Malindi

Kenya is a Christian-majority country with a significant Muslim minority. Many Kenyan Muslims live in towns on the Swahili coast, where the history of Islam stretches back more than a millennium. In the rural hinterlands around these towns, other coastal populations such as the Mijikenda are often more numerous. In this area, Malindi is a multi-religious town with a significant presence of Islam, Christianity and ‘Traditionalism’, a term that is widely used in Malindi to refer to indigenous African religious traditions. In and around Malindi, the Giriama are the most populous Mijikenda subgroup. Most Giriama self-identify as either Christians or Traditionalists, while some also self-identify as Muslims (McIntosh Reference McIntosh2009).

Under postcolonial conditions, both Mijikenda from various religious backgrounds and Swahili Muslims have frequently complained about their relative marginalization vis-à-vis ‘upcountry Christians’ in terms of education, economics, land access and political representation (McIntosh Reference McIntosh2009; Kresse Reference Kresse2009). Feelings of marginalization intensified when many people from ‘upcountry’ (‘wabara’) settled in coastal towns to work in business, governmental jobs or tourism, making the coastal populations (‘wapwani’) feel that they were being sidelined even in their own home regions. During my fieldwork, however, nearly everyone complained about the decline of tourism. In the 1980s, Malindi experienced a ‘tourist boom’ from which many youths profited by providing European tourists with informal tours, souvenirs or (sexual) intimacy. However, tourism also raised moral debates, since religious leaders lamented the increased drug use, alcohol consumption, ‘indecent’ dress and prostitution that came with it (Peake Reference Peake1989; Beckerleg Reference Beckerleg1995).

In the late 1990s, this tourist ‘boom’ was followed by a ‘bust’ when politically inspired violent clashes, natural calamities and al-Qaida-related terrorist attacks disrupted coastal tourism. Tourism again came to a near complete stop after 2011, when al-Shabaab conducted violent attacks against Christian and state targets in Kenya (Anderson and McKnight Reference Anderson and McKnight2014: 15–25). Although Malindi has not seen any major al-Shabaab attacks, the town has been used as a recruiting ground. The disruption to tourism forced many to look for economic alternatives. For youth in Malindi, who mostly lack capital to invest in business or education, few viable options are available. Local fishermen increasingly compete with large commercial fishing vessels, while agricultural endeavours are precarious due to irregular droughts, and because many urban poor live as squatters on land owned by absent landlords (McIntosh Reference McIntosh2009). Many young men have consequently turned to driving or touting public transport minibuses (matatus), motorcycle taxis (boda-bodas) or three-wheeled tuk-tuks. Motorcycles in particular are in such high demand that I heard several stories about Giriama youth who accuse elderly relatives of witchcraft (uchawi), after which they kill them or chase them away, so that they can sell their plots of land to buy a motorcycle. Although transportation provides youth with much-needed economic opportunities, this sector has a morally ambivalent reputation, as young drivers are frequently accused of giving girls lifts in exchange for sexual favours. Furthermore, politicians often provide boda-boda drivers with food, money and T-shirts during campaigns, causing many to fear that youth are lured by politicians to engage in political violence.

In relation to recent al-Shabaab activity, Western donors currently fund various CSOs in Malindi to promote peaceful interreligious coexistence and to counter ‘radicalization’ and ‘violent extremism’. I noticed that within these programmes, elderly leaders generally locate the threat of political violence and ‘violent extremism’ in youth, and often associate violence and other immoralities with a lack of religiosity. For example, a Muslim leader made the suggestion that young drug users ‘lack religion’ (wanakosa dini), while a Giriama elder reasoned that youth who accuse elders of witchcraft are ‘no Muslim, no Christian, but also no Traditionalist’, which implicitly posits that adherence to any religion would restrain youth from behaving in this way. Similarly, during an interfaith dialogue, a Christian pastor spoke about a village north of Malindi where young Christians and Muslims had clashed violently. The pastor argued that these youths are ‘thugs’ (wakora) rather than Muslims or Christians, since no religion permits violence. During another interfaith dialogue, a Muslim leader associated ‘radicalization’ with a lack of education and knowledge about Islam. Finally, the saying ‘an idle mind is the devil's workshop’, expressed by both Muslims and Christians, links idleness to demonic influence.Footnote ⁴ Since drug abuse, sexual immorality, political violence and violent extremism are often explained as resulting from idleness, this signifies how youth problems are commonly understood to be in opposition to (‘good’) religiosity. These observations bring to the fore a striking discrepancy between Western donors and the CSOs they fund in Malindi. Many Western donors see ‘radical’ religiosity, especially among Muslim youth, as a potential security threat, which they aim to counter by supporting ‘moderate’ religious leaders (Mwakimako and Willis Reference Mwakimako and Willis2014: 9–10). However, many religious leaders, government officials and CSO officials in Malindi conceptualize a lack of religiosity among youth as a threat to peace, ‘interfaith harmony’ and morality. In the next section, I explain this discrepancy in relation to the ways in which concerns about youth and violence intersect with religion in Kenya.

Youth, violence and religion in Kenya

Concerns about youth as forming potentially violent threats to peace have long figured in Kenyan political imaginations. Anthropologist Naomi van Stapele (Reference van Stapele2016: 314) argues that such worries should be understood in relation to wider political contestations for resources and state power within Kenya's patriarchal political system, which generally privileges men over women, and wealthy/older men over young men (cf. Lonsdale Reference Lonsdale1992). As women are frequently seen as dependent on men and excluded from political spheres, concerns about ‘youth violence’ often focus on men, and particularly those from marginalized urban localities where relatively large numbers of ‘idle’ young men are thought to reside (van Stapele Reference van Stapele2016: 309; Rasmussen Reference Rasmussen2010: 314). In relation to the challenge that poor urban men may pose to political elites, van Stapele (Reference van Stapele2016: 314) argues that youth are often imagined as ‘dangerous criminals’ and a ‘public threat to safety’. Van Stapele argues that such generational imaginaries serve to legitimize the concentration of power in a small male and ageing elite, and to exclude poor urban men from dominant conceptions of Kenyan nationhood and citizenship, which leaves them exposed to systematic state violence to suppress them.

Besides intersecting with class, locality and gender, concerns about ‘youth violence’ also have religious dimensions. Although Kenya's 2010 constitution states that ‘there shall be no state religion’, scholars have often pointed to the prominence of Christianity in Kenyan law, politics and public debates (Ambani and Ahaya Reference Ambani and Ahaya2015). Especially since the 1990s, politicians have increasingly relied on Christian forms and practices to build support and legitimacy, for example by televising church visits and attending church fundraising events as patrons (Deacon et al. Reference Deacon, Gona, Mwakimako and Willis2017: 150–3). Given Christian predominance in Kenyan public life and politics, it is perhaps unsurprising that marginalized youth have sometimes expressed discontent through movements inspired by religions other than Christianity (Mazrui Reference Mazrui1994). For example, during the 1990s, the Mungiki movement, which grew among marginalized Kikuyu youth, advocated a return to Kikuyu traditionalism and a generational change of power, while gaining a notorious reputation for violence (Rasmussen Reference Rasmussen2010).

When many Mungiki groups ceased to exist after violent government crackdowns in the early 2010s, state concerns about ‘youth violence’ shifted their focus to al-Shabaab (van Stapele Reference van Stapele2016: 304). Building on a history of marginalization and frustration under postcolonial conditions, in recent decades a segment of Kenyan Muslims has expressed discontent in the form of fiery Islamist discourses that explicitly reject the Kenyan state and the Christian predominance they associate with it (Mwakimako and Willis Reference Mwakimako and Willis2014; Chome Reference Chome2019). Although many Muslims who advance such critiques do not promote or condone violence, al-Shabaab has also found support among a minority of Kenyan Muslims. While particularly popular among young Muslims with limited prospects for the future, any public expression of Islamist critiques – including those that are non-violent – can invoke serious security risks, because counterterrorism measures by the Kenyan state have involved the often arbitrary use of violence, the profiling of Muslim communities, and extrajudicial killings (MUHURI and Open Society Justice Initiative 2013).

Kenyan political scientist Peter Kagwanja (Reference Kagwanja, Abbink and van Kessel2004) argues that, since the 1990s, concerns about ‘youth violence’ in Kenya – and Africa more widely – have sparked considerable academic attention. Kagwanja describes how discourses about ‘youth in Africa’ frequently construct a ‘Manichean dichotomy’ that emphasizes either ‘emancipatory’ or violent ‘apocalyptic’ aspects of youth political mobilization, as youth may take ‘recourse to religion’ (Kagwanja Reference Kagwanja, Abbink and van Kessel2004: 84; Abbink Reference Abbink, Abbink and van Kessel2004: 20). In a recent article, Elizabeth King (Reference King2018: 135) demonstrates that dichotomous conceptions of youth as either ‘peacemakers’ or ‘troublemakers’ have also found their way into international development policies implemented in Kenya. King (Reference King2018: 136) argues that international donors and the Kenyan government both consider involving youth in education, employment, development and peacebuilding as crucial in keeping them from political violence, criminal gangs and al-Shabaab recruitment.

These policy concerns coincide with wider donor policy shifts since the end of the authoritarian Moi regime (1978–2002), in which Western donors have increasingly moved from human rights and good governance themes to focus on peacebuilding and ‘countering violent extremism’ instead. Scholars have observed how donor policies to ‘counter violent extremism’ in Kenya often conceive ‘radical’ religious beliefs among Muslim youth in particular as a threat to their strategic and security interests, which they aim to curb by supporting peace and development projects led by ‘moderate’ religious leaders (Mwakimako and Willis Reference Mwakimako and Willis2014: 9–10).Footnote ⁵ Although Muslim organizations continue to benefit from donor support under these policy shifts, scholars have noted that this ‘securitization of aid’ has put Muslim CSOs in a vulnerable position. On the one hand, Muslim CSOs that cooperate with Western donors risk angering Muslims who are critical of the state or Western ‘meddling’ in Muslim affairs (Khalil and Zeuthen Reference Khalil and Zeuthen2016). On the other hand, the Kenyan government increasingly scrutinizes CSOs as part of its counterterrorism measures, and has used anti-terrorism legislation to freeze accounts of several prominent CSOs that criticize excessive state violence (Mazrui et al. Reference Mazrui, Njogu, Goldsmith, Mazrui, Njogu and Goldsmith2018: 27). In these conditions, it has become crucial for Muslim organizations to actively dissociate Islam from the ‘violent extremism’ they are supposed to counter. For example, I noticed that in Malindi two local Muslim CSOs that receive funds via the UK Conflict, Stability and Security Fund to ‘build resilience’ against ‘violent extremism’ often avoid addressing violent extremism altogether, as they fear that openly addressing it would bring about security risks or further stigmatization of Islam. Instead, these two Muslim CSOs try to counter violent extremism by promoting peace during interfaith dialogues, and by providing youth with peace education and entrepreneurship training. In this way, they aim to uphold the idea that Islam is essentially a peaceful religion, which, like Christianity, contributes to peace, morality and national unity.Footnote ⁶

It is in this context that we can understand the earlier observed discrepancy between the motivations of Western donors and Malindi-based leaders to engage youth in peace and development projects. Within these programmes, Muslims and Traditionalists strive to cooperate with Christians as equals, by arguing that their religions are essentially peaceful and, like Christianity, support civil ideals of peace, morality and national unity. In order to strengthen such claims, they associate immorality, political violence and ‘violent extremism’ not with the ‘radical’ religiosity of particular religious groups, but rather with a general lack of morality among ‘idle’ youth, to which various religions offer the solution. This conceptualization allows elderly leaders to tap into anxieties about ‘youth violence’ common in both donor policies and Kenyan political imaginations, and to assume public roles as guardians of peace and national unity, towards which different religions offer alternative but equal moral paths. These observations highlight how projects that aim to ‘build peace’ and ‘counter violent extremism’ in Malindi are shaped by influences on multiple scales, which are negotiated, ignored and adjusted by elderly leaders as they accommodate them to the coastal Kenyan context. Next, I explore how these dynamics play out in Malindi.

Contesting ‘idle minds’ and ‘empty stomachs’

In January 2017, a young CSO volunteer invited me to attend a youth convention for peace in Malindi, organized by the CSO Muslims for Human Rights (MUHURI). Upon arrival at the venue, I recognized several youths from the Malindi Youth Development Group (MYDG), who often participate in CSO projects, while they tested a PA system by loudly playing hip-hop music. After an opening prayer, the MUHURI staff shared that they had invited various guests to address the youth. They also emphasized that all participants would receive ‘chai, lunch and transport’. As I saw about a hundred youngsters attending the meeting, I asked my friend what role food and transport money plays in the motivation of youth to attend. He replied: ‘They just think with their stomachs and pockets. They are not here to get knowledge. They need something tangible. If they get some food, some money, some snacks, they will come.’

The first speaker was a representative of the National Commission for Integration and Cohesion (NCIC), which was established after the 2007–08 outbreak of post-election violence. The representative explained that the NCIC aimed to ensure that the upcoming general elections in August 2017 would remain peaceful. She stressed that, as Kenyan citizens, youth have to uphold national values of peace, human rights, loyalty, integrity, justice, equality and unity. She also emphasized that youth should avoid hate speech that highlights ‘tribal’ identities, as it has the potential to disrupt peace. Finally, she mentioned that the NCIC was watching youth, that WhatsApp messages would be monitored, and that any distribution of provocative content would be punishable by a three-year prison sentence.

Then, a local consultant, recognizable as a Muslim by his cap, spoke about violent extremism. His lecture contained two main points. First, he defined violent extremists as people who mobilize ethnic or religious identities for political ends, and mentioned al-Shabaab, Mungiki and the coastal secessionist movement the Mombasa Republican Council as examples. Second, he emphasized that these groups misuse and misinterpret religion, as religion requires people to maintain peace and unity, instead of causing division. The third speaker represented the Independent Electoral and Boundary Commission, which administers and oversees elections in Kenya. The representative noted that youth, not elders, were the main participants in earlier outbreaks of political violence in Kenya. He argued that, this time, youth should not be tempted by cash handouts from divisive politicians to engage in violence, but should take responsibility by promoting peace instead.

Over the course of these lectures, I noticed how the young people there looked increasingly bored, with many busy on their phones, and some even appearing to be asleep. The youth only became active again during lunch. While eating lunch, my friend complained that the meeting was boring and not properly organized: ‘Even the food is not well cooked! And now after the break, people will be sleeping more, because that is the natural reaction of the body after eating a lot.’

After lunch, the young people got the opportunity to raise topics that they were interested in. However, the government representatives who had spoken earlier had already left, leaving youth to address the remaining MUHURI staff. They mainly complained about the lack of economic opportunities in Malindi, and they did so without referring to ethnic or religious identities, in line with earlier received instructions. After this session, a national government representative arrived and delivered another lecture about the importance of keeping the peace during elections. Finally, a MUHURI staff member invited the young people to become peace ambassadors, since ‘idleness is the devil's workshop’ and leaves youth vulnerable to being ‘used’ (wanatumiwa) by divisive others. After a closing prayer, the youths received a ‘transport fee’ of 300 shillings (Ksh), similar to the amount many make in a day of informal economic activities.

In various ways, this MUHURI peace meeting was typical of CSO meetings that aim to ‘build peace’ or ‘counter violent extremism’ in Malindi. In many meetings, the threat of political violence and ‘violent extremism’ is primarily located in youth, since elders fear that their idleness leaves them vulnerable to being ‘used’ by divisive others. Furthermore, CSO meetings generally privilege elderly authority, because CSO officials, government representatives and religious leaders talk the most and constantly emphasize the moral responsibility of youth in maintaining the peace and unity. Youth also receive material rewards for their participation. Finally, leaders often associate violent extremism or political violence not so much with the ‘radical’ religiosity of particular religious groups, but rather with a misinterpretation or lack of religion, since all religions are envisioned as supporting peace, morality and national unity. This reasoning implies that when religion is interpreted in the ways that elderly leaders envision, a strengthening of religiosity rather than religious moderation is seen as a solution to the threat of violence and immorality.

CSOs in Malindi implement this moral project to educate and pacify youth not only through CSO meetings and dialogues but also in educational settings. For example, one local CSO that receives UK funding to ‘build resilience’ against violent extremism provides peace education in various primary and secondary schools and madrasas in Malindi. When I followed this organization, I noticed that many schools instructed their students through signs and murals. For example, Khairat Girls, a private Muslim secondary school, has written the school's mission and vision on its walls. The mission of Khairat Girls is ‘to provide learners with competitive desired qualities that will enable them to be morally, spiritually, and socially upright members of the community’, while its vision is ‘to relate religion and leadership in order to nurture girls in becoming future leaders in society’.

Similarly, at the main entrance of Upweoni Primary, a large public primary school, a mural states that ‘Fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge’ and exhorts pupils to ‘Listen to advice. Accept instruction and in the end you will be wise’ (Figure 1). We also see an image that depicts a girl refusing money from an older man, accompanied by the text: ‘Do not accept favours.’ This image resembles a larger mural at Holy Ghost Mission, a Catholic-supported public primary school (Figure 2). This painting encourages students to avoid favours, love letters, drugs, secluded places and bad company, which are important ways in which youth can ‘change life’ (badilika uishi) to ‘avoid AIDS’ (epuka ukimwi). At Upweoni Primary, I also found a sign (Figure 3) that instructs students to put ‘God first’, while another indicates an ‘English-speaking zone’, signalling the imposition of English as a language of instruction and national integration (Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o Reference Thiong'o1986: 10–12). Together with accompanying texts, images in murals arguably perform a mimetic function, presenting youth with ideals and anti-ideals of desired bodily behaviour that students should either imitate or avoid. The idea is that youth should wear neat uniforms, adopt calm and friendly behaviour, and speak English. Furthermore, youth should not be distracted by immoral others who offer immediate gratification of bodily desires through favours, drugs or love letters. Idealized bodily behaviour is also connected with future rewards, as youth are promised that they will become ‘wise’ or ‘future leaders of society’. The prospect of gratification, however, remains closely tied to the acceptance of the authority of elders and religious leaders in the present, since students are required to ‘listen to instruction’ and put ‘God first’.

Figure 1 The entrance of Upweoni Primary.

Figure 2 Mural at Holy Ghost Mission Primary.

Figure 3 Instructional signs at Upweoni Primary.

Many public schools – and private Muslim or Christian schools – also subscribe to messages of peace and national unity by cooperating with CSOs, some of which send religious leaders to instruct students within school compounds. For example, during peace education at Khairat Girls, Muslim girls were instructed to share generously, refrain from backbiting, embrace an overarching national identity, and refer to their elders in cases of conflict or disagreement. After each session, girls received milk and biscuits, while their teacher, who acts as ‘patron’, received Ksh 500. During peace education at Upweoni Primary, Muslim and Christian teachers and CSO staff instructed students from various ethnic and religious backgrounds to share poems, songs and stories about peace. Performing students were rewarded with milk and biscuits, while teachers received a ‘transport fee’ of Ksh 1,000. These observations demonstrate that efforts to build peace and national unity, which regularly involve religious leaders, are often closely entangled with the distribution of donor funds and food, which often primarily benefits elderly ‘patrons’ of youth.

I made similar observations when I followed the Coast Interfaith Council of Clerics (CICC) to Karima Primary, where CICC implements a Dialogue and Action Project (DAP) to promote peaceful interreligious coexistence, protect children's rights and counter sexual abuse. CICC does this by forming committees of religious leaders, CSO staff and government officials to handle cases of sexual abuse, while Muslim, Christian and Traditionalist leaders provide guidance to ‘peace clubs’ in various schools.Footnote ⁷ Within Malindi town, CICC selected Karima Primary to be included in the programme because of student pregnancies and students dropping out of school to engage with tourists on the beach. During peace club meetings, children were taught to support one another, be role models, correct the mistakes of other children, respect freedom of worship and stay in school. Children also told me that having peace (kuwa na amani) means loving and helping one another (kupendana, kusaidiana) regardless of ethnic or religious differences. Children also consistently used the peace club as a platform to request material support, for example by asking me to help students with school fees.

CICC also sends Muslim and Christian clerics to various schools to provide ‘pastoral programme instruction’, which complements classes in either Christian religious education (CRE) or Islamic religious education (IRE). It is notable that there is no recognition for indigenous African religious traditions in Kenya's official curriculum (Chidongo Reference Chidongo2012: 223–4). As many public schools originated as mission schools, Kenyan Muslims have at times been apprehensive about the Christian character of public education, with debates focusing on public schools that do not provide IRE or accept students wearing headscarves (Maina Reference Maina2003). Despite these institutional imbalances, the interreligious cooperation within CICC illustrates how many Muslim, Christian and Traditionalist leaders and school officials, as well as Kenya's educational policy, see schools as important settings where children should be shaped into peaceful, moral and religiously upright Kenyan citizens.

The office of CICC-Malindi is located at the Catholic Institute, where various Catholic organizations are situated. There, I found that the mission of Malindi's Catholic secondary school is ‘to reduce the level of illiteracy, early marriages, radicalization, hard substance abuse and poverty in society by educating and empowering our young generation to be vibrant, focal and indispensable people to improve our country in all spheres of life’. When I asked a Catholic teacher about this mission statement, she expressed worries about drug abuse and idleness among youth in Malindi, and stated that many young people ‘do not identify with any religion’. She argued that not identifying with a religion leaves youth vulnerable to recruitment by divisive politicians or youth gangs, or engagement with tourists on the beach. The teacher explained that the Catholic school instructs students to become economically self-sufficient, and to ‘identify with a religion, not necessarily the Catholic one, but a religion which has God as the Supreme Being’. This again signifies how the strengthening of religious belief, rather than the moderation of religious ‘radicalism’, is conceptualized as a solution to the threat of violence and immorality.

Based on these observations, I conclude that, in Malindi, CSOs, religious leaders, state representatives and educational institutions collectively aim to shape youth into morally and religiously upright community members and Kenyan citizens. Yet, they also fear that the ‘idle minds’ and ‘empty stomachs’ of youth leave the latter susceptible to immorality and divisive others who may tempt them with bodily pleasure or material rewards. In what follows, I highlight three potentially overlapping ways in which youth relate to the concerns of elderly leaders.

Appropriating the dominant discourse to access support

Many youths in Malindi organize themselves in ‘youth groups’, which are frequently mobilized by CSOs to participate in development and peace projects. For example, MYDG was founded after its Christian and Muslim members received vocational skills training from the Malindi Education and Development Association (MEDA), a prominent Malindi-based CSO with Muslim leadership. When I joined MYDG's weekly meetings, I was told that it had earlier received funding to participate in a USAID project on conflict mitigation (USAID 2013). MYDG's chairman complained that it was difficult to keep members actively involved after donor wells dried up, as members no longer received regular material benefits from group activities. MYDG still has reasons not to disband, because there are occasional opportunities to get ‘chai, lunch and transport’ at CSO meetings, such as the MUHURI youth convention discussed above.

Furthermore, MYDG also helps MEDA in renting out chairs and a PA system. These items are used during social gatherings and funerals, but also during political rallies and CSO meetings, providing MYDG and MEDA with opportunities to benefit indirectly from donor and campaign funds flowing into town. I noticed similar tactics among other youth groups. For example, the youth group Tosha (‘Enough’) wrote a business plan during an entrepreneurship training session that aimed to ‘counter violent extremism’, and they used this to acquire funds via the Affirmative Action Fund that is patronized by a local politician. Tosha invested these funds in tents and chairs, allowing the group to benefit from future interactions with CSOs and politicians.

The ways in which youth groups engage leaders often imply that youth literally incorporate peace messages propagated by elderly leaders in their dress, bodily behaviour and activities. For example, as part of the previously mentioned USAID project, MYDG recorded hip-hop songs for peace which it sold on CD, and it distributed T-shirts with peace messages. The front of the T-shirt features the text ‘Amani Pwani, Amani Kenya’, which could be translated as ‘Peace on the Coast, Peace in Kenya’ (Figure 4). This slogan emphasizes not only peace but also that the coast is part of Kenya, negating separatist claims made by the Mombasa Republican Council, which argues that the coast is not Kenya (‘Pwani si Kenya’) (USAID 2013: 30). In the middle of the design, we see two men who are about to shake each other's hands. Simultaneously, their other hands put away what many Kenyans would call ‘traditional weapons’ – a bow and arrows, a machete and a club. In the centre, there is a white dove, a Christian symbol that represents the peace that is attained when people shake off their ‘traditional’ inclinations to fight each other. The back of the T-shirt features the slogan ‘Choose peace, stop violence’, emphasizing youths’ responsibility to maintain peace.

Figure 4 The front of the T-shirt distributed by MYDG.

On another occasion, the Shella For Change Youth Group (SFCYG) cooperated with other youth groups to invite ‘peace-loving leaders’ and larger CSOs to financially contribute to a ‘peace walk’ as part of their ‘peace activism’ surrounding the 2017 elections. The event included a procession during which youth walked through town with banners that stressed peace and national unity. Subsequently, various (aspiring) politicians, CSO representatives and religious leaders who contributed to the event addressed youth on the beach, where meals, water, soda and entertainment were provided. Such events exemplify how youth actively mobilize themselves as an audience for ‘peace-loving’ leaders, which allows them access to the food, money and drinks distributed at these events.

Sometimes, youth also deliberately confirm negative stereotypes that leaders have about them, arguably to remind elders of their moral obligation to support them, since they always combine such reasoning with demands for material support. For example, during an interfaith dialogue organized by the CSO Initiatives for Change, I noticed how a representative of the Malindi Youth Peace Network (MYPN) mostly remained quiet, including when a religious leader associated young ‘thugs’ with violence. When he was finally given the chance to speak, the MYPN representative argued that youth should be involved in ‘peace forums’ to ‘bring us the message’ (tuletee ujumbe) and that they should be given employment. The young man reasoned that this is necessary because youth are ‘used by politicians’ (tunatumiwa sana na wanasiasa) for political violence since there is ‘nothing to do’ (hakuna kitu kufanya), thus confirming the stereotype that ‘idle’ youth are easily mobilized for violence. Similarly, in another meeting on peace and security organized by the National Crime Research Centre, one youth implicitly threatened that young people will join al-Shabaab, arguing that they will ‘go to Somalia’ (tunaenda Somalia) if they are not given jobs soon.

These observations demonstrate how youth in Malindi actively organize themselves to be incorporated in development and peace projects, in ways that do not challenge the moral ideals and evaluations of religious leaders, state representatives or CSO officials. Rather, many youth appropriate the dominant discourse on peace and national unity, which allows them access to food, money and opportunities distributed in these settings. In some cases, youth also confirm negative stereotypes that leaders have about them to ‘hold polite society to ransom’ (Comaroff and Comaroff Reference Comaroff, Comaroff, Honwana and De Boeck2005: 28). In these cases, youth from various religious backgrounds warn leaders that if they fail to meet their moral responsibility to support them, they may be tempted to get involved with divisive or violent others such as al-Shabaab to fulfil their economic needs. These dynamics demonstrate how attempts of leaders to morally instruct youth within peace projects often become closely entangled with the politics of distributing donor funds.

Silent criticism

It is important to stress, however, that outward compliance does not necessarily mean that youth agree with dominant political imaginations (Haugerud Reference Haugerud1995: 103). Outside the context of public meetings, and only after I interacted with them extensively, young people also criticized religious leaders, politicians and CSO officials. For example, after an interfaith dialogue, a young man shared that he was once fired from his job as a hospital clerk, only to see his position taken up by others with connections to a local politician. Although he filed complaints at the labour office and with other politicians, he explained: ‘If you don't know someone up there … you are nowhere.’ Consequently, he argued that ‘the reason that youth in the coast are more violent is not because of drugs or that they are not well educated; it is because they are undermined.’ On a different occasion, after another peace walk, a young Muslim criticized CSO staff and politicians for using project funds for their own benefit, because they use peace walks merely as ‘income-generating activities’.

Youth also criticize religious leaders. Take, for example, Joseph, a young man who sometimes volunteers for an EU-funded ‘Conflict Prevention’ programme.Footnote ⁸ Although he grew up a Christian, Joseph shared that he does not go to church except when they host parties. When I asked why, Joseph explained that ‘his mind is not into it’, because churches ‘don't deliver what they promise’. Joseph also pointed to the hypocrisy of church leaders, as he alleged that they often violate the moral principles they themselves preach: ‘You will find them preaching morals, but they are the most promiscuous people out there. They wreck marriages, they destroy children. And the youth groups, they use them for their promiscuity.’

Another example is Rashid, a young Muslim who often displays his piety by wearing a kanzu (Muslim dress) and kofia (Muslim cap). Rashid took me to various maskani, informal meeting places where youth socialize, discuss their worries and relax (cf. Weiss Reference Weiss2009: 120). Rashid explained that some youth consume drugs and alcohol in the seclusion offered by maskani, because they fear social judgement and police interference if they do so openly. At the maskani, Rashid told me that he had grown increasingly dissatisfied with CSOs in Malindi, because peace meetings and interfaith dialogues are often attended by the same religious leaders who use projects for their own economic or political interests. For example, Rashid accused Muslim leaders of using project funds to gain political support by building or extending patron–client relations. This is not a far-fetched accusation, since several CSO leaders in Malindi are also (aspiring) politicians. Rashid similarly accused Muslim leaders of using Ramadan as a ‘harvest season’ by using some of the collected funds and goods to be distributed as zakat – a mandatory charitable contribution for the poor that is one of the five pillars of Islam – for their personal or political benefit. In relation to these accusations, Rashid argued that Muslim leaders ‘used to preach from their heart, but now they preach from their stomachs’. Here, we see that both Joseph and Rashid criticize religious leaders for not adhering to their own moral standards. Yet, while Joseph indicates that he has become largely indifferent to church activities, Rashid continues to adhere to Islamic ideals of piety.

From these criticisms, it becomes clear that youth frequently offer moral evaluations of peace programmes in Malindi that differ from those of elderly leaders. While leaders fear that youth's ‘idleness’ leaves them susceptible to immorality and violence, which necessitates their involvement in peace and development projects, youth argue that leaders are immoral because they use donor funds for their own benefit and do not provide youth with sufficient economic opportunities. Despite their frustrations, and whether they have become indifferent to religion or not, both Joseph and Rashid continue to work and volunteer for peace and development projects funded by Western donors, since they are unable to find alternative ways of sustaining themselves.

Showing bodily disinterest and discontent

Although youth sometimes criticize leaders in private conversations, the articulation of critique during public meetings is rare – not only because this may invite repercussions from those with a political following or greater access to the repressive powers of the state, but also because it would involve biting a hand that feeds. Nevertheless, youth in Malindi have developed various bodily tactics to express indifference and/or discontent towards elderly leaders. This was clearly visible during the MUHURI youth convention described above, when youth demonstrated their disinterest in the moralizing talk of leaders by sleeping or using their phones.

After the MUHURI youth convention, I approached a young Giriama man known by his artist name ‘Teja’ who had been relatively outspoken during discussions and wore dreadlocks and a T-shirt indicating his love of hip-hop. In Kenya, hip-hop is sometimes denoted as ‘secular music’, since it is often (but not always) produced and enjoyed outside the context of religious practice, and it is regularly associated with immorality (Ntarangwi Reference Ntarangwi2016). In his songs, Teja raps about smoking bhangi (marijuana) and the harshness of street life. Dreadlocks are also morally ambivalent, since they are associated with rebellion and seen as an indicator of Mungiki membership by police in Nairobi (Ntarangwi Reference Ntarangwi2016: 126–7; Rasmussen Reference Rasmussen2010: 309). During my fieldwork, Teja introduced me to an extensive network of musicians, which largely but not exclusively consists of young Giriama men, who run several recording studios, organize concerts, and frequently share each other's music videos via social media.

During our conversations, Teja often complained about the lack of economic opportunities in Malindi, but he also indicated his readiness ‘to do business with politicians’ by selling his voter cards to aspiring politicians, because he refused ‘to beg for food, or beg for money’, signalling his reluctance to place himself in a position of dependency. Teja also indicated a preference for ‘hustling’ as a musician over employment, getting educated, or becoming a Muslim or a Christian. Instead, he inverted stereotypes about the idleness of unemployed youth by arguing that rebellious youth have more active brains than the employed:

Here, Teja explicitly rejects Christianity, Islam and education as forms of ‘mental slavery’, since they demand discipline and obedience without providing opportunities to enjoy or progress in life (cf. Di Nunzio Reference Di Nunzio2017). However, during the MUHURI youth convention, Teja did not voice such criticism, arguably because it could easily be seen as ‘inciting’ or as a form of ‘hate speech’. Nevertheless, like other hip-hop musicians in Malindi, Teja consciously engages in bodily practices that many leaders consider to be morally ambivalent, such as making hip-hop music, smoking bhangi, wearing dreadlocks, and not striving to be religious, employed or educated.

The popularity of hip-hop, alcohol and drugs reveals how many youths in Malindi prefer a search for bodily pleasure, ‘hustling’ opportunities, ‘street credibility’ and/or stress relief to attempts to progress in life by conforming to the moral ideals of elderly leaders (Beckerleg Reference Beckerleg1995; Mose Reference Mose2013). In these dynamics, hip-hop music and culture provide young people such as Teja with alternative moral registers through which they evaluate their lives in the ‘ghetto’ and distance themselves from the moral judgements of leaders. For example, Teja and other musicians never describe themselves as ‘idle’; rather, they take pride in the inventive ways in which they ‘hustle’ and work hard (‘kufanya bidii’) to improvise livelihoods, even if this means that they sometimes have to engage in activities that are seen as immoral by themselves or others (cf. Meinema Reference Meinema2019; Di Nunzio Reference Di Nunzio2017: 91). Furthermore, since Teja consciously opposes dominant conceptions of religious morality, I argue that his bodily behaviour can also be explained as a form of ‘unruly politics’, through which people who fall or place themselves outside dominant expectations of morality and civility express discontent by ‘making trouble’ instead of through explicit political claims (Kaulingfreks Reference Kaulingfreks2016). Although ‘troublemaking’ is often understood as senseless and immoral, it can nevertheless be conceptualized as meaningful political action, because it challenges the status quo and makes visible those not sufficiently represented through formal politics.