Which war??

9  February

        Last week’s visit to Amuru District personally distorted an already murky observation on reality. Riding on the back of the fire engine red, donated motorbike through bumps and craters of the reddish-brown clay dirt road was elevating. I observantly witnessed an unusually special atmosphere that was slightly dissimilar to that of Gulu town, in the fairly new formed district that boasts a shabby wooden stick trading center. I exhaled and allowed the feeling to linger.
        Our internship’s two room office – one is a bedroom and cooking space for the counselor and the other a space to meet beneficiaries – is nestled in a former internally displaced persons’ camp. Remnants of the brutal and exhausting war are unmistakably noticeable in the botched infrastructure. The official ideology of war in this region conveys the physical and mental obliteration by the LRA; one has to dig deep to educate herself on the malicious underpinnings of the government forces that clearly ignited the rebel movement. After spending the week touring the Amuru District, my immediate perceptions alert that war undoubtedly lurks. It may although depend on which type of war one is referring.
        One of our home visits landed us two hours away from Amuru town to another dilapidated former internally displaced persons’ camp. Our beneficiary – a parentless 12 year old, HIV positive boy – was slowly strolling down the path with his wide eyes fixed on the brown dust cloud immediately in front of him. Quite calm and direct, his older cousin expressed disgust with the beneficiary’s schooling system. “Teachers come from far away and need to board at the school. Most often they leave halfway through the day on Friday, and do not return until Tuesday. The students are only left with three and a half days of school a week. And now, there are only two teachers at the entire school.” This information was bluntly translated through the soft and kind words of the most beautiful, elder male counselor who has so graciously taken me under his wing. He went on, “This is the problem with government run schools, the government says they are good, but if you notice that everyone who has money - especially all government officials - send their children to private schools outside of northern Uganda. What does that say?”
        Subsequently we cruised through the vast geography and dry, searing sun’s rays to find another beneficiary at a former camp closer to our living quarters. Here was a joyful, lovely and jovial 20 year old paralyzed female. She’s been battling the virus since 2003, and was misdiagnosed with TB, which caused her present inability to move half her body. The beauty and energy this hopeful youngster expelled was simply rad. The woman sews some of the finest sweaters I’ve seen on the continent and beyond. Her oomph brought hope to a personally foreign and ominous actuality.
        The previous stories only amplified in lunacy and intensity throughout my educational and enlightening visit to Amuru. In lieu of describing the woman planning to sell her nine year old daughter, the male nurse erroneously prescribing harmful medication to a freshly diagnosed patient suffering from TB/AIDS, and a nurse’s decision to discard multiple patients’ blood samples, I aim to highlight positivity. I’m convinced that beneath the grimy and oily surface of my perceived Amuru District is a lavish daintiness.
        Sure, Amuru District was brutally wasted by decades of inhumane and gross conflict that continues to haunt its contemporary surroundings. One could also argue that Amuru is currently waged in a war against poverty, a war on education, a war on HIV/AIDS and a war on gender inequality. In the same breath, one must also recognize the absence of war in Amuru District. A war on hospitality, resilience, humanity and beauty are simply nonexistent in this unruffled district on our globe. Vast and broad smiles, receiving peanuts, jackfruit, meals and kind words were all integral aspects of my stay.

        So I presently wonder, are human beings all involved in some form of abstract or concrete war? Why do we collectively and individually choose to foolishly gauge war on ourselves, neighbors, “friends”, enemies, and loved ones? And what constitutes the ending of war? The vast global discourse suggests that when fighting is done, so is war. Without war, is there no struggle? If I was born in an internally displaced persons’ camp in northern Uganda, where would my notion and conceptualization of war fall? Distinct responses to these subjective questions are clearly open for interpretation. Instead of drilling my brain with such deliberation, I think I’ll implant the sound of hysterical laughter when a group of young men curiously observed me pull a flying “white ant” out of the sky and lie it on my moist tongue. Deep in the Amuru villages, this is a central aspect of most folks’ diet. How could I let that opportunity slide?

This is someone's door crafted out of USAID donated aluminum, cooking oil cans during the conflict.

   

Trapping the "white ants."