Chinua Achebe

30 November

        Yesterday I was beneficially reintroduced to a glorious quote from the great Nigerian author - Chinua Achebe - while I flipped through the cracked beige paperback that consists of debates regarding sociopolitical and cultural phenomenon across the continent. “People go to Africa and confirm what they already have in their heads and so they fail to see what is in front of them.” I suddenly vanished in Achebe’s words. How have my ingrained perceptions and stereotypical underpinnings of the continent effected, misrepresented or constructed what is virtually at my fingertips while here? How has the global media crafted my white, privileged sense of understandings concerning the continent? Why does popular discourse surrounding the continent focus on the grime of Africa, and so seldom document the extraordinarily diverse, vibrant and dynamic cultures?
        A few days ago, I ventured on a five hour southern journey to Kampala. After spending only a hundred and six hours here, I’m struck at the ways our brothers and sisters from the north are perceived. Just yesterday, I found myself in a ludicrously absurd mall-type arena. The place could have easily been nestled in Syracuse, New York, and I wouldn’t blink an eye, save for the fact that it was packed with 98% Ugandans. As I loosely conversed with the young 20s female merchant who collected change for the fresh and juicy orange and mango I purchased, I bit my lip. “I came down from Gulu just yesterday” I sort of pompously stated to kill the silence. Based on this girl’s horrified nonverbal reaction, I thought I uttered sinful words. I went on, “Have you been to Gulu?” The girl’s terms forced me to squint my eyes and steadily nod my head. “Why would I want to go up there where all those people are killing each other,” carelessly stated the clerk. After further deliberations with southern Ugandans, I’m realizing the merchant’s feelings aren’t isolated. “You mean there are night clubs in Gulu? I thought the place is still very rundown and war torn?” claimed the dreadlock sporting 26 year old dude I was in discussion with. The final quote potted it for me, “I fear Gulu and northern Uganda … those people are chopping each other up.” I’m kind of dumbfounded whilst hearing these rather ignorant philosophies. After all, Gulu is a five hour bus journey north of Kampala, and “war” has “officially been absent” since 07ish’. The subjugation and misalignments of fellow country folk and government officials are harrowing and worrying. (See work from Sverker Finnstrom and Chris Dolan). After listening to some of this absurdity, I was initially reminded of my pal Tonny’s (an Acholi from Gulu) hypothesis on the issue, “You know it was fear that brought problems to northern Uganda in the first place.” According to Tonny and other experts on the conflict, northerners in Kampala were (and perhaps still are) occasionally referred to as “Konies” after rebel leader Joseph Kony.
        When I initially arrived in the severely harsh and magical streets of the capital, I was reminded of its grave intensity. Immense crowds of young kids and older adults selling fruit, fried grasshoppers, hardboiled eggs, DVDs of Lucky Dube, belt buckles with Obama’s face on them, and plastic sneakers. Throughout my years in this lifetime, I’ve had the luxury of arriving to Kampala on about six different occasions. Without a doubt, I’ve clearly never viscerally or physically conceptualized Kampala in such an abstract lens. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent the previous few months in the large mellow village of Gulu that I stopped in the middle of the mass chaos to watch a woman in a long bright orange t-shirt distastefully throw blows at two teenage boys on a bicycle. All the while the white chalky exhaust from the overcrowded, beat-up taxi-vans quickly distorted her fuming and aggressive face.
        On the same walk, I observed the fiery supporters of various political parties’ parade, dance, sing, blare music and run around the dusty, mosh-pit like streets near the New Taxi Park. As I attempted to meander my way up the minute hill back to my dwelling, I felt the hand of a desperate stranger reach into my right front pocket. There was nothing in there besides my hand. When our hands met inside the pocket, I instinctively yanked mine out and peered up at the dude. Our eyes reached one another, but I quickly turned my gaze, and realized there were perhaps no personal affiliations related to our interaction. Or does the “personal affiliation” come with the color of my skin and the laces in my sneakers? As I walked out of the grimy, smelly, swarming streets of chaos, I took a bottomless breath and realized “that’s it for now.” But how about my brother who dipped his left hand into my right pocket? It’s most likely “not it” for him, as he probably navigates those immense, exhausted boulevards on the regular. Why not take advantage of the gleaming white wealth and privilege that’s visiting a seemingly unfamiliar and foreign land? After all, what is there to lose? I grinned and reminisced about how feeble an attempt to loot my belongings as compared to the circumstances I experienced at Earnest Bai Karoma’s Presidential Inauguration in Freetown, Sierra Leone, a few years back.
        When heading back to Achebe’s words, I broadly beam at a snip of a joyous and fruitful walk I took last week in Gulu. My tall and lanky fourteen year old neighbor strolled alongside me through the village avenues with a destination of town in mind. Our intended targeted objective was to land at our favorite wooden shop where we could each sip on some fine cold orange Fanta soda straight from the glass bottle. I owed a gesture of appreciation to Willie as he chose to assist in hand washing my filthy and stinky clothes that brutally blazing morning. Without fail, whenever I’m walking the dirt paths of Gulu, scores of comments, greetings, laughter, etc. arise. Two-thirds of the time I’m ignorant to what is being offered, but can pick up small tidbits. The day with Willie was dissimilar, as I attempted to inquire what was being said. After a short while, I stopped asking, but was slightly amused at some contributions, and I pondered how much I’ve missed due to the language barrier.

“This munu will greet anyone.”
“This munu looks like he wants to fight.”
“Why doesn’t that munu pull up his pants?”
“I bet that munu’s bag is filled with money.”
“Munu, give me all of your money, or at least 500 shillings” (the equivalent to about 22 cents)
“This munu looks like Chuck Norris.”
“Munu give me your computer when you leave Uganda.”

        I plan on tucking Achebe’s miraculously poignant words at the forefront of my cognition. No question that I’ve fallen into the trap as labeling the mysticism on this continent as the “other.” I’m not only white, privileged and wealthy, but ultimately from the United States. Collectively whites have come to this area and attempted to “fix” it. A revered British explorer (from the 1850s) in Gulu – Samuel Baker – is credited for ending the Arab slave trade amongst the Acholi in northern Uganda. The amount of instances in which I’ve been asked if I’ve visited “Samuel Baker’s fort yet” is uncountable while up north. I’ve only slightly touched the surface of exploring with Acholi folk the actual underpinnings of Baker’s work. Did he really “save the Acholi from Arab slave traders?” Or were his selfish intentions rooted in prospering his privileged country of origin? I have strong opinions siding one way. However, I find it necessary to jot down some of this “savior’s” words…

“The treachery of the Negro is beyond belief; he has not a moral human instinct and is below the brute. How is it possible to improve such abject animals? They are only fit for slaves to which position their race appears to be condemned.”

      I’ve yet to discourse with some Acholi on Baker’s specific philosophies and thoughts, but clearly plan to when the setting permits. Are brown and black skinned people “only fit for slaves” (as Baker claims) due to mainstream media, explores like Baker and John Hanning Speke, technology and material development, etc.?
My next mission on this powerful excursion is to label Achebe’s words in my eyes as my inquisitive mind persistently runs.

Does "Our Uganda" include those northerners who are "chopping each other up"?

The Way it Is...

21 November

        As we swerved our way along the crooked and surprisingly comparatively tranquil road within Gulu town, I heard the roars of a helicopter overhead. “President Museveni,” heatedly stated my 28 year old, distant and mellow male co-worker. It was Museveni’s turn to come campaign at the worn out, dusty field where the Barefoot Peace Walk ceremony took place a couple of months ago. After a tad more of holding on through some grinds in the road, we gradually rolled up to the UPDF (United People’s Defense Forces) barracks where a measly group of onlookers paraded to welcome the President. “Museveni, huh” I enchantingly thought to myself.
        As an outsider to northern Uganda, I have minimal – if any - rights in establishing a permissible opinion towards the political climate in this area. Although after painstakingly rereading Sverker Finnstrom’s Living With Bad Surroundings and chatting with scores of locals, it’s apparently quite evident President Museveni and his army have continuously, blatantly and physically subjugated and oppressed the Acholi collective. What are the existential motivations of the LRA? Why did Joseph Kony begin his (albeit grossly inhumane) rebel group against the government in the first place?
        “You see not many people here like Museveni,” delicately chimed my coworker. With those words, we crept passed heaps of boda boda (motorcycle-taxi) drivers decked out in Museveni’s yellow colored NRM tee-shirts. I was confused. “So why are those boda drivers all wearing Museveni gear and seem to be waiting for him” I vigilantly asked. “Ha, boda drivers will do anything for money. The government paid them to wear those shirts and drive towards where Museveni will speak. Tomorrow, if another candidate comes in here you’ll see them wearing those colors for the money.” “So, you mean the government paid the boda drivers” was my reaffirming question. “What kind of question is that? Of course they do.” That night, while chowing down on some incredible local dark green vegetables covered in a peanut butter pasty soup, I caught a news highlight that called out, “Many come out to support Presedint Museveni today in Gulu.” As I glanced up at the dusty, old 13 inch television screen I noticed the camera’s pan of the mass of boda drivers we passed earlier that afternoon riding and honking in their yellow NRM shirts. Interesting…I thought.
        A few days ago, I engaged in an ARV psychoeducational session for newly confirmed HIV positive northern Ugandans at Lacor Hospital. The open-air, “training room” of the facility hastily became a loud grayish dark, and I noticed the off-white chipped paint peeling from the ceiling. Within seconds deafening rain pulverized the metal sheet roofing. Because of this, the overzealous and sometimes irritable facilitator had no choice but to let the rain interrupt his course. Moments passed on, and capriciously a one-legged 50 year old female crawled to seek refuge from the downpour. The utterly drenched woman was clad in a flamboyantly proud, but faded yellow and lime green dress that carried rain and grime across the grubby floor. The distress and anguish clad in between her eyes seemed troublingly unfamiliar. I’m not sure I’ll ever escape the feelings of when our eyes found each other. A look surfaced that I interpreted as, “Yeah life is very difficult, and you may never fully grasp it, my brother.” I diligently attempted to promptly remove my gaze from her. Instead, I was frozen and observed the large voluptuous raindrops plunge from her left eyebrow as she exhaustedly lay on the floor.
        Did I just use the word “refuge” while describing this situation? Alluring choice of words, I must say. Would this soul or any person in this area of our magical world consider our one-legged sister as taking “refuge” from the rain? Or does that term ignite gruesome and harrowing memories of what the recent past presented to 90% of people here as they sought “refuge” from government and rebel troops? Oh, I’m sorry they were not considered “refugees” because they sought solace in their own land. Instead, the term “internally displaced persons” with a heartless acronym IDP is what “these people” were termed. Not human beings, but IDPs.
        While living in Acholiland, I’m persistently bombarded with internal and reaffirming notions of injustice. Often I mentally remove myself from the direct surroundings and tenderly aim to empathize and conceptualize the significance of distant and near historical influences in Gulu. How does one internalize having white men strip his/her sense of agency? And since individual and community are instinctively interrelated among the Acholi, what does that ultimately say about collective agency? Not only were these souls oppressed and dehumanized by colonization, they further felt subjugation and suppression from their own government and civilian population which turned to arms as perhaps a manifestation of frustration. And just recently most relied on international aid workers to bring them food and water.
         What about our thirteen year old neighbor who coolly stated in between mouthfuls of white rice, “I wish I was white”? As I nearly choked on my unga, I immediately thought of a recently read Frantz Fannon’s line. “However painful it is for me to accept this conclusion, I am obliged to state it: for the black man there is only one destiny. And that is white.” How about riding on the back of a motorbike through the desolately bare countryside to co-facilitate a meeting at a former Internally Displaced Persons’ camp? What about stopping at the bridge on the way home, so my coworker could reveal the bullet holes that were strewn throughout the structure? “The government troops were on this side, and the rebels were on the other side,” calmly stated the modest 31 year old chap. All I could think about were the innocent civilians stuck in the camp only 3 kilometers away. What about those who were caught in the cross-fire I thought, but decided not to ask.
        While my mind swam through saturated thoughts of everything and nothing, I watched the boda-boda drivers peel out in their yellow colored NRM t-shirts. Just as I was considering engaging in further discourse surrounding the current situation, I heard the famous rhythm of Lucky Dube’s “The Way it Is” begin to take shape on the radio. As the late reggae star’s music is revered in Gulu – and many places on the continent – I joyously observed my two co-workers slowly bob their heads up and down. I decided to rest my mind full of thoughts. As the song took shape, a local female co-worker could sense my curiosity towards life in Gulu and kind-heartedly informed me, “You see Neil, as Lucky says, ‘sometimes that’s just the way it is’ and we can’t look for deeper meaning in every corner of life. So enjoy the music.” Without realizing it, I found myself optimistically smiling on that dusty, exhaustively hot late afternoon. That phrase, “So enjoy the music” will perhaps infiltrate deeper than what my co-worker may have implied. Or considering she reigns from the area, she may clearly have implied a sort of existential, profound underpinning. Whatever the case may be, my spirits shifted and I contentedly allowed Lucky to do the talking.
     I find illustrious personal correlation with another Frantz Fanon quote. It seems to hit me precisely and directly in the heart these days. “In the world through which I travel, I am endlessly creating myself.”

Newborn

14 November

        I was stoked last Wednesday to have a night in solitude, listen to the softness of Joanna Newsom stroke her six-string and perhaps attempt to write a process recording. As I eagerly propped up the flat screen on the computer, the door of our place gradually opened, and delicately entered our six foot three inch, 22 year old, soft-hearted male neighbor. With a slight smile on his face he sat down and greeted me in the local language. In a sort of unauthentic warm response, I internally thought, “Shucks, I was really looking forward to a night alone.” After chatting in brevity, Jacob quite subtly stated, “Christine is somehow not feeling well.” Christine is his fun-loving, goofy and overly pregnant older sister. For the past week, I’ve been joking around with her, speaking in broken Acholi that if she needs to have the baby in the middle of the night, wake me up and I’d drive her to the hospital. You see, at our house, the director of my internship has a mini-van type vehicle. Our place is constructed of cement while no other living facilities in the vicinity are designed in such a privileged fashion. The vehicle is clearly the only one within some kilometers.
        “What??!!” I yelled. “Is she going to have the baby now?” “You see the problem is transportation and none of us know how to drive,” peacefully declared Jacob. “Does she need me to take her? Let’s go!!” I slammed down the face of the computer, grabbed the car key and ran out the green door. The director of our organization (who runs the household) was away in Kampala for the week, and therefore left the car key with me to start the engine every other day since the car is “almost broken.” As I hurriedly jogged down the dirt path to her grass roofed, mud hut, I found Christine in what I consider deep labor pains. Her gentle and beautifully situated mother was sincerely aiding her daughter while preparing belongings to sleep on the hospital floor. The overly friendly, gracious women had a look in them that was foreign to me. Thus, I realized now was a moment to remain serious.
        Six of us piled in the stalling minivan, and since I don’t even particularly drive in the US, I was confused and opened the left door thinking it was the driver’s side. “Jesus,” I thought and I’m going to be escorting this family through these deeply cracked, crater embedded village dirt roads to the main government hospital. After nearly tipping the vehicle on the first cavern in the road, we slowly reached a wooden shop illuminated by a single candle. Christine’s mother and Jacob ran out of the car to fetch the two items required to give birth at Gulu Government Hospital. While they were out of the car, Christine’s pains intensified and through moans and the grinding of her teeth she loudly yelled in English, “Jesus Christ.” As a wave of my heated blood rushed from my toes to forehead, I fretfully and worriedly internally demanded, “Oh please don’t let this woman have a baby right now in the car.”
        The treacherous ride finally terminated as we bumped our way towards the maternity ward of the awfully rundown, cracked hospital buildings. As soon as Jacob opened Christine’s door, she immediately fell to the damp cement ramp leading to the ward, with a strikingly painful look in her wide eyes. The older looking nurse, decked out in a one piece faded blue skirt outfit which looked as if it was from the 1940s, showed further interest in the munu, then the ailing patient.
        As I dragged behind the two family members aiding Christine hobble down the main hall, I was floored at the shattered infrastructure of the government hospital. “Wow, how Lacor Hospital seems magnificent compared to this place,” I told myself. Dimly lit, dorm-style dirty hospital rooms, and scores of women sleeping on mats on the nasty floor leading up to the maternity ward immediately caught my eyes. Through the corner of my right eye, I noticed Christine’s mom pass along what appeared to be a folded up black tarp, and something else I couldn’t make out, to the nurse. I was curious, so I inquired with another member of our crew, a 19 year old male cousin to the patient. “If you don’t have those two things, you will not be allowed to have a baby here.” Through our discourse, I was informed that the required articles were a plastic tarp-like bed sheet that is laid down as the mother is giving birth. “That is for all of the blood and other things that come out with the baby,” frankly stated this chap. The other item is a razor blade, which is to cut the umbilical cord. He went on, “Without them, they will turn you away, even if you are about to have a baby.” Through further inquiry I was informed those two items are equivalent to about $1.50. “So you see Neil, government hospitals are free but the problem is if you look around you can see that they are not very organized.” With those words, the electricity cut out and we were standing in the stuffy, smelly overly crowded hallway in complete darkness. Thankfully, light returned shortly afterward.
        I wondered where the father of the child currently was, and was kindly informed, “He will not be around, as he’s distanced himself from Christine.” With those words, I felt an increasingly sharp degree of frustration towards males in general. In no specific means, is this an isolated case. Gender normative and hierarchal regimes continue to dominate this lifestyle.
        Our clan arrived at Gulu Hospital at 9:17pm, and slightly after 10pm the baby boy was born. Yesterday, I sat in the small hut where Christine, her sister, her mother, and five of their children huddle around one another while nightly sleeping on straw mats that occupy floor space. Cradling the newborn while sitting cross-legged on the floor ignited a sense of astonishment and awe. Everything associated with caring for a day old being is entirely novel to my ignorant, non-childrearing self. Thus, I inevitably compared newborn procedures in my white Western world with those of Christine and her family. I instinctively pondered what sort of lawsuits would fly if the power cut out at your average white Western maternity ward in the U.S.? How would a standard white female feel about delivering in Gulu Government Hospital while her mother lay cramped on an unmopped, filthy floor? More so, what would Christine’s experience resonate to her soul if she had the privilege of birthing at a suburban hospital in Vermont? Would she be grateful, weirded out, and remain additionally reminded of her black, subjugated status? How many white people in the U.S. have brought their day old babies home to compete for and occupy tightly crammed floor space?
        I realize these questions must be analyzed and constructed in a culturally specific contextual framework. However, the essential underpinning is that Christine and her sisters in northern Uganda are identical to our sisters in the West in that they’re all human beings. Do humans adapt to what they lack or are privileged enough to obtain? I’ll continue to hold and observe these internal thoughts as I attempt to amply hang out with this little dude in the next few months.

So much for having a Neil night and writing process recordings.

Money

8 November 2010
   
        “I have a great friend…a refugee from Sudan who lives in Salt Lake City. Do you know Salt Lake City?” This sincere questioned was raised from the 31 year old, eloquently dressed father of two. For some reason, prior to answering that I was familiar with Utah, albeit never having stepped foot in the constructed state boundaries, I was internally pondering my thoughts of the sign, “Virginity is Wealth” that crookedly hung on the trunk of a huge mango tree at the primary school we just visited. “Yeah, I know where Salt Lake City is,” I strangely responded. “My friend is always complaining that life it too expensive in America. What do you think” commanded Vincent.
         Infinite thoughts swam through my head, and I was brought back to yesterday’s lunch where I paid the equivalence of 44 cents to chow down on a “rolex.” The greasy contraption consists of a fried egg with tomatoes, onions, and peppers that is wrapped in a fantastically delicious chapatti. While I dined on a broken rock alongside the wrecked main road, I intermittently covered the “sandwich” with the clear flimsy plastic bag it came in to dodge the dust and pebbles that kicked up from the trucks on that overly congested, yet eerily quiet main dirt road. Instead of directly answering my pal, I eccentrically queried about the daintily narrow road our truck sped down. “This road was created during the war, so the government could track down the rebels. That’s why it looks so skinny. So what do you think about money in America?” It was apparent this dude wanted me to speak on financial issues in my homeland.
        A dyadic discourse emerged where the two of us kindly and frankly compared the few similarities and countless differences between our lands. My comrade Vincent shared that the four members of his family can “surely” get by on 75 bucks worth of beans for a year. Just recently I began liberalizing my spending habits. The excuse that I’m an unpaid “student” has sheltered me from dishing out cash on various occasions. Was that simply a protective measure when friends, strangers, drunkards, and peers ask the “munu” for money? Yes, I am clearly a student who currently receives no income, and am entering a work world where the dollar bills won’t be flowing like burritos in the Mission. However, when analyzed through a contextual framework, I am absolutely financially and materially loaded compared to the grand populous in northern Uganda.
        How do I deal with the consistent, chronic money requests that I’m presented with? Dr. Josh Miller shared a key piece of advice, “When I’m international, I tell people that I don’t donate to individuals specifically.” What about when my local friend and research mentor asks me for the equivalent of eight bucks so his 17 year old daughter can have a procedure to remove “a growth on her vagina”? What about the helpless 37 year old chap whose swollen right index finger was oozing with a greenish/yellow puss as he innocently looked my way? What about the HIV positive patients who can’t afford the 44 cents fee to see the doctor at Lacor Hospital? How about my teenage neighbors who’ve constructed their mud hut with bare hands who candidly request I reach out to people in California to sponsor their education? What about the Italian munu who works at my internship organization? Her job description is essentially identical to many locals, but her income is 12.5 times higher than theirs? Some may justify that she works for a Western NGO, but how does that injustice speak to the fully aware Ugandans? And it what way will that perpetrate the racial divide between the whites and the “other”? In my eyes, it’s a simple microcosm of the volumes of racial inequality this world consistently partakes in. I sense parallels between the judge’s unjust moronic and asinine comments when justifying Johannes Mesherle’s murder of Oscar Grant.
        Vincent and I had just returned from a training session at the Loyo Ajonga Primary School that was situated deep in a rural village. The newly built school was constructed by the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. As we stumbled up in the dirty pick up, I noticed our meeting was to take place under the confines of the torn, filthy and crusty white UNICEF tent. The manual Vincent facilitated from entitled, The Income Diversification Project of CARE: Bangladesh’s Rural Maintenance Program, was provided by “support from the United States Agency for International Development.” Money, huh. At this point, as much as I dislike admitting, it absolutely seems to spin the globe. What would life be like without it, or without the hideous and vulgar greed associated with it?
        So it’s no wonder that Vincent’s buddy constantly struggles to financially make it in the U.S. After all, a Whopper at Burger King is an utter delicacy when one is familiar with dishing out 75 bucks for a year’s supply of beans.