UPDF Military Wedding

21 December

        “An AK-47 is the most important aspect of being a part of the military.” Those roaring words blared from the oversized black speakers at the open field in the Lira District of northern Uganda. My patience was running low as it was nearly 6:31 pm, and no food was in sight. Hundreds of natives and I assembled eight and a half hours earlier for the wedding of a Ugandan (UPDF) Captain. I purposely chose to phrase it “the wedding of a Ugandan Captain” due to the unyielding nature of the event. Throughout the ceremony – which was partially translated in English – the official discourse solely and specifically revolved around the Captain. “Now that the Captain is marrying … We wish to congratulate the Captain for taking such a step with his wife … I’ve worked with the Captain for years and he always remains calm on the battlefield …” I consistently wondered, isn’t it equally important to acknowledge the female partaking in this ceremony? Why weren’t her friends allowed to give speeches like the four cronies and military personnel of the Captain?
        The UPDF propaganda was subtly and overtly infiltrated into the cognition of the massive audience. Throughout the event glimmering statements soared. “The UPDF is here to protect every civilian from harm, and the best way to do that is with the gun … President Museveni and our military work diligently each day to protect and support each and every one … With the help of the AK-47, we are able to carry out successful missions in this country …”
        A swarm of comical and provoking thoughts swam throughout my psyche. I instantaneously thought of the regular political engagements I’m associated with in Gulu. Intense research is clearly not necessary to recognize the concerted and palpable subjugation of the Acholi collective by the UPDF. Talk to the grand majority of locals about the UPDF’s role in the recent 20 plus year conflict with the LRA. Perceptions from the general Acholi consensus in Gulu; “The UPDF stayed in the center of the internally displaced persons’ camps so when the rebels came in, they killed many civilians prior to reaching the UPDF. And that is even if the UPDF stayed, because they usually ran when the rebels came … Many of our women were raped by the UPDF during the conflict which helped spread HIV to our community … The UPDF demanded that we go into an internally displaced persons camps and if not they would beat us and even kills us while calling us rebel collaborators …”
        I clearly understand that underlying Saturday’s wedding is simply the fact that it took place a couple of months prior to another heated Ugandan Presidential election. Although, I pryingly wondered how the propaganda will radiate across northern Uganda. For instance, only a couple of days earlier while snacking on some roasted cassava I sat on a broken red bench and glanced through the Daily Monitor newspaper. A headline of the national media outlet stated, “Acholi MPs Say Government Arming Militias.” As I dove into the jargon, I found that Members of Parliament in Acholiland claim the UPDF is supplying arms to NRM (the President’s party) mobilizers and former child combatants to instill fear in the population to vote NRM and President Museveni.
        As if aiding guns and ammunition to formerly abducted children in an area wasted by war and all of its side effects isn’t problematic enough, won’t this continue to instill the idea that the north is filled with rebels? Perhaps it’s no revelation that loads of southern Ugandans seem petrified to venture to the north of the country. Basically when interpreting this article, I’m forced to analyze who essentially gains by reporting this and ultimately who has something to lose.
        Another headline on the same day, but in the New Vision paper shared, “UPDF to Sue Beisgye Group.” Besigye is a rival Presidential candidate running against President Museveni in February. The accusations claimed Besigye reported the UPDF was unfaithfully siding with the NRM and Museveni. Luckily, I was hanging out with an extremely involved political ally of the Acholi and thus we had a solid chuckle over the headline and article. My pal chimed in, “Isn’t a Government’s military supposed to stay neutral and not sue a competing political group?” He went on, “You see Neil, all you can do is really laugh at the absurdity of Ugandan politics.” I marinated on that sentence for some time. Sure politics in all corners of the round globe are shaggy, but the military suing a political group is one I presently haven’t heard of. Could the U.S. Army sue the Democratic Party in my homeland?
        Perhaps the most mind altering scenario of Saturday’s wedding was not the refreshingly cold “Bell Beer” that was proudly snuck to me by the relaxed driver of our vehicle. Instead, if I had any food in my stomach at that point, it may have resurfaced when I saw one of the numerous wedding cakes. “Since the AK-47 is the most important aspect of being in the military, we have designed a cake in the shape of one,” pretentiously stated some military official. At once I grabbed the right arm of our younger neighbor/brother and told him, “Hurry up and go take a picture of that cake before they cut it or give it away.” I certainly wasn't prepared to be the only munu at the wedding snapping photos of the AK-47 cake.
          An AK-47 wedding cake; that about did it for me. Problematic? From my contorted Western view on the situation, I was dumbfounded. In effect, do the folks of northern Uganda desire to share bits of a Kalashnikova cake? What was the consensual reaction from the crowd? I curiously waited and heard scores of folks laughing. To me this wasn’t in fact funny, but instead sort of gross, disrespectful and patronizing. How many folks at the wedding or in the present area had loved ones killed by the AK-47 by those exact UPDF service members? What does this signify and represent to the young children at the wedding? “Guns are cool; we even make wedding cakes representing them!” Perhaps it’s no shocker that youngsters in my home village craft AK-47 replicas out of banana trees, leaves and whatever vegetation they get their hands on. After all, the UPDF couldn’t speak highly enough of it at the wedding for Christ sakes.

The AK-47 cake

Coincidence or do "all boys play with guns"? If so, why?

"Burning Man"

15 December

        Since I attended Burning Man two summers ago, I’ve occasionally attempted to deconstruct its function and meaning. Scores of diverse and eccentric folks often rave at the “magic and amazingness of being totally free for a week in the desert of Nevada.” Besides simply being a gathering for mostly white, privileged Americans, I did find a bit of essence in the festival. Quite interestingly enough is the various parallels I’ve noticed between what the jamboree in Nevada strives to accomplish and actual life here in Gulu, Uganda.
        Through discourse and personal observations in the Nevada desert, Burning Man attempts to create a sort of collective, sharing, loving, caring, money-free, anything goes type environment, where one tends to forget and remove herself from everyday reality and instead “just be.” In theory, and at times in practice, this phenomenon is worthwhile and appetizing. While in Nevada, I clearly remember wandering the disgusting, yet beautiful searing sun drenched dusty roads and having people welcome me into their campsites or “communities.” While spending time with these “strangers” I felt an affably strong human connection as people shared stories, alcohol and food.
        Two weeks ago, a group of elderly men were sitting on wooden chairs while relaxing in the shade of a neon green mango tree. Before the shortest one noticed me, I attempted to remain out of their view and simply observe. I could physically feel an electric vibe that I wasn’t ready to leave. Upon being spotted, I already found myself cautiously walking towards them. The Acholi elders were leisurely swigging on the local alcoholic beverage called gulu-gulu. They motioned me over and I had no qualms joining them on that sluggish Saturday afternoon. Sipping on the foggy, cloudy grayish booze forced me to wince as if I was in pain, and immediate laughter ensued from the gents. Without warning it hit me as I glanced around and witnessed the countless mud huts within yards from us. Bare-chested kids were playing with colorful bottle caps, mothers and grandmas chatting, cooking and laughing. A strident, half broken radio with only a tiny piece of the antenna blared traditional Acholi music. The energy of the atmosphere was electric. “Is this what Burning Man attempts to create,” I internally questioned.
         The number of times I’ve been given meals, tea, soda and beer in Gulu have surely been inconceivable. These offers come from some of the most economically disadvantaged beings in the whole of Uganda. Sharing material, sharing food, sharing community and sharing love is essentially the backbone of this culture. The Acholi have a specific term for guests who refuse what the locals offer. The term is lawake, which translates to one who is too proud.
         I personally appreciate Burning Man’s continuous efforts to create this “utopian society” for one week a year. Who wouldn’t enjoy marinating on that? Perhaps I’m dumbstruck by how a “developed” and “advanced” nation such as the U.S. has to artificially create genuine and authentic bonds and relationships amongst a collective. Scores of folks plan for their Burning Man experiences several months in advance. Imagine having to plan for an appreciative, caring, giving and receiving society? What happens the other 51 weeks of the year? Does Burning Man generate an energetic shift that will perpetuate legitimate human interactions to carry throughout the year? Or do most participants head back to quasi, half-assed jobs and lifestyles they only wished were more Burning Man-esque?
         Who knows and I realize this is basically a pathetic and crude attempt at a comparison. However, I am fully cognizant of the fact that when I’m in the community of Gulu, being offered food, drinks, friendships, etc. is not because I’m at a $250 festival in the desert of Nevada. Could it pertain to the fact that I’m a munu? Absolutely. Yet, there still seems a higher or more authentic degree of gentility and honesty, and the Acholi culture is renowned for its hospitality amongst all visitors, not only munus.
        Again, I remain clouded at the disparities between my privileged homeland and this piece of earth. I do ultimately believe a sincere and particular mysticism remains present within this collective. Popular political and humanitarian discourse proposes the contrary. However, forcing oneself to peel the sociopolitical layers of this land, one is ultimately left with the stark reality of Acholiland. The ways in which these folks continuously remain plated below the surface in Uganda and the world, is not only disturbing, but additionally misinterpreted. Unfortunately, particular international NGOs up here don’t necessarily aid the situation. Foreign aid and “help” in Africa is an entirely abstract phenomenon that needs further deconstruction and analysis.
        But for now, at least the Acholi do not need to unnaturally produce a fantasy world in which people demonstrate some essential underpinnings of humanity. If we could only learn from these folks instead of continuously marginalizing them and referring to this population as “the other” …

One World

6 December

        “Today is not a celebration, but instead a day of remembrance … the fight against AIDS is a collective effort, but it begins with the individual.” Those thunderous words were sternly uttered by the shiny grey suit sporting Local Council member. It was World AIDS Day, and there I was uncomfortably situated on a broken white plastic chair, in the former Internally Displaced Persons’ camp of Koch Goma. As this fella’s proud piercing voice boomed, my soft gaze found 42 curiously bright eyes staring at me. Twenty-one young barefoot, malnourished, northern Ugandan youth inquisitively assessed me. Only two smiles were present, and the remaining kids’ eyes were securely locked on my body. I glanced down and noticed a swarm of flies happily playing in the open wound on the right knuckle of one boy’s big toe. His glassy eyes remained stagnant as his ripped black shirt and mud-stained khaki shorts looked three sizes too small. I glanced up to find his eyes, pointed at his wound and he remained expressionless. The aged, split gash appeared infected. After subtly removing myself from the situation, I found the nurse with whom I rode the two hour long journey with. She checked the lad’s abrasion and almost frustratingly informed me, “Our First Aid table is only for emergencies. He should go to the health clinic over there.”
        In front of the health clinic was a manila painted concrete slab where six older adults took refuge from the sun. As with the masses, they expressed positive alarm at the munu’s presence in such a place. In my broken Acholi language skills, I explained and showed them the kid’s toe. One hunched over older woman’s response was, “Take him to the First Aid table.” After calming explaining the situation, I was informed, “That is infected, and there is no doctor here today. Tell the boy to come back tomorrow.” The young dude slowly wandered away after a local yelled something towards him that I couldn’t quite grasp. I was clueless, so I bought a piece of boiled corn and sat next to one elderly women clad in a vivacious yellow dress, accompanied by a walking stick.
         While biting a tough faded yellow colonel of corn a squeaky and sweet voice appeared, “Are you hear for World AIDS day?” It was that of a 29 year old female who, due to her physical dimensions, appeared 17. The frail women kindly explained that she was there to learn more about AIDS. In our discourse she informed me that she longed to head back to school but, “in our culture when a girl becomes pregnant, people will stop sponsoring her education, because she is now a mom … I didn’t even want a child or think it was real that I could have one … I want to go back to school but have no money.” After she dryly spat out those details, close to four minutes of silence ensued. “I have to go take some alcohol at my auntie’s shop,” were the somber words that finally broke the stillness. I wished her well and ominously thought, “Wow, it’s not even noon yet on a Wednesday morning.”
         I was intrigued with my surroundings and couldn’t tell what I was essentially feeling. Was I reeling off the notion that 12.4 percent of people in this district are HIV positive? Or that just a few years ago thousands of folks lived literally cramped on top of one another without proper access to food, running water, or safety in this very spot I stood that afternoon? Fearing rebel groups, fearing government troops, fearing starvation, fearing AIDS, fearing Ebola, fearing disease, and perhaps fearing life. What did I fear a few years ago … how to get beers on a Sunday night at Syracuse University when the liquor store closed early?
         Once in a group meditation session in San Francisco, I was jarringly frustrated at the injustices in life, and thus I approached the leader after the session. When I explained my irritation at the instability of humanitarian insecurity in these polar opposite worlds people live in, he peered in my incensed eyes and delicately stated, “It’s actually only one world we live in.” To this day, I’m brought back to the spiritual leader’s acceptable statement. After all, I suppose we do live in only one world. But, I may argue that this world has vast and uneven boulevards that intertwine and also remain exceedingly distant from one another. Who can travel down which roads at which times? What does it mean that I was born on a wealthy, white, privileged, heterosexual, male road?
        I had a terrific evening last Saturday night, hanging out, grubbing down, and chatting the night away with my coworker, his wife and their three children. Franklin (I’ve disguised his real name) is my age, but based on demeanor, style, and posture seems a bit older. The other day, he jarringly laughed when I pulled my laptop out of a bag that was wrapped in an old red tee-shirt I used as a covering case. “Oh Neil, I love your style, my brother” he shared as his white crooked front teeth were visible from miles away.
        As we sat out in the open air surrounded by grass huts, we shared innocuously ridiculous tales about our upbringings. As the evening transformed into night, we got into it. Here’s a brother who lost both his parents to the war, lost a sister of HIV/AIDS after she was “raped” by government troops, and currently lives next to one of his brother’s three wives. “Our culture here is very different than yours,” stated Franklin while spitting out a fish bone that was caught in between his teeth. “You know, my brother is a busy man with all of his wives, but we are trying to make things more equal for men and women here.”
         We conversed a few hours longer, and then he escorted me to catch a boda back to town. I wondered, “Does it ever end for these people?” And then I optimistically stopped the boda driver and asked him to drop me just outside of town. As I strolled my way up the dimly lit road, I thought, “Perhaps I’ll never get an appropriate response to that question.” But, the ways in which Franklin and his brothers and sisters face life with such determination and resiliency, makes me wonder. The world appears quite differently in northern Uganda than say Albany, New York. Do we as humans adapt to what we’re faced with? What has Franklin done to deserve living a marginalized life in a subjugated area of this earth? Is it marginalized and subjugated to him? Or is that how I see it as an educated white man studying in an absurdly expensive liberal arts graduate program? Isn’t it my privilege that allows me to travel and write about such mysterious “foreign” places?

snaps from World AIDS Day

Chinua Achebe

30 November

        Yesterday I was beneficially reintroduced to a glorious quote from the great Nigerian author - Chinua Achebe - while I flipped through the cracked beige paperback that consists of debates regarding sociopolitical and cultural phenomenon across the continent. “People go to Africa and confirm what they already have in their heads and so they fail to see what is in front of them.” I suddenly vanished in Achebe’s words. How have my ingrained perceptions and stereotypical underpinnings of the continent effected, misrepresented or constructed what is virtually at my fingertips while here? How has the global media crafted my white, privileged sense of understandings concerning the continent? Why does popular discourse surrounding the continent focus on the grime of Africa, and so seldom document the extraordinarily diverse, vibrant and dynamic cultures?
        A few days ago, I ventured on a five hour southern journey to Kampala. After spending only a hundred and six hours here, I’m struck at the ways our brothers and sisters from the north are perceived. Just yesterday, I found myself in a ludicrously absurd mall-type arena. The place could have easily been nestled in Syracuse, New York, and I wouldn’t blink an eye, save for the fact that it was packed with 98% Ugandans. As I loosely conversed with the young 20s female merchant who collected change for the fresh and juicy orange and mango I purchased, I bit my lip. “I came down from Gulu just yesterday” I sort of pompously stated to kill the silence. Based on this girl’s horrified nonverbal reaction, I thought I uttered sinful words. I went on, “Have you been to Gulu?” The girl’s terms forced me to squint my eyes and steadily nod my head. “Why would I want to go up there where all those people are killing each other,” carelessly stated the clerk. After further deliberations with southern Ugandans, I’m realizing the merchant’s feelings aren’t isolated. “You mean there are night clubs in Gulu? I thought the place is still very rundown and war torn?” claimed the dreadlock sporting 26 year old dude I was in discussion with. The final quote potted it for me, “I fear Gulu and northern Uganda … those people are chopping each other up.” I’m kind of dumbfounded whilst hearing these rather ignorant philosophies. After all, Gulu is a five hour bus journey north of Kampala, and “war” has “officially been absent” since 07ish’. The subjugation and misalignments of fellow country folk and government officials are harrowing and worrying. (See work from Sverker Finnstrom and Chris Dolan). After listening to some of this absurdity, I was initially reminded of my pal Tonny’s (an Acholi from Gulu) hypothesis on the issue, “You know it was fear that brought problems to northern Uganda in the first place.” According to Tonny and other experts on the conflict, northerners in Kampala were (and perhaps still are) occasionally referred to as “Konies” after rebel leader Joseph Kony.
        When I initially arrived in the severely harsh and magical streets of the capital, I was reminded of its grave intensity. Immense crowds of young kids and older adults selling fruit, fried grasshoppers, hardboiled eggs, DVDs of Lucky Dube, belt buckles with Obama’s face on them, and plastic sneakers. Throughout my years in this lifetime, I’ve had the luxury of arriving to Kampala on about six different occasions. Without a doubt, I’ve clearly never viscerally or physically conceptualized Kampala in such an abstract lens. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent the previous few months in the large mellow village of Gulu that I stopped in the middle of the mass chaos to watch a woman in a long bright orange t-shirt distastefully throw blows at two teenage boys on a bicycle. All the while the white chalky exhaust from the overcrowded, beat-up taxi-vans quickly distorted her fuming and aggressive face.
        On the same walk, I observed the fiery supporters of various political parties’ parade, dance, sing, blare music and run around the dusty, mosh-pit like streets near the New Taxi Park. As I attempted to meander my way up the minute hill back to my dwelling, I felt the hand of a desperate stranger reach into my right front pocket. There was nothing in there besides my hand. When our hands met inside the pocket, I instinctively yanked mine out and peered up at the dude. Our eyes reached one another, but I quickly turned my gaze, and realized there were perhaps no personal affiliations related to our interaction. Or does the “personal affiliation” come with the color of my skin and the laces in my sneakers? As I walked out of the grimy, smelly, swarming streets of chaos, I took a bottomless breath and realized “that’s it for now.” But how about my brother who dipped his left hand into my right pocket? It’s most likely “not it” for him, as he probably navigates those immense, exhausted boulevards on the regular. Why not take advantage of the gleaming white wealth and privilege that’s visiting a seemingly unfamiliar and foreign land? After all, what is there to lose? I grinned and reminisced about how feeble an attempt to loot my belongings as compared to the circumstances I experienced at Earnest Bai Karoma’s Presidential Inauguration in Freetown, Sierra Leone, a few years back.
        When heading back to Achebe’s words, I broadly beam at a snip of a joyous and fruitful walk I took last week in Gulu. My tall and lanky fourteen year old neighbor strolled alongside me through the village avenues with a destination of town in mind. Our intended targeted objective was to land at our favorite wooden shop where we could each sip on some fine cold orange Fanta soda straight from the glass bottle. I owed a gesture of appreciation to Willie as he chose to assist in hand washing my filthy and stinky clothes that brutally blazing morning. Without fail, whenever I’m walking the dirt paths of Gulu, scores of comments, greetings, laughter, etc. arise. Two-thirds of the time I’m ignorant to what is being offered, but can pick up small tidbits. The day with Willie was dissimilar, as I attempted to inquire what was being said. After a short while, I stopped asking, but was slightly amused at some contributions, and I pondered how much I’ve missed due to the language barrier.

“This munu will greet anyone.”
“This munu looks like he wants to fight.”
“Why doesn’t that munu pull up his pants?”
“I bet that munu’s bag is filled with money.”
“Munu, give me all of your money, or at least 500 shillings” (the equivalent to about 22 cents)
“This munu looks like Chuck Norris.”
“Munu give me your computer when you leave Uganda.”

        I plan on tucking Achebe’s miraculously poignant words at the forefront of my cognition. No question that I’ve fallen into the trap as labeling the mysticism on this continent as the “other.” I’m not only white, privileged and wealthy, but ultimately from the United States. Collectively whites have come to this area and attempted to “fix” it. A revered British explorer (from the 1850s) in Gulu – Samuel Baker – is credited for ending the Arab slave trade amongst the Acholi in northern Uganda. The amount of instances in which I’ve been asked if I’ve visited “Samuel Baker’s fort yet” is uncountable while up north. I’ve only slightly touched the surface of exploring with Acholi folk the actual underpinnings of Baker’s work. Did he really “save the Acholi from Arab slave traders?” Or were his selfish intentions rooted in prospering his privileged country of origin? I have strong opinions siding one way. However, I find it necessary to jot down some of this “savior’s” words…

“The treachery of the Negro is beyond belief; he has not a moral human instinct and is below the brute. How is it possible to improve such abject animals? They are only fit for slaves to which position their race appears to be condemned.”

      I’ve yet to discourse with some Acholi on Baker’s specific philosophies and thoughts, but clearly plan to when the setting permits. Are brown and black skinned people “only fit for slaves” (as Baker claims) due to mainstream media, explores like Baker and John Hanning Speke, technology and material development, etc.?
My next mission on this powerful excursion is to label Achebe’s words in my eyes as my inquisitive mind persistently runs.

Does "Our Uganda" include those northerners who are "chopping each other up"?

The Way it Is...

21 November

        As we swerved our way along the crooked and surprisingly comparatively tranquil road within Gulu town, I heard the roars of a helicopter overhead. “President Museveni,” heatedly stated my 28 year old, distant and mellow male co-worker. It was Museveni’s turn to come campaign at the worn out, dusty field where the Barefoot Peace Walk ceremony took place a couple of months ago. After a tad more of holding on through some grinds in the road, we gradually rolled up to the UPDF (United People’s Defense Forces) barracks where a measly group of onlookers paraded to welcome the President. “Museveni, huh” I enchantingly thought to myself.
        As an outsider to northern Uganda, I have minimal – if any - rights in establishing a permissible opinion towards the political climate in this area. Although after painstakingly rereading Sverker Finnstrom’s Living With Bad Surroundings and chatting with scores of locals, it’s apparently quite evident President Museveni and his army have continuously, blatantly and physically subjugated and oppressed the Acholi collective. What are the existential motivations of the LRA? Why did Joseph Kony begin his (albeit grossly inhumane) rebel group against the government in the first place?
        “You see not many people here like Museveni,” delicately chimed my coworker. With those words, we crept passed heaps of boda boda (motorcycle-taxi) drivers decked out in Museveni’s yellow colored NRM tee-shirts. I was confused. “So why are those boda drivers all wearing Museveni gear and seem to be waiting for him” I vigilantly asked. “Ha, boda drivers will do anything for money. The government paid them to wear those shirts and drive towards where Museveni will speak. Tomorrow, if another candidate comes in here you’ll see them wearing those colors for the money.” “So, you mean the government paid the boda drivers” was my reaffirming question. “What kind of question is that? Of course they do.” That night, while chowing down on some incredible local dark green vegetables covered in a peanut butter pasty soup, I caught a news highlight that called out, “Many come out to support Presedint Museveni today in Gulu.” As I glanced up at the dusty, old 13 inch television screen I noticed the camera’s pan of the mass of boda drivers we passed earlier that afternoon riding and honking in their yellow NRM shirts. Interesting…I thought.
        A few days ago, I engaged in an ARV psychoeducational session for newly confirmed HIV positive northern Ugandans at Lacor Hospital. The open-air, “training room” of the facility hastily became a loud grayish dark, and I noticed the off-white chipped paint peeling from the ceiling. Within seconds deafening rain pulverized the metal sheet roofing. Because of this, the overzealous and sometimes irritable facilitator had no choice but to let the rain interrupt his course. Moments passed on, and capriciously a one-legged 50 year old female crawled to seek refuge from the downpour. The utterly drenched woman was clad in a flamboyantly proud, but faded yellow and lime green dress that carried rain and grime across the grubby floor. The distress and anguish clad in between her eyes seemed troublingly unfamiliar. I’m not sure I’ll ever escape the feelings of when our eyes found each other. A look surfaced that I interpreted as, “Yeah life is very difficult, and you may never fully grasp it, my brother.” I diligently attempted to promptly remove my gaze from her. Instead, I was frozen and observed the large voluptuous raindrops plunge from her left eyebrow as she exhaustedly lay on the floor.
        Did I just use the word “refuge” while describing this situation? Alluring choice of words, I must say. Would this soul or any person in this area of our magical world consider our one-legged sister as taking “refuge” from the rain? Or does that term ignite gruesome and harrowing memories of what the recent past presented to 90% of people here as they sought “refuge” from government and rebel troops? Oh, I’m sorry they were not considered “refugees” because they sought solace in their own land. Instead, the term “internally displaced persons” with a heartless acronym IDP is what “these people” were termed. Not human beings, but IDPs.
        While living in Acholiland, I’m persistently bombarded with internal and reaffirming notions of injustice. Often I mentally remove myself from the direct surroundings and tenderly aim to empathize and conceptualize the significance of distant and near historical influences in Gulu. How does one internalize having white men strip his/her sense of agency? And since individual and community are instinctively interrelated among the Acholi, what does that ultimately say about collective agency? Not only were these souls oppressed and dehumanized by colonization, they further felt subjugation and suppression from their own government and civilian population which turned to arms as perhaps a manifestation of frustration. And just recently most relied on international aid workers to bring them food and water.
         What about our thirteen year old neighbor who coolly stated in between mouthfuls of white rice, “I wish I was white”? As I nearly choked on my unga, I immediately thought of a recently read Frantz Fannon’s line. “However painful it is for me to accept this conclusion, I am obliged to state it: for the black man there is only one destiny. And that is white.” How about riding on the back of a motorbike through the desolately bare countryside to co-facilitate a meeting at a former Internally Displaced Persons’ camp? What about stopping at the bridge on the way home, so my coworker could reveal the bullet holes that were strewn throughout the structure? “The government troops were on this side, and the rebels were on the other side,” calmly stated the modest 31 year old chap. All I could think about were the innocent civilians stuck in the camp only 3 kilometers away. What about those who were caught in the cross-fire I thought, but decided not to ask.
        While my mind swam through saturated thoughts of everything and nothing, I watched the boda-boda drivers peel out in their yellow colored NRM t-shirts. Just as I was considering engaging in further discourse surrounding the current situation, I heard the famous rhythm of Lucky Dube’s “The Way it Is” begin to take shape on the radio. As the late reggae star’s music is revered in Gulu – and many places on the continent – I joyously observed my two co-workers slowly bob their heads up and down. I decided to rest my mind full of thoughts. As the song took shape, a local female co-worker could sense my curiosity towards life in Gulu and kind-heartedly informed me, “You see Neil, as Lucky says, ‘sometimes that’s just the way it is’ and we can’t look for deeper meaning in every corner of life. So enjoy the music.” Without realizing it, I found myself optimistically smiling on that dusty, exhaustively hot late afternoon. That phrase, “So enjoy the music” will perhaps infiltrate deeper than what my co-worker may have implied. Or considering she reigns from the area, she may clearly have implied a sort of existential, profound underpinning. Whatever the case may be, my spirits shifted and I contentedly allowed Lucky to do the talking.
     I find illustrious personal correlation with another Frantz Fanon quote. It seems to hit me precisely and directly in the heart these days. “In the world through which I travel, I am endlessly creating myself.”

Newborn

14 November

        I was stoked last Wednesday to have a night in solitude, listen to the softness of Joanna Newsom stroke her six-string and perhaps attempt to write a process recording. As I eagerly propped up the flat screen on the computer, the door of our place gradually opened, and delicately entered our six foot three inch, 22 year old, soft-hearted male neighbor. With a slight smile on his face he sat down and greeted me in the local language. In a sort of unauthentic warm response, I internally thought, “Shucks, I was really looking forward to a night alone.” After chatting in brevity, Jacob quite subtly stated, “Christine is somehow not feeling well.” Christine is his fun-loving, goofy and overly pregnant older sister. For the past week, I’ve been joking around with her, speaking in broken Acholi that if she needs to have the baby in the middle of the night, wake me up and I’d drive her to the hospital. You see, at our house, the director of my internship has a mini-van type vehicle. Our place is constructed of cement while no other living facilities in the vicinity are designed in such a privileged fashion. The vehicle is clearly the only one within some kilometers.
        “What??!!” I yelled. “Is she going to have the baby now?” “You see the problem is transportation and none of us know how to drive,” peacefully declared Jacob. “Does she need me to take her? Let’s go!!” I slammed down the face of the computer, grabbed the car key and ran out the green door. The director of our organization (who runs the household) was away in Kampala for the week, and therefore left the car key with me to start the engine every other day since the car is “almost broken.” As I hurriedly jogged down the dirt path to her grass roofed, mud hut, I found Christine in what I consider deep labor pains. Her gentle and beautifully situated mother was sincerely aiding her daughter while preparing belongings to sleep on the hospital floor. The overly friendly, gracious women had a look in them that was foreign to me. Thus, I realized now was a moment to remain serious.
        Six of us piled in the stalling minivan, and since I don’t even particularly drive in the US, I was confused and opened the left door thinking it was the driver’s side. “Jesus,” I thought and I’m going to be escorting this family through these deeply cracked, crater embedded village dirt roads to the main government hospital. After nearly tipping the vehicle on the first cavern in the road, we slowly reached a wooden shop illuminated by a single candle. Christine’s mother and Jacob ran out of the car to fetch the two items required to give birth at Gulu Government Hospital. While they were out of the car, Christine’s pains intensified and through moans and the grinding of her teeth she loudly yelled in English, “Jesus Christ.” As a wave of my heated blood rushed from my toes to forehead, I fretfully and worriedly internally demanded, “Oh please don’t let this woman have a baby right now in the car.”
        The treacherous ride finally terminated as we bumped our way towards the maternity ward of the awfully rundown, cracked hospital buildings. As soon as Jacob opened Christine’s door, she immediately fell to the damp cement ramp leading to the ward, with a strikingly painful look in her wide eyes. The older looking nurse, decked out in a one piece faded blue skirt outfit which looked as if it was from the 1940s, showed further interest in the munu, then the ailing patient.
        As I dragged behind the two family members aiding Christine hobble down the main hall, I was floored at the shattered infrastructure of the government hospital. “Wow, how Lacor Hospital seems magnificent compared to this place,” I told myself. Dimly lit, dorm-style dirty hospital rooms, and scores of women sleeping on mats on the nasty floor leading up to the maternity ward immediately caught my eyes. Through the corner of my right eye, I noticed Christine’s mom pass along what appeared to be a folded up black tarp, and something else I couldn’t make out, to the nurse. I was curious, so I inquired with another member of our crew, a 19 year old male cousin to the patient. “If you don’t have those two things, you will not be allowed to have a baby here.” Through our discourse, I was informed that the required articles were a plastic tarp-like bed sheet that is laid down as the mother is giving birth. “That is for all of the blood and other things that come out with the baby,” frankly stated this chap. The other item is a razor blade, which is to cut the umbilical cord. He went on, “Without them, they will turn you away, even if you are about to have a baby.” Through further inquiry I was informed those two items are equivalent to about $1.50. “So you see Neil, government hospitals are free but the problem is if you look around you can see that they are not very organized.” With those words, the electricity cut out and we were standing in the stuffy, smelly overly crowded hallway in complete darkness. Thankfully, light returned shortly afterward.
        I wondered where the father of the child currently was, and was kindly informed, “He will not be around, as he’s distanced himself from Christine.” With those words, I felt an increasingly sharp degree of frustration towards males in general. In no specific means, is this an isolated case. Gender normative and hierarchal regimes continue to dominate this lifestyle.
        Our clan arrived at Gulu Hospital at 9:17pm, and slightly after 10pm the baby boy was born. Yesterday, I sat in the small hut where Christine, her sister, her mother, and five of their children huddle around one another while nightly sleeping on straw mats that occupy floor space. Cradling the newborn while sitting cross-legged on the floor ignited a sense of astonishment and awe. Everything associated with caring for a day old being is entirely novel to my ignorant, non-childrearing self. Thus, I inevitably compared newborn procedures in my white Western world with those of Christine and her family. I instinctively pondered what sort of lawsuits would fly if the power cut out at your average white Western maternity ward in the U.S.? How would a standard white female feel about delivering in Gulu Government Hospital while her mother lay cramped on an unmopped, filthy floor? More so, what would Christine’s experience resonate to her soul if she had the privilege of birthing at a suburban hospital in Vermont? Would she be grateful, weirded out, and remain additionally reminded of her black, subjugated status? How many white people in the U.S. have brought their day old babies home to compete for and occupy tightly crammed floor space?
        I realize these questions must be analyzed and constructed in a culturally specific contextual framework. However, the essential underpinning is that Christine and her sisters in northern Uganda are identical to our sisters in the West in that they’re all human beings. Do humans adapt to what they lack or are privileged enough to obtain? I’ll continue to hold and observe these internal thoughts as I attempt to amply hang out with this little dude in the next few months.

So much for having a Neil night and writing process recordings.

Money

8 November 2010
   
        “I have a great friend…a refugee from Sudan who lives in Salt Lake City. Do you know Salt Lake City?” This sincere questioned was raised from the 31 year old, eloquently dressed father of two. For some reason, prior to answering that I was familiar with Utah, albeit never having stepped foot in the constructed state boundaries, I was internally pondering my thoughts of the sign, “Virginity is Wealth” that crookedly hung on the trunk of a huge mango tree at the primary school we just visited. “Yeah, I know where Salt Lake City is,” I strangely responded. “My friend is always complaining that life it too expensive in America. What do you think” commanded Vincent.
         Infinite thoughts swam through my head, and I was brought back to yesterday’s lunch where I paid the equivalence of 44 cents to chow down on a “rolex.” The greasy contraption consists of a fried egg with tomatoes, onions, and peppers that is wrapped in a fantastically delicious chapatti. While I dined on a broken rock alongside the wrecked main road, I intermittently covered the “sandwich” with the clear flimsy plastic bag it came in to dodge the dust and pebbles that kicked up from the trucks on that overly congested, yet eerily quiet main dirt road. Instead of directly answering my pal, I eccentrically queried about the daintily narrow road our truck sped down. “This road was created during the war, so the government could track down the rebels. That’s why it looks so skinny. So what do you think about money in America?” It was apparent this dude wanted me to speak on financial issues in my homeland.
        A dyadic discourse emerged where the two of us kindly and frankly compared the few similarities and countless differences between our lands. My comrade Vincent shared that the four members of his family can “surely” get by on 75 bucks worth of beans for a year. Just recently I began liberalizing my spending habits. The excuse that I’m an unpaid “student” has sheltered me from dishing out cash on various occasions. Was that simply a protective measure when friends, strangers, drunkards, and peers ask the “munu” for money? Yes, I am clearly a student who currently receives no income, and am entering a work world where the dollar bills won’t be flowing like burritos in the Mission. However, when analyzed through a contextual framework, I am absolutely financially and materially loaded compared to the grand populous in northern Uganda.
        How do I deal with the consistent, chronic money requests that I’m presented with? Dr. Josh Miller shared a key piece of advice, “When I’m international, I tell people that I don’t donate to individuals specifically.” What about when my local friend and research mentor asks me for the equivalent of eight bucks so his 17 year old daughter can have a procedure to remove “a growth on her vagina”? What about the helpless 37 year old chap whose swollen right index finger was oozing with a greenish/yellow puss as he innocently looked my way? What about the HIV positive patients who can’t afford the 44 cents fee to see the doctor at Lacor Hospital? How about my teenage neighbors who’ve constructed their mud hut with bare hands who candidly request I reach out to people in California to sponsor their education? What about the Italian munu who works at my internship organization? Her job description is essentially identical to many locals, but her income is 12.5 times higher than theirs? Some may justify that she works for a Western NGO, but how does that injustice speak to the fully aware Ugandans? And it what way will that perpetrate the racial divide between the whites and the “other”? In my eyes, it’s a simple microcosm of the volumes of racial inequality this world consistently partakes in. I sense parallels between the judge’s unjust moronic and asinine comments when justifying Johannes Mesherle’s murder of Oscar Grant.
        Vincent and I had just returned from a training session at the Loyo Ajonga Primary School that was situated deep in a rural village. The newly built school was constructed by the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. As we stumbled up in the dirty pick up, I noticed our meeting was to take place under the confines of the torn, filthy and crusty white UNICEF tent. The manual Vincent facilitated from entitled, The Income Diversification Project of CARE: Bangladesh’s Rural Maintenance Program, was provided by “support from the United States Agency for International Development.” Money, huh. At this point, as much as I dislike admitting, it absolutely seems to spin the globe. What would life be like without it, or without the hideous and vulgar greed associated with it?
        So it’s no wonder that Vincent’s buddy constantly struggles to financially make it in the U.S. After all, a Whopper at Burger King is an utter delicacy when one is familiar with dishing out 75 bucks for a year’s supply of beans.

HIV/AIDS or WAR???

October 29, 2010

        While dining on some spectacular local rice, beans, and indigenous dark green vegetables, the question arose. The local family – our family – in which we grub down with each night, consists of an amazingly talented 30 year old woman, who is missing one front tooth. The formerly abducted gal speaks minimal English and thus conversing with her is often an amusing challenge. Next, is the 12 year old chap who is originally from “deep in the bush” and under the care and guidance of our host mother, Florence. Due to his upbringing in the rural village, his English skill are moreover lacking, and thus attends Primary Level 3, while others his age may be enrolled in Primary Levels 5-7. Finally, Florence the terrifically proud black Uganda woman and director of our internship, maintains supreme control of our crew. This fine evening she belted out, “Ocaya Reagan (the 12 year) said that his school class had a debate today which revolved around the question, ‘Is it better to live with HIV/AIDS or war?” This ignited gripping discourse that explored the historical and sociopolitical arenas of REAL life for our brothers and sisters over here. Albeit remaining silent during the majority of the dialogue, my curious mind wandered. “Wow, I’ve never compared those two in such a fashion, but then again, why would I” an internal voice queried. My privilege certainly abstains me from such discourse.
        Yesterday, I rode in the black English NGO donated Pathfinder “Ambulance” to Lacor Hospital with the long braid sporting, 25 year old female nurse, and stocky 41 year old male driver. Our mission entailed retrieving the body of a 30 year old female client who previously passed away from an Opportunistic Infection triggered by the AIDS virus. As we arrived at the now rather familiar hospital, scores of local Ugandan nurses, counselors and staff cordially greeted me. Wow, how many get so wittily thrilled at my rather clumsy attempts to converse in Acholi. Our mission was to transport this woman’s body back to her village which was about 138 minutes outside of Gulu town. Contrary to the first 30 year old AIDS casualty we transported that morning, this woman’s family members were absent. Therefore, I entered the shoddy, grubby room where two dead bodies were wrapped up in electrically beautiful colored traditional Ugandan blankets. One was of a two year old who died from “burns” the previous day. The second was the skeletal frail body of this 30 year old female that we planned to transfer.
        The two nurses present articulated frustration and disgust that this woman was left at Lacor for four days without caretakers. You see, at Lacor Hospital – and many hospitals in Uganda – the caretaking aspects of hospital patients is the responsibility of the family. Thus, meals, bathing, and care giving are not provided by the hospital. Because this woman remained solo, she had not eaten for a few days, until the nurse from our organization got wind of it. In English she stated, “I brought food to her last night…you should have seen her, she ate like a wild dog.” With those vigorous words, she motioned for me to grab the lady’s bound feet while the other two worked the top of the body. As we finally laid her in the dusty Pathfinder, the patient’s head whacked the floor of the vehicle. Both nurses simultaneously uttered, “Sorry!” With ignorance, I pretended that I didn’t notice. But clearly, I had.
       As the three of us workers crammed in the front seat of the mangled leather car chairs, I peered out the window, and calmly observed northern Uganda. The snow white clouds remained voluptuous, the redish-brown dust kicked up from trucks that were en route to Southern Sudan, women were selling roasted corn on the side of the road, naked kids were bathing in the rivers, and faces of satisfied shock emerged when the locals spotted a munu this deep in the village. Despite the poor, innocent 30 year old AIDS victim that was lying dead in the back of our vehicle, the world remained spinning. Death in northern Uganda is undeniably perceived through a personally unfamiliar lens. Years of war and AIDS have perhaps created a collective energy that interprets passing away quite differently than many of my privileged, white cohorts.
        Upon our final arrival to the scatter of four thatched-roof mud huts, the larger community had gathered to await our arrival. Six bare-chested, ripped men with pants rolled up to their shins, were in the process of digging the grave for their companion. They quickly halted when they observed us approaching to carry the body out of the vehicle and gently rest it in one of the huts. One by one, the family graciously greeted and kindly thanked us. They brought four hand crafted, wooden chairs out; three were for us, and one was for the dude we picked up about 7 km away from the house who happened to know the lady. Deep in the village, landmarks are similar to our addresses and street names in the US. We didn’t know exactly where this woman lived, so he rode with us to direct the driver.
       Once seated in the shade of a broad mango tree, the nurse angrily reprimanded the gathering in Acholi language. I could pick up bits and pieces, but later chatted with the disgruntled nurse and driver about how “weak” and “careless” this family is for not taking care of their “loved one” while she slowly wilted away at Lacor Hospital. “How could you leave your sister in the hospital for four days with no food,” irately asked the driver as he flew his arms in the air, while I followed him down the dirt path in search of a small wooden “shop” to buy a soda and piece of roasted maize. I remained silent as the usually relaxed fun-loving driver was dreadfully disturbed. As the nurse firmly shared her disappointment, the crowd looked quite ashamed. Many dropped their faces and looked at the ground. Most members of the family sported ripped clothing, dirt stains that covered their bare feet, and faces of sorrow and shame. I sort of felt lame for the entire situation.
        It wasn’t until further evaluation with my supervisor from the states that I was able to process this particularly troubling day. We analyzed the situation from various contexts. How would a Western psychotherapist deal with this family in a crisis situation? Would they reprimand the family while simultaneously bringing back the deceased being? How would the Western world deal with the family not caring for the woman in the hospital?
        After some time, an elderly wrinkled man rolled up on a creaky bicycle with a chicken under his right armpit. Before handing it to the driver as a token of appreciation for bringing the body home, he performed a small traditional ceremony with the chicken. The older fella slowly strolled around all four wheels of the vehicle and kind of swayed the chicken from side to side in front of each one. Later I inquired the significance, and the exhausted nurse responded, “It’s a blessing so that we reach home safely.”
        HIV/AIDS or WAR? Is that even an appropriate or just question? Perhaps from my Western, materially developed world I would contemplate this “foreign phenomenon” over a beer with some pals before rapidly forgetting it. Unfortunately or fortunately (depending on the lens one obtains) that question is not so abstract here in northern Uganda. Instead it’s being applied towards 3rd grade students in local academic institutions. Last night I reflected, what are 3rd graders in Sausalito, California discussing in class? What even happens in 3rd grade in the Western world? Florence informed us that the class collectively decided it would be “better” to live with HIV/AIDS rather than war. She determinedly explained, “You see with HIV/AIDS at least you know what you have, and can hopefully try and treat it. With war, you never know what is going to happen or when you will be killed.”
       For some obscure rationale I continue to relish and dig into this society. As previously recorded, there remains a form of exquisite magic that infiltrates the larger vigor of the collective out here. Why such heart in what may be perceived as swarms of trouble? Why do these people continually have to strap life on and brace for something? Is it because the universe is well aware of the ingrained resiliency, elasticity, flexibility, cordiality, and loveliness that is quite obviously apparent. Does the universe realize that the majority of the Western world (at least the white areas I’m familiar with) would utterly and simply crumble if we dealt with only a smidgen of Acholi life?

The first photo is of our "ambulance" in front of the mortuary at Lacor Hospital. The second is of the "famous missionary" Daniel Comboni at some place where a training for the "Youth Department" of our organization took place. The card under the photo of Comboni states, "GO TO THE WHOLE WORLD PROCLAIM THE GOSPEL TO ALL CREATION."

"G.O.D."

23 October 2010

        “That’s what GOD really stands for,” meekly reported the five foot eight inch, twelve year old Ugandan youngster during an Independence Day lunch picnic. As I was instantly intrigued by this gentle young boy, I was anxious to hear more. He continued, “You know the white man is very very smart. He created GOD so he could be accepted in Africa.” Now this dude had my attention, and I was undoubtedly keen to observe where he was going with this. “The white man came to Africa because he knew Africa had many things like fertile land and natural resources. So what better way to be accepted than by creating GOD? GOD…Go Overseas and Deceive.” With a sensation full of bewilderment, I leisurely realized I was partially smiling. He proceeded, “The munus were clever in telling the Africans that they were Gods, and that Jesus Christ was a white man.” It was complicated attempting to interpret where the perplexity ignited within me. Was I more shocked to hear this from a twelve year old boy, whose parents are profoundly Christian, in an overpowering religious sect of the world? Or, was my cognition illuminated based on the notion of never personally philosophizing on such an issue? There were only a few folks present during the lunch gathering, and I genially wondered how the general population in northern Uganda would receive his overpowering ideals.
        Missionary work on the continent has acutely surfaced during this quest in Gulu. Religion –predominantly Christianity - is unmistakably an integral aspect of life here. As I’m fairly ignorant to the theoretical underpinnings of the faith, I frequently contemplate what Christianity ultimately signifies or represents for some of the fine folk of this area. Without fail, I’m regularly questioned on my religious beliefs, and habitually asked to go “pray” with beings. As people commonly chuckle at my hopefully culturally sensitive responses to religious inquiries, I’m befuddled on what religion truly holds for some. I’ve encountered a couple of “religious” men who commonly lie and cheat on their partners. Isn’t premarital sex against Christianity’s regulations? My intent is certainly not to point fingers or blow whistles; but instead to simply mentally document initial observations. Of course, how could these issues remain contextualized without observing this through various sociopolitical and cultural lenses? “Acholi men have more than one woman, that’s just the way it is,” were the uncanny words distributed by a female co-worker. As researcher Dr. Joanne Corbin has written, “The whole of Acholi life is a spiritual life and not participating in religious practices results in cultural death.” I’m interested to gage on the imposing effects that whiteness - with profound regards to Christianity - has infiltrated into the Acholi collective. I’m presently educating myself on the collaboration of “traditional” versus “colonized” spiritual values up here. None the less, captivating inclinations from a twelve year old boy.
        The extensive and draining nine hour and twenty-three minute workday ended with my shoddy request of being dropped off at the side of the congested, worn-out main road. All that I could envision was grubbing down on some salty, greasily fried cassava. The grueling commute consisted of chugging along the commonly shattered, pitted dirt roads. Two ninety-three minute journeys of harshly bumping up and down in the backseat of the pick-up truck was interrupted by an elongated, draining meeting at a rural health clinic that was recently crafted by USAid. The focal point was to gather a few pregnant women and facilitate psychoeducational methods of not passing along HIV/AIDS to their future newborns. The health center consisted of a few slabs of cement without running water or electricity in this section of the country that only hundreds of yards away (Anaka) hosted a rather large Internally Displaced Persons camp, just a few years back. “That is the maternity ward,” animatedly stated the overzealous driver of the truck. The place was eerily bare, a cold grayish color, and entirely empty besides one 21 year old woman lying on the surprisingly intact cement floor outside of the building. “The maternity ward, huh. Well, what happens if someone has a baby in the middle of the night,” I cautiously inquired. The question was met with laughter from the driver, and luckily the accompanying counselor overhead us and chimed in. “They use hurricane lamps.” I didn’t bother asking what those were, but eccentrically pondered the reality of giving birth under the confines of a “hurricane lamp, no electricity, and no running water.” Normalcy for many souls in this fine region of the earth; and I imagined how indebted many must feel that they are able to access this newly developed health center.
        Soon after, I was introduced to the English fluent, well spoken “in charge” Ugandan woman of the health facility. In brevity she announced, “You’ll have to excuse me as I’m quite busy today. You see this place usually hosts 19 employees, but unfortunately that seldom happens. So, today I’m the only person working in the entire clinic.” Before departing she mentioned that there was one “expecting mother in labor” and to my surprise it was the 21 year old that wrapped herself in a soiled, hole-ridden blanket who patiently, blankly, and gravely curled up in the fetal position while lying on the floor. She eventually joined our assembly, only to reoccupy the same position on a different section of the cool, damp cement floor. Our meeting was briefly interrupted by a family of chickens who insisted on loudly squawking while leisurely strolling through the maternity ward, where the meeting took place. At first, they were briefly shooed away, but kindly ignored as they reentered the information setting. Through much translation and conversation with the counselor, the program appeared successful.
        After munching down on the much needed tasty cassava, I began to contemplate the day. How do I indisputably hold the discerning disparity of such realities of the world? On my previous journeys to the continent, I typically turned my insecurities surrounding the injustice inwards, and towards the oblivious white people who gave authentic awareness to programming preset radio stations in their comfortable leather interior cars, rather than life-threatening humanitarian efforts. However, years of similar attitudes has done little more than land me into deep melancholy, frustration, and disappointment. I presently strive to maintain positivity and optimism that some abstract phenomenon (whether “GOD”, spirits, the stars, dust, etc.) ultimately holds the indisputable discourse concerning the avenues in which the world operates. I’m convinced justice lurks somewhere and in something, if not why are we here? Is this why many folks in this corner of the global village are “religious” and “spiritual”? Because after all, deeply imbedded in this collective unconscious – and for some the conscious – awareness is present; beings here remain abundantly cognizant of what is fundamentally happening.

                    Left is boy with GOD interpretations, right is neighbor with the harmonica

                                             Co-workers on a rural client home visit

Is it real?

15 October 2010

       For the previous month, my comrade Scout and I have been enrolled in Acholi language lessons with the grandiose intention of enhancing our local communication skills. The 64 year old, balding instructor frequently boasts about being taught “by white Englishmen in 1964.” It seems fairly evident that the “white man” has left a permanent foundation embedded within the instructor, as he’s numerously mentioned that “white people are so great…they are always on time.” What’s more is the latent impact that twenty plus years of war has conceivably left on the chatty fella. After about three lessons, he graciously introduced us to some “useful verbs.” It wasn’t until reviewing the material a few nights later that I noticed a distinctive pattern. Out of the large handful of verbs he uttered that fine evening, some forced me to reflect. If I was teaching a fellow being her first English verb session, would I prioritize the verbs, “to shoot, to escape, to survive, to cover, to lose” as Mr. Okee Maurice did? Do these specific verbs subtly reflect the harrowing impact of decades of dirty war? How would a Western psychoanalyst interpret this?”
       “It looks like I’m going to have to draw her blood, as everyone else is busy,” were the words delivered by the HIV/AIDS counselor/nurse from St. Mary’s Lacor Hospital. I’m currently spending two days a week with the ordinarily skinny northern Ugandan chap in the hospital’s counseling “ward.” “You are going to draw her blood for her viral load (amount of HIV in her blood),” I nervously asked. Before I knew it, the counselor, the patient and I were in this dingy, tarnished and tiny room. Again the “ambiguous” notion of interning in an HIV/AIDS sector of a grubby hospital in northern Uganda - where in 2006, 12 percent of pregnant women tested positive for the virus - suddenly was not so abstract. I buried myself in the far corner of the room, snuggled between the stained wall and broken filing cabinet. “Are any filing cabinets in this place not broken,” is where my wacky head went. The door was left open and I could see the scores of Ugandan women, men, and children lined up with disturbed looks on their faces as they quietly and patiently waited for doctors, nurses, and counselors. I noticed myself swallowing in a sort of uncontrollable fashion. Why was I making such a big deal out of a simple blood test? Was it because the woman was positive? Did it have to do with the notion that I have never intentionally seen an infected soul’s blood?
       After failing to find a compelling vein, the counselor/nurse finally drew the patient’s infected blood that quickly filled up the small plastic tube. Not longer than a second passed, and the transfer malfunctioned and squirts of blood landed on the counter directly next to the counselor. “Jesus Christ,” I shouted to myself. After escorting the patient out of the room, he looked down and nonchalantly swiped up the drops of blood with a miniature cotton swab. A feeling of uneasiness swept across my body. The interaction with the next patient – a three year old, precious young boy – forced me to leave the room. Again the nurse/counselor struggled finding a potent vein in the kid’s arm and hand. Thus, he rested the boy on his teenage mother’s lap and requested her to hold the baby’s head while he drilled for the jugular. That was enough. I left the room.
       Is my presence in these specific and precise situations necessary, valued, or even ethically acceptable? How do I intend to utilize the knowledge I gain from these implausible circumstances? Months, even years from now what will this all substantially signify? Will I simply go back to the states and write a book on how fucked up Africa is? Is it even “fucked up” or is that deeply rooted in my white, privileged socially constructed upbringing? Will I constantly disregard these impressive and resilient souls as the “other”? After all, my privilege is written on my forehead, swimming in my blood, and glowing in my eyes. You see, my ticket outta here is securely snuggled in my back pocket. For me this lifestyle is temporary, and I’m privileged and wealthy enough to leave these confines with the sudden snap of a finger. But for what? And why? I clearly not only do not want to get out of here. But in fact, for some uncanny and puzzling reason, I’m drawn to this mysterious area. There is consistent enchantment that optimistically puzzles me.
       Perhaps it’s me who pessimistically analyzes this area of our world through such a harsh, uncouthly critical lens. Life is tough here, for sure. There is clearly no debating that palpable fact. However to undermine the excellence, delight, and beauty that constitutes this area would ultimately be an unmerited disservice to the exquisiteness of northern Uganda.
       What about the loveliness and buzz in my 12 year old neighbor’s eyes – who consistently refers to me as his brother – when I sat with him under the confines of the thatched-hut and taught him how to belt out a couple of rhythms on my harmonica? What about the next morning – at 7:31 - when he abruptly took me out of my meditative practice by softly stating, “Ko’pango (how are you), Neil”? As I warmly smiled, he pulled the harmonica out of his blue school shorts pocket. The bright yellow sun was already blazing, and as he strolled down the dirt path I lost sight of him but was able to hear those familiar rhythms we had worked on a couple of nights prior. What about that beauty? What about the pristine energy of the two bright orange flowers intermingled and hugging one another as they grow out of the feeble, exhausted dirt road near our house? What about the dirty, bare-chested young kids with snots running down their nose, who walk hand in hand with one another, catch my eyes and frenziedly smile? I’m convinced prevailing depth lies within.

Development??

8 October 2010

       “What are all of those people doing over there,” I peculiarly questioned with a mouthful of lukewarm previously boiled water. “Mosquito nets…they are waiting for the distribution of mosquito nets,” were the precisely dawdling words that leisurely dwindled from Patrick’s half-opened mouth. Patrick – the introverted, mild tempered and gentle Program Director of the Health Department at my internship – sat in the passenger’s seat of the dusty white, commanding pickup truck as we entered the aged, local health clinic of Layibi Village. “Let’s move and speak with the director here,” flatly mentioned Patrick. Instead of hurriedly disembarking from the truck, my gaze remained paralyzed on the hundreds, maybe thousands of young black African women wrapped up with old towels or sheets that securely nestled babies on their backs. They lined up so tightly it would have been difficult to slide a sheet of loose-leaf paper in between any of them. I wondered if waiting in these queues was no big deal for these women. In fact, six years ago, about 90% similarly lined up for food distribution as they resided in deplorable and dreadful internally displaced persons camps. “Malaria is a huge problem here, so the local government is distributing these today, targeting children under 5,” uttered Patrick as he sensed my indistinct curiosity.

       Yesterday, I joyfully strolled down the outsized, mangled and potholed-ridden dirt path that directly leads from our house to the main road. A sense of marvel and nosiness excitedly crept throughout my soul as I was en route to Lacor Hospital with the purpose of shadowing an HIV/AIDS counselor. Realizing that my intention of proceeding with a meditative walk was failing miserably, I took notice of a conspicuously beautiful, dark Ugandan middle-aged fella who regularly dodged remaining puddles from last night’s treacherous downpour. I was mesmerized at his perceived gentility and refinement while footing down the muddy dirt road that was surrounded by six foot high, local, copiously neon-green vegetation. I contentedly analyzed his sense of serenity as he greeted nearly ever passerby on this humid, wet and overcast morning. Those passing along consisted of elderly, wrinkled women on bikes, small barefoot children with mud stained, sun-drenched, fading pink uniform school shirts skipping to school, mothers with small children strapped to their backs while carrying large canteens of water on their heads, boda boda drivers, and men in “business outfits” minus the ties, riding bicycles to begin their workday.

       An aura of positivity swept across my inner being, and I knew I had to chat with this dude. Thus, within seconds I caught up to his brightly smiling face. Probably not a day older than me, Phillips, a primary school teacher was additionally on his way to work. After politely exchanging customary Acholi greetings, we were enthralled in deep conversation. “You come all the way from America to be here!” laughingly stated the modest, amply unique chap. He continued, “So how is life in America, my good brother?” Pausing for a minute, I confidently replied, “It’s good…yeah…it’s good.” Looking squarely in my eyes with heartfelt concern, he frankly stated, “America is so developed, huh? It’s not like this” and he pointed to the mud brick, thatched-roof huts, the cows eating grass, and the woman selling tomatoes under a canopy crafted out of sticks. As I was about to blurb out some nonsense, something inside told me to remain quiet, and thus I began to contemplate his inquiry.

       No objections could possibly be raised that this man was speaking of material/economical/financial development.” Material development?” Why does the collective global discourse discard non-material “development”? What comes to mind when the word “development” surfaces? I’ve met a handful of young aspiring and energetic students at Gulu University who are currently enrolled in “Development Studies.” Is this curriculum modeled after some socially constructed Western notion of what “development” actually constitutes? Did Franz Fanon nail it on the head with his insightful interpretations when he stated, “The settler’s town is a well-fed town, an easygoing town; its belly is always full of good things. The settlers’ town is a town of white people…The native town is a hungry town starved of bread, of meat, of shoes, of coal, of light.”

       While it’s blatantly obvious that material lacks in this lovely arena of our globe, I consistently remain perplexed at the term “development.” Sure, my privilege of sustaining a brilliant life capped with material “development” has clearly and undeniably brought me to Gulu. How about internal human “development” that comprises greeting fellow passersby each morning? What about the consistent collective “development” of the souls that aren’t afraid to speak with strangers, invite guests regularly into their homes (which may consist of a mud hut), look after their neighbors children, smile at one another, eat together, hold each other? What about all of that inner, bona fide, genuine soul-full development that is habitually absent with material “development?” It appears we are all searching for some form of “development.” A majority of Westerns fulfill this desire with material, while many others are simply not given an option, and thus settle for an arguably more noteworthy “development.”

       I decided not to bombard Phillips with my deep-seated opinions. We ultimately parted ways, and the intensity of my day had just begun. The next few hours I spent at the overcrowded, busted, grossly stuffy counseling room at Lacor Hospital. Full blown AIDS patients of various ages entered the sessions crying, staring blankly, laughing, and speechless. An eleven year old girl, two young widows, and a single man composed the few individuals I observed in counseling that particular day. My sluggish saunter back home allowed me to brood over the notion that I’m in northern Uganda working with folks anguishing from the detrimental, dominant effects of this devious virus. “You’re in it, Neil,” I obscurely murmured to myself.

       Attempting to maintain a sense of stability, I noticed myself experiencing a touch of sorrow, and kind of just wanted to get home and get on the yoga mat. However, before I arrived home, a magical sense of security, beauty, and love hit me without any sort of warning. As I was turning left off of the main road to enter the footpath back to our house, I spotted two rather young short haired barefooted Ugandan girls walking towards me. They were decked out in matching fading peach dresses with off-white flowered designs across the front. Holding hands, both dynamically and vigorously waved their free hands at me, as their enormous, gorgeous smiles could have been spotted miles away. As I stood there and silently raised my right hand to wave back, I took a long hard gaze at them. They seemed harmoniously at peace, as their dresses danced in the wind while the setting sun sank directly above their heads. Call it cliché, but there I was and it went straight to my heart. These two girls provided a sense of comfort, a sense of positivity and a sense of trust that assured me all was where it should be. Ahh, life in this section of our globe possesses an indescribable sense of aura.

One of the roads back to our place.

96 Degrees in the Shaayaade

1 October, 2010
       Last Sunday I embarked on 4.2 kilometer stroll along the parched dirt roads, under the scorching Ugandan sun with a planned destination of St. Mary’s Lacor Hospital. A Youth Development Cultural Project was planned with “traditional dancing, music playing, and acting.” Upon arrival at the hospital, I was politely escorted to the event by a tall, lanky, dark black male decked out in a navy blue “security” outfit, with a matching hat that hung only slightly above his eyes. I experienced difficulty in removing my gaze from the barrel of the AK-47 that securely rested atop his right shoulder. I inquiringly wondered, “If I suddenly reached for his gun, would he simply blow me away?”
       Once present, I immediately halted in my tracks, closed my eyes and took five deep breaths. The performance was underway in an open aired courtyard and I observed my beautifully unique environment. The large soiled compound was littered with broken rocks, chunks of brick, busted chairs, and an enormous mango tree that provided vast shade for the scores of partially amused spectators. Immediately surrounding the immense quad which additionally sported an old, decrepit statue of some white female Christian religious figure, resided the children’s ward of Lacor Hospital. Whilst entering the courtyard, I selfishly noticed myself peering in the rooms of the urine-stenched children’s zone. Although I glanced slightly, I directly correlated the room to the aged, dormitory hostile by day, brothel by evening - I once erroneously and accidentally spent a night at in Dakar, Senegal. What’s more is the physical state of these youngsters. Bare-chested kids bearing off-white bandages wrapped loosely around their heads, hands and feet with IVs distributing some form of liquid, and troubled bedside supporters composed the dull and melancholy overcrowded rooms. All of the smeared, grubby windows of the hospital remained open as the sun expressed little mercy this particular afternoon.
       As I settled into the event, I once again engaged in internal dialogue as I simultaneously watched the two other munus in attendance uncontrollably snap photos. What are white people doing here in Gulu or in any black dominated economically deprived nation? Do we get high or a fix from observing and analyzing this injustice? What do we hope and desire to accomplish with our experiences here? Since I’ve been experiencing Gulu, I’ve often fantasized about northern Ugandans “colonizing” America with their collective sense of genuineness, validity, and community. What does it mean to an individual, family, community and society when one doesn’t know her neighbor, but instead has the latest iPod nano? Who benefits and to what extent?
       A few days ago, I logged on to the Internet and was blasted with a headline from the BBC News Web site documenting a severe power outage in Southern California. “Temperatures exceeding 110 degrees and no electricity” dominated the article. No disrespect to the fine folk of LA, but there are clear parallels between that precise article and daily life in northern Uganda, with the fine exception of electricity returning to northern Uganda in the near future. I understand Southern Cal is essentially deeper than an economically booming land of superficially orange tanned skin and heaps of material. After all, drive east in LA and the world penetratingly disintegrates. However, due to the economic domination in the white dominated sections of LA, there’s little surprise that reporters chose to globally share this information. I currently wonder what state of fruitfulness the global village could ultimately reach if any news outlet regularly documented the resiliency or courage of the Acholi people of northern Uganda.
       Why couldn’t the BBC document my two teenage neighbors, Jacob and Samuel, who physically and scrupulously crafted their mud hut house directly succeeding the war? As I sat on a rather unexpectedly comfortable chair in their round residence, low interjects of the realities of living in IDP camps and their father being shot by rebels was overtaken by silence. “We were the night commuters, the ones who used to walk into Gulu town every night and sleep on verandas so if the rebels came to the village we wouldn’t be abducted,” gravely and proudly mentioned Samuel. He went on, “Life is tough here in Uganda. Actually, life is tough in Africa.” With those words, Jacob offered me an old, dusty and sticky bottle of disturbingly sweet Pineapple Soda. My initial reaction was to deny it because these fellas are as coin-less as your standard northern Ugandan teens. Yet, rejecting the soda would have signaled rude and unconventional behavior. Couldn’t the BBC News document the overly congested extended van filled with the war affected rural youth peace activists, who optimistically and blissfully belted out welcome songs to me as I genially accepted a ride from the overzealous driver and passengers?
       Living and experiencing outstandingly ludicrous heat conditions is not slightly comfortable. For those beings in Southern Cal, that sucks. Nevertheless, within hours the collectivity will perhaps suffer little more than spoiled milk in the fridge, consciously mindful that material and comfort are only minutes away. In opposition, the folks in northern Uganda clearly won’t hold their breath anticipating electricity and artificially cool air to reassure them. When a major city in the U.S. loses power for a few hours, the world is rapidly and abruptly alerted. In opposition, when the Acholi collective persistently functions without it, no one bats an eye. Is it because, as renowned cultural anthropologist Sverker Finstroom believes, “The frustration of young Acholi must be taken seriously. In their view, they are denied many of the most mundane and everyday aspects of citizenship that we in the West take for granted.” I recurrently query, do we essentially live in only one world?
                                            


On the walk to Lacor Hospital