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.