Marching Boots or Marching Rights? A critical look at the UPDF Amendment Act

By Odeke Bazel

It begins, as most things in Uganda do, with an announcement that is less of a suggestion and more of a command: the UPDF Amendment Act is here. And just like that, a legal brick has been added to the towering wall that separates state power from individual liberty. But unlike previous amendments, this one has the unmistakable aroma of gunpowder mixed with constitutional smoke.

The grounds for the amendment, we are told, are noble: upholding national security, instilling discipline, and modernizing military structures to face “emerging threats.” But in a country where everything from a Twitter post to a university strike can be framed as a threat, one must ask: is it truly about security, or is it the state’s clever way of policing thought, speech, and conscience?

Central to the controversy is the expansion of military jurisdiction over civilians. The idea that a civilian, yes, someone whose most dangerous weapon is sarcasm, could be dragged before the General Court Martial should raise eyebrows high enough to tickle the Constitution. Military courts are structured for military men, not mango vendors. They salute, obey, and operate in a culture of hierarchy. Now imagine trying a civilian in that setup. It’s like tossing a cat into a dog show and expecting it to win Best in Show.

Yet here we are. Article 28 of our Constitution promises every Ugandan the right to a fair trial in an independent and impartial court. But how impartial can a military court be when its allegiance is not to the Constitution per se, but to the Commander-in-Chief? How fair is a process when the judge and the prosecutor both have the same chain of command?

On paper, this Act promises discipline. In reality, it risks becoming a tool of intimidation. Activists are treading more cautiously, comedians are testing punchlines like they’re walking through a minefield, and civil society voices are growing quieter by the day. A nation that once buzzed with civic energy now murmurs with a quiet unease. Is this peace, or simply fear wearing a tuxedo?

What is even more alarming is how this Act was processed. Instead of an inclusive national dialogue, the law was pushed through Parliament with the urgency of someone hiding something. The public was barely informed. The debate was minimal. Consultation with civil society was virtually nonexistent. It was legislation by ambush, a political hit-and-run.

This begs the question: if the UPDF is truly a people’s army, why is the people’s voice so absent in matters that define its legal powers?

There was a better way. The process could have invited scholars, human rights experts, judges, and even, brace yourself, ordinary citizens. The law could have clearly defined what military crimes are, limiting the scope of military jurisdiction strictly to uniformed personnel. Military courts should have remained exactly what they were meant to be: internal mechanisms of discipline, not alternatives to civilian justice.

Some form of judicial oversight could have been introduced. Perhaps even sunset clauses, temporary provisions subject to parliamentary review, so we don’t hand permanent power to temporary fears. After all, laws driven by panic are rarely good for posterity.

But here we are again, marching to the beat of state security while individual freedoms retreat in silence. Uganda must decide: are we building a nation of unity or a nation in uniform?

Because if we continue on this path, where every citizen is potentially a suspect and every courtroom a parade ground, then perhaps we should stop pretending. Issue all citizens free military uniforms and call it a day. At least that way, we’ll all be on the same side of the law—camouflaged and confused.

Uganda deserves peace, yes. But not the peace of muted voices and fearful hearts. True peace is not the absence of noise, it is the presence of justice. And justice, let’s be honest, doesn’t salute anyone.
© 2025 Odeke Bazel. All rights reserved.

The writer is a Social Worker, public thinker, and occasional philosopher, for all the right reasons.