Protestors or Pests? A Kenyan Guide to Silencing Democracy

Ah, Kenya! A land rich with promise, a cradle of humanity itself, blessed with sweeping savannas, rolling hills, and vast oceans teeming with life. But beneath the beauty, in the hearts of its restless cities, a different kind of beast prowls. This beast is not born of nature’s bounty, but of power and fear; its name is “The Police.” Clad in uniforms not of bravery but of violence, they are the guardians of the law, but which law, and for whom do they guard it? One might ponder, as the teargas canisters hiss their toxic lullabies into the night, what it means to "serve and protect" when your gun is aimed at the very people you claim to defend. The Kenyan constitution guarantees the right to protest, Article 37, a shining beacon of democracy, promising every citizen the chance to assemble and express themselves. But, alas! That promise seems as fragile as the teargas, vanishing into the wind with each baton crack or rubber bullet whistle.

?

The Public Order Act of 2012 sounds noble, with its provisions for peaceful assembly and the authority it gives to police to manage public gatherings. However, in practice, one might question whether this act was written with a pen dipped in ink or blood. Section 5 of the Act stipulates that protests may be dispersed only when there is “imminent danger.” But oh, the dangers the regime imagines! They see dangers lurking in the raised fists of workers asking for bread, in the chants of youth seeking justice, in the faces of mothers crying for peace. And so the police, ever eager to obey, turn the tools of the state into weapons of war against their kin. To "restore order," they say. Ah, but what order? The order of silence? The order of subjugation? When the National Police Service Act of 2011 sought to reform the police and instill discipline and accountability, perhaps it forgot to include empathy. For in the eyes of the police, the protester is not a fellow citizen, a man or woman to whom they are bound by the same flag. No, the protester is a criminal, a thug, a looter, an enemy. And enemies are not reasoned with; they are crushed.

?

How did we get here, dear Kenya? Where did the promise of freedom and dignity go? Perhaps we must look to the history of the colonial police state, where force was the language of governance, and repression was its syntax. From the 1922 massacre of over 100 protesters demanding the release of Harry Thuku to the independence-era crackdowns and now to the anti-tax protests of today, the baton has passed, but it has not changed its weight. It is still heavy with violence. But what is this violence? The Service Standing Orders say that force must only be used to “disperse a riotous mob.” And so, the police, in their infinite wisdom, seem to find riots everywhere: at the market, in the streets, and even in the homes of the poor. Perhaps it is easier to see riots when one views the world from behind a visor, shield in hand, the clatter of rubber boots drowning out the cries of the people.

?

And what of the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA), that august body meant to hold the police accountable? Oh, they have issued reports, fine reports! In 2016, they decried the profiling of protesters, urging that the police should not see every gathering as a threat. They called for a policy on public order management, for training in negotiation and de-escalation. Wise words, indeed. But like whispers in a hurricane, they have been swept away, forgotten in the rush to maintain “order.” Let us not forget the international models that Kenya could emulate. The "negotiated management model" used in the UK and the US comes to mind; where the police work with protesters, where the right to dissent is respected, where dialogue is preferred to batons. Kenya tried it once, or so the history books say. But the police, ever so unaccustomed to conversation, found that the sound of bullets was more to their liking. The attempt failed, leaving behind the scent of unfulfilled potential.

?

But let us take a step back, dear reader, and reflect on the philosophical question that haunts these streets of Nairobi, Kisumu, and Mombasa: Who is the real criminal? Is it the protester demanding that their children have food to eat, that their taxes not crush their backs? Or is it the officer executing orders with the precision of a machine but without the heart of a human? And if the officer is merely a tool of the state, then is it not the state itself, the regime, the government, that wears the blood on its hands? In his infinite wisdom, President William Ruto praised the police for their “defence of Kenya.” One wonders, what Kenya is he defending? The Kenya of mansions and motorcades? Or the Kenya of slums and struggle? The Kenya, where a handful of elites dine on plenty while the masses go hungry? Perhaps in the eyes of the state, the defence of this Kenya is paramount, and those who challenge it are nothing but enemies of progress. It is ironic, is it not? That the government claims to protect the people from disorder, even as it sows the seeds of chaos with its brutality.

?

And so, the cycle continues. Protests rise, demanding justice, and the police descend, delivering violence. The people cry out for accountability, and the government offers none. The laws: the Public Order Act, the National Police Service Act, the Service Standing Orders: are mere words on paper, honoured more in breach than in observance. And the IPOA, with its recommendations gathering dust, can do little more than watch as history repeats itself. What, then, is the answer? Should we, as some might suggest, descend into anarchy, casting off the shackles of law and order to create a new world from the ashes of the old? But anarchy is no solution; it is merely another form of violence that devours itself. No, the solution must lie elsewhere. Perhaps in reform, yes. But not the reform of laws, for laws without justice are but words. We need a reform of the soul, a recognition that the police, the protesters, and the politicians are all human, bound by a shared fate.

?

Until then, dear Kenya, the streets will continue to run with the tears of the oppressed, mingled with the blood of those who dared to ask for more. The police will continue to march in step with the regime, blind to the suffering of their people. And we, the watchers, will continue to wonder: How long can a country survive when it kills its own heart?

?