“It Never Happens Here”: Contesting Homophobia Through African Film Sarah Mathys May 7, 2019 African Studies Capstone Prof. Lahra Smith Mathys 2 Introduction Homosexuality is perhaps the most bitterly contentious social issue in Africa today. Politicians and academics across the continent have, since the mid-1990s, virulently challenged the notion of “gay rights” as a “western perversion imposed upon or adopted by African populations” (Amory 5). From Ghana to Zimbabwe, political leaders have negated the existence of homosexuality in their countries or have actively sought to “uproot totally” and exterminate all homosexual behaviors (Lyonga 97). Evocations of tradition and a fictive, essentialist understanding of ‘African’ culture have played a significant role in cementing political goals and erasing the history of same-sex practices in pre-colonial Africa. In this paper, I argue that homosexuality in Africa is perceived as threatening to both state sovereignty and to the African family because of the Victorian-era morality imposed on the continent during the colonial period. Diverse same-sex practices existed across the continent for centuries before it was colonized, but colonial forces reified these practices into a homosexual identity and positioned newly defined “homosexuals” as an embodied cultural threat through legislation and historical narrative. Political, religious, and academic depictions of same-sex relationships in Africa largely continue to push homophobic narratives today, but the continent’s artists and filmmakers have the opportunity to challenge and decolonize these problematic understandings of same-sex relationships. This paper begins by briefly summarizing the literature on pre-colonial same-sex practices across the continent, utilizing Michel Foucault’s theoretical framework of sexual identity formation to explain the gap between these practices and what we would consider homosexual relationships today. I then examine the specific case of the Baganda Martyrs in 1886, Mathys 3 looking closely at how the event was documented by missionaries in order to illustrate the ways in which history can be constructed to achieve certain political goals. I dedicate the remainder of this capstone to analyzing contemporary representations of homosexuality in two recent films: Dakan , a Guinean film released in 1997, and Rafiki , which was banned in Kenya upon its release over 20 years later. The focus of this paper is primarily on East Africa, given my familiarity with its cultural and colonial context, but I nevertheless incorporate examples from across the continent in order to compare how representations of homosexuality have changed over time. Changing Definitions of Sexuality in the Pre-Colonial Period Same-sex practices have been recorded in anthropological and historical studies across the continent since at least the early 1800s. In Uganda, evidence can be found for male same-sex relationships in the pre-colonial and colonial eras among the Banyoro, the Iteso, and the Baganda peoples (Tamale). The Nnobi of Nigeria were known for the practice of “female husbands,” or older women who married younger women after their husbands died. Female husbands were frequently viewed as men themselves and were thus able to accumulate much more wealth and prestige than they could when they were socially considered to be women (Amadiume). In Lesotho, sexual contact between women was common, both before and during heterosexual marriages; indeed, across the continent, same-sex intimacy was fairly normalized and did not prevent heterosexual relationships from existing concurrently, as long as same-sex practices “occurred within the bounds of specific rituals, sacred or secret spaces, and designated social roles” (Epprecht, 2008). Mathys 4 Prolific philosopher Michel Foucault notes in his History of Sexuality that same-sex erotics, practiced by many people in many different historical contexts, do not always lead to the emergence of articulated homosexual identities. Although it is clear that same-sex contact was prevalent in pre-colonial Africa, there is less to suggest any strong commitments to homosexual identity or what could be considered an LGBTQ+ community on the continent. This is not to say that African individuals did not experience romantic attraction or monogamous same-sex relationships outside of ritual contexts. Rather, it is important to clearly identify nuance in this discussion of sexuality, and to examine how definitions of queer identity and same-sex attraction have changed over different time periods and cultural contexts. Scholar Deborah Amory emphasizes that “homosexuality as a social identity is a fairly recent phenomenon” (Amory 5). Indeed, the terms “heterosexual” and “homosexual” did not exist until mid-nineteenth century Europe; both were invented to refer to aberrant sexual desire that existed outside of “pure” sexual activity for procreation (Katz 232). Same-sex intimacy among Europeans was not uncommon in the early Victorian period, but the rise of medical practitioners as a professional class led to the pathologizing of sexuality—particularly homosexuality—and the invention of the “late Victorian Sexual Pervert” in order to “distinguish the average him and her from the deviant it” (Katz 233). Thus, heterosexuality became the norm and homosexuality became forbidden for predominantly secular reasons in nineteenth-century Europe. This moral code was then applied with additional religious prohibitions against same-sex contact in the missionary context of colonial East Africa, leading to a complete demonization of same-sex relationships in the colonies, despite completely different cultural understandings of “homosexuality.” Mathys 5 To reiterate, in the pre-colonial period, same-sex intimacy existed in both Europe and on the continent. In Europe, these practices were pathologized as abnormal and deviant, while in Africa, they primarily existed in ritual contexts and may not have contributed to a strong homosexual identity. The following section, which describes a flashpoint for colonial suppression of African same-sex intimacy, demonstrates how this identity was in fact constructed and subsequently demonized by colonial powers in an effort to justify the so-called “civilizing mission” of colonialism. Throughout the remainder of this capstone, it is important to keep in mind “how unnatural heterosexuality is: that today’s heteronormative gender relations and sexual mores did not become hegemonic except through a lot of hard ideological [and] legal labor over decades” (Epprecht, 2018). Writing Colonial History: The Baganda Martyrs History is not recorded objectively; rather, the way it is written can tell us much about the power structures and values of those who write it. Early historical and anthropological narratives about the continent were almost always constructed by white Europeans with biases and cultural backgrounds that were rarely addressed in the texts they composed. During the colonial period, it was also politically advantageous for European administrators to document the supposed laziness, promiscuity, and godlessness of Africans in order to justify the colonial project. Documents from the early twentieth century are quite blatant in these assumptions, claiming that “the African’s level of education, lack of farming knowledge, and inability to appreciate external factors and British goodwill” necessitated colonization (Parker 129). Later studies have attempted to correct these false narratives, emphasizing the problems with colonial Mathys 6 administration over any inherent flaws in an “African” lifestyle, but this tension between the accepted discourse and objective fact is significant. The following story is reflective of this tension, and illustrates the ways in which colonial administrators and missionaries actively erased the history of same-sex intimacy on the continent, demonizing homosexuality to justify colonialism. In the mid nineteenth century, the kingdom of Buganda, in what is now Uganda, was at the height of its pre-colonial power. It numbered more than a million citizens and its kabaka Mutesa was one of the most powerful kings in East Africa. In 1875, Welsh explorer Henry Morgan Stanley was offered hospitality by Mutesa as he attempted to find the source of the Nile. Stanley urged the Christian Mission Society to bring Christianity to the Buganda kingdom, and from 1877 to Mutesa’s death in 1884, Catholic and Anglican missions spread rapidly throughout the territory (Hoad). Kabaka Mwanga, Mutesa’s son, succeeded Mutesa in 1885, but took a far less favorable approach to the missionaries, whom he considered to be a threat to the kingdom’s sovereignty (Kizito). In May of 1886, Mwanga demanded that his pages— young men serving in his court, many of whom had become fervent Christian converts— recant their beliefs. Forty-five refused, and were either beheaded or burned alive, becoming known as the Baganda Martyrs (Blevins). After the killings, Mwanga was deposed and a brief civil war broke out in the kingdom, with Muslim, Catholic, and Protestant armies fighting for dominance. In 1888, the Imperial British East Africa Company received a charter from the British government to “preserve law and order in Buganda,” officially beginning the “civilizing mission” of colonialism (Hoad 45). Mathys 7 Missionaries writing about this event focused on Mwanga’s sexuality as the reason for his persecution of Christians. Claiming that “Ugandan Christians will accept death before they accept homosexuality,” missionaries wrote that “the king practised the works of Sodom” and demanded that his pages serve as his sexual subjects (Oliver). These accounts emphasize that the executions occurred because “the Catholics absolutely refused” to participate in these acts after converting, and characterized Mwanga as a “homosexual pedophile king” (Blevins). As I have previously mentioned, male-male sexual contact was common among the Baganda in the pre-colonial period, and such contact was not consubstantial with a homosexual identity. This cultural context was lost on the missionaries, who sought to root out same-sex contact in Buganda in order to bring a “pagan and uncivilized” Baganda culture in line with the new sexual mores of the Victorian era (Blevins). The behavior of the missionaries was rooted in stereotypes about African sexuality that have long contained racist tropes of animality, closeness to nature, and innate promiscuity. Even reports from just twenty years ago, describing potential causes of the HIV epidemic in Africa, falsely drew “a relationship between Africans’ penis size and sexual behavior that can account for the high rates of HIV/AIDS among women in Africa” (Epprecht). This belief in the overtly sexual African was omnipresent in mission work and led to a policing of monogamous, heterosexual relationships in Uganda. Additionally, many nineteenth-century reports describe sodomy as a “practice of unnatural vice ... introduced into Buganda by the Arabs” (Blevins). Kabakas Mutesa and Mwanga had no allegiance to Islam and frequently purged Muslims from their court, but this connection between homosexuality and Islam as foreign evils remains strong today (Blevins). By describing the Baganda as “imitative, intelligent children,” missionaries were Mathys 8 able to justify their work in the region as saving naturally promiscuous Africans from themselves, as well as from the poisonous influence of Europe’s perceived foes (Hoad). Despite evidence to the contrary, missionaries positioned Mwanga’s homosexuality as introduced by Arabs and thus non-native to the African context; this belief is frequently cited in anti-gay legislation in Uganda today. Missionaries also connected Mwanga’s execution of his pages directly to his sexuality, ignoring the myriad other interpretations for his actions in a prime example of how those in power can shape historical narratives to fit specific political purposes. After the killings, and well into the twentieth century, sources not affiliated with or sanctioned by European missionaries tended to portray the killings as a form of resistance to colonialism, rather than as revenge for refusing Mwanga’s sexual advances. Indeed, Ugandan interpretations of the event from 1930-1970 generally “honoured the martyrs’ faithfulness [to Christianity] while also criticizing them for demonstrating allegiance to European missionaries over and against their Baganda ruler” (Blevins). Kevin Ward describes how numerous speeches given on Martyr’s Day each year reflected this 20th-century interpretation, saying that many speakers “were willing to express sympathy for Kabaka Mwanga and criticise the young Christians as tools of foreign geopolitics. The homosexual issue was simply not a factor in these debates” (Ward 92). Even some sermons given by Ugandans in Christian churches problematized this understanding of the kabaka and presented a much more sympathetic picture of his actions, focusing not on sodomy but on colonial resistance. Since the late 1980s, however, western Christian churches have become more involved in Africa, and have made use of the missionary narrative to galvanize anti-homosexual sentiment at the expense of historical and local understandings. It is clear that the dominant Mathys 9 narrative of this event was forged by colonial and missionary powers, largely disregarding Ugandan explanations of the martyrdom and cementing the existence of a deviant homosexual identity. New Representations of Homosexuality in African Cinema Present-day western scholars of pre-colonial African sexuality, concerned that the hetero/homo dichotomy is not applicable to the cross-cultural context, have focused their attention on documenting “traditional” African histories of sexuality and gender. Meanwhile, African activists and scholars, both on the continent and in the diaspora, have begun to prioritize the articulation of “emerging postcolonial liberation movements organized around lesbian and gay identities and rights” (Amory 8). Although same-sex intimacy may not have been highly connected with a homosexual identity in the past, this identity and community has become a rallying cry for gay and lesbian Africans seeking freedom from oppression and thus provides an important analytical framework for understanding same-sex relationships today. In post-colonial sub-Saharan Africa, the safety of this newly politically-conscious LGBTQ+ community remains fraught, as representations of homosexuality are contested by political and religious leaders for various nationalist projects. In Uganda, tabloids like Rolling Stone (unrelated to the US magazine of the same name) are notorious for publishing the names and photos of “known homos,” frequently inciting violence and directly leading to the murder of gay activist David Kato in 2011 (The Guardian). Indeed, “intolerance of homosexuality [has become] a strategy for marking national and civilizational specificity,” particularly by aging independence leaders on the continent (Hoad 22). Homosexuality is primarily criticized for its Mathys 10 connotations of Western decadence and immorality, and for the damage it allegedly does to traditional notions of family and social relations. African filmmakers have been confronting these issues since at least 1997 with the release of Dakan , the first African film to depict an on-screen homosexual relationship. In this section, I will examine the ways in which Dakan addresses the social challenges of same-sex intimacy, in addition to how it portrays the relationship that makes up the core of the film. I will compare this depiction to the 2018 film Rafiki , which centers on a lesbian couple and which was released to both protest and critical acclaim in Kenya. Although the films are quite different stylistically and vary widely in tone, both present gay relationships in Africa in a positive light, but emphasize the need for same-sex couples to overcome intense familial challenges and a society-wide homophobia that is in many cases encouraged by Western institutions. The reception of both films in their native countries also illustrates the perceived challenge of homosexuality to the very structure of the state. Dakan , directed by Mohamed Camara, tells the story of two adolescent boys in 1990s Guinea-Conakry who must navigate their feelings for each other and their relationships with their parents. Manga comes from a modest socioeconomic background and is raised by his single mother, while Sori is the son of a successful businessman. When their parents learn of their relationship, Manga is sent to a traditional healing woman for a year of aversion therapy, while Sori is forced to abandon his dream of farming to work with his father in the family fishing business. Sori ultimately marries a village woman and has a child, while Manga becomes romantically involved with his mother’s young white nurse, Oumou. By the end of the film, Mathys 11 however, the men reunite, abandon their hopes for a “normal” heterosexual life, and, with the hesitant blessing of Manga’s mother, walk off together towards an uncertain future. Dakan explores themes of mental illness, bigotry, and spirituality, but focuses most closely on the effects of homosexuality on each person’s close relationships. Manga’s mother and Sori’s father are strongly resistant to their sons’ love for each other, emphasizing the productive and reproductive capabilities that will be lost if their sons maintain a romantic relationship. When Manga asks his mother if men can love other men, she rejects the concept as distinctly non-African, saying that “It never happens here. Since time began, it’s never happened.” When pressed, she argues passionately that such relationships are impossible because “you have to give us children. We’ve put all our hope in you.” Manga’s mother emphasizes the foreignness of homosexuality and reinscribes the importance of traditional family structures and reproduction. In this way, pursuing a same-sex relationship is violating what she sees as a distinctly African culture, and rejecting the core family values of Guinean society. Similarly, Sori’s father expects him to fulfill specific responsibilities that do not leave room for a homosexual relationship. Although he initially pretends not to hear Sori confess his love for Manga, he eventually counsels his son to abandon the relationship in order to avoid the social contagion that will inevitably follow. Sori’s father focuses not on any inherent immorality of their relationship, but argues that “the whole town, our family, will be scandalized, horrified. Especially my friends ... The whole country will treat you as outlaws, criminals! It will be worse for me. The company I run will fall to pieces.” Sori’s father and Manga’s mother thus position expected social roles—Manga’s ability to have children, Sori’s reputation and economic contribution to the family business—as fundamentally incompatible with a romantic homosexual Mathys 12 relationship. Significantly, Manga and Sori respect these traditional values and dream of having a family together. Their social situation leaves no room for non-productive behavior, however, and the men must leave traditional social structures, like their village and Sori’s wife and child, in order to find “a new space and future that have yet to be defined” (Migraine-George 48). Interestingly, the boys’ classmates know about Sori and Manga’s relationship, but tease them good-naturedly rather than marginalizing them. Sori is also shown flirting with several other boys throughout the movie, implying that same-sex attraction is common and somewhat tolerated, at least among the younger generations. It is when Sori and Manga articulate this attraction as a core part of their identity that they are perceived as rejecting the social roles that have been made non-negotiable by their parents and community. It is important to recognize, however, that the relationship at the core of Dakan is not perfect. Sori exhibits traits that could be characterized as abusive, physically dragging Manga out of a car and forcing him to the ground until he promises Sori that he loves him and will do whatever he says. Sori’s decision to abandon his wife and child, and Manga’s failed relationship with Oumou, are also problematic representations of the collateral damage brought on by their relationship. Ultimately, Dakan is a sensitive portrayal of a homosexual relationship in 1990s Guinea, but it sends mixed messages about the social upheaval connected to same-sex intimacy in Africa. Dakan is aesthetically a very dark film, with washed out colors that have as much to do with artistic direction as with the film’s production budget. Dakan ’s aesthetics stand in sharp contrast to Rafiki , one of the leading films in the Afro Bubblegum movement. Meant to create “fun, fierce, and frivolous African content,” the Afro Bubblegum style is characterized by intense colors, vibrant music, and the pursuit of joy (Gregory). Wanuri Kahiu, Rafiki ’s director, is the Mathys 13 pioneer of the movement, and says she creates content in this style so that “Africans can see [themselves] in a different way” from the dark, war-torn continent that is usually depicted in films about Africa (Gregory). Despite following a similar, if more violent, plotline with that of Dakan , Rafiki stays true to the Afro Bubblegum aesthetic, representing the African LGBTQ+ community in hopeful new ways. Rafiki gets its name from the Swahili word for “friend,” as many same-sex couples publicly identify platonically to avoid raising the suspicion of their communities. The film centers on two adolescent women, the skateboard-riding Kena and the free-spirited Ziki, whose fathers are campaigning against each other for a local political office. The two women meet and instantly connect, playing basketball with Kena’s friends and spending nights dancing at Nairobi clubs. They attract the attention of the town gossip and are warned to avoid each others’ company in order to support their fathers’ political aspirations. Their relationship grows more intimate, however, until they are caught by members of their community and beaten violently before being arrested for immorality. Ziki is sent away to school in London, while Kena fulfills her ambitions of becoming a doctor. Five years later, Ziki returns to Nairobi; the film ends with the pair reuniting, although their future is uncertain. Where Dakan focuses on the relationships between its protagonists and their parents, Rafiki is concerned primarily with structural, society-wide homophobia. Kena’s peers casually use homophobic slurs and joke about hurting a neighborhood boy who is implied to be gay. Several scenes take place in a local church, where the pastor decries the evils of sodomy and eventually prays for Kena’s conversion to heterosexuality. While Sori and Manga are openly gay throughout most of Dakan , Ziki and Kena do not willingly come out to anyone; there is a Mathys 14 palpable tension as the woman push the boundaries of public displays of affection until they are ultimately caught and punished. Although Rafiki is a “visual and sonic feast” with its vibrant colors and hip soundtrack, it is underlain with a sense of fear and punctuated by sudden violence as the women have no one to turn to who will support their relationship (Green-Simms). Rafiki also demonstrates the tension between the “homosexual lifestyle” as an embodiment of social transgression, and the desires of LGBTQ+ people to fit in with traditional family norms and social structures. Though Ziki says several times throughout the film that she doesn’t want to be perceived as a “typical Kenyan girl,” as she prepares to leave for London, she angrily asks Kena how she could possibly expect them to have a normal life together. “Do you think we’ll have a beautiful family?” Ziki bitterly asks— to which Kena replies, “yes.” It is made very clear that although the LGBTQ+ community is seen as deeply socially disruptive, this challenge is not a goal of those in same-sex relationships. Rather, Kena and Ziki are portrayed as utterly normal girls with quiet ambitions who merely desire love and a family. Although Rafiki is distinctively Kenyan, punctuated with shots of the Nairobi skyline and local kiosks and eateries, the characters could exist almost anywhere in the world; the film seeks to normalize the LGBTQ+ experience, while shedding light on the gendered violence that affects its most vulnerable members. Although both films end ambiguously, Rafiki is decidedly more hopeful. While Sori and Manga are ultimately able to be together, they drive off at the end of the film having lost both their families and their social identities. Their peers are fairly accepting of their homosexuality, but the men can never attain full membership in their families or their communities, and must drive into an uncertain future with no careers or social ties to fall back on. In contrast, Ziki and Mathys 15 Kena face violence from their peers and discrimination from members of their community (towards the end of the film, the town gossip even refuses medical treatment from Kena, who has become a successful doctor). Nevertheless, the women ultimately gain the support of their families, who slowly become more accepting of their daughters. Although it is unclear if Kena and Ziki rekindle their relationship at the end of the film, it seems unlikely that they will need to flee their community to envision a life together; even if they do, it feels certain that they will at the very least be able to maintain close relationships with their families. It was this sense of hopefulness, not director Wanuri Kahiu’s depictions of lesbian intimacy, that led to Rafiki ’s ban in Kenya immediately upon its release. Although the CEO of the Kenya Film Classification Board has praised Kahiu as “one of the greatest Kenyans that we have in the film industry,” the KFCB banned the film for being “too hopeful” and for its “clear intent to promote lesbianism” in the country (Summers). Kahiu successfully sued the government, winning a temporary seven-day lift on the ban so that it could meet theatrical screening qualifications for an Academy Award. Dakan also faced censorship in Guinea and had its funding pulled by the government after the country’s film board realized that the film depicted homosexuality. Although Dakan was only mildly successful in Guinea upon its release, Rafiki broke box office records during its week-long run, showing to sold-out crowds of both queer and straight Kenyans (Green-Simms). The difference in reaction to the two films can partly be attributed to broader awareness about LGBTQ+ issues and slowly-changing norms surrounding homosexuality on the continent, but Rafiki undoubtedly owes some of its success to films like Dakan which paved the way for queer representation on the silver screen. Mathys 16 Conclusion: Challenging Homophobia and Neocolonialism Through Film Despite the largely positive reception Rafiki received in Kenya and at its screening at the Cannes Film Festival, government officials and the KFCB criticized the film for its European and US-based funding. The KFCB’s official statement blamed “hare-brained schemes by foreigners funding film producers in Kenya to promote homosexuality in the name of equality and inclusion,” saying that these agendas will be “exposed and strongly resisted” on the continent (Summers). Homosexuality is still strongly perceived as a Western import, despite its roots in the pre-colonial era; homophobia is thus by default a way to shore up cultural traditions in the face of Western hegemony. Returning to the Ugandan context, this equivalence between neocolonialism and homosexuality becomes even more striking. The Ugandan Parliament passed the Anti-Homosexuality Bill, colloquially known as the “gay death penalty,” in 2014, which would allow those convicted of “aggravated homosexuality” to serve life in prison. Appeals from Western nations to abolish the bill on the basis of universal human rights have only served to strengthen many Ugandans’ commitment to protecting “a distinctly ‘African’ way of life from the encroaching, and morally suspect, influences of Western culture and its attendant ‘freedoms’” (Boyd 701). Although American conservative Christian support for the Anti-Homosexuality Bill is strong, many more secular and liberal religious NGOs have withdrawn their funding from Ugandan faith-based organizations and churches. This has generated considerable anger over Western motivations, as it seemingly demonstrates that aid money can easily be cut off if Ugandans express an opinion that goes against Western liberal ideology. Mathys 17 The daily financial struggle of many Ugandans puts the withdrawal of aid money into a clearer perspective. In a 2013 anthropological study on the perceptions of religious Ugandans of the Anti-Homosexuality Bill, one female church member argued that “when you come and talk about homosexuality, when there is a mother who can’t feed her children, how does this make sense? Why does the West care more about homosexuals than those who suffered under the [Lord’s Resistance Army]? This is what it seems human rights is” (Boyd 716). The contradiction between Christian condemnation of sodomy from the missionary era to the present, paired with the sudden withdrawal of Western funds over a bill that essentially codifies this long-standing sentiment, has served to solidify many Ugandans’ perceptions of the West as a fickle and uncaring power intent on undermining local sovereignty by pushing LGBTQ+ ideology on an unwilling populace. African filmmakers are uniquely positioned to challenge these perceptions of homosexuality and homophobia. Filmic representations are capable of not just reflecting reality, but constructing it. By displaying the beauty of same-sex intimacy, filmmakers can contribute to a “restorative aesthetic of queerness” that provides healing representation for the LGBTQ+ community while humanizing their struggles and desires for a non-queer audience (Epprecht, 2011). African filmmakers can be far more effective at championing LGBTQ+ causes than even the most well-funded Western NGO, which may always be perceived as a neocolonial institution intent on hurting African families and traditional culture. Although funding these films may prove difficult (many filmmakers struggle to find funding for queer films on the continent, but are criticized as tools of the West for accepting European money), it is evident that spaces must be Mathys 18 opened up and support must be provided for African filmmakers to challenge homophobia and redefine LGBTQ issues through film. Mathys 19 Works Cited Amadiume, Ifi. 1987. Male Daughters, Female Husbands: Gender and Sex in an African Society Zed Books. Amory, Deborah P. 1997. “‘Homosexuality’ in Africa: Issues and Debates,” Issue: A Journal of Opinion vol. 25 no.1: 5-10. 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