Toward an Acoustemology of Muslim Citizenship in Kenya

this is a great great article that, while linking music and citizenship, also provides a cultural window into Swahili coastal society. You can find out more about Andrew by going to his website. This excerpt is part of a larger chapter from a book called Music Sound, and Space: Transformations of Public and Private Experience as published by Cambridge University Press.

Toward an Acoustemology of Muslim Citizenship in Kenya

by Dr. Andrew J Eisenberg (from the December 2010 issue of Anthropology News)

The problem of Muslim belonging in predominantly Christian Kenya has taken on added urgency for academics and policymakers in recent years, in light of attacks by global Islamist militants on Kenyan soil, a massive influx of Muslim migrants from Somalia, and struggles over the future of the country’s Islamic courts system, among other factors. In my sound-centered research on social identification on Kenya’s Muslim- dominated coastal strip, I explore the contemporary conditions of Muslim citizenship—in the broad sense of social belonging within the nation-state—by taking an ethnographic ear to contestations over public space that happen in relation to public sound. My method- ological approach is grounded in Steven Feld’s (1996) acoustemology of place, which he describes as an inves- tigation into sounding and listening as ways of experi- encing and knowing physical and social environments. Here I lay out some basic coordinates for an acouste- mology of spatial politics and Muslim belonging on the Kenyan coast.

Hearing Spatial Politics

I begin with a story that crystallizes how sonorous contestations over public space articulate with larger issues of Muslim citizenship on the Kenyan coast. In July 2006, the Kenyan coastal village of Kikambala played host to a dramatic dispute between a local imam and a member of the coast’s expatriate commu- nity (a woman of apparent East Asian extraction). The dispute began after the imam’s mosque was fitted with new rooftop loudspeakers, including one aimed at the expatriate’s nearby house. The expatriate made her way over to the mosque early one morning to register her consternation at being jolted out of bed each morning by the predawn adhan (call to prayer). She arrived outside the mosque while the elongated tones of the sacred recitation were still resounding and began to shout her complaints toward the edifice. The imam soon emerged to investigate the disturbance and, on finding an angry woman vocalizing a dissonant counterpoint to the adhan, offered what he would later calmly describe as the only appropriate response: he punched the woman squarely in the eye.

The imam’s violent response was received with general approval from Muslims in the local commu- nity and beyond. Leaders of Kenya’s national Muslim organizations were soon standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the imam in hastily organized press conferences, arguing that his violent action, however regrettable, was carried out in accordance with Islamic law as well as common sense. The local community of worship- pers offered a similar defense of the imam, only in a more performative manner: in the gaze of television news cameras, a group of men began constructing a stone wall to block the footpath that the expatriate had used to reach their mosque. Given that it was only wide

enough to block the footpath, the wall was clearly a message, meant to communicate that the expatriate’s actions were an attack of an equivalent brutality to what she herself had suffered at the hands of the imam.

The clash between the expatriate and the imam in Kikambala makes visible and audible the presence of competing logics of public space on the Kenyan coast. In both the formulation and delivery of her complaint, the expatriate situated herself within the “neutral” public space of a liberal democratic nation-state, a space in which any sound may be marked as noise and any subject may address any other subject without regard to minority norms of social intercourse. The imam’s response, meanwhile, was grounded in an Islamic- Swahili logic of public space, which bears its own rules of conduct and address. By investigating epistemic disjunctures such as these through bodily practices of producing and receiving sound, I seek an analysis that stays close to the subject, one that hopefully stands in tension with the accounts of Muslim intentions and desires that pervade Kenyan (and global) media narratives.

Islam, Sound and Space

Charles Hirschkind (2006) provides an invaluable starting point for an acoustemological approach to Islamic-Swahili conceptions of public space in his discussion of Muslim subject formation as a matter of engagement with the quotidian “pious soundscape” of calls to prayer, Quranic recitations, and religious sermons. Though focused on Muslims in Cairo, Egypt, Hirschkind’s work bears directly on Muslims of the Kenyan coast (and elsewhere) who engage with similar sounds in similar ways. Through “correct” listening, Muslims in coastal Kenya, as in Cairo, cultivate bodily comportments and doxic understandings that are key to what it means to be a good Muslim. The sounding and listening practices associated with the pious sound- scape thus comprise an acousteme, a system of knowing in and through sound, within which sites of worldly action are sonically transformed into sacred topoi for the act of submission that is Islam. This idea is put forward in a hadith passage, albeit in different terms. In this passage, the prophet Mohammed is reported to have said, “When the Imam comes outside, the angels present themselves to listen to the khutba [the Friday sermon]” (Al-Bukhari 1997:23). According to this image, angels literally “present” themselves (make themselves present) in the physical world, within the space and time of the pious soundscape. Heavenly beings, that is, hear the imam’s words not through some mystical mode of listening, but by temporarily joining with human beings in their worldly environment, effecting a sacralization of space.

On the Kenyan coast, the pious soundscape’s sonic demarcation of Muslim space sets the stage for large and small struggles over conceptions of Muslim communal autonomy, even, one might argue, struggles for Muslim communal autonomy. The dispute between the expa-triate and the imam in Kikambala, which involved the participation of leaders of national Muslim organi- zations, provides an example of a large struggle over Muslim communal autonomy. One Swahili friend in the port city of Mombasa opened my eyes to a far subtler struggle, the visible evidence of which can be observed weekly during the Friday khutba, in the Muslim-Swahili neighborhood of Old Town in Mombasa. Referring to a mosque that sits just across a narrow road from a police station staffed mostly by non-Muslim, upcountry Kenyans, my friend told me, “You know, those polisi hear every word of the khutba just sitting there in the station. But if just one of them would stand outside like this”— he crossed his arms and puffed up his chest, imitating a haughty police officer’s posture—“listening. ...” He completed the thought with a simple “eh-hee,” indi- cating that such a move would certainly be taken as a serious provocation.

Doing Acoustemology

My friend’s perceptive ethnomethodological observa- tion of the social choreography that accompanies the pious soundscape in Mombasa Old Town highlights both the necessity and the difficulty of doing acouste- mology in the contested spaces of the Kenyan coast. Acoustemological research ideally generates theoret- ical knowledge through an active process of listening in, involving a personal engagement with sounds and subjects in their spatiotemporal contexts. Even at its best, this form of research is fraught with method- ological, ethical and practical challenges, all of which are amplified when a researcher from the global North works among Muslim subjects in the global South, given that the latter may reasonably fear being listened in on by the former. What precipitated my Swahili friend’s lesson on the politics of listening to the khutba was a problem that had resulted from my own inattention to these challenges: A few days earlier, some worshippers at a mosque close to my apartment in Mombasa Old Town became concerned that I was making an audio recording of the khutba, concerned enough to hold a meeting on the matter after the fact. Though I was trying not to be conspicuous in making my recording, neither was I hiding what I was doing. I was naively comfortable in the knowledge that I was not doing anything in violation of professional ethics: Not only was I recording a public broadcast in public space, I was recording a broadcast of which I would have “[heard] every word ... just sitting there” in my apartment. I failed to understand, however, that as a white foreigner, my act of “[standing] outside like this,” recording, was not only inherently suspicious but also a symbolic perfor- mance within the context of an ongoing struggle over Muslim communal autonomy. Fortunately, good friends who were respected members of the local community quickly defused tensions and allayed fears in the wake of my faux pas. But the embarrassing episode stays with me as a visceral reminder that ethnographers also carry particular understandings of publicity, privacy, sound, and space, which may be subject to contestation.

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The Mombasa Republican Council: Separatist Extremists or Legitimate Protestors?

by Nate Mathews
As I stepped out into the steamy humid Mombasa dawn, into a waiting taxi at Mombasa International Airport, I wasn't thinking about politics, or religion for that matter. But with a name like Prophet, my driver seemed destined to deliver a particular message. As we drove through the Mombasa morning, the acrid smell of burning trash piercing my nostrils, he shared some definite ideas about Mombasa's political situation. Apropos of nothing, he began speaking about the Mombasa Republican Council, a group of "extremists" who "were trying to destroy Kenya." They had, according to him, repeatedly said "they were not part of Kenya, until President Kibaki had no choice but "to go in there and start busting some heads" to "teach them a lesson." I asked my driver how long this was. "2 months ago, after they were banned."

I was fascinated by this rather pointed condemnation. I had been unaware of the recent rise to prominence and notoriety of the MRC, and I resolved to find out more in my short trip. I started with Paul Goldsmith's ominous sounding  MRC Conflict Assessment Report. The report is an excellent place to begin contextualizing the history of the Kenya Coast and the tangled threads that led to the present situation.
 The MRC issue is also heating up just as the country begans its long breath-holding leading up to the important March 2013 elections.

Colonialism and the Sultanate of Zanzibar
Back up a little for a brief review of history. The coast of Kenya has always had a different sense of historical identity than the rest of Kenya, and was treated as such by the British. Since the 1800s parts of it had been ruled by various Omani families. In the mid-nineteenth century, the Busaidi royal family under Said bin Sultan brought it under the control of the Sultanate of Zanzibar. In 1888, the 10 mile strip of coast was leased to the Imperial British East Africa Company. In 1895, in an agreement between the Sultan and the British Crown, the coast becoming a Protectorate as the Sultanate of Zanzibar was, while the rest of Kenya became a colony. In the early 1900s, British interests shifted inland, and they shifted their colonial capital to Nairobi. Thus from the beginning of the British colonial project, seperate administrative regimes characterized coast and interior.

Kenyan Independence and Mwambao
 As Kenyan independence approached, the status of the coast again became an issue. For various reasons, the Coast lagged behind other areas of Kenya in development and education. At least part of the reason was due to the reluctance of Muslims to send their children to colonial or missionary schools.  So while a generation of upcountry people took advantage of educational opportunities under the colonial system, coastal people were bypassed. Upcountry people moved down to the coast to take advantage of job opportunities, changing the demographics of the coastal towns. Coastal residents worried about the disposition of their lands. Swahili and Arab townsmen, fearing loss of representation and privilege, formed political parties to advocate for the rights of coastal people. The various parties can be grouped under a general "movement" called Mwambao, which called for autonomy and sovereignty for the Coast, or for its unification with Zanzibar. But Mombasa's economic importance to the rest of Kenya made this political outcome highly unlikely. In late 1961, the Robertson Commission recommended that the Coast be joined to mainland Kenya before independence. In response, On December 17, 1961,  Mijikenda leader Ronald Ngala lowered the red flag of the Sultan of Zanzibar at Malindi, a Kenyan coastal town. 

Coastal communities themselves were deeply divided, and unable to unite behind a single platform or identity. KANU and KADU, the two largest political parties in Kenya leading up to independence, were both united in their opposition to mwambao.The 1963 Memorandum of Understanding between the Sultan of Zanzibar and Jomo Kenyatta that formally transferred sovereignty over the coast to 
independent Kenya retained the outlines of the 1895 agreement:

1) Insure complete freedom of religion, especially  for Muslim subjects, and 
preservation of their religious buildings and institutions;  

2) the Chief Kadhi will have jurisdiction over questions of Muslim law relating to 
personal status (marriage, divorce, inheritance);  

3) administrative officers in Muslim areas should be, “so far as is reasonably 
practicable:”   

4) Muslim children should be instructed in Arabic,  “so far as is reasonably 
practicable;”  

5)  “The freehold titles to land in the coast region that are already registered will 
at all times be recognized, steps will be taken to ensure the continuation of 
the procedure for the registration of new freehold  titles and rights of 
freeholders will at all times be preserved save in  so far as it may be 
necessary to acquire freehold land for public purposes, in which event full and 
prompt compensation will be paid.”

Nationalism and the Entrenchment of Colonial Borders
In the 1960s, Kenya also faced demands from Somalia to cede part of its territory in the northeast. Unlike most post-colonial African states, which were and are divided by ethnicity and language, Somalia faced a situation of internal ethnic and linguistic unity, with a good number of Somalis actually living beyond the colonial borders.

But Kenya violently quelled the secessionists, indicating that it would be willing to use force to maintain the territorial integrity of Kenya. The idea of the territorial integrity of colonial boundaries was something that emerged from the more conservative political vision of OAU members, who sought guarantees that what they viewed as "radical" Pan-African activism of states like Ghana would not affect their own bases of power. 

The Land Issue
It is well known that the Kenyan president throughout the state's recent history possessed final say over the disposition of land on the coast. President Kenyatta in particular used coastal land to reward independence fighters and other supporters, at the expense of locals. Thousands of acres of land were  declared state property and made a patrimony of the former president, a tool of political patronage. This is well known even by upcountry people residing on the Coast.

Tourism and the Marginalization of the Swahili
Despite the Coast being one of Kenya's top tourist destinations, and a base for the ever popular safaris to the major game parks, the local people have not enjoyed the economic benefits of tourism. Tourism dollars have not translated into substantial advances in education and development, and in fact have only eroded coastal people's control over the land. Far more upcountry people work in the tourist industry on the coast--as guides, drivers, cooks, builders, and souvenir sellers--than do coastal people.

The Mombasa Republican Council

The MRC has been around in one form or another since the late 1990s. The MRC's cry of "Pwani sio Kenya" is indicative of this tangled history and intense grievances. But it is also a strategy to get themselves heard, albeit a non-starting strategy in the eyes of most Kenyans.  The MRC claims to possess documents separate 50-year lease agreement signed by Kenyan Prime Minister Jomo Kenyatta and his Zanzibar counterpart Mohamed Shante in which the Kenyan coastal strip is integrated into Kenya. The MRC claims that this lease expires next year, when the coastal strip should ‘regain’ its independence.The group has been banned and unbanned various times over the past few years, its leaders have been beaten by police, imprisoned and arrested, and generally treated as an extremely dangerous threat by other Kenyan leaders. MRC supporters, unlike most Kenyans, have greeted the new 2012 Constitution with cynicism, arguing that it doesn't reflect their interests. There is a deep-seated well of frusturation on the Coast that secessionist sentiments play into. Not all coastal people support secession, but any coastal person with some familiarity with the situation is aware of the pressing need for change that will empower coastal residents.

Islamism in East Africa
Does the MRC have links to militas like al-Shabaab or more militant transnational groups like al-Qaeda? The evidence for such links is extremely tenuous, although upcountry Kenyans often link the seperatists with al-Shabaab, mostly because (I think) their idea of the threat of Islamic militancy is primarily represented through the symbol of that specter in modern day Kenya (also connected with Kenya's brief incursion into Somalia during Operation Linda Nchi).

MRC is frequently linked to Uamsho, another separatist oriented group in Zanzibar, although it seems Uamsho has a much clearer social agenda related to the "Islamization" of Zanzibar island, than does the MRC, which is far from being a Muslim-only group. As the many media commentators have observed, the common thread linking these movements are social problems like unemployment, poverty and economic and social marginalization. Despite the tremendous wealth entering Coast Province through tourism and trade, coastal residents have benefited little from development projects mainly designed to serve foreign tourists. I saw concrete evidence of this driving through the countryside south of Malindi, where mile after mile of coastal resorts with Italian names were in various stages of construction, while people live in abject poverty sometimes only a few hundred yards away.

What provokes most anxiety in ordinary  upcountry Kenyans who live on the coast, many of whom are struggling to make a living just as much as the Swahili and other indigenous coastal groups, is xenophobic, anti-Christian, anti-mainlander/upcountry undercurrent to the MRC protests. It fuels irrational fears by these Christian coastal residents of Muslim dominance or foreign, Arab control of Kenya. 

The sad reality is that the Kenyan economy is already controlled by foreigners. Its economy is dependent on foreign aid and tourism, a fact which I believe will play some significant role in the upcoming election. Kenya's dependence on the West means that the election of Kenyatta and Ruto would throw its economy and political situation into further disarray, given their situation at the ICC. But that is another story. 

Analysts urge Kenyan leaders to address the grievances (if not the demand for secession) of MRC while remaining alert that it does not develop into an armed rebel group. In the 2007-08 election violence, elites often armed youth brigades to commit destabilizing acts of violence. Youth sympathetic to the MRC could very well be drawn into post-election violence. 

In my opinion 1) the coast will not cease to be a part of Kenya because Kenyan elites will not allow it 2) MRC can succeed in demands for autonomy and development if they moderate their secessionist stance while retaining the unity of their base 3)In addition to development projects and education for coastal residents, some sort of cultural program of understanding should be put into place to develop deeper ties of mutual understanding between coastal and upcountry communities.

What do you think?

For more on mwambao, see James Brennan, "Lowering the Sultan's Flag: Sovereignty and Decolonization in Coastal Kenya." Comparative Studies in Society and History 2008: 50(4), 831-861.

For more on Muslims and their relationship to nationalism and politics in Kenya, see Hassan Ndovu. "Muslim Relations in the Politics of Nationalism and Secession in Kenya." PAS Working Paper 18. http://www.northwestern.edu/african-studies/docs/working-papers/Hassan-Muslims%20and%20Secessionism%20in%20Kenya-FINAL.pdf

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Colorful Ports of Call 1934: Seychelles, Mombasa and Zanzibar

An innacurate portrayal of African society, Islam, Arab slavery, etc. not to mention extremely racist! Interesting and rare footage nonetheless.

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Maulid in Mombasa 2010

thanks to Suad for the pics....

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Swahili Proverbs from Life and Politics in Mombasa

Sheikh Hyder el-Kindy was a Swahili political leader whose autobiography, Life and Politics in Mombasa, has a number of great Kiswahili proverbs:

"Kweli ikidhihiri, uwongo hujitenga" meaning when truth comes, falsehood disappears. This was said in relation to Sheikh Hyder's story of standing up to a brutal overseer while on a prison chain gang.

"Mtambua ndwee ndiye mganga" meaning he who diagnoses a disease is the physician. This was related by Sheikh Hyder after the installation of the new Tamim of the Thelatha Taifa (Three Tribes) a group of Swahili clans in Mombasa. He afterwards was appointed deputy Tamim.

"Kinolewacho hupata" meaning that Anything that is sharpened becomes sharper. This was said in relation to Sheikh Hyder's ambivalence about translating subservive Kiswahili political texts for the colonial police,(he worked as a translator), which implicated his grandnephew as an anticolonial agitator.

Sheikh Hyder relates many other stories about the social and cultural history of the coast. His memoirs are a valuable source for understanding the tension between "Arabs" and "Swahili" in the colonial era, the relationship between nationalism and Islam in Kenya, colonial political agitation, and some of the attitudes of postcolonial African leaders in Mombasa.

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The Ottoman Empire in East Africa

The Ottoman Empire began its march to dominance as a band of Turcoman nomads from Central Asia. Several centuries later, they were the globally dominant military, political, and economic power. Analysis of the Ottomans as a world power—especially their diplomatic relations with emerging European powers such as Portugal, Venice, and France—is not new in the historiography, but sustained monographic treatments of the Ottoman relationship with their eastern neighbors, especially the Safavids and the Mughals, have been rare. Moreover, Ottoman naval power has only recently given its proper place in the historiographical analysis. Historians such as Palmira Brummett, Andrew Hess, and Salih Ozbaran detail how the Ottomans were not only a ‘gunpowder empire’ with well organized armies; they also built and provisioned trading ships in the Mediterranean, Baltic, and Red Seas. S systemic monographic treatment of their presence in the Indian Ocean is yet to be written.

The knowledge of Ottoman presence in the Indian Ocean was initially facilitated by Portuguese historians, while on the Turkish side, the pioneering works of Salih Ozbaran have been collected in The Ottoman Response to European Expansion: Studies on Ottoman Portuguese Relations in the Indian Ocean and Ottoman administration in the Arab lands during the Sixteenth Century.

Ozbaran’s work of collecting and presenting primary sources and interpretation of Ottoman diplomatic relations and naval power is particularly valuable. He details how in the late 15th century, having conquered Istanbul and established hegemony over Anatolia and several Baltic and Arab provinces, the Ottomans turned to Venetian shipbuilders to challenge the Portuguese in the Indian Ocean. At the head of the Red Sea, the Ottomans completed their new fleet, and in 1507, Amir Husayn led the fleet to fight the Portuguese at Diu. Despite their defeat by the Portuguese in 1509, the Ottomans remained a viable naval power in the Red Sea, with outposts on the Horn of Africa and control over the strategic port of Aden on the Yemeni coast.

Furthermore, the hostility of the Swahili city-states to Portuguese hegemony meant that Ottoman incursions down the East coast of Africa were perceived as a real threat. In about 1585, a single Turkish ship promising support was sufficient to bring on a general revolt of Swahili towns, which the Portuguese promptly quelled. A couple of years later, Amir Ali Bey—whom some sources picture as an Ottoman official, but others as a mere buccaneer—appeared with a small force. Again, several city states immediately broke away from Portuguese control. At Pemba, the townspeople annihilated the occupying garrison, and an attack was mounted against Malindi, Portugal's staunchest ally. Again a Portuguese fleet from India restored control with appalling brutality. At Faza, they slaughtered the entire population, destroyed its vessels and plantations, and sent the head of its king as a grizzly trophy to Goa.

Ali Bey returned with a somewhat larger force two years later and took possession of Mombasa. Another Portuguese relief force was dispatched, and sailed into the harbor to find the Turks had come under siege by invaders they called Zimba, reportedly a savage people who had already destroyed Kilwa. The Portuguese fleet attacked and pillaged the city, and then, as they departed, the Zimba rushed in to complete the devastation. Advancing farther north, the Zimba finally were defeated at Malindi by a force of warlike pastoralists whom the Portuguese called Masseguejos. Portugese control would continue until the Omanis (invited by Mombasa city leaders) finally wrested control of the coast from the them in 1698.

Of course there are other stories here too: the conflict between the Ottomans and the Ethiopian emperor Minas over the coastal imperial stronghold of Debarwa, the intermittent treaties between the two parties over the trading entrepots at Massawa and Arkiko. During the 15th century the Ottomans had used local Muslim intermediaries to wage war against the Ethiopian emperor, while the Portuguese backed the Ethiopians but tried to make them submit to Papal authority in Rome. As both Ottoman and Portuguese power declined in the 17th century, these machinations died down.

The larger point in all is that the histories of these liminal spaces on the edges of the great empires often have their own unique and compelling stories which get lost amidst the focus on a perceived 'center'. If a historian came along who knew Kiswahili, Arabic, Portuguese, Ottoman Turkish, French, German, and English, and perhaps Gujarati he or she could write a comprehensive history of the Western Indian Ocean from antiquity to the present, including some of the arcane bits of minutiae which help give life to the larger sketch. As it now stands, learning two languages is a daunting enough task, so this herculean effort is still a future endeavor for some aspiring genius.

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Family and Friends at Telekom Towers

My host family, neighbors, and the kids who live in my building. They asked me everyday, "Twende Nakumatt kununua peremende." (Lets go to Nakumatt (a local supermarket) to buy sweets).

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Miraa

For those pharmacopiacally savvy, miraa is more commonly known in Somalia and Ethiopia as 'qat.' Miraa is a plant with the effect of a mild narcotic. You chew the leaves for a long time in order to relax with friends. Its use is very popular and has a long lineage in Somali culture. It reportedly reduces appetite and heightens alertness. Although banned in many countries (U.A.E., Saudia Arabia, and Oman to my knowledge) miraa is widely available and completely legal in Mombasa. However its use carries certain social stigma (as I was to find out in my attempts to 'score' some) and its use is restricted in many public places like parks and nightclubs.
But first some background. Qat/miraa is illegal in the United States, but in D.C. its available, depending on who you know. I recall walking to a club with some Ethiopian friends and trying it for the first time. The overwhelmingly feeling I had was of chewing bitter, dried leaves. Which is why I had trouble understanding the fuss at one of our monthly ANC meetings when several neighbors stood up to give vehement denunciations of its use and supposed effects. You would have thought we were talking about crack cocaine from the way they described it. (Then again, we are talking about a particular group of DC residents whose tolerance for instant coffee, unleashed dogs, untended lawns, and loud noise is about zero, and whose idea of a good time is remaking the entire neighborhood over with latte-shops, dog-parks, and as few poor, black, or Latino residents as possible.)
Anyway, I went to a pan shop here in Mombasa to inquire about miraa and the guy directed me vaguely in the direction of the shop next-door. With some misgiving, I entered a pharmacy and observed the man behind the counter who looked Somali in appearance and whose wife and children were with him in the shop. My sixth sense should have taken over at this point and induced me to leave the shop, but I foolishly pressed on, asking him if he sold miraa. "Come again?" he said, as if he couldn't believe his ears. "Unauza miraa?" I repeated my question growing more sure that this was a bad idea. The man became visibly upset, "What! Man, use logic! This is a pharmacy, why would I sell miraa?!" As I stumbled for the right words, he continued, "Maybe you want some brown sugar too, huh, some heroin?!" I left the shop rather embarrassed.
My next foray was more successful. For 100 Ksh, I bought a bunch from an official miraa shop up near the bus stations. (Bus drivers reportedly utilize it for their long cross-country and overnight trips). Popping the leaves in my mouth (which were much fresher than the miraa I tryed in DC), I walked as I chewed. The leaves initially numb your mouth and are quite bitter. After two hours, I felt a bit lightheaded but that was all. (I did lack an appetite, but that was more likely due to the HUGE lunch I had at the Gujarati-owned New Chetna all vegetarian restaraunt.)
Overall, the leaf did not induce any Aldous Huxley, "Doors-of-Perception" type experience, and I felt like an idiot.

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Fort Jesus

Source
Fort Jesus is a Portuguese fort built in 1593 by order of King Philip II of Spain ( King Philip I of Portugal ), then ruler of the joint Portuguese and Spanish Kingdoms, located on Mombasa Island to guard the Old Port of Mombasa, Kenya. It was built in the shape of a man (viewed from the air), and was given the name of Jesus, after Shaikh Isa Bin Tarif Al Bin Ali Al Utbi conquered the fort in 1837 after being asked for assistance by Sayyid Saeed Bin Sultan Imam of Muscat [1]. The name Jesus in Arabic means Isa, therefore it means the Fort of Isa ( Isa Bin Tarif ). Isa Bin Tarif , Chief of the Al Bin Ali Al Utbi Tribe , is a desendant of the Original Utub who conquered Bahrain [2]. The Al Bin Ali were a politically important group that moved backwards and forwards between Qatar and Bahrain, they were the original dominant group of Zubara area [3].

Between 1631 and 1875 the fort was won and lost nine times by the nations contesting control of Mombasa. It was declared a historical monument in 1958. Today it houses a museum.

The fort was designed by an Italian architect, Jao Batisto Cairato, who was the Chief Architect for Portuguese possessions in the East. Today, it is one of the finest examples of 16th century Portuguese military architecture, which has been influenced and changed by both the Omani Arabs and the British[4]. The fort quickly became a vital possession for anyone with the intention of controlling Mombasa Island or the surrounding areas of trade. When the British colonised Kenya, they used it as a prison, until 1958, when they converted it into a historical monument. James Kirkman was then assigned to excavate the monument, which he did (with a large use of external historical documents) from 1958 to 1971 [5].

And now my observations
Fort Jesus was one of the few 'tourist attractions' I have visited in East Africa where the majority of the visitors I observed were African. This bespeaks a larger problem with tourism dependency (although tourism is a HUGE revenue generator, this in itself is tied to larger problems of economic inequity and lopsided power relationships). Therefore it was extremely refreshing to see loads of primary and secondary school students touring the grounds and museum, notebooks in hand, to write down and absorb the knowledge presented.

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