08/02/2025
When Tribes Come Before Country: The Choice Facing Gambia.
By Jali Kebba
A week ago, a Gambian artist sat for an interview and was asked a simple question: “What are some of the challenges you have faced so far towards your vision of internationalizing Gambian music?”
His answer was one word — tribalism.
That single word lit a fire across the country. Within 24 hours, he was pressured to apologize. Social media exploded, radio stations debated endlessly, and the conversation quickly shifted from what he meant to whether he should have said it at all. In all the noise, one truth stood bare: tribalism is real, and we have never learned how to talk about it honestly.
In The Gambia, our first instinct is to identify by tribe. Ask a Gambian, “Who are you?” and you will often hear, “I am Mandinka,” or “I am Fula,” or “I am Jola” before you hear, “I am Gambian.” It’s so ingrained that most of us don’t even notice it. Yet this subtle instinct — to put tribe before country — runs deep into every corner of our society: from the way we vote, to the way we hire, to the way we marry, to the way we joke.
It would be comforting to believe this tribalism is harmless — just friendly teasing, playful rivalries at weddings, or lighthearted banter in taxis. But underneath, there is tension we rarely admit. A disagreement between two individuals can quickly spiral into a clash between entire communities. Elections often feel less about policies and more about surnames. Even casual jokes about tribe leave scars that linger long after the laughter fades.
The Gambia is not unique in this struggle. Across Africa, history is filled with examples of tribal tensions turning deadly. In Sierra Leone and Liberia, civil wars in the 1990s were fueled not just by greed and power but by deep ethnic and tribal divisions that neighbors turned against each other. In Sudan, the ongoing conflict between the Dinka and Nuer tribes has displaced millions and claimed countless lives, a stark reminder of how fragile peace becomes when identity is weaponized.
We often look at these tragedies and think, “That could never happen here.” But is that confidence justified, or is it denial? The Gambia may be small, but we are not immune. We have seen tribalism simmer quietly beneath our politics. We have heard it whispered in conversations when national decisions don’t go “our tribe’s way.” We have witnessed the small but telling moments when unity cracks — and those cracks are where real danger begins.
Look at Rwanda, perhaps the most striking lesson on this continent. In 1994, Hutu and Tutsi divisions exploded into genocide — one of the most horrific in modern history, with over 800,000 lives lost in 100 days. Rwanda’s path since then has been extraordinary: the government removed ethnic labels, banned divisive rhetoric, and deliberately rebuilt a national identity that simply says, “We are Rwandan.” That unity did not erase history, but it created a foundation for healing and progress.
Contrast that with us. We are not emerging from war. We have the gift of relative peace. And yet we do little to confront tribalism until it erupts in controversy, like the artist’s interview. We hush it up, demand apologies, and move on — without addressing the deeper questions: Why do we cling to tribe? Why does it feel safer than nation? And what would it take to reverse that?
Part of the challenge is education — not just formal schooling, but how we teach identity at home. Children learn tribal lines before they learn national ones. They hear the jokes, the stereotypes, the quiet warnings about who to marry or trust. Schools focus on colonial history, independence dates, and explorers from Europe — but rarely on the shared struggles and triumphs that bind Gambians together as one people. Our national story remains incomplete.
The result is a vacuum. Where national pride should live, tribal loyalty takes its place. And so every issue — from jobs to elections — is filtered through a lens of us versus them. Even when we don’t say it out loud, we feel it.
But here’s the truth: The Gambia is too small to afford this division. We are 2.7 million people in a rapidly changing world. The challenges we face — climate change, unemployment, migration, global competition — do not care about tribe. A rising sea level will not spare Mandinka farms or Fula livestock. A collapsing currency does not ask whether you are Jola or Serahule. We rise or fall together.
If we need proof that unity matters, we can look to Senegal, our closest neighbor. While tribal identities exist there too, Senegalese people are quick to say, “Je suis Sénégalais.” I am Senegalese. Their national identity comes first. It is not perfect, but it creates a shared sense of belonging. This is why they rally around their football team, their music, their flag — as one people. It’s something we should learn from, not envy.
Unity does not mean erasing culture. Our tribes are rich with traditions, languages, and histories worth celebrating. Mandinka kora music, Fula herding traditions, Jola rice farming, Serahule trade — these are gifts we bring to the national table. The problem is not pride in our culture. The problem is when pride turns into superiority or exclusion. The problem is when tribe becomes a wall instead of a bridge.
So what do we do? Waiting for government to fix this is naïve. Unity cannot be legislated; it must be lived. It starts with conversations in our homes — teaching children to say, “I am Gambian” with pride. It starts in schools, where civic education should highlight our shared struggles and heroes. It starts in media, which must stop amplifying stereotypes for entertainment and instead promote narratives that bring us together.
Most importantly, it starts with us — with how we treat each other every day. It is in the marriages that blend tribes. The friendships that defy stereotypes. The workplaces where merit is valued over surname. The jokes we stop telling because we finally realize they wound more than they amuse.
I have seen friendships collapse over tribal jokes that went too far. I have watched elections where surnames mattered more than manifestos. And I have felt that quiet discomfort when someone asks, “What tribe are you?” — knowing that my answer will instantly change how I am seen. These moments are small, but they add up. They shape how we vote, how we trust, and ultimately, how we build a nation.
Tribalism will not disappear overnight. It has been passed down quietly for generations. But so has something else: our ability to adapt, forgive, and unite when it matters most. We’ve seen Gambians rally together during religious celebrations, during Independence Day, during football matches. That same energy — that same pride — can be our foundation if we choose to nurture it.
We stand at a crossroads. Will we keep clinging to tribe, letting old divisions hold us back? Or will we finally build a Gambia where the first thing we say is not “Mandinka” or “Fula” but simply, and proudly, “I am Gambian”?
The choice is ours — and it may define whether this little country not only survives, but truly thrives.
