Last days in Uganda

Busia & Jinja, Uganda

Our last days in Uganda were spent in the south. We stayed in a town called Busia, which sits right on the Kenyan border, and met with several people from different organizations who made time to organize a large meeting with us to educate us on the state of trafficking and vulnerable people in southern Uganda. Obviously, any border town in any country is susceptible to trafficking pressures, but the porous nature of Uganda's borders and their limited resources make it an even greater challenge. (On a side note, one border guard offered to trade Mike for one of his “sisters” while we were visiting the Kenyan border...not sure if he was joking but it was a little discouraging).

The highlight of our Busia visit (and for some, our entire trip) was the afternoon we spent at New Hope Orphanage. It was a time for us to see what some amazing people were doing to raise up and strengthen the most disadvantaged of Uganda's children – those that had been orphaned or abandoned – and would otherwise be doomed to the worst of fates. As our bus pulled in to the orphanage, it was rushed by 100 screaming and smiling children, all eager to welcome us to their home. I wish I could explain to you the scene. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced. Many of our group members describe it as similar to what it must have been like to be “the f-ing Beatles.” I don't know what made these kids so happy to see us (I mean, really, what did we actually have to offer them?), but I do know that it took a good 10 minutes for us to get off the bus, as each one was enveloped by the kids and floated away as soon as we deboarded. As soon as I stepped off, I was hugged and held by at least 3 children continuously (and didn't have a free hand again until we left a couple of hours later). And the only thing I can think that they wanted was affection. They didn't want money or gifts, or anything else that I could determine. They just wanted to hold hands. And hug. And feel someone's arm around them. And connect. Who doesn't need that? I certainly did at that moment.
The children performed a couple of songs and dances (including one in which they sang “Aunt Angel, we are so happy, to see you here, at our orphanage”) that made me want to cry, and then let us play and laugh with them for the afternoon. All the while, I was never without a child holding on to me and making sure I was comfortable. When it was time for us to leave, we were all reluctant. It was so encouraging and refreshing to see children so filled with love and joy. And the truth is that they re-energized us. We needed them more than they needed us. We all felt so blessed and fortunate to get to spend time with them and to be reminded that there is hope for the people of Uganda. It was the perfect last organizational visit for our trip.

The next day, our last day in Uganda, we went white water rafting – on the Nile! I was scared out of my mind most of the time, and due to the multiple injuries incurred in our boat (my injury-contribution was a crack on the head that left us concerned that I may have broken my nose...) our boat was named “Blood on the Nile”. Lovely. 9-hours of boating later, we went over several class-5 rapids, flipped in one of the rapids, and managed to survive relatively unscathed (unless you count the 2 gallons of Nile water that I swallowed – quite possibly resulting in a parasite infection). Still, I'm proud of myself for doing it.

Women in Uganda

Aside from the horrific assaults committed against women on such massive scales in Northern Uganda, I have been continually amazed at how oppressed women are in the country as a whole. I feel as though I have stepped back in time – to when American women were considered and treated as less valuable than men. Granted, sexism still exists in the U.S., but it is much more covert and frowned upon than in Uganda. Here, women's perceived limitations and lesser status is stated as fact, and I've been struggling with what my response should be to those statements. Two examples come to mind:

1. During our visit to Kitgum, we stopped at the local government offices, and met with one of Kitgum's leading government officials (probably the equivalent of a mayor or district councilman). We were able to speak with him quite a while about his district and how it is progressing. At one point, one of us asked how many women were holding government positions in Kitgum, and the man informed us that though women held about 1/3 of the seats, they were doing far less work than the men. He blatantly told us that women do not have the “same capacities” as men. When asked for clarification (I was hoping he meant “opportunities” rather than “capacities”), he educated me that women just don't have the same intellectual abilities, or work ethic as men. He said this to a group of 11 women and 3 men – with 8 of the women being PhD students. And he didn't bat an eye at it. It didn't even occur to him that we might be insulted, let alone disagree with him. Our guide, wisely, said it was time for us to leave (she seemed enraged, too), and explained to us after that his was a pretty typical Ugandan perspective.

2. While in Gulu, we had a meeting with a man who is the director of a women's rights organization, and who is the speaker of the local city council. I was so inspired by his progressive thinking about women's equality and strengths. The purpose of his organization is to educate community members about the concepts of gender equality, as well as the benefits of equal rights. He gave a heartwarming testimonial about the importance of respecting women and their natural roles as leaders. And, as he was wrapping up and I was mentally adding him to my list of heroes, it all crumbled down...we were discussing the fact that Uganda has no laws against domestic violence, and that a man is completely free to beat his wife at his whim. Kelly explained that part of his community training with men is to teach them not to beat their wives all the time, rather to talk to them and make sure that they really deserve it before beating them. And just like that, my hope for the woman of Uganda took a nosedive.

So many issues are raised when talking about women's equality in a society, and I consciously have to stop myself from going down every tangent and consequence of inequality that pops into my head. Instead, I'm going to focus on what my role should have been in these situations...I kept quiet. I silently fumed at the audacity of their ignorance and disdain for women. And then I found myself wondering if I was doing the right thing by not challenging these two men. On one hand, my obsessive concern over offending people, especially people who have welcomed us into their community and taken time to help us learn, kept me from rudely disagreeing with them. My cultural competence training tells me to understand where they are coming from, and not to impose my views on another culture. And I was worried about causing problems for our guide, who is a local woman trying to build professional relationships with these people. But is that just perpetuating the problem? Don't I have a responsibility to speak up for the women of Uganda? Oddly, as liberated and confident as I feel as an American woman, I found myself bound by the Ugandan view of me. I was afraid that it wasn't my place to challenge them, since I was imposing myself in their culture. Was that the right choice? I honestly don't know. The activist in me says I failed; that promoting respect and basic rights for women everywhere trumps a need for manners. And yet I sat there silently disagreeing. The overly-P.C. American in me was desperate not to appear culturally insensitive. But I'm really disappointed in myself. I let those women down, and I'm ashamed.

The one positive thing about the state of women's rights in Uganda is that they are slowly, but surely, progressing. As I said, I felt like I had stepped back in time, back to when women in the U.S. Were beginning their struggle for equality. But the great thing about that is that we are an example that, though it is a difficult struggle (one that I am only beginning to truly appreciate), there is hope for change. I feed on the idea that 10 or 20 years from now, I might get to see a Uganda where women are as liberated and independent as women in America are. I might get to watch the Ugandan women rise up and claim what is theirs. How lucky we will be to get to witness that! We were fortunate enough to meet several women in Uganda who are bravely forging ahead in the name of equality and justice for all people. Somehow, they were able to conceive of the reality that they are so much more than their culture tells them they are – and they are doing what it takes to change the face of their country. As someone who has reaped the benefits of the struggles of the women before me, I feel so blessed to meet some women who are changing their future generations' lives. I am excited to see what they accomplish, and to rejoice in their success!

IDP Camps - Kitgum, Uganda

IDP Camps

Kitgum, Uganda

Northern Uganda has been subjected to over 20 years of war and terrorism inflicted by Joseph Kony and his Lord's Resistance Army (LRA). Also known as “the rebels,” the LRA's method is to wait for nightfall and then attack villages and homes. They raid and steal, murder, torture, rape, and mutilate. They burn homes full of people alive. They force families to watch their mothers being raped. They force parents to watch their children murdered. And then, they replenish their army by abducting any child big enough to carry a gun, and force them to become rebel soldiers. The induction begins immediately, often by forcing the children to kill their own families and friends. Then, the children are told that there is no longer any option but for them to join the army, as they will no longer be welcome in their communities. The little boys are desensitized and turned into killing machines, the little girls are “married” to the older rebels, and forced to live as sex slaves and servants. They have no camp, but sleep in “the bush” (the wilderness), and constantly march around the country raiding and terrorizing. Many cannot survive the physical demands of such a lifestyle, and die along the marches. Some are deemed to be disloyal (especially if they cry) and are tortured and murdered in front of the group to send a message. Death and misery is savored, and drawn out as long as possible. Child soldiers are often forced to eat their murdered peers in order to develop the taste for blood.
When Kony's LRA began regularly raiding and terrorizing the northern Ugandans (mainly the Acholi tribe), the government decided that rather than launching a major operation to stop them, the answer was simply to relocate the Acholi people (the Acholi's have long considered themselves to be discriminated against by the government). They erected thousands and thousands of huts in various Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps, and told the villagers that they had 72 hours to pack up their lives and relocate. Nearly 2 million villagers left their land (often ancestral – passed down through countless generations), farms, livestock, homes, personal items, and communities and were forced into the IDP camps. The average homesteads usually consisted of 2-3 huts, and were at least ¼ of a mile from any other homesteads. In the IDP camps, the huts were half as small, housed twice as many people, and were mere feet from the next hut. There was no land available to farm, cultivate, or raise livestock on, so there was no source of food or livelihood. Instead, the proud Acholi were reduced to living in inadequate housing and required to simply wait for food handouts from the government and various NGO's. As you can image, the handouts were limited, and the result was massive malnutrition, hunger, illness, and desperation-based crimes as they turned on one another for their limited resources. They were also deprived of any productive activity, and lost much of of their sense of worth or self-sufficiency.
Though the IDP camps were developed under the guise of protecting the Acholi from the LRA attacks, the reality is that they actually provided very little protection. Instead, the potential victims were just rounded up and concentrated into one area, vulnerable to continued attacks by the LRA. A new favorite tactic adopted for the IDP camps was to lock each family in their huts and set fire to it. Because the huts were so close together, it was inevitable that the fires spread rapidly and mercilessly.
The LRA has moved into the Sudan and Congo, and the last known attack on Ugandan soil was in 2006. Of the 40,000 + children that have been abducted from northern Uganda by the LRA, there are still over 6,000 that are unaccounted for (the rest have either escaped and returned, or are known to be dead). The government has told the people in the IDP camps to simply return to their own land now, and move on with their lives. This is not as simple as it may sound. The people are being told to go back to the very same homes where they have been raped, tortured, and mutilated. The trauma and fear associated with their own homes cannot simply be forgotten. Their lands have been destroyed and they have no source of livelihood. They may have come long distances to the camps, and now have no way to get back. They may be restricted by injury and sickness, and are unable to relocate at this time. And, in many cases, the older tribal members who knew where the lands were located and how they were divided have since been killed, and the surviving relatives simply don't know where home is. So, of the 1.7 million that were forced into the camps, 30-98% remain because they just don't have any options. They are now reliant on the very situations that have been oppressing them.
Despite the large number of people forced to live in the camps, no social services, sanitation, health care, or clean water is regularly provided. Food and clothing donations are sparse. The camps remain vulnerable to attack by not only the LRA, should they return, but also neighboring tribes, and predatory men who know where to easily meet their needs. Since the government has declared the camps no longer mandatory, services have decreased and even ceased completely. The people in the camps have simply been forgotten and abandoned.
We went to visit a camp outside of Kitgum. The first thing that struck me as we arrived, and people began flooding out of their huts to greet us, was that children outnumbered adults at least 7:1. There were also very few adult women. Our guide explained that a majority of the children we were seeing were the product of rape, and that almost all of the women in the camps had been raped at some point. Furthermore, the maternal death rate is approximately 46% - meaning that a woman has nearly a 50/50 chance of dying in childbirth due to lack of health care or even trained midwives. Almost all of the adults we saw had lost at least 1 child to the LRA, and few knew what had become of them. The men had almost all been forced to bear witness to their women being raped and assaulted. I cannot imagine the burden that those people must carry. The trauma they share. What they have seen. As we were graciously led through the camp, the children formed a parade behind us, thrilled by our every move and word. Some of the younger ones were terrified of us – we looked so different. The older ones looked at us as if expecting us to sprout wings and rescue them. I felt inadequate and imposing in either scenario. We were led to a hut where we met a woman who is over 100 years old. She has lived through the colonial times, and everything up until the present. I wished I could remove our language barrier and unfamiliarity, and just spend the whole day hearing her story. I want to know what she knows. I want to see it through her eyes. I want to understand how she is still able to smile. Instead I just awkwardly shook her hand and thanked her...for...welcoming us? For having the will to survive? For not hating me for my privilege? I wasn't sure, but I was grateful. And I was sad to walk away knowing that I would never hear her story.

Follow-Up

My last blog was really intense. And I need to clarify some things, now that I have some space to see it from another angle...I want to be sure that people know how much I love Uganda, and my time there. Our trip leaders did an INCREDIBLE job at planning our trip and keeping us safe and comfortable. My entry on Kitgum and trafficking was written in the drama of the moment, and as a tool to illustrate how easily trafficking can happen to anyone. I mentioned, but need to reiterate, that I recognize I am hypersensitive to trafficking issues, and I acknowledge that my view of what happened in Kitgum may be not only inaccurate, but also overdramatic. I wanted to share what happened to us, and what it could have meant, but I don't want people to think that we were ever recklessly put in danger or that Uganda is inherently dangerous. Please forgive me if I hurt anyone's feelings, and please understand the purpose with which I wrote my story. I will soon be sharing some stories about the welcoming and warm side of Uganda, so stay tuned to hear about all the wonderful people we met and how inspired we were!

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.

Day 1 in Uganda

July 3, 2009
Kampala, Uganda

I'm thrilled to report that I finally got a full nights' sleep last night – which turned out to be extra important because we had a very full first day in Uganda. Our morning started with a meeting with a social worker at the Transcultural Psychosocial Organization, that provides psychosocial services to vulnerable people in Kampala. That was followed by a trip to a local market (where I bought only necessities, of course, like a statue and salt and pepper shakers), and then a meeting with the Director of the Uganda Human Rights Commission, who just happens to be an incredible and inspiring Ugandan woman. From there we went to Mengo Children's Center, where we spend the majority of our day. That was a powerful and exhausting few hours. Mengo provides schooling, food, and vocational training to children that are living in the slums of Kampala. We got to go into the classroom and play and sing with the children...and to their delight, take photos and let them see themselves on our cameras. Then we went on two home visits in the slums, where we were invited in to two homes and heard a little about their lives. I can't even begin to explain what the slums are like...poverty beyond description. We had to navigate through alleys, trenches, garbage, and mud huts to arrive at the first house. It was a 1-room mud hut inhabited by an (extremely) elderly woman who is raising 7 children that have been orphaned. She also appeared to be caring for a sick adult woman who never got up from her mattress while we were there. It is beyond me how this woman, living in squalor with no electricity or clean drinking water, and certainly no way of making money, would come to raise 7 babies that aren't hers. Isn't she exhausted? Doesn't she need some “me time”? What would make her take this on? The language barrier didn't allow me to ask this, and even if I had, I have a feeling that those concepts would make no sense to her. I wish I could have spoken to her directly and learned about what makes her not only survive, but appear so happy. I have a feeling she would be an inspiration.
Our (13 hour) day was wrapped up by a dinner with two police officers who head up the Child and Family Protection Unit. Hearing their perspective after our visit with the Human Rights Commission was verrrry interesting. Unfortunately, I have neither the energy nor computer battery left to write about it now.
At this point, I am still in shock that I'm in AFRICA and am trying my best to soak it all in...stay tuned!

Calming down...

I'm surprised at how uncomfortable my last blog made some people. Rest assured, it is not very often that I get on my soapbox like that, so no need to stop reading. I did want to clear the air that my last post was not intended to point fingers at anyone. I really was sharing something that I discovered in myself and our society throughout this process. I think, especially if it made you uncomfortable, we need to look at ourselves a little more objectively on these issues.

In any case, it is now 3 days until blast off (er...take off), and I can barely contain myself. I just want to be there NOW. I find myself resentful of the heat here, muttering things like "what is this about? It's not even this hot in Uganda right now". I mean, if I have to melt in heat like this, shouldn't I at least get to be in Africa? The Bay Area is just getting a little too big for it's britches right now, trying to be something it's not. Annoying.

Anyway, my plan is to try to write just about everyday in Uganda, but am still unsure about what our internet access will be. I hope that you will follow along with our journey and pass this blog along to others. Get ready for an adventure!