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.
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