Makerere University’s decision to enforce virtual guild campaigns may appear prudent on the surface, but it risks becoming a convenient substitute for confronting a deeper institutional failure. Instead of treating the root causes of election violence, the university is, quite literally, plugging the anus while the diarrhoea persists.
Makerere is going to the polls today after initially freeing public space to allow physical guild campaigns only to turn around and ban it again.
Makerere is not just any institution. It is the country’s premier academic centre, home to scholars, researchers, and entire departments dedicated to conflict resolution, governance, and peace studies. It teaches negotiation, mediation, and democratic practice at the highest levels—including PhD research.
It hosts public lectures, intellectual debates, and policy dialogues on how societies can manage disagreement without descending into violence. Yet when confronted with its own internal conflict, the university retreats into prohibition rather than practice.
That contradiction should trouble anyone who takes academia seriously.
If Makerere cannot apply the principles it teaches within its own student body, what credibility does it retain when advising governments, civil society, or international partners on conflict management? A university that defaults to restriction rather than resolution risks exposing a gap between theory and practice—a gap that undermines both its authority and its purpose.
There are multiple cases that illustrate why this approach is deeply flawed.
First, banning physical campaigns does not eliminate the underlying tensions that produce violence. It merely displaces them. Political rivalries, ethnic alignments, ideological differences, and personal ambitions do not disappear because rallies are prohibited. They go underground, where they are less visible, less regulated, and potentially more volatile. Suppressing expression is not the same as resolving conflict; in many cases, it intensifies it.
Second, Makerere is missing an opportunity to model the very democratic resilience it claims to teach. Universities are meant to be laboratories of society—spaces where difficult ideas are tested, where disagreement is managed constructively, and where future leaders learn how to engage without resorting to force.
By removing physical engagement altogether, the institution denies students the chance to learn how to conduct peaceful campaigns, manage crowds, negotiate tensions, and de-escalate conflict in real time. These are not theoretical skills; they are lived experiences.
Third, the decision creates a troubling parallel with state repression of public assembly. For years, critics have challenged governments across Africa for restricting rallies, protests, and political gatherings in the name of “security.” Makerere has often been at the forefront of intellectual critique against such measures, hosting debates on civil liberties and democratic space.
Yet by banning physical student campaigns, the university risks mirroring the very logic it critiques. It becomes difficult to argue convincingly for open civic space at the national level when the country’s leading academic institution is narrowing its own.
Fourth, there is the issue of selective enforcement and institutional consistency. If the university allows other forms of physical gathering—academic events, social functions, religious meetings—why are political assemblies uniquely singled out for restriction? This raises legitimate concerns about fairness and whether the policy is addressing violence or simply avoiding the complexity of managing it.
Fifth, virtual campaigns themselves are not a neutral solution. They introduce new inequities. Not all students have equal access to stable internet, digital platforms, or the visibility that physical presence provides.
Campaigns become skewed toward those with better resources, stronger online networks, or institutional backing. In attempting to create safety, the university may inadvertently undermine the inclusiveness and competitiveness of student democracy.
Sixth, history shows that institutions grow stronger not by avoiding crises, but by confronting them. Makerere has navigated political upheavals, strikes, and national transitions over decades. Each moment required engagement, reform, and internal reckoning.
Election violence is no different. It demands investment in conflict prevention mechanisms—structured debates, trained marshals, mediation teams, clear enforcement of rules, and accountability for perpetrators—not a blanket withdrawal from physical interaction.
Seventh, there is a cultural dimension. Violence in guild elections did not emerge overnight; it developed over time, shaped by broader political norms, incentives, and impunity. Changing that culture requires deliberate effort—education, leadership, and consistent consequences—not the suspension of the arena in which it manifests. If anything, removing physical campaigns delays the necessary cultural shift.
None of this is to dismiss the real and painful history of violence at Makerere. Lives have been lost, and the responsibility to prevent further tragedy is undeniable. But safety cannot become an excuse for institutional avoidance. The question is not whether the university should act, but how it should act.
A university of Makerere’s stature should be leading by example—demonstrating how a complex, politically active community can manage competition without descending into chaos. It should be investing in systems that make physical engagement safer, not abandoning it altogether. It should be applying its intellectual resources to its own challenges, proving that the theories taught in lecture halls can withstand the pressures of real-world practice.
Otherwise, the message is clear: when conflict becomes difficult, even the most learned institution in the land chooses silence over solution.
Makerere must do better.