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.”
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