Kony 2012

Kony 2012

           

             As the stir and excitement of Kony 2012 grips the social media conclaves, I’ve been bombarded with e-mails and text messages regarding my perceptions on this video. Simply because I’ve spent time researching and working in northern Uganda, coupled with intense personal passion for our beautifully resilient brothers and sisters north of the equator, it’s vital that I first and foremost identify my agent, privileged identities. I am a white male, who was reared in a middle-to-upper socioeconomic landscape, in a white homogeneous society in the United States. Aside from two international educational experiences, my formal education was in the confines of Western institutions in the U.S. Thus, my observations, thoughts, and theories are rooted in my social structure.

            Fortunately, back in 2005 I was introduced to The Invisible Children (The Rough Cut -2003), a documentary crafted by three young fellas from San Diego. The underpinnings of the film portrayed a dismal state in northern Uganda where conflict ravaged and destroyed a once thriving African society. As I attentively observed the video and diligently jotted down notes, I was left confused. I was puzzled as to why the filmmakers didn’t explore the sociopolitical factors that contributed to the conflict. Could all the grit, grime, and mayhem of northern Uganda merely be focused on one man, Jospeh Kony?

            Through the years since 2005, various readings, writing, and discourse with major scholars and academics have ignited distaste in the underlying objective and intent of what constitutes Invisible Children’s ideology. After recently viewing the 30 minute Kony2012 video, I was left with minor anxiety and greater frustration. Throughout the clip, I consistently pondered, “What is this dude’s authentic rationale for creating this piece?”

            First and foremost, my aim is to not completely discredit the effort of Invisible Children (IC) organization. After all, their motivations have absolutely created awareness, and because of this, discourse has globally circulated. Isn’t that what life is about, in an existential aspect?

            However, as a white, Western male, I believe it’s my responsibility to deconstruct the philosophies of a White-run (U.S.) American organization operating in a post-conflict sub-Saharan African nation. Both the Rough Cut documentary and Kony 2012 express a sincere desire to catch one of “Africa’s most wanted” who has abducted, raped, pillaged, and destroyed a prospering land and people. What either video fails to recognize are the factual sociopolitical, historical, and geographical factors that contributed to the foundations of the LRA. Instead, the filmmakers portray Joseph Kony as the soul creator of evil, and if he is stopped so will the atrocities that have plagued northern Uganda for 20 plus years, which is simply not the case.

            In no way do I slightly condone the brutal, despicable, and gross atrocities committed under Kony’s watch. However, a recurring theme of Kony 2012 is “don’t study history, make history.” Besides leaving a pit in my stomach, I invite members of IC or its followers to do just the opposite. In fact, prior to creating a documentary, perhaps reading a book or two on the subject could entice a more grounded rationalization. For starters, “Living with Bad Surroundings” by renowned Anthropologist Sverker Finnstrom, is an exceptional place to begin.

            Perhaps most frustrating about IC’s movement is in all of its discourse, it consistently fails to mention the political implications of what stirred “rebel” movements in northern Uganda. When President Museveni took control in 1986, there were a plethora of armed rebel groups opposing his regime. The Acholi of northern Uganda has been historically subjugated, marginalized, and oppressed by the rest of Uganda. The Lord’s Resistance Army, which essentially originated from Alice Lakwena’s Holy Spirits Movement, attempted to resist the constant marginalization that President Museveni continued to perpetuate. In the early stages of Alice Lakwena and Joseph Kony’s movements, the Acholi collective generally supported and believed in the ideology of the “rebel” movements. When President Museveni was elected in 1986, he so eloquently stated, “"The problems of Africa, and Uganda in particular, are caused by leaders who overstay in power, which breeds impunity, corruption and promotes patronage. How can someone stay in Power for over 10 years?!" It’s now 2012, and Museveni is still calling the shots (literally and figuratively) in Uganda.    

            I ask how a circulating documentary could fail to assess such valuable information. Again, I’m forced to ponder the genuine underpinnings of the IC in this situation. Whose benefit are they trying to serve? I’m left to believe this white dude has narcissistic undercurrents of being known as the one to capture an “evil African man.” Kony 2012 left me feeling nauseous, and incomplete. The 30 minute clip focuses entirely too long on some southern California guy with his baby. The film depicts not only Uganda, but Africa as “the other”, and demands the help of white, Western people. It perpetuates an already existing hegemonic divide between the already white and black, Western and non-Western states. For viewers of the film who have minimal background on northern Uganda, or do not take the time to educate oneself, he or she is left to believe that Africa in general is a dark, depressing, evil place where children are constantly being abducted, and only whiteness can come in and “help.” As with a majority of “humanitarian” efforts, Kony 2012 focuses specifically on this white guy and how he plans to end this war. Although Kony does need to be stopped, Kony has been out of northern Uganda since 2007.

On personal ventures to Kampala, numerous southern Ugandans were shocked that I was studying in Gulu; calling the Acholi people “backwards” where they “chop each other’s heads off.” If that’s what people in Uganda think, what hegemonic stereotypes will surface after misinformed Westerners in the United States view the lopsided Kony 2012? I challenge you to find the photos of these white kids holding guns with the SPLA. What are they doing?     http://www.scarlettlion.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/GlennaGordon_InvisibleChildrenA.jpg

            Almost just as disturbing is the outcry this group has caused in the United States. Last October, President Obama erroneously sent 100 U.S. troops into the DRC, CAR, and Sudan to “get Kony.” Obama claimed, he “saw the documentaries” and feels a need to act and “support the Ugandan government.” In no way has IC or Obama been educated on the atrocities, killings, rapes, displacement, and enslavements caused by the Ugandan Government’s Army (UPDF). If one cannot venture to northern Uganda to gather firsthand accounts of UPDF disgust, simply flip through Finnstrom’s book for realistic accounts. Almost every Acholi person I was close enough to expressed similar fears of the UPDF to those of the LRA. Almost all Acholi folks had stories of how they were tortured, raped, beaten, arrested, etc. by UPDF troops. Why is that not mentioned in Kony 2012? In fact, numerous Acholi colleagues working with HIV/AIDS patients expressed that raping was more common amongst UPDF soldiers than LRA members.

            Having spent time in northern Uganda, I was fortunate enough to meet some of IC’s staff and interns. Kony 2012 is a microcosm of the ways in which these white (U.S.) Americans tend to live and interact in Gulu. The IC staff lives in the outskirts of Gulu town in a well structured house with a gigantic wall surrounding the outside, and one black Acholi guard with a rifle guarding the entrance. Discourse with staff and interns educated me on the notion that there is generally minimal interaction with locals outside of work, and after being there for nearly six months three of the interns had not heard of a local Acholi food I mentioned. None spoke the local vernacular, and instead of attempting to learn, would watch lousy (U.S.) American made films on the TV in their comfy, full amenity house.

This situation is exceedingly layered, and a simple response to Kony 2012 will not solve any of these issues. However, failing to present the full political landscape of northern Uganda is not only biased and misleading, but more importantly maladaptive and perhaps destructive. Okay, enough of a white man talking about this, let’s hear what a local Uganda has to say.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLVY5jBnD-E&feature=youtu.be   

Good ol' Museveni

"The problems of Africa, and Uganda in particular, are caused by leaders who overstay in power, which breeds impunity, corruption and promotes patronage. How can someone stay in Power for over 10 years?!!" 

Back in 1986 ... these were the fine words of the man who has now been running the country for 25 years!  

                                             How about a thumbs up to keeping your word...

Operation Libya

27 March 

        The current geo-political underpinnings of a few potently controlling Western nations on the vast North African nation of Libya are worth pondering. Extremely fresh history informed that a collective of North Africans are simply drained of decade long dictatorship regimes. Former Egyptian and Tunisian Presidents, Hosni Mubarak and Ben Ali experienced the harsh impact of the injustice they continuously deemed on their civilians. With Col Gadafi, things are quite different.
        On March 19, dominating Western powerhouses including France, the U.S., England, and Italy reformed their “international coalition” against Libya, in the name of “preparations to enforce the no-fly zone voted by the United Nations Security Council.” In no way, do I consciously intend to support the appalling 42 year regime of Gadafi. The dominant figure has physically and emotionally voiced Libyans and other Africans for far too many years. The deplorable and merciless act of firing on active and subtle protestors clearly exemplifies the despot’s barbarianism. Should the previously mentioned “International World Police” intervene to “save” scores of innocent Libyans from exercising their shear human rights? A contentious and unsettling discourse that remains warped in the political and humanitarian ideology of many. Instead of treading those waters, proposing some political irony related to the situation may be valuable.
        David Mafabi, a deeply opinionated Ugandan writer, raised various imperative and pertinent concerns regarding the West’s decision to intervene. Oil. Mafabi explicitly connects the “international military” action to Libya’s oil reserves. “Libya is among the world’s largest oil economies with approximately 3.5% of global oil reserves, more than twice those of the U.S. And with 46.5 billion barrels of proven reserves, Libya is the largest oil economy on the African continent.” Do we find ironic parallels between the intervening nations and their economic investment in Libyan oil? “Foreign oil companies operating prior to the insurrection in Libya include France’s Total, Italy’s ENI, British Petroleum, ExxonMobil, and Chevron.”
        I habitually wonder how these materially resource-grubbing dominators incessantly justify such blatant acts of human destruction and terror, and for what costs? To simply maintain control of bloody oil? Col Gaddafi’s domineering style and acts towards the civilians justify the moral, economic and political intervening actions of the West. Does a “humanitarian invasion” in Libya serve similar corporate interests as the 2003 invasion and occupation of Iraq? Is the underlying objective of this mission to grab possession of Libya’s oil and so smoothly transfer it to foreign hands?
        The striking irony only augments if we minimally deconstruct Western historical and contemporary international intervention. The current politically violent turmoil in the small West African nation of the Ivory Coast has killed hundreds and forced another million folks to flee the country. “Incumbent” President Gbago and his faithful supporters will not only refuse to accept defeat, but are subsequently taking up arms which threatens a return to civil war. Alassane Ouattara, U.N. and Western world’s recognized winner of the November elections, is presently holed up in some swanky hotel in Abidjan; his life guarded by a heavy U.N. crew. The crimes against humanity are frighteningly similar between the Ivory Coast and Libya, with one stark difference. No Western intervention or even direct attention in West Africa. Comparable humanitarian crises in two unstable African countries, with two incomparable resources; no oil in Cote d’Ivoire constitutes no Western intervention. The Ivory Coast is one of the world’s largest cocoa producers. Perhaps Nestle Chocolate bars are not crucial enough intervening incentives to “save” millions from the harrowing effects of displacement and war.
        Rwanda 1994 – One million dead in 100 days. No oil or significantly effective resources for Western intervention in the tiny landlocked African nation. Where is the dominant intervention in the existing catastrophes in Zimbabwe and Bahrain? The examples are practically uncountable. Are we merely a collective span of contempt civilians that continue to be manipulated, hoodwinked and bamboozled by superficial, inauthentic and inhumane government and corporate regimes? Are we subconsciously led through the confines of life by a deceitful and sketchy institutional, international conglomerate of leaders whose cracking is impracticable? Does expelling my energy on these pertinent humanitarian issues benefit myself or anyone? I smile and wonder…

Munu

9 March

        Very seldom do I succumb to contemporary Western society and 21st Century’s technological progress and anxiously check my e-mail prior to leaving my charming dwelling each morning. However, last Tuesday I was abruptly awoken by the screeching of our baby pigs and the lingering aroma of the red “perfumed” mosquito coil that attempted to deny the malaria infestation into my quaint sleeping quarters. Before I knew it, I was sporting a half smile, a lopsided hairdo and awkwardly sitting at the main table in the sitting room. I found slight difficulty comprehending the mosquito coils dedication to not only discourage insects from entering my room, but subsequently create a peaceful, calm fragrance.
        Why was I ogling the g-mail screen? Three new messages in my inbox; “Africa” the subject of the first. “Hey Neil, how’s it going bro? The other day a buddy of mine and I were talking about Africa. In a simple and concise way can you maybe tell me why you think Africa remains so underdeveloped?” I instantly clicked out of g-mail and folded down my oversized Toshiba laptop. Shortly thereafter, while attempting to meditate in the front compound – before calmly reminding myself to focus on my own breath – I chuckled and reminisced on why I refuse to open e-mails in the mornings especially when I can bask, value and welcome those crisp, fresh northern Ugandan mornings.
        Twenty-seven minutes later, I aimlessly promenaded through my village with a quasi-objective of reaching my internship. Slowly, I passed by my young, adorable, barefoot, ripped black tank top sporting eleven-year-old neighbor selling six foot long rods of sugar cane. I caught a momentary glimpse of his perfectly aligned white teeth as he warmly smiled and greeted me. Next, I vigilantly observed two young boys wading in knee-deep murky water uprooting some personally unfamiliar green vegetation.
        Reflecting on my good pal’s e-mail, I shook my head at the request for a “simple and concise” explanation. As I assiduously attempted to shield the already dreadful sun’s rays from my face, I noticed the menacing facial expressions of a six year old boy sprinting towards me. He instantaneously halted just as his endearing nose hit my bellybutton. He extended out his little calloused right hand and in a sort of aggressive tone demanded, “Munu!” Ignorant to the kid’s intentions I reached out my sweaty palm and amusingly greeted him, “Ico ma ber, awobi.” (Good morning, boy). The tyke slapped me five twice and then squeezed and held onto my right index and middle finger. All the while I fixed my gaze on his bright eyes that reminded me of those old school, oversized colorful Christmas tree lights. Not a minute after parting ways, I glanced over my left shoulder and studied the boy and three of his cronies with awestricken faces. Two of the boys raised the one fella’s palm and the three silently analyzed and studied the hand that struck mine. In the local vernacular, I heard one of these dear children state, “This hand touched a Munu’s hand!” I let out an elongated sigh.
        “You are rich because you are white, you are white because you are rich.” Frantz Fannon’s uncomplicated and profoundly poignant words radiated throughout. My black American supervisor, Dr. Joanne Corbin, was out here a few weeks ago, and thus we engaged in a plethora of multifaceted discourses regarding race and oppression. What is racism in northern Uganda? We pungently concluded racism in the United States is positively different than here in northern Uganda. Our program demands an anti-racism assignment during our field placement. How does racism impact the workplace? For the specific pragmatics of the assignment Dr. Corbin suggested we substitute the word oppression for racism. How can the work community combat issues of tribalism, the subjugation of women, etc. in order to enhance the current working environment.
        Deeply embedded in the notion of oppression in northern Uganda is whiteness. Without fail, each and every single instant I’m out in the villages, walking through town, or moving home I’m perceived in an unambiguous light based on skin color. There is no mistaking that it also - albeit perhaps unconscious and subtle - takes place in the United States. However, out here it’s simply vastly different. The current underpinnings of violence, marginalization and subjugation that scores of northern Ugandans experience daylily is indisputably traced to whiteness. Does this existing injustice further fuel the plethora of conflicted affairs throughout the Motherland? A “simple and concise” response – if one actually exists – is “yes.” How is the ideology of the LRA and Ugandan President Museveni’s dictatorship of 25 plus years linked with colonialism and white oppression? Why is a loaf of bleached white bread quadruple the price in my homeland? And, that’s white bread. I amusingly smirk conceptualizing offering a local pal out here a slice of some pumpernickel, seven grain whole wheat, olive bread.
        Many of my local pals have this fixed existential view on what “America” must be like; a land of nonstop money, material and opportunity. A good amount refuse to comprehend my ideology maintaining that America also has an expanding, deeply submissive, polluted and despicable cloud looming overhead. How do those who have experienced both a world of struggling to receive a bag of rice from the World Food Program coupled with a world of excessive loaves of sesame sourdough bread make sense of it all? If originating from the World Food Program scenario, it seems clear that one must believe she is not created as an equal. Again Fannon’s words, “For if, in fact, my life is worth as much as the settler’s, his glance no longer shrivels me up nor freezes me, and his voice no longer turns me into stone.”
        Is this why no local ever rejects the slight extra coin I intermittently offer for a boda ride or a shave? At times, it even appears expected. How do I continuously sit with this? Should my existence in northern Uganda parallel the present affirmative action policy in the States? There are countless instances when I feel extremely compelled to give more material, finance, love, comfort, empathy, etc. because I’ve been privileged and fortunate enough to remain absent from the confines of what Chinua Achebe labeled, “things fall apart.” The Acholi “things” are inexhaustible. Similarly to affirmative action in the U.S. isn’t it my right as a privileged, well educated, heterosexual white male to offer some of what I’ve been handed to those who have collectively and continuously been dominated? Doesn’t that constitute humanity?
        So the next time I observe a bare-chested four year old girl with green snot running down her right nostril, look at me and says “Munu, mina mi abic” (Give me 500 shillings which is ~20 U.S. cents) I must still perceive her with genuine love and kindness. It’s neither her fault nor mine; just the way this abstract globe decides to spin us.

A “simple and concise” response to my good pal’s inquiry … no such reply exists.

 

Election

19 February

        “Vote Museveni - send this to seven people and get 7,000 [Ugandan shillings] air time [phone credit].” I wittily studied the text message from my pal Tonny’s mobile phone. Yesterday’s Presidential elections suggest the corrupt and dictatorship-style government regime of the incumbent Yoweri Museveni will inevitably reign another five years. Controlling and manipulating a sea of Ugandans since 1986. And as fellow opposing candidates hinted at civilian protests, the chief of Uganda declared, “Uganda is not Ivory Coast. It is not Kenya. Don't expect what is happening or happened in these countries to happen here .... I have the right medicine for those who want to cause trouble.” Does his “medicine” constitute the thousands of copiously armed and forceful UPDF troops spread throughout the country? Through analytical discourse, the collective energy of northerners is that Museveni – rather than Uganda in general – has an enormous army that he will noticeably use. What is the general populace’s interpretation on the elections: A media poll recently raised the question, “Do you think that the Ugandan Electoral Commission will conduct free and fair elections come February?” The media poll was unscientific but it gave emphatic results: Yes — 27 percent, No — 73 percent.
        A few nights ago, I bumped and bruised my way along the dry and dusty Juba road with Mamma Flo en route to Lacor Hospital. Albeit speaking in broad, general sweeping terminology, my personal observations and perceptions of African hospitals are gripping. We found Christine and her three-month old baby spooning on a green mat, next to a rusty crib in the pediatric ward. Rubangakene was suffering from an initial bout of malaria. The euphoria that expelled from Christine’s mother’s face when she recognized us ignited a lukewarm fuzziness. Our crew slowly sauntered past the caged off Tuberculosis Ward of the hospital. Only hours earlier I had spent moments at that particular TB Ward while a patient from my internship wilted away from TB, bedsores and AIDS. Trouble amounted whilst trying to remove the dreary image of her horrifically emaciated, desperate face from my cognition.
        As we meandered westward up a concrete ramp, I couldn’t help but open my wide mouth and smile deeply. In a mass of female African women sleeping with straw mats on the damp, cement hospital floor Winnie’s perfectly aligned white teeth shined from afar. Winnie – another one of our neighbors/sisters – was patiently waiting amongst heaps of Ugandans for the impending surgery of her 13 month old baby. The undersized male was born without an anus, and ten months later, rumor reached Winnie that two munu doctor’s were coming back to Lacor Hospital to finish round two of his surgery. Winnie unwearyingly remained for days, but the munus never showed; they feared election violence.
        Directly after passing through the post operation ward of the hospital, I subtly and gently motioned to Mamma Flo that I needed to depart. The combination of a potent bloody urine stench mixed with the eyes of a patient whose arms weren’t thicker than the diameter of a quarter was personally enough for the day. On our mellow and wordless walk out of the open-aired hospital, I felt a smooth, reassuring flow of energy creep within my soul. On the ruffled speakers that cracked through the infrastructure was a soft, beautiful Acholi prayer song. I observed Mama Flo’s lips move with the rhythm of the tune. She was not alone. As my heads courteously wandered to the patients, family members and loved ones in the verandas under the stars, I realized almost everyone was quietly singing along.
        It wasn’t until I made eye contact with a legless man, thanks to a landmine blast, that I conceptualized religion in a benevolent, understanding and indulgent framework. As his words echoed those of the speaker, I smiled with him. Religion – especially (but not exclusively) in this area of the world – suddenly made clear sense to me. Why not believe in something higher, something more powerful, and something to else? If not, what’s the point in it all? Sure, I’ve philosophized, discoursed and written about this phenomenon. However, viscerally feeling and experiencing it directly in the soul was something foreign.
        Finally, the fine folks of northern Uganda experienced an election where they weren’t crammed in displacement camps, fearing direct assaults from rebel and government factions. While meeting with my American supervisor yesterday afternoon, we halted as a hardworking family member was decked out in a beautiful, South Pacific Ocean blue dress with off-white flowers. As she so eloquently greeted us, I commented (in Acholi) that she looked, “beautiful.” Her warm, genuine response alerted us that she had dressed up and walked through the bush to the polling station. Her smile that beamed with joy and elation exposed the large gap in between her front teeth. My supervisor smiled and tenderly commented, “It’s a big day today for many people!”
        I’m optimistic and confident that the astounding souls of Uganda will eventually be clear of violent, oppressive, and subjugating regimes. Developmental justice lurks within the confines of this country and continent. It’s about believing, communalizing, and remaining within. As a white, privileged American, I have much to learn from northern Ugandans about developmental justice. It’s here, somewhere amidst a plethora of injustice.

Walk to the polling stations.

Folks lined up to cast their votes.

Which war??

9  February

        Last week’s visit to Amuru District personally distorted an already murky observation on reality. Riding on the back of the fire engine red, donated motorbike through bumps and craters of the reddish-brown clay dirt road was elevating. I observantly witnessed an unusually special atmosphere that was slightly dissimilar to that of Gulu town, in the fairly new formed district that boasts a shabby wooden stick trading center. I exhaled and allowed the feeling to linger.
        Our internship’s two room office – one is a bedroom and cooking space for the counselor and the other a space to meet beneficiaries – is nestled in a former internally displaced persons’ camp. Remnants of the brutal and exhausting war are unmistakably noticeable in the botched infrastructure. The official ideology of war in this region conveys the physical and mental obliteration by the LRA; one has to dig deep to educate herself on the malicious underpinnings of the government forces that clearly ignited the rebel movement. After spending the week touring the Amuru District, my immediate perceptions alert that war undoubtedly lurks. It may although depend on which type of war one is referring.
        One of our home visits landed us two hours away from Amuru town to another dilapidated former internally displaced persons’ camp. Our beneficiary – a parentless 12 year old, HIV positive boy – was slowly strolling down the path with his wide eyes fixed on the brown dust cloud immediately in front of him. Quite calm and direct, his older cousin expressed disgust with the beneficiary’s schooling system. “Teachers come from far away and need to board at the school. Most often they leave halfway through the day on Friday, and do not return until Tuesday. The students are only left with three and a half days of school a week. And now, there are only two teachers at the entire school.” This information was bluntly translated through the soft and kind words of the most beautiful, elder male counselor who has so graciously taken me under his wing. He went on, “This is the problem with government run schools, the government says they are good, but if you notice that everyone who has money - especially all government officials - send their children to private schools outside of northern Uganda. What does that say?”
        Subsequently we cruised through the vast geography and dry, searing sun’s rays to find another beneficiary at a former camp closer to our living quarters. Here was a joyful, lovely and jovial 20 year old paralyzed female. She’s been battling the virus since 2003, and was misdiagnosed with TB, which caused her present inability to move half her body. The beauty and energy this hopeful youngster expelled was simply rad. The woman sews some of the finest sweaters I’ve seen on the continent and beyond. Her oomph brought hope to a personally foreign and ominous actuality.
        The previous stories only amplified in lunacy and intensity throughout my educational and enlightening visit to Amuru. In lieu of describing the woman planning to sell her nine year old daughter, the male nurse erroneously prescribing harmful medication to a freshly diagnosed patient suffering from TB/AIDS, and a nurse’s decision to discard multiple patients’ blood samples, I aim to highlight positivity. I’m convinced that beneath the grimy and oily surface of my perceived Amuru District is a lavish daintiness.
        Sure, Amuru District was brutally wasted by decades of inhumane and gross conflict that continues to haunt its contemporary surroundings. One could also argue that Amuru is currently waged in a war against poverty, a war on education, a war on HIV/AIDS and a war on gender inequality. In the same breath, one must also recognize the absence of war in Amuru District. A war on hospitality, resilience, humanity and beauty are simply nonexistent in this unruffled district on our globe. Vast and broad smiles, receiving peanuts, jackfruit, meals and kind words were all integral aspects of my stay.

        So I presently wonder, are human beings all involved in some form of abstract or concrete war? Why do we collectively and individually choose to foolishly gauge war on ourselves, neighbors, “friends”, enemies, and loved ones? And what constitutes the ending of war? The vast global discourse suggests that when fighting is done, so is war. Without war, is there no struggle? If I was born in an internally displaced persons’ camp in northern Uganda, where would my notion and conceptualization of war fall? Distinct responses to these subjective questions are clearly open for interpretation. Instead of drilling my brain with such deliberation, I think I’ll implant the sound of hysterical laughter when a group of young men curiously observed me pull a flying “white ant” out of the sky and lie it on my moist tongue. Deep in the Amuru villages, this is a central aspect of most folks’ diet. How could I let that opportunity slide?

This is someone's door crafted out of USAID donated aluminum, cooking oil cans during the conflict.

   

Trapping the "white ants."

Cognitive Evolution

31 Jan

        Confusion lurks. Identifying the intermittent, creeping anxiety does not parallel my existing life here. Why am I finding difficulty remaining and cherishing the moment? Perhaps I need to breathe and focus on reality.
After an exhausting day on Friday co-facilitating an HIV/AIDS awareness training at the UPDF barracks, I felt slumped. The recognized image of recently murdered Ugandan gay activist, David Katos’ headshot remained implanted in my swarming head. I was brought back to my colleague/sister’s maddening and horror-struck words immediately receiving the phone call, “Imagine being killed simply because you love another person?”
        No question the heinous murder received more global attention than local. While I’d certainly argue that greater awareness was raised in Kampala, Gulu clearly didn’t skip a beat. What constitutes austere homophobia in Uganda, Africa, and the larger world is a puzzling discourse that deserves deeper, imminent humanitarian consideration. At this point in my existing reality, I believe that as a human race we simply are not quite cognitively evolved. If we are, is this sincerely humanity?
        “Being gay is not African and not what Jesus would want!” aggressively shouted a University student I observed on the national nightly news. I couldn’t help, but respond to the crooked 13 inch television, “Are Jesus and Christianity African?” Religious ideology is at the forefront of my cognition these days as I’m currently researching the Westernization of mental health with formerly abducted youth in northern Uganda. As no shock, religious factions – Christianity – is deeply embedded in the theoretical and practical framework surrounding reintegration processes with this specific population.
        The first Senegalese President (which was in 1960!), Leopold Senghor, prominently uttered the phrase, “Human Rights begins with breakfast.” Those words sat with me while strolling the forty-five minute journey simply to find transport to the hospital on Friday evening. The two month old baby who lives in our compound was struggling with a 103 degree fever, continuous diarrhea and vomiting. I acutely observed his mother humbly walk down the dirt path with the lethargic newborn strapped to her back and personal belongings for the hospital resting on her head, as the Ugandan sun turned the sky a burnt orange. After living in an Internally Displaced Persons’ camp for years, singly raising two young children, fetching water each day, remaining unemployed, sleeping on the floor of a cramped hut with her mother, nieces and nephews, etc., does this woman just not have enough time and energy to rally for gay rights? Do her human rights begin with breakfast?
        Do Senghor’s words actually resonate with the majority of locals from Gulu? Or are people instead wrapped up in Christianity which denounces homosexuality? A bit of both? “You know when you live in such poverty, religion is the only thing to hold on to … it gives you a sense of hope.” I watched the fixed eyes of my coworker diligently study the broken road as he drove his old, power steering and passenger seat window-less teeny blue car. Upon further dialogue, the dude highlighted the profound impact of Jesus and Christianity that were brought by the white man. “You see, the white people came with Jesus and us Africans saw the way the white people lived. People wanted to believe what the white people said.”

        Why does my mind wander to innocuous ideals such as, “what am I going to do after I graduate, how much money do I have in my bank account, and when will I go fetch water today?” Why not focus on the integrity and aptitude of my current surroundings. While cynically interpreting life’s insecurities at some graduation party last Saturday afternoon , I fortunately became revived. A local Ugandan pop song – that I’ve managed to memorize every lyric to – blared on the loudspeakers. Within an instant, the stale dust swiveled in the air as the barefoot kids, elderly women, men and women simultaneously hopped and glided to the music. Smiles and laughter illuminated the energetic yet serene surrounding. At once, my negativity ceased and there I was at a graduation shindig in northern Uganda. I took a breath and began my moments of being present. As I sat with a purple soda in my right hand, half a smile on my face I amusingly thought, “Well if we are not cognitively evolved, at least the Acholi people know how to have a good time!”