Tundu Lissu stood before a crowd of supporters outside a courtroom in Tanzania, his voice defiant, fists raised, the moment charged with courage and vulnerability. “No reform, no election,” he thundered. His words echoed through the crowd, cutting through the haze of fear that often hangs heavy in politically charged trials across the Global South. “There is nothing to fear. We are on the right path,” he added. But behind that declaration lies a troubling irony -- because while Lissu may feel righteous in his cause, the very path he treads is surrounded not by the blindfolded figure of Lady Justice, but by barbed wire, suspicion, and repression.
What began as yet another political standoff in Tanzania has evolved into a familiar tragedy, one with different names but the same grim refrain: The slow death of judicial independence. Lissu and other opposition leaders now face charges of anti-national conspiracy, a phrase that rings with ominous familiarity across Africa, Asia, and Latin America. It is a charge that has become the go-to cudgel for regimes allergic to dissent. The state apparatus -- the police, the intelligence services, and especially the courts -- are summoned not as defenders of constitutional order, but as enforcers of ruling-party narratives.
As if to underline the erosion of due process, the Tanzanian government barred several prominent Kenyan human rights activists and legal experts from entering the country to observe the trial. Among them were Kenya’s former Justice Minister Martha Karua and former Chief Justice Willy Mutunga. Mutunga was detained at Julius Nyerere International Airport, treated like a criminal for daring to witness the trial of another man unjustly branded one. “The state cannot be used for personal gain,” Karua told reporters. “You cannot take action against those who do not agree with your views.” Her words resound with truth, but in places where justice has been privatized by power, truth is often the first casualty.
This spectacle of intimidation and suppression may feel specific to Tanzania, but it is tragically universal. We see this pattern again and again across the postcolonial world: Patriotic voices silenced through the language of treason, judicial robes stained by political calculations, and entire legal systems twisted into instruments of revenge. In Burkina Faso, a new trial began in 2021 into the assassination of revolutionary leader Thomas Sankara -- a murder committed nearly four decades earlier. Sankara, often hailed as Africa’s Che Guevara, was gunned down in what many believe was a coup orchestrated by allies-turned-enemies. While the reopening of the case was welcomed by some, skepticism persisted: Is this justice, or is it yet another chapter in a long history of trials motivated more by political expediency than a pursuit of truth?
Even the gravest legal decisions are not immune to the sway of power. In several countries, judges have handed out death sentences with grim finality under one regime, only to see those same sentences overturned when the political winds shift. The inverse is also true: Someone might be acquitted in one era despite overwhelming evidence of guilt, only to be retried later for reasons more political than legal. And who decides which version of justice is correct? When justice becomes relative to power, it ceases to be justice at all.
The consequences are not abstract. They are felt in every corner of public life, in every institution that relies on the courts to uphold a sense of order. A judge who bows to political pressure to condemn an innocent person or exonerate the guilty is not simply making a bad decision -- he or she is contributing to the collapse of the entire moral and constitutional framework of a nation. “If the law supposes that,” wrote Charles Dickens in Oliver Twist, “then the law is a ass.” But far more dangerous is when the law does not suppose -- it serves.
Plato warned in The Republic that justice must be rooted in the collective good and administered by philosopher-kings -- those immune to greed and ambition. When such virtue is absent, the machinery of justice becomes indistinguishable from the machinery of oppression. Hannah Arendt, chronicling the Eichmann trials, famously observed that the true horror of authoritarianism lies not in its violence, but in its banality: The way ordinary institutions are quietly, mechanically repurposed for evil ends. The court becomes a stage, the judge an actor, the verdict a script.
This pattern is reinforced by structural weaknesses endemic to many developing countries. The legal infrastructure is often fragile, underfunded, and overwhelmed. Corruption is rampant. Judges are appointed not for their impartiality but for their loyalty. Many work without adequate protection from retaliation. The results are predictable: Verdicts are shaped not by evidence, but by who holds power and who poses a threat to it.
Francis Fukuyama, in his seminal work Political Order and Political Decay, argues that institutions decay when they become disconnected from the public good. Where the rule of law is weak, the state becomes personalistic, and courts transform into weapons for those who control the levers of government. As Fukuyama puts it, “Modern liberal democracy requires a balance between the rule of law, accountable government, and state capacity. When one of these is compromised, the whole structure falters.”
The World Bank has echoed these concerns, noting that “an impartial, transparent, and accountable justice system is essential for sustainable economic development.” Investors flee countries where contracts cannot be enforced. Citizens disengage from politics when they feel their votes will be nullified by courts beholden to the ruling elite. Social cohesion frays, and the very legitimacy of the state comes under threat.
It is also important to understand how legal ambiguity facilitates judicial abuse. Many countries inherited colonial-era laws that are broad, vague, and prone to misuse. Sedition, criminal defamation, and “anti-national” activity are often defined so loosely that virtually any criticism of the state can be prosecuted. These legal ghosts of a foreign empire are then wielded by modern governments with far more reach and technological capacity to monitor dissent.
The Kenyan lawyer and scholar PLO Lumumba once remarked that “African constitutions are beautifully written and badly implemented.” The same could be said for their legal codes. They promise equality, fairness, and justice -- but the lived experience of ordinary citizens often tells a different story. When the same court that dismisses evidence in one trial then embraces hearsay in another, when legal outcomes depend more on political loyalty than legal logic, trust evaporates.
The media, too, is complicit. In many developing countries, government-friendly outlets portray political trials as necessary defenses of sovereignty, framing opposition leaders as foreign agents or saboteurs. Judicial decisions are lauded not for their adherence to law, but for their alignment with nationalism. Meanwhile, independent media are harassed, shut down, or bought off.
But even in this dark landscape, glimmers of hope remain. Brave judges continue to speak out. Lawyers risk their careers to defend the unpopular. Citizens document abuses, organize resistance, and demand accountability. International organizations -- from Amnesty International to the International Commission of Jurists -- issue reports that provide moral and factual clarity in murky legal battles. The digital age has also made it harder to hide judicial abuse. Social media, though often censored, can mobilize global awareness in ways unimaginable just a decade ago.
Still, the path forward is arduous. Reforming a politicized judiciary is not just about replacing bad judges or drafting new laws. It requires deep institutional renewal. Judicial appointments must be depoliticized. Legal education must be reoriented to emphasize ethics and constitutionalism. Civil society must be protected and empowered to hold the justice system accountable. And perhaps most importantly, there must be consequences for those who subvert justice for political ends.
Benjamin Cardozo, one of America’s most revered jurists, once wrote, “The judge even when he is free, is still not wholly free. He is not to innovate at pleasure. He is not a knight-errant roaming at will… He is to draw his inspiration from consecrated principles.” It is precisely these principles -- accountability, impartiality, independence -- that must be restored if justice is to regain its rightful place.
Tundu Lissu’s fight is not just about one man’s freedom. It is about the soul of a legal system, about whether courts will serve as guardians of liberty or handmaidens of tyranny. His cry of “No reform, no election” captures a deeper truth: Without reform, there can be no democracy. Without justice, there can be no peace.
As citizens, journalists, thinkers, and policy-makers, we must insist that justice not only be done -- but be seen to be done. And when it is not, we must have the courage, like Lissu, to stand outside the courthouse, raise our voices, and declare: There is nothing to fear. We are on the right path.
HM Nazmul Alam is an academic, journalist, and political analyst based in Dhaka. He can be reached at nazmulalam.rijohn@gmail.com