Opinion: I'm Afraid Of Americans

Kenyan-American comedian Agunda Okeyo on David Bowie and the American presidential race.

Photo illustration by Aaron Leaf

David Bowie’s video for the track, “I’m Afraid of Americans” opens on Christopher Street, NYC where Bowie is reading the paper. The headline refers to a white supremacist loner type named Jonny (editor's note: pretty sure that's Trent Reznor) who proceeds to chase Bowie through Manhattan. As Bowie runs, stumbling into Jonny again and again, a myriad menacing characters take his place, posing with their fingers as guns. The imagery is a play on Martin Scorcese’s Taxi Driver and the all too real American pastime of perpetrating mass shootings.

Like Bowie, I too, am afraid of Americans. I haven’t always been, but as a 33-year-old born in Nairobi and raised in New York City, I’ve become far more aware of the hypocrisies and dangers around me.

This year’s American elections have been particularly fraught. When examining the frontrunners, I inevitably want to know what these people reveal about Americans and the American view of the world. Turns out it’s not an easy task.

In order to be president of the United States you must be a natural-born citizen. Ted Cruz is Canadian. The fact that this man is even perceived as a viable candidate for the Republican nomination is a sorry indication of the state of the electorate. Cruz’s only saving grace is that he is a Texas-raised, conservative racist. Following in the footsteps of millions of non-English Europeans before him, Cruz is assimilating into the construct of white supremacy in America.

Since the 2008 election of outgoing President Barack Obama, the Southern Poverty Law Center noted steady growth of white supremacist groups, with a 14 percent uptick in 2015. Indeed, many working to middle class white men feel swindled by Wall Street bankers, confined by debt, fearful of professional women and supplanted at work. What they don’t understand is that these impositions have more to do with the policies of rich white men like Ronald Reagan or George Bush Sr. and Jr. than the first black president.

Donald Trump is a different animal. Like Cruz, he’s a racist. But what really makes him relatable is that he is racist and sexist. These two elements in combination are critical to a ‘classic’ American identity that many feel they are losing. Aside from the racism implicit in housing the world’s largest prison population, condoning rampant police brutality, and unabated residential segregation; this is one sexist-ass country.

America is so sexist that a 2015 U.N. delegation of three women from Poland, the United Kingdom and Costa Rica evaluating gender equality were appalled. Delegate Frances Raday from the U.K. asserted, “Religious freedom does not justify discrimination against women, nor does it justify depriving women of their rights to the highest standard of health care.” Indeed, American women endure epidemic levels of rape on college campuses, draconian laws giving states control of pregnant women through incarceration, and no Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) to outlaw sex discrimination nearly one hundred years after its proposal in 1923. In fact, few people even know that the modern backlash over the term and movement of 'feminism' was born out of Reagan’s White House with anti-feminist ambassadors like Nancy Reagan and Phyllis Schlafly. So, every time Trump denigrates a vocal woman like Rosie O’Donnell or Megyn Kelly, he’s playing a reliable card.

As much as I want a woman to be president of the United States, the fact that Hillary Clinton is actually the best one for the job is depressing. I would never discount Clinton’s intellect, political experience, or work ethic. Yale Law, First Lady, Senator and finally Secretary of State—she’s actually overqualified. Nevertheless, what depresses me is that she is a white woman born from the rotting carcass of white male supremacist bureaucracy.

Sure, we can point out the humanitarian cost of her foreign policy directives as Secretary of State in bombing places like Libya and Syria. Sure, we can call out her professional encumbrance with big banks like Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan Chase and Morgan Stanley among other Wall Street heavy hitters. Sure, we can question her commitment to racial justice given her difficulty relating to young black activists and a history of racialized messaging about black youth. But my cynicism as an immigrant, in a nation of immigrants who hate immigrants, is maybe she really is the best America can do at this point.

Senator Bernie Sanders is a fellow New Yorker from Brooklyn (I rep the Bronx) who worked with CORE, SNCC, crossed paths with MLK and is the longest serving independent member of Congress in American history. After sixteen years in the House of Representatives, Sanders is in the midst of his second Senate term. A child of WWII born in 1941 to Polish parents struggling to make ends meet, Sanders was radicalized by financial hardship amidst a nation in flux. As a democratic socialist, he stands firmly to the left on many hot button issues like the War in Iraq, the closure of Guantanamo, a two-state solution for Israel and Palestine, and the 2008 bank bailout (though in 2000, Sanders voted for the Commodity Futures Modernization Act that contributed to the financial crisis).

The Senator’s inclusive response to criticism from Black Lives Matter (BLM) activist Darnell L. Moore about holes in his stance on racial justice add to his credit as a refreshing candidate. In fact, a visit to his website reads like a utopian wet dream as he waxes poetic on class, race and sex equity. For all this, he boasts a huge following among the most ideologically marginalized segment of America—young people plus a number of prominent artists/thinkers/activists like Cornel West, Rosario Dawson, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Susan Sarandon, Killer Mike, and Erica Garner, the daughter of Staten Island police brutality victim Eric Garner.

And yet, Sanders is 74 years old, which would make him the oldest U.S. president to date. He is also a white man, albeit of Jewish descent, who has served one of the smallest, whitest (a whopping 95.2% with most black residents behind bars), gun-happy states in America (bummer). In many ways Sanders’ billing as the movement leader who can infiltrate Washington, D.C. reads like some white liberal Amero-centric bullsh*t with a splash of melanin. The jury is still out.

In the U.S., even when you don’t pull the trigger, somehow you get the blowback. Slowly you stop thinking critically (thanks for nothing Ted), neglect to communicate with others (Trump 101), learn to fit in (Hillary’s corner) and get obsessed with notions of salvation (hello Bernie!). It’s cynical I know, but the only way to gain sustainable “perspective” is if each individual rejects their inner Jonny, gets a passport and has a beer with a stranger. This way, when elections roll around, leaders truly reflect and possess the political will to affect change. After all, a nation is shaped by the people we admire. So like BLM and Angela Davis I endorse no one, but may the best compromise win.

Agunda Okeyo is a writer, producer, filmmaker and activist born in Nairobi and raised between New York City and the Kenyan capital. Follow her on Twitter @AgundaOkeyo.

Photo courtesy of Sam Soko.

Interview: Sam Soko is the Kenyan Director Behind Sundance Hit, 'Softie'

We meet filmmaker Sam Soko who has made a stirring documentary about the Kenyan protest leader Boniface Mwangi

Filmmaker Sam Soko didn't intend on making a documentary about Kenyan photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi.

The original idea he had was to make a manual of sorts, a short video guide, on how to protest, the do's and don't's. Soko, himself an activist artist who cut his teeth convincing friends to let him create political music videos for their apolitical songs, knew Mwangi's experience on the streets both photographing protests and staging them meant he had a lot to share with others.

But then came the blood. A thousand litres of it, to be precise. And the pigs. Dozens of them, with words like MPigs written on them. Like the graphic photos Mwangi had become known for taking—it was a sight you couldn't look away from. It was a protest Mwangi organized, in 2013, to decry corrupt members of the Kenyan parliament who had decided to increase their salaries, 2 months after taking office. And at his side, through the thick red liquid of it all, was Mwangi's wife, Njere, ready to be arrested with him.

"Once I was witness to his relationship, I started seeing him as a family man," Soko tells OkayAfrica. "Because he's planning a protest and all, but when you look at the footage, you start seeing the kids and you start seeing Njere. That's when it started hitting me, in the sense, that she was with him in such a crazy space."

Soko formed a creative and activist hub, called PAWA 254, with Mwangi, as they became part of the groundswell demanding democratic reforms in a country still left scarred from the division sewed between Kikuyu and Luo people by British colonizers. "We had a new Constitution at the time, and there was this hope that we finally could picket without being tear-gassed or being beaten, Like, our civil liberties could be held up." Instead, the government strengthened its police force into a notorious organization condemned by human rights activists. "That's very salient in the film," says Soko. "If you see how the police dress, for instance, at the beginning, it's very different; they become more militant towards the end."

Soko's debut feature-length documentary, Softie, which became the first Kenyan film to ever premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, earlier this year, is at once a love story between Mwangi and his wife and their three children, but also between Mwangi and his beloved Kenya, under president Uhuru Kenyatta. Central to the film is the tussle between how these different loves bump up against each other: what comes first — love of country or love of family?

We spoke to the Nairobi-based director about making the film, which opens in virtual cinemas, starting this Friday, September 18th.

Boniface Mwangi with his wife Photo courtesy of Sam Soko

OA: Early on in the film, we learn how steadfast Boniface Mwangi is — he talks about being willing to die for the ideals he believes in, which made me think of Nelson Mandela and his Rivonia Treason Trial speech. Boniface is someone in the present day who still shares this belief?

When we were working on the edit, and kind of crafting and thinking about what the story was going to be, something that we found that was really, really interesting is, with a lot of the stories, like the story of Nelson Mandela, you'd never see the other side. That's something we see later, up ahead, as a retrospective. We'd hear about Martin Luther King and then we'd read about Coretta Scott in, I think, 1990, like, 'Oh, this his was her struggle.' That sort of thing. But for me, Boniface and Njere represented a present day reality struggle that showcases what Mandela was going through, what Martin Luther was going through. That was kind of like unravelling the curtain; when you see Martin Luther marching, Coretta's at home, trying to help their kids do their homework. And this is the reality.

OA: And the film poses that question of love for your country versus love for your family, and which one should come first?

Exactly. They see it in different ways. Boniface sees it that if you improve the country, you improve the lives of those who you love. Njere's like, you have to have your family's back first. And that means everything else comes second. And she's right; she's not wrong. And he's not wrong.

OA: The film really is privy to some really private moments in Mwangi's life — how did you gain his trust?

When we started filming the short video, he was really involved with the protests, and we started doing the protests with him. So we were—quote, unquote—in the trenches with him in the protests, and somehow that's how he kind of welcomed us to his home. When you've been with someone in the streets, and you're tear-gassed together more than once, you already have a common bond. But then I started developing a relationship with him that was beyond the streets. Just checking up on him and asking, what's going on, what's taking place? That sort of thing. I think it took a while. And I think even from Njere, we kind of developed a kind of camaraderie that was separate from my relationship with Boniface, because I would actually be like, 'Hey, he said that, how does that make you feel?' And not necessarily on camera. But over time, he kind of accepted us to be there with a camera. At some point, I kind of felt like they were talking to me, and not necessarily the camera; like, the camera is kind of this thing that's there, but not there. That kind of trust, again, was built on a respect that I have for them and their values and what they're doing. I think that's something they saw. It made them trust me with their story and trust me with their family.

You're the director of the film, but you're also producer, writer and cinematographer. Did Boniface's own style as a photojournalist influence you in any way?

The film has three cinematographers, and a lot of my cinematography is within the intimate moments, because that's when they would only engage with someone they trust. But him being a photographer actually, to a point, made the work a bit hard because he's constantly looking at how you're doing it. He's in your face about the angle. He's like, 'Hey, why are you standing there, you should be there.' But in some places he did help 'cause he's been filming in the streets and filming protests for a very long time. So when you're there filming, he'll easily tell you, 'Dude, don't stand there. They're about to start tear-gassing. Go to the other side.' And it's weird, when you're on the other side and you're filming, and all of a sudden you see tear gas, you wonder, 'How the hell did he know?' You do that 234 times and you start knowing yourself, 'Oh, this is how,' and he was really helpful in that sense.

I can imagine that filming during the protests must have been one of the big challenges of making this film but what else did you struggle with? There were death threats for Mwangi, did that happen to you as well?

It's so funny, when you're filming and when you're in the protests, it's adrenaline talking. So you're not really thinking about whether you're going to be okay. This one time, I got arrested because the cop said I was a spy for the protesters. [We had everything] from cameras breaking to sound equipment messing up, but when it became a more political story, with death threats, it became scary even for editing the film. Because you don't know who's watching you. This one time, I was with him in the car, filming, and we were being followed. So we kind of had to be very careful who we are telling about the story. It was a very deep secret that we were making this film and there are people who are watching it now asking, 'How could you keep this from us from all these years?' Because we had to do that. Especially when the family was in the US. We had to do that for the sake of safety for him, Boniface, for his family but also the film team. I remember doing the pitches with different names. But then we were also lucky that we had our co-producing partner in Canada, Eye Steel Film, so they were able to house the edit there. I went to Canada to edit and that kind of also gives you a kind of freedom to think and work and create. That was the reality, and now I think we have PTSD from the film. I can't film another protest. I'm sorry. I'm out. Like, it tapped me out.

There are similarities to the Black Lives Matter protests here in the US, against police brutality and violence but the slogan takes on a different resonance in places like Kenya, where the police force is particularly heavy-handed. How do you see these protests as being similar but also different?

There are two things that you learn with the film. One, our voices can never be silenced. They will try, but I think humanity is like a pressure cooker. The more you boil us, the more you put that heat, the more explosive we become. And through people like Boniface's life, you see that there are human beings who exist, who do extraordinary things.

The other thing is the idea of activism doesn't necessarily just speak to the person who's on the street. It doesn't necessarily speak to the person who's holding the placard. An activist is someone like Njere and her life, and her family. And Khadija [Mohamed, Mwangi's campaign manager]. She's such a strong and powerful activist in her own right. She was Boniface's campaign manager for free. The work they did was so powerful. And you have these other people in the background who are doing such incredible things. The sum total of what they've done is [to] instigate… We have an election next year, but I am so sure that we are going to have so many candidates who are going to be like, 'We want you to donate to our campaign. We have these values and beliefs; this is what we want to do.' That is how we need to go about change or add on to the conversations of change.

The same thing that's happening with the Black Lives Matters movement. Yes, there are people going to the street and we should keep going to the street. But we need to push people to engage in policy and make sure these policy changes are made.

We need to stand for what we believe in, as filmmakers in spaces where we feel oppression exists. Like the rules that have come out with the Academy Awards, these are rules that should be celebrated because they add on to that conversation of diversity and representation. All these things—that sum total—is what makes the difference. It's going beyond the streets and going beyond our Tweets, going beyond our Facebook messages, making films and sharing films. We just need to keep pumping up the volume, keeping the heat up, keep pushing. It's gonna take a while, but we'll get there.

Photojournalist-turned-politician Boniface Mwangi during a protest in Nairobi, Kenya Photo courtesy of Sam Soko

That's where you as a filmmaker come in—this film was the first Kenyan film to get into Sundance, where it won a special editing prize.

There's another film I'm producing and, and, yes, I had my film at Sundance, that's great. But there's this other filmmaker who's making another film, and it's so cool, and this is the thing—we need to keep bouncing off this energy and this light and this vibe, and just keep pushing and making sure that the wheels keep turning. That's what we're all about.

How do you renew your strength, as a filmmaker but also as a Kenyan and as an African?

Being a Kenyan is hard. I think being an African is hard. Like, it's hard. There's a line I heard Boniface say once: 'I love my country, but I am afraid of my government.' But the way in which, personally, I find energy is when I meet new filmmakers, or you know, people who are like starting out and they want to make films that sound totally crazy. And they believe that they can do it. And I'm like, 'yes, yes, keep going!' We are planning to do a premiere. We have not confirmed the date yet but we're thinking it's around going to be early October in Kenya, because Kenyans haven't watched it. The government gave us an adult rating. They're putting us on the same level as porn.

This is the same government that banned Wanuri Kahiu's Rafiki because of its homosexual theme…

Exactly, that's what we're getting but the lemonade that we've made out of all this is, 'Guess what? This is cinema!' We're going to take it to a cinema. People are going to come to watch it in a cinema or watch it at home or watch it in the best way possible. And the people who've watched it have appreciated it as a film and a story, and their story. They've seen a reflection of themselves. That gives me so much joy because the Kenyans who've watched it, when they give you feedback, they say, this is truth; this is our truth. And they don't see just an activist. They see a couple struggling with love. They see our history in the last 10 years. And they're like, 'What the hell, we lived this?' and they see the things that are unresolved — and many things are unresolved. Seeing that reaction gives me so much strength and hope. But it's hard. It's very hard. Because, you know, you have to wake up and see the policeman getting a bribe. And you're like, 'Homie??'

"SOFTIE" Movie Poster

Watch the trailer for Softie here.

Softie | Official Trailer | A film by Sam Soko www.youtube.com

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