Silencing conscience, shielding power: the moral bankruptcy of PLU

When a political movement becomes more concerned about protecting religious leaders from criticism than holding its own leadership accountable to the Constitution, something has gone profoundly wrong with its understanding of democracy.

The controversy surrounding Frank Gashumba’s Shs 500 million challenge to Uganda’s self-proclaimed miracle workers has exposed precisely this contradiction within the Patriotic League of Uganda (PLU).

Gashumba challenged pastors and acclaimed prophets claiming extraordinary healing powers to demonstrate them on critically ill patients at Mulago National Referral Hospital.

His challenge was provocative, but behind the spectacle lay a legitimate public question: should extraordinary claims of miraculous medical cures, particularly where they accompany financial solicitation, remain immune from independent scrutiny?

Rather than defend the principle of free expression, PLU chairman Gen. Muhoozi Kainerugaba publicly demanded that Gashumba apologise to Christians, declared that PLU had no quarrel with pastors, and warned against indiscipline.

Why is criticism of religious leaders attracting demands for political conformity while far more serious constitutional controversies surrounding PLU’s own leadership remain unanswered?

In his Letter from Birmingham Jail (1963), Martin Luther King Jr. distinguished between a negative peace (the absence of tension) and a positive peace (the presence of justice).

Those enjoying institutional privilege demand tranquillity, while those questioning injustice are condemned as troublemakers. Gashumba’s challenge belongs within this broader tradition of public questioning.

For years, concerns have been raised about the commercialisation of religion in Uganda: the sale of purportedly blessed objects, promises of supernatural prosperity, and extraordinary healing testimonies.

Not every Pentecostal pastor engages in such practices, and religious fundraising is not automatically fraud. Nevertheless, where specific medical cures are publicly claimed, the supporting evidence may legitimately be examined. Where money is obtained through knowingly false representations, ordinary fraud laws apply.

Religious freedom cannot mean freedom from accountability.

Article 29 of Uganda’s Constitution protects freedom of speech, thought, conscience, belief, and religious practice. The right to worship does not extinguish another citizen’s right to question religious claims.

Even sacred texts feature precedents for scrutinising spiritual authority—from Elijah challenging the prophets of Baal in 1 Kings 18, to the biblical injunction to test spiritual claims (1 John 4:1; 1 Thessalonians 5:21), and the Islamic tradition of Mubahala (Surah Al-Imran 3:61).

A striking historical example arose in 1902–1903 when Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, founder of the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community, publicly challenged American evangelist John Alexander Dowie, who claimed extraordinary spiritual authority and divine healing powers, to a prayer contest invoking God’s judgment upon the false claimant.

Dowie did not formally accept the proposed contest on Ahmad’s terms, but their confrontation attracted considerable public attention. Whatever one’s religious convictions, the episode illustrates that even those claiming divine authority have historically faced public challenges to their claims.

The question is not whether God performs miracles. It is whether human beings invoking divine authority should enjoy immunity from scrutiny when their claims have public consequences.

The most troubling dimension of this controversy is the contrast between the standards demanded of Gashumba and those applied to PLU’s chairman.

General Muhoozi Kainerugaba is Uganda’s serving Chief of Defence Forces, commanding an institution constitutionally required under Article 208(2) to be non-partisan, professional, disciplined, and subordinate to civilian authority. Yet he simultaneously chairs PLU, an organisation engaged in overt political mobilisation.

Consider the stark contrast in accountability. When General Muhoozi publicly disparages elected Members of Parliament as “clowns,” rejects parliamentary summons, threatens legislators and court process servers, issues unilateral diplomatic pronouncements generating international friction, or makes threatening statements against political opponents, the PLU hierarchy responds with silence or rationalisation.

Grave allegations concerning abductions, unlawful detention, mistreatment of political opponents, and interference with judicial processes raise equally serious questions about the rule of law. These matters strike at the foundations of constitutional government: personal liberty, freedom from torture, and the neutrality of the armed forces.

Where, then, is PLU’s disciplinary machinery? If questioning religious leaders attracts demands for an apology and warnings about indiscipline, what standards apply when the organisation’s chairman engages in conduct raising questions of constitutional violations?

This glaring double standard exposes a disturbing hierarchy of accountability: power determines who may be questioned, while ordinary cadres are expected to subordinate their conscience to organisational convenience.

PLU may legitimately require its members to respect religious communities. However, organisational discipline must not become an instrument for suppressing legitimate dissent.

Prominent pastors enjoy constitutional protection for their religious beliefs and practices, and are equally entitled to respond publicly to criticism. What religious prominence cannot confer is immunity from scrutiny of public claims.

One can respect Christianity, defend Pentecostal worship, and simultaneously question claims of miraculous healing or the financial practices of particular ministries.

One possible explanation for PLU’s intervention is political expediency. Pentecostal churches constitute influential social networks whose leaders command substantial public audiences, and a movement seeking political influence and power may wish to avoid antagonising them. But political convenience cannot determine either constitutional principle or compliance with the Constitution.

John Stuart Mill (On Liberty, 1859) and Václav Havel (The Power of the Powerless, 1978) warned how authoritarian systems sustain themselves through outward conformity, suppressing dissent through social pressure.

Uganda’s constitutional settlement was intended to reject precisely such arbitrary exercises of power. Article 21 guarantees equality before the law; it does not establish one standard for political leaders and another for ordinary citizens, nor does it confer immunity upon religious personalities.

Ultimately, the Gashumba controversy presents PLU with a fundamental question about its character: does it believe in constitutional freedoms as principles, or does it recognise them only when politically convenient?

A political organisation’s commitment to accountability is tested not merely by its willingness to discipline ordinary members, but by its readiness to subject its own leadership to lawful scrutiny.

A movement that rebukes Frank Gashumba for questioning religious claims, yet demonstrates no equivalent courage in confronting constitutional controversies surrounding its chairman, invites a serious charge of hypocrisy.

Uganda needs neither compulsory religious conformity nor political obedience masquerading as patriotism. It needs citizens free to question both the prophet who claims extraordinary powers and the general who exercises extraordinary authority.

For in a constitutional republic, neither the pulpit nor the barracks stands above the law.

The writer is a senior advocate and former Minister.