By NZAU MUSAU
THE heat here is unrelenting, the breeze of the unending plains overly dry and the vibrations about the place metal-heavy; Wagalla air strip smells of death.
Tucked deep in the bushes about 15 kilometers from Wajir town, the now ghostly air strip bears a permanent shame, an eye sore to the surrounding community whose men were butchered there 26 years ago.
The drive to the air strip was a silent-meditative one apart from the coughs and sneezes of Abdissack Noor, a survivor of the Wagalla massacre who as he told a police officer manning the road-block near the facility was “going to visit our grave.”
“It’s good to visit your grave once in a while, you know,” he sarcastically added as the near-stubborn cop attempted to comprehend the surprise visit.
“Welcome to Wagalla, the place of our affliction,” he announced as the car took a left turn and sped through a grassy unkempt path leading to the airstrip.
We appeared into the main of the air strip just as a caravan of camels was passing by the supposed runway of the now used as short-cut from far-away watering holes.
“We filled up this entire area,” he says while pointing to a squared of about hundred by a hundred meters, the supposed parking area where in his estimation, about 5000 men were held incommunicado for about four days.
He points to a collapsing double roomed house and a row of unutilized latrines on the right: “These ones were not there; they were put up around 1998 as part of the wider corruption of sinking monies into ghost projects.”
On that fateful morning of February 10, 1984, Noor then aged 19 woke up a little late at 9 in the morning to see trucks ferrying men into the air strip. It didn’t strike him that something strange was on until he was told to head there.
He would later regret this move as he was welcomed into the air strip with kicks and blows and just in time as all the men were being stripped naked and made to lie facing the burning gravel beneath.
“On 13th, people started dying. We either would push the dead aside or would sleep on them to get some cold. Dying of thirst, people began to drink urine and the commotion began,” he recounts.
When push came to shove, some brave men broke off the dragnet and started running towards one of the fences which was razor sharp and which had soldiers manning from strategic points.
“As the most the men ran towards that side with bullets hailing after them, I took the opportunity to run in the opposite direction and hid beneath the many military trucks parked there,” he said pointing to a corner near the entrance.
He later slipped through the fence and while staggering in the bush, crossed a straying goat: “I grabbed hold of it, stabbed it hard with a stick in the stomach and drank of its water. I later slithered into my burning village where I was fed and restored to life.”
By this time, the shame of Wagalla had spread and on 14th the following day, a military plane was seen hovering above the air strip after which trucks started ferrying the dead and the dying men in different directions.
“This is where they burned away all the clothes,” he points to a dark-soiled spot with evident signs of a huge bonfire:
“And this is the blood on the runway, one which has failed to fade despite the denial and lapse of time,” he says pointing to dark pebbles of murram which are distinct from the rest.
“Our blood has refused to dry and not the time, not the elements and certainly not the denials will wash it away until our dignity as a people is restored and acknowledged,” he says.
Many of his friends, he avers, died on this very spot. In his own estimation, out of the around 5000 detained here, only about 2000 may have survived. And many of these 2000 are still dying of after-effects, he says.
He says that for about 18 years until 2002, the mention of Wagalla was bound to land one in jail. The Narc administration however lifted this unofficial ban of Wagalla talk and Noor alongside other survivors drafted a petition against the government.
“The then justice minister Kiraitu Murungi acknowledged Wagalla’s shame but beyond that, he did nothing on our petition…. Nothing!” he says.
Holding his arms akimbo and dimming his eyes away from the sweltering sun, Noor shakes his head and in a silent withdrawn voice mourns; “It’s painful to be back here after all that I saw happen.”
He says although there is no way the people who suffered and died in their air strip can be given their human dignity and lives back, they can be compensated to a reasonable measure.
“I would want to see a monument with all the names of victims and survivors put in place here. I would want this air strip reclaimed and used for the benefit of the people of Wagalla,” he says.
For Mohammed Khamis who lost both his dad and hordes of relatives in the air strip, nothing short of government’s own acknowledgement of the shame, publicization of this shame and holding into account the perpetrators will hold.
So bitter is Khamis that for some unexplained reasons which he tells me “is a long story,” left the police force and opted to live in his village.
“It is a situation where you either commit suicide or revenge and we opted as a people to keep our sorrow to ourselves knowing somehow someday, justice will come to us,” he says.
He cannot understand why no one has been held to account for the Wagalla shame when most of those who authorized the massacre are still alive and enjoying the benevolence of the state.
He says he has a special message to the rest of Kenyans who held their silence as the people of Wagalla were butchered: “Today is me, tomorrow is you. All of us must learn to defend and seek justice.”
Sidebar: An orphan’s anger, Mohammed Khamis
“I remember the events as though it was yesterday. I was in class one at the moment and on this particular day- Friday 10th, February 1984, I was preparing to go to school.
The military men landed in our compound and I saw them butt-stabbing my dad; they took him away alongside all the men of this village. That was the last time I saw him, dead or alive.
Our entire village was razed down and many women raped; we all moved to another place called Qorai where we lived as refugees for some time until we re-built our homes once again.
We never got back our dead although we know they were killed. The disappearance of the bodies has stalled our lives because according to our customs, we need to bury them honorably to move on.
Without a descent burial for my dad, there have been no formulae to proceed with in life and that is why up to this day, even as an ex-police officer, I have no sense of ownership in this place.
Our society was disorganized in the one fell swoop and the vacuum left is unmistakable. For instance look at this plot, it has been here for the last 35 years and look at its state… no development!
These are the effects of disintegrating a community which was new to the world of education by exterminating its bread winners, the pillars of the society.
Ours has been a situation where you either have to commit suicide or revenge. We have chosen to keep it to ourselves knowing that justice must come in the end of it all.
In the mean time, we have resorted to giving out the truth to those who care. I expect attempts to silence me in this venture because the people who killed our fathers and raped our sisters are alive.
The entire line of command and its structure is intact; these people are known and they know nothing will happen to them. That is why can afford to talk quite honorably in megaphones about this and that.
My feeling is that we will speak about this until we die and even then, the next generation will take over. We do not care much if we are giving this information to our enemies or friends because it is the truth.
I want to tell Kenyans to be brave enough to seek and defend justice through out their borders. Kenyans were there when this happened to us. They know what happened to us and they have a duty to pursue our justice.
We also have a question for the people of Kenya; we demonstrated right here in Wajir when Uganda attempted to take over Migingo, why haven’t you ever demonstrated in our cause?
We do not expect an answer but we want to say this; today it’s us, tomorrow it’s you!”
Ends……………../.
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