There are moments when a nation must confront itself honestly and ask. At what point does silence become complicity?
The ill treatment of Barbie Kyagulanyi, a woman, a mother, a wife and a citizen by state security forces should have triggered a national condemnation. Not because she is the wife of the National Unity Platform (NUP) president Robert Kyagulanyi Ssentamu, but because no state that respects its people should use security forces including the use of Chief of Defence Forces’ position to humiliate, intimidate, or brutalise a woman or any law-abiding citizen.
The most disturbing response, however, has not been outrage but quiet acceptance. This silence stretches across different segments. Most of Women in leadership, religious authorities, cultural figures, and Ugandans with large platforms have largely kept mute. The issue is no longer whether abuse occurred, it is why those best positioned to speak have chosen not to.
Condemning barbarity is not a political act. It is a moral obligation. Even where political contestation exists, decency must remain non-negotiable. Politics does not excuse cruelty, and power does not suspend humanity. A state that normalises humiliation, especially of women signals a deeper moral collapse.
We must confront an uncomfortable truth, citizens also bear responsibility. When torture is dismissed as ‘politics,’ when intimidation is justified as ‘security,’ silence becomes participation.
We are responsible for the trauma suffered by families and children who watch their parents persecuted. Nations are judged not only by the actions of leaders, but by what citizens tolerate. This is not a call to violence. It is a call to stand with those facing persecution. Standing up is not rebellion; it is patriotism.
History shows that when injustice goes unchallenged, accountability does not disappear it is deferred. If not to this generation, then to the next, which will inherit a country shaped by fear and indifference.
Uganda today is experiencing the normalisation of national embarrassment. The erosion of respect for institutions has become routine, beginning at the very top. When a national address is delivered casually while seated and taking porridge, it may appear minor or humorous. Yet symbolism matters. Such acts quietly communicate that national platforms and the nation itself do not deserve solemn respect.
Similarly, when swearing-in ceremonies for powerful public offices are conducted on farmland, stripped of institutional gravity, the message is clear, the state is subordinate to the individual wielding power. These are not isolated gestures. They are lessons. From the presidency to the village chairperson, authority is being redefined as dominance without restraint.
This is how lawlessness is institutionalised. When leaders disregard procedure and dignity, citizens learn to do the same. Tomorrow, we will lament indiscipline and disrespect for the law, forgetting that examples were set from the top.
The undermining of women and the routine disrespect of citizens are especially dangerous. Silence allows these practices to grow. What is tolerated today becomes normalised tomorrow and weaponised the next day. The government once claimed it had uplifted women. That claim rings hollow when women in influential positions cannot speak against abuse. Empowerment that collapses in moments of injustice is symbolic, not substantive.
If certain actions such as finding Bobi Wine are inspired by theatrics or intimidation, those responsible must remember: real life is not a movie. Security positions demand restraint and professionalism. Women and civilians are not tools for political messaging.
Ugandans with platforms, women leaders, clerics, artists, academics, and public figures, this is your moment. Leadership is measured not in comfort but in courage. We do not need political alignment to recognise wrong. We need moral clarity to confront it, before it is too late.