Fighting for Uganda’s forests and freedom, Kampala activist Fights pipeline and persecution
Our house became a target. Neighbors whispered, agents lingered near the door, and every update felt like an unseen blow. Nighttime searches, renewed threats, and a pervasive fear gripped my family. Meanwhile, I moved constantly, trying to keep our cause alive while grappling with the anguish of separation.
- 1 day ago
December 25, 2024
Environmental activist in Uganda protest. | Photo courtesy of Nyombi Morris
KAMPALA, Uganda — My vocation to fight took root the first time I witnessed human greed carving scars into our environment. I grew up in a small Ugandan village, surrounded by endless greens and skies stretching to eternity. The forest felt like more than a landscape—life itself. My mother called it our guardian, offering water, medicine, and refuge. We lived in harmony with it, unaware that one day I would have to raise my voice to protect the trees once whispering stories to us through the wind.
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The first blow: a forest falls
The forest’s fall was a severing of our lifeline. When I was ten, men with machines came to our village, claiming they were bringing “development.” Instead, they brought destruction. Their chainsaws roared and ancient trees collapsed, their fall echoing like cries of pain. Weeks later, floods swept through, washing away my mother’s crops. It felt like a harsh awakening, a painful lesson in how nature responds when pushed too far. That day changed me.
As a teenager, I began organizing small groups to plant trees and pick up trash—modest acts born from indignation, not strategy. At sixteen, I stood at my first protest, defying a company that wanted to claim communal land for an industrial plant. We painted banners by hand in a cramped room, the smell of paint heavy in the air. The slogans we crafted—Our Land, Our Future—reflected our hope and determination.
When the moment came, we gathered in front of the bulldozers. I felt terrified, but I stood firm, shoulder to shoulder with friends, as our banners waved defiantly. The machines stopped, their operators stunned by our resolve. It became a small victory, but it ignited something in me: the realization that fighting for the land was fighting for life itself. Each small victory served as a powerful reminder that resistance held meaning.
In 2020, the battle reached a turning point with the fight to save the Ukoma Forest, a vital lung of Uganda. The forest was more than trees—it was life, heritage, and identity. Yet, it was being sold to private interests under the guise of “progress.”
Refusing to stay silent: “I launched Earth Volunteers”
I refused to stay silent. I launched Earth Volunteers, gathering a group of young people to take action. My first public cry for change ignited through a tweet: “You cannot call destruction progress. Our forests are life, home, and future. No more excuses—it is time to act.”
By morning, the message spread like wildfire, igniting protests and demonstrations. Visibility brought threats. My face appeared on state-controlled media, labeled as an enemy of progress. Authorities suspended my X account, and anonymous calls began. Menacing voices described my family’s home, issuing chilling threats.
One morning, some men banged on my mother’s door. She refused to open it, listening instead to their warnings while fear gripped her. When she told me what happened, I felt a fire of rage and helplessness. Yet, I knew stepping back was not an option.
Through it all, the Ukoma Forest remained etched in my heart. In my dreams, I saw it standing green and resilient, breathing life into all of us. The trees seemed to murmur stories, urging me to fight another day.
Protests grew increasingly dangerous. Police vans barreled into crowds, tear gas choked the air, and batons silenced our chants. During one demonstration, officers arrested my younger brother and me. I watched him endure brutal beatings and detention. His fear cut deeper than my own bruises.
After weeks of relentless pressure from activists and international organizations, authorities released him. He walked out of the detention center, his body thinner, his face etched with exhaustion, yet his determination remained unshaken. Relief brought no comfort. The trauma lingered, etching itself into our lives—a constant reminder of the cost of standing against injustice. Still, I knew the fight mattered, and no amount of fear could extinguish my resolve.
Voices rising against an oil pipeline threatening to cut through Uganda and Tanzania
In 2021, I marched alongside my younger brother under the unforgiving sun, our voices rising against an oil pipeline threatening to cut through Uganda and Tanzania, destroying land and displacing communities. The heat pressed down on us, blending with the dust and tension in the air. We stood shoulder to shoulder with countless others, each driven by a shared fire to defend the land.
Our banners waved defiantly in the breeze, their bold colors contrasting with the muted tones of a land under siege. Our chants reverberated through the streets, carrying our resolve like a drumbeat. Yet, beneath the collective energy, a heavy unease lingered—a sense that something dark loomed, invisible but inevitable. Each step felt steady yet daring, a direct defiance of a system intent on silencing us.
Suddenly, sirens tore through the air, sharp and piercing, freezing the moment in dread. The pause shattered as chaos erupted. Police vehicles surged in, cutting off all exits. Officers poured out, their boots striking the pavement like thunder. Their movements were swift, deliberate, and unyielding.
Blows fell without warning, each one as harsh and unrelenting as the next. Hands yanked at me, snatching my phone, severing my connection to the world beyond the turmoil. Around us, shouts and cries mingled with the dull thuds of brutality. The air thickened with dust, sweat, and fear, yet a stubborn fury burned within us. Even as rough hands struck and shadows towered over us, stripping away our dignity, we resisted. Pain coursed through my body, but beneath it lay a quiet certainty—they could batter our bodies, but they could not extinguish the fire we carried.
From activism to persecution: a fight against the pipeline in Kampala
When they dragged us away, I felt something shift irreversibly. The officers shoved us through cold, damp passageways. When we reached the cell, the metallic clang of the door shutting sent a chill through my spine. Darkness enveloped the space, broken only by faint light slipping through a high, unreachable window.
In the dim corner of the cell, I noticed my brother. He sat with his knees pulled tightly to his chest, shielding himself from the reality closing in around us. His face, once brimming with youthful energy, looked haunted, his eyes dull and unfocused. Sweat glistened on his forehead as his ragged breaths filled the silence. His hands trembled as he glanced up at me, his mouth opening as though to speak, but no words came.
However, fear did not silence me. When they released us, I carried my brother’s trauma like a scar. At night, the echoes of that day screamed through my mind, a reminder of what was at stake. I knew eyes followed my every move, but stopping was not an option.
In 2022, my activism crossed a line from which there was no turning back. We had organized a protest at a school in Kampala against the pipeline. Students’ voices rose in defiance, challenging the silence of imposed progress. Hours later, police raided our home. I was not there, but their fury was indiscriminate. They tore through rooms, scattering belongings. My mother stood amidst the chaos, enduring accusations branding her an accomplice.
That night, hidden in an undisclosed location, I heard her voice through a phone call. She described the threats and relentless questioning. Her calm tone masked a terror I understood too well. She worried for my siblings, caught in a storm they did not understand.
The hardest decision of my life: to leave Uganda
Our house became a target. Neighbors whispered, agents lingered near the door, and every update felt like an unseen blow. Nighttime searches, renewed threats, and a pervasive fear gripped my family. Meanwhile, I moved constantly, trying to keep our cause alive while grappling with the anguish of separation.
I could not return, but I refused to remain silent. Every word I spoke, every step I took, was both resistance and a vow—to stand by my family, my land, and the voices fighting in the shadows.
In early 2023, the stakes intensified with the enactment of Uganda’s Anti-LGBTQ+ Law. One evening, my sister, her voice trembling with fear, confided in me she was gay. Shortly after, the school suspended her, and the community ostracized her. Watching her endure such pain ignited a renewed fire within me, turning her struggle into my driving force for resistance.
That night, I wrote another message: “The government is silencing us, but it will not silence me. This fight is for all those who cannot speak. I will not remain silent.” The backlash came swiftly. State-run newspapers accused me of leading a “satanic agenda,” and threats escalated. Calls in the dead of night promised unspeakable punishments. The regime’s grip tightened, leaving me with no choice but to make the hardest decision of my life: to leave Uganda.
Leaving felt like tearing away a part of my soul. My visa to Denmark offered a lifeline, but the journey to safety bristled with fear. At the Kenyan border, officials detained me for hours, questioning and intimidating me. When they finally let me go, it felt as though I had slipped through the cracks of a system intent on silencing me.
Even in exile, my fight continues
I crossed the border without goodbyes, leaving behind my mother, siblings, and everything I knew. In Denmark, safety brought no solace. My thoughts remained tethered to Uganda—my mother facing officers at her door, my siblings grappling with trauma, and my sister denied her identity.
Now, I live among quiet streets and safe nights, but peace eludes me. Uganda’s forests, my family, and my people stay with me. I speak for them from afar, knowing every word carries the weight of those silenced. This is my story: one of resistance, loss, and hope. I do not know if I will ever walk through the Ukoma Forest again or see my mother without the shadow of guilt. But I will keep fighting. My voice carries the echoes
