Etheldreda D. Nanfa:

Thank you for accepting our invitation to interview Professor Maureen Maisha Auma. You are a leading educational scientist, and an expert in racism, diversity, criticism and intersectionality. We’re are glad to have you today 

Prof. Dr. Maureen Maisha Auma:

Thank you very much. I’m very happy to be here and I’m also very happy to support the Black Academy’s work. I am based in Berlin. As you said, my work focuses on critiquing anti-Black racism and advancing equality for people of African heritage, Black, African, and Afro-diasporic communities. I’m Kenyan by birth, and I moved to Germany to study after completing my education in Kenya. I’m a first-generation migrant who has lived in Northern Germany and now Berlin for most of my life. My background is in education and social work, with a focus on community organizing, development, and empowerment, particularly for marginalized communities. From the beginning of my work there has been an interest which I could not at that time formulate, but actually geared towards intersectional justice and intersectional solidarity. Since I was 19—I’m 51 now—I’ve been part of the Black queer feminist movement in Germany. I joined ADEFRA (Black Women in Germany), which has profoundly shaped my worldview, both personally and politically. It has provided a framework for understanding my experiences as a Black person intersecting with different exclusion systems and liberation movements.

Etheldreda D. Nanfa:

It’s truly fascinating to hear about your journey and activism. Let’s dive deeper into identity. You’ve touched on representation and your involvement with ADEFRA. Regarding the terms Afro-German, African diaspora, and Black people, how do you position yourself in the ongoing debate about identity and self-identification? Do these labels matter to you? What challenges have you faced due to your racial identity, and how have these experiences shaped your views on identity politics?

Prof. Dr. Maureen Maisha Auma:
I’ll start with the political context, then academia, and finally the personal aspect. In politics, claiming a marginalized identity as groups who have been historically marginalized has often been weaponized to argue against diversity or justify resource hoarding by privileged groups. Over the last 20 years, there’s been defensiveness, even within Black studies and anti-racism movements, toward identity politics. There’s this perception that marginalized identities are used to contest those historically privileged, which has been a site of tension. This form of defensiveness is a reality we’ve had to grapple with. I’m now at a point in my life—as an older person—where I try to reclaim the parts of my reality that impact me. Any part that affects my life is legitimate for me to understand and mobilize others in similar situations. This helps us have more agency and broader choices.

In German, I use the word “identity” to signify that certain aspects of our reality carry weight in how we exist in society. If something is important and influential in shaping our lives, it deserves attention.

Personally, I’m reclaiming the parts of my identity that shape my reality, validating any aspect that affects my life as legitimate for understanding and mobilizing collective action. For instance, I write about the experience of being a dark-skinned person with African heritage, who often hears “Africa” shouted at me on the streets. In my younger years, I was speechless about it, but now I always respond, reclaiming that energy. For example, I’ve written extensively about the experience of being a dark-skinned person identified with Africa and how, on the streets, people often shout “Africa” at me. When I was younger, I was speechless, but now I respond. I make sure to return the energy given to me. Otherwise, I internalize it at home, processing the unwanted attention. I never asked for that interaction, especially when it’s not meant to expand my space but to limit it. Drawing from Black knowledge, history, and resistance culture, if someone shouts “Africa” at me, I shout “colonizer” back.

It’s mostly white people who say this, creating a dynamic of trying to balance the power imbalance. Some might label it identity politics when it’s weaponized, but it’s not—it’s a response, and a healthy one, to a reality that continuously impacts my life as a dark-skinned person of African heritage. I’m often perceived as African, which is accurate in my case since I grew up in Kenya. I identify equally with Kenya and Germany, having lived in Germany for most of my life. However, my connections to these locations remain deeply significant.

In my academic work, I’ve aimed to create space for discussing historically marginalized subjects and communities, particularly BIPOC individuals affected by racism. Coming from a background in childhood studies and research, I’ve focused on understanding how early concepts of denormalization and marginalization—and even assaults on self-worth—affect individuals. An essential part of this work is recognizing that power dynamics often strip people of the language needed to criticize what is happening to them. I was expected to accept and normalize being called out, hearing people shout “Africa” at me across roads or subway stations, infusing public spaces with a view of me that is far from empowering.

I work to unpack these realities with children and youth, translating them into a language of analysis and critique. It’s important to recognize that the demographics in Germany are changing rapidly. For children up to the age of six, post-migrant children already make up the majority in many metropolitan areas. This demographic shift is redefining what we consider the norm. To keep pace with these changes, we must understand the realities of historically marginalized groups who are now navigating a societal structure that remains very white-centric and Western-centric.

On a personal note, to conclude, when I was a young woman of 19 in Kiel, North Germany, I struggled with intrusions into my personal space. Now that I’m 51, that chapter of my life has passed. At 19, however, I faced constant exposure to forms of sexualized violence against Black bodies. Without going into details of that violence, one of the first actions I took was attending a women’s self-defense course. This course was feminist but very white-centric, focusing solely on the issue of being preyed upon as a woman in a normalized rape culture. Half a year later, I was fortunate to attend another self-defense course led by two “hyphen Germans”: Ina Buddha Sisako, a Black East German social worker, and Moshkin Hamza, an Iranian-German psychologist. Both were feminists, and the space they created was transformative. It allowed me to understand not only how forms of oppression and exclusion are connected but also how resistance can be interconnected. This was in 1993, the year I joined ADEFRA (Black Women in Germany). ADEFRA has been a foundational part of my political, academic, and personal journey, influencing my work and family life. It has been an incredible adventure, although there have been times, as with many social-critical movements, when I felt disappointed—in others and myself. My expectations were sometimes unrealistic; I thought everything could be resolved within the movement.

The movement is not a paradise where everything is solved. However, I consider myself fortunate to have spent a large part of my life within it. It’s been 30 years now, but it’s not the only context in which I’m involved. ADEFRA collaborates closely with other Black organizations and people of colour groups. Over the past 20 years, we’ve partnered extensively with Omnia and Sintasa feminists. This coalition-building has been essential in addressing critiques that marginalized groups are merely practicing identity politics or are overly focused on their own identities.

When I started studying race in Northern Germany, my work was often questioned—people would ask, “Why are you doing this work? There’s no racism in Germany because there are no Black people here.” For a significant period, I was working against prevailing logic, with minimal support, to explore and understand Black lives in Europe. Now, there is more recognition that a Black European presence exists, and it is visible even in Eastern Europe. I’ll pause here, as I’ve opened up a broad topic.

Etheldreda D. Nanfa:

It’s triggering because you mentioned the systemic disparities present in Germany. Beyond these disparities and your involvement in the community, how do you envision reconciling the educational system for Black people? How can we integrate effectively into the system without facing the systemic biases present in German society? What would be your solution, especially for young people struggling with identity formation—feeling as if they don’t fit anywhere, neither here nor there? What would your advice be for them?

Prof. Dr. Maureen Maisha Auma:

So I’m going to start with the negative and then I’m going to talk about the strategies towards transformation.
The negative aspect is that the educational system is one of the subsystems most deeply entrenched in exclusion. The goal often seems to be to discourage people from using education as a means to broaden their choices and opportunities. There appears to be an intentional effort to maintain limitations. When examining the racialized and gendered labour markets, it’s evident that there is a structure designed to exploit certain groups and confine them to specific areas of employment. This structure only makes sense if there is a vested interest in maintaining an unequal society. While everyone might claim that they are not invested in inequality, the reality often suggests otherwise. Germany is one of the worst offenders when it comes to educational disparity, not just along class lines and so-called social heritage, but also through racist norms. Educational systems in Germany have historically been exclusive. If we consider gender, for example, we see that women were only allowed to enter higher education at the end of the 19th century. The first women’s movement was, in fact, a fight for educational participation. This shows that the system has not been inclusive for very long.

Post-World War II, Germany had two separate states with distinct educational systems. Now, in the present, we have a system that claims to offer education for all and presents an idealized image of inclusivity. However, when we look at global comparisons, such as the PISA studies, Germany clearly falls short of this promise. This highlights that education—and the health sector—are subsystems where racism remains deeply entrenched.

Now, to address the strategies for overcoming these issues: the path to empowerment and educational liberation is through community. Empowerment requires sharing risks and supporting one another. It’s important to recognize that the situation varies greatly depending on where one is in Germany. Being in school in Kiel, Hamburg, Stuttgart, Dresden, Leipzig, Berlin, or Frankfurt presents different realities. Frankfurt, for example, is one of the most diverse places in Germany, so the chances of having Black teachers are higher there. This presence is vital because knowledge is embodied, and if certain bodies are missing from educational spaces, the unique knowledge and experiences they carry are also absent. Yet, as more Black and marginalized individuals enter these spaces, they often face conflicts and moments of backlash.

Far-right populism plays a significant role in disrupting social spaces. While it’s encouraging to see more teachers entering the system, many of whom are impacted by racism, we must recognize that individuals alone cannot solve the problem. Drawing from my research on children’s literature, when examining the 20th century, for example, over a span of 100 years, we notice that inclusivity, equality, and critiques of stereotypes are at their strongest when socially critical movements are active and intervene in discourse and education.

However, once these movements believe that progress has been achieved and pull back, we often regress. The 1970s were more progressive than the 1990s and 2000s. The notion of linear progress simply does not exist.

To conclude my answer, it’s crucial to emphasize the importance of risk-sharing and collective action. In cities like Berlin, we have many community organizations that have become professionalized and are actively working in the education sector. Initiatives such as Each One Teach One, the Competence Network for People of African Descent, and the Black Academy are examples of community-based organizations that have integrated into society’s institutions, fulfilling the vision of supporting those whose lives are negatively affected by racism.

Lastly, while these community efforts are essential, teacher training and education systems still lag behind. They remain predominantly white-centric and Western-centric, failing to reflect the realities of current demographic shifts. There’s a saying, “Migration keeps us young,” which highlights the evolving nature of society that educational systems must catch up with.

I am a strong believer in migration and consistently advocate for its decriminalization. Our lives and the quality of our lives depend on it. In an interview I gave at the end of 2020, I argued that our educational institutions would not function without the labour of those working in essential roles—cafeteria staff, security personnel, and cleaning staff. This statement triggered an intense backlash from the far right. I pointed out that if the cleaning staff, for example, stopped working for even half a day or a single day at a university or the Ministry of Education, the rest of us wouldn’t be able to continue our work. I emphasized this during the peak of the lockdown.

At that time in 2020, I argued that these workers were physically standing between us and the risk of illness, preventing us from carrying sickness back to our families. Yet, this meant they were also at risk of falling ill and putting their own families in danger. This highlighted the need for shared responsibility and risk-sharing. This idea ties back to intersectional solidarity and justice. For me, it’s about the interconnectedness of our lives.

When I talk about education, I mean all of us, not just the students I teach. The article I mentioned was actually an interview conducted on December 19, 2020. I’ll never forget that date, for obvious reasons.

December 19th is a significant day known as the hashtag day for gender studies—an action and academic day dedicated to gender studies. At the start of 2021, I began receiving calls from people telling me I was going viral because a meme had been created about me. I had always wanted a meme, but I didn’t expect my first one to be a far-right meme that used my image with messages saying my institution should ‘cut me down to size’ and that there should be efforts to ‘prevent racism against white people.’ The comments were the most distressing part, making the entire experience awful. For younger scholars, an event like this would be even more damaging. I was fortunate to be at a stage in my career where I was already a professor and older, with a substantial support network. If something like this had happened to me at 21, it would have been far more harmful.

During this time, many people reached out to interview me, mostly from white-centric media outlets. They wanted me to explain what was racist about what had happened, but their questions carried an undertone of skepticism about my claim of racism. I suggested that the more interesting topic would be to explore the far-right claim that there is racism against white people. I proposed they interview the person who propagated that idea and let him explain his thesis, as that would be a new field of study. The situation continued from there.

I realize I’ve gone on a long tangent from your question, but I wanted to illustrate the pitfalls of the education system as well as highlight the presence of resistance. This resistance is rooted in risk-sharing.

Etheldreda D. Nanfa:

Listening to you discuss these topics, it becomes clear that all these concepts and notions are deeply interconnected.When you speak about risk-sharing, inclusivity, and interconnected operations, it leads me to ask: in an era where we’re witnessing an increase in right-wing extremism in Germany, alongside discussions about the educational system and systemic discrepancies, what should be done? Are we genuinely progressing, or are we moving backward? How can we unify the educational system when it varies from state to state? Where can we find uniformity in knowledge, especially at a time when we are facing Black oppression, police brutality, and complex views on migration and ‘reimmigration’? What is your take on these challenges?

Prof. Dr. Maureen Maisha Auma:

I’m going to try and address two main points. First, I am an institutionalist. I strongly believe that institutions need to function for everyone. If they don’t, it’s a failure for society. And we all know the argument: we pay taxes. But even those not paying taxes and working in the informal or illegalized labour market contribute by picking our oranges.

We wouldn’t have oranges coming out of Greece without the labour of undocumented people. I’m deeply pragmatic and advocate for a practical approach. I recognize that I’m able to speak differently now because I’m in a different part of the system and older. I also acknowledge that younger scholars or activists may not be able to speak the way I do. This makes it important to have balanced strategies—“abatteilung”—to support those aiming to reform and restructure society toward greater justice and resource redistribution, including within academia.

In my current position, I can speak with some institutional weight and limited power, and I believe it’s essential to critique institutions, apply pressure, and support them in working better for us. In a recent article co-authored with Peggy Piesche and Katja Kinder, we discussed diversity mainstreaming as a way to integrate equity into institutional routines, making them more inclusive for those impacted by racism. Institutions often claim, “We are for everyone,” but experiences differ significantly between those for whom spaces are designed and those for whom they are not.

This discrepancy is supported by empirical studies, including research on academic institutions and the children of academics.

I don’t have children, but if I did, my child would be the child of an academic, growing up with an embodied understanding of academic spaces. When such a child enters an academic institution, they can function more comfortably because the institution isn’t constantly subjecting them to violence. On the other hand, if someone comes from a working-class background—like my mother, who was the first in her family to pursue higher education—their experience would be very different. Entering academic spaces would mean facing constant messages that undermine self-worth, suggesting they don’t belong, questioning their intelligence, and making them feel inadequate.

This underscores the need for institutional repair. Just as gender mainstreaming employs a variety of strategies and steps for reform, diversity mainstreaming can adopt a similar approach. Setting that aside for a moment, recent empirical studies, such as the National Racism and Discrimination Monitor (NaRaSka), have revealed findings that were unexpected but significant.

For instance, people who migrate, especially from the Global South, and come to Germany tend to have higher levels of trust and support for public institutions. One finding emerged during the COVID pandemic, specifically in 2021 and 2022, showing that people like myself responded in supportive ways toward public institutions.

With regard to the health system, migrants showed higher confidence and support for public health measures, even when strict rules were imposed—some of which we agreed with and others we did not. Despite this, it became evident that migrants appreciated public institutions more than many white citizens in Germany. The notion of citizenship is skewed; efforts are often focused on educating migrants, but recent trends show that many segments of the white population also need political education. These are the individuals who are less supportive of public institutions.

The belief that newcomers to the nation lack an understanding of democracy has been challenged. We’re now in a completely different situation, especially with the rise of the far right. To address how we respond to this resurgence, it’s important to understand that concepts like “remigration” represent ritualized violence. Such violence continues to manifest in white-centric and Western-centric institutions and nations founded on colonial legacies that have not critically examined their colonial history.

Germany, for instance, has formally apologized for the genocide against the Herero and Nama people from 1904 to 1908, but there have been no substantial moves toward truth and reconciliation or restorative justice. Because this has not happened, the afterlives of these colonial governance malpractices persist and resurface in different forms.

I am emotionally affected by talk of “remigration” because I know it endangers lives, particularly those of Black, Afro-diasporic, and African communities. I’m shocked but not surprised, as this violence is not an anomaly but a feature of a system that continues to reproduce violence and cultural imperialism against formerly colonized people, whose resources, like coltan, diamonds, or gold, are still exploited.

In conclusion, my response to far-right resurgence is solidarity.

My answer to classism and its divisions is solidarity. This is why I emphasize that we cannot do the work we do without cafeteria workers, cleaning staff, and security personnel. This applies beyond academia to broader society, where roles like caregiving and caretaking are often outsourced to migrants, including undocumented workers. I regret using the term “illegal” earlier; it is a repressive term. These individuals, including those picking our oranges, nectarines, peaches, and tomatoes in places like Greece, are part of a system that we must acknowledge. Recognizing this interconnectedness is the first step toward empathy, shared space, and equitable resource distribution.

For me, and this will be my concluding thought, it’s essential to speak to young people with empathy but also with critical thinking. I was deeply shocked by the results of the EU elections, which showed a significant number of young people aged 18 to 24 voting for far-right and libertarian parties. What surprised me even more was the disaggregated data showing that first-generation migrants, Afro-Germans, Black Germans—including fourth-generation individuals—and people with Turkish or Arab backgrounds were among those voting for parties that dehumanize them. This realization was unsettling. The approach, however, should not be one of condemnation. I initially felt a strong sense of exasperation and annoyance, but there is value in engaging in conversation. Many of these young voters may be falling for simplistic promises—such as the freedom to drive as fast as they want on highways or the allure of an empty notion of freedom that implies the ability to do anything, even exploit or oppress others. This subtext is present, even if unspoken.

We must also acknowledge movements like the Gen Z activists in Kenya who fight for good governance, primarily through social media. These examples remind us that meaningful change and awareness can come from various places.

Since I don’t have TikTok, I interact with it through other means. I know that if I did have it, I’d spend all my time on it. I follow TikTok content through reposts on Twitter and by engaging in conversations to understand the language and interests of younger generations, and to learn how we might be failing them. As a member of Generation X, I admit we have failed politically in some respects. This recognition is part of self-critique and openness to dialogue.

There is value in not being afraid to be wrong. In social-critical movements, there is often a desire to be perfectly correct, with no room for error. When mistakes are made, the reaction can sometimes be harsh, making individuals feel devalued. It’s important to create a space where learning together is possible while still holding people accountable. This isn’t just about personal freedoms, like being able to drive at 250 kilometers per hour on the highway. Conversations should include confronting people with the implications of their choices and the rhetoric aimed against them. Presenting them with a list of what others are saying they intend to do to them and their families can be eye-opening. This is not only about fighting for votes but also for genuine support.

I often start my courses by telling my students, “This is how you can support me.” It’s an unconventional way to begin, but it sets the tone for mutual accountability and understanding. They are usually a bit puzzled when I start a course by explaining how they can support me. But I also emphasize that in my courses, we engage in care work—analytical work, interrogating ideas, and working on texts. More importantly, we create space for a certain type of learning where mistakes are allowed. This is what I offer them, and it’s where I need their support. Somewhere within this structure lies the politics of solidarity and a way of engaging that I believe some students seek in far-right spaces.

Far-right parties, which I won’t name, employ certain mobilizing strategies that can seem welcoming, in contrast to the sometimes uninviting nature of social-critical spaces. We need to challenge this. This topic is deeply personal to me, which is why I’ve spoken about it at length. 

Etheldreda D. Nanfa:

Your recent project focused on making visible the discrimination and social resilience of people of African heritage in Berlin. You’ve spoken about governance malpractices and solidarity, and today’s sociopolitical climate is filled with discussions on intersectionality and decolonization. Earlier, you mentioned Germany’s attempts at reparatory justice for Namibia, although we are still far from substantial progress.

In this context—considering immigrants, African communities in Germany, and the various movements at play—how did your project address systemic discrimination? How do you actually envision to drive public awareness towards more interconnectedness between all these different loopholes in the government? And how well can grassroot organisations empower marginalised communities? 

Prof. Dr. Maureen Maisha Auma:

The UN Decade consultation process took place in 2018, and we only had nine months to complete this work, so the timeframe was very tight. The UN Decade for People of African Heritage began in 2015 and officially ends this year, in 2024.However, there are indications that the decade might be extended, which we hope will happen. At that time in Berlin, there was a coalition—a political constellation—supporting the implementation of the UN Decade. This political support was the only reason we were able to secure resources to conduct structured work.

When we began in March 2018, my colleagues Peggy Piesche and Katja Kinder were initially hesitant. They were concerned about the limited funding and the short timeline. However, we have a long tradition of convincing each other to take on challenging projects in rotation, and this time I persuaded them to proceed. I argued that it would provide resources to support the community work we were already doing without funding.

Our official partner within the administration was the Department for Equal Treatment and Against Discrimination. We were fortunate to have this partnership because working outside the administrative structure while collaborating with it can be very challenging and costly for community organizers. The Department for Equal Treatment brought an understanding of anti-discrimination realities and a professional sensitivity to these issues.

Over the nine months, with the funds we had, our objective was to make visible the discrimination faced by people of African heritage. Within our community, this discrimination is well-known; when we share stories of everyday racism, everyone can relate and say, “Yes, that happened to me.” The challenge was making this reality visible to the administration. Given the tight time frame, we developed several formats to reach as many community members as possible without compromising the analytical rigor of our work. We had two main objectives, the first of which was to increase understanding of anti-Black racism.

To truly understand how anti-Black racism operates on a daily level, we examined its presence across various subsystems: the health sector, the justice system—including so-called security measures like racial profiling—and the education sector. We also explored cultural productions, which revealed some deeply disturbing findings, including violent portrayals where Blackness was depicted not just in stereotypical but dehumanizing ways.

We organized working groups for each subsystem, compensating participants for their contributions. These groups were tasked with documenting and recording instances of everyday racism within their respective sectors. The participants were predominantly individuals already engaged in anti-racism work, all of African heritage—African, Afro-diasporic, and Black people. Many had completed significant academic work in these areas, such as bachelor’s or master’s theses or ongoing PhD projects, which they could draw upon. However, we didn’t limit participation to researchers alone, as we aimed to capture everyday racism in its many forms.

We aimed to examine the reality of the field across various sectors, and some intriguing findings emerged, particularly in health care. This is a field where entry barriers are lower compared to others due to the high demand for medical professionals—nurses, caregivers, and doctors. Historically, both East and West Germany recruited nurses and doctors from countries like Vietnam and Korea, which is quite remarkable. Similarly, there has been a strong presence of African professionals across generations in nursing and medicine, including many Black doctors.

However, this sector also exhibited blatant racism. Patients sometimes refused treatment from Black doctors, and Black doctors were often mistaken for cleaning staff or food service workers. While there is no inherent problem with being mistaken for these roles, it becomes an issue when the same demographic—women, Black individuals—is consistently misidentified. Conversely, certain demographics are consistently presumed to be supervisors or higher-ranking professionals.

If role assumptions were randomly distributed, it would be fair, as we might say in my childhood in Kenya, “we do guesswork.” But when the same groups are always seen as lower in the professional hierarchy, it signifies a deeper problem. To summarize, in nine months, we facilitated various formats for the working groups and held larger forums, including a community day at the Workshop of Culture, which was then led by a Black woman director. We also included youth programming designed by Judy Trink Lutizamo, a Black primary school teacher in Berlin, who created an innovative outdoor game called “Blacktastic” focused on Black knowledge.

We documented these efforts, including photo records, to inspire future generations and those seeking new formats. Unfortunately, the game has not been scaled up for broader distribution. This reflects a frustration shared by many: the lack of resources to expand such initiatives. However, these efforts led to deeper conversations about how we teach and advance understandings of anti-Black racism.

And how do we advance equality for people of African heritage? I forgot to mention that our two main objectives were: first, to foster a critical understanding of anti-Black racism, and second, to promote equality for people of African heritage. We compiled our findings into a publication released by the Federal Agency for Civic Education. Peggy Piche was instrumental in pushing us to complete this, as we aimed to contribute to existing blueprints and the concept of scalability—developing strategies, models, and formats that can be effectively distributed. I believe that greater institutional support is necessary to make this work scalable so that it can reach people outside major cities like Berlin, Frankfurt, and Stuttgart. For instance, I lived in Kiel for a long time, in Schleswig-Holstein, and felt I didn’t have the same access as someone living in Berlin. That’s one reason I moved to Berlin. Kiel in the 1990s was different from what it is today, and now I’d actually consider living there again. This highlights the importance of sharing resources and making initiatives more scalable.

Etheldreda D. Nanfa:

Professor Maisha, I would like to ask a question about sharing resources and increasing the visibility of the work being done. Given the concentration of Africans and Black people in Germany, how can we assess the impact of the UN Decade and the awareness of Africans about the UN Decade for People of African Descent? How aware are they of the work being done? If you were to provide recommendations on areas where the UN Decade may have fallen short—since you mentioned earlier that you hope for an extension, possibly for another decade—how would you evaluate its successes and limitations?

Prof. Dr. Maureen Maisha Auma:

I’ll start with a slightly pessimistic perspective. Unfortunately, Germany began engaging with the UN Decade very late. While community activists did initiate some activities in 2015, official strategies were fragmented and started much later. Berlin stands as an exception, being only one of the 16 states in the Federal Republic to engage with the UN Decade in a structured way. This was only possible because the coalition of the Green Party, the Left Party, and the Social Democrats put political weight behind the UN Decade and prioritized it.

The implementation of the UN Decade was included in the coalition contract of these three parties in 2016 and reiterated in their 2021 coalition contract.

Then, the worst-case scenario from the perspective of Black communities in Berlin happened in 2022, when the election had to be repeated. This was due to holding the election on the same day as a marathon, which caused significant issues, leading to the need for a repeat. The repeat election only covered the state of Berlin and not the Federal Republic, resulting in very low voter turnout. As is often the case with low turnouts, social-critical movements and their concerns did not take center stage. The new coalition government, composed of the Berlin Christian Democratic Party and the Social Democratic Party of Berlin, did not include the implementation of the UN Decade in their coalition contract, despite our lobbying efforts. This highlights how formal recognition frameworks can serve as launch pads for societal and institutional change. The declaration of a decade dedicated to people of African heritage provided a transnational instrument of recognition. When states began implementing it, they added significant weight, propelling further action.

Berlin’s setback is tragic. However, its administrative system, particularly the Berliner Landesstelle für Gleichbehandlung – gegen Diskriminierung (the Agency for Equal Treatment), has continued prioritizing the UN Decade’s goals even without coalition support. This has allowed some resources and projects to continue advancing the objectives of the UN Decade.

Hamburg has now surpassed Berlin, which is acceptable. Hamburg has developed a Senate strategy for the UN Decade, and Schleswig-Holstein, where I previously lived, has also been actively working on initiatives tied to the UN Decade. As we near the formal end of the UN Decade, I first heard of its potential extension at the transnational level. As a board member of the Association for the Study of the Worldwide African Diaspora, I learned during an April board meeting that Brazil and other Latin American countries are leading efforts to extend this transnational recognition framework. Brazil and Peru have played pivotal roles in advocating for the extension, and in North America, Canada has also been at the forefront of this push. Both Brazil and Canada have conducted Afro-censuses, showing tangible commitment. However, there has been insufficient transnational commitment overall, particularly in Black Europe, where more work is needed to strengthen participation in the UN Decade’s initiatives.

Germany has been lagging behind and is now being carried, more or less, toward this important objective. At the federal level, there is now a commission for the implementation of the UN Decade, which was established in February 2022. The UN Decade is ending in 2024, yet Germany only began this work at the federal level in 2022,underscoring how delayed the response has been.

This delay was prompted by tragic events. In May 2020, George Perry Floyd Jr. was killed in Minnesota, sparking worldwide outrage. Shortly before that, there was the assassination of Walter Lübcke in Kassel by far-right actors, and the attacks in Halle and Hanau in February 2020. These events created a window for public discussion on racism, including anti-Black racism. In the aftermath, a catalog of measures was developed, which included the implementation of the UN Decade at the federal level.

Germany’s late response to this transnational initiative highlights the need for the UN Decade’s legitimacy and continued presence. From what I gather from various transnational spheres, including UNESCO in Europe and the European Cities Coalition Against Racism, it appears likely that the decade will be extended. This would be an essential tool for Black Europeans and people of African heritage in Europe. However, a structured approach is crucial. Merely having the decade does not suffice; strong partnerships within the political sphere and administrative systems are needed. We do have some political representation, such as Awet Tesfaiesus, a member of the German Bundestag from Kassel and a lawyer, and Karamba Diaby, who is now an outgoing member of Parliament of African heritage. At both the federal and state levels, there are representatives who are organized under Mandatsträger*innen afrikanischer Herkunft (Representatives of African Descent). However, they require significant support from allies within their political parties, as they cannot carry this burden alone. That’s the current situation. I wish we were further along. It’s already almost November—tomorrow marks the start of a new month.

Besides, we are now in the last two months of the final year of the UN Decade. It would be ideal to be in a better position, but this is our current reality. As always, there is significant engagement from the communities, yet the political and administrative response does not match our level of commitment. They need to rise to meet our efforts. I’ll stop here for now, with the hope that we can continue building partnerships and coalitions so that we can all move toward a common goal.

Etheldreda D. Nanfa:
You have shared so much, and we will greatly benefit from your insights. How would you like us to celebrate you and your work? In the context of Afro-descendants and Black people in Germany, how can we best honour your achievements in a meaningful way? Are there any specific dates or experiences that hold particular significance for you that you would like to see commemorated in the future? Any moments or memories you’d like to share that should be recognized?

Prof. Dr. Maureen Maisha Auma:
So, I’m going to say two things. I am a proud Kenyan diaspora, and everything Kenyan resonates with me. I constantly talk about Kenya, so anything that honours the current political transformation process there would mean a lot to me. I’m active on all social media platforms—yes, I’m that old—with my real name. My Twitter feed, for instance, is filled with Kenyan content. I am inspired and, in many ways, humbled by the courage of the movement I’ve been following since late June of this year. Their significant day, which they call their revolution day, is June 25th. I support them with a critical consciousness because, while they are ideologically diverse, there’s still a long way to go for them to achieve good governance and make their systems work. Highlighting this movement would be meaningful to me.

I also listen to a lot of Kenyan music and love Swahili. I speak Kiswahili and Luo, and I’m currently learning West African Pidgin. My passion for languages is immense, and I had always thought that when I turned 50, I’d learn something new. Surprisingly, it turned out to be  a West African Pidgin. Learning it has been inspiring, not because my partner is West African, but because it allows me to connect with the realities of West African communities in a way that goes beyond English. It was a delightful surprise of my 50s.

My learning journey includes binge-watching Nollywood films on YouTube. I started with Netflix—watching films like King of Boys—and then transitioned to YouTube for more Nollywood content. This has been my method of learning Pidgin, and it’s been enjoyable.

What’s most important to me, though, and has come out strongly in my scholarship since 2020 and the lockdowns, is a deep sense of interconnectedness. It’s about intersectional solidarity, clarity in how we share power, and the humility that comes from working within collectives. I’m thrilled that my work resonates with others and that people take pride in what I do. I deeply appreciate this recognition.

During COVID, I feared we might never gather in shared, physical spaces again. While I love virtual spaces—they suit me well—nothing compares to being together in person. I’m now enjoying being in physical spaces once more and engaging with others. The sense of interconnectedness, the idea of “lifting as we climb,” and holding the door open for others to join—that’s what I value most. Honoring this, and supporting the collective good while acknowledging individual strengths, reflects the essence of my work. Any work that aligns with these values feels like a validation of what I’m doing.Etheldreda D. Nanfa:
Thank you, Professor Maisha, for sharing such deep insights into concepts like identity, resilience, community empowerment, and your work with marginalized communities.