By Adonis Byemelwa
In Tanzania, where silence has become a second language for grief, the pain of the missing is a wound that never quite scabs over. So, when Dr. Tulia Ackson, Speaker of the National Assembly, casually dismissed the national trauma of abductions during a recent interview with Azam TV, suggesting that what many call utekaji are simply cases of people “going missing,” it didn’t just hurt. It struck like a slap to the soul of a grieving nation.
Her words, wrapped in the cold comfort of legal terminology, may have sounded technically correct in a courtroom, but out here, in the homes filled with empty chairs and unanswered questions—they landed like thunder in a drought. These weren’t just ill-chosen words; they were a deflection that risked turning state failure into public farce.
The backlash online was instantaneous. Social media didn’t just react—it erupted. On X, formerly Twitter, one user wrote with biting clarity, “Dr. Tulia speaks like a lawyer defending the system, not a leader defending the people.” And that sentiment echoed far beyond the digital sphere.
On Facebook, in TikTok videos that both mocked and mourned, and in thousands of comments brimming with raw indignation, Tanzanians demanded to be seen. A viral comment cut to the bone: “You cannot call yourself the Speaker of a nation and speak so coldly about its cries. Shame.”
This is not about a misstep in language. It’s about the terrifying normalization of silence. Because when people vanish in broad daylight—activists, journalists, everyday citizens—and the state shrugs it off as administrative semantics, it doesn’t just undermine justice. It guts it.
Take the haunting case of Azory Gwanda, a journalist who disappeared in 2017 after investigating a string of killings in his region. Or Ben Saanane, an opposition figure who vanished without a trace. Or, Mdude, an outspoken activist abducted in Mbeya.
These names are not abstractions. They are sons, colleagues, friends—ripped from the fabric of daily life. When Dr. Tulia suggested people may have simply hidden in mining camps or fled abroad, she resurrected the same tired script used by former Home Affairs Minister Kangi Lugola—a narrative as insulting as it is inadequate. The damage wasn’t just rhetorical. It was emotional. It was political. It was personal.
Human rights advocate Tito Magoti, who himself has known the cold fingers of state intimidation, didn’t mince words: “Under Tulia’s leadership, Parliament has shown more outrage over EU criticism than over the abduction of our citizens.” That contrast is as damning as it is true. It reflects a Parliament more invested in shielding its pride than in shielding its people.
Boniface Mwabukusi of the Tanganyika Law Society added his indictment following the abduction of Mdude. With the gravity of someone who knows the law is supposed to protect, not rationalize, he painted a chilling portrait: abduction is no longer the exception. It’s begun to feel like an unspoken policy.
And in that context, words like Tulia’s aren’t just tone-deaf—they’re dangerous. They risk numbing a nation to the horror of enforced disappearances. They send a signal that, perhaps, these lives are politically inconvenient and therefore expendable.
Tanzania’s Penal Code under Section 256 makes it crystal clear: abduction is a crime. Not a mystery to be ignored. Not a headache for public relations. A crime. And while the country is yet to sign the UN Convention on Enforced Disappearances, that doesn’t make the pain of the disappeared any less real, or the responsibility of the state any less pressing.
What’s galling is the contrast between Tulia’s recent speech at the United Nations, where she championed governance reform for sustainable development, and her remarks at home, which have left many wondering if her definition of governance includes the basic duty to protect life.
This moment could have been different. Tulia Ackson, a lawyer, a woman navigating power in a male-dominated political space, could have used her platform to shift the tide.
She could have stood with the families of the disappeared and said: We see you. We will fight for answers. Instead, her words have aligned her—willingly or not—with a system more interested in preserving appearances than delivering justice.
But it’s not too late. She can begin by doing what leaders are meant to do: listening. Apologize not because it’s politically convenient, but because it’s morally right. Acknowledge the anguish of families who’ve waited for years in silence.
Champion the creation of an independent task force to investigate unresolved disappearances. Use her influence as IPU President to push for Tanzania to sign the UN Convention on Enforced Disappearances.
Because in the end, this isn’t about politics. It’s about people. It’s about the mother who still sets an extra plate at dinner. The brother who scrolls through old messages, hoping for a sign. The families who have turned pain into protest, waiting not just for answers, but for dignity.
The choice before Tulia Ackson is clear: continue speaking like a bureaucrat clinging to legalese, or step up as a leader who refuses to let silence bury the truth. Because in Tanzania today, silence doesn’t mean peace. It means someone is still missing. And justice is still waiting.
