Mob Justice
9:03 am, Kisumu.
Woke up before 7am to the sound of arguing and pounding in the hotel room next door. Should I bang on the wall and tell them to keep it down at this ungodly hour? Should I go out and get the manager? Should I stay safely locked in my room? After a few minutes debating in a half-conscious stupor whether I was in danger or not, I realized that the commotion was actually coming through my window from the street below. I had to stand on the headboard of my bed to see down to the street, and spied a crowd of people watching two men get beaten. Should I get the hotel manager? Should I call the police? Should I yell out the window to leave the guys alone?
Mob justice is unpredictable and volatile and I didn't want to further incite a crowd of angry men armed with blunt objects. The yelling and dull thumping of wood against human flesh was making me ill so I went out to the lobby hoping to escape the noise. Two old men carrying walking canes and suitcases were leaving.
"They're beating someone right outside," I said.
"Oh, are they?" one man said. "Well I hope we don't get beaten too." They both giggled and staggered downstairs with their luggage.
I turned to go back to my room and saw one of the hotel managers sitting in the reception area.
"Do you know what's going on outside?" I asked.
"They caught some theives who stole from a bank," he said. "Now they are being punished." He took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled with satisfaction.
I didn't know where to go or what to do. There was no point calling the police (does 911 exist in Kisumu?); they are notoriously corrupt and would either ask for a bribe or continue beating the thieves.
The crowd was growing larger. Newspaper vendors milled about selling the Sunday Nation and bodaboda boys trolled for customers among the gawking spectators. It was business as usual, except that two men were lying face down in the gutter with their hands tied behind their backs, having the crap beat out of them. How do people just stand by and watch cruelty happen?
Not that the American justice system is so much better. Maybe Americans embrace justice like we embrace eating meat. We like the end product but we don't really care to see how it gets there. Most of us would rather not think about how animals are farmed and slaughtered, but boy do I love a nice thick slice of steak, medium-rare, with little cloves of garlic poked into the tender flesh, sprinkled with cracked peppercorns and good old Lawry's seasoning. And Popeye's fried chicken, mm, mm. And rack of lamb dusted with rosemary. And grilled salmon steak. And bacon-wrapped scallops...
Ahem. Most law-abiding citizens would rather not think about what happens inside American prisons and jails. Our legal system may be set up not to be cruel and unusual, but the reality is often grim, though I hear cable TV in your cell is nice. Stories of mob justice really upset me, but I wonder if it's any better in the U.S. Last week two men in my village got into an argument over 50 shillings (less than a dollar). One man went to the other's house with a machete and threatened him. Neighbors came out and tried to reason with the armed man, but he wouldn't listen. He started attacking the other man, lacerating the unarmed man in the forearm. The neighbors responded by beating Machete Man nearly to death. Ugh.
Well on that happy note I have to catch a matatu back to my village soon. Also my flash disk is acting up and so is my floppy drive. There is a conspiracy to make sure I can never store information and transport it from one computer to another again. Kenya and technology don't go together and it may just make me insane.
Woke up before 7am to the sound of arguing and pounding in the hotel room next door. Should I bang on the wall and tell them to keep it down at this ungodly hour? Should I go out and get the manager? Should I stay safely locked in my room? After a few minutes debating in a half-conscious stupor whether I was in danger or not, I realized that the commotion was actually coming through my window from the street below. I had to stand on the headboard of my bed to see down to the street, and spied a crowd of people watching two men get beaten. Should I get the hotel manager? Should I call the police? Should I yell out the window to leave the guys alone?
Mob justice is unpredictable and volatile and I didn't want to further incite a crowd of angry men armed with blunt objects. The yelling and dull thumping of wood against human flesh was making me ill so I went out to the lobby hoping to escape the noise. Two old men carrying walking canes and suitcases were leaving.
"They're beating someone right outside," I said.
"Oh, are they?" one man said. "Well I hope we don't get beaten too." They both giggled and staggered downstairs with their luggage.
I turned to go back to my room and saw one of the hotel managers sitting in the reception area.
"Do you know what's going on outside?" I asked.
"They caught some theives who stole from a bank," he said. "Now they are being punished." He took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled with satisfaction.
I didn't know where to go or what to do. There was no point calling the police (does 911 exist in Kisumu?); they are notoriously corrupt and would either ask for a bribe or continue beating the thieves.
The crowd was growing larger. Newspaper vendors milled about selling the Sunday Nation and bodaboda boys trolled for customers among the gawking spectators. It was business as usual, except that two men were lying face down in the gutter with their hands tied behind their backs, having the crap beat out of them. How do people just stand by and watch cruelty happen?
Not that the American justice system is so much better. Maybe Americans embrace justice like we embrace eating meat. We like the end product but we don't really care to see how it gets there. Most of us would rather not think about how animals are farmed and slaughtered, but boy do I love a nice thick slice of steak, medium-rare, with little cloves of garlic poked into the tender flesh, sprinkled with cracked peppercorns and good old Lawry's seasoning. And Popeye's fried chicken, mm, mm. And rack of lamb dusted with rosemary. And grilled salmon steak. And bacon-wrapped scallops...
Ahem. Most law-abiding citizens would rather not think about what happens inside American prisons and jails. Our legal system may be set up not to be cruel and unusual, but the reality is often grim, though I hear cable TV in your cell is nice. Stories of mob justice really upset me, but I wonder if it's any better in the U.S. Last week two men in my village got into an argument over 50 shillings (less than a dollar). One man went to the other's house with a machete and threatened him. Neighbors came out and tried to reason with the armed man, but he wouldn't listen. He started attacking the other man, lacerating the unarmed man in the forearm. The neighbors responded by beating Machete Man nearly to death. Ugh.
Well on that happy note I have to catch a matatu back to my village soon. Also my flash disk is acting up and so is my floppy drive. There is a conspiracy to make sure I can never store information and transport it from one computer to another again. Kenya and technology don't go together and it may just make me insane.
posted by Justina at 12:53 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home