This evening, I leave the country of Uganda. It’s hard to say at this point how the past 4 months have changed me or what I will miss. I believe that these realizations will come more gradually as I am reacquainted to those things which were formally my norm. As a way to look over my experience here, I return to the very first journal entry I wrote on the plane rides that brought me to this country:
23/24 January
Somewhere over the Great Britain
“How will the next 3 1/2 months pass? Have I learned enough from Tamale, Ghana and will I open myself enough this time? How will this affect my studies, my pursuits, my life?...
Challenge: Find the beauty, ingenuity, expertise, uniqueness, and inspirational qualities of Uganda. Don’t be angered, saddened or frustrated by that which does not match your standards. Use your discomfort as a reflecting pool to determine the source of your discomfort, to give insight into the culture, your culture, and yourself.
I am here foremost to listen, observe and learn. Too many people come to this continent to “teach” and “help.” At the moment it is quite possible that the most help I can do is to listen and learn. Too often action is prized without the vital qualification of understanding. What can I bring back from this country that can benefit and improve people all over the world?
Q: Why Africa?
A: I want to challenge global perception of this continent. How is it that this huge continent which is where humanity began can be condensed in a few hundred years of history and one great land mass? Why is its culture condensed to dance, song, violence, superstition and death?
There is so much here for the rest of the world to learn, but we’re too busy dictating “development” plans to take the time to evaluate what exactly is to be “developed” and to what end.”
_
So did I meet my challenge? Again, it’s hard to say while I still am in the country and when I am preoccupied with the thought of seeing my family and friends back home so soon. I would say that I am happy with what I have learned and experienced in the country and that as a whole, the experience was much more positive than that in Tamale. I am proud of my final paper on persons with albinism and the research that I was able to perform. Outside of the academics, I am happy that I was able to learn how to live and feel comfortable in a foreign country. So far, I have no regrets except for not learning how to cook more Ugandan food. I would count such a trip a success. However, the real success comes from translating this experience into daily life back in the U.S. (and of course doing this without becoming a self-righteous and pretentious snob).
Here goes...
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
"Oppression Through Omission: The Case of Persons with Albinism in Uganda"
The following is the abstract from my research paper completed for my final grade. I wish I could somehow post the whole paper, but if you are interested in reading it, please email me at allenk@beloit.edu.
The condition of albinism within the context of Eastern Africa presents a puzzling and troubling question to the Human Rights community: how does a state protect a marginalized minority that is undefined by Human Rights statutes? This paper looks into what the specific and unique challenges are facing persons with albinism, particularly in Uganda, and how current Human Rights documents do and do not address those issues. The paper also explores the possible reasons why the issues surrounding albinism are only recently being discussed.
The paper incorporates interviews from a variety of relevant authority figures, selected by their work with albinism, disabilities, and/or human rights. The researcher familiarized herself with a broad range of Human Rights documents, using the most relevant to explain their limitations in addressing the issue of albinism in East Africa. Publications regarding the issues of albinism in recent years were used within the primary stages of the research. They proved less helpful later on, as most available information is regarding the hunting of albino persons in Tanzania, Burundi and the Congo.
Persons with albinism are particularly vulnerable in East Africa due to a combination of environmental and sociological factors, which have served to repress this group and prevent mobilization. Since most of the challenges faced by albino persons are not directly caused by their medical condition, it is difficult to define these persons within a specific category. Vulnerable groups such as race categories and minorities are unable to incorporate the biological aspect of albinism. In researching the possibility of fitting Albinism under the disability category, the researcher found an interesting discordance between international and domestic disability theory, which prevents albinism from being officially recognized as a disability in Uganda. Most of the problems facing persons with albinism can be linked to a lack comprehensive and accessible information on albinism that is currently available.
The condition of albinism within the context of Eastern Africa presents a puzzling and troubling question to the Human Rights community: how does a state protect a marginalized minority that is undefined by Human Rights statutes? This paper looks into what the specific and unique challenges are facing persons with albinism, particularly in Uganda, and how current Human Rights documents do and do not address those issues. The paper also explores the possible reasons why the issues surrounding albinism are only recently being discussed.
The paper incorporates interviews from a variety of relevant authority figures, selected by their work with albinism, disabilities, and/or human rights. The researcher familiarized herself with a broad range of Human Rights documents, using the most relevant to explain their limitations in addressing the issue of albinism in East Africa. Publications regarding the issues of albinism in recent years were used within the primary stages of the research. They proved less helpful later on, as most available information is regarding the hunting of albino persons in Tanzania, Burundi and the Congo.
Persons with albinism are particularly vulnerable in East Africa due to a combination of environmental and sociological factors, which have served to repress this group and prevent mobilization. Since most of the challenges faced by albino persons are not directly caused by their medical condition, it is difficult to define these persons within a specific category. Vulnerable groups such as race categories and minorities are unable to incorporate the biological aspect of albinism. In researching the possibility of fitting Albinism under the disability category, the researcher found an interesting discordance between international and domestic disability theory, which prevents albinism from being officially recognized as a disability in Uganda. Most of the problems facing persons with albinism can be linked to a lack comprehensive and accessible information on albinism that is currently available.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Weeraba - "Bye"
While I would like to blame my lack of blog posts to the recent death of my computer or to the fact that I am in the process of writing the longest paper I have ever written, the real reason is probably more due to the fact that I have not been as deeply reflective as I was through most of this program. Maybe I burned myself out spending too much time in my own head. Or maybe I’ve just become so accustomed to my life here. It’s really too bad that I feel so at home now, two weeks before I leave. But then again, maybe that is why I am able to forget my homesickness and enjoy those things around me.
Now, I choose to go back to my aquaintance from a previous post, my dear pen pal, Shamim, who I got to see for the last time this weekend, which was also my last visit to my homestay.
On my walk into Natete to see my homestay, I greeted Shamim and her friends and family with a photobook of my homestate, Kentucky, as well as a child’s English dictionary. The gifts were eagerly received, though I honestly felt that the eagerness had little to do with the physical gifts, as the broad smiles and bounding exhuberance preceded the opening of my duffle bag. Shamim and her mother picked out a few of the pears I love so much and I couple of carrots from the stand, which I received with the humblest of “thank-yous” – weebale. Then, Shamim and her friend escorted me a ways down the street. I think I was just as proud and happy to have them as my entourage as they were to have me.
Two days later, I am stopped on my walk back before I even reach Shamim’s plot. Her mother had spotted me from wherever she was at the time and had chased me down the street. At first I was annoyed to hear someone following me, repeating “Muzungu,” before I turned around and recognized Shamim’s mother. My annoyance disapated and all I felt was joy at seeing her face. Shamim’s mother walked me to their plot, chatting away in Luganda as if we were old friends. I only caught maybe every sixth word that she said, but I picked up on enough clues to laugh at all the appropriate places, and that’s really what conversations are all about.
Shamim and friends came running out as soon as they were called, and I embraced all four of them in a warm group-hug. I don’t really remember what words were said, which were in Luganda and which were in English; the circumstance was evident. They knew this was my last walk past their plot and they were ready with a send-off most fitting and humbling.
The fruitstand was closed for Sunday, but while I was greeting the children, Shamim’s mother pulled out from a container by her house, a plastic back full of pears, carrots, and tomatoes. Each one of them looked as though they had been hand-picked for their ripeness and perfection. To make way for the bulging bag of produce and to try to compensate for my woefully inadequate supply of gifts, I pulled out my fleece sleeping blanket and handed it to Shamim. I was thankful that I had barely used the blanket and that it was still in nearly new condition. My gift was relatively inferior to theirs, but I had a feeling that Shamim and her mother were not concerned with what the gifts were, but about the interaction they afforded.
Taking my hand in hers, Shamim and I walked towards the taxi which would take me back to the hostel, and in less than two weeks time, home.
Now, I choose to go back to my aquaintance from a previous post, my dear pen pal, Shamim, who I got to see for the last time this weekend, which was also my last visit to my homestay.
On my walk into Natete to see my homestay, I greeted Shamim and her friends and family with a photobook of my homestate, Kentucky, as well as a child’s English dictionary. The gifts were eagerly received, though I honestly felt that the eagerness had little to do with the physical gifts, as the broad smiles and bounding exhuberance preceded the opening of my duffle bag. Shamim and her mother picked out a few of the pears I love so much and I couple of carrots from the stand, which I received with the humblest of “thank-yous” – weebale. Then, Shamim and her friend escorted me a ways down the street. I think I was just as proud and happy to have them as my entourage as they were to have me.
Two days later, I am stopped on my walk back before I even reach Shamim’s plot. Her mother had spotted me from wherever she was at the time and had chased me down the street. At first I was annoyed to hear someone following me, repeating “Muzungu,” before I turned around and recognized Shamim’s mother. My annoyance disapated and all I felt was joy at seeing her face. Shamim’s mother walked me to their plot, chatting away in Luganda as if we were old friends. I only caught maybe every sixth word that she said, but I picked up on enough clues to laugh at all the appropriate places, and that’s really what conversations are all about.
Shamim and friends came running out as soon as they were called, and I embraced all four of them in a warm group-hug. I don’t really remember what words were said, which were in Luganda and which were in English; the circumstance was evident. They knew this was my last walk past their plot and they were ready with a send-off most fitting and humbling.
The fruitstand was closed for Sunday, but while I was greeting the children, Shamim’s mother pulled out from a container by her house, a plastic back full of pears, carrots, and tomatoes. Each one of them looked as though they had been hand-picked for their ripeness and perfection. To make way for the bulging bag of produce and to try to compensate for my woefully inadequate supply of gifts, I pulled out my fleece sleeping blanket and handed it to Shamim. I was thankful that I had barely used the blanket and that it was still in nearly new condition. My gift was relatively inferior to theirs, but I had a feeling that Shamim and her mother were not concerned with what the gifts were, but about the interaction they afforded.
Taking my hand in hers, Shamim and I walked towards the taxi which would take me back to the hostel, and in less than two weeks time, home.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Conducting Research in Uganda
For those of you reading who are considering going into research in Uganda, or a similar African country, or those of you merely interested in what such a experience might be like, let me provide you with a bit of personal insight I have learned thus far about setting up interviews in Kampala. Of course a lot of this advice is common sense and much of this applies to conducting interviews in general.
Transportation
Since I am a student only here for a few months (and I have no burning desire to die anytime soon), I obviously have no means of personal transportation. I am at the mercy of Kampala taxis (and the occasional boda boda, motorcycle). Public transport is cheap, constant and usually takes at least three times of going where you want before you find any sort of efficient route. This poses a problem for interviews done any place outside of home or school, which is every interview. One of the leading problems could be the fact that there are very few known street names in Kampala and fewer known addresses.
So here’s what you do: go to a main taxi stage (which for me takes one to three taxis and a bit of a trek), ask someone standing around for the neighborhood you want to go to, get off somewhere in that neighborhood and walk around asking boda boda drivers for the particular building or organization you are looking for. Now this could take anywhere from forty-five minutes to four hours, which leads to the next problem:
Time
For your first interview, you want to make a good impression, so you want to be a few minutes early. No need to be too early, you most likely won’t start you interview till at least 30 minutes after the allotted time, if your interviewee is particularly punctual. Of course, since this is your first interview, you may very well have no idea where the hell your going, so you must make time for getting lost, and for being in a location much further than you had ever anticipated. For my first two interviews I ended up arriving an hour and a half before my appointment time.
You may have an idea of how long your interview should last, but your interviewee may have a very different idea. In the few interviews I have had, they have turned more into a mini-lecture series where I have had to actually ask very few questions, with the interviewee taking the reins. Be prepared to be interrupted by at least one phone call, which could be a member of Parliament or someone’s mother. Both phone calls will be answered with equal importance.
An hour seems to be an acceptable amount of time to discuss issues with authority figures, but it is critical to make sure you get contact info from them. You may want a followup interview or merely ask for a few clarifications over the phone. Speaking of...
Communication
Many people have email addresses, few people use them as a means of rapid communication.
If you want to get ahold of someone, phones are the best way. Of course they come with their own set of problems, particularly as an American in Uganda. Though phone service is excellent here, the actual connection is not always the clearest. An in addition to usually having to shout over the noise pollution of the city, it is always a struggle of accents when a non-Ugandan is speaking to a Ugandan. More so than already necessary in face-to-face interactions, one must repeat over and over again. Yes or no questions are best. Of course, you pay as you go, so it’s very common to be cut off in the middle of a sentence. Top Up cards are everywhere to be found but it’s a good idea to keep a few thousand shillings of minutes with you just incase you run out in the middle of making a critical appointment.
If someone is calling you, they may just “flash” you, which means that they will call you, let it ring once, and promptly hang up. No charge to them, and now you have to call them back in order to satisfy your curiosity, since there are no answering machines to be heard of.
In an anomalous switch from the usually time-indifferent culture of Kampala, phone conversations are short and to the point. Time is money. Since most people pay as they go, you can expect all phone calls to be kept as short as possible. Do not be offended by blunt conversations or mid-sentence hang-ups, though you should avoid both. Also, if you are making an appointment, be ready with your pen and calendar before you call. A typical conversation could go like this:
“Hello Honorable Member of Parliament, my name is Kelly Allen, I am a student from the United States conducting research and I would like the opportunity to interview you.”
“Fine, how about this Thursday at 3:00”
“Fine, thank you”
THE END
Making Appointments
Flexibility is key. Also, it’s a good idea to call in the mornings, especially because many times the person will ask you to come in that very afternoon. For this reason, interviewing can be a bipolar experience of unpredicted successes and utter failures. You may trek across town for three hours for an appointment you made a week ago only to find out that the person has left the country and that there is no record of your appointment. This can sometimes mean that an entire day is wasted. On the other hand, you may walk into an official organization without introduction or appointment and get to meet the director that very day.
Typical (for Kampala) and other possible reasons an interview may be called off:
the person has left town, or the country
any sort of family issue
funeral
public holiday you may or may not have ever heard of
riots
sickness
it’s raining
Of course you may also never receive an explanation. Always call ahead if you can and try to keep a back-up plan for the day, which could be reading backup literature or going to an organization which does not require an appointment. Also, whenever you are at an organization or an institution, whether you meet with your intended person or not, always ask if there is someone else there who would be willing to speak with you. You don’t want to waste any opportunity you have while you are on-site.
So this is what I have gotten from my first meetings. I am sure I will have many more fun examples and additional words of wisdom in the coming three weeks in which I am to finish this research paper.
Transportation
Since I am a student only here for a few months (and I have no burning desire to die anytime soon), I obviously have no means of personal transportation. I am at the mercy of Kampala taxis (and the occasional boda boda, motorcycle). Public transport is cheap, constant and usually takes at least three times of going where you want before you find any sort of efficient route. This poses a problem for interviews done any place outside of home or school, which is every interview. One of the leading problems could be the fact that there are very few known street names in Kampala and fewer known addresses.
So here’s what you do: go to a main taxi stage (which for me takes one to three taxis and a bit of a trek), ask someone standing around for the neighborhood you want to go to, get off somewhere in that neighborhood and walk around asking boda boda drivers for the particular building or organization you are looking for. Now this could take anywhere from forty-five minutes to four hours, which leads to the next problem:
Time
For your first interview, you want to make a good impression, so you want to be a few minutes early. No need to be too early, you most likely won’t start you interview till at least 30 minutes after the allotted time, if your interviewee is particularly punctual. Of course, since this is your first interview, you may very well have no idea where the hell your going, so you must make time for getting lost, and for being in a location much further than you had ever anticipated. For my first two interviews I ended up arriving an hour and a half before my appointment time.
You may have an idea of how long your interview should last, but your interviewee may have a very different idea. In the few interviews I have had, they have turned more into a mini-lecture series where I have had to actually ask very few questions, with the interviewee taking the reins. Be prepared to be interrupted by at least one phone call, which could be a member of Parliament or someone’s mother. Both phone calls will be answered with equal importance.
An hour seems to be an acceptable amount of time to discuss issues with authority figures, but it is critical to make sure you get contact info from them. You may want a followup interview or merely ask for a few clarifications over the phone. Speaking of...
Communication
Many people have email addresses, few people use them as a means of rapid communication.
If you want to get ahold of someone, phones are the best way. Of course they come with their own set of problems, particularly as an American in Uganda. Though phone service is excellent here, the actual connection is not always the clearest. An in addition to usually having to shout over the noise pollution of the city, it is always a struggle of accents when a non-Ugandan is speaking to a Ugandan. More so than already necessary in face-to-face interactions, one must repeat over and over again. Yes or no questions are best. Of course, you pay as you go, so it’s very common to be cut off in the middle of a sentence. Top Up cards are everywhere to be found but it’s a good idea to keep a few thousand shillings of minutes with you just incase you run out in the middle of making a critical appointment.
If someone is calling you, they may just “flash” you, which means that they will call you, let it ring once, and promptly hang up. No charge to them, and now you have to call them back in order to satisfy your curiosity, since there are no answering machines to be heard of.
In an anomalous switch from the usually time-indifferent culture of Kampala, phone conversations are short and to the point. Time is money. Since most people pay as they go, you can expect all phone calls to be kept as short as possible. Do not be offended by blunt conversations or mid-sentence hang-ups, though you should avoid both. Also, if you are making an appointment, be ready with your pen and calendar before you call. A typical conversation could go like this:
“Hello Honorable Member of Parliament, my name is Kelly Allen, I am a student from the United States conducting research and I would like the opportunity to interview you.”
“Fine, how about this Thursday at 3:00”
“Fine, thank you”
THE END
Making Appointments
Flexibility is key. Also, it’s a good idea to call in the mornings, especially because many times the person will ask you to come in that very afternoon. For this reason, interviewing can be a bipolar experience of unpredicted successes and utter failures. You may trek across town for three hours for an appointment you made a week ago only to find out that the person has left the country and that there is no record of your appointment. This can sometimes mean that an entire day is wasted. On the other hand, you may walk into an official organization without introduction or appointment and get to meet the director that very day.
Typical (for Kampala) and other possible reasons an interview may be called off:
the person has left town, or the country
any sort of family issue
funeral
public holiday you may or may not have ever heard of
riots
sickness
it’s raining
Of course you may also never receive an explanation. Always call ahead if you can and try to keep a back-up plan for the day, which could be reading backup literature or going to an organization which does not require an appointment. Also, whenever you are at an organization or an institution, whether you meet with your intended person or not, always ask if there is someone else there who would be willing to speak with you. You don’t want to waste any opportunity you have while you are on-site.
So this is what I have gotten from my first meetings. I am sure I will have many more fun examples and additional words of wisdom in the coming three weeks in which I am to finish this research paper.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Undefined Minority
“We are bats: we don’t look like birds, but we have wings”
- Mr. David Wangode, Founder of Nazigo Albino Association
See if you can follow the crazy degrees of separation:
In researching “Albinos in Uganda,” I repeatedly come across the name of a Mr. David Wangode, who founded and runs the Nazigo Albino Association, but I can’t find any website or contact information of any kind.
Next, I happen upon the website of a Norwegian woman raising funds to benefit non other than Mr. Wangode’s organization. This website does have contact information. I email a woman in Norway, who gives me the contact information for the man in Uganda (Mr. Wangode), who gives my information to his counterpart, Robert, who is actually located in Kampala.
So on Monday I meet Robert.
Robert:“I’ll wear an orange shirt and blue jeans, so you can find me.” (Robert is not an Albino) “What will you wear?”
Me: “I think you’ll be able to spot me pretty easily”
Robert meets me at the Stanbic bank with a warm smile and a welcoming hug.
We walk across the street to loiter in a restaurant for a few minutes, ignoring the sign quite obviously telling us not to.
“So you want to meet David?”
“Yes, of course”
“But he does not live in Kampala, we have to travel about 40 minutes away”
“That’s fine” - What I am saying in my head is, “I’ll walk there all day if I have to, just get me in contact with this guy”
“When can you go?”
Hmmm, I figured from the few times I had talked to Robert before that we would be going today. It’s technically a holiday (Easter Monday) so the likelihood that I could do anything else today is slim. But I understand that I need to be flexible.
“Anytime this week is fine”
“How about Tomorrow?”
“Yes, fine...”
“Actually, I was hoping maybe we could go today?”
“Today is fine!”
“Ok, we go”
And we did. Just like that, my day was planned: 2 hours in a taxi with Robert and I had one interview down. Robert filled me in on David’s Nazigo Albino Organization and what he knows about Albinism in general. By the time we reached Nazigo, I was already prepped with my background info to start interviewing Mr. Wangode.
-Pause-
Occasionally throughout this process of setting up the meeting and getting on a taxi out to rural Uganda, I realize how un-American and un-Kelly Allen this whole day has become. I would never dream of doing this in the United States. I’m not sure what it is, but I am not made uncomfortable at all by the situation. I trust wholeheartedly that these people are who they say they are and that their intentions are honest. I know my parents are probably not going to be to pleased with this knew M.O. of mine, but the only excuse I have right now is: TIA, and more to the point: This Is African Reasearch.
-Resume-
We reach Mr. Wangode’s home by boda boda (yet another stray from rational, overly-cautious Kelly) down a long dirt path.
Robert addresses the kids in the front yard: “Taata eri wa?” (Where’s your father?)
One points inside.
The kids are standing around in doorways and beside walls. They stare at us with mild interest behind bashful countenances. The chickens in the yard are much more bold - fully taking advantage of the free range. Later I would learn the importance of the chickens in this homestead. Poultry farming is one profession that can be done from within doors, a necessary criteria for a healthy, "Albino" profession.
Mr. Wangode finally comes out to greet us. He is wearing a wide-brimmed hat and long-sleeved shirt to protect his melanin-less skin. I shake his hand, making sure to politely place my left hand over my right arm, (a custom I picked up in Ghana, which seems to be pretty common all over Africa). Both David and Robert are enthused by my use of the Luganda greetings. We enter the home laughing and begin the interview easily, as both Robert and David are fluent in English.
-Pause-
It was only after the interview that I realized how comfortable I was in Mr. Wangode’s house. He had no door or windows to speak of, only sheets to keep out the late-day sun. His roof was made of tin, his floor of cement and his living room was only sparsely decorated with a calendar and a few posters of African leaders. In the first month of being in Uganda, I would have looked at this house and pitied its inhabitants. Today, I saw a modest but perfectly acceptable family home, and I felt no patronizing sense of pity toward its owner. The lack of a tile roof or glass windows no longer signify helpless poverty, but merely the fact that the weather hear does not necessitate their presence and that this family has bigger priorities.
A chicken ducks under a sheet and into the next room - Mr. Wangode’s “home office”
-Resume-
Mr. Wangode tells me his own story of being an Albino in Uganda. About how his mother was given an ultimatum by her husband: “If you want this marriage to continue, you will kill this child.” David’s mother refused. She had carried the child for 9 months, and she had birthed it through the agonizing pains of labour. She made the decision many women in her situation don’t have the courage to do - she chose not to kill her Albino child.
David went on to tell me how he founded the Nazigo Albino Organization as a group to help organize and give voice to this “special race” within his community. He also told me of how much more must be done, of how many more people are out there who need help. The government has deemed his a “noble cause” and has labeled Albinos “disabled,” but has shrugged off any responsibility for them, declaring that there simply isn’t room for them in the budget. This is a population estimated to be around 190,000 in Uganda according the the Uganda Albino Association.
For the next 4 weeks, I will be researching persons with Albinism in Uganda and where they stand under Human Rights laws internationally, regionally, and domestically. If my theory is correct, Albinos represent a group of persons as yet undefined and therefore left extremely vulnerable
- Mr. David Wangode, Founder of Nazigo Albino Association
See if you can follow the crazy degrees of separation:
In researching “Albinos in Uganda,” I repeatedly come across the name of a Mr. David Wangode, who founded and runs the Nazigo Albino Association, but I can’t find any website or contact information of any kind.
Next, I happen upon the website of a Norwegian woman raising funds to benefit non other than Mr. Wangode’s organization. This website does have contact information. I email a woman in Norway, who gives me the contact information for the man in Uganda (Mr. Wangode), who gives my information to his counterpart, Robert, who is actually located in Kampala.
So on Monday I meet Robert.
Robert:“I’ll wear an orange shirt and blue jeans, so you can find me.” (Robert is not an Albino) “What will you wear?”
Me: “I think you’ll be able to spot me pretty easily”
Robert meets me at the Stanbic bank with a warm smile and a welcoming hug.
We walk across the street to loiter in a restaurant for a few minutes, ignoring the sign quite obviously telling us not to.
“So you want to meet David?”
“Yes, of course”
“But he does not live in Kampala, we have to travel about 40 minutes away”
“That’s fine” - What I am saying in my head is, “I’ll walk there all day if I have to, just get me in contact with this guy”
“When can you go?”
Hmmm, I figured from the few times I had talked to Robert before that we would be going today. It’s technically a holiday (Easter Monday) so the likelihood that I could do anything else today is slim. But I understand that I need to be flexible.
“Anytime this week is fine”
“How about Tomorrow?”
“Yes, fine...”
“Actually, I was hoping maybe we could go today?”
“Today is fine!”
“Ok, we go”
And we did. Just like that, my day was planned: 2 hours in a taxi with Robert and I had one interview down. Robert filled me in on David’s Nazigo Albino Organization and what he knows about Albinism in general. By the time we reached Nazigo, I was already prepped with my background info to start interviewing Mr. Wangode.
-Pause-
Occasionally throughout this process of setting up the meeting and getting on a taxi out to rural Uganda, I realize how un-American and un-Kelly Allen this whole day has become. I would never dream of doing this in the United States. I’m not sure what it is, but I am not made uncomfortable at all by the situation. I trust wholeheartedly that these people are who they say they are and that their intentions are honest. I know my parents are probably not going to be to pleased with this knew M.O. of mine, but the only excuse I have right now is: TIA, and more to the point: This Is African Reasearch.
-Resume-
We reach Mr. Wangode’s home by boda boda (yet another stray from rational, overly-cautious Kelly) down a long dirt path.
Robert addresses the kids in the front yard: “Taata eri wa?” (Where’s your father?)
One points inside.
The kids are standing around in doorways and beside walls. They stare at us with mild interest behind bashful countenances. The chickens in the yard are much more bold - fully taking advantage of the free range. Later I would learn the importance of the chickens in this homestead. Poultry farming is one profession that can be done from within doors, a necessary criteria for a healthy, "Albino" profession.
Mr. Wangode finally comes out to greet us. He is wearing a wide-brimmed hat and long-sleeved shirt to protect his melanin-less skin. I shake his hand, making sure to politely place my left hand over my right arm, (a custom I picked up in Ghana, which seems to be pretty common all over Africa). Both David and Robert are enthused by my use of the Luganda greetings. We enter the home laughing and begin the interview easily, as both Robert and David are fluent in English.
-Pause-
It was only after the interview that I realized how comfortable I was in Mr. Wangode’s house. He had no door or windows to speak of, only sheets to keep out the late-day sun. His roof was made of tin, his floor of cement and his living room was only sparsely decorated with a calendar and a few posters of African leaders. In the first month of being in Uganda, I would have looked at this house and pitied its inhabitants. Today, I saw a modest but perfectly acceptable family home, and I felt no patronizing sense of pity toward its owner. The lack of a tile roof or glass windows no longer signify helpless poverty, but merely the fact that the weather hear does not necessitate their presence and that this family has bigger priorities.
A chicken ducks under a sheet and into the next room - Mr. Wangode’s “home office”
-Resume-
Mr. Wangode tells me his own story of being an Albino in Uganda. About how his mother was given an ultimatum by her husband: “If you want this marriage to continue, you will kill this child.” David’s mother refused. She had carried the child for 9 months, and she had birthed it through the agonizing pains of labour. She made the decision many women in her situation don’t have the courage to do - she chose not to kill her Albino child.
David went on to tell me how he founded the Nazigo Albino Organization as a group to help organize and give voice to this “special race” within his community. He also told me of how much more must be done, of how many more people are out there who need help. The government has deemed his a “noble cause” and has labeled Albinos “disabled,” but has shrugged off any responsibility for them, declaring that there simply isn’t room for them in the budget. This is a population estimated to be around 190,000 in Uganda according the the Uganda Albino Association.
For the next 4 weeks, I will be researching persons with Albinism in Uganda and where they stand under Human Rights laws internationally, regionally, and domestically. If my theory is correct, Albinos represent a group of persons as yet undefined and therefore left extremely vulnerable
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
My Pen Pal
NOTE: This blog was originally written Friday and Saturday March 19 & 20. It was easier to just leave the text in the present tense.
So today marked the end of the first half of the program. We have turned in any final assignments, our proposals for practicum and got our 950,000 UgSh stipends. I took the taxi to Natete for the last time going “home” to the Kawooyas.
Walking down the path to home, I had the usual, slight feeling of anxiety I get whenever I walk any stretch of road alone. Most of the time, the anticipation of being hassled is far worse than the event itself.
I was passing by the usual place I have spoke of before, where the mom’s announce my coming to the delight of two to six children, who run out, screaming my name. Our interactions have gradually grown to the point where they now cross the street to grab hold of my hand in greeting.
Tonight, I was getting back late, past 7:00pm, so the sun was already nearly set. Down the dirt path, a stampede of school children were skipping and singing in unison. It was too late for them to be just getting out of school, so I wondered what the reason for this parade at dusk was. But then that question quickly left my mind, following so many others I have learned to let pass. Like the thirty or so children, they disappear behind me, into the dust and darkness, T.I.A. (This is Africa)
But fighting through the crowd of kids was the little girl who held my hand so softly in hers yesterday, and told me that she loved me. Today, she said earnestly, she had something to give me: a pink envelope, folded twice over.
“Weebale nnyabo”, I thanked this gentle little girl. Clutching the envelope in one hand, and slowly releasing hers from the other, I let her fall back into the crowd of passing children. But I know she will be there tomorrow, and the next, waiting for me.
I walk home. The sun has fallen too low for me to read the precious epistle. I continue on the dirt path, staring at the ground as intently as some of the men I pass by are probably staring at me. I look up only at those areas now known to me as friendly faces. They are shopkeepers; women with their children who seem to be waiting for me to pass in order to test my Luganda skills.
Arriving back at the home, I apologize for my tardiness and make for my room as quickly a politeness will allow.
Temporary power outage. No problem. I can find my headlamp with my eyes closed now. I unfold the envelope in the LED-focused beam to read my name addressed on the cover: “Muzungu Bye Bye”. Precisely my name! I smile as I look at those words on the pink envelope, creased twice & soiled with the red dust that is so pervasive.
Flip over: written in handwriting almost as tiny and meek as its author: Nalwadda Shamim. The envelope is unsealed, and I lift the flap to pull out a half sheet of notebook paper. On the wide-ruled lines is writ:
“My name is Shamim
I love you so much
I lern in primary 4
even you write for me a letter
A you happy I think you are happy
Bye Bye
Nalwadda Shamim
The free-verse half-sonnet is lined by colorful trees drawn int the margins and is grounded by blue and pink rows at the bottom. I flip the torn half of paper over to see a row of trees planted above rainbow-colored, wide-ruled rows. Such a loving letter I have never received from a perfect stranger before.
* * *
Using the best of my Luganda and simple english, I respond with this:
Dear Shamim,
My name is Kelly - Erinnya lyange nze Kelly
I come from the U.S.A. - nva U.S.A.
I learn in University - nsoma mu university
Your letter makes me very happy
Thank you so much! - Weebale Nyo!
I love to see you every day - Njagala okulaba gwe buli lunaku
I will be going soon, sadly
I will live at Makerere - ngenda okubeera mu Makerere
But I will pass by to visit
I will never forget you, Shamim.
You have made me so happy.
I wish you the best in your studies.
And hope for the best for you and your family.
Stay happy,
Kelly Allen - U.S.A.
Lesson: My Luganda is worse than a grade-schooler’s ESL
Saturday- I walked down and was spotted a block away before the shops, despite coming from the opposite direction. I handed the letter to Shamim and we parted ways as soon as our greetings were exchanged. But before we split, I heard a couple of kids behind me say “Muzungu, give me some money.” I didn’t dignify the request with even a glance, but I did look to see Shamim’s reaction. Perhaps it was my fond feelings for the unassuming kindness of this girl which made me read into her expression, but I could have sworn I saw her look towards the kids with an air of embarrassment, or was it even distaste?
A part of me wants to leave our interaction at these past exchanges, before something like money spoils it. But a bigger part of me wants to come back.
So today marked the end of the first half of the program. We have turned in any final assignments, our proposals for practicum and got our 950,000 UgSh stipends. I took the taxi to Natete for the last time going “home” to the Kawooyas.
Walking down the path to home, I had the usual, slight feeling of anxiety I get whenever I walk any stretch of road alone. Most of the time, the anticipation of being hassled is far worse than the event itself.
I was passing by the usual place I have spoke of before, where the mom’s announce my coming to the delight of two to six children, who run out, screaming my name. Our interactions have gradually grown to the point where they now cross the street to grab hold of my hand in greeting.
Tonight, I was getting back late, past 7:00pm, so the sun was already nearly set. Down the dirt path, a stampede of school children were skipping and singing in unison. It was too late for them to be just getting out of school, so I wondered what the reason for this parade at dusk was. But then that question quickly left my mind, following so many others I have learned to let pass. Like the thirty or so children, they disappear behind me, into the dust and darkness, T.I.A. (This is Africa)
But fighting through the crowd of kids was the little girl who held my hand so softly in hers yesterday, and told me that she loved me. Today, she said earnestly, she had something to give me: a pink envelope, folded twice over.
“Weebale nnyabo”, I thanked this gentle little girl. Clutching the envelope in one hand, and slowly releasing hers from the other, I let her fall back into the crowd of passing children. But I know she will be there tomorrow, and the next, waiting for me.
I walk home. The sun has fallen too low for me to read the precious epistle. I continue on the dirt path, staring at the ground as intently as some of the men I pass by are probably staring at me. I look up only at those areas now known to me as friendly faces. They are shopkeepers; women with their children who seem to be waiting for me to pass in order to test my Luganda skills.
Arriving back at the home, I apologize for my tardiness and make for my room as quickly a politeness will allow.
Temporary power outage. No problem. I can find my headlamp with my eyes closed now. I unfold the envelope in the LED-focused beam to read my name addressed on the cover: “Muzungu Bye Bye”. Precisely my name! I smile as I look at those words on the pink envelope, creased twice & soiled with the red dust that is so pervasive.
Flip over: written in handwriting almost as tiny and meek as its author: Nalwadda Shamim. The envelope is unsealed, and I lift the flap to pull out a half sheet of notebook paper. On the wide-ruled lines is writ:
“My name is Shamim
I love you so much
I lern in primary 4
even you write for me a letter
A you happy I think you are happy
Bye Bye
Nalwadda Shamim
The free-verse half-sonnet is lined by colorful trees drawn int the margins and is grounded by blue and pink rows at the bottom. I flip the torn half of paper over to see a row of trees planted above rainbow-colored, wide-ruled rows. Such a loving letter I have never received from a perfect stranger before.
* * *
Using the best of my Luganda and simple english, I respond with this:
Dear Shamim,
My name is Kelly - Erinnya lyange nze Kelly
I come from the U.S.A. - nva U.S.A.
I learn in University - nsoma mu university
Your letter makes me very happy
Thank you so much! - Weebale Nyo!
I love to see you every day - Njagala okulaba gwe buli lunaku
I will be going soon, sadly
I will live at Makerere - ngenda okubeera mu Makerere
But I will pass by to visit
I will never forget you, Shamim.
You have made me so happy.
I wish you the best in your studies.
And hope for the best for you and your family.
Stay happy,
Kelly Allen - U.S.A.
Lesson: My Luganda is worse than a grade-schooler’s ESL
Saturday- I walked down and was spotted a block away before the shops, despite coming from the opposite direction. I handed the letter to Shamim and we parted ways as soon as our greetings were exchanged. But before we split, I heard a couple of kids behind me say “Muzungu, give me some money.” I didn’t dignify the request with even a glance, but I did look to see Shamim’s reaction. Perhaps it was my fond feelings for the unassuming kindness of this girl which made me read into her expression, but I could have sworn I saw her look towards the kids with an air of embarrassment, or was it even distaste?
A part of me wants to leave our interaction at these past exchanges, before something like money spoils it. But a bigger part of me wants to come back.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Time-travel through The Fountain(Head)
(Excerpt stoled from: Rand, Ayn. The Fountainhead. Signet: New York, 3rd ed. 1993. pp.139-140.)
“...The room had a skylight, but no windows...and no running water. She cooked her own meals in the kitchen of a numerous family on the floor below;...went to dime movies with girls of the neighborhood.
She wore frayed skirts and blouses...She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled potatoes, she bathed in a tin pan of cold water. She had never done these things before; she did them expertly.
...at the end of two weeks she returned to her penthouse apartment on the roof of a hotel over Central Park, and her articles on life in the slums appeared in the Banner...”
[The house] “has a sewer that gets clogged every other day and runs over, all through the courtyard”
“The family on the first floor do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school for lack of clothes. The father has a charge account at a corner speak-easy...In the fourth floor front, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children, supported by the local parish. There is a tenth one on its way.”
This passage provided a perfect example of what I have observed since my first trip to Tamale, Ghana. Many of the “backwards” and horrible conditions that Africa is so well known for bare a striking resemblance to the setting of my grandparent’s childhood. As I read this, my mind immediately turned to my experiences here in Uganda. I imagine that if this were to be me experiencing the slums in Uganda rather than Dominique Francon in the slums of 1920s New York, it would read something like this:
“...The room was lit by a doorframe which so poorly matched it’s holey partner it served only the purpose of its expected presence, but no windows...and no running water. She cooked her meals on the firewood stove of a numerous family a few houses down;...went to 200 Ug shilling (10 cents) movies with girls of the neighborhood.
She wore frayed skirts and blouses...She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled matooke, she bathed in a plastic tub of heated water. She had never done these things before; she did them with limited success.
...at the end of two weeks she returned to her three-story house in the highlands of Louisville, Kentucky, and her articles on life in the slums appeared on Blogspot.com...
The house is beside a sewer which gets clogged every time it rains and runs over, all through the neighborhood.
The family next door do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school because they cannot afford school fees nor uniforms, or even the price to get their hair buzzed; required of all school-age children. The father spends the family income on bags of moonshine...In the fourth shack down the street, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children. There is a tenth on its way.”
Some of these things I have actually experienced in my own homestay. Much I copied directly from the first passage. Hopefully the plagiarism will be forgiven on behalf of the point I am trying to make, which is that, though my grandmothers think I am traveling to the darkest place on earth, it’s almost as if I have merely traveled a few years back in time to experience the “good ol’ days.” (And if that won’t satisfy Ayn, then hopefully the citation will).
I want to be careful and not give the idea that Uganda is just America 90 years ago. In some ways this country is way farther advanced: TVs, Internet, cell phones, etc. The United States did not make it to the “development” (whatever way you want to interpret that term) it now enjoys after 48 years. Why are we surprised when Uganda doesn’t? Of course the two cases are not the same. History, culture, geography, and current world events must be taken into account along with so many other factors. In fact, the purpose of this comparison is not to suggest what lies in Uganda’s future. Instead, it is the hope of this author to allow for the reader to view Uganda’s poverty position as something which is not so foreign and distant from his/her own recent history.
“...The room had a skylight, but no windows...and no running water. She cooked her own meals in the kitchen of a numerous family on the floor below;...went to dime movies with girls of the neighborhood.
She wore frayed skirts and blouses...She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled potatoes, she bathed in a tin pan of cold water. She had never done these things before; she did them expertly.
...at the end of two weeks she returned to her penthouse apartment on the roof of a hotel over Central Park, and her articles on life in the slums appeared in the Banner...”
[The house] “has a sewer that gets clogged every other day and runs over, all through the courtyard”
“The family on the first floor do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school for lack of clothes. The father has a charge account at a corner speak-easy...In the fourth floor front, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children, supported by the local parish. There is a tenth one on its way.”
This passage provided a perfect example of what I have observed since my first trip to Tamale, Ghana. Many of the “backwards” and horrible conditions that Africa is so well known for bare a striking resemblance to the setting of my grandparent’s childhood. As I read this, my mind immediately turned to my experiences here in Uganda. I imagine that if this were to be me experiencing the slums in Uganda rather than Dominique Francon in the slums of 1920s New York, it would read something like this:
“...The room was lit by a doorframe which so poorly matched it’s holey partner it served only the purpose of its expected presence, but no windows...and no running water. She cooked her meals on the firewood stove of a numerous family a few houses down;...went to 200 Ug shilling (10 cents) movies with girls of the neighborhood.
She wore frayed skirts and blouses...She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled matooke, she bathed in a plastic tub of heated water. She had never done these things before; she did them with limited success.
...at the end of two weeks she returned to her three-story house in the highlands of Louisville, Kentucky, and her articles on life in the slums appeared on Blogspot.com...
The house is beside a sewer which gets clogged every time it rains and runs over, all through the neighborhood.
The family next door do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school because they cannot afford school fees nor uniforms, or even the price to get their hair buzzed; required of all school-age children. The father spends the family income on bags of moonshine...In the fourth shack down the street, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children. There is a tenth on its way.”
Some of these things I have actually experienced in my own homestay. Much I copied directly from the first passage. Hopefully the plagiarism will be forgiven on behalf of the point I am trying to make, which is that, though my grandmothers think I am traveling to the darkest place on earth, it’s almost as if I have merely traveled a few years back in time to experience the “good ol’ days.” (And if that won’t satisfy Ayn, then hopefully the citation will).
I want to be careful and not give the idea that Uganda is just America 90 years ago. In some ways this country is way farther advanced: TVs, Internet, cell phones, etc. The United States did not make it to the “development” (whatever way you want to interpret that term) it now enjoys after 48 years. Why are we surprised when Uganda doesn’t? Of course the two cases are not the same. History, culture, geography, and current world events must be taken into account along with so many other factors. In fact, the purpose of this comparison is not to suggest what lies in Uganda’s future. Instead, it is the hope of this author to allow for the reader to view Uganda’s poverty position as something which is not so foreign and distant from his/her own recent history.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Questions to Take Back
This blog goes back to a discussion I had with a few other students at the end of our extremely emotional trip to Rwanda. It follows well with my last (real) post and the questions are still ones I am struggling with going into the eighth week of Uganda.
Overall, we wondered, How do I take this experience back to the U.S.?
How do I not forget?
How do I teach others to understand?
How do I continue to care?
How do I morally deal with living a life so relatively privileged?
How do I help these people?
The toughest question for myself: Do I really disagree with a lot of foreign aid and intervention or am I just trying to excuse myself from the guilt of no longer pursuing plans of being an aid worker in Africa?
But then again, one of the reasons I keep coming to this continent is to see what Africa has to teach the West. The West has spent decades ripping the land raw of its raw materials and people. I think Africa has a less material commodity to offer. Maybe it’s no coincidence that this place makes me long for family so much; something which is very much a dying art form in the United States. I miss family functions and friendships more than I miss toilet stalls. Africa can teach us the simplicity found in prioritizing.
I want to make sure not to take an overly pastoral perspective of a developing country. It’s important not to deny some pressing and basic issues which Uganda faces such as sanitation and nutrition. And of course most of this country’s problems are exacerbated if not completely caused by corruption.
So how can this country “develop” to address the basic needs of its citizens in the most culturally appropriate way? When foreign intervention comes from such countries as the U.S., how much of our individualistic culture and own agenda is mixed in with the second-hand clothes and expired medications? I don’t think that “development” requires the extinction of the extended family. However, if Africa is to follow the American model, that just might be what we are prescribing: entrepreneurship, micro-lending groups which isolate wives from their “irresponsible” partners, aid distributers providing rations for nuclear families. Why not push families to build their businesses through the extended family? Could this avoid the problem of an over-saturated market of fruit sellers? How about building micro-finance organizations in a way that encourages mutual respect and inclusion of both partners in the fundamental organization of this society: marriage? When giving out aid, could the west take a little more time to recognize that providing for one’s family in Africa typically extends far beyond biological children?
And so now there are more questions than before and an infinite amount of answers, but how am I going to respond?
Overall, we wondered, How do I take this experience back to the U.S.?
How do I not forget?
How do I teach others to understand?
How do I continue to care?
How do I morally deal with living a life so relatively privileged?
How do I help these people?
The toughest question for myself: Do I really disagree with a lot of foreign aid and intervention or am I just trying to excuse myself from the guilt of no longer pursuing plans of being an aid worker in Africa?
But then again, one of the reasons I keep coming to this continent is to see what Africa has to teach the West. The West has spent decades ripping the land raw of its raw materials and people. I think Africa has a less material commodity to offer. Maybe it’s no coincidence that this place makes me long for family so much; something which is very much a dying art form in the United States. I miss family functions and friendships more than I miss toilet stalls. Africa can teach us the simplicity found in prioritizing.
I want to make sure not to take an overly pastoral perspective of a developing country. It’s important not to deny some pressing and basic issues which Uganda faces such as sanitation and nutrition. And of course most of this country’s problems are exacerbated if not completely caused by corruption.
So how can this country “develop” to address the basic needs of its citizens in the most culturally appropriate way? When foreign intervention comes from such countries as the U.S., how much of our individualistic culture and own agenda is mixed in with the second-hand clothes and expired medications? I don’t think that “development” requires the extinction of the extended family. However, if Africa is to follow the American model, that just might be what we are prescribing: entrepreneurship, micro-lending groups which isolate wives from their “irresponsible” partners, aid distributers providing rations for nuclear families. Why not push families to build their businesses through the extended family? Could this avoid the problem of an over-saturated market of fruit sellers? How about building micro-finance organizations in a way that encourages mutual respect and inclusion of both partners in the fundamental organization of this society: marriage? When giving out aid, could the west take a little more time to recognize that providing for one’s family in Africa typically extends far beyond biological children?
And so now there are more questions than before and an infinite amount of answers, but how am I going to respond?
Riots
no new posts because I was in rural Uganda for a week and today I have to leave for home early because of riots and burning tombs - read up on it at http://www.monitor.co.ug/
We're told that this is nothing to worry about, TIA
We're told that this is nothing to worry about, TIA
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Smokin' Innocence
Taking the taxi home today, one image stands out in my mind:
We approach the dark cloud burning from beside the road, its black, translucent haze wafting over the street. Tires are being burned, typical urban, Ugandan waste management. I hold my breath as we pass, wanting to limit my daily intake of carcinogens to the standard smog that lays over Kampala. As our taxi putters past, I think of similar, obvious health hazards which the average Kampala resident is subjected to every day: standing water, open sewage, wandering livestock, potassium over-dose (we eat a serious amount of bananas and related fruit).
While I reflect on this, I catch sight of a small girl, dressed in pink, in front of the flames, but still well within the toxic fumes of the burning rubber. She sat, legs folded under, hands together and outstretched, her eyes closed. It was as if she had fallen asleep while praying. Before, I was concerned about those who would inhale the poisonous gases just in passing by or being within a few blocks radius. But here was a small child enveloped within the noxious gases with a placidly serene face accompanying her prayerful posture. I wonder if her mother strategically placed her there, knowing the grotesque juxtaposition her composition would make.
Going to Ghana last summer dispelled so many of my preconceived notions of Africa. There was poverty for sure, particularly in Tamale, but I saw very few cases of desperation and hopelessness. Ghana caused me to reevaluate what I considered “poor” and allowed me to recognize many of the unnecessary extravagances of the U.S. I left Ghana feeling optimistic about the “Dark Continent,” convinced that the media and academia had over-exaggerated its problems. Heading over to Uganda, I hoped that Kampala would serve to debunk even more theories about sub-saharan Africa.
I wish I could say that Uganda has done that for me, but in a lot of ways, I am having to struggle with the realization that Uganda really is a “developing” country. There is real need here and I saw in the refugee settlements more desperation than I could come to terms with. The hardest thing to accept is that no one can fully understand or diagnose the problems. Many have tried and some, like Jeffrey Sachs, claim to have an easy fix-all that will be the tide to lift all ships. But what suffers with the current plans for development? The environment? Culture? Identity? Studying development has introduced me to a history of good intentions which have paved a path of destruction. Of course a lot of good is happening in development here. The AIDS Support Organization (TASO) has made great strides in raising awareness and promoting prevention practices. Micro-finance and self-help organizations have raised the status of women in the country and led to better household expenditures, which indirectly has improved health and education of Uganda’s children.
But where does empowering women step into the bounds of cultural imposition in a traditionally paternalistic culture? I wish to promote equality of women based on my own feminist tendencies and even more so on studies showing the benefits of promoting gender. Still, it is paralyzing to recognize the benefits of development and at the same time try to respect culture. This task is made even more difficult by the fact that it is so hard to determine what is culture? How much was the originally paternalistic culture warped by colonialists who manipulated the tribal system, introduced a paternalistic religion (christianity), and promoted only men to positions of power?
These are just a few of the conundrums of development studies. Stay tuned for possible revelations...
We approach the dark cloud burning from beside the road, its black, translucent haze wafting over the street. Tires are being burned, typical urban, Ugandan waste management. I hold my breath as we pass, wanting to limit my daily intake of carcinogens to the standard smog that lays over Kampala. As our taxi putters past, I think of similar, obvious health hazards which the average Kampala resident is subjected to every day: standing water, open sewage, wandering livestock, potassium over-dose (we eat a serious amount of bananas and related fruit).
While I reflect on this, I catch sight of a small girl, dressed in pink, in front of the flames, but still well within the toxic fumes of the burning rubber. She sat, legs folded under, hands together and outstretched, her eyes closed. It was as if she had fallen asleep while praying. Before, I was concerned about those who would inhale the poisonous gases just in passing by or being within a few blocks radius. But here was a small child enveloped within the noxious gases with a placidly serene face accompanying her prayerful posture. I wonder if her mother strategically placed her there, knowing the grotesque juxtaposition her composition would make.
Going to Ghana last summer dispelled so many of my preconceived notions of Africa. There was poverty for sure, particularly in Tamale, but I saw very few cases of desperation and hopelessness. Ghana caused me to reevaluate what I considered “poor” and allowed me to recognize many of the unnecessary extravagances of the U.S. I left Ghana feeling optimistic about the “Dark Continent,” convinced that the media and academia had over-exaggerated its problems. Heading over to Uganda, I hoped that Kampala would serve to debunk even more theories about sub-saharan Africa.
I wish I could say that Uganda has done that for me, but in a lot of ways, I am having to struggle with the realization that Uganda really is a “developing” country. There is real need here and I saw in the refugee settlements more desperation than I could come to terms with. The hardest thing to accept is that no one can fully understand or diagnose the problems. Many have tried and some, like Jeffrey Sachs, claim to have an easy fix-all that will be the tide to lift all ships. But what suffers with the current plans for development? The environment? Culture? Identity? Studying development has introduced me to a history of good intentions which have paved a path of destruction. Of course a lot of good is happening in development here. The AIDS Support Organization (TASO) has made great strides in raising awareness and promoting prevention practices. Micro-finance and self-help organizations have raised the status of women in the country and led to better household expenditures, which indirectly has improved health and education of Uganda’s children.
But where does empowering women step into the bounds of cultural imposition in a traditionally paternalistic culture? I wish to promote equality of women based on my own feminist tendencies and even more so on studies showing the benefits of promoting gender. Still, it is paralyzing to recognize the benefits of development and at the same time try to respect culture. This task is made even more difficult by the fact that it is so hard to determine what is culture? How much was the originally paternalistic culture warped by colonialists who manipulated the tribal system, introduced a paternalistic religion (christianity), and promoted only men to positions of power?
These are just a few of the conundrums of development studies. Stay tuned for possible revelations...
Monday, March 1, 2010
Kampala As Usual
I open my eyes to the darkness, always taking a few minutes to remember where I am. In between the malaria med-induced dreams and frequent trips outside of Kampala, I always need a few seconds of consciousness to recognize where I am. I pull away my mosquito-net canopy and hit the concrete floor with my bare feet. Across the room, I reach for my phone/alarm clock, which is obnoxiously playing some ridiculous American show tune, though it is no longer playing the default, Dixieland as I found it too ironic for an African phone.
5:45 am - Got to get up early to make it over the potholes and through the traffic jams to school. Being both the Muzungu and the only female besides my mom and Naka, the house help, I get to walk just a few steps over to the indoor bathroom, complete with flushing toilet and shower - quite the luxury. I am always thankful that I don’t have to walk through the house and courtyard, out to the pit latrine: a ceramic hole in the concrete floor of a long narrow room. I have recently learned that this is actually called and “Indian toilet” as it differs from a pit latrine in its ceramic exterior and flushing apparatus.
Brushing my teeth in the mirror, I take account of how I have already changed. Tan lines outline my tanktops and are highlighted by the pink of yesterday’s sun. My face is completely devoid of makeup; not even a solitary speck of mascara clings to my lashes. I haven’t been this natural since grade school. It’s sad that I’ve had to go a week of looking at myself without tar outlining my eyes to accept my natural face. Mostly, I just don’t see the point of makeup here. More-so than even my all-girls-Catholic high school, no one cares. Besides, I already get more than enough attention from my light skin and gender alone.
Other changes are the small hairs growing back on my scalp from my stint with narcolepsy medicine. Lucky for me, the perfect, equatorial climate is so conducive to sleeping that my afternoon lecture naps seem to be understood as perfectly acceptable. I can also see where all the matooke has been stored; my stomach already developing a convex curve I have resorted to one meal a day in order to try and suppress.
Grabbing my khakis and shirt, I walk further down the hall to the bunker where my two younger brothers still lie in their bunk beds, trying to see how much longer they can extend their slumber without consequence. I flip on the switch under the ironing table to turn the current onto the iron. There are two reasons to iron one’s close in Uganda. The first, to make you look “sharp.” Image is very important here, and how you look reflects upon your family. Maybe it’s because many people cannot afford a lot of clothes, or even new clothes, making it all the more important to have what clothes you do have always looking as nice as possible. The second reason, and my primary motivation, is to kill the eggs of a certain fly which sounds like it’s straight out of an Alien film. Usually, one only has to be concerned with these flesh-burrowing bugs if clothes are laid out to dry on the grass. Even though mine are dried on a line outside, I would rather not experience the sensation of having eggs germinate under my skin, later to emerge through a growing sore said to resemble a large pimple. (I have already had some intense Malaroid dreams on that which involved me pulling out larva with tweezers from a sore on my cheek.)
6:10am - I’m ready. We’re supposed to leave at 6:30, but know 7:00 is our earliest departure time. I spend the next fifty minutes sipping my ginger tea, sweetened with sugar and listen to the pounding of rain outside: rainy season is upon us. I ignore the two slices of bread before me, feeling that my body is still handling the matooke and posho carbs of the night before.
My 12 year-old brother, Isaac, is also finished getting ready early and sips his tea at the head of the table, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but looking smart in his grey and white school uniform. We sit and chat for half an hour while the rest of the house is awake and in a hurry to make up for the past thirty lethargic minutes. Isaac “remembers” he has not gotten his homework signed and drops the stack of four subject notebooks in front of me with five minutes to go. But I don’t fall for his trick so easily: “It’s Alice’s absenteeism not absentee, which gets her into trouble,”
“But we don’t have time!” Isaac whines, making sure to emphasize this fact with the stomping of feet while covering his face. He had altered his original plan of giving me his homework to sign the night before to five minutes before, but I still refused to sign the papers without proper review.
“You should have given this to me yesterday then!” Reluctantly, Isaac makes the corrections just in time to pile into the station wagon along with Kim, Eric, Adam, and Elizabeth, the neighbor who is about Kim’s age (six). The four cram together in the back seat, while I get shotgun, with mom at the wheel. We’re jostled from side to side on the uneven dirt and rock path to the neighborhood road. It’s a little smoother, but scarred by periodic speed hills (not bumps), which cause our car to bottom out every time, despite going over the humps at a diagonal. When we reach the paved road, our pace picks up, but now we are too concerned with avoiding potholes to stick to the designated left side.
We merge into the traffic at a main road and immediately begin the tedious stop and go of Kampala traffic. Pulling into a gas station, we pay the man 10,000 Uganda shillings (about $5) for an eighth of a tank, maybe less, seems like the gas gauge is always hovering at empty. Not sure why this is. I’ve heard some pumps are rigged to pump slower than what the meter says. There may also be a fear of siphoning or car theft.
Bottoming out again, we’re back on the road to drop Isaac and Kimu at their grade school. In another 30 minutes and 6 miles, my mother pulls over to drop me at my taxi stop for a 25 cent ride to the Resource Center, about 2 miles away.
5:45 am - Got to get up early to make it over the potholes and through the traffic jams to school. Being both the Muzungu and the only female besides my mom and Naka, the house help, I get to walk just a few steps over to the indoor bathroom, complete with flushing toilet and shower - quite the luxury. I am always thankful that I don’t have to walk through the house and courtyard, out to the pit latrine: a ceramic hole in the concrete floor of a long narrow room. I have recently learned that this is actually called and “Indian toilet” as it differs from a pit latrine in its ceramic exterior and flushing apparatus.
Brushing my teeth in the mirror, I take account of how I have already changed. Tan lines outline my tanktops and are highlighted by the pink of yesterday’s sun. My face is completely devoid of makeup; not even a solitary speck of mascara clings to my lashes. I haven’t been this natural since grade school. It’s sad that I’ve had to go a week of looking at myself without tar outlining my eyes to accept my natural face. Mostly, I just don’t see the point of makeup here. More-so than even my all-girls-Catholic high school, no one cares. Besides, I already get more than enough attention from my light skin and gender alone.
Other changes are the small hairs growing back on my scalp from my stint with narcolepsy medicine. Lucky for me, the perfect, equatorial climate is so conducive to sleeping that my afternoon lecture naps seem to be understood as perfectly acceptable. I can also see where all the matooke has been stored; my stomach already developing a convex curve I have resorted to one meal a day in order to try and suppress.
Grabbing my khakis and shirt, I walk further down the hall to the bunker where my two younger brothers still lie in their bunk beds, trying to see how much longer they can extend their slumber without consequence. I flip on the switch under the ironing table to turn the current onto the iron. There are two reasons to iron one’s close in Uganda. The first, to make you look “sharp.” Image is very important here, and how you look reflects upon your family. Maybe it’s because many people cannot afford a lot of clothes, or even new clothes, making it all the more important to have what clothes you do have always looking as nice as possible. The second reason, and my primary motivation, is to kill the eggs of a certain fly which sounds like it’s straight out of an Alien film. Usually, one only has to be concerned with these flesh-burrowing bugs if clothes are laid out to dry on the grass. Even though mine are dried on a line outside, I would rather not experience the sensation of having eggs germinate under my skin, later to emerge through a growing sore said to resemble a large pimple. (I have already had some intense Malaroid dreams on that which involved me pulling out larva with tweezers from a sore on my cheek.)
6:10am - I’m ready. We’re supposed to leave at 6:30, but know 7:00 is our earliest departure time. I spend the next fifty minutes sipping my ginger tea, sweetened with sugar and listen to the pounding of rain outside: rainy season is upon us. I ignore the two slices of bread before me, feeling that my body is still handling the matooke and posho carbs of the night before.
My 12 year-old brother, Isaac, is also finished getting ready early and sips his tea at the head of the table, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but looking smart in his grey and white school uniform. We sit and chat for half an hour while the rest of the house is awake and in a hurry to make up for the past thirty lethargic minutes. Isaac “remembers” he has not gotten his homework signed and drops the stack of four subject notebooks in front of me with five minutes to go. But I don’t fall for his trick so easily: “It’s Alice’s absenteeism not absentee, which gets her into trouble,”
“But we don’t have time!” Isaac whines, making sure to emphasize this fact with the stomping of feet while covering his face. He had altered his original plan of giving me his homework to sign the night before to five minutes before, but I still refused to sign the papers without proper review.
“You should have given this to me yesterday then!” Reluctantly, Isaac makes the corrections just in time to pile into the station wagon along with Kim, Eric, Adam, and Elizabeth, the neighbor who is about Kim’s age (six). The four cram together in the back seat, while I get shotgun, with mom at the wheel. We’re jostled from side to side on the uneven dirt and rock path to the neighborhood road. It’s a little smoother, but scarred by periodic speed hills (not bumps), which cause our car to bottom out every time, despite going over the humps at a diagonal. When we reach the paved road, our pace picks up, but now we are too concerned with avoiding potholes to stick to the designated left side.
We merge into the traffic at a main road and immediately begin the tedious stop and go of Kampala traffic. Pulling into a gas station, we pay the man 10,000 Uganda shillings (about $5) for an eighth of a tank, maybe less, seems like the gas gauge is always hovering at empty. Not sure why this is. I’ve heard some pumps are rigged to pump slower than what the meter says. There may also be a fear of siphoning or car theft.
Bottoming out again, we’re back on the road to drop Isaac and Kimu at their grade school. In another 30 minutes and 6 miles, my mother pulls over to drop me at my taxi stop for a 25 cent ride to the Resource Center, about 2 miles away.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Dancing with Prisoners: The Way to Reconciliation
Pulling up to the prison gate, our bus is passed by a truck-full of prisoners, clad in orange jumpsuits. The men are smiling and returning our stares. We wonder how many of the men before us were Hutus that had tortured and killed Tutsis and Tutsi sympathizers not even 16 years ago. There is no scarlet letter signifying their guilt, their orange outfits only tell us that they had been convicted of some crime, which may or may not have been related to the genocide.
As we walk through the front courtyard, a strange reversal of roles seems to take place: Men and women walk around, some aimlessly, some carrying out tasks, but all with relative freedom, while our group is led through, unconsciously formed into ordered pairs. I mention to the girl next to me how uncomfortable I feel about the situation, meaning the fact that we are being led through a prison as a tour group, but she takes me to mean the fact that we seem to be, yet again, the center of attention. We had no idea how literally those feelings would manifest.
After being caught by surprise at the settlement camps, we were sure to ask the night before if there was any sort of preparation we should have for the prison visit. Our academic director, Martha shrugged casually and said, “No, not really. You will hear a few testimonies from prisoners and have time to ask questions as a group.” Kale (ok), that sounded doable.
We line-up outside a large, brick building. I can’t see inside for the people standing in front of me, but I can hear music being played...odd. As I shuffle closer to the building’s entrance I see a decorated stage with chairs, which a prison guard is ushering us towards. The first in line had already grabbed the back rows, hoping to sink into the background of the elevated stage and spotlights. With no other options, I hesitantly took one of the front-row seats. Before me, hundreds of prisoners some wearing the convicted orange others the still-awaiting-trial pastel pink, are being lead into the audience, to sit facing us. To my left, three men play electric guitar and bass, a new-age and upbeat tune. No one seems to find this odd, except the 32 muzungus on stage. This didn’t seem like something we should be prepared for?!
I turn again to the same girl as earlier and say, “There is no foreseeable way that this can be made ok.” She just nods her head, half listening, still trying to make sense of what we have been led into. I was angry that the program had once again led us into a place of distress and severity with no more qualification for our being there than the fact that we hold U.S. passports. Already, I had been questioning why we should even be allowed to speak to prisoners when we are development studies students, not peace and conflict. But we were not only getting privileged access, we were honorary guests privileged to a special presentation.
After a few words from the head of the prison, eight men wearing traditional warrior outfits complete with spear, dance into the room to the beat of drums. They are clearly very experienced and they seem to be really enjoying the opportunity to share their talent. The faces of the prisoners in the audience are too generic to glean any emotion. A second speaker gives his “testimonial,” which consists of admitting his guilt in facilitating and partaking in the genocide and expressing his regret. This brief and generic guilty plea is followed promptly by a modern dance group. After the speaker seemed to brush aside such a horrendous atrocity with a few choice words, the performance of a few men about my age dancing in such a familiar style helped to alleviate some of my stress and anxiety about the situation. The people in front of us were no longer murderers, they were just...people. Since I could not distinguish between the varying levels of guilt, it was as if they were all the least horrible factor: innocent until proven guilty, right?
Other people in my group were not so quick to forget an forgive. We had, after all, just come from a horribly emotional memorial of the genocide to being asked to dance with possible perpetrators of that genocide. For me, I think I was ready to join with Rwanda in the reconciliation stage. My past exposure to the genocide had allowed me to go through the stages of grief, the final one perhaps being my breakdown during Sometimes in April. The most enlightening stage was my African studies course with Beth Dougherty my sophomore year. We studied the conflicts of Sierra Leone, Liberia, Angola, the Congo, Somalia, Eritrea & Ethiopia, as well as Rwanda. From the beginning Beth instilled in us a unique understanding of the actors in these atrocities. It was explained that the perpetrators of these genocide were not animalistic, freaks completely removed from ourselves, they were victims of their situation. We were brought to the realization that had we been in the same situation, we do not know that we would have acted any differently. It is impossible to know if one would or would not submit to authority or mob mentality till they are in the situation. Looking out at the prisoners before me, I could not feel anything besides pity and sorrow. There was a sense of relief when I was brought out on the floor to dance. It was a very literal way to connect with the people and to remove ourselves from the falsely elevated status.
After the dance party, we were led to a small room across the prison courtyard to speak with the head of the prison. The Tutsi woman stood before us confident and proud. After a briefing on the prison, she told us that she was a survivor of the 1994 genocide; looking at the deep scar above her right eye, I wondered just what that entailed. She related her initial hatred and bloodlust for the Hutus who were responsible for the genocide. In 1996, she came to work for the prison. As she worked with perpetrators of the genocide, the realization slowly grew that revenge would bring no solace and would only perpetuate the cycle hatred and anguish. Forgiveness and reconciliation is the only option for Rwanda’s future. And that is what we had just partaken in. If this woman could forgive the people responsible for the slaughter of her loved ones, who was I to judge?
And that was the second time I cried. Twice in one week, definitely a record for me. Here was a prison system that was actually based on rehabilitation and reconciliation, at least from what we heard and saw. In the U.S. convicts too often come out much worse than when they went in, many to become repeat offenders. Our “justice” system is based on punishment, which surely only harms our society in the long run. Though there are still rumors of discrimination and animosity between Hutus and Tutsis, from what I saw of Kigali and the prison, there is hope for Rwanda.
As we walk through the front courtyard, a strange reversal of roles seems to take place: Men and women walk around, some aimlessly, some carrying out tasks, but all with relative freedom, while our group is led through, unconsciously formed into ordered pairs. I mention to the girl next to me how uncomfortable I feel about the situation, meaning the fact that we are being led through a prison as a tour group, but she takes me to mean the fact that we seem to be, yet again, the center of attention. We had no idea how literally those feelings would manifest.
After being caught by surprise at the settlement camps, we were sure to ask the night before if there was any sort of preparation we should have for the prison visit. Our academic director, Martha shrugged casually and said, “No, not really. You will hear a few testimonies from prisoners and have time to ask questions as a group.” Kale (ok), that sounded doable.
We line-up outside a large, brick building. I can’t see inside for the people standing in front of me, but I can hear music being played...odd. As I shuffle closer to the building’s entrance I see a decorated stage with chairs, which a prison guard is ushering us towards. The first in line had already grabbed the back rows, hoping to sink into the background of the elevated stage and spotlights. With no other options, I hesitantly took one of the front-row seats. Before me, hundreds of prisoners some wearing the convicted orange others the still-awaiting-trial pastel pink, are being lead into the audience, to sit facing us. To my left, three men play electric guitar and bass, a new-age and upbeat tune. No one seems to find this odd, except the 32 muzungus on stage. This didn’t seem like something we should be prepared for?!
I turn again to the same girl as earlier and say, “There is no foreseeable way that this can be made ok.” She just nods her head, half listening, still trying to make sense of what we have been led into. I was angry that the program had once again led us into a place of distress and severity with no more qualification for our being there than the fact that we hold U.S. passports. Already, I had been questioning why we should even be allowed to speak to prisoners when we are development studies students, not peace and conflict. But we were not only getting privileged access, we were honorary guests privileged to a special presentation.
After a few words from the head of the prison, eight men wearing traditional warrior outfits complete with spear, dance into the room to the beat of drums. They are clearly very experienced and they seem to be really enjoying the opportunity to share their talent. The faces of the prisoners in the audience are too generic to glean any emotion. A second speaker gives his “testimonial,” which consists of admitting his guilt in facilitating and partaking in the genocide and expressing his regret. This brief and generic guilty plea is followed promptly by a modern dance group. After the speaker seemed to brush aside such a horrendous atrocity with a few choice words, the performance of a few men about my age dancing in such a familiar style helped to alleviate some of my stress and anxiety about the situation. The people in front of us were no longer murderers, they were just...people. Since I could not distinguish between the varying levels of guilt, it was as if they were all the least horrible factor: innocent until proven guilty, right?
Other people in my group were not so quick to forget an forgive. We had, after all, just come from a horribly emotional memorial of the genocide to being asked to dance with possible perpetrators of that genocide. For me, I think I was ready to join with Rwanda in the reconciliation stage. My past exposure to the genocide had allowed me to go through the stages of grief, the final one perhaps being my breakdown during Sometimes in April. The most enlightening stage was my African studies course with Beth Dougherty my sophomore year. We studied the conflicts of Sierra Leone, Liberia, Angola, the Congo, Somalia, Eritrea & Ethiopia, as well as Rwanda. From the beginning Beth instilled in us a unique understanding of the actors in these atrocities. It was explained that the perpetrators of these genocide were not animalistic, freaks completely removed from ourselves, they were victims of their situation. We were brought to the realization that had we been in the same situation, we do not know that we would have acted any differently. It is impossible to know if one would or would not submit to authority or mob mentality till they are in the situation. Looking out at the prisoners before me, I could not feel anything besides pity and sorrow. There was a sense of relief when I was brought out on the floor to dance. It was a very literal way to connect with the people and to remove ourselves from the falsely elevated status.
After the dance party, we were led to a small room across the prison courtyard to speak with the head of the prison. The Tutsi woman stood before us confident and proud. After a briefing on the prison, she told us that she was a survivor of the 1994 genocide; looking at the deep scar above her right eye, I wondered just what that entailed. She related her initial hatred and bloodlust for the Hutus who were responsible for the genocide. In 1996, she came to work for the prison. As she worked with perpetrators of the genocide, the realization slowly grew that revenge would bring no solace and would only perpetuate the cycle hatred and anguish. Forgiveness and reconciliation is the only option for Rwanda’s future. And that is what we had just partaken in. If this woman could forgive the people responsible for the slaughter of her loved ones, who was I to judge?
And that was the second time I cried. Twice in one week, definitely a record for me. Here was a prison system that was actually based on rehabilitation and reconciliation, at least from what we heard and saw. In the U.S. convicts too often come out much worse than when they went in, many to become repeat offenders. Our “justice” system is based on punishment, which surely only harms our society in the long run. Though there are still rumors of discrimination and animosity between Hutus and Tutsis, from what I saw of Kigali and the prison, there is hope for Rwanda.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Emerging From My Cave
This past week was the most random, intense and emotional week of my life. Never before have I been battered so relentlessly with such strong and conflicting feelings and actualities. I will try to recount the week within a reasonable-length post, which of course will leave a great deal out. If there is any point you, the reader, would like me to elaborate on, please let me know.
“Imagine him being dragged forcibly away from there up the rough, steep slope...without being released until he’s been pulled out into the sunlight. Wouldn’t this treatment cause him pain and distress?” - Socrates in Plato’s Republic
While rereading Plato’s parable of the Cave during the eight-hour car ride to Kigali, Rwanda, I recognized a wonderful parallel to what I am currently going through:
Day 1:
Watching “Sometimes in April,” I break down into a sobbing mess. I rarely cry, ever, but I am thankful when the DVD breaks two thirds of the way through and I can take the chance to excuse myself to my hotel room.
For some reason, the movie gave me the slightest feeling of what it might have been like to have lived in Rwanda during the genocide of 1994, and it scared me beyond belief. I was upset because I had caught the smallest glimpse of this tragedy and because I knew that feeling would soon become as distant and illusive as it always was.
Day 2:
We are taken straight from a successful development project at a rural school and dropped into a refugee settlement without a clue as to what we were getting into (a theme for the week, as it turned out). Separated into groups of seven, I followed the group headed to the Rwandan settlement, while others met with Somalians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Sudanese, Burundians, and Congolese. The setup of the site visit was like a sick and twisted safari where we gawked at the refugees for about an hour and a half before leaving the park in our rented vans.
The “interviews” were horribly awkward. We hadn’t prepared any questions because we had no idea what was going to happen. It was horribly awkward. An english class for adults was kicked out of their one-room classroom to make way for us seven American students to sit around for an hour, grasping for questions that might in some way validate our presence there. But they knew better: the Rwandans, like the Somalians and Sudanese and others, had seen American students come by, sometimes for a day, sometimes a month, it didn’t really matter because nothing ever came out of it. The refugees demanded explanations for our visits, and rightfully so. Even we were questioning why we had any right to be granted access to these camps, to use these people as guinea pigs for practicing our art of “rapport building” and interviewing.
We asked a few questions and learned some interesting things about the current situation of Hutus in and outside of Rwanda, but the people with the real questions were our interviewees: “What are you going to do?”
Hell, what can we do? They knew full well that we couldn’t provide any help or improvement. And yet they still talked to us and told us how hard life is for them in the settlement and back in Rwanda. In under two hours, I learned just how insignificant and yet relatively powerful I am and had no idea what that meant.
I am emerging from my cave of ignorance into a light far brighter and more disorientating than the equatorial sun. The hour spent in the settlement camp was so overwhelming and frightening, it is enough to scare me back into my cave of encompassing darkness.
“And once he’s reached the sunlight, he wouldn’t be able to see a single one of the things which are currently taken to be real, would he, because his eyes would be overwhelmed by the sun’s beams?”
Day 3:
Rwanda Genocide Memorial
I feel blind and helpless, groping for any bit of something to make sense of this new knowledge and these new feelings. The memorial left me emotionally numb. I just could not understand the violence, the hate, and the ignorance.
1930 Prison (see next blog for more detailed description)
We are told that we will be taken to the Kigali prison to hear testimonies from actors in the 1994 genocide...this wasn’t quite the case. We are placed in front of prisoners, many of whom are perpetrators of the genocide but none of whom are designated, as honored guests. They show off their culture to us and ask for our participation in turn. We are taken from the stage and led to the floor to dance with and for hundreds of prisoners. The experience is humbling, moving, and horribly confusing. Here we were dancing with possibly murderers, but we had no way of knowing who they were and what they had done. We had just come from a memorial which cried out for the thousands lost, yet here we were dancing and laughing with those who have been convicted of the crime.
Clive Owen walks by us at the mall
Day 4:
Rwandan Genocide Memorials: churches where thousands were killed
Clive Owen
The victims and perpetrators of the Rwandan genocide are no longer superficial shadows projected on a television screen, I have met the Hutus in the settlement camps and danced with the convicts in prison, and I have listened to the Tutsis now left in charge. But what does it all mean?
“And if he were forced to look at the actual firelight, don’t you think it would hurt his eyes? Don’t you think he’d turn away and run back to the things he could make out?”
The temptation to run back to my happy cave of ignorance in the United States is so strong that I fear it will be too much to resist. Even now, not even a week later, the emotions are fading. Two years ago, I was set on studying rural health in IDP camps in northern Uganda. After Ghana, I knew I could not go into rural health. After the refugee camps, I know I can’t even spend the six weeks of my independent project there. There is too much suffering, too much hopelessness, and I am too paralyzed by my own insignificance and remoteness to be of any use. But at least I know that. So now I am in the adjustment period: still blinded, senses numbed, but I am beginning to see the slightest silhouettes of something tangible.
NOTE: just learned that a grenade attack occurred in Kigali the day after we left. (don’t tell my grandmothers)
Republic, translated by Robin Waterfield. Oxford University Press 1993.
“Imagine him being dragged forcibly away from there up the rough, steep slope...without being released until he’s been pulled out into the sunlight. Wouldn’t this treatment cause him pain and distress?” - Socrates in Plato’s Republic
While rereading Plato’s parable of the Cave during the eight-hour car ride to Kigali, Rwanda, I recognized a wonderful parallel to what I am currently going through:
Day 1:
Watching “Sometimes in April,” I break down into a sobbing mess. I rarely cry, ever, but I am thankful when the DVD breaks two thirds of the way through and I can take the chance to excuse myself to my hotel room.
For some reason, the movie gave me the slightest feeling of what it might have been like to have lived in Rwanda during the genocide of 1994, and it scared me beyond belief. I was upset because I had caught the smallest glimpse of this tragedy and because I knew that feeling would soon become as distant and illusive as it always was.
Day 2:
We are taken straight from a successful development project at a rural school and dropped into a refugee settlement without a clue as to what we were getting into (a theme for the week, as it turned out). Separated into groups of seven, I followed the group headed to the Rwandan settlement, while others met with Somalians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Sudanese, Burundians, and Congolese. The setup of the site visit was like a sick and twisted safari where we gawked at the refugees for about an hour and a half before leaving the park in our rented vans.
The “interviews” were horribly awkward. We hadn’t prepared any questions because we had no idea what was going to happen. It was horribly awkward. An english class for adults was kicked out of their one-room classroom to make way for us seven American students to sit around for an hour, grasping for questions that might in some way validate our presence there. But they knew better: the Rwandans, like the Somalians and Sudanese and others, had seen American students come by, sometimes for a day, sometimes a month, it didn’t really matter because nothing ever came out of it. The refugees demanded explanations for our visits, and rightfully so. Even we were questioning why we had any right to be granted access to these camps, to use these people as guinea pigs for practicing our art of “rapport building” and interviewing.
We asked a few questions and learned some interesting things about the current situation of Hutus in and outside of Rwanda, but the people with the real questions were our interviewees: “What are you going to do?”
Hell, what can we do? They knew full well that we couldn’t provide any help or improvement. And yet they still talked to us and told us how hard life is for them in the settlement and back in Rwanda. In under two hours, I learned just how insignificant and yet relatively powerful I am and had no idea what that meant.
I am emerging from my cave of ignorance into a light far brighter and more disorientating than the equatorial sun. The hour spent in the settlement camp was so overwhelming and frightening, it is enough to scare me back into my cave of encompassing darkness.
“And once he’s reached the sunlight, he wouldn’t be able to see a single one of the things which are currently taken to be real, would he, because his eyes would be overwhelmed by the sun’s beams?”
Day 3:
Rwanda Genocide Memorial
I feel blind and helpless, groping for any bit of something to make sense of this new knowledge and these new feelings. The memorial left me emotionally numb. I just could not understand the violence, the hate, and the ignorance.
1930 Prison (see next blog for more detailed description)
We are told that we will be taken to the Kigali prison to hear testimonies from actors in the 1994 genocide...this wasn’t quite the case. We are placed in front of prisoners, many of whom are perpetrators of the genocide but none of whom are designated, as honored guests. They show off their culture to us and ask for our participation in turn. We are taken from the stage and led to the floor to dance with and for hundreds of prisoners. The experience is humbling, moving, and horribly confusing. Here we were dancing with possibly murderers, but we had no way of knowing who they were and what they had done. We had just come from a memorial which cried out for the thousands lost, yet here we were dancing and laughing with those who have been convicted of the crime.
Clive Owen walks by us at the mall
Day 4:
Rwandan Genocide Memorials: churches where thousands were killed
Clive Owen
The victims and perpetrators of the Rwandan genocide are no longer superficial shadows projected on a television screen, I have met the Hutus in the settlement camps and danced with the convicts in prison, and I have listened to the Tutsis now left in charge. But what does it all mean?
“And if he were forced to look at the actual firelight, don’t you think it would hurt his eyes? Don’t you think he’d turn away and run back to the things he could make out?”
The temptation to run back to my happy cave of ignorance in the United States is so strong that I fear it will be too much to resist. Even now, not even a week later, the emotions are fading. Two years ago, I was set on studying rural health in IDP camps in northern Uganda. After Ghana, I knew I could not go into rural health. After the refugee camps, I know I can’t even spend the six weeks of my independent project there. There is too much suffering, too much hopelessness, and I am too paralyzed by my own insignificance and remoteness to be of any use. But at least I know that. So now I am in the adjustment period: still blinded, senses numbed, but I am beginning to see the slightest silhouettes of something tangible.
NOTE: just learned that a grenade attack occurred in Kigali the day after we left. (don’t tell my grandmothers)
Republic, translated by Robin Waterfield. Oxford University Press 1993.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Dr. Matembe Part II: A “Discussion” on Homosexuality
Recently, Uganda has found its way back into the world news headlines. After decades of commendable development success and leading the fights against AIDS in Africa with brilliant strides immediately following a tumultuous period of fear and destruction under Idi Amin, Uganda appears to be backtracking. AIDs is on the rise again, schools are failing, and now a new bill has been introduced which would codify discrimination.
But is Uganda taking steps backward or merely displaying precisely where it stands in the “development” process?
Prompted by a question posed by one of the SIT students, Dr. Matembe explained her own double-standard when it comes to discriminating against homosexuals and bisexuals (she didn’t even know where to start on Transgendered, transsexuals, queer, and any other new letters that have been added to GLBTTQ). Ultimately, she summed up her position and the position of most Ugandans to the fact that they do not properly understand alternate forms of sexuality. Because of her strong stance on gender equality, Dr. Matembe has been approached by people of the GLBTTQ community for support. Where I fully sympathized with her argument was in her explanation that no one has been able to explain the situation in a satisfactory way. She said that people need to come, not saying that Ugandans are wrong and backwards, but that they need to approach the issue from a culturally and historically sensitive perspective.
Uganda has changed quite a lot in the past, almost 50 years of independence. Yet the severe marginalization of women in this society alone should be an indicator to Americans that perhaps Uganda just is not ready to fully except such obscure ideas as homosexuality. Is the United States, supposedly one of the most “developed” and progressive countries in the world, not also grappling with the issue of homosexuality?
A New York Times article came out about a week before I left for Uganda, which traced the new-found fervor against homosexuality back to a few Evangelical Christians from the U.S. They came to Uganda spewing the typical propaganda that “homosexuality is an attack against the family,” and that “homosexuals will come into your schools and convert your children.” (not direct quotes) Dr. Matembe recited some of these slogans in order for us to know what the current, popular understanding of homosexuality in Uganda is. What these evangelicals didn’t understand is the culture of Uganda. Here, the family is everything. Family is above the individual, above the state and everything else except God. When something is said to be an “attack against the family,” supported by Bible verses (perverted and decontextualized though they may be), Ugandans will not respond merely by boycotting Spongebob. It is no wonder that it was so easy to drum up enough fervor to want such a “threat” abolished.
Yet most Ugandans I have heard from are not in favor of this bill. Mostly, the consensus seems to be that this is not an issue that parliament should be spending time on. First and foremost, there are already so many things that need attention: schools, roads, and healthcare. Secondly, this is an issue which is better dealt with inside the home. and Thirdly, the issue of homosexuality is so small and obscure in Uganda that there is no need to spend any thought, time or effort on such an irrelevant bill.
Though I am not sure I agree with the last reasoning, it is interesting, and in a way comforting, to hear such ambivalence toward the bill, especially when it has been so hyped up on the global stage.
Unfortunately, Dr. Matembe’s response got rather personal and strayed from merely giving a cultural and contextual perspective of the Ugandans to giving her own personal opinion of homosexuality. It’s an argument I’ve heard dozens of times before, complete with the verse from Leviticus, (which also houses rules against eating shellfish), and adamant swearing of loving the person and just wanting them to be “normal.” Hearing these horribly misguided arguments always gets my heart pounding and my fist a’clinching. I probably gained about 12 grey hairs, but I kept my mouth shut. Why?! Why would I stay silent when a woman of power and influence who claims to be a follower of the god of mercy and compassion uses a book about love in order to validate her ignorant discrimination? Because it was neither the time nor the place.
However, some of my colleagues did not think the same way as I. With a few impassioned remarks from the students and poorly guided prompts from Dr. Matembe, the conversation turned into an attack of the speaker’s personal ideals and views. This is what I mean by not the time nor place. The place was an academic setting in which a speaker came to discuss the gender issue in Uganda. The time was shortly after she had explained what the issues are surrounding the homosexuality bill; too soon for us to be able to address the many faults and failings of her argument in a way that would be calm, controlled, situationally sensitive, and most of all, productive. When it comes to homosexuality, the issue in the United States is political and religious. When the same debate occurs in Uganda, between American and a Ugandan, it is tricky to see that we are not just dealing with a mere problem of misinterpreting the Bible and not understanding that homosexuality is not a choice. These two problems continue to create hurdles in the fight for gay rights in the U.S., so now add in a completely different culture which we have only started to understand these past 3 weeks.
As students studying abroad, we are meant to enter another culture with patience and understanding; to take a step back from issues in order to view them in a more neutral and anthropological stance. This is why I was ashamed by my colleagues who instead turned the situation, into an absurdly uneven and nonacademic debate. My goal was to learn as much as I could from the speaker about the issue, use my own time and further conversations and research to understand more fully the situation. That knowledge then could be used to form a more solid stance on which the argument against this bill can be made. And considering the bill to criminalize homosexuality is fast approaching, this is a far more important and pertinent debate which needs to happen before anyone can even begin to explain why homosexuals deserve every right and freedom as heterosexuals. From what I could tell, the students who turned against the speaker had no goal except to feel a sense of justice from telling one woman that she is wrong; not convincing, not changing anything, just letting the room know that his/her view on homosexuality is precisely what everyone, including Dr. Matembe, suspected.
So there we were at square one: Americans who have come to Africa not to explain, not to teach and develop, but to tell Africans that their thoughts and understandings are wrong, without providing any sufficient or sustainable alternative. Well done...
But is Uganda taking steps backward or merely displaying precisely where it stands in the “development” process?
Prompted by a question posed by one of the SIT students, Dr. Matembe explained her own double-standard when it comes to discriminating against homosexuals and bisexuals (she didn’t even know where to start on Transgendered, transsexuals, queer, and any other new letters that have been added to GLBTTQ). Ultimately, she summed up her position and the position of most Ugandans to the fact that they do not properly understand alternate forms of sexuality. Because of her strong stance on gender equality, Dr. Matembe has been approached by people of the GLBTTQ community for support. Where I fully sympathized with her argument was in her explanation that no one has been able to explain the situation in a satisfactory way. She said that people need to come, not saying that Ugandans are wrong and backwards, but that they need to approach the issue from a culturally and historically sensitive perspective.
Uganda has changed quite a lot in the past, almost 50 years of independence. Yet the severe marginalization of women in this society alone should be an indicator to Americans that perhaps Uganda just is not ready to fully except such obscure ideas as homosexuality. Is the United States, supposedly one of the most “developed” and progressive countries in the world, not also grappling with the issue of homosexuality?
A New York Times article came out about a week before I left for Uganda, which traced the new-found fervor against homosexuality back to a few Evangelical Christians from the U.S. They came to Uganda spewing the typical propaganda that “homosexuality is an attack against the family,” and that “homosexuals will come into your schools and convert your children.” (not direct quotes) Dr. Matembe recited some of these slogans in order for us to know what the current, popular understanding of homosexuality in Uganda is. What these evangelicals didn’t understand is the culture of Uganda. Here, the family is everything. Family is above the individual, above the state and everything else except God. When something is said to be an “attack against the family,” supported by Bible verses (perverted and decontextualized though they may be), Ugandans will not respond merely by boycotting Spongebob. It is no wonder that it was so easy to drum up enough fervor to want such a “threat” abolished.
Yet most Ugandans I have heard from are not in favor of this bill. Mostly, the consensus seems to be that this is not an issue that parliament should be spending time on. First and foremost, there are already so many things that need attention: schools, roads, and healthcare. Secondly, this is an issue which is better dealt with inside the home. and Thirdly, the issue of homosexuality is so small and obscure in Uganda that there is no need to spend any thought, time or effort on such an irrelevant bill.
Though I am not sure I agree with the last reasoning, it is interesting, and in a way comforting, to hear such ambivalence toward the bill, especially when it has been so hyped up on the global stage.
Unfortunately, Dr. Matembe’s response got rather personal and strayed from merely giving a cultural and contextual perspective of the Ugandans to giving her own personal opinion of homosexuality. It’s an argument I’ve heard dozens of times before, complete with the verse from Leviticus, (which also houses rules against eating shellfish), and adamant swearing of loving the person and just wanting them to be “normal.” Hearing these horribly misguided arguments always gets my heart pounding and my fist a’clinching. I probably gained about 12 grey hairs, but I kept my mouth shut. Why?! Why would I stay silent when a woman of power and influence who claims to be a follower of the god of mercy and compassion uses a book about love in order to validate her ignorant discrimination? Because it was neither the time nor the place.
However, some of my colleagues did not think the same way as I. With a few impassioned remarks from the students and poorly guided prompts from Dr. Matembe, the conversation turned into an attack of the speaker’s personal ideals and views. This is what I mean by not the time nor place. The place was an academic setting in which a speaker came to discuss the gender issue in Uganda. The time was shortly after she had explained what the issues are surrounding the homosexuality bill; too soon for us to be able to address the many faults and failings of her argument in a way that would be calm, controlled, situationally sensitive, and most of all, productive. When it comes to homosexuality, the issue in the United States is political and religious. When the same debate occurs in Uganda, between American and a Ugandan, it is tricky to see that we are not just dealing with a mere problem of misinterpreting the Bible and not understanding that homosexuality is not a choice. These two problems continue to create hurdles in the fight for gay rights in the U.S., so now add in a completely different culture which we have only started to understand these past 3 weeks.
As students studying abroad, we are meant to enter another culture with patience and understanding; to take a step back from issues in order to view them in a more neutral and anthropological stance. This is why I was ashamed by my colleagues who instead turned the situation, into an absurdly uneven and nonacademic debate. My goal was to learn as much as I could from the speaker about the issue, use my own time and further conversations and research to understand more fully the situation. That knowledge then could be used to form a more solid stance on which the argument against this bill can be made. And considering the bill to criminalize homosexuality is fast approaching, this is a far more important and pertinent debate which needs to happen before anyone can even begin to explain why homosexuals deserve every right and freedom as heterosexuals. From what I could tell, the students who turned against the speaker had no goal except to feel a sense of justice from telling one woman that she is wrong; not convincing, not changing anything, just letting the room know that his/her view on homosexuality is precisely what everyone, including Dr. Matembe, suspected.
So there we were at square one: Americans who have come to Africa not to explain, not to teach and develop, but to tell Africans that their thoughts and understandings are wrong, without providing any sufficient or sustainable alternative. Well done...
Friday, February 12, 2010
Dr. Matembe Part I: Women and Development
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize for some of the grammar mistakes and poor wording in some of the blogs. Internet access is poor here so many times I am rushing just to make sure the posts get uploaded.
“What was missing in animal, God put into man...what was missing in man...what was missing in man, God put in woman to make perfect his creation. So why should I want to be a man, imperfect and incomplete?”
- Dr. Miria Matembe
During the week, we start our days with 2 hours of Luganda lessons followed by 2 lectures or site visits. SIT does an amazing job of recruiting prominent and influential professors and politicians from Kampala to speak to us on issues ranging from Health Care to the Constitution in Uganda, the focus being on how those issues play into development. Last Tuesday, we were privileged to hear Dr. Miria Matembe speak on Gender and development. Among her extensive and impressive list of accomplishments, Dr. Matembe served as a member of Parliament for 17 years and as a Cabinet Minister in charge of fighting corruption and developing integrity in the Ugandan Government for 5 years; a position which she created herself. Once one got past her poor decision to incorporate religion into her presentation, Dr. Matembe was an interesting speaker (see part II for where this went wrong).
Her presentation focused on the necessity for promoting equal opportunities for over half the population of Uganda which is systematically marginalized by outdated traditions and inherently chauvinistic institutions. In particular, I found her take on Bride Price to be intriguing. Uganda is one of the few places in the world where it is traditional for the groom’s family to pay the bride’s family for the daughter’s hand in marriage. Originally this payment would be made in the form of a few cattle or goats, a small price to compensate for the loss of work the woman’s family would incur. Here, women traditionally do much of the work for the family; the loss of a daughter meant the loss of quite a substantial amount of labor for her family.
The desire to respect and preserve cultures and traditions often gets incredibly complicated in issues of development, especially when “development” is defined and dictated mostly by the Western World. This is why it was so interesting to hear a progressive viewpoint against a tradition from someone within their own society and culture. Dr. Matembe explained that the current use of Brideprice has diverted from its original form and no longer has any practical importance, thereby rendering its traditional importance irrelevant. Dr. Matembe understands the current importance of Bride Price in Uganda as means of capital accumulation for the bride’s family. Additionally, the connotation of the practice is thought to promote an unequal and potentially abusive relationship between spouses. Women are no longer moving into the home of another family, they are moving into their own home with their husband, meaning that the groom’s family should not be paying for her work. Paying for a woman provides the husband with an excuse for treating wives as property. Comparisons were made to the dowry system common in India, which she said also contributes to the chauvinistic mentality that a woman should be bought or can be priced.
Along with the elimination of Bride Price, Dr. Matembe advocates more support and rights for brides and widows within Uganda’s laws. Her efforts and the efforts of other gender equality groups over the past few years have led to the recent law prohibiting female circumcision in Uganda. Of course Uganda still has a long way to go before it reaches anything near gender equality. Though politically, Uganda could put the U.S. to shame as far as women in high political positions, (Uganda had the first woman Vice President in Uganda, 32.8% of parliament, and 20-30% of judiciary and cabinet positions are occupied by women including the minister of finance and the minister of education). However, socially, women are have the same authority and status as the youth. What is so interesting from a development standpoint is that the marginalization of women is done at the economic and social detriment of Uganda, and every other country for that matter. It is no secret that women’s equality is both a requirement and a result of development. Women typically control the education and health of the family and when in control of finance, contribute more to community development than men.
Next: Dr. Matembe Part II: A “Discussion” on Homosexuality
“What was missing in animal, God put into man...what was missing in man...what was missing in man, God put in woman to make perfect his creation. So why should I want to be a man, imperfect and incomplete?”
- Dr. Miria Matembe
During the week, we start our days with 2 hours of Luganda lessons followed by 2 lectures or site visits. SIT does an amazing job of recruiting prominent and influential professors and politicians from Kampala to speak to us on issues ranging from Health Care to the Constitution in Uganda, the focus being on how those issues play into development. Last Tuesday, we were privileged to hear Dr. Miria Matembe speak on Gender and development. Among her extensive and impressive list of accomplishments, Dr. Matembe served as a member of Parliament for 17 years and as a Cabinet Minister in charge of fighting corruption and developing integrity in the Ugandan Government for 5 years; a position which she created herself. Once one got past her poor decision to incorporate religion into her presentation, Dr. Matembe was an interesting speaker (see part II for where this went wrong).
Her presentation focused on the necessity for promoting equal opportunities for over half the population of Uganda which is systematically marginalized by outdated traditions and inherently chauvinistic institutions. In particular, I found her take on Bride Price to be intriguing. Uganda is one of the few places in the world where it is traditional for the groom’s family to pay the bride’s family for the daughter’s hand in marriage. Originally this payment would be made in the form of a few cattle or goats, a small price to compensate for the loss of work the woman’s family would incur. Here, women traditionally do much of the work for the family; the loss of a daughter meant the loss of quite a substantial amount of labor for her family.
The desire to respect and preserve cultures and traditions often gets incredibly complicated in issues of development, especially when “development” is defined and dictated mostly by the Western World. This is why it was so interesting to hear a progressive viewpoint against a tradition from someone within their own society and culture. Dr. Matembe explained that the current use of Brideprice has diverted from its original form and no longer has any practical importance, thereby rendering its traditional importance irrelevant. Dr. Matembe understands the current importance of Bride Price in Uganda as means of capital accumulation for the bride’s family. Additionally, the connotation of the practice is thought to promote an unequal and potentially abusive relationship between spouses. Women are no longer moving into the home of another family, they are moving into their own home with their husband, meaning that the groom’s family should not be paying for her work. Paying for a woman provides the husband with an excuse for treating wives as property. Comparisons were made to the dowry system common in India, which she said also contributes to the chauvinistic mentality that a woman should be bought or can be priced.
Along with the elimination of Bride Price, Dr. Matembe advocates more support and rights for brides and widows within Uganda’s laws. Her efforts and the efforts of other gender equality groups over the past few years have led to the recent law prohibiting female circumcision in Uganda. Of course Uganda still has a long way to go before it reaches anything near gender equality. Though politically, Uganda could put the U.S. to shame as far as women in high political positions, (Uganda had the first woman Vice President in Uganda, 32.8% of parliament, and 20-30% of judiciary and cabinet positions are occupied by women including the minister of finance and the minister of education). However, socially, women are have the same authority and status as the youth. What is so interesting from a development standpoint is that the marginalization of women is done at the economic and social detriment of Uganda, and every other country for that matter. It is no secret that women’s equality is both a requirement and a result of development. Women typically control the education and health of the family and when in control of finance, contribute more to community development than men.
Next: Dr. Matembe Part II: A “Discussion” on Homosexuality
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Silminga turned Muzungu
This morning I boarded the white and blue van to taxi a few miles to my school across Kampala to Kaojya Stage. Initially, I was sharing the cab with only one man other than the driver and conductor, the man who hangs out the window yelling the destination stop and takes each passenger’s fair, usually about the equivalent of between 25-50 cents. After the horror stories about naive muzungus being taken advantage of, I was a bit apprehensive about sharing a cab with a lone passenger. His black and yellow security uniform lessened my worries slightly. At the stage where the security guard got off, I felt a small lump of anxiety form in my chest before two school girls, about 8 years of age, hopped on board and sat down right next to me, despite all other seats being available. The girl next to me smiled with a mouth full of mismatched and missing teeth when I asked “oli otya?” and she replied with “gyendi.” “Mu soma?” (Do you all study?), “yes,” “Musoma wa?” (You all study where?), “Bukoto.”
Maybe it was my pitiful attempt at Luganda or maybe it was the unabashed curiousness of African children, unhindered by the fear of strangers imbedded in most American children, but it didn’t take long for my taxi-mate to feel comfortable enough to reach over and touch my arm. My light skin seemed to fascinate and delight her. Of course she could see we were different colors, but that didn’t seem to come with any inherent ideas that signaled any form of division between us, as made clear by her complete ambivalence to any sort of personal space. Her excited comments whispered to her friend clutching the Cars backpack were received with minimal interest. Despite her friend’s ambivalence, the girl in the blue dress was content with holding my hand for the final few minutes of the ride.
It’s a curious thing, walking down that street. Small children seem to either stare in wonder or wave with exuberant cheers of “Hello!” and “How are you Muzungu?!” Teenagers seem a bit less well intentioned in their greetings, if they do greet. Younger men are by far the worst making you feel as though you’re perpetually walking past a construction site. Women and older men typically just watch with mild interest, the way one might watch a cat walking across a lawn.
I know that my novelty grants me the spotlight of most streets I walk down. I don’t make much eye-contact, except with small kids, but I hear the calls and laughter. Others in SIT feel this too and get frustrated by how they are continually called out and comment on how hard it is to be white here. I wonder if any have tried to make the connection I have to being a minority in the U.S.? Sure we stand out and get laughs, but very rarely do I feel the butt of a cruel joke. I am not oppressed here and I have no fear of being harmed by virtue of someone’s hatred of the color of my skin. I hear laughter but no jeers. I may have an occasional hand softly touch my arm, requesting my attention but I have not felt the rage of bigotry or the spit of discrimination. We are isolated by our race, and more-so by our nationality, but the stereotypes associated with us are by-in-large positive: we are assumed wealthy, intelligent, & ambassadors of freedom. We’re pushed to the front of the lines allowed access solely because of our nationality.
Of course not everyone is overjoyed by our presence. In the slum of Bwaise, we got our first flicking-off from a passing cyclist. I can understand why: we Muzungus pack into our hired taxis, drive to slums and get a personal tour to see the poor and downtrodden. We spend a few weeks or months living relatively privileged lives, do a little work, write a paper, then go home to unimaginable luxury, usually never to return. Those that don’t find us patronizing must have greater faith in our capabilities and intentions, either that or they don’t understand how fully powerless we are.
Next Blog: Discussing homosexuality with a former Member of Parliament Dr. Mira Matembe
Maybe it was my pitiful attempt at Luganda or maybe it was the unabashed curiousness of African children, unhindered by the fear of strangers imbedded in most American children, but it didn’t take long for my taxi-mate to feel comfortable enough to reach over and touch my arm. My light skin seemed to fascinate and delight her. Of course she could see we were different colors, but that didn’t seem to come with any inherent ideas that signaled any form of division between us, as made clear by her complete ambivalence to any sort of personal space. Her excited comments whispered to her friend clutching the Cars backpack were received with minimal interest. Despite her friend’s ambivalence, the girl in the blue dress was content with holding my hand for the final few minutes of the ride.
It’s a curious thing, walking down that street. Small children seem to either stare in wonder or wave with exuberant cheers of “Hello!” and “How are you Muzungu?!” Teenagers seem a bit less well intentioned in their greetings, if they do greet. Younger men are by far the worst making you feel as though you’re perpetually walking past a construction site. Women and older men typically just watch with mild interest, the way one might watch a cat walking across a lawn.
I know that my novelty grants me the spotlight of most streets I walk down. I don’t make much eye-contact, except with small kids, but I hear the calls and laughter. Others in SIT feel this too and get frustrated by how they are continually called out and comment on how hard it is to be white here. I wonder if any have tried to make the connection I have to being a minority in the U.S.? Sure we stand out and get laughs, but very rarely do I feel the butt of a cruel joke. I am not oppressed here and I have no fear of being harmed by virtue of someone’s hatred of the color of my skin. I hear laughter but no jeers. I may have an occasional hand softly touch my arm, requesting my attention but I have not felt the rage of bigotry or the spit of discrimination. We are isolated by our race, and more-so by our nationality, but the stereotypes associated with us are by-in-large positive: we are assumed wealthy, intelligent, & ambassadors of freedom. We’re pushed to the front of the lines allowed access solely because of our nationality.
Of course not everyone is overjoyed by our presence. In the slum of Bwaise, we got our first flicking-off from a passing cyclist. I can understand why: we Muzungus pack into our hired taxis, drive to slums and get a personal tour to see the poor and downtrodden. We spend a few weeks or months living relatively privileged lives, do a little work, write a paper, then go home to unimaginable luxury, usually never to return. Those that don’t find us patronizing must have greater faith in our capabilities and intentions, either that or they don’t understand how fully powerless we are.
Next Blog: Discussing homosexuality with a former Member of Parliament Dr. Mira Matembe
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A New Place a New Pace and a New Name
Somewhere between my painfully slow peeling of the plantains to make matoke and taking a bucket shower by the glow of the mobile lightbulb, enveloped in the total darkness of a Kampala blackout, something clicked. My homesickness faded away along with my tan; (which is mostly composed of the red dust of Uganda) with every cup full of water, warmed for me on hot coals.
Our homestay families vary from the very wealthy to lower middle-class. I was very lucky to get a family that is upper middle class: usually we have an indoor shower and flushing toilet, and I have my own room. Honestly, the best part of last night was in doing those things most Americans have the luxury of avoiding. Here I realize just how absurdly privileged life in the U.S. is for even the lowest parts of society and how completely clueless I am by the standards of most Ugandans. It took my at least three failed attempts to start the charcoal stove and I could peel one plantain for every eight of Victoria’s. At home, I don’t have to rely on a single oil lamp in order to finish my homework, and never in even the worst of gas station bathrooms have I ever had to squat over a porcelain hole in the ground. But this is what is making my experience...well, I could do with more toilet paper.
With each chore I perform, I am contributing to the household and becoming more and more a part of the family. Last night, I was given my name: Nagayi, which signifies that I am from the Nagaye clan of the Buganda people. How much more difficult it would be for me to work my way into the family if there were no actual work to do for the family. Luxury affords too much idle time that I usually fill with solitary activities such as television, sleeping or reading. While it’s nice to have those times to rest and reflect, there is so much to be said about the simple pleasure of keeping company with work. Of course back home, “luxury” has brought with it a fast-paced, competitive world in which I must spend such time studying. I don’t resent this, and in fact, I’m sure after a few weeks of this I will be ready for internet, movies and library study dates. In fact, when my program picks up, I will have less time to spend with my Ugandan mother, but for now, I am enjoying the change of pace. I hope that I will be able to come back from Uganda with the ability to occasionally slow myself down and take the time and pride to do such things as cook a meal from scratch.
Classes have started and soon I will be developing my independent project. But for now I am out of internet time so I apologize for any typos. Mary, if you would be so kind...
Our homestay families vary from the very wealthy to lower middle-class. I was very lucky to get a family that is upper middle class: usually we have an indoor shower and flushing toilet, and I have my own room. Honestly, the best part of last night was in doing those things most Americans have the luxury of avoiding. Here I realize just how absurdly privileged life in the U.S. is for even the lowest parts of society and how completely clueless I am by the standards of most Ugandans. It took my at least three failed attempts to start the charcoal stove and I could peel one plantain for every eight of Victoria’s. At home, I don’t have to rely on a single oil lamp in order to finish my homework, and never in even the worst of gas station bathrooms have I ever had to squat over a porcelain hole in the ground. But this is what is making my experience...well, I could do with more toilet paper.
With each chore I perform, I am contributing to the household and becoming more and more a part of the family. Last night, I was given my name: Nagayi, which signifies that I am from the Nagaye clan of the Buganda people. How much more difficult it would be for me to work my way into the family if there were no actual work to do for the family. Luxury affords too much idle time that I usually fill with solitary activities such as television, sleeping or reading. While it’s nice to have those times to rest and reflect, there is so much to be said about the simple pleasure of keeping company with work. Of course back home, “luxury” has brought with it a fast-paced, competitive world in which I must spend such time studying. I don’t resent this, and in fact, I’m sure after a few weeks of this I will be ready for internet, movies and library study dates. In fact, when my program picks up, I will have less time to spend with my Ugandan mother, but for now, I am enjoying the change of pace. I hope that I will be able to come back from Uganda with the ability to occasionally slow myself down and take the time and pride to do such things as cook a meal from scratch.
Classes have started and soon I will be developing my independent project. But for now I am out of internet time so I apologize for any typos. Mary, if you would be so kind...
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
What Would You Do?
My departure date is fast approaching and, my bags are packed,
I'm ready to go,
I'm standing here outside your door
I hate to wake...
Errr... Ok well the bags are packed and I've already got the vivid dreams and insomnia from my malaria medication, so I guess I'm as ready to go as I'll ever be. I'm anxious (possibly another side-effect of the drug) and excited to just go and get started. This extended break has been too long!
Still, I'm hesitant. My experience this past summer in Tamale, Ghana left me a little jaded as far as living abroad. I know this a completely different country, city and organization, but Ghana is my only other experience of being abroad an extended amount of time. I never again want to be so desperate to go home that I miss out on once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. I don't want to be relieved when I get malaria and nearly starve to death because I have an excuse to sleep all day.
Overall, Ghana was amazing. (Especially Khalfani and Erica!)
We were, um... completely professional the whole time...
Two months in Ghana honestly changed so much of how I view the world. I do not regret going. I can say all that and still recognize that I did not use my time there to its full potential. I don't want to make that same mistake in Uganda. I chose this country to push myself out of my comfort zone and it would be a waste to not embrace that.
I have my ideas about what I would like to learn, observe and experience in Uganda, but I'd like a little perspective. So now I'm going ask for some audience participation. I would like this blog to be interactive, so hopefully this can kindle discussions to be continued.
What would you do if you were in Uganda?
Observe mountain gorillas? See the source of the great Nile? Investigate the issues surrounding homosexuality? (that's a fun one)
I doubt that everyone who reads this blog will get the chance to go to Uganda. I'm writing this so that more people will feel like they have. Try to think of something you would like to hear about.
Weefeko - "look after yourself"
I'm ready to go,
I'm standing here outside your door
I hate to wake...
Errr... Ok well the bags are packed and I've already got the vivid dreams and insomnia from my malaria medication, so I guess I'm as ready to go as I'll ever be. I'm anxious (possibly another side-effect of the drug) and excited to just go and get started. This extended break has been too long!
Still, I'm hesitant. My experience this past summer in Tamale, Ghana left me a little jaded as far as living abroad. I know this a completely different country, city and organization, but Ghana is my only other experience of being abroad an extended amount of time. I never again want to be so desperate to go home that I miss out on once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. I don't want to be relieved when I get malaria and nearly starve to death because I have an excuse to sleep all day.
Overall, Ghana was amazing. (Especially Khalfani and Erica!)
We were, um... completely professional the whole time...
Two months in Ghana honestly changed so much of how I view the world. I do not regret going. I can say all that and still recognize that I did not use my time there to its full potential. I don't want to make that same mistake in Uganda. I chose this country to push myself out of my comfort zone and it would be a waste to not embrace that.
I have my ideas about what I would like to learn, observe and experience in Uganda, but I'd like a little perspective. So now I'm going ask for some audience participation. I would like this blog to be interactive, so hopefully this can kindle discussions to be continued.
What would you do if you were in Uganda?
Observe mountain gorillas? See the source of the great Nile? Investigate the issues surrounding homosexuality? (that's a fun one)
I doubt that everyone who reads this blog will get the chance to go to Uganda. I'm writing this so that more people will feel like they have. Try to think of something you would like to hear about.
Weefeko - "look after yourself"
Monday, January 11, 2010
"Unhappy Africa"
Osiiby-otyanno (Good Afternoon/Evening)
I would like to share a very interesting piece of classic literature. The following excerpt comes from the preface of Uncle Tom's Cabin, by Harriet Beecher Stowe, published in 1852. I have not finished the novel yet, but I think the preface alone exemplifies a peculiar view of Africa and it's former/current inhabitants which is far from outdated.
"Unhappy Africa is at last remembered; Africa, who began the race of civilization and human progress in the dim, gray dawn of early time, but who, for centuries, has lain bound and bleeding at the foot of civilized and Christianized humanity, imploring compassion in vain.
But the heart of the dominant race, who have been her conquerors, her hard masters, has at length been turned towards her in mercy; and it has been seen how far nobler it is in nations to protect the feeble than to oppress them. Thanks be to God, the world has at length outlived the slave-trade!
...
When an enlightened and Christianized community shall have, on the shores of Africa, laws, language, and literature, drawn from among us, may then the scenes from the house of bondage be to them like the remembrance of Egypt to the Israelite,—a motive of thankfulness to Him who hath redeemed them!"
Stowe's novel was and still is incredibly controversial. From my limited understanding, (as I have yet to finish the novel), Uncle Tom's Cabin was initially controversial because of its condemnation of slavery. Today, it is criticized for its characterization of American slaves or African Americans as poor, piteous, and helpless children. It is hard for the progressive not to criticize such a view in this day-in-age...or is it?
What I find of particular interest for this blog is Stowe’s view of the African homeland, “bound and bleeding at the foot of civilized and Christianized humanity, imploring compassion in vain.” I cannot help but draw parallels to today’s view of Africa: a continent drenched in poverty, disease, corruption, and genocide. The ills of Africa are deeply engrained in the west’s guilty conscience. We live in such abundance, such perfect democracy, is it not the ‘White Man’s Burden’ to set things right? After all, we did start this whole corruption and repression thing in that part of the world.
It is this perspective, set forth by Harriet Beecher Stowe, which prevails in the modern view of Africa and I think is hauntingly similar to the current, white perspective of blacks in America. And this is what I am so endlessly fascinated by: the self-aggrandizing portrait of the white savior come to save the Africans from themselves both across the globe and in the inner-cities of America. How is this perpetuated in Western/American society? How is the received by African society? How is this perpetuated in African society?
Of course each one of these questions holds hundreds of approaches and millions of perspectives. But hey, that’s what grad-school is for, right?
Stay tuned for more.
Weeraba
Kipling's White Man amidst his burden? (A little harsh, perhaps, but you get the idea)
Pictures found at:
http://www.sonofthesouth.net/slavery/african-american-art/uncle-tom-cabin-topsy.htm
http://stevecummins.wordpress.com/2009/10/14/why-we-should-show-bono-more-love/
Respectively
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