20 days and counting...

I'm going to miss Ben's head greeting me through the gate's peephole. Dog will still be with me, gate will not. 

Reflection, 21 Days Until Departure

My grade 9 students just finished a unit on major conflicts/their impacts on individuals within war-torn communities. As part of the unit, students were asked to interview someone who was directly exposed to a major political or military conflict. I had no idea how easy this was going to be.

Most of my kids interviewed close family members: mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts... my students' families were in rebel attacks in the Philippines, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, WW2, the Rwandan genocide, the Bosnian conflict, the Ethiopian Civil War, the civil war in Burundi, political conflicts in Mali, large scale unrest in Romania, various violent upheavals in Uganda (including tortures at the hands of Idi Amin and the forced immigration of individuals from Asian decent); a variety of ISU faculty members and teaching assistants also volunteered their stories.

Interviewees were soldiers that fought on fronts, civilians that fled across continents, friends with presidents, genocide targets, Indian generals, refugees,  jailed political activists, parachuting air force members, military deserters, and IDP camp aid workers. Many watched family and friends die. Nearly all were shot at, bombed, or threatened with violence. Most were neutral civilians that were actively victimized. A few reaped the benefits of war. More suffered heavy losses.

I have been blown away with the horrific situations so many of my students and their family members faced; I've been shocked by the relative political power many held.

I realize that in my lifetime, there have been many armed conflicts, most of which I heard little about in their times.  How has the escalating violence between Sudan and South Sudan been sheltered from the public eye? Where was the media as Hutu and Tutsis violently clashed in Rwanda and Burundi?

Where was I? Why didn't I know more/care?

Working in the community that I work in, I have realized how little I really know of the world. One thing I do know for certain: I've lived a blessed life of peace. 

Processing: Part 1 of unknown

The end of my time in Uganda is rapidly approaching. I feel as though I am avoiding blogging partly because I have been excessively busy in preparation for my departure and partly because I have begun the whirlwind of conflicting emotions. However, I am conscious that in several months I am going to want a record of this emotional journey.

In a few weeks…

I won’t be silently cursing the relentless string of belting choir practices.

I won’t have to check my water cooler light to confirm if my power is on.

I won’t wave to a host of familiar neighborhood guards every time I walk or drive.

I won’t be greeted by “Hello Madam” or Loveline’s huge hugs every time I enter the compound. I won’t be questioned about English vocabulary by Harriet. We won’t swap our cultural approaches towards an array of topics.

I won’t hear the regular Nokia SMS chime at 4:45 and know that it is Lindsay confirming our evening walk. I will not need to stress about getting Ben on leash to avoid baby goats running free on campus. I’ll have no concern about whether my dog will kill someone’s stray chicken. The chained guard dog under the tree won’t faze me.

I won’t have to fight copy machines, Umeme, the business office, or Orange.

I won’t hear the VanPee kids speed their un-muffled motor cross bikes up and down the road.

I won’t have game night, or Bible study, or home-church Lubowa.

I won’t have to avoid eye contact with traffic cops.

I won’t run into six coworkers every time I want to buy milk at the store.

I won’t be chased by half-naked children shouting “hello muzungu” as I slope through the fields. I won’t watch my step to avoid lines of safari ants.

I won’t have to cook for every social gathering.

I won’t be passed by the president and his entourage, complete with a port-a-potty, every other time I head into town (usually driving on the wrong side of the road at high speed, like all “important” diplomatic sorts).

I won’t have a backyard. Or a three-bedroom house with a porch. Or two broken toilets, one broken shower, one constantly dripping faucet, and about a dozen broken lights.

No one will ask me how I am doing before saying hello.

No one will try to buy my dog while I walk.

No one will stroll beside me casually carrying a gun.

No one will park a tank in an intersection. Or a cow, for that matter.

No one will ask me what we’re doing in class or when I will return their papers.

No one will drive up on a boda, or a mutatu and offer me a seat.

I’m excited. I’m sad. I’m frustrated. I’m lonely. I’m loved. I’m pushing away. I’m clinging. I’m not sure I’m ready to let go in just three weeks.

Moments of Paradise in Western Uganda and Rwanda

Making more than Kony “visible”

Emotion. It is what has driven millions of social media consumers to care about evil people and unjust situations. It is the force that has prodded me to unravel my own knot of oscillating sentiments towards the campaign.

On one hand, I am awestruck by the momentum of the movement. The KONY2012 video uses every single propaganda/persuasion technique one of my classes has ever examined and uses them effectively, seemingly effortlessly, to address a social justice issue (well, maybe not effortlessly… they have poured thousands of dollars and dozens of minds into the infomercial’s success). From a media literacy perspective, this has been an incredible “experiment” (to use I.C’s words), and I have been genuinely amazed to see how quickly friends on nearly every continent are posting about Uganda. When I announced to people I was moving here two years ago, most people knew next to nothing of my new home. An American customer service rep, just last month, asked me to spell the country’s name… obviously hearing of it for the first time. Now, Invisible Children has succeeded at putting Uganda on the international radar. That cannot be understated.

In the Invisible Children video, Kony is portrayed as a horrific figure with evil plots and a menacing presence. I wholeheartedly support aims to capture him. I could not agree more that families should not have to live in fear. That children should not be forced to be soldiers, to kill their own families. That people should not be displaced by fighting. That international attention has been far too limited and hundreds have suffered in (media) silence. That people geographically far from justice abuses can, and should, make a difference. That social media and the unity of many voices both hold substantial power.

And yet… I have been hesitant about a full-fledged support of Kony2012 and I think I have finally figured out why: on a small level, I am hesitant about Invisible Children’s approach for many of the same reasons other critics have voice (props to Invisible Children for directly addressing many of these concerns at least). But to a greater degree, I am baffled why Kony is such a huge international villain while other, albeit less dramatic/sensational tyrants, ravage this region. Kony has not been in Uganda since 2003. His forces have been diminished to about 200.  Does he still do bad things? Of course.  Should he be stopped? YES. But there are dozens of other issues that, in my mind, need more of an immediate response:

*Malaria and AIDs claim the lives of thousands in this region each year (lives that could be saved with more affordable health care, larger-scale education campaigns, access to/education about mosquito nets, etc).

*Millions in this region face an immediate threat of starvation due to the large-scale famine in East Africa. Similarly, thousands of Somali refugees flee to Kenya to escape political instability and droughts.

*Here in Uganda, food and gas prices are wildly inflated. People regularly protest and the government has taken often excessive and violent measures to quell protesters’ anger at their inability to afford basic amenities.  Many who can afford to eat still suffer malnutrition because it is too expensive to eat balanced meals.

*Public education is limited and many cannot afford school fees (and did you know that Uganda has the 2^nd highest birth rate in the world? The average woman here births 6-7 children!). That's a lot of kids to educate!

*Child Sacrifice continues in Uganda and the government has not yet taken a strong proactive stance against it (note: this is a practice where virgin children are abducted and slain by witch-doctors, their body parts sold because they are thought to bring prosperity to the buyers). 

*Each year, thousands of women in the region are subjected to female circumcision (part of numerous tribal traditions; technically outlawed but still prevalent).  

*The government is considering, yet again, a national law that would subject people who are homosexual in Uganda to the death penalty.  The death penalty!

After several days of reflection and seemingly constant mental churning of the issue, I revisit an idea I posted on facebook early on: I desperately hope that this campaign drives people to learn more about this region. If the Invisible Children film succeeds in doing that AND somehow aiding the process of catching Kony in the process, than it is a victory for the Ugandan people.

Please take the time to learn more about this part of the world. There are many people and causes that need support. Consider splitting your support between these causes! Below you can find links to some groups I respect that are doing things to help a few of these causes:

Hunger/famine: Oxfam:

www.oxfam.org

World Food Programme:

www.wfp.org

Child Sacrfiice: Gideon Foundation (note: this was started by one of my students)

http://gideonfoundation.com/

Disease control: UNICEF

www.unicef.org

Some interesting facts about Uganda (ex: literacy rates, HIV prevalence, etc):

https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/geos/ug.html

A friend runs this group that uses sports to educate/reach Ugandan youth (including those in the region the I.C. movie focuses on):
www.kampalakidsleague.org/

My Favorite Things

*Written in honor of my decision to take my offer at UCLA*

Sushi and smoothies and berries that glisten

Walking at dusk with no fear of being bitten

Passing a cop... what no bribes have to sling?

These are a few of my favorite things

Strolling on beaches and artists that doodle

Target and malls... the whole kit and caboodle 

 Blossoms that come with the start of the spring [seasons?]

These are a few of my favorite things

Downloads in seconds and uploads in flashes

Rubbish in bins in lieu of burning stashes

Family close by and the hugs that they bring

These are a few of my favorite things

Chorus:

When the power cuts

When the choir sings [at 2 am?] 

When no water’s had

I simply remember LA’s offerings

And then I don't feel so bad

Vulnerable (adj.)

Without more education, she is constrained to low-paying jobs. Without a stable job, she cannot afford the classes (which, in  turn, require time off work). Without a full-time job, she cannot pay her daughter’s school fees. She has no means to eat, to pay rent.

Her desires for a different life persist; she dreams of work as a secretary or caterer (both require certificates here). Yet the means to achieve her ambitions are limited. An impossible situation.

I am already flooded with guilt for leaving Harriet when I leave Uganda. The country, the system, me: we all leave her vulnerable. I am thrilled that I am going to be starting a PhD program that I am excited about (95% sure I’m going to accept my offer at UCLA). I am ecstatic about being closer to family and the ocean. And yet, I feel utterly helpless to aid a woman who has meant so much to me here!  

February in Pictures

At the start of February, I accompanied the grade 11 students to Fort Portal and Kibale Forest for ISU's Week Without Walls. Students conducted science experiments in the forest, participated in local service projects, learned about the Toro Kingdom, toured fair trade tea estates, etc. It was a great bonding time with students! As an added bonus, my group saw a family of chimps in the forest! 

My student leaders for the Global Issues Network organized the first (of hopefully several) fair trade coffee house at ISU. They sold fair trade products, orchestrated an evening of musical performances, displayed green artwork, shared information about causes, etc. I was VERY proud of their efforts!

Last week I toured Ethiopia during my half term break. It was a beautiful and fascinating country! It was so different than Uganda (everything from landscape to religion to language was unique). A fantastic trip!

Travel Jitters

See post from Feb. 10 for context

Cultural Chaos Part 2: 

Day 1; 7:02 am: After about 25 minutes of loading and rearranging, we finally pull out of the driveway. The dog barks from within the compound, his head protruding through the gate’s peephole, his cocked expression perplexed at the sudden disappearance of all his people. Harriet calls goodbye out the front window and returns to her conscientious examination of Ugandan maps. Seven-year-old Loveline sits behind me with a sprawling grin, her right foot taps in an anxious beat on my seatbelt. Before we even make it down the street (note: my street is exactly one house in length), she asks to pull over so she can urinate. Gracious re-adjusts himself in the back seat as Loveline scampers from the car, pulls down her leggings, and squats on my perimeter lawn. Gracious’ 3-year-old son, Kevin (named after an action figure), remains a statue on his dad’s left knee. The toddler glares at me and studies my movements skeptically. Gracious pets his son’s shoulder and slides his other hand reassuringly along his wife’s knee. He mumbles to her as Loveline hops back in the car. She hugs the 9-month-old girl to her chest as Loveline settles at her side. 

I start driving again and head towards the main road. As I merge onto Entebbe Road, Gracious announces that his wife is terrified of cars (things that would have been nice to know before strapping her in a car for 20+ hours of driving in two days). On cue, she flings a blanket over her head to shield herself from the moving world. I peer through the rear-view mirror to see a rocking purple mound where a mother and baby were once visible. My eyes return to the potholes. Gasps escape the mound with each bump. Gracious nudges her and chastises in Luganda. “I want to enroll her in the army, teach her a gun” he proclaims loudly in English, a language completely foreign to his wife. I navigate around a stalled mutatu in the left lane, unsure how to appropriately respond. I look in the mirror, his smile offers a hint. “Then she will not be afraid of cars,” he exclaims with a laugh. Harriet chuckles in the front seat. I force half a laugh as I try to imagine the purple mound behind me bearing a riffle. My mind is still searching for a link between comfort with guns and comfort with vehicles, but Loveline breaks my thoughts with another toilet plea. 7:18, pit stop #2; this time she squats in the ditch beside a chapatti stall. The lack of car movement suddenly reveals that the infant beneath the purple blanket has wet herself. Harriet notices as well and recommends we recommence our journey; “then the smell won’t catch us,” she says. I try not to breath or let my face give away my discomfort.

A few minutes later as the pothole dodging continues, Gracious calls out for a plastic bag; the three-year-old is motion sick and puking. A chain effect, the purple mound and Loveline follow the toddler’s lead. I stop again to let three back seat passengers empty the contents of their anxious stomachs on the side of the road. 7:27. Pitstop#3. I make note of our whereabouts—even with Gracious’ shortcut and a complete absence of traffic (a rarity in this city), we are not even half way out of Kampala.

Mints are distributed. Nerves are calmed. We start yet again.

7:47: We make our final pit stop within Kampala. This time, Loveline dodges a group of goats and relieves herself beyond the edge of a lime green building.

8:14: My passengers’ digestive tracks and bladders are sufficiently empty. My seatbelt has stopped contracting in an anxious rhythm. The purple blanket has moved to a bag on the floor. The toddler is looking out the window while Gracious identifies cows and trees in heavily-accented English. As we spin around the Northern Bi-pass, finally exiting Kampala, I breath a sigh of relief that the first round of jitters have effectively been quelled. Only another 19+ hours in a confined moving vehicle to go!   

All You Need is Love

“After that trip, you’ll have enough stories to write for a year!” a friend joked as I told her of my plans to take the people who work for me and their families on their first safari. I guess she’s right; if you pack 4 adults and 3 children under the age of 7 (6 Ugandans + 1 muzungu; 6 completely inexperienced travelers); 2 full and 2 half English speakers (with a total of 3 first languages); 2 days’ worth of food; 1 tent; 1 headlamp; 1 strobe light; and a leaking kerosene stove into a 5-seater RAV4 destined for a distant game park, cultural chaos is bound to ensue…. and ensue it did. Alas, the first of (likely) many intercultural musings from the trip.

Cultural intersection #1, in honor of Valentine’s Day:

I occasionally lament playing the role of bachelorette, the never ending search through the muck of leftover men…or perhaps undiscovered gems (so I like to believe). I still maintain an utterly idealistic picture of a man who will whisk me off my feet and cling to the hope that one day, I will “just know he’s the one.” As I wait/date/search, it is easy to bemoan the required effort, to loathe the disappointments that accompany such romantic notions.

Over a shared flask of Waragi our first night, I discovered some of my travel companions took a vastly different approach towards spouse-hunting. Three years ago, my gardener, Gracious, informed his village he would be returning home to choose a wife for his 30^th birthday. Several women appealed for consideration. Gracious returned to his home village, met his (present) wife--once, talked with her on the phone-- twice, asked for her consent to marry-- was approved, and held a wedding just one week later. Only a month after their wedding, Gracious’ 19-year-old bride was pregnant with their first child.

In the U.S. it takes engaged couples longer to settle on a florist than it took Gracious and his wife to meet, marry, and reproduce. Through my western lens, this approach towards marriage is both foreign and slightly unsettling. And yet, as I attempt to extricate my cultural biases, I am struck by the problems that such an approach eliminates (think: a limited number of awkward first dates; far less psychoanalysis of compatibility; an absence of breakups; no pangs over flirtatious text message phrasing…). At the base of it, there is something oddly romantic about the faith a couple (that know next to nothing about each other) put in the construct of marriage, in the idea of fostered love, commitment, and family.

I still gravitate towards Westernized conceptions of love. Yet, as Valentine’s Day rolls around (and I am just as single as ever), I can’t help but chuckle at the idea of an announcement in the San Jose Mercury proclaiming my intent to marry. A line-up of men to choose from might not be so bad!