zanzibar, one for Tanganyika, and one for the Union itself. This would help reduce the confusion and tension over which government handles what, and restore trust in the idea of unity.”
His proposals weren’t revolutionary; they were practical. But they stirred political fears. Some in the ruling party, CCM, saw them as a threat to the delicate balance that had held the country together. The recommendations were shelved. The conversation paused, but the grievances didn’t.
These tensions are not just in legal documents or elite debates. They live. Habiba Jawad, a trader who moves goods between Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar, says she feels both pride and frustration in equal measure. “The union opened doors for me,” she admits. “But I still feel like Zanzibar is always waiting for permission. We are in the union, but are we truly heard?”
On the mainland, similar sentiments resonate—but in a different key. Some see Zanzibar’s semi-autonomy as a luxury. It has its president, its own House, and domestic control over many issues. Yet, Zanzibar also sends MPs to the Union Parliament, benefits from national revenues, and shares in diplomatic recognition.
“It’s like being part of a team, but one player gets to wear a different jersey and still calls the shots,” said a mainland journalist in Dodoma, half-joking, half-serious.
Even President Samia Suluhu Hassan, the first Tanzanian head of state from Zanzibar, has found herself navigating these sensitivities. Her leadership has drawn praise for stabilizing the country after the Magufuli era, but she hasn’t escaped criticism. Some mainlanders view her recent decisions, including the land policies in Ngorongoro and a deal with DP World for port operations, as tilting too far toward Zanzibar’s interests. Opposition figures have accused her of “auctioning off the mainland” in favor of elite deals.
But politics aside, the reality is that Tanzanians, on both sides of the union, are often more connected than divided. Walk through Kariakoo or down the alleys of Forodhani, and you’ll find cross-marriages, joint ventures, and a Swahili spirit that defies administrative borders. Rashid Mzee, a tour operator with businesses in Arusha and Zanzibar, says it best: “We live the union. We are not waiting for politicians to tell us we are one. We already are.”
People are not complaining about the union itself—they complain about government structures, says Union Minister Hamad Masauni
Still, there’s a sense that the union needs more than shared culture—it needs shared ownership. That means more equitable development, clearer governance, and honest conversations. The Warioba Commission wasn’t just proposing political solutions. It was trying to put the soul back into a partnership that, over time, had become a bit too bureaucratic and less emotional.
And that soul is what people like Judge Warioba still talk about. “A union must be built on mutual respect,” he says. “You cannot have one side feeling marginalized. We created this together. We must grow it together.”
Over six decades since its formation, the union between Tanganyika and Zanzibar has become a cornerstone of Tanzania’s identity—but it hasn’t been without its uneasy silences. For years, open debate about the union has been met with suspicion, as though questioning its structure is the same as undermining the nation itself. That fear has created a gap between what citizens feel and what leaders acknowledge.
Former Attorney General Joseph Warioba captured this tension well when he said, “We’ve spent too much time talking about the power of one part of the union. We forget this is a united country.” His words echo a widespread feeling, especially in Zanzibar, where people often speak of being part of Tanzania, but not always feeling equally valued within it.
Real reform doesn’t mean tearing down what’s been built—it means improving how it works. Joint economic planning could replace the siloed approach. Shared tourism strategies might turn separate strengths into one powerful offering. And outdated laws, like requiring Zanzibaris to live three years in the Isles before voting, could finally be reconsidered.
Sixty-one years on, the union isn’t breaking—but it is evolving. The future isn’t about survival; it’s about relevance. Unity isn’t something you insist on—it’s something people need to feel in their daily lives. Tanganyika and Zanzibar have come a long way together. The next step is making sure both sides truly walk in stride.
