The Gambia is 10 years past a political transition that the world watched with hope. Exactly two months to date, we will go to the polls again — to select a president and to reaffirm the direction of our democracy. The ballot is a tool. It is not a weapon. Yet in the months leading to election day, we already hear the old drumbeats from politicians to imams: regionalism, toxic politics, bellicose rhetoric, and above all tribalism.
To be Mandinka, Wolof, Fula, Jola, Serahulé, Aku, Manjago, Bambara, or Lebanese is to carry history, language, food, and pride. That diversity is not our weakness. Tribalism begins when the pride in our cherished ethnic identity is converted into politics of exclusion: when a candidate says, “Vote for me because I am one of you,” and implies that the other candidate cannot represent you; when party agents count polling stations by ethnic majority instead of by registered voters; when WhatsApp voice notes circulate saying, “This constituency belongs to us!” That is not representation. That is reduction. It reduces a voter in Basse to a tribe, instead of a farmer who needs fertiliser. It reduces a youth in Tallinding to a surname, instead of a graduate who needs a job. The Gambia is too small and too connected for us to afford that kind of arithmetic.
We saw where that road leads between 1994 to 2017. Under the rule of Yahya Jammeh, the country was divided into “loyal” and “suspect” communities. Tribal discrimination took front and centre stage. The result was fear, exile, and a TRRC that is still helping us count the cost. We cannot romanticise that past, and we cannot repeat its language. Strong politics is about policy: how to lower the price of rice, how to keep the lights on in Bundung, how to get ambulances to rural health centres before the rainy season cuts the roads. Strong politics is about presenting a manifesto and defending it in a debate, not about threatening your opponent’s supporters or maligning his ethnic identity.
Bellicose rhetoric does three things. It causes intimidation, distraction and leads to or normalises violence. Once “enemy” becomes a word we use for fellow Gambians, the next natural step is to throw stones, fight, kill and maim. Our media, our imams, our pastors, our alkalolu, and our influencers all have microphones now. With that comes responsibility. A rally is not a battlefield. A Facebook Live is not a war room. We must essay what we say. And whatever we say must ultimately be the truth and a truth that will foster unity and one Gambia.
We risk teaching the next generation that politics is about “us vs them.” The 18-year-old voting for the first time in December will learn from what we say today. If we teach him tribal math, he will use it for the next 50 years. Parties must police their own. Party leaders should suspend any candidate or surrogate who uses ethnic slurs or threatens violence. The IEC code of conduct is not for decoration. We must enforce it publicly, and do it before December, not after. The media must choose facts over frenzy. Talk shows should fact-check claims about “our people are being sidelined”. Radio stations in local languages have a special duty: translate manifestos, not insults. If a caller goes tribal on air, cut the call. That is not censorship; that is stewardship.
The Gambia is 11,295 square kilometres. You can drive across it in a day. Our grandmothers intermarried. Our music samples every language. Our diaspora sends money home to cousins with different surnames. No tribe can develop this country alone. Development, justice, and dignity are shared projects. That is why the Constitution begins with “We the People of The Gambia.” Not “We the People of one group.” The political leaders should ensure that their surrogates and followers do not use their platforms to spew the vile rhetoric of tribalism and regionalism.