By Adonis Byemelwa
The warmth of justice lies not just in verdicts delivered but in the people’s ability to witness those verdicts unfold. At a time when Tanzania braces itself for a historic public hearing, the words of Advocate Edson Kilatu, shared in a Facebook post that has since gone viral, offer not just legal insight but a heartfelt reminder of what justice is supposed to mean in a free society.
As the high-profile treason case against Chadema national chairman Tundu Antiphas Mughwai Lissu is set to begin tomorrow, April 24, 2025, the nation’s attention turns not only to the courtroom at Kisutu but also to the atmosphere outside it. Will citizens be allowed in to see justice served? Or will they be pushed aside—again—by the very institutions meant to protect them?
“This case is not just historic because of the charges,” Kilatu wrote in his impassioned post. “It’s historic because it involves a man who once survived an assassination attempt, who ran for the highest office in the land, who is a trained legal mind, and who now finds himself facing one of the gravest charges in our penal code—treason.”
For Kilatu, the issue isn’t just the legal gravity of the charges, but the broader context. The right to witness trials, especially criminal ones, is deeply enshrined in Tanzanian law. Section 186(1) of the Criminal Procedure Act, he explains, is unequivocal: trials must be held in open court. That means any citizen should have the right to attend, observe, and engage with the justice process.
“The law is clear,” he continued. “Justice must not only be done—it must be seen to be done.”
Kilatu reflects on his own legal journey through the years, recalling how the Tanzanian judiciary, particularly the High Court, has previously gone out of its way to ensure the public can witness politically significant cases. He brings up the example of the 1995 election petitions, and more recently, his own involvement in a 2019 case in Arusha.
“There was no space in the courtroom,” he wrote. “But the magistrate allowed us to set up loudspeakers outside so the people could listen. That wasn’t just a symbolic gesture—it was justice respecting its audience. It was the judiciary recognizing the public’s right to hear and see what was being done in their name. “That spirit, Kilatu warns, is under threat.
He raises concerns about the actions of Zonal Police Commander Jumanne Muliro, who earlier issued a public warning discouraging people from attending the Lissu hearing. Kilatu didn’t mince words: “Commander Muliro has no legal ground to issue such a warning. This is an overreach of power, and if not checked, it sets a dangerous precedent—where police dictate who gets to witness justice.”
The Chadema cadre didn’t hold back, either. In strong terms, he repudiated the move by the police, calling it a deliberate act to curtail public rights. “This is a human-interest case,” he emphasized. “The accused is the elected national leader of a political party. Citizens have a right—both morally and constitutionally—to follow the proceedings.”
He points to the Constitution, reminding the public of Article 21, which affirms every citizen’s right to participate in public affairs, and Article 18, which protects the right to information.
“These aren’t abstract rights,” he noted. “They are practical guarantees. If we deny people the ability to enter a courtroom and observe proceedings, then we’re not just breaking the law—we’re shattering the trust between the state and its citizens.”
Kilatu doesn't stop at legal analysis; his words are rooted in the lived experience of countless Tanzanians who’ve waited outside court gates, blocked from hearing decisions that shape their lives. He speaks of the pain of exclusion, the erosion of trust, and the quiet, dangerous normalization of arbitrary state control.
“The judiciary must remain the final guardian of justice,” he urged. “If lower courts surrender their authority to police interference, the principle of separation of powers is no longer intact—it’s compromised.”
As he closed his post, which has been widely shared by lawyers, activists, and concerned citizens alike, Kilatu issued a plea to the judiciary: “Let the courts speak loudly and clearly. Reaffirm the right of the people to witness trials, especially those with national importance. Justice must be heard, seen, and felt—by all.”
As the country waits for tomorrow’s hearing, the legal and moral weight of these words hangs heavy in the air. Will justice stand alone in the courtroom—or will the people be allowed to stand beside it, as the law demands?
