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