Kerio Valley Is Bleeding, and the Nation Can No Longer Look Away

 There is a saying: “If you don’t heal what hurt you, you’ll bleed on people who didn’t cut you.” That painful truth came alive in Kerio Valley a few weeks ago when bandits brutally gunned down Fr. Allois Cheruiyot Bett, a Catholic priest who had devoted his life to spreading the gospel and promoting peace in one of Kenya’s most volatile regions.

Fr. Allois was not just another victim of insecurity. He was a symbol of hope—of healing in a valley long defined by bloodshed. His death has shattered a fragile sense of sanctuary, and in doing so, it forces us to ask: what has gone so wrong that even men and women of the cloth are no longer safe?

His killing was followed by another blow to the community—the closure of the St. Benedictine Sisters mission in Chesongoch. For decades, the Sisters provided spiritual care, health services, and hospitality to an underserved region. Their departure is more than symbolic; it reflects the growing despair and helplessness in a community slowly being abandoned in its hour of need.

Kerio Valley is bleeding. It has bled before. In 1997, I narrowly escaped death while distributing food in Chesetan. Around the same time, the late Bishop Cornelius Korir—then a key peacebuilder in the region—escaped an assassination attempt when raiders spared him only after realizing he was the bishop who used to bring them food. The valley has seen too much death: the killing of catechist Kibor in 1999, the infamous Mukutwo massacre in 2000, the Tot Health Centre tragedy during a polio campaign in 2001, and many more.

And yet, something has changed. The violence has evolved from localized cattle rustling to full-blown criminal enterprise. Weapons are now wielded casually by rogue youth. Armed banditry has become so normalized that bullets are reportedly sold in local markets like bananas, in broad daylight, disguised in milk guards. The conflict is no longer confined to inter-ethnic raids; it has taken on new, more dangerous dimensions—targeting individuals, vehicles, and now, even clergy.

There is growing concern that the violence is no longer simply Pokot versus Marakwet. Increasingly, non-Marakwets are being singled out—a dangerous shift that risks morphing the conflict into something more ethnically charged and divisive. Furthermore, internal Marakwet clan disputes—such as those between Kapsiony and Kapsiren, Karimwar or Kasige—are now being fought with the same weapons once used against external enemies.

Yet even amid this chaos, the government’s response has remained piecemeal and reactive. GSU and police posts dot the region, particularly around Tot and Chesongoch, but they have done little to deter bandits. Communities continue to live in fear, while perpetrators act with impunity.

What Kerio Valley needs is not another knee-jerk disarmament drive or security operation that fades with the headlines. Kenya must learn from Uganda’s example in Karamoja, where a nine-year disarmament programme—backed by consistent state presence and development alternatives—brought peace to an equally volatile region. The Ugandan government did not just take guns away; it promised protection, livelihoods, and dignity in return. Kenya must do the same.

Disarmament, if it is to succeed, must be humane, comprehensive, and community-led. Those who surrender weapons must be offered viable alternatives—training, economic opportunities, and above all, a future to believe in. The gun has become an income source for many; we must not ignore that reality.

It is also time to shine a national spotlight on Kerio Valley. For far too long, the region’s suffering has been trivialized with careless remarks like “hiyo ni kawaida yao kupigana.” No, this is not normal. It is a national tragedy unfolding in silence. The people of Kerio Valley are as Kenyan as anyone else, and their right to security, dignity, and peace must be respected.

Fr. Allois’s death was not just the loss of a priest. It was the murder of hope. But if it wakes us up—if it jolts our leaders into action and unites our nation in outrage—then perhaps his sacrifice will not have been in vain.

We owe it to him, to the mothers burying their sons in silence, to the children growing up amidst gunfire, and to the communities still holding onto hope against all odds. Kerio Valley must not bleed alone anymore. The time for action is now.

William Kiptoo is a peacebuilding practitioner and humanitarian worker with experience in Kerio Valley and other conflict-affected regions of Kenya.