Razor-Wire Syndrome: The Psychological Significance of the Wire

Walk through any uptown areas in Nairobi: Kileleshwa, Kilimani, Lavington among others. You will find a common denominator slicing through their sleek modernity: razor wire. Coiled, silver and sharp. A psychological border meant to say: “Do not enter. You are not welcome.” Every fancy apartment, from high-rise stratas to private townhouses, wraps itself in this metallic serpent in a desperate attempt to wade off thieves and unwanted people. It’s almost the same serpent meant to ‘guard’ and protect the tree of knowledge back in the garden of Eden.     

The razor wire isn’t just a security hardware. It’s a psychological artifact. A symbol of mistrust, fear and class separation. Its jagged edges are capable of slicing deep into flesh, tearing a human body to shreds in seconds. Oh, it’s no longer just found on private gates.

In yesterday’s Gen Z maandamano, multiple locations in the Central Business District (CBD) were sealed off with tight barricades of razor wire; sharp, unforgiving, and deliberate. It wasn’t the first time we saw it. But it stung differently, broadening the gap between the rulers and the ruled.  

This modern obsession with razor wire is not new. It echoes a darker history, the infamous Barbed wire syndrome that emerged from Nazi concentration camps in World War II. Prisoners in Auschwitz, Dachau, and Bergen-Belsen were surrounded by barbed wire fences. Not just to keep them in. But to tear them psychologically.

Barbed wire syndrome wasn’t a medical condition, but a recognised psychological state. The emancipated prisoners displayed a concoction of symptom: paranoia, delirium, withdrawal, violent outbursts, hallucinations, and a strange attachment to the very barriers meant to torment them. The fences became an extension of the mind, confinement integrated.

With time, some prisoners began fighting and quarrelling with one another just to kill the boredom and horror of monotony. Others hurled themselves at the fences, fully aware that the voltage or the metal would end them. Some tried to escape through tunnels or by disguising themselves, desperate for freedom, even if it meant death.

Fast-forward to today. Citizens, frustrated by decades of economic rot, corruption, rapacious politicians and state brutality, lash out, not at their tormentors in office, but at each other. Looting businesses, as witnessed in different parts of the country. Vandalising public infrastructure, which is more common during these protests. I can’t blame them; it’s an outlet to their frustrations. This is what happens, when society starts to rot from within: the oppressed turn on the fellow oppressed.

Razor wire becomes a symbol of this emotional fracture. A line between "us" and "them".  We surround our homes with it, convinced it keeps danger out, when it really keeps fear in. The poor look at these coils with rage; the rich look out with suspicion.

Sometimes I tend to wonder, instead of investing heavily in security systems, the rich could invest in the community around, which would eventually lower the crime rate.  As seen in Nazi concentration camps, some of the prisoners were willing to do anything to circumvent the barbed wire, towards their only chance of attaining freedom. These are the same dynamics, only that freedom isn’t what is in the other side of the razor.    

Ultimately, the razor wire or the barbed wire is more than a tool; It is a deterrent.  But also, a bold confession, that scream’s: “We are not safe.” Whether in Nazi camps or Nairobi suburbs, it carries the same voluminous weight.  A barrier of the body and mind.

Maybe, until we address what motivates us to coil our lives in razor wires, we will remain physically and mentally trapped: behind the goddamn wire, and inside our skins.

~John Wanjiru

 Mental Health Professional  

wanjirukjohn@gmail.com