By Mohammed Jallow
The discourse on tribalism in The Gambia is often approached with a cautious optimism that borders on denial. We repeatedly comfort ourselves with the narrative that The Gambia is a harmonious mosaic of peoples, a peaceful confluence of ethnicities bound together by history, religion, and shared struggle. This narrative, while emotionally appealing, has become a convenient veil behind which deeper and more uncomfortable truths are concealed. Tribalism in The Gambia does not always manifest in crude or violent forms. It has instead evolved into more sophisticated structures of segregation, expressed through elitism, class hierarchy, linguistic dominance, and proximity to political power, especially closeness to the presidency. It is in these subtle but pervasive forms that tribalism becomes most dangerous, because it hides behind the language of national unity while reproducing inequality in social, economic, and political life.
To understand the contemporary dynamics of tribalism and segregation, one must first return to the foundations of Gambian society in the pre-colonial era. Before colonial intrusion, ethnic identities existed as cultural realities but not as rigid political hierarchies. Mandinka, Fula, Wolof, Jola, Serahulé, Manjago, Serere, Aku, and other communities interacted through trade, intermarriage, religion, and diplomacy. Power was decentralised and fluid. Kingdoms and chieftaincies rose and fell not strictly on ethnic lines but on military strength, economic control, and spiritual legitimacy. Identity was contextual, not absolute. One could belong to multiple worlds at once, through kinship, commerce, and belief.
Colonialism transformed these flexible identities into fixed administrative categories. The British colonial system did not merely govern territory, it reorganised society. Ethnic groups were classified, ranked, and instrumentalised for ease of control. Certain communities were favoured for education, clerical roles, and missionary exposure, while others were relegated to agriculture and manual labour. Language became a tool of power. English emerged as the language of governance, opportunity, and legitimacy, while indigenous languages were confined to the private sphere. This colonial architecture laid the foundation for structural elitism, where access to power and resources became linked to cultural proximity to the colonial state.
Post-colonial Gambia inherited these structures almost intact. Independence changed the flag but not the logic of governance. The state remained centralised, elitist, and linguistically exclusionary. The political elite emerged largely from those communities that had earlier access to Western education and administrative roles. Over time, political power became increasingly personalised, and loyalty to individuals replaced loyalty to institutions. This personalisation of power intensified the logic of proximity. Being close to the presidency became more important than competence, integrity, or national representation. In this environment, tribal identity subtly transformed into political currency.
Today, tribalism in The Gambia is rarely expressed as open hostility. Instead, it manifests through patterns of appointment, recruitment, promotion, and representation. Certain tribes appear overrepresented in strategic state institutions, while others remain systematically marginalied. This overrepresentation is often justified as coincidence, merit, or demographic reality, yet the cumulative effect reveals a deeper structure of ethnic favouritism. When communities begin to notice that power circulates within narrow social circles, resentment grows. Silence becomes suspicion, and suspicion becomes silent conflict.
Elitism compounds this problem. A small political and economic class has emerged that is detached from the lived realities of the majority. This elite speaks a different language, not only linguistically but socially and psychologically. They inhabit air-conditioned offices, international conferences, and foreign bank accounts, while the masses struggle with unemployment, inadequate education, and fragile livelihoods. The elite is not defined only by wealth but by access to networks, information, and influence. In The Gambia, this elite often overlaps with specific ethnic and familial networks, creating a closed system of privilege that reproduces itself across generations.
Class segregation deepens the fracture. The child of a minister attends private schools, studies abroad, and returns to occupy strategic positions, while the child of a farmer or fisherman remains trapped in underfunded public schools, overcrowded classrooms, and limited prospects. Over time, inequality becomes normalized and even moralied. The successful are seen as deserving, the poor as lazy, and the structural barriers disappear from the national imagination. Yet behind this moral narrative lies a brutal reality of unequal starting points, unequal opportunities, and unequal outcomes.
Language is one of the most powerful instruments of this hidden segregation. The Gambian education system privileges English as the sole language of formal knowledge, employment, and mobility. Indigenous languages are excluded from serious intellectual and professional domains, reducing them to cultural symbols rather than tools of development. This linguistic hierarchy reproduces colonial elitism and alienates the majority of citizens from meaningful participation in national life. A child who grows up speaking Mandinka, Fula, Jola, or Wolof must first translate themselves into English before they can be recognised as intelligent, competent, or employable. In this process, knowledge rooted in local languages is devalued, and cultural confidence is replaced by linguistic insecurity.
The tragedy is that we hide this truth while loudly proclaiming national unity. We celebrate diversity in festivals and slogans but avoid confronting inequality in institutions. We insist that there is no tribal difference, yet we whisper about which tribe controls which ministry, which family dominates which sector, and which community is closest to power. This culture of denial prevents genuine reform. It allows injustice to persist without accountability and resentment to grow without dialogue.
The relationship between tribalism and the presidency is particularly revealing. In highly centralised political systems, the presidency becomes the ultimate source of opportunity. Appointments, contracts, scholarships, and promotions flow from presidential favour. This creates a political economy of loyalty, where individuals and communities compete for proximity rather than for national excellence. Over time, this logic transforms citizenship into patronage. People no longer ask what the state owes them, but who they must know to access it. In such a system, tribal and familial networks become survival strategies, not merely cultural identities.
This is not unique to The Gambia, but the small size of the country intensifies the effect. Everyone knows everyone, and power circulates within narrow social corridors. The danger is that political legitimacy becomes ethnic legitimacy. When one group perceives itself as permanently excluded from power, democracy loses its meaning. Elections become ethnic censuses, institutions become partisan tools, and national identity dissolves into competing loyalties.
The way forward requires intellectual honesty and structural courage. First, we must acknowledge that tribalism and segregation exist, not as emotional prejudices but as institutional patterns. Denial is not unity. Silence is not peace. True cohesion begins with truth. We must be willing to analyse representation in government, civil service, security forces, and economic sectors with empirical clarity. Who is present, who is absent, and why. Without this data driven honesty, reform becomes impossible.
Second, the education system must be radically reimagined. Language policy is not a cultural issue, it is a development issue. Indigenous languages must be integrated into formal education, not as symbolic subjects but as legitimate mediums of instruction. Research shows that children learn best in their mother tongues. A multilingual education system that values local languages alongside English would democratise knowledge, reduce elitism, and empower rural communities. It would also restore dignity to cultural identities that have been historically marginalised.
Third, public institutions must be insulated from political and ethnic patronage. Recruitment and promotion should be based on transparent meritocratic criteria. Independent oversight bodies must monitor representation and fairness. National service programs could promote interethnic interaction and shared civic values. The state must become a neutral space where all citizens see themselves reflected, not a battlefield of competing networks.
Fourth, leadership must shift from personalisation to institutionalism. No nation can develop when power revolves around individuals rather than systems. The presidency should be a constitutional office, not a cultural throne. Political parties must articulate national visions, not ethnic alliances. Civil society must cultivate critical citizenship, not passive loyalty. The media must expose structural injustice, not reproduce elite narratives.
Finally, we must cultivate a new philosophy of Gambian identity. An identity rooted not in tribe, class, or proximity to power, but in shared responsibility for collective progress. Diversity should be a resource, not a hierarchy. Difference should inspire curiosity, not competition. Unity should be built on justice, not silence.
The greatest danger facing The Gambia is not tribalism itself, but the illusion that it does not exist. When societies refuse to confront their internal contradictions, those contradictions eventually explode in unpredictable ways. The Gambian social contract can still be renewed, but only through courageous dialogue, structural reform, and ethical leadership. Tribalism, elitism, and segregation are not natural conditions. They are historical constructions, and what has been constructed can be deconstructed.
The future of The Gambia depends on whether we choose truth over comfort, justice over loyalty, and institutions over personalities. National unity is not achieved by pretending that we are all equal. It is achieved by building a system in which we actually are.
