Aisha Tambajang

Though I grew up outside of The Gambia, it was a constant presence in my life. My strong sense of connection and responsibility is shaped by my parents and a wider diaspora community that never lost sight of home. Distance didn’t dilute our love, our responsibility, or our hope.

Even before my homecoming, I understood its weight. Words were measured, even abroad. Conversations often shifted tone or paused altogether. Many who left didn’t do so for adventure; staying simply wasn’t an option. Platforms like Freedom Newspaper and voices like Pa Nderry M’Bai and Pa Samba Jow became essential sources of undiluted information, shaping many of us who had never lived in The Gambia to understand its political and social complexity: a place marked by resilience and a collective longing for something more just.

Given the diaspora’s role in keeping the struggle alive, documenting abuses, and advocating internationally, it seemed only natural they would be part of shaping the future. The change in 2017 was not only the result of domestic political will. It was also the outcome of years of diaspora organising, support, and advocacy. But in the years that followed, that contribution hasn’t always translated into structured involvement or long-term inclusion.

There was a lot of talk about a “New Gambia.” I remember arriving in 2022 and noticing the visible energy as civic groups hosted dialogues and spoke openly about reforms. Yet, alongside that energy, familiar dynamics lingered. The expectation that things would be different met systems that were slow to shift.

The diaspora’s contribution is frequently acknowledged in symbolic terms. Yet its strategic involvement in development planning or national dialogue has been limited. Remittances are welcomed. Technical skills are appreciated. But deeper forms of collaboration are often kept at a distance. For many, it feels like being close, but still on the outside.

Those who return do so with a strong sense of commitment to contribute meaningfully. That commitment is not always met with openness. Public systems remain difficult to navigate, and decision-making processes are not always inclusive. The challenge is more about the absence of mechanisms that enable shared ownership and continuity.

The Gambia has undeniably changed. There is broader civic participation, an increasingly active civil society, and a journalism landscape that has become more assertive. These are meaningful shifts, but many underlying structural issues remain.

Remittances remain a central pillar of survival for many families, paying for school fees, covering health costs, and upholding parts of the national economy. The reliance on this external lifeline is critical, especially as the global development landscape disrupts assistance. Major donors like the U.S., U.K., and much of the E.U. have either frozen or redirected millions in aid, stalling governance and health programs. For a country where much of the national budget and core services have relied on external financing, these changes aren’t abstract. They affect jobs and daily life.

Remittances therefore emerge as one of the most stable and flexible forms of support we have. In 2024, Gambians abroad sent an estimated $775.6 million or about 31.5% of GDP. This places the country among the most remittance-dependent in the world. Yet those sending money often pay some of the highest transfer fees globally, especially from countries with large Gambian communities like the U.K.

If we want to speak honestly about development, we must expand who we see as part of the process. That means rethinking how diaspora contributions are captured, coordinated, and strategically included.

National strategies should create deliberate entry points beyond donations and symbolic consultation. This could involve matching diaspora investments in community-led initiatives, establishing permanent liaison offices that operate across ministries, or ensuring diaspora representation in sector working groups. These are not gestures; they are the foundation for building sustainable systems.

The Gambia’s story isn’t only unfolding within its borders. It is also being shaped in living rooms, bank queues, group chats, and boardrooms around the world. People who may never return permanently continue to contribute—not because they are waiting for recognition, but because home, for many of us, is carried, not claimed.

The diaspora is formally recognised as the nation’s “Eighth Region”. This recognition opens the door for deeper, more sustained engagement. But belonging is not a destination. It is something built and nurtured. Recognition must be matched with structure, trust, and space. If we are serious about building something lasting, our frameworks must reflect the full range of those committed to the nation’s progress.