Something on Everything

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 17^th 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.

Just Under 2 Months Left in Africa

Rwanda is a beautiful country and in many ways resembles cities present within the United States. There are paved roads and street lights, public trash cans and toilets that flush; our hotel has power and water. Although more reserved than those I’ve encountered in Gulu, the people are warm and welcoming. English is spoken some, but French is much more common. Our group spends ten days in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital city, before returning to Gulu by way of public transport in Kampala. We are to complete the academic portion of the semester in Gulu and present our final papers May 14^th. I leave for home May 22^nd. I will be happy to be in one place for thirty days consecutively. All this traveling, while exhilarating and full of adventure, is becoming somewhat tiring. Sometimes I wake up and forget even where it is that I am sleeping. As much as I am grateful for the time I’ve spent in Africa, I am very much looking forward to being home.

It’s April now and the rainy season has officially begun. It rains mostly in the late evenings and nights, with brief showers occurring throughout the days. The temperature is much cooler now and I’m happy to have packed a few pairs of pants and jackets. The sun still shows itself, though sometimes the brevity is such that I question whether I only imagined it out of wishful thinking. Uganda celebrates the rain. Just like anywhere else in the world, agriculture thrives when water is abundant. I can’t wait to return to the open markets in Gulu. Prices will lower and people will be happy with all of the fresh produce available. The mango situation, from what I am told, is phenomenal during this time of year. Mango trees are everywhere in Gulu and my host family says that before the rain leaves, the people are so full of Mango they are happy to be without them. I don’t think I could ever become sick of mangos. People also says rain helps with the roads—in Gulu, it was so dry that the dust was unbearable and conditions for traveling were hazardous. I don’t quite understand how rain should offer much relief though. Mud intermixed with trash and debris can’t be much more desirable, at least in my opinion. Seeing more green, especially in Mbarara and here in Rwanda, is wonderful. Visual reminders that time is passing and seasons are changing.

This past weekend I visited the Muammar Gaddafi Mosque in Kampala. I’ve never been to a mosque before. Massive and overwhelming, it represented something in religion I’ve experienced on few occasions and never been able to translate clearly into words. That, in a nation so overwhelmed by poverty and devastation, such a building could even exist baffled me. Upon entering, however, all I could think about was the beauty of it all: the intricate detail of the light fixtures, the carpets imported from Libya, the glow of tile lining the wall facing Mecca. While religion has been the root of many, many conflicts, hearing the call to prayer while inside that structure was an incredible experience. The quiet and peacefulness of it all; beautiful.

Lectures and site visits have been excellent. I’m learning more in this time than I think I’ll ever know what to do with. Hopefully, it will all culminate in something I can’t even anticipate at this point in the semester.

Miss everyone a lot.

Best wishes and thanks for reading.

Forward Motion

The last week and a half has brought experiences more than most weeks have the capacity to offer. Being back in Gulu is wonderful; I almost have the sensation that I've returned 'home,' though with much emphasis on the word almost. Walking to and from lecture this week brought so many familiar sites and faces--especially with the school I pass. Whether it's the gifts of biscuits and and bottled water I sometimes bring or the oddity that my skin color provides, the kids I see most every morning are always excited to see me. It's nice to be recognized, even if only as the Muzungu who stays in Pece town.

Last Wednesday, the group traveled north to learn about the Atiak Massacre that occurred on April 20th, 1995. The trip took only three hours, however the extended dry season in Uganda makes the already poor roads almost unbearable. To add to the discomfort, one of our two vans broke down and our group of 17 all crammed into one van. Upon reaching the site, we viewed a large stone monument in dedication to those who were killed and met with the district commissioner for the sub county of Atiak. He was open and honest about the events that took place, and hearing him speak from personal experience is something I can't really explain right now. We heard from three other men and the stories they shared;; I wouldn't know how to talk about what we learned or felt after leaving. All of the men who spoke emphasized the importance of moving forward. The drive home, though cramped, was quiet and uneventful.

We visited Sipi Falls on Tuesday, traveling to Mbale on Monday and returning back to Gulu Wednesday evening. Although the drive was long, seven hours from Gulu to Mbale, the experience was well worth the trip. Geographically, Mbale is South East of Gulu--near the border between Uganda and Kenya. The region is so different from Gulu. Developmentally, Mbale far surpasses anything I've seen in Uganda; the roads were paved and organized, streets were well lit, trash (though still very much present) seemed to be less heavily present everywhere we went. The hotel we stayed in even had running water. The topography was new also, mountainous and hilly with lots of greenery and vegetation. Sipi Falls was breathtaking. I'm looking for words and they just fail to communicate the true beauty of what I saw. Vibrant and bright and wonderful; it's like hearing the climax of symphony playing in C major and feeling so warm and content that everything else falls away and all that's left is the sound. It was amazing to see. When we got to the top, it began to rain and we sat in a stone structure waiting for it to pass. It's an incredible feeling: to be surrounded by something so massive. The world can be a really beautiful place; it's nice to be a part of it all, sometimes.

The past few days have been harder to get through and I don't know that I can really express why. I'm learning so much and lately, it's been hard to contain all the emotion that comes with all that knowing. Today, we visited a former camp for those Ugandans displaced during the conflict. Over 90 percent of Northern Uganda was internally displaced during the reign of the LRA in Uganda; at current, only 30 percent are still waiting to be relocated. At the height of the war, more than 7,000 people lived in the location we saw today. Now, there are not more than 300. We drove for 3 hours and upon exiting the van, the first thing I noticed was the smell. The smell of human waste mingled with trash and burning plastic; the smell of sickness and the smell of the unclean. I thought to myself, 'but I thought this was a former IDP camp; the conflict has ended--why would people remain in a place with this smell?' More than that, I struggled to imagine how such a smell could even develop--exist at all. But I've read the books and I've heard the lectures. I know many don't have that option: those who've spent decades away from their village and have no land rights; those who were born in the camps at the start of the war and have no village to return to; those who are orphaned and widowed; those who were known offenders within the LRA and are exiled from their home communities; and finally--those who have become so used to life within the camp that they simply do not wish to transition back to their own villages. This last category of individuals brings me the most unease. During the war, many NGO's and aid organizations flooded camps with assistance. Food was provided and temporary structures were setup for emergency health. As time passed and the conflict subsided, these organizations left and the amount of aid distributed was greatly reduced. It was time for people to move forward. People, however, have become dependent on aid. For so many years, people were robbed of a self-sustaining way of life. They woke up, waited for aid, cooked, sat idle, and waited for peace. Throughout this time, the camps were continually raided by the LRA. Men were defenseless to protect their families. Children were abducted by the hundreds. People died everyday. And now, those who are left operate in sort of a half existence. The land is destroyed, unsuitable for farming. Water is depleted. Systems of sanitation are still non existent. Children are everywhere. But still the people sit, seemingly waiting for something. Alcoholism developed during wartime and of the 8 men we spoke with on our visit only two were sober. It's a difficult thing to witness: men stumbling around drunk before 11AM while swarms of half-clothed children roam with nothing to occupy their time. "School fees are too expensive," they all say. But what of the alcohol you drink--does that not cost money? Sadness and anger and the absence of a way in which to make it all fit together in my head. It's not the fault of these men alone. It's not the fault of the people. And it's not all together wrong that so much aid was provided or that the aid is no longer provided. I understand these things on a logical level. I do. Sometimes, no matter how much I understand something in my head I can't seem to control the emotions these things evoke; there's a disconnect I can't quite mend.

I'm learning so much and I'm grateful for this experience. This week marks the end of our homestay in Gulu and on Sunday the students are all putting on a farewell party for the families who have welcomed us so warmly. I'm looking forward to the party, but will be sad to leave my families home. Next week is also the half way point for this semester; slowly but surely May 23rd is coming closer. Time really is moving forward.

Best wishes to everyone at home and many thanks for taking the time to read about my trip.

All my love.

Rural Homestay in Kitgum, Uganda

The group was scheduled to leave Gulu at 9AM on Monday morning. In keeping with 'African Time,' the vans arrived around 10 and we were on the road just after 11AM. Since arriving in Uganda, I have heard the saying "Africans don't keep time, we keep appointments," on numerous occasions. Although it took some adjustment, I have finally become comfortable with the complete absence of a stable time table or organized schedule. There's a window for everything and eventually the required happenings of a day occur. And if they don't, there's always tomorrow. If only this same system was applicable when turning in papers and assignments to the Academic director...wishful thinking.

The first two days in Kitgum were spent as a group. We stayed in a guest house and had time for both study and some in-town exploration. Kitgum resembles Gulu in many ways, though on a much smaller scale. We found a small outdoor market, (somwhat of) a commercial industry area, some church houses and a few schools. Conditions seem harsher in Kitgum: dirt roads in poor condition, poverty and illness easily visible, and the need for some sort of regulation concerning sanitation and waste is incredible. Also, twelve muzungus in Kitgum seemed to cause more excitement then we experienced in Gulu. Outside of the above, people were friendly, curious, and welcoming just as always; I don't think I've ever met a more friendly group than that of the Acholi people.

Monday and Tuesday passed quickly and in their place came Wednesday. We drove north into a small village called Gong-Dyong. Upon arriving, all my previous suspicions surrounding the validity of National Geographic publications disappeared at once. Rural village life is everything I'd imagined and been exposed to via media: Grass huts, dirt floors, an absence of most all things western and an abundance of children. My mothers name was Kala and I addressed her as MamaKala for the entirety of my stay. MamaKala is a strong, proud woman who lost her husband to the LRA seven years ago. In Acholi culture, when a woman is widowed she becomes the wife of her late husbands next eldest brother. It is this man whom I was introduced to as 'baba' and it is on his land that MamaKala and her 8 children live. The process (or rather lack of a defined process) of child-rearing in Uganda is something to marvel all on its own. Kids just kind of do their own thing. While many adults may be present, I wouldn't use the word 'supervised' when describing child play here. Even though it's not the method I would feel most comfortable subscribing to, the children here seem happy and (mostly) healthy. In many ways, the absence of pressure to always prepare for that next stage in life seems preferable to that present in the U.S. The more time I spend in this country, the less weight I give to the concepts of right and wrong; there is only difference. And while the differences are great, the similarities are present also. We're all one people, after all.

Language, however, is one clear and defined difference that proved to be the greatest obstacle I experienced during this home stay ordeal. No one in my immediate or extended Kitgum family spoke English. Although my Acholi is improving, I am no where near fluent enough to fully understand or participate in conversation with native speakers. When I first met MamaKala, we introduced ourselves and went through the standard greeting in Acholi. When I exhausted what I had retained from three weeks of language lecture, I did the best I could with non-verbal communication. Eventually, silence prevailed. We arrived at our gong-ot, literally translated as grass-hut, and she pointed out one of the three mats lining the walls of the dirt floor. I set my bag there. I stepped out of the hut and was swarmed by people, mainly children, all speaking in Acholi and laughing loudly. I tried my best to greet each of them in turn and introduce myself the best I could. MamaKala returned with a bucket of water and pointed towards a structure just to the side of the circle of huts. She said the word for bathe. I tried to say no, to express I would bathe in the evening in hopes that I would be less of a novelty by this time and that darkness would offer more privacy. MamaKala kept at it and eventually I retrieved my towel and cabon (soap) in submission. I entered the structure to find that there was no working door. The latrine was next to this bathing structure; the smell was awful. Three days suddenly became a lot longer than I felt prepared to endure. Children surrounded the bathing area. I stood for no more than five minutes before offering the water to the children to play in and returning to my gong-ot. I walked through a very confused crowd and had not even the slightest idea (or will to attempt) at how to explain my refusal to bathe. Next came The Cooking Incident. After describing this event to one of the academic coordinators, I now understand that most every Acholi women knows how to cook. As a woman, it was expected that I would know how to cook. What's up American culture--I have no idea how to cook. MamaKala and company kept repeating directions in Acholi, voices raising with every pass. I kept speaking in English and working to perfect my 'cooking incompetent' face in the context of traditional African dishes. Finally, I got up and walked away. I felt worthless and stupid; overwhelmed. One of my many brothers approached and spoke in slow, clear Acholi. He asked how I was and if I wanted to take a walk. Eyo, Eyo; Apwoyo: yes, yes; thank you. Once outside of the hut cluster, I began crying. He listened to my inaudible English and responded in what to me was equally incomprehensible Acholi. We walked for almost an hour, going back and forth in this manner. Even though I know little of what he said and he knew nothing of what I said, I felt that I was less alone and for this I am beyond grateful. I returned in time to help with stirring and serving--two tasks I am more than qualified to do--and with what I hoped would prove a much thicker skin in handling my self and my emotions. After eating, I was again given water to bathe. I bathed and although many people saw me without clothing, I worked to remember that nudity within this culture is conceptualized much differently than nudity in my own culture. In reality, I doubt that many payed much attention at all. I bathed every morning and night during my stay in Kitgum.

As time passed, I became more comfortable with my home and family. My favorite part of the experience came with being around all the children; there is no need for verbal language when you're surrounded by children. I helped with bathing and feeding every night. I shared sleeping space with no fewer than three children (different each night) and three women including MamaKala. It's impossible to remain distant from a people you share so much with. When I left on Saturday, it was the children I knew I would miss the most. There's something remarkable about being so happy in an environment of so little. Many of these children didn't even have shoes; many were staying with aunts and uncles because they lost their parents in the war or to the struggle against HIV/AIDS. But the laughter was omnipresent. I will never forget the way I felt in their company.

On Friday, we had a farewell dinner and in preparation I was once again fighting to understand what MamaKala and her older daughters were trying to explain to me. Together in the hut, I understood that they wanted me to remove my skirt but I had no idea why and no intention of doing so until I understood. Then I was presented with what I can only describe as a prom dress from East Austin gone terribly wrong. It clicked: they wanted me to wear more formal attire. From what I gathered, this dress was made by MamaKala herself and the material--some sort of silk-immitating polyester--was of great expense and value in Kitgum. My younger sisters and brothers had gathered inside the hut by this point. I had no option other than compliance. I removed my clothes and put on the dress. It made everyone very happy and I could see the pride in MamaKala's face. As immature as it may be, it took everything in me to walk outside the hut and meet the uproar of laughter and acholi that awaited. Meeting my peers, none of whom endured this same ritual, again took more strength then I am proud to admit. This dress in combination with heat rash, sun burn, and the massive amount of dust that always seems to adhere to my hair and body didn't leave me with the most positive self-image. But laughter conquers all and in the end I'm happy to have shared the experience with my Kitgum family.

Returning to Gulu was a happy affair and I was thrilled to see my family here. I greeted everyone, bathed (indoors and in private!!), and slept until late into the evening. Although the Kitgum stay is one I am grateful to have experienced, I am happy it has ended and I that I am back in Gulu.

Sorry for the long length and many thanks for reading.

Best wishes.

It's a Beautiful Day

Awe-Inspiring.

I remember reading over SAT words back in high school and thinking to myself, 'when am I ever going to be in a situation where any of these words are applicable?' Take Awe-inspiring, for example; maybe I'll be in awe over something or I'll be inspired by some happening or another. But awe-inspired? More than a little excessive.

Today, I went to the Born Again Church of Christ in Gulu, Uganda. Today, I was grateful to have the appropriate word in my vocabulary to express some of the emotion I felt during this four hour (yeah; four hour) experience. Never in my life have I witnessed such enthusiasm, passion, dedication, or intensity by so many people--not to mention participated within a group of said description. My host mother and I arrived at a small, open-air pavilion type structure with a make shift stage, thirty or so plastic chairs, and a grouping of floor mats surrounding it on three sides. Although the service didn't officially begin until 10, more than 40 people were already present. The song, dance, and drum portion of this religious rave began around 9:45 and didn't stop until almost 12 noon. As the morning passed, more people arrived and I would argue that by the time the singing stopped we comprised a group of 70 or more. Elderly, adults, adolescents, youth, and even the youngest of children intermingled with one another. Here, the children seemed to belong to everyone present and more than once I found myself with child in arm. People prayed at the top of their lungs, expressing themselves in a multitude of ways: jumping up and down, rolling on the floor, dancing--with others or alone--screaming, and crying. Movement was the unifying factor. Everyone was moving. Hours passed; it didn't appear this would ever end. But it did; the drum stopped and the mass of people eventually slowed and stopped as well. So much heat, sweat, and exhaustion. I thought to myself, 'surely we are done here.' But this short pause was shortly replaced by a sermon preached so loudly and intensely that I couldn't think of averting my gaze. Even though I did not understand a single word yelled at us, I knew enough to scream 'Amen' anytime the speaker stopped for air or to wipe the ever-present sweat pouring down his face; I knew enough to jump up in unison with the people to my left and right when a particularly moving point was made. I feel like I did alright, all things considering. By one o'clock, however, I was pretty much over it. Covered in sweat, dust, and the kind of sticky that only small children can produce, all I wanted to do was get some space and take the make shift bath/shower I've now grown so accustomed to. The last hour was pretty awful, and I lost a lot of the initial curiosity and intrigue I had for the first couple hours. When it came time to leave, I was grateful.

The topic of religion is one of great importance to the Gulu people. Although there are many religions offered throughout Acholiland and the freedom to choose one seems common place, it is necessary that each individual subscribe to one. One of the first conversations I shared with my new family was centered on religion. My attempt to explain that I'm open-minded and not committed to any one sector in its entirety was not even recognized as valid statement. I ended up being classified as 'that new non-denominational Christian' type. After a couple more failures at communicating my ideas on spirituality in contrast to organized religion, I went along with the non-denominational gig. It's strange to think that after everything these people have been through, they still view religion as the answer; God is still great and prayer is still the best method of self-resilience. Less than one year ago, over 90 percent of Northern Uganda lived in Internally Displaced Peoples Camps. I have yet to meet one person who has not experienced violence, abduction, hunger, poverty, or loss during the war. And yet Sunday brings a day of worship. People move forward and people celebrate this life they live.

In a way, being here has brought new meaning to the need to believe in something beyond which is known. I’ve always felt I understood that—had a need to hold on to that one truth or idea that can’t quite be defined, explained, or even fully grasped within this reality. It’s one of the reasons I have the word Sleep tattooed on my left shin. It’s one of the reasons I can’t go a day without music; without love. But being here;; this need is even more real and relevant than I have the capacity to know. And maybe for a people who have had literally everything ripped from their beings, religion was the one thing they felt could never be taken. So now in the process of rebuilding and recovery, I suppose it makes sense that religion be looked upon for continued forward progression. I don’t know. Something to think about. Something to provide meaning that previously foreign word ‘awe-inspiring.’

Miss everyone very much.

Thanks for reading.

Here and Now

Tin ceng Abic: It is Friday today. My third full week in Uganda is about to come to an end. When I think of everything I’ve done here—remember each day and all of the many experiences packed so full within each of them—it feels like I’ve been here for months. It’s both exciting and somewhat overwhelming to look ahead and see almost three times this many days left to experience. I haven’t quite reached the point where time escapes me; I feel everyday and I hope this aspect of my adjustment changes soon.

Living with my host family is becoming much more routine and I am enjoying the time I spend in my new home. I learn so much about this country, its history, and the culture of its people even in the most simplistic interactions. Each night when food is prepared, there is always enough for many. Here, anyone who enters the home is offered food. Everyone eats—always. As visitors are frequent in my home, I have seen this occur many times. I asked Pamela if anyone ever declines; if she ever regrets having to feed so many people on such a regular basis. She explained to me that this is something embedded within Acholi culture—the welcoming of people through food and hospitality. The moment any individual enters a household, they become part of the family. She explained that even during the conflict, when some still had homes and means to host guests, people worked to uphold this aspect of Acholi culture. Given the large number of displaced people from various parts of Uganda as well as neighboring countries involved in war, people were stretched very, very thin. In lectures, we learn a considerable amount on legislation and organizations working on behalf of refugees and internally displaced people, but I can’t recall much attention paid to those communities and cities most involved with their hosting. Almost all of the camps have been closed and a large portion of people have been resettled; but what of all those families who went without food enough to feed their own families in order to maintain the Acholi culture by feeding all who enter their homes? There are so, so, many problems facing these people; every single family has a story to tell. I feel like I lose some part of myself with every tragedy I learn about (and those stories that have been shared with me are mostly all ones I consider tragic), but the people here speak more of what remains; the Acholi culture and the Acholi people. It’s this aspect—the role of identity and culture within the conflict Northern Uganda—that I think I will focus much of my research on for my Independent Study Project. The culture here is so established and, at least for the area of Gulu that I have spent most of my time, uniform. The contrast from what I have experienced in the U.S. is incredible. I almost feel like our only defined culture is that of having many different cultures; that of behaving in whichever way an individual feels most fits their own beliefs and achieves acceptance from whichever group they wish to fit within. And maybe in that way, the Acholi culture operates similarly, save the fact that everyone seems to uphold those behaviors supported by the same, very distinct and defined culture. I’m looking forward to exploring more in depth what being an Acholi means to the people who comprise my new home and community.

This week brought election results as well as a new series of elections for parliamentary positions and the mayoral elections in Kampala. Museveni won; my heart broke for these people. The corruption was blatant and here in the North, the people are not ready for violence. Votes were bought for sums equaling less than five American dollars. Chickens, soap, and shillings in amounts barely enough to sustain families for days have dictated who will lead Uganda’s government for the next five years. In the South, particularly in Kampala, people were not so quick to turn a blind eye. Mayoral elections begun on Tuesday, just two days after the presidential election results were announced. By 8AM, reports of stuffed ballot boxes, bought votes and unregistered voters being allowed to vote (all in favor of the NRM candidates) were already circulating through word of mouth and online forums. The riots started shortly thereafter and by 12 o’clock noon the elections were cancelled until further notice. Both the national police and the national army were in high presence throughout Kampala—as well as in Gulu—and as such most demonstrations were ended before they could gain mass. Gulu remained quiet, though it was apparent people were worried. It’s difficult to process the varying responses. Kampala has so many more resources and opportunities than Gulu and other, smaller cities. These resources gain them access to education and through education they better understand the injustices committed—have a broader world view and awareness of democracy as practiced elsewhere in the world. And in this way their reaction makes sense. But the people of Gulu have so much more to gain from a just government. They need roads, water, sanitation systems, schools, and a consistent power source. These are the people whose voices need to be heard the most; yet these are the voices that remain silent. It makes sense and doesn’t make sense at the same time. I don’t know. It’s not even clear in my own mind. I hope it’s somewhat clear what I’m trying to convey.

And I think this is enough for one post. I will work on being more uplifting in my future writings. I really am happy and enjoying this experience; promise. This is just what’s on my mind currently. I am looking forward to a weekend off from lectures, and I am also excited to spend next week in Kitgum, Uganda with a homestay family who lives there. We move on Monday and will return to Gulu next Sunday. I will miss Pamela and my aunts very much, but I look forward to seeing yet another part of this country. I don't know that I'll have internet access while I am there, however I will keep in touch when I can.

Missing everyone more than I can put down in words.

Thanks for reading and I apologize for the all over the place-ness.