Author Archives: Dan

It’s reasonable to think that no one expects elections to be perfect, especially in a country like Uganda, where past elections have been marred by injustices. However, when things go wrong and rights are trampled, when violence breaks out, and power is abused, we expect the institutions meant to protect us to step in quickly and decisively.

Yet, looking at how Uganda’s elections unfold, especially during this election period, a heartbreaking pattern keeps repeating. It’s not that our courts, human rights bodies, parliament, or professional groups are silent or invisible. They are actually “busy”, holding hearings, issuing statements, debating in committees, and speaking out with strong words.

To someone watching from afar, it might even look like everything’s working: “See? The system is responding.” But for those of us living it, who have been arrested and beaten, citizens intimidated at political rallies, and journalists brutally harassed and excluded from airing certain political events, it feels painfully different.

These responses often stop short of actually halting the harm in the moment. When we look at the courts, judges hear urgent cases from opposition leaders or activists facing arrest. Sometimes they grant temporary orders, but too often, those orders aren’t enforced right away, or the full rulings come months later, long after the election is over, when the damage is done and any “justice” feels hollow, like closing the door after the thief has gone.

Human rights organizations, like the Uganda Human Rights Commission, do speak up. They express “deep concern”, announce investigations, and promise reports. We hear warnings about torture, arbitrary arrests, or the tear-gassing of peaceful gatherings. But rarely do we see swift action or perpetrators named and held accountable, victims protected immediately, or patterns broken before they worsen.

Parliament debates fiercely about security forces being in the house, about electoral fairness, and about abuses. Occasionally, committees are formed, and questions are asked. Yet, when it comes to election violence or misuse of power by state agencies, those debates rarely lead to binding resolutions that rein in the excesses, nor meaningful oversight that changes behavior on the ground. Instead, the activity seems to calm tensions, to show that “something is being done,” while the underlying problems roll on.

Even professional bodies, journalists’ groups such the National Association of broad casters, and lawyer societies like the East African Law Society issue powerful statements condemning violations and calling for ethics and rule of law. These words matter; they remind us of higher standards. But coordinated action to confront the abuses head-on such as sustained lawsuits, unified documentation that forces change, or bold stands that risk discomfort are limited. 

The result is institutions performing the role of watchdogs without truly biting. They do just enough to appear active, to ease public outrage, to tick the boxes of their mandates, and to send reports back to their funders. But not enough to stop the beatings, the arrests, the intimidation in real time, and not enough to protect ordinary citizens when it matters most.

We are led to believe the safeguards are there because we see the statements made by these institutions. We want to believe our democracy has checks and balances. But in reality, these half-measures often act as a shield for the powerful, absorbing pressure while letting violations continue.

The suspension of the Democratic Governance Facility (DGF) in January 2021 and Chapter Four Uganda in January 2026 illustrate this dynamic. These organizations supported civil society, courts, and other actors engaged in democracy, human rights, and access to justice. Their closure weakened independent monitoring, litigation, and citizen protection. While courts continued to operate, commissions issued statements, and Parliament held sessions, the backbone of civil society that gave these institutions substance was neutralized. To an ordinary citizen, oversight remained visible, yet functional protection was drastically reduced.

Forward to Chapter Four Uganda whose purpose among others, translated constitutional guarantees into practical protection through legal aid, public interest litigation, and advocacy for individuals targeted during politically sensitive moments. Its closure removed one of the few actors capable of compelling institutions to respond to unlawful arrests, political violence, and restrictions on assembly. The outward presence of regulatory bodies created the appearance of protection while leaving citizens without practical recourse.

Courts, too, illustrate the limits of formal oversight. Even when acknowledging widespread electoral violations, as in Amama Mbabazi v Museveni case of 2016, the Supreme Court upheld the election, reasoning that the violations were not personally committed by the incumbent or by agents with his knowledge or approval. This signaled that judicial recognition of harm does not guarantee protection. Justice is acknowledged but withheld, preserving the system rather than safeguarding citizens.

Digital rights further highlight this pattern of conditional protection. Following a nationwide internet shutdown, the Uganda Communications Commission warned that individuals bypassing restrictions using Virtual Private Networks (VPNs) could face direct technical attacks on their devices. While internet access was restored, it came with a threat rather than a guarantee of rights. Surveillance is normalised, and citizens were cautioned that any “illegal” use could trigger retaliation even without judicial oversight. This creates an environment where the mere act of exercising freedoms online carries risk, reinforcing fear while institutions appear operational.

Taken together, these events reveal a consistent governance strategy: institutions appear active, but independent actors and citizens are left vulnerable. Courts, commissions, and Parliament maintain form, but enforcement is limited, and protections for citizens are weakened. Regulatory mechanisms exist, yet their practical impact is muted, giving the appearance of oversight while preserving the continuity of the system.
Meaningful accountability requires that oversight institutions not only exist on paper but act decisively to safeguard citizens’ rights, ensure justice, and resist intimidation.

Uganda’s electoral governance increasingly protects the system rather than the electorate. Meaningful accountability requires that oversight institutions not only exist on paper, but act decisively to safeguard citizens’ rights, ensure justice, and resist intimidation whether in the courts, online, or through civil society support structures.

The Uganda presidential election on January 15, 2026, ended with the Electoral Commission declaring President Yoweri Museveni the winner for a seventh term. He garnered 71.65% of the vote (over 7.9 million votes). His main challenger, Robert Kyagulanyi better known as Bobi Wine of the National Unity Platform (NUP), received about 24.7% (around 2.7 million votes). 

Turnout was reported at roughly 52.5%. Museveni, now 81, has ruled since 1986. But for many Ugandans, the numbers tell only part of the story. The campaign and polling days were overshadowed by deep fear: fear of speaking out, fear of showing up to vote freely and fear that peaceful political action could be twisted into a “threat to national security.” Instead of open debate and choice, the process felt like a carefully orchestrated effort to make opposition seem dangerous and to make staying silent the safer option. 

The Computer Misuse (Amendment) Act, originally aimed at fighting cybercrime, was used to target people sharing election news or criticism. Journalists, bloggers, and activists faced charges for “malicious” or “unsolicited” information. The UN Human Rights Office highlighted how this created widespread repression in the lead-up, with arbitrary arrests and detentions silencing dissent. Social media platforms where Ugandans debate, organize, and share evidence were emptied, leaving people isolated and afraid to post honestly with the culmination of the internet shutdown. Recent reports from Amnesty International show that security forces frequently categorized peaceful rallies by the National Unity Platform (NUP) as “unlawful assemblies,”justifiying the use of tear gas, pepper spray, and live ammunition. This illustrated how administrative tools were selectively applied to suppress legitimate political activity.

The courts became a battlefield, with veteran opposition leader Dr. Kizza Besigye abducted from Kenya in November 2024, forcibly returned to Uganda, and charged with treason (a capital offense). He has since been in detention with court appearances including in military courts to civilian courts where bail denials have persisted. Closer to the vote, human rights lawyer and activist Dr. Sarah Bireete was arrested at home on December 30, 2025 just weeks before polling, and charged with unlawfully obtaining or disclosing personal data (linked to voter register discussions). She was denied prompt bail consideration and remanded to Luzira Prison, missing the election period. She was later granted bail, January 28,2026. 

In Luwero and elsewhere, dozens of NUP supporters faced riot-related charges with little evidence, landing them in remand. 
Civic groups like Chapter Four Uganda had permits suspended on “national security” grounds days before the vote. These cases, often built on vague laws, removed watchdogs and intimidated others from monitoring or speaking up. 

General Muhoozi Kainerugaba the Chief of Defence Forces and Museveni’s son posted repeatedly on social media framing NUP supporters as “terrorists.” In the chaotic days after the vote, he claimed security forces had “killed 22 NUP terrorists since last week” and openly prayed the “23rd” would be Bobi Wine (using a derogatory nickname, “Kabobi”). He issued a 48-hour ultimatum for Bobi Wine to surrender or be treated as an “outlaw/rebel.” Even if framed as tough talk, these words from the head of the military carry real weight. They normalize violence, scare journalists from reporting, and make ordinary citizens think twice about participating in civic spaces. Election day felt militarized, with NUP polling agents reported being chased away, abducted, or blocked from stations especially in opposition-hotspots like Mityana, Butambala and Palaro in Gulu.

Numerous polling agents were reportedly picked up by security in some cases, preventing them from witnessing counts. Declaration of Result forms were allegedly confiscated and tampered with. Voters faced dispersal by force in some districts. Bobi Wine was reportedly placed under house arrest, with his party claiming a raid and abduction attempt; he later went into hiding, rejecting the results as “fake” and citing ballot stuffing and intimidation. Other NUP figures like Lina Zedriga, candidate Bright Muhumuza, and activist Jackeline Tukamushabe also faced detentions or disappearances at critical times. Observers described the exercise not as a democratic process, but as a military operation designed to bypass legal safeguards and predetermined the outcome.

Months before the vote, senior figures including General Muhoozi Kainerugaba, members of his Patriotic League of Uganda (PLU) such as David Kabanda and Children and Youth Affairs Minister Balaam Barugahara, as well as NRM regime leaders like Speaker Anita Among and Deputy Speaker Thomas Tayebwa sent a clear signal that åthe outcome was already predetermined. Through a combination of social media threats, paramilitary rhetoric, and public statements, opposition and civic actors were framed as enemies of the state, while the inevitability of Museveni’s victory was repeatedly emphasized. This chorus of intimidation discouraged public participation, normalized the use of force, and created an environment in which repression could be executed without challenge. By presenting dissent as a threat to national security and portraying electoral outcomes as foregone conclusions, the state leveraged disinformation to condition public expectations, legitimize coercion, and suppress accountability. By the time polls opened, the election had already been reframed in the public imagination: it was no longer a contest of competing visions, but a test of loyalty versus perceived threat.

Taken together, the 2026 Ugandan election demonstrates how national security can be weaponized. Laws were selectively enforced to criminalize dissent; civic and political actors were arrested, abducted, or neutralized; senior military and government figures reframed lawful participation as a threat, normalizing violence and intimidation; and voting and counting were militarized, with key electoral safeguards bypassed or destroyed. In effect, national security ceased to protect citizens and instead became a tool to preserve political power. 

The Uganda presidential election on January 15, 2026, ended with the Electoral Commission declaring President Yoweri Museveni the winner for a seventh term, with around 71.65% of the vote (over 7.9 million votes). His main challenger, Robert Kyagulanyi better known as Bobi Wine of the National Unity Platform (NUP), received about 24.7% (around 2.7 million votes). Turnout was reported at roughly 52.5%. Museveni, now 81, has ruled since 1986. But for many Ugandans, the numbers tell only part of the story. The campaign and polling days were overshadowed by deep fear: fear of speaking out, fear of showing up to vote freely, fear that peaceful political action could be twisted into a “threat to national security.”

Instead of open debate and choice, the process felt like a carefully orchestrated effort to make opposition seem dangerous and to make staying silent the safer option.
The Computer Misuse (Amendment) Act, originally aimed at fighting cybercrime, was used to target people sharing election news or criticism. Journalists, bloggers, and activists faced charges for “malicious” or “unsolicited” information. The UN Human Rights Office highlighted how this created widespread repression in the lead-up, with arbitrary arrests and detentions silencing dissent. Social media platforms where Ugandans debate, organize, and share evidence felt emptied out, leaving people isolated and afraid to post honestly with the culmination of the internet shutdown. In addition, according to recent reports from Amnesty International, security forces frequently categorized peaceful rallies by the National Unity Platform (NUP) as “unlawful assemblies,” using this label to justify the use of tear gas, pepper spray, and live ammunition, illustrating how administrative tools were selectively applied to suppress legitimate political activity.

The courts became a battlefield by using legal processes to sideline opponents. Veteran opposition leader Dr. Kizza Besigye was abducted from Kenya in November 2024, forcibly returned to Uganda, and charged with treason (a capital offense). He spent months in detention, including in military courts before transfer to civilian ones, and bail denials that have persisted. Closer to the vote, human rights lawyer and activist Dr. Sarah Bireete was arrested at home on December 30, 2025 just weeks before polling charged with unlawfully obtaining or disclosing personal data (linked to voter register discussions). She was denied prompt bail consideration and remanded to Luzira Prison, missing the election period. In Luwero and elsewhere, dozens of NUP supporters faced riot-related charges with little evidence, landing them in remand.
Civic groups like Chapter Four Uganda had permits suspended on “national security” grounds days before the vote. These cases, often built on vague laws, removed watchdogs and intimidated others from monitoring or speaking up.

General Muhoozi Kainerugaba the Chief of Defence Forces and Museveni’s son posted repeatedly on social media framing NUP supporters as “terrorists.” In the chaotic days after the vote, he claimed security forces had “killed 22 NUP terrorists since last week” and openly prayed the “23rd” would be Bobi Wine (using a derogatory nickname, “Kabobi”). He issued a 48-hour ultimatum for Bobi Wine to surrender or be treated as an “outlaw/rebel.” Even if framed as tough talk, these words from the head of the military carry real weight. They normalize violence, scare journalists from reporting, and make ordinary citizens think twice about participating in civic spaces. Election day felt militarized because what should have been a civilian-run, transparent vote turned tense.  This was characterized by NUP polling agents reported being chased away, abducted, or blocked from stations especially in opposition-leaning areas like Mityana, Butambala and Palaro in Gulu.

Numerous polling agents were reportedly picked up by security in some cases, preventing them from witnessing counts. Declaration of Result forms were allegedly confiscated and tampered with. Voters faced dispersal by force in some districts. Bobi Wine was reportedly placed under house arrest, with his party claiming a raid and abduction attempt; he later went into hiding, rejecting the results as “fake” and citing ballot stuffing and intimidation. Other NUP figures like Lina Zedriga, candidate Bright Muhumuza, and activist Jackeline Tukamushabe also faced detentions or disappearances at critical times. Observers described the exercise not as a democratic process, but as a military operation designed to bypass legal safeguards and predetermined the outcome.

Months before the vote, senior figures including General Muhoozi Kainerugaba, members of his Patriotic League of Uganda (PLU) such as David Kabanda and Minister Balaam Barugahara, as well as NRM regime leaders like Speaker Anita Among and Deputy Speaker Thomas Tayebwa sent a clear signal that the outcome was already predetermined. Through a combination of social media threats, paramilitary rhetoric, and public statements, opposition and civic actors were framed as enemies of the state, while the inevitability of Museveni’s victory was repeatedly emphasized. This chorus of intimidation discouraged public participation, normalized the use of force, and created an environment in which repression could be executed without challenge. By presenting dissent as a threat to national security and portraying electoral outcomes as foregone conclusions, the state leveraged disinformation to condition public expectations, legitimize coercion, and suppress accountability. By the time polls opened, the election had already been reframed in the public imagination: it was no longer a contest of competing visions, but a test of loyalty versus perceived threat.

Taken together, the 2026 Ugandan election demonstrates how national security can be weaponized. Laws were selectively enforced to criminalize dissent; civic and political actors were arrested, abducted, or neutralized; senior military and government figures reframed lawful participation as a threat, normalizing violence and intimidation; and voting and counting were militarized, with key electoral safeguards bypassed or destroyed. In effect, national security ceased to protect citizens and instead became a tool to preserve political power.

Uganda is currently experiencing a political struggle over flags, not just party symbols but the national flag itself. What should be a neutral symbol of unity has become a flashpoint in the 2026 election campaigns, revealing deeper issues surrounding political space, double standards, and the selective application of the law against the opposition.

At the centre of this dispute is the waving of the national flag by supporters of the National Unity Platform, which has become a standard feature at their rallies. The state has invoked the National Flag and Armorial Ensigns Act, the primary law governing the use of the national flag and other state symbols, to criminalize this practice.

The Act was enacted long before contemporary multiparty campaigns and was designed to protect the dignity of the flag, not regulate political competition. The actual problem seems to be that National Unity Platform leader Robert Kyagulanyi, also known as Bobi Wine, publicly encouraged supporters to carry the Uganda national flag at rallies as a symbol of patriotism and a call for political change. He has consistently argued that the flag belongs to all Ugandans and that displaying it is an expression of national ownership, not misuse.

In response, Police spokesperson ACP Rusoke Kituuma warned that prior permission from the Minister of Justice is required before using the national flag and suggested that waving it at campaign rallies could amount to unauthorized use under the Act. Similarly, the Commissioner for Patriotism, Hellen Seku, stated that hoisting the flag on private buildings, vehicles, boda bodas, or leaving it displayed overnight without authorization breaches established legal protocols. These statements have since formed the basis of police and military action on the ground.

The government’s narrative is that these measures are necessary to protect the dignity of the national symbol. However, this narrative collapses when examined against actual practice. The supporters of the National Resistance Movement regularly wear the national flag on clothing, print it on posters, mount it on vehicles, and wave it at party events and state functions. Other Ugandan have been using the flag as bracelets, hoodies etc. The Uganda tourism board has launched various tourism campaigns that incorporate the flag such as the Explore Uganda- The Pearl of Africa campaign. These actions are not questioned, regulated, or punished. No permissions are demanded, and no enforcement follows. The same conduct is only treated as illegal when carried out by opposition supporters, particularly those aligned with NUP.

The double standard extends beyond the national flag to party flags themselves. Uganda’s electoral and political party laws allow registered parties to organize, mobilize, and campaign using their symbols. There’s no law banning party flags during campaigns. Yet while NRM flags move freely, often with police escort, opposition flags are treated as a security threat.

Police often claim opposition flags “cause disorder,” ignoring that disorder arises from violent enforcement, not the flags themselves. Reports show security personnel confronting, chasing, beating, and confiscating flags from opposition supporters simply for carrying them. These actions are justified by vague references to “misuse” or “security concerns.”

Even senior officials have reinforced this approach. General Muhoozi Kainerugaba, Uganda’s Chief of Defence Forces, warned that anyone “misusing” the national flag will be dealt with according to the law, despite the distinction between misuse and peaceful display.

The core issue isn’t protecting national symbols but controlling political visibility. If the concern were legal compliance, enforcement would be uniform. If permission were required, it’d be demanded from all parties. Instead, the rule is simple: when the ruling party displays the flag, it’s patriotism; when the opposition does, it’s criminalized.

It’s also important to note what the law restricts during elections. Electoral guidelines prohibit displaying party symbols and flags inside polling stations on polling day to protect vote secrecy and neutrality. These restrictions don’t apply to campaign rallies, marches or mobilization. Conflating polling-day restrictions with campaign activities shows how laws are stretched to justify repression.

This selective enforcement lets authorities shrink democratic space without changing the law. Instead of amending the Constitution or banning opposition parties, the state repurposes existing laws, applying them unevenly against challengers. The National Flag and Armorial Ensigns Act, meant to protect the flag, becomes a tool for suppressing opposition.The question is: is waving the national flag at an opposition rally an act of national pride or a crime because it challenges entrenched power? When laws apply based on political allegiance, not conduct, the rule of law gives way to discretion. Carrying a flag isn’t a crime – selective law enforcement to silence opposition is.