Wagalla Massacre: The Nightmare of an Activist

The year 1984 was a terrible year for us. The rains had failed and when we decided to move to the wells near Wajir town, the heat, the lack of pasture for the animals and the scarcity of food for people made any journey almost impossible. The journey was slow, the people and the animals moved from tree shade to tree shade and even the trees were so bare of leaves that the sun shone right through them. This is the time when I almost died of thirst twice. The day time my brother and I got lost in the bushes and we walked on until the sun was about to set. The thirst and the heat being so unbearable, we would have perished had we not been found. We were lucky we ran into our father who was trying to harvest wild gum Arabic trees so that he could have some to sell in town. The animals were useless in that weather so people were looking for anything of value to trade in so that they could buy food. The second time, my brother and I were herding livestock and it became extremely hot. We tried to keep cool by crawling under trees but nothing could help. Someone was to bring us some water to drink but due to some misunderstanding, he never came to our rescue. We almost died of thirst that day.

I remember I made an umbrella out of my Kikoi and held over my brother's head so that he could walk in the shade. It was not really an act of kindness but more of a sense of duty to protect my brother. We moved on for days and nights and one day someone from town met us and he had terrible news. The people in town have been collected, detained and killed by soldiers. He told us some of our own uncles and cousins are missing. This made everyone sad, the adults were crying and silence fell over the whole family. There was nothing to do though. The choice was stark, staying in the bushes meant certain death from thirst and hunger while going to the wells may have meant facing bullets and batons. The people chose the latter thinking that thirst and hunger were unbearable at any cost. By the time we reached the wells at Leheley, a small village on the outskirt of Wajir town, most of the goats and sheep had died. We started the journey with six hundred goats and sheep and a hundred camels and when we arrived at the wells and the animals drank water, only twenty five survived, the rest died of prolonged thirst and of drinking the salty well water on an empty stomach.

Fear had gripped the towns; men slept in the bushes at night and only ventured into the town in daylight. Every time the roar of an engine was heard, people ran into the nearest outgrowth or up trees. It was a frightening experience the first time I ever set foot in town. Stories abound of what transpired earlier. The military came into the villages, arrested men and burnt houses. Some men were beaten in front of their wives and children until they bleed from the mouth and nose. People in these reserves had never heard a man begging for mercy and crying visible tears before 1984. There were hushed stories told only among age mates that certain women were raped. The stories were hushed because it was very shameful for the families whose women were raped. Some of the women were young beautiful girls who were waiting to be wedded once the rainy season came. It was a particularly gruesome nightmare. The people hoped and prayed that it was just a nightmare and tried very hard to wake up from it but 1984 was real, the killings, the burning and blunder of wealth and the rape of women were real, there was no waking up from this ghostly dream.

from:americanchronicle.com