“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.
I love your paradigm shift and optimism. It's the best (and sometimes only) way to stay happy and focused in a place like Gulu.
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