UPDF Military Wedding

21 December

        “An AK-47 is the most important aspect of being a part of the military.” Those roaring words blared from the oversized black speakers at the open field in the Lira District of northern Uganda. My patience was running low as it was nearly 6:31 pm, and no food was in sight. Hundreds of natives and I assembled eight and a half hours earlier for the wedding of a Ugandan (UPDF) Captain. I purposely chose to phrase it “the wedding of a Ugandan Captain” due to the unyielding nature of the event. Throughout the ceremony – which was partially translated in English – the official discourse solely and specifically revolved around the Captain. “Now that the Captain is marrying … We wish to congratulate the Captain for taking such a step with his wife … I’ve worked with the Captain for years and he always remains calm on the battlefield …” I consistently wondered, isn’t it equally important to acknowledge the female partaking in this ceremony? Why weren’t her friends allowed to give speeches like the four cronies and military personnel of the Captain?
        The UPDF propaganda was subtly and overtly infiltrated into the cognition of the massive audience. Throughout the event glimmering statements soared. “The UPDF is here to protect every civilian from harm, and the best way to do that is with the gun … President Museveni and our military work diligently each day to protect and support each and every one … With the help of the AK-47, we are able to carry out successful missions in this country …”
        A swarm of comical and provoking thoughts swam throughout my psyche. I instantaneously thought of the regular political engagements I’m associated with in Gulu. Intense research is clearly not necessary to recognize the concerted and palpable subjugation of the Acholi collective by the UPDF. Talk to the grand majority of locals about the UPDF’s role in the recent 20 plus year conflict with the LRA. Perceptions from the general Acholi consensus in Gulu; “The UPDF stayed in the center of the internally displaced persons’ camps so when the rebels came in, they killed many civilians prior to reaching the UPDF. And that is even if the UPDF stayed, because they usually ran when the rebels came … Many of our women were raped by the UPDF during the conflict which helped spread HIV to our community … The UPDF demanded that we go into an internally displaced persons camps and if not they would beat us and even kills us while calling us rebel collaborators …”
        I clearly understand that underlying Saturday’s wedding is simply the fact that it took place a couple of months prior to another heated Ugandan Presidential election. Although, I pryingly wondered how the propaganda will radiate across northern Uganda. For instance, only a couple of days earlier while snacking on some roasted cassava I sat on a broken red bench and glanced through the Daily Monitor newspaper. A headline of the national media outlet stated, “Acholi MPs Say Government Arming Militias.” As I dove into the jargon, I found that Members of Parliament in Acholiland claim the UPDF is supplying arms to NRM (the President’s party) mobilizers and former child combatants to instill fear in the population to vote NRM and President Museveni.
        As if aiding guns and ammunition to formerly abducted children in an area wasted by war and all of its side effects isn’t problematic enough, won’t this continue to instill the idea that the north is filled with rebels? Perhaps it’s no revelation that loads of southern Ugandans seem petrified to venture to the north of the country. Basically when interpreting this article, I’m forced to analyze who essentially gains by reporting this and ultimately who has something to lose.
        Another headline on the same day, but in the New Vision paper shared, “UPDF to Sue Beisgye Group.” Besigye is a rival Presidential candidate running against President Museveni in February. The accusations claimed Besigye reported the UPDF was unfaithfully siding with the NRM and Museveni. Luckily, I was hanging out with an extremely involved political ally of the Acholi and thus we had a solid chuckle over the headline and article. My pal chimed in, “Isn’t a Government’s military supposed to stay neutral and not sue a competing political group?” He went on, “You see Neil, all you can do is really laugh at the absurdity of Ugandan politics.” I marinated on that sentence for some time. Sure politics in all corners of the round globe are shaggy, but the military suing a political group is one I presently haven’t heard of. Could the U.S. Army sue the Democratic Party in my homeland?
        Perhaps the most mind altering scenario of Saturday’s wedding was not the refreshingly cold “Bell Beer” that was proudly snuck to me by the relaxed driver of our vehicle. Instead, if I had any food in my stomach at that point, it may have resurfaced when I saw one of the numerous wedding cakes. “Since the AK-47 is the most important aspect of being in the military, we have designed a cake in the shape of one,” pretentiously stated some military official. At once I grabbed the right arm of our younger neighbor/brother and told him, “Hurry up and go take a picture of that cake before they cut it or give it away.” I certainly wasn't prepared to be the only munu at the wedding snapping photos of the AK-47 cake.
          An AK-47 wedding cake; that about did it for me. Problematic? From my contorted Western view on the situation, I was dumbfounded. In effect, do the folks of northern Uganda desire to share bits of a Kalashnikova cake? What was the consensual reaction from the crowd? I curiously waited and heard scores of folks laughing. To me this wasn’t in fact funny, but instead sort of gross, disrespectful and patronizing. How many folks at the wedding or in the present area had loved ones killed by the AK-47 by those exact UPDF service members? What does this signify and represent to the young children at the wedding? “Guns are cool; we even make wedding cakes representing them!” Perhaps it’s no shocker that youngsters in my home village craft AK-47 replicas out of banana trees, leaves and whatever vegetation they get their hands on. After all, the UPDF couldn’t speak highly enough of it at the wedding for Christ sakes.

The AK-47 cake

Coincidence or do "all boys play with guns"? If so, why?

"Burning Man"

15 December

        Since I attended Burning Man two summers ago, I’ve occasionally attempted to deconstruct its function and meaning. Scores of diverse and eccentric folks often rave at the “magic and amazingness of being totally free for a week in the desert of Nevada.” Besides simply being a gathering for mostly white, privileged Americans, I did find a bit of essence in the festival. Quite interestingly enough is the various parallels I’ve noticed between what the jamboree in Nevada strives to accomplish and actual life here in Gulu, Uganda.
        Through discourse and personal observations in the Nevada desert, Burning Man attempts to create a sort of collective, sharing, loving, caring, money-free, anything goes type environment, where one tends to forget and remove herself from everyday reality and instead “just be.” In theory, and at times in practice, this phenomenon is worthwhile and appetizing. While in Nevada, I clearly remember wandering the disgusting, yet beautiful searing sun drenched dusty roads and having people welcome me into their campsites or “communities.” While spending time with these “strangers” I felt an affably strong human connection as people shared stories, alcohol and food.
        Two weeks ago, a group of elderly men were sitting on wooden chairs while relaxing in the shade of a neon green mango tree. Before the shortest one noticed me, I attempted to remain out of their view and simply observe. I could physically feel an electric vibe that I wasn’t ready to leave. Upon being spotted, I already found myself cautiously walking towards them. The Acholi elders were leisurely swigging on the local alcoholic beverage called gulu-gulu. They motioned me over and I had no qualms joining them on that sluggish Saturday afternoon. Sipping on the foggy, cloudy grayish booze forced me to wince as if I was in pain, and immediate laughter ensued from the gents. Without warning it hit me as I glanced around and witnessed the countless mud huts within yards from us. Bare-chested kids were playing with colorful bottle caps, mothers and grandmas chatting, cooking and laughing. A strident, half broken radio with only a tiny piece of the antenna blared traditional Acholi music. The energy of the atmosphere was electric. “Is this what Burning Man attempts to create,” I internally questioned.
         The number of times I’ve been given meals, tea, soda and beer in Gulu have surely been inconceivable. These offers come from some of the most economically disadvantaged beings in the whole of Uganda. Sharing material, sharing food, sharing community and sharing love is essentially the backbone of this culture. The Acholi have a specific term for guests who refuse what the locals offer. The term is lawake, which translates to one who is too proud.
         I personally appreciate Burning Man’s continuous efforts to create this “utopian society” for one week a year. Who wouldn’t enjoy marinating on that? Perhaps I’m dumbstruck by how a “developed” and “advanced” nation such as the U.S. has to artificially create genuine and authentic bonds and relationships amongst a collective. Scores of folks plan for their Burning Man experiences several months in advance. Imagine having to plan for an appreciative, caring, giving and receiving society? What happens the other 51 weeks of the year? Does Burning Man generate an energetic shift that will perpetuate legitimate human interactions to carry throughout the year? Or do most participants head back to quasi, half-assed jobs and lifestyles they only wished were more Burning Man-esque?
         Who knows and I realize this is basically a pathetic and crude attempt at a comparison. However, I am fully cognizant of the fact that when I’m in the community of Gulu, being offered food, drinks, friendships, etc. is not because I’m at a $250 festival in the desert of Nevada. Could it pertain to the fact that I’m a munu? Absolutely. Yet, there still seems a higher or more authentic degree of gentility and honesty, and the Acholi culture is renowned for its hospitality amongst all visitors, not only munus.
        Again, I remain clouded at the disparities between my privileged homeland and this piece of earth. I do ultimately believe a sincere and particular mysticism remains present within this collective. Popular political and humanitarian discourse proposes the contrary. However, forcing oneself to peel the sociopolitical layers of this land, one is ultimately left with the stark reality of Acholiland. The ways in which these folks continuously remain plated below the surface in Uganda and the world, is not only disturbing, but additionally misinterpreted. Unfortunately, particular international NGOs up here don’t necessarily aid the situation. Foreign aid and “help” in Africa is an entirely abstract phenomenon that needs further deconstruction and analysis.
        But for now, at least the Acholi do not need to unnaturally produce a fantasy world in which people demonstrate some essential underpinnings of humanity. If we could only learn from these folks instead of continuously marginalizing them and referring to this population as “the other” …

One World

6 December

        “Today is not a celebration, but instead a day of remembrance … the fight against AIDS is a collective effort, but it begins with the individual.” Those thunderous words were sternly uttered by the shiny grey suit sporting Local Council member. It was World AIDS Day, and there I was uncomfortably situated on a broken white plastic chair, in the former Internally Displaced Persons’ camp of Koch Goma. As this fella’s proud piercing voice boomed, my soft gaze found 42 curiously bright eyes staring at me. Twenty-one young barefoot, malnourished, northern Ugandan youth inquisitively assessed me. Only two smiles were present, and the remaining kids’ eyes were securely locked on my body. I glanced down and noticed a swarm of flies happily playing in the open wound on the right knuckle of one boy’s big toe. His glassy eyes remained stagnant as his ripped black shirt and mud-stained khaki shorts looked three sizes too small. I glanced up to find his eyes, pointed at his wound and he remained expressionless. The aged, split gash appeared infected. After subtly removing myself from the situation, I found the nurse with whom I rode the two hour long journey with. She checked the lad’s abrasion and almost frustratingly informed me, “Our First Aid table is only for emergencies. He should go to the health clinic over there.”
        In front of the health clinic was a manila painted concrete slab where six older adults took refuge from the sun. As with the masses, they expressed positive alarm at the munu’s presence in such a place. In my broken Acholi language skills, I explained and showed them the kid’s toe. One hunched over older woman’s response was, “Take him to the First Aid table.” After calming explaining the situation, I was informed, “That is infected, and there is no doctor here today. Tell the boy to come back tomorrow.” The young dude slowly wandered away after a local yelled something towards him that I couldn’t quite grasp. I was clueless, so I bought a piece of boiled corn and sat next to one elderly women clad in a vivacious yellow dress, accompanied by a walking stick.
         While biting a tough faded yellow colonel of corn a squeaky and sweet voice appeared, “Are you hear for World AIDS day?” It was that of a 29 year old female who, due to her physical dimensions, appeared 17. The frail women kindly explained that she was there to learn more about AIDS. In our discourse she informed me that she longed to head back to school but, “in our culture when a girl becomes pregnant, people will stop sponsoring her education, because she is now a mom … I didn’t even want a child or think it was real that I could have one … I want to go back to school but have no money.” After she dryly spat out those details, close to four minutes of silence ensued. “I have to go take some alcohol at my auntie’s shop,” were the somber words that finally broke the stillness. I wished her well and ominously thought, “Wow, it’s not even noon yet on a Wednesday morning.”
         I was intrigued with my surroundings and couldn’t tell what I was essentially feeling. Was I reeling off the notion that 12.4 percent of people in this district are HIV positive? Or that just a few years ago thousands of folks lived literally cramped on top of one another without proper access to food, running water, or safety in this very spot I stood that afternoon? Fearing rebel groups, fearing government troops, fearing starvation, fearing AIDS, fearing Ebola, fearing disease, and perhaps fearing life. What did I fear a few years ago … how to get beers on a Sunday night at Syracuse University when the liquor store closed early?
         Once in a group meditation session in San Francisco, I was jarringly frustrated at the injustices in life, and thus I approached the leader after the session. When I explained my irritation at the instability of humanitarian insecurity in these polar opposite worlds people live in, he peered in my incensed eyes and delicately stated, “It’s actually only one world we live in.” To this day, I’m brought back to the spiritual leader’s acceptable statement. After all, I suppose we do live in only one world. But, I may argue that this world has vast and uneven boulevards that intertwine and also remain exceedingly distant from one another. Who can travel down which roads at which times? What does it mean that I was born on a wealthy, white, privileged, heterosexual, male road?
        I had a terrific evening last Saturday night, hanging out, grubbing down, and chatting the night away with my coworker, his wife and their three children. Franklin (I’ve disguised his real name) is my age, but based on demeanor, style, and posture seems a bit older. The other day, he jarringly laughed when I pulled my laptop out of a bag that was wrapped in an old red tee-shirt I used as a covering case. “Oh Neil, I love your style, my brother” he shared as his white crooked front teeth were visible from miles away.
        As we sat out in the open air surrounded by grass huts, we shared innocuously ridiculous tales about our upbringings. As the evening transformed into night, we got into it. Here’s a brother who lost both his parents to the war, lost a sister of HIV/AIDS after she was “raped” by government troops, and currently lives next to one of his brother’s three wives. “Our culture here is very different than yours,” stated Franklin while spitting out a fish bone that was caught in between his teeth. “You know, my brother is a busy man with all of his wives, but we are trying to make things more equal for men and women here.”
         We conversed a few hours longer, and then he escorted me to catch a boda back to town. I wondered, “Does it ever end for these people?” And then I optimistically stopped the boda driver and asked him to drop me just outside of town. As I strolled my way up the dimly lit road, I thought, “Perhaps I’ll never get an appropriate response to that question.” But, the ways in which Franklin and his brothers and sisters face life with such determination and resiliency, makes me wonder. The world appears quite differently in northern Uganda than say Albany, New York. Do we as humans adapt to what we’re faced with? What has Franklin done to deserve living a marginalized life in a subjugated area of this earth? Is it marginalized and subjugated to him? Or is that how I see it as an educated white man studying in an absurdly expensive liberal arts graduate program? Isn’t it my privilege that allows me to travel and write about such mysterious “foreign” places?

snaps from World AIDS Day