Uganda: Surviving on the frontlines – Ugandan journalists fight for their freedom

Tomorrow the world celebrates World Press Freedom Day, a day to recognize the courage and dedication of journalists who provide us with vital information. But for many Ugandan journalists, this day serves as a stark reminder of the dangers they face in their daily work.

This is my story.

It was November 18, 2020, during the riots that broke out after the arrest of opposition leader Bobi Wine. My cameraman and I were returning from an interview in Kawempe, a suburb of Kampala. We witnessed the city in chaos: burning tires, blocked roads and an atmosphere of fear.

Desperate to avoid the main roads, we took a detour along the Kawempe-Nabweru road. A terrible mistake. We encountered roadblocks manned by rioters trying to loot. Here, for the first time, I longed for the presence of the police, a symbol of order that was nowhere to be seen.

Fearing for our lives, we sped through roadblocks, dodging stones and sticks thrown by the mob. Just when we thought we had made it clear, we came across a group carrying Bobi Wine signs and big sticks. This wasn’t a scene I ever thought I’d film: myself at the center of it.

They recognized our car as belonging to a local television station. We were surrounded. Panic overwhelmed me. A man, carrying a menacingly large rock, demanded that we leave. My cameraman, always brave, tried to explain that we were journalists, he even erased a Bobi Wine poster as they demanded.

They pulled me out of the car by my neck, accusing us of working for a pro-government station. We were accused of working for a television station owned by SK Mbuga, a well-known tycoon who is a strong supporter of the government.

Mbuga had recently made headlines with media comments accusing opposition leader Bobi Wine of wanting to destabilize Uganda and cause unrest similar to those in Libya.

This accusation, together with our affiliation with the Mbuga television station, fueled suspicion and hostility towards us. Just when all hope seemed lost, another man stepped in and recognized us as journalists.

He managed to negotiate our release, but not before the rear windshield of our car was smashed.

The trip back to our office seemed like an eternity. The traffic rules were non-existent, fears our only passenger. My car, battered and bruised, reflected my own emotional state.

Later that day, on my way home, I encountered another incident: a colleague who witnessed the brutal shooting of a journalist by LDU (Local Defense Unit) personnel. We couldn’t help.