Strangers have no recognized rights within the national assembly. Article 7 reads, "No stranger shall be entitled, as of right, to enter or to remain within the precincts of the Assembly." We have no right to go in or even to assemble near the Assembly. When politicians are campaigning, they visit our homes and villages, invite us to their homes and villages, and share their hospitality.

 However, the moment they enter the Assembly, we become "strangers." They do not know us. They do not recognize us. The law does not obligate them to respond to us within the Assembly. In effect, in electing them to be our voices, we lose ours.

 Because we are legally "strangers," sitting members of parliament do not have to, and indeed do not, react when Kenyan citizens are being harassed outside parliament. Over the past few months, police have dispersed peaceful protesters with teargas and, more recently, arrested and brutalized human rights activists. Members of parliament do not need to respond to these incidents because, legally speaking, they happen to "strangers," not citizens.

 When we are granted entry into the actual Assembly, we are similarly governed by a host of rules, ranging from the petty to the punitive. Kenyan citizen-constituents, who elect the very politicians who sit in the Assembly, are not permitted to carry pens or notebooks. We cannot record what our politicians say. Even though members of the ninth parliament floated the suggestion that parliamentary sessions should be broadcast, as with C-SPAN in the U.S., this suggestion has come to nothing.

 In what is surely an act of irony, we must rely on media resources, which the government has recently attempted to gag and intimidate.

 The most extensive discussion of the "stranger" takes place in Part IV: Offences and Penalties. It states that "strangers" who "contravene" the sections of the Act governing how strangers should behave "shall be guilty of an offence and liable, on conviction before a subordinate court of the first class, in a fine not exceeding five hundred shillings or to imprisonment for a term not exceeding three months, or to both such fine and imprisonment."

 Within the National Assembly, we citizen-constituents are nothing more than naughty schoolchildren, who must remain silent or be punished. Worse, at least schoolchildren have identities. We are "strangers."

Strikingly, the term "strangers" does not appear anywhere in the Constitution. Even more striking, the most extensive discussion of citizen-constituents in the Constitution is under the section Protection Of Fundamental Rights And Freedoms Of The Individuals.

 The first two rights are especially noteworthy seen against the background of ongoing political repression. Section 70.a guarantees, "life, liberty, security of the person and the protection of the law" while section 70.b guarantees, "freedom of conscience, of expression and of assembly and association."

 Yes, what is "protection of the law" at a time when extra-judicial killings and police brutality are part of everyday Kenyan life? What is "freedom of expression and of assembly" when peaceful demonstrators are harassed and brutalized by the police, all which members of parliament remain silent?

 Why is it easier to feel like an unwanted stranger in Kenya than like a citizen-constituent with rights and privileges?

 The Constitution of Kenya and the National Assembly (Powers and Privileges) Act express two different views of citizen-constituents. In the former, citizen-constituents elect members of parliament and have rights and privileges. Within the Constitution, citizen-constituents belong to Kenya and are entitled to governmental protection. In contrast, the latter document transforms citizen-constituents into "strangers," who have no standing before the law, no recourse to the law, and who exist to be silent, ignored, and punished.

 Those of us who grew up under former President Moi's regime experienced what it was like to be strangers in our own country. The few who dared to speak found themselves guests of the State in Nyayo House, while those who could fled for their lives. We learned to talk in whispers and flinch when we saw the police. They were our enemies, their service not to everyone, but to repression and violence and bad governance.

 We still bear the scars from those days. We still do not trust the police. And, increasingly, they give us no reason to trust them.

 When president Kibaki took over in 2002, we believed and hoped and prayed that we would have a chance to stop being strangers, that we would finally live and work as citizen-constituents, not unwelcomed guests, but co-owners of our country.

 Increasingly, this hope seems distant. Daily, we are turned into strangers. Where some of us were once Kenyans, we are now Internally Displaced People. Not even Internally Displaced Kenyans, but People. Where we once celebrated an increasingly free press, we now have restrictive legislation that seeks to muzzle political critique in the name of "responsibility." Where we had started learning to talk in normal voices, believing the days of whispers were behind us, we now mutter and talk low and whisper truths to each other that we need to survive.

 Increasingly, the National Assembly (Powers and Privilege) Act, which governs conduct within and around the National Assembly, is being extended to the entire country. We are becoming strangers in our town, our cities, our homes, our buses, our private cars. Subject to a State that revels in its cupidity, and watches us die from indifference, neglect, and state-sponsored brutality.

 __________________________