SEcularizaTION of a not so sacred holiday

It is Christmas today for most places in the world. But it's also the end of year and a day mandated as a holiday in most countries with a significant Christian population. For those indigenous souls still struggling to breath under the yoke of domination by unjustice vampire cultures whose ultimate goal is the creation of a global empire culture at the expense of the multitude of diverses . Nothing can be more unsustainable than that.

Just as the growing of monoculture groups is deleterious to food sustainability, monoculture can potentially be even worse. Empiricism is a cultural misadventure with the ability of accelerating global crisis quicker than anything else I know. I am speaking here in the context of man's capacity to use technology to bring about mass extinction of whole world.

This is not the easiest story to share but it's the honest dose that brings about justice. After all, each cultural survival is the primary result of that culture. One culture can't and shouldn't sacrife itself solely for the sake of another culture. To ask of that is to engage in robbery with violence.

Here is the back story.

Europe was engaged in a similar battle over the sectarian struggle for domination by the many religious sect as far back as the founding of Christianity. That struggle has been everything else but peaceful. The best example to use an an illustration is a gnostic group that started in Languedoc,France known as the Cathars between 12th to 14th century. I obviously chose the group because amongst other interesting things, the adherents were vegetarians and created their own rules and culture. Secondly, the group's ideology had been influenced by Armenians. As fate would have it, the massacres of the Armenians in modern day Turkey 700 years later would give us the word genocide. The word was first coined in early 1920s to describe the mass killing of Armenians for political reasons.

The cathars were constructed to be a threat to the domination of the Catholic church. Like many other sects that existed then and before, there was bound to be a struggle for power. In the end, a final solution was hatched by pope. He ordered the massacre of all the people living in areas that were predominately Cathars. But things were not that easy.

There was a slight problem when those sent to carry out the orders paused for enquire how they would distinguish the Cathars from the Catholics living in those areas, considering that the Cathars were a very tolerant group. The pope was reported to have infamously ordered the killing of people and let God choose his own from the dead. What more can show the kind of cultural hubris and arrogance of an organization deemed to be the source and center of the sacred by billions?

Around the same time the Carthars were being massacred the Arabs had already estabished the enslavement of Africans as a trade but largely restricted to the costal regions of Africa. By the 13th and 14th centuries, Christians made inroads into the interior in search of wealth but also winning souls for their deity. Unlike Europe, the debate and consequent struggle did not last for long. At least not in any scale that necessitated the kind of massacre that marked the many sects that tried to live outside the controling influence of the pope. However the longterm acquiescence of my indigenous communities have very similar outcomes to those of the old gnostic sects.

African cultures have become subservient to the cultures of the empire builders. Oppression I always say is essentially a form of alienation. Economic oppression is the alienation from one's labour. Political oppression is the alienation from self-government. Cultural oppression is the alienation of one's culture. In that light, to call the end of year Christmas is great for those benefiting from empire-building but bad for everyone else.

Recognizing that on the part of those interested in correcting historical injustices is a good first step of halting the rollers that are keeping thier knees of the African and other indigenous culture. As it is, those cultures are not breathing. That is evident in the increased alienation amongst many African cultures. I am a witness of such incidents in my own culture.

The more these religions and political ideologies take root, the more alienated my people and country become. If accepting these cultural domination is the panacea of progress, my community stands as a stark proof to the contrary. Simple things that these people could do such as self-government and cultural vibrancy or on a roller coaster headed in opposite direction where almost all the community would chose to be headed. That explains neocolonialism and why my responsibility to those who have resisted this elienation is my own act of civil obedience to my indigenous sensibilities. Civic disobedience is for tomorrow. Today I stake my hopes in my indigenous heart. Tomorrow the same heart will examine the box my culture is in.

Turning pink memories into black gold

As a young boy in the village known as Jumbi, I have vague memories of a small pink card that made my mother smile like I had never seen her smile. Anyone who knew my mother would be taken aback by such a herculean task knowing just how easy it was for my mother to smile. She was both a comedian and an accomplished smiler, if ever there was such a thing. 

This was around October in 1973 and my mother had just returned from the annual national Agricultural Show helded in the capital city of Nairobi. In those days, it took a whole day and then some just to cover the 72 mile distance in the only bus that travelled the route.  I remember my mother waking everybody up on the day she was traveling. I could not remember my family waking up earlier than that before. One of my brothers had to take some of the food bags to the road and keep watch, other members of the family had to warm up some food and help package it to send with  my mother and her friends who were accompanying her to the city. Other members had to help start the fire to warm the water and milk the cow, so that my mother could take some fresh milk for  a family in the city. It was a hectic morning. 

The bus could be heard from miles away. In a silent village such as ours, young children could recognize a vehicle from miles off, just from its horn or sound of the engine. There were so few cars in the whole region that young people would memorize all the number plates, make and model of all the vehicles within a ten to fifteen mile radius. It was such a big affair for a village member to go to Nairobi that my brother had been dispatched to some of the neighboring families to alert them that my mother would be traveling. It was an opportunity for those family members and neighbors to send letters or messages to their relatives in the city. Such an announcement also brought its own demands. Some family members who were not literate would ask the literate members of the community to write letters on their behalf. Such occurrences were followed by a hefty evening of gossip, as those literate members of the community would now know some of the problems that were going on at a domestic level. 

Once the bus was within an earshot, the whole family accompanied my mother to the road and waited for the bus to arrive.The bus arrived and the family helped the bus attendant to load the bags of food destined for the city.  I later learned that the bus driver would drive for about 15 miles and decide that he was too tired to drive. He would park the bus at the next shopping center and then walk into a bar and order himself a few rounds of beer, all while the travelers waited patiently in the bus. The driver of a bus was a very important person and a celebrity in the village in those days. Whenever we would play with other children, it was not unusual for some of us to impersonate the characters of bus drivers. Movie stars and celebrities were very local in those days; nowadays American celebrities are household names even in the village . No one would dare question the driver, lest he get upset and throw the keys at them and demand that they drive themselves to their destination. Luckily, the travelers were mostly people who knew each other very well and had loads of food to eat. It was a great opportunity for folks to catch up with each other. 

When I came to the U.S and got quite familiar with the concept of vacation, I wondered why people in my village never took any time to go on vacation. I am now more familiar with the whole cultural difference but if I did not know better, I could use the experience of travel as an example of how small things could have the same value as taking a long excursion to some remote place. Consider for a moment that the same driver who would take two hours breaks would return to the bus and to the cheers of the same passengers who had been waiting patiently. It was not uncommon for the passengers to sing songs of praise for the driver. Whenever the bus would come to a bridge, the passengers would alight and then allow the kamikaze driver to risk his own life by driving the bus across a bridge whose viability was questionable.

But the most famous spot on the whole journey was Kanjama. It was the steepest hill in the region. The spot has been immortalized in famous songs by the biggest musical legend from the region. The was little doubt that whoever was asleep was would be woken up by others seating nearby. The whole climb of the hill was a spectacle. Each bus had a garget, sometimes as simple as a rock that was carried in the bus. The bus attend would get out of the bus at the bottom of the hill and follow the bus as it went up the hill. If the bus just paused a bit as the driver was chaining the gears, the bus attendant would place the rock behind the back tire to keep the bus from rolling backwards. The passengers would be busy singing at full throttle, mostly encouraging the driver and his attendant to deliver the multitude from the tribulation at hand. It was a time of great joy whenever the bus made it to the top of the hill. Many would have sworn that the driver was the best driver that ever lived. From there, it was smooth sailing to what the locals called “Kiamatawa” or literally the place of light. It was called that as it was the only place with electricity and street lights.

I would imagine that the trip back could not have been any different. The hill that made the toughest spot on the first leg of the trip would still be a nightmare on the return leg. More accidents had happened on the downhill drive than uphill drive.

My mother was gone for a few days and must have attended the whole agricultural show over the four days. She also spent a few days with my father, who had a business in the city. Upon her return, she brought many goodies from the city, the favorite of children my age being biscuits. I was too preoccupied with eating the biscuits and playing with a toy of a wooden carving of a Maasai warrior to pay attention to much else. Now that I think about it, jumping up and down is a universal way of celebration. “Ouch” is the universal language mishap.

From all the activities that were going on I still managed to gather that my mother was most excited about a small pink card. The whole family huddled together as one of my sisters read the message it carried. You could have thought that she was a judge reading out the judgement for a capital offense. Whatever, the verdict, it could not have been that bad. Everyone was overjoyed to the point of jumping up and down just like the Maasai people do in their dance. The idea of hugs had not yet been incorporated into the culture in our village. But, my mother was the one who appeared to be most joyous. 

I was not in the least bothered with the festive family. I was busy enjoying biscuits and candy that my mother had bought for her youngest son. My mother walked into the house with the card she had been holding and filed it somewhere. When she returned, she entertained the family with the adventures of the trip and updates about my father. Then the next day started just like any other and that was the last I have ever heard about the trip or the pink card. That is until this year when my oldest sister sent me a picture of the card below. I could not believe my eyes. It was the pink card from back in 1973 and it clearly indicated that my mother had won first place in a national competition at the Agricultural show of Kenya for being the best farmer in a particular class.  Like a stream of a mighty river, my memories went back into the recess of my mind and brought back the memories of the card. 

It occurred to me that farming is not just something I like to do but it is something in my blood. As I close one of the toughest years of my life. I am glad to announce that I am opening the Thayu Food Literacy & Sustainability Centre at one of my mother’s farms. IShe might not have been literate about books, but she was literate about food. That is the message that will be advanced by the center. The food that will be grown and the message that will be carried  will be about a profit to the soul and the food system. I am carrying on her legacy and turning my memories of the pink card, and what it represented to her into black for profit.  Black is the signifying color for profit. It is probably the few positive references of the color black. Our goal is to make the small Food Literacy & Sustainability Centre  a positive force for the community and broader world through its impact. Our focus is food as a medium  for liberation, sustainability and empowerment. Join us and find out how you can be part of our mission.

On my Spotlight Amongst Black chefs

Thanks to BcaGlobal team and chef Alex Askew for having nominated me as the featured chef for this year's BCAGlobal Conference. It was an emotional day as it also happened to be the day Kenya gained it's independence from the British back in 1963. Equally important, it was my second daughter's 12th birthday. It was amazing to me to be speaking to long list of top African American chefs with all types of accomplishments. I am humbled by the work that many African Americans chefs have done in the past to make this possible for us to do what we do today. The work that many visionaries and forward thinking activists continue to can never be overstated. It was encouraging to see Akua Amefia, a Togolese woman food scientist amongst the presenting today. It's not fun always being one of a handful or even the only African in many such forums. I can go on and on but I will be brief today because a picture is worth a thousand words. Before speaking, a family member surprised me with a photo I had never seen It was a photo my oldest sister and myself at the age of 4. The photo was taken at my ancestral home. That is where the foundations of my interest in food can be traced. When my oldest sister was 4, they were living in a colonial concentration camp that had been created to deny the freedom fighters waging a war against the British from the nearby forest from access to food. Keeping all the villagers in a camp that was locked up at night meant limit control on their movements. During that same time, my father was in the British Gulag where hadcore men and women were detained for their involvement in the frredom struggle. I grew up serenaded by stories of revolutionary valor amongst our people. I hanged around some of these men. Unfortunately, their chilvary and code of honor restricted them from devulging the inner working of their organization. I still benefited tremendously from hanging around them and watching them navigate a new country whose nature they knew little about. Stories of battles fought and challanges were freely shared. They songs were invaluable part of those stories. Whenever I get any spotlight, I always start or end by acknowledging the many who have always taken a strong stand in the past. It's on their shoulders that I stand and on their principled stand that provide me with the courage to continue, even when doubt and doubting allies cast their dark shadow on this narrow path.

No Elections without justice

The next week might turn out to be the most pivotal week since the Second European War. That was probably the last time so much blood was spilled for no reason other that hatred and ignorance. Whatever the outcome of the U.S presidential elections will be, one thing is for sure. The lies of a democratic state are coming to a head. The hypocrisy of justice and liberty will be laid bare. Oligarchy is what America has been trending towards. A presidential election between to oligarchs is a sham elections. What will be at the ballot is if the sham system has any fire power left. The decision will be made on the backs of the most vulnerable.

There is palpable pain and agony from those whose children have been put in cages; those who are descendants of enslaved Africans who have long been waiting to be full citizens and to enjoy some benefits from the labor of their forefathers; those shot by police while unarmed; those who have lost their jobs because of government policy that favors corporations that are downsizing to increase capital; those who are facing violence as they cross borders illegally after loosing their markets to subsidized American agriculturalproducts; those drowning in oceans and seas escaping failed countries that have instituted World Bank policies that cripple the local economies; those illegal immigrants picking our food but have no gainful employment or job security due to government policy, those who have lost their businesses to looting, mounting debt and regressive taxes that allows supposed billionaire to get away with paying only $750 in taxes.

Karl Marx started his seminal work, The Communist Manifesto, with the observation that the history of all societies is one of class struggle. Yet there is a lot to said about the person he considered his number one hero: general Spartacus. Spartacus was the most famous general who led a slave rebellion against Rome and its slave economy. He won 9 battles against General Cassius and Pompey. On his last stand, when he realized that he was about to lose, he ordered his horse killed so that he could in the same rank with everybody else. His main focus shifted to laying his hands on General Crassus and General Pompeii in order to fight them one on one.

That was then. Now we all need to get on horses and fight for justice and against exploitation and ignorance. Democracy as we have it today has failed so many. The Democrats failed the country and that gave the Republicans an opening they exploited. The Republicans were especially unified in their fight against Obama. That was all any keen observer needed to see. President Obama wasn't radical in any major way but still that wasn't good enough for the Republicans.

The hate we are seeing has deep roots. It has been postponed for years. The final day for dealing with the long delayed issues is now at hand. Electing someone to continue with the same unjust system that has caused all the divisions won't solve the problem. If we don't do what is fair, unlike general Spartacus, we should spare the horse and go for each other’s throats. If we can live justly, we will just perish.

Injustice is a major cause of war and division. This arc of history is being bent towards illegitimate power. Those with power will use hate, color, sex and finally ideology to manipulate those without power so as to perpetuate the same o sameo. Don't fall for tricks. We are all finally at our own Mt. Vesuvius where Sparticus started his war.

Homage to a poet's Goodness & Blackness

You know you are getting old when you see more and more people you have worked with in the past doing bigger and bigger things. I first met CJ Suitt about seven years ago through his fellow poet and buddy Kane D Smego. I had helped raise a few dollars for their trip to Egypt during the Arab Spring. 

We did a small dinner in my living room and then sat back as the poets treated us to a jam session of hit after hit of slam poetry. One of Kane's poems was about the Greensboro sit-ins by the students which would thrust the Civil Rights Movement into national limelight.

We graduated into doing dinners at bigger locations and to bigger crowds. Both Kane and CJ entertained my guests at The Palace, the popular Kenyan joint, on various occasions.  Kane showed up at one of my most anticipated dinners in Durham when I hosted the legendary Will Allen.  I was so thrilled when Kane repeated the poem about the Greensboro Sit-ins. I couldn't have asked for a better backdrop for the poem. The event was full capacity with some guests eating from the bar table. Some guests had crashed the party with a group of young men from a nearby rural town ( I can't remember the town).

A few local non-profits like Reinvestment Partners had supported the dinner by contributing some money. Three non-profits gave funds but only two were able to attend. Those that were not able to make it helped to pay for the tickets of the young men and a few adults. In other words, they allowed me to put on the show that I wanted and not the one that the guests had paid for.

Corporations such as Burt's Bees also removed their checkbooks in support of the event. To make things even better, they also bought a few extra tickets. The funny part is that the folks from Burt's Bees showed up a few minutes late only to find out that the only seats left were at the bar, out of politeness and for better view, they opted to stand when Will Allen and the poetry started. My friend Teli Shabu played the melodic Kora like there was no tomorrow.

My local favorite artist Keith McLaurin, brought two paintings as gifts for our main guest and one for the chef.

A friend who couldn't make it because of babysitting issues bought 5 tickets at $100. The contributions and collaborative energy was unrivaled.  Seeds, a Durham non-profit teaching urban farming to high school youth offered a group of six young farmers as sous chefs for the evening.  The energy was on fever pitch.

The energy from the guests was just as invigorating.  Brother Yowcep Webb, Roxanne L London and a Russian family that was attending Duke Phd program also showed. Erin White a long time comrade in the food movement, especially in the field of architecture and design was present. My former dean at my culinary school also attended my dinner for the first time that night. Maurice Small kept Will Allen's crew entertained.  The list was long but the space between guests was absent.  Karen Ochola's, the owner of The Palace, hospitality was obvious.

What was less obvious except to Will Allen, Mauric Smalls and some staff members, the non-profit that had invited Will Allen to the Triangle for a weekend workshop, was the ugly war of words that had marked the preparation for the dinner. She felt that Will had no right to attend a dinner while under a contract with them. I politely reminded her, through her staff, that I was not privy to the contract and that my discussion with Mr. Allen was independent of anyone else. I continued to clarify that I wasn't aware of any requirement for me to check in with them before talking to anyone else outside the company. It would be rude really to ask anyone I talk to who they had contracts with before engaging with them.

In the end cool heads prevailed, the dinner took place and we had a ball.

Whenever you see artists and activists getting recognition, it doesn't come on a silver plate. But how it comes is never an issue. The issues which are so easy to get blurred by the fake glitter of recognition is what the struggle aims to achieve.  No amount of recognition can change that. Either way, I am happy for CJ but more for the good that might come out of the appointment. 

In the meantime, I will be calling CJ tomorrow to discuss the possibility of yet another dinner. I wonder who else I will need to call to ask for permission to talk to this grand poet, whose poems  really quench my thirst for the Goodness in Blackness!

WHY blm is positive reinforcement for a Negative habit

I received an email recently from a director of a nonprofit inviting me to speak to some young people doing a residency at the site of the nonprofit. The owners of the property are well known to me and we have done various events together. We have had dinners together and long conversations on their kitchen table. I have helped in their fundraising and they too have come out in strong support for some of my events. It did not take much thinking to agree to speak to the youth and even potentially doing a food literacy workshop. 

The director connected me to the events coordinator upon accepting the invitation. The events coordinator was pleasant along the whole process of setting up the date and hammering the details of the event.

The day of the event was finally at hand and I showed up for the event with my children in tow. I was ushered upstairs in an old rehabbed barn that has been turned into a beautiful meeting area decorated with shiny hardwood floors. Milling around the wide expansive hall were different groups of youth lightly engaged in light conversations. The youths were made of mixed races but predominantly White. We made it to the front of the hall and my host wasted no time in calling everyone to attention.

She briefly introduced me and yielded the floor to me. I did my usual disclaimer that my talks could be difficult for some people’s taste and that my story is based on my experience as well as my research. That doesn’t make me right or wrong but it is what my take is on the issues that affect me and the society I live in or have lived in previously. I added that there was nothing personal or against any particular person present.

I proceeded to speak about issues of food justice as well are racial justice. In my lecture, I stated the fact that I do not support the idea supporting any political candidate solely based on the color of his skin. In the same way, I do not support the idea of opposing any candidate solely on the basis of his or her race. I continued with my speech and discussed the various racial and social issues and how those issues tie to food. The things I said are public information and there was nothing that I said that is not either documented or where I explicitly indicated that it was strictly my opinion. Those bits I added were my own ethnic philosophy which is the basis I use in analyzing the various injustices that are currently affecting the U.S.

I can say what everybody thought but when I finished speaking, one young African American lady raised her hand and offered her feedback publicly. She said among other things that she had never heard the connection between food and power in the way I explained it before. She thanked me for helping her understand the power dynamics involved in food. Another young lady with Hispanic and African American background also made several remarks that were largely positive. One lady had a different opinion from mine regarding food pantry. She had worked in the food pantry and believed that she was making a positive contribution and that was fine with me. I had no issues with her position. It was hers and she was entitled to it to the fullest length, breath and weight.

The event was supposed to have had two sections but the question and answer section took a bit longer than expected and the cooking workshop that was supposed to have followed was deemed too much for the youth. I could totally relate to that but I was keen on meeting my end of the bargain. I therefore offered to return and complete the other section as per our agreement.

I later received an email informing me that there was some pushback regarding my remarks about BLM. I could not have been more surprised. I am Black and I gave my own opinion about how I feel about issues that affect me and someone has a problem with that? How does that even make sense? I am not sure if someone had a problem with me saying that I would not vote for anyone strictly on the basis of color or gender as I have seen the results of in many places.

I delved deeper into the topic during my lecture and explained that I have a problem with a demand that is not clearly articulated. I restated a statement I had made before that BLM has to be a philosophical statement first before it is a political statement. We have to articulate exactly what it is we want to accomplish and how we would see those goals achieved. Otherwise to get people to simply say hunger is bad in theory does not deal with the hunger problem, I explained.

Nobody owes me an explanation for not accepting what they paid for. That is their right to refuse anything whether they have paid or not. I however don’t have a right to refuse to offer services that have been paid for, so nothing illegal about that situation. I have some skin in that game because I am interested in adding my voice in matters that affect me directly. Racism in America is systemic and if someone thinks that the way to solve that problem is through the censorship of the same people who suffer from the same racism is synonymous with killing one disease by causing another equally virulent disease. So, why do through all that trouble for no gain at all?

The Democratic Party, which is the same thing as saying the majority White Liberal Party, has a checkered history in the South. A perfect example being the 1877 compromise between the two major parties that led to the end of reconstruction. That single act resulted in the withdrawal of the federal troops that had been stationed in the South following the end of the American Civil War to help protect the newly freed Blacks from retribution or harassment for their involvement in the war or simply due to their vulnerable situation. That single act delayed some of the promises that the emancipation was intended to bring for about 100 years. Many lost their lives and others have never recovered from the set backs that came about as a result of the compromise. Here is an example of how that checkered history can be projected into the future all while feeling as though progress is being made. It is also an example of what not to do if at all BLM is to become a reality.

If Blacks keep protesting as we always have without any significant change in tactic, we will take that act of protesting without real and serious changes as a great thing. It is therefore possible for us to be protesting just for the sake of protesting. We can't survive for long on the account of what we are against but for what we are for. Protesting for the sake of protesting is a positive reinforcement for a negative habit. For a white person to think that they know what is best for me better than I know for myself is one such consequence of protesting for the sake of protesting.

UnElectIng Food

It is common practice for any potential employee to ask the employer for employment benefits. In fact it has become the gold standard, only second to salary and wages, to gauge the ranking of a job position. These benefits often include a retirement package and insurance coverage. When you think about it, it is rather odd that we have built a culture that values getting treatment more than it values the whole process of wellness. That has spun a culture of easy solutions for a long term problem.

That the food we eat and the drinks we consume make almost certain that we will get sick and therefore need the insurance does seem to register and clearly, or at least not enough for us to feel compelled to do something about it. Here is one major predicament that we have that is the quintessential crime on a grand scale.  It all starts with the socialization not of losses but the privatization of pleasures.  There can be no private pleasure if the loss that emanates from such an act turns into a cost for those who had no say in the act that caused the loss.

I have observed a similar practice amongst the Kenyan community in the Diaspora whereby a person dies from unexpected reason, accident or sickness and the community are tasked with the task of fulfilling the will of the deceased and that of the family to ship the body back to Kenya to be rested amongst his kin or next to a loved one. In a bid to make the will of a person few knew or probably had any relationship of any kind, kindness is born out of thin air steps up to the plate and before you know it, as much as $ 20,000 to $50,000 are raised by members of the Diaspora and the body is neatly dressed and prepared by a mortician for the journey across the sea to where it had begun its journey.

Therein lies the irony is that there are few other wishes that such people would have made in life and without having any resources and have the community show up with such vigor, expecting nothing in return. This is especially the case when you consider just how difficult it is for startups and other ventures to access funds for their new or existing businesses. Why is it that planning for a vacation or even traveling back to Kenya is not too much of an expense that many do not have a problem financing, but become financially destitute whenever pleasure is out and pain is in. The pleasure that such individuals had been enjoying while things were more normal must have been a mirage then. They were having a good time with resources that they should have been saving to cover their own wishes. To miss that point is to court disaster. If a group of people invest more of their social capital in building churches and burying their kin and little in financing startups and businesses that would promote progress and economic and social vitality in days to come, their future is both uncertain and most likely going to be rocky.

Whether one is looking for a job and puts more weight on benefits than on food or one’s culture socializes loss but privatizes pleasure, the one thing that these two groups have in common is that they are indirectly unelecting food. For this reason, and probably many others, food is never such a big issue in the American, much less African, political races.  Food literacy is the one solution to this predicament.  People who invest in private pleasure but socialize suffering in the face of the global crisis we currently face are likely to face serious problems in the times to come.

Domestic violence in our socialization

Ekho is a popular Kenyan social media company based in Dallas hosted by One Monicah Kariuki. Ms. Kariuki covers all manner of topics that are relevant to the Kenyans in the Diaspora. That I was invited to speak on Ekho was not a big surprise.  The company is a Kenyan company, meaning that the topics covered are relevant to me as well. But I could have expected to be covering the topic of food than issues of domestic violence.

I graciously accepted the invitation and promised myself to think about what my position would be much later. Then something interesting happened. The closer we got to the onse of the event, the more I realized that there are very interesting connections between food justice and domestic violence.

When you think about it, the most basic source of our socialization is the family. It's the place where we get our most enduring values.

If that environment happens to be violent, then it is logical to assume that violence could be part of that family's value moving forward. Save for serious interventions, the violent tendencies can metastasize over time to create a whole industry of violence. This is largely what seems to have happened. You see any change or development brings its own opportunity. Another way of looking at it is that certain changes or developments are brought about to create opportunities for certain people. Violence is no different and while it might not appear that way, it is quite plausible that violence is an industry in its own right.

There are historical, political and economic dimensions to violence.

If we look at the foundation of America as a country, from the bloody revolution and the violence against the native people, the first blue chip industry besides slavery and cotton, was the gun industry. It become the first powerful lobby group in the U.S. that it became the envy and model for future corporations bid to subvert the power of the government for the purpose of using public resources for private gain. The use of lobbyists and buying political influence started with the gun lobby. While many view Edward Barney as the father of public relations, the gun industry was a forerunner of such relations.

Put differently violence is a cradle of this country. But how does that ultimately affect the kind of country we ultimately become? What turns out to be the most likely result, at least going by the case of America, is that we normalize violence. America became a gun culture and that culture is not only social but also political. I don’t know which presidential candidate would even win the Republican primaries without pandering to the gun culture of the party members.

It is therefore ironical that the same national culture that espouses the right to have weapons around the house that are fit for the battle ground. Weapons do not necessarily make people violent, what they do is create a culture that glorifies weapon and by extension a culture that can be easily manipulated by corporations keen on selling more weapons. In the end, a country becomes addicted to weapons for no apparent gain. In the end, violence becomes something that we find hard to separate ourselves from. It becomes part of us and something we either cause or just come to be oblivious of. It is no surprise then that people of African descent can suffer historical violence and the country still view them as both a threat as well as an obstacle to progress and peace in this country. It must take a special people to be so deluded and still consider themselves normal. The violence then spreads outside our borders with our complicity and sometimes tacit approval.

In such a case, the world domestic violence actually describes who we are as a county. All violence is domestic, it starts from home, upbringing, culture, socialization or training. It’s effects are felt at a domestic level as it is someone’s father, mother, son or daughter who gets violated and that has direct or indirect consequences on the domestic lives of all those related to the victim of violence. So yes, domestic violence is us and we are it.