The state-sanctioned erasure of queer stories in Africa must end now
Movies depicting LGBTIQ experiences have
been banned in Kenya and South Africa – adding fuel to the dangerous
narrative that ‘homosexuality is unAfrican and harmful.’
Another
day, another immoral beast vanquished. Dr Ezekiel Mutua, chief
executive officer of the Kenya Film Classification Board (KFCB), recently banned Rafiki, a movie about two young women who fall in love in Kenya.
Rafiki, which means "friends" in Kiswahili, is directed by Wanuri Kahui and based on the 2007 Caine Prize winning story ‘Jambula Tree.’ It’s the first Kenyan movie to premiere at the Cannes film festival in France – but it was banned in Kenya on the grounds of being ‘immoral’.
This
isn't the first time that Mutua's decisions have come out against the
queer community. He also banned the first Kenyan LGBTIQ music video,
Same Love Remix, ‘on moral grounds’, and a queer woman’s dating event, claiming that it was a ’lesbian orgy’ and saying on social media that lesbians need therapy.
Mutua banned Rafiki because "the film’s homosexual theme and clear intent to promote lesbianism in Kenya is contrary to the law," whilst also claiming that the film’s producers misled the film board by submitting an altered script.
In a tweet, the KFCB stated that "anyone found in its possession will be in breach of law," in reference to a colonial-era Kenyan law under which gay sex is punishable by 14 years in jail.
Mutua’s decision to ban Rafiki comes amid statements from Kenya’s President Uhuru Kenyatta that issues of LGBTIQ rights are "of no importance to Kenyans."
It
also comes as LGBTIQ organisations, led by National Gay and Lesbian
Human Rights Commission (NGLHRC) are in Kenya’s high court contesting penal code provisions that criminalise homosexual activity as unconstitutional.
“Sexuality is an extremely contentious issue in Kenya. This is what makes Rafiki so important.”
Sexuality is an extremely contentious issue in Kenya. This is what makes Rafiki so important.
Kahui, the film’s director, laments that “no adult Kenyans will be able to see this film.”
She says that the KFCB’s decision to ban Rafiki “violates our right of
expression and this means that they will intimidate other filmmakers
who might want to talk about different issues from coming up.”
Her
disappointment raises a good question: at what point does the moral
crusade by lawmakers and ‘upholders of culture’ have the right to hold
narratives hostage? This is not the only example of queer visibility
being buried in the name of culture and propriety.
Earlier
this year, a film called Inxeba (“The Wound”), which chronicles a
homosexual relationship at an initiation school, was banned from cinemas
in South Africa by that country's film board.
In Nigeria, the publisher Cassava Republic had books taken off store shelves due to their support and publishing of queer literature, with their latest offering being She Called Me Woman: Nigerian Queer Women Speak.
Such
suppression of LGBTIQ experiences adds to the dangerous narrative that
‘homosexuality is unAfrican’, which is used by too many in religious,
societal and governmental spaces to deny LGBTIQ people their rights,
leaving them vulnerable to violence and discrimination.
The
state-sanctioned erasure of queer stories allows discriminatory
movements in countries such as Nigeria, Kenya and South Africa to deny
that LGBTIQ people exist, or to insist that they are ‘the other,’
different and unwelcome.
Within the LGBTIQ community,
the feeling of being side-lined runs deep. “The banning of Rafiki was
devastating,” said Pepper, a queer woman and curator of the blog Kenyan Baby Dyke, who explained that media representation matters, and can be affirming.
“Watching
the trailer and seeing my own story mirrored back was momentous,”
Pepper told me. “That the opportunity to watch the film, to celebrate
our own story was taken away from us, is crushing… I feel robbed. It's
sad that in our own country, we can't live or celebrate our truth.”
Kawira Mwirichia, a visual artist whose work often relates to queer experiences, added the KFCB’s decision to ban Rafiki left her feeling “erased” as well as frustrated, and “very angry.”
It
was also patronising, she told me, as if “all material we create and
are exposed to as a country needs to be child-friendly. Like we aren’t
adults too."
Wacera Njagi,
editor of MremboSafi Zine, and an advocate for sexual and reproductive
health and rights, said that Rafiki’s director Kahui was “makes things
that are way ahead of her time.”
She said that the
film’s banning also brought it greater public exposure in Kenya, and
internationally, leading to even more debate.
And this
is true. The banning of the movie has brought it sharply into the public
eye, as was the case with Inxeba. Not only are the films more visible,
but the bans have also caused people to think about ideas of visibility,
queerness and who gets to control national, or regional, narratives.
“The censoring of the queer thread in the grander tapestry of curat
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