Feel good about yourself--Become an extremist

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

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 Thinking has been replaced by the voice and energy of two-year-old activity and the responses of us adults around him.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

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

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'

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?

*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

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"

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...

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

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

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?

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?

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

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

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

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

Christmas Ugandan Style

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

(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

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

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