Before I
left Kenya, a friend told me that freedom is overrated. It is far
better, he said, that we have economic prosperity and safety. I wonder
what it means to be safe and un-free, and whether my freedom is a price
I'm willing to pay. This question is neither new nor unique. Living
together means we have to sacrifice elements of what we want.
Yet, I wonder how freedom has become such a maligned concept in Kenya.
President Kibaki signing the Media Bill into law is tragic. That
Kenyans online and on the streets support him and hold the media
culpable for the post-election violence is more than tragic. It is
frightening to read how many Kenyans believe that a gagged media is
better for Kenya. It is terrifying to comprehend how many Kenyans
believe that the tyrant, dictator Moi is now a figure to emulate. It is
astounding how many Kenyans believe that John Michuki's harsh and
unrelenting methods of administration are what this country needs.
How did we come to love un-freedom?
Increasingly, I am convinced that we must answer this question if we
are to understand why we keep electing the same kind of people into
office, why we keep working against our own best interests. And we do.
I had thought, before I went home, that the problem was with the
middle-class, those who can afford to complain because they have full
bellies. That a certain apathy, part of it induced during the trauma of
the Moi years, foreclosed political engagement and fostered an
uncritical, while loud, attitude toward politics.
Yet, we are not a middle-class country. And so one must look around,
use compound vision, and try to understand why and how the political
class continue to manipulate us, and we follow blindly, supplicants to
their will, loving and reveling in our un-freedom.
In forum after forum, in plush hotel rooms and unsafe buildings in
Kibera, I heard the same thing: we need to talk to government. We keep
looking up. Looking toward indifferent sources of support, and while we
look up, we remain in quicksand.
Contrary to myth, one does not sink and die in quicksand. One
remains suspended, and one can maneuver one's body out, but one has to
look to the side, work with one's body, with what's around and
available. Looking up keeps one suspended.
Kenyans look up a lot. As long as we keep looking up-to the
government, to donors, to foreign institutions, to powerful
individuals, we fail to realize we are a chain of people, we can pull
each other along, up, out of the quicksand.
But we have to value our freedom.
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I am afraid that as long as a university professor has a lower public image than someone who owns a Mercedes, we will also keep asking for the intelligent masses who will stop and ask the right questions at the right time.