It is very widely accepted that Kenya’s iconic mobile money transfer platform, M-Pesa, has spearheaded what has been called the ‘Fintech Revolution‘. Defined as ‘[c]omputer programs and other technology used to support or enable banking and financial services’, in its very simplest form fintech involves a greatly enhanced ability to transact financial services via a mobile phone or smart device, making it easier, cheaper and quicker, for instance, to (1) obtain a loan; (2) make a savings deposit; (3) transfer and receive money; and (4) pay for and be paid for goods and services. Such is the excitement created by M-Pesa, especially in Africa, that many regard fintech as having the potential to re-engineer capitalism towards “sustainability, equality and the advancement of humanity as a whole”, and thus make it capable of ushering in a new ‘golden age’ of abundance and prosperity.

Since the development of M-Pesa was initiated and funded by the UK’s then aid agency, the Department for International Development (DFID), the largest international development organisations soon heard about M-Pesa, and they were transfixed by it. Above all M-Pesa attracted the attention of the World Bank. Among other things, it saw this radical new fintech application as providing a way to rescue the brick-and-mortar microfinance model that was now seen as having failed in its objective to address global poverty.

After very aggressively promoting the Nobel-award-winning microfinance model from the 1990s onwards, the World Bank inevitably found itself in a very awkward position in the early 2010s when many one-time leading microfinance advocates began to concede that the microfinance model had in fact had no real effect on global poverty. Even worse, as some heterodox economists had long argued, the microfinance model appeared to be guilty of seriously setting back the effort to address global poverty, especially in Africa. The World Bank’s first reaction to these important reassessments was not to consider abandoning the microfinance model – for neoliberal ideological and corporate profit-making reasons the microfinance model was far too important to simply cut loose – but to mount a rescue attempt. This involved simply rebadging the microfinance model as the ‘financial inclusion model‘, the hope being that a changed name and a somewhat wider explanatory narrative would give it a new lease of life.

The importance of this rebadging was that at almost the exact same time as it was initiated, the fintech model was bursting on to the global development scene. It was quickly realised that the fintech model would greatly assist in turbo-charging the revised financial inclusion narrative, and would thus make it possible to very rapidly achieve ‘full’ financial inclusion almost everywhere. With every single individual and household in Africa soon having access to a range of basic fintech services, including digital microcredit, it was possible to state once more, this time with even more confidence, that virtually all of its poor were now on the way towards escaping their poverty by establishing or expanding their own microenterprise. The extended argument began to take shape that the old brick-and-mortar microfinance model had perhaps failed because it had been unable to achieve ‘full’ financial inclusion – essentially not enough microcredit was made available to every individual that wished to set up a microenterprise – but the new fintech-driven financial inclusion model would ‘go the last mile’ and brilliantly finish the job.

When it became clear that the fintech model was also capable of generating huge profits for investors, its upward trajectory became unstoppable. This profitability factor was first amply demonstrated when Safaricom, the corporate entity that owns and operates the M-Pesa platform, quickly emerged to become one of Africa’s most profitable corporations (see below). Many other investors soon joined the party in an attempt to get their own share of the spoils. Thanks to a wave of foreign investors that began to arrive in Africa in the mid-to-late 2010s a large number of new fintech financial platforms were established. In addition, many of Africa’s existing brick-and-mortar financial institutions joined them by quickly migrating their financial services over to new or bought-in fintech platforms. Requiring far fewer employees and much less expensive business space, this was the key to raising their own profits significantly. Like previous natural resource discoveries (gold, platinum, diamonds, cocoa, spices, etc), Africa’s fintech sector was soon being held up as one of the world’s most attractive investment destinations. What we might call the ‘investor-driven’ fintech model had started a new ‘gold rush’ in Africa, and then everywhere else.

The possibility that the investor-driven fintech model might be able to combine investor and corporate enrichment with seemingly demonstrable progress in addressing Africa’s poverty was clearly an extremely seductive narrative. It looked as though capitalism might finally be working in Africa for everyone, and not just for a tiny elite. However, in a discussion paper produced for the Amsterdam-based Transnational Institute, Fernando Amorim Teixeira and I argue that this uplifting narrative represents a fundamentally flawed and inaccurate portrayal of the emerging global reality, especially in Africa. While it is quite clear that fintech has delivered many initial benefits for Africa’s poor, including reduced costs of, and greater access to, many important financial services, its full long-term impact is very likely to be far less rosy given the way that it has begun to evolve.

Like many financial innovations that elite groups wish to sell to the wider public in order to make a financial killing at their expense (think sub-prime mortgages), we contend that, for the very same reasons, almost all of the early hugely uplifting analysis of the impact of the investor-driven fintech model was seriously flawed. Largely commissioned, funded, published and promoted by those financial institutions linked to the fintech sector, this was perhaps only to be expected. Notably this problem began with the assessment of the impact of M-Pesa itself. Bringing M-Pesa to the world’s attention were publications produced by staff at the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. not coincidentally one of the world’s most aggressive advocates for all manner of technological innovations in the financial sphere. These early outputs all celebrated M-Pesa, while conspicuously failing to mention any of its downsides. Nor did they even mention the fact that M-Pesa was able to secure by dubious means a crucial near-monopoly for its services that enabled it to succeed very quickly thanks to having almost the entire market to itself.

The UK government that was otherwise advising African governments to accept free markets and competition was silent about this anti-competitive tactic. UK government and Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation funding then helped the US-based economists, William Jack and Tavneet Suri, to produce several influential early research papers promoting M-Pesa. Latterly this included by far the most influential output of all on the subject of M-Pesa – a 2016 article they published in the prestigious, peer-reviewed journal Science that concluded, “[A]ccess to the Kenyan mobile money system M-PESA increased per capita consumption levels and lifted 194,000 households, or 2% of Kenyan households, out of poverty”.This claim created a sensation among the international development community and, even though the article was based on numerous flaws, logical inconsistencies and obvious biases, it was cited in almost every major official publication promoting the investor-driven fintech model.

In fact, the investor-driven fintech model that dominates in Africa today is, we believe, shaping up to be not just deeply damaging to the lives of Africa’s poor majority, but also represents a major lost opportunity to deploy a radical financial innovation to create far more productive, inclusive, equitable, dignified and socially just African economies and societies. We outline six of the main problem areas that have arisen with regard to the investor-driven fintech model. These include: extending the failed brick-and-mortar microfinance model’s support for the ‘wrong‘ type of unproductive ‘no-growth’ ‘here today and gone tomorrow‘ microenterprises and SMEs; increasing financial fraud and thievery; undermining the ability of important social solidarity networks to support the poor into the longer-term; and, plunging Africa’s poor (especially in Kenya itself) into even more individual debt than even the brick-and-mortar microfinance model managed to do in previous years.

The final over-arching problem we highlighted is also one of the most far-reaching: the investor-driven fintech model is nothing less than a ‘digitalised’ extension of the earlier colonial-Imperialist ‘extractivist’ models that enabled the western nations to appropriate Africa’s natural resource wealth in order to fund their own economic development trajectory at the expense of ‘under-developing’ the African nations. Nowhere is this conclusion more in evidence than with regard to the example of Kenya’s Safaricom within which M-Pesa is a key constituent. It first helped that its founding shareholder, the giant UK telecom corporation Vodafone PLC, was able to engineer a near-monopoly for M-Pesa’s services right from the start thanks to a secretive ‘shares for lobbying’ arrangement concluded with key local business and political elites. With this market unfriendly structure neatly in place, Safaricom was then able to go on to ‘mine’ and appropriate considerable value from the tiny digital transactions of Kenya’s poor. Safaricom was soon earning quite spectacular Wall Street-style profits. Crucially, rather than reinvest these profits in the development of the Kenyan economy, the bulk of Safaricom’s profits have been sent abroad to reward its foreign shareholders, starting with its still 40% majority shareholder, Vodafone, which is garnering a huge long-term financial reward for its early support for a UK government initiative. Furthermore, such is Safaricom’s strong commitment to Vodafone (rather than, say, the Kenyan economy and to its poorest citizens) that during the COVID-19 crisis, when its revenues were falling thanks to a lower fee structure imposed on it by the Kenyan government to help the population better cope, Safaricom was willing to take a nearly $US200 million loan on to its books in order to help pay Vodafone its usual high dividend (just short of $US200 million). Equally revealing from another angle is the fact that Vodafone has quite openly admitted that it uses its large foreign dividend flow, including that amount generated from its ownership stake in Safaricom, to fund its vital infrastructure spending in the UK, which is clearly good for the UK economy. But then Vodafone uses this fact as the justification for why it manages its global financial structure in such a way as to pay almost no corporate tax in the UK.

We thus conclude that the initial and not inconsequential benefits arising from the introduction of many new investor-driven fintech platforms are now in real danger of being swamped entirely by the downsides that have begun to emerge. So does this not mean that an alternative fintech model would make more sense? It probably does. However, replacing the current investor-driven fintech model is right now simply not on the agenda of the global investment community or the major international development organisations.

But if we assume that change is still possible in some locations with relatively independent national and sub-national governments, then what might be the alternative to the investor-driven fintech model? We end our TNI discussion paper by briefly discussing this issue using the experience of a fintech’ model that has been deployed since the mid-2010s in the city of Maricá in south-eastern Brazil. While still in its early stage and clearly still subject to modification, this ‘people-centered’ fintech model has nevertheless already demonstrated that it is perfectly possible for basic fintech applications to be directly used to promote the common good. Piloted by the city government, the emerging ‘Maricá Model’ is based around a community digital currency, the Mumbuca, that is managed by the city-owned community development bank, the Mumbuca Bank. One of its centre-piece policies is a generous Basic Income program that is paid out in Mumbuca and which provides demand for many other local enterprises. Other initiatives include financing local enterprise development with no to low cost loans that allow sustainable local SMEs to emerge, as well as for existing informal microenterprises to expand, diversify and otherwise try to increase their level of productivity in order to make a more substantive contribution to the local economy. Crucially, the not inconsiderable financial savings enjoyed by the Mumbuca Bank using fintech applications to manage the Basic Income program and other services are all retained and then directed into expanding the benefits it can offer to the local population as a whole, not to reward a narrow elite of investors.

Even a cursory comparison of the various inter-locking aspects of the ‘Maricá Model’ in action reveals that it is already generating significant value for Maricá’s citizens, and especially for those living in poverty. Pointedly, the ‘Maricá Model’ was able to fashion probably the best response to the COVID-19 crisis that emerged anywhere in Brazil, if not the world. We believe African countries urgently need to learn from and begin to adapt such community-driven fintech models to their own requirements if they genuinely want the global fintech revolution to sustainably benefit all of their citizens into the future, and not just a lucky few.

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This article was first published by ROAPE

Thirty-eight years later, the quest for justice has remained nothing but an illusion for the people of Wagalla and, between the 10th and the 14th of February of every year, the sense of neglect is heightened. Survivors and victims’ families meet every year during this period to rejuvenate their resoluteness to seek justice. The only real solace the suffering families have received is the acknowledgement in the Truth Justice and Reconciliation Commission Report that atrocities were visited upon them by their very own government. But the affected families still await the execution of the recommendations made in the report.

The Wagalla massacre is possibly one of Kenya’s worst human rights violations. It took place between the 10th and the 14th of February 1984; heavily armed security officers descended on the quiet Wajir area, ostensibly to mop up guns illegally held by locals.

Balkanizing legislations

To truly understand what led to the Wagalla massacre, one must go back to the very formation of Kenya.  Only in doing this do we realize that massacres such as Wagalla do not just happen – they are the result of a ‌history that precedes them.  And for the north, this history began even before Kenya became a nation.

According to a Kenya Human Rights Commission (KHRC) paper, Foreigners at Home – The dilemma of citizenship in Northern Kenya, the Scramble for Africa carved up much of the continent with little regard for the need to keep ethnicities together. In 1896, Emperor Menelik of Ethiopia, buoyed by his conquest over Italy II, wrote to the heads of states of Britain, Italy, France, Germany, and Russia, stating his claim over ‌territory stretching from Juba River on Lake Turkana (formerly Lake Rudolf) to Marsabit Mountain.

The British, afraid that he would encroach on their colony, formed a boundary commission that was mandated to establish boundary features and map out the ethnic identities of the populations. The Northern Frontier District (NFD) was created as a buffer zone against international and inter-clan territorial conflicts that threatened to spill over into the colony.

To this end, several legislations were enacted by the colonialists. First, in 1902, the Outlying District Ordinance Act effectively closed the NFD, restricting movement in and out of the district. The Special Districts (Administration) Ordinance of 1934 gave extensive powers of arrest, restraint, detention, and seizure of properties in the north. Finally, the Stock Theft and Produce Ordinance (1993) legalized the collective punishment of northern tribes and clans declared hostile by the Provincial Commissioner (PC). The definition of what constituted a hostile tribe was left to the Provincial Administration to determine.

By the time of its independence, Kenya was practically divided in two — north and south — with specific laws in place that ensured that the north continued to be governed under draconian legislation that became even harsher after independence. An Indemnity Act passed in 1970 restricted the taking of legal proceedings regarding certain acts carried out in certain areas between 25 December 1963 and 1 December 1967. The Indemnity Act was passed to protect members of the security forces who participated in the secessionist Shifta War in northern Kenya between 1963 and 1967.

The stage was set for what happened in Wagalla two decades later.

In the 1980s, scarce natural resources and political tensions had led to feuds and repeated violent conflict between the Degodia and the Ajuran in Wajir. The government issued an ultimatum to both groups to surrender their weapons. The ruling administration felt that the Degodia, who surrendered just eight weapons (in comparison to the 27 surrendered by the Ajuran), had not complied fully and decided to mount a joint operation to disarm them.

Anatomy of the Wagalla massacre

The massacre at the Wagalla Airstrip occurred in what is presently Wajir County. The bloodbath began in the small hours of 10 February, ending with a stampede and a shootout on the chilly morning of 14 February 1984. All men and boys over the age of 12 years belonging to the Degodia sub-clan of the Somali tribe in north-eastern Kenya were rounded up and detained at the newly constructed airstrip in Wagalla, nine miles from Wajir town.

According to Annalenna Tonelli, 1,000 people were killed, but according to various community groups, the number is closer to 5,000. Annalena is the undisputed heroine of Wagalla. An Italian volunteer and Catholic lay sister, Annalena had lived in Wajir for 15 years prior to the massacre, assisting the less fortunate, running a tuberculosis and rehabilitation centre.

The Wagalla massacre destroyed a community, changed its social cohesion, and placed the burden of regenerating the dead society on the shoulders of widows. Those murdered were husbands, fathers, brothers or guardians, citizens of this sovereign republic who had a right to have their lives protected by the state. If indeed the state had a case against these people, natural justice would have dictated that they be brought before the courts and charged according to the laws of the land. That was not the case.

This is the worst massacre recorded in Kenyan history. Previously, the government has said that only fifty-seven people had died. However, On Wednesday 18 October 2000, when he was minister in the Office of the President, William Ruto told parliament that 380 people had died in what has been called the Wagalla massacre.

The Wagalla massacre destroyed a community, changed its social cohesion, and placed the burden of regenerating the dead society on the shoulders of widows.

The Member of Parliament who raised the issue, Elias Barre Shill, said the minister was trying to avoid crucial questions. Shill charged that more than 1,000 ethnic Somalis were victims of the 1984 killings, adding that the Kenyan government should apologize and pay compensation.

There were other massacres in Bulla Karatasi in Garissa, in Turbi, and in Malka Marri, but Wagalla remains a classic example of a state run amok, an illustration of the genocidal intentions of a government incapable of exerting any meaningful control over the security of its citizens.

Like most Kenyans, I learned about the Wagalla Massacre from newspaper stories about 5,000 men who were killed at an airstrip by the Kenyan government. I was shocked by what sounded like a tale from another world; in many ways, it was a tale from another planet.  The Northern Frontier District, as it was then known, had for long operated under a different set of military laws from the rest of Kenya. Successive regimes treated its populations brutally. Only during the sunset years of the Moi era did the residents begin to feel free to speak out about that terrible event.  

The facts and figures from the Wagalla massacre are now etched into the fabric of the history of Kenya. What is probably less known is that this massacre was a deliberate act of genocide, not a military operation gone rogue. It began at the policy level.

It all started with a high-level cabinet meeting at Harambee House, where the political idea of justifying a massacre was mooted. No details emerged from this meeting, no minutes or reports. Even the efforts of the Truth, Justice and Reconciliation Committee could not unearth ‌ the policy prescriptions discussed that initiated a process that culminated in the death of so many people. More fundamentally, the TJRC came under fire because of “inherent flaws” in its mandate – which allowed for amnesty recommendations in some cases – and concerns that it would fail to hear from the perpetrators as well as from the victims, and would thereby fail to explain how the crimes were allowed to occur.  

What is probably less known is that this massacre was a deliberate act of genocide, not a military operation gone rogue.

These concerns led the late Nobel Peace Prize winner Professor Wangari Maathai to describe the commission as one designed “to facilitate impunity, hoodwink and massage the victims and sweep the crimes under the carpet”.

Sources within the corridors of power confirm that a meeting did take place at Harambee House where security issues concerning Wajir were discussed and orders issued to the Provincial Security Committee in Garissa to initiate a security operation against a small Somali sub-clan living in Wajir District.

State-sanctioned operation

The meeting gave authorization, but the timing, strategy, and resources were left to the Provincial Security Committee led by Benson Kaaria who was the Provincial Commissioner of North Eastern Province at the time. This committee authorized the District Security Committee (DSC) to prepare the ground for the military operation. The District Commissioner at the time, J.P. Matui, was on leave. In the available documents and in his own testimony at the TJRC, the acting District Commissioner, M.M Tiema, appears to have been used to achieve a predetermined objective.

The final order for the operation was given on 8 February 1984. This was at a meeting held in Wajir by the Kenya Intelligence Committee. The DSC and the Provincial Security Committee were in attendance. This meeting was the crucial source of authority to undertake the major security operation.

According to the Etemesi Report, the military operation began on 10 February with a signal from the Garissa Provincial Police Officer that read:

All Degodias plus stock in Griftu Division plus adjacent divisions will be rounded up and treated mercilessly. No mercy will be exercised. You will get more instructions from this Head Quarter in another two days. No nonsense will be accepted. Further instructions will follow on the relief of the stock. Report progress daily.

On that day, the military moved into all the areas occupied by the Degodia sub-clan and carried out their orders. The Commander of the operation was Major Mudogo. According to the Etemesi Report, the operation had no written “Operational Procedures”. In layman’s language, the military operation had no rules or limits, and the security forces were given a blank cheque to run riot. And run riot they did. They started detaining people from northeastern and eastern Kenya at four o’clock in the morning. The military was assisted in identifying their targets by KANU youth wingers, some of whom were from the targeted community.

Early in the operation, the military moved into Bulla Jogoo, a heavily populated section of Wajir. The Ministerial Statement and the Etemesi Report have their versions of what happened. Survivors have an altogether rather different and chilling story.

Military invasion and raids

According to the Ministerial Statement made in parliament by the Minister for Internal Security, the military moved into Bulla Jogoo at five in the morning and ordered the residents to leave their huts.  The order was not complied with and “the commander gave orders for the huts to be destroyed.”

The Etemesi Report has a slightly different version of events: by five in the morning, under the command of Captain Njeru, the army had already placed a cordon around the Manyatta. Administration Police and Kenya Police then moved in to round up the people. Residents were hiding in their huts in fear of the ‌security forces. They were ordered to dismantle their homes and move out of the area. By two in the afternoon, they had not complied with the order and Major Mudogo gave the order for the huts to be razed.

Survivors say the huts started burning at daybreak when ‌soldiers raided the area.

Government documents that appear to have been doctored after the event and suffer serious contradictions, say that 381 male Degodia were detained.

According to the Ministerial Report tabled in parliament, all the people were gathered and detained for screening and interrogation at the newly constructed airstrip at Wagalla. The Etemesi Report says the people were first divided into various sections for easy identification, then forced to strip naked. Survivors say those who refused to strip were summarily executed in front of their colleagues. A prominent religious leader was the first to be executed after he resisted the order to strip. All of this happened on 10 February 1984.

The military operation had no rules or limits, and the security forces were given a blank cheque to run riot.

The operation to round up the Degodia sub-clan continued on 11 February. People were arrested from their settlements in places far away from Wajir District. Some herders were picked up as far away as Jalaqo in Modogashe, Garissa District. Some were captured in Eastern Province and others near Mandera District.

The net was cast so wide that nobody could escape the reach of the security forces. The Etemesi Report says that those arrested were placed under guard, and interrogations continued at the airstrip.

According to the DSC, having so many people detained made it impossible to interrogate them individually, so they were divided into subsections. In total, there were 11 subsections of the sub-clan at the airstrip. The method of interrogation applied was extreme even for that era.

After being forced to strip, the prisoners were ordered to lay face down on the hot surface of the airstrip during the hottest month of the year. Temperatures are so high in February that one can get cooked by the sun. Survivors say many people succumbed to heatstroke, and this is corroborated by the Etemesi Report, which adds that detainees were subjected to “physical beating”. The physical beating, according to survivors, involved the butt of a gun, batons, and bayonets. A witness at the TJRC testified that the torture was so extreme that men complained they were sodomized at night. Survivors say people were being beaten to death in front of their colleagues.

To add to their misery, the people were denied food and water. A situation was created at Wagalla Airstrip that led to disaster in the following days.

On 12 February, the acting District Commissioner (DC), M.M. Tiema, addressed a public gathering in Wajir. Witnesses say he issued a lot of threats. Official records indicate that he assured members of the public of security in the town and asked them not to panic. In reality, most people in town had either been detained or displaced due to fear of the military. The targeted sub-clan were the dominant urban poor in the town and the place looked deserted and desolate. Tiema and Officer Commanding Police Division (OCPD) Wabwire decided to take a stroll to the Wagalla Airstrip to assess the progress of the operation. They were accompanied by another officer, C.M. Mbole, who was the head of the dreaded — now defunct — Special Branch.

Arbitrary shooting

Official reports indicate that as soon as the DC alighted from his vehicle, the crowd burst out shouting, some detainees moving towards him and others running away through an opening in the perimeter fence. That is when Wabwire ordered that those escaping be shot. A total of 13 people were shot dead in the confusion. Survivors remember the District Commissioner’s visit, the shouting and the brief melee but have no recollection of shooting at this point. The Etemesi Report suggests that due to the difficult conditions they were subjected to, the people were begging for clemency from the District Commissioner. Witnesses report that there were many people who were killed in the first three days of the operation and the report of people running away was used to cover up that fact.

A witness at the TJRC testified that the torture was so extreme that men complained they were sodomized at night.

The District Commissioner jumped into his car and left the venue amidst the cries of the suffering men in the airstrip. The Etemesi Report says that the operation did not succeed in recovering guns or arresting any known bandits. The report is scathing about the DC and the OCPD leaving the situation to junior officers, calling their action a “cowardly move” lacking “any sense of responsibility”.

On 13 February, official reports showed for the first time the confusion reigning among the authorities in Wajir. There was a state of “fear, confusion and panic” within the DSC. This is probably because of the sheer numbers of the dead at the Wagalla Airstrip. By this date many people had been tortured to death, others had died from heatstroke and a large number were facing death due to thirst and starvation. Since the operation had no clear guidance, there was no way forward. Reports indicate that a decision was reached to release the remaining men and transport them back to their homes. The Provincial Security Committee visited Wajir on this date and received a briefing on the situation. The committee agreed with the DSC’s decision to release the remaining detainees.

The provincial security did not visit Wagalla Airstrip but flew right over it. Survivors told the TJRC that they clearly remember a helicopter flying over the airstrip and being threatened by being told that the PC was supervising the operations. The order to release the detainees was given as part of a cover-up that was conjured up after the event.

Corpses everywhere

The 14th of February, Valentine’s Day 1984, is completely absent from official reports regarding what happened at the Wagalla Airstrip. The Etemesi Report says nothing about this to date. However, survivors say it was the morning on which the stampede happened.

By this date, the Wagalla Airstrip was full of dead bodies. The military and police manning the area were tired and jittery. They were butchering the detainees one after the other. It was no longer an interrogation, just a slaughter.

Witnesses recall the crowd surging once towards the barbed wire fence, which gave way, allowing hundreds to make a dash for the nearby bushes. The military opened fire and many were shot. In fact, people survived because of their determination to escape or to die trying, and not because they were released from the Wagalla Airstrip. The stampede saved many but caused confusion. It was no longer the clean operation envisaged by the government. A lot of people escaped and ran naked into the bushes near Wagalla. Corralling them was difficult because there were no roads and the forces involved in the security operations were by that time fatigued and demoralized. It was a nightmare of immense proportions. That Valentine morning the Wagalla Airstrip was full of bodies in different stages of decomposition. Some had died moments before, with fresh bullet wounds in their backs, others were injured and screaming for help. Dazed, weak men were milling around naked and totally disoriented.

The 14th of February, Valentine’s Day 1984, is completely absent from official reports regarding what happened at the Wagalla Airstrip.

According to the Etemesi Report, Tiema and Wabwire reported that 13 people were shot in the stampede and that, as arrangements were being made to transport people to their various destinations, 16 more bodies were discovered at the airstrip. The report says that it is “believed that they may have died as a result of dehydration, hunger and excessive exposure to the sun”.

At that point, the security team was faced with the question of what to do with the dead bodies and the injured persons at the airstrip. Official reports say there were 29 bodies at the airstrip and, in a state of panic and confusion, the DSC decided to “dispose of the bodies”. The Etemesi Report further states that “a total of 20 bodies were thrown into the bush near Korodile, 100 miles northwest of Wajir town, while the other nine were buried at an area 6 to 10 miles from the Wagalla Airstrip on the way to Giriftu. This was done by Lieutenant Chungo of the army and police inspector Wachira respectively”.

Bodies exterminated

Survivors remember things very differently. The dead, the injured, and the weak survivors were all thrown into the backs of army Lories and disposed of in different locations. Some were discarded in the places mentioned in the official report and others were dumped as far away as Moyale and Mandera Districts. What they all agreed on is that bodies were disposed of as far away as 100 miles away from the Wagalla Airstrip. The Etemesi Report agrees with the survivors when it states that the “officers were unable to verify what took place at the airstrip and how many people died”.

Official records say that the Wagalla Massacre was a routine military operation gone wrong. The Etemesi Report is specifically focused on this angle. The report says there were no specific instructions given to the subordinate commanders other than to show no mercy to the detainees. It seemed to the committee that compiled the report that no individual was responsible for any specific action. Accordingly, this was mob action. The report says that the situation got out of hand and an “unfortunate incident occurred at Wagalla Airstrip”. It adds, “The system of interrogation used at the airstrip left a lot to be desired and was very unprofessional”.

There were no specific instructions given to the subordinate commanders other than to show no mercy to the detainees.

The most contentious question concerning the Wagalla Massacre is the death toll. Just how many people died in the carnage? The government has for decades stuck with the figure of 57 dead, but this figure has no basis. No names or any other details of the deceased were given. The Etemesi Report, which was written under circumstances that guaranteed no independent judgment, arrived at this figure by adding up figures from various sources. According to the DSC, 29 people died at the Wagalla Airstrip. It was confirmed that 15 bodies were buried at Sister Annalena Tonelli’s compound. Sister Annalena allegedly left 12 bodies in the bush. One person died in the hospital and was buried in the public cemetery. These different numbers were added up to come up with the official death toll. The government’s own report admits that the confusion that reigned makes it impossible to know what happened at Wagalla Airstrip in February 1984.

When hope departs from a heart, only darkness remains, and where once a bright future promised, nothingness abides. The psychological scars caused by the absence of all the men in one’s family run deep. But the worst scars of all are the ones left when a community that once believed in justice and the truth is for decades denied them.

Susan Nasir’s eyes have sunk deep into her sockets from prolonged crying. Mohamed Majid, her 17-year-old son, is one of the more than 70 protesters who were shot dead by soldixers in the Sudanese capital Khartoum in recent weeks. He had joined the ongoing demonstrations against the military coup in October in which General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan seized power. “Majid was very talented,” she says, “he was due to start training at the School of fine arts this week.”

Susan covers her face with her hands under which the tears flow again. ,,I had a bad feeling on the day of the demonstration at the end of December. I put my hand on his forehead and quoted verses from the Quran. He laughed scornfully and said, “Mom, you don’t think they’re going to shoot me in the head do you.” Whenever my kids go to protest, I can’t eat or drink all day until they get home.” That evening Majid did not return. He had been shot in the head.

Her eldest son Ramy comes to sit next to her on the bed in their small house in Omdurman, the satellite city of Khartoum. “It was a sniper who hit him from a high floor in a building,” he says in a hushed voice, “I had warned my brother not only to look at the soldiers but also up.” Friends tried to take Majid to the hospital on a motorbike – because the soldiers prevent ambulances taking them during demonstrations – but he had already bled to death. A painful sense of guilt gnaws at Ramy. Like his brother, Majid was a Rasta and therefore easily recognizable. “I’ve been arrested many times and sometimes I think they were after me.”

Ruthless repression

Sudan is in a turbulent phase in the cycle that has gripped the country since its independence in 1956, with military regimes alternating with brief periods of civilian rule. A popular uprising of hundreds of thousands on the streets of Khartoum toppled the most brutal of all generals, President Omar al-Bashir, in 2019. But the military prevented the civilians from ruling alone and a hybrid civilian/military transitional regime was formed until Burhan returned all power to the military after the coup in October. This time, the anger of younger demonstrators in particular appears to be even more difficult to suppress than before. The repression is relentless: the non-violent demonstrators await arrest, rape and soldiers who aim at their heads and chests.

Khartoum has turned into a city of bricks lying around, the only weapon of the protesters. Blackened spots from burned car tires, remains of barricades, accumulated garbage and heavily armed soldiers and militia at strategic points create a picture of a town besieged, a city in a state of war and decay.

The carnival atmosphere that followed the impeachment of President General Omar al-Bashir, who has been in power since 1989, the cultural events at the sit-in with hundreds of thousands of people at the Ministry of Defence, the sense of freedom after a rule that enforced strict Islamic morals deep into everybody’s life, they have are turned into a very grim situation.

Rapes

The bridge over the Blue Nile to Khartoum North is open today; during demonstrations the soldiers usually close those access roads and pull the plug from the internet. Pathologist Ihsan Fagir (67) lives in Khartoum North. “It is very difficult to forbid our children to go to the demonstrations,” she says. “But we warn them to cover their faces with sunglasses and tear gas masks.” She is a member of the Doctors Committee, which is one of the driving forces behind the resistance to the coup. Because the wounded often do not reach the hospitals due to military obstruction, or because the soldiers even fire tear gas grenades in the hospitals, she, like other health workers, treats the wounded in secret places.

Ihsan Fagir has been a women’s activist for years, including under the deposed president Omar al-Bashir. Women are now deterred from demonstrating because of the increasing number reported of rapes of detainees in army camps. “I teach girls how to prevent rape, by tensing the legs when the rape starts, or grabbing the rapist by the testicles.” She led the group Down with Women’s Oppression for many years.

She had received a distressing call this morning. Her successor to the group, Ameera Osman, was taken from her home that night by a group of masked soldiers. “She was in the bathroom when they came, but they broke it open, wrapped her naked body in a blanket and ran off,” Ameera’s sister moaned over the phone. Ameera is disabled and needs daily medication. But no one can find out who arrested her and where she is now, although the Secret Service is suspected to be responsible. Moments later, Ihsan Fagir’s husband called to warn her to go into hiding. Ihsan Fagir shrugs. “I’m an old woman, they can’t get me down, I’ve been arrested so many times.”

At the start of the uprising against then-leader Bashir at the end of 2018, a large part of the demonstrators were women. In an interview with Ameera in NRC Handelsbald on 26-4-2019, she told how women had an extra hard time under the Islamic fundamentalist Bashir. Ameera was first jailed in 2002 for wearing pants. “Women are angry because they are the most oppressed,” she said at the time. “They stood in the street cheering and calling on the men to join their demonstration.”

That time of spontaneous resistance, such as against Bashir in 2019, in which fathers and mothers participated, has given way to an underground and more organized uprising. The aversion to military rule and Burhan seems to be widely shared among all Sudanese, but young people now no longer trust the political parties with which they collaborated in the opposition to Bashir. They no longer want to compromise with both the military and the political parties and reject negotiations. The demonstrators are now mostly independent young people, who feel betrayed by Burhan but also by the political parties which had formed the hybrid interim regime with the army.

Stubborn resistance

The next day, another meeting is accompanied by bad news. The meeting with Badawi Mohamed of a resistance committee in Omdurman is cancelled. He was hit in the head by a tear gas canister during a demonstration yesterday and is in intensive care. Three people were killed in that demonstration. “He was somebody of the front lines,” said Yousouf Abdallah Arbab, a member of Badawi’s resistance committee.

The underground resistance committees fire up the fight against the military regime. This was started in 2013 during a short-lived and failed popular uprising against Bashir, but in the past two years hundreds more of such committees have been secretly set up, each appointing a special team of courageous demonstrators, who call themselves the Angry Protesters or the Kings of Battle. “They lead the way, they protect themselves better than the others, for example by wearing gloves to pick up grenades fired at us and throw stones at the soldiers and police”.

All over Sudan, young people are eager to continue until General Burhan leaves. Not only in Khartoum but also in many other cities they take to the streets again and again. They call themselves revolutionaries. They don’t want to have their uprising compared with the Arab Spring, their uprising is different and Sudan is not an Arab country.

“We are much better organized than we were during the uprisings ten years ago in Arab countries,” said Almoufty Abdoulmoutheb. He belongs to yet another resistance committee. “We work much more at the grassroots among the common people, this is not just a spontaneous uprising. We have used the past years to coordinate our actions. In our committees, we elect our leaders democratically. That’s why we are so resistant and the army can’t dismantle up our organization.”

The committees work well together, using WhatsApp and telephone. “When we erect barricades in our neighbourhoods and the police come to fight us, we warn a resistance committee in another neighbourhood to take to the streets there too. That’s how we confuse the police,” says Almoufty Abdoulmoutheb. They collect money for the families of victims – “martyrs” in the words of the demonstrators. “Revolution has become a culture for the youth,” he continues. “I gave up my master’s degree until the revolution is over. The more blood that flows, the stronger the spirit of the revolution will be.”

We were naive

With the men the adrenaline pumps through their blood, which sometimes makes them reckless. Young women are more thoughtful. Hanan is skyping at the villa of her father, a minister deposed in the coup. She is highly educated and in her rich neighbourhood with chic restaurants and beauty salons she is a member of a resistance committee. “When we took on Bashir, our dream was a free and stable Sudan with good education and health care,” she says, “but oh how naive we were, Bashir and Burhan are made of the same cloth. If we also succeed in overthrowing Burhan will we have our victory taken away again by yet another general?”

Yesterday she was slightly injured during a demonstration. Sometimes she has doubts. “Maybe we’re naive to go on like this,” she says. “It hurts so much to have to say farewell to yet another fellow protester every time. What is happening in Sudan is heroic, but it also makes me very sad.”

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This article was first published in the Netherlands newspaper NRC Handelsblad on 1-2-2022