Sad in the same place

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.

24 Years Coming

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.)

15 Minutes or Never

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.

Accepted Foreigner

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.

Man Was Made to Be Broken by: Holly

A young man named Daniel came to see us a couple days after we got here. He has a degree in computer science. He’s sharp, compassionate and likes politics. He cares for his aunt’s kids during the week and on the weekend bikes to his village 20km away and works on the family’s land. On Sunday he bikes to the neighboring region over 4 hours away to bring 5 boxes of tomatoes to Lira where he can sell them at a profit of about $2. He says he would do that every day but his aunt can only let him borrow her bike on the weekend. At 21 he’s the only one of the family with an education but he hasn’t found a steady job. The burden to provide is heavy on him but he bares it well and is clearly not afraid to work hard.

We were talking about playing soccer barefoot. I said I didn’t want Ben to play barefoot because he might break a toe. Daniel looked at me seriously, as if that was the silliest thing I could’ve said. “You don’t want him to break? But he will break! Man was made to be broken! How can we not break—with all our passion—no, we will break. That is what we’re made for.”

Saturday evenings are his only free time and so far he’s spent them drinking tea with us. Yesterday we heard more of his story while we watched the African sun sink low on our back porch. Two years ago the LRA came to his house and abducted him along with his little brother. After a week in captivity they had walked from Lira all the way to Sudan. During a battle between the UPDF (Ugandan forces) and the LRA he managed to escape with his brother. He had been badly beaten. He still carries the scars. But, he says, I was able to protect my brother. His brother was only 7 years old.

A Role Beyond Solidarity?

Joe and I had coffee sometime the month before Ben and I left Denver. Sipping on something fair trade, Joe said that as outsiders wanting to “help” groups that are suffering from war, injustice and poverty—really the only thing we have to offer is solidarity. I found that idea sobering. Solidarity is significant—the importance of it shouldn’t be downplayed. It has deep spiritual roots—we should mourn with those who mourn and rejoice with those who are celebrating. Maybe our contribution is tied to our dear Prof. PVA’s notion of “witness.” Or to what I shared with the students in Azerbaijan volunteering in deplorable orphanages—there is value in crying over children who have never had anyone to cry for them before. Or maybe it’s related to what Mark and I talked about in the ILLC’s kitchen when he was discouraged about Lebanon—there is a spark that can lead to empowerment when an outsider shows hope/energy/optimism to an insider too beaten down by years of oppression to remember the strength of his/her own spirit.

In the reading I’ve done so far about Uganda several key characteristics that are either sources or results of the conflict stand out: fear, mistrust, desensitization/normalization of violence(that drives the night commuters, that keeps the land uncultivated, that makes children kill, that keeps Kony from negotiating, child soldiers from returning, communities from accepting back the abducted…) . The results are too many to mention. And I’ve only read about them. I haven’t seen them yet. As someone who wants to be an active agent for positive social change in Uganda I hope that in addition to solidarity I can offer the opposite of fear, mistrust, and desensitization: hope, trust, and a profound respect for human life. God help me.