Stolen frontline: How manipulated crowds silence country's true voice

There are moments that disturb the moral imagination. The trial of Jesus is one of them. Two men stand before the system—Jesus the Savior and Barabbas the thief. One restored life; the other destroyed it. One lifted the dignity of the people; the other robbed it.

One healed wounds; the other inflicted them. Yet when the moment of choice arrived, the people shouted for Barabbas. It is a decision that seems irrational and immoral. And yet it keeps happening. In Scripture. In history. And today—in Kenya.

Why would a society choose to save the thief and sacrifice the Savior? Why free the destroyer and send the healer to death? Why protect the one who stole from them and crucify the one who loved them? Unless, of course, the people did not actually choose.

The text reveals something often overlooked: the system stole the frontline. The crowd that demanded Barabbas was not the same crowd that had cried “Hosanna!”

The healed masses were absent. The thousands who ate the bread were nowhere near. Instead, the system assembled a coached, bribed and approved group to mimic public opinion. Once false witnesses were brought in and political pressure applied, the verdict was set long before Pilate washed his hands.

This is the anatomy of the Barabbas formula—a pattern by which societies repeatedly sacrifice goodness and multiply evil. If Kenya does not awaken, we will continue freeing Barabbas while crucifying those who carry the hope of transformation.

Pilate was not confused. He was not misinformed. He knew Jesus was innocent. His own wife warned him to avoid participating in the death of “that righteous man.” Pilate could see through the lies and inconsistencies. He recognised the malice behind the accusations. He understood that envy, not justice, fueled the trial.

But Pilate feared political fallout. Preserving his position mattered more than preserving an innocent life. He did not want to anger the religious elite, particularly during Passover, when Jerusalem was politically sensitive. He did not want to appear weak before Rome. He did not want unrest tied to his name.

And so he hid behind procedure, disguised cowardice as neutrality and presented the illusion of democracy by letting the crowd decide. Then he washed his hands, attempting to cleanse himself of guilt while his actions secured the death of the innocent.

Kenya knows this Pilate well. We have leaders who recognize wrongdoing, who understand the cost of corruption, who see the manipulation, who know the truth. Yet they fear the noise of the powerful few more than the cries of the suffering many. They choose silence over confrontation, neutrality over justice, optics over truth.

But washed hands do not make clean hearts. Neutrality in the presence of injustice is not innocence; it is silent complicity.

The Pharisees were custodians of religious authority but they had become a weapon rather than a light. They spoke in God’s name, but had lost the heart of God. Their influence depended on fear, control and ritualised obedience. Jesus disrupted everything they built. 

In Kenya, the Pharisee spirit thrives wherever power fears accountability. It appears wherever religious language is used to silence citizens. It is present in institutions that prefer loyalty to truth and patronage matters more than performance. Those who expose corruption are demonized—not because they lack moral authority, but because their moral authority threatens the system’s comfort.

And so goodness becomes dangerous. Reformers are framed as troublemakers. Truth-tellers are treated as enemies of stability. The Barabbas strategy is applied—demonise the good, sanitize the corrupt and manufacture public consent.

Hired crowds

But where were the thousands who benefited from Jesus’ ministry? Where were those who cried “Hosanna”? Why did the majority remain silent while a minority dictated the fate of the Savior? Because the system controlled the frontline. Roman soldiers blocked the entrance to Pilate’s court. By the time Pilate posed the choice—“Whom do you want me to release?”—the answer had already been choreographed.

Kenya repeatedly sees hired crowds transported to give the illusion of public support. False narratives are spread by paid commentators. The authentic voice of the nation is drowned out by the noise of well-funded interests.

Then the country is told, “The people have spoken.” But the real people did not speak—the frontline was stolen.

This is how the Barabbas formula plays out in our politics: we free those who loot the nation and crucify those who call for reforms. We elevate and recycle individuals who have robbed public resources. We frame truth-tellers as radicals. We treat integrity as a threat and accountability as instability. And the system does this not because Kenyans love Barabbas, but because the system needs Barabbas.

Jesus represents a different possibility – a leadership that threatens those who profit from the nation’s wounds. And so the system mobilizes to kill goodness before it grows.

Kenya must break this cycle. Bursting the Barabbas formula begins with reclaiming the frontline—ensuring that genuine voices are not silenced by orchestrated noise. It requires exposing false narratives and calling out the false witnesses of our time.

Celebrating political wins secured through corruption is an insult to the people whose will is overturned. Buying votes and parading it as victory is veiled dictatorship. To cheer such conquests is to tighten the bolts of our own oppression. We must refuse to be impressed.

Bursting this Barabbas formula demands an awakening that refuses to treat goodness as naive or weak. Goodness is nation-building strength. A country built on thieves cannot prosper. A nation that repeatedly crucifies its best leaders cannot thrive.

Kenya must decide whether we will continue freeing Barabbas or finally stand with the forces of goodness, justice, and truth. We cannot afford Barabbas in circulation.