We’re simply not talking about what happened in Garissa, Kenya. No, really: I’m sorry, but in relative terms, no one is. Is it the geographical proximity or the colour of their skin that makes this atrocity relatively invisible: a second-rate story thrown into the ‘foreign affairs’ or ‘international’ section of our newspapers for good measure? I cannot reach a conclusion on the matter without the crippling concern that the 148 lives lost do not matter to you as much as, for example, the 151 who tragically perished on an ill-fated flight to Dusseldorf. I ask you whether they do matter as much, whether the tragedy in Kenya appeals to your sentiments, identifies with devastation, in the same way.

If the answer is ‘No’, I want to ask you why; I want you to ask yourself why.

Remembrance

In an expression of solidarity and commemoration a social media campaign, armed with a catchy hashtag, gave a face to the 148 individuals who were brutally murdered. I clicked on an article that contained a collection of Twitter clippings and scrolled – for what felt like a century – down the page, looking at each picture and the poignant sentences that accompanied them. I wish I could name them all in this article.

The graveyard contained a collection of vivid online tombstones, depicting the victims as tangible individuals beyond the abstraction of statistic. It was important for me to see that. It was important not just because the general tendency is to dehumanise the victims of terror or – hands-over-ears-and-eyes – to go about life without engaging with what is happening to those around us. It was imperative that I do that because, if I could see those pictures, if I could read about their lives, policy-makers could too. They too could share in the loss and maybe recoil from the unhealthy detachment to real lives that often comes with politics and power. Even more vitally important is the fact that, somewhere, a person contemplating joining a terrorist network could be reading these posts and giving the senseless act a face. If that reduces al-Shabaab’s recruit count by one, that is one less terrorist and, perhaps, countless lives saved. This is more than just honouring the lives lost or painting a commemorative portrait of loss but, little by little, it is a game changer in the way the rest of the world engages with that loss; with those human beings and their families. There is power that can be derived from that sort of community.

One post, from Janet Akinyi, a student, caught my eye perhaps because a screenshot of a text message she sent her boyfriend in the midst of the attack was placed next to a picture of her. She told him she loved him and would always love him. Imagine saying goodbye like that to a man you loved. It made me wonder whom I would send that last text to. I morbidly thought about that final moment, the knowledge that he will never see her alive again. There is no way to grasp the horror but at the very least I was able to contend with its humanity. Janet is in all of us.

You cannot possibly read this with detachment. You just cannot.

Terrorising Education

Why attack a place of learning?

The Global Terrorism Database, compiled by the University of Maryland, shows a steep increase in attacks on educational institutions since 2004. However, assaults on schools or universities do not normally lead to the sort of death toll as that in Garissa or Peshwar, Pakistan (where over 140 people, mostly children, were massacred at the end of last year). Even if the rate of terrorist strikes on educational institutions amounts to three per cent of all such attacks, the steady increase of these offensives on places of learning is in no way comforting or something that should encourage a ‘ah, uwija, not so bad’. We are talking about children, often girls trying to gain an education, being used as instruments of intimidation and war – they are being threatened or sacrificed largely to attract attention and undermine progress.

And this is the crux of the issue here. Murdering 148 people in cold blood or kidnapping 276 young girls, as Boko Haram did in Chibok, Nigeria, is a most barbaric way of trying to stamp out progress. It reeks of the desire to oppress communities, to “show them who’s boss”, to extinguish the power of education, to perpetuate poverty, to quash the development of women. It is better for terrorist groups to ensure that populations remain uneducated and unquestioning. Coupled with the bastardisation of religion, which exonerates these groups as ‘warriors of righteousness’ with God on their side, this creates a recipe for sustainable oppression without real opposition or the power to form one.

What it all boils down to is this: an uneducated population, where women are not contributors but subservient nonentities and children are pawns of terror, ensures that communities flounder. These communities then seek out any sort of leadership that can end their hunger, desolation and poverty. Doing so gains terrorist networks not just attention but also manpower – you have far more leeway to take the pencil out of a child’s hand and replace it with a Kalashnikov if they and their families are starving. Education, after all, is a long-term, on-going process that does not necessarily reward you immediately and requires commitment. Try telling a starving, terrorised community that education is a truly meaningful way of constructing a sustainable future. But it is. It is vital.

Talking about this

What these terrorist attacks are trying to destroy is something that affects all of us. Even if you can genuinely detach yourself from the loss of life, what is happening deserves your attention because it takes apart something that makes us fundamentally human – our collective right to make better lives for our communities and ourselves. This way these networks are launching an assault on all of us.

If we don’t care, if we also do the victims of such attacks – regardless of their geographical location – the incredible disservice of not even taking the time to remember them, then our passivity will continue to encourage and speak volumes. Those groups who seek to breed fear from marginalisation will be able to continue doing so. There is a hell of a lot of cliché wrapped in a tweet or a Facebook status but a million such voices coming together, even if just for a moment, do sometimes make a difference. It says: we are all watching Kenya and we too seek justice for its lost children.