HOME / dispatches: Notes from different corners of the world.

Campaigning Against Threats, Obscurity, and StereotypesWhat's it like for a woman to run for parliament in Kenya?

By Alexandra SuichPosted Wednesday, Dec. 26, 2007, at 1:40 PM ET

(Continued from page 1)

RSS

Ringera feels lucky that she hasn't faced physical assault, but she adjusts her schedule every day to try to reduce the risk of violence. She never answers telephone calls from unidentified numbers; she lives at her aunt's house, where no one will look for her; she never campaigns at night; and she always travels with a group of men.

Of course, there are other barriers for women aspirants. One of the main issues for women is campaign finance, since most women lack access to networks of wealth. Currently, there is no law in Kenya to restrict the amount candidates can spend on a campaign, so women often find it hard to raise enough to compete. When I first met Ringera in August, she was abstemious with every shilling that she spent, keen to make her limited funds stretch until the end of her campaign in December.

Women also struggle to get party nominations. In this election, there are 108 political parties, but few women received nominations from the country's largest and most popular parties. "The majority of the women have gotten nominations from the smaller parties, the parties that have not been present in the previous parliament," said Bjarte Tora, country director of the National Democratic Institute in Kenya. Ringera received the nomination of a newly formed party, FOREPA, which means her time on the hustings is spent not only speaking about her platform but also trying to teach voters how to recognize her name and FOREPA's symbol on the ballot.

Given all this, it might be hard to believe that East Africa is thought of as a pioneering region for women's political participation. In Rwanda, women hold 49 percent of the seats in parliament, the largest percentage of women in government of any country in the world. (In the United States, only 16 percent of members of Congress are women.) Like Rwanda, Tanzania and Uganda have affirmative-action laws in place to ensure that women gain office.

Earlier this summer, Kenya considered a similar bill, which would have guaranteed women 50 seats in parliament. I was in Kenya when the bill was being discussed, and I was struck by how it seemed to stir up Kenya's most profound social tensions. Some men asserted that women did not face sexism and should not be handed advantages. Some newspapers ran op-eds claiming that affirmative action for women amounted to discrimination against men. The bill died, but it awakened something in Kenyan women—a fierce conviction to challenge the status quo and to see if they can win political office on their own. After months of campaigning, their answer will come on Dec. 27.

On the last Sunday of Kenya's campaign season, Ringera went to a Catholic church to speak to the parish. She arrived early and stood outside waiting, mingling in the sunlight. A man approached her. "So you're the famous Karambu," he said. "I heard people talking, and they say you've done the most on development." She smiled. "The only problem is," he continued, "you're a woman."

Ringera looked at him, and he stared back, so she offered the only response she could think to. "I'm so happy to be a woman!" she said, trying to sound proud.

Other people came up to meet her, and she got distracted from the conversation. She didn't have the chance, she told me later that night, to ask whether he would vote for her on Election Day.

Update, Jan. 7, 2008: Ringera lost the election. She came in sixth place with 1,700 votes. Silas Muriuki, a businessman and former teacher, won the seat with 30,603 votes.