Reflections on my experience in Arua

After a high stress 24 hours from Thursday to Friday, I am finally getting back to normal (today is Monday). It was a new sensation for me to feel so markedly unsafe in a place. Sometimes, when I watch scary movies, I can work myself into a tizzy and scare myself, but those around me just call me crazy! I know deep down that it is not a real fear and that nothing is going to happen to me. In Arua, however, for the first time in my life, it was not just me feeling unsafe – it was people native to the region saying that they could not keep me safe. It was very unsettling – so unsettling that I am only now feeling safe here in Bujagali!

When I arrived back in Kampala, I checked my email and saw the email from mom and various emails of concern from many of you. Thank you for your prayers. I went to bed feeling like my situation was tenuous, at best. When I woke up, I felt oddly enveloped in a sense of peace about the situation. I can only think that was your prayers, as I felt that way without knowing that people were praying for me – the sense of peace was not imagined.

In the end, I feel good about trusting my gut and ability to read nonverbal cues across social-cultural borders. It really felt odd in Arua and that feeling was confirmed by the elders’ discussion with Dut. Going to Arua was a changing experience – seeing Dut so happy and reunited with his dad was and is irreplaceable. It has also altered the way I think about the kinds of research I will be able to do. I am most interested in places that are recently post-conflict. Granted, Arua is still in a marginal conflict zone, but even that was too much for me. I am now in a funny place, wondering how to mold my research questions into ones that I can answer from a safe(r) distance. I guess Rainer Maria Rilke’s quote – listed below – is pretty applicable to and for me now:
I beg you… to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

Arua

Going to a place that is known to be unstable requires careful preparation and gathering of information. When we found out that Dut’s father was in Arua, in Northwest Uganda, we were thrilled! Dut was going to be able to see his dad soon, and it was possible for me to accompany him; it was especially serendipitous because I was feeling sad that I was not going to be able to be a part of that process as well.

Arua is unstable because it is on the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), two hours from the border with Sudan, and in the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) territory. The DRC had its first “democratic” elections in 40 years on Friday, July 28. Anytime there are elections in any of these countries, the situation has a heightened intensity. There are expectations about rigged elections and corruption matched with hopes for peaceful transitions of power. The LRA is currently in negotiations with the Ugandan government in Southern Sudan; the LRA was funded by the Sudanese government (a part of the intricate proxy warfare which has dominated the region for the past 20 – 40 years). The Sudanese government, as a part of their own peace agreement with the Southern Sudanese rebels (Dinka – the tribe that Dut belongs to), agreed with the Ugandan government to stop funding the LRA. So, the LRA is backed into a corner and grasping at political straws at the peace talks… And the leader of the LRA – Joseph Kony – is currently holed up in NE DRC (near Arua). Needless to say, lots was (and is) going on in and around Arua.

Before heading north, I checked with lots of locals to find out about the situation on the ground. Often, I have found that these folks have a much more accurate sense of the situation than do “we.” I also did some checking online – and after all of that, decided that going was safe. Additionally, if the situation turned sour, I felt I could get out fast and safely, particularly if I kept my nose to the ground – keeping abreast of any changes.

We were off! With no ID checks, the three of us – Ayuen, Dut, and me – climbed onto a small prop plan and headed North. We were all so excited. I was tipped off to the situation in Arua when we first got on the plane – Dut and Ayuen, and me by association – were treated badly by some Ugandans. There was open seating, and I saw a man looking for a comfortable seat. So, I pointed him to the seat in front of Dut and said that it was free if he wanted it. Dut had placed his bag there as he was getting situated – the man said to Dut, “you did not pay for this seat. Move your bag.” Dut said that he knew that and moved it promptly. The man said “you are guaranteed an uncomfortable flight, bringing all of your luggage.” I responded that they were moving, so needed to bring many pieces of luggage. He then said something more about “you people” and turned around in a huff. During the flight, Dut told me in a hushed voice that people in Arua and Northern Uganda generally really don’t like Dinkas. He assumed that was what this man’s problem was.

We went through the rest of the flight without a hitch. When we were deplaning, I offered to the man to get off first as we had many things to get together. His reply was “next time, don’t bring so much luggage. It is an inconvenience.” I was so shocked by what he said – and Dut was angered but equally shocked – we did not respond. Things did not get any easier when we got off the plane.

We were met not with grinning happy faces and people meeting one another but a stiffness which permeated the atmosphere. Everyone seemed anxious and there were lots of men with guns. And, the man from the plane was staring at Dut like he was the most evil person. I was pretty angry – what did this man know? I returned his stare with an equal “don’t mess with me or my friends” stare. We had quite the staring match – but I think that he has had more practice. I gave up.

Dut’s “family” (loosely termed as everyone is a cousin, it seems) met us at the airport. Again, everything was reserved – not reserved sad like in Rwanda, but reserved anxious. This was not looking good…

We then drove around Arua, looking for a place to stay. Everywhere we went, people had guns – not like in S. Uganda, where people also have guns. In the south, the guns are treated as if they are never used. In Arua, people seemed too comfortable with them – as if they are used, and often. We found a place; while I was filling the paperwork, Dut’s cousin Awar came in and was convinced that we were getting cheated out of our money. Another signal that things were not alright here in Arua – there was such a strong assumption that one was being cheated… there was limited trust of one another. I had Dut take Awar out of the reception area because the situation felt like it was escalating too quickly – and it was not yet 10 in the morning.

After a frazzling morning, we headed with Dut’s cousins to the local government hospital. Here, people can get care for free. While we walked down the streets, we were certainly stared at. However, I took little notice of that as I was fascinated by Dut and watching him interact in this environment. Clearly, he is quite respected in the community. The Dinka that were with us walked on all sides of us as we marched into the hospital. Of course, Ayuen and I were in the back as the men had very important things to discuss :). As soon as we entered the hospital grounds, we heard people moaning and crying in pain. There were so many people – all bandaged, some with swollen faces or hobbling along a garden path. My heart just broke for these folks, but it was also evident that they were cared for in a (relatively) clean environment. There just is not an adequate amount of funding to treat everyone as they ought to be, but at least they are clean if not cramped.

We walked into one of the wards – beds stacked everywhere with little room between. People were getting wounds cleaned – clearly a painful process. The first person we met was Dut’s uncle who displayed more emotion than Dut and Ayuen combined when they met. His uncle cried and just kept gently, but persistently, hugging Dut. This was the reunification that I was expecting with Ayuen – but as I found later, Dinka women display very little emotion. It is the men who are excited, happy, sad, or angry. Dut then met his cousin, also named Dut. Little Dut was in the hospital, having been brought here by his dad (Dut’s uncle) from Sudan, because his arm had swollen to three times its size from an insect bite.

After two hours of talking – everyone sat on the hospital bed – Dut and I talked with the doctor. The doctor said that he did not know what he was treating with Little Dut and recommended that Dut take the Uncle and Little Dut to the main hospital in Kampala. At least in Kampala, there are laboratories which can conduct tests to ascertain what exactly is wrong with Little Dut. With that, we made plans to leave on Saturday or Sunday for Kampala with the family.

We ventured back on the streets to walk to where the Dinka community lives. It was about a ten minute walk from where we were staying but it was HOT. It is much hotter in Northern Uganda than the south, interestingly. As we approached the clustering of huts and cement shacks, people started greeting Dut, Ayuen, and me. They then would walk with us. By the time we arrived at where Dut’s father was, we had multiplied our group to around 35 people! Dut was thrilled by all of the people – he knew so many as he talked on the phone with them but had not seen them since he was a child.

As we rounded the corner, there was Dut’s dad. He was just standing there, waiting for his son to come to him. It was as if he was filled to the brim of emotion; once Dut reached him and touched him, he simply burst with an incomparable joy. For those of you who are parents, know that what you can imagine experiencing when being reuniting with your son after 19 years of separation (during which you thought your son had died) is what I witnessed in Jongkuch. Just thinking of it now brings tears to my eyes and warms my heart. Dut was hugging him, Jongkuch was dancing and singing, and everyone was standing around smiling at the wonderful sight unfolding before them. As soon as the hug ended, Jongkuch went around to the rest of the houses, singing and dancing “his song” and telling everyone that his son had returned. We could hear him for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, people were steaming to meet Dut – kids, women, and men. Everyone wanted to see Dut and greet him. It was a powerful sight.

As this was happening, chairs of all sorts were being gathered and placed in a circle. Once Jongkuch returned, all were gathered. First, I was thanked by one of the elders and by Dut’s father for bringing him home safely. (I was thinking that I had little to do with his survival up to this point, but the translation would have been difficult and inappropriate!) Jongkuch was very charismatic and gave quite a speech. The most memorable parts were his use of animals to get his point across. When Dut was first lost in 1987, Jongkuch said that he was like a dog searching for his tail – chasing after it but never reaching it. Now, he wished he was a dog so I could see how happy he was – his tail would be wagging. Ayuen translated everything for me, as it was all said in Dinka.

After two hours of stories in Dinka (and outside under the glaring sun), I was exhausted. Dut and I had previously talked about how I was going to need some time alone after such a full experience, so I excited as gracefully as possible and by myself. Whew! I headed back to our motel to rest and wait for my parents’ phone call. After hanging out there for a few hours, I decided to walk around town a bit and then head back to Dut.

Walking around Arua was strange and hostile. In any other place I have been in East Africa, people stare because I am white and sometimes alone. The difference is that those stares are friendly and curious. I often find some way to make fun of myself and situation – doing some little dance to make them all laugh at the mzungu and the fact that all are staring at me. In Arua, however, it was entirely different. The stares were hostile, anxious, and untrusting. Rather than enjoying being the center of attention, I almost broke down and started crying – that is how uncomfortable the situation was.

I booked it back to Dut. Immediately, I felt better being in a place where I was known and with Dut. Immediately, a man wanted to know if I had any children and wished me many sons as girls were not desirable. Oh man! It was the wrong time to say that to me – I got a little argumentative, saying that maybe he felt that way but I would equally welcome a son or daughter, as they are equal in my eyes. To which he responded that I didn’t know what I was talking about! It was weird – like being acceptably slapped in the face in public. Very strange.

During this conversation, the elder of the village asked to meet with Dut. He told Dut that they had protection for the village, but not enough to keep me safe (or the others around me safe while I was there). Yikes. We immediately headed back to our place, escorted by 15 large Dinka men, some holding my hand. It did not feel good at all.

We made it back and quickly locked the door. I did not want to speak for then our neighbors would know that I, a mzungu, was there. After a conference call with my dad and Dustin, we all decided that it would be best for me to get the heck out of dodge. It simply was not safe nor stable there for me.

After a dodgy night’s sleep, during which I had a nightmare about Dinkas fighting in the streets of Arua with local Ugandans, I awoke. Dut and I took the first bodas we found and headed to the airport. I luckily got a ticket and headed south. Once in Entebbe, I was able to catch my breath and gratefully feel safe again.

The Reunification of Ayuen and Dut

With irresistible excitement, I went to pick Ayuen up at her school to bring her with me to Bujagali. She did not know that I was coming – nor did she know that Dut was coming the following day! What a fun bit of news to share with her! After picking her up and bringing her back to Eden Rock with me, we tucked in for an anxious night’s sleep.

The following morning, Evie (my friend who agreed to take pictures at the airport), Ayuen, and I struck out on the road. Evie and I were balls of nerves and excitement – Ayuen was calm. At first, we thought she must be excited but the language barrier was making it hard for us to understand that… But no – she was really normal. It was weird – but I suppose in Western culture, we are exposed to stories, movies, and tales of reunification experiences. They seem to us be abnormal and emotional. For her, she hears often of people be reunified with loved ones – it is not so strange and exciting. For us, we had expectations about what it would feel like to meet a brother whom we had never met – but it was unclear what she was thinking about it. It was a really interesting three hour drive to Entebbe.

When we arrived at the airport, we went inside to find out where the arrivals came. At thirty minutes ‘till Dut’s arrival, Ayuen seemed to be getting increasingly excited, asking questions like “are you sure that this is the only door?” and when people were coming through, looking at me as if I might not remember what he looks like. The three of us were quite the threesome – Evie with the camera, Ayuen by the door, and me – the only one who knows Dut – trying to track all of the people coming out. In that situation, I started to wonder if maybe I would forget what Dut looked like – it was so important. However, I spotted him through the gate, heading for luggage and cried out “there he is!” We all got pretty excited. Ayuen was holding my hand – her palm was sweaty, but her face was stoic, as if there was nothing to see here. Weird.

Dut started walking down the corridor entrance – about 100 feet, so we had a build-up. Dut walked towards us like it was nothing – he did have a big smile on his face, but he did not seem to be in too much of a rush. I had completely lost it by that point – I was crying so much that my entire face was wet :). Ayuen just waited patiently… Dut finally made it to the door and then he seemed excited – so excited that he left his baggage behind the security door. Ayuen and Dut stood at the entrance for about five minutes hugging and looking at each other and hugging and looking at each other… I went to get the baggage – everyone seemed so happy (while we were waiting, we told everyone around us what was about to happen, so the entire entrance gate was sharing in our reunification experience).

We headed to the car with the luggage and settled in for the car ride home. Dut and Ayuen barely looked at each other in the eyes and did not speak much to one another. Dut, in fact, spoke more to me and Evie (whom he had just met) than he did to Ayuen. I suppose they were adjusting to one another’s presence.

It was truly one of the experiences that I will carry with me for the rest of my life, as with many moments I have had on this trip. War is a terrible thing – people die, families are split up, and countries are devastated in many ways. It was amazing to have the juxtaposition of Rwanda and the reunification so close together. Dut had talked to me about meeting his sister for the past three years every two weeks, so there was an intense buildup. I knew that this was the most important part of the trip for Dut; I was so honored to be a part of the process.

Rwanda

My final days in Rwanda were markedly less traumatic than the first ones. Maybe my brain was shutting down… or I was finding it easier to see hopeful signs of a future rather than the burdens of the past. I have heard that some people are afraid that I will be forever marred by my experience in Rwanda – I hope so. It is not a place that I went to thinking that I would be unaffected. I went hoping to push myself to see the evil that exists in our world and within each of us. The majority of the Rwandans who massacred their fellow humans are not fundamentally different from “us.” Thinking that “we” could never do something so horrendous seems to deny the basic principle that everyone on this planet is human -- we are the same. It is just as likely to spiral into violence as it is to care deeply for one another. I am not sure what turns the tide – why the Rwandan genocide happened – but I am sure that we are capable in equal measure. The sense that we are capable of such evil is revolting but also enlightening – how do we make choices to do good or to do evil? How do we decide what counts as good or evil? Who gets to decide?

This ground swelling of questions about my core self and the core selves of others was exhausting. We headed to Western Rwanda to Lake Kivu. Kibuye, the town where we stayed, is in the region where the highest number of Tutsis was killed. For those of you who have read The Bone Woman, this is the location of the church she writes about. The ride out to Kibuye took three hours of climbing mountain-like passes, complete with blind corners and hairpin turns – on which the driver often went to the wrong side of the road. On the way down the mountain, he would build speed to save gas. I literally prayed the entire way. Once in Kibuye, we headed to a Methodist retreat center and all slept for the entire afternoon, had dinner, and then slept for ten hours.

The next morning, we went to the two memorials in the town where 10,000 people were burned to death and the church where 11,400 people were killed in one day – by hand. You would think that these places would be more overwhelming than Ntarama – more people were killed. However, it was strangely underwhelming. The place where the 10,000 people were killed is in the town center, with a football (soccer) field on one side and a church/school on the other. Children were playing in the grassy area within the brick confines of the cemetery. It felt so full of life; it is healing to have a generation which has no memory of the atrocities claim the land as its own. The second memorial – the Catholic Church – made me feel something unnamed and unfamiliar. The church is still functioning and quite striking inside. Directly outside, the government built a memorial, complete with exposed bones, to remind the parishioners of the evil that occurred there. The distasteful part to me was that the church is still functioning – it seems wrong. How could a church continue to provide for a community? Or, better yet – what is the church providing there?

On the way back to Kigali (as with the trip there), I was struck by the number of memorials. Every 20 miles or so, there is another genocide memorial. Occasionally, we would drive by people dressed in their Sunday-best, sitting around on a hillside. These were (and are) the famous “Gacaca” (Ga – cha- cha) trials, known as “Justice on the Grass.” Rather than the Nuremberg trial-type, Rwanda has chosen to go back to its tribal roots to resolve the legalistic problems the genocide created. Thousands of genocidaires (those that committed atrocities) are in jail – and each has a Gacaca trial. It is a trial of their peers in front of the community. It is a pretty neat system, but the government currently estimates that it will take 400 years to get through everyone, so it is untenable.

On our final night in Kigali, we went back the New Cactus restaurant. In Rwanda, we had the best food we have had in Africa. During dinner, we reflected on Rwanda – it is a sad and reserved people, all trying to figure out how to deal with the past and move forward. In this emotionally difficult space, those that we befriended were some of the most gentle, honest, helpful, and gracious that we have met.

Ntarama

Ntarama is almost too hard to write about because it requires remembering what I saw today. And remembering is an isolating experience – seeing the results of that kind of brutality makes you feel like humans are separated beings who cannot see one another for who they are. Remembering is difficult because my brain wants to keep veering off the track to think about what I am going to eat for dinner, when I am going to talk to Dustin, what funny joke are people laughing about, and whatever else can I think of other than that which I am trying to remember…

Prior to April 15, 1994, 5000+ men, women, and children fled their villages for the safety of their spiritual home – the Ntarama Catholic Church. From the beginning of the genocide, Tutsis had been hearing others die around them and were grasping for a safe place. If only they could make it to their church, surely Father would keep them safe from harm. After bringing their belongings to the church, Father charged a small fee to keep the masses fed and put all in the church – a building 24ft by 200ft long. Some people stayed in the three outbuildings. On the night of April 14, the doors to the church were locked as where those of the outbuildings. People believed it was for their safety from the Hutu extremist Interhamwe.

It started with the grenades being thrown in the church through the windows. No one could escape. Grenades exploded – for those that were not killed instantly, they were burned and mutilated by the shrapnel which was released. Because of the density of the people, there were survivors – most near the altar. They were wrapped in mattresses in groups of six and doused in petrol. They burned to death. Those that still were alive were macheted until they were dead. There were some survivors, but they hid under the dead bodies of their families for days, hoping (praying?) that they would live.

In the outbuildings, the small one was hit with grenades until no sound was heard. The large one had the doors locked, and then was set on fire. Everyone died.

5000+ people died at this site, all at the hands of the Father who promised safety, charged them money, plundered their goods, and then had the Hutu Interhamwe kill all. The Father is now living in Europe.

Walking up to the site, I felt a deep chill run through my body and felt like I was hearing people whisper “surely God will save us” which turned to hearing whispering of cries of agony. I walked through each outbuilding first before entering the church. One was empty, save flower in one corner. Another is full of debris left from the fire 12 years ago. The last has the stacks of belongings, each neatly organized and numbered placed between pews in what must have been a small chapel.

Unknowingly, I entered in a fourth outbuilding. Immediately I was surrounded by the piles and piles of bones of the dead – two piles, seemingly one for the torso and head and the other for the arms and legs. I almost vomited. Then I looked up – hanging from the ceiling were the remnants of the clothes people were wearing – hanging and in piles all around the bones. What do you wear when you are dying? What do you wear to where you think is safe? What do you bring with you? And then, in the center, were the piles of bones. For fifteen minutes, I stood in the midst of this life/death and cried. These were people who wore clothes and who died brutal, humiliating deaths in a place which signifies safety from harm – God. Where was God in all of this? What were these people thinking when they were attacked, waiting in the pews for nightfall, thinking that they would see another day?

At long last, I entered the church. Immediately on the right, there is a poster of John Paul – full of grenade holes. Rows of skulls greet you – mother’s skulls with those of their infants, people killed by machetes (you can see where the macheted sliced their heads open), one with a spear through its neck and top of the skull – all staring and bearing witness to the terrible end that they met and we allowed. I cannot help but feel responsible for the deaths because of my ignorance and our collective human lack of action to help them. From the skulls, you look up the church. In between each pew, there are bones and remains from those who died. Light filters in through the grenade holes. The altar has a cross and skull sitting askew on it. Behind the altar is the box where the host is kept after being blessed.

The place makes me feel faint – even just in my recollection of it. It is raw, raw, raw. There is nothing stylized or touristy or helpful. Everything presents itself as it is – human action gone horribly wrong.

And those that victimized and were victims now live next door to each other. Everywhere I look today, I think about the people I see and wonder how they are surviving, forgetting, remembering, forgiving, apologizing… What do you do? Someone said that it is almost like the Rwandese got slapped in the face during a discussion and just chose to ignore it. Trying to talk about it too much makes the hatred come back. And the hatred does not solve the immediate need to live in peace.

I am realizing that as interested as am in how people are able to live together in post-conflict societies, I may not have a strong enough heart for it all. I am not sure that I can be thinking about such academically interesting questions in a detached manner – especially now.

Kigali Genocide Memorial

The Memorial is located up a dusty road with police officers greeting you at the gate. It is a big pale yellow building surrounded by fountains, flowers, and three mass graves. Inside the building, the story of the genocide is told. After my morning with Innocent, I was more prepared for the depth with which this country was going to force me to think about atrocities and hope.

The museum part of the memorial powerfully and provocatively told the story of Rwanda, its history, identity construction, and the unfolding of the genocide. There were many touch screens which should various short films of people’s testimonies, footage from April 1994 of people killing others, and brief glimpses of people and their fresh wounds. It was real and raw. I felt like my insides were being churned and my brain kept wanting to shut off. All I could think was that we let this happen. We did nothing to stop it. We are complicit and responsible. Or, we are not human in our devaluing of other people’s lives. It was not and is not “their” problem. People died and suffered in a way that the museum made so actual and real.

After walking through the genocide story, you enter a room full of skulls and bones with a woman whispering the names of those one million people who were killed. Then another room, with displays of clothing which people were wearing when they died. This is not a country for those who cannot handle to power of inaction by the world community – and in fact, I am not sure that I am able to process such atrocities which happened (and are happening) during my lifetime. The final room is full of pictures of the deceased and one wall showing testimonies of family members to those who perished. One man talked about the last meal his mother brought to him. A woman talked about what good parents hers were – and how much her sisters meant to her. There were so many stories… And a Rwandan woman who seemed to find a relative in the wall of pictures, crying during the process.

The upstairs of the museum had two exhibits – one about genocide in general and the other about Rwanda’s lost future. In the lost future exhibit, there were pictures of children (the most recent picture the parents had) who were killed with their names, favorite food and activity, best friend, and age listed. At the bottom of the card, it stated how they died: “Felicite, Age 2, Favorite Food: Matoke, Best Friend: older sister Rebecca, Died: Thrown Against a Wall… Patricie, Age 6, Favorite Food: ice cream, Died: Hacked to Death by a Machete…” and on, and on for six rooms.

Innocent

Innocent is the night front desk worker. He is from Northern Rwanda – Ruhengeri – and now resides here in Kigali with six of his family members. All other family was killed in 1994. He spent two hours telling me story over breakfast. People can be jailed for talking about “Hutus” and “Tutsis,” and he agreed after a long talk the night before to help me understand the genocide better, resulting in our morning chat.

At the age of 10, Innocent first realized he was different from his classmates. Of his 60 school agemates, he was the only Tutsi. Before taking a major Rwandan Education test, each student had to stand and state his name and tribe. Innocent, trying to figure out what was going on, repeated what he had heard every other student say – something called “Hutu.” When he said that, his teacher spat on him and yelled at him to go and find out who he was.

Three years later, in 1990, men were sent to assassinate his father. Fate, luck, or God – something happened – his dad died of natural causes days before the men showed up in the village. The men were told that Innocent’s dad was already dead, so they did not come to kill the father (and likely the family).

Most nights between 1990 and 1993, people came banging on the door – requiring that Innocent’s family come out (and be slaughtered). They lay in silence.

In 1993, Innocent and his mom, four sisters, and two brothers, moved to Kigali. Being Tutsis in Northern Rwanda was proving to be much more difficult and dangerous as the Tutsi (aka Rwandan Patriotic Front – RPF) insurgency attacks from Uganda into Rwanda were increasing (resulting in retaliatory attacks against resident Tutsis by angered Hutus).

April 1994 arrived. Innocent and his family were living in a small mud hut, barely surviving but at least healthy and together. Their hut was next to the stadium in a Hutu neighborhood. They had gone to the market days prior and some food in the house. Noises were heard in the evening – the start of the genocide. Innocent and his family closed all of the windows and doors and lay in absolute silence – the first night of a 30 day stay in darkness.

All around them, people were being hacked to death, beaten, raped, and left for dead. The family could peak through the cracks and see people dying and could not help. To open the door meant certain death for the individual and family. Innocent only would go out a night to quickly go to the bathroom, walking over bodies and praying no one would see him. After one week of high anxiety and stress, he started sleeping better – no use in not sleeping. If God willed his death, he would die, tired or not.

By the third week, there was no food left for the seven people surviving in the hut. A Hutu friend came and said that the RPF (Tutsi) had secured the stadium and food was there. Starving and scared, the seven left their safe refuge (soon to be destroyed by Hutu Interhamwe), climbing over dead and dying bodies for 1 km. Innocent said the stench was unbearable. Walking by those bodies taught him that bodies are simply vessels and not to be overly treasured.

Safely making it to the stadium, they stayed there for three months. The Interhamwe continuously bombed the stadium, resulting in burials of 5 – 30 people every day. There was food – but not much. Another friend showed them to a house (in a former Hutu neighborhood – everyone had fled) and brought them food everyday. This friend was an RPF fighter who loved Innocent’s sister, so he helped the family.

By July, the RPF finally had control of the country and Kigali, and things were ‘safe.’ The whole city smelled of rotting flesh. People were in shock and nothing was working. Innoncent said it took four years to clean everything.

He, however, harbors no fear or hatred. He said that he cannot live in Ruhengeri because he does not feel safe, but he does feel safe in Kigali. He sometimes feels a slight bit of anger but that is not the way forward. Killing only leads to more killing, according to him.

Heavy, heavy stuff… Rwanda is not a country to be taken lightly. Everyone you see that is my age (25ish) or older was alive and either has ‘adult’ memories of the genocide or participated. Every three – five people that you pass on the streets have machete scars on their faces and bodies. Everyone has a story like this – either as a victim or victimizer. Yet, people still smile.

The Nine Hour Bus Ride

Ready to sit for an extremely LONG time, Evie and I settled into our seats in our ‘comfort’ coach (which was actually quite comfortable – go figure!). The first three hours were smooth and easy… The coach EVEN HAD A TV. They first showed a soap opera of a Ugandan film – so I napped. Evie was doing her own thing when her phone rang; this presented a slight problem as the volume on the TV was so loud that I was wearing ear plugs and STILL could hear everything… The solution to the loudness was Evie yelling to the front of the bus, requesting them to turning it down and stating that it was “as loud as f**k.” Oh dear, thought I. We got lots of funny stares, but I pretended to be asleep, Evie got to talk on the phone, and we just looked like even crazier mzungus (we were the only ones on the bus).

After that slight incident, they put on a Harrison Ford film, which was great – something like Clear and Present Danger or some such thing, but not. It involved lots of military, shooting, and tension. I was so happy to have a taste of America until I started thinking about who else was in the audience with me… Mostly Rwandans, probably many had lived through the genocide and had seen what was being played on TV in real life. It felt strange to be there, watching this with that particular group of people.

At long last, we eventually arrived at the border. I risked changing money (and got a GREAT exchange rate – thanks mom!). After leaving Uganda, we waited in the Rwanda entry line. We were promptly escorted to the front and then taken next door to the Rwandan Revenue Authority to get our visa, which both Evie and I thought we did not have to get due to our citizenship status (as it turned out, we were right). The woman behind the desk insisted that we had to get a $60 visa, so we paid, thinking that we did not need to apply for a visa, but did, indeed, need one. After getting the receipt for payment, we had to head back to the border entry desk to get the official stamp, at which point all h-e-double-hockey-sticks broke loose.

An official came up to the group of Americans that I was taking to (informing them about needing to have the $60 ready, as we did have to pay to get a visa) and said that, no, no visa was required for American or British citizens. Entry to Rwanda was free. Good to know! So, we promptly asked for our money back as we had been wrongly charged and had the receipt (reasonable, right?). The official, Amos, said that was impossible!! I thought that was incredulous, but Evie would not stand for it. She started yelling at this man in front of all of the people waiting in line (approximately 100+) saying that she did not “give a monkey’s a**” what he said, she was getting her money back and that it was not up for discussion. Well, to that, he walked away and headed for his office (I think he was embarrassed and wanted to get out of the pressure-cooker situation where everyone know knew that we had been screwed out of $120 and he was not going to help).

So, playing the good cop (Evie took the bad cop hat!), I followed him and said that I was not mad but really concerned about how to get my money back. I said that I understood that it was not his fault, but could he please help us figure out a solution with the lady who had taken our money? He acquiesced and came with us to the RRA office. We arrived at the RRA office with Amos, the head of the immigration office, a really angry Evie, and me. The lady first denied having taken our money and then when we produced the receipt, she said that she did not say that we had to pay. I was shocked to have someone lie so blatantly to everyone. After 20 minutes of negotiations and some harsh words between Evie and the lady, Amos sorted things out. As it turned out, there was also a Zimbabwean woman who works in SPOKANE also waiting in line. She was a huge help. We finally got our money back – and thanked our lucky stars that we were not entirely swindled!

After arriving back at the bus, we had a good long laugh.

We finally arrived in Kigali and a woman on the bus, Nuri, gave us a ride to our Hotel and helped us figure out the rates. She and her family are simply LOVELY – we had a very nice time talking with the four of them for about an hour and are planning on meeting them for dinner on Wednesday or Friday…

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I woke up feeling ready to be 25 and to head to Rwanda. I started packing at 5:30am, when Fred came round to my tent to wish me a Happy Birthday. What a great way to start the day! Then, that was immediately followed by a phone call from my parents, each singing happy birthday to me. Yay!!! However, while on the phone with my parents, I discovered MOLD all over the inside of my backpack… This resulted in a three hour scrubbing session of my backpack, tent, and belongings. I was very DIRTY as there was also a dust storm during the night, covering everything in red dust. Oh well – it was my birthday and nothing was going to get me down. And heck, I was of on an adventure anyway!

By noon, Evie and I were off to Kampala. We checked into our hostelish place and headed to the main city market. What fun! Evie is quite the bargainer and wanted to buy a bunch of skirts, so I had a great time watching her chat with locals and try to get relatively good deals. I also got a black linen skirt – I hate bartering, though, so I mostly just watched her do business. For my birthday present, Evie took me to dinner at the Kampala Sheraton where we had a three course meal and a bottle of wine. We even had ICE CREAM (almost an impossibility in Uganda due to the inconsistent electricity). By 10pm, we were tuckered and headed to bed…

An Attitude of Gratitude

Saturday evening was full of beautifully touching moments. My dear friend Japan had invited me to visit his home. Japan is one of my Muslim friends who works on the site. He is 48 with two wives and 20 children! (Japan is a nickname given to him by his friends, as he works as hard as the Japanese.) Every day, he rides his bike 20 km to get to and from work (40 km in all). He is gentle, kind, and smart – really a favorite person of mine.

Since Japan lives so far away, the builders were worried that I would get lost finding his village. The assistant foreman for the site – Julius – offered to take me on his motorcycle. Julius is equally nice; he is 32 (?) with two children and one wife. He is very well educated and has been immensely helpful in explaining things and translating for me.

So, Saturday Julius was planning on arriving at 2pm. But, this is Africa, and things are never easy. On his way to pick me up, his chain broke and he spent three hours fixing it. Finally at 5pm, he picked me up, and we were off. After a half an hour ride down many dirt roads, we made it to Japan’s two homes (one for each wife). Clearly, Mzungus rarely, if ever, make it out this far in the boonies, so I was quite the center of attention. Immediately after arriving, we were surrounded by, no joke, 50 children. As it turned out, ALL of the children were Japan’s and his brother’s. CRAZY. One of the eldest boys went to get Japan (he was working in the fields). I took pictures on the digital (also quite a hit) while waiting. No one spoke English (except Julius)… Soon, Japan arrived and was SO PLEASED that we had made it. He had told his entire family that a Mzungu friend was coming to visit, and he thought I was not going to show, given the lateness of the day. He was so happy to introduce me to his family and neighbors, show me his home, and have his picture taken. It is the small things that count here in such a big way.

Right before we had to leave (only having been there for 1.5 hours – it was getting dark and motorcycles at night at just not a great idea), Japan’s son came running in with two warm cokes and two chapattis. He had run to the nearest trading center to get us the food and drink. Japan knew that I really could not eat the food that was made at his house, so he spent two days of his salary getting me something that he knew I liked and could eat. Julius and I quickly downed the cokes and had to leave… Just so sweet. Unbelievable.

Getting back to Eden Rock, I sat down to dinner (my friends who work at Eden Rock had my dinner waiting for me!) and chatted with Nelson, Brian, and Fred. These guys are all employees who have really helped me out (especially when I had Malaria). I was telling them about Rwanda and that I was leaving tomorrow. They were all quite sad, as they were excited that I was to spend my birthday with them (which I did not know until that point). As it turned out, each had gotten me a birthday PRESENT. Nelson and Fred are going to give me my gifts when I get home, but Brian got me an artificial red flower in a pink plastic vase with fiber optics coming out. He was so proud of the gift – he had made a special trip to town to get it for me. How lucky am I to have such a caring group of friends, eh?

I went to bed immensely satisfied and warm all over. So much gracious giving, all in one day.

Rwanda?

I am now officially a quarter-of-a-century. My weekend was full of ups and downs – I was finally recovering from Malaria and missing the comforts of home (and friends and family gathered to celebrate my birthday). While there were some downer moments, there were equally many high points, many quintessentially African.

Everything felt difficult on Friday. While it is true that doing anything in Africa takes much more effort, planning, and patience than Western life, I was loving every moment… until Friday. Nothing particularly bad happened – but I was just done with the whole experience!

As a result of this, I went to the only place for MILES that has high speed internet and treated myself to fast email and a slice of chocolate cake. The place is called Jinja Nile Resort, and it is where another volunteer, Evie (Yvette) stays. As I was recovering from my personal pity party, Evie showed up. We headed to the bar for a glass of vino to chat… Well one glass turned into four :) and then dinner…

After much talking and laughing, we decided that it would be a GREAT idea to head to Rwanda together in two days time (on Sunday). With renewed excitement about being in such a great place, I fell sound asleep, ready to pack and plan a new adventure.

I awoke ready to face Africa anew. My newly optimistic attitude proved vital, as trying to plan the trip for five hours resulted in no progress – internet problems, phone issues, lack of electricity, and little information. Thankfully, I thought it was all quite funny and so typical. Evie and I decided that we could handle the unknowns together – it is much easier to do so when you have a travel partner. We went our separate ways to pack.

The Big M

This year has been the kicker for getting sick for me. In February, I had Influenza, May was Lyme Disease, and July is Malaria. Who knows what will come next?

I think that I have had Malaria since Thursday (July 6). I was feeling low energy Thursday through Sunday, but I did not have a fever (a classic symptom of Malaria). On Sunday, the 'you know what' hit the fan, and I was really sick - as if someone had sucker punched me in the stomach and the effect lasted for 12 hours. I thought it was something that I had eaten (as I had a meal with a local family on Sunday), but others were convinced that it was Malaria. On Monday, I walked (barely) to the clinic where they did a few tests. As it turned out, I had (and have) "small malaria." I guess that means that my Malaria parasite is the less serious kind. There is a four - seven day treatment period, so I hope to be better by tomorrow.

While there were times when I was hoping that I could be like Dorothy, and click my heels together three times, say "There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home," I really would not want to get Malaria anywhere else. This is Malaria-central, so there is a lot of information and proper treatment available. Practically every local person and any long-term volunteer has had Malaria at least once (one of the mzungus - Jack, the barman - has had malaria 57 times!), so people know what to expect and how to help. The clinic is actually on the same site where I am working on building the education center. I feel very well taken care of by the other volunteers, the staff at Eden Rock (where I am staying), and the clinic.

All of the good care I have received should not cloud the fact that Malaria is the number one or two killer in Uganda - and in particular this region. In the past week, I know of four mzungu volunteers who had contracted Malaria. On average, children have Malaria four to six times per year. As the child grows (if it makes it though each subsequent bout of Malaria), its body acquires some immunity. It is a very serious, yet highly preventable and treatable. Malaria is spread by mosquitoes, and the best way to prevent Malaria is to prevent bites from mosquitoes. Using DEET, wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants at dawn and dusk, and sleeping under a net are the best defenses (and for those of us who have the money, taking prophylactics). Most people who die from Malaria are the very young or very old - those that have weakened immune systems and cannot fight off the bug.

Often, these sick individuals are only brought to clinics when they are within days or hours of death - clinic visits and stays are usually cost prohibitive (sometimes even more than a year's income of manual labor). In fact, one of my good friends, Japan (a builder on the site) missed work one day because his sister had lost her two year old girl to Malaria. The extent to which Malaria affects the people who live here should not be underestimated.

Soft Power has two branches - Soft Power Education (SPE) and Soft Power Health (SPH). I am working with SPE, building the education center. SPH, on the other hand, runs the clinic (from whom I received treatment). SPH's clinic has a good reputation in the area - the villagers trust the clinic, and it is busy every day. A visit to the clinic costs 5000Ush ($2.75), which is approximately two days' wages. In addition to providing quality, affordable treatment (a basic human right, in my estimation), they also sell mosquito nets. Nets in the city cost around 10,000 - 12,000 ($5 - $6), which is too much for many locals. SPH did a study and found that many villagers would be willing to pay 3000Ush ($1.50) for the net. So, SPH subsidizes the nets and sells them to locals. It then does follow-up visits with those to whom the nets have been sold to verify that (1) they are using them correctly and every night, and (2) they have not resold the nets for a profit. Apparently the follow-up curbs the reselling enough for the program to continue, and I am sure that many of the people buy the nets because they need them. Another measure to safeguard the nets from being resold is having locals hired by SPH to build relationships with villagers to educate about net usage and Malaria prevention. Since SPH started the net distribution, the incidence of Malaria in this region has fallen by 2/3.

I cannot sing the praises more of the this amazing organization. Soft Powerhas its heart and head in the right place. I feel so blessed to be here,with the people - both local and volunteers, and learning about how a charity program in Africa (an elsewhere) ought to be run.

The Settling-In Period

I have now been in Uganda for almost one month. It has been a wonderful and intense experience. However, now that the novelty of 'living' in Africa has worn off, I am starting to get homesick for Dustin, family, and living in Seattle. When you are bustling around, learning the language, how to get from point A to B, where is 'safe' to eat, and that sunscreen really is important when you spend your day outside so close to the equator, missing the familiar crosses my brain right before I fall to sleep at night. Now that I have figured out some of this country and have some sort of rhythm to my life, I think about familiar things more frequently.

But struggling with the distance is also part of traveling - and another part that I actually relish. Something about distance making the heart grow fonder. the grass is always greener. or maybe it is just mostly about gaining a new perspective on those things treasured (and taken for granted). Traveling is definitely for me - I hope to do it for the remainder of my life. These types of long trips really help to remind me of the important things, learn new things about others (but mostly about myself), and reinforce how alike we all are (rather than dissimilar, granted there are differences, but they are usually not so great that they cannot be overcome with a bit of grace and good humor).

For those of you wondering what I have been up to the past few weeks...

My days start when the sun rises (around 6:30 - it sets at 6:30 as well, due to the proximity to the equator). I am trying to be consistent with a running plan, so I head out for 30 - 60 minutes for a run through the three local villages: Bujagali, Kyabirwa, and Buwenda. I have a few different routes that I take - all of which are through "neighborhoods." During the course of my run, I am constantly accompanied by two to fifteen children, between the ages of 4 and 10. They all think that it is quite funny that a Mzungu is RUNNING in SHORTS for FUN. Many of the neighborhoods have started to learn my name, so I am starting to get "Jambo Julianna." The kids love it when I stop to walk or stretch. The runs are full of lots of children giggling - it is a great way to wake-up. The roads are entirely uneven, so my ankles get a good workout. I am always balancing. While the kids run along side me until their turnoffs come for school (of which there are many!), the adults are all hard at work - and have been since around 5:30am. I run by people making maize flour, hoeing gardens, weeding, riding bikes with water jugs strapped all around, and men on their way to work - usually manual labor of some sort. I often pass the men that are working at the site as they walk to work. I am starting to feel like I am part of the community here - I always know at least three people on my runs (which requires a stop and chat) and many people know me and greet me. So, that is good!

Then it is to home for a quick change, splashing some water on my face, and off to the building site. On the way, I stop at a local chapatti (wheat flour mixed with some water and salt and then made like a pancake of sorts) and eggs, which I eat on the way. My walk to work is about five minutes - and I am also accompanied by children, all trying to hold my hand (many end up holding my wrist and arm). (FYI: Many of the children in the area have distended bellies, caused by a protein deficiency. They get enough calories - but not the right kind.)

Once I get to work (you can check it out at the Soft Power blog and website) I have some tea and FRESH pineapple and watermelon. Then it is to work - digging trenches, pick-axing, laying bricks, wheel barrowing rubbish, bricks, dirt, cement, laying cement, moving wet cement, unloading the truck. Lots of manual labor. The work day is from 9 - 4. We get a break for lunch - usually something local like posho (beat bananas), rice, ground nuts, cassava, potatoes, beans, and veggies. It is quite hot - there is little shade where I am usually working and from 10 - 2, everything slows quite a bit.

I have gotten to know quite a few of the local builders (Soft Power employs 80 locals builders in total - it is a great program!! I would love to talk with any of you who are interested - and especially if you are looking for a quality charity to support), and they are all very impressed that a mzungo (let alone a mzungo woman!) can work so hard and lift so much. I have to say that I am surprising myself!! I guess it is all pretty exciting to be working on such a big, cool project with locals. The work seems not as hard, somehow. The men have decided that I was born in the wrong country - I am really an African (Ugandan) woman (given how hard I work compared to other mzungu women, they say). They are all pretty sweet and have really been welcoming. In fact, today they all had their pictures taken individually with me. What a treat! And I have been invited to almost all of their homes, so I have a busy social schedule over the next two weeks. Lots of visits and meeting their families. I am excited!

Going to their homes, see where and how they live puts things in perspective. The most notable thing that I am realizing is that when I visit their homes - the first thing I think is how similar we are. They are proud of their homes, offer the guest a place to sit, want me to know where they are from, and share their food/drink with me. This really interesting because I thought I would first notice the "poverty" or "lacking" that these folks had - but I don't (at least not until later). I don't think that this is function of me but of them - they think of themselves as poor only relative to those outside their community. But, within their community, being poor does not seem to be as important - the wealth disparity is not as striking in the villages which makes it less important, somehow.

There have been many interesting conversations had with the builders - women's rights, children, religion and the nature of God, Iraq, Bush, America - in general, about salaries, cost of living, etc, health care and insurance, marriage and various gender roles (and why those are they way they are), and the nature of working/retirement. It has been riveting - always something new that one of us brings up, and we compare the cultural understandings of these things. Granted, I was the one who started this line of conversation, but they have all contributed (more and more as they have gotten to know me).

As a result of one conversation, two of the Muslim builders invited me to Mosque with them. How neat! I wore a long skirt, long-sleeved shirt, and a scarf over my head. The men sit in the front and women behind a wall - so I was isolated from my friends!! The mosque is a small mud hut with a mud floor and linoleum covering the floor. The men left me as I entered the women's area. Trying to stay kneeling for one hour on a bumpy floor is tough - my knees were sore for the entire following day! And, to top it off, a RAT ran through the women's area while the prayers were being said. All of us had the same reaction (again the commonalities across cultures!) - moving all around the room, trying to get out of the way. How funny! As a result of my visit, the builders named me Aisa (pronounced Aish-a) - my new Muslim/Ugandan name that they all call me now.

Aside from fun conversations with the locals, I am also getting to know many new and interesting mzungus. Lots of people come and volunteer for one day or two - and some stay for two - four weeks. There is quite a community, but I think that I may be more involved with the locals than the other volunteers. My nights are usually consumed with the World Cup, reading, eating and drinking with the other volunteers, and preparing for the next day.

All in all, it has been a GREAT experience here in Uganda. It is my favorite African country by far (although I have only visited four.). I have really enjoyed spending time with Ayuen (I see her at least every Saturday), the locals, and the travelers here. I am getting ready for Dut to join me here in a couple of weeks and then move on, hopefully to Sudan but maybe early to Togo, depending on the security situation in Sudan.

Until later.