Made Man

On and on they came, in a long, lowing procession: Brown cows, dappled cows, longhorns and short, their tails swishing behind haunches branded y.k.m. Ugandan President Yoweri K. Museveni sat regally in a padded plastic chair, a ceremonial cattle prod stuck beside him in the ground, watching with an expression of transported delight. Cattle are prized all over Africa as symbols of wealth and status, but they have special meaning for Museveni, who was born into a pastoral ethnic group and tended his family's herd from the age of four. Even today, when he owns thousands, he claims to know all his cows by name. As the parade made its way across the acacia-dotted pasture, Museveni rose from his chair to point out his favorite bulls. "This is my way of life," he shouted. "I can't forget my children just because I'm working for the regime. ..." He paused a beat, reconsidering his choice of words. "... For the government."I was tagging along with a delegation of Ugandan journalists, who had been invited up to the president's ranch, a couple hours west of Uganda's capital, to chronicle a day in Museveni's life as a gentleman rancher. It was early November, the beginning of the political season that will culminate in this month's presidential election, and the symbolism was lost on no one. For two decades now, since he marched into power with a victorious rebel army, Museveni has styled himself as Uganda's benevolent herdsman. He often likens politics to cattle-keeping, and his governing method has been much like the one employed by the slim men in threadbare clothing who patrolled the pasture in front of him. They beat the grass with sticks to let the animals know what path to follow. When one strayed out of line, they chased it down and rustled it back with a solid thwack to the side. Museveni has often claimed that he is the only Ugandan with a vision for the country's future, and, for a long time, Western policymakers believed it. In the mid-'90s, Museveni was anointed one of a "new breed" of African military rulers who seemed poised to lead their once war-wracked countries to stable, responsible--and even democratic--futures. Among this group of youthful leaders, which also included the presidents of Rwanda, Ethiopia, Eritrea, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, Museveni was always the most promising: charming, smart, willing to speak hard truths about Africa's failings, permissive of dissent, and enlightened on many issues of public policy. Foreign governments showered the country with millions in aid. Everyone from Bono to President Bush came to see the Ugandan "miracle," as it was called. Bill Clinton, when he visited in 1998, saluted Museveni as the leader of an "African renaissance." Today, eight years on, the renaissance talk of the '90s has come to seem terribly naive. Leaders once hailed as fresh and new now carry a whiff--or more- -of the old stench of dictatorship. One of them, President Laurent Kabila of Congo, is already dead--assassinated by his own bodyguard after several years of corrupt, tyrannical rule. In Rwanda, Congo's neighbor and occasional invader, the austere Paul Kagame now presides over a ruthless police state. Isaias Afwerki, the first leader of independent Eritrea, has degenerated into a drunken, paranoid hermit. He has canceled elections, arrested critics, and abrogated the constitution while intermittently warring with his larger neighbor, Ethiopia. That country's president, the brainy Meles Zenawi, a one- time confidante of Tony Blair, has lately taken to imprisoning opposition politicians and shooting at protesters who accuse him of stealing recent parliamentary elections. Museveni, to one degree or another, has engaged in all these bad behaviors. He has attacked and looted Congo; he has allowed fantastic corruption within his inner circle; he has harassed journalists and cracked down on political dissent; he has amended Uganda's constitution to allow himself to serve indefinitely. In November, he jailed his strongest opponent in this month's presidential election, charging him with rape and treason. "Once touted as one of the `new leaders of Africa,'" an American political analyst wrote recently in a damning confidential report to the World Bank, "[Museveni], over the last eight years, has increasingly resembled the old." Looking back, many of the foreign policy specialists who were most closely involved in raising Museveni up as an exemplar believe that their strategy backfired. "We have made mistakes with Museveni, and we continue to compound them," said one former State Department official who served under Clinton. "The mistakes are that we have reinforced his self-image as the darling of the West, repeatedly and relentlessly." The United States, the wealthy nations of Europe, and lending institutions like the World Bank now contribute more than half of Uganda's budget in the form of foreign aid. Yet Museveni has virtually dared his benefactors to punish him. And, for the most part, they have stood by impassively as Uganda has grown more repressive and fractious. Like parties to a bad relationship, Museveni's suitors can't quite bring themselves to believe that Uganda's president is no longer the dashing man they once knew--or that, perhaps, they never really understood him at all. Now around 60--his tribe didn't keep birth records--Museveni has been either fighting for power in Uganda or leading it for well over half his life. He came of age during the 1960s, the heady first days of independence, and attended the University of Dar es Salaam, then a hotbed of leftist thought. In his youth, he idolized Che Guevara, traveled to North Korea (where he learned to shoot), and wrote his thesis on Franz Fanon, colonial Africa's theorist of violent liberation. Within a few years, he had launched his first rebellion in Uganda, against the murderous dictatorship of General Idi Amin. After Amin's 1979 ouster, he went to war against Uganda's new president, Milton Obote. Provoked by the insurgency, Obote proved to be just as brutal as Amin; his army massacred countless civilians while trying to crush Museveni. When Museveni came to power in 1986, at the head of an army of uneducated farmers and Kalashnikov-toting children, he promised "a fundamental change in the politics of our country." To the world's surprise, he proved good to his word. And, even more remarkably, what happened in Uganda seemed to reproduce itself all over Africa in the years that followed. Dictators like Ethiopia's Mengistu Haile Mariam and Zaire's Mobutu Sese Seko fell, and, from the ruins of civil wars, new leaders emerged. Like Museveni, their roots were in the Marxist milieu of the '60s, but, with the cold war ending, they were willing to forsake socialism and embrace the tough economic reforms that Western donors demanded. For the United States, the new breed--many of whom spoke English--represented a way to challenge France's spheres of influence in Africa. It was argued that, though they had come to power by force of arms, these "new soldier princes," as journalist Howard French called them, possessed a certain kind of legitimacy, having waged long struggles with the support of their countrysides. These were peasant revolutions the World Bank could love: Mao without the Marx. The former rebels ruled by force, but they often talked of democracy, if only as a distant aspiration. In Uganda, Museveni presided over the enactment of a new constitution, intended to protect human rights. He reversed racist economic policies, welcoming back investors from India, who had been kicked out by Amin. He promoted an open political culture, grudgingly tolerated a raucous free press, and was one of the first African leaders to talk honestly about aids, a disease destined to kill more Ugandans than all the country's wars and dictators combined. He maintained a frugal lifestyle and encouraged his underlings to do the same. Only one political party was allowed, the ruling Movement Party, but Museveni reasonably argued that such strictures were temporarily necessary: Uganda's old parties had fractured along tribal and religious lines. "There were numerous signs to indicate that a process was moving forward that was positive in terms of setting the stage for a genuine democracy," says Johnnie Carson, the American ambassador to Uganda from 1991 to 1994, who has since become critical of the regime. But Museveni's admirers were slow to recognize--or remained willfully blind-- when he stopped living up to his renaissance man reputation. Corruption reemerged, particularly in the army, where the president's hard-living brother, Lieutenant General Salim Saleh--imagine Billy Carter in olive fatigues--held enormous sway. When Museveni invaded Congo in 1998, Saleh and his other generals promptly set about pillaging the country for gold, diamonds, and timber. They took kickbacks on deals for faulty weaponry, and they padded the military payroll with nonexistent soldiers, whose wages they pocketed. Eventually such "ghost soldiers" came to make up perhaps one-third of the army, leading to military setbacks in Congo and in Uganda's north, where a ragtag rebel army terrorized the populace. As the carnage mounted, grand mansions belonging to members of Museveni's inner circle appeared atop Kampala's green hills. Diplomats and aid workers based in Uganda knew what was happening: Many of them rented their houses from the kleptocrats. But they developed a winking attitude toward the graft. Those who disbursed Uganda's aid knew their budgets, and maybe their jobs, were tied to the perception that the country was a continuing success. So they did nothing when money meant to fund schools and health clinics was diverted to the army or to Movement's extensive political machine. Some Africa experts, like Stanford University's Jeremy Weinstein, argue that the massive influx of aid may actually have retarded democratic reforms, because it made the "new breed" governments less dependent on popular support. Museveni seems to have calculated, correctly, that the rules would be different for a darling. So, even as formerly strife-ridden countries like Mozambique, Namibia, and Kenya selected new leaders in free elections, he continued to argue that only an enlightened autocrat could hold Uganda together. He gradually eased into the timehonored role of the patriarchal African leader. These days, the president is surrounded by a shrinking cadre of loyalists who reverently refer to him as mzee, a Swahili word evoking a village elder, or, more straightforwardly, as "the Big Man." He thinks nothing of Mobutu-esque gestures like flying his pregnant daughter to visit a German obstetrician aboard the presidential jet. In 2001, Museveni ran for his second and, it was then assumed, last elected term in office. The campaign turned nasty when Colonel Kizza Besigye, a former ally, decided to run against him. Museveni won, in an election marred by fraud, and Besigye fled into exile, claiming he feared for his life. Soon afterward, ruling party politicians began a campaign to amend the constitution to remove term limits, which would allow Museveni to run the country indefinitely. Through it all, Western diplomats did little more than issue critical communiques; the aid kept flowing. "I think too much slack was given," says John Prendergast, formerly an Africa specialist on Clinton's National Security Council staff and now a senior adviser at the International Crisis Group. "During the Clinton administration, we tried to be clever and we tried to maintain access, and I look at it in horror." Bush's Africa policy has differed little from Clinton's, and Museveni still has unabashed supporters at the State Department. It hasn't hurt that he has become a vocal supporter of the war on terrorism and cozied up to leaders of America's evangelical movement. That afternoon at his ranch, as black thunderheads rolled in across the savannah, Museveni beckoned me and a couple of Ugandan journalists to hop into his bulletproof Toyota Land Cruiser. He drove us back to the ranch house, skidding along the muddy unpaved road. He wanted to keep talking about animal husbandry. But our minds were on politics and the big issue of the week: Kizza Besigye's return. The previous Wednesday, the former presidential candidate arrived on Ugandan soil after four years in exile. On his drive from the airport to Kampala, 25 miles away, his car had been mobbed by thousands of chanting supporters waving tree branches in celebration. At a massive rally held that evening, the colonel had attacked Museveni for allowing his cronies to grow rich while the rest of Uganda sunk deeper into poverty. "We now know we have the votes," Besigye had said in his distinctively low, gravelly voice. "If anyone wants to use force to steal our votes, then he will be undertaking the most serious risk of his life." As he drove past scruffy villages where farmers lined the roadside, clapping in the pelting rain, Museveni told us he wasn't worried. "They can have a crowd of 20,000--that's not surprising at all--if they go where they are concentrated, " he said. Movement's support lay in Uganda's countryside, he told us, not the cities, where only 14 percent of the population lives. Asked to predict how he would do in the election, Museveni replied, "It will be like 80 percent." "Are you going to arrest him?" asked a Ugandan journalist in the front seat. Rumors of a crackdown on Besigye had been flying ever since he'd returned. Uganda's intelligence agencies had long alleged that, in the wake of his 2001 defeat, Besigye had plotted a civil war to overthrow the government, and there was ample circumstantial evidence. (On one memorable occasion, Besigye called a radio show to instruct his supporters to "train and wait" for war.) Now that he had returned, Besigye was refusing to disavow rebellion. "He must make sure he does not run afoul of the law," Museveni told us, choosing his words cautiously. "He will have to stop it, because I'm sure--I'm not a lawyer, but he must be breaking some law." Ten days later, to no one's surprise, Besigye was arrested. Kampala descended into riots, the worst urban violence the city had seen since the end of the civil war. The day of the arraignment, I stood in a packed, sweltering courtroom as Besigye was charged with plotting rebellion and raping his former maid. Outside the court's window, police were shooting tear gas at protesters gathered in a park across the street. Periodically, the staccato sound of automatic rifle fire rang out. Besigye's arrest began a menacing few months. He was denied bail and subsequently dragged before a military tribunal on separate charges. One day, black-clad men armed with machine guns--members of a military intelligence unit called the Black Mambas Urban Hit Squad--surrounded Uganda's High Court building, just to show the judges who was boss. The government slapped new restrictions on the movement of foreign journalists and threatened to ban an independent newspaper. Meanwhile, Museveni barnstormed the country with the leader of his abusive political militia in tow. The repressive measures, however, have exacted a political cost. In the days after Besigye's imprisonment, several European nations cut their aid to Uganda, as did the World Bank. If the amounts were symbolic, the message was clear: Harder days are coming for Museveni. He is not yet a dictator in the mold of Zimbabwe's Robert Mugabe, another former rebel who was a darling in his own day, but it now seems beyond dispute that Uganda's herdsman is guiding his people down the same path. The situation is similar for all the new breed rulers. Many who once admired them, such as Prendergast, say the time has come to treat the soldier princes like what they have become: just another generation of Big Men in Africa. "It's the basic principle of `speak softly and carry a big stick,'" he said. "We walk loudly and carry a toothpick, and these governments just laugh at our efforts at promoting democracy." Pressuring a leader like Museveni on his weakest point--his country's dependence on foreign generosity--can work. In early January, after the aid cuts, a Ugandan judge abruptly freed Besigye, calling his prolonged detention "illegal and unlawful." More recently, after the same judge indicated that he is likely to acquit Besigye of rape, and a top general thunderously denounced him, he resigned from Besigye's treason case, citing his health and saying, "I still love my dear life." Besigye remains free for now, drawing large and enthusiastic crowds between court dates. The campaign itself has thus far been relatively peaceful, probably because of heightened international scrutiny. Museveni might be forced into a runoff; he could even conceivably lose. Whatever happens, fraud charges, court challenges, and public unrest are sure to ensue. But few Ugandans doubt who will remain in charge when the tear gas clears. The night of Besigye's arrest, as soldiers patrolled the darkened streets of downtown Kampala, I visited a bar frequented by a crowd of boisterous, educated young Ugandans. I'd spent many nights arguing about politics there, and I knew the regulars split roughly evenly between Museveni supporters and opponents. But, that night, everyone was busy filling out yellow cards identifying themselves as members of the ruling Movement Party. Ideals were a luxury, they said; if there was going to be trouble, they wanted to be on the winning side. Only my friend Joseph, a hardcore Besigye man, refused to sign up. "Politics is getting nasty," he said disgustedly. "We are going back to those old days." Then he downed his beer and stalked off into the gloom. Andrew Rice is writing a book about a Ugandan murder trial and the legacy of Idi Amin.

By andrew rice