Building Peace in Northern Uganda

Too Honest Branding

2011-11-19T17:32:00.003+02:00

Ah, yes, the burning planet gas station.

Procrastination at a War Crimes Trial--Kwoyelo's last day in court

2011-11-11T12:50:00.008+02:00

Photo credit to JRP

This morning I woke up with one goal--I would finish a draft of my next chapter. Then I got a phone call that confirmed the rumor I'd heard yesterday: what was expected to be the last day of former LRA Commander Col. Thomas Kwoyelo's trial would be today. All of the International Crimes Division of the High Court in Uganda and the accused were on their way from Kampala to have the court session here in Gulu. So I thought--what to do? on the one hand, history in the making, on the other, my self-imposed deadline that I really ought to keep (especially since I'm going to Karamoja for some non-thesis-related consulting work next week). Maybe I'll stay up late tonight. History won.

I thought about the event in April of this year when the International Crimes Division had a public outreach session. Many people were concerned about the trial. They were concerned about the independence of the High Court, and the ambiguity behind why he hadn't been granted amnesty like many other former LRA who are back now. He had applied for it, but instead there was a trial. It had created a lot of confusion. Some people were saying that he couldn't have amnesty because he had been captured by the UPDF and only those who surrendered can have amnesty. In reality, the amnesty law has no such limitation. Others were asking why he wasn't being considered a victim since he had been abducted when he was 13 years old (how old he was exactly when he was abducted is reported differently, but he was likely still a "child"). Instead he had been charged with 12 counts and 53 alternative charges amounting to crimes against humanity under the Geneva Convention Act and other Ugandan penal law.

Because I ought to get back to that chapter, you get my un-edited notes as I jotted them down in court. Perhaps after stewing in the events a little longer I'll share more analysis. But for now, this was how the morning went:

Some of Kwoyelo's relatives came in after we'd been sitting on these hard benches for about an hour after the session was scheduled to start. His sister is blind and seems to have difficulty walking. People murmured when she entered. I wonder how she feels, knowing that all eyes are on her, hearing the hushed and accusatory whispers but not seeing the people who utter them. The courtroom is full. I'm squeezed on a bench with staff of a Transitional Justice NGO, police and other people from the community. The door of the defendant's chamber finally opened. Kwoyelo entered wearing a green button-down shirt, his hair combed back. He looked around the room. He's sitting between prison gaurds in the aisle in front of me and four people over to the right. Less than 2 meters away. He keeps turning around and searching the crowd. He met my eyes but not for long. I think he's scanning thre room for familiar faces. Is he hoping for the presence of friends? previous comrades in arms? Sympathetic expressions? Or maybe he is hoping not to see certain people? There is one man wearing a T-shirt which says "right beside you brother." I wonder if it was an intentional show of support or just happenstance of the man's wardrobe. Former LRA Brigadier Banya is here. I saw him outside though I haven't spotted him in the courtroom yet. Former LRA Ray Apire is in the back corner. Kwoyelo's sister is sitting behind me. Maybe that's why Kwoyelo keeps looking past my shoulder. He does not have an unnerving gaze. He doesn't seem nervous. Alert. He seems alert--more than other war criminals whose trials I have attended who looked simultaneously proud and bored--sometimes downright sleepy. Not Kwoyelo. I'm reading Hannah Arendt again right now. Not that he's an Eichmann, but sitting here does make me ponder her words on the banality of evil.

Twenty minutes later his mother came in. A common looking Acholi mother with a scarf on her head, wrinkled eyes and plastic green beads around her neck. I think his sister and his mother are the only barefoot people in the courtroom. He looked happy when he saw her although he didn't smile and they did not meet eyes. She is moving her lips inaudibly. I think she's praying. I'm told they are supportive of him and hope to welcome him home but they've endured a lot in the past 20 years including government intimidation. A clerk stood up and asked us if anyone had questions we'd like to ask the judges. They asked in English and didn't translate. No one responded. Everyone is rising. The judges enter and we sit down. The judge said they would provide clarification on some of the dates and events in the trial and then proceed with the matter before the court. He continued, they had referred the case to the Constitutional Court on July 5th when the judges granted the request of the defense on the grounds that the trial was unconstitutional because it was discriminatory of the Amnesty Commission and the Director of Public Prosecutions not to respond to Kwoyelo's amnesty request. The Constitutional Court had ruled on September 22nd that it was indeed discriminatory and therefore the trial was not constitutional and should stop. The judge is taking care to explain why several weeks elapsed before this session (he was on vacation) and assuring everyone that there was no intent to delay the matter.

And then without any further delay, he said, "We hereby cease the trial. And order the Director of Public Prosecutions and the Amnesty Commission to comply with the Amnesty Act." He pounded a gavel. We all stood. The judges left. Kwoyelo left. We all left.

(Justice and Reconciliation Project has a lot more information, analysis, pictures, commentary, etc. etc. on their website. Thanks for the photo guys! Oh, and you can see the T-shirt I mentioned in the background).

Preventing Orphans

2011-11-07T12:24:00.003+02:00

I stumbled onto this blog A couple of weeks ago and meant to post it yesterday, since it was "Orphan Sunday." Better late than never. I was happy to read it, because I've encountered a number of people over the years in Uganda who come here with good intentions, great love for children, and a lot of compassion and US dollars. They want to start orphanages, just like these folks did in Haiti. Unfortunately, many of them don't ask the very sensible questions that the couple in Haiti did before they start constructing buildings and filling beds. This couple thought hard, and ultimately their questions led them to try to prevent orphans instead:

Do the moms who show up at an orphanage's gate really want to place their babies for adoption?Why do Haitian women keep getting pregnant over and over?Are they making educated decisions when they place their babies in orphanages? Do orphanages have a process in place for counseling mothers through this difficult choice?Do mothers and family members understand that placing a baby in an orphanage in Haiti in no way means that their child will actually end up adopted?Do they understand how difficult the government here makes it for adoptive parents? Do they know how long the process is?Do they understand that many times children in orphanages are sexually abused by their care takers or other children in the orphanage? In some orphanages kids don't even get enough to eat or have their basic needs met.Do the parents know that the child they are hoping will have a better life if they drop them off at the orphanage's gate may grow up in that orphanage, age out, never knowing their biological family and never being placed in an adoptive one?Do these mothers want to raise their babies...and if they do...why aren't they keeping them?Is it fair to have an orphanage in every neighborhood (many of them funded by churches) and yet have nothing (or very little) in place in countries like Haiti for helping mothers and fathers obtain the skills they need to keep their children and care for them? Is having an orphanage in every neighborhood helping to fight the orphan crises or are all these orphanages creating the crisis?"Often charity to help the poor attracts more people into poverty. One example I have noticed takes place when North Americans try to care for the needs of orphans in cultures different from our own. If you build really nice orphanages and provide good food and a great education, lots more children in those places become orphans. I see this happen all over. When we attempt to eradicate poverty through charity, we often attract more people into “needing” charity. It is possible to create need where it did not exist by projecting our standards, values and perception of need onto others. "-- Steve Saint

The context in Uganda is quite different from Haiti and different questions should be asked, but perhaps if there was more soul-searching as well following best practices in protecting orphans and vulnerable children "starting an orphanage" wouldn't be quite so faddish--or at least not assumed the exclusive answer to the "orphan problem". A month or so ago I got an email from a woman at UNICEF looking for resources or organizations in northern Uganda that were doing foster care, another alternative to institutionalizing kids. Unfortunately, I had very little information to share with her (I only know of one children's' home that does this and they only have 2 very over-stretched social workers), because resources that go into orphan care are going into homes (many of which don't allow adoptions or foster care) and not into social work and other support services needed to have a good foster care system, or for that matter, to prevent orphans. Fortunately, it's a need that UNICEF recognizes, so maybe more kids will grow up in families and less in institutions in the coming years. One can hope.

What does a grapefruit spoon have to do with economic development in Uganda?

2011-11-07T11:59:00.001+02:00

"Asking even the top economists within many African countries to remove barriers to development is like telling a teenager to remove his appendix with a grapefruit spoon." -Karl Muth, a friend and colleague from LSE who recently moved to the neighborhood. You can read his full article here. (ps--I'm the colleague in the cafe closer to Juba than Kampala) On a seemingly related, but actually entirely extraneous note, I'm still looking for a grapefruit seedling to plant in my mini-orchard outside my rather super hut. Just in case anyone reading has one, or knows where to get one in Uganda, or knows if I can just grow it from seed...

A close second: Rush Limbaugh endorses the LRA? Um—what?

2011-10-19T10:56:00.001+02:00

OK, so sometimes I get a bit behind the times, what with my slow and eradicate connection to the world wide web. Someone tell me he has now back tracked and realized how bizarre this whole thing was:“Obama invades Uganda, Targets Christians”I never really imagined myself quoting Rush Limbaugh, but this is just staggering, “Lord's Resistance Army are Christians. They are fighting the Muslims in Sudan. And Obama has sent troops, United States troops to remove them from the battlefield, which means kill them.”Right at the end: “Is that right? The Lord's Resistance Army is being accused of really bad stuff? Child kidnapping, torture, murder, that kind of stuff? Well, we just found out about this today. We're gonna do, of course, our due diligence research on it. But nevertheless we got a hundred troops being sent over there to fight these guys -- and they claim to be Christians.”

The most disturbing thing I read this morning

2011-10-19T10:49:00.001+02:00

15 activists who took part in the walk to work to demonstrations (which I wrote about here and saw first hand) are being charged with treason, which is punishable by death. So, protestors can face the death penalty. Some consolation, to my freedom loving soul: the article is in the news. The comments in the online version are critical—even evoking the days of Idi Amin—and these things are said in the open--at least for now.

Bad news for women?

2011-10-19T10:40:00.001+02:00

The New York Times reported "Contraceptive Used in Africa may double risk of HIV"The most popular contraceptive for women in eastern and southern Africa, a hormone shot given every three months, appears to double the risk the women will become infected with H.I.V., according to a large study published Monday. And when it is used by H.I.V.-positive women, their male partners are twice as likely to become infected than if the women had used no contraception. A lot of Ugandan women use this method of contraception. It's one that they can easily control themselves, even somewhat secretly if they need to--and so those with resistant partners can still do some family planning on their own. It would be a real shame if it turns out that the risks outweigh the benefits. I agree with the WHO epedemiologist, “We want to make sure that we warn when there is a real need to warn, but at the same time we don’t want to come up with a hasty judgment that would have far-reaching severe consequences for the sexual and reproductive health of women,” she said. “This is a very difficult dilemma.” Like many contraceptive methods, how the method works isn't always well understood resulting in ineffective use. Yesterday I was chatting with a woman who used the injection plan. She patted her swollen belly. "I don't even know when I'm due," she said, "I must be a very stupid woman. I didn't get injections at regular times. I only went to get injections when my husband would come back from Juba every few months. I guess that doesn't work." This might be bad news for women like her, who are aware of their husbands extramarital exploits. On the other hand, it just might give them more leverage to push their partners to use contraceptive methods that offer more protection against HIV transmission.

Highest Mountain in the Newest Nation & I'm still that girl

2011-08-12T19:40:00.007+02:00

(2 for the price of 1 because I haven’t blogged in too long)

I remember the early days of my first year in University, so bright-eyed and green—I’d spent a bit of time in Azerbaijan, Palestine, and Kashmir and was planning my next summers in Tibet and Bosnia and Herzegovina—I was fired up about the right to self-determination. I’ve come a long way since then—the agitation for and transition to an independent nation is much more complex than a passionate and well-meaning but ignorant young woman who wants peace and justice for everybody everywhere in the world can grasp, but originally, that was part of why I got into this work. And then last month, there I was up on a mountain— celebrating the independence of a new nation--allowing the contagion of hope that permeated the air to swell a little in my lungs. We were witnesses, part of that historic moment when the flag of the Republic of South Sudan was raised, the new national anthem was sung. A nation was born.

Before starting the drive north from Uganda T and I picked up a tent from a friend who previously worked in Darfur and South Sudan—he jokingly waved us off saying, “you go be idealistic on your mountain.” Experience has left a little taste of cynicism in his mouth—“well, at least it means daddy’s gonna have job opportunities,” he said, kissing his new baby’s head. We laughed, and began driving—about 7 hours on what was a lousy excuse for a road and in some places might more accurately be called a river until we got to the middle of nowhere, Eastern Equatoria, also known as Isohe. In Isohe, we met up with G and 3 other fellow trekkers and stayed on the AVSI compound. The next morning we drove to Torit and then towards where we were told we’d start the climb. Supposedly, the trail up Mount Kinyeti, the tallest peak in South Sudan, began from a little town called Gilo and it would take about 6 hours to summit. When we reached a place called Katire we saw a dilapidated and bullet-hole ridden signpost, which read “Gilo.” But it was pointing straight into thick jungle bush. It was raining, so we sat in the car and wondered what to do until someone passed by. We found out that the jungle in the direction of the Gilo signpost used to be a road—in the 70s . And there used to be a town called Gilo—in the 70s. Now there is no such place as Gilo and no road to reach it. (in case you are ever climbing Mount Kinyetti, just note that it takes about 15 hours and that you start from Katire. “Gilo” and “6 hours” are total fictions.) So, we found a guide/farmer/hunter that knows the mountain well but has very few readily obvious people skills or ability to estimate distances. When we would ask how long to a particular point the totally ambiguous answer was always the same, “still.” We would ask, how many more valleys do we need to go down before we start climbing the actual mountain that we are trying to summit? “many”. Right. It was an exercise in staying present. Letting go of control. Literally willing our feet to take one step at a time. The first night we hiked in the dark until 10pm, tripping on vines and who knows what, calling out warnings to each other “hole” and “log” so maybe the person behind you would be luckier than you who just fell into the hole or over the log. Thank God the moon was out. Then July 9th, Independence Day, we started before sunrise and reached the peak around 3pm. We were sad because we thought we’d missed the delegation that was supposed to arrive by helicopter for a flag raising ceremony that morning. There was only an empty pole when we arrived. An hour later we were enjoying the view and discussing food and water rations when a helicopter came up over the horizon. And from nowhere we found the energy in our weary bodies to waive shout and jump around like crazy people as if we’d been shipwrecked and our rescue depended on it. We joined the governor of Eastern Equatoria, a few other South Sudanese dignitaries and UN mission staff and a bunch of Russian pilots to sing the anthem (which they didn’t know--but we did, thanks to G who sang it repeatedly on our journey. I don’t even know Uganda’s anthem but I can now sing South Sudan’s word for word.) They opened 2 bottles of cava and we all toasted the newest nation in disposable cups. Then we painfully had to decline the offer of a ride off the mountain in the helicopter because we had to go back down the mountain a ways where we’d left one of our companions who hadn’t been able to make it to the peak. We camped again and the next day I felt euphoric despite the knee-grinding descent that I still haven’t fully recovered from. Coming down is never easy. I had several days of existential angst after we got back before I equalized at my normal elevation. Doing things like that feed my soul—an adventure, secret identities (I left that part out because I’m not entirely sure it was entirely legal…) , expanding the limits of my physical body, opening up more space in the world where I have breathed deeply, appreciated life, taken in the beauty and let go of some of the baggage that I pick up along the way of the mundane. I felt free. Alive. An open road. the top of a mountain, windows down, music blaring, singing, shoes off—in no man’s land, between borders—as if borders are irrelevant. The limits of real life fade, and we could do anything. be part of everything. We don’t live on mountains and there are a thousand tethers on our heart whose gravity roots us back down. Something in me tries to possess both--to hold on to the necessarily finite state of abandon. I brought back some wild banana plants from the mountain. I’ll plant them near the super hut. There is something beautifully paradoxical about their wild roots growing down into the soil of our first owned home. I had planned to blog, not about myself, but about South Sudan, a little analysis, and some observations from when I was in Yei in 2007 and ideas about where they’re headed, but instead I’ve indulged all these naval gazing muddles. This new nation, born through decades of labor pains is the bigger story—which I haven’t told.

There have been a few moments like this recently where I’ve felt so intensely alive—like those early days in University. Sometimes I feel like I’ve moved so far from that person—maybe lost some things about her that I rather liked, but such moments suggest some fundamental part of who we are that doesn’t change. I’ve smiled a little to myself in those moments, because I think: “I’m still that girl.” That mountain-climbing, tree-hugging, cookie-baking, late-night-chatting, freedom-seeking, on-my-knees-praying, heavenward-fist-shaking, open-door-enthusiast that I was when I was 18. My grandmother died. My brother got married. And I climbed a mountain on a historic day. Each of these events invited contemplation and inspiration—and took place with beautiful dear friends around that think with me and bring out the best in me. “That girl” doesn't happen or exist in isolation—it’s like that proverb: “I am because we are. We are because I am.” Change is coming, and I always get a little overly nostalgic and contemplative when I know that something is coming to an end. Our house is a little emptier. My fellow-mountain climber moved out yesterday. In a couple months we will move out of this big communal house, we’re working on the super hut, Z&C are moving up town. We will still be each other’s community, but in the next chapter, we’ll do it from different houses--we won’t be making coffee next to each other in the morning. When Elliyah hears the gate she’ll get out of the habit of running through housemates names and running to door to see who it is. Our garden will only be the product of our own labor. We will miss the little everyday interaction of walking down the same hallway to our bedrooms, and coming home from work to friends sitting on the veranda.

I’ve been mostly writing the last few months so have spent less time “in the field”—and have felt disconnected with the undercurrent of purpose for doing this work. On Sunday night we had a going away party and I looked around at a wonderful group of people gathered around a cello and a guitar with bellies full of good food and wine. New babies were cuddled, hands held—and I just kinda felt “this is what it’s all about.” So, why am I spending all day long reading transcripts of my interviews with rape victims and writing about the ugliest and most awful things that human beings do to each other? (this is a rhetorical question, to which I do know the answer, I just wasn’t feeling the answer) I want to cook delicious meals and eat them with good people and have nice conversations. Of course, that isn’t really all I want because I’m still that girl that wants peace and justice for everybody and have a somewhat more nuanced perspective on what that means now than I did oh way back when—but I’m just not in the mood at the moment. It’s like Pete used to say “I want cocoa and cuddles not rape and murder.”

I haven’t blogged in too long, so this is a rather-bunny trailing one that isn’t really about any one thing—so coming to some resolution to wrap it up is a little difficult. Here’s what I think:

*Mountains are good to climb.

*What the independence of South Sudan will mean is complex, but mountain peaks are not for complexity they are for inspiration, vision and renewing hope in what is possible.

*I am intensely grateful for the time with all “commune-ers” past and present.

*I’m a little nervous, but excited about living with just my family.

*You can come over any time, because if you don’t I might shrivel up from lack of social interaction and die. (PS-there will be cookies).

*The hokey pokey might really be what it’s all about—but it might also be about peace and justice for everybody everywhere in the world--whatever that means.

*I’m still that girl.

Political Demonstrators, Rebels--what's the difference?

2011-06-28T10:48:00.006+02:00

This blog was originally posted on May 12th. It was removed by blogger for maintenance but never restored, thanks to several faithful readers who responded to the last post--Here it is again:

In the last month or so many Ugandans have participated in "walk-to-work" demonstrations across the country to express dissatisfaction over rising costs of food and fuel in Uganda among other political grievances. The main organizers are also political opposition leaders and they have been arrested (sometimes with excessive force) and released several times. Some demonstrations have turned violent. Police and military were not exclusive in their use of non-lethal force using live ammunition with fatal consequences. People have been injured and even killed (9 unarmed civilians according HRW)--including a two year old girl. Most of this has taken place in Kampala, and a few other towns. We had one day of it in Gulu.

There are many things I could say about the demonstrations and the state's reaction to them--but there is one aspect that I've found particularly troubling:

State actors keep making references to Joseph Kony and the LRA when they are talking about the demonstrators.

One friend actually witnessed police beat people in the street outside her shop in Gulu and heard them say, "We dealt with Kony--we can deal with you!"

I was shocked to hear that such inflammatory language is being used in a place where violence at the hands of the LRA is no distant memory. Those in the street and even being beaten had suffered from the war--some of them, undoubtedly, were formerly abducted people who had been forced to take part in LRA activities. I hoped that such statements were just isolated incidences of some over-zealous and insensitive soldiers, but then I watched President Musevini on the news discussing the demonstrations in a press conference. He assured the room full of journalists, "We have the capacity to defend the people of Uganda. We defeated Kony, we are going to defeat these opportunists and criminally minded people."

Then I read an article where General Tinyefuza, the coordinator of Uganda's national intelligence agencies was commenting on the excessive force of police and military and unlawful arrests of many opposition leaders in the past weeks during "walk to work" campaigns:
On how our police handled the situation, yes there could have been mistakes but that is Besigye’s (an opposition leader's) plan to provoke the State to make mistakes so that he gains political capital. These mistakes of the police which I am talking about should be put into perspective. Uganda has been peaceful for the last 25 years and our people know how to handle armed insurgents like Kony or violent demonstrators.

um,what? Uganda's been peaceful for 25 years? someone forgot to tell my neighbors--and just curious, if it's been so peaceful, who's this Kony character you mention? and what relation is he to the demonstrators?

It's not clear to me if the associations being made between demonstrators and the LRA are somewhat unconscious--the product of viewing the world through the lingering lens of the "liberation war"leading to an inevitable interpretation of political demonstrations in tribal/regional terms, or if it is slightly more calculated:

1) to emphasize that the government is in control, and capable of maintaining the security of the country/stamping out any challenge to its' rule.
2) to deliberately evoke a public opinion that associates the demonstrators and the political opposition's leaders to Joseph Kony, playing on negative north/south Ugandan dynamics and perpetuating an image of Acholis/political opposition as dangerous, militant, untrustworthy, brutal, bent on the destruction of the peace--AND therefore justify the harsh reaction of military and police.

Fortunately some people see the situation a little more clearly. “The excessive use of force by security officers was plain to see in the television footage of the event. While I do not condone the violent rioting that followed, the Ugandan authorities must realize that their own actions have been the major factor in turning what were originally peaceful protests about escalating food and fuel prices into a national crisis.” That's the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights. read the full release here

In Gulu, I did't want watch it on TV, I got caught in the middle of it. We turned around as quickly as we could when we saw rubble in the road and a crowd of people shrouded in tear gas. But not fast enough. Riot police almost hit our car while they swerved at terrible speed cutting us off and stopping in front of us to fire tear gas. Three times they fired tear gas toward us while we yelled "there's a baby in the car," until we finally managed to get past them and out of the line of fire.(I'd take issue with anyone claiming that the military and police were only targetting those involved in the demonstrations--Z even watched as they shot teargas into a primary school and a crowd of children scatter) After a rather surreal encounter with Mao on the side of the road where we discussed topics as common as the weather, as personal as our adoption process and as significant in that moment as non-violence and how he intended to lead people in a moment of political upheaval in a context where, as he said "anything can happen. this is a traumatized people," We finally got home and had dinner in the dark with explosions and gunfire in surround sound. Things quieted after a couple of hours and we listened as best we could to a neighbours' radio with Mao's voice in Acholi admonishing the demonstrators not to resort to violence. "I don't support anyone who throws stones," he said.

Yeah, there are one or two differences between demonstrators and rebels. There are also a few differences between demonstrators and rapists and murderers but apparently President Musevini thinks they ought be in the same category and wants to have the constitution amended to exclude each of those categories from eligibility for bail--rather making them stay in prison for a mandatory 180 days! (I smiled a little, when I saw one commenter suggest that changing the constitution in that way would be just fine as long as it was also changed back to having term limits...)

On a side note, the new, less brutal, more colorful police tactic is to spray people with pink water. A friend came over for dinner last night and shared what I think is wonderfully creative twist on Mao's statement after being sprayed and arrested yesterday, "I'm all pink." The walk-to-workers should adopt pink as their color of protest--and start off by all wearing pink T-shirts.

Back in action but my last post is still MIA

2011-06-27T15:52:00.002+02:00

Any folks out there get the text of our blog posts? It seems that I did not save it anywhere on my computer and the post was only online for about a day and then vanished mysteriously--actually, there's not much mystery. It was removed due to blogger maintenance issues but never restored, (though I do indulge the intrigue of the minute possibility it could somehow have been related to its political content. )

So if you happen to have the text of my last blog, "Political Demonstrators, Rebels--what's the difference?" in your inbox or saved somewhere, please oh please email it to me or post it in the comments.

I would be so grateful.

More soon.

Osama's Assassination: a self portrait?

2011-05-04T17:42:00.003+02:00

"A photograph of the violence you inflict is always, in very large measure, a self-portrait..."

This phrase struck me while I was reading a piece about the prudence of releasing photos of Osama's killing. I was surprisingly moved--because the issue of the public access to the pictures themselves seems comparatively insignificant in the grand scheme of everything going on. I did't expect the article to inspire reflection on goals that are pursued through violence--what that says about our crede and our policy.

The article concluded:

At Abu Ghraib, and in far too many theatres of our post-9/11 wars, we compounded the wound that bin Laden and Al Qaeda inflicted on us ten-years ago, with self-inflicted wounds, time and again abandoning our own best principles in the name of defending them. We stooped to fighting terror with terror, and confronting barbarism with barbarism. The assassination of bin Laden allows us to begin turning the page—but surely not if that page is printed with an official trophy photograph of his blasted head.

I came to a different conclusion. If the assassination of bin Laden is to allow us to begin turning a page--should we avoid looking at what we've done? Maybe we ought to look at our self-portrait and ask ourselves if we like what we see.

Capitalist Commune?

2011-04-29T11:12:00.006+02:00

Last year I rarely blogged about communal life. It wasn’t because I didn’t think about it. It was just often too personal. I am fine sharing my own personal things, but it is less appropriate to share other people’s private lives—and last year my personal stuff was inextricable from 7 other people’s.

Somehow, it seems different right now. Maybe it’s because I was not friends with my 3 new housemates before they moved in--or I feel more entitled to comment because I was here first. Or maybe it's just new, and reflection comes easily when confronted with the novel. The other night I was talking with Z&C and one of the newbies on the front veranda. We were talking about communism, and differences between Italian and American values around private property and suddenly all the macro talk crystallized my growing awareness of a micro phenomenon in our house. We have a lot of private property. We value it. We safeguard it. When orienting the new additions to the kitchen, we’re sure to distinguish the communal food shelf from the special-stuff-I-brought-from-Kampala-or-was-sent-from-home shelf. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I don’t think I like it, but I’m not sure if or how much I want to change it. More importantly, I’m not sure what inner spiritual state it reflects. I feel some sense of frustration, maybe even disappointment (in myself or in the ideal—I’m not sure) that even in this intentional experiment with communal living—it is still a place where we build fences around our property.

Previous versions of the commune ideal in my mind included us pooling all of our resources—I mean all of them. We would share debts, salaries, everything. Now, we don’t even share beer or coffee creamer. We have specific seats around the dinner table. We have personal water glasses and coffee mugs. We have separate coffee because I drink so much. We have separate toilet paper because... um, someone else uses so much. We have well-established systems to make sure that we don’t have to pay too much for other people’s consumption.

It is funny, because in previous experiences in shared houses where we weren’t doing this whole “intentional community” thing we had less structure around resource distribution. Perhaps because we were so deliberate in the patterns we set initially we tried to minimize potential risk of trespasses and thereby protect our inter-personal relationships from petty annoyances. The way things are now was no accident. The borders between things in common and private property were drawn with intent. After a couple of weeks of not paying any attention when we first started—Ben and I realized our food expenditure had doubled. It was partially because we ate better with more great cooks in the house and meals transformed into social occasions, but also we all had different resources and different priorities. So we came up with systems that are fair and that we are all comfortable with. But somehow, the full circle from my initial ideals crept up on me when a new house-mate asked which mug he should use to drink coffee--and I could tell he had intuited the relevance of his question.

Although I feel tension between my desire to control my own destiny/manage my own budget/make decisions based on my priorities and in holding more things in common, I appreciate the bright side of private property in a commune. In a strange way, it allows us to be generous. If it all belongs to all of us, it is not a kind gesture if I give it to anyone. Truth be told, we do share a great deal of “our own” things. We ask each other and we gladly give. And it is more significant when I make pesto with MY pine nuts brought from the US than when we divide the cost of groceries for a communal meal.

I feel like I’ve learned a few things in the past year. I have many more lessons that have yet to find expression. Perhaps they will get distilled at some point.

One is that I want to "do community” with the people around me. Not wait for some other time, or some specific group of people, or some specific conditions. I want to invest in the relationships that are right here. Right now.

I also feel like I have so much more to learn. I like that I live in an environment where I am confronted with unresolved tension between valuing individualism and freely sharing in group life. I don’t want it to end. What is here is important and we haven’t mined all the resources yet. I remind myself of that when there are times I’m tempted to hasten what’s next (a super hut)—usually it is in moments when my values inconvenience other people and I have to choose between imposing discomfort possibly damaging relationships with the people I love and compromising a way of life that I feel called to (or maybe that I just like more—not to over-spiritualize my preferences). In those times I feel inhibited—like we can only live the fullness of life to the least common denominator present in a group. Sometimes I am that denominator; sometimes it’s someone else. I’d like to think we raise the bar for each other. Doubtless, we do sometimes. I think we can do better. I’m learning (in this case “learning” might be a euphemism for my inaction or blunders and lack of balance) how to struggle for and inspire each other to a higher way of living and have grace and acceptance for where we all are.

Since justice has no "teeth" we'll make condoms that do...

2011-03-11T10:01:00.006+02:00

"The ideal situation would be for a woman to wear this when she's going out on some kind of blind date ... or to an area she's not comfortable with," she said.The mother of two daughters said she visited prisons and talked to convicted rapists to find out whether such a device would have made them rethink their actions.

Some said it would have, Ehlers said.

"Yes, my device may be a medieval, but it's for a medieval deed that has been around for decades," she said. "I believe something's got to be done ... and this will make some men rethink before they assault a woman."

This is from CNN, talking to South African Dr. Sonnet Ehlers. (thanks for the tip Casey) Read the whole article here.

Choosing Joy

2010-10-28T08:11:00.014+02:00

This blog has been a long time coming. I've started and stopped it in a couple of nap times (which have become a regular way of marking my days now). I've had some time of self-instated maternity leave/doing less work over the last few months--but that time is officially over. So it's about time I share the process of bringing home our baby. I was reading something a parent of adopted children wrote about "learning to be a family" and then how at some point, you just feel like you are a family. The last 5 months has been like that. It's really strange, bringing home a child that you don't know, but is your child that has existed totally independent from you in the world. A stranger--that you love, but don't even know how to love yet. Who you comfort, in a way that feels familiar to you. But your hands stroking her back aren't familiar to her yet and it doesn't make her feel safe. You say "shh" softly in her ears when she cries, but she doesn't respond until you think to whisper "lingo" Acholi for quiet. She adjusted amazingly quickly, but when I look back at those first few days I realize how far we've come.

We didn't have 9 months of preparation for her birth. But the journey of becoming a family has been a gestation period of sorts--just much less predictable. No one has written the book "What to Expect when you're expecting" for adoption outlining a finite timeline of what will happen each month until you'll finally be holding a child in your arms. We had years of knowing we wanted to be part of a family that was formed through adoption. We had 8 years of marriage, 4 years of being ready to start a family. And 4 years of having hope deferred, again, and again. A few months of paperwork. And then, we had one week after being asked to parent a baby before welcoming her home.

In June, we decided to start the adoption process. We applied and were accepted as potential foster parents at several babies' homes and they told us to wait--that they would call if a potential baby was brought to them. Ever day we knew we might get a phone call telling us there was a child for us, or we might wait a long time.

She was the first baby we met. She was 4 months old then. It was our first babies' home visit as potential adopting parents. The administrator nonchalantly called across their grassy compound to a woman carrying a baby, plopped the infant into my arms and said, "Do you want this one? See! She already looks like you." We laughed when they told us her nickname--in Acholi, it means "white girl." I looked down into the face of a particularly fair skinned baby girl (She is beautiful--but looks nothing like me) with sweet chubby cheeks and thighs that had a pitiful little cough and wrapped her miniature hands around my finger. Ben and I laid in bed that night and wondered if the baby we'd held was our child or "just another baby." We wondered who would comfort her if she woke up that night. If she was going to be ours, we thought, we should bring her home as soon as possible, but how do we know or decide? How do you choose a child? This was one of the strangest things, and I'm tempted to re-write history a little, so that the narrative of our adoption story has a certainty of direction in its plot--like love at first sight, knowing "this is the one" and an instant connection. But I had a lot of ambivalence right up until we made a decision. We'd planned to adopt a newborn, and besides, at that point, a number of efforts were still being made to see if there were any known relatives that might be able to provide a home for her, so we needed to wait.

Then in the beginning of September the social workers from the babies home came to our house and asked us to take her. They had the blessing of the government social workers, the police and the babies home administration. Two months had past and she was 6 months old. In the grand scheme of things, it's not that long, but in the life of a baby--so many things happen. I'd already missed so many firsts and it made me sad. I just didn't feel peaceful, so I took a couple of days to do some things that help me still and quiet my soul.

Right at the beginning of the first day, something happened. I realized that I needed to let go of my feelings of entitlement to the first 6 months of my child's life. Entitlement. I've had multiple opportunities in the last years to experience and relearn how entitlement is a thief of so many good things. It makes decision making a more jumbled mess of ugly motivations. Letting go of entitlement to something doesn't always mean not having it, but it creates freedom to accept and appreciate what I'm given instead of demanding what I feel I deserve. So, I took a deep breath, and let go. A few more deep breaths and I let it sink in. And I watched all that yucky entitlement vacate my heart and a peaceful grateful feeling rush in to take its place. And then I felt peaceful about being her parent. Not just peaceful--happy, excited, appreciative. I wanted to be the mother to this particular baby, and so instead of spending the rest of my prayerful time wondering if she "was the one" I CHOSE her.

Earlier, I'd had this dream about her. She was a baby still but she was having a conversation with me like an adult. I don't remember details of it, but I remember her asking me about why I wasn't sure I should take her home. She wasn't being manipulative, or pleading with me. Her tone was very matter of fact and she logically explained why my objections, and inhibitions weren't very satisfactory reasons not become her mother and concluded that she thought I should take her home. It's odd to think about how tumultuous I felt from this side of the decision. I can't imagine not having her in my life. Ben and I are so totally in love with her. And I know her now. She's not a stranger. She's my daughter.

About a year before all this happened, I was at my parents house while they were out of town. I took long walks in the woods and prayed. That was the time when I first started feeling like maybe, the person who would become our daughter existed somewhere. Now, we know she was probably the shape of a peanut in her mother's womb. I thought about her mother, and what situation she might be in, in her pregnancy and what painful or broken circumstances would somehow make her child an orphan that would eventually form our family. It made me sad and simultaneously hopeful. A picture of how beauty can be made of ashes and mourning turned to joy.

Elliyah Joi Akidi.

There is a lot of discussion in adoption literature and circles surrounding an attitude of "rescuing" or "saving" orphans. So many people here thank us for our "good hearts" to care for a needy child. Others will say how lucky she is. I see the formation of our family differently. It's true that part of our motivation for adoption is a response to what we believe is God's call to care for orphans, an extension of what He's already offered to us--adoption as his children and heirs of his kingdom. But that call--I think, is less about obligation or altruism and more about love. It's not a humanitarian endeavor. It's not charity. We WANTED her. With the exception of our partners, we don't ordinarily get to choose our family members. But we got to choose her. And I'm so happy we did.

Justice for the victims

2010-10-14T12:12:00.003+02:00

Concerns About Gender Justice at Kampala ICC RC from Skylight Pictures on Vimeo.

A friend just told me she did a Google search on women’s empowerment and gender justice and found this video of me. It was a surprise, since I’d forgotten about the interview at the ICC Review Conference and didn’t know that it had been posted online. It was one of those moments when without warning a camera is suddenly in your face and a microphone clipped to your shirt, you have no idea what you’ll be asked and you were already thinking about lunch—not being interviewed--and then as soon as the camera is pointed somewhere else you think of all the things you wanted to say—in fact, all the things you’ve been saying to anyone that would listen and finally you have a possibly wider audience and you didn’t say any of them! And then you have a pretend interview in your mind. (you all do this right? Tell me it’s not just me.)

My pretend interview begins after he asks me what the victims that I interact with in my research are asking from the Court:

Interviewer: What are they asking from the Court?

Me: Nothing.

Interviewer: Really? I would have thought that they would have many demands on justice, and critiques about how the ICC is addressing their needs. Why aren’t they asking anything from the Court?

Me: There are a number of things that they might ask from the Court, but because they have no idea that they are entitled to anything, or how they might access it, they aren’t.

Interviewer: If they were more informed, what do you think they would ask from the Court?

Me: Victims are so often evoked as the ultimate benefactors of the ICC—it’s always “justice for the victims” but in reality very little of the Court’s work seems to prioritize them. They would probably ask that aspects of the Court that were intended to be to their benefit be given more priority, such as the Public Outreach program, and Victim’s Participation. Perhaps most importantly, because their primary concerns are often material, they would ask that reparations and the Victims Trust Fund be used to their benefit.

Interviewer: Isn’t the Trust Fund supporting victims of rape now? I saw there was a presentation by a project they’re supporting on gender-based violence run by Coopi (an NGO).

Me: Yes, they’re supporting a great project on preventing and responding to gender-based violence with Coopi, but tragically, not one victim of rape that is a war crime or crime against humanity has ever benefited from that project. I talked to the manager of the project about this. The violence they respond to is domestic violence or cases of defilement (sex with a minor) or in rare instances, rape. The perpetrators of the crimes are teachers, farmers, husbands—but she admitted that none of them are soldiers or rebels. It seems like they are doing good work, and deserve to be funded—by someone. But not the ICC. The Trust Fund for Victim’s is meant for the victims of crimes that fall within the jurisdiction of the court--not one of the women benefitting from the Trust Fund’s support to Coopi is a victim of a crime in the Court’s mandate, while many of the women I work with are within the Court’s mandate, they are in deplorable situations and are given no assistance.

Interviewer: One could argue that actually, their choice to fund a more general Gender-Based Violence project indicates a progressive understanding of how violence in conflict affects women--that they recognize the linkages between violence in war and the heightened level of violence against women in the domestic sphere. How would you respond to that?

Me: Part of what I’m doing in my own research is highlighting the links between war related violence and ordinary violence and how it effects women. But what the Fund is supporting right now is not evidence of an expanded definition; it is rather focusing funding in the wrong place. If the Fund was already assisting all the women that were direct victims of crimes that fall within the jurisdiction of the Court, and they had resources to expand assistance along with their expanded definition of “victim” or if they were at least funding a project that assisted victims of rape in general but included victims of crimes within the jurisdiction of the court—that would be better. The Trust Fund has defined what “victim” means for them—a victim of a crime that falls within the jurisdiction of the court, those crimes that are detailed in the Rome Statute and were committed after July 2002, but in practice that definition is not applied to their decisions regarding funding—at least in the situation of victims of rape in northern Uganda.

Interviewer: That’s odd. Why have they chosen to designate funds for women who fall outside their mandate while there are so many women who fall within it that are being neglected?

Me: It’s a good question. I asked it to the head of the Victim’s Trust Fund in Uganda. I suggested to him, that there might be value in focusing their funds on projects designed to respond to specific harm that was suffered as a result of crimes that fall within the jurisdiction of the court. This is what they have done by providing plastic surgery for victims of mutilation. Why not apply the same principles to victims of rape? I mentioned a few examples of women in my research who would fit into the category of “within the jurisdiction of the court” and what kind of assistance would be meaningful to them. His answer revealed some level of identity confusion. He said that the Fund is sort of a “donor of last resort.”

Interviewer: A donor of last resort? That sounds like it should be the role of someone else, perhaps a UN agency, the EU, DFID, USAID or other donor countries and agencies, not like the International Criminal Court or the Victims’ Trust Fund. Besides, aren’t there many projects on Gender Based Violence in northern Uganda that receive regular funding from other sources?

Me: You’re right on both accounts. Seeing their role as a “donor of last resort” rather than the providers of reparation for the worst crimes of humanity undermines the overall potential benefits of a system of international justice that the court is trying to realize. For them to be successful there must be more direct links between the crimes that fall within the jurisdiction of the court and the court’s role in retribution AND reparation for those crimes. There are lots of donors supporting projects including responses to gender based violence in northern Uganda. The Trust fund loses all significance when it becomes just another donor. Its contribution must be unique if it is going to be meaningful and if the justice of the ICC is going to have a right to make claims their justice is “for the victims.”

*It might seem like I’m confusing reparations, and the more general work of the Trust Fund. The ICC has never done reparations, and the first will occur after the first conviction. Actually, I think it is the very specific nature of what at this point, it looks like is going to count as formal reparation (successful decisions in requests for restitution, compensation and rehabilitation of crimes that an accused person has been convicted of) which make the general work of the Fund so important. Because the scope of reparation is so specific, victims that, in my mind, should be entitled to reparations wouldn’t benefit unless they are assisted under the more general work of the Trust Fund. So, for example, the victims of the crimes in Raska Lukwiya’s arrest warrant are now out of luck since he’s dead and will never be tried or convicted. Or the decision not to include any crimes involving sexual violence in Lubanga’s final warrant means that all the victims of those crimes would not be entitled to reparations even if he’s ever convicted of recruitment and use of child soldiers. This is grossly unfair. It seems equally unfair that the byproduct of linking criminal conviction to victim’s entitlement to reparations is that being “defined” as a victim in this instance has the same burdens of proof, etc. as criminal conviction. But anyway, I digress and this is the topic for another pretend interview or blog.

Ben is cheatin'...

2010-10-09T21:51:00.003+02:00

It's been almost a year that I've wondered what was going on. Especially the last few months I've noticed my husband's lack of devotion...

And now I know why.

He has new blog.

Read his blogging infidelity for yourself here.

Life is like a deep hip opener (read: yoga analogy)

2010-09-11T07:45:00.009+02:00

-----
Right now, my life feels like that exquisite moment--when you've been trying to breathe and relax into a pose that is awkward and even hurts. You know it is creating space, that it will be filled with vital life force, but it's hard--and you've been in it so long you start to wonder if the instructor is daydreaming, or left the room or maybe you weren't listening carefully enough and you missed it when s/he moved on with the sequence. But then you hear a cue. After just one deep inhalation and exhalation you will step out of the pose. It's been painful and good for you, but it's almost over. and then you choose to surrender and make the last moment the fullest expression of the posture yet. and breathe.

That's where I am.
-------

I wrote this last week. And then the moment was over. And this is what I was waiting for:

6 cups of coffee +1 cup of hot chocolate

2010-09-03T09:18:00.008+02:00

I live in a commune.

It's not exactly the way I thought it would be. But it is really good.

It's funny, the expectations you have without really knowing it. I tried to be aware of them before we started this communal adventure. But mostly, it's in retrospect, that expectations announce their presence through the feeling of satisfaction or a little surprise or disappointment and then adjustment.

For example:
I thought we'd all be relatively happy. But no one predicts when grief and loss will enter our lives.
I thought our communal garden would get more communal attention. But all our tomatoes and most of the peppers have some disease that we didn't catch and deal with in time. Most of our herbs didn't grow(though we're thoroughly enjoying those that did!), the spinach is dying.
I thought when we did do communal work together we'd be listening to loud music, laughing and goofing around. But sometimes we don't work together and our schedules don't coincide, or we're just tired, sweating, and the electricity is off so there is no music--or ipods are in use--which kind of feels like the antithesis to the social bonding through work that I envisioned.
I thought we'd all practice radical hospitality. We're all relatively hospitable folks, but sometimes we say no when people want to stay with us, and sometimes I don't invite friends over because being conscientious of other people's privacy is important and so is creating a space for the growth of our communal relationships.
I thought we might have more energy for each other. But sometimes we need to be alone, and since I'm sort of an extreme extrovert, pretty much everyone (including my husband) needs more alone time than I do.
I thought I'd be less selfish. But I'm really not, and living with other people, makes me realize how much I think about my own needs and preferences over theirs.

On the other hand:

*We live the painful moments together. There are shoulders to cry on. And we live the messiness in the same place.
*There are some things that are just easier and more enjoyable about living together. We might not always do work together, but sharing the load of household responsibilities has made it so much lighter. Like how each family/couple cooks one meal a week. Cooking once a week makes me more inspired and creative--and also appreciated--for whatever I do. And I definitely savor their scrumptious meals at our shared table.
*We all bring something unique and sometimes surprising "to the table." Their presence and perspectives on our everyday life inspire me to think about the world and our place in it differently. Better. Like the day a neighbor threw a rotten onion at Casey while she was weeding the garden. She came in sighing, and I asked why and she shared how the smelly veggie fell from the sky. My first response was "what the hell? who does that? jerk!" Her's was to think about the curiosity that our neighbors must have about us, and begin brainstorming how we can build relationships and open our lives more to the people around us. I love it that she thinks like that. Or when our landlord was getting nasty and I wanted to call a lawyer but Kellen called us to take the higher road.
*And though we do need alone time, when we don't want to be alone someone is always there for us. One day I was wishing my mom or my sister could be part of preparing for welcoming a baby home. I painted the nursery wall and just wanted company. Kellen sat and read a book on my couch and commented when the book inspired a sigh or a giggle while I painted.
*I'm selfish, but my selfishness is more in my face now--Confronted with the ugliness of it--I'm more inspired to re-orient myself away from the natural human tendency toward self-actualization and more towards a purer love for God and the people around me.

So, I look at all this and I say it's good.
And if it is always like this, I'll be disapointed.

I've been practicing acceptance of things in the present. The desire to change and grow is there, but I'm OK with today. Actully, I'm not just OK with it. I love it. and I hope for more.
-----
I started writing this last week and then got distracted. It's amazing to observe communal life evolves even in a few days. Labor day weekend we all spent working in the garden and finishing the chicken house. There was laughter and loud music (KBCO, which is a favorite Colorado radio station which kind of made the entire situation a bit surreal but wonderful to share) This week, as Ben and I have taken a few steps forward toward adoption we could not have asked for a more supportive, encouraging and challenging community to walk with us. We are changing and growing. And we have a thousand reasons to be hopeful.

You decide

2010-09-02T09:54:00.004+02:00

Is there a connection between this and that?

(the photo is from the this article in the Guardian)

Now, what will they say?

2010-08-31T09:12:00.003+02:00

Reason to be hopeful: Finally a decision on "sedition" that makes some sense, and at a good time with elections coming up.

Reason to wring your hands: The issue of "sectarianism." What exactly is it? And why does it seem to be used arbitrarily to reign in multi-party politics? Apparently, the judges don't share my skepticism.

How to get girls at Makerere (warning: this blog includes adult subject matter)

2010-08-17T16:33:00.011+02:00

The dinner conversation in a house where people work on issues like rape, commercial sex work and child-trafficking can sometimes be heavy. We used to have a rule based on the occupations of those around the table at the time: no rape, torture or hostage crises after 9pm. We've since moved but still have similarly macabre vocations and now we have a clever 2-year-old at the dining room table with us, so we tend to reserve the rated R topics for after bedtime.

So the last couple of weeks a topic has come up later in the evening that we've had limited information about and then in a moment of genius (read: libation induced inhibition) we decide to randomly poll our friends. This is where "D" dialing meets research. (D stands for dinner dialing, obviously--why? what were you thinking?)

Research topic #1
At a little dinner party, someone was commenting on how depressed I must get hearing so many tragic stories of sexual violence. I brought up something that gives me hope--how much things have changed between what some of my Ugandan male friends grew up with and the way they treat women now. On particularly bad days I try to have lunch with friends that remind me that there are good Acholi men. I told the table about a conversation I'd had with one of them who recounted how his uncles began their marriages, basically, by getting together with their brothers and abducting the girl they fancied when she was on her way to the market or to the well. I asked what he thinks contributed to him having such a drastically different approach to wooing women. "Education," he said. But as we got into it, we realized he meant social education, not actually what he learned in a classroom. "That's not how you get girls at Makerere University," he said. At this point in the conversation, someone, I can't remember who, asked, "how do you get girls at Makerere?" and thus started the poll. Our Ugandan friends all answered with perhaps a brief laugh, and then a tone that was extremely matter-of-fact-- like they had a list of answers that were read- to-hand.

What we discovered:

"There are 2 ways to get girls at Makerere:"
1) Help her with her homework, papers or exams. (if you do poorly, that's too bad for her, but "you will have already gotten what you wanted")
2) Buy her a pizza. ("You'll need a little bit of money. Taker her out for a meal and buy her something she might not normally get for herself like a drink and a pizza. Then she's all yours.")

Then we thought, how different is this from "our" context? (the table included Americans, and an Irishman) So we called our brothers.

What we discovered:
1) Get her drunk. (put more or less delicately depending on the brother)
2) Buy her a nice meal.
3) Impress her with your dance moves. (this may work better if you're a professional dancer)

Actually, wooing University girls doesn't seem all that different, the world over. Impress her. Buy her a meal. Alcohol helps. (I know, sweeping generalizations, but don't forget it's based off of hard evidence and research) We did comment that none of the women at the table were "gotten" in quite this manner, but that might be beside the point. And the point is: pizza is a better way to get a girl than abduction. It's a sign of social progress.

Research topic #2
Ben recently did a consulting gig where he was developing a curriculum that will be used with commercial sex workers. Sometimes it was a challenge to marry the realities of life in Uganda and the philosophies of some of his Dutch advisory group (the Netherlands is known for a very particular view on commercial sex work--think Amsterdam). One example that we discussed over dinner: they (the dutch people) thought the section on sexual and reproductive health needed to include a demonstration of how to put a condom on a man with one's mouth. Hmm. OK, that could be true. Maybe, if that skill leads to more regular use of protection it could be justified. But is that true? Research with commercial sex workers suggests that sexual intercourse is most common, and they rarely perform other sexual acts. So, how relevant is this in this context? Was there any evidence to suggest that a client that is refusing to wear protection would acquiesce if offered an alternative way of putting it on? Thus started the poll.

What we discovered:

1) Yes, Ugandan women do sometimes put condoms on their partners with their mouths.
2) No, if a man is decided he doesn't want to wear one, an offer to spice up how it gets on wouldn't change his mind.

This over speaker phone at the Chinese food restaurant in Gulu. (We don't know how universal this is, because we already used up too much phone credit on international calls in the last poll.) It was actually kind of a depressing topic, but the absurdity of our inquiry brought some light-heartedness to it. Sometimes you have to allow yourself to be entertained by what is actually evidence of our broken state as humanity. Sometimes you just have to laugh, or else you might cry.

Adoption, Nido, Justice & Wooing Women: what I’m not writing about

2010-08-10T18:36:00.004+02:00

I showed up today. I did the morning routine. Got a day in front of me with no scheduled distractions, and protecting against the impromptu interruptions. I made a pot of tea. Cleaned off my computer desktop. Minimized all windows of email news sources and decorating ideas for a nursery. I put my phone on silent. I opened up the document called “Justice on the Periphery.” And now I’m staring at it. I start stringing words together hoping that my mind will take a cue from the movement of my fingers on the keyboard and realize it’s time to think insightful articulate orderly thoughts, but it’s not working yet--clearly, since I’m writing this blog instead of an article that MUST be drafted by the end of the month! (my own deadline, not my supervisor’s. Does anyone else have difficulty taking their own deadlines seriously?) If I were at LSE I’d probably grab a couple of fellow PhDers and head across the street for an espresso, a breath of fresh air and share a few ideas—hoping that one would trigger thought flow that lends itself better to prolificness (is that a word?) but I’m in Gulu. Yesterday, I had this fleeting moment of Londonsickness. Since I only lived there one year I’m not sure I’m entitled to call it homesickness, but it was a nostalgic twinge of longing for an upcoming autumn, academic colleagues, a beloved housemate, my parents and sister a train ride away, warm drinks and chilly weather—I even imagined riding on public transportation with no little affection. I comforted myself by appreciating my ability to walk or bodaboda most places I need to go within minutes and how relaxed my spine is when my shoulders are never forced to migrate north to my ears for the winter. I have different sources of inspiration here. I live with some great minds, have friends and colleagues that are willing to let me spew half-baked ideas off of them and of course, I can spend time with the women that are the subjects of my inquiries. Truly, the ability to sit and talk about observations with them is an excellent privilege and, I hope, enlightening to all of us involved in the conversation. This is the part where I should write some sort of resolution, how I overcame my mental hurdles. But I’m at a loss for words, so instead, I promise to keep showing up, to get back to writing after I post this and I invite your suggestions.

I know, I’ve blogged twice about difficulty writing, and I promise I’ll move on to more interesting topics—as soon as I can get myself writing instead of writing about writing (which I realize is kind of taboo, but I figure it’s not all bad since the creative process is something that most of us struggle with to some extent in our life’s work—so hopefully you can resonate and maybe even help me). I do have a few blogs brewing, like “how to get girls at Makerere University” (don’t worry, it won’t be based on my own experience or Ben’s) and how Nido (powdered milk) could spell the tragic downfall of our commune, or my rookie thoughts on mommy blogging (did you notice that I now follow a blog called “rage against the minivan” hah. the transformation is occurring…) and sensitive ethical questions about adoption. In other news: there was an election in Rwanda yesterday, there have been several notable developments in international law, Kenya voted on a new constitution, and Uganda is taking a public holiday tomorrow in honour of a former president who died last week. I won’t be taking a holiday. I will write. I will.

(an update: I wrote this earlier today, and did actually get some decent writing done between then and now, but when I was really getting into the groove I had an interruption. A good friend was in a car accident. Kind of puts life in perspective. I didn't have details for the first hour or so and that was a prayer-filled very long hour. But a visit to the hospital and assurance that a lot of sleep-inducing silly-making pain killers for the next few days and then the patience to let a few broken ribs heal is what the doctor's ordered was a big relief. He's going to be Ok.)

How I really spend my life

2010-08-03T21:13:00.007+02:00

I have some internal angst about the title of our blog. It feels misleading. I've been staring at a computer screen all day today. It occurred to me, when i looked at the top of this page, that if the way we spend our days is the way we spend our lives then maybe I spend my life staring at a machine. I'd like to say, that most of the time with this Apple in my lap I'm writing what will be a brilliant article or chapter in my thesis that will also somehow fantastically transform lives of women who've suffered sexual violence, but actually--if I'm really honest, maybe, I spend my life procrastinating. That's an awful thought. Mostly because I'm afraid of how true it might be. I cleverly justify it as waiting for the next moment of inspiration while checking email, FB, followed blogs, news and journal sites for the umpteenth time. (Of course, these days I have a happy reason to put off serious writing that feels equally if not more important, but I'll save that for another blog). I had a really good week recently. Early morning yoga, a couple of good cups of coffee, and a solid block of no internet--just writing until lunch. After lunch either some editing or out in my second research site interviewing women and getting more inspired, having examples and quotes that I'd weave into the next day's session. I'd come home just in time for dinner with the commune-ers. And I thought, this is so much better than wasting time and feeling guilty for not accomplishing enough, and then I got distracted again. It's not that days like that are unusual, they're just not consistent. Seems everyday has that potential, but I've got a limited, though hopefully expanding capacity for it.

I'm such an amateur and I want to get better. I need to get better. and I think I could really like this, this process of transforming thought onto the page, and then conversely, what is on the page begins to mold my nebulous ideas into more focused observations.

It brings up good things for me. I mean, it brings up some pretty silly things that I wish I could rip out of the notepad of my soul, crumple up and throw away. But it's healthy to work through it--the indiscipline, the fear of failure, the desire to prove something--I'm not even sure to who. maybe myself, maybe you, potential readers. Sometimes I have these exquisite moments, even hours and once in awhile, days when I don't live there. I find myself writing from this place that is centered, where what is expressed somehow deletes my smallness, my ego, from the equation and it is about the idea that is part of something much greater and much more important. It's a tiny contribution to that greatness but the awareness of just how small my part is, is somehow freeing. Inspiring. It doesn't feel very academic. and then I wonder whether it'll work. Are there enough citations? have I engaged 'the literature' as if that's some stack of books and articles that is finite and knowable? Is my writing style too colloquial? or have I over-compensated for my casual voice by throwing in a bunch of barely understandable jargon-filled run-on sentences? or the most terrifying question: is what I have to say worthwhile? the questions kind of kill the creative, centered inspired moments. What I produce during those moments is so much more honoring to the experiences of women who are the subject of my research, and I enjoy writing so much more.

Sometimes though, I don't want to write. And I weary of my own walls. And I want to run outside and spend more of my life like this:

What keeps me up at night

2010-07-17T11:50:00.009+02:00

Last night I woke up to the sounds of an angry mob in the street outside our house.

I haven't written in awhile. It's a shame because around the time of the International Criminal Court's review conference there were a lot blogworthy things going on. The time coincided with Tim, my supervisor's, visit to Uganda. For 2 weeks I was eating, sleeping and breathing debates about justice and the Acholi context. There was no time to write--only to think, listen and talk. Now, since the dust has settled I have started writing again but something a little more demanding--what I hope will be a chapter in my thesis and/or journal article. As I've sat down to write it's made me realize how much rich material I have and challenged me to start interpreting it in a way that is shareable. So far, it has felt a little like clearing my throat onto the page, but I'm hopeful my throat is almost clear and I can finally say something. In the midst of ruminating in my thoughts these past weeks, a vivid example of the exact dynamic I am writing about jolted me awake.

Our watchman and a neighbor caught a thief breaking into the kiosk nextdoor. It was 4 o'clock in the morning but it didn't take long for a large crowd of our neighbors to form and begin beating the man. They didn't call the police. We asked our watchman if someone should. "Ah, no!" He laughed. I wasn't surprised. I understood. But it still disturbed me deeply. "I have instructed them not to hit his head," he assured us. As if this would be very satisfying and now I could go back to sleep without worrying that a man's life might end tonight, less than 10 meters away from me and I did nothing. We've had a lot of conversations with him about pacifism, plus, we must have looked concerned, so he continued, "They will not kill him, the Local Councillor is there." He repeated it twice for emphasis, and maybe to keep us from running into the street and doing something rash. He warned us not to get involved since a mob is unlikely to listen and more likely to turn on us. It would probably be solved more quickly and in everyone's interest if they just handled him here and now, in our street. locally. If the police had come, everyone who was there would waste time in the police station making statements that would likely get lost or never be used. Any property that he'd stolen that they might be able to recover as a group of citizens would be confiscated by the police and likely never returned to the rightful owner. No one would expect the man to be held for long. And what would his incarceration do anyway? We learned later that he's been locked up several times before but hasn't reformed. Instead he allegedly met other thieves that he now works with. The correctional part of his punishment has yet to be successful. Besides that, from what he is yelling at the crowd around him, he is an orphan that is taking care of his brothers and sisters that are fully dependant on him. An angry response and the sound of a strong kick and a loud groan cut his plea short.

This is what happens in this space, I thought to myself, between an efficient national judicial system and local solutions that are accountable to no other higher authority. People still take justice into their own hands but with an increasing level of constraint in light of the presence of a strenthening judicial system.

Finally, the sound of fists, shoes and wooden rods against the body of another human being subsided. His piercing cries for mercy quieted to muffled sobs. But a few minutes later it began again with a few yells. I was scared. The mood of a mob changes quickly, and I wondered if the constraints on their behavior were strong enough not to rupture under the fervor and violent impulses I heard in their voices. If just one person had a slightly larger stick, if they were just angry enough to disregard the admonition of our watchman not to direct the blows below his neck, if the Local Counselor's authority was only slightly less respected, if there was a weaker sense that the police were only a mobile phone call away by one concerend community member--they might have killed him. But they didn't. They beat him, insulted him, humiliated him and forced him to give names of other thieves in the area and recovered the property he'd stolen. Now he's in the hospital. The LC later proudly showed where he'd written the record of what happened in his official book. With a smile, he guaranteed that "other thieves will think two times before they enter our area."

I can't help but wonder: if there was a history of trust built between the citizens of the area and the law enforcers and the rest of the judicial system, if the police were well trained and honest with a reputation for resisting corruption, if confiscated property was always returned to the rightful owners, if massive delays in the courts were not the norm, if just punishments were given that looked at alternative sentencing and community service, if there were systems in place that considered particular circumstances of juvenile offenders, social services for his dependents, if if if...my rather ordinary, peaceloving, friendly and hospitable neighbors wouldn't have left their beds in the middle of the night with their crying children following behind them into the street to beat a man near to death. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they need the cathartic effect of releasing pent up aggression. But maybe, if communal harmony was better protected by an efficient judicial system there would be less aggressive feelings in general floating around or at least non-violent and trusted alternative ways of settling them.

Obama, the LRA Bill & my 2 cents

2010-06-01T11:01:00.005+02:00

I'm in Kampala attending the International Criminal Court's review conference. It's the third day of the conference and Saturday the ICC President held a town hall meeting in Gulu. Each day deserves its own thoughtful blog if I can find time. Hopefully there will be more here soon. But given my last blog I thought it was important to share this statement that Obama made when he signed the LRA bill and a couple of brief thoughts:

Today, I signed into law the Lord's Resistance Army Disarmament and Northern Uganda Recovery Act of 2009. The legislation crystallizes the commitment of the United States to help bring an end to the brutality and destruction that have been a hallmark of the LRA across several countries for two decades, and to pursue a future of greater security and hope for the people of central Africa.

The Lord’s Resistance Army preys on civilians – killing, raping, and mutilating the people of central Africa; stealing and brutalizing their children; and displacing hundreds of thousands of people. Its leadership, indicted by the International Criminal Court for crimes against humanity, has no agenda and no purpose other than its own survival. It fills its ranks of fighters with the young boys and girls it abducts. By any measure, its actions are an affront to human dignity.

Of the millions affected by the violence, each had an individual story and voice that we must not forget. In northern Uganda, we recall Angelina Atyam’s 14-year old daughter, whom the LRA kidnapped in 1996 and held captive for nearly eight years -- one of 139 girls abducted that day from a boarding school. In southern Sudan, we recall John Loboi -- a father, a husband, a brother, a local humanitarian assistance worker killed in an ambush while helping others in 2003. Now, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and the Central African Republic, the people of Dungu and of Obo, too, have their stories of loss and pain.

We mourn those killed. We pray for those abducted to be freed, and for those wounded to heal. We call on the ranks of the LRA to disarm and surrender. We believe that the leadership of the LRA should be brought to justice.

I signed this bill today recognizing that we must all renew our commitments and strengthen our capabilities to protect and assist civilians caught in the LRA’s wake, to receive those that surrender, and to support efforts to bring the LRA leadership to justice. The Bill reiterates U.S. policy and our commitment to work toward a comprehensive and lasting resolution to the conflict in northern Uganda and other affected areas, including northeastern Democratic Republic of Congo, southern Sudan, and the Central African Republic. We will do so in partnership with regional governments and multilateral efforts.

I commend the Government of Uganda for its efforts to stabilize the northern part of the country, for actively supporting transitional and development assistance, and for pursuing reintegration programs for those who surrender and escape from the LRA ranks.

I also want the governments of other LRA-affected countries to know that we are aware of the danger the LRA represents, and we will continue to support efforts to protect civilians and to end this terrible chapter in central African history. For over a decade, the United States has worked with others to respond to the LRA crisis. We have supported peace process and reconciliation, humanitarian assistance and regional recovery, protection of civilians and reintegration for former combatants, and have supported regional governments as they worked to provide for their people’s security. Going forward, we will call on our partners as we all renew our efforts.

I congratulate Congress for seizing on this important issue, and I congratulate the hundreds of thousands of Americans who have mobilized to respond to this unique crisis of conscience. We have heard from the advocacy organizations, non-governmental organizations, faith-based groups, humanitarian actors who lack access, and those who continue to work on this issue in our own government. We have seen your reporting, your websites, your blogs, and your video postcards -- you have made the plight of the children visible to us all. Your action represents the very best of American leadership around the world, and we are committed to working with you in pursuit of the future of peace and dignity that the people of who have suffered at the hands of the LRA deserve.

What I love:
-the emphasis on reconciliation, justice and protection of civilians
-the shout out to Angelina--who we worked with at CPA for 3 years and continues to be an incredible voice for peace and inspiration to me and many others. Having the President recognize her and the suffering of those who have experienced similar pain is meaningful and appropriate.
-recognizing the role of non governmental folks like us writing blogs and letters and advocating--so if you haven't yet, consider writing a letter based on the previous blog or getting an institution that you're part of to sign on to it because he's paying attention!

What I found a bit disappointing:
-the shallow analysis of the conflict reflected in the statement that the LRA has "no agenda and no purpose other than its survival" that plays into the biased narrative that the Government of Uganda and many others intentionally perpetuate to further their own interests and to support a military agenda. I fear that defining the "LRA problem" exclusively in terms of humanitarian devastation and as apolitical will lead to inappropriate and ineffective "solutions."

Local Voice & Non-Violent Solutions

2010-05-26T10:15:00.004+02:00

On May 24th Obama signed the Lord's Resistance Army Disarmament and Northern Uganda Recover Act into Law. Now the administration has 180 days to develop a plan with ambitious and laudable goals: to eliminate the threat of the LRA in the region, provide civilian protection and support comprehensive reconstruction, transitional justice, and reconciliation efforts. The legislation doesn't specify an exact shape that the plan will take but commits to "political, economic, military, and intelligence support." Many people who have been affected by violence are concerned that in practice this plan might mean military support over preferred strategies and priorities. Local consultation was done by NGOs involved in advocating for the Bill (e.g. The Enough Project, Resolve, Invisible Children, etc.) however, some communities have expressed that their views were misrepresented. This is an open letter calling for consultation and non-violent solutions that a number of Ugandan organization have already signed. It has not been sent yet to provide more time for potential signatories.

Open Letter to President Obama Regarding the “Lord's Resistance Army Disarmament and Northern Uganda
Recovery Act of 2009 (S.1067/HR 2478)”

Dear President Obama,

For over two decades, the people of Northern Uganda have endured horrific violence as a result of a war between the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) and the Government of Uganda (GoU). Despite numerous attempts to bring an end to the
conflict, all efforts have failed and to this day the civilian population in Sudan, the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), and Central African Republic (CAR) continues to suffer from the effects of LRA violence.

Mr. President, we are thankful for your desire for peace and justice in the world. More specifically, we are grateful to you for not ignoring the plight of the people by signing the “Lord's Resistance Army Disarmament and Northern Uganda Recovery Act of 2009 (S.1067/HR 2478)” into law. The potential of this historic legislation to support efforts to achieve sustainable peace, reconciliation, and meeting humanitarian needs in LRA affected regions cannot be understated and communicates that we are not forgotten.

As you and your administration begin the enormous task to develop a plan to implement the legislation, we strongly urge you to enter into consultations with regional CSO’s, NGO’s as well as grassroots leaders and their communities about the best way forward to bring an end to one of the world’s longest running conflicts.

While many have lost hope in any peaceful resolution to the conflict, the reality is that the peace process which started in 2006 is responsible for the relative calm being experienced in northern Uganda. Sadly after achieving such a significant outcome and ignoring the complexity of the LRA concerns and issues, the government of Uganda lost patience in the process. In a final attempt to end the LRA once and for all, a regional military offensive dubbed “Operation Lightning Thunder” was launched in 2008 with U.S. support. Like the numerous past military offensives launched against the LRA, this one also failed to meet its objective.

Military action has time and time again not only failed to end the conflict but caused it to spread into regions once immune to LRA violence resulting in further suffering of civilians. We therefore strongly implore you to prioritize and creatively explore non-violent actions to resolving the conflict. We believe this is the only way to bring a lasting solution that will foster healing and reconciliation in a region of the world that longs for and deserves peace.

Mr. President, we look forward to continued dialogue with you and your administration. May God guide and grant you and your administration wisdom as you discern how to effectively achieve the mandate of the “Lord's Resistance Army Disarmament and Northern Uganda Recovery Act of 2009 (S.1067/HR 2478)”.

Signed,

Acholi Religious Leaders Peace Initiative (ARLPI)-Gulu, Uganda

What you can do:
Get any institution or organization that you are affiliated with (university, church, NGO, etc.) to sign on (preferable before June 12th). To do so email the name of the institution and country of origin to Wade Snowdon at the Acholi Religious Leaders Peace Initiative at: pressing_forward@hotmail.com

AND/OR Borrow language and reference this letter in your own letter to the President encouraging consultation with the affected communities here to develop the plan and to pursue non-violent over military "solutions." Need his address?

President Barak Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

'Poverty & the Pill' or Gender and the Pill?

2010-05-21T15:52:00.011+02:00

I know, my suggestion doesn't quite roll of the tongue as easily as the title of Kristof's article in the NY Times about the use of contraception in the Democratic Republic of Congo--but I think it might be a more precise identification of the core issue.

He talks about the "fixable" challenge of unavailable birth control in many poor countries. Referencing a report by the Guttmacher Institute, he writes that,"If contraception were broadly available in poor countries, the report said, more than 50 million unwanted pregnancies could be averted annually. One result would be 25 million fewer abortions per year. Another would be saving the lives of as many as 150,000 women who now die annually in childbirth." By all means, every woman who wants contraception should have access to it. But most interventions in this regard vastly overestimate women's freedom to make choices about birth control for themselves.

In my research I also ask women about how they make decisions around family planning. Most of them are familiar with the idea of "child spacing" and have various methods for achieving it, some of which are free--but the majority are denied the ability to make those decisions. If I ask who does, most respond: "my children's father." (and a few: "God") A number of the women who have reported sexual violence within their marriages said the man justified his actions in relation to having more children.

Poverty isn't the cause and money isn't the solution. Kristof does allude to the gender factor, for example, noting the practice of hospitals requiring women to bring their husbands with them so they know whether the man has agreed to using family planning methods and men's resistance to condom use--both of which are as relevant in Uganda as in the DRC. Though he raises a few of the challenges that make family planning "harder than it looks" the article misses the crux of the issue. Although I think I'd be all in favor of re-appropriating 2 weeks of military expenditure in Afghanistan to make contraception available "worldwide"--the real issue isn't unavailability--it's the relationships between men and women that are socially entrenched that prevent women from exercising power over their reproductive health.

I could link a photo to liven up the blog from his article--but instead of attaching the somewhat forlorn expression of a woman who almost died in childbirth--I share this one with you:

He is a beloved former colleague who confesses to having 28 children that he's aware of. How many does he think he actually has, "I don't know. Around 50 maybe?"

Sad in the same place

2010-05-17T13:23:00.001+02:00

I watched a casket being lowered into the earth. He was 42. I didn’t know him, but he was a beloved cousin-brother of Lajara. She spent the last few weeks by his bedside in the hospital. They ran down the paths of their childhood together. Last semester he helped her pay tuition at Gulu University where she’s continuing her education. Lajara is a woman whose friendship is steadily restoring my weakened belief that solidarity with the poor isn’t just an ideal but a possibility. And so when I heard she had lost someone I came. It doesn’t matter that it’s Monday and there is work to be done. We buried him with singing. I held Lajara’s hand while we crowded around the open grave and she cried, her handkerchief in her free hand covered her face. She’s a tall, strong woman and her long arms trembled a little. We have sat together on mats in the shade enough afternoons for me to know she is not unfamiliar with sadness, but this, I can see, is an especially painful moment. This is unquestionably the most important thing I could do today.

We crowd into one of a half dozen tents providing shelter from a light sprinkling of rain that dampened us while we sang. They’re giving speeches from the head table but we can’t actually hear anything they’re saying. No doubt, they are reflecting on the kind and loving character of the deceased. Some grown men are crying. Others are commiserating on the latest developments in their land conflicts in their villages. Some women are sobbing. Others are cooking a meal for 300 mouths to consume. Over the rain, the conversations, the muffled speeches, is the sound of rocks being mixed with concrete to pour over the grave. I’m struck by how practical and ordinary things happen in this solemn space.

The people sitting next to me are other friends of the grieving family. I’m feeling rather useless—a burden to the overworked women in the kitchen, wondering why we’re all here. I find myself wanting to cry. Why? For the sadness of those who are nearby. For the reminder this day evokes of the burial of a dear friend I couldn’t attend last year because I was in London. And for our fellow communer who lost her dad suddenly two weeks ago whose hand is too far away to hold. When I look around I realize that it’s not about what is being said into the evidently useless microphone. It is not really about what is being done either.

This is a space to be sad in the same place. For those who were close to him it is the chance they have to sit and feel his absence from the world, for life to pause to recognize his passing. Many of the women pound, grind, boil, stir and serve through their grief--together. They carry their handkerchiefs while carrying food and stoke the cooking fires through tears inspired by his loss more than the smoke. Some of us came only because of them. This is an act of solidarity. From what I can tell, they experience our presence as meaningful and not an arduous chore as I feared. It is important that we eat this meal together, that we drink this cup as one. Humanity. We all lose people we love. We all die. We all clasp the hands of friends when we mourn.

Babies' Justice

2010-05-12T11:31:00.004+02:00

Maybe it's the effects of living with Judah that I'm all the more fascinated and amused by this article in the NY Times. Perhaps we're born with a universal desire to see "bad guys" get punished?

Not long ago, a team of researchers watched a 1-year-old boy take justice into his own hands. The boy had just seen a puppet show in which one puppet played with a ball while interacting with two other puppets. The center puppet would slide the ball to the puppet on the right, who would pass it back. And the center puppet would slide the ball to the puppet on the left . . . who would run away with it. Then the two puppets on the ends were brought down from the stage and set before the toddler. Each was placed next to a pile of treats. At this point, the toddler was asked to take a treat away from one puppet. Like most children in this situation, the boy took it from the pile of the “naughty” one. But this punishment wasn’t enough — he then leaned over and smacked the puppet in the head.

You can read the rest of the article here

The article actually sparks some more provoking questions, like: Is the core of "justice" and morality universally impartiality as the article suggests? Could it be some other trait that enables the most harmonious functioning of any given society? Or is the replacement of impartiality for harmony a sign that societies have lost sight of the truth we were born with?

Feel good about yourself--Become an extremist

2010-04-21T11:15:00.003+02:00

John Cleese tells us how to avoid the dark truth of our inner nastiness and transform ourselves into champions of truth.

(Hat tip to CB who hat tips MR)

Interpreting Screams

2010-04-20T12:19:00.006+02:00

My house is loud. My mind is quiet. Thinking has been replaced by the voice and energy of two-year-old activity and the responses of us adults around him. I fully expect the substitution of noise for thought to be temporary--confidant that I will adjust to new ambient noises of play. But in the mean time, here I am, interpreting loud noise instead of phenomena related to justice after rape.

New sounds for these ears: His sweet bare feet pattering in excited circles on the concrete floor of the living room, giggles, legoes being poured from their box, automated toys, an enthralled and repeated introduction of himself into the fan, "I'm Judah!" which I think means "I'm happy and excited about the discovery of the effect these whirling blades have on my voice!"and of course screams-some of surprise and joy-"this bathwater is cold!" or "that praying mantis is awesome!" others demanding, or sad or asserting his will "pay attention to me" "my tummy hurts" "I don't want to sleep"or "I want to play in the mud, not wear sunscreen and suck my thumb before I let you wash my hands!" he really says all that--at least that's my translation. Much of what is being said I think might be summed up as, "I am still overwhelmed by my new surroundings! adjusting to them is hard and will take me a little while!" Lest, my words be understood as a complaint--this is an appropriate time to remind the reader of 4 important things: 1) I am head-over-heels in love with this kid, 2) his volume is surely not uncommon or above average for his age 3) I happily chose with my eyes wide open to be part of a community with his two-year old self, and 4) I recognize in cries and yells a valid and noteworthy form of communication.

If I screamed right now it would mean a few things. "I'm so unproductive it's scary!" "I need to work!" "I can't concentrate on reading other people's ideas let alone come up with my own!" and much more deeply honest, "I don't want to massively fail at the one thing I am trying to do that actually matters: loving people."

In all truth, I don't really feel the need to scream. I rather feel like taking some deep breaths and enjoying the solitude inspired by a few moments towards the end of a yoga practice recording that Kellen brought with her. (It has been awesome having a practice partner!) After sweating through an hour or so of beautiful posture sequences in a final resting posture, Tracy Chapman assures us, "Ooh Child, things are gonna get easier." At that moment the lyrics present themselves as irrefutable truth. Then a rather bizarre thing happens--the yoga class next door (when the original recording was done) begins screaming--for some inexplicable reason. We have no idea why--but the recorded instructor jokes that they are expelling demons. Perhaps that's not a bad idea. Maybe we all need to scream once in awhile and be given permission to act like we're two.

If you screamed right now, what would it mean?

2 cups of coffee & the meaning of commune

2010-03-22T12:41:00.003+02:00

by Holly
This morning I reminded myself of my grandmother. For probably two decades every time we have a family gathering she will at some point look around with pre-emptive nostalgia and say: “this might be the last time that we’re all together.” Her comment is inevitably followed by eye rolling and hugs.

Tomorrow I’m picking up the Kurtz family in Entebbe. The Hoins come in a month.

This morning, while Ben and I sat on the front veranda sipping our habitual coffee, I said it: “this might be the last time we’re alone like this.”—OK, I admit I’m being dramatic, but it really is going to be a much more rare occurrence that the two of us share the solitude of a quiet morning cup of coffee in a house where we’re the sole occupants. “Our life force is about to expand,” Ben smiles. “We need to buy more mugs,” I decide, and make a note on my expanding to-do list.

The other night I semi-jokingly told a group of friends that we were starting a commune. I say “semi” joking because—we sort of are. But I just feel goofy using the word, like I’ll either be dismissed as some kind of crazy hippy or like I’m formalizing and glorifying a rather common phenomenon: living in the same house with a bunch of friends. Someone asked, what I meant—and I responded something to the effect of: we really like each other, and want to do life together, encourage each other’s visions, and vocations and share resources. The questioner, asked, “then, you won’t, like, grow food together?” I don’t know why that seems to be an integral part of a commune—but somehow the collaborative production and consumption of food does appear a central feature of communal living. Yes, I answered confidently—we’re going to have a big garden and grow veggies—and keep hens and eat lots of eggs and vegetables together. Does that mean I will live in a commune? I didn’t really know, so I broke a sacred taboo. I did something self-respecting PhD students are NEVER EVER supposed to do, or at least, admit to doing: I referenced Wikipedia.

My synthesis of the authoritative wiki voice: A commune is an intentional community of people living together, sharing common interests, property, possessions resources, work and income. Decisions are made by consensus. We reject the idea of hierarchy and bureaucracy as necessary to have social order (on a small scale). We try to live with a light ecological footprint. We recognize the importance of a group beyond the nuclear family. We have emotional bonds to the whole group. We share housework, childcare and other communal activity. We’re profoundly egalitarian.

I think we’re starting a commune.

But I guess I can’t really decide that on my own. The 7 of us have to reach consensus. What do you think folks?

Wikipedia tells me communes are no longer associated with free-love and flower children. “(P)ragmatics rather than psychedelics” rule the day. I suspect the fact that they have to spell that out indicates more the presence of the continued association rather than the evolution of common perception. Well, we’ll see how it all unfolds, and keep posting.

Going south: false/wishful advertising & laughable logic

2010-03-19T09:55:00.005+02:00

Right.

This is the bus I took last week from Gulu to Kampala
Scheduled departure: 8:00am
Time I was told I should come to catch the bus: 8:30am
Time I decided to show up (because I think I've learned from experience): 9:30am
Actual departure time: 11:47am

We really miss out if we're too aggravated to laugh at the irony. It reminded me of a similarly long wait for a bus a few years ago. After the wheels finally started moving, the bus made it several blocks before breaking down. We waited for the next bus which also broke down. When the third bus, which finally proved itself road-worthy came, it had a slogan painted across the upper part of the windshield: "God likes patience." The increasingly disgruntled passengers had to laugh in spite of themselves. Waiting patiently is a useful spiritual discipline. So much of life is waiting for something, without exercising it, we spend too much time frustrated and annoyed. There are many opportunities to practice. One little celebration of the road: hundreds of speed humps which have in the past apparently served some often-speculated but little-understood constructive purpose have been removed! I'll have to find something else to practice my Acholi counting skills to pass the hours heading south--but the journey is so much more painless without an hour of jostling over kilometers of bumps.

Proof that I really am learning from experience: I went to the bus park in Kampala early, booked my seat back to Gulu and left my luggage. Exchanged phone numbers with the conductor. "Waited" in a cafe for a couple of hours with a friend. Conductor called me 10 minutes before the bus left, just enough time to clear the bill and boda back to the park. It was great! I highly recommend the strategy.

A new feature of the journey: the police stop the buses at every check point. Ostensibly, this is because they register the bus at each point to regulate speed. At one stop, the inspector boarded the bus in an immaculately cleaned and starched white uniform and black beret. He introduced himself and gave us all his phone number. I still have it in my constant moleskine companion where I quickly tried to write every word he said--his logic was truly dizzying. He marched up and down the aisle of the bus for the next 15 or 20 minutes lecturing the passengers and driver in turn about the perils of speeding, societal ills of corruption, benefits of taxes and healthcare. Well, sort of. "You are bribing us too much!" he shouted. "You have bribed me enough. You're giving me that money and I am eating alone, yet you are the one's who are all dying just because you are in a hurry." He asked passengers if they were satisfied with the speed of the bus since we left Gulu and how we rated the driving of the man behind the wheel. We mumbled a mediocre response. He was driving fine. "You are in a hurry and going fast can end life! Then we catch you and you bribe us with fifty thousand (around $25) but how much is the life of a person worth? It's better if you get a speeding ticket to go to court. Then you pay the government. Then the government will use that money to offer you health care when you are all injured from motor vehicle accidents because of over speeding! You should pay your taxes and go slowly instead of me eating all this money from bribes alone and all of you dying!" He paused, for dramatic effect, I imagine, "Go safely!" He finally finished and the bus responded to this rousing end with a round of applause!

It's not every day a police officer admits to taking bribes and is publicly lauded. But then, no day, is really like any other day.

Blood & light: a lenten contemplation 'On Turning Ten'

2010-03-13T12:37:00.007+02:00

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light -
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

-Billy Collins

When I read the poet say now he is mostly at the window, watching the late afternoon light, my memory responded with a quick flash of a history of evenings. It evoked two concurrent associations: coming home, and the end. In my warm surroundings I recalled an angled sun, pulling my coat tighter and turning my iPod up—Gnarls Barkley while I walk briskly over the Waterloo bridge after a lecture, or a cold drink and “a pile of meat” on the grill with Ben and Pete in the garden after writing all day. I remembered my short Denver commute, sitting at a traffic light facing west with cyclists and joggers rushing through the cross walk on their way to Wash Park, undiminished appreciation for the awesome Rocky Mountains behind them with snow turned pink and purple in the middle of summer. I thought of the golden light of Ugandan sinking sun pregnant with life reflecting off of ancient trees and red roads—work is done. I’m on my way home, on the back of a boda boda bicycle, or in CPA’s old pickup dodging potholes but still moving too fast for my eyes to focus on any of the blurred leaves in the bush I'm passing. But then there are the evenings by the window, that insist you acknowledge something is over, that a time you loved has finished. It is, indeed a solemn moment, almost holy. I don’t know why, but for me they always seem to happen in the kitchen. Maybe it’s the warmth, or all of the conversation and collaboration that happens around preparing meals. Yesterday I felt it here. I shooed a chicken out the back door, closed the screen and looked around my kitchen in the evening light. I’m not going far. But I’m acutely aware that my life is about to change.

Maybe it’s actually part of going home. Acknowledging all the little ends. Letting go. Embracing what is ahead and celebrating the ways that it expands our limits of being. Recognizing the new. Accepting loss that comes with it. To inhale, we have to exhale.

I felt this today when I was practicing yoga. A beautiful pose with my heart open. I took a deep breath and sunk in. Suddenly I became conscious that I was a little bit deeper than I have ever been before. I was experiencing my body in that state for the first time. I felt this rush of joy even while I noticed my tight hips and shoulders, smiling to myself and realizing a newness of being—like a child discovering her hands. We have so much that we have yet to explore. We have so many limits that we can expand, boundaries in our bodies, minds and spirits that can and do shift. I think we lose the wonder when we begin to believe the lie that all is known, experienced and stale. What is true: Everything is being made new.

There is a kind of solemnity and appropriate sadness that comes as 10 becomes 20 and 30 and so on—but this poem reminded me of a duality in being that allows for the cohabitation of child-like joy and loss:

When you cut me I bleed.

And I shine.

Both these things are true.

No Smoke Without Fire?

2010-02-27T12:44:00.004+02:00

*Photo from BBC link below
By Holly

In January the BBC aired a Newsnight special on ‘ritual child murder in Uganda.’ It provoked an unfavourable reaction, where a number of critiques were brought against it that I talk about below. I wrote this about a month ago, but didn’t get around to posting it and then attention had moved on until child sacrifice splashed out in the news again on the BBC and, this time, nationally in the New Vision. The Ugandan Government was evidently embarrassed by the piece and arrested the primary BBC informant, a “reformed witchdoctor” Pollino. The word on the street is that he was given a choice: be charged with 70 counts of murder that he confessed to the BBC and subsequently the police or be charged with lying (less jail time for the latter). Whether this ultimatum was truly delivered, I don’t know. But those close to the situation say that he was certainly involved in numerous child sacrifices even if 70 might be an exaggeration and he is now being held for giving false information to a police officer. Since I wrote this I was finally able to listen to the radio version of the programme (a new café in Gulu opened with faster internet!). I still haven’t been able to watch it. The friend that I mention was with the BBC film crew who hadn’t seen it, finally did. More than a month after it had aired they received a DVD copy that the BBC sent.

I’m in a village a few kilometres from Gulu town sitting in a grass-thatch hut with a group of about a dozen people, my laptop and a portable modem. We load the BBC website and navigate to Newsnight’s special on child ritual murder in Uganda that aired several weeks ago. Five or ten seconds play at a time, broken by a rotating circle assuring us it’s ‘loading’. The Internet is slow here. In an exchange between the BBC and several anthropologists, the BBC pointed out that criticism has only been from British-based academics. People in Uganda must like the report since they haven’t complained. Looking around the room, this defence is perceptibly feeble. I hoped to remedy the paucity of Ugandan voice in the discussion by showing the piece today and sharing reactions. But after repeated broken promises from the twirling icon we finally give up and discuss a few issues raised by people far away on a report that none of us have seen:

Generalized use of the term ‘witchdoctor’ is unhelpful
There are diverse practices of people involved in the supernatural: people born with uncontrolled power to harm or help, herbalists, those involved in divination, séances, exorcisms, curses and charms. The group lists titles in English and Acholi: wizard, witch, night dancer, Ajwaka, Lajok among others. Categories I draw from their descriptions and that anthropologists have outlined (p’Bitek, Girling) are much more neat than the complex fluid social understandings. I asked how they would feel if the BBC referred to them all as ‘witchdoctor’? One woman responded, “If they misrepresent the situation, it doesn’t bother me since all of them are doing bad things.” Another person disagreed citing positive work of herbalists. Unfortunately, the Ajwaka who lives next door wasn’t around. Her main activity is to bang her shoes together, throw them on the ground and read your future by the way they fall. She would certainly be appalled at the idea that she belonged in a category accused of brutally murdering children.

Perpetuating fear poses danger to the accused
If there were any indication that Ugandans were watching this would be a significant worry. Northern Uganda is in transition, when such issues should be handled with extra care. Disordered times create space for the enactment of widespread fear in extraordinarily violent ways. In the lat time of transition a predecessor to the Lord’s Resistance Army, Cilil, was infamous for torturing ‘witches’ forcing them to carry hot coals or burning them with melted plastic. One person in the room admitted she set a trap seriously injuring a night dancer.

Everyone has a story about ‘witchcraft’ usually speculative and told as fact. A few months ago, one of the young women recounted how her friend had fallen sick after stepping on charms placed by an old woman in their village. It took a lot of prodding before she admitted she had not seen the charms and her reason for suspecting the woman was that she “looks sideways when she fetches water from the well.” One day I passed the apparently witchy lady while we were collecting water together. The young woman looked at me triumphantly, “You see!?” she said, sure that I witnessed manifest evil. I have an untrained eye, but the woman appeared quite ordinary and not unfriendly.

They all assured me, however, that the six known Ajwaka in their village were in no danger as long as they continued activities within the law. I would add, as long as there are no rumours to the contrary.

Such stories revive myopic prejudices
Unfortunately, we could not comment on whether the ‘stylistic requirements’ of the BBCs audience that Whewell defended in his correspondence were fair or sensationalized. It’s clear that the target audience was not in Ugandan. Even a friend who helped Whewell’s crew in Lira was not shown the final product and, like me, has been unable to access it online. But, I asked in general, how they felt about such stories in western media. A young man said he worried that people would think Ugandans are “backward.” Another woman wondered how BBC decides which stories to report. She paused thoughtfully, “Well, we’re tired of people always giving attention to the war. At least now they are reporting on something else.” Yes, it’s nice to see media breaking from perpetuating the image of Africa as a place of endemic political violence to focus on witchcraft for a change.

Medicine murders are rare, not new and not the result of modernization (as the BBC suggests)
The only thing new modernisation contributes to ritual murder is media’s effect on public perception. According to the group, ritual murder has “always been there” but tends to have clusters of popularity followed by lulls. Competition among powerful people resorting to similar dark methods is followed by negative attention that forces practitioners to withdraw until the popular imagination moves on. I asked them, what they believe prompted this particular perceived cluster of child sacrifices. They suggested politics. Some politicians are rumoured to use witchcraft to secure power, or in campaigns to manipulate fear in their favour. One person had personally witnessed evidence of child sacrifice. She saw the body of two-year-old boy that was used in ritual. The police stopped a crowd of people from stoning the man who was later convicted.

There have been a small number of similar cases documented by police. In addition to these reports, the BBC included a child rights NGO consortium among their main sources. I worked for one of the member organizations for three years. It’s worth noting that sensational violence against children is more likely to tug at the heart and purse strings of potential donors. Past funding to the consortium has been used on advocacy campaigns such as bumper stickers urging people to ‘Stop child sacrifice.’ It’s difficult to imagine that someone who kills children for ‘medicinal’ purposes would read this and suddenly see the error of their ways. Instead, the message feeds the “growing concern” that (those who have seen the report say) the BBC has taken as evidence of growing practice.

“We have a saying in our language,” a woman offers by way of conclusion. As she says it, you are reminded how universal some things are: “There is no smoke without fire.” I pushed the issue, recalling an instance a few months ago when a severed hand in the middle of a road sent people into superstitious panic until a one-handed woman turned up in a hospital. She was driving with her arm out the window when a lorry carrying sharp cargo passed. Well, sometimes, they concede, there is smoke without fire. However, on the issue of child sacrifice, “there is fire. But it seems the BBC also reported the smoke.”

Sex is a mental thing

2010-02-25T22:43:00.004+02:00

by Holly
It was a hard day. For vicarious reasons. I have little claim to feel sad, angry and betrayed. I’m trespassing on someone elses pain and I have no right to take it home with me. But I do and I can’t help it. I always come home to a violence-free house and a partner that loves me madly. I never, ever worry what he might do to me tonight.

No one I talked to today* could say the same. I've decided I need several hours in the presence of really wonderful men to each hour of hearing about rape. Thankfully, there are amazing men in my daily life—Ben—and many excellent Ugandan colleagues and friends that help me balance out my over-exposure to the wake of other men’s depravity.

A couple of days ago I went to a meeting with some agencies working on Gender Based Violence. Suddenly, I was taken back to Lira, 2005. It’s funny how little “coordination” meetings change in 5 years. But that’s beside the point. (the point, is still to be determined—perhaps it’s just the catharisis that comes after sharing things too heavy to carry alone) Sitting there, I kept thinking of how many women have no idea these NGOs exist or what services they could provide them. I’ve been asking women who they would go to for help if something happened to them. They typically say something like, “Well, I hear that there is a group in town called ‘Human Rights’ but I don’t really know what they do.” Several different NGOs have hotlines—one for counselling, another for legal advice, etc. I suggested they make a joint card with all of the available hotlines—written in Acholi and distribute it as widely as possible. I’d like to have such a card to leave with some of the women I talk to.

It might do a little good. I recalled one of the women. She’s not going to report her husband to the police or seek legal advice. She just wants him to stop. She wants to talk to someone without them making her feel more ashamed than she already does. “If I tell anyone,” she lamented,” they’ll just ask me why I got married if I don’t want to have sex. They’ll say it’s my duty to satisfy him.” She wants someone to tell her it’s not her fault. She wants someone who can commiserate. “My sister,” she touched my arm and shook her head, “when he comes home so drunk and violent and with the smell of alcohol, how am I supposed to begin?”

A card with phone numbers isn’t going to help her. She can’t read. She doesn’t have a phone.

And then I remembered (the gist of) a provocative question my supervisor asked me. (I think/hope he was going for a reaction and not reflecting his opinion.) If marital rape is a normalized experience, does it do more damage than good to problematize it? Maybe, if women don’t perceive being violently forced to have sex as wrong they are less traumatized by it’s occurrence, accepting it as a normal part of interaction with husands.

Preposterous. (this is my obligatory more refined substitute for what I really think: b*** sh**. My mom always said that using vulgar language was a sign of a poor vocabulary—but honestly, once in awhile profanity is simply most apt.)

Every woman I’ve talked to that shared her experience of being raped by her partner experienced it as something wrong. They KNOW it’s not right. To suggest otherwise is demeaning. “What I know,” one of them told me after sharing the violent forced conception of her first child, “is that making love is supposed to be an agreement between a man and a woman.” Living in a village in Africa, makes this no less true than anywhere else. Another woman told me how she has never talked to anyone about it except for her husband. “I tell him, ‘What you’re doing is bad! This is the wrong way to treat your wife! Strangers do this to strangers but you should be ashamed to do it in your own house!”

Say what you want about cultural relativity. Acholi women like foreplay just as much as the next woman. Whether you sleep on a papyrus mat on a dirt floor or a pillow-top king-size mattress, women want the person lying next to them to respect their yes and their no. Perhaps to persuade them—but never to force them. Most of them are angry that they live in an environment where people around them identify ways they are to blame and make excuses for the man’s behavior. One of my personal fravorites: “well, maybe he is just trying to save them both from HIV” –implying that the only alternative to benevolently forcing one’s wife to have sex is to have sex with someone else.

A couple of months ago I had a chat with the Resident District Commissioner for Gulu. A male colleague came along and made a comment I might’ve been tempted to slap him for if I weren’t a pacifist (to be fair, I’ve seen how well he treats his wife and he’s a good guy)—something about how marital rape was a difficult issue because men have “greater sexual appetitites than women.” I bit my tongue. And sat on my hands.

Ochora, (the RDC) leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully before he delivered his verdict. His gigantic belly protruding onto his desk when he leaned forward. “Sex,” he pronounced, “is a mental thing. It is mentally driven. If the wife says she is not in the mood then men should be able to understand.”

(*For confidentiality purposes, I did not post this on the day I wrote it.)

"There is no medicine for rape" & "All women are monogamous"

2010-02-23T13:16:00.005+02:00

by Holly

I’m a bit of a geek with data--so I really can't wait to play with all the wonderful information I'm collecting right now. Statistics is the only kind of maths I've ever come close to doing well (I almost failed secondary level geometry, did fail algebra the first time, and barely passed amidst a lot of hard work and tears the second time). Loving this stuff as I do, I happily spent days on a papyrus mat under the mango tree in the Local Councilor's compound extracting the names of all the women from 9 books of census data that he collected last year to get the random sample of women I’m interviewing right now. It should have been mind-numbingly boring—but I get kind of a kick out of it. And I couldn’t beat the venue. The kids around would show off their reading skills over my shoulder exlaiming every name they recognized: “that’s my aunty” or, “we always see her at the borehole.” More than once I shooed chickens off of the books and away from my computer.

I came to this village first in 2006 and since then I’ve gotten to know many of the families so I was able to compare the census data with what I know. It’s fascinating to see how social realities translate into ticks and numbers in boxes. By necesity, categories obscure truths. Unlike FB, here is no “it’s complicated” option for relationships. Women I know are separated/divorced from their husbands listed themselves as married. After entering several booksworth of data I noticed that the code for a spouse of a polygamous relationship was only used for men. I asked the LC about it. I wish you could have seen his face. He looked at me incredulously and laughed: “Can a woman have more than one man!?” (this was clearly a rhetorical question) “ALL women are monogamous!” Later I repeated this to a few Ugandan girlfriends--they laughed so hard I started wondering if maybe they were crying.

I also noticed that the Ajwaka (often translated as “witchdoctos” or “traditional healers”) in the area , listed their main source of income as “support from children.” Right.

I interviewed one of them a few days ago—not because she is an Ajwaka. She happened to be in my sample, but I threw in a few extra questions at the end of the interview about her work. When I told her I was interested in learning more about the work of Ajwaka, her eyes got big and she said, "Well, I'm veee--eery good at it!" She proudly explained how her father had chosen her to inherit his power instead of any of the boys in her family and listed the many spiritual ailments she is well known for curing: broken legs, cross-eyes, when people give you unfair portions of food, if your house regularly catches fire, if your eyes close abruptly and won’t open again, blindness, unfaithfulness--especially in men, asthma, all mental illness and many other sicknesses. (I couldn't help but recall that her husband is blind and she had earlier complained that her daughter-in-law never gives her enough food...but I decided this wasn't the right time to bring it up)

I was curious if any women who have experienced sexual violence had ever come to her for help—so I asked. She laughed at me (I get that a lot).

“There is no medicine for rape! I tell them to go and report to the government so that the man is arrested and they will be safe!”

Indeed.

How I do wish there was a medicine for rape.

On hypocrisy...

2010-02-23T10:15:00.001+02:00

Why is it hypocritical to be a human rights activist that doesn’t support gay rights?

www.ugandans4rights.org

Seems pretty straightforward—(why is it so darn hard for us to get a handle on what it means to be “human”?), but this was the topic of a lecture, one of many efforts to address issues and attitudes expressed in the Anti-homosexuality bill. You can visit the link here to follow the campaign against the bill and see how you can support the campaign. There is info on legal implications, video of lectures and speeches given (including debate and those who support the bill like a Ugandan MP who wants to be the “hangman” of LGBTI), a one stop shop for any press coverage, etc.

Oh my hypocrisy

2010-02-06T23:02:00.004+02:00

by Holly

If you came here within the last 24 hours, you might realize there is a blog missing, “Rescue a Child Soldier: All we need is your money.” I deleted it—indeed I shouldn’t have written it. I often fail to meet my own standards. This time was particularly obvious. Didn’t I just blog a few weeks ago concluding that criticism should be humble, loving and ultimately with the good of the object of critique in mind? My blog responding to this was none of those things. So rather than publicize my unconstructive fury—I decided to be a little circumspect—think it over, and instead of a blog, set a meeting. write a letter.

American opposition to the Anti-Gay Bill has potential to curb corruption and encourage fiscal responsibility

2010-01-25T19:57:00.008+02:00

by Holly

I've been wanting to post something for quite awhile on Uganda's Anti-Homosexuality Bill that includes the death penalty for "aggravated homosexuality" that is being considered in Parliament. There is just so much to say, it's hard to know where to start. So I've included most of a slightly altered comment I made on another blog for your benefit/to get myself started: (you can find the blog post and my original comment here)

This bill is a crying shame. It’s a crying shame that Musevini and others would only consider opposing it because of money—not because it’s obvious that if enacted it would be an unjust law. I’ve been totally appalled by how the religious leaders in particular have supported it and the extreme threat that they seem to think homosexuality poses to health and family life (not to mention that in a lot of the rhetoric the words homosexuality and pedophilia are used interchangeabley..um, what?). If the Ugandan Christian clergy really wants to fight for an issue of sexual morality that is threatening their communities, spreading HIV and breaking up families it should be to promote faithfulness in marriage through their lives and pastoral work rather than throwing their weight behind this insidious and hateful legislation against homosexuality.

I'm deeply concerned about the legal impact, but perhaps even more so about the social implications. Citizens taking justice into their own hands is not only common but encouraged by police and many will inevitably interpret this bill as the state condoning violence against homosexuals (even without it we’ve heard cases of sexual violence against homosexuals to "turn them straight").

I don’t even know how to begin engaging this issue with friends and colleagues here (although I regularly try--and would love some new ideas if anyone's got them)—and have a hard time getting my mind around how people who are otherwise compassionate human beings can think that it’s okay to imprison if not kill homosexuals. (It's already illegal to be gay in Uganda, and you can get up to 7 years in prison for it--really, do we need a harsher law?) I know maybe I shouldn’t be surprised by this stuff anymore, but even Ugandan friends who are involved in human rights advocacy and that I’d consider relatively progressive will dismiss the issue as “cultural” and are at best ambivalent if not supportive of the bill. It seems that in Uganda, like the Minister of Ethics and Integrity (the irony of his title kind of makes my stomach churn) said, “gays can forget about human rights.” Seriously, I lose sleep having imaginary arguments with people about this. It’s a crying crying shame.

I should note, that since i wrote about my dismay of the Christian clergy's support of the bill, I was encouraged that at least the Catholic Archbishop has described the bill as "Un-Christian." It seems like somewhat of an understatement, but it's something.

Get off our backs, donors told was published in the Monitor the same day I had an intriguing discussion with a friend. Here is the most amazing quote in the article from Steven Mukitale, the chair of Parliament's Committee on National Economy:
"We can cover the aid money they (the US) want to stop through disciplined spending and curbing corruption."
Wow. It's not every day you hear a government official boast that all the money the US gives is lining officials pockets and undermining accountable and responsible government spending. I wonder what USAID in Kampala thinks about this...

I was discussing this article with a Ugandan friend with a refreshingly different if somewhat conspiracy-theory-esque take on it all. He's one of the first Ugandan guys I've talked to that opposes the bill, although, he really doesn't take it all that seriously. Instead, he thinks it is political posturing. He had three arguments, two that I found somewhat compelling. First, the bill has hugely distracted from the massive swindling of CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting) funds. The evidence of corruption was climbing up the President's cabinet. After it reached the VP hints of the big man's implication were made and then this bill was introduced and little attention has been given to it since. Second, Musevini is quite aware that he has in recent years fallen from favor in the eyes of many western leaders. As my friend says, "he's not the blue-eyed boy they once thought him to be." His plan, my friend believes, is to rush in at the last hour to kill the bill and save the homosexuals, scoring points with the west. I pointed out that this seemed an odd time to be so concerned in appeasing the international community when the constituency that has to re-elect him is warming up for the poles and seems to support the bill. "He's not worried about that. He knows he'll go through--so he only cares about restoring his image in the international community." The third, I didn't really follow the logic--somehow human rights NGOs were part of a conspiracy to attract funding for promoting human rights of homosexuals but all the money that would pour in would somehow be diverted for political campaigns. I'm not sure about all that, but I do find the idea that there's no reason to fear this bill will ever be enacted rather comforting. Sadly, I think there is still good reason to be concerned. Parliament has planned public dialogues and gathering views from the 'grassroots' that risk giving an air of legitimacy to what can only be an unjust law if enacted.

If you're interested, the Civil Society Coalition on Human Rights and Constitutional Law, that formed in response to this Bill, has compiled articles, opinions, press statements and other information on the Bill that is available to download.

Who says truth is stranger than witty satire?

2010-01-15T12:46:00.002+02:00

Oh yes, that was me (Holly)—inspired by the headlines “Christmas Bull Kills Butcher” and “Buried Girl Survives Death” which appeared in the Monitor recently.

But the Onion has given the Monitor’s “Truth Every Day” a run for their money with this one.

Congo Approves Economic Stimulus Package Of AK-47 For Every Citizen

Do no harm--but how much do we need to know before we act?

2010-01-12T11:40:00.005+02:00

by Holly

This blog is prompted out of a cumulative effect of reading better educated, better informed, more clever people bash the (often misguided) efforts of well intentioned but less educated, less informed, less clever people to change their world for good.

We all know where the road of good intentions leads...(historical examples abound--Biafra, BandAid, I could go on, but you get the idea)

But really, should only clever very well informed people ever take action? I mean, how much do we need to know before it's a good idea for us to do anything? Nobody with good intentions (those who are being critisized) wants to act in ways that ultimately screw things up (undermine self-reliance, create dependence, bolster power of political miscreants, corrode political accountability and good governance, feed racism and negative stereotypes, encourage false perceptions about realities on the ground to extort money and support--I could continue, but you get the idea).

Many of the critiques I find not only valid, but self-satisfying. I find myself marveling at how ignorant some interventions are--like many western run 'orphanages'--or how insensitive the use of particular language is--e.g. when I read someone's website recently talking about how they provide a "voice for the voiceless" "Who told you?" I asked the author in my mind, "that they are voiceless? They have voices and things to say if you were listening but even your tag-line smacks of a power dynamic you should resist and an unconsciousness to your own assumption of superiority." But then I read another couple of blogs that are proverbially critical of organizations like Invisible Children and Falling Whistles. I confess that I find myself equally put off by some of the self assured pomp and judgementalism (especially in the comments) as I am rather pleased with myself for arriving at many of the same critiques as the authors. Yes, I congratulate myself, (I guiltily admit this thought enters my mind), I'm more informed and more clever. Or am I? It's all so relative--and when I make mistakes and there are unintended consequeces to my interactions and writing about northern uganda someone more informed and cleverer than I will rightly point them out, critique my work and show how I could have avoided my pitfalls if only I had known more and been cleverer.

We're all in process and surely being paralyzed by a recognition of our limited understanding isn't the right way of living? We know that ignorance is no defence--but truly--we're all ignorant. I've always been of the mind that we have a responsibility to act on what we know and know as much as possible. But perhaps we equally have a responsibility to not act on what we don't know?

Whatever Comes Next

2010-01-09T17:00:00.001+02:00

by Holly

I was reflecting on why I have been so remiss about writing my thoughts and sharing them here.

I must admit, a small part of my aversion to our blog in the last months is that it made me sad whenever I opened it and saw Godfrey's smiling face and yet he is missing from this wonderful world that we've come back to and the friends we've been reconnecting with since we got back to Uganda at the end of September. On some level, I still expect to see him. It feels like he could just show up, or walk around a corner, or call. When I put my old Ugandan sim card back in the phone, it was painful to delete his number, especially when I clicked on "options" with a menu that suggested I might also "call" him or "send a message." Another good friend recently fell quite sick. At least this time I could take her to the hospital, check on the care she was getting and be present with her while we hoped for recovery (she's doing much better now). I can't deny, I was afraid of losing another friend. The average life expectancy in Uganda is 51 (UNICEF 2008). Of course, none of these things can be taken for granted, but it struck me that based on our nations statistics and health care I am likely to continue living while many of my friends go through the end of life. In a kind of typical life progression and western psychological expectation of the kinds of things that different age categories deal with, this seems like something that would have come later in life--my parent's generation is only just beginning to have life expectancy ages in their peer group. But lately, it seems like our peers are inviting us either to weddings, kids baptisms or burials--and these are all ceremonies happening in the same phase of life--ours. It makes me think about death more, being nearer it than I (at least felt) in the US or UK. (this preoccupation might also be encouraged by the absolutely terrifying driving conditions we sometimes encounter on Ugandan roads)

Yesterday we had a wonderful day of celebrating Ben's birthday. In the evening we sat with good friends under a canopy of stars around a fire pit near a palm tree in our garden after a delicious meal. I was quietly thinking of conversations with Ugandan friends recently that have reflected their surprise and delight at having reached another birthday and another new year. Maybe that's why my increasing cognizance of the unavoidable reality of death doesn't seem at all depressing but is producing a really lovely kind of gratitude for life. Somehow our conversation turned to some eschatological issues, life after death, what happens, what we imagine, and some theological questions that I've been rather intentionally lazy about trying to answer for myself. It's mostly because I don't think I'll be able to figure it out (if I thought I had figured it out, I would assume I was probably wrong) and because I just trust that's it's all going to be good--even better than anything I might try to imagine. For human beings to attempt to grasp it seems like a fetus trying to understand the world outside a mother's womb. After a short silence with only the sound of our crackling fire and the wind in the trees, one of our friends said, "It's nights like tonight that make you wish you could forget that there's suffering in the world." "hmm," I realized outloud, "I appreciate nights like tonight because there is suffering in the world." Someone asked why and the same friend that posed the question said, "because of the contrast." Yes. That's what makes it sweet and that's what makes whatever comes next sweet. Death has lost it's sting because of the contrast.

24 Years Coming

2009-12-27T16:47:00.006+02:00

by Holly (I know, it seems so long, you thought the title of this blog referred to our blogging absence--but no, it's about this christmas)

Christmas in Mzee Oling's home, with six daughters, one son, an aunty, two cousins, and some of the most adorable grandkids imaginable. This is where I spend most days learning Acholi and doing "participant observation" for my research. Today is different. It's christmas. The 4 huts that make up this home are teeming with smiling friends, chickens oblivous to their destiny, and kids laughing chasing Ogiko (our dog) who we brought with us. The neighbors father works in the local radio station so he's brought home a huge sound system that is competing with Mzee's small hand held radio to play alternating traditional Acholi and western christmas songs. I found the ladies all in the kitchen, sweating seriously over charcoal stoves and laughing. They got up at 5 am to start cooking and they are still laughing. We laugh for happiness, not an identifiable joke or funny incident. "We laugh to show the whiteness of our teeth," goes one of my favorite Acholi proverbs. Lamaro, my favorite little girl is still getting used to Ben. His white skin and blue eyes are rather terrifying. She's running from the kitchen hut to the bedroom hut to avoid being seen by him (or eaten by him?) She also behaved like this with me for the first few weeks. Now, I've been told she told her father (who comes to visit occasionally) that she has two mommy's, one black and one white. I'm thrilled the affection is mutual--even if she did have to overcome the obstacle of my strange skin.
Ben and Mzee are sitting under the tree discussing Mzee's christmas memories. He recounted christmas parties from when he was in his 20s and worked with Uganda Wildlife Authority and with a big luxury hotel company. His favorite christmas was the first christmas that they spent with the whole family here. They moved here in 1995, the war had begun but it had not yet directly touched the family. They came for access to better schools for his girls--and all the kids were home that christmas of '95. That was the year before he lost his leg in a tank mine explosion while he was collecting wood for charcoal. It was a year before a massacre in their home village, Attiak where they lost many relatives. Even his eldest daughter, escaped narrowly. She had been visiting an aunty in Attiak when the rebels began the massacre. She fell into a pit latrine where she hid until the bloodshed stopped and the rebels left all for dead. "This war spoiled everything," he says, "this is the first year since 1995 when we've felt safe and free to celebrate. It has been 24 years we've waited for this celebration." I can't help but pause prayerfully to remember the Congolese who feel anything but safe. The LRA has reportedly written several letters threatening a repeat of last years "Christmas Massacres." Several rebels who have escaped admitted they had joked about "celebrating christmas" like last year. Fortunately, no reported violence means they decided to celebrate some other way--but no doubt, our friends across the border will have to wait longer to experience the safety and freedom from violence that Uganda is now enjoying.

They really are enjoying it. The girls are dressing up, and combing out their hair. I came with nail polish a few days ago and painted over 20 pairs of hands or toes I'm sure.
The food is an amazing spread and they generously share with us as well as the random uninvited guests that are always welcome: a drunk neighbor who is a widow, a young woman who is only halfway in control of her mind that is happily singing and eating their food, and anyone else who seems to have an empty belly. We brought simple gifts: candy for the kids, a couple of t-shirts for the young men and some jewelry for the ladies, a book written by an Acholi preist on being a traditional Acholi and a Christian for Mzee. As they open each gift, Josephine ululates over the laughter of the rest of us who are clapping and happily watching what the next person is given. I felt some of the gifts weren't nice enough, for this incredible family that has helped me so much. I was worried about the reception--but I could not have imagined anything better! They all claimed that each gift was perfect for the receiver, and none envied other gifts. Personally, I am very grateful for the odii (ground sesame and peanut paste) that they lovingly gave us.

What is it that enables such easy laughter? such wholehearted gratitude? It might be a lack of expectation. If so, I(cynically/sadly?)thought to myself while sitting there, this is the first and the last christmas we will experience like this. Next year there will be an expectation. I have chatted with a few friends and family members from home and contrasted the blessed simplicity of christmas in Uganda with the materialistic madness and pressure to buy right, dress right, cook right, etc. of christmas at home. Every year must at least maintain, if not add on to the precedent of previous years. And yet, here, for the first time in decades people are enjoying the relative calm and prosperity so that they are finally able to celebrate materially--with small things like christmas dresses or even little artifical christmas trees--and it is a beautiful thing to see! Is that terrible? The materialism we turn our noses up to at home we welcome here as a sign of the absence of war.

Isn't there a way to maintain expectant wonder for this great celebration and accept every moment of it in whole hearted gratitude without holding it up for comparison to our unconscious (or conscious) standard of "shoulds"?

My friends in Wii Aworanga did it this year. Maybe it's the lack of expectation. Maybe it's the eruption of joy that has been waiting 24 years for peace to allow it's full expression. Whatever it is, I pray it is sustained--and that perhaps, it is contagious.

(Happy 100th blog to us! This is our 100th post. We intend to try to write more regularly in the coming year--yes, it's a proper new year's resolution. Regarding the new blog look and background--the quote on the top of the page must be accredited to Annie Dillard. And I have a confession. The woman in the banner photo is not from northern Uganda. She's actually Sudanese, and I took this photo while doing a consultancy in Yei (the blog I wrote about that time was "What Grows in This Soil". Her face is just so amazing--and I loved it here. I know, I really should replace it with one of the amazing Ugandan faces that I interact with and that grace my iPhoto library, and someday I will--but for now, I share her beautiful face with you and disclose her nationality.)

Dance routine

2009-12-26T15:19:00.003+02:00

Holly has been working with these cute girls on a dance routine

Christmas Ugandan Style

2009-12-26T14:18:00.010+02:00

MERRY CHRISTMAS FRIENDS!
by Ben
Sorry it has been so long since we have posted, but we would like to do better in the coming year. Finally feeling settled, I have the mental space to reflect on this journey and share budding ideas, joys and sorrows with anyone who is interested. To start off lightly, this post is dedicated to our Christmas day.
Here are a few heart-warming text messages that we got from friends on Christmas. A prize goes to the first person to fully understand them
-When u trace down da maiden origin of mankind, it leaves u with huge imagination only 2 be revitalized by da glorious news of Savior’s birth.
-We wud like you to be safe always, so please do not tamper with meter boxes, main switches or any part of the internal wiring in your house. Stay safe. Merry Christmas. (From the national power supplier)
-When my arms can’t reach da ones I love, I hug them with my prayer and surrender them 4 God’s care and loving arms! Wish you a Merry Christmas and hapi 2010
-If you could feel my heart’s wish u wud b as delightful as I am, u wud jump up n dance 4 me as I sing 4 u Christmas hymns! B blessed as 4 celebrate this day.
-I’m sure you did a great spiritual shopping. Please receive the peace, joy, and love as bonus on your spiritual shopping.
-I hav deposited in your account 365 days of luv, wisdom, care, and unity in the bank 2010. Pliz spend them wisely. Happy celebrations
-This season’s a great time “2 pray” “2 love” “2 care” “2 smile” “2 celebrate” and above all “2 thank God”
-Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas. May your Christmas stocking be filled with loads of peace, love and joy. Drink, eat and make merry.
-God knew that our problem wasn’t hunger or thirst but salvation. So He did not send us food or water, but a Savior who was born 4 us.
-Hearts receive love, minds receive wsdm, hands receive gifts en only special pple receive warm wishes. Merry Christmas en let God god in 2010
-May da birth of Christ be a blessing 2 U n UR loved ones! Merry Christmas and a juicy nu ya.

I, for one, do intend on having a very juicy new year.

Here are a few pictures of our Christmas: Home, then village:

Our home in Kirombe, Gulu

I made Holly hunt for her presents. One of them took her up our water tower.

Eggs Benedict mmmmm. And it only took about three hours to make the English Muffins (or for our English readers...muffins)

Christmas dinner and Quote of the day. "That is one impressive cock"

Steven, Mzee, me, Galdin, and Innocent

The girls

Ulilating for presents. "Agili" in Luo

Holly, Koncy and Beatrice

We have had a wonderful holiday season and miss you all dearly. Wishing you the juiciest New Years ever.

We Have Lost Godfrey

2009-06-12T14:07:00.003+02:00

(an excerpt from my journal the day Godfrey died.)

We have lost Godfrey. I don’t know what to say or write but somehow I hope that if the words come out they will replace the tears. We had heard that Godfrey was in the hospital and then the news came that he passed away on Friday morning at 2am. That was midnight for us--I was awake then, lying in bed and praying for his recovery, sure that he would be okay, that Dan and Rachel would not grow up without their father, that we would not lose our friend, that we would see his amazing smile and clap hands again with him in September. We were looking forward to coming back to Uganda to share sorrows and trials and laughs with him and hear the sound of his unique gravelly voice. Godfrey was a good friend to us. For three years we helped to carry each others burdens, made decisions together, cast vision together, mediated conflicts together. We realized more of our potential because we did everything together. I loved working with him. We were a good team. In all that time he rarely lost his cool in anger and even when he did the only indication was the way he would widen his eyes and flare his nostrils. He didn’t act hastily but thought things through and acted in ways he believed would be in the best interest of others. He was a trustworthy man who kept my confidence and shared his life with us. We loved how proud he was of Rachel and Dan, especially how Rachel danced so well and how Dan is a stubborn ‘pocket’ version of him. It is so painful to accept that he is not with us anymore.

I was in the bus when I go the call. I couldn’t hold back the tears. A woman near me handed me a tissue. This odd community of strangers on their commute to work sat with me while I cried. A woman behind me made a phone call—making plans for Sunday lunch with her mom and it struck me that these were everyday things. People go from home to work and back again. They make weekend plans. And they die.

None of us knows how long we will be here. We could lose anyone, anytime. But I didn’t expect to lose Godfrey so soon. I took for granted that we would have many more everyday moments together: birthday parties, Sunday afternoons with slip and slide, drowning work and life stresses in laughter. Uganda is not the same country without him. The world is poorer for the loss of him.

A few years ago we celebrated his 35th birthday together and one of our elders (Emmanuel) said that he was now welcomed into being a Mzee (elderly man). He only had 2 years of Mzee-hood. He had dreams of starting an NGO to help young people in Apac and of running for parliament. He would have been a great MP. He could have done so much more for his community and his country. He would have been a great friend to have all our lives. He would have been a great old Mzee. He was a good man, a good friend, and I miss him.

Remembering Godfrey

2009-06-07T17:00:00.004+02:00

Dear friends,
Last week we learned of the death of our good friend and colleague, Okello Godfrey. His sudden death was shocking and it has been hard to be so far away. We had a small memorial service for him at our church in London, and wanted to share a few of our thoughts and pictures in remembering Godfrey.

By Ben:
Godfrey was a thoughtful man. Each word he spoke had meaning and direction. Whether he was mediating a dispute between the youth group and a staff member, talking with beneficiaries in an IDP camp or presenting strategic plans to the board of trustees-every word was carefully placed.

Godfrey was a collected man. I never saw Godfrey lose his cool. He faced crisis the same way he faced ordinary life events: calm and collected. I remember driving with him to get his car fixed when he made a joke about having good “shock absorbers” for dealing with the stress that came across his desk, better than the shock absorbers on his car. At times, I wanted him to express his anger or frustration, but he knew that life was too short to be bothered by the small stuff. Godfrey preferred the sounds of boisterous laughing, meaningful dialogue and the hiss and clinking of bottles of Club.

Godfrey was the guy we trusted to keep an eye on our place when we were out of town and the person we could openly ask questions of a sensitive subject, knowing that we would get his most thoughtful response.

Godfrey was a forgiving man. Even when things at work were tense, he would happily invite us for drinks at the end of the day. He was able to compartmentalize his work from his fun and relaxation. I was really looking forward to hanging out with Godfrey without the influence of the organisation in our relationship. Godfrey would brag about Holly and I, telling his buddies that he had the best mzungus, and his friends would often tell him, “Hey, I saw your mzungus in town today…” He stuck his neck out for us, and invited us to integrate into the life and culture of young professionals (through weddings, funerals, birthday parties). We were proud to be his mzungus.

I think Godfrey knew how much I loved him. I think we were both surprised at how close we could become, given the cultural obstacles. He was open to knowing me, and I was open to knowing him. His life has enriched mine in so many ways. He has taught me lessons that I will carry for my lifetime.

Godfrey was one of the good ones. We will miss him dearly.

Bits and Bobs

2008-12-09T17:12:00.007+02:00

by Ben

Please forgive us for our lack of communication over the past couple of months. Not surprisingly, life in London is full of opportunities that send my easily-distracted mind (and person) on continuous and exciting tangents.

Maybe we’re still in the honeymoon phase of re-entry, but our transition into London life has been very pleasant, not least because Holly’s parents and sister are nearby and we have a great place to live and fun flat-mate.

My professor of the refugee studies class I’m taking coined the phrase “nostalgic disorientation” to describe a common experience of refugees in asylum countries. It is the phenomenon of a mixture of emotions like frustration, sadness, angst, confusion,……disorientation, but not really knowing why. He talks about the “mosaic” or “tapestry” that is home, including the tangible and intangible elements that are continually processed intuitively. On a much different level than a refugee, I can relate to this confusing nostalgia. A few days ago, I suddenly became aware of the absence of African music playing behind our house and the murmur of men gathered around the drinking pot. Where is the ubiquitous scent of sunflower oil, the warmth of the red earth, the sound of children laughing and crying, the breeze coming through open windows, or the occasional roar of youth watching a football match down the road? Sometimes, I imagine the buzzing of mosquitoes at my ear and try to make sure the net is in place when I fully wake up and realize where I am.

Thanksgiving really highlighted the difference in our new environment. We always celebrated Thanksgiving in Uganda, but I had to kill the turkey, Holly had to roll the pie crusts on the floor, and 50 people came to eat in the front lawn. It was so nice to be with family this year. We shared our thankfulness with one another, cuddled around the fireplace to talk philosophy and theology, and ate delicious food for hours on end.

Jay and Teri wanted to minimize my culture shock so they let me pretend that I was going to kill the turkey (that came in plastic wrap with the inner organs tied neatly inside)

Here is Holly and I hanging the mistletoe. Guess what we did when I put her down :)

Teri thought I would look nice with a raw liver mustache

Last weekend we attended the European gathering, a place for leaders in high profile places and up-and-coming leaders to network and talk about how their faith impacts and influences their work.

The venue for the gathering

Out of Africa

2008-10-14T12:53:00.004+02:00

As you can imagine, this photos was not taken in Lira, Uganda. (behind Dad's new boat in Colorado)

The last three years of my life cannot be described in absolutes, nor can the people of Uganda be described in a blog posting. I can say absolutely, however, that I found another piece of myself in Uganda. By engaging in a culture radically different from my own, I have shaken off big pieces of what both cultures have led me to believe as true or right and now live knowing fewer truths, but holding them stronger. It is difficult to hold these worldviews simultaneously. Someone told me in church yesterday, that "our true selves only emerge after being put through trying experiences", using the analogy of a teabag being placed in hot water (a proper English analogy).

I like analogies, more so, I like twisting or stretching their meaning past the original intention. If I am a "teabag" and have been placed in hot water through my experience in Uganda, and am now being placed in another cup of hot water in London, I ask myself, "Is my flavor going to run out or get weak?" Before landing in London, I was accepted into a PhD programme for the therapeutic care of refugees at Essex University. I also decided that I was going to find a job and work full time. In other words, I wanted to put the same used teabag into another cup of boiling hot water. After some prayer and reflection, I decided that I needed something else this year. As a counsellor, I have given advise about self care to many burnt out, disillusioned, cynical, and angry workers who have depleted their energy, ambition, hope and meaning. I made the tough decision to seek spiritual and psychological restoration over my drive to excel academically and professionally. I will not be joining the PhD course this year.

What this will look like is still unfolding, but I already have a good start. I am looking for part time work and voluntary opportunities with agencies who work therapeutically with refugees (and have a few leads). I am creating enough space to respond spontaneously to artistic and intellectual events. I have already attended public lectures by : Lord Nick Stern (leading climate change activist), Luis Moreno-Ocampo (Chief Prosecutor at the International Criminal Court) and tonight Thomas Friedman (of the NY Times). I am also looking for ways to rejuvenate spiritually, both in community and individually. I will still be attending the most interesting class of the PhD programme called "Working with Refugee Families". I also realized that overloading myself with work and school would distract from my desire to be more available and loving to Holly, so one of my goals is to be a better support to her this year. And, I have joined the LSE orchestra! We had rehearsal last night and I am overjoyed to be playing cello again. Lastly, I wanted some time to think about and potentially start fundraising for a very exciting idea that has been surfacing regarding an initiative with war-affected youth in Uganda next year (Ask me more!).

So, family and friends, go get another teabag. Life is too short to spend it spent.

Kitenge in London

2008-10-05T13:09:00.002+02:00

The move to London has been a contemplative transition. It’s prompted me to ask profound questions about the universe and the nature of life, such as: Do all the women in London live with feet that hurt? Or do they adjust to walking long distances at frantic paces in such high heels? Are all the people in London cold? They must not be. They must adjust, because when they are in short sleeved shirts on a pleasantly sunny autumn day I’m still fidgeting with my scarf and sweater (I think I’ll keep calling a sweater a sweater. I am comfortable with changing my vernacular from trash to rubbish, cilantro to corriander and a toilet to a lieu, and pants to trousers, but calling a sweater a jumper conjures images of myself in the eighties and dress-like things with huge arm holes I wore over turtle necks --I’m happy to leave that memory in the past) and occasionally shivering.

Tina met me at the airport with a housewarming orchid, a big hug and smile and all the makings for supper in her weekend bag. The next three days she gave me a crash course in shopping and public transportation in London. Yesterday when I picked Ben up from the airport I appreciated my progress in London geography as I tried to pass it on. I was even asked for directions inside the tube by an elderly Italian man and I was actually able to direct him. I missed my train in the process, but another one came a minute later and it was unquestionable worth the little delay to help him. He grabbed both of my hands and shook them and said, “bless you!” It is not easy being a foreigner in a strange place.

At least I’ve got the geography of my new kitchen down now. Our house-mate is out of town so we’re exploring on our own (though he left us such a thoughtful welcome in our room we felt warmly received). I know where the herbs, pots and pans and the plates are located. I even know where to go to re-stock the kitchen. There are small supermarkets and vendors with butchers and fruits and veggies in walking distance. Our neighbourhood (According to a friendly Indian shop owner who made me tea and chatted with me while fixing a broken pair of earrings he refused let me pay for) has about one third actual British people and the rest are mostly from Nigeria, Somalia, Ghana, India and Pakistan. I felt so at home yesterday in the supermarket when a woman used a piece of kitenge fabric and re-tied her baby on her back exactly the way Ugandan moms do. People in the neighbourhood have, so far, been friendly, they even say hello when you pass them on the street sometimes. Tina says that’s so not like London. When I told Ben about the old man in the subway he said the same thing. But it is characteristic of my experience of London in the first few weeks.

I spent the weekend in the country. That is what it feels like after this city just a short train ride away to mom and dad’s house. We went to the market in Hitchin and stopped by their local pub for strawberry beer. We caught up on life and they drove me in to London with some of our things we’d left at their house. It will be really good to live near them this year.

I registered at the London School of Economic & Political Science last week, so I have now officially re-entered the academic world. I expect studies to get more intense in the next weeks, but until then it’s a nice time to get settled in a new place. We will still blog, not just about our lives and musings in London. We will continue to focus on northern Uganda in both of our studies and connecting our thoughts and work towards building peace there.

Happy Days

2008-08-12T09:43:00.010+02:00

My sweet little sister, Mrs. Tina Randall James is now married to this dear Mr. Mark Randall James. The wedding was beautiful, the time was beautiful, and Tina was, of course, beyond beautiful.

It was great to have family together. Here three generations of women with "hidden" names. At the rehearsal dinner, the groom shared about names, and especially the ways in which the hidden maiden names and what they mean have contributed to the character of our families.
It was a happy day. I was just so happy. I loved seeing the happiness of my parents and especially, the happiness of my sister and my new brother-in-law.

Listening to my sister, a person who is, more than anyone else, kindred to me, say her wedding vows, made me think about my own. It was less a reminiscence of my own wedding day, six years ago this Saturday, but a remembering and affirmation of what I have promised before God and a community of supporting friends and family. So powerful and right the vows are and yet somewhat ambiguous. There is a bit where we promise to be a comfort to each other. Comfort is a continuum. There are times in marriage when we are guilty of inflicting pain rather than offering comfort. But happy days, like July 31st for Tina and Mark, and August 16th for me and Ben remind us, inspire us, to live out our promises to the fullest.

15 Minutes or Never

2008-07-14T10:05:00.015+02:00

Mom and dad visited a couple of weeks ago. We took them to Kampala and booked rooms, but there was some mix-up and their room was not self-contained room. Wanting to make my parents feel comfortable in my Ugandan home, I tried to convince the lady who ran the place to give them a room with an en-suite bathroom. There was an empty room but it needed some cleanup, so I asked when it could be ready. Her reply: "15 minutes"...long pause, "or...never."

With all the momentum behind the Juba Peace Process--the plan to negotiate the last item on the agenda and have all parties sign within a few short days in April--it seemed like it was all going to happen, in perhaps the same time frame as my parents' room. 15 minutes...or never.

The first time we really expected/hoped/doubted that Kony would sign the final peace agreement (April 10th) I was on Ssese Island for the CPA staff induction. I sat with Immaculate, Sylvia and Tonny on the edge of the water and we watched the sun set while we listened to the day's news on radio. In this case, no news was bad news. If the peace agreement had been signed, something would have been reported. But it got darker and still the announcer said nothing about what we hoped to hear.

While peace delays, our days have been full. We finally had some time in an Acholi village--something we've planned to do for a long time. We spent a week in grass thatch hut. We were hosted by a Parent Support Group that we've interacted with a lot over the past years. Ben spent time in the garden with the men, constructed a chicken house and swept the compound.

As much as possible, I wanted to do what a traditional Acholi woman would do. I woke up each morning and swept and mopped the hut and then carried water from the well (on my head) and prepared the water for Ben to bathe. I had to take a break from feminist practice in order to really experience tradition. I practiced Acholi and listened to countless stories of village gossip, usually involving someone allegedly stepping on charms, speculation about who was charming who, etc. I wanted to learn Acholi cooking, so every day I went to a different household to make lunch and dinner. That meant twice a day of collecting food from the garden, pounding sesame or ground nuts, then grinding, cooking, serving, kneeling for washing hands before eating. All the pounding, grinding and cooking takes place in kitchens that have charcoal fires and virtually no ventilation. After the first day, my back ached, my eyes burned and my hands were covered in blisters. Because of the novelty of it, and because my effort was so appreciated--it somehow retained an element of fun. Were I born in that village, and the work was all I knew and it was as thankless as it is for most of the women, it would not have been fun. It is tough being an Acholi woman. And they are tough.

After supper, the drums come out and there is dancing for those with any sweat left in their bodies.

One evening after we danced we sat around a fire and told stories. It felt like any typical campfire, and they told stories with an easiness in their voices. The ensuing laughter would have given the impression to anyone that subject matter was light. But they were all stories of war, encounters with rebels, nights spent lying in maize fields shivering in terror in hope of escaping being burnt in their huts. They could laugh, because they felt safe. They felt like what the recalled was behind them. The unspoken claim was, "It's over." One of the women my age turned to me and said, "I've never known anything like peace in my life." I held her hand, and hoped that it really was over, and that she would know peace now. It is all so fragile, maybe deceptive--this fake or fragile peace we're enjoying in northern Uganda.

It was wonderful to spend time with my parents when they visited. We shared a taste of life in Lira, work in Gulu, Philip's traditional marriage in Kampala and a game drive and relaxing at the lodge in Murchison. My favorite animal is the giraffe.

We thought we'd miss the big cats. The grass was so tall, my dad said, "they could be 15 feet away and we wouldn't even know it." At that moment we saw this one, a baby, even less than 15 feet away. It's mother woke up and another cub emerged and the threesome ran off.

Mom and jelly bonded.

We finished our time with them dropping them off for a conference they had in Jinja. An hour before they had to arrive dad suggested bungee jumping. I've never had any desire to do it (I don't like the sensation of my heart being in my throat), so mom and I watched Ben and dad leap off a huge tower at Bujagali falls down to the Nile below them. I think we were more scared than they were.

I can hardly believe how soon we will be leaving for London. In periods of transition time takes on a curious character. The days somehow seem longer, but the months fly. I find myself in the middle of a tension, straining toward what's ahead and dissolving into nostalgia/regret on what's past. I find equilibrium in the middle of that tension. I manage to be fully present. In those moments every conversation has it's own life and meaning and each encounter is accepted and appreciated for what it is. It's often humbling. Sometimes, my expectations far exceed the reality and I wish for more. Usually, I feel grateful.

Last Month By Picture --by Ben

2008-05-04T11:07:00.010+02:00

We are sorry that is has been so long since we last posted. The past few weeks have flown by. Here are a couple of recent highlights.

STAFF INDUCTION

Here is a picture of me given a presentation on personality in the workplace using the Enneagram exercise

Holly and Immaculate. We reviewed procedures and policy during the day and enjoyed our evenings growing closer personally and as an organization.

Holly flying her kite on the beach of Sesse Island where we conducted the staff induction.

After session beach ball

CPA CHAIRPERSON

Angelina, CPA's Chairperson left for a six week-long advocacy trip with MCC in Canada and the US.

FINANCIAL COMPLIANCE MEETING

Christian Aid, one of our partners, brought us together for a week long capacity building workshop to improve our financial compliance to EU funding.

PSYCHOSOCIAL TRAINING

Here is one of seven groups of trainers for the second phase of the psychosocial training.

GODFREY AND TONNY'S BIRTHDAY

We had fun embarrassing Tonny and Godfrey

It turns out that we played the same games at childhood birthday parties as our Ugandan colleagues, so we thought it would be fun to reminisce.

MONITORING VISIT TO PARENT SUPPORT GROUP

We were making an assessment of a Savings and Loan Group. It's hard to visit without a dance show. So here we are watching.

Fun with a camera

STEP TOWARDS RECONCILIATION PROJECT

Holly has been busy helping the Peacebuilding Programme Officers train community mediators and develop a new curriculum for youth to reintegrate ex-combatants.

LABOR DAY PICNIC

Holly and Sylvia at Karuma Falls on the Nile

Philip was very proud of his fish

STRESS MANAGEMENT AT HOME

Here is my new demonstration plot for tomatoe plants

Jelly is always so dirty

Here is Ogiko getting headbutted by Jelly

The Night Peace Came

2008-03-29T13:33:00.003+02:00

by Holly
A couple of weeks ago Ben and I got a text message from someone in Kampala who’d seen a news report celebrating the end to war in northern Uganda and guessing that there was some serious jubilation where we were. There was indeed jubilation, but it was because of the annual Lira NGO volleyball tournament, a beautiful starry evening, good music and good company. We started asking friends if they’d heard the news—most hadn’t and the few that had shrugged indifferently. They commented about how divorced the peace talks were to life of grassroots people, or about what a farce the entire process had become since the link between the LRA negotiators and the LRA fighters seems increasingly dubious. Could it be, I asked with a mix of incredulity and hope, that we will remember tonight as the night peace came?

No. Partly, because what was signed that night was an agenda item of the ongoing peace talks and not the comprehensive peace agreement, and partly, because peace doesn’t come all at once. It’s an agonizingly slow process that is benchmarked with agreements but must extend beyond signed pieces of paper. We might remember it as an event, a day, a night, but it will be a long journey.

The formal peace process in Juba is moving forward right now with ambitious momentum. The final peace agreement was scheduled to be signed this Friday (March 29), but this morning’s papers (New Vision & Monitor) say it’s been postponed until next week, April 3rd. Before the signing, the negotiating teams from government and LRA together with a delegation of about 100 civil society leaders including Angelina, CPA’s Chair, should agree on an implementation schedule and framework. They intend to travel to present it to the LRA leadership in Ri-Kwangba, and return with either Kony or his delegate to sign on his behalf in Juba next Friday. Easter Monday, before Angelina went to Juba, she told us her goal would be to push for the two ‘big men” to sign the agreement with their own hands. I admire her determined optimism, but it’s hard to imagine that either of them will be holding pens in the same room in the near future.

Most of my colleagues don’t believe Kony will ever come out. Perhaps he won’t block the peace accord, but he won’t be part of it. He realizes that many of his ranks and the affected community want peace, but he and a few others have no intention to ever return. That idea somehow is not unsettling to many I’ve talked with. They believe that Kony and company will either become mercenaries for the highest bidder in DRC, CAR, Sudan or Chad or that there are already plans of apprehending them as soon as the agreement is signed (no one says this outright, they just hint around it as if speaking plainly might jeopardize some covert operation). Someone put it this way, “this peace agreement affects almost everyone and we all want it. The ICC is just for three people, the peace agreement doesn’t need to be for those three people too.”

I’ve been surprised by how little concern has been raised over the implications of the reports in the past couple of weeks of 100 new LRA abductions in the Central African Republic and 70 more in south Sudan. Maybe that’s due to the amount of unreliable information we get. Though many people seem to have an as-long-as-it’s-not-in-Uganda attitude. Of course there have always been and will continue to be doomsayers. They have warned the delegation of 100 civil society leaders of the risk of going to Ri-Kwangba this week. They fear that some apocalyptic fate may await them, or they will be captured and held ransom with expected demands to be made to the ICC.

From the beginning LRA top command has made it clear that the ICC issue is a deal breaker. Yet few people I talk to here think that the issue will have any bearing on the outcome of this week’s discussions. It’s not clear to me yet if this is a hope that international law will suddenly become “flexible,” wishful thinking about the trust that’s been built between the government and LRA leadership or something else. One friend suggested, “make it as easy as possible for him (Kony) to sign the agreement and then just disappear." Perhaps that's what the organizers have in mind. Maybe we are boldly moving forward ignoring the impending collapse of the process. Or, could there be some quiet plan to take 3 people out of the equation all the while making public statements that make impunity-conscious human rights folks squirm?

What is actually happening is hard to say. In any case, notwithstanding further postponements, the next 7 days of events may determine which night we will remember as the night peace came to northern Uganda.

Exported Ideals

2008-03-24T09:25:00.003+02:00

On a recent field visit to an IDP camp near the border of Sudan, I came by a clinic. I was interested in knowing the services available in this remote location so I greeted the nurse and was invited in.

The majority of the nurses and patients were gathered under mango trees as the clinic building was very small. As I walked into the building I saw a room titled "Group Counseling Room". I was delighted to see that the patients were receiving both medical treatment and psychological care. As I approached the room I noticed that room was stacked from floor to ceiling with food aid.

I imagined the expatriate staff writing a proposal for this clinic. The donor wanted to see something to do with "psychosocial support" or "counseling" fitted into the clinic proposal. Unfortunately, it is not uncommon for international actors to recognize the importance of psychological wellbeing in sustainable development, yet most have no idea how to implement healing interventions. Exporting the concept of group counseling and allotting a space is not enough. Real psychosocial healing takes a massive investment from the local community and trained healers with long-term commitment. Many mental health professionals are contented with short-term consultancies or establishing a system of care. However, psychological healing takes imagination and creativity; fostering this cannot be accomplished through a one-off input. There must be a commitment to the individual and his or her process. This commitment is not "cost-effective" and may not yield immediate results but underpins the entire process of restoration in the individual and wider community.

The World Health Organization has a motto that says "There can be no health without mental health". While we can agree to this truth, the investment in mental health remains lacking in many developing countries.

While I was saddened at the missed opportunity for psychological healing through group counseling, I applauded the community members for their utilization of space. I turned to Holly and said, "Hunger always wins out over half-baked ideas of emotional support"

Is psychological wellbeing a luxury or a necessity?

Can we expect the community to value psychological healing when current interventions are superficial and material aid has been fine-tuned?

Leb Ngec by Ben

2008-02-06T16:24:00.001+02:00

Life has been flying by since we’ve been back in Uganda. Here are a couple of pictures of a recent hunting trip I took with some CPA colleagues. We stayed in tents, deep in the bush, in a place called Leb Ngec (the monitor lizard’s tongue). The entire experience was more natural than I knew this world could be. My sister in law, Erin, told me that people can store memories more permanently when they try to isolate each sense and get their full benefit. As I explored my surroundings with my eyes, hears, hands, and nose, the atmosphere came alive.

(Philip and I, trying to look like hunters)
It was a time of incredible bonding. We stomped through the tall grass for hours on both days until we were exhausted. I learned how to hunt different animals and live off of wild fruits when meat wasn’t available. We all related freely-I only wish that my Luo was better.

(Ben and Robert-as the sun goes down and the fire comes up)

(The landowner's cute son)

Work is going really well. I have been coordinating a baseline survey for the EU project, as well as orienting our new Psychosocial Programme Officers to the re-implementation of the project I have been working on for the past two years.

Holly has been traveling a lot recently. She has been co-facilitating and monitoring trainings of community mediators for the Steps Towards Reconciliation project funded by MCC.

Meet Jelly Belly

2008-01-12T16:03:00.001+02:00

For my birthday, Holly gave me a ticket for "one young, good-lookin' cow" (just what I wanted). Today I woke up very early and went to the cattle market and waded through thousands of cows and people to find Jelly, my new cow! She is one and a half years old, weighs about 200 pounds, eats a ton, and has a nice loud voice.
Ogiko and Jelly are still working out their relationship. (Jelly has kicked Ogiko in the head several times, and he hasn't seemed to learn the lesson.)

Beautiful Floating Popcorn

2008-01-12T14:27:00.001+02:00

A Ugandan friend told us his impression of snow the first time he saw it in the UK, “It’s like beautiful popcorn floating slowly.” We remembered his description watching the snow fall in the Porter backyard, enjoying a white Christmas with new perspectives that have changed our appreciation of snow and everything else.

It has been over two years since seeing the Porter family. Our family grew by two people since we've been in Uganda. Meeting and getting to know Anya and Dmitri (our niece and nephew) were highlights of our visit to Colorado. We even saw our soon-to-come niece on a 4D ultrasound and felt her kicking. We celebrated something almost every night (Dmitri’s 2nd birthday and Ben & Josh’s 30th, Christmas, Baby showers, breaking through the ceiling, New Years, etc…).
Evenings were filled with good food (thanks to Mom Porter’s mouth-watering culinary skills), conversation and music. We also had a chance to stop by Celebration and reconnect with dear friends. Though all of us have experienced profound change in our lives we clasped hands again with deep appreciation for a community of friends that continues to march to the same beat. We witnessed the beautiful transformation of friends becoming parents. Holly held Kellen’s hand and recalled the Acholi saying, Dako nywal ki nyeke—a woman gives birth more easily when her friend is with her. Ben accompanied the Kents playing their songs wrestling with mortality and outrage about injustice in northern Uganda. We entered the New Year with Ben playing cello with other classical musicians and Austrian New Year traditions with his former cello teacher. On our way back to Uganda we saw the Randall clan in the UK, went wedding dress shopping with Tina (who looks absolutely beautiful in everything she puts on), discussed theology, community and gender with her fiancé, ran around London looking at possible PhD sites with Travis, and had sweet conversation with mom over tea and with dad in a local pub.

As per the Austrian New Year’s tradition, Holly dropped melted led into a cold bowl of water. The shape it takes is supposed to show your fortune for the year. It looked to us like a funky clump of metal—but we’re sure it meant that 2008 will be a great year. It was nice to play in the snow, but our feet are happy to be in sandals walking near the Equator again.

THANKSGIVING

2007-11-24T11:10:00.001+02:00

By Ben
Our Third Annual Thanksgiving Day celebration with our colleagues from the Concerned Parents Association was attended by a record 50 people this year! As you can see, we needed to slaughter two turkeys.

However this year, Abdallah, CPA’s driver needed to do the killing if he was going to eat the bird, as his Muslim tradition requires him (or another Muslim) to thank God for the animal before it dies. I was still charged with roasting and carving the turkeys!

Our staff once again sat around a large circle as Holly told the story of the King and his four daughters who were entrusted with one grain of rice. The first threw it away, the second kept it in a glass box and admired it, the third locked it in a secure place, and the fourth planted the rice. After the King returned several years later, he honored the fourth daughter for the plantation of rice which resulted from her initiative and use of her gifts. Holly gathered ideas on the meaning of this story and then asked everyone to introduce themselves (a Ugandan necessity, even if you know everyone present) and tell the rest of the group “one of your gifts and something to be thankful for”. Here are a few responses “I am grateful to God for making me a beautiful woman”. “I am grateful that God made me a man, even without consulting me first”. “I have the gift of loving people”. “I am thankful for being a peace-builder”. “I am thankful for the gift of reproduction (as she points to her pregnant belly)”. “I am grateful because I do not have any debts to God, because I’m using all of the gifts He has given me.” “I am thankful to be celebrating an American holiday”.

We ate turkey, fruit salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, cassava, pork, rolls, cabbage salad, pumpkin soufflé, pumpkin pie, apple pie, apple crisp and danced into the night. After everyone left, we were exhausted but happy to have had another great Thanksgiving in Uganda.

LRA consultations/speeches in Lira

2007-11-18T20:13:00.001+02:00

Holly and I just returned from a public meeting between the citizens of Lira and a delegation from the LRA. As a part of the third agenda item in the Juba peace talks, the Government of Uganda and the LRA have been visiting northern districts to gather opinions of the people affected by this 20 year war. Several weeks ago the government of Uganda held consultations; today it was the LRA’s turn.

There is no statement that can capture the views of affected people. Their questions and statements directed to the delegation ranged from, “How can we be compensated? “Our schools, economy, and social fabric have been destroyed” to “We forgive them, but the ICC [International Criminal Court] should keep the pressure” to “Why do we need the ICC when we have our own court in Kampala?” to “Is Otti [2nd in command of LRA] dead or alive?” to “You have a cell phone and a vehicle, are you going to pay our children’s school fees?” to “How can you come and ask for forgiveness when you are keeping our children in the bush? You should release our children as a sign that you’re serious about reconciliation,” to “If the LRA wants to fight the government then why have they been killing and mutilating citizens?”

The delegation (perhaps strategically) waited until the sun went down to even take these questions/statements and was unable to answer them due to time constraints.

However, the LRA delegation made a clear apology and claimed commitment to reconcile. At one point they equated Joseph Kony with the main character of Jesus’ parable, “The Prodigal Son”, saying, “We have made mistakes, all we want to do is come home and work alongside the workers in the field.” They pleaded with community to be the father in the story, who welcomed his wayward son home.

Naturally, the delegation emphasized the Government’s culpability in the displacement, atrocities and poor governance.

What grows in this soil?

2007-11-07T11:13:00.002+02:00

Almost a month ago, Ben and I were in South Sudan when the Sudan Peoples Liberation Movement withdrew from the national coalition government to protest the lack of progress by Khartoum on the Comprehensive Peace Agreement. A cabinet re-shuffling and a series of meetings negotiating a way forward have been held since then, but serious questions remain, especially regarding oil resources and the borders in the Abyei region.

I knew, but had not witnessed in such vivid terms the bitter racism between Arab and Black Africans. I must admit it shocked me to be working side by side with colleagues on a curriculum for conflict transformation, while loose conversations in the evenings revealed (among some) profound bigotry. It felt like the peace agreement was eroding before our eyes and it was disturbingly expected. We were unsettled by the seeming readiness to shake off three years of relative quiet and the best hope for peace embodied in the CPA. I wondered: is this attitude a coping mechanism, reflective of a cynicism towards peace that has been strengthened through decades of violence? Or is it a more honest reflection of the shaky ground this peace is built on? The nature of supposed peace activists may be misunderstood. They are activists—but their end goal may not be what we hoped. Is it racially motivated activism? Is the end goal peace or is it political independence? At what cost?

I spoke with one of the “Lost Boys” while we were there. His entire childhood was spent with a gun in his hands. In his mid twenties now, he’s moving on, though once in awhile something triggers the pain of those years and brings back the war in his mind: wearing a jacket reminiscent of army fatigues, an evening guarding an office. I was concerned about how he’d react to the unfolding news. He said, “What pains me most is times like this when I look at the children around. I get so scared. I don’t want them to grow up like I did.”

One of those children is Danduru. He’s the son of one of the men I was working with, (a true peacebuilder). Their family used to live in one of the large Sudanese refugee camps in Uganda. After the CPA was signed in 2005 they moved back to their family’s land in Yei. As the first son born after return, he was named after a persistent weed-like grass that has a habit of taking over African compounds. When he was given the name, they said, “let him grow, occupy, and till the land of his family.”

Some have said that after the CPA was signed the South Sudanese went to sleep instead of ensuring its implementation, and that this recent move is an indication that they have woken up. There is an opportunity for strengthening the peace, (perhaps even encouraging more accountable governance?), but there is also an opportunity for devastation. I asked Sudanese colleagues, “What will happen now?” Looking down and shaking their heads, they replied, “Sister, you pray for us.”

Danduru has never known war. Let’s pray he never does and that he will raise his own family on the soil where he was born.

Accountability & the Whistle Blower

2007-10-11T18:45:00.001+02:00

by Holly

Part of the Steps Toward Reconciliation project that CPA is doing (more in “it is possible) is a survey. It takes a couple of weeks in each district, so I’ve just visited each place for one of the days to see how it’s going and hopefully give some useful guidance. Without all the data in and analyzed, I made some anecdotal observations. Like formerly abucted girls tended to be bitter with the government for their failure to protect them as well as with the LRA, whereas the returned boys mostly blame the government for what they’ve suffered. Something I want to interrogate further is the concept of “accountability” in population surveys. Talking with my CPA colleagues conducting the survey, I noted how especially in focus groups with kids, someone will say in one breath that the LRA and the government/UPDF should be held accountable for what they’ve done and that everything should be forgiven for the sake of peace and there should be amnesty. So I asked, what I thought were obvious questions, “are they confused? do they feel they are obliged to answer in one way but then say how they really feel? Why such contradictory answers by the same people?” But then I realized the contradiction may be a cultural construct of accountability in me (and I think probably many other western people involved in population surveys). Yes there should be accountability. Yes, there should be amnesty. My colleagues told me to listen closer to the explanations of accountability. What I heard--they want compensation and restitution. Exactly what form differed, some actually think 7 cows should be given for each life lost or to every family in northern Uganda, and others want the destroyed churches and schools to be rebuilt and free education. But accountability explanations that I heard from kids (again, anecdotal, I don't’ have all the data yet) didn’t include judicial processes. The adults varied more, some said, “take them all to court!” one woman threatened to cut off the ears of Musevini and Kony, and many had similar views as the children. Some said they were ready to forgive everything unconditionally as a moral and spiritual choice, and others said forgiveness will happen only when all those killed are brought back from the dead.

I listened to a lot of stories. Sometimes what I hear is just so broken—so out of the frame of reference of my own understanding for human interaction, that regardless of how many times I hear the stories and see the faces it doesn’t become normal-- it still shocks the conscience. One boy in a children’s focus group stood out to me even before we started talking. We had individual interviews afterwards with formerly abducted children so we talked with him more though he was very open even with the other children. He was tiny, with big thoughtful eyes, and a ready smile. In his brightly colored thread bare school uniform I would’ve guessed he was no older than 9 but he’s 12. He was abducted when he was 7 and in the LRA for a year. He’s doing well now, he has no nightmares and feels he’s been cleansed from the past but he wishes he could be forgiven by the people he killed. He wasn’t given a gun, but he said, “what I did was worse, I killed indirectly. They gave me a whistle and I had to blow it when I saw someone trying to escape. I always wondered, if I took the risk and didn’t blow the whistle, maybe I could’ve made them believe that I didn’t see the person and they would still be alive. But I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me and I’d be killed, but I know it was wrong to blow the whistle. I killed so many people.” When he talked of forgiveness from the families, he said, “Is it really possible? Wouldn’t they just be angry and kill me?” I want to find out. He has taken on so much guilt and it is too heavy a burden for this child to bear. He needs to hear that he is not blamed and he’s forgiven. Is it really possible? What if an elder in the community where he fearfully blew the whistle could meet him and release him from the guilt he’s carrying? Maybe it’s possible for him to grow up with a lighter load on his shoulders.

There are so many children like him. A travesty of the re-integration process is that talking about the past or remembering it is often discouraged which risks that the pain and guilt inspired by crimes they participated in (forced or with some level of real or perceived agency) is downplayed. Maybe a “way forward” is to make safe spaces for kids like this to tell their stories and be shown mercy.

My Beautiful Wife and Her Birthday Present

2007-09-30T13:48:00.001+02:00

REMEMBER SLIP N SLIDE ? ? ?

2007-09-02T18:58:00.001+02:00

by Ben

I was trying to relax one Saturday afternoon, when I realized I felt to hot to get up and do anything...except cool off in some water. While I would love to dig a pool in my back yard, that project seemed to extreme. Then it came to me, Slip N Slide!

I didn't know it was going to be so popular with the neighbor kids. I stopped off at the neighbor's house and asked the kids if they wanted to play, and if so, to go and finds some friends. Five minutes later 40 children showed up at our gate.

I invented a make-shift Slip N Slide until Josh and Erin sent us a genuine WHAM-O one (Thanks you guys!) It is such a blast to share a piece of my childhood with all the kids here (It's actually a good excuse to act like a boy again myself:)

At this point, I'm not sure how we're going to slow down the Slip N Slide momentum at our house. Kids come at all times of the day (including sun-up and sun-down) to ask if they can "Sleep and Slide". I come across children several Kilometers away from our house who ask "Ben, when can we come play...make sure Ogiko is on his chain"

Today we had our friend Godfrey and his family over. It has been nice to share life outside of the office with him.

Honeymoon Birthday

2007-08-27T10:12:00.001+02:00

by Ben
Holly’s Dutch friend couldn’t remember the word anniversary, so she called our recent trip our “Honeymoon Birthday”, and we liked it. Last week we celebrated 5 years of being married! We spent one week on the exotic island of Unguja (AKA Zanzibar-Zanzibar is actually an Archipelago made up of several islands)

We spent a couple days in beach bungalows on the East coast. The beautiful white sand beaches slowed our walking speed and the relaxing atmosphere coaxed us into long conversations. The only thing separating us from the water were a couple of trees holding a hammock.

We stayed a little further down the beach for three days (one of which was our anniversary). Our agenda included: reading books, praying, yoga, runs on the beach, eating, and enjoying each other. However, on one of the days we went for a snorkeling and octopus hunting trip. On Unguja, the tide moves over 1 KM twice per day. When the tide is out, a shallow-water boat takes you off-shore to reefs normally under several meters of water. We caught two octopus (octopi???) and within the hour, brought them back for our chef to prepare. Delicious!

We also spent two nights in Stone Town. The mystique of both the Swahili Empire and the Omani Sultanate were captured as we walked through the incredible outdoor markets and ornately carved doors on narrow streets. We watched the sunset on a roof-top restaurant, slowly digesting 6 courses and listening to the call to prayer (Stone Town reminded Holly of Baku, Azerbaijan)

It was a time of affirming our marriage, gratefulness to God, talking over the highlights of the last 5 years, and vision for the next…

Land of outlawed plastic bags...1000 hills...and genocide

2007-08-21T17:12:00.002+02:00

by: Holly

A week in Rwanda was filled with a handful of meetings with people working on reconciliation or transitional justice issues. I met with a couple of local NGOs, folks from the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, a Gacaca judge, and a victim's rights advocate. Besides the meetings, I had the sobering privilege of spending a few hours in the genocide museum/memorial and visiting two of the genocide sites in more rural areas outside Kigali. It was a time of reflection on the 800,000 lives that were ended during 100 terrible days in 1994. Appropriately, I was disturbed by much of what I saw. Not in a despairing way--because throughout the time there was a deep sense that I was witnessing something which had past and that today is a different day.

In the genocide memorial, perched on one of the thousand hills Rwanda boasts (and they should be proud, the hills are truly lovely)I noted the way the information was presented. Much of it I knew but I enjoy seeing which details are given priority and speculating about the interests involved in those decisions. Looking at photos--babies in bathtubs, young couples wedding, grandmothers bouncing toddlers, cool looking young men sporting the latest fashion, business men, farmers--I felt the value in being a witness to what happened to them. Somewhere in the exhibit the genocide was called, "the worst excesses of human behavior." A quote on a wall read, "There will be no humanity without forgiveness. There will be no forgiveness without justice. But justice will be impossible without humanity." Yollande Mukagasana. Another one said, "If you had really known me and known yourself you would not have killed me."

Before I walked out on the gardens and mass grave on the hill I went through a section devoted to children. It was full of portraits and bits of information about the kids, including the way they died. A photo of a girl with big pretty eyes, cause of death: stabbed in the eyes. A baby with curly hair--my mind flashed back to earlier in the day, I saw a little boy that looked just like him while I was drinking coffee, cause of death: smashed against a wall. Chanelle was 8 and her favorite song was, "My Native Land Which God Chose For Me." She was killed with a machete. Surely, that's not what God chose for her.

What a strange world this is, where I can witness such grave crime and suffering and an hour later be pleased with a coffee cup that was warm, served with whipped cream and good customer service unheard of in Uganda. Where I look forward to a week of luxurious celebration on white sand beaches on my 5 year anniversary trip. Is this really the same planet where babies are smashed and dull machetes end the lives of our neighbors at our own hands?

Many people were killed in churches where they had crowded hoping to find santuary. I visited two churches, Ntarama and Nyamata. In Ntarama church five thousand people lost their lives. The woman who showed us the place spoke broken English. When I walked in the door immediately in the entrance are shelves of skulls and bones sorted and stacked. The late afternoon sun cast light through the doorway and two windows--expanded by the grenades used to enter the church during the genocide. The woman said, "This was church."

I looked at the remnants of the congregation--the dry bones and I thought, "yes, this was the church." I felt sick and didn't know if it was the thoughts in my head imagining that day or the smell of lost lives that somehow still hangs in the air and clings to the musty and bloodied piles of clothes removed from the dead.

In Nyamata church ten thousand people died. Though it is more sanitized and the bones kept in glass cases, there are blood stained walls and the altar cloth remains. I could hear birds in the trees outside and the voices of children too young to remember the terror of those 100 days running home from school. How did this alter cloth soak up so much blood from the church floor with the statue of Mary looking on?

Outside the church I went into a hole in the ground, a deep hole with the bones of another 40,000 people who were killed in the town surrounding the church. I could barely breathe. It is a valley of death. I didn't think I could do it, I felt like I'd be suffocated from the pain. But out of respect for the survivor that was showing us the place, I descended the steep concrete stairs. Another grave was put for 100 people who were thrown in the pit latrines. The place had cleaned up death. I hope they never sanitize the first church. Genocide can't be made more palatable for the comfort of our memories. We need to see it for the nightmare it is.

In the memorial, looking at the portraits of children, in the churches, in the graves--I just kept wanting to apologize. A constant, "I'm sorry" was in my mind and on my lips. And then I asked myself, "who am I saying sorry to? the dead? the survivors? the families? God? humanity? And on behalf of who? the genocaidaires? the international community? humanity?" I realized there was no who. The distinctions and independent units seemed somehow irrelevant. Instead, this happened to us--it is our story. We have killed. We have been hurt. We have been killed. We are broken.

It is Possible

2007-07-28T10:59:00.001+02:00

by Holly
Last night I was chatting with a Ugandan colleague about the preparation NGOs have been doing for the return of an expected 2,000 women and children from the LRA. I said I hoped it would be soon. He replied with emotion, “I doubt it.” Both of us said together in almost the same breath, “but we have to hope.” I had an interesting encounter with a Special Advisor to the President in Gulu recently and got a little insight. The celebrated but little understood “agreement” that was recently signed between the LRA and Government of Uganda negotiating teams on accountability, the 3rd agenda of the peace talks, is reportedly not an agreement but principles that should apply to whatever agreement is reached. So, we’re not quite as far down the road as the local press made it seem.

Last weekend after we celebrated the MoU signing for the EU grant (“cause to celebrate”) we stopped in Barlonyo on the way back to Lira. In 2004 the LRA attacked and massacred a lot of people there. A mass grave and memorial was built on the site. The plaque on the memorial reads that on that day “121 innocent civilians were killed by LRA terrorists.” The local government says it was 314 people. I sat and prayed for a few minutes. The words running through my mind were familiar. I felt again the deep pain of people who have known too much violence, the groaning of the blood soaked ground, the hope that it would not happen again, that it is over and that healing is coming. I felt it in Srebrenica at the commemoration day of prayer, 10 years after Serbs killed over seven thousand men and boys. I felt it when I prayed on dusty streets in Palestine on the Reconciliation Walk just 2 months before the second intifada started. I heard someone say recently that if you act like you have faith the faith will follow—I don’t know if that’s quite true, but when I get tired or discouraged lately I’ve been saying to myself, “it is possible.” And I think it’s working, because I feel a greater sense of the vision and hope the statement implies. It is possible when we make daily decisions and decide to take steps toward peace, however far away we may feel at the time. It’s a journey, gratefully we don’t travel alone. At CPA we are on that road and we are moving forward.

CPA has begun a project called “Steps Toward Reconciliation.” (Funded by MCC.) The goal is to empower CPA’s community structures of parents and youth to advocate for peace, constructively respond to conflict, and participate in reconciliation. It is initiated and led by parents who are committed to a personal and community process of reconciliation. The project responds to the ongoing emphasis on the importance of incorporating local level mechanisms into a transitional justice strategy.

By the completion of the plan, four steps towards reconciliation will have been taken:

1. Consensus will be built on applying traditional methods of restorative justice in Lango. Significant effort has been made in Acholi to build consensus on how traditional forms of justice can be adapted and used in the modern circumstances. The relevance of this discussion extends beyond the Acholi sub-region to the Greater North, including the Lango Sub-Region, Teso, Karimoja, and the tribes in Arua West Nile. Little has been done outside Acholi to document and build consensus among clan and traditional leaders around traditional justice. As CPA is operational in Lango and Acholi, the project will document and build consensus on the application of traditional justice mechanisms in the Lango Sub-region.

2. Directly affected parents will publicly forgive the Ex-LRA Commanders who have returned to the community. A series of preparatory meetings will be held with the directly affected parties (beginning with founder parents) and their families and clans and separately with the ex-LRA commanders and their families and clans. The preparatory meetings will culminate in a day of forgiveness for those who want to participate. The event will celebrate the progress made toward reconciliation and share practical experiences about the process.

3. A delegation of most affected parents will take that message of forgiveness and restorative justice to the top LRA leadership and negotiating teams. Having documented and compiled practical examples of traditional justice and restitution mechanisms as well as forgiveness and reconciliation, parents will take these practical experiences to the people who are critical decision makers in the peace process. CPA believes that the voice of parents must be heard and considered as part of the negotiations, specifically as discussions are held on issues of accountability and on comprehensive solutions.

4. Parent Support Groups and Youth Groups will be empowered to transform conflict, reconcile and mediate between conflicting families and clans through 100 trained mediators from those groups. Mediators will contribute to the reunification of families as formerly-abducted children return and mediate in the many conflicts between families/clans that are a result of the war. Traditional reconciliation ceremonies will be supported. The experiences of reconciliation will be documented and shared through publications and radio providing a public example of practical forgiveness, truth telling and restorative justice as a way to peace in northern Uganda.

I was trying to think of a catchy name or slogan for the community mediators. The word “mediator” doesn’t translate well into Acholi and Lango. It makes people think more of a match maker Fiddler-on-the-roof style than it does someone who can facilitate a positive space for conflicting parties to brainstorm and agree on solutions. I was thinking of calling them yeast. Just a little bit of it in the bread of northern Uganda can transform everything making the whole thing rise. But then I was told that that in Lango and Acholi if you call someone “yeast” it’s saying they’re a drunkard because it’s used to make the local beer. So the mediators would’ve all been wearing T-shirts that said “Drunkards for Peace.” I’d still like to use some symbol that carries the hope of the power of small things to change everything--something that will encourage the mediators, me and others, when the inevitable fatigue or discouragement comes—to remember that it is possible. Any suggestions?

Cause for Celebration

2007-07-22T11:20:00.001+02:00

by Ben

Holly and I want to share the joy and success of CPA with all of our friends and family over a significant accomplishment. A few months ago the European Union put out a call for proposals entitled "Northern Uganda Rehabilitation Programme". 90 applicants went through the laborious process of applying, with only 8 organizations to recieve the award. CPA was one of those 8, and the only local organization working in Northern Uganda to recieve funding! It was a cause for celebration, a moment that we could take a breath and say "job well done" to ourselves and the entire CPA staff. This funding accounts for a large portion of our three year plan. Now we're gearing up for the challenge and are ready to give this programme our full effort.

(Here is Holly, Betty, and Sylvia on the evening of the MOU signing)

(CPA's chairperson and mother, Angelina, congratulating her children)

3 words 3 desires

2007-07-13T13:52:00.001+02:00

Recently I read a novel. I had the feeling that half the women in the US who are 20 or 30 something have read it, are reading it or are planning to read it. But since I'm in Uganda I have no idea what the popular opinion or hype about it is. The book itself was a nice way to spend a couple of evenings feeling a little more connected to my cultural peers (and comparing my own experiences with those of the main character in Italy and India with pasta, italian and yoga). I like Rumi (the Sufi poet) and I don't know the context or what he said because I'm getting this from the book and not direct from the source, but the novel says that Rumi says that we all have 3 things that are the essence of what we really desire and want in life. We can narrow it down to three words. And then if we discover that any of those three things conflict with each other we will be miserable--so better to just pick one of them and stick with it. I don't know if it's supposed to be a static thing, that for our whole lives there are really only three things that we want, but I thought about the core of my consistent desires and I think it's all captured in three words:

beauty

love

redemption

Beauty could be the feeling of sand between my toes with my feet up on the dashboard with great music playing, or Acholis dancing, or the smell of Colorado air the first day of a new season, it could be the flowers blooming around my back porch, or it could be really good swiss chocolate sent in a care package that I eat after a long day at work, or it could be a moment between a friend or partner that you realize is something unique and shared or it could be purple pillows.

Love is...love. I don't want to sort it into categories. Describing it would almost certainly cheapen it (at least with my limited mastery of the English language). Maybe the only thing to say is that the desire is for love, not for me or from me but just love and more of it.

Redemption, I struggled to think of the third word although I feel the desire most strongly and am driven by it all the time--giving it a name was tricky because it changes. The desire in it's purest form is redemption--wanting everything and everyone to be restored to all that they should be and to be a part of that process. In it's most selfish form, it's just a desire for power. But since I think it's better to nurture my purer desires, I'll focus on redemption.

Ben's are: wisdom, love and contentment.

What are your three words?

Gardening

2007-07-05T14:15:00.001+02:00

by Ben

I have always liked gardening. One of my first memories is going to my mom and asking her if I need needed to buy my own tools if I wanted to go to farmers college. But here in Uganda, my love of gardening has come alive. It certainly helps to have year-round warm weather and fertile soil. But the act of digging, planting, weeding, creating, and nurturing the land has given me rest in times of chaos.

Anyone who knows me will say I'm a "doer". I need to be productive. Standard ways of relaxation (yoga, meditation/prayer, journaling, sunbathing) don't stimulate me enough-my mind wanders. I need to be slightly active in something to actually free my mind and process my thoughts. And gardening is the perfect medium. Another similar activity is fishing--you're busy baiting the hook, casting and reeling, but it really doesn't take away from personal reflection and processing.

A typical evening in the garden: It's 6:00PM. I get home from work and take a few minutes to play with Ogiko and change into old clothes. I'm emotionally tired from a hectic day. I could escape into a book, movie or food, but I sense the need to process my day. I go to the shed and pick up my hoe. I feel the cool grass under my bare feet as I walk across the yard. I begin digging the ground around the green pepper plants. The ground is soft because I dig it frequently. The soil is black. In the distance I hear a rooster crowing and children playing. The sun is gently setting. I plunge my hand into the loose soil, pick up a handful and squeeze it. It smells rich with nutrients. By now I'm sweating and my muscles are warm. All of the sudden I feel balanced and connected to the earth. I can begin to look back at my day with healthy perspective. Anxiety and stress has been washed away and replaced with a sense of gratitude.

This is a picture of what I pick out of my garden daily (besides the pineapple-this is our first one). In front are two varieties of jalepeno peppers, next to a sprig of basil. To the right are some cucumbers. In the blue bowl are several varieties of tomatoes. Behind the tomatoes are passion fruit, and a pineapple to the left. Between the bowls are a couple of green peppers.

Still to come: onions, peanuts, carrots, broccolli, cassava, eggplant, spinach, and lemon grass. Other fruits include: guava, bannana, mango, and avocado.

A few pictures and thoughts

2007-06-24T14:11:00.001+02:00

by Ben
I don't have any profound thoughts or insights, but I wanted to put a few pictures on our blog. Life has been full...and good.

Two weeks ago a group from our home church came to Lira. We set one day aside for a "solidarity day". Upon our arrival at an IDP camp about 2 hours out of town, men and women were divided and assigned everyday life tasks. Women went to go shopping and prepared food, while men dug in a rice field and tried to thatch a roof. It was probably a first for many of the women to get beef from a recently butchered cow placed on banana leaves on the side of a dirt road. They simply pointed to the part they wanted and someone hacked it off.

(This is Zach, Kimuli, Patrick and a guy from the camp digging in the rice swamp)

(This is Zach sitting on a grass roof after separating the grass, thinking, "So, I'm suppose to jump down like that too?" This is a hut for two boys who lost both of their parents in an LRA attack)

(This is a picture of a baboon after stealing our cookies out of the truck. Ask Zach for an impersonation.)

We also went on a game drive.

(The raw beauty of Uganda never ceases to amaze me)

On a different note, I was in Gulu last week, for the first of a four-week training in Narrative Exposure Therapy (for my trainers and other local staff from rehabilitation centers across N. Uganda). I am very excited about this training. It is being facilitated by researchers and professors from Germany. The therapy model is adapted for children in Northern Uganda and research has proven its effectiveness. Until recently any empirical data on prevelance or effective treatment of mental health disorders has been almost completely absent. I am grateful to be a part of this training and really sense people's committement to raising standards of psychosocial care in N. Uganda. I also co-chaired the first meeting of a new group called "Mental Health and Psychosocial Support Technical Team for Northern Uganda" with Quaker Peace and Social Witness last Friday. There seems to be increasing mommentum for this kind of work and I'm excited to see where this group takes us.

World Sorrow

2007-06-24T11:13:00.001+02:00

by Holly
I used to like very serious movies with painful subject matter. No need for happy endings--I liked movies that depicted the sorrow of the human experience. Not that I don't still appreciate the art of honesty in film--but I just don't feel like I have the space to take it in. These days I only watch things that make me laugh. At the end of the day I don't need any more reminders of how painful living on earth is.

Lately, I've been pouring all my energy into work--and while the last month has been one that has been unparalleled with impact and significance for me, I'm tired and kind of stressed out. My body tends to take it on, so in an effort to surrender (and inspired by another yoga journal that Ryan sent me via the Celebration crew), I'm spending more time on my mat getting centered, grounded, and opening my heart, making some space in this crowded soul of mine.

There's an article in the journal about sadness and grief. Personally, I feel ridiculously blessed to have had an unfairly preserved life--If there is a reason, then I sometimes think it is so I have the capacity to feel more "Welt schmerz" or world sorrow--a sadness that arises without a personal cause--a transcendant feeling of pain for the state of the world. (apparently, this is written about in a book by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe called the Sorrows of Young Worther, which I've never read but I'm now intrigued and if I can make enough space to handle something sad in my free time I will) I remember once calling my dad in tears, when I was having a crisis of faith and wondering if God was indeed good--and his first response was to ask whether it was me or a close friend who had experienced some great pain. It was neither, I was still in university and a war I opposed was starting and I was studying genocide and angry about unanswered prayer in Darfur and I just couldn't handle it anymore.

So, I've been thinking about the constructive potential of sadness--at the same time the risk of spiralling feelings of hopelessness and lack of vision that lead to a destination of either cynicism or resignation. The constructive potential is when we recognize that suffering is not personal but universal to the human experience. I say it has potential because the risk in recognizing the pervasiveness of suffering is that it can evoke paralysis, or feelings along the lines of the writer of Ecclesiastes, "everything is meaningless."

The other option is that it has the potential to inspire great compassion. I'd choose compassion over paralysis any day--but compassion is not a solitary discipline. I'm convinced that sorrow over the state of the world is channeled into creative and active compassion through community.

That means, as much as I enjoy doing yoga--I can't tranform strong negative emotions by myself--or just by realizing that I'm connected to everyone else, I think it's active, I have to be connected. God's spirit transforms through the experience of community.

It was a great blessing to have these beautiful people from Celebration in Lira. It was encouraging to be with them while they also wrestled with the tension between great compassion and debilitating hopelessness. It's a reminder that the struggle is worth it, and I'm grateful for their presence, from the first evening of receiving cards, books, and yummy things from home (Thank you everyone from CCC that sent us stuff!) to Solidarity Day in an IDP camp, to evening conversations, blueberry pancakes, lions in the rain, and swimming while overlooking the Nile.

Big Daddy Gave Me a Name

2007-06-02T17:58:00.001+02:00

After an hour of bumping over potholes on narrow red dirt roads, our car pulled up at the home of “Won Nyaci” the Paramount Chief of the Lango tribe. CPA parents have been asking what we can do now to work for peace and reconciliation and what our unique role in that process should be. We’ve decided on 4 “Steps Toward Reconciliation” that we can take and we began the journey this morning. Tomorrow we’ll go to Gulu to meet with Rwot Acana the Acholi Paramount Chief. A team of 5 parents and a couple of “technical people,” like me make up the group.

We were led to a grass thatched open hut. The door is so low we had to duck to get inside. When I entered I saw the chief, or the Big Daddy—which is the literal translation of what most Langi call him. Unlike other times, when I’ve seen him decked out in colorful African fabrics, he was dressed in simple western clothes. The two other women got on their knees to greet him. No one briefed me on protocol and I’m a little uncomfortable kneeling in front of anyone—but I tried to look humble and kind of curtsied a little while I shook his hand. This was such a curious but significant meeting. Chickens walked along the edge of the open room which was lined by 15 wooden chairs with fuzzy leopard print cushions. His wife began praying as soon as we came and then walked back and forth with a handkerchief and an inhaler. She liked to move and seemed friendly and full of energy. Big daddy on the other hand sat very still and drew long breaths and smiled with his kind eyes. Angelina (CPA’s chairperson and great mentor and inspiration to me) explained about the new program of reconciliation that CPA is beginning and the vision behind it. She introduced everyone and told him about the work I’ve been doing with CPA for the past year and a half. Then each parent talked from their experiences and spoke their desire for peace.

People talked slowly to Big Daddy, as if every word deserved time and space and held some special power if it was considered and accepted by the listener. On paper, when I worked on the proposal to get funding for this project, this meeting looked very different. But here I was in this hut and it was so real. Each parent here had a daughter abducted. Each of them are raising the grandchildren of LRA commanders. One of them is still waiting for his daughter’s return. She’s still in Kony’s house—and here they are talking about reconciliation as if it’s a real and possible thing for them. They have turned such unspeakable pain into contagious energy for healing. Each word they speak does have power.

The entire meeting was in Lango—which I can catch bits and pieces of but my comprehension is often a combination of a few words and a lot of guess work. When it was time for Big Daddy to say something he looked thoughtful and then got out a piece of paper. Slowly and deliberately he wrote four names and then explained what each of them meant. One was someone who is feared, one was someone who organizes and keeps house well, I didn’t understand the third one, and the fourth was one who is so precious to everyone that her contribution to the community is invaluable. When he read the last name on the list the parents I was with nodded and made affirming noises and Angelina started to clap. I didn’t know what was going on but then he explained. The names are only given to women who have done great things for the Lango community and who deserve a special name. These aren’t names that are given at birth, but they have to be earned. He says that I need to be given a great Lango name and as the chief of Lango he will name me. The parents should confirm which of the four names is right for me. From that moment they stopped calling me Holly and started calling me Elit.

Big Daddy expressed his commitment to support our initiative and talked about how he felt it complemented other current efforts of peacebuilding in northern Uganda. At what we thought was the end of the conversation Angelina thanked them and said we should be going, but the Big Mommy jumped up. She shook her finger, scolding us, “when you are a visitor it is not you to decide when you are leaving. It is us who will release you and I have refused.” Then she bustled out of the room, ducking through the low door and walked to the smoking mud shack I assume is the kitchen where they were making us food. Five chickens perched on the edge of the room and watched us eat while what must have been a new litter of puppies cried and pawed at the board that barred their entrance into the room.

What we write in project documents packages a meeting like this with goals, objectives and objectively verifiable indicators. Program design makes it all seem so straightforward, predictable and measurable. But the reality is almost always decidedly stranger—and often more powerful.

Traditional Wedding (by Ben)

2007-05-28T09:22:00.000+02:00

(The group from Lira)

Yesterday, Holly and I went to a village outside of a small town bordering Congo to attend a friend’s wedding. Carol, the bride (who works with us at CPA) grew up in the village near Congo, while Tom, the groom (a good friend) grew up in Lira. As such, we all woke up very early and caravanned to the village. Several goats and cows accompanied us on the journey.

(Congratulating Tom)

Holly and I have attended wedding ceremonies before, but this was the first one we really felt integrated with the other guests; the newly weds are friends of ours, and we had been to enough ceremonies like this to know how to conduct ourselves.

(Holly in her stylish Gomaz)

Holly wore a traditional dress called a gomaz, and I wore the traditional suit. After we arrived at the wedding, we waited for the “negotiations” between Tom’s elders and Carol’s elders to decide on the “bride price”. Half and hour was designated for the negotiations, but they lasted for over five hours. By the time they finished it was dark. But no problem…it was time to celebrate! Women were ululating, pounding the ground with weeding hoes, and waving dried fish on a stick. In the initial hours, men needed to wear a stern face, without smiling, or they would be fined. After speeches by fathers, everyone was allowed to visibly enjoy themselves.
(traditional dancing)

(Carol the bride)

Theories of Nonviolence and Community Reconciliation (by Ben)

2007-05-28T09:02:00.000+02:00

(Lam and I)

Last week Holly and I were with CPA’s trainers in Soroti, Uganda. This was our eighth out of ten training modules. Holly and Lam (an Acholi peace activist) worked together to bring new levels of understanding and commitment to nonviolence. Lam vividly described his real life experiences and challenges of brining peace to Northern Uganda, while Holly placed new ideas and inspired reconciliation.

(Holly teaching a model on reconciliation designed by JP Lederach)

A common training technique to get participants to express and debate their views is an activity called “Agree-Disagree”. After a statement is read, individuals take a position by standing along the spectrum of "agreeing" or "disagreeing". One statement provoked an interesting discussion. It is a widely-held belief in the community that “the best punishment for a thief is death.” Participants stood along the entire spectrum of this statement. The legal system is Uganda is so unstable at times that “taking justice into your own hands” is the only way to deter crime. If thieves are brought to the police station, the police will often tell them that they should’ve been dealt with in the traditional way, and that they would release the thief in a day or so. Mob justice certainly is an effective deterrent to crime (and thousands lose their lives to mob violence every year). One trainer raised her hand and spoke of the passage in the Gospels where an angry mob is ready to stone a woman caught in adultery. In this story, Jesus says, “let he who has not sinned cast the first stone”. Slowly the crowd dissipated with the elders first to leave. Holly then asked, “Raise your hand if you have ever stolen anything in your life. Whether it be large sums of money or knowingly accepting more change than you were owed after a purchase”. Everyone raised their hands...and there was silence. The following day some participants expressed their new views: that killing wasn’t the answer. This led to discussions and questions on “what true restoration, reconciliation and rehabilitation would look like in Northern Uganda”

(Trainers hard at work)

Labor Day Football (by Ben)

2007-05-12T12:49:00.001+02:00

Hi Friends,
We spend a lot of time doing our routine work in the office, but when we break away, it's fun share with all of you. On labor day, Holly and I traveled to Gulu for a Bi-annual football tournament. Several NGO's spend months training to win the tournament. This year, CPA was geared up and ready to defeat the returning champion, CARITAS.

Training and playing football keeps a lot of us balanced. Adrenaline and endorphins flood into our bloodstream and give us natural highs, as stresses from the office fade away. We were defeated again this year. 0-1. It was a good game and we're already looking forward to the rematch in October!

(disappointment)

(Our "football mothers". Members of CPA's board who came to support our team)

Next week we're both out of town conducting a training in "Peacebuilding: Theories of Non-violence and Community Reconciliation". We hope to keep you posted.

Friends Continued (by Ben)

2007-04-22T16:26:00.000+02:00

Yesterday we celebrated the birthdays of two of our closest work colleagues. On this special day, the birthday boys are called "Babies". Birthdays are often recognized in Uganda (especially if the D.O.B. is known), but seldom is a birthday an occasion for a party. Imagine the drain on resources if you had a party for all 15 of your children...

(Tonny "Warming Up" for the competition)

Godfrey, CPA's program manager, celebrated his first b-day party at the age of 35, and Tonny, the District Coordinator, had celebrated once before. We had an afternoon of games and competitions, an evening meal, and two cakes for the group of about 25 close friends and colleagues. Godfrey's cake read "Mzee (elder) Okello". He then turned to the oldest man in the room and sincerely asked, "May I be received into Mzee-hood?"

(Godfrey showing us his strokes in the dance competition)

Godfrey and Tonny were touched by the outpouring of affection and gifts given to them on their day. After presenting the gifts, all spoke aloud "what we liked best about the birthday boys". Godfrey's son (age 5) came up to him after the gifts were given and said with surprise, "Why is everyone giving you free things? I'm little, why don't I get something?" As it turns out, Tonny's team won the dance competition and won.... A NEW CAR!!!...as a prize. Because it was a toy car, Tonny was generous enough to give Godfrey's son something after all.

(Godfrey's children, Dan and Rachel also wanted to show us how to dance)

There is something bonding about celebrating a common tradition with our friends here. Sharing this experience made me feel closer to my culture and to theirs.

Friends and Family: by Ben

2007-04-15T20:26:00.000+02:00

Having Travis with us for the past week really made me wish that all of our friends and family were closer. It feels like there is something “hard-wired” into me that makes me crave long-term relationships and regular contact with those I love most. Many of our African friends have such pity on us for being so far away from our families; they can’t imagine a life so far away from their families. In the West, we have access to travel that takes us to the ends of the earth in relatively little time. Jobs easily take us to other cities, states, and continents, and our contact with our loved ones diminishes.

I just finished a training on indigenous ways of healing. In this module we discussed ways in which people have traditionally sought healing through community collectivism and various ceremonies. I learned so much, and was amazed at the richness of social support built into the culture. We learned traditional ceremonies meant to cure physical, emotional, and spiritual illnesses, but we also learned about lifestyle practices such as hunting (dwar), sitting around the fireplace (Wang Oo), and dancing/singing (Myelo/Wer) that naturally build a sense of community cohesion.

There is a controversial debate whether resilience is a product of nature or nurture. Some people believe that resilience is inherited; that some individuals have a resilience gene or perhaps inherit a resilient personality. Others believe that it is the neurobiological process that occurs after the initial fight/flight survival reaction. The absence of “calming” hormones after the survival reaction leaves people over-alert; consciously and subconsciously awaiting a reoccurrence of the traumatic event. Such hyper-vigilance also works against our physical bodies. Others believe it is the social support offered after an individual has endured a traumatic event.

(This is one of seven parent support group representative trainers)

I suppose the answer should consider all of these factors. However, living in Uganda has highlighted the social support component of resilience. Imagine the personal resources someone has when in the presence of generations of family and a cohesive community versus going through a mental breakdown in an alien or isolated environment such as a hospital. All this to say that my heart is torn between the longing I feel from being so far away from friends and family and the joy I feel in sharing my life with remarkable friends here.

After You've Hurt or Every Day is like Holy Saturday

2007-04-14T12:34:00.001+02:00

Photography can't begin to capture the beauty that we experienced in Queen Elizabeth National Park--not even with Travis' good eye and camera. Travis arrived in Entebbe in the middle of the night--we picked him up only after he'd been half eaten by mosquitoes and then drove straight to Mweya Safari Lodge--6 hours southwest. Travis is writing an article about them for his magazine so they were putting him up. Ben and I had intended to camp or stay in a hostel nearby but when we showed up the manager said they'd prepared a two room suite for Travis with plenty of room if we wanted to stay together. It was the first of surprising gifts during our week with my brother.

The last time we'd been this spoiled in Uganda was with Kimbal and Kellen at Paraa in Murchison Falls. Both times we thoroughly enjoyed the break, the luxury, the companionship of some of dear friends, and incredible beauty. Can I draw conclusions about a "trend" if I've only experienced it twice? I think this kind of beautiful experience has changed for me forever since coming to northern Uganda. The first time, I would've called it white-girl's guilt. This time, the change has matured into something more nuanced and difficult to express. Though a totally different experience--the only comparable emotion I can compare it to is the way that you feel in moments of love after you've deeply hurt and been hurt by your lover. There is a simplicity, gratitude and open hearted freedom when you're in love before you've ever hurt each other. After the first major injury--the relationship may be stronger, deeper, even better--but it's never the same because now you know how much it can hurt.
The Holy Week before Easter is a good time of reflection for these things. Between amazing food, swimming in the pool, enjoying the view, and the cool wind at dawn sticking our heads out of the jeep on game drives and watching lions--I had two of my favorite men to process with. I don't feel guilty for my full life--and I have a really full life. (though I try to be conscious of and avoid the ways my privelege can contribute to the injustice of others) But I don't feel as free to just be grateful for it because I'm kind of mad that not everyone has the same freedom. I feel loved by God but I'm not sure I would if I'd been born in an IDP camp or if I'd been raped or watched my family members decapitated. It's easy to say "thank you God" when I get to stay in a beautiful suite at a luxury safari lodge instead of camping in the rain--but I don't want God to be loving to me, I want him to be love. My life isn't in the middle of the sorrow of Good Friday. But that sorrow is a daily reality for a lot of people--and without the hope of redemption of Easter Sunday--I can't hold the belief that He is good and loving.

I confessed to Travis, sometimes I'm totally sure God is good and loving but maybe he just isn't trying. I get angry. I feel like I'm here--totally inadequate and working as hard as I can--and what is He doing? He could fix this tragic mess if he tried, and I can't--but at least I'm trying. This isn't really what I believe--it's how I honestly feel when I get discouraged. I have my sense of the problem of evil and I know what I think the answers to these questions are--but it's not where I operate from consistently. Being with family is healthy. It was a time of a strengthening faith. It reminds me where I've come from and makes me feel like I have roots that are still in tact. Somehow, the questions are easier to hold unanswered in my heart when they're voiced to someone who gets it, who doesn't judge, and who reminds me of the character I believe God has--that He wants a full life for every broken human being and to redeem the earth and everything in it. And we're on that day inbetween crucifixion and resurrection, groaning for redemption.
Easter Sunday we were back at home in Lira and sharing things that were new to Travis--like kasava. We got up late, ate a great breakfast, listened to a sermon online from Celebration, dug in the garden, and ran around the house looking for chocolate eggs that Ben surprised us with. The week with Travis was refreshing and wonderfully comfortable and natural. It seemed like he ought to just be able to come over every Saturday and hang out. Sharing what has become familiar to us in Uganda with him was so much fun. Doing life together and enjoying the ordinary as well as the awesome beauty was a gift we received gratefully. My parents just got our home videos from when we were kids put on DVD and sent them to us. So we got nostalgic watching younger versions of ourselves and marvelled at our parents' youthfulness, how totally adorable Tina was, and how much relationships change in 15 years.

Accepted Foreigner

2007-03-25T15:43:00.001+02:00

by Holly
It’s been awhile since I’ve blogged. Partly, I think because I didn’t have any interesting photos to go along with what’s kept me busy. I thought about taking one of me and the team of people (Anthony, Sylvia, Charles, Godfrey, Ben) who were working on one of two intense proposals we’ve done this year. It would have had all of us gathered around a computer very late at night and pulling out our hair and gritting our teeth. The title would have been, “Is this Framework Really Logical?” But, like most people, I don’t bring my camera with me for long days of office work.

Finally, I’ve broken out of the office again. I’ve been in Gulu this week monitoring the office there with the Program Manager. Ben always teases me because I love meetings so much—and I really like trying to improve systems to manage and support and supervise our staff and programs. It’s so much fun—although I sometimes want something really concrete that I can point to and say that-that’s what I do and why I’m here. We had a conversation with a friend last night who (among many other things) has installed playground equipment at a water hole near our office. I ride past everyday on the way to work on my bike. There are always kids there laughing and playing. He said how encouraging that was. I’d like to have something like that—a daily reminder that what I’m doing makes a difference to somebody. I get moments. In Gulu I spent a few hours under a mango tree in a camp talking with community members that are in a committee that protect children’s rights. In the past month because of what they’ve done one kid is back in school, another that was neglected is getting medical treatment and a girl that was sexually abused is in a safe environment. That’s wonderful—but it doesn’t even scratch the surface of what’s facing kids in the camps.

Last week I joined the TOTs (Ben’s project) in Soroti to learn more about “Traditional and Religious Ways of Healing in Acholi and Lango.” I went to learn and to spend time with the facilitators and ask my burning questions. I’ve been reading and thinking a lot about traditional ways of reconciliation and restorative justice--an integral part of healing. The instructors for the training were the key people from the traditional leadership of Lango and Acholi. The discussions were remarkably honest and I was encouraged by how progressive those entrusted with the preservation of traditions are.

Sometimes I start to feel like I’ve really adjusted and know the people that I work with and for and then I get a window into something deeper—something that I will never be a part of and may never understand. I was reading a book (which I hope to post about soon) about the ICC. It’s insightful, but there were times when reading it when I thought to myself, “This author doesn’t really know people here.” He’s probably spent more time with them than the majority of researchers, but still, he doesn’t understand the world view. I said this to myself with a kind of smug self-congratulatory tone—until last week when I had to confess that I don’t really know people here either. There is so much that surprises me, that seems unreal, or that even when it’s translated and explained I just can’t understand.

Once after a session where the Acholi leader was describing how to read signs of impending success or failure before leaving on a journey (like which direction birds chirp from or which toe you stub first or whether you first meet a man or woman on the road) he came up to me and asked if we had similar things. The only thing I could think of was a black cat crossing your path, but I explained that was a superstition that we don’t take very seriously and in general we don’t know how to read the noises of animals and birds. He looked at me with disbelief and said, “Do you mean to say that you just do things blindly? You have no idea what is coming and don’t try to read the signs that are there for you!” He admitted though, sometimes the signs can really disrupt life. What do you tell your boss when you don’t go on a business trip because the morning you were meant to leave you stubbed your left toe instead of your right and met the opposite sex of your first born child when you walked down the street? I’ve never felt particularly blind, but maybe I am. Could it be that in the physical world there are messages that if interpreted could guide us in constructive ways and avoid danger?

One night we practiced Wang Oo a communal time of gathering around the fire at night. It’s a time to educate the young children, to tell stories and riddles, share local brew, dance, and “deceive the hunger” while you wait to eat supper. Though I sat as the women should slightly away from the fire (traditionally to avoid eye contact with men who might want an “appointment”) with bare feet on a grass mat and shelled g-nuts and told riddles—I felt very much a foreigner. I was taught a riddle so that I could share it. “Two birds crossed the sea.” The answer is “eyes.” I don’t understand. Apparently, that’s really hilarious—but I have no idea why. All night I laughed with our friends but mostly because I loved the shared joy. Whenever the jokes were translated (or even when they were simple enough for me to catch in Luo) I rarely understood why they were funny—but I was so happy to be an accepted member of the circle around the fire.

The Party Church

2007-03-03T14:07:00.000+02:00

A package just came (I know those of you who put it together--you did it a long time ago!) from the family in the UK that had been forwarded from Celebration. And after about an hour of reading all the love sent out on 3x5 cards--we thought-we had to send out a HUGE THANK YOU! And thought, the internet not only tells you Celebration readers what we think, but everyone else on the world wide web that the party church is the most amazing community ever--truly, the way you support us in prayer and in action is a source of immense encouragement, strength, accountability, solidarity, hope, etc. etc. We are so happy that some of you will get to see our lives here pretty soon and experience Uganda for yourselves. (it seems like a couple more men would lead to greater gender balance, not to mention any names--cough...Jim P,ahem...Steve)

We really want to thank you for loving "the real and not the ideal" us. One of the great beauties of community is that in ways we can't fully imagine you are part of us and life here as we are part of you and life in Denver.

I was reading a book (thanks to Ryan) last week where the characters are looking at old map and reminded of a time when you could live without knowing where you were't living. Life in Uganda is good-we love what we're doing, our colleagues and friends, each other, the raw beauty/pain and freedom--but we have a constant awareness of where we aren't living--near you.

A Metaphorical Earthquake

2007-02-27T18:23:00.001+02:00

A short blip by Ben:
Last weekend, Holly and I stayed up late working on a proposal. The 100+ page document had all of us at the head office working late hours. After going to bed at 1:00 am Sunday, I was woken up by a deep grone and shaking bed 2 hours later. I have never been in an earthquake, so in my sleepiness, I nudged Holly and told her to stop shaking the bed. When she didn't wake up, I realized that we were in an earthquake. The earthquake became a metaphor for my life last week. I felt unsettled.
Yesterday, the ground was pounded with hail for hours. It was particularly strange as Uganda is currently in the middle of the dry season.
Maybe these incredible natural occurances are trying to remind me of the huge forces at work in the world; that my "work" should be put into a larger perspective.

Soft Wood for Widows

2007-02-02T15:17:00.001+02:00

Ben spent a week in Soroti training his crew on Childhood Development & Family Counselling and this week we were back in the same venue for Strategic Planning for CPA. The road between Lira and Soroti is horrendous, so I thought, rather than Ben coming back to Lira inbetween I'd go meet him there. We took a spontaneous trip south of Soroti near Mbale to a beautiful place called Sipi Falls and spent a day exploring three of the most beautiful waterfalls and a couple of caves. It's been too long for these two Coloradans since we went hiking and we were happy to put our feet back into our boots. It was good to relax together at the lodge overlooking cliffs, a deep valley and within earshot of one of the falls.

The waterfalls and caves were spectacular but so was everything else we walked past. The trees and flowers were equally stunning up close. This tree, we were told, is only for widows. No one else is allowed to cut it down for firewood. The wood is soft, and so they say it's easier for a woman who has no husband to do it for her to access firewood. It's always encouraging to learn ways that cultures and traditions have built in protection of vulnerable groups.

Beautiful Things

2007-01-14T13:22:00.001+02:00

by Holly
Last night I had a conversation with someone at a goodbye party for yet another transient ex-pat friend (we’ve been here 14 months, and that’s longer than most people stay so we’ve had several waives of goodbyes already). We passed the small talk about our holidays and then she asked if it was hard to come back to Lira. I had a warm sense of joy because the answer is decidedly no. We spent two weeks in the UK at my parents place together with Travis and Tina and I needed it. Maybe “need” is too strong, but I found deep comfort from much that has disturbed my body soul and mind in the soft couches of my parents cozy living room, the food, the walks through the woods, conversations and prayer with wise parents and caring siblings in front of warm fires and in pubs, baking 6 kinds of Christmas cookies in a beautiful kitchen, going to bed without wrestling a mosquito net, feeling cold for the first time in over a year, even shopping was strangely comforting.

I liked looking at all the beautiful stuff I can live without. I appreciated all the material comforts of “home” and was happy to discover that I don’t need them but they’re there whenever I want to enjoy them. One morning I was drinking some thick Italian espresso out of adorable cups the appropriate size. My own set of equally adorable espresso cups are in a box somewhere in Ben’s parents basement and who knows when I’ll use them again. I thought of my cups and was about to tell my mom that I missed them when I realized that I didn’t--this was in fact the first time that I’d even thought of them since they were packed away. I am grateful for many things when they’re there to enjoy but I’m okay without them. That knowledge is freeing.

It’s good to be back. We were surprised by how easy it felt and how nice it was to come back to our house. It is good to see friends and colleagues again. While we were gone one died and one had a child. It is good to get back to work, to get started on new reconciliation opportunities I’ve been looking forward to. It was good to hang the wind chimes I bought in the UK on my porch, to sit in my living room and listen to them. It sounds like home.

Manufacture the Stars

2007-01-14T13:15:00.001+02:00

by Holly
Philip met up with us in London for a New Year’s celebration. The night was, for me, a confluence of Ugandan life and the UK. I loved it and it made me laugh to have them both in the same place. The oddness of both get more pronounced. Classically Ugandan, Philip, we thought, would spend the day with us after we met up at King’s Cross but instead he’d found a fellow Ugandan and had other plans. He’d join us later—which he did along with three unexpected others who of course were related to or knew someone that we knew in Uganda. I love it that in Uganda everyone is welcome and invited everywhere and that plans or food or space are never limiting factors. For westerners we tend to think about the composition of a social gathering and plan it to avoid awkward combinations. That just wouldn’t happen here. We had a great evening with delicious cuisine prepared by my brother who became quite the chef since coming to the UK. We shared highlights of 2006 around the table with Tina, Travis, and friends Stephie and Tom.
Of course Philip came so late that he missed the meal but no one minded or apologized. When we told him to come for dinner he said, “Oh, I’ve learned that when you come to dinner here you’re supposed to bring your own drinks like a bottle of wine.” He told us this as if we would think that it was as socially bizarre as he did. I remember when we first got here and were surprised that no guest ever brought anything to share.

We watched the fireworks and had the count down into the New Year from Big Ben and the London Eye. It was an epoch moment to stand with two of my favorite men—my brother and my husband, to hold my sister’s hand and to share that experience with a friend from Uganda and see it through his eyes. Unlike all the Brits around us Philip couldn’t contain his awe and excitement—he cheered at the top of his lungs after each burst of fireworks. “Man has learned to manufacture the stars! God bless the world!” We all found ourselves cheering along with him and the experience was more full.

Re-entering the western world I was surprised by obvious things. First, there are a whole lot of white people. I haven’t seen so many in one place for a long time. I’ve kind of gotten used to being a minority. In England my skin didn’t feel so novel. On New Year’s Eve for a few minutes with Philip and company I was once again the token white.

In the UK there are very particular ways of doing everything--what utensils or dishes or glasses should be used in what context, and when you should or shouldn’t say certain things. It’s a little bit overwhelming when it seems like everyone already knows all the rules to the game and you’re expected to play without being privy to the instructions.

Another thing I noticed is that there is a lot of trash. Not in the street, like in Uganda—but just in general we make a lot more of it. Probably because we package everything and consume a lot. We westerners really like packages. You should note it next time you buy something—I’m sure it’s in a package—whatever it is. Many of them are so unnecessary but it makes it feel cleaner and somehow more special. With food it cuts down on preparation and clean up time a lot but it also makes the food seem further away and less real. I feel close to my food in Uganda. It’s very real and raw. All of life is real and raw and I like it like that. It makes me feel more real too.

There isn’t any dust in the UK, well maybe there is but it’s not red and it is probably from old books or dead skin cells and it isn’t from the earth. Although I enjoyed cooking in an immaculate kitchen with marble countertops and walking all day shopping on London streets without needing to wash my feet I have to say I have a new appreciation for dirt. Sometimes it gets annoying but it makes me feel closer to the earth, to my origin—not separated by layers of pavement and carpet and tile and marble. Life is dirty. Uganda gives me the freedom to acknowledge my dirt, because we’re all human beings walking down the same dusty streets together.

Soft

2007-01-14T13:09:00.001+02:00

by Holly
When we got to my parents house this is what I saw when I walked in. I cried. I wasn’t sure why. It just looked so soft and beautiful and it felt like it was exactly the shape of the hole in my heart. It was one of those moments where you get a glimpse of the way life or home is supposed to be and most of the time it isn’t where we live. Where we live isn’t even a shadow of what should be. Maybe that’s true everywhere but in northern Uganda it feels particularly true. That’s not to say that everyone here should have a living room like the Randall family cottage but I do think that we all long for something that is there--comfort, beauty, a loving family that actually likes and looks forward to time together and is restored by it, shelter, safety, more than enough to eat, acceptance.

It broke my heart. Partly, because I miss it and partly because it seems impossible for the people of northern Uganda. And then at the same time those moments happen here too. Some are quiet and simple and others are more profound. I had a simple one yesterday when I walked home under a red sun after a meeting with the management team that was energized and full of common purpose. And then Ben and I sat on the front porch and watched the sun sink and talked about the day. I had a moment like that last year when I first saw Acholis dance. While they sweat and kicked up the red dust to the drums I thought, “this is what they were meant to do, this is how it’s supposed to be with the young people dancing and the children trying from the sides and the old people nodding and watching—they weren’t meant for this war, destruction, displacement and poverty.” But that moment happened right in the middle of it. In a way that’s comforting, because it means that whatever those moments are or whatever they reflect—the longing for home—the restoration of things to the way they should be—life at its fullest—they are more powerful and can’t be overcome by the most gruesome war, or by massive displacement or abject poverty. Human beings will still dance.

Hunting Giant Edible Rats

2007-01-13T18:52:00.000+02:00

On a routine monitoring visit in Gulu, I set aside an afternoon for rat hunting deep in the bush with Eric (an MCCer in Hoima) and Robert (a trainer in Gulu). While we were supposed to join a friend of Robert’s at midday, we didn’t leave for rat-hunting until about 3 in the afternoon. Once we arrived at his home, an IDP camp where most of his extended family lives, we realized that plans weren’t as set as we had been led to believe. Robert approached one of his friends and the word began to spread, “these two muzungus wanted to go hunting for rats in the bush, let’s get our spears and go”. Within a few minutes we had about 12 people in the back of the truck—each carrying his weapon of choice including spears, axes and machetes. Scared that others would jump into the truck, drove away quickly. In the rear view mirror I saw a dog jump into the pile of people riding in the back.

We drove down a small dirt road until we came to Robert’s land. Here, in the middle of nowhere, all that could be seen was tall grass and the skeleton of houses burnt by war. We and the dogs jumped out with high expectations for spearing a rat for supper. No one explained to Eric and I how to hunt rats, and if we didn’t keep up with the break-neck speed of the others, we would be lost. In places the grass was 12 feet tall, we couldn’t see more that 5 feet in front of us. Eric turned to me and asked “how are we supposed to see anything in this, let alone aim and spear it?”

About an hour into our voyage into the mysterious grass, I paused. The sun was setting and the earth turning red, the air untouched by industry and rich with nature, a gentle evening breeze cooled our hot bodies, and the grass was an ocean’s shore as we waded deeper and deeper. I was so exposed to mother-nature that I didn’t know whether to feel immense fear of absolute comfort. The feeling that dominated all others was the feeling of total freedom.

As the sun set, the morale and energy for stabbing a rat was dissipating. The guy in front of me pierced the ground with his spear and dug up a massive tuber. After extracting it, he turned around and generously handed me a piece (about 2 kg). Everyone besides Eric and I rapidly skinned the cassava as if they do it in their sleep. Underneath the layers of dirt and tough skin a beautiful white is revealed. Raw cassava is like eating a raw potato, only harder and starchier. I was hungry and gladly ate my piece.

While we didn’t kill a rat for supper, Robert’s wife had prepared one back home. We walked away with a pheasant’s egg and a bonding experience.

Splitting the White Ants

2006-11-30T13:27:00.001+02:00

By Holly

For a long time I've had the idea of this post in my mind. Probably since the time in March when flying white ants stormed our house for the first time and a rush of neighbors licking their lips came to collect them. People told us then how valued the white ants are. They are considered a precious and tasty morsel--rare and shared only among friends. Another way of describing a dear friend is to say "split the white ant at the waist." Even if you only had one ant you'd share half of it with your friend. Someone told me that if you have a "split the white ant" friend then you know that you have a true friend, someone you can depend on and who depends on you. It reminds me of chilly evening walk with Tina, Kimbal & Kellen in Boston. We went through the Holocaust memorial after consuming massive lobsters and yummy clam chowder. It's a glass hallway in a park with stories etched along the path. One of them was of a girl in a concentration camp who while doing work outside happened upon a raspberry. She hid it in her pocket and brought it back into the camp that night where she shared her now smooshy raspberry with her best friend. It made me cry when I read it--and since I was with very good friends--we teared up together--and promised that we would share the smooshy raspberries of life.

So my idea was to post some of the faces of our growing friendship here--people that we've shared white ants with. The problem is that friendships/relationships are not static. Every day is full of changes-of new closeness, new trust, but also of betrayals and disappointments--some big and some small. The largest blow to my white ant idea was when our closest friend confessed that he'd been stealing from us (see betrayal and reconciliation). Most of our relationships are not so dramatic, but as human beings I think we regularly give one another reason to doubt, reason to wonder about true motives, and reason for me to put off posting the faces of people that I sometimes ask myself, but are they really friends that I can share white ants with? Am I really the kind of friend that they'd share a white ant with? I don't know. I think that there just comes a point when we have to be ok with the fact that our friends will disappoint us, and we will disappoint them and we make conscious choices to continue to trust, hope and love in full knowledge that the human experience is broken and vulnerable.

Dan

Helen

Philip and Tonny

Jane

Godfrey

Priscilla

Sandra