How soldier's court win emphasises freedom of religion in the military

There are moments when a court speaks not only in law but in language that restores the soul of a nation. The recent judgment of the Court of Appeal, where the Attorney General, the Cabinet Secretary for Defence and the Chief of Defence Forces stood against a single serviceman, is one such moment. Polycarp Miyogo, a Kenya Defence Forces serviceman and a man of deep religious conviction, joined the military in 2002 and was dismissed in 2012. His faith, however, demanded observances that conflicted with certain military routines.

When he sought accommodation for his beliefs, the military denied him, insisting that uniformity and obedience were paramount. His dismissal followed, and with it arose the question: Can a soldier’s conscience be left at the gate of the barracks? Does the power of the Constitution pause where the command of the State begins? At the heart of this piece lies three issues: Whether the right to freedom of religion can be reasonably accommodated within the military; whether the Kenya Defence Forces, as a disciplined service, are exempt from the full sweep of constitutional rights; and whether the limitation of such rights, when claimed in the name of discipline, must be justified through reason and evidence.

The Court of Appeal, in a decision steeped in principle and courage, answered in the language of constitutional transformation. It held that the Constitution is not partial, nor is it shy of power. It binds all institutions, military or civilian, public or private, to its moral and legal order. The military, though disciplined, is not beyond accountability. Rights may be limited, yes, but never by mere assertion. Limitation demands justification, proof, and proportionality.

Miyogo’s faith, the court reasoned, was not an act of defiance but a call for reasonable accommodation. And the Constitution, as the supreme covenant, could not turn away from him. The court anchored its reasoning on the philosophy of transformative constitutionalism, that living creed which insists that our constitutional order was designed not to freeze society in its old hierarchies. It was to reshape it in the image of dignity, equality, and freedom. The military is not a constitutional outpost, it is within the Republic, and the Republic breathes through the Constitution.

In many societies, the barracks have long been imagined as a place where the self dissolves into obedience. But obedience is not the same as erasure. The power of the Constitution lies in its refusal to allow any institution, however hallowed, to silence the humanity of those within it. When a soldier dons a uniform, he surrenders certain freedoms, but not his soul. The Constitution’s genius lies in its insistence that even those who guard its borders are guarded by it in turn.

The court began from the recognition that the right to religion is not absolute, it may be limited where justified. But the justification is not a blanket claim as the military, specificity to provide the evidence in line with the justification is critical. The military cannot wave the flag of security and expect the court to kneel. The judges demanded a rational explanation, a proportional balance between necessity and right.

They asked, in essence, where is the harm in allowing faith to breathe? Where is the threat in letting conscience and discipline to coexist? That question pierces the veil of unexamined authority that too often shrouds command. In doing so, the court affirmed the totality of constitutional reach. It declared, in effect, that there are no constitutional 'no-go zones'. Whether one works in a temple or a trench, a factory or a fortress, the same light falls on all.

The Constitution is the air that all institutions breathe, it does not discriminate between those who hold rifles and those who hold pens. The military, like every organ of state, is an instrument of the Constitution, not its exception.

This is the essence of transformative constitutionalism; it transforms not only law but imagination. It asks us to see power differently not as the right to rule, but as the duty to justify. It invites us to read the Constitution not as a legal code but as a moral charter for coexistence. By demanding that even the military explain its restrictions with reason and proportionality, the court did more than protect a soldier’s faith, it reaffirmed the Republic’s faith in itself. There is a quiet poetry in this outcome. For it tells us that the Constitution is not a distant abstraction.

The barracks, the police station, the classroom, the factory floor, all are subject to the same moral law that flows from our constitutional order. This judgment should be read not merely as a vindication of one man’s belief, but as a lesson in the architecture of freedom. They work not by exclusion but by infusion, seeping into every sphere until even the most hierarchical structures must bend to their logic. The soldier’s conscience, the prisoner’s dignity, the worker’s voice, all find shelter under the same canopy. The Constitution, once again, has spoken with clarity and compassion, that no man shall be compelled to choose between his God and his duty, that no institution is too sacred to be scrutinised, and that justice, like faith, is most radiant when tested in the hardest places.

It is, quite simply, a win for the soul.