By Adonis Byemelwa
Tundu Lissu, leader of Tanzania’s main opposition party, Chadema, was arrested on the evening of April 9, 2025, in Mbinga, a town in the southern Ruvuma Region, shortly after wrapping up a high-energy public rally.
The gathering was part of Chadema’s intensifying “No Reforms, No Election” campaign—an unapologetic call for electoral reform before any national vote takes place.
Just minutes after addressing an enthusiastic crowd, Lissu informed attendees that he had been summoned by the police. As tension crackled in the air, the District Police Commander (OCD) approached the stage and asked Lissu to enter a police vehicle for questioning. “What have I done?” Lissu reportedly asked while continuing to receive donations from supporters as part of the party’s Tone Tone grassroots fundraiser. Before any answers came, chaos erupted.
According to Godbless Lema, former MP and a key Chadema figure who was present, efforts were made to de-escalate the situation. Party official Sosopi pleaded with the OCD, warning that arresting Lissu in front of the crowd could incite unrest. Lema echoed that appeal. The officer seemed to agree—until, without warning, tear gas canisters began flying.
“It was all so sudden,” said Lema. “One moment we were wrapping up the meeting, and the next, the whole area was filled with smoke. People scattered. It felt like a battlefield.”
Lissu, along with Southern Zone Chairperson Aden Mayala, Felius Festo, Shija Shebeshi, and his bodyguard, were swiftly detained. The police have not issued any official statement, leaving a thick fog of uncertainty and outrage hanging in the air.
A worn diary, carried by Lissu and handed to Moravian Bishop Emmaus Bandekile Mwamakula just moments before the crackdown, has become an unlikely symbol of the moment. "I was given this diary just as the explosions began," Mwamakula recalled. “I had just finished praying. Then, the darkness of fear fell like a curtain.”
He described being beside Lissu when the tear gas started raining down. “They fired relentlessly,” he said. “Over 100 canisters, at least. People were bleeding. I saw an elderly man collapse and rushed to help a mother with a sickly three-month-old child, shielding them as best I could.”
Two officers grabbed Mwamakula, yanked him away from Lissu, and dragged him toward the edge of the rally ground. Around him, people were screaming, coughing, stumbling through clouds of gas. “One bullet landed near me,” he said. “It might have been live. I didn’t have time to think.”
Reports indicate that the arrested individuals were taken toward Songea, the regional capital. As of now, no formal charges have been announced. But the signs of state pressure weren’t new.
Tensions had been building since April 7, when the Chadema campaign reached Masasi. According to Mwamakula, attempts to disrupt Lissu’s rallies were visible: local authorities allegedly organized competing events to draw attention away from Chadema meetings; mysterious announcements blared through loudspeakers at night falsely claiming the rallies were canceled; and an unusual show of force—regular police, riot police, militia, National Service youth, and even military—marked the Masasi event.
“Never before had we seen that level of coordination, all to ‘protect’ a peaceful opposition gathering,” he noted. “It was intimidation, plain and simple.”
At one point, there were whispers that the police planned to ambush Lissu’s convoy with tear gas after the Masasi rally. That plan was only derailed by the sheer unpredictability of the crowd and location, but the intent was clear.
A similar eerie mood followed them through Tunduru on April 8. “We crossed paths with a police convoy,” Mwamakula said. “You could tell by their posture and body language—they were waiting for a moment to strike.”
The final straw may have been the traction Lissu was gaining. His message—that no election should take place without comprehensive legal reforms—was resonating. His sharp critiques of economic injustice hit home, particularly among southern farmers grappling with low returns on cashews, pigeon peas, and sesame, burdened by taxes they feel are designed to keep them poor. In regions rich in natural gas, coal, and iron, people are growing tired of seeing wealth extracted while their communities remain undeveloped and overlooked.
And perhaps that’s the real fear behind the tear gas: Lissu’s words were landing. “These rallies were not just political events—they were moments of awakening,” said one observer. “When people in Lindi, Mtwara, and Ruvuma hear that the resources under their feet have never served them, that they’re being robbed in broad daylight—they don’t forget that.”
Which raises the question: why was the state so determined to silence him before his planned April 10 rally in Songea?
“If Lissu had committed any legal offense,” Mwamakula insisted, “the police could have summoned him to the station like before. They’ve done it in the past. But this time, they brought tear gas. They fired into a peaceful crowd. Why?”
Perhaps it’s because brute force is faster than an argument. But that approach risks backfiring—especially in the age of instant communication. Videos, testimonies, and the horror of elderly men and infants gasping through plumes of tear gas do not go unnoticed.
“In doing what they did, they only proved what Lissu has been saying all along,” Mwamakula added. “That there can be no free and fair election under the current constitution, with these laws, and with this kind of political policing.”
Now, the spotlight turns not only to the Tanzanian government but to the international community. As one human rights activist put it, “If this is what happens to peaceful opposition figures, how can we pretend the playing field is level?”
The big question remains: can tear gas silence a movement that has already taken root in the hearts of so many? Only time—and the people—will tell.
