Trafficking hits home

July 9, 2009
Gulu, Uganda

It's funny how, when you hear the name of a town, it means nothing at all until you go there – then it encompasses images, emotions, thoughts, and experiences. When I heard we were going to Kitgum I had no idea what to expect. I knew it was in the very northern part of Uganda and, therefor, had been profoundly affected by Kony's 20-year war. I also knew that it was very close to the border of Sudan, which means that it is extremely vulnerable to any future attacks by the LRA, which is believed to be hiding in the Sudan. As a result, Kitgum is unbelievably poor, unstable, and almost entirely rejected by the rest of Uganda. In fact, most Ugandans consider Gulu to be “the north”, though Kitgum sits above it. Most Ugandans also questioned our decision to go there, saying that it was too dangerous. But we did, and though it was a really difficult couple of days, I'm glad we did.

Before leaving Kampala, we picked up a man (who I will call Tom for safety reasons), who was to be our guide to Kitgum. When he heard that we were going to Gulu, he convinced our tour director that we must stay a night in Kitgum, where he is from. The drive from Kampala to Kitgum was about 8 hours, and it took us from Uganda's capital city, to the most rural and undeveloped countryside. The final two hours of the drive was on a very bumpy dirt road that I was sure would give us a flat tire. Somehow we made it, after passing dozens of IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camps, and rolled into the small town of Kitgum. Consisting mostly of small mud huts and poorly constructed buildings, Kitgum barely surpasses the label of a “village.” As we drove through, people stopped what they were doing and stared and pointed at the “mzungus.” This, in itself, is not uncommon in Uganda, as I have come to believe that “mzungu” might actually be my name, when in fact it actually means “white person.” Ugandans shamelessly shout “Mzungus!” at the sight of us, so that everyone can rush out to see us. Surprisingly, it is not offensive at all – it is actually along the lines of celebrity status. In Kitgum, however, there was a different feel to the stares – less friendly, more distrustful. And, given what they have been through, who can blame them? Kitgum suffered some of the most relentless and brutal raids by the LRA – many of their children were abducted, women raped, and men slaughtered.

We arrived at our guest house (similar to a bed and breakfast or hostel), hot, tired, and dirty from our dusty journey, and promptly found out that some of our rooms had been given away, and that the guest house had no running water. The result was that 5 of us had to find somewhere else to stay. Tom told us to go with a man who seemed to be the guest house manager, and he would take us to another guest house. He led us to an entirely different part of town – one that was occupied by abandoned building, bars, and street-people.

We pulled up to a bar that apparently doubled as a hotel, where Alessandro and the man went in. The rest of us (3 girls and 1 guy) waited across the street with our luggage. It didn't take long before a beggar woman approached us and tried to simply roll our luggage away. While managing that situation, it became clear that crowds were forming around us, and slowly moving in. Just as we were about to notify Alessandro that we didn't feel comfortable staying there any longer, he stormed out of the hotel and told us to get on the van (which had just pulled back up). Safely aboard, Alessandro told us that the “hotel” was actually a brothel, and that for some reason the man and the brothel manager were insisting that we separate and stay in single rooms. Alessandro determined that we would be better off staying on the floor of the first guest house, which is what we ended up doing. For the rest of the night, Tom kept trying to convince us girls to go to the “disco” with him. There was no way in hell that was happening, not only because we doubted there even was a disco in Kitgum, but because something about Tom made all of us women uncomfortable. Between our intuition, and the inappropriate comments and gestures he would make to us, we were fairly certain that Tom was not to be trusted.

So, after the shock and fear of the entire situation wore off, I began to realize just how close I might have been to becoming a victim of trafficking. In hindsight, it was Tom, a mere acquaintance of our guide, who insisted that she bring our group of Americans to Kitgum for a night, though we had been told it was not safe. It turns out that the rooms that were taken from us were actually occupied by Tom's friends, resulting in his insistance that the group split up. Half of us were then taken to a brothel, and told that we would have to each stay alone in a room. When we refused, he still tried persistently to get us females to go out with him that evening. Somehow, the next day, Tom disappeared without saying goodbye.

We went to the Embassy today and told them what happened. The Director of the Human Trafficking unit vowed she would follow up on it today as it really concerned her. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. We are here to learn about human trafficking, and may have been close to it ourselves. Not only that, but despite my heightened awareness and sensitivity to the process and risks, I didn't even realize what was happening until after-the-fact. I really cannot believe that it could have happened to me that easily. Had we just walked into that brothel with Alessandro, my whole life might have changed. I somehow thought that I was safe from it. But the truth is that none of us are. If I am vulnerable to predators like that, how much worse is it for women who have no protection, and no options? I praise God for protecting me. I may be completely off about my suspicions, but either way the reality of just how easy it would be to fall victim is indisputable. If I'm not immune, then who is? I am more convinced than ever that this problem of trafficking and exploitation deserves everyone's attention. It doesn't matter if you are a humanitarian or not, wealthy American or poor villager – this is all of our problem. Don't wait for it to affect you personally to pay attention.