It is my last week in Gulu, that dusty town in northern Uganda where I’ve come to feel at home. In many ways, I have less understanding of this place than I thought I once did. I have no bottled answers or final resolve in having “figured it out”. Instead, 14 months later, I uncomfortably and graciously accept a weightless position with my feet above my head, rather than standing in conquered triumph on Uganda’s highest peak. My time here was marked by different periods of thought where I believed I unlocked the secrets of this place only for those conclusions to be proved inconsistent or wrong. Only one underlying truth flowed beneath all periods and progressions (and regressions) of my time here; we must believe that joy is possible and that it matters.
Last week, my friend died in America. His mind beat him and beat him and beat him until he gave into its most possessive hyperactivity. In a moment of panic against what seemed impossible to beat, he silenced his mind….and the beating stopped. But it started for the rest of us. We now beat ourselves for what we could have done. The beat intensifies in a thousand homes in suburban America, as we see the underside of the dream. Meanwhile the beat goes on. Deep in East Africa, men and women idolize the American dream. It is wonderful to fathom- freedom, money, land, and the pursuit of happiness. Across that distant ocean, we look to be wealthy and successful. On the surface, Africa seems to have much larger problems in life. After all, it is plagued with poverty, an inescapable obstacle of its environment. However, in our modern culture, an invisible, undetectable and equally inescapable obstacle plagues our environment. Many of us, (including myself) live in mental and emotional poverty. Unbeknownst to the Ugandans who share this paper-thin slice of history with us, amongst our wealth and development, we are suffering a much deeper despair.
To revive the richness of life, we need to put joy back on our shelf of life priorities, a bottled jar, placed amongst “work ethic” and “family”, “achievement” and “pleasure.” Let us make joy happen just as much as our next business deal, or dinner date, or life goal. Some might argue that Ugandans should take life more seriously, but no one lives in more serious conditions than those of northern Uganda - and they believe in joy. They work for it. They exercise it. They make time out of their day for it. Even Jolly Okot, Country Director of Invisible Children, who has over 8,000 Ugandan lives hanging in her hands every month, will call people into her office during the day to make her laugh. She will walk the halls at 4:30 and joke with each employee, often shrieking for air in between her fits of laughter.
I don’t know if you’ve tried recently, but it takes a whole lot to laugh whole-heartedly. Trust me, for the last year I have tried to adopt this Ugandan talent. I would attempt to balance my American work ethic, while saving the laughing for reserved times when I didn’t have something else on my mind, but it doesn’t work that way here. A Ugandan has the developed skill to do both at once; to release joy straight from the heart and not rush the moment of pleasure that unfurls. Try it. It is almost impossible for most Westerners, myself included. It takes lightness, and presence in the moment. It takes joy.
Ugandans may seem underdeveloped and poor on the surface, but that is small matter, (seriously) compared to our (including myself) social poverty. The suffering we endure on the inside from social pressures and seriousness. This week, 14 days after my friend’s death, I have been dwelling in the dark room of sorrow. Burrowed deep, it has taken and still takes a lot to leave this room of despair, frustration, and waiting in line at the “unfair” complaint office without a receptionist. I don’t want to ever forget this friend, but he will be remembered just as well in the next room over where thousands of Ugandans are standing around with smiles to greet me and you. Let us find the courage to join them. Let us believe it is possible to find joy in the everyday, in the stress, in the despair, in the chaos. In the twenty-year war that has robbed each family of at least one beloved. We are all in it together. Let us learn from our rich brothers and sisters in Uganda. A culture that can exhibit this joy holds wealth beyond any material development in modern culture. Let us rediscover its value.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Day in the Life: IDP camp
Within minutes of the whistle blowing on a Friday afternoon, after a hectic workweek, I found my office environment warping into sunset on the back of a motorbike, with papyrus mat under my arm, a bag of beans and rice in the other, trying to enjoy the immense painting of colors all around me, while staying on the bike as it drove over crazy bumps in the red dirt road. The interns and I spent the night in a large IDP camp, Awer- 40,000 people crammed into a small space. But the space is beautiful, out in the middle of nowhere with rolling green hills all around. We slept in a hut on papyrus mats- comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. The sleep for me was restful but you still wake with sore muscles from the mat.
We were woken up at sunrise to "go to the garden for digging"...A five kilometer path led us to the "garden" where my friend Opio Walter's grandfather's plot of land was. Digging meant using a ho, to dig up the bushy land and turn it into more manageable soil. Ambitiously, I started out with vigor, only to find caluses popping on my hands by an hour's worth of work. After 3 hours, Walter lied and told us it was midday, time to head back. It was really only 10:30 but the sun was hot, and under the heat, he could tell we were naive to how unprepared we were for the day. I asked him to let me stay, but he insisted I could come back another time, that I had done enough for the day. Sure enough, after another 5 km walk back to the camp, as soon as I sat down, I realized that my shoulders seemed to be forcing themselves out of my skin, they pounded like laden dinosaur bones where my usual shoulders had been. Spent the rest of the day in Walter's hut, resting like a typical Mzungu, as women twice my age worked all day long. If only I had a pair of gloves- but the women have their natural pair of glove caluses that get them through, and their shoulders, like linebackers hold unfathomable strength.
The afternoon came quick, and as I walked through the camp, it was fascinating to see families prepare for dinner. At the grainery, a line gathered where mothers, young boys and girls mosty stood with woven baskets containing small rations of food gathered, farmed and traded. Each basket contained the essentials with slight variations- Cassava and millet, which could be stretched to feed many dependents. The grainery was really a small shop with a sign that read "cheap store" on the outer door. Inside was a machine run by a monster of a fuel dripping generator. Two boys, in their teens were running the shop. The cost to grind these basket loads into fine powder for cooking was 250 shillings, equivalent to about 15 cents. Some people would come up with only 200 shillings, the boys would attempt to stick to the price, but would never turn anyone away. They never turned anyone away- women and children mostly, standing in line, with their daily collections on their heads, generally a baby tied to the back. I got to hold a two week old baby- didn't like me much. cried until his mother offered him milk. At the end of the day Saturday, I played a game of soccer (football). A huge football field lies in the middle of the camp, which surrounds it on all sides. Next to the field is the market, where balls occassionally get kicked giving the marketeers something interesting to watch for. The market is small, with colorful piles of whatever vegetable is available at the time, and some dried fish. Not very appetizing. Next to the market is
the butcher. Literally, a man that sits next to a tree, cuts open a goat, hangs it dripping from the tree until people want a hunk. His credibility as the town butcher is given by his scale, an old, blood stained rusted
scale that measures accurate rations of intestine.
The soccer ball never reaches the outdoor butchery, because in front of him is a small area where a dozen children, always sit, sporadically placed on the ground, roasting groundnuts under small piles of their own shells. A dozen mounds of embers glow from these roasting sites. And when the ball is kicked in their direction, the kids eagerly await the chance to kick it back and try out their skills in front of the older kids. Only the best kids get to play soccer on this field, reserved for the most fit in the camp. They were reluctant to let me play, as I did not qualify by their standards, but with the Acholi attitude of complete hospitality they humored me, and tried their best not to let me hear them laugh every time I missed the ball. I have never seen such skill, such vigor and offensive manuevering. It is not beautiful to witness. It is rough and rigorous and by the end of the first half, I was beat from just trying to keep up. I headed a couple balls, which I was proud of, but that doesn't merit much. Halfway through, Walter stood on the sidelines, waving me like a grandfather would to his grandson. It was time to go home. And although I made a fuss, I was secretly relieved to get out of the game without being in the center of the firecracker action that every thirty seconds hovered around the goal posts. It was time to go. I was grateful to Walter for allowing me to be there for the weekend. As fun as this day seemed, the 24 hour novelty must pale after nearly 10 years of living this way. The Acholi people, always adaptable, always hospitable, deserve better.
We were woken up at sunrise to "go to the garden for digging"...A five kilometer path led us to the "garden" where my friend Opio Walter's grandfather's plot of land was. Digging meant using a ho, to dig up the bushy land and turn it into more manageable soil. Ambitiously, I started out with vigor, only to find caluses popping on my hands by an hour's worth of work. After 3 hours, Walter lied and told us it was midday, time to head back. It was really only 10:30 but the sun was hot, and under the heat, he could tell we were naive to how unprepared we were for the day. I asked him to let me stay, but he insisted I could come back another time, that I had done enough for the day. Sure enough, after another 5 km walk back to the camp, as soon as I sat down, I realized that my shoulders seemed to be forcing themselves out of my skin, they pounded like laden dinosaur bones where my usual shoulders had been. Spent the rest of the day in Walter's hut, resting like a typical Mzungu, as women twice my age worked all day long. If only I had a pair of gloves- but the women have their natural pair of glove caluses that get them through, and their shoulders, like linebackers hold unfathomable strength.
The afternoon came quick, and as I walked through the camp, it was fascinating to see families prepare for dinner. At the grainery, a line gathered where mothers, young boys and girls mosty stood with woven baskets containing small rations of food gathered, farmed and traded. Each basket contained the essentials with slight variations- Cassava and millet, which could be stretched to feed many dependents. The grainery was really a small shop with a sign that read "cheap store" on the outer door. Inside was a machine run by a monster of a fuel dripping generator. Two boys, in their teens were running the shop. The cost to grind these basket loads into fine powder for cooking was 250 shillings, equivalent to about 15 cents. Some people would come up with only 200 shillings, the boys would attempt to stick to the price, but would never turn anyone away. They never turned anyone away- women and children mostly, standing in line, with their daily collections on their heads, generally a baby tied to the back. I got to hold a two week old baby- didn't like me much. cried until his mother offered him milk. At the end of the day Saturday, I played a game of soccer (football). A huge football field lies in the middle of the camp, which surrounds it on all sides. Next to the field is the market, where balls occassionally get kicked giving the marketeers something interesting to watch for. The market is small, with colorful piles of whatever vegetable is available at the time, and some dried fish. Not very appetizing. Next to the market is
the butcher. Literally, a man that sits next to a tree, cuts open a goat, hangs it dripping from the tree until people want a hunk. His credibility as the town butcher is given by his scale, an old, blood stained rusted
scale that measures accurate rations of intestine.
The soccer ball never reaches the outdoor butchery, because in front of him is a small area where a dozen children, always sit, sporadically placed on the ground, roasting groundnuts under small piles of their own shells. A dozen mounds of embers glow from these roasting sites. And when the ball is kicked in their direction, the kids eagerly await the chance to kick it back and try out their skills in front of the older kids. Only the best kids get to play soccer on this field, reserved for the most fit in the camp. They were reluctant to let me play, as I did not qualify by their standards, but with the Acholi attitude of complete hospitality they humored me, and tried their best not to let me hear them laugh every time I missed the ball. I have never seen such skill, such vigor and offensive manuevering. It is not beautiful to witness. It is rough and rigorous and by the end of the first half, I was beat from just trying to keep up. I headed a couple balls, which I was proud of, but that doesn't merit much. Halfway through, Walter stood on the sidelines, waving me like a grandfather would to his grandson. It was time to go home. And although I made a fuss, I was secretly relieved to get out of the game without being in the center of the firecracker action that every thirty seconds hovered around the goal posts. It was time to go. I was grateful to Walter for allowing me to be there for the weekend. As fun as this day seemed, the 24 hour novelty must pale after nearly 10 years of living this way. The Acholi people, always adaptable, always hospitable, deserve better.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
10 April 2008
I wrote this entry on the day that could have marked a historical day in Uganda, giving peace to millions of Acholi people in the North. Two years of peace talks between the LRA rebel army and the Ugandan government came to this day: 10 April 2008, the day that Joseph Kony, leader of the LRA had agreed to sign a final peace agreement, in the middle of the jungle where he and thousands of abducted children were living in the Congo. With the scratch of a pen, millions of mothers, could ease up on the grip of their children and sleep with both eyes resting. The fathers could begin the first walk back to their farms overgrown, and make the first slice into a ground, where sustainable life for his family could be cultivated. It was a long day in Acholi-land, full of unrest, causing locals to courageously dig up these old dreams and visions of a peaceful future, buried under the same jungle of chaos that has overtaken their farmland. I tried my best to understand, observe and write what this day was like.
10 April, 2008
Like ocean against sky, the mood of Gulu seems to mirror the atmosphere that hovers above it. Dark clouds, ominous and foretelling hardly allow the pink streaks of sunrise to shine through. Illuminating against the storm of 22 years of terror, a small daub of hope is all that remains on the Acholi’s palette for this day. With timid anticipation, the Acholi rise, again for their 8,030th day of war.
An older woman in her 60s, walks towards town, hunched over, by the weight of a heavy bag carried from her neck. Asked about the day, she strains to lift her tired head. Through deep wrinkles, her eyes stand out in brilliant, youthful excitement. “This day is historic for Acholi Land” she replies with glitter swimming in her eyes. “It is time. Time to go back to our Land, resume our life and farm again” she says as her eyes sink into the back of her head. Wading beyond the current tide of misery, her eyes were backstroking past thrashing breakers to reach the predictable, calm surges that lay in the distant, deep waters of her memory.
To younger Acholi's, devoid of any memory of tranquility, this reaction is far less genuine. Lukewarm anticipation mixed realistically with doubt are natural reactions, caused by three previous peace talk flops. If dawn was the hope, vulnerable and fragile, the heat of midday is the harshness of reality. Skepticism set in as colors disappear and flatten the tone of this raw town.
Afternoon sun beats down, to intensify the anticipation. Hovering around the largest radio station in the North, locals wait in almost nonchalant expectation, as if to not be caught with their hope exposed, should today's news slash it to unrepairable pieces. Upstairs, the radio DJ sits in the news studio overlooking the people on main street. In reverence to the situation, he is silent. With one phone call, he will have a heavy responsibility. With the microphone before him, he will bring either limitless joy or painstaking grief to a fragile audience. Different from the typical final score announcements of a sports game, this outcome holds the weight of millions of people in limbo. The fate of 40 IDP camps sit waiting, straining to hear the news.
Silence is broken. The News Correspondent slumps in his chair. The angst pours down the windows of his building as rain has paradoxically began to fall. “Joseph Kony is not serious” he says in a defeated whisper. The radio clicks on across thousands of rusty radios throughout Acholi Land. Joseph Kony has delayed the peace talks to a halt. The sky, once broad with morning possibilities, now lowers itself overhead, dumping reality on withered spirits. The same heads that stood fearless against the dawn’s early light now bow in defeat to a pelting rain. Sauntering home in descending dusk, the world is still, hanging for but a very real moment. And in that moment, a realization that life must go on as it always does. The people push ahead with the day given to them. Steam swims through the night sky, a faint indication of the life that continues from the thousands of dinners cooking on open fire below. The people will rest and rise again. Tomorrow, on day 8031, they will once again find the raw courage to streak the morning sky with their bold belief in peace.
Please Pray for Peace.
10 April, 2008
Like ocean against sky, the mood of Gulu seems to mirror the atmosphere that hovers above it. Dark clouds, ominous and foretelling hardly allow the pink streaks of sunrise to shine through. Illuminating against the storm of 22 years of terror, a small daub of hope is all that remains on the Acholi’s palette for this day. With timid anticipation, the Acholi rise, again for their 8,030th day of war.
An older woman in her 60s, walks towards town, hunched over, by the weight of a heavy bag carried from her neck. Asked about the day, she strains to lift her tired head. Through deep wrinkles, her eyes stand out in brilliant, youthful excitement. “This day is historic for Acholi Land” she replies with glitter swimming in her eyes. “It is time. Time to go back to our Land, resume our life and farm again” she says as her eyes sink into the back of her head. Wading beyond the current tide of misery, her eyes were backstroking past thrashing breakers to reach the predictable, calm surges that lay in the distant, deep waters of her memory.
To younger Acholi's, devoid of any memory of tranquility, this reaction is far less genuine. Lukewarm anticipation mixed realistically with doubt are natural reactions, caused by three previous peace talk flops. If dawn was the hope, vulnerable and fragile, the heat of midday is the harshness of reality. Skepticism set in as colors disappear and flatten the tone of this raw town.
Afternoon sun beats down, to intensify the anticipation. Hovering around the largest radio station in the North, locals wait in almost nonchalant expectation, as if to not be caught with their hope exposed, should today's news slash it to unrepairable pieces. Upstairs, the radio DJ sits in the news studio overlooking the people on main street. In reverence to the situation, he is silent. With one phone call, he will have a heavy responsibility. With the microphone before him, he will bring either limitless joy or painstaking grief to a fragile audience. Different from the typical final score announcements of a sports game, this outcome holds the weight of millions of people in limbo. The fate of 40 IDP camps sit waiting, straining to hear the news.
Silence is broken. The News Correspondent slumps in his chair. The angst pours down the windows of his building as rain has paradoxically began to fall. “Joseph Kony is not serious” he says in a defeated whisper. The radio clicks on across thousands of rusty radios throughout Acholi Land. Joseph Kony has delayed the peace talks to a halt. The sky, once broad with morning possibilities, now lowers itself overhead, dumping reality on withered spirits. The same heads that stood fearless against the dawn’s early light now bow in defeat to a pelting rain. Sauntering home in descending dusk, the world is still, hanging for but a very real moment. And in that moment, a realization that life must go on as it always does. The people push ahead with the day given to them. Steam swims through the night sky, a faint indication of the life that continues from the thousands of dinners cooking on open fire below. The people will rest and rise again. Tomorrow, on day 8031, they will once again find the raw courage to streak the morning sky with their bold belief in peace.
Please Pray for Peace.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Amazing Grace: In conclusion to the last entry
Today, I rode a motorbike to one of Invisible Children's sponsored schools. In the usual heat, my tires whipped through layers of chalky, dusty road. Suddenly, it began to rain. Out of no where. It poured all over the road, soaking through inches of dust, filling deep cracks of dry Earth. Dripping wet, I screamed as loud as I could. Dry season is ending. And perhaps with these refreshing drops, like a prophetic que, peace for Acholi Land. The paper today read "Peace Talks in Final Stages". This Spring could hold more than budding flowers and greenery. It may bring renewed energy and vitality to a land dormant and damaged. Hidden in this newly formed weather, peace may be gathering on the horizon, ready to run alongside the pace of the chariots of clouds.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Budding Peace
Dry season has consumed Gulu. This month has become a test of endurance against the sun, which rises with such innocence in gentle streaks of pink, hiding its true nature as a hellish beast. In America, and especially in the paradise of California, four seasons rotate like a pinwheel, balanced, each one with its own quality to look forward to. Ugandans have two seasons that flop like a fish out of water. When the dry season flips over in January, no Ugandan would admit to looking forward to the next few months ahead. In fact, most locals shudder at the switch in wind patterns, which begin to blow from Sudan, sweeping with it the death and destruction from that place.
The first day the winds turned, our friend, Akidi looked out her window and said, “disease has entered our land”. Trees bow to the ominous message of these winds, and shed their fear to bare limbs. Lush green is blanketed in brown dust, which transforms the environment to a bland palette. Last year’s vibrant harvests are burnt, and throughout the night, fires roar everywhere, as black ash falls from the sky. It is interesting to really feel the underside of vibrancy, which I feel is well controlled in America. We are lucky to not have to see or deal with these kinds of ugly realities. The ying to the yang. It has been difficult living in the midst of it, realizing just how much it has affected everyone’s moods. So many people are becoming sick, and older people are dying during this season. Last week, Okello, my best friend who I wrote about, the one who constructed the café, came to my house early in the morning. One of his last remaining relatives had died unexpectedly. He was in tears, rare to see on a grown Acholi man. I have always seen him as a man, but it was in this morning, with the sun’s budding light, that I saw a different side of him- the boy that he really was. He had no money for a coffin, and being the closest relative in a family that is practically extinct, he was expected to give him a burial. I gave him the money for the coffin, something I have never paid for. He borrowed my camera and took these pictures. I thought I would share a couple of them candidly taken by Okello. I know this is not the most heartwarming of updates. But, it is the reality of the season, and I think it has been beneficial for me to understand this other side to life that I am truly unfamiliar with. If anything it magnifies the beauty of the newly budding trees. And glorifies the cycle of life that is bringing new promises of peace to this land. In a figurative sense, a new season may be emerging with the literal first forming rain cloud of wet season. Peace for the Northerners, in the form of a permanent peace agreement, between the LRA and the government is budding, and looks closest to blooming since 1986. I hope and ask you all to pray for peace, so that the figurative and literal can collide together; that the March rains will carry with it a new era of peace, to refresh this exhausted land.
The first day the winds turned, our friend, Akidi looked out her window and said, “disease has entered our land”. Trees bow to the ominous message of these winds, and shed their fear to bare limbs. Lush green is blanketed in brown dust, which transforms the environment to a bland palette. Last year’s vibrant harvests are burnt, and throughout the night, fires roar everywhere, as black ash falls from the sky. It is interesting to really feel the underside of vibrancy, which I feel is well controlled in America. We are lucky to not have to see or deal with these kinds of ugly realities. The ying to the yang. It has been difficult living in the midst of it, realizing just how much it has affected everyone’s moods. So many people are becoming sick, and older people are dying during this season. Last week, Okello, my best friend who I wrote about, the one who constructed the café, came to my house early in the morning. One of his last remaining relatives had died unexpectedly. He was in tears, rare to see on a grown Acholi man. I have always seen him as a man, but it was in this morning, with the sun’s budding light, that I saw a different side of him- the boy that he really was. He had no money for a coffin, and being the closest relative in a family that is practically extinct, he was expected to give him a burial. I gave him the money for the coffin, something I have never paid for. He borrowed my camera and took these pictures. I thought I would share a couple of them candidly taken by Okello. I know this is not the most heartwarming of updates. But, it is the reality of the season, and I think it has been beneficial for me to understand this other side to life that I am truly unfamiliar with. If anything it magnifies the beauty of the newly budding trees. And glorifies the cycle of life that is bringing new promises of peace to this land. In a figurative sense, a new season may be emerging with the literal first forming rain cloud of wet season. Peace for the Northerners, in the form of a permanent peace agreement, between the LRA and the government is budding, and looks closest to blooming since 1986. I hope and ask you all to pray for peace, so that the figurative and literal can collide together; that the March rains will carry with it a new era of peace, to refresh this exhausted land.
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