content warning: extreme violence & death
News from home includes stories of queer and trans folks being murdered, of women being murdered, of state violence, of the government sabotaging hopes and dreams of independence, liberation, and justice. I, many miles — I mean kilometers — away read and watch and try to comprehend, but I come short.
What I do know is that “no” and “not this” and “no more” are complete sentences. I know that many people should still be alive. I think of the folks in my death doula training who wanted to get into this work to only support aging and terminally ill folks, to support the living in planning and realizing their last wishes. How when the rest of us talked about policing, violence, genocides, and the complications we encounter when envisioning “good deaths” for ourselves and those we love, they shrank back and blinked in discomfort and confusion.
I saw the grave of an ancestor of mine in the mountains of Embu once, during a funeral of a cousin who drowned in Mombasa, a plant marked their resting place and folks just knew they were there. Books I read about my people talk about how we didn’t used to do burials, how the white man thought us savages and enforced new death rituals. Some people still give unwanted opinions on the grieving and dying of the oppressed, blame the deceased. Talk of sin and deviance and money-lust.
Here, I come with feelings in place of facts and statistics. Femicide rates exist and there are individuals, collectives, and organizations doing important work on the ground. People are resisting through existence, marching in the streets and speaking love into the memories of those who were stolen from us, both named and unidentifiable. And so many are stolen, found in dams, rivers, sides of roads, rental apartments, and unmarked graves.
Twitter and comment sections home to dehumanization, additional sites of destruction. None of my training, no training, can prepare one for the emotions that ensue in the face of such gruesome acts. News headline after news headline. Body after body. Victim blaming and more victim blaming. But there are always those of us who know better. That there are economies built on exploiting and breaking us, reporting our murders, and pretending to be seeking justice for us.
I admit, I have not kept up with all the court proceedings in the aftermath, because, for me, I want people to live and die well. I do not have faith or hope in criminal legal systems. Instead, I daydream of the lives that could, should, have been and fight like hell for the living, for substantial, radical change. I mourn and join virtual spaces for remembrance, because mainly I am far away. My heart is always home.
My heart is enraged and tired and enraged again. There are debates on humanity and ridiculous advice on how to prevent being murdered. Do not live. Do not trust. Do not be yourself. Do not survive as best as you can. Be who they say you should be to not be murdered by the police, or a neighbor, or classmate, or friend, or partner, or stranger, or relative, or ex-lover, or client, or or or or or or.
And there is so much violent death in this world. I have written on holding — feeling it all — so I will not repeat myself, but I will say that we should not be holding this much grief. It is not normal nor natural. It is not good for our bodies or spirits. I feel like a ghost sometimes, bridging the divide of the land of the living and dead, because I want to commune with the dead. I say sorry and sorry and sorry. I say you were loved and are missed. I apologize for only learning their names and faces once they no longer had breath. I read about who they were from who they loved and were loved by. When there are no testimonies I insert all the warmth to their memory that I can muster.
There are many with solutions and ideas. There are paths towards a better society, one where all are welcome, safe, and resourced. There is much being done to create that world. Even in the face of devastation, there can — must — be hope. What is, is not what must be, what must be, must be beyond our current imagination. So I will imagine and build and hopefully so will you, for a new world, not just Kenya.
It is all interconnected, this violence, violation of life. We must not become accustomed. This cannot be normal. We cannot be complacent. I know the discomfort with engaging with death, but I invite you to help create a reality where we are all living and dying better. We can create new words to describe what will be. It is within our capacity.
There will be another headline, lives stolen. I will write about this again and again, because progress, change, takes time and those against us are still against us. I must believe that better will come, that we will tell children about how things were, as cautionary tales about not repeating history and not as a means of survival. No more talks about how to avoid death while seeking love. No more need for tips and tricks to survive encounters with cops. No more need for marches, legislation, or petitions.
Some may call me idealistic or naive, but I prefer to be seen as unrealistic than to make peace with the world as it is. I make revolutionary war against all that is against us. There is alway love in the midst, love is the fuel. I love us enough to believe and fight and struggle for more. Writing is not enough and still I write. I did not know if I had the words or if it was my place to say, from so far away, but if not now then when. If not us then who?