A letter from future: Uganda, fifth mountain, and stewardship of peace

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OPINION

By Godfrey Mutabazi

Dear Reader of the Early Twenty-First Century,

I write to you from the year 2075, from a Uganda that has lived long enough to observe how peace endures, shifts, and sometimes fades. From this vantage point, historians frequently return to a question that once hovered beneath public debate: why did a country that had experienced cycles of instability for centuries sustain an extended season of relative peace, and what did it choose to do with that window of stability?

To explain, we often return to an old story. In Paulo Coelho’s The Fifth Mountain, he tells of the son of a widow from Zarephath, a boy shaped by famine, prophecy, and loss, who became governor of a land now known as Lebanon. He ruled for forty years, and during his reign, order prevailed. Yet Coelho concludes with a stark observation: after his rule, peace never truly returned.

From this future perspective, the story is no longer literature alone; it is a cautionary reflection. A forty-year reign in the ninth century BCE becomes a symbolic measure: long enough for peace to feel permanent, and therefore most vulnerable.

Uganda’s history, like that of the ancient land, was marked by cycles of disruption, kingdom rivalries, external incursions, colonial rupture, and violent post-independence transitions. Then came an era that lasted roughly forty years, during which roads remained open, children grew up without constant fear, and a generation experienced normalcy rather than survival.

This period was exceptional not because it was flawless, but because it endured long enough to feel ordinary. And herein lies the vulnerability. Peace, in those decades, was often mistaken for permanence. Stability was treated as inheritance rather than responsibility. Memories of past disorder faded among generations that had not directly endured it. Peace was measured primarily by the absence of conflict, rather than the presence of restraint, dialogue, and institutional trust.

Coelho’s story speaks to this dynamic. In both contexts, peace rested heavily on leadership and discipline rather than on a collectively internalised consciousness. When leadership changed, order could remain, but the cultural and institutional work that sustained peace had to continue independently.

From this vantage point, Uganda’s real challenge was never merely preventing conflict by force or control. It was ensuring that peace became cultural, institutional, and morally internalised, that citizens could enjoy stability while actively sustaining it. Peace was lost quietly before it was lost violently: through complacency, through a belief that stability was automatic, and through institutions that were left unstrengthened. It weakened when dialogue eroded, differences became a threat, and power was pursued without restraint.

The societies that endured were those that treated peace as stewardship. They invested in collective memory, educating younger generations about the cost of disorder rather than letting history fade into abstraction. Institutions were strengthened so that stability did not rely on individuals alone. Political culture evolved to normalise transitions without fear and disagreements without demonisation.

Religion, tradition, and identity remained influential, but they were balanced with reason and accountability. Faith-inspired values without replacing civic responsibility. Authority was respected, not worshipped. Leadership was recognised as stewardship bound by duty to the people and responsibility before history.

Technology played a supportive role. Transparent, predictable, and equitable systems reduced uncertainty. Education emphasised competence, problem-solving, and civic understanding, rather than mere obedience or credentialing. The discipline of institutions deepened, and with it, societal resilience.

In this future, we also observe a generational challenge. Young people, particularly those of your time, Gen Z, grew up in a world of rapidly evolving technology, where digital tools offered unprecedented opportunity for learning, creativity, and connection. Yet progress without grounding can be fragile. Just as developed nations preserve memory through museums, public statues, and annual commemorations of struggles overcome, young Ugandans were encouraged to engage deeply with their history.

Textbooks, archives, and stories of past generations were never abandoned in favour of screens alone. Knowledge of where one comes from, the victories, the mistakes, and the resilience of ancestors, remains indispensable for navigating the future. One cannot hope to shape society wisely or succeed in life without understanding the paths that led to the present.

Uganda’s critical inflexion came not during a crisis, but while peace was intact. Leaders and citizens alike engaged in reflection and evaluation: Had peace been internalised, or was it only enjoyed? Were institutions capable of carrying stability forward? Had restraint and civic responsibility replaced memories of fear?

By the time of the elections in the early twenty-first century, the country had already entered this phase of consolidation. The process itself unfolded within familiar tensions, yet the broader structures, cultural norms, and institutional habits that had developed over decades proved largely resilient. While disagreements and contestation occurred, they were channelled through mechanisms that mitigated escalation, and transitions proceeded without systemic disruption.

The lesson of The Fifth Mountain was finally absorbed: peace cannot be inherited if it is not collectively internalised. A nation cannot rely indefinitely on the clarity or discipline of a single generation. Peace must be renewed continuously by institutions, civic culture, and shared responsibility.

From this future, we can observe objectively that Uganda navigated this test with remarkable continuity. It treated stability not as a reward or convenience, but as a collective responsibility. The “Fifth Mountain”, the long-standing cycles of disruption, did not return as catastrophe, but remained a historical reference point: a reminder of what was possible, and what had been preserved.

The historical record of this period confirms a pattern: societies that maintain peace do so through reflection, institutional robustness, civic education, and cultural internalisation. Where these elements are absent, even long seasons of order can be fragile.

From 2075, we recognise Uganda’s extended period of stability as neither inevitable nor miraculous. It was hard-won, carefully maintained, and reinforced by choices made decades before its most visible tests. The future shows us that peace is neither automatic nor self-sustaining; it is a discipline, renewed across generations.

The writer is an Engineer