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.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
