In a world increasingly shaped by politics and diverse forms of leadership, I’ve spent a great deal of time reflecting on the meaning and manifestation of democracy.
Growing up in post-Apartheid South Africa, the word “democracy” was more than just part of our curriculum—it was part of our national identity. The narrative was clear: democracy was synonymous with freedom, justice, with righting the wrongs of the past.
We were taught that multiparty systems were the hallmark of progress. The very idea of being able to vote for our leaders was something to be proud of, something that generations before us had fought and died for.
And so, I voted. Three times, I think. Sent representatives to Parliament and watched others take up powerful public offices. But somewhere along the way, I started asking myself: Is this really working for me?
Despite casting my vote, I found that my voice often got lost in the machinery of party politics.
The people I elected weren’t always the ones who ended up in power. Leadership decisions were made behind closed doors, with internal party politics determining who rose and who fell. Accountability became abstract—a performance for the party elite rather than a responsibility to the electorate. It left me disillusioned.
Then I moved to Eswatini.
Everything I’d heard prior to living there painted the country as backward and undemocratic, held hostage by tradition and monarchy. But I got to witness their elections firsthand, and I was stunned. There was something uniquely grounded about the process—it felt community-oriented, and transparent in a way I hadn’t expected. People elected their leaders directly from their communities.
Debates and deliberations took place in the open, in front of the very people whose lives would be affected. And yet, internationally, this system is often dismissed. Why? Who defines what democracy is? Must it always look like Washington, Westminster, or Brussels? And if not, who decides what counts?
Across the globe, democracy wears many faces. The United States and Switzerland are both democracies, yet they function through vastly different systems. One thrives on a two-party presidential model; the other favours consensus and a rotating presidency. India often hailed as the world’s largest democracy, operates through a mix of federalism and parliamentary traditions. Even among European states, the Scandinavian model differs significantly from those in the south.
So why is Eswatini’s Tinkhundla system denied the same legitimacy?
The Tinkhundla model is far from being a rigid autocracy. It is, in fact, a grassroots-based system that emphasizes local representation, cultural continuity, and national unity. In this system, political parties do not dictate electoral outcomes. Instead, individuals stand for elections based on merit and the trust of their communities. They are evaluated by their contribution, integrity, and vision, not by how well they conform to a party ideology.
This system flips the traditional model on its head. It removes the toxic partisanship that so often plagues politics. It puts real power in the hands of the people. Communities choose leaders they know, respect, and can hold directly accountable. There are no party lines to hide behind, no distant committees to defer blame to. Just people serving people.
Of course, like any system, Tinkhundla has its flaws. Challenges around youth inclusion, gender equality, and adapting to the digital age are real and pressing. But these issues exist in all democracies. No system is flawless. The question isn’t whether Eswatini’s model is perfect—it’s whether it works for the people it was designed to serve. And by many accounts, it does.
Leaders in Eswatini understand that their legitimacy is drawn from the people. Tinkhundla is not about rejecting democracy. It’s about redefining it in a way that speaks to our identity, our values, and our people.
The King, too, plays a crucial role—not as a dictator, but as a unifier and custodian of culture. His Majesty acts as a father figure to the nation. He listens, he consults, and above all, he ensures that the voice of the people finds its way to the heart of governance. This is done through national consultations, traditional councils, and forums such as Sibaya, which serve as platforms for citizens to speak directly to leadership.
If we define democracy as a system that amplifies the voices of the people, encourages accountability, and facilitates service delivery, then Eswatini deserves more credit than it gets. It is a nation that has chosen a different path—a path that aligns with its cultural DNA. And in doing so, it has preserved something the rest of the world seems to be losing: communal trust in governance.
Consider the state of many modern democracies today. Voter apathy is on the rise. Misinformation runs rampant. Electoral outcomes are often met with suspicion and division. The system is breaking down. Perhaps, instead of prescribing one-size-fits-all solutions, the global community should start listening to how local systems function. Maybe democracy is less about structure and more about spirit.
Eswatini’s model reminds us that democracy does not have to be adversarial. It does not need to divide us to work. It can be consultative, inclusive, and rooted in shared identity.
None of this is to suggest that reforms aren’t necessary. The world is changing rapidly, and every system must evolve to meet new demands. Eswatini is no exception. But the call for reform must come from within, from the Swati people themselves—not from external pressures trying to force-fit a different model.
True democracy honours the right of a nation to chart its own path. It values cultural sovereignty as much as it values civil liberties. And above all, it acknowledges that no single model holds the monopoly on justice, freedom, or representation.
As we look ahead to an increasingly interconnected world, we must allow space for a global democracy of democracies. Eswatini’s Tinkhundla system might not look like yours or mine, but it is democratic in its own right. It is not a relic of the past—it is an evolving system that deserves thoughtful engagement, not premature judgment.
If democracy is truly about the people, then the people of Eswatini have spoken. It’s time the world listened.
Karabo Ngoepe is the CEO of Rubicon Media Group in Eswatini. He is also a journalist and Pan-Africanist with a deep-rooted love for the continent. The opinions expressed are his and don’t represent those of the publication.
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