Parachute Journalism and the Kenyan crisis

George Ogola decries the simplistic western approach to covering news on Africa, as exemplified by the reporting of the Kenyan post-election crisis

They were probably the longest days of my life. Red-eyed from lack of sleep and desperate for updated information on the Kenyan elections, I meticulously watched international TV networks and spent hours surfing the net for relevant sites covering the elections. I could sense curiosity turn into anxiety then fear before an unprecedented implosion. Kenya was at war with itself.

The Economist called it ‘a very African coup’ while Raila Odinga called it ‘a civilian coup’. Both PNU and ODM claimed victory. Confusion reigned as chaos erupted. Months of excitement had turned into uncertainty for some and distress for others. But as I agonised with my people, there was a parallel drama unfolding.

When controversy over the presidential elections threatened to destroy our fragile nation-state, ‘parachute’ journalists descended on Nairobi eager to cover yet another ‘trouble spot’ in the blighted continent. As the country went to the polls, Africa collectively had no more than tickers in the major international news channels.

A week prior to the election, only Al-Jazeera had taken some trouble to tell the Kenyan story. Reuters Africa proved another notable exception. But the familiar would soon follow, vicious and unrelenting.

When protests met the announcement of the presidential results, CNN, BBC 24 and Sky News sent some of their finest to Nairobi. But the frame of reference had been pre-determined. A narrative had been established. Kenya had descended into tribal anarchy reminiscent of the Rwanda genocide.

Neighbours had turned onto each other just because they belonged to different tribes. ‘Tribal violence’ became the definitive mantra and was the basis for reports across the world.

I recall a BBC 24 news anchor asking a reporter when the results were announced whether a military coup was an immediate possibility.

Meanwhile, pundits were carefully selected. As a rule, they were middle class white folk mostly ex-diplomats previously based in Africa and ‘respected’ London-based Africanists working with the city’s many ‘Think-Tanks’. There was the occasional African interviewed on a late night show. The frames of reference could not be destabilised.

People were being targeted and killed indiscriminately by tribal mobs. The savagery both in the deed as well as coverage was taken to new heights when a Church was set ablaze in Eldoret killing more than 40 people.

International reporters flew to the town and milked the tragedy. They reconstructed the gory scenes, the savagery unbeknown to man since Rwanda. Footage of rotting corpses in maize fields and overflowing morgues were aired without reservation. The dead were denied dignity. If you were Kenyan, you cried; and I wept. But I cried for my country as well as the job I love.

The kind of coverage I saw on Sky, BBC 24, Euro News and a host other channels was not magnanimity. I was convinced it was not a desire by a section of the international media to tell the world the true story about the conflict that was slowly consuming Kenya. This was about a good story; it was about the exploitation of a people crying out for help.

It was equally about a western anthropology that figures conflict in Africa only in tribal terms; an Africa whose existence is so basic it must not be understood beyond the discourse of the tribe.

I witnessed the power of a selective morality that tends to view Africa from a paradigm of difference, a unique rationality that embraces the kind of savagery the world was witnessing.

Feature stories, commentaries and editorial pieces revelled in descriptions of gore; of eyes gorged, bodies burnt beyond recognition, of limbs severed with machetes. The description sounded more like a sport. Context and detail was ignored as the number of deaths became fodder for good stories.

Highbrow newspapers suddenly became tabloids with pictures of fleeing Kenyans, children sleeping rough and lines of women with bowls queuing for food making the cover pages. TV news anchors asked reporters on the ground how many were starving, how many more had been killed, and how many more villages had been razed.

Helicopters were more useful flying over burnt out villages to capture footage of frightened villagers than provide assistance. When many news channels heard whiff of planned protests, the question was not what it was about but how violent it would be. The threshold of death was continuously being revised, indeed rewritten.

Amid this, the obvious was deliberately being negated. Why was violence in Nairobi largely restricted to the slums of Kibera and Mathare? Was it possible that the Kenyan poor were at war with the rich and with themselves, though speaking in a voice that is anathema to a revolution? Why was violence so seductive? Why were the middle classes marooned in their suburbs, silent and invisible?

Why was the violence so vicious in the rural areas and especially in the Rift Valley? Was it really possibly that because of disputed presidential elections, Kenya would suddenly implode? Was there a historical trajectory to this conflict? No, the unambiguity of Africa as a problem continent could not be challenged at a time when it was such a good story.

The assumption that informs the continent’s interpretation is that this is a continent whose civilisation cannot be so sophisticated as to have class wars; neither can it justifiably fight for anything remotely democratic. I’m still torn between weeping for my country and an institution I still love dearly.

* Dr. George Ogola teaches at the University of Central Lancashire

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