By Florence Davey-Attlee , Suraj Karowa/ANW , November 21 ,2025
In the sweltering streets of Tanzania’s bustling cities, the promise of democracy crumbled under a hail of bullets.
A CNN investigation into the chaotic aftermath of last month’s presidential election reveals a grim toll: police and unidentified gunmen fatally shooting unarmed protesters, morgues overflowing with young bodies riddled with gunshot wounds, and fresh satellite imagery hinting at mass graves hastily dug to conceal the carnage.
The violence erupted following the October 29 vote, where incumbent President Samia Suluhu Hassan declared a landslide victory with 98% of the tally—amid widespread allegations of fraud and the exclusion of key opposition figures.
Chief rival Tundu Lissu, leader of the main opposition Chadema party, has languished in custody since April on treason charges, barred from the race.
Protests ignited as polls closed, with demonstrators decrying the shutdown of rivals and an abrupt internet blackout that severed the nation from the world.
What began as peaceful gatherings—youth waving placards and chanting for fair play—descended into horror.
Geolocated videos, corroborated by eyewitnesses and forensic audio experts, capture bursts of gunfire tearing through crowds armed with little more than rocks and sticks.
In Arusha, a northern hub of unrest, CNN pieced together a timeline of two chilling executions on election day.
At 3:27 p.m., about a dozen armed officers confronted a knot of young men at a dusty intersection. One protester hurls a stone; moments later, panic erupts.
A video, metadata-verified by CNN, shows a woman in a lavender blouse and hat—clutching a stick and rock—fleeing down the road.
A single shot rings out from 112 meters away, piercing her back. She crumples, blood staining her shirt, as comrades rush to her aid amid renewed volleys.
Forensic audio analysis by Montana State University’s Rob Maher pinpoints the firearm’s distance with precision: the “crack” of the bullet’s shockwave precedes the distant “boom” of the muzzle blast by milliseconds.
Family sources confirm the victim was three months pregnant, leaving a husband and two children. “She was running for her life,” an eyewitness whispered to CNN, voice cracking. “We tried to help, but the shots kept coming.” Minutes later, across the road, another video emerges: a man in a red shirt, hands empty, strides toward the police line. A rock sails from the crowd; a bullet finds his temple from 95 meters. He collapses in a pool of blood, the filmer murmuring in horror, “Oh my God, this is our Tanzania,” before reciting a Muslim prayer.
These weren’t isolated tragedies. Across Tanzania, from Dar es Salaam’s teeming alleys to Mwanza’s lakeside wards, the crackdown was relentless.
Drone footage from Segerea district shows white pickup trucks disgorging plainclothes gunmen—suspected undercover police—who prowl residential backstreets, firing into courtyards where protesters cower.
Uniformed officers shadow them in Ubungo, turning civilian enclaves into kill zones.
Morgues became grim monuments to the slaughter. At Mwananyamala Hospital in the capital, a geolocated video depicts dozens of bodies sprawled across blood-slicked floors, stacked like cordwood.
Tanzania’s Health Ministry dismissed it as fake on social media, but a grieving sister begs to differ. “That’s my brother,” she told CNN, voice hollow.
Shot dead on his balcony November 1, his corpse eluded frantic searches—until this footage surfaced.
Another sibling vanished in the Mara region’s chaos.
In Mwanza, outside Sekou-Toure Regional Referral Hospital, at least 10 bodies pile on a lone stretcher, per verified images.
An anonymous doctor, who treated the influx over four sleepless days, described the onslaught: “Police delivered them until the morgue overflowed. Then they stacked them outside.
All young men, gut-shot, chest-pierced, heads blown open. Some still twitched.”
He tallied varying consciousness levels among the wounded—abdomen, limbs, torsos ravaged by high-velocity rounds.
The human ledger grows darker. Viral Scout Management, a sports consultancy, mourned seven contracted soccer players gunned down at home; six remain unrecovered.
Chadema accuses authorities of vanishing hundreds. The UN Human Rights Office, drawing from on-ground sources, estimates “hundreds” slain, with untold injured or detained. A curfew and photo-sharing bans stifled evidence, but partial internet restoration unleashed a torrent of clips.
Burial sites whisper of cover-ups. In Kunduchi’s Kondo cemetery, north of Dar es Salaam, Planet Labs and Vantor satellites capture barren earth churned between November 2 and 5—60 meters from established graves.
Ground video reveals sandy furrows weaving through scrub, dotted with protruding roots and fabric scraps.
Human rights coalitions and locals insist it’s a mass pit for election dead. “They dug in secret,” one source said. “To erase the proof.”
Hassan’s regime stonewalled at first, denying fatalities outright. Last week, she conceded “some casualties” without numbers, unveiling a probe while hinting protesters were “paid agitators.”
Neither her office nor police answered CNN queries. The inquiry’s independence? Skeptics scoff, citing Lissu’s imprisonment and media muzzling.
Tanzania, long Africa’s stable beacon—drawing 2 million tourists yearly for safaris and spice—islands—now bleeds its democratic soul.
“This isn’t our Tanzania,” the Arusha filmer lamented. Yet in the face of buried truths and silenced screams, opposition voices endure. As the commission convenes, the world watches: Will justice unearth the graves, or deepen them?
Discover more from AMERICA NEWS WORLD
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
