Think less. Write more.

I am now in the bad habit of thinking too much about what I write. And so I write nothing.

A friend told me he put our blog on a recommended reading list for a class he teaches. I'm simultaneously flattered and intimidated by that, since I'm as likely to write about something that struck me while I was doing yoga or recount a curious incident with my children as I am about northern Uganda and sexual violence, gender or politics. Even when I'm commenting on any of those, it is often a rather personal reflection--more self indulgent than analytical.

I am not sure I really want the moral responsibility that comes with a large readership, which I don't currently and may never have, but the reality of the latent possibility of one suggests I approach the blog with more gravitas than I really want to. Truly, the idea that there is the hypothetical though unlikely potential of any person on the planet seeing what one writes should strike a paralyzing terror into any sane person. Anyone can reach for the low hanging fruit on your tree of flaws and tear you to shreds--or worse, you may unwittingly do harm. (witness the blogosphere after Invisible Children or Nicholas Kristof do ANYTHING--granted, often criticism is warranted--but still).

I could easily criticize myself. I just re-read a couple of posts, and realize it's not uncommon for me to write when I'm fired up about something, like: political demonstrators being lumped into the same category with murderers and rapists--which I presented as infuriating nonsense even though the reality is much more complicated. I do understand a logic behind it. It even illustrates a phenomena that I write about in my thesis, yet I portrayed a simplistic view. Realities are always much more complicated than a blog portrays.

So that's my official excuse for not blogging for almost a year. My unofficial excuses are also manifold:

I wrote a draft of my thesis instead.

I was pregnant. It was the dry season. I couldn't handle having the hot laptop on my belly for any longer than necessary.

 I had a baby.

I have a two year old (who is loud).

Our super hut (which was supposed to take 2 months to build) has been under construction for over a year.

I live in a one room hut in the same place as the construction zone, the construction workers, and the baby and the two year old.

It's loud.

But I aim to improve, and to put the terror and the noise to one side--because the great thing about blogs, at least this one, is that it is allowed to be thought in progress, unpolished, a little raw, and it invites interaction.

 So, I hereby resolve to think less and write more.

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

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).

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

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

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: