Village Justice

Mudi and I rock up at Engosengui Primary School at 10am on a Saturday, in anticipation of the village meeting I have been invited to. We sit and wait for 1.5 hrs; Tanzanians have a flexible attitude with time. But sure enough, at 11:30 the locals stream in. Lots of them. Men and women alike, aged from 20 to ... I don't know how old (it's difficult to tell the age of Tanzanians, but maybe as old as 70?), all from the Sinon community. Some of fws' other employees arrive. In no time, around 80 or 90 people cram into a school class room (apparently the standard class size for kids too). 80-90 Tanzanians that is, and 1 mzungu - me.

The village chairman opens proceedings, apologising for the delay, while Mudi whispers brief translations to me when he can. Apparently this meeting is on security. I have no idea what that actually means. I soon find out.

After the secretary reads the full minutes of the previous meeting - all 5 pages of them - business commences. The chairman informs us that a list of suspected criminals living in the community have been given to him, and he will soon go through them one-by-one ... publicly. An audience participant questions whether it is more appropriate if the individuals are dealt with in private, but the mood of the gathering is having none of it. The chairman proceeds as planned.

The secretary, in her most official voice, reads out name number one. To my surprise, a shady looking dude around my age wanders up to the front of the room and faces the crowd. He is accused of theft.

I realise this is not a security meeting, this is a community court. This is old-fashioned town square civics.

For an accused criminal, faced with a community which openly endorses vigilante lynch mobs, he is surprisingly calm. He answers to the charges. He used to be a thief, for which he stands before the community ashamed, but he is no longer a thief - he has seen the error of his ways. An angry villager stands forth, explaining that this man has stolen 20 bags of cement from him. He must pay for his crime. Another calls for forgiveness - he has faced up to the community remorseful. Another demands that he name all of his accomplices. Discussion subsides and consensus is reached. The chairman declares that he must provide a list of co-conspirators after the meeting. The now convicted criminal resumes his seat.

An accused criminal pleads his case to the chairman with his father

Name number two, and a young Rasta dude with a Jamaican flag hanging off his string necklace faces up to the room, his dismayed mother following him. Sure enough, he is accused of selling marijuana. Confidently, he says that he used to sell pot, but he hasn't in 6 months. I sense a theme emerging. A participant demands that he provide the names of all the people he has sold pot too. The accused protests. "It is not my job to provide those names. It is the chairman's role, or someone else's, but not mine." Soon after he resumes his seat with no action taken.

One after another, the cases continue.

One accused thief, claiming innocence, is defended by a villager, saying that "I know this man. He has red eyes - I have seen him smoke marijuana. Perhaps people think he is a thief because he smokes marijuana?" The room erupts with laughter, including the accused, and the defense holds up.

Another suggests his name is on the list as he is unemployed, and people probably see him wander the streets a lot. One absentee is spoken for by his father, "My son is in jail, he cannot be a thief from jail." Another absentee is spoken for by his mother, "I do not know whether my son is a criminal or not. If he is, I take responsibility." One accused (pictured), perhaps a little drunk, is incensed: "I was a thief, but have not been a thief for years. Why do people always write down my name at these meetings? Why don't people understand that I am no longer a thief?"

All the while the audience is listening: dutifully, attentively, jovially. On more than a few occasions, officials, accused and villagers alike burst into laughter at seemingly serious or innocuous points - despite Mudi's beautiful translations. I sense that there's more than just a language gap here; these people have a spirit of their own, something us mzungu lack.

There are 15 accused all up, with only a few not present to face the meeting's wrath - they will be dealt with by the chairman outside the meeting. Very little punitive action is taken; shame seems to be the biggest disincentive.

General comments are taken. One villager notes that it's good to deal with the community's problems here, before taking it to the police, because we can prove guilt here. Another points out that people need to be more careful before writing down names of accused - what if the accused is just hungry and stealing to survive? Another suggests that the village leaders need to put a plan in place before robberies happen so that the community can deal with these situations better.

The meeting winds up, almost 2 hrs after starting. I am warmly greeted by many members, including the chairman. I realise that they consider me part of the community, that I could have argued for or against the accused, or indeed, accused others of being criminals. I am taken aback by the trust and responsibility.

I now understand where the Arusha Board gets its intuitive governance instincts from.