The Editor Zambia
Dr. Field C. Ruwe’s latest attack on Dr. O’Brien Kaaba, accompanied by his unreserved praise for Sishuwa Sishuwa, posted on Lusaka Times, raises an important question about the meaning of intellectualism in a democracy.
At what point did being an intellectual become synonymous with condemning the government, and when did criticism of a fellow academic become evidence of intellectual bankruptcy? 
Ruwe, a Zambian living in the United States, has developed a reputation for commenting freely on a wide range of issues affecting Zambia.
His interventions, however, sometimes give the impression of a man more interested in settling old scores than advancing balanced intellectual debate.
His targets have included veteran broadcaster Frank Mutubila and General Godfrey Miyanda, among others. His latest contribution, therefore, deserves scrutiny, particularly because it appears to substitute personal political preferences for a fair assessment of Kaaba’s arguments.
There is nothing wrong with disagreeing with Kaaba. Indeed, intellectual debate thrives on disagreement. What is objectionable is the assumption that because Kaaba does not subscribe to Ruwe’s preferred political narrative, he must be an academic who has surrendered his independence to the government.
Kaaba is an educated man whose academic credentials Ruwe himself acknowledges. His arguments should be examined on their substance, evidence, and logic rather than dismissed through politically loaded labels such as propagandist, partisan, or obsequious supporter of the State.
A doctorate does not make anyone infallible, but neither does disagreement with an outspoken critic of government automatically make one an intellectual sell-out.
Ruwe appears to suffer from a familiar intellectual temptation: confusing the excitement of radical criticism with the painstaking responsibility of scholarship.
Intellectual excitement can be intoxicating.
It encourages grand declarations, sweeping judgments, and the belief that the more fiercely one condemns those in authority, the more intellectually courageous one becomes.
But genuine scholarship is not a competition in political denunciation since it requires evidence, context, consistency, and a willingness to subject one’s own assumptions to the same scrutiny applied to others.
An academic who criticises the government is not automatically superior to one who acknowledges its achievements, challenges its opponents, or disagrees with a fashionable political position.
Ruwe invokes the University of Zambia student activism of the 1970s as an example of the intellectual courage supposedly missing from today’s academia.
The history of student activism deserves respect, but nostalgia should not be mistaken for a complete political philosophy.
University politics and the realities of governing a country are two different experiences. Many students who embraced Marxism, radical slogans, and revolutionary posturing eventually graduated into a world where the complexities of administration, economics, and national leadership demanded more than chanting “viva” and “abash”.
Consider Ben Chilufya, a former radical student union leader who reportedly wrote a letter in the Times of Zambia apologising to President Kenneth Kaunda for his earlier conduct.
His experience illustrates how political maturity can lead people to reconsider positions held passionately in their youth.
Cosmo Chola, another former student activist associated with the tribal political party the United Progressive Party (UPP), also moved into a different political camp from the radical environment with which he had previously been associated.
Such experiences demonstrate that political evolution is not necessarily betrayal; sometimes, it is the consequence of confronting reality beyond the university campus.
Self-exiled Azwell Banda, by contrast, has often been associated with the enduring culture of student-style radicalism, in which perpetual opposition can become an identity in itself.
Chibeza Mfuni’s subsequent association with the Movement for Multiparty Democracy (MMD) and service during the administrations of Presidents Levy Mwanawasa and Rupiah Banda similarly illustrates how political circumstances and personal convictions can change over time.
The lesson is not that former student activists were wrong to challenge Kaunda. Their activism contributed to important national debates. Rather, it is that youthful radicalism should not become the permanent yardstick by which intellectual integrity is measured.
Ruwe’s praise of Sishuwa Sishuwa is equally problematic when it appears to excuse the very conduct he condemns in others.
Sishuwa Sishuwa is entitled to criticise successive governments, including those of former president Edgar Lungu and President Hakainde Hichilema.
His arguments should be judged on their merits. But his willingness to criticise the government does not place him beyond scrutiny, nor does it justify treating every disagreement with him as evidence of academic compromise.
If Ruwe believes Kaaba is wrong, he should demonstrate precisely where his reasoning fails. If he believes the government has violated constitutional rights, he should provide evidence and explain the legal implications.
That is how serious intellectual debate advances. Personal attacks and declarations of academic superiority achieve little.
Zambia needs independent scholars, but independence does not mean automatic hostility towards those in power. It means the courage to speak truthfully, whether the evidence embarrasses the government or undermines its critics.
Ultimately, the test of an intellectual is not how loudly he condemns authority or how generously he praises a fellow critic.
It is whether he can think independently, argue honestly, and apply the same standards to friends and opponents.
Ruwe should remember that intellectualism is not a permanent student protest. It is the disciplined pursuit of truth, even when that truth refuses to conform to one’s political preferences.
