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.
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