16 January
While slowly chomping on a fried brown doughnut during “break tea” of the HIV/AIDS and Human Rights Presentation, I desperately desired to chat with one facilitator. The Director of my internship chivalrously invited me and the head of the Health Department to join her for the full day training facilitated by the Ugandan Human Rights Commission (UHRC) at some swanky hotel in Gulu town. The purpose of the gathering was to converse on the proposed HIV and AIDS Prevention and Control Bill of 2010. In brevity, the bill will circulate Parliament before President Museveni can officially declare it a law. The facilitators believed it vastly important to gather the civil society, police, local politicians, heads of NGOs, and the media to convene on the bill with hopes of sharing various recommendations to Parliament. No direct surprises that the UHRC chose to convene in Gulu, as its “official” infection percentage doubles the Ugandan national rate of six.
Within thirty minutes of opening, the chief facilitator shared what he considered an amusing tale. “I have a friend in Kampala who is the Headmaster of a Primary School and he openly admits that the day his wife goes for an HIV test, is the day she never comes back. That would be it for her.” Small probes of laughter ensued from the general audience which included the well known District Police Commander (DPC) and the Resident District Commissioner of Gulu (RDC). Spellbinding thoughts emerged within my cognition.
After “break tea” I noticed myself vigorously shaking my right leg and repeatedly pounding my blue bic pen up and down on my cherished black notebook. Was I anxious? And if so why? As the collective deconstructed the bill, I became educated on a law regarding the national military, Uganda’s People Defense Forces (UPDF). As one former member of the force contentedly and in agreement informed that it’s mandatory for UPDF to be HIV tested as a prerequisite to serve. If the results are positive, (s)he is inexorably disqualified. Although it wasn’t comical, this was my time to find amusement in the discussion. You see only moments earlier, I thoroughly read through section 31 of the bill that states, “A person shall not be denied access to any employment for which he or she is qualified; or transferred, denied promotion nor have his or her employment terminated on ground of his or her actual, perceived or suspected status.” Does the government’s military frankly assume that locals won’t notice their hegemonic domination? From my minor observations, I’d bet they sincerely and simply could care less.
Not long after lunch, discourse swiveled around the effect of culture with regards to combating the steadily increasing HIV/AIDS rate of 12.4 % in northern Uganda. A major theme of the afternoon focused on whether the bill should include criminalizing those who willfully and purposely infect others, which is a continuous occurrence. I was quickly brought back to my Women and Social Policy course at Smith College last summer; the vast, passionate and eternal debate, “Cultural and human/women’s rights … when (if ever) is intervention necessary? And if so, whose intervention?” Isn’t culture constantly shifting and changing?
Combating HIV/AIDS in this astonish country. What specifically to focus on? After all, the god damn (or is it God damn) Headmaster of a Primary School in the capital of the country is petrified of his wife getting tested, and his case is undeniably not isolated. What sort of impression and elucidation does this transfer to the students? “The principal is scared shitless of having his wife tested for the virus, so why should I ever openly subject myself to a test?” The underlying insecurities with the principal and other Ugandan males stem in the proposed belief that if their wives are getting tested, they clearly must be cheating on their husband partners. Let’s not forget the hetero-gender normative male culture of men and their multiple wives.
What about the well respected and veteran HIV/AIDS counselor at a renowned northern Ugandan NGO? Just last week, rumors circulated that he impregnated a local student intern who he’d only known two months. An HIV/AIDS counselor and unprotected sex in a land of blazing and steadily increasing rate of HIV/AIDS?? Throughout my time in this fine section of the universe, I intermittently read signs that say, “Fight AIDS Uganda, Keep the Promise.” I’ve been forced to question ... "whose promise?"
Monday, January 17, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Vacation
6 January 2011
Well it took a full four months and a day, but I was finally offered to blaze down on some local Ugandan grass. Politely chatting with the courageous tall baseball cap wearing, toothless Ugandan dealer forced a trivial smile. Considering this was the initial proposal of cannabis on this specific excursion to the continent, I contemplated my state of affairs. What does this say about Gulu? How about the lifestyle I lead in Gulu? More so, how does this speak to touristy, munu swarming areas of Uganda?
After an ugly and tiresome battle with malaria, I demanded out of Gulu and all I was familiar with. Thanks to some fantastic guidance I left Gulu and gleefully voyaged south to Bujagali Falls with the fine intent of sitting cross-legged and meditating beside the gracious and commanding Nile River. The previous evening at the munu haven camping grounds/guest house was the initial weed discourse my ears have been exposed to while in Uganda during this jaunt. “What are ya up to tonight, braaa?” “Smokin’”, pompously stated the bare-chested, board short wearing, blonde chap with red sunglasses perched on his head as if it’s midday, but in actuality the sun set approximately 42 minutes earlier. “Sounds good, braaa … just the usual, right? Smokin’ the ganj and sippin’ on some cold ones.” Those were the calm yet thriving words of the similarly bare-chested, mid 20 year old Aussie. As I diligently and patiently attempted at a relaxation and forgiving breath, I serenely reminded myself, “No judgments Neil, you don’t know these dudes. And also, you’re on vacation!”
Shortly after the munu’s mind numbing conversation, I quickly bounced from the munu frenzied vicinity in search of scoring some far better tasting authentic local food. As I blasted through matoke, beans and posho in the dingy, candle lit shack I observed two locals enjoying the same food that I took pleasure in. “Mzunugu (munu) thank you for supporting us,” faintly stated the 36 year old co owner of the 20’ by 20’ square wooden construction. With slight confusion I asked, “Do mzungu’s eat here?” “Sometimes we get muzungu’s but not much.” I struggled to not negatively criticize the munu travelers that inhabit this area. Again, I had to remind myself that the purpose of this retreat was to not overanalyze life.
All of these munus in Uganda. It appears us outside, Western, white privileged souls journey here for widely distinct reasons. Ninety percent of the time, I actively and critically analyze the role of the bro braaas at my current guest house. However, since that warrants a significant chunk of my present life, if I did that on vacation, wouldn’t that simply contradict my personal socially constructed definition of the term “vacation”? Ideally, I certainly did not venture to this physically breathtaking and magical spot on our globe to bitch up ungracious and unappreciative Westerners. How do I even know they’re “ungracious” or “unappreciative”? How ungracious and unappreciative my “vacation” would be if I all I thought of was the lifestyle of the bro braaas. Am I implying that they are wrong and I am right? After all, is there an objective concrete definition of wrong and right, anyway?
Well now that my incredibly mesmerizing holiday has terminated, exploring assorted munu instances while in Jinja is personally necessary. While sitting on a wooden chair reading Okot p’Bitek in front of my spacious room one serene evening, I marveled as the sun headed west, but was suddenly interrupted by a munu’s farcical words. “All I want out of life is to just have loads of sex and a pocket full of money.” This stemmed from the Kiwi raft guide - Incredible Hulk replica - who was trying to bring a lovely local Ugandan woman into his living quarters.
The previous day I heard an English raft guide mutter some nonsense. “Well I know the car will also be packed with like four Ugandans who won’t contribute any money. It happens every time and I starting to get f*cking tired of it.” Then there’s the shaggy looking munu who took a boda ride the equivalent of three New York City blocks to the “junction” so he can board another boda to town. All the while three young Ugandans waved to him as he gazed towards the children, and chose not to wave back, but instead take an extended drag from his cigarette. Finally, after feeling enthusiasm to survey three munus in the local eatery I frequented, I swiftly realized they were watching their local Ugandan companion finish his rice and fish, so he could escort them to the local pub where a pool table sat. No local food for these munus.
Why are the majority of rafting guides munus and not local Ugandans? Did the munus grow up with the Nile River as their backyard? Frantz Fanon would be both mesmerized and nauseous by this place. In a plethora of ways, it was sort of thwarting to associate with that collective. It highly resonates to the ways in which munus are perceived not only in Uganda, not only in Africa, but further globally. As a collective we are a horde of money flaunting, pretentious people. This experience reified the notion of why locals consistently and successively request money from munus. How can I pretend it’s absent, when my people (munus) continuously act like discourteous, pompous and confused souls? This vacation reintroduced me to whiteness. It is no wonder some local Ugandans view us as money symbols when we eat overly priced western food, take bodas two blocks, and when we desire Ugandans to pay for rides in their land of waterfalls and Nile Rivers. What would it mean if only locals could be rafting and kayak guides? Where would the Incredible Hulk bro braa be able to find his “loads of sex” and “pockets full of money”? Sure, the break away from Gulu was much needed and a savior in a small sense. But, I’m enchanted to be home in Gulu where I don’t continuously encounter haughty munus who do not believe they are outsiders in a foreign land.
Fishermen on the Nile, while a munu receives kayaking lessons. What do they think of each other?
Perhaps this sign was directed towards the Incredible Hulk bro braaaa.
Well it took a full four months and a day, but I was finally offered to blaze down on some local Ugandan grass. Politely chatting with the courageous tall baseball cap wearing, toothless Ugandan dealer forced a trivial smile. Considering this was the initial proposal of cannabis on this specific excursion to the continent, I contemplated my state of affairs. What does this say about Gulu? How about the lifestyle I lead in Gulu? More so, how does this speak to touristy, munu swarming areas of Uganda?
After an ugly and tiresome battle with malaria, I demanded out of Gulu and all I was familiar with. Thanks to some fantastic guidance I left Gulu and gleefully voyaged south to Bujagali Falls with the fine intent of sitting cross-legged and meditating beside the gracious and commanding Nile River. The previous evening at the munu haven camping grounds/guest house was the initial weed discourse my ears have been exposed to while in Uganda during this jaunt. “What are ya up to tonight, braaa?” “Smokin’”, pompously stated the bare-chested, board short wearing, blonde chap with red sunglasses perched on his head as if it’s midday, but in actuality the sun set approximately 42 minutes earlier. “Sounds good, braaa … just the usual, right? Smokin’ the ganj and sippin’ on some cold ones.” Those were the calm yet thriving words of the similarly bare-chested, mid 20 year old Aussie. As I diligently and patiently attempted at a relaxation and forgiving breath, I serenely reminded myself, “No judgments Neil, you don’t know these dudes. And also, you’re on vacation!”
Shortly after the munu’s mind numbing conversation, I quickly bounced from the munu frenzied vicinity in search of scoring some far better tasting authentic local food. As I blasted through matoke, beans and posho in the dingy, candle lit shack I observed two locals enjoying the same food that I took pleasure in. “Mzunugu (munu) thank you for supporting us,” faintly stated the 36 year old co owner of the 20’ by 20’ square wooden construction. With slight confusion I asked, “Do mzungu’s eat here?” “Sometimes we get muzungu’s but not much.” I struggled to not negatively criticize the munu travelers that inhabit this area. Again, I had to remind myself that the purpose of this retreat was to not overanalyze life.
All of these munus in Uganda. It appears us outside, Western, white privileged souls journey here for widely distinct reasons. Ninety percent of the time, I actively and critically analyze the role of the bro braaas at my current guest house. However, since that warrants a significant chunk of my present life, if I did that on vacation, wouldn’t that simply contradict my personal socially constructed definition of the term “vacation”? Ideally, I certainly did not venture to this physically breathtaking and magical spot on our globe to bitch up ungracious and unappreciative Westerners. How do I even know they’re “ungracious” or “unappreciative”? How ungracious and unappreciative my “vacation” would be if I all I thought of was the lifestyle of the bro braaas. Am I implying that they are wrong and I am right? After all, is there an objective concrete definition of wrong and right, anyway?
Well now that my incredibly mesmerizing holiday has terminated, exploring assorted munu instances while in Jinja is personally necessary. While sitting on a wooden chair reading Okot p’Bitek in front of my spacious room one serene evening, I marveled as the sun headed west, but was suddenly interrupted by a munu’s farcical words. “All I want out of life is to just have loads of sex and a pocket full of money.” This stemmed from the Kiwi raft guide - Incredible Hulk replica - who was trying to bring a lovely local Ugandan woman into his living quarters.
The previous day I heard an English raft guide mutter some nonsense. “Well I know the car will also be packed with like four Ugandans who won’t contribute any money. It happens every time and I starting to get f*cking tired of it.” Then there’s the shaggy looking munu who took a boda ride the equivalent of three New York City blocks to the “junction” so he can board another boda to town. All the while three young Ugandans waved to him as he gazed towards the children, and chose not to wave back, but instead take an extended drag from his cigarette. Finally, after feeling enthusiasm to survey three munus in the local eatery I frequented, I swiftly realized they were watching their local Ugandan companion finish his rice and fish, so he could escort them to the local pub where a pool table sat. No local food for these munus.
Why are the majority of rafting guides munus and not local Ugandans? Did the munus grow up with the Nile River as their backyard? Frantz Fanon would be both mesmerized and nauseous by this place. In a plethora of ways, it was sort of thwarting to associate with that collective. It highly resonates to the ways in which munus are perceived not only in Uganda, not only in Africa, but further globally. As a collective we are a horde of money flaunting, pretentious people. This experience reified the notion of why locals consistently and successively request money from munus. How can I pretend it’s absent, when my people (munus) continuously act like discourteous, pompous and confused souls? This vacation reintroduced me to whiteness. It is no wonder some local Ugandans view us as money symbols when we eat overly priced western food, take bodas two blocks, and when we desire Ugandans to pay for rides in their land of waterfalls and Nile Rivers. What would it mean if only locals could be rafting and kayak guides? Where would the Incredible Hulk bro braa be able to find his “loads of sex” and “pockets full of money”? Sure, the break away from Gulu was much needed and a savior in a small sense. But, I’m enchanted to be home in Gulu where I don’t continuously encounter haughty munus who do not believe they are outsiders in a foreign land.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
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.
“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?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
"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” …
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” …
Monday, December 6, 2010
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
“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
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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.
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"? |
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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.”
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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