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This ancient biblical principle—drawn from Exodus 21:24, Leviticus 24:20, and Deuteronomy 19:21—was never intended to promote revenge, but to restrain it. It was a rule of measured justice, ensuring that punishment did not exceed the harm done. It was meant for courts, for order, for balance—not for personal vengeance.
Yet in Uganda today, one cannot help but ask whether this principle has been dangerously inverted. What was once designed to limit harm now appears, in practice, to justify cycles of retaliation. In that inversion, we are witnessing a nation slowly edging toward fear, suspicion, and quiet instability.
I remember one evening with unsettling clarity. I was returning from a tourism journey in Kigali, Rwanda, in the company of fellow Ugandan guides. As we approached the border and began the routine process of re-entering the country, the atmosphere was ordinary—until it was not.
One of the soldiers inspecting our vehicle made a remark that froze us mid-conversation:
“At least you who have been away are safe—you would have been among the suspects of those who assassinated Hon. Col. Abiriga.”
We were stunned.
“What do you mean?” we asked almost in unison. “Has Abiriga also been killed?”
The soldier looked at us, almost amused by our disbelief.
“Do you think I’m lying? Go and watch the TV,” he said.
Inside the immigration office, there was indeed a television broadcasting breaking news. There he was—Hon. Ibrahim Abiriga, the man famously draped in yellow from head to toe—lying lifeless, shot dead.
In that moment, a chilling realization settled upon us:
If a man so visible, so politically aligned, and so publicly identifiable could be killed, then who in Uganda is truly safe? That question has never quite left.
“Evil begets evil.”
It is a simple truth, yet one that carries profound consequences. In Uganda today, it is no longer a distant warning; it is becoming a lived reality.
For years, our nation has witnessed a troubling rise in targeted assassinations—killings that are deliberate, precise, and often executed under circumstances that defy ordinary criminal explanation. These are not acts of random violence or theft; they are calculated removals of individuals from the fabric of society.
Behind every bullet fired lies a human story. The victims are not just officials or public figures; they are fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, and pillars of families. They leave behind children who must grow up in the shadows of unanswered questions.
Children who will one day ask: Who killed my father? Why was my mother taken?
In many households, the names of those confirmed or merely suspected are whispered in private. It is human nature. People often know, or believe they know, who their enemies are. Many victims, aware of threats against them, confide quietly in their families before tragedy strikes.
What, then, happens after the burial?
Do we expect grief to simply disappear?
Do we imagine that memory fades without consequence?
Or are we, as a nation, silently cultivating a future harvest of vengeance?
Are we not, in effect, building a cycle of revenge?
Will a child raised on stories of injustice resist the pull of retaliation?
Or will that pain, left unresolved, mature into action—into a continuation of the very violence that created it?
And what of the society we are shaping?
Will tomorrow’s job interviews remain fair and impartial?
Or will suspicion creep into decision-making, where a candidate is judged not by merit, but by lineage, rumor, or perceived historical guilt?
Will someone miss a flight, lose an opportunity, or face silent exclusion simply because their family name is tied—rightly or wrongly—to past violence?
Where have we gone wrong?
Have the instruments of force fallen into reckless hands?
Or have the systems meant to regulate and restrain that force grown too weak—or too compromised—to function effectively?
Who holds the power of the gun in Uganda today, and under what accountability?
Who answers when lives are taken in such calculated ways?
Why do so many investigations fail to provide closure?
How long can a nation endure unanswered questions before trust begins to collapse?
These are not rhetorical exercises. They are urgent national questions.
Uganda has, over the years, witnessed the assassination of prominent individuals under deeply troubling circumstances. Figures such as Andrew Felix Kaweesi, Joan Kagezi, Muhammad Kirumira, Ibrahim Abiriga, and several Muslim religious leaders were all killed in targeted attacks that shocked the nation.
More recently, even members of the media—individuals tasked with informing the public—have not been spared.
These killings share disturbing characteristics:
Such patterns erode public confidence and deepen national anxiety.
Beyond the human tragedy lies another dimension—one that is less visible but equally significant: the economic cost of fear.
As insecurity grows, so too does the demand for protection. Public officials increasingly seek personal security—armed escorts, bodyguards, secure residences, and surveillance systems. What was once exceptional is gradually becoming normalized.
But security is not free.
Each deployment of personnel, each vehicle assigned, and each protective measure implemented carries a cost—one that is ultimately borne by the state. Resources that could have been invested in education, healthcare, infrastructure, and social development are instead redirected toward personal protection.
Is this the trajectory we desire?
Can a developing nation sustain such a shift in priorities?
What does it say about our national condition when those entrusted with leadership feel perpetually unsafe?
A country cannot progress where fear dictates expenditure.
The normalization of assassination—whether through silence, inaction, or inadequate accountability—creates a dangerous precedent. It signals that life can be taken without consequence, and that justice is uncertain.
And when justice becomes uncertain, people begin to seek alternatives—some of which lie outside the law.
This is where the distortion of “an eye for an eye” becomes most dangerous. What was once a principle of restraint risks becoming a justification for retaliation.
Yet even within scripture, there is a corrective.
In Matthew 5:38–39, the teaching evolves:
“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I tell you, do not resist an evil person…”
This is not a call to passivity, but a call to break the cycle—to reject the instinct of revenge and pursue a higher form of justice rooted in accountability, restraint, and humanity.
Uganda today stands at a crossroads.
Will we continue down a path where violence breeds more violence?
Or will we rebuild a system where justice is credible, institutions are trusted, and human life is protected without exception?
Because once a society begins to normalize the taking of life without consequence, it risks something far greater than instability—it risks losing its moral and institutional foundation.
Let it be said, clearly and without hesitation:
These assassinations must be condemned in the strongest possible terms.
They are not isolated incidents. They are symptoms of a deeper crisis—one that, if left unaddressed, threatens to entrench a culture of fear, suspicion, and revenge.
Uganda deserves better.
And unless we confront this reality with honesty and urgency, we may soon find ourselves trapped in the very cycle we failed to prevent—a cycle where, in the name of justice, we perpetuate injustice.
Torch Media Africa