Kenyan youths at center of violence

He’s a preacher’s son and part-time college student who idolizes Martin Luther King Jr. and aspires to escape Kenya’s biggest slum.

But when this East African nation erupted in postelection chaos, an unfamiliar rage took over inside the boyish-looking 21-year-old.

“I felt like my life had been stolen,” said Bernard, whose last name was withheld for his protection. “In my mind, I wanted to damage everything. I picked up a rungu [wooden club] and started to run.”

Bernard has joined hundreds of other opposition supporters in looting shops of sugar, flour and cellphones. He doused businesses owned by rival tribes with gasoline and set them afire. During one fateful attack, he grabbed a machete and roamed the slums with a mob hellbent on finding someone to kill.

Angry young men such as Bernard are at the heart of Kenya’s descent into violence and destruction. But just how a Bible-quoting fellow like Bernard can be transformed into a stone-throwing rioter has mystified many, both in and outside Kenya.

Twenty-something Kenyans are more educated, ethnically integrated and exposed to such democratic ideals as human rights and freedom than previous generations. Yet they’ve reacted more violently, tribally and defiantly than their parents could ever imagine doing.

Coming of age at a time when Kenya is in political and economic transition, young people here have one foot in a modern, Westernized ideal of what their country might become and another rooted in African traditions and history.

“It’s harder for this generation,” Bernard’s father said. “They have so many more choices and decisions.”

It’s small wonder that Bernard can seem a jumble of moral contradictions. He laughs off looting as harmless “shopping,” but shuns alcohol because he says it violates his religious ethics. He’s of the opposition Luo tribe and dates a girl of the rival Kikuyu tribe, yet calls Kikuyus “thieves” and betrayed a former high school friend to Luo gangs, who later beat up the youth and burned his house.

His toughest choice came late last month when a gang of enraged youths from his neighborhood asked him to join their revenge squad to kill the first Kikuyu they found. Heart racing, Bernard hesitated for a moment.

“Part of me didn’t want to go,” he said. “I was afraid of what might happen. But I grabbed my panga [machete] and followed.”

Minutes later he would learn just how deep this newfound anger ran.

Bernard’s story is just one piece of the puzzle that might explain why Kenya has turned so quickly from an African role model into a cautionary tale. What began as frustration over the disputed Dec. 27 presidential election has uncorked long-standing tensions over ethnicity, poverty, and competition for land and power.

Tribal divisions

Much of the anger has been directed at President Mwai Kibaki’s Kikuyu tribe, which has dominated Kenyan politics since independence and enjoyed the fruits of economic expansion. Luos accuse Kikuyus of hoarding money and power. They’d hoped the election of opposition leader Raila Odinga, a Luo, would bring them power, jobs and economic opportunity.

Those hopes collapsed when Kibaki was declared the winner, despite allegations of vote rigging and other election irregularities. Now Kenya’s economy is in tatters, the nation’s reputation for democratic progress stained.

Bernard’s story begins in Kibera, a notorious Nairobi slum populated largely by Luos. Built along a colonial-era railroad line, the impoverished area of the capital counts nearly 1 million people crammed on hilly land.

His family is divided for economic reasons. He lives with his father, a pastor who works as a government clerk, and a sister. For more than a decade, his mother has lived in western Kenya, taking care of four other siblings in school there.

Bernard has enjoyed educational opportunities his parents never had. His father dropped out of high school to help support his family; Bernard attends college part time.

Yet life in the slum is dismal, he said. Lack of toilets means streams of sewage run through dirt trenches and fecal dust in the air causes frequent infections. Crime and muggings are common. Most people are unemployed.

Though Kenya’s economy surged 7% last year, there’s little evidence of prosperity in Kibera. Fueling ethnic resentment is the fact that most of the shops and homes are owned by Kikuyus.

“They grow up bitter here,” said Pastor Andrew Ouma of the African Inland Church. “And a poor man usually thinks he’s poor because of the rich man.”

Bernard is studying to be a journalist, but remains pessimistic about his job prospects.

“People here have lost hope,” he said. “But you can’t survive without hope. I’d rather live without food than live without hope.”

Much of Kibera’s outburst can be attributed to rebellion against long-standing poverty and economic marginalization, experts say.

“It boils down to their frustration,” said Ken Ouko, a sociologist at the University of Nairobi who specializes in youth. He says recent unrest also has been fueled by classic youthful revolt against the older generation, noting that Kenya’s political leaders are in their 60s and 70s.

The flawed election was a trigger, Ouko says, providing young people with an outlet to vent their anger as well as a cause to rally around. He noted that young rioters in Kibera and elsewhere have been seen smiling and laughing, even as police fired tear gas and bullets.

“Half the time they look like they are enjoying themselves,” Ouko said. “This conflict in a way is giving a meaning to their lives.”

Young people say their higher education and greater awareness have made them more vehement and desperate, not less. Increased access to satellite television, the Internet, e-mail and cellphones during the last five years has made young Kenyans acutely aware of their standing in the world.

“Young people today understand their rights,” said Teresa Mutegi, deputy principal at Langata Secondary School, which draws 90% of its students from Kibera. “They see the rest of the world. That’s why they are more aggressive and more ambitious. They are saying, ‘Give us what is ours.’ ”

Kibaki’s successes

Ironically, many of the freedoms young people now enjoy were delivered by the man they vilify, Kibaki, who expanded free speech and the rights of a free press and made primary education free. Before Kibaki began his first term at the end of 2002, openly criticizing the head of state was unthinkable and government opponents found themselves in secret torture chambers.

Liz, 23, who works as a day laborer in Kibera, said young people are reacting so fiercely because they fear Kibaki is trying to reverse the rights he expanded by “stealing” the election. “Yes, Kibaki gave us the freedoms, but in the last minute he took them away,” she said. “He opened the window and now is trying to close it.”

Without question, the surge in tribalism among young people has been the most shocking twist to the current violence. The young generation is the most ethnically integrated, thanks to urbanization and increased mobility. For years, different tribes lived side by side without problems. Intermarriage was common.

But tribal rivalry has resurfaced with a vengeance in young people, who led many of the ethnically targeted killings and village burnings.

Young people might be reaching back to their tribal roots as a last resort, sociologist Ouko explained, believing that support systems, including government, church and family, have failed to address their plight. “There’s an institutional collapse,” Ouko said. “So they are looking for a Plan B. They are beginning to internalize tribe.”

The internal tug-of-war is apparent in Bernard. One minute he condemned tribal killings, and said he saw no reason to break up with his Kikuyu girlfriend. In the next breath, he said that in light of the recent fighting, tribes should live in segregated neighborhoods. And he spoke with cold detachment of the recent killing of a Kikuyu doctor beheaded by gangs. “If we can’t kill Kibaki, the next best thing is kill the Kikuyu neighbors,” he said.

Such competing emotions were in play Jan. 29 when the gang arrived at his door to recruit him. A Luo member of parliament had just been assassinated. “ ‘Come with us,’ ” he said they told him. “ ‘We’re going to kill a Kikuyu.’ ”

Bernard described previous looting and burning attacks as “fun,” but he joined reluctantly this time, he said.

Growing up in Kibera, he had seen corpses many times, usually victims of street crime. But he’d never watched a man die. When the gang descended upon its Kikuyu victim, Bernard said, he stood frozen on the sidelines, watching the blood gush from the victim’s neck and head.

In that moment, rage gave way to another emotion: pity.

“I felt such regret,” he said. “Suddenly I saw life as this game, where you have it one second and it’s gone the next. People don’t respect it. It touched me.”

Bernard slipped away from the gang, he said, and returned home, stowing his panga and not telling his father.

Afterward, Bernard said his anger subsided. He doubted that he would take part again in protests and was hoping school would reopen so he could resume his studies. Kibera, he hoped, would stay quiet.

Then early this month, his father was laid off. The family blames tribal discrimination. The supervisor is a Kikuyu and the suspended workers Luos.

Bernard rested his head in one hand. He’s worried about how the family will pay for food and his school fees.

“Now,” he said quietly, “the hatred is coming again.”

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edmund.sanders@latimes.com