It’s been a while since I’ve written and I even don’t know where I should start. I’ve tried to write a few times before now. For me, writing is everything. It helps me to understand where I am in everything that is happening around me; writing makes what I experience in my head connect within the context of reality. But since Rwanda writing has become more and more exhausting. Rwanda was beautiful and the people and culture I was immersed within were equally beautiful. Our groups stay was timed as such that we were there for the 17th anniversary of the start of genocide. I am careful here to say genocide in a non-descript way because we learned that this was not only the ethnic cleansing of the Tutsi people in Rwanda. What happened in 1994 involved an entire nation of people and the over one million people who lost their lives in only one hundred days impacted all people in Rwanda. Language is a powerful thing and my time here has only intensified the truth in that statement. The stories told by our lecturers, by those people we met in town and by the speeches given in memoriam;; words convey a message experienced powerfully by those who hear them. The telling of stories is also incredibly significant for the people who share them—part of a process that, though amplified because of Commemoration, is very much embedded within the post-conflict Rwandan culture. The message we received was clear: the people do not run from what has happened because they fear without acknowledgment peace cannot come. Our lecturers stressed that this genocide occurred not in secret but in full view of the entire international community. The entire world, they said, turned their back on Rwanda and all of the people inside. One man said the people were waiting first for help, but eventually learned none would come. Still, they waited, only now they waited for the earth to swallow them up to save them from the hell their home had become. From this they learned that it is up to the people of Rwanda to protect themselves from such atrocities like that of 1994. From where they stand, they are alone. The world will not help them and they must be ready to act in self-preservation at any point in the future.
In addition to lectures, our group visited three memorial sites of genocide. The first was in Kigali, Rwanda’s urban capital. It was organized in a manner common to museums in the U.S.: walls lined with a series of illustrated events, videos and news clippings playing in various rooms. The most unique feature, or rather that standing out in my memory most, came in the form of a small, dimly lit room filled only of home photographs. Hundreds of faces lined walls. Men and women and children staring out at every angle—some are smiling in family portraits, some carrying children or cooking a meal, some are playing sports and some are simply staring blankly. So many pictures. All of these people are dead. I spent the most time in this room. The two other memorials were located at sites of genocide, both churches outside of town center. We arrived and walked inside to piles and piles of decaying clothes. Dull colors swarmed together with the smell of death, mold, and dampness. These are the clothes left from thousands of people who were murdered during the genocide, we were told. They have been gathered and placed here so that the people can see; they can never question the realness of what has happened. We moved further and found an underground mass grave. Stairs led down to three tunnels filled with wood coffins. The people are still here, what’s left of them. Light came only from the ground level entrances. We walked in silence. The next site was similarly arranged, though this church was more so left in the state of destruction created by the genocide. Deep red stains covered the cracked cement floor of the main worship structure. Piles and piles of bones lined the walls. Skulls and femurs, clavicles and pelvises. Some were grouped and many were without any order at all. The bones were situated along rows of pews that were probably once used by some of the very people who lay scattered among them during a time when they were alive. We moved outside of this room and viewed the remaining three walls of what used to be a nursery. Here, the stains were on the walls and the process of killing children was explained to our group. I went outside and waited for the talking to stop. The tour of this site ended shortly after and we returned to our hotel in silence. I don’t think anyone spoke much that night. Our academic advisor explained that most every adult we meet in Rwanda took part in the genocide in one way or another. Most who left did not come back. It’s amazing to think about how far they have come. You walk around on sidewalks lit by street lights. You go into stores and restaurants and banks. You see the buildings and it is impossible not to note how much more developmentally advanced this nation is than your home in Gulu, Uganda. I don’t have the capacity to understand how it happens. The genocide, somehow. There is history—a clear time line of events that proceeded April of 1994. The recovery, though; how people moved from then to now. I cannot understand.
We are now in the Independent Study Project section of the Uganda semester. Very much like it sounds, this component requires students to operate outside of structure dictated by the academic director with the end goal being a completed 30-40 page research paper on a topic of our own choosing. During this time, we are responsible for housing, food, research, and general maintenance of our own livelihoods in Uganda. While somewhat overwhelming, it is an overall epic feeling: that of being (mostly) on your own in an East African country. Although we are allowed to move anywhere in Uganda, all twelve of our group chose to stay in Gulu. Ten of us opted to find housing together, and we located two homes neighboring one another for rent just outside of town center. Sweet. Each house has three rooms and we share them, sleeping on mattresses and surrounded by a mess of clothes and African fabrics purchased from all of our travels. We buy communal food from the market and cook on a gas stove. Mostly, we eat rice with vegetables. Sometimes, we make eggs. It’s been an exploratory process, that of cooking and all. For the most part, things are good and I am happy with our living situation. My research too is going well and I should be finished with my last interviews before the end of this week. I’ve so far conducted six individual interviews and held two formal focus groups, each comprised of 3 individuals. I hope to speak with four more people. While my research has been far from perfect, I am running into a great deal of luck within the context of interviews and interview responses. My research centers on Acholi culture, specifically analyzing the impact of the LRA war on the practice of Acholi culture in Gulu district. From this, I ask whether or not there exists a relationship between culture and post-conflict transformation and if so, how should culture play a role in the development of post-conflict transformation processes. So far, I am enjoying the progression of it all.
And then there is that topic of the riots in Gulu last week. And again it makes me so tired to even put all my thoughts of this event into words. I think maybe what happened in my head still doesn’t quite connect within the context of reality; what I felt and heard and saw doesn’t make sense with all those things that I use to comprise my world. I was in an internet café in town center when the people started running. Everyone was happy and I heard Mao, a popular figure in Ugandan politics and strong opponent to Museveni within the presidential election, had arrived in Gulu. This is wonderful, I thought. It’s nice to see the people so involved with the political process of Uganda. I ran to the door of the shop and went outside to see the crowd. Shortly after Mao’s appearance, the police arrived and arrested him for unlawful protest. I hadn’t even realized he was protesting anything at all, though later I learned he was speaking out against the steady increase of fuel and food prices throughout Northern Uganda. In less than a minute, the joyful gathering of people transformed into a scene of enraged chaos and recklessness. From inside the internet café, I watched as men and young boys threw large bricks at police and police vehicles. Police were everywhere, firing guns into the air and shooting rubber bullets into the crowds. The waiter locked the door and asked that I call someone. I called my academic advisor and he told me to stay where I was, he said to wait and he would find someone nearby to see me home. The tear gas was everywhere outside the café and I watched as women ran from the scene, wiping their eyes and mouths as they held screaming children at their sides. I saw smoke and it became apparent that the people were lighting things on fire. In less than twenty minutes, the quiet calm of Gulu district had become a war zone with topography almost unrecognizable. A driver arrived and I asked the waiter to unlock the door. He was adamant I not leave—it was not safe and I shouldn’t be outside. I pointed to the car and even as I did so, I was not happy about being in a vehicle during all of this. He reluctantly unlocked the door and I ran to the car, my breath catching immediately from the smoke and the tear gas. The roads were awful and the rioting continued all around us. The car was hit with a brick. Gun fire continued. We drove. Upon reaching the housing compound—my new home of less than 48 hours—I was told to remain home until further notice. I paid the driver and went inside to find our group. We spent the night grouped together, sharing the one house and waiting for the gunfire to stop. Around 10PM the night became quiet. When morning came, we learned that the riot was short lived and while we shouldn’t move at night, the days should still be okay. Monday would bring another demonstration and depending on the reaction of the police, another riot. Evacuation was a possibility, our adviser said. The question for Uganda and its people is no longer if but has now become when. Uganda will follow suit with its brothers throughout Africa. The time for change is now. But we must wait and see. We must wake up and go about our days. Keep busy with your research and compose as much of your papers as you are able, we’re told. And for the most part, that is what we have done. That is what I am doing. And I am well and safe and even happy, most of the time.
It is more than I can think about right now, what it all means for this country. It's hard to write about it because it's hard to navigate the reality of it all. So much of me wants these people to fight for the rights they so badly need and so justly deserve. But Gulu is small and these people are not just nameless faces to be lost in a cause. The stories that intertwine with the culture of the people—there is already so much violence, loss, tragedy, and defeat. What is to come of more of the same? Can the people, the culture, endure another round? It is said that if the conflict continues, the LRA will seize the opportunity to join against the NRM and the current government in power. Sudan is ready to supply arms, still seeking revenge on Uganda for aiding the SPLA some few years ago. Mao is so popular among the youth. He will lead and all of the framework is in place. And I so badly want good governance in Uganda. I believe in the people and I believe they deserve a voice. But all of the lives that will surely be lost; and all of the progress made since the last war ended. All of the youth that will not receive education during a new conflict; all of the health problems that will be brought by the stopping of resources controlled by government. Freedom. What does it mean and what is it worth. The questions are important, even though the answers are simply not there.
And this is a lot for a single entry, even one coming after a period absent of writing.
Thank you for your time.
