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

(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.

You decide

Is there a connection between this and that?

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

What keeps me up at night

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.

What grows in this soil?

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.

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

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.