By: Juba Global News Network
December 10, 2025

In the muggy air of Dar es Salaam, with the clouds hugging the highlands of Arusha, Tanzania—a country once famous for tranquil safaris and vibrant Swahili culture—has slipped into a strange quiet. On December 9, 2025, just when the nation should’ve been celebrating its 64th Independence Day, the government dropped a sweeping, five-day lockdown on everyone. Buses stopped running, non-essential workers got told to stay put at home, and a total internet blackout basically yanked the country off the digital grid.

Why all this? Well, the official line says it was to head off “destructive” protests after a presidential election that’s been widely slammed as rigged. Incumbent Samia Suluhu Hassan claimed a jaw-dropping 98% of the vote on October 29. This harsh clampdown, coming after fears of more bloodshed like what happened after the polls—where hundreds, maybe even thousands, died in clashes—feels like a wild swing away from Suluhu’s earlier promises. She was once seen as a reformer, undoing Magufuli’s iron grip, but now she’s leading a country tangled in fear and division, and facing some serious heat from the rest of the world.

As police trucks rumble down empty streets and checkpoints spring up around the city, this lockdown really drives home how the regime’s backed into a corner, desperate to hang on to power—even if that means trampling on hard-won freedoms. So, what went wrong? This piece digs into the election meltdown, the nuts and bolts of the lockdown, the human toll, and where Tanzanian democracy might be headed on this razor’s edge.

The Sham Election: From Glimmers of Reform to a Rigged Blowout

The general election on October 29, 2025, was supposed to be the big test for Suluhu’s four years as president. She took office in 2021 after Magufuli died suddenly, stepping into shoes that came with a pretty dark legacy—banned opposition rallies, tight control of the press, and more than 100 critics abducted on her watch, if you believe the Tanganyika Law Society.

Yet, Suluhu talked about change. She unbanned rallies, welcomed back exiled opposition leader Tundu Lissu, and started chats about constitutional reform. International observers like SADC arrived holding onto a bit of hope. That optimism faded fast as the campaign drew to a close. The opposition got picked off one by one: Lissu from Chadema (the main rival party) was charged with treason and banned from running, ACT-Wazalamo’s Luhaga Mpina was dropped for refusing a dodgy code of conduct. Chadema faced its own accusations, neutering their chances.

With no real competition left, the electoral commission—which folks have long suspected is in CCM’s pocket—handed Suluhu 98% of the votes and claimed an 88% turnout. Those numbers looked more North Korea than East Africa. African Union observers weren’t buying it, calling the process nowhere near democratic—citing everything from ballot-box stuffing and voter intimidation to a government-imposed internet blackout that stretched from election day till November 3. SADC backed them up, calling out “massive irregularities” and saying turnout was actually “very low” in plenty of places.

Anger exploded almost instantly in Dar es Salaam, Dodoma, and Arusha. Young people tore down Suluhu’s posters and squared off with police at polling stations. Suluhu’s November 3 inauguration, held secretly at a military base bristling with guards, just made the whole thing look even more like a setup. She talked about “reconciliation,” but with new stories popping up about abductions and acid attacks targeting opposition figures like Chadema’s Ali Mohamed Kibao, her words rang pretty hollow.

The Post-Election Bloodbath: A Catalyst for Crisis

What came next? It was a powder keg waiting for a spark, and security forces didn’t hold back. From October 29 to November 1, protests spun out of control—Human Rights Watch said over 1,000 people died, some shot in the back or head, while opposition groups say it’s more like 10,000, many of them unarmed, gunned down in Dar es Salaam’s streets. Police, soldiers, even the army, used everything from tear gas and rubber bullets to live fire, going after young people who, frankly, felt “shut out of a political system locked up by one party since 1961.”

The violence wasn’t just in the capital. In Arusha, protesters took over government offices; Mwanza saw market stalls set ablaze. The internet blackout stuck until November 3, leaving people cut off, but smuggled-out videos showed bodies in alleys and families grieving sons killed at checkpoints.

Suluhu, in a speech on December 2, turned the blame outward, saying, “Vijana wetu walifanywa makasuku” (Our youth were turned into puppets), and pointed fingers at “foreign interference” from places like Kenya and Madagascar. Her claim that the crackdown was “proportional” only drew more outrage: “We will stand and defend this country with all our strength,” she insisted, painting protestors as part of a coup plot.

Meanwhile, ARTICLE 19 reported that at least 20 journalists had been snatched up, beaten, and detained. HRW called for independent investigations into the “breach of peace,” but Suluhu’s November 18 commission—stacked with retired CCM loyalists and almost no input from civil society—just fueled talk of a cover-up.

If that wasn’t enough, the chaos sent food and fuel prices soaring, doubling the cost of daily essentials in a country already buckling under youth unemployment rates topping 30%.

The Lockdown Unveiled: Mechanics of Repression

As the ashes of October’s unrest cooled, plans for December 9 protests—nicknamed “D9” for Independence Day—gained steam online. Activists, channeling the old anti-colonial spirit, called for peaceful marches against what they saw as electoral robbery and police violence. The government’s reaction? Suffocating and fast. On December 8, Prime Minister Kassim Majaliwa sent non-essential workers home, froze all public transport, and banned gatherings, calling any protest a “coup attempt.”

This five-day lockdown, running from December 9 to 13, was basically the curfews after the election—but cranked up to the entire country. Here’s how it played out:

• Mobility Clampdown: All public transport—buses, trains, ferries—ground to a halt. Private cars needed special permits. Roadblocks dotted the highways; police checked IDs and hunted for “agitators.”
• Digital Blackout: The internet went down, at first just partially but by midday December 9, completely. Social media and news sites were off the grid, just like right after the election. VPNs got jammed, too, isolating families and making it nearly impossible to coordinate anything.
• Security Surge: Thousands of cops and soldiers fanned out across cities, setting up a ring of steel around Suluhu’s offices and opposition headquarters. Drones hovered overhead. People suspected of organizing protests got picked up before the marches could even begin—sometimes with no charges at all.
• Economic Reallocation: Official independence celebrations were canceled. The money supposedly got shifted to “restore infrastructure” damaged in the riots—something Suluhu said was sensible, but critics call an insult to national pride.

Even with the blackout, a few posts trickled out, showing empty streets in Dar es Salaam and, against all odds, small peaceful marches happening in Arusha in defiance of the ban.

Ramifications: A Nation Fractured, A Region on Edge

The price of this lockdown cuts deep in so many ways. Shops and markets have been forced to close; street vendors and informal traders—about 70% of the working class—are losing their daily bread, all while prices of basics have tripled since October. The mood? Pretty grim. Parents aren’t letting their kids out of the house, and Suluhu’s finger-pointing at “Kenyan agitators” is sparking a new wave of xenophobia, putting East African migrants at risk.

Politically, the lockdown just tightens the CCM’s grip, but it might be a pyrrhic victory. Young people—who make up about 65% of the electorate—are seething. With no jobs and nowhere to voice their anger, there’s talk of a “Madagascar moment” that haunts Suluhu’s administration. Opposition leaders like Lissu, still behind bars, call it a “national catastrophe” and are begging SADC to step in.

And globally? Well, the backlash is only getting louder. The U.S. is “comprehensively reviewing” connections and condemns what it calls “disturbing violence.” Both the AU and SADC are pushing for investigations; meanwhile, HRW and ARTICLE 19 call for immediate releases and full accountability. ## Pathways to Redemption: Reforms or Repression? In her December 2 speech, Suluhu spoke of “reconciliation” and economic support for young people, but her cabinet—filled with loyalists—suggests the opposite, maybe even more entrenchment. Crisis Group has warned that unless real concessions are made—like allowing independent investigations, lifting political bans, and pushing for constitutional reforms that devolve power—there’s a risk of “another massacre.” Now, with the lockdown ending on December 13, Tanzania finds itself at a critical juncture. Will Suluhu actually listen to the youth’s chant, “Hakuna sababu ya Watanzania kuumizana” (No reason for Tanzanians to hurt each other), or just stick to Magufuli’s old strategies? For 65 million people, from the spice-scented air of Zanzibar to the snowy slopes of Kilimanjaro, whatever comes next isn’t just about the presidency—it’s about the soul of the whole nation. Independence Day 2025 wasn’t really a celebration; more like a moment of reckoning. The world is watching, but in the end, it’s Tanzania’s own spirit that’ll decide where things go from here. © JubaGlobal.com – Reporting Africa without fear or favour.

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