Silenced for Speaking Out: The Personal Price of Truth Amid Rising Oppression in Tanzania

By Adonis Byemelwa

In Tanzania’s tense political climate, the chorus of warnings shared on social media about looming threats can no longer be dismissed as mere rumor or hysteria. Warnings like these are too often brushed off by authorities—until it’s too late. And yet, they keep coming.

Just yesterday,8^th May, 2025, a whistleblower and human rights activist, Maria Sarungi, took to Twitter with another chilling alert: this time, naming the pictured: Bishop Benson Bagonza of the ELCT Karagwe Diocese and Dr. Lugemeleza Nshala, Chadema’s legal counsel, as the next potential targets in a disturbing pattern of political violence.

 Their names join a growing list—too long, too familiar—of voices that dared to speak out in Tanzania and were met not with debate, but with danger.

For those watching closely, this isn’t merely a random threat. It’s part of a broader, more troubling trend: dissent is increasingly treated as defiance, and defiance is met with punishment. What’s unfolding isn't new, but it’s becoming more brazen.

People with influence and integrity—lawyers, religious leaders, academics—are no longer safe simply for standing up and speaking plainly. The climate has shifted. What used to be veiled pressure has morphed into direct intimidation.

From whispered threats to viral warnings, the pattern has become hauntingly familiar. Dismissing these alerts, as often done by the police, not only erodes public trust—it also grants dangerous actors time and space to strike.

When online messages carry chilling hints of danger, when voices speak up about being trailed or watched, and when fear cloaks outspoken critics of power, these are not coincidences. They’re signals—red flags ignored at a nation’s peril.

Dr. Benson Bagonza, a prominent Tanzanian bishop and theologian, is the latest to speak out under duress. In an emotionally layered and darkly reflective public statement, he outlines an ongoing threat to his life.

He warns that “unknown assailants” may be coming for him—those faceless actors the public now refers to with the hollow familiarity of a phrase worn down by repetition. If it’s true, he says, then the perpetrators have erred gravely—they tarnish the government and taint the nation.

 But even if it’s untrue, the damage is done: the mere suggestion corrodes public perception and faith in institutions. Should they come for him, he says, he will not resist.

“Let them call out to me,” he writes, “I will surrender myself.” He pleads that his home not be destroyed, lest those left behind bear the cost of rebuilding what violence tore apart.

And if this threat is imagined—if there is no squad, no hunt—then he urges those in power to restrain their dogs. Not for his sake, but for the sake of the one holding the leash and the village they live in.

He reflects on the dangers of governing through fear during an election year. “Make friends,” he advises, “not new enemies.” His words cut deeper still when he notes that those who wish to die need not be killed—murder becomes an act of wasteful desperation. He recalls how, in the previous administration, similar threats loomed.

“They came,” he says of the fifth regime. Whether this sixth government is an extension of the last or a departure, he insists that the menace of unknown attackers soils all leadership equally. If this government is truly serious and strong, as it claims, it should publicly disavow such actors, not merely admit to their existence.

 Because if they strike, and they might, he says, the result won’t be victory. It will be rot, grief, and eventual shame. For though his body may decay, his “foolishness” will outlive him, and bolder fools may rise in his place.

These aren’t abstract thoughts. The Tanzanian public still remembers how Tundu Lissu, long before the bullets tore through his body in 2017, had publicly warned that he was being followed. He reported that a strange vehicle trailed him persistently, but the authorities waved it off. He was later ambushed in broad daylight.

The same pattern preceded the attack on Father Charles Kitima, former Secretary of the Tanzania Episcopal Conference. Before any incident, the warning signs had already flashed across social media. A viral tweet from an individual identified as Dr. Cosseny claimed Kitima’s time was “numbered” due to his criticism of the regime. Days later, he too faced danger.

Even the disappearances of figures like Said Mpaluka and Nyagali “Mdude” followed similar digital forewarnings. In a chilling online video, a man claimed the police had solicited his help to track Mdude, promising him a hefty payment if he revealed the activist’s location.

That a citizen could openly share such a clip, detailing a bounty placed in exchange for betrayal, underscores the crisis of trust and security. The pattern is now clear: warnings shared on social media, ignored by authorities, followed by attacks or abductions. This cannot be accidental.

Dr. Bagonza closes his reflections with faith: that God loves Tanzania more deeply than any of its children can comprehend. He believes the divine will rise to defend it when earthly institutions fail. He appeals not only to heaven but to reason.

He lives within the jurisdiction of the Minister for Home Affairs, he points out, and holds no belief that the minister himself ordered the threat. But he warns against disproportionate force.

 “Don’t use a club to kill a mosquito perched on the king’s testicles,” he says. “You’ll only harm the king.” In other words, heavy-handed tactics may serve neither the target nor the state.

In an age when intelligence work can tap into behavioral analysis, digital forensics, and human surveillance, such threats should not have to play out in full before being taken seriously. The failure lies not in lack of tools, but lack of will—or worse, selective blindness. The role of police and state intelligence should be to investigate threats thoroughly, independently, and proactively, not to dismiss them with silence or cynicism.

Critics of the current regime argue that the state's failure to confront these shadowy networks amounts to complicity. True strength, they say, lies in transparency, justice, and moral leadership—not in tolerating or enabling a climate of fear. Because in the end, truth doesn’t die with its messengers. It echoes louder. And the light, as Bagonza insists, always pierces the darkness.