The Kenyan government’s attempt to block a BBC documentary from public viewing didn’t just expose a fear of foreign media — it exposed the quiet deal that has long defined civil-military relations in Kenya: keep the army out of politics, and we won’t ask what it’s doing behind closed doors.

That fragile arrangement is now unraveling.

The film, which investigates the role of the Kenya Defence Forces (KDF) in the killing of protesters, has ignited a political uproar. But not because it unveiled new atrocities. The outrage is over the fact that it dared to unveil anything at all.

Pro-government voices in Parliament have demanded the BBC be banned from Kenya. Online campaigns under hashtags like #BBCforChaos frame the exposé as foreign interference. But what’s really under siege isn’t the state — it’s the silence. A carefully maintained silence that has kept the military’s growing power safely out of public debate.

Since independence, Kenya has taken great care to avoid the fate of other African nations ravaged by military coups. After failed coup attempts in 1971 and 1982, Kenya’s leaders struck a quiet balance: feed the military, house it well, keep it respected — but above all, keep it out of the political arena.

In return, media scrutiny was muted. Civilian oversight remained minimal. The press turned a blind eye to shady deals and deadly missions. Over the decades, this unspoken agreement became part of the national furniture.

But that furniture is now shaking.

The 2011 invasion of Somalia marked a turning point. Kenya’s military, once operating quietly in the background, stepped into the limelight. The KDF was rebranded as a national symbol — defenders against terrorism, saviors of broken public institutions. Soldiers began to assume prominent roles in civilian governance, from state corporations to infrastructure projects. Retired generals were appointed to key government posts under President Uhuru Kenyatta.

But with rising influence came rising impunity.

The Somali campaign quickly unraveled into scandal. Kenyan troops were implicated in trafficking schemes involving sugar and charcoal — in direct partnership with al-Shabab, the enemy they were deployed to defeat. Then came El Adde in 2016, where at least 140 Kenyan soldiers were slaughtered in a single attack — the deadliest battlefield loss in the country’s history.

Back at home, the military's credibility took further hits. In the 2013 Westgate mall attack, Kenyan soldiers were caught on camera looting stores while the country mourned 68 dead. Just two years later, during the Garissa University massacre, 147 students were killed while security forces failed to respond effectively — once again, the KDF was at the center of controversy.

And yet, accountability never followed. No inquiries. No resignations. Just silence.

Over time, Kenya’s media houses have adapted to this landscape of silence. Military coverage is largely ceremonial. Investigative journalism stops at the barracks gates. Defence correspondents, in many cases, serve more as spokespersons than watchdogs. The KDF, it seems, approves its own press.

That’s why the BBC’s documentary cuts so deep. It doesn’t just reveal abuses — it disrupts a performance the Kenyan state has been staging for decades: that the military is clean, professional, and above reproach.

In doing so, the documentary crossed an invisible line. And the backlash has been swift and aggressive.

This is not just about one film. It’s about a country grappling with how much power its army should hold — and how much scrutiny it can withstand.

The military has grabbed public land. It has been linked to political interference in the 2022 elections. And still, the media barely whispers. Parliament rarely probes. The public is told that asking questions undermines “national security.”

But what if the real threat isn’t the questions — but the silence?

A democracy cannot be built on fear. And Kenya cannot move forward while shielding one of its most powerful institutions from public accountability.

The military must answer not only to its superiors, but to the people. Journalism must be free to report the truth — even if that truth is uncomfortable for those in uniform.

This moment is a reckoning. The question now is whether Kenya will cling to the silence of old — or finally begin to speak openly about the role of the men with guns.



By WafricNews Desk.