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."
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