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