Daily Monitor’s Irene Abalo (centre) is helped by the publication’s acting managing editor (Dailies), Mr Tabu Butagira (right) and another collegue at International Diagnostic Centre where she got treatment after she was beaten by the military police on February 17, 2021.
Covering Opposition presidential candidates during and after election campaigns in Uganda, especially when they are popular figures, feels like covering a war. You never know when the military will take over from the police. Four years ago, after being beaten by military police, my life and journalism practice changed drastically.
The physical toll has been significant, with ongoing recovery, struggles with weight gain, and mental health challenges. Surgery and therapy have become part of my life as I cope with anxiety and pain. Despite these challenges, I have found solace in overworking and studying, using them as distractions. I cannot fully grasp how my children have coped with my sudden lifestyle change, but they have been a constant source of support.
“Mummy, why did they beat you?” my son asked. I stared blankly at him, unsure of what to say. A faint, forced “I don’t know” escaped my lips. Maybe I just wanted to respond to him, though I, too, lacked answers. How do you explain to your nine-year-old that you went to work and were beaten by military police for simply doing your job—journalism? It was a mountain I did not know how to “move”.
My children were used to a lively mother—one who was always on the move, covering stories. They were proud to see me on TV. We often discussed my reports after they were aired or published. I always bought a copy of The Monitor newspaper so they could see what took their mother away from home so often. But on February 17, 2021, at about 1:20pm, my life changed in less than a minute. A military police soldier targeted me, striking my lower left leg and ankle with a baton, causing a severe tissue injury. I was on assignment to cover a press conference and the delivery of a petition to the then UN Human Rights offices in Kololo, Kampala, led by former presidential candidate Robert Kyagulanyi, also known as Bobi Wine. The petition highlighted human rights abuses in Uganda. I covered the event live on my Facebook page (Facebook now banned in Uganda) and continued updating my media house. Then, a friend called, warning me to stop the livestream. She had covered Bobi Wine’s campaign trail in December 2020 and knew how the police targeted journalists who publicised Opposition activities. Journalists understand such warnings from colleagues as a safety measure or security apparatus as a threat. I ended the stream. Before the beating, Bobi Wine had been allowed to proceed to the office premises with his team. Journalists waited about 50 metres from the office. The police had created a human barrier to block the road.
About 20 journalists and other NUP officials waited for Bobi Wine within the buffer area on the road for about 30 minutes. Shortly, a military police patrol vehicle from the UN Human Rights office approached those standing by the roadside. An order came from a military officer asking everyone to leave the roadside where we were standing. Before any of us could take a step, there were sounds of beatings and screams ringing in the usually quiet affluent Kololo neigbourhood. The soldier who beat me followed me up to the moving NTV pick-up truck I was trying to enter into. I had run. And I was tired. I asked the driver to slow down so I could enter the car. As I opened the car door and pushed myself in the back seat, the baton targeted my bum, tore my trousers, and then hit my ankle several times as the driver accelerated. The pain was unbearable. I cried without tears. The driver was confused because there was another colleague just in front of us with blood oozing from his head. He stopped the car and other journalists, some still running, helped him into the car, beside me. I looked at my left leg. My ankle was swelling and the strap of a flat shoe I was wear was digging into my skin on that leg. I could not remove it. The excruciating pain pierced through my brain. I could not think. I screamed.
Journalist Irene Abalo turns up for a medical review and dressing appointment at Medipal International Hospital, in Kampala on March 22, 2025, a month after a second surgery on her left leg (inset). PHOTOS/COURTESY OF IRENE ABALO
The driver remained focused on the road, driving. He asked me where I wanted to be taken for treatment. I told him: “Anywhere.” When we reached the clinic on Yusuf Lule Road, I was quickly taken to a room from where the nurse cut the shoe strap. To reduce the pain, an injection that I could not feel pierced through my body. I cried. This time tears flowed down my cheeks. Then I saw the news manager from the TV newsroom enter the clinic. We had been given first aid. But I could not feel my lower left leg. News reached the company that two employees from NTV and the newspaper were injured by military police while on assignment. I did not want to answer questions from the editors because of the pain. While being discharged from the clinic, the doctor said I would be okay in a “couple of days”. Thank God, I still had insurance coverage.
I just wanted to be home, in my bed. My editor and another colleague carried me to the car. It was about a 30 minutes’ drive to my house. Two colleagues carried me to the house. For about six months, I would lie on my back and stretch the painful leg on the chair, positioning to find comfort just so I could catch some sleep. I underwent a second surgery in February 22, 2025 to detach the scar from the damaged tissue. I have asked God for just one day without pain, that burning pain on my left leg. Meanwhile, my children stopped asking questions about my situation because they had seen me struggle with mobility for four years. The routine of putting my leg in warm water in a bucket and smearing bio-oil to bring some relief during the day or in the night before I go to bed. My life and lifestyle had changed with no medic assuring me of when I would heal.
HER RESOLVE
Before the first surgery on March 1, 2023, I had been to more than 10 health facilities, hospitals, looking for specialists to treat my condition or buying medicines to numb the pain. The surgery left a scar that continued to pain until a plastic surgeon suggested a second surgery with the possibility of reducing the pain after removing the scar and making sure there was no abnormal growth around the injured tissue. Three years after the injury, a friend visited me at home and joked that one of my drawers had become a pharmacy. We laughed about it but then I had woken up to the fact that too much medication robbed me of a chance to enjoy food and caused stomach ulcers. I can no longer enjoy most foods I used to love. My diet has changed. Pain may have altered my path, but it has not taken away my voice, my will to serve humanity through journalism.
