Love, fear, hatred and others: Human emotion and the 1995 constitution – Part 4

The past three columns in this series explored the ways in which basic human emotions (love, fear, hatred, prejudice and others) affect, for better or for worse, constitutional dialogue in Uganda.

Unfortunately, as recent events demonstrate, it is often some of the very worst human impulses which are reflected in decisions taken by the Executive, Legislative and even Judicial branches of government.

In the case of Museveni’s government, this is even the more tragic given that the National Resistance Movement (NRM) set out to fight against all forms of oppression nationally, regionally and globally.

Yoweri Kaguta Museveni, and the (mostly but not exclusively) young men and women who joined his cause, appear to have been inspired by the very highest ideals – love of country and of fellow human beings. They seemed to have been dedicated to the restoration of human dignity, in its fullest sense.

The primary method Museveni chose for the achievement of this laudable goal was violence – a decision which, as noted in the column last week, was profoundly inspired by the work of Frantz Fanon, among others.

We noted earlier that Museveni’s undergraduate thesis set out his understanding of Fanonian violence, especially its capacity to liberate both the oppressed and the oppressor, and to restore the essential human dignity of both.

According to the young Museveni: ‘Liberation is a two-way process; the slave liberates himself at the same time as he liberates the oppressor …. [Under oppression] [B]oth the oppressed and the oppressor lose their humanity. To transform a human being into an efficient, uncostly and completely subservient slave, you have, as a pre-condition, to completely purge him of his humanity, manhood and will …. To become an efficient instrument of oppression, you have to radically de-humanize yourself by foregoing many qualities that are normally found in balanced human beings.

You purge yourself of compassion, altruism, consideration of other people’s suffering, and the capacity to restrain your greed …Hence, both the exploiter and the exploited need emancipation.’ [Chapter 1, at Paragraph 9] According to Museveni (channeling Fanon), through the physical act of terminating the life of the oppressor, the ‘native’ reclaims a sense of dignity and self-worth which goes a long way to affirming their status as a human being.

On the other hand, witnessing this also enables the oppressor to understand, and accept, the ‘native’ as a human being deserving of mutual respect. There seem to be a number of fundamental challenges with this idea of violence as a means of human emancipation. In the first place, it might lead to an endless cycle of armed struggle, as yesterday’s liberator becomes today’s oppressor.

In fact, judging by the standards of governance today (including the impunity of an increasingly ethnicized politico-military establishment), Museveni’s undergraduate dissertation would conceivably recommend that the National Unity Platform (NUP) and other members of the opposition take up arms against the current government, as a means of restoring the freedom, dignity and humanity of Ugandans.

However, if the story of the NRM/A is anything to go by, it is precisely that the guns can hardly be trusted to ‘restore’, let alone sustain and nurture, any genuine form of democracy. This was indeed the conclusion reached in Ms Desire Uthman Amumpaire’s Bachelor of Laws dissertation (Makerere School of Law, April 2025), which we cited last week.

The second major challenge with the Fanon-Museveni conception of ‘revolutionary violence’ is the practical difficulty of distinguishing it from more gratuitous forms of violence. Museveni was quick to point out, right at the start of his thesis, that his idea of violence was not wanton violence, but that aimed at ‘revolutionary’ purposes: ‘Fanon did not advocate violence for its own sake.

If he had, he would have been a homicidal maniac, not a revolutionary. His writings would not be worth the attention paid to them. Fanon advocated violence in order to bring about total and authentic decolonization’. [Chapter 1, at Paragraph 1] But, can violence be so neatly delineated?

Is the line between a ‘homicidal maniac’ and a ‘revolutionary’ always so clear? I am not too sure. Some disturbing indications of this rather blurred line were evident even in the young Museveni’s dissertation.

He notes, for example: ‘Once the people could be got to see a dead white man, killed by Africans, then the ball would have been set rolling … Such visual aids help the “native” … to realize his potentiality and power vis-à-vis his enemy.’ [Chapter 1, at Paragraph 6.4] He further reports: ‘…[I]n Mozambique it has been found necessary to show peasants fragments of a Portuguese soldier blown up by a mine or, better still, his head.

Once the peasant sees guerillas holding the head of the former master, the white man’s head cold in death, the white skin, flowing hair, pointed nose and blue eyes notwithstanding, he will know, or at least begin to suspect, that the picture traditionally presented to him of the white man’s invincibility is nothing but a scarecrow.’ [Chapter 1, at Paragraph 7] He also observes: ‘The peasant in Cabo Delgado has participated in killing the white man – the former ‘demi-god’.

He has inflicted defeat on this ‘god’. The white ‘god’, the colonialist, has been seen and known to wriggle in an agony of death from bullets fired by guns operated by peasants.’ [Chapter 1, at Paragraph 13] Although Museveni no doubt thought himself to be describing ‘revolutionary violence’, it is hard not to reflect on the nature of a mind so dedicated to the description – and perhaps even celebration – of the death of human beings.

It is also not insignificant that Museveni confesses to having taken pictures of Portuguese prisoners of war then held by FRELIMO: ‘The Portuguese prisoners in FRELIMO hands fall sick more often than not. Some had to be supported to enable me to take their photographs – they were too sick from minor causes which would never cause a peasant to fall sick.’ [Chapter 1, at Paragraph 13].

It is difficult, now, to know what Museveni did with the photographs he took of those sick and vulnerable prisoners of war. Who knows – perhaps if social media existed then, he might have posted one of those pictures on Twitter.

Indeed, his rather macabre fascination with being able to bring about death – especially of white people – was something his guardian, Mzee Boniface Byanyima, apparently found distasteful.

In a 2005 interview, the now deceased elder statesman recounted as follows: ‘One day he came to my home and said he had been to Mozambique. He came towards the end of his holidays, and I asked him why he was late. He told me he was in Mozambique fighting the Europeans who were grabbing African land.

And he was boasting that he killed a white man there. I said I don’t want that sort of language here. He kept quiet but whenever he got a chance, he would boast of his activities against capitalists.’ (See Benon Herbert Oluka, ‘The love-hate relationship between Museveni & the Byanyimas, The Observer, 22nd May 2017).

Mzee Byanyima appears to have formed the view that what his young charge was describing was not killing based on necessity – no sadness or somberness that human life had been taken. He found fault with the idea that the taking of human life could be a source of youthful pride.

The third challenge, related to the second, concerns the potential consequences – on the human psyche – of the pursuit, and implementation, of violence-as-liberation. Can a person who has willingly sought, and effected, the death of other human beings remain the same? Again, I am not too sure.

Incidentally, both during and after the NRM/A ‘bush war’ (1981- 986), Museveni sought to highlight the distinction between ‘revolutionaries’ and ordinary politicians or human beings.

While the latter were given to, or driven by, human emotion, a ‘revolutionary’ was above such petty indulgencies – being focused on their greater mission. A telling incident in this regard was evident when the then First Vice President of Sudan, Lt. Gen. Dr. John Garang De Mabior died in a Ugandan presidential helicopter on 30th July 2005.

In an interview with the BBC a few days later, in which he was asked to explain Museveni’s absence from public functions following the death, the then Minister for Defence, Amama Mbabazi explained that Museveni had been ‘devastated’ by Garang’s death.

This would be reiterated by the then Minister of Information, James Nsaba Buturo, who noted, in a statement issued on 8th August 2005 that Museveni had stayed away from Garang’s funeral because he was ‘totally devastated’.

However, Museveni would vociferously reject these accounts of his otherwise understandably human reaction to his friend’s death. In a press address on 11th August 2005, he noted: ‘Let me tell you how freedom fighters handle tragedy. It is not correct that I was devastated. There are two responses.

There is a cool-headed appreciation of the tragedy focusing on the causes and consequences. But you may also be angry especially after you discover that it was done by an enemy or negligence.’

After recounting a number of incidents which he had handled in a ‘cool-headed’ manner – the 1969 assassination of Eduardo Mondlane, his own narrow escape from Amin’s soldiers in 1973, and the deaths of Samora Machel (1986), Fred Rwigyema (1990) and Mwalimu Julius Nyerere (1999) – he again asserted: ‘Freedom fighters do not get devastated over tragedies, otherwise you lose direction or bearing. We must maintain constant vigilance, constant mistrust and constant mobility.’ (See Alfred Wasike, ‘Garang, Museveni debated flight’, The New Vision, 11th August 2005).

One might wonder why Museveni went to extreme lengths to deny the simple emotion of devastation which had been attributed to him. To be ‘devastated’ simply means to be extremely sad. In essence, Museveni struggled supremely to deny having felt any great sadness at the death of his long-time friend, Garang.

Instead, he insisted on describing his condition as being ‘cool-headed’, and possibly accompanied by ‘revolutionary anger’. But, is sadness not a basic, indeed quite common, human emotion? Is the denial of sadness not a clear denial – or rejection – of one’s humanity?

One cannot help but compare this rejection of humanity with the Biblical accounts of Jesus (God) as man. We are informed, for instance, that when Jesus learnt of the death of his friend, Lazarus, he was moved to tears (John 11:35). On another occasion, when he reflected on the impending destruction of Jerusalem, he again cried (Luke 19:41).

There is even a suggestion that Jesus frequently cried, as he thought about his own imminent death (Hebrews 5: 7). If God (as man) could cry in public – without any shame or embarrassment – what is the nature (or, perhaps more correctly, pathology) of ‘revolutionaries’ that makes them impervious to fundamental, and natural, human emotions?

As noted earlier, the young Museveni correctly identified oppression (including colonial oppression) as involving – on the part of the oppressor – ‘radical de-humanization’ through ‘foregoing many qualities that [were] normally found in balanced human beings’, including compassion.

In pursuing liberation-through-violence, did Museveni not become the very thing he set out to fight? Is the ‘cool-headed’ revolutionary not uncomfortably similar to the ‘efficient instrument of oppression’ (the one he described in his thesis), devoid of the normal qualities one would expect to find in a balanced human being?

If the oppressor was deemed to need emancipation, to help him reclaim his own humanity, is not the ‘cool-headed revolutionary’ in similar need of salvation from himself? If this is the case, how is the revolutionary to be saved from this vicious cycle of his own making?

I had hoped to conclude these reflections today, but it does appear that there is more than needs to be said on this subject. In these circumstances, we shall hopefully draw this to a close next week.

The writer is Senior Lecturer and Director of the Human Rights and Peace Centre (HURIPEC) at the School of Law, Makerere University, where he teaches Constitutional Law and Legal Philosophy.