Rwanda

We’ve been travelling on the program for the last three weeks. We left Gulu for Kampala on October 19, and spent a week there. Then, after a stopover in Mbarara and Nakivale Refugee Camp, we arrived in Kigali, Rwanda.

We’ve been affectionately calling Kigali paradise for the past month or so, as our trip there grew closer and closer. Compared to Uganda, especially Gulu and the rest of northern Uganda, development there is insane. The roads are paved, and paved well. There are lines painted on the roads and traffic lights – before Rwanda, I had only seen one traffic light in my entire time in Uganda, and that was in downtown Kampala, near Parliament. Boda boda drivers not only wear helmets and vests to mark them as official drivers, but also are required to provide a helmet for their riders. In Uganda, you’re lucky if your driver has a helmet for himself, and there’s never one for the rider.

Additionally, there wasn’t one grass roof to be seen, in the capital city or out. Even small, rural houses had tin or tile roofs, and houses were rarely even made of wood, but usually stone or brick, if you were wealthier. There was ten times the amount of cars in Rwanda as there were in Uganda, and a public transportation system.

Rwanda itself is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, hands down beating Rome and Paris. It’s called the Land of a Thousand Hills, and once you cross the border, it’s easy to see why. There is not a single plain to be seen through almost the entire country. And these aren’t little hills either – most could probably pass as small mountains. Roads and houses are built right into the hillside, and anyplace flat, especially in the north, is manmade. Some of the hillsides are covered with a forest of tall trees; others look like massive tortoise shells, a patchwork of fields and grasses in different shades of green and brown.

Kigali itself could pass for a small American city. There are skyscrapers – actual skyscrapers! – and electricity that almost never goes out. Restaurants serve gourmet food, things I could never hope to find in Uganda are in every supermarket, and people here are so used to white people I can walk around town without getting stared at (though, the marriage proposals received served as a reminder I wasn’t actually in a Western city). Here more than anywhere the amount of money that was poured into Rwanda after the 1994 genocide is hugely apparent.

It was this genocide that I was in Rwanda to study, though, and with only about a week and a half to try and cram in an entire country’s worth of history, we got to work as soon as we arrived. What became apparent almost immediately was that, even though no one talks about their Hutu and Tutsi identities, the Tutsi are still the ruling class in Rwanda. It was easy to tell most of our lecturers had been Tutsi by the way they spoke (using the words ‘we’ to describe victims or survivors of the genocide, and ‘they’ to describe Hutu perpetrators were the most obvious and giveaways). We already knew, from visiting and talking with Rwandan refugees in Nakivale, that many Hutu are afraid to return to Rwanda for fear of being arrested and charged with crimes in the Gacaca Courts, a system used solely to judge and sentence accused genocide perpetrators.

All of this might seem like obvious results of the horrific events of 1994, and you would be right. However, nobody talks about the thousands of Hutu who were also slaughtered during the genocide. The genocide in Rwanda is almost always called ‘The 1994 Genocide of the Tutsis’. The Hutu who refused to participate in the genocide, or the moderates who spoke out against the killing, were killed right alongside the Tutsi citizens.

Additionally, an even bigger dilemma that hasn’t been addressed is the atrocities committed by the Rwandan Patriotic Front/Army, led by Paul Kagame, during their advance into the country from Uganda in 1994. Reading almost any book, visiting any museum, or listening to any speaker, and they would have you think the RPF/A launched their offensive to stop the killings and save the Tutsi singlehandedly. However, as they approached Kigali, they met both Tutsi and Hutu alike fleeing the violence, and like the President’s Guard and the Interahamwe, demanded to see identity cards before offering protection. More often than not, any Hutus they discovered were murdered.

Paul Kagame is now president of Rwanda. The development apparent in the country is a direct result of his direction of funds in the country. He even instituted an activity called Umuganda, a national, mandatory volunteer effort that takes places the last Saturday of every month, in order to keep cities like Kigali clean and to establish a sense of pride and ownership of the wellbeing of the country within the citizenry. Umuganda works; most people are happy, even proud, to participate in a national effort on Rwanda’s behalf. Kagame’s administration also sees little to no corruption; it is clear why Rwanda is viewed as an African success story.

However, not all is as it appears. Kagame maintains a tight grip on Rwanda. It is not a clear example of authoritarian rule, but it is something that becomes abundantly clear to the careful observer. Whereas in Uganda, I could walk down the street, if I wanted, criticizing Museveni and talking about the LRA at the top of my voice, that sort of thing is ill advised in Rwanda, to say the least. People who have spoken out against Kagame have been subsequently arrested on one charge or another soon after, if they don’t disappear altogether. We couldn’t even ask questions directly to our lecturuers that might be construed as critical of the administration or sympathetic to people other than the Tutsi where the genocide is concerned. It would seem the trade off for an uncorrupt regime is one without basic freedoms of speech or press. I couldn’t tell you which I preferred (though, going back to Uganda has actually been a relief, which probably says something).

But, back to the genocide. I expected these two weeks to be rough. Studying the 22-year war in northern Uganda was something I could process slowly over the course of a month and a half. In Rwanda, I had to deal with trauma that took place in three months and killed just as many people, if not more, than in Uganda, and had to do it in eleven days. We had to cram a lot in.

We went to three different genocide memorials in one day. The first we went to was an actual genocide museum, with murals and placards with names and information about the leaders and victims of the genocide. There were machetes and other weapons that had been used in the killing on display. There was actual footage playing of people being hacked to death, and videos of survivors telling their stories in graphic detail.

At the end of the museum tour, there were a series of rooms we could enter and explore. One was a room full of photos of people who had been killed or were missing and presumed dead from the genocide, with their names written in black Sharpie underneath. Some of the photos had flowers or small figurines standing next to them, as though they were actual graves. There was more footage playing in this room of people talking about the killing of their family members. Another room had a rectangular glass display case with the skulls of genocide victims displayed inside.

After the museum, our group drove to two other memorials in churches where actual mass killings took place. Here, we found rows and rows and rows of human skulls and bones from the people who had been killed there. In the corners were huge piles of clothes, worn by the people as they had been killed. It was an emotionally intense day, to say the least. It was incredibly difficult to try and remain detached when confronted with such a sheer amount of human brutality.

We had to try and make Rwanda fun. It wasn’t so hard, considering Rwanda had so much to offer a bunch of American kids who hadn’t seen almost anything Western in two months. We ate pizza, Chinese, and burgers all the time. We drank coffee in cafés, and found bars that actually mixed drinks. We went hiking in the hills, and took city buses downtown to sightsee and shop.

One night, we bought tickets to attend a charity party hosted by a Rwandan youth hostel. When we showed up, it was a massive gathering of Western youth dancing to Western music. I’ve never been so relieved to hear Justin Bieber in my life – finally, songs that I recognized, that I could dance to!

Another night, we visited the Hotel des Milles Collines, AKA Hotel Rwanda. It was easy to hang out there, since it didn’t look anything like the hotel in the movie, which a group of us had watched only a few nights before, but it was still eerie to sit back by the pool with drinks and live music.

Our last two days in Rwanda, we travelled to two very different homes – the first, the traditional palace of the ethnic king, last residing in the 1950s, and then to the mansion of Juvenal Habyarimana, the man who presided as president of Rwanda in the years preceding the genocide.

At the palace, we saw three different royal homes. The first was the traditional palace for the king, a massive grass hut, larger than any I’ve ever seen. Inside, the floor was covered with thick woven mats and ceremonial clay pots, as well as traditional weapons and decorative furs. Behind the king’s hut were two smaller huts, one for the king’s milk and one for the king’s beer (which, if you ask me, is pure awesomeness). Behind these three huts was a corral for the king’s cows. These cows, with huge, curving horns, were a status symbol. They were never slaughtered for meat, their milk never drank, and were only paraded around in costumes or bedecked in flowers on special occasions.

The last of the ethnic kings, though, didn’t live in any such hut. Instead, as he converted to Christianity, the Belgians built him a sprawling and beautiful modern home, with bathrooms, fireplaces, and even a garage for his Volkswagon. Apparently, this wasn’t enough for the last king. In the 1950s, he commissioned an even larger home on the next hill, where we traveled next. Unfortunately, he died the year after it was completed, and was never able to move in. It’s now an art museum, housing paintings, sculptures, and wooden carvings all revolving around the common motif of peace.

Habyarimana’s home was even more luxurious than the two homes of the king. It’s a huge, sprawling estate, complete with tennis courts, an in ground swimming pool, and a slightly smaller in ground pool for Habyarimana’s massive pet snake. Inside, the decadence was even more apparent – sparkling chandeliers, carved wooden furniture and paneling, even a coffee table made from an elephant, with preserved elephant feet serving as the feet of the table.

Habyarimana’s paranoia was astounding, and apparent in his home (and I mean, hey – when you’re the face, the voice, and the leader of the outright murder of over a million people, no wonder). Built into the stairs leading to the second floor were a series of alarms that would go off when someone would climb them. Each succeeding step triggered a different sound, so the president would be able to tell how far the intruder had progressed. In his bathroom, he kept a filing cabinet full of money in all different currencies so any intruder would be distracted long enough to allow him to escape. And, in his sons’ room, he had a series of secret doors, two of which opened into small closets that were used to store arms and a third that hid a staircase that led to the third floor of the house – the only staircase that led there. The third floor was large enough for Habyarimana, his wife, and all of his children to all live comfortably for a very long time. There were two bathrooms, several bedrooms, a sitting room, and even a roof that served as a chapel. Habyarimana even kept a traditional African doctor on staff, and it was on this floor he resided.

The final part of our tour led us back outside and across the yard. From a guardpost, we were able to see the remnants of the plane that had carried Habyarimana back from peace negotiations with the RPF/A in 1994. As it approached Kigali International Airport on the night of April 6, 1994, just down the road from the presidential home, it was shot from the sky. Habyarimana, the president of Burundi, and several members of the Rwandan cabinet died in the crash. The genocide started only a few hours later. To this day, the identity of who shot down the president’s plane remains a mystery. Hutu extremists in 1994 claimed it was the RPF/A, and a French court, on evidence of radio transmissions, has convicted Kagame of participating. But, the French aided the Hutu regime that incited the genocide, providing arms and military training. Meanwhile, the hate radio station that broadcast the names and addresses Tutsi, and was one of the biggest tool the genocide perpetrators had in killing, broadcast only days before the death of the president that something very big was going to happen, and then it would be time for ‘the work’ to begin. I don’t believe the world will ever know the truth.

I can say all of this because I’m back in Gulu now, beginning my research, and I’m not going to get kicked out of the country for it (though, seriously, how cool would that be?). We got back on Friday, and we’re all settled in our guesthouse, nice and cozy. It’s hard to believe I’ll only be here another month. The good news, though, is that I’ll be able to post more now that I’m settled in one place. Look for me!

Northern Uganda, and Everyone Else

Our lectures continued while we were in Kampala – it’s not all pizza and Christmas shopping, you know. Our very first lecturer on last Thursday, after we were settled, was a judge who worked for Uganda’s National Amnesty Commission, which was established in 2000 to deal with the number of citizens involved in various rebellions throughout the country (while the LRA is the most prominent, there have been several other movements in the past twenty years).

The goal of the Commission is to forgive and successfully reintegrate rebels into Ugandan society as normal, hard-working citizens. Once rebels have been captured or voluntarily return from the bush, they are given a chance to apply for amnesty, which in most cases is guaranteed. Once the former rebel has been granted amnesty, they’re given a sum of money roughly equivalent to $100, some basic tools and cookware, and then they’re sent off.

Now, ignoring the basic flaws of this plan, such as finding land and reintegration with a war-ravaged community, amnesty in and of itself is one pretty solid way of dealing with huge numbers of combatants who may have been taken in their childhood and forced to fight, or men and women who might have stayed with the LRA out of fear for themselves and their families. Amnesty protects these people from unjust prosecution, and gives them a chance to start over.

But, back to our lecturer. The judge was from western Uganda, an area that didn’t notably suffer from the LRA insurgency and also Museveni’s home region. Tribes play a big part in the way this country works. The Acholi are looked down upon in almost every other region, and have a very difficult time securing positions in the central government because of their tribe. Meanwhile, for as long as Museveni has been in power, the west has been more favored than any other region, financially, developmentally, and academically.

While the north was being ravaged my conflict, Uganda’s other regions were successful, even prosperous. When asked, they acknowledged there was conflict in the north, but it’s as though northern Uganda is a different country, rather than just a different part of Uganda. They would say, “This is the most successful we’ve been in years, this is a good time.” They are oblivious to the fact that 6 hours north, children are being abducted and whole families are being slaughtered. And if they are aware of it, so what? The Acholi are violent people. They were born to fight. What problem is it of mine?

Our lecturer seemed to follow this line of thought. I believe in amnesty as much as the next person, but I believe it has its role alongside traditional methods of justice and reconciliation as well, such as mat oput, the drinking of the bitter root, I described a few posts ago. There is another Acholi healing tradition that involves stepping on an egg, the symbol of new life, before one enters a home to purge them of all the violence they’ve committed or seen, so they could be ‘reborn’.

Our lecturer, though, didn’t seem to hold much stock by these methods of reconciliation. “What if someone came to your house, killed your mother, raped your sister?” he repeated, over and over again. “Would stepping on a silly egg be enough for you?”

No, it wouldn’t, thank you, but I’m American, and we have different cultural expectations

“Well, in America, you have the death penalty, don’t you?” he said. “How many of you don’t believe in the death penalty?”

Every single one of us raised our hands. Our lecturer, clearly not expecting that reaction, waved his hands.

“No, no. What if someone came to your house, killed your mother, raped your sister…”

And on and on it went, for an hour and a half.

It was so frustrating to see the marginalization of the north by the south right there in person, and not be able to do anything about it. Being in Kampala is so different from Gulu. The roads are better, the electricity goes out less frequently, pit latrines aren’t as common here, there are more cars on the road, there are more kids in school… I could go on forever. Its like anything above the Nile is a different country, and not of any concern to anyone is the south.

Uganda needs to become united, and tribes, a method of divide and rule reinforced and politicized by colonization, need to be reconciled with the perception of being Ugandan. When you ask someone here where they’re from, they’ll say they’re Acholi, or Lwo, or Bagandan, before they say they’re from Uganda, even if they are traveling and are asked in Tanzania or Britain or the U.S. Being Ugandan is not at the forefront of anyone’s mind. The problems of the north need to become the problems of the south, the prosperity of the south needs to be shared with the north, and the people of this country need to see themselves as Ugandan if they ever hope to prevent future conflict and become a part of the second world, or even the first.

Being in Kampala and now Rwanda has been such a treat. There’s been more western food, indoor plumbing, and lukewarm showers. But, honestly, I miss Gulu, and the Acholi. I’m pretty stoked to head back next week and get started my research.

Happy Halloween, everybody!

The Acholi

At this point, I feel like I should provide everyone with a little background on the Acholi people, their language, and their culture. The Acholi have a creation story, like any culture. It goes a little something like this:

Long ago, there were a people led by one chief, named Olum. He was married to a woman named Nyilak, and together, they had three sons, named Tipal, Labongo, and Gipir.

Tipal, however, was insane, and unfit to lead the tribe when Olum stepped down. As such, Olum’s second son, Labongo, became chief. He had a wife named Lawina, and a son named Oteka.

One day after Labongo became chief, he and Gipir were heading out to work in the fields. Gipir had awoken later than his brother, and told Labongo to leave without him, and that he would follow shortly. As Gipir was leaving the hut, though, he saw an elephant in the garden, trampling the produce. Gipir ran back into the hut, and grabbed the ancestral spear that was passed to Labongo when he became chief. Running back out, Gipir hurled the spear at the elephant, and hit it in the side. Injured, but not dead, the elephant ran off with the spear still stuck in him.

There was nothing left for Gipir but to tell his brother what had happened. When he did, Labongo was furious. He demanded Gipir leave the village and not to return until he had found the spear. Gipir protested, arguing the task was impossible, but Labongo refused to change his mind. Dismayed, Gipir packed supplies, and left the village.

He traveled for three months, tracking the elephant through excruciating heat and torrential downpours. He burned during the day, and froze at night. Mosquitoes feasted on him. Still, there was no sign of the elephant or the spear.

About to give up, Gipir came upon an old woman. She fed him and cleaned him, and gave him a comfortable place to sleep for the night. In the morning, Gipir told her about his impossible task. She reassured him, telling him he would soon find what he was looking for and his journey would soon come to an end. She also gave him a small bag of tiny white glass beads.

Heartened, Gipir carried on. Soon enough, just as the woman had foretold, he found the elephant, dead from the wound the spear had caused. Gipir pulled out the spear, and returned to the village. He returned the spear to Labongo, who was joyous at seeing his brother once more.

As they feasted together on the night of his return, however, Labongo’s young son, Oteka, found Gipir’s bag of glass beads from the old woman. As he was playing with them, he accidentally swallowed one.

Gipir, still angry about being cast from the village for three months, demanded the return of his bead. Labongo bid him to wait for allow the bead to pass. However, afters days of waiting, Gipir demanded something more be done. Labongo pleaded with his brother, offering to buy him another bead to replace the one that Oteka had eaten, but Gipir refused. So, Labongo unwillingly dug a grave, and then sliced open his son’s belly, searching through the intestines until the bead was retrieved. He returned it to Gipir, but was furious at having to kill his only son.

The village became divided; half supported Gipir, and half supported Labongo. Each side was ready for war when the village elders intervened. They forced the brothers to sit down and perform mat oput, the drinking of the bitter root. The roots of two trees that have grown together are cut and boiled, producing a liquid that is blood red and incredibly bitter. Each offending party drinks from a cup of the liquid three times, and the bitterness taken in by each drinker causes them to forget their own.

The brothers drank the root, and the village was reconciled. Gipir also became a leader of the people, and remained in the north while his brother traveled to the west. Gipir’s tribe became known as the Acholi, and Labongo’s were the Luo – two tribes which are inextricably linked today. Their languages are incredibly similar, and their cultural practices are reminiscent of the time when each tribe lived together.

The Acholi originate from Sudan, but gradually moved south. The groups kept splitting apart and settling, and now tribes from South Sudan, northern and western Uganda, and the Congo can all trace their origins back to a single Acholi tribe.

Historically, Acholi households are headed by a man who had several wives, each of which would have several children. Babies are born in the home. Baby boys are kept in the house for three days, baby girls for four, and then they are brought out in the morning sun to be admired. Twins are considered sacred; dances are organized for them, and certain animals are slaughtered. Their umbilical cords are kept. The second twins are born, their Acholi names are designated: The first twin born is named Opio, if it’s a boy or Apio, if it’s a girl, meaning first. The second twin is named Ocen (boy) or Acen (girl), meaning after.

The man was charged giving the household direction, and at night, the entire family would come together before the fire. The boys and girls would be divided, and here they would receive their informal education; boys would learn or animals and farming, and the girls would learn traditional cooking and other domestic and familial responsibilities from their grandmothers.

Death and the dead are hugely respected in Acholi culture. When a family member dies, the body is cleaned and prepared by the women. After family members travel from all over to visit the deceased, the dead are buried in the afternoon on family property, close to the home. Families are never far from one another, even in death. Then, food is prepared, and there is dancing. Another ceremony is held three days after death for men, four days for women. Final rites for the deceased are given after a year, when there is again another celebration.

The Acholi language has just as five vowels, just like in English, but with different pronunciations:

A (ah)

E (ay)

I (ee)

O (oh)

U (oo)

There are several letter combinations that make sounds not found in the American alphabet. The most common of the are ‘pw’, which sounds like an American ‘f’, and ‘ny’, which sounds like ‘nee’ or ‘na’, depending on the following consonants. The letter ‘c’ sounds like ‘ch’, as only ‘k’ makes the ‘kah’ sound, and the letter ‘g’ is swallowed and nearly indistinguishable in a word.

There are different greetings you use for different times in the day:

Morning:

Ibutu maber? (Have you slept well?)

            Eyo. (Yes.)

Ico maber? (Did you wake well?)

            Aco maber. (I woke well.)

Daytime:

Irii Maber? (Are you well?)

            Eyo, arii maber. (Yes, I am well.)

Nighttime:

Dong ibut maber. (Sleep well.)

            Apwoyo. (Thank you.)

To introduce yourself to somebody after they’ve greeted you, you would say Nyinga and then your name.

Some words for common Ugandan food:

Cukari (Sugar)

Cak (Milk)

Murango (Beans)

Cai (Tea)

Tongweno (Egg)

Ful (Groundnut [peanuts in America])

Muyembe (Mango)

Guana (Cassava [Fun fact: In large quantities, cassava is a carcinogen. Good thing I don’t like it, I guess.])

Mugati (Bread)

Labolo (Banana)

Ringo (Beef)

Kado (Salt)

Matonda (Passion fruit)

Moodek (Cooking oil)

Bel (Millet)

Layata (Sweet potatoes [different from American sweet potatoes])

Layatamunu (English potatoes)

Munu is the Acholi word for a white person, or a European. It’s commonly interchanged with muzungu, the Kiswahili word meaning the same thing.

Words in Acholi are often recycled, and can have two meanings. For instance, the word cam can mean food, or to eat. Myel can mean a dance, or to dance. However, it is uncommon for the words to be related, like the previous two examples. Much more common are instances like the word coo, which either means men or to wake up, depending on the pronunciation.

Numbers:

0 – Jero

1 – Acel

2 – Aryo

3 – Adek

4 – Angwen

5 – Abic

6 – Abicel

7 – Abiro

8 – Aboro

9 – Abungwen

10 – Apar

11 – Apar wiye acel

12 – Apar wiye aryo

13 – Apar wiye adek

…

20 – Pyere aryo

21 – Pyere aryo wiye acel

22 – Pyere aryo wiye aryo

23 – Pyere aryo wiye adek

…

30 – Pyere adek

40 – Pyere angwen

50 – Pyere abic

…

100 – Miya acel

1,000 – Alip acel

Days of the Week:

Ceng Cabit (Sunday)

Ceng Baraja (Monday)

Ceng Aryo (Tuesday)

Ceng Adek (Wednesday)

Ceng Angwen (Thursday)

Ceng Abic (Friday)

Ceng Abicel (Saturday)

Months of the Year:

Dwe me acel (January)

Dwe me aryo (February)

Dwe me adek (March)

…

And so on and so forth.

Acholi really isn’t a difficult language to learn. It helps that a lot of their words are anglicized, which makes sense, since Uganda was a British protectorate for over fifty years. I’m by no means fluent, but I can manage day to day pleasantries, and I can ask how much something is, which endears a lot of people to me, separates me from NGO workers, and will make getting research done a whole lot easier.

In other news, my home stay time is over. I didn’t want to leave, but it’s not the end; I have an open invitation back during research time, which I definitely plan to take my family up on. This week we’re in Kampala, the capitol city, where I’ll probably get a lot of my Christmas shopping done. Then, next week, we’re off to Kigali, Rwanda, to take a break from the LRA and spend two weeks with the 1994 genocide (not to mention hot water, paved streets, and crepe chefs). Sounds heavenly.

"US troops to help Uganda fight rebels"

So, Al Jazeera is the shit, guys. Seriously. I mean, it's some of the most depressing news ever, sometimes, but it's some great journalism.

Anyway, Obama just pledged 100 U.S. combat-ready troops to Uganda to help train government troops and aid in the tracking down of Joseph Kony. If you're interested, you can check out the article HERE. I'd also to encourage you to explore other articles the site has published on Uganda if you're interested in finding out a little more about the other goings on of northern Uganda.

In other news, homestays end on Tuesday, and then I head to Kampala for a week. Maybe I'll get a warm shower!

...I'm not holding my breath.

Faith

I am not a religious person. God has never been a big part of my life; I never attended church as I was growing up, and now that I’m living on my own, I find I’m perfectly content with my life. I have never had any inclination to seek a higher power, and being in Africa hasn’t done anything to change that. Yet, because of God, this past week has been my hardest in Uganda yet.

On Tuesday, my class met with Archbishop Odama. For those of you unfamiliar with this conflict, the Archbishop has been one of the loudest and most influential voices during the conflict and peace talk process. He would bed down with the night commuters, children who walked to Gulu Town from their rural homes, hoping to avoid abduction. He went into the bush, and has met Kony numerous times. He’s been so active in this conflict he has drawn fire from President Museveni and his administration, and has withstood it all with grace, preaching for peace in northern Uganda.

Unfortunately, in the past few weeks, this man’s beacon has flickered and dimmed. Recent documents released by WikiLeaks have alleged the Archbishop to be an LRA collaborator, supplying the rebels with food, water, medicine, and airtime, among other supplies. The government has seized on this news, and while that may be reason enough to doubt the significance of the documents, the suspicion remains, leaving me once again doubtful and disenchanted with the Catholic Church.

Then, this past Wednesday, my classmates and I packed into our minibus to make the two-hour drive to Lalogi, to visit the remnants of the IDP camp there. Remnants, because technically, there are no IDP camps left in Uganda – at least, according to Museveni’s administration. All have been dismantled, and all the Acholi who have been packed into them have gone home.

If only that were the case. IDP camps are still a very harsh reality in Uganda, and hundreds, if not thousands, of Acholi still reside in the same huts they were forced into some twenty years ago for the very simple fact that there is no home for them to return to. Whole villages were raised to the ground during the insurgency that took place in the northern half of the country. Fields were decimated, livestock slaughtered, families destroyed, and the forced migration and encampment of these people has deprived them of any and all means of income.

That’s not to mention the people who had their lands taken from them to form the camps in the first place. They lost just as much, for the camps have destroyed any value the land once had; it is impossible to grow crops in the soil, as the ground is full of human waste and corpses (it is customary for the Acholi to bury their dead on family property, and in the camps, there was little else to do with the dead). There is also no want to try and return to normalcy on camp land – who would want to try and build up a family and livelihood on a land steeped in torment and violence?

Lalogi, for the most part, has been fairly well dismantled. On driving by, one might not even recognize it for what it originally was. Only a few dozen huts remain, and huts are not uncommon in the countryside. Upon closer inspection, though, the picture becomes much clearer. One the side of each hut is painted one of four letter-number sequences, from A1 to A4. During camp life, these were a means of food distribution. In the post-camp era, though, the sequences mean something else entirely. While A1 still correlates to a family with many children (for food distribution purposes), the rest are as follows:

A2 – Slated for demolition

A3 – Partial habitation

A4 – Inhabited

The huts marked A4 far outnumbered the other three.

We met a man living in the camp who shared his story: he had two wives, and between them twelve children, as well as an elderly mother to care for. His mother would live in the camp until she died. In addition to these mouths to feed, as he was the sole provider, he had another nine children under his care: orphans, left to him by his sister and her husband, who had been killed in the conflict. Between all of these people, there were three huts for them to live in. The huts, all circular, are no more than ten feet wide in any direction, and some are significantly smaller.

The children looked as you might expect; none of them had any shoes, and their clothing was dirty and torn. They all are attending school, but solely because primary education in Uganda is free. None of them had books, uniforms, or supplies. I truly believe that once they complete primary school, none of them will be able to carry on with their education. Scholarships are basically nonexistent in Uganda, and those that exist are overwhelmingly awarded to students from the south, the result of long-lasting political marginalization of the north. Without this education, this cycle of poverty will undoubtedly continue with each and every one of these children, along with countless others.

If going to the camp had been all we had done that day, maybe it would have been easier to process. But we left the camp soon after to travel on to Odek – Joseph Kony’s hometown. That would have been enough in and of itself, but just outside of Odek is a huge rock formation, probably tall enough to be a small mountain. What makes it special is that supposedly, Kony climbed this rock, and lived on top of it for 40 days and 40 nights, until spirits came into him that strengthened him, inspired him, and drove him to come down and begin his rebellion in the north. Since the insurgency, witch doctors and faith healers alike have been coming to the mountain, trying to harness that same spirit (although, if you ask any citizen of Uganda, it is an evil spirit which must be avoided at all costs).

We climbed the mountain. I had to take off my shoes to do it, but I was the first to the top, and what I saw was absolutely breathtaking.

We had climbed high above any tree, and were rewarded for our struggles with an unprecedented and unobstructed view of Uganda, for miles and miles from this mountain. Everything was green – the trees, the uneven rows of maize, the tall bush grasses. The color scheme was only broken by smudges of brown huts and drops of turquoise and fuchsia and yellow, as women worked in the fields below in the failing light.

We remained at the top of the mountain for a while. Some of my classmates are devout, and took the opportunity to pray in the beauty of this country. Others had taken out their journals, and were writing, and others still were taking pictures that would never be able to truly capture how it felt to be standing at the top of that mountain.

I walked to the very edge, and sat with my legs dangling down the side. I wondered for a minute, what it’d be like to pray. Thinking about that, my thoughts invariably wandered to Joseph Kony, and what 40 days of this must have been like.  He had come down from this mountain with his head and heart full of God and full of the belief that starting this war was the answer. It doesn’t even matter than in the process of fighting, his methods got convoluted, and warped, and even more terrible. The point of it all is, faith in God gave him the power to start fighting in the first place.

The entire experience was exhausting. I was drained, physically, emotionally, and mentally. How could Joseph Kony go up on that mountain, see all of that beauty before him, and come down again ready for war? How can someone make those connections? How can one man be the cause of so much grief for so many people? I couldn’t stop thinking of those 21 children in Lalogi. Their faces will weigh on my mind until the day I die. I spent most of the drive back to Gulu crying in the back of the minibus, unable to stop and only thankful for the darkness so that my classmates couldn’t see.

I know that this man is an exception. He is the perfect example of someone who takes a religion, and twists it to suit his needs. One could even argue Joseph Kony is insane, regardless of faith. But the man I have to compare him to, the Archbishop, is possibly just as guilty of crimes against humanity as Kony. Where does that leave me? I also know that this situation is even more complicated than I make it out to be here. But really, at the end of the day, these are the basics. And as I climbed back down in the mountain in the setting sun, the only thing that seemed certain to me was how confident I felt in my lack of faith. I was at a loss for everything else.

These people and this country have captured my heart - but really, what the hell am I doing here? What can I possibly do to make any of this better?

Mailing Address

For those interested, here is my mailing address while I'm abroad:

Kelli Kleitsch
c/o SIT Uganda
PO Box 1268.
Gulu, Uganda

I have no idea about postage or mailing methods, or anything else. But, mail takes about three weeks to get here, and I'd love to get a letter or card or anything else while I'm cut off from the rest of the world here.

No packages, though! Odds are, they'd get jacked before they ever got to me.

Thanks!

When Aid Is The Problem

I always hear people saying, “We don’t need to be helping the world, we need help at home first.” And that might very well be true. Poverty is a very real issue in America. It might look different than here in sub-Saharan Africa, where whole cities are without electricity and indoor plumbing, but it’s still very, very real. In the land of plenty, the numbers of the starving, the homeless, and the sick are astounding. So why would I choose to live here when I could live in relative comfort and modernity while still doing just as much good work at home?

The answer lies in the problem: despite how advanced, how wealthy, and how many opportunities there are in the U.S., so many people are forced to go without, and there are always going to be bigger and more powerful players at work who do nothing but benefit from keep the downtrodden, well, down. They’ve been rewarded for taking advantage of the little person for too long; they’re entrenched. What we need is a complete system overhaul, and it may be cynical, but I don’t see that happening. I can’t content myself to working tirelessly in a system that has no hope for real change. For now, I do my part, volunteering, donating clothes and money when I can to worthy groups and foundations, and spreading the word about wrongs that need righting, but I’ve lived in America for far too long to truly believe I can really make a difference. In the developing world, power is constantly shifting, and as slim as the hope can be, maybe, just maybe, if I can be in the right place at the right time, I can help the right person come to power, I can help the people have a voice, I can make sure a system can be put into place which is representative of the rights of each and every individual. Of course, no system is perfect, but at least in the developing world, there’s always hope for something better, where at home the cycle of greed, selfishness, and manipulation seems (and has thus far been) perpetual.

This is why I chose to study in Africa, rather than in Europe: eventually, I want to be a human rights activist. I’m probably going to spend a good portion of my life living and working in the developing world, so it made sense to make a post-conflict study a part of my undergraduate education. It’d be a good experience, I thought. It’ll make me look like a serious candidate when I apply to grad school for development studies, I thought. I fully expected to be changed by this experience; what I didn’t expect was to have my entire outlook on international aid turned upside down.

That’s not to say I had a rose-colored view of aid work to begin with; at Knox, one of my favorite professors is really, really good at making sure we’re intimately informed about how often NGOs and international organizations such as the UN or the World Bank tend to hurt more than help (and that’s if they actually do anything at all). But it’s one thing to read about how NGOs often fail to connect to root problems in a conflict area, and to see the devastation left in their wake firsthand. That is my daily life here in northern Uganda. It’s incomprehensible to me how millions of dollars could have been sunk into Gulu, yet those psychologically damaged from the war are left to wander the streets, homeless and begging for money, and the city is filled with orphans with no means to attend school receive an education, let alone keep from starving to death. Domestic violence and alcoholism are at an all time high. During the war, just five years ago, over 170 NGOs flooded Gulu alone. Now, with Joseph Kony on the run and a relative peace having been restored to Uganda, less than 30 remain. This is supposed to be a time of recovery and reconstruction; now, more than ever, the Acholi people need help, yet there’s none to be found. Where have the NGOs gone?

NGOs have been a daily part of Ugandan life ever since the conflict began in 1986 when Museveni, a military man from the west of the country, overthrew the administration of Obote II. Kony was no madman at first; in fact, he enjoyed a relative popularity with the northern Acholi, who immediately began to suffer under Museveni as he sought revenge for the wrongs committed by the Acholi during the previous administrations (the Acholi are by no means innocent in this conflict. As is typical in developing African states, the violence is cyclical. But, that’s another story). He seemed to be the lone voice of the Acholi people, speaking up on their behalf and fighting for their rights. However, it soon became apparent Kony was more than just an Acholi warrior, fighting for his people’s rights as Ugandan citizens. Kony began raiding northern Acholi villages, pillaging for soldiers and supplies, slaughtering thousands of innocent men, women, and children along the way.

As the LRA grew in strength, Museveni decreed the northern villages be abandoned, that the people move to designated camps – the IDP camps that still exist today, more than twenty years later. Those who remained behind risked being branded as an LRA sympathizer and killed by the national army, called the Ugandan People’s Defense Force (UPDF) or killed outright by Kony’s men for not having already joined the resistance (i.e., being “bad Acholi”). Museveni argued the forced migration was to weaken the LRA, and perhaps this was true. However, it was one more way for Museveni to exert his strength over the Acholi people. They had little choice; thousands of Acholi families packed up what little they had, and moved into the camps.

Conditions were atrocious. Both food and medicine were in short supply. Disease was rampant. There were many instances of both torture and rape at the hands of Museveni’s men as they searched for LRA sympathizers. Being in the camps didn’t even protect the Acholi from LRA raids; it was never the case that there were enough guards to sufficiently protect the camps, and therefore the camps were no safer than if the Acholi had remained in their villages. In fact, many argue that being confined to the camps was worse, because if one was living there, they were deemed by the LRA as supporters of Museveni, and further suffered the wrath of Kony.

It was here that NGOs enter the picture. Bent on alleviating the food and water crisis in the camps, they swooped in and began doling out packages to anyone who would take them. They brought in medicine, and treated the diseases when they could. To raise money at home, they painted the picture now understood by the international community: that Kony is a madman, that people are being killed, that we must help. That Museveni forced the people into the camps on fear of death was conveniently omitted from fundraising events in the Western world.

The conflict went on for longer than anyone could have anticipated; 20 years later, and there was still fighting in Acholiland.  By now, camp life was the only life. People had grown up in the camps, knowing nothing but the handouts from white NGO workers. Men had been forced to abandon their livelihood, their way of providing for their family, and been moved into a wholly demeaning role in Acholi culture. To cope, they turned to alcohol, selling or trading the packages from NGOs for drink. To solve this problem (and to empower women in the meantime), aid workers began giving their packages to women. This, however, only fostered more contempt within a household. Men, feeling even more emasculated, would simply beat their wives and take the packages anyway, creating even more violence within the camps alone.

Kony fled to the bush in Sudan, and then the DRC. Peace talks began in 2006, and again in 2008. A relative quiet fell over northern Uganda. And with that quiet, the Acholi were told they could finally return home. With that decree, NGOs, even the UN, closed up shop as soon as they could load up their Land Cruisers, leaving a very broken community in the dust as they pulled out of Gulu Town.

In Gulu, one of the epicenters of the war, there are no psycho trauma centers designed to help victims and ex-combatants recover from the war. The poverty here is apparent everywhere. Even men and women, with jobs and homes, find it perfectly acceptable to expect to receive something from every white person they pass in the street. And it’s not laziness, or selfishness, or greed. It’s twenty years’ worth of experience. The people here have been taught to think that way.

I know hindsight is 20/20, but with everyone working here in Gulu, how could no one have seen this coming? How did everyone just show up and treat the symptoms, rather than the problem – the camps themselves? Where was Museveni’s condemnation for treating his own people like animals? Where was the outcry on behalf of the people who were suffering just as much the abducted? Despite all the help given to them, despite the hundreds of aid workers that took up residence in northern Uganda, despite being the center of this decades-long conflict, the Acholi were always alone.

Honestly, there are times when I feel like the situation is hopeless. I can’t go back in time and change what was done, and I don’t know what I can do to help now. But, when I take a step back, it becomes a little clearer. Being aware of my identity is my greatest strength: I am a white, female Westerner. There is literally only so much I can do in a culture where I can never blend in and being a woman limits the scope and range of my power and influence. Accepting my limitations on the ground is the first step to success.

The second is utilizing the inspiring strength of the Acholi people; despite decades of violence, in which they have been both the victims and the perpetrators, they remain. And they are not resentful of their country – on the contrary, one of their deepest wishes is to heal, to recover, and become a part of Uganda. While there may be parts of this state they wish could be changed (like the current administration and the damage caused by the NGOs), they have not given in to despair. They carry on. There are people here who want nothing more than to work to rebuild the north and truly unite Uganda – I’ve seen them, heard them speak, and talked to them at length. The skills they have to offer are invaluable to the recovery effort. They know how to relate to the community because they themselves are Acholi; they speak the language, know the customs, and understand the frustrations of the people. No matter how much I study the conflict here, I will never be able to know it better than them, and they are the ones who would know best where to apply aid and how to do so. It is this grassroots set up which would re-establish trust in the north. It is my responsibility, and the responsibility of all Westerners, to connect these people with benefactors in the West, for it is our strength to drive the funds that would get this work done.

Finally, and this is a mantra often repeated, inter-agency cooperation is key. It does no one any good to have three or four different agencies working toward the same goal, and against one another to get there. It is a waste of time, energy, and funds, and is nothing but a strain on the people who are supposed to be benefitting. Saying, “everyone needs to work together” is one thing. Policy changes will only come once aid workers begin to actually step up, make concessions to one another, and agree to work together.

No Westerner can come in and say, “This is how it should be done.” Time and time again, these presumptions have proven to be the undoing of good work across the world. With these ingredients, real, sustainable aid might finally be possible in northern Uganda. And if giving aid is really what aid agencies are all about, shouldn’t this be the goal?

A Day In The Life

Now, I realize my previous post most seem a little… disheartened. But, I still stand by it. While my situation may have improved dramatically since then, dealing with all those emotions was an important part of accepting what was happening to me and being able to react to it.

That being said – I LOVE my home stay family. Seriously. I know I’m totally backtracking here, but they’re awesome. I like being at home with my Ugandan family better than going to class with my American counterparts! Being at home is way less stressful, and I feel like I’m learning so much more there than I do in class. While my biggest challenge right now is feeling like I’m not being challenged enough academically, my home stay is both engaging and comforting.

My family is huge – our compound has four houses in it, and there’s a fifth being built so that my family can rent out the rooms in it for extra cash. Everyone in all of the houses are related in some way; the four standing houses are filled with relatives

I live in the house at the back of the property, with my mego (mother), Grace, and wego (father), Peter. Ugandan houses, though, are set up differently than in America. One can live in anything from a grass hut to a brick house. I live in one of the latter. There is a porch and front door that leads into a sitting room. Off of this sitting room is Grace and Peter’s room. It is here that the similarities with American homes end, however. The room I share with Esther, my lamera (sister), is right next to Grace and Peter’s, but to get to it, one would have to walk back outside and down along the house until they reached our door. Our room, my omera (brother) Michael’s room, and the kitchen are all independent rooms, with one front door at the front of the house by which one would enter. The rooms are tiny, smaller than a bedroom or dorm room in America, and they are still crammed with at least two beds and a bookshelf or two for storage, but somehow, these rooms still seem homey.

Michael and Esther aren’t Grace and Peter’s children. All of them are away at school, in Kampala or farther, and won’t be home until December. Rather, they’re Grace’s niece and nephew, and they are living here while they both attend Gulu University. I think they are renting – I also think they are serving as the home’s houseboy and girl. This practice is common in Uganda, but I still feel awkward hearing Mego call for them from inside her sitting room, or when they do things for me, like making my bed or bringing me tea, without me having to ask.

Michael attends school Monday through Friday, but I still get to see him a lot. He’s home in time for dinner, and usually we eat together with Esther. He’s really funny, and talks to me about American television shows a lot, like American Idol or American’s Best Dance Crew. I always hear him walking past my room singing hymns.

Esther is probably my best friend here. We get along really well. She goes to school on Saturdays and Sundays all day, but I see her every night when I get home from school. She likes listening to hip hop, and we’ve taken to listening to Ke$ha before bed every so often (since that’s really the only bit of hip hop I have on my computer).

In addition to Esther and Michael, there are several small children in my compound and in the surrounding houses that come and play. In the middle house, there’s Joshua, who’s 8, Mercy, who’s 7, Adoc, who’s 6, and Michelle, who’s just 2. Mildred and Eric, two children from the neighborhood, come by and play almost every day. When I come home from school, Adoc and Michelle run at me, and climb all over me, wanting to play until somebody else tells them to leave me alone. Michelle speaks really good English, but Adoc doesn’t speak any at all, so communicating with her can be really difficult sometimes. I try to use some of the Acholi I learned to talk to her, but when I do, one of two things happens: either I say something, and she laughs so hard she almost falls down, or I say something, she doesn’t understand what I’m saying, one of the other kids translates for her, and she laughs so hard she really falls down. But, somehow, we manage.

I’ve settled into a routine here, which is helping me a lot with coping. On school days, I wake up at 7 AM and bathe (it takes me 40 minutes, since my hair is so long and I only have a bucket to use). Then I get dressed and take tea before meeting one of my classmates, Samantha, at 8:15 to walk to school. Getting to SIT is a half an hour walk through town, and almost every day we get accosted by the same guy who wants money on Kampala Road just before we reach school, so it’s nice not to walk alone.

Then I’m in school from 9 to either 2, or 4, depending on the day. Sometimes we have one lecture, sometimes we have two. If we get out early, I’ll stop in an internet café and check my email and Facebook before going home, otherwise I’ll just head back to the house and play with the kids until it’s suppertime, around 8 o’clock. After we eat, Esther and I usually just go to sleep. There’s no power in our compound right now, so it’s really to dark to do anything. If we get power back, we might watch a little television before bed, but my schedule won’t change much.

On the weekends, I’m free to spend my time however I want. I might have some homework I have to finish, or chores (I hand-washed all of my laundry yesterday!). Otherwise, I’ll just play with the kids for hours on end, or read, or write in my journal.

So, that’s pretty much my life, at this point. A week from tomorrow, we’re travelling to Kitgum, another area that was affected by the conflict in northern Uganda. Until then!

Culture Shock

I’ve been really busy since the last time I posted. We did end up going out, though, as you could expect, it wasn’t really ‘clubbing’ as we know it. There’s a bar in Gulu called BJ’s that’s really popular with what Morgan calls ‘ex-pats’ – i.e. foreigners, Peace Corps workers and the like – and it was easy to see why. Though hardly lit at all, there’s a definite tropical theme to the bar, and the speakers pump out an eclectic playlist of remixed Western music, anything from Ke$ha to Blink 182 to Nickelback. The bar has theme nights, too. Wednesday was comedy night, and Thursday was the hugely popular trivia night, where the prize was a case of one of Uganda’s own beers, Bell (I prefer Nile, the competing Ugandan lager, but hey, free beer is free beer). All 15 of us showed up to play, and they split us into two teams. We scored really well – my team got 21, and the other scored 24, but the high score was 31. We plan to make Thursday trivia nights a tradition; we’ll get ‘em next time.

When we went out, though, I picked up on a lot more than random bits of trivia. As a white-skinned, female, American student, I am a huge commodity (throw in the European-looking blonde hair and blue eyes and I’m downright invaluable). I haven’t been asked for money once while I’ve been in Gulu – I have, though, had people, particularly men, call out to me or come up to me in bars wanting to marry me and take them to America. They’re very forward, here. Their style of picking up women is so forward it’s both disconcerting and oddly refreshing. One man in particular asked if he could teach me a traditional African dance sometime, and when I told him I had a boyfriend at home, he didn’t waver. “Psh,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “he is in America. This is Uganda. You should get a Ugandan boyfriend.” At which point, he tried to come with me back to the hotel and Morgan had to swoop in and save me.

Men aren’t the only ones who notice me, though. When I walk down the street, everyone stares. Children get especially excited when they see me. They call out from the side of the street, “Munu, munu, munu!” which is Acholi for white person. Several of them have come up to me to touch my hands or arms, convinced white skin feels different than black skin.

Sometimes, though, it gets really tiring. Always being stared at is a constant reminder that no matter how much I learn about Ugandan history, no matter how much Acholi I speak, no matter how long I stay here, I will never be able to blend in, let alone look as though I belong. Simply because of the way I look, I will always be a tourist.

I felt even more out of place when I began my homestay this past Saturday. Dr. William had talked up homestays a lot. According to him, everyone would want to see me and talk to me all the time, and I should not expect a moment to myself for a very long time. Families would want to show me off to neighbors and friends, so I should expect to meet lots of new people. Also, odds were that they would cook me  a special meal the first night, which might include a gizzard, which I would be given and expected to eat as an honored guest.

As the pick-ups drew nearer and nearer, I was more and more anxious. I never make a good first impression, so I wanted to very quickly get that part over with so I could actually start charming my family. Dr. William only told me a little bit about them: my homestay mother was a woman named Grace, who was a journalist, and she had small children around. I had really been hoping there were little kids in my family, so I was really excited.

However, it wasn’t Grace who came to pick me up. It was a man, maybe two or three years older than me, whose name was Michael. Whereas everyone’s families had wanted to sit down and talk to them for a bit, Michael just asked where my bags were so he could take them out to the car. He seemed even more soft-spoken than most Ugandans I had met, so understanding him was that much more difficult.

Dinner that night was also nothing like I expected. I didn’t have to eat a gizzard, thank God – but I had groundnuts, bread, a banana, and water. Since in was raining, Michael and I ate in relative silence on the porch, and no one else was around. After dinner, I went to sleep in Michael’s room, since mine wasn’t ready for me yet.

The weather was nicer on Sunday, and people were outside in the yard when I woke up. I met a few smaller children, who kept calling me either Catherine, the name of a previous homestay student, or muzungo, which is Kiswahili for white person, but after a while, they went off to play or do chores for their mothers, so I was left alone again. Michael was doing chores all day, and Grace was still nowhere to be found.

At this point, I was feeling distinctly unloved. I was trying not to feel ungrateful; no one had been mean to me, or seemed resentful I was there, and I was being fed and given every consideration Ugandans give to a guest, but I was left very much alone, I felt out of place, and was being relatively ignored, for the most part. My apprehension at having to spend the next four weeks living there was only growing, not easing, with time.

Then, on Monday night, I was up nearly all night throwing up. I don’t have malaria, which is good, but I have low blood pressure (whatever that means) and my white blood cell count is up, which means my body is definitely fighting off something. What that is, though, I don’t know.

On the whole, I’m feeling really alienated. Not enough time has really passed to become really close with any of my fellow students, and I am just feeling really out of place in every capacity. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with than other times, but sometimes I just really, really want to go home. This is all normal, though! At least, from what I understand. Apparently, this is all part of culture shock – you get past a ‘euphoria’ stage and then just get angry and sad for a bit. But, it’ll pass. I’m confident it will. Now that lectures have started, and I’ve begun learning Acholi, everything will get better. It has to. I mean, I didn't throw up today, so that's good, right?

Kampala --> Gulu

This is me, crammed into a tiny coffee shop with six other SIT students, each of us typing furiously away on our laptops. We could not look more like tourists.

That's alright, though. In fact, it's expected. And as long as you buy a bottle of Coke, your Internet is free, no matter how slow it may be (and slow is as good as it's going to get). No complaints here.

Honestly, I don't even know where to begin. So much has happened in the past five days, it'd be impossible to put it down here. So, I'm going to try my best to get the highs and lows down, and you can use your imagination to fill in the rest.

The actual flights I had to take to get here were completely ridiculous. I have never been more exhausted. I flew out of Chicago at 5:30 in the afternoon this past Saturday, to arrive in Boston three hours later and fly out at 10:30 that night. Then there was the overnight flight to London. I couldn't get any sleep at all, and arrived at 10:30 the next morning facing 12 agonizing hours in Heathrow until I could board my plane to Kampala. The plan was to meet up with another girl from my program who had a similar layover, but with no method of communication, I was hoping to meet her at our gate so we could spend some time exploring London. Unfortunately, Heathrow doesn't post departure gates until an hour before the flight is supposed to leave, which left me alone in Heathrow for the foreseeable future. I managed to get some sleep, sprawled out over my things, but it wasn't particularly restful, so I decided to watch a movie on my computer to kill some more time.

Then I discovered I had bought the wrong converter. It only had holes for two prongs, not three, like my computer cord had. There was no possible way I could go without my computer for the duration of the program, and because I knew I'd be living with families and not able to use another student's converter all the time, I knew I had to find one. The only one that would work in the entire airport, it seemed, was 35 pounds at a Brookstone store - the equivalent of roughly $70, from all accounts. Awesome.

I sat myself down my the departure board, determined to wait until my gate was announced. It was here another girl from my program, Bethaney, recognized me from Facebook, and flagged me down. We quickly found a third student, Charlotte, who attends the same school as Bethaney, so waiting wasn't so hard after that. At the gate, we met up with three more girls, two Annies and Lily, and we all boarded the plane for Kampala together.

Eight hours later, we landed, where we met up with two more members of our program, Noah and Sam. We didn't have to wait at the airport long, and soon we were driving past Lake Victoria, the biggest lake in all of Africa, and through Kampala, headed for our hotel.

Driving in Uganda is completely insane. There are no traffic laws, no speed limits, and no cops to enforce safety - if anything, the cops are only looking for illegal goods or a bribe. We skidded around pedestrians, motorcycles, and other cars going upwards of 50 or 60 miles an hour on narrow, poorly paved roads, listening to Heart and Phil Collins on the radio as we went (I know, right?). All I wanted to do was shower - after two days of travel, I felt disgusting. I didn't get a chance to do so that night, after we met with our program director and had lunch and dinner, mostly rice, plantains, and beef and goat meat.

We met Joe and Samantha that night, each of which had been in Africa for a time previous to the start date of our program, and the next morning we met the rest of our group - David, Jamie, Chelsea, Karen, and Jared - all before boarding a bus for the five hour ride to Gulu, where we would spend the next five weeks.

Everything went really well, at first. Traffic getting out of Kampala was a nightmare; our driver often turned off the engine we would be sitting still for so long. In these traffic jams, vendors would approach the bus and offer to sell us anything from brooms to questionable-looking meat on sticks. Morgan, one of our program advisors, bought us some sugar cane to eat. Basically, you take a bite out of the stick (which is way harder than it sounds), chew the piece until the sweet juices are all gone, then spit out what's left.

We stopped for lunch two hours after we had been on the road, which consisted of beans, rice, and mango juice, and then continued on. I dropped off for a bit, sleeping with my head against the window, but was jarred awake an hour later by a sudden drop in speed of our bus. We had broken down.

Apparently, this happens a lot, so often that the standing rule is that if your vehicle breaks down while you're in it, you don't have to pay the driver his whole fee. If you crash (a very real possibility), you don't have to pay the driver at all. Morgan and our program director, Dr. William, found two taxis to take us and our things the rest of the way to Gulu, just as we had been ready to break out frisbees and playing cards to pass time on the side of the road.

We crossed the White Nile an hour before reaching Gulu. We weren't supposed to take pictures, since the Nile and the bridge we crossed are guarded by the military, but a few of us, myself included, managed to sneak a few shots. From inside the grimy windows of the taxi, the pictures don't really do the view justice. The river is massive and awe-inspiring. Even though the water is a muddy brown, the river cascades down huge boulders, creating huge rapids. It'll be great to go back and see it in person in a few weeks.

Not even a mile past the bridge, we got our first glimpse of real African wildlife, outside of the cattle and goats which seemingly roam free about the countryside - giant baboons sat and walked along side of the road, only feet from our taxis. There were so many, and then watched as cars drove and people walked past as though it were nothing! I didn't even think to pull out my camcorder, which is a huge bummer, but I'm sure we'll see them again, and I did get some pictures.

It started to rain just as we got into Gulu, long enough to soak the luggage we had strapped to the tops of the taxis. Gulu is much smaller than the city of Kampala. It's only considered a town, and only a few buildings have electricity. I'm rooming with Lily again, on the fourth and top floor of the hotel. We had to lug our fifty pound suitcases all the way up, and that's when my suitcase decided to break, right then and there, on Day Two. One of the wheels just completely snapped off. As I was coming into this cafe today, I saw a place that sold luggage; it looks like I'm going to have to go and get a new one. Hopefully they'll be as cheap as everything else here in Uganda seems to be (huge bottles of beer come out to be only about $1.15!)

It was nice to finally relax today, without the thought of more impending travel. We were able to begin orientation today, which mostly included giving Dr. William our extra money and passports for safekeeping at the SIT office, and talking about program rules and expectations. We have all of our afternoons free this week for exploring, which is great; there's an IDP camp not even a block down from our hotel that a few of us would like to visit, so that we can begin getting a real sense of what it's like to live in this country, not to mention all the shops and people who live in Gulu normally. Lessons in Acholi begin Friday, and we go to live with our homestay families Saturday afternoon.

Right now, that's what's causing me the most stress. I am really nervous to go off by myself and have to depend solely on my own merit to interact with a family. I really hope they have kids, I think that would make me feel so much more at ease. I'm just hoping my homestay gift is enough - since Jelly Belly originates in Illinois, I brought a big 2-pound bag for the family (Thanks, Mrs. Steinsdoerfer!).

I think that's it, for now. Hopefully, I'll be able to post a little more often, now that I'm in Gulu, so that each post won't be so long and can be a little more insightful. But, for now, I'm off - dinner is in a bit, and I want to explore Gulu town some more. And tonight, a bunch of us are going to go out for drinks at a local bar, which sounds awesome (don't worry, we'll be safe and stay in a large group!).

Pictures soon!

Leaving

I spent today doing two things: getting ready to leave for Uganda tomorrow afternoon, and saying goodbye to my friends and family.

It's clear I've gotten past the giddy excitement of simply knowing I'm going to Uganda. I've now reached a level of sheer terror. This is it. It's really happening. My stuff is really in a suitcase (well, most of it, anyway) and when I say, "See you later" to all of my nearest and dearest, I'm really saying, "See you in December." It is incomprehensible to me that I will be on a plane to Boston in a little more than twenty-four hours.

I don't want to leave my friends. I miss Knox terribly - my live feed on Facebook is filled with statuses of returning students, and I long for the Gizmo, and Seymour Library, and the Quads. I want to go back to living with my best friends, pulling all-nighters to finish papers, and dancing on the weekends.

I'm also reluctant to leave home; my neighbors have very generously opened their house to me, and invited me to join in with their group of friends, all of whom I'll miss greatly while I'm abroad. Leaving home also means leaving my boyfriend, who lives out of state, and who I talk with everyday. I'll be effectively cutting myself off from everyone for nearly four months.

However, I think that, once I've met up with other students in my program, I'll start feeling a little better about this whole excursion. It's the transitioning that will be the most difficult - I very much wish there was at least one person making the entire trip with me. I believe I would be much less apprehensive if that were the case. But, I'll have my computer, my book, and my iPod.  Hopefully, that will keep me entertained, at least until I meet up with some SIT girls in Heathrow on Sunday.

My next post will be from out-of-country - stay tuned!

Emergency Message for U.S. Citizens

I received this two days ago via email:

Sub: Emergency Message for U.S. Citizens - Heightened Terrorist Threat, August 29, 2011

This Emergency Message is to alert all U.S. citizens traveling and residing in Uganda of heightened security concerns related to regional terror groups, including al-Qaida and the Somalia-based al-Shabaab, that remain actively interested in attacking U.S. interests in Uganda.  The U.S. Embassy encourages particular vigilance around several upcoming dates, including the end of Ramadan, the tenth anniversary of the September 11 attacks, and the beginning of the trial of those suspected of carrying out the July 2010 bomb attacks in Kampala.  The importance and symbolism of these dates may make them particularly attractive to terrorists.


The email went on to encourage travelers to make smart decisions regarding personal safety: avoid large public gatherings, be wary of one's surroundings and belongings, try not to travel alone.

Honestly, I'm not very concerned. If al-Qaida wants to target U.S. interests, odds are they'll pick someplace far from the Ugandan countryside. Still, it made for good reading.

I leave for Uganda in less than 48 hours!

An Invincible Summer

So. On Saturday, I get on a plane bound for Entebbe, Uganda, where I will spend the next four months of my life.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. On Saturday, I get on a plane in Chicago bound for Logan International Airport, in Boston, where three hours later, I'll fly out to Heathrow, London, where I have a ten-hour layover, after which I'll get on a plane which will land in Entebbe the next morning.

Still. I'M GOING TO UGANDA.

Whew. It's such a relief to say that. Less than 48 hours ago, leaving was much less of a fact and much more a dream that was slipping further and further out of my grasp. Serious financial problems threatened to not only keep me from Uganda, but from school entirely this year, after having sunk nearly $3,600 of my own savings into this trip ($1,800 non-refundable plane tickets, hundreds of dollars in immunizations not covered by insurance... you get the idea). On top of my entire study abroad dream being crushed, my '5-year plan' - graduate with a major and two minors, go to grad school, pay for grad school with the Peace Corps, get a job with an international NGO, finally start my life - seemed like it was about to completely derail. I was looking at a year working at Staples by day and Wal*Mart by night, trying to earn back enough money to maybe get a car and be able to take out a loan on my own to return to school the next year, where I would attempt to scrape something together from the shambles of my education plan.

Luckily, I go to a pretty awesome college, which employs pretty awesome people, who work tirelessly for a week and a half to not only find a loan my mother and I can get approved with, but who save me a bunch of money in the process by reworking my entire financial aid profile to accurately portray the type of financial situation I'm coming from (something I didn't have the power to do myself). Mary Wright, you'll probably never read this, but you are THE greatest person in the entire world. Knox should give you a gigantic raise. At the very least, my first day back in January I'm stopping by your office to thank you in person. And, probably to hug you to death. Prepare yourself.

That's not to mention the loan she actually found was one that my mother had to take out on her own, not one in my name that just needed a cosigner. I'm incredibly lucky my mom was willing to take on the loan without any hesitation, despite her own rocky financial situation (of course, I have every intention to pay it off myself, but still, to put your name on something like that, for somebody else, is a phenomenal favor). Thanks, Mom - really, I am eternally grateful. I love you!

Anyway, that leaves me sitting here, in my bed, listening to Arcade Fire and staring hopelessly at my incomprehensibly messy room, wondering where to even begin packing. The only thing that's ready to go is the bag the parents of another student going on my trip Fed-Exed for me to take for their son. I did dig out my big suitcase - point for me. And the school supplies I bought with my fancy Staples discount are crammed in my new computer backpack, which I scored for way cheap on Amazon. I have some skirts stacked up on my hamper (which explains the dirty clothes all over the floor), but other than that, I haven't done anything else for this trip. I spent two weeks not even daring to hope I'd be able to go, and now I'm afraid I've left too much for the last minute. I haven't even bought everything I need yet (just where in the hell do you go to buy a head lamp anyway?!). However, all of that pales in comparison to not even going on this trip at all, so I'm not complaining.

Anyway, for those of you who don't know, or who are a bit fuzzy on the details, the reason I'm going to Uganda in the first place is to study post-conflict transformation. Like many countries in Africa, Uganda spent decades steeped in violent, bloody turmoil, from which the country is still recovering today. Ethnic tensions between the north and the south of the country have persisted since colonial times. From 1971-1979, Uganda was led by one of the most brutal dictators to emerge from the African continent, a man named Idi Amin. He slaughtered thousands of his own people until being forced into exile by rebels and the Tanzanian army. Still, the country did not know peace. Rebellion against the newly formed government exploded on two fronts, first in the west, with the National Resistance Army, and then in the north, with the Lord's Resistance Army, led by a man named Joseph Kony. Peace treaties have since been signed with the NRA, and fighting has, for the most part, ended in western Uganda. Unfortunately, Joseph Kony and his LRA, while they have been forced into hiding in southern Sudan, continue to operate and remain at large, expanding their reach into Sudan, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and the Central African Republic.

The strategies ployed by Kony and the LRA are perhaps some of the most infamous in modern conflict. While guerilla warfare is, unfortunately, nothing new, Kony has adapted its tactics to fulfill his own goals: to destabilize the Ugandan government and, more importantly, to build his army. LRA raids often targeted small rural communities in northern Uganda, where they would maim and murder adults and abduct the children. Thousands of Acholi children were taken. The raids from the LRA forced many families to flee from northern Uganda in an effort to survive. This has resulted in hundreds of thousands of internally displaced people in Uganda. IDP camps have sprung up all over the country.

While today Kony has very little hold within the country, his army continues to consist of children he has abducted. Some children are used as pack animals, made to carry the loot the army steals in raids. However, many boys are taught how to handle weapons and fight as child soldiers. They are desensitized to violence, and are taught to inflict it on others, even other abducted children, easily and without second thought. Girls are given as gifts to veterans and LRA higher ups, to be made wives and used for sex. Girls as young as 11 or 12 are made to bear children, and often die from the effort, their bodies ill-prepared from the demands of childbirth.

However, as Joseph Kony remains in hiding in the Sudanese bush, Uganda has begun to know a relative peace, and the time has come for the country to begin healing. It is this process that I am going to study. The School of International Training, or SIT, the provider of my study abroad program, describes its program in Uganda as, "[examining] the origins of the conflict in northern Uganda; issues of identity construction in the Ugandan context; and ongoing efforts by Ugandans to advance peace, community building, and reconciliation." (If you want to take a look at the whole program, check this out: Uganda: Post-Conflict Resolution [Program Overview].) I'll be learning Acholi, a prominent language in northern Uganda, as well as taking two additional classes: the Post-Conflict Seminar, meant to provide contextual understanding of the conflict in northern Uganda and the recovery effort, and the Field Study Seminar, where I'll develop the skills necessary to completing my final, independent study project.


Each student in SIT's Uganda program will, by the end of the four month, complete an ISP, and present it to the other program attendees and the SIT professors. What we do our project about is our choice; I'm hoping to research and present an ISP about the role women play in recovery and community rebuilding efforts. We'll see if that stays the same throughout the program.


In addition to the coursework, I'll also be spending six weeks living with a family in northern Uganda (speaking of, if anyone has any idea what sort of gift I should bring them, I'm desperate for ideas!) I have no idea who they are, what they're like, where they live, or if they have any children, and won't until I'm there. So, stay tuned to find out. Also, I'm be going on several expeditions while in Uganda. Some will be to memorial sites and other towns in northern Uganda, but I'll also be visiting a refugee camp, Murchison Falls National Park (where I'll sail on the Nile!), and spend two weeks in Rwanda doing a comparative case study of the 1994 genocide.


Congratulations if you've made it this far - really, I wasn't intending to make this first post very long. But, I guess it'll make up for all the time I'll spend in Uganda with limited internet access. I'll be super busy, so this will have to do for a while.


Preparing for this entire experience has been incredibly draining, both physically and mentally. Honestly, I don't feel ready to leave. I'm immeasurably sad about all the people I'm leaving behind, who I really won't have much of a chance to talk to for the next few months. I'm creating this blog so that when I do get online, I have a way to communicate with everyone I need to, without driving myself mad trying to send off personal messages to everyone who wants to know what I've been up to, how I'm doing, if I'm alive and safe. Know that I will miss you all very, very much, and I'll be thinking of you the entire time I'm away.


But, while I'm incredibly sad and unprepared to leave, the effort it has taken to get to this point has been so overwhelming and so seemingly insurmountable that I know I'm meant to go. And I shall keep this knowledge tucked in the back of my mind, secure, ready to be remembered when I'm far away on a different continent, immersed in a completely foreign culture and it feels like I am totally, utterly alone - because, as Albert Camus once wrote, "In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer."


Here we go.