Amisa Rashid Ahmed
Kenya
The political is personal, and the personal is political, which is the idea that our personal lives reflect our larger sociopolitical sphere and our ideologies shape how we interact with society and, ultimately, how we engage with the world around us. My politics are deeply rooted in feminism, Pan-Afrikanism, inclusivity, equity, decolonisation, and a commitment to community-driven work. My political ideology centres around amplifying marginalised voices and addressing systemic inequities and injustices in every capacity I can. This is why I also identify as a human rights defender. The values I hold dear—justice, love, curiosity, courage, and altruism—are the foundation of my political beliefs and guide my actions as I strive for change.
When I say my value is feminism, I emphasise an intersectional understanding of feminism. I don’t merely examine feminism through a narrow lens; I embody its complexities. For me, feminism is not simply about individual empowerment but liberation for all women. This is why I challenge ideologies such as "Girlboss feminism" or "choice feminism." These terms focus on individual empowerment rather than the collective liberation of women. They promote the idea that success can be achieved by "leaning in" rather than questioning the systems that oppress women in the first place. As a young woman, I am often expected to measure my success based on how well I conform to the system rather than how effectively I challenge it.
In politics, "Girlboss feminism" often manifests itself in subtle ways. For instance, women are frequently encouraged to use their "feminine power" to be heard, which may involve serving tea during political meetings or aligning with the male gaze. This behaviour, rather than questioning the system that enforces gender norms, reinforces them. Women are told they can only succeed by adapting to existing norms rather than dismantling the structural barriers that limit our potential. And when women are excluded from spaces like political media appearances, the underlying issue—gendered politics—is often ignored. The mental and emotional load placed on women, especially in political settings, is often invisible and unacknowledged. We must ask ourselves, why is the system built this way? And how can we work to dismantle it?
I come from an ethnically marginalised Indigenous community in Kenya, the Nubian community and my personal experiences with systemic injustice have deeply shaped my political outlook. I’ve seen firsthand the inequities when accessing basic services like acquiring an identification card. Without it, one cannot access essential education, healthcare, or financial resources. This lack of access perpetuates cycles of exclusion and poverty, and it is one of the reasons why Kibra, the Nubian community's homeland, remains one of the largest informal settlements in the world. Issues like land rights are also a constant struggle for indigenous communities. Understanding how everything is interconnected—how systemic injustice in one area creates a ripple effect across others—has formed the core of my personal political beliefs, particularly around equity and justice.
Professionally, I am a neuropsychologist and a counselling psychologist, and I am the founder and executive director of the Nivishe Foundation. This organisation provides accessible, dignified, non-discriminatory, and culturally sensitive mental health services. Our work is rooted in community voices and indigenous knowledge, focusing on marginalised and underserved communities in Kenya. My work is not just a career. This calling draws from my personal story and the desire to amplify often silenced voices. The healthcare system, particularly in Kenya, has long been dominated by a Euro-American perspective, and I’m committed to ensuring that mental healthcare is seen from a community-driven rather than a Westernized approach, which, in essence, is decolonising mental healthcare.
The term “decolonisation” has become a buzzword in recent years, but I often wonder, who decides what these buzzwords mean, and who gets to define knowledge? Who sets the agenda for global issues like climate change and sexual and reproductive health rights? These issues are undeniably important, but we must question the power structures behind them.
Who benefits from these global conversations? The internet has given us access to information, yet whose voices are heard the loudest? Who controls the narratives that we consume? These questions fuel my journey of critical thinking and curiosity as I consider everything through the lens of decolonisation.
My politics also align with the principles of participatory democracy. Individuals, especially those from historically marginalised communities, should have a seat at the table and an active role in decision-making processes. But I also recognise that democracy itself needs to be decolonised. Democracy, as it stands, often favours the dominant political and economic powers. Electoral democracy is, at its core, a numbers game.
Marginalised communities, like mine, often lack the political representation that allows them to influence decisions that directly impact their lives. In Kenya, politics often boils down to identity politics, or "mtu wetu" (our person), which reinforces divisions rather than uniting us. Despite initiatives like the 2/3 gender rule meant to include marginalised voices, these rules often fail to create real change. The system is set up in such a way that marginalised communities are kept out, even though our issues are just as important, if not more so.
Everything is interconnected. If something affects one of us, it affects all of us, directly or indirectly. This is especially true in the global context, where the rise of authoritarianism threatens the progress we’ve worked so hard to achieve. While the authoritarian tendencies of some governments are worrying, I also see this moment as an opportunity to redefine governance, champion inclusivity, and ensure that policies reflect the realities of all citizens. In Kenya, marginalised communities, particularly youth, continue to bear the brunt of systemic inequalities, and they remain underrepresented in leadership. But there is hope—youth are no longer willing to be sidelined. Their voices, ideas, and leadership are critical for sustainable development.
Reflecting on decolonising democracy, I recognise that Kenyan youth are already challenging the norms. They may not use the term "social accountability," but they use tools like art, music, and even AI to demand accountability and good governance. Through these creative outlets, they are decolonising social accountability without explicitly using the terminology. It is a fascinating process of reimagining an ideal world that questions everything we are being force-fed and seeks to create systems that work for everyone.
Perhaps my call to action seems far-fetched, but I believe it’s time to dismantle the colonial systems that continue to hold Africa back. I hope that one day, I can look back and see a legacy of inclusion—a political landscape where marginalised voices are not only heard but are central to decision-making processes. I envision a future where policies are created in consultation with those they impact most rather than in isolation. My dream is to build systems that outlast me—systems that empower communities, uplift youth, and recognise mental health as a fundamental human right. But, as I’ve learned, the question remains: who decides what change is? And can we take the power back and define words for ourselves?
Ultimately, this is not just about politics or policy—it’s about creating a world where everyone can thrive, regardless of their background or identity. It’s about rethinking the systems that govern us and working toward a future where justice, equity, and inclusion are the norm, not the exception.