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What Code is Your [TRIBE]?

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Kenyan demographers seem blind to the politics of identity and belonging. Yet the codification and recognition of tribe or ethnicity in Kenya has evolved into an exercise that gives – or denies – people political and social visibility.

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What Code is Your ?
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Take ye the sum of all the congregation of the children of Israel, after their families, by the house of their fathers, with the number of their names, every male by their polls.” Numbers 1:2

The broken promise

The Kenya Human Rights Commission (KHRC) shared pictures of Shona women dressed in immaculately white dresses, deliberately invoking a religious sensibility. This was necessary since the Shona had arrived in Kenya as African missionaries in the 1950s. These pictures were taken at a podium draped in the Kenyan national flag on the occasion of what KHRC referred to on Twitter as the #ShonaCitezenshipPrayer. At the back of the dais was a canvas poster with the words “Prayer for the government of Kenya to grant the Shona citizenship.”

When they moved labourers from one part of their empire to another, the British didn’t think of the kind of long-term damage they left behind among translocated communities like the Warundi (sisal farmers in Kwale), the Makonde (rescued slaves resettled in Kilifi),  the Shona (African missionaries), the Nubians (King’s African Rifles who helped the British expand their empire) and the Pemba from Zanzibar. Or the Indians who were brought to work on the Uganda Railway. The post-colonial governments in Kenya, while instrumentalising ethnicity, had not evolved any mechanism to incorporate this translocated population who have over the past 57 years hovered in the margins of the Kenyan state.

Whether affected by the British Empire or rejected by the post- independence regimes, Kenya has been notorious for locking entire communities from accessing services and crucial papers through elaborate exclusionary mechanisms like censuses and ethnic coding.

Illusions and smoke screens

On 18th December, 2018, at an event in Marsabit, the then social services minister and former Marsabit governor, Amb. Ukur Yatani, presided over the issuance of legal status to “Wayyu”, the newly acknowledged name of the Waata community. The event, dubbed “rebirth of Wayyu”, was an official rejection of their old name, Waata, which had been considered pejorative and connotive of a low caste hunter gatherer group. With the name change also came their recognition as Kenya’s 46th tribe.

This recognition was a culmination of many factors. The idea was mooted by a Waata researcher in a 1993 paper where he suggested that “The Waata be registered as a distinct sub-group of the Boran-speaking peoples as are the Boran, Gabbra, Sakuye, etc;” as a means of preserving the Waata culture and identity. Over the years this quest took on different forms:  advocacy through petitions and threats, until at the end the quest for state recognition had become for Ali Bala Bashuna and for the Waata an existential question.

In a 2000 paper titled “When will we be people as well? Social identity and the politics of cultural performance, Aneesa Kassam gives a broader context for Ali’s quest, noting that:

“With no political support, his (Ali Bala’s) campaign has had little success. The state is, in fact, generally inimical to such manifestations of ethnicity. It considers them counter to its programmes of nation-building and will only support such movements when they are to its own political advantage.”

Wayyu was the third group to be given official ethnic codes and with it a form of a legal status.   The government made it look like this granting of legal status through ethnic code was a necessary and desired development.

Before Wayyu, and through a presidential proclamation, Kenyan Asians were recognised as Kenya’s 44th tribe on 22 July, 2017. In a TV interview, Farah Manzoor, a fifth-generation Kenyan human rights activist and the main architect behind the recognition of Kenyan Asians, led a choir thanking the president for recongising the Asian community.

Arabaini na nne
Twashukuru raisi
Arabaine na nne
Sisi ni wakenya
Wahindi wakenya
Kabila la kenya 

When the Minister for Interior, Fred Matiangi, announced the presidential proclamation, he told Kenyan Asians, “Now, you are part and parcel of us formally. You are part and parcel of Kenya’s great family.”

A few months earlier, the Makonde community received their own ethnic code on 1st February 2017 when the president himself conferred citizenship status to this erstwhile stateless community. They had been asked by the Minister for Interior, Joseph Nakaissery, “to feel liberated”.

Other groups came forward asking that they too be recognised. This is where the #ShonaCitizenshipPrayer finds a meaning.

When the Minister for Interior, Fred Matiangi, announced the presidential proclamation, he told Kenyan Asians, “Now, you are part and parcel of us formally. You are part and parcel of Kenya’s great family.”

A section of the Kirinyaga community came forward, asking that they be recognised as the 45th tribe of Kenya away from the Gikuyu tribe. One of the speakers said, “We are not here to promote tribalism…we don’t want our children to suffer from inferiority complex when they are talking. Another one added, “We claim social benefits, recognition…”

Just before the 2019 census, the Lembus community came forward with a legal suit for what they claimed to be an erroneous classification that had been “done without their consent thereby denying them crucial rights”.

Intentions and meaning  

The issuance of tribal codes and their recognition in all the three cases of Makonde, Wayyu and Asians meant something different. For the Makonde, their recognition as Kenya’s tribe 043 changed their statelessness and made them Kenyan citizens. For the Kenyan Asians, to be Kenya’s tribe 044 meant someone was playing a political game with the community’s name. For the Wayyu, there was a social political validation; they were now a distinct, independent and legit “tribe” who would never live under the shadow of other tribes.

Kenyans watched the “admission” of these “tribes” into an imaginary Kenyan National Register of tribal groups. No one noticed that from Makonde 043, Kenyan Asian 044 the government had skipped Tribe 045 and named Wayyu as Tribe 046. But that didn’t matter; this was vintage Kenyan ethos at play.

Census code

A few days prior to the 2019 Kenyan census, a video of an elderly man in a Kanzu and seated next to a wall with the words “Gurreh 509” scribbled on the wall went viral in Mandera. The man kept asking people to “wake up” and to “pass word around” that the people of Mandera were Gurreh–code 509 and not Garre–code 532. This, on his part, was short notice civic education to remedy the confusion of multiple codes provided as options for the Garre in the 2019 census. The man told the people to choose Gurreh 509 and to be vigilant enough to ensure that they were not recorded as Garre 532.

The 2019 census revived an old discussion on census and tribal codes.

Old game

In his book Define and Rule, Mahmood Mamdani says that the census was an imperial tool that propped up indirect colonial rule. Censuses, he says, “…endeavoured to shape the present, past and future of the colonised by casting each in a nativist mould, the present through a set of identities in the census, the past through the driving force of a new historiography, and the future through an extensive legal and administrative apparatus.”

A few days prior to the 2019 Kenyan census, a video of an elderly man in a Kanzu and seated next to a wall with the words “Gurreh 509” scribbled on the wall went viral in Mandera. The man kept asking people to “wake up” and to “pass word around” that the people of Mandera were Gurreh-code 509 and not Garre-code 532.

An example of the quest of such a classification was visible during the colonial times in the curious case of the Isaaq and Harti Somalis who in 1937 petitioned the British colonial government demanding that they be charged a higher tax under the “non natives” category. Keren Witzenberg, writing about this, says that “fearful of losing their privileged status within the colonial racial order, Isaaq elites claimed that they were not Africans, nor Somalis, but rather “Asiatics”.

This classification for the Isaaq/Harti Somalis came with benefits, including “pass exemptions, special rations in prison and the military, higher salaries, and access to separate wards in hospitals…and access to many of the civil rights denied to other African subjects”.

Census code as mother of ethnic code 

The magical Kenyan number of 42 ethnic tribes was, according to Gabrielle Lynch, born out of the options provided during the 1962 census. Census reports, however, have not over those years been consistent in reporting on the number of ethnic groups in the country, as illustrated in the table below.

Kenyan tribes, as reported in the Kenyan census over the years

Source: Kenya National Bureau of Statistics

Source: Kenya National Bureau of Statistics

In the 2009 enumerators’ manual, at least 114 different tribes were coded, including subgroups under the big tribes like the Luhya, the Kalenjin, the Swahili and the Mijikenda. If this is compared with the census results and the ethnic data found on the Kenya National Bureau of Statistics (KNBS) website, it becomes easily apparent that even where one’s community had been coded and options provided, it did not automatically translate to their ethnic data being included in the final census report. The reverse is also true for some communities whose names were not coded or provided as options but their numbers and final figures were included in the final ethnic data report. By 2019 the number of coded ethnic/nationality options were 135.

It was obvious that the census was not serious about what and who they included in their ethnic lists. Numerous examples abound.

The 2009 census codes were different from the 2019 codes. Nubians who had been included in the 2009 census for the first time under code 220 were now coded 021 in the 2019 census. Even the Makonde with ethnic code 043 were listed under census code 320.

Other inconsistencies in the census include repetitions, double entries, misspelt community names, for example, Garre,Gurreh or Waat,Watta,Aweer/Watta, Wayyu.

While many minorities fought for inclusion, a community like the Orma are fighting to have the name Galla removed from the census since it is a pejorative reference invented in the colonial period. (Mgalla muue na haki mpe? )

The 2009 census codes were different from the 2019 codes. Nubians who had been included in the 2009 census for the first time under code 220 were now coded 021 in the 2019 census. Even the Makonde with ethnic code 043 were listed under census code 320.

Kenyan demographers seem blind to the politics of identity and belonging. It was obvious that KNBS hasn’t given serious thought to the socio-political implications of what the census means. In the enumerators manual we see a cautionary attitude from KNBS. To the question “What is <NAME>’s ethnicity or Nationality?” enumerators were asked to:

Accept the answer as given to you without question. Do not get involved in any argument on this issue. The census is not concerned with the legal position. Accept what the person tells you and record the ethnicity or nationality to which the person considers he/she belongs.

When did census coding become political?

While the census transitioned from its narrow orientation in 1962 where only 16 ethnic groups were tallied to 2019 where 135 options were provided, including minorities like Waat and Nubians, an examination of the census reports over the decades shows unexplained inclusion or exclusion of ethnic groups. This has created the perception that ethnic exclusion from the census tallying process means exclusion from opportunities and resources.  The inclusion of any ethnic groups in the census one year and its removal in the next census has led to the general idea that one’s existence and identity is being questioned. Here a protest begins.

At least 17 tribes/Nationalities/options included in the 1989 census report had been left out of the 2009 results. But there was the addition of 18 new ethnicity/tribes/nationalities/options provided in the 2009 census.

Addition of new tribes in the Kenyan census over the decades

Addition of new tribes in the Kenyan census over the decades

Source: KNBS

But even as new tribes were added, over the decades some were suddenly dropped from the reports.

Tribes left out of census reports over the years

Tribes left out of census reports over the years

Source: KNBS

Source: KNBS

In the 2009 census, there were 114 options provided, including the subgroups for larger groups like Luhya (18), Mijikenda (12) Swahili (20) The census report only gave the figures for 55 different tribes.

In 2019, the options provided were 143, including subgroups for larger groups. The 2019 census reports has also shown the figures for all the subgroups, a departure from the past where the subgroups were amalgamated and their figures reported as one.

Efforts towards state recognition 

The “rebirth of the Wayyu Nation ” began with the population census dating back to the 1990s. This bore fruit in 2009 because finally and for the very first time the Waata were counted as Waata and not as “others”.

Then their second quest begun in Ethiopia on 8th January 2013 at an event in which eight supreme traditional leaders (Aba Gadas) unanimously agreed to Waata changing their name to “Wayyu” because, as an activist put it, “Kabila haliwezi kujiita na Matusi“.

After this, the Wayyu set out on the quest for state recognition in Kenya. They began with the county commissioner’s office. “We got letters from the Marsabit, Isiolo, Tana River and Mandera county commissioners respectively confirming that our community lived in each of these counties.” County commissioners were instrumental in this quest since part of the ministry’s mission is “maintain a credible national population register, enhance nationhood”.

The Waata activists’ efforts included “taking the letters to the Gender and Equality Commission, who referred them to KNBS who referred them to Kenya National Census who referred them to the Attorney General’s office to whom they made a presentation justifying why we need to change our name from Watta to Wayyu and why we need an ethnic code”.

The Attorney General, Githu Muigai, then wrote a letter to the Office of the President through the Secretary to the Cabinet. They waited for the electioneering period to end, went back to the Secretary to the Cabinet, and also “asked for Ukur Yatani’s intervention, we even took the state recognition of Wayyu in Ethiopia, letters from the UN confirming the minority status of Wayyu”. Then a letter was written “to the registrar of persons….from the president himself”. These events eventually led to the community being recognised as Kenya’s tribe 046.

To be recognised as Kenya’s 43rd tribe, the Makonde embarked on a long journey. “We started the journey for recognition as Kenyan citizens early in 1995 “with the last major effort being “a walk for the stateless” where the Makonde community walked from Kwale County to State ouse in Nairobi, a distance of almost 500 kilometres.

Census as an eating opportunity?

But why, if the Makonde’s wanted recognition as Kenyan citizens through ethnic coding,  did the Wayyu and Asians also agitate for a code when they were already recognised as citizens, as they were already included in the census?

In post-devolution Kenya, a background is created. Employment and other resources were given along ethnic considerations. Thus, to add a “constitutional status” or a presidential pat to one’s ethnic existence redefines the framework in which local ethnic alliances are discussed and navigated, granting groups a new confidence and renewing their efforts to organise.

A Wayyu community activist captures the prevailing sentiment that an ethnic code might affect substantive changes in the community’s present and future access to resources and related opportunities. This speculative streak was putting a political question on the census/coding exercise. I ask how an ethnic code was different from a census code.  “Census is a research, they keep on changing the number ascribed to a community for purposes of analysis…census codes are not permanent. But an ethnic code is permanent, and that was our desire…If you cannot elect Wayyu by voting them as a minority then they can be given nomination seats, something like the old ‘bunge Maalum’ or even as an MCA in the county assembly.” 

For the Nubians, inclusion in the census was thought to lead to an express access to land. Samantha Balaton-Chrimes, writing about the Nubians’ reaction to being included in the 2009 census, observes that, “land was thought by many participants to be one of the reasons why the code in the census was so long in coming, and was of the primary benefits they hoped to gain from the 2009 code”

Samantha adds that “recognition in the form of a census code gave an institutional context for the multiple and complex modes of belonging that carry actual salience in their real lives”.

A year after the Makonde had been coded, the Daily Nation visited the community to see what had changed for them and were told: “Two youths joined the Kenya Police Service and four joined National Prisons Service. About 200 youth have also been participating in community work under the National Youth Service.”

In addition 1,875 members of the community had been issued with IDs and were registered as voters in Kwale County.

Post-independence anxiety

For many communities, an anxiety emerged at independence. In Kenya the post-independence governments inherited and wholly adopted the same simplified notion of ethnicity, which in most areas worked against the economic, social and political context of some groups, especially those that had been brought to Kenya in the service of the colony, such as the Indians, the Nubians or even the Burji. Kenya did not adopt an active denationalisation policy and did not undertake a mass expulsion of “non-nationals”, as was seen in Uganda where Asians under Amin and Banyarwanda under Obote were expelled en masse. In Kenya this was instrumentalised at a certain level as a manipulation tool. Murmurs of “rudi kwenu” or being called “wageni” never ceased.

Inclusion in the census, for some, has over the past decades brought back these anxieties because censuses in Kenya have evolved into exercises that give people political and social visibility.

It looks like the problem of exclusion from censuses is experienced elsewhere too. Even in the United States, the exclusion of the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) identity category brought some controversy when it was ignored in the 2020 census. This erasure was challenged by congresswoman Rashida Tlaib who said, “By ignoring us you are erasing us…we will be invisible for another decade in our country” The MENA community, like others, relies on accurate census representation for health research, language assistance, civil rights laws, and reporting educational outcomes.

A convergence of confused expectations

It is obvious that another purpose can also be added to the census code. These communities between them capture a microcosm of the anxieties that emerge in the face of statehood, problems of citizenship, belonging and access to opportunities.

This is the wellspring of the overly optimistic notion that with an ethnic/census code minorities will also gain an expressway to all the things that they had been denied or had lacked; respect, political representation and full inclusion into national decision making. But this ambition had been adopted without proper assessment.

A year after the Makonde had been coded, the Daily Nation visited the community to see what had changed for them and were told: “Two youths joined the Kenya Police Service and four joined National Prisons Service. About 200 youth have also been participating in community work under the National Youth Service.”

Only four members of the Wayyu community have contested  an electoral office. On all but one of these occasions, the performance were dismal. These candidates suffered not only electoral loss but social ridicule and references to a “lower caste”, which meant that they lost their social standing and reputation. This ridicule and mocking jeers seemed intended to discourage further electoral contestation. The issue of forming political alliances, or their quest for ethnic codes was thus a matter of political necessity and of nationalistic expediency.

BBI games

The Building Bridges Initiative (BBI), like the census, reflects a quest for ethnic codes. Kenyan ethnic groups submitted memoranda on what they desired for their communities. Regional tribal alliances were formed to show allegiance to the president. Public political declarations were issued in support of BBI but also factions emerged as tribal elites sought to be the true spokespersons in submitting their ethnic group’s grievances and needs.

Mahmood Mamdani says “tribalism is a reified ethnicity”. And in Kenya a narrow utilitarian value has been ascribed to ethnicity and tribalism as the parameters of resource distribution and political mobilisation. Many Kenyan politicians often decry that tribalism is the cause of many of the country’s woes. The paths of these problems pass through the narrow bridges of ethnicf and census codes.

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The author is a writer based in Marsabit, Kenya.

Politics

From Shifta to Terrorist: A Shifting Narrative Of Northern Kenya

A section of Kenyan citizens has been labelled dangerous to the main body of the country and denied a national identity and equal status with their fellow citizens.

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As Kenya was celebrating her independence in 1963, the people of the Northern Frontier District were mourning the death of their dream of self-governance under British rule. In the spring of 1962, at the Lancaster House Conference, the region’s delegation had demanded self-determination for the NFD. The colonial government appointed an independent commission to look into the question and a referendum to determine the region’s future was subsequently held. The results of the plebiscite were however cancelled under suspicious circumstances even though they indicated that the overwhelming majority supported self-determination. The people felt cheated, and the north exploded in rebellion.

Northerners, especially those from the northeast, accuse the British colonial government of craftily handing over the region to Kenyatta. The colonialists had promised the separatists’ leaders that they would delay independence for the region to facilitate the orderly transition from colonial rule to self-rule.

The British played both sides after the Northern Frontier District delegation rejected the terms of independence and demanded a different path for the district. The colonial government decided to disregard the wishes of most of the inhabitants and handed over the region to the post-independence Kenyan government. Somalia protested the move, which further complicated the north’s struggle for independence.

What had been a people’s quest for self-rule became a political tussle between Kenya and Somalia.  This issue has yet to be settled six decades later, and the north has become a victim of unending sabre-rattling. Kenya became independent on the 12th of December 1963 with Jomo Kenyatta as its Prime Minister. A State of Emergency was declared for the north-eastern region on the 27th of December 1963.

The Shifta war

The rebellion that followed the declaration of independence was, to the separatists, a struggle for self-determination. To the Kenyan government, the separatists were Shifta, the name used to reduce the separatists and the NFD population to bandits, outlaws, thieves, criminals, and murderers.

The Shifta label has stuck, although the events surrounding the coining of the term have been carefully erased from the history books. The Shifta narrative was meant to unite the rest of Kenya against the menace of the separatists. The media effectively adopted the new term as a standard reference to the rebels. Newspaper headlines reported shifta attacks almost daily throughout the period of the conflict.

The “war” was mainly skirmishing between the ill-equipped ragtag army of northern rebels and the Kenya military backed by British planes and tanks. It is the population in the north that bore the brunt of the fighting. The nomads had to sustain the fighters in their midst with their meagre resources while dodging the military operations and bombings.

The conflict began on the 22nd of November 1963 when NFD rebels burnt down a camp in Garissa. The rebellion took its toll on the inhabitants, forcing them to flee in droves to the neighbouring countries of Somalia and Ethiopia. Kenyan security forces considered everyone a rebel and the Shifta label was liberally applied without discrimination to men and boys from the region. Villagisation and shooting of camel herds were used extensively by the government to force the nomadic pastoralists to settle.

Somalia’s support

The secessionists expected to receive arms and ammunitions from Somalia, but Somalia’s loud noises were more bark than a bite. Nothing of material import came from Somalia in the four years of the war.

While fanning the conflict through declarations and radio broadcasts, Somalia was unwilling to train, arm and fight alongside the secessionists. The significant material support provided to the Kenya government by the British and the superior training of the military forces eventually turned the tide of the war in Kenya’s favour.

The end of the war began in 1966 with the exodus of the nomadic population. By 1967, the secessionists were out of arms and had no resources to rely on as the nomads crossed the border into Somalia in droves in what is known as John kacarar (escaping John). The secessionists surrendered in groups throughout 1967.

Realising that the rebels were at the end of their tether, Somalia accepted peace terms with Kenya mediated by Zambian President Kenneth Kaunda. An agreement to end their differences and restore diplomatic relations was signed on the 14th of September 1967. The secessionist war effectively ended without any agreement with the secessionists themselves, without demobilisation, without any concession to the suffering population of the north and on terms that were never declared public to the residents of the NFD. Four years of bombings, shootings and plunder had left the northeastern region — where the fighting was concentrated — destitute.

Once the war was over, reconstruction failed to begin. The schism remained in place. The military went on with operations aimed at clearing the region of “shifta elements”. The cost of the war was never enumerated. The hopelessness that descended on a defeated community required leadership, which never came.

Collective punishment 

A new narrative of bandits roaming in the unsafe wild north began to take shape. Collective punishment was the modus operandi during this period. Whenever armed criminals committed a crime, the nearest settlements were decimated by the soldiers.

In the late 1970s, an incident occurred along the Kenya-Ethiopia border where a military vehicle was burnt. The locals claimed the action was perpetrated by armed Ethiopian militia. In what came to be known as the Malka Mari Massacre, the Kenyan military detained over two hundred men and stoned them to death. None of the men was armed, and the military did not fire a shot.

In the period that followed, poaching became rampant as the stockpiles of small arms fell into the hands of poachers. Overnight, the “Somali Poacher” was born. The parks were now under threat from a new breed of armed men motivated by nothing more than money, and allegedly backed by influential people close to the government. Throughout the 1970s, the Somali poacher terrorised Kenyan elephants, rhinos, and cheetahs.

The secessionist war effectively ended without any agreement with the secessionists themselves, without demobilisation, without any concession to the suffering population of the north.

In 1980, the security forces burned down Garissa after detaining and killing many of its inhabitants. This was an incident directly resulting from a disagreement between poachers and their contacts in government. A disgruntled poacher took matters into his own hands and killed several soldiers and other government officials.

The 1980s also saw the infamous Wagalla Massacre of 1984, where thousands were tortured and killed at an airstrip in Wajir, ostensibly during a military operation to curb banditry.

While Shifta and poachers were the competing narratives used by the government to explain its inability to bring the northern region under proper government control, the region suffered wanton neglect and underdevelopment.

The Somali-Ethiopia war ended in 1978, sparking the return of thousands who had fled the region during the war of secession as Somalia descended into clannism and corruption under military dictatorship. That same year, Vice-President Daniel Arap Moi gave a speech that sparked the alien debate when he threatened that the government would register all Somalis and deport anyone found to have allegiance to Somalia. It took 11 years for this policy to be implemented.

But the alienation of Somalis had begun earlier as it is recorded that police had raided Eastleigh and arrested Somali foreigners as early as 1970. Traders from the north-east were deemed vagrants and deported from areas in the Rift Valley and Central Kenya back to their home region.

Citizenship documents were tightly controlled, and a system of verification was put in place to make it impossible for the region’s inhabitants to register as citizens. The police were given orders to stop and ask for IDs from anyone looking like a Cushite, a Somali or other related tribes who were distinctively identifiable.

The pink card

In 1989, the famous Kenya-Somali verification and registration took place. The system was designed to catch anyone who could not be linked to a sub-location and known clan.

People had to state their family tree up to their sub-clans, and a pink card with these details was issued to the successful ones. The system was designed to force out of Kenya those unaffiliated to any of the groups “indigenous” to the country.

It is estimated that at one point hundreds were crossing the border into neighbouring countries daily. People were detained, women with young children appeared in court accused of being in the country illegally. Suspected aliens were loaded on military lorries and dropped off in Liboi across the Kenya-Somali border. Many families, especially those elites with businesses, crossed into Uganda and left for Europe or America. The pink cards eventually became available for a fee, and it is believed registration officials took hefty bribes in the process. The verification and registration were suspended after two harrowing years during which homes were raided, their inhabitants detained, and property was lost when entire families were deported with nothing more than the clothes on their backs.

As the “aliens” narrative waxed and waned, a new event triggered the updating of the terminology.

In 1991, the Somalia government of Siad Barre collapsed, spilling hundreds of thousands of refugees into the neighbouring countries. Kenya was grappling with its fear of Somalis and now had to face the eventuality of hosting desperate refugees, including the deposed president.

But the alienation of Somalis had begun earlier as it is recorded that police had raided Eastleigh and arrested Somali foreigners as early as 1970.

The refugees were allowed in and settled in camps where they were fed and housed by the UNHCR and other humanitarian agencies. Throughout the 1990s, Somalia was controlled by warlords who divided the country into green zones, fought viciously among themselves and continued to spill out new refugees.

Apart from participating in efforts at reconciliation and in hosting refugees and facilitating their resettlement in Europe and America, Kenya stayed out of Somalia’s affairs. As the refugees were too many to be housed in the sprawling camps in Dadaab, Dagahaley and Kakuma, some ended up living in towns with the alien cards issued by the UNHCR as identification.

The idea of controlling the movement of refugees soon became fashionable. For the security forces it is difficult to differentiate between locals and refugees and soldiers engaged in random stop-and-searches and nighttime raids in the main towns to flush out illegal aliens.

Human trafficking 

The controls placed on refugees living in towns illegally sparked lucrative human trafficking where the police and traffickers facilitated the movement of people from the Somali border to the interior. IDs and passports became available for those who could pay but were impossible to acquire for genuine inhabitants of northern Kenya.

While Somalis and their Cushite cousins were getting used to the “alien” idea, a new term landed on Kenya’s shores: terrorism. International terrorists bombed the American embassy in Kenya in 1998. The perpetrators had names similar to those of the northerners and the refugees. The “terrorist” label did not stick for another decade and during this period Somali businesspeople invested heavily in the Eastleigh suburb of Nairobi, creating a vibrant market where initially had been an unremarkable residential estate with a few wholesale and retail shops.

This economic boom coincided with the emergence of piracy on the Somali shores of the Indian Ocean. Suddenly the Kenyan media were reporting that piracy money was flooding the markets and making life costly for the residents. The Somali pirates were real, but this was part of international piracy having its operations on the lawless Somali coast. How the piracy money was siphoned into Kenya was never explained. The piracy issue occasionally crops up when overzealous reporters make disparaging references to piracy and the real estate boom in Kenya.

Al Shabaab

In 2011 Kenya sent troops into Somalia in an operation dubbed “Linda Nchi” after a tourist was kidnapped at the coast and probably taken across the border. There were other cross-border raids. However, significant Al-Shabaab attacks in Kenya began in 2012 when Kenyan forces were integrated into the forces of the African Union Mission in Somalia (AMISOM). As Kenya became embroiled in state-building in Somalia, with the creation of Jubaland floated as the reason for the invasion, Al-Shabaab started bringing its terrorism into Kenya.

In 2013, the Westgate Mall shootings led to the death of 67 people. More than 67 others also died in attacks in Mpeketoni in Lamu in 2014. The attacks on Garissa University attack were the worst, leading to 150 dead, many of them students. These brazen attacks were attributed to Al-Shabaab. Although the terror group had already internationalised and was recruiting with no regard to ethnicity, Kenyan Somalis became the target for blame, name-calling, and arrests.

In 2013, Human Rights Watch released a report titled “You are all terrorists”. The terrorist narrative drives xenophobia, arbitrary arrests, detention, and torture. After the terror attacks in 2014 in Eastleigh and Mpeketoni, the security forces conducted an indiscriminate door-to-door operation targeting anyone who did not have an ID card to hand. This security operation was dubbed Usalama Watch. Those who did not have the document were taken to Kasarani Stadium and held there for two weeks. About 900 people were taken to the stadium, the majority being young people who could not acquire IDs due to discriminatory bureaucratic procedures , and a haphazard and corrupt system that barred genuine citizens from receiving the document.

The verification and registration were suspended after two harrowing years during which homes were raided, their inhabitants detained, and property was lost.

Over half a century of negative portrayals of people from the north means that the official government policy is skewed when it applies to them. The acquisition of a passport is generally a straightforward process. To ensure that aliens from the north do not acquire this critical document, the immigration department and security agencies have an illegal and discriminatory step in place for border communities — vetting. It is not enough that a northerner provides sufficient genuine documentation. The applicant must appear before a group of government officials, security officers and appointed individuals to prove their citizenship. To pass this step, one must know their location chief, the genealogy of ones’ clan and other trivialities that are ordinarily unnecessary in life.

The emergence of one label does not lead to the dropping of the existing labels. Shifta, Poacher, Refugee, Pirate and Terrorist shape the thinking behind public actions. These negative portrayals have an impact on how national matters are debated and resolved.

A section of Kenyan citizens is considered as dangerous to the main body of the country. The secession war that ostensibly ended in 1967 is still being fought; the terms of the agreement that ended the war have never been the subject of a national conversation. Did the agreement include such important matters as citizenship, identity, development, and non-discrimination? The security agencies have not discarded their belligerent attitude towards the population and the civil service retains the policies of the 1960s towards the people of the north.

One must know their location chief, the genealogy of one’s clan and other trivialities that are ordinarily unnecessary in life.

National identity is at stake as those who rejected becoming part of Kenya at independence cannot have equal status with everyone else. They are aliens, and “they all look like”. The most dangerous portrayal is the association with terrorism; poachers and pirates are small fish compared to terrorists. In the last few years, enforced disappearances and extra-judicial killings related to the war on terror have become commonplace. It is hard to fight for the rights of one who is labelled a terrorist and is disappeared or killed.

Public association with a terror suspect is a stigma that nobody is willing to be associated with. Crimes are committed under cover of fighting terrorism, and there is nothing the targeted community can do about it. That is the power of a label; it obscures the truth, gives authorities cover to commit genocidal crimes and permits the practice of xenophobia in public.

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The End of Abiy-Mania

When he ascended to power in April 2018 Abiy Ahmed elicited goodwill inside and outside Ethiopia but the continuing humanitarian crisis in the Tigray region is losing him friends.

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The End of Abiy-Mania
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Ethiopia will go to the polls on June 22, buffeted by various crises domestically and abroad. But the upcoming election has many echoes of the May 15 2005 election, whose impact continues to shape Ethiopia’s domestic politics and politics in the Horn of Africa. Central to Ethiopia’s current domestic crisis and the border dispute with Sudan, is the Abiy-Amhara compact.

The 15 May 2005 elections were the third national elections to be held under the 1994 constitution following the ouster of the Marxist-Leninist Derg. In the 1995 and 2000 elections, the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF) government harassed the opposition parties, forcing the influential ones to boycott the polls, with the result that the EPRDF won both elections with over 90 per cent of the seats.

Ahead of the 2005 election, the EPDRF signalled the significant participation of the opposition parties so that Western observers—whose support was critical for Meles—would declare the elections to have been free and fair. The incumbent party acceded to the pre-election demands of some opposition parties, allowing in international election observers and giving the opposition parties a chance to sell their manifestos on the national broadcaster. These conditions were absent in the previous elections. While these were not among the chief demands of the opposition parties prior to the polls, they indicated reasonable good faith on the part of the government compared to previous elections.

As a result, for the first time in Ethiopia’s history, a nationwide multiparty competition seemed possible; neither the ruling party nor the opposition had ever faced a competitive election before.

Internal turmoil within the EPRDF preceded the election. The Central Committee of the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF)—Prime Minister Meles Zenawi’s core support base—broke up into two rival factions in 2001. With his base in the Tigray heartland at risk, Meles took advantage of his central position within the broader EPRDF coalition and outmanoeuvred his rivals. He sacked several senior officials and successfully weathered the storm, but the fault line remained and emerged during the 2005 elections.

Post-election 

The pre-election period saw the unprecedented participation of the opposition parties and civil society organisations in the campaigns. Election Day went peacefully, and the early results in Addis Ababa and other major urban areas showed the opposition parties making significant electoral gains. According to unofficial preliminary results, the opposition had won 172 parliamentary seats—its most considerable showing yet in the 547-member assembly. On the night of the election, Prime Minister Meles Zenawi declared a one-month ban on public demonstrations in the capital and brought the Addis Ababa security forces (which would have come under the opposition’s command had they been sworn in) under the control of the Prime Minister’s office.

Opposition parties boycotted their seats in parliament, alleging rigging by the incumbent. Their refusal to take up their seats in parliament handed Meles Zenawi and his party a third term in office. Meles interpreted his “mandate” as a licence to take the authoritarian path. Hundreds, if not thousands, of political opposition and human rights activists were arbitrarily detained, with some facing the spurious charge of treason. Ethiopian security forces killed almost 200 demonstrators in post-election protests in June and November 2005 and arrested tens of thousands of people.

With the domestic front “sorted”, Meles turned to regional matters. In December 2006, Ethiopia’s military intervened in Somalia to root out the Union of Islamic Courts (UIC), which had brought stability for the few months they were in charge. The Ethiopian forces captured Mogadishu in less than a week, and the UIC dissolved and surrendered political leadership to clan leaders.

Ethiopia’s ouster of the UIC tapped into a deep historical hostility between Somalia and Ethiopia, something Al Shabaab, the youth wing of the UIC, exploited with a mix of latent Somalia nationalism and anti-imperialism.

Ethiopia’s actions provided Al Shabaab with an opportunity to translate its rhetoric into action. Al Shabaab began targeting the nascent Somalia government, Ethiopian forces, the Transitional Federal Government security, political figures, and any Somalis collaborating with Ethiopia. Ethiopia’s and TFG’s heavy-handed counterinsurgency responses played into the hands of Al Shabaab.

Ethiopia’s incursion into Somalia took place three weeks after General John Abizaid, the commander of US forces from the Middle East to Afghanistan, had met with then Ethiopian Prime Minister Meles Zenawi.

Sixteen years later, Ethiopia goes into another election whose consequences could transcend Ethiopia.

The limits of Abiy-Mania

When he ascended to power in April 2018, Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed elicited a groundswell of collective goodwill inside and outside Ethiopia. He embarked at breakneck speed on reforms that just a few years earlier would have sounded far-fetched.

At home, Abiy released political prisoners, appointed the country’s first female as the ceremonial president and a cabinet half-filled by women. He nominated a once-jailed opposition leader as the new chairwoman of the electoral board. In the Horn of Africa region, Abiy had a rapprochement with Eritrea, a country with which Ethiopia had fought a bloody war between 1998 and 2000. Abiy also attempted to mediate the Sudan political crisis.

The Nobel Committee awarded Abiy the 2019 Nobel Peace Prize “For his efforts to achieve peace and international cooperation, particularly for his decisive initiative to resolve the border conflict with neighbouring Eritrea.”

Federalism vs centralisation

While the trigger for the Abiy-led military operation against the Regional Government of Tigray in the north of the country is the alleged attack of the federal army base by the Tigray Peoples Liberation Front (TPLF), the attack was only a symptom and not the actual cause.

The battle between Abiy and the TPLF and other groups is a battle between those who champion the multi-ethnic federalism constitution and those who prefer a centralised state. Abiy favours centralisation to federalism.

The Tigray region is not the first to bear the brunt of the military and federal security forces to achieve Abiy’s centralisation agenda. The Oromia and Sidama regions have also been at the receiving end of the violence of the federal security authorities.

Abiy embarked at breakneck speed on reforms that just a few years earlier would have sounded far-fetched.

Throughout its long history of state formation, Ethiopia was for thousands of years ruled by emperors under a monarchy with a unitary system of government. The last emperor, Haile Selassie, was deposed in 1974 and from then on until 1991, the country came under a dictatorship with a unitary system of government.

The creation of the EPRDF in 1989—an ethnic coalition of the Tigrayan Peoples’ Liberation Front, the Amhara National Democratic Movement (ANDM; later Amhara Democratic Party), the Oromo Peoples’ Democratic Organization (OPDO; later Oromo Democratic Party), and the Southern Ethiopian Peoples’ Democratic Movement (SEPDM)—had changed that.

Abiy’s shot across the bow was the dissolution of the EPDRF and the launching of the Prosperity Party (PP) on December 1 2019. The OPDO, ANDM, and SEPDM voted overwhelmingly to join the party, while the TPLF rejected the idea as “illegal and reactionary”. The timing of the move was convenient, coming just a few months before the election that was postponed because of the COVID-19 pandemic.

The EPDRF’s multi-ethnic federalism and the inclusion in the constitution of the right to secede for all “nations and nationalities and peoples” of the country were innovative breakthroughs in a country with 80 different ethnic groups. But the constitution was also a product of ideological foment and political necessity. The leaders who revolted against the Mengistu junta had emerged from the student movement that had adopted the “nationalities and the land question”, redefining Ethiopian statehood.

The Oromia and Sidama regions have also been at the receiving end of the violence of the federal security authorities.

While the multi-ethnic federalism has been imperfect, especially its implementation and the domination of the EPDRF by the TPLF, in a multi-ethnic country with historical and contemporary grievances against the state, federalism has acted as a safety valve against ethnic tension.

Abiy and Amhara expansionism 

The Amharas are Abiy’s vociferous supporters at home. They, especially their elites, have an axe to grind with the TPLF for diluting their decades of uninterrupted state power and control. Amhara language and culture are the state’s language and culture, and the language and culture of the Orthodox Church which wields unfettered power. But with its political nous, its deep bureaucracy and know-how, the TPLF was always a challenging prospect for Abiy, a political novice with limited federal-level experience and hardly a political base. The connecting tissue of Abiy-Amhara unity is the lowest common denominator that is the fear and loathing of the TPLF. After dissolving the EPDR, a coalition in which the TPLF was a strong partner, the next step was to defeat the TPLF militarily. Even before the November military incursion into Tigray, Amhara militias were massed at the border with Tigray. If Abiy’s anti-TPLF move was intended to destroy them as a political force, for the Amharas this was an opportunity to regain some of the territories they had lost to Tigray in 1991.

Sudan

Ethiopia also has a boundary dispute with Sudan. The dispute centres on the al-Fashaga region, Sudan’s fertile breadbasket located in Gedaref State, which borders Ethiopia’s Amhara region in the north-west. According to the Anglo-Ethiopian Treaty of 1902 the area belongs to Sudan and, unlike the regime of Omar al-Bashir, for the transitional government of Prime Minister Abdulla Hamdok, settling this dispute is a priority. However, the Abiy-Amhara alliance has made resolving the dispute complicated.

Sudan is also a critical factor in resolving the Tigray crisis; the country is the only remaining supply route for the TPLF as Eritrea is closed to them and bringing in supplies and fuel through other routes is risky. Sudan could also determine how the GERD dam conflict will be resolved. Unlike Egypt, Sudan could benefit from cheap electricity if the dam is filled, but the country will not countenance losing al-Fashaga. Abiy faces difficult choices: cede al-Fashaga to Sudan and gain a partner in the dam negotiations while also denying the TPLF a supply route or keep al-Fashaga and lose Sudan in the GERD dam discussions, leaving the TPLF to use the Sudan border for supplies.

The Tigray conflict, which Abiy initially promised would be a straightforward law enforcement operation, has instead metastasised into a slow-grinding counterinsurgency operation. The continuing humanitarian crisis in the Tigray region is losing Abiy friends.

On May 23, the US State Department announced visa restrictions for any current or former Ethiopian or Eritrean government officials, members of the security forces, or other individuals—including Amhara regional and irregular forces and members of the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF)—responsible for, or complicit in, undermining the resolution of the crisis in Tigray.

In a multi-ethnic country with historical and contemporary grievances against the state, federalism has acted as a safety valve against ethnic tension.

America’s sanctions came on the heels of the European Union’s suspension of budgetary support worth €88 million (US$107 million) until humanitarian agencies are granted access to people in need of aid in the northern Tigray region.

On the 7th of June 2021, Representatives Gregory Meeks (D-NY) and Michael McCaul (R-TX), who is also Chairman and Ranking Member of the House Foreign Affairs Committee, together with Karen Bass (D-CA) and Christopher H. Smith (R-NJ), respectively Chairwoman and Ranking Member of the House Foreign Affairs Subcommittee on Africa, Global Health and Global Human Rights, issued a joint statement after tabling a resolution condemning violence and human rights abuses in Ethiopia.

The sanctions come as Ethiopia awards its first telecom licence for US$850 million to a consortium that includes the UK’s Vodafone in what could herald the opening up of Ethiopia’s closed economy.

Before the EPDRF came into power, Ethiopia was a posterchild of famine and incessant conflict, especially under the Derg regime. Abiy and Amhara nationalism is bringing back the echoes of the Derg era and the upcoming June election is unlikely to resolve current crises; if anything, it will exacerbate them.

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We Still Can’t Breathe: Chauvin’s Conviction Maintains the Status Quo

Chauvin is simply a cop who committed an action so ugly that he had to be made an example of so that America could get back to normal.

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We Still Can’t Breath: Chauvin’s Conviction Maintains the Status Quo
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Sometimes even the “biggest” victories can ring hollow. That especially seems to be the case several months into 2021, and 11 odd months after George Floyd had his life snuffed out in front of a red-brick grocery store in South Minneapolis, around the corner from the “Little East Africa” neighbourhood. That Derek Chauvin, the cop who laid his blatancy in the form of a knee across Floyd’s neck in a gutter finally faced some form of consequence in the form of a guilty verdict, may, in and of itself be of little consequence in the grandest of schemes.

Yes, right now it seems as though the verdict that has come down harshly on Chauvin is a rebuke of all things heinous, nothing less than a massive moral victory for racial progress, black America and global equality.

Indeed, rainbows shall now shine through and if you listen to many pundits within the American (and for that matter, Western) broadcast media, racism against Black America has been solved once and for all —  à la the presidential election of Barack Obama way back in those heady days of 2008.

Chauvin will be sentenced on June 25th of this year. Much of Black America is already lowering their expectations away from the 40-year maximum prison sentence.

Life is full of disappointments.

In itself, the Chauvin verdict is not one of them; it is just another opportunity for a larger collective sadness, another opportunity for an eventual letdown, a reminder of the global system of injustice that is, frankly, far as hell from ever being permanently resolved.

I haven’t been in Minneapolis since the end of May 2020, the Saturday following the Floyd killing, when the very landscape and fabric of the “Twin Cities” of Minnesota and Saint Paul were irrevocably changed. Walking around that day, the sense of despair was palpable. All of Lake Street — all seven kilometers of it — seemed to have been hit by varying degrees of madness. Some buildings were completely burnt out, husks of their former selves; others had smashed windows or had “BLACK OWNED BUSINESS: DON’T BURN!” scrawled in graffiti across the boarded-up doors. Thousands of people trudged around with shovels, cleaning up debris ahead of the inevitable next night of chaos.

In the weeks that followed, the protests spread across the United States, and even took root on a global scale, spreading as far as Nairobi, London, Kampala, Rome and dozens of other cities. In Minneapolis, all the tension of a tense superpower seemingly dying of its own hubris during the chaotic early months of the COVID-19 pandemic descended on an idyllic neighbourhood. By the day I arrived, May 30th, the United States National Guard was being deployed to put down any form of violence with their own forms of violence. But the damage had been done and the rest of the country was experiencing its own varying levels of chaos. At least two people were killed in Minneapolis alone (and at least 19 across the rest of the US, though this number seems to be low). Dozens of people were injured in Minneapolis alone (although the exact numbers are hard to confirm; personally I talked to at least three people who had sustained non-lethal injuries during the protests, so the real number could be much higher).

Thousands were injured across the US, with hundreds more incidents of police brutality filmed and shared widely. In Minneapolis there was approximately KSh 53 billion worth of damage related to the unrest. Bob Kroll, the president of the Police Officers Federation of Minneapolis who allegedly had white supremacist ties retired at the beginning of 2021. The Minneapolis Police Department was defunded following the reckoning that fell upon the Twin Cities in those warm early summer weeks.

Among pundit across America, talk of alliance and “listening” rapidly became the norm. Many leading neo-liberals put out statements, Republicans and Democrats alike. Trump ordered the beating up of peaceful protesters in front the White House and goodhearted liberals were shocked and appalled. Everyone said it was a “sea change” in American race-relations.

Less than three months after the George Floyd protests kicked off there was a “monumental change” — Jacob Blake was shot in the back by police in the city of Kenosha, in my home state of Wisconsin. The NBA boycotted games, more conversations were had and the world kept right on turning, same as it ever has.

When it comes down to issues of inequality, racism and oppression the status quo is always maintained, especially in America. Two steps forward and three steps back seems to be the pattern, one that is only reinforced by the pattern of police getting away with the murder of Black Americans — whether on tape or merely under “suspicious” circumstances in which “the officer felt their life was threatened and required a response of lethal force”.

Perhaps it is this constant pattern of impunity that has caused the most damage, a pattern that in the US can be traced to well before the 1992 Rodney King riots in Los Angeles, California. The riots were sparked off by the acquittal of cops who had been caught on film beating and kicking King senseless on the shoulder of a freeway.

It’s the same as it ever was.

Over the years since, especially in this age of social media ubiquity, incidents police violence against Black men, women and children have been caught on camera with horrifying regularity.

Horrifying, but not at all surprising. Everyone within the Black community in the US has long known the score. “Officers under threat” deaths, cases failing to be investigated, rumours of pistols being planted, delays in emergency responder times, ties to white supremacy, “warrior cops” getting more military equipment, stop-and-frisk policies, higher incarceration rates among Blacks, continual harassment, talking to children about keeping hands visible when dealing with police, media bias, fetishisation of police, the “Blue Lives Matter” movement — the list of systemic issues within US police forces could fill the remainder of this article.

In this age of social media ubiquity, incidents of police violence against Black men, women and children have been caught on camera with horrifying regularity.

The American judicial system itself is inherently flawed. The narrative among much of the “upstanding” upper middle-class elements of society is that somehow race relations were, if not solved outright, repaired with a sustained “upward” trajectory somewhere around the funeral of civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. after his assassination in 1968.

They paint a rosy picture of race-relations in the US in which all segregationist judges were replaced with forward thinking progressives, where all cops with KKK ties were unceremoniously fired, where the ghosts of “Jim Crow” laws (designed to suppress, segregate and subjugate post-slavery Black America) simply faded into the distant memories of a bygone era. The result was a sort of racial Cold War, where proxy wars were fought through the war on drugs, mass incarceration, neoliberalism and police impunity.

“At least segregation is illegal now”, says White America when pressed, as if cities, schools, hospitals and police actions were not still segregated sans overt painted signs.

Such sentiments bled into the politics of the US’s two major parties, Republicans spearheading the “War on Drugs” under the Reagan presidency of the 1980s and the Clinton administration cutting social programmes and accelerating mass incarceration during the 90s under the all-American ideal of “pulling oneself up by your bootstraps”. Such proponents of America’s neo-liberal ethos cared little whether there were any boots to begin with.

Slowly the technology caught up with the reality, and the anger felt across the marginalised communities in America had a focal point on which to pour out their frustrations. The images were there on film, little snippets sent into cyberspace by countless onlookers. The anger was in the bloody and lifeless body of Michael Brown lying for hours in a Missouri street. It was in Eric Garner pleading that he couldn’t breathe while being choked to death by cops in New York City. It was in Philando Castille being shot and killed in his car seconds after telling the officer who had pulled him over that he had a licensed gun in the car and reached for his wallet. (This shooting also happened in the Twin Cities area of Minnesota.) It was in Breonna Taylor being shot dead on a no-knock warrant in Louisville, Kentucky only for the officers to be charged with “wanton endangerment” for firing bullets into a neighbouring apartment.

None of the officers in the above incidents were convicted. Some were never even brought into a courtroom.

On April 11th 2021, Daunte Wright was shot and killed by a cop during a traffic stop in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Details and footage of the incident are scant. The officer involved has been charged with second-degree manslaughter (a lesser charge than homicide in the US court system). Protests have sprung up around the US, youth wearing surgical masks — the hallmark of the smoldering COVID-19 pandemic — clashing with police and facing arrest, and “non-lethal weapons being deployed by officers to quell pockets of unrest”. This killing occurred at the epicentre of the “defund the police” movement — Minneapolis.

The cycle continues same as ever, two steps forward and three steps back in Black America’s quest for equitable treatment.

The police are just the visible agents of the systemic suppression of Black people that stretches far beyond the shores of the US.

If COVID-19 has shown up anything, it is the brutality of police worldwide. Most times their actions go on with impunity. Cops in Kenya beat up people without mercy and enforce curfew by leaving motorists stranded on highways. In Uganda cops extort commuters under threat of jail. In Rwanda the stranglehold on the nation continues to tighten under threat of harsh penalties.

There is no equality when it comes to the Global South, particularly for much of Africa whose suffering at the hands of the police echoes the oppression faced by the Black community in the US.

The cycle continues same as ever, two steps forward and three steps back in Black America’s quest for equitable treatment.

Through this lens of warranted cynicism, the “guilty” verdict handed down to Derek Chauvin by a jury in Minnesota is not a massive turning point. The very pundits stating that the verdict is such a monumental moment of change inherently prove that it is nothing remotely close to such a trend. There will be other failed indictments, other cops walking away, more cases of mysteriously “lost” body-cam footage. More will die, protests will spring up and be quelled with extreme prejudice.

Chauvin, the smirking killer that he is, did prove one thing and one thing only: where the “line” truly is, where the grey areas that the police hide behind blur over into black and white, from a “justified act of lethal self-defense from a frightened officer” into outright murder. His actions were so unquestionably heinous that they had to be dealt with. What Chauvin did derives directly from an ugly history; he lynched that man and at the time thought he would get away with it, hands in pockets, cocky half-smile on his face while his bodyweight cut off George Floyd’s air supply in that street gutter. Bystanders begged him to stop as the other officers watched in idle complicity. Paramedics were not allowed to give medical aid and Chauvin continued to apply pressure for minutes after Floyd had become non-responsive.

The systems, after all, stay much as they are in America. Profit margins must be maintained and “order” by way of the status quo must be upheld. The Twin Cities, of which Minneapolis is the more visible twin, would have simply exploded if the verdict had come back anything less than guilty. After a year of protests, COVID-19 lockdowns, electoral strangeness, Trumpian policies, political divisions, economic challenges and continued incidents of police violence, the tinderbox that was Minneapolis could not have handled Chauvin walking free out of the courthouse to appear on Fox News to “thank God”.

If that had happened the resulting violence would have dwarfed any incidents of unrest in America’s past. It is likely that weeks later clashes with police would be continuing on a nightly basis in dozens of cities across America. Minneapolis, where major corporates are headquartered, would have been engulfed in flames so huge the smoke would have been seen in the neighbouring state of Wisconsin.

The tinderbox that was Minneapolis could not have handled Chauvin walking free out of the courthouse to appear on Fox News to “thank God”.

Chauvin’s true legacy is that of an outlier, the ultimate talking-head example that “things are different now”, that something has truly been accomplished on a systemic level when it comes to police treatment of Black America.

In reality, Chauvin is simply a cop who committed an action so ugly that he had to be made an example of so that America could “get back to normal”.

For Black America in 2021 however, normal life is chockful of disappointments.

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