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?