The Election

When I arrived in Kenya, I found a country on the eve of change. The force of this desire pulsed through the country. It pulsed through the guides climbing Mt. Kenya, the college students giving their weekends to campaign for PNU, the single mothers shouting ODM with babies on their backs. It pulsed through the vehicles spouting propaganda on the streets, the powerful men having hushed and fervid meetings in posh Nairobi hotels, the barrage of commercials on local television, the evening news sending us to bed every night. This desire pulsed through every Kenyan in every part of the country. As I write this now in hindsight, after experiencing the violence that has gripped the country and simply won’t let go, I recognize this desire as something much, much deeper than simple politics. Indeed, this desire for change and political passion that impressed me when I first arrived proved to be something much deeper: democratic fervor.

Coming from a surprisingly successful democracy it is difficult to imagine how a desperation for political change could so quickly deteriorate into thoughtless, pervasive, hate ridden violence. As I sat in the house with my good friend Joann alternating between movies and the BBC, unable to leave for fear of impromptu riots, I struggled to understand why a broken political promise would inspire one neighbor to bang on another’s door, demand their id card, and then hack them to death with a machete because that card read the wrong tribe.

Yet it wasn’t just I that struggled with this understanding, it was also the educated Kenyans that opened their homes and families to me. My friends Makau and Joann and I went to four barbeques during the crisis. As the violence escalated, alongside my consumption of roast goat, everyone kept saying that this would soon be over; that Kenyans are peaceful people and just want to get back to work. For half the population, the half that has employment, that was and is undoubtedly true. They want to go back to work, to buy fresh fruit, to use their mobiles with reckless abandon, to freely come and go from their homes. They want the return of the African haven of democratic stability that they love. They want to the return of normalcy.
For the other half, the half that lacks employment, desperation has been the refrain of their lives for the last twenty to a hundred years. For the half characterized by education and poverty, this election was their voice. Finally their voice was going to be heard and amplified by the democratic process. They now refuse to have that voice silenced.

I think what affluent Kenyans, international election observers, Honorable Raila Odinga, President Mwai Kibaki, and I all failed to understand was the potency of the democratic promise to a well-educated, yet poor populace and what breaking that promise would unleash. Indeed, Kenyans have displayed the power of this promise from the day they voted till the latest violence tearing apart the Rift Valley. On December 27th, my friends, like Kenyans around the country, stood in the election queue for five hours, from 6 in the morning till mid-day. In Kibera, one of the Nairobi slums currently torn apart by ethnic violence, many first-time voters stood patiently in line for up to 12 hours. A remarkable peace, not violence, characterized voting day as an unprecedented number of people turn out to cast their ballot.

After that incredible democratic display, Kenyan voters were left to wait, and wait, and wait. For three days the country froze in limbo, waiting. Everyone glued to the television, the radio, the paper. On the second day, the polls showed Odinga clinging to a slim lead. Riots began as people tired of waiting. On the third day, Odinga’s lead shrank as a false calm settled over the country and people anxiously sat waiting. That evening the news showed footage of Mwai Kibaki taking the presidential oath surrounded by thirty dignitaries, business people and the military leaders. He won by less than 500,000 votes in a country of 60 million. After three days of waiting, Kenya had another five years of Kibaki. The country erupted.
Across the world, this violence has been characterized as more ethnic than political. Undoubtedly, the current violence is fueled by a history colonial favoritism, inequitable distribution of land and fifty years of Kikuyu rule. As the two political leaders reinforced their rhetorical positions in the press and in State House, Kalengees burned Kikuyu shambas, Luyas dragged other Luyas from their homes to loot Kamba stores, and Kikuyu gangs began to strike back. Ethnic hatred turned neighbors enemies. To many ethnic hatred caused by historical injustice always lingered in the shadows of Kenya’s stability, waiting for something to spark and cause the country to set aflame.

Yet while ethnic animosity undeniably existed within Kenya, I do not believe that it is the cause of the current situation. Rather I believe that the destruction seen in the wake of Kenya’s elections is the product of a broken democratic promise and the resulting loss of hope. One of the most important and difficult aspects of any young democracy’s maturation is a peaceful transition of power, a peaceful change. Peaceful change demonstrates that the ballot box truly is the voice of the people; that power is no longer the most important aspect of government but rather what government does with that power. Peaceful change is also hope that even the poorest woman, working the smallest shamba, can change her country. This was the hope and belief of Kenyans prior to this election. They believed their voice would be heard and change their country, their future. Election rigging by both sides shattered that belief and violence ensued. When Kibaki became president, Kenyans were no longer fueled by their hope for a better future, but rather their hatred of an unjust past.

---

---