Folk derhjemme kalder mig for en fredsforstyrrer, en ballademager, en provokatør, en rebel, en aktivist, en folkets røst. Men det var jeg ikke altid.
People back home call me a heckler, a troublemaker, an irritant, a rebel, an activist, the voice of the people. But that wasn't always me.
Som lille havde jeg et kælenavn. De kaldte mig for Softy (Bløde) dvs. den bløde, harmløse knægt. Som ethvert andet menneske undgik jeg problemer. Som barn lærte de mig tavshed. Ingen brok, gør som der bliver sagt. I søndagsskolen lærte man at man skal ikke konfrontere eller brokke sig, selv hvis du har ret, vend den anden kind til.
Growing up, I had a nickname. They used to call me Softy, meaning the soft, harmless boy. Like every other human being, I avoided trouble. In my childhood, they taught me silence. Don't argue, do as you're told. In Sunday school, they taught me don't confront, don't argue, even if you're right, turn the other cheek.
Det blev underbygget af det politiske klima dengang. (Latter) Kenya er et land, hvor du er skyldig indtil bevist rig. (Latter) Kenya´s fattige er fem gange mere udsat for at blive skudt af politiet, der skal beskytte dem, end af kriminelle. Dette blev underbygget af datidens politiske klima. Vi havde en præsident, Moi, som var en diktator. Han styrede landet med en jernnæve, de som turde at sætte spørgsmålstegn ved autoriteten blev arresteret, tortureret, fængslet eller endda dræbt. Derfor lærte folk at blive kloge kujoner, at undgå problemer. At være kujon var ikke en fornærmelse. Det var en kompliment. Vi fik fortalt at en kujon tog hjem til sin mor. Det betød at hvis du undgik problemer, ville du være i live.
This was reinforced by the political climate of the time. (Laughter) Kenya is a country where you are guilty until proven rich. (Laughter) Kenya's poor are five times more likely to be shot dead by the police who are meant to protect them than by criminals. This was reinforced by the political climate of the day. We had a president, Moi, who was a dictator. He ruled the country with an iron fist, and anyone who dared question his authority was arrested, tortured, jailed or even killed. That meant that people were taught to be smart cowards, stay out of trouble. Being a coward was not an insult. Being a coward was a compliment. We used to be told that a coward goes home to his mother. What that meant: that if you stayed out of trouble you're going to stay alive.
Jeg satte spørgsmålstegn ved dette råd, og for otte år siden var der valg i Kenya, hvor resultatet blev voldeligt omstridt. Valget blev efterfulgt af grusom vold, voldtægter, og tabet af over 1000 menneskeliv. Min gerning var at dokumentere volden. Som fotograf tog jeg tusindvis af billeder, og efter to måneder mødtes de to politikere til en kop te, underskrev en fredsaftale, og landet kom videre.
I used to question this advice, and eight years ago we had an election in Kenya, and the results were violently disputed. What followed that election was terrible violence, rape, and the killing of over 1,000 people. My work was to document the violence. As a photographer, I took thousands of images, and after two months, the two politicians came together, had a cup of tea, signed a peace agreement, and the country moved on.
Jeg var dybt mærket af al den vold. Jeg så drabene. Jeg så udrensningerne. Jeg mødte voldtægtsofre, og det rørte mig dybt, men det blev aldrig nævnt i mit land. Vi lod som om. Vi blev alle kloge kujoner. Vi undgik problemer ved ikke at tale om dem.
I was a very disturbed man because I saw the violence firsthand. I saw the killings. I saw the displacement. I met women who had been raped, and it disturbed me, but the country never spoke about it. We pretended. We all became smart cowards. We decided to stay out of trouble and not talk about it.
Ti måneder senere sagde jeg op. Jeg kunne ikke længere klare det. Bagefter bestemte jeg mig for at organisere mine venner til at tale om volden i mit land, at tale om tilstanden i nationen, og 1 juni 2009 var det meningen at møde op i et stadion for at få præsidentens opmærksomhed. Det er en national helligdag som bliver fulgt af medierne, og jeg mødte op. Mine venner gjorde ikke. Jeg var alene, og jeg vidste ikke hvad jeg skulle gøre. Jeg var bange, men jeg vidste at dén dag blev en beslutning taget. Ville jeg leve som kujon som alle andre, eller ville jeg stå op? Da præsidenten gik op for at tale fandt jeg mig stående, mens jeg råbte til ham at han skulle huske voldsofrene fra efter valget, og stoppe korruptionen. Og pludselig ud af blå luft kastede politiet sig på mig som sultne løver. De holdt mig for munden og slæbte mig ud af stadionet hvorefter de tæskede mig og fængslede mig. Den nat lå jeg på det kolde cementgulv i fængslet og tænkte mig om. Hvorfor følte jeg som jeg gjorde? Mine venner og familie troede jeg var skør for at handle sådan og at mine fotos forstyrrede mit liv. Mine fotos var kun et tal for mange kenyanere. De fleste så ikke volden. Det var en historie for dem.
Ten months later, I quit my job. I said I could not stand it anymore. After quitting my job, I decided to organize my friends to speak about the violence in the country, to speak about the state of the nation, and June 1, 2009 was the day that we were meant to go to the stadium and try and get the president's attention. It's a national holiday, it's broadcast across the country, and I showed up at the stadium. My friends did not show up. I found myself alone, and I didn't know what to do. I was scared, but I knew very well that that particular day, I had to make a decision. Was I able to live as a coward, like everyone else, or was I going to make a stand? And when the president stood up to speak, I found myself on my feet shouting at the president, telling him to remember the post-election violence victims, to stop the corruption. And suddenly, out of nowhere, the police pounced on me like hungry lions. They held my mouth and dragged me out of the stadium, where they thoroughly beat me up and locked me up in jail. I spent that night in a cold cement floor in the jail, and that got me thinking. What was making me feel this way? My friends and family thought I was crazy because of what I did, and the images that I took were disturbing my life. The images that I took were just a number to many Kenyans. Most Kenyans did not see the violence. It was a story to them.
Jeg bestemte mig for at lave en årlig gade-udstilling for at vise billeder af volden over hele landet og at få folk at tale om dem. Vi rejste landet rundt og viste billederne og rejsen var begyndelsen for mit aktivist-liv hvor jeg nægtede at være tavs længere og ville tage voldsemnet op til debat. Vi rejste, og pladsen for vor gade-udstilling blev dækket af politisk grafitti om situationen i landet, om korruption, dårligt lederskab. Vi har endda holdt symbolske begravelser. Vi har afleveret levende grise til Kenya´s parlament som et symbol for politikernes grådighed. Det er også sket i Uganda og andre lande og det mest kraftfulde er at billederne er optaget af medierne og sendt ud over hele landet, og ud over hele kontinentet.
And so I decided to actually start a street exhibition to show the images of the violence across the country and get people talking about it. We traveled the country and showed the images, and this was a journey that has started me to the activist path, where I decided to become silent no more, to talk about those things. We traveled, and our general site from our street exhibit became for political graffiti about the situation in the country, talking about corruption, bad leadership. We have even done symbolic burials. We have delivered live pigs to Kenya's parliament as a symbol of our politicians' greed. It has been done in Uganda and other countries, and what is most powerful is that the images have been picked by the media and amplified across the country, across the continent.
Da jeg stod op alene for syv år siden blev et fællesskab skabt, idag er der mange, der står med mig. Jeg er ikke længere alene når jeg taler om disse ting. Jeg tilhører en gruppe unge ildsjæle for landet, som vil skabe forandring og de er ikke længere bange, eller kloge kujoner. Så det var min historie. Dén dag i stadionet, stod jeg op som en klog kujon. Med dén ene handling sagde jeg farvel til 24 år som kujon.
Where I used to stand up alone seven years ago, now I belong to a community of many people who stand up with me. I am no longer alone when I stand up to speak about these things. I belong to a group of young people who are passionate about the country, who want to bring about change, and they're no longer afraid, and they're no longer smart cowards. So that was my story. That day in the stadium, I stood up as a smart coward. By that one action, I said goodbye to the 24 years living as a coward.
Der er to dage i dit liv, som er vigtigst: dagen, du bliver født, og dagen, hvor du finder ud af hvorfor. Dén dag i stadionet, mens jeg råbte til præsidenten fandt jeg ud af, hvorfor jeg blev født, at jeg nægtede at være tavs og acceptere uretfærdigheden. Ved du, hvorfor du blev født? Mange tak. (Bifald)
There are two most powerful days in your life: the day you're born, and the day you discover why. That day standing up in that stadium shouting at the President, I discovered why I was truly born, that I would no longer be silent in the face of injustice. Do you know why you were born? Thank you. (Applause)
Tom Rielly: En utrolig historie. Lad mig blot spørge dig helt kort. Om PAWA254: Du har skabt et studio, hvor unge kan komme og bruge digitale medier til aktivisme. Hvad sker der nu med PAWA?
Tom Rielly: It's an amazing story. I just want to ask you a couple quick questions. So PAWA254: you've created a studio, a place where young people can go and harness the power of digital media to do some of this action. What's happening now with PAWA?
Boniface Mwangi: Vi har et fællesskab af filmskabere, graffitti-kunstnere, musikere, og når der er problemer i landet, mødes vi, brainstormer og tager emnet op til debat. Vores mest kraftfulde værktøj er kunsten, for vi lever i en travl verden, og folk har så travlt i deres liv, at de ikke har tid til at læse. Så vi bruger kunsten til at formidle vores budskab. Musikken, graffittien, kunsten er vores værktøj. Kan jeg sige én ting mere?
Boniface Mwangi: So we have this community of filmmakers, graffiti artists, musicians, and when there's an issue in the country, we come together, we brainstorm, and take up on that issue. So our most powerful tool is art, because we live in a very busy world where people are so busy in their life, and they don't have time to read. So we package our activism and we package our message in art. So from the music, the graffiti, the art, that's what we do. Can I say one more thing?
TR: Ja, selvfølgelig. (Bifald)
TR: Yeah, of course. (Applause)
BM: Selv om jeg blev arresteret, tæsket og truet, så jeg det sekund jeg fandt min røst at jeg kunne stå op for hvad jeg troede på, min frygt forsvinde. De kaldte mig Softy, men jeg er ikke længere Softy, for jeg fandt hvem jeg virkelig er, hvad jeg virkelig vil, og der er så megen skønhed i det. Der er intet mere kraftfuldt at se, at jeg blev skabt til dette, for du bliver ikke bange, du lever blot dit liv.
BM: In spite of being arrested, beaten up, threatened, the moment I discovered my voice, that I could actually stand up for what I really believed in, I'm no longer afraid. I used to be called softy, but I'm no longer softy, because I discovered who I really am, as in, that's what I want to do, and there's such beauty in doing that. There's nothing as powerful as that, knowing that I'm meant to do this, because you don't get scared, you just continue living your life.
Mange tak.
Thank you.
(Bifald)
(Applause)