Millennials have been blamed for pretty much everything that is going on wrong in the world today. Marriage is failing, thanks to hook-up culture and Tinder’s “I’ll get with anything I swiped right on.” The real estate market is falling because millennials would rather spend all their money on avocado toast than take up mortgages and buy homes. The meat industry is failing because millennials care more about animals’ pain and after all, vegan is the new wave.
Millennials are entitled snowflakes with a fundamentally skewed sense of how the world really works. They complain on the Internet on how the baby boomers and Gen Xers have ruined the world with neoliberalism and polluted the planet with carbon emissions – if they are woke enough to simultaneously share a picture of their decaf soy latte next to a pristine Macbook on Instagram (#Workflow). They eschew responsibility and have a questionable attitude towards stable middle-management corporate jobs. They would rather “find themselves” by Air-B-n-bing and backpacking across continents, “do work that excites them” by building an app that delivers food via drones and “follow their passion” of selling torn clothes and labelling it avant-garde fashion – after all, if Kanye West did it, why can’t we?
“Why can’t they just listen? Why do they feel so damn entitled? Didn’t they know how hard we had it?”
The attitude the older generations have towards millennials, specifically, their perceived inability to “listen” to the words of the elder statesmen (and women) and the sheer gumption of making their future without being beholden to the past reminds me of an excerpt I recently read from The Secret Footballer: Access All Areas (Guardian Faber, 2015) on the author’s experiences coming through as a young professional footballer:
“Then a curious thing happened once I was signed by my first professional club: my fellow footballers, my teammates, laughed at me. I wasn’t a kid…they talked about me as if I was a teacher’s pet who had no idea how to play ‘proper’ football. I wouldn’t last five minutes. Some of them tried to bully me, until they realised that I bit back…
“I realised that the ritual was about keeping me in my place, but I wasn’t interested in playing along. They’d call it ‘paying your dues’, I hadn’t paid my dues in professional football. Fine. I’d call what went on a short-sighted, half-arsed form of bullying, really.
“Let me tell you the run of the before, the during and the after of that early football education. At first they laughed. The thought of a new nobody coming into their dressing room and into their dressing room was so strange to them that their only response could be to laugh. Then when the ‘nobody’ did well on the pitch it wasn’t so funny. They became jealous. This was counter to everything they had been taught to everything they had been taught when they started out in the academy, not long after they were potty-trained. His dues! His dues! He hasn’t paid his dues!”
It was all too relatable. Not because it was profound, but rather, because it was such an accurate description of my experiences in the legal profession for the past year and a half.
In the legal profession, “paying your dues” means ticking all the right boxes: an unforgiving four year slog in university (preferably a public one like THE University of Nairobi– never mind they have been on strike/closed for over a year– and counting); a backbreaking year at the Kenya School of Law, pass the bar exams administered by the Council of Legal Education – if you are lucky (an exam with a pass rate of only 10% or less, check the statistics); a six-month pupillage and a coveted spot “holding over” in a law firm. When you are done, Canaan beckons- admission to the Bar as an advocate of the High Court of Kenya, and all the rewards that follow.
While paying your dues, you should keep your head down. Be like a child in Victorian England – seen and not heard; preferably with a blend of stoicism and blandness of expression – think Mark Zuckerburg and his ill-fitting navy-blue suit before Congress. Offer no opinion on the irony as your boss points out that the Employment Act requires that employment contracts of more than three months to be in writing; yet you have never seen such a written contract for the ten months you have been employed there for a stipend that is way below the statutory minimum wage. Keep a stiff upper lip as you watch the former Chairman of the Commission on Administrative Justice, in open court, stating that being represented in court by a young lawyer is an act of “great contempt”. Smile and wave like the Penguins in Madagascar as your boss makes remarks, within earshot, that schools nowadays “produce nothing but half-baked lawyers.”
“Holding over” is a particularly loathed stage in an advocate’s career, falling just between the six-month statutory term of pupillage and admission to the Bar. It is a stage of professional purgatory – you are not a pupil but you are not an advocate either. It gets worse if you are in a firm where the carrot of being retained as an associate turns pupillage from what is meant to be a learning experience to a bare-knuckled Hobbesian fight to the death; a nasty, brutish and short period.
Immediately after my six-month pupillage, I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. I politely declined a very generous offer to stay on at the firm and instead took the time off to recuperate. I lived my best life for the next three months: no more waking up at 5 a.m. to battle with the insane Nairobi traffic. A normal day would start at 11 a.m. with a healthy brunch and a dose of Netflix. I was on twitter for most of the day – sharing memes. I experimented with some projects – I started a legal blog that crashed and burned, miserably so on account of low readership. To earn a few coins, I took on research projects for law firms, “consulting” – I called it, to give a sheen of respectability to the work.
My decision brought immeasurable strain in my relationships. My parents were supportive, of course, they were, but I could always see the shake of the head and the silent sigh over the dinner table. The person I was “talking to” at the time could not handle my “lack of ambition.” My friends thought I had genuinely lost it. To them, I had committed the cardinal sin of looking a gift horse in the mouth and labelling it a sneaky gift from the Greeks “So much potential and you are here, throwing it all away.”
How could I turn down such a marvellous opportunity to make a reputation? How was I to get my name out there? Did I want to make it in this profession without paying my dues?
As recently as 2012, it was actually an offence for an advocate to start their own firm straight after being admitted to the Bar. One had to serve for at least two years under someone who had been in practice for five years, before entertaining the thought of going solo. It was a very invidious piece of gatekeeping backed by legislation – more specifically section 32 of the Advocates’ Act; naturally in true Kenyan fashion after the promulgation of the 2010 Constitution, someone went to court to challenge this.
The petitioners in Okenyo Omwansa George & another v Attorney General & 2 others  eKLR argued that this particular provision of the law was unconstitutional, as it subjected young advocates to forced labour and servitude. The law compelled a young advocate to work for someone against their will so as to attain an expected level of learning and experience in the legal profession to branch out on their own.
The respondents had a different view, of course. The rules were there for a reason: for the young lawyers’ own good. Supervised practice enables young advocates to gain experience under the tutelage of senior advocates, which prepares young advocates to discharge their most noble calling. It is a good idea to protect the public from the impetuousness of youth and their propensity to make mistakes.
The Honourable Mr Justice Majanja agreed with the respondent. He reasoned that the pursuit of a legal career is a voluntary act. Nobody forced anyone to become an advocate, the petitioners fully knew what the statutory requirements were. Furthermore, slaves do not have the luxury of leaving. The best the petitioners could do was to quit whining and suck it up for the two years.
This decision was short-lived. Section 50(2) of the Legal Education Act, 2012 repealed the dreaded section 32 of the Advocates’ Act. Free at last, free at last, young advocates were free at last, to practise on their own.
After my admission to the Bar in December 2016, the charade was up. I was 26, squatting at my parents’ house. The pressure was on to do something more meaningful with my life other than “writing things on the Internet.” I was tired of being broke. My rebellious nature ensured that I had burnt most of my bridges. This, coupled with the slight taste of freedom I had recently begun to enjoy, meant I was, for all intents and purposes, unemployable in conventional legal practice. Thankfully, the law allowed me to start practising law in the way I thought fit and in the words of the modern-day philosopher, Russell Westbrook III, I asked myself, “Why not?”
I realised that this was an undertaking I could not possibly accomplish by myself. I partnered with a friend (also 26) from university and law school, who was equally “directionless” according to his grandparents. We cobbled together a few resources and started drafting plans. In our youthful naiveté, we picked the worst possible time to start a new business. It was July 2017, a month before the General Elections. The way this country is set up, any semblance of economic activity is informally suspended for months before (and especially after) the elections.
“Let us see how this thing will turn out, then we’ll talk,” was the default Kenyan stock answer we got. In the very rare event we were fortunate to get some work, we did not get paid, because “Let us see how this thing will turn out, then we’ll talk.”
When the skirmishes broke out after the result of the August 8th election, I was mightily relieved that I would not have to go to our threadbare office – it was literally four walls and a room. I live near Kawangware and I was marooned in the house, in fear (but relieved) as the police brutally cracked down on non-existent protests. Even if I ventured out, there was absolutely no work to be done. When the Supreme Court nullified the results of the August 8th election and ordered a fresh election, my partner and I took it on our glass chins, because the cycle of “Let us see how this thing will turn out, then we’ll talk” had just begun. Again.
An outcome of the August 8th election was the deluge of election petitions that were filed. My partner was politically savvy and had made friends with clients at the firm where he had undertaken his pupillage. One of them was a losing aspirant who wanted us to file his election petition. We could smell the big time.
The politician was none too pleased with our quotation. In a heated exchange with my partner, he made a huge meal of the fact that he did not go with “experience” but rather with young hungry advocates. “You charge way too much for people just starting out. Give me a rate that reflects your ‘experience’. Otherwise, you’re just being too greedy, asking for too much, too soon.”
We refused his offer. He never filed his petition and poof! The big time vanished.
We learnt an important lesson along the way, reinforced by many futile attempts at bidding for work, identifying the dog whistles.
“People who have done this for years.”
“People who know what they are doing, not those who will learn on the job.”
Another experience my partner had was with one of his grandfather’s friends from the village. People generally do not take advice, especially legal advice, from people younger than their last-born children.
“Young man, I saw when your mother was changing your diapers. We held a harambee for you to study law, and YOU are here telling ME that I have to subdivide my land to MY DAUGHTER! YOUNG PEOPLE OF NOWADAYS, NO RESPECT FOR CULTURE! I WILL TAKE THIS UP WITH YOUR GRANDFATHER!”
That is not as funny as clients who openly question your age or your looks.
“I would prefer if you tried to at least grow a beard. It would give the impression that you are not 17.”
I recently sat down to lunch with a friend making the transition back into legal practice after a stint in academia. I had met her on one of these Law Society of Kenya things where people just love listening to the sound of their own voices, struck a good conversation and a respectful professional friendship. It is not every day I can call a PhD holder and ask her to have lunch. Over a very meh glass of red wine (her words) that was not a Merlot (I learned what a Merlot was not on that day), we shot the breeze and talked shop, from the Miguna saga to what the Lands Ministry was doing with e-conveyancing.
“I mean, be honest, you older lawyers, don’t respect young lawyers, and that’s a fact.” I suggested.
She gave me that long withering stare Stringer Bell reserved for his dumb hoodlums in The Wire. It did not help that she is bespectacled.
“First of all…”
I knew I was going to get it, and by it, I do not mean a Head of State Commendation.
“I have a legal assistant, who for all intents and purposes, is clueless. Zero initiative. He thinks he knows it all already so he doesn’t listen. You young people are too entitled yet you don’t want to put in the work. I understand you don’t have to go through our experiences, or live a life as hard as we did. I don’t expect you to read 100 law reports when kenyalaw.org have it for free, but come on. Basic stuff like punctuality, politeness, work ethic. Some of you make it so incredibly hard to take you seriously.”
“But…but…the pay,” I countered.
“The pay, we could do better with the pay, but the way this Kenyan economy is set up…we all got paid peanuts. Suck it up and get on with it.”
On the way back from lunch, I was still frothing indignantly about being owned, so I turned to my Instagram. An acquaintance from law school had posted his first draft of an agreement they were working on. On Instagram Stories, with the hashtag #LawyerLife #RespectTheHustle. It is really hard to defend millennials when someone pulls this kind of stunt and claims to take their work, their ethical obligations and themselves, seriously.
But the older generation has to understand that this is a new world and the worst thing they can possibly say to us is, “Well, in my day, we did it like this.” We do not have to walk to school for ten kilometres barefoot just because you did it “back in our day”, and we do not have to use a tin-and-wick lamps to study when there are solar-powered lights. We do not have to suffer the indignities you did on the come up; to insist on such and calling it “toughening up” is nothing more than institutionalised hazing.
As a young professional, I am sick and tired of being patronized by my seniors and made to feel as if I am not working hard enough, or that I do not belong, despite the Churchillian blood, sweat and tears I have spent getting here. There is no need for me to work twice as hard to be considered half as good, in the face of insurmountable obstacles placed by older people who have wreaked havoc on this economy through decades of mismanagement and poor governance. I will certainly not be called “half-baked” by someone who is in charge of teaching and churning out the “half-baked” student, after ruining the education system through underfunding, poor teaching methods and the rapacious pursuit of profit. I will not “respect my elders” when they have done very little to show me why they deserve that respect, other than being old.
And, no, I will not be paying my dues anytime soon, because I am coming out to claim them.
Easter in the Holy Land, and Tracing The Modern ‘Way of The Cross’ in Palestine
Many Palestinians refer to our 70-year experience of living under Israeli occupation and the suffering we endure as “walking the Via Dolorosa” or the Way of the Cross. The stations of suffering that are visited include: checkpoints, permits, refugee camps, blockade, home demolitions, detention without trial, and bombing.
For Christians in the Holy Land, Easter is the most important of the Christian holy days. In fact, Palestinians refer to it as al-Eid al-Kabir (the Big Feast) while Christmas is known as al-Eid al-Saghir (the Little Feast).
The Saturday before Easter Sunday is the climax of the Holy Week in occupied Palestine. Sabt Al-Nur (Saturday of Light) is an Orthodox tradition that marks the end of the Easter fast. Tradition holds that every year on the Saturday prior to Easter, a flame arises from the tomb of Christ at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.
The miracle of the flame is celebrated by lighting candles from this flame in Jerusalem and carrying it from one town and village to another in Palestine.
Although Sabt al-Nur is an Orthodox tradition, Christians of all denominations have attended the ceremony in Jerusalem for generations, in what has always been a major community event for Christians in Palestine.
But last year, only a few hundred Palestinians made it to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for the ceremony of the Holy Fire. Most Palestinian Christians have never seen the miraculous flame – not because we don’t care about the tradition – but because Israel restricts us, especially our young people, from entering Jerusalem. Jerusalem: the sacred city of Christians all over the world; the place of Jesus’s crucifixion and resurrection, the birthplace of Christianity itself, the site of its first churches.
As a little boy, I remember travelling to Jerusalem from our village of BeitSahour. BeitSahour is located just outside of Bethlehem, and is less than 15 km from Jerusalem. Yet it is a trip that took several hours due to the “no-man’s zone” imposed on us when Israel was created in 1948. This forced us to go through a route nearly three times longer than the normal way.
Now, I can no longer visit Jerusalem at all. I am a former political prisoner, and have been placed on an Israeli “security” list. The Israeli authorities will not grant me a permit to visit Jerusalem. My 35-year-old son has travelled widely and seen almost half the world, but he too is barred from Jerusalem.
Our story is not unique. Palestinians – indigenous to the Holy Land and who live a few kilometres away from Jerusalem – must beg for permission to visit, endure humiliating searches and pass through walls and checkpoints, while pilgrims from Germany, the United States or Peru can fly in for Easter.
For most Palestinians – whether Christian or Muslim – Jerusalem is the city we love the most and visit the least.
As an Easter “goodwill” gesture, Israel says it has issued approximately 10,000 permits to Palestinians from the occupied West Bank and 500 permits to Christians in the besieged Gaza Strip, where several thousand live. Is it really goodwill to force people to apply for permits to visit and worship in their most sacred city during their most sacred time? Is it goodwill to turn the sacred city into a military zone?
During Easter, barriers are set up in the early hours of the morning in the courtyard at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Its aim is to keep people out of the Church: a site central to Jesus’s death, crucifixion and resurrection.
Israeli army officers are present around the gates of the Old City and passages that lead to the Holy Sepulchre, as well as inside the Church itself and on its roof. These measures restrict freedom of movement for Palestinians, preventing Palestinian Christians from worshipping at the Church during this auspicious period. Even priests are not allowed to move freely. Is this what freedom of worship looks like?
Today, Palestinians feel that not only are our religious, cultural, and spiritual celebrations under attack but our whole existence as well. In fact, many Palestinians refer to our experience of living under Israeli occupation and the suffering we endure as “walking the Via Dolorosa” or the Way of the Cross.
However, this Way of the Cross is not confined to Easter week, but has been going for 70 years. The stations of suffering that are visited include: checkpoints, permits, refugee camps, blockade, home demolitions, detention without trial, and bombing.
Today, Palestinians are still walking the Way of the Cross, and anxiously awaiting the Day of Resurrection – the day the stone that blocks the tomb of occupation is rolled away.
The message of Easter and the Resurrection is that those liberated by God cannot be made slaves by anyone. But this is what is exactly what is happening today in occupied Palestine. Israel is asking the Palestinian people to let their freedom die, so that the Israeli people can live.
In the Holy Land – the land of the Resurrection – we see one group of people committed to security, justice and peace for themselves, only that is built on injustice and occupation for another set of people. We see one human being living at the expense of another human being. Christians believe Jesus Christ died and rose from the dead to give life for all, to enable everyone to triumph over death. His resurrection gave life, justice and peace for oneself; their people; and all the peoples of the earth.
Freedom for one group cannot come through the oppression of another.
Israeli security and peace cannot be built at the expense of Palestinian security, dignity and peace. The occupation of Palestinian life must end, so that both Israelis and Palestinians may live as equal human beings.
Rhetoric and Injustice: An Easter Reflection on Jesus Criminalised
Re-reading the passion narrative of Jesus allows us to be suspicious of how criminality is constructed today. The divine sharing of criminality exposes unjust systems that prosecute innocent people everyday, who are forced to plead guilty or are prematurely declared guilty.
“The cross places God in the midst of crucified people, in the midst of people who are hung, shot, burned, and tortured.” ~James Cone, ‘The Cross and the Lynching Tree’
How important is the cause of Jesus’ death for our celebration of Easter this weekend? Those familiar with the Easter story may find the question of the utmost importance. They may even explain the cause along the lines that “Jesus died for our sins.” But it is much more complicated than that.
Theologians through the ages have grappled with this central question of the Christian faith. The Apostle Paul argued that Jesus’ death led to reconciliation between divinity and humanity, while Origen of Alexandria, a third-century scholar, believed that Jesus was a ransom payment for Satan. The most common theory we might be familiar with today was articulated by Anselm, a twelfth-century theologian and philosopher. Anselm’s view of Jesus was that of substitutionary atonement, where God is depicted akin to a feudal lord whose honour had been offended by the sins of humanity. Christ then acts as a stand-in for humanity, suffering crucifixion for human sin and satisfying God’s just wrath against humankind’s transgression due to Christ’s blamelessness.
In their interpretations, these theologians are less concerned with the finer details of the historical circumstances that led Jesus to Calvary, as reported by the gospel writers. This is not to say that they are not interested in history, because the death of Jesus is a material fact that grounds its subsequent spiritual and allegorical interpretations.
The gospel writers more directly describe accounts of concrete reasons why Jesus received a death sentence; why and how a Judean peasant is sentenced to lethal punishment by a Roman procurator. They present narratives of arrest, trials, sentencing, and execution in order to articulate the causes of Jesus’ death – and to underscore that he was innocent, unfairly tried, quickly sentenced, and disproportionately punished.
Jesus’ death is not the consequence of well-distributed justice. Instead, it is the lynching of a man who through rhetoric, coercion, and popular opinion was criminalised. Although the gospel accounts differ in many regards, one place in which they are consistent is that portray Jesus as innocent. Jesus is depicted in the gospel accounts as one who has not done anything that deserves death; however, the people determine his guiltiness independently of both his actions and the charges levied against him. The charges actually function rhetorically to portray Jesus as a criminal.
Luke’s gospel is particularly useful for seeing how Jesus is criminalised. Luke is clear in illustrating how Pilate finds no reason to charge Jesus; however, the accusations of the Jerusalem temple leadership inspire the people to seek Jesus’ crucifixion. The people deem Jesus guilty without any evidence.
I see parallels with contemporary discourses that employ similar rhetoric and criminalise certain groups in today’s society. Khalil G. Muhammad, in his seminal work The Condemnation of Blackness: Race, Crime, and the Making of Urban America describes how criminal rhetoric and racial logic in America have gone hand in hand, to the point where statistics were manipulated to “prove” that African Americans were more prone to crime than their white counterparts. Muhammad’s work underscores the fact that criminality is not about committing crimes, but it is about systems of power. These systems create and perpetuate discourses that present people marked by status, class, gender, and race, as prone to and even guilty of crime prior to gathering evidence.
The same kind of rhetoric is at work in the gospel accounts of the crucifixion. The text in Luke 23:1-25 suggest that the accusations against Jesus, and his subsequent sentencing to death, mark how Jesus is classed as a criminal and how he is thus punished, although the allegations are unfounded or at least deemed by Pilate to be inconsequential and certainly not worthy of death.
In the accounts, Jesus is accused of three offences.
Charge 1: Stirring up our people
In the gospel of Luke, the Jerusalem temple leadership – comprising the priests and teachers of the law – present Jesus as an outsider “stirring up our people”. He is not outside of Jewishness or Judean identities, but he is from the outside of the axis of power in Jerusalem. In their ‘charge sheet’ the temple leaders emphasise that Jesus began teaching in Galilee, another part of Judea on the other side of Samaria. He began spreading his message amongst peasants, fishermen, and farmers in rural Galilee and had now brought his message all the way to the metropolis of Jerusalem. This implies that they consider Jesus either an outside agitator for Jews in Jerusalem, or an insider disrupting technologies of the temple leadership’s power from within.
The gospels all agree that Jesus was teaching in the temple publically during the busiest festival of the Jewish calendar. There would have been extra Roman police surveillance, which the presence of Pilate in the city epitomises. Therefore, Jesus’s broadcasting of “outsider” ideas would be dangerous, especially if those ideas appeared antagonistic to the power of the temple leadership or to Rome. The temple leaders’ arguments here could sound like a “Make Judea Great Again” campaign that needed scapegoats to legitimise the power of the elite and to quell any challenges to their power.
This charge of stirring up the people that the temple leadership raised against Jesus to Pilate does not explain how he stirred up the people and what he stirred them up for, but the connection of this charge to insurrection could depict Jesus as a threat that needed to be neutralised. Hence, when Jesus asks at his arrest, “Why do you come out with swords and clubs as if I were a bandit (insurrectionist)?” he identifies that he is being criminalised as the type of troublemaker that the ancient imaginaire would anticipate to receive crucifixion for seditious activity.
Charge 2: Forbidding people to pay taxes
The Jerusalem temple leadership accused Jesus of forbidding people to pay taxes to Caesar. This at best is an overstatement, because the people did not actually pay taxes directly to Caesar. In Roman-controlled Judea, peasants were not only employed to work on land that they could never own, they were also taxed. This taxation went to the ruling aristocracy (for whom they worked) who in turn paid taxes to Rome and were thus considered a part of the extended Roman imperial family. The taxation, tax collectors, and tax recipients were hated by the underclass.
The relationship between the peasant class and the ruling priestly class explains why the temple leadership, and particularly the priests, would see this charge against Jesus as particularly insidious. The priests, appointed by the Roman procurator, were given a measure of autonomy to run Jerusalem on behalf of the Romans. They were in effect the brokers of the fiduciary relationship between Rome and Judea – like homeguards or paramount chiefs in the African colonial context – and this arrangement during this time was particularly successful for the ruling elite. Pilate had an uncharacteristically stable relationship with the Jerusalem priests and did not have to exchange the high priests as frequently as his predecessor or successor. This relative stability was desirable in Judea in particular, an area that was prone to turbulence and tense relationships with the Romans. Forbidding people to pay taxes would jeopardise this proximate tranquility, which impacted the priests’ economic and political position as well as the people’s safety from Roman aggression.
Charge 3: Claiming to be a Messiah king
The last charge that the Jerusalem temple leadership raise against Jesus is that he says that he is a Messiah king. This charge is important, because it is the only one that Pilate asks Jesus about. This charge most clearly demonstrates the appeal to portray Jesus as an insurrectionist. Both messiah and king are politically loaded terms in the Roman imperial context, and for one to claim either was often linked with being an insurrectionist. The majority of the times this term is used it is in reference to a criminal involved in seditious activity.
Messianism was rampant in first century Judea. The historian Josephus acknowledges a number of figures that considered themselves to be messiahs, who felt they were anointed to bring back the Kingdom of David, or to reestablish Judean independence as had been the Hasmonean period. The activism of many of these messiahs earned them the death penalty on the cross. Even the book of Acts notes how some figures “claimed to be somebody” and had led many people in ineffective movements.
Pilate does not ask about the messiah part of the charge, instead he focuses, as he should, on the charge about Jesus claiming kingship. This charge is both laughable and serious. It is laughable that a Galilean peasant’s claim to regal authority would be taken seriously and given due process by a Roman procurator. It is a serious charge though, because this charge would claim that Jesus is pitting the “basileia tou Iēsou/Theou”- kingdom of Jesus/God against the “basileia tēs Roma” – the Roman Empire. If that was the case, then regardless of status the individual would be guilty of treason and that was a crime punishable by death, even for citizens. With this charge, the Jerusalem temple leadership is seeking the highest penalty that they can for Jesus by portraying him as the most abominable of criminals.
The gospel of Luke never presents any Roman or Jewish official as deeming Jesus worthy of death until the moment that Jerusalem temple leadership and people exclaim, “Crucify him!” This even shocks Pilate, because he had not found him guilty of any of the charges. But the rhetoric of the elders, priests, and scholars had prevailed, because when Jesus returns from being interrogated by Herod, the gospel writer Luke adds that Pilate addresses not only the Jerusalem temple leadership but the people as well. They unanimously ask for Barabbas’ freedom and Jesus’ crucifixion.
In the account, Barabbas is an insurrectionist who has committed murder and the people prefer him over Jesus. This suggests that the crowd views Jesus as more of threat or more hated than a murderer. This disdain for Jesus from Luke’s narrative is unwarranted and unfounded. However, Jesus is categorically placed beside an insurrectionist and is determined guilty by the people. It is not clear what he is guilty of but it is safe to assume that the people presume that he is more deserving of punishment than one who committed murder and insurrection.
The same rhetorical technique is used when we contrast Jesus with the two criminals who are also crucified that day. One of the criminals suggests that these two have done something worthy of such a heinous death. Although such a speech is unlikely, it rhetorically serves the purpose of illustrating the type of criminal that Jesus is portrayed as. This exposes the vicious nature of criminality, because it legitimates and justifies lethal state power.
Jesus is classed with people who are considered to deserve such a despicable form of punishment. He shares their criminality, because the judiciary process landed them all with the same sentence. Another way to read this portion of the narrative is that if the criminals’ guiltiness is brought about by the same means by which Jesus is criminalised, Jesus’ crucifixion with them could potentially allude to the criminals also being innocent, despite their execution.
This is not justice.
Pilate would have certainly been concerned about suppressing any attempt to supplant Roman power. However, his non-guilty verdict, and its multiple attestations of this across the gospels, is noteworthy. Pilate says that he did not find Jesus guilty of anything worthy of a death sentence, which is not the same as saying that he did not find him guilty of anything. And Pilate’s suggestion to have Jesus flogged exposes how Jesus’ body is marked and understood.
Flogging was reserved for the lowest status of person. It means that Pilate’s suggestion is still humiliation, and recognition that Jesus’ status suggests that he is guilty of some crime even if there is no evidence, and even if the charges brought forth are unfounded. After engaging with the judicial system at this level, Jesus could not go free without being taught a lesson. That is why the word for flog here is so interesting, because it can also mean “to teach.” Pilate’s mercy punishment is framed as diminutive and educative. It serves to remind Jesus and others who were like him of their status in regards to Rome. Nonetheless, Pilate does not get to follow that course of action and is instead prompted by the crowd to sentence Jesus to die on a cross.
Although Pilate issues the sentence, it is the people who make the judgment. The mass of people described in the text is not an unreasoning horde of people, but is part lynch mob and part democratic assembly. They judge what prisoner is let free, even though Pilate does not offer to let one go. They judge that Jesus should be crucified, even though Pilate suggests a milder punishment. By the time the people speak in the narrative, it is clear that the facts of the case are irrelevant and that the people have made a decision. The Jerusalem temple leadership’s role, then, was not to convince Pilate that Jesus deserved death, but it was to convince the people at the praetorium in the presence of Pilate. This is not without historical precedence that public opinion influenced Roman officials’ distribution of justice, especially if the stability of city depended on the people’s response to a verdict. In effect, Jesus is sentenced to death by a state-sanctioned lynch mob.
In the end, I am not convinced that Jesus deserved to die. I see him as caught up in a system that veils its logic of criminality by justifying imprisonment, torture, and execution as legal necessities for the good of society. But this does not critically reflect on how people who may receive the punishments of criminals may not necessarily be lawbreakers or crime committers. If one is classed as a criminal, then one’s body is perpetually in danger of arrest and punishment.
Criminality, therefore, is not about crime. Some scholars suggest that the Roman government would not have been concerned with a Judean peasant unless he had posed some type of serious threat, but that logic assumes that imperial governments are always guided by logic, compassion, and justice.
We can look at our own contemporary (in)justice systems and recognise that that is not always, and for some people it is never, the case. Most justification for criminal rhetoric tends to side with those in power, with the voices that benefit from criminalising lower classes. Then, their criminal status is used as the basis for their continued legal and social oppression.
So, re-reading narratives like the passion accounts of Jesus in light of that observation allows us to be suspicious of how criminals, even today, are constructed by the powerful to maintain oppressors’ authority and distinct identity.
But the passion accounts don’t end there. They end with the resurrection, where the God of Jesus does not allow people falsely imprisoned and criminalised to remain there. This God follows his people through prisons built by criminalised logic and even beyond the grave, guiding them to liberation and resurrection. The divine sharing of criminality exposes unjust systems that prosecute innocent people everyday, who are forced to plead guilty or are prematurely declared guilty.
And if I could just preach for a moment, I would quote Cone again when he says, “The real scandal of the gospel is this: humanity’s salvation is revealed in the cross of the condemned criminal Jesus, and humanity’s salvation is available only through our solidarity with the crucified people in our midst.” This recognition illustrates how the strange fruit of the prison industrial system is linked to the strange fruit hung on southern U.S. trees, which must be linked to the strange fruit Romans hung on the cross at Golgotha. May we strive to not find ourselves like the Roman centurion at the foot of the cross who declares too late, “Surely this was an innocent person.”
We Need New Words: A Reflection on the “War on Terror”
The “War on Terror” is a disruption, that makes normal, absurd reality, a privation of humanity, a shape-shifting enemy that yearns for innocent lives and souls; the menacing colonial state with new fangs.
7th August 1998.
Friday, 10am: Parents, students and teachers are all seated in the school hall, and prize-giving day is about to begin. I had obtained the highest grade in GHC (Geography, History and Civics) and I was to receive a prize. I was elated, because it was the last day of the school term. At home, good grades were a pass to indulge in activities forbidden during the school term.
At 10.34am: The headmistress walks to the podium to give her opening remarks when we hear a blast in the distance. Moments later, the crowd starts murmuring, and the few pagers in the room start beeping. Parents anxiously take custody of their children and a state of anxiety descends on the gathering. Vehicles begin to speed off and the prize-giving day comes to an abrupt end.
A terrorist attack targeting the US Embassy in downtown Nairobi has just happened. The neighbouring building, Ufundi Co-operative House was reduced to debris. 213 people die and more than 5,000 get injured. At the age of nine in Standard Four, I felt the fear and anxiety.
Before August 7th 1998, Kenya had never witnessed a terror attack of such magnitude. The Al Qaeda terror group led by Osama bin Laden took responsibility for the attack professing it was retaliation for US presence in Saudi Arabia in the aftermath of Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait. The national psyche was bruised. President, Daniel Arap Moi regretted that peaceful Kenya had suffered the tragedy of a geopolitical dispute.
My holidays were never the same again. At home, strict curfews were introduced; my mother would call every other day to check on the whereabouts of my siblings and I. My parents introduced holiday tuition as a means, I suspect, of surveillance to protect and curate our movements. “The fear of the public space” had been cemented in my parents’ minds. From then on, I heard my parents add a new phrase in their lingua: “Terrorism” which after the September 9/11 attacks in the United States morphed into the “The War on Terror”. It sounded like they pronounced it in capital letters to imitate the manner the subject of terrorism was broadcast in the news.
Over a decade later, in 2009, my brother and I were walking home from an eatery at the Oil Libya petrol station along Mombasa road on a Thursday at 9:17 pm. We lived in South C, a middle-class suburb in Nairobi that had in the last decade bourgeoned into a cosmopolitan neighbourhood with the influx of nationals from Sudan, Ethiopia and Somalia. South C transformed into a place of refuge for nationals fleeing conflict in their home countries.
On this fateful day, a police patrol unit accosted, threatened us with arrest and threw us into a police vehicle on the suspicion as terror suspects.
“Mnaranda randa usiku, kwani nyinyi ni Al Shabaab?” barked a policeman. (Why are you loitering about, are you Al Shabaab?)
“Hapana boss, tumetoka kwa duka, tunaelekea nyumbani.” (No sir, we are just headed home from the shops), replied my elder brother,
“Unadhani mimi ni mjinga? Wale wa kutoka kwa duka ndiyo hutembea na bomb. Ingia hapa nyuma haraka sana.” (Do you think I’m a fool? In fact those who are ‘just from the shops’ are the ones who walk around with bombs. Get into the back of the vehicle!)
In the patrol vehicle, I noticed that my brother and I were the only suspects who did not bear the physical resemblance of Somali people. The state-led counter-terrorism operations had led to the profiling of Kenyans Muslims, particularly from the Somali community. Members of the community were subjected to police harassment, arrests and human rights violations while publicly scorned as associates of Al Shabaab terrorists.
In the patrol vehicle, one of the police officers remarks that were effectively Al Shabaab terrorists under arrest and our freedom rested on our ability to ‘speak’. This was a new experience for my brother and I. Our fellow “felons” seemed to get the drift and reached into their pockets. Each one parted with a bribe as they alighted from the vehicle and we followed suit. There was little choice to make. The “War on Terror” had robbed us of our moral agency.
I met Leila through a mutual friend. We struck a rapport immediately, and shared many intellectual interests. We would often meet up after class, and walk down from the University of Nairobi, talking as we meandered through the maze of Nairobi’s central business district. She was tall, beautiful. Muslim and Somali. Despite coming from different worlds, religiously, culturally socially and politically, our friendship grew. We created our own little universe where we could share our feelings, ideas, grief, hopes and dreams.
My mother was impressed when she met Leila. By her poise, respect for elders (important for my mother), her confidence and emotional intelligence. In spite of all these good attributes, my mother harboured some cultural prejudices towards Leila. A few days later, she sat me down and told me: “You are now in fourth year and about to finish university and start life. As your mother, I want you to get a good Christian wife and succeed in life.”
I didn’t have a response. It was one of those things that parents ostensibly say with love but cut you deeply. We never talked about the incident again but I was affected by her words even as I tried to understand my mother’s prejudice. I finished campus a few months later and my friendship with Leila drifted apart. We soon lost touch.
After the 1998 terror attack, the bombings in New York during 911 and the emergence of Al Shabaab, it seemed that my mother, like many, needed an image to embody the angst, fear and anger that “terror” had brought into her life. Perhaps the need to put a face to the enemy influenced her prejudice and denied Leila her individual autonomy and humanity.
I partly understood it. This was her way of defending herself, a coping mechanism. The “War on Terror” had erased her ability to recognise the humanity of Leila and her story. It simplified her view to labels: brown, Somali, Muslim and danger.
4:10 pm: #DusitAttack is trending on my Twitter feed.
4:12 pm: I check my Twitter news feed for a reliable source. I find one, Africa Uncensored’s Twitter handle: “Terrorist attack at DusitD2 hotel, 14 Riverside underway”
4:15 pm: I call my wife. “Babe, are you okay?” “Yes, I am” she responds. “Okay, I’m leaving the office now. Be safe.” I hung up.
4:20 pm: I send out a generic message, “I’m safe,” to my WhatsApp groups to calm my friends and family.
4:28 pm: I packed my bags and I leave the office.
On the afternoon of Tuesday, 15 January 2019, armed gunmen stormed into 14 Riverside, an office complex in Westlands, Nairobi that hosts offices of various organisations, a restaurant and a hotel, DusitD2. The attack began at 2:30pm and was concluded a few minutes before 10:00am the following day. Initial reports were of gunfire and two explosions at the hotel. The attackers, estimated to number between four and six arrived in two vehicles. One of the attackers went in discreetly and blew himself up next to the Secret Garden restaurant. After the blast, the remaining terrorists fired on the guards at the gates of 14 Riverside Drive and lobbed grenades setting some vehicles parked in the parking bay ablaze. The attack left more than 20 people dead.
On my way home, I scribble on my notebook the words. DUSIT ATTACK AND WHAT IT MEANS FOR THE WAR ON TERROR! This is an opening line to an editorial brief I think of writing so that I can commission a few think pieces to shed light on this issue. I would spend the next couple of days thinking about this, until it dawned on me that I had only viewed the Dusit attack as a function of my job: A story to be written, an analysis to be done and a conversation to be had. Not what it really was: pain, death, trauma and dysfunction.
As far as terror goes, I had been alienated from my humanity and myself.
Political vernaculars, writes Keguro Macharia, “are the words and phrases that assemble something experienced as the political and gather different groups around something marked as the political. They create attachments to the political, and they also distance us from something known as the political. They create possibilities for different ways of coming together—from short-lived experiments to long-term institution building—and they also impede how we form ourselves as we from formations, across the past, the present, the future, and all the in-between times marked by slow violence and prolonged dying. Vernaculars are ways of claiming and shaping space.”
Keguro goes on to say that vernaculars are a discipline producing habits, dispositions, behaviour, feeling and thinking. Most of Kenya’s official political vernaculars—corruption, impunity, national security, for instance—are disciplinary. They name real issues, but they also manage how those issues are handled. They shape the possibilities for what is thinkable. They flatten thinking into habits, repetitions, and negations…they create frames on how we see each other, the world and what possibilities we can conceive.
The “War on Terror” is one of Kenya’s political vernaculars. It is the go-to word to arouse fear, anger, racism and religious hatred; to justify bombing, invasion and illegal detentions; to call for major new investments in military capabilities; to justify dependency on the western nations and to muzzle and curtail freedoms.
The implications for African governments governed by despots, warlords or even democrats is an incentive for tyrannical rule. The War on Terror serves the interests of retaining political power and justifies terrorizing of disenfranchised citizens. To the citizens, the word represents disruption, a normalising of an absurd reality, a privation of humanity, a shape-shifting enemy that yearns for innocent lives and souls; the menacing colonial state with new fangs.
We are in need of another lexicon to explain us to ourselves, to frame our sensibilities, our histories and our humanity, in the mists of absurd political vernaculars. We need words that can help us imagine what kind of world we want to build together.
We need new words untethered to the state that can help us imagine how we want to live with each other. Now, more than ever we need the strength to love and dream.
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