Unbowed: A Memoir (Vintage)

by Maathai, Wangari

  In spite of the difficulties we experienced with our office space, throughout the early 1990s we never wavered in our commitment to saving Uhuru Park and fighting for our freedom. By early 1990, despite the resistance of the authorities to any of my appeals, it was becoming clear that the government could no longer ignore the chorus of opposition both inside and outside Kenya to the Times complex. During the last months of 1989I had written letters to many individuals abroad in Canada, the United States, the United Kingdom, and West Germany—politicians, media moguls, activists, and philanthropists—and asked them to put pressure on investors to ensure that the complex wasn't built in the park.

  Once again, I appealed to them to recognize that while people in developing countries might not know about the kind of destructive development that the Times complex represented, or be able to stop it, there could be no such excuse for those in developed countries. I asked them to pressure their governments not to do business with dictators, whom they knew full well were oppressing their citizens and stealing their money, and not to hold poor people to account for the crimes of their rulers.

  Journalists from some leading American and British newspapers, including the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the United Kingdom's Independent, among others, reported on our struggle. This helped raise awareness among environmentalists and pro-democracy campaigners in Europe and North America. For the first time, many of them were hearing Africans raising their voices to protect their own environment and green spaces. Alerted by some of their citizens, foreign investors and donor governments now questioned the wisdom of spending such a vast sum of money on a building of dubious usefulness in a poor country that was already struggling with large domestic and international debts.

  At last, our message was heard. On January 29, 1990, the government announced that its plans for the complex had changed. The sixty-story tower was considerably scaled back and the project's cost reduced to around $60 million (U.S.). The international media reported that, after a London meeting with the World Bank and other donors, Kenyan officials appeared no longer to be backing the project. For the next two years the project limped on as an idea, but nothing more was built on the site. The investment simply wasn't there and the costs all around were too high.

  One day, late in February 1992, I woke up and learned that the fence surrounding the building site in Uhuru Park had been removed at about three o'clock that morning. That day, a group of women were meeting at the Kenyatta International Conference Centre in downtown Nairobi. When I got there, the women were eager to let me know that the Times complex was dead—as dead as a dodo. “Let's go to the park,” I called to the women, “and dance, a dance of victory!” And so we did. On the way, I bought a wreath to hang at the site to declare the project dead and buried.

  Looking back, I can see that there were two main reasons we stopped the destruction of Uhuru Park. For one, the government's mismanagement of resources was exposed by the press. The press knew that what was being done was wrong and that the government was being arrogant and vindictive. The press was fantastic. I would never have gotten anywhere without them. What was also true was that, for the first time, many donor agencies and especially diplomats from wealthy countries that provided development aid to the government noticed that the Kenyan people were speaking out. Donor governments had seen the ruling party become increasingly dictatorial and oppressive, violating the rights of its citizens at every opportunity.

  During the cold war, Kenya, like many other countries in the Western sphere of influence, was considered a bulwark against communism. Western governments had been content either to say nothing to the dictators who ruled many of these countries or preferred to whisper their concerns behind closed doors. With the collapse of the Berlin Wall at the end of 1989 and the rapid thawing of the cold war, the regimes that depended on Western governments’ aid no longer had as free a rein to be as tyrannical as they had been.

  Despite the changing circumstances in the world, Kenyans were so used to being silenced that most were still fearful of what might happen if someone challenged the government. That is why, when I started writing my letters, everyone was surprised. They were amazed not only that one relatively insignificant woman could stop a large project that those in power wanted to see completed, but astonished that it could be done only a year after we had watched in despair as losers of an election were declared the winners. I remember one man from the Central Region came over to congratulate me with the following words on his lips: “You are the only man left standing.” We both laughed as we shook hands. People following the discussion were afraid that the government might harm me. But when the building was stopped and I was not harmed, people felt extremely empowered and they have never gone back.

  Indeed, the slaying of the “park monster,” as we called it, energized the Kenyan people. From that time on, we moved with more confidence, courage, and speed. To me, this was the beginning of the end of Kenya as a one-party state. Still, while we had won a victory, the struggle to restore our democracy would last another decade. During those challenging years, we would be led down further roads of violence and fear, and all of us—including me—would have to draw upon our deepest reserves of hope, conviction, and faith to keep going and never give up on freedom.

  10

  Freedom Turns a Corner

  It is often difficult to describe to those who live in a free society what life is like in an authoritarian regime. You don't know who to trust. You worry that you, your family, or your friends will be arrested and jailed without due process. The fear of political violence or death, whether through direct assassinations or targeted “accidents,” is constant. Such was the case in Kenya, especially during the 1990s.

  After February 1990, when the Times tower complex was effectively dead, the government's attitude hardened toward the Green Belt Movement and me, and its actions against its opponents became even more hostile. The political climate was also becoming more oppressive. That same month, Kenya's popular foreign minister, Robert Ouko, who was considered a strong supporter of President Moi and was tapped as his possible successor, was murdered in mysterious circumstances on his farm in western Kenya. Several days of rioting followed, beginning in Ouko's home region of Kisumu and spreading to other areas.

  I realized that I was now a political figure and that I had to take care, even as I knew I couldn't stay silent. Not long after Ouko's murder, I was in New York to talk about the Green Belt Movement's work. At one event, held at the Church Center of the United Nations, as I described my struggle to protect Uhuru Park and the political situation in Kenya, Peggy Snyder and other friends and supporters of Green Belt became increasingly concerned. They took me aside and convinced me I shouldn't return to Kenya just then. Instead, they secured a three-month consultancy for me at the UNIFEM headquarters in New York, during which I stayed with Peggy, Marilyn Carr, who also worked at UNIFEM, and at the Vanderbilt YMCA, near the headquarters of the UN.

  Meanwhile, far from suppressing the opposition, Ouko's death and the government's reaction only emboldened the pro-democracy movement. In May 1990, Kenneth Matiba, a former cabinet minister in the Moi government; Charles Rubia, the former mayor of Nairobi; and Raila Odinga, son of the veteran politician Oginga Odinga, all called for the reintroduction of a multiparty system. On July 7, a mass pro-democracy rally was held in Kamukunji Park, where we had planted the trees that marked the birth of the Green Belt Movement thirteen years earlier. Even though the government banned the gathering, hundreds of thousands of people walked, drove, or took the bus to attend the demonstration. However, the assembly descended into a riot when security forces attacked the crowd with live ammunition. Dozens of demonstrators were killed and hundreds more injured in the street battles that followed.

  Still, Saba Saba (7/7 in Kiswahili, to mark the date of the rally) was a turning point in the history of the struggle for truly representative democracy in Kenya. It intensified the pressures inside and outside the country
on the Moi government to be more open politically. It also showed me quite clearly that the struggle for freedom in our country had not ended in 1963.

  I decided to honor those killed on Saba Saba by planting a small grove of trees in Uhuru Park. Over the next few years, elements suspected of being sympathetic to the government periodically tried to destroy the trees by slashing the trunks and branches or even burning them to the ground—this kind of vindictive vandalism was common among the regime's agents and supporters. Yet the trees, like us, survived. The rains would come and the sun would shine and before you knew it the trees would be throwing new leaves and shoots into the air. These trees, like Saba Saba, inspired me. They showed me that, no matter how much you try to destroy it, you can't stop the truth and justice from sprouting.

  Since the late 1980s, foreign donors, international organizations, and diplomats—including the then-U.S. ambassador to Kenya, Smith Hempstone—had been expressing concern about political repression, corruption, and increasing instability in the country. Some governments suspended aid to Kenya, citing human rights abuses and economic mismanagement. In response to the pressure, the government had set up a review committee to look into issues of governmental reform.

  In August 1991, Oginga Odinga and others founded the Forum for the Restoration of Democracy (FORD) as an opposition force to KANU, and invited many people active in the pro-democracy movement, including me, to join them. My work to protect Uhuru Park had raised my profile as an advocate not only for the environment but also for human rights. Although FORD was itself declared illegal, it scheduled a huge pro-democracy rally in Kamukunji Park in November 1991. The government naturally banned the event. Police officers cordoned off the park grounds, and when hundreds of demonstrators assembled despite the ban, they used tear gas and rubber bullets to disperse the crowd. At least two people died, and many opposition leaders and journalists were arrested.

  The pressure, however, for multipartism was too great, and in December, President Moi was forced to accept its reintroduction and schedule national elections for the end of 1992. While the government gave up its claim as the sole party, though, it only tinkered with political and constitutional reform and retained laws giving the government disproportionate power to control political activity. We still faced the risk of being arrested on trumped-up charges and without guarantee of trial, and it remained difficult to discuss the need for real democracy without being harassed or detained.

  It was in this political climate that, on January 10, 1992, a large group of us met in Nairobi's Ngong Hills Hotel, owned by Matu

  Wamae, also a member of FORD, to strategize about how to propel our pro-democracy movement forward. During the meeting, one of us was called to the phone and given information that chilled me to the bone. “We have learned, reliably, that Moi wants to hand over power to the army,” the caller said. Apparently, the president was scheduled to travel to Mombasa that day by train rather than plane, a change of transport that indicated a sense of uncertainty and insecurity within the government. The coup was scheduled to take place at any time, we were informed.

  A government-sponsored coup would be the perfect way for President Moi to avoid having to face the electorate at the end of the year. It was possible that the rumor was started by the government itself to scare the opposition into silence and ensure that the authorities retained power. Nonetheless, I took what was said very seriously, not least because the person on the phone named me as one of a large number of people targeted for assassination. This was not an idle threat. Not long before this, Bishop Alexander Muge had voiced fears for his life after calling for civil rights in Kenya. He had died shortly afterward in a mysterious car “accident.”

  None of us felt we needed to apply to the authorities for permission to announce that our lives were in danger. We also hoped, Bishop Muge notwithstanding, that speaking out now would not only keep us alive but do the same for the many Kenyans who would likely be killed if the rumors proved true. We decided to alert the media. About ten of us went to the press center in Chester House office building in central Nairobi, where many of the foreign media outlets as well as local media have their offices. We issued a statement to the effect that, if the president felt there was a need for a change in the government, he should call a general election and not turn power over to the army. We also alerted the press to the existence of a list of potential targets for assassination.

  The president denied rumors of the coup and attacked members of FORD for associating themselves with what he termed “loose talk.” After we made our statement, we scattered. That afternoon, our phones started ringing with the news that all those who attended the press conference were being picked up by the police one by one and arrested. I decided to barricade myself in my home.

  While the gate in the fence around the house was easy to climb over or force open, I had very secure doors and windows, which I had reinforced after a violent burglary six years earlier. That night I had come from a trip abroad and had, as usual, brought presents for the children. We had spent the evening of my return catching up with news and the children were excitedly opening the presents, long into the night. Eventually, we fell asleep exhausted—Wanjira and Muta in my bed and Waweru in his.

  At about three o'clock in the morning, I heard a huge bang and then complete silence, and I began to drift back to sleep. Meanwhile, the robbers had gone to Waweru's room, shaken him awake, and asked where his mother was. By that time, other thieves had come in and woken us up. Everything was pitch-black, and we couldn't turn on the lights (we didn't realize that the robbers had cut the electricity). The next thing I knew there were flashlights all over the place and men in my bedroom. I screamed. “Don't make a noise,” one of the robbers threatened, putting his hand over my mouth. “If you do, we'll kill you.” In the darkness, I could see the glint of a machete, so I knew they were serious. We didn't make a sound after that.

  Meanwhile, the other thieves were opening the closets and putting whatever they could find into a bag. My mother, who was visiting us at the time, had heard me scream and came into my room. “Grandma, you go back to sleep,” one robber said to her. “Don't shout.” My mother was scared and went back to the bedroom where she was sleeping, but couldn't hear anything from there so didn't know whether we were alive or dead. “Where does your mother keep the money?” another thief asked Wanjira. “Mommy doesn't keep money in the house,” she replied. The robbers took all the clothes they could find, Waweru's tape deck and records, and the gifts I had brought. They also took the beaded necklace with nine strings I had worn on my wedding day.

  The thieves had gotten into the house by throwing a heavy stone at the door and breaking it to the ground. I had never thought of getting an alarm system, since I didn't have much to steal. I did have a wonderful dog, who was partly a companion and a guardian, but they must have given her some meat because we didn't hear a peep out of her. The next day, when I saw her and asked her where she'd been the night before, she simply wagged her tail. I called the police, but they said our fingerprints had mixed with the thieves’ and compromised the investigation. We hadn't much faith that the thieves would be caught in any case, since in those days the police themselves were often in league with the thieves.

  Whenever I hear that someone has been robbed, my heart goes out to them, because I know how vulnerable you feel. After this experience, I decided that nothing should compromise the safety of my family and myself. So, even though it was very expensive, I made up my mind to secure my house—and that was the reason I felt I could safely barricade myself inside on that January day in 1992, when the police arrived to arrest me. Waweru and Wanjira were studying in the United States, and I had asked Muta to stay with his father so I could lock myself in. I thought nobody could get me.

  Soon enough, the police arrived and knocked at the gate. I refused to let them in. They soon tired of knocking and about ten officers climbed over the fence into the compound and encircled the house. At that momen
t, I knew what a rabbit surrounded by dogs must feel like. “Open your door!” they called to me.

  “I'm not opening it,” I told them. “I know you want to arrest me.” For several hours, a standoff ensued. They kept asking me to open the door and I refused. Eventually they left, but four armed officers remained to keep watch on the house throughout the night.

  By the next day, news that I was under siege had spread and friends and the press had begun to gather in the street outside my gate, while people from the nearby slum peered over the fence behind the house to see what was going on. Among the friends was Rev- erend Timothy Njoya of the Presbyterian Church of East Africa. Reverend Njoya was himself a strong supporter of the pro-democracy movement and had himself been the victim of a violent assault in his home. He had brought me some bananas to eat, but the police officers said I'd have to open the door to get them, which obviously I couldn't do. “Dr. Njoya!” I shouted to him. “Please. I cannot open the door. If they won't allow you to pass on food to me, go back with it. I would rather be hungry than be arrested for no offense.”

  From inside the house, I talked to as many journalists as I could, Kenyan and international, who had gathered around the compound (some had jumped over the gate, too), as well as on the phone. I told them about the rumored coup and explained why we didn't want power handed to the army. I spoke about how the 1988 elections had been rigged and how the president was nervous about holding elections because he knew he would be defeated. I felt so safe behind those doors that I even did some work as the siege continued. After some time, though, the police cut my phone line, and then I was frightened. I was alone in the house, surrounded, my connection to the outside world gone. The rumors of the coup had set Kenyans on edge, including the security forces. I didn't know what would happen next.