Mob, Justice

by sadams2

Anytime you live in a new culture, you are bound to encounter difficult truths. I think the whole experience becomes a study in contradictions: simultaneously falling in love with a new place and identifying its gaping flaws. Most of the time in Uganda, I’ve tried to stick with the former and keep an optimistic viewpoint on this new culture I’m experiencing.

Tonight, however, my world has been a little bit rocked. Tonight, I found out my favorite boda-boda driver – this earnest, funny, chipper young guy I’ve grown close to –  is essentially a murderer.

Basically, a few weeks ago we were all a little shocked by a bold demonstration of mob justice right down the street from where I live in Ntinda. Two men tried to steal a motorcycle, but were quickly apprehended by a crowd and beaten. One was set on fire and died while the neighborhood watched. Soon after, local police arrived and fired on the crowd, killing two. Dialogue about the incident seemed to shift to police brutality, but the mob justice was certainly just as shocking. (Read about it in the New York Times.)

On my ride back home tonight, I casually asked my boda driver friend about thieves in the area and he brought up this recent story. Before I know it, I’ve found out that this guy was part of that crowd and almost proudly explained how and why they set the thief ablaze.

I wish I could explain how incongruent this story felt coming out of my friend’s mouth. He is smiley and well-dressed, an overly cautious driver,  a sometimes Luganda teacher, and well-known around our neighborhood. I know he has a very clear point of view on right and wrong (we talk 4 or 5 times a week), which is why it was so hard to process how correcting the wrong of theft, for him, devolved so quickly into this act of violence.

I tried to probe his thoughts about why mob justice was more favorable than allowing the police to intervene.

“If you had waited and let the police come, do you think they would handle it?” I asked.

“Well, if the police came, they would not let us burn anyone.”

“Right. But do you think they would arrest him and he would be punished?”

“No no, we just had to burn him.”

He was blinded to any other options of justice; burning the man was the only way. He described in uncomfortable detail the whole scene – the timeline of events, the sounds of the man’s cries – until I really couldn’t hear any more. The horrible we did this and then we did this hung sharply in the air. I paid, went inside, and took to the blog. Nothing about what just happened feels real.

I love so much about Uganda and, to be very clear, I always feel safe here. But sometimes the uglier parts of life in a new culture hit like a ton of bricks.

I’m mostly really sad now, because I really do value this guy as a friend. He has been immeasurably helpful to me over the last few months and we’ve developed a good relationship. Now I’m conflicted and disappointed, trying to understand this action in context of this culture. As an employee of a justice organization, what do I do? How does my relationship with him change, if at all? What can or should I say to him about it? Honestly, I’m asking. What do I do?