Zambia is on the verge of a major shift in the regulation of public assembly. Parliament’s proposed Public Gathering Bill, 2026 seeks to repeal the colonial-era Public Order Act, 1955, a statute that has shaped the relationship between the State, political actors and civic organisations for over seventy years. This is not legislative housekeeping. It is a constitutional reckoning. The real question is whether Zambia is genuinely widening civic space or simply teaching an old security reflex to speak the language of rights.
A close reading of both laws reveals significant
continuity, but also notable departures in structure, philosophy and procedural
safeguards. On balance, the 2026 Bill represents a more rights-based framework
than the 1955 Act, although certain discretionary powers remain broad enough to
invite concern.
The Public Order Act, 1955 was
enacted in late-colonial Northern Rhodesia at a time when public order laws
across the British Empire were designed not to empower subjects to gather, but
to ensure that when they did, the Crown knew where, when, and how quickly they
could be sent home with broken bones and reoriented dental formulae. Thence, its
stated purpose must be understood within that broader colonial logic of
security, surveillance and executive authority.
The 2026 Bill, at least in its drafting philosophy, swaps
the vocabulary of command for the vocabulary of constitutionalism. Its
memorandum explicitly states that one of its objects is “to promote the
protection of the freedom of assembly and association”. Section 4 imposes
affirmative duties on authorised officers to protect peaceful assembly, freedom
of expression, freedom of movement, and freedom from arbitrary arrest, torture
or degrading treatment. Such language is entirely absent from the 1955 Act, which
contains no rights-based obligations on police.
A provision-by-provision comparison
shows where the shift is most pronounced.
First, both laws retain a
notification regime, but the mechanics differ. The 1955 Act requires seven
days’ notice. The Bill reduces this to five days (Section 6 Notice of public gathering).
More importantly, the Bill introduces procedural certainty. Police must
acknowledge receipt of notice within twenty-four hours, failing which the
notice is deemed received. They must approve the gathering within three days
(Section 8 Approval of public gathering), subject to lawful restrictions. Where
no decision is communicated, the organiser may proceed. The 1955 Act provides
no equivalent deadlines, leaving organisers at the mercy of one of the oldest
tools of bureaucratic control. Silence dressed up as procedure?
Second, the grounds for restricting
gatherings have changed. Under the 1955 Act, police may impose virtually any
conditions “designed to preserve public peace and order,” including controlling
who may speak and what topics may be discussed. Few provisions better capture
the paternal instincts of the old law. The State did not merely police the
crowd, it reserved the right to police the conversation. The Bill removes the
power to censor speakers or subject matter. Restrictions may instead be imposed
where there is a prior booking, unsuitable venue, interference with lawful
business, protected areas, or a reasonable belief of likely disorder or danger.
This is closer to international standards, which permit restrictions only when
necessary and proportionate to legitimate public interests.
Third, enforcement mechanisms
differ sharply. Under the 1955 Act, an unauthorised assembly may be dispersed,
and all participants may be arrested without warrant. The Bill still
criminalises gatherings held without notice or contrary to restrictions but
introduces lower custodial penalties and expressly allows community service or
probation. More importantly, section 4 permits dispersal only where there is a
“direct and imminent threat” that cannot otherwise be contained, or where there
is likely loss of life. This “direct and imminent threat” threshold is a
substantial improvement over the broad discretionary powers in the old Act.
Fourth, transparency is
significantly enhanced. The 1955 Act contains no public record of notifications
or police decisions. The Bill requires authorised officers to maintain a public
register of notices, open for inspection. This creates traceability, reduces
opportunities for selective enforcement, and supports accountability. Sunlight,
after all, is rarely the natural habitat of arbitrary discretion.
Fifth, access to remedies is
expanded. The 1955 Act provides no administrative or judicial appeal mechanism
against police decisions. The Bill allows an aggrieved organiser to appeal
first to the Minister, then to the High Court. This aligns with constitutional
due process.
However, the Bill is not without
problematic continuities.
Like the old Act, it preserves
broad exemptions for State actors. Gatherings by the President, Vice-President,
Ministers, Members of Parliament, mayors and other officials are exempt in many
circumstances. Although some exemptions lapse during election periods, the old
constitutional irony survives. When ordinary citizens gather, it is called regulation;
when those in office gather, it is called governance.
The Bill also retains police
discretion to restrict gatherings based on a “reasonable belief” that disorder
may occur. While narrower than the 1955 Act, this standard remains subjective
and may be vulnerable to politicised interpretation.
Another concern is the appeal
route. The first appeal lies to the Minister, who is part of the executive
rather than an independent tribunal. Best practice in comparative democracies, such
as under South Africa’s Regulation of Gatherings
Act, 1993, favours independent, expedited judicial review where assembly
rights are at stake.
From a civic space perspective, the
2026 Bill is nonetheless clearly less restrictive than the 1955 Act. It shifts
from a permit culture toward a notification model, imposes duties on police to
facilitate assemblies, removes police power to control political content,
creates timelines, records and appeals, and raises the threshold for dispersal.
In constitutional terms, it to some extent better reflects Zambia’s commitments
under Article 21 of the Constitution and international instruments such as the African Charter on Human and Peoples' Rights.
However, the true test will lie not
in legislative language but in implementation. To align with global best
practice, Zambia should consider three further reforms. Replacing ministerial
appeals with direct judicial review; narrowing the grounds for restriction to
“clear, present and demonstrable” threats; and introducing mandatory
publication of police reasons for every restriction or refusal.
If enacted and implemented in good faith, the Public
Gathering Bill, 2026 could mark Zambia’s most significant expansion of civic
space since independence. But if discretionary powers are exercised without
transparency or judicial oversight, the risk remains that old habits may
survive under new language.
Kozo.
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Postscript
This article was written before knowledge that the Public Gathering Bill has been
passed in Parliament.
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