Bearfoot Peace Walk

24 September 2010

        Prior to last week, I was unaware that 21 September posed great significance throughout East and Central Africa. With the facilitation of the UN, countries such as Central African Republic, Sudan, DRC, and Uganda have dedicated this special day to our sisters and brothers who’ve been abducted by the LRA and various rebel and government troops that craft ultimate destruction and chaos. In order to express solidarity and reverence with these souls, numerous individuals, groups, and organizations in these spiritually prosperous nations stroll, march, and dance barefoot throughout many streets in this region. Considering the association I’m interning with coordinated the event here in Gulu, I was encouraged and exceptionally grateful to attend.
        “You see us Africans, we don’t take time very seriously,” stated the short medium built, local Ugandan who sports a deep glossy six inch scar below her chin. Did she sense my slight impatience regarding the three hour delay in the event? While tolerantly anticipating the walk to commence, I decided to brush up on my Acholi language skills. I spotted a crowd of four older women clad in dazzling bright colored clothing who appeared interested in my presence. Rather than internally interpreting why they welcomed me, I began to greet them in the few phrases I’ve recently learned. Through great surprise, they chuckled and one female donning a lime green and yellow patterned matching headscarf and dress which was hiked up well above her belly button, politely corrected my pronunciation.
        As I removed my new sturdy, rubber flip flops crafted out of used automobile tires, scores of local women and men, boys and girls burst out into frenzied amusement. “Munu, will your feet be okay?” “Are you sure you can walk with barefeet?” “Won’t your feet hurt?” I graciously smiled and gently informed the crowds that my feet will be just fine. I realize I’m a white Western Munu who resides in a world of privilege, comfort and technology. Thus for a moment, I pondered, “If these people could only see my back in the states.” I wanted to inform them that yes I regularly walk barefoot, yes I’m capable of riding a bicycle, yes I know how to hand was laundry. Well actually, who am I kidding, these generous folks definitely got me on the washing clothes bit.
        One polite, older female coworker hastily motioned for me to march in line with her and her cronies. As usual, the collective amiably welcomed me into their marching contingent. Here I was in Northern Uganda, leisurely walking barefoot through the partially paved, dusty, grimy cracked streets of Gulu town. In my right front pocket, I stashed my old digital camera but felt awkward and slightly unsettled about snapping photos. What gives me – a white foreigner - any sort of prestige or freedom to digitally document this monumental event? In broken English one female asked if I had a camera. Surprisingly shocked at her inquiry, I reluctantly nodded my head. “Take photo,” was her firm and blunt response. After snapping a couple, I quickly halted and experienced a slow, grueling sense of indescribable aura. It suddenly all struck me. What is happening? I’m in Northern Uganda walking barefoot for our sisters and brothers who’ve been raped from their childhood, their dignity, their sense of self; abductees who’ve unfortunately been exposed to arguably the most arduous, harrowing, and grueling aspects that this unjust universe evilly produces.
        This event is clearly one that I would personally examine from the BBC News Web site if I were at home. Instead, I’m not only directly witnessing it, but I’m actively participating and viscerally experiencing the power. As I remained in a blissful and confused zone of amazement and wonder, I progressively became present. Approaching the final stretch of the 74 minute walk, I recognized a popular song blaring from the speakers of one of the heaps of Acholi boda boda (motorbike) drivers who discerningly observed the procession. Tupac’s “Life Goes On,” escorted us walkers near the final stage. In this potent track, Tupac poses “how many brothers fell victims to the streets…” Irony at its finest, I inquisitively contemplated.
        The experience in Northern Uganda is evidently dissimilar to one that I would have engaged in if I interned in the U.S. No question. Already assorted moments of anxious curiosity about the challenges and structure of this journey have surfaced. Is this internship going to present enough clinical opportunities, especially considering the intense language barrier? In only a few weeks of being on the continent, I’m exploring personal and ethical values associated with my current thesis topic. I’m anticipating many of these inquiries may consistently present themselves. However, when I pull myself away from the racket stirring in my own head, I feel an internal sense of majestic confidence. At this precise moment in life, I positively believe this is where I’m meant to be. Walking barefoot in Gulu for our people, driving down wasted, mangled dirt roads for hours to present workshops on the prevention of transmission of HIV from mother to child while facilitating deeper partner involvement in former IDP camps, and beginning to understand how counseling sessions are initiated in a former African conflict zone constitute the backbone of my individual passions and interests. It seems that I simply only have this moment, and thus gotta inherently run with it.

"Superiority"

18 September 2010

        At this precise moment the ambiguity of my specific, pragmatic role in the Comboni Samaritans Center (internship) and on this continent feels threatened. If I were to hypothetically distance my inner soul from this strikingly riveting corner of the globe, intrinsic questions could fly. “What am I doing here?” “Does anybody on this side of the Atlantic value, relish or desire my knowledge, soul and spirit?” “And why or why not?” Suppose I abandoned Comboni Samaritans this afternoon, strapped my red duct taped pack securely across my back and wandered without a clear distinct destination in mind? Would the universe notice? Although I have no definite or genuine yearning to ditch this objective journey that’s precisely mapped out for me here in Gulu, posing abstract questions constantly raises my own eyebrows.
         Strolling through the densely populated overgrown muddy village roads, a grand majority of locals explosively halt in their tracks, literally drop what they’re doing and remain wide-eyed. Other folks adopt massive smiles and enthusiastically wave. At times children hug one another and burst out in hysteria. All attention is generated because of my MUNU status; a white man in a black African land. The ridiculously warm greetings have thus far generated a myriad of personal interpretations. I’ve internally pondered, “Don’t these people know that I’m simply not that awesome?” Up until now, I’ve consistently smiled, waved and offered a fairly pathetic attempt at the local language; albeit my responses clearly don’t consistently parallel my inner core. At times it’s reasonably overwhelming and I’ve intermittently been challenged with the desire to feel invisible. Irony at its finest, I must admit. A white man wishing to feel invisible; welcome to the world of the black individual and collectivity in the “land of the free,” the good ol’ “democratic” United States. A person of color jollying through a white privileged society may in fact generate similar explosive disbelief from the locals. However, the smiles, joys, and welcomings would inevitably remain absent. Instead racial epithets, phone calls to the cops and perhaps physical violence would ensue. Thus, when I feel bogged down by consecutively remaining the center of attention, should I graciously stay present and mindful that I’m cruising down the white privileged avenue of this racially lopsided world?
         Last evening I was fortunate enough to engage in imperative dialogue with a couple black Ugandans from Gulu, regarding this very topic. Sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chairs on the half finished roof of a local pub, where pollution from diesel engines and dust from the cracked dirt roads created a sort of unsightly yet uniquely beautiful haze, the topic of “foreign aid” surfaced. Eventually, I went for it. “So why is it that every single time a local sees me he or she responds as if I’m some sort of savior or magical person,” I daringly asked. A dark, man in his mid twenties sporting a finely shaped goatee responded full of sincerity. “You see, us people here we look at the white man as superior to us.” With his words, I physically felt the indents of my crow’s feet wrinkles deepen. Did this fella just say what I’ve feared from the onset of my initial interest in this work? While pondering whether the generation of a personal response was necessary, I noticed myself talking. “What about all of the damage whiteness has done not only to this continent, but more specifically this exact country?” During the 47 minute long conversation, the general consensus from these men was that they feel blessed and grateful that many whites come to “help build schools, help our children” and “care about us.” The underpinning backbone of these Christian men’s reasons was geared towards missionary work and how the missionaries have aided the “development” of Uganda.
        Superiority…huh. Does this “superiority” elucidate my initial experience of riding in the SUV “ambulance” of Comboni Samaritans through the dense Ugandan bush to escort the middle-aged, quite frail and decaying women to Lacor Hospital? As the dirt roads leading up to her array of thatched roof huts began to diminish, the driver sped down footpaths and took out scores of cassava plants. As we arrived, the community volunteer quickly entered the woman’s hut and a confused emptiness infiltrated my cognition. Simultaneous to the half bent over, noticeably ailing HIV positive women’s escorted discharge from her hut, a majority of her family members shifted their attention to my presence. One frantically rushed a wooden chair my way and placed it in the shade. As she graciously smiled and motioned for me to have a seat, I experienced irritation. In this situation, my presence had no fastidious significance. From my initial observations it appeared that I was only more in the way. Again the stares, smiles, and waves were directed towards the munu as their desperate, fraught and dilapidated HIV positive family member winced as her husband led her into the backseat of the vehicle.
        Does this superiority phenomenon constitute the new teenage mother who blissfully held her one day old baby on the way back to her village from Lacor Hospital? I observed the beauty and commented, “How beautiful! What is her name?” The sleepy teen responded, “There is no name yet. Can you name it for me?” I smiled and remained silent. Only a short bit later the driver peered his head to the back seat and commented. “She wants you to give a name for the baby.” Again, I smiled and dubiously replied, “Hmm…I can’t think of anything.”
        Amidst the surrounding bewildering feelings and questions, I’m engrossed by beauty. The luscious, dazzling thick green vegetation dotted with magical yellow flowers, roasted corn on the cob, the smell of posho cooking, east African music, dusty roads, the blazing sun, lightening storms, extraordinarily peaceful village nights, and the Acholi people compose the inherent magic embedded in this area.

 Wanted to post up two images I snapped in Kampala. What about the black Ugandans who want their teeth cleaned? Additionally, I've only noticed white mannequins throughout this country...interesting.

Jessica Simpson

13 September, 2010

        The unexpectedly smooth five hour bus journey north to Gulu, included neon green vegetation, broken red clay dirt roads, many dark skinned Ugandans smiling whilst attempting to sell cassava and bananas, and one particular road sign. Prior to boarding the coach in downtown Kampala, I purchased a national “New Vision” newspaper from some chap for the equivalent of 40 cents. After peering out the smeared, dusty windows for the first 73 minutes, I flipped through the New Vision’s articles detailing the Uganda elections which are dated for early February. As we neared Gulu, I browsed through the “Entertainment” section. There I became mortified while reading a blurb about Jessica Simpson feeling upset about the anniversary of 9/11, but additionally distraught over the recent passing of her dog. As I sat dumbfounded, I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. I turned to find my colleague, Sarah, point out a sign on the road. It read, “Be careful where you walk, as landmines are present.” How ironic that one country produces such sweeping contrasts.
        Experiencing Gulu for the past three days has constituted limitless conversations, feelings, and irony. Besides the absolute hospitality of the director of the Comboni Samaritan organization, we have been received with astonishing beauty by these generously appreciative and stunning local folks. While touring our gorgeous apartment, our neighbor Florence made quick mention of the steel door that leads to our dirt floor backyard which hosts pigs, chickens, and human dwelling huts. “You see, during the war everyone wanted to have steel doors to protect themselves from the LRA,” deprecatingly stated the middle aged, proud woman. As I gradually nodded my head a penchant of grueling insecure energy slowly swam through my blood. What is my particular role in this society? Am I presently residing in a place only four years free of violence, trouble and chaos?
        The war has surfaced in numerous conversations in this quiet, yet bustling town of Gulu. After 18 minutes of sitting with Amos, a gentleman in Kampala, who originates from Gulu, Sarah and I were warmly welcomed on a six hour tour and visit from his brothers and sisters here in town. The mannerisms and warmth in which we were welcomed were perhaps more kindhearted than those I engage on with friends and family in the states. Prior to this morning, we hadn’t met Amos’ brothers, and in fact spent less than 20 minutes of our lives with Amos. Today’s interactions parallel the avenues in which Sarah and I perceive throughout Gulu. As we walk down the heavily puddled and lavishly green village pathways, dark Ugandans of all ages smile and greet us with the local “Kopa’ngo.” The village children remain stunned and wide-eyed. Some yell out, “Munu (white person)” and run alongside us hoping to at least obtain a wave from the Munu, let alone a high five.. The illumination of joy and amazement when Sarah or I greet them with a “Ayi te a ma ber” radiates within my soul. Why are these folks, young and old, euphoric to be in the presence of Munus? And what was the “proper” or “appropriate” response to the former abducted child who passionately shared his story with us this afternoon? My preceding journeys on the Continent have prepped me for such behavior. However, for some fastidious notion, a deeper critical internal discourse has risen. Conversely, when a person of color visits a traditionally white area of the planet she is subjugated, chastised, and left to hang. Whiteness whiteness whiteness.
        Our debut in Gulu consisted of Sarah, five local Ugandans, and I drinking local “Nile Special” beers outside of Gulu’s version of a bodega. There critical discourse emerged regarding electricity when one fellow drinker told the owner of the bodega, “You’re really benefitting from the new bank, huh.” Curious to familiarize myself with the situation, I inquired. “What do you mean the bank?” I intuitively questioned. The man’s response was, “Look here my brother. Look at all of the light that the new Bank of Uganda illuminates. Therefore, we can sit outside of this shop without it being completely dark.” The fella continued, “And I’m real lucky because I live behind UNICEF and so my area also receives good lighting.” Finally, a third party interrupted, “I’m just waiting for the old rail station to reopen so I can have lighting as well.” This rail station has been disengaged for about 15 years due to the war. After passing by the old railway, its chances of reemerging appear as plausible as Smith College undergrad going co-ed. Dialogue concerning electricity availability is an area of discussion that my privilege has halted from my personal engagement.
        Finally, as the night persisted a discussion about collectivity began. Sarah mentioned that the United States is ideally an individualistic society where folks tend to stick to themselves. A response from one engrossed party honestly questioned, “Do you think that is why many people in the U.S. go to counseling, because they don’t talk to each other? Here in Gulu, everyone is a counselor because we all talk to each other.” As I began to marinate on that statement, a man walked up and was welcomed with the traditionally warm, grand Acholi (the people of this region) greeting. It turns out he is a Member of Parliament from Gulu. I was later told that he is “never around” and knows President Museveni “very well.” Here I was sipping a fine local beer with some tremendous individuals, one of whom is in great contact with the President of Uganda! Tomorrow begins our first day of the internship. At this point, life in Gulu is quite perplexing.

"S*$T HOLE"

7 Sept. '10

        As my head swivels through the 48 rows of the blue comfortable seats on the KLM flight down south the Entebbe, Uganda, curiosity arises regarding the overwhelming majority of white folks on board. What is the collective force that drives these white people (myself certainly included) to venture to the Motherland? We are all clearly individuals, yet inquisitiveness strikes me. What number of these white individuals recognized or appreciated their white privilege prior to boarding the 737? Is the collective majority of whiteness on this aircraft aware of the historical underpinnings our ancestors have embedded not only on the Continent, but more specifically Uganda? Or, do most whites en route view our sisters and brothers on the Continent within a negative hegemonic framework as the "other"? Does an inevitable ethnocentric lens override the unconscious feelings of injustice associated with all of us white folks on board this jet? How many whites are journeying south to "help"? Help what, I wonder? Help those poor, desperate BLACK Africans?
       While relieving myself in the middle urinal of a meticulously clean Amsterdam airport restroom, I felt the eyes of a middle aged, white bearded fellow upon me. Amused that I was brushing my teeth while urinating, he commented on my creativity. Next, the disheveled dude inquired on my planned destination. Speaking through a foamy mouthful of Colgate, I replied, "Uganda." "Uganda...huh," stated the Danish chap. He endured, "I just arrived from some time in Nigeria, and that place is a shit hole." With those words, the gentleman wished me well, and I remained silent and puzzled as the white, bubbly toothpaste drooled down the left corner of my mouth.
       A "shit hole" I thought to myself. What constitutes a "shit hole" anyway? I imagine my personal definition of a "shit hole" may not parallel the overcrowded, dusty boulevards of of Lagos, Nigeria, the insecurity that comprises Nigerian President Goodluck Johnathan's corrupt political regime, or the blood oil that is ruthlessly looted by white Westerners from those whose homes reside above it.
       Does homelessness, human feces on the streets, sexism, poverty, violence, and chaos aggregate a "shit hole"? Or is this proposed "shit hole" simply a reality for our fellow human beings with dark skin oppressed and subjugated in an unjust global village? What about my white counterpart in that European restroom? Does his privilege offer him the opportunity to call unfamiliar and distressing areas "shit holes"?
       What about a manicured, suburban, white upper-class neighborhood in upstate New York where not a single blade of grass is misaligned in any yard? Could that place be labeled a "shit hole"? It is my ultimate hypothesis that the "shit holes" of Nigeria and those of the previously mentioned neighborhood in New York state are identical in that they do not exist. Both are socially constructed ideas in which humans assign a form of ambiguous meaning.
       While patiently standing in the customs queue at the airport in Uganda, a fellow older white, male passenger from Chicago ignited a conversation. After only a short bit, I learned that he was a missionary and exerted much enthusiasm to facilitate conferences in Uganda preaching the word of Christianity. Although I diligently searched for beauty in the fella, a loud internal voice uttered, "Oh brother!" Not a moment succeeding the man's reasons for entering Uganda, his 25 year-old white son, chimed in. "Yeah, we're just excited to help!" Again, I stood silent, nodded my head with an absolute flat affect, and internally fundamentally questioned, "Help who and Help what?"