Kenyan journalists battle violence, digital monitoring in the line of duty

Armed with cameras, pens, microphones and mobile phones, journalists are expected to document the nation in real time, to bear witness, to question, and to hold power to account. Yet increasingly, these very tools have turned them into targets.

On this year’s World Press Freedom Day, marked yesterday under the theme “Shaping a Future at Peace: Promoting Press Freedom for Human Rights, Development, and Security”, one question lingers in Kenya’s media landscape: Is journalism becoming a crime?

For many Kenyan journalists, the past year has not just been about chasing headlines, but survival.

From political rallies to street protests, court corridors to crime scenes, journalists describe a consistent pattern of hostility across institutions. Insults have become routine, while equipment is destroyed in the line of duty. Phones are snatched and footage deleted. Some journalists have been arrested, while others have endured physical violence, at times from the very authorities mandated to protect them.

Field danger

The profession, once widely respected, is now increasingly viewed with suspicion. “Years back, no one could dare touch a journalist. But these days, we are treated with disrespect,” says Bernard Orwongo, a seasoned photojournalist with the Standard Group.

With over 15 years in the field, Orwongo has covered elections, protests and national tragedies. But nothing, he says, compares to the hostility journalists now face. “The worst came during protests,” he recalls. “I almost lost my life.”

During the June 2024 Gen Z anti-government protests, Orwongo found himself trapped between angry crowds and security forces. His role, capturing unfolding events, placed him directly in harm’s way. “The moment a police officer sees you trying to get a shot of them beating someone, they turn on you. They lob tear gas in your direction. At one point, a canister almost hit me,” he says.

In the chaos, he lost more than his composure. His camera was damaged, a shoe was lost while fleeing, and only the intervention of nearby youths helped him escape.

In another incident, his phone was snatched inside a church. “I was clearly identifiable. I had my press badge on, a camera in hand. Someone approached me and grabbed my phone while I was sending material to the newsroom,” he says.

Such incidents, he notes, are no longer isolated. “We have become targets, from goons, politicians, even police officers.”

For Mary Imenza, a Standard Group correspondent based in Busia and Kakamega, the attack was not only physical but an attempt to erase evidence.

“The day I went to Jirongo’s burial, police took my phone and deleted everything,” she says. “I stayed at the home until 8 pm waiting for my phone.”

What followed left her shaken. 

“My colleagues came, and the county commander told me there was nothing I could do. She said she does not fear transfer, that I could even call Raymond Omollo if I wanted. She didn’t care.”

Deleted footage

Imenza had recorded footage showing police attempting to shoot at mourners.

“That footage is what they deleted,” she says. “I cried.”

Her experience reflects a growing concern among journalists: not only being attacked, but having their work deliberately erased before it reaches the public.

For Winfrey Owino, also a journalist at The Standard, the threat came as a coordinated disruption.

Just days before the June 25, 2024, protest anniversary, she and colleagues were covering a press briefing at the Kenya Human Rights Commission offices. “We were setting up, preparing for the briefing. Then we heard the gate shaking. People shouting,” she recalls.

Moments later, 15 to 20 men stormed the premises. “They took phones, cameras… one international journalist lost her MacBook,” she says.

Panic spread as journalists ran for cover. “They told us that if they caught you recording, they would take your phone. And they did.”

Even after reporting the matter to the police, fear lingered. “It made me feel like some people will do anything to stop certain stories from being told,” Owino says.

Beyond physical violence, she points to a more invisible threat, digital surveillance. “Sometimes your phone is not normal. You hear echoes during calls, interruptions… like someone is listening,” she says. “I have changed my phone multiple times since November.”

Since covering sensitive stories, she adds, paranoia has become part of the job. “Press freedom exists on paper. But on the ground, it is very different.”

According to the Reporters Without Borders (RSF) press freedom barometer, 46 journalists were killed globally between January and November 2024, while 577 were detained.

Kenya’s standing has also declined, ranking 116 in 2023 and improving slightly to 102 in 2024, still reflecting persistent violations.

The Media Council of Kenya (MCK) paints a similarly troubling picture. Its State of Press Freedom in Kenya 2025 report shows 130 violations between November 2023 and November 2024, with most reported by individual journalists.

The period following the June 2024 protests saw abductions, arrests, tear gas attacks, shootings and online harassment targeting journalists and even their families.

Despite these warnings, accountability remains elusive. “In all the cases of attacks against journalists that Amnesty International has documented, no one has been held accountable,” the organisation says. “Victims continue to be denied access to justice.”

Amnesty warns that rising hostility threatens public access to information and weakens democracy. “Journalism is not a crime,” it insists. “Authorities must release journalists detained for doing their work and stop enacting laws that stifle media freedom.”

Yet within Kenya’s media ecosystem, frustration is also directed inward.

Media Council of Kenya CEO David Omwoyo says condemnation is not enough, nor is silence. “We are pressing for structured frameworks that compel security agencies to treat assaults on journalists as serious constitutional violations,” he says.

He acknowledges a “mixed and troubling picture” of press freedom, strong constitutional guarantees on one hand, but rising intimidation, economic pressure and declining newsroom stability on the other. “Editorial independence is not a privilege granted by those in power,” he says. “It is a constitutional right.”

Kenya Editors Guild president Zubeidah Kananu echoes the concern, pointing to a widening gap between law and practice. “Press freedom in Kenya remains constitutionally guaranteed, but the reality on the ground is increasingly strained,” she says.

She highlights harassment during protests, rising SLAPP lawsuits and attempts to restrict live coverage. “Media freedom is not just about constitutional guarantees, it is about ensuring journalists can work without fear,” she adds.

Kenya Union of Journalists (KUJ) Secretary-General Erick Oduor points to another crisis: economic survival.

“We’ve seen layoffs, delayed salaries and sometimes no pay at all,” he says.

He also highlights increasing hostility from both online and offline spaces, including trolling, insults from politicians and physical attacks.

Even more worrying, he notes, is the use of cybercrime laws against journalists.

Despite legal victories challenging sections of the Computer Misuse and Cybercrime Act, he warns that intimidation through regulatory threats continues. “The media space exists, yes. But there is always a push and pull between government and journalists,” Oduor says.

“We are just the mirror,” says Orwongo. “If your face is ugly, don’t blame the mirror.”

But in today’s Kenya, holding up that mirror comes at a rising cost, and for many journalists, the question is no longer just about press freedom. It is about whether telling the truth is becoming too dangerous a job.