This blog goes back to a discussion I had with a few other students at the end of our extremely emotional trip to Rwanda. It follows well with my last (real) post and the questions are still ones I am struggling with going into the eighth week of Uganda.
Overall, we wondered, How do I take this experience back to the U.S.?
How do I not forget?
How do I teach others to understand?
How do I continue to care?
How do I morally deal with living a life so relatively privileged?
How do I help these people?
The toughest question for myself: Do I really disagree with a lot of foreign aid and intervention or am I just trying to excuse myself from the guilt of no longer pursuing plans of being an aid worker in Africa?
But then again, one of the reasons I keep coming to this continent is to see what Africa has to teach the West. The West has spent decades ripping the land raw of its raw materials and people. I think Africa has a less material commodity to offer. Maybe it’s no coincidence that this place makes me long for family so much; something which is very much a dying art form in the United States. I miss family functions and friendships more than I miss toilet stalls. Africa can teach us the simplicity found in prioritizing.
I want to make sure not to take an overly pastoral perspective of a developing country. It’s important not to deny some pressing and basic issues which Uganda faces such as sanitation and nutrition. And of course most of this country’s problems are exacerbated if not completely caused by corruption.
So how can this country “develop” to address the basic needs of its citizens in the most culturally appropriate way? When foreign intervention comes from such countries as the U.S., how much of our individualistic culture and own agenda is mixed in with the second-hand clothes and expired medications? I don’t think that “development” requires the extinction of the extended family. However, if Africa is to follow the American model, that just might be what we are prescribing: entrepreneurship, micro-lending groups which isolate wives from their “irresponsible” partners, aid distributers providing rations for nuclear families. Why not push families to build their businesses through the extended family? Could this avoid the problem of an over-saturated market of fruit sellers? How about building micro-finance organizations in a way that encourages mutual respect and inclusion of both partners in the fundamental organization of this society: marriage? When giving out aid, could the west take a little more time to recognize that providing for one’s family in Africa typically extends far beyond biological children?
And so now there are more questions than before and an infinite amount of answers, but how am I going to respond?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Riots
no new posts because I was in rural Uganda for a week and today I have to leave for home early because of riots and burning tombs - read up on it at http://www.monitor.co.ug/
We're told that this is nothing to worry about, TIA
We're told that this is nothing to worry about, TIA
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Smokin' Innocence
Taking the taxi home today, one image stands out in my mind:
We approach the dark cloud burning from beside the road, its black, translucent haze wafting over the street. Tires are being burned, typical urban, Ugandan waste management. I hold my breath as we pass, wanting to limit my daily intake of carcinogens to the standard smog that lays over Kampala. As our taxi putters past, I think of similar, obvious health hazards which the average Kampala resident is subjected to every day: standing water, open sewage, wandering livestock, potassium over-dose (we eat a serious amount of bananas and related fruit).
While I reflect on this, I catch sight of a small girl, dressed in pink, in front of the flames, but still well within the toxic fumes of the burning rubber. She sat, legs folded under, hands together and outstretched, her eyes closed. It was as if she had fallen asleep while praying. Before, I was concerned about those who would inhale the poisonous gases just in passing by or being within a few blocks radius. But here was a small child enveloped within the noxious gases with a placidly serene face accompanying her prayerful posture. I wonder if her mother strategically placed her there, knowing the grotesque juxtaposition her composition would make.
Going to Ghana last summer dispelled so many of my preconceived notions of Africa. There was poverty for sure, particularly in Tamale, but I saw very few cases of desperation and hopelessness. Ghana caused me to reevaluate what I considered “poor” and allowed me to recognize many of the unnecessary extravagances of the U.S. I left Ghana feeling optimistic about the “Dark Continent,” convinced that the media and academia had over-exaggerated its problems. Heading over to Uganda, I hoped that Kampala would serve to debunk even more theories about sub-saharan Africa.
I wish I could say that Uganda has done that for me, but in a lot of ways, I am having to struggle with the realization that Uganda really is a “developing” country. There is real need here and I saw in the refugee settlements more desperation than I could come to terms with. The hardest thing to accept is that no one can fully understand or diagnose the problems. Many have tried and some, like Jeffrey Sachs, claim to have an easy fix-all that will be the tide to lift all ships. But what suffers with the current plans for development? The environment? Culture? Identity? Studying development has introduced me to a history of good intentions which have paved a path of destruction. Of course a lot of good is happening in development here. The AIDS Support Organization (TASO) has made great strides in raising awareness and promoting prevention practices. Micro-finance and self-help organizations have raised the status of women in the country and led to better household expenditures, which indirectly has improved health and education of Uganda’s children.
But where does empowering women step into the bounds of cultural imposition in a traditionally paternalistic culture? I wish to promote equality of women based on my own feminist tendencies and even more so on studies showing the benefits of promoting gender. Still, it is paralyzing to recognize the benefits of development and at the same time try to respect culture. This task is made even more difficult by the fact that it is so hard to determine what is culture? How much was the originally paternalistic culture warped by colonialists who manipulated the tribal system, introduced a paternalistic religion (christianity), and promoted only men to positions of power?
These are just a few of the conundrums of development studies. Stay tuned for possible revelations...
We approach the dark cloud burning from beside the road, its black, translucent haze wafting over the street. Tires are being burned, typical urban, Ugandan waste management. I hold my breath as we pass, wanting to limit my daily intake of carcinogens to the standard smog that lays over Kampala. As our taxi putters past, I think of similar, obvious health hazards which the average Kampala resident is subjected to every day: standing water, open sewage, wandering livestock, potassium over-dose (we eat a serious amount of bananas and related fruit).
While I reflect on this, I catch sight of a small girl, dressed in pink, in front of the flames, but still well within the toxic fumes of the burning rubber. She sat, legs folded under, hands together and outstretched, her eyes closed. It was as if she had fallen asleep while praying. Before, I was concerned about those who would inhale the poisonous gases just in passing by or being within a few blocks radius. But here was a small child enveloped within the noxious gases with a placidly serene face accompanying her prayerful posture. I wonder if her mother strategically placed her there, knowing the grotesque juxtaposition her composition would make.
Going to Ghana last summer dispelled so many of my preconceived notions of Africa. There was poverty for sure, particularly in Tamale, but I saw very few cases of desperation and hopelessness. Ghana caused me to reevaluate what I considered “poor” and allowed me to recognize many of the unnecessary extravagances of the U.S. I left Ghana feeling optimistic about the “Dark Continent,” convinced that the media and academia had over-exaggerated its problems. Heading over to Uganda, I hoped that Kampala would serve to debunk even more theories about sub-saharan Africa.
I wish I could say that Uganda has done that for me, but in a lot of ways, I am having to struggle with the realization that Uganda really is a “developing” country. There is real need here and I saw in the refugee settlements more desperation than I could come to terms with. The hardest thing to accept is that no one can fully understand or diagnose the problems. Many have tried and some, like Jeffrey Sachs, claim to have an easy fix-all that will be the tide to lift all ships. But what suffers with the current plans for development? The environment? Culture? Identity? Studying development has introduced me to a history of good intentions which have paved a path of destruction. Of course a lot of good is happening in development here. The AIDS Support Organization (TASO) has made great strides in raising awareness and promoting prevention practices. Micro-finance and self-help organizations have raised the status of women in the country and led to better household expenditures, which indirectly has improved health and education of Uganda’s children.
But where does empowering women step into the bounds of cultural imposition in a traditionally paternalistic culture? I wish to promote equality of women based on my own feminist tendencies and even more so on studies showing the benefits of promoting gender. Still, it is paralyzing to recognize the benefits of development and at the same time try to respect culture. This task is made even more difficult by the fact that it is so hard to determine what is culture? How much was the originally paternalistic culture warped by colonialists who manipulated the tribal system, introduced a paternalistic religion (christianity), and promoted only men to positions of power?
These are just a few of the conundrums of development studies. Stay tuned for possible revelations...
Monday, March 1, 2010
Kampala As Usual
I open my eyes to the darkness, always taking a few minutes to remember where I am. In between the malaria med-induced dreams and frequent trips outside of Kampala, I always need a few seconds of consciousness to recognize where I am. I pull away my mosquito-net canopy and hit the concrete floor with my bare feet. Across the room, I reach for my phone/alarm clock, which is obnoxiously playing some ridiculous American show tune, though it is no longer playing the default, Dixieland as I found it too ironic for an African phone.
5:45 am - Got to get up early to make it over the potholes and through the traffic jams to school. Being both the Muzungu and the only female besides my mom and Naka, the house help, I get to walk just a few steps over to the indoor bathroom, complete with flushing toilet and shower - quite the luxury. I am always thankful that I don’t have to walk through the house and courtyard, out to the pit latrine: a ceramic hole in the concrete floor of a long narrow room. I have recently learned that this is actually called and “Indian toilet” as it differs from a pit latrine in its ceramic exterior and flushing apparatus.
Brushing my teeth in the mirror, I take account of how I have already changed. Tan lines outline my tanktops and are highlighted by the pink of yesterday’s sun. My face is completely devoid of makeup; not even a solitary speck of mascara clings to my lashes. I haven’t been this natural since grade school. It’s sad that I’ve had to go a week of looking at myself without tar outlining my eyes to accept my natural face. Mostly, I just don’t see the point of makeup here. More-so than even my all-girls-Catholic high school, no one cares. Besides, I already get more than enough attention from my light skin and gender alone.
Other changes are the small hairs growing back on my scalp from my stint with narcolepsy medicine. Lucky for me, the perfect, equatorial climate is so conducive to sleeping that my afternoon lecture naps seem to be understood as perfectly acceptable. I can also see where all the matooke has been stored; my stomach already developing a convex curve I have resorted to one meal a day in order to try and suppress.
Grabbing my khakis and shirt, I walk further down the hall to the bunker where my two younger brothers still lie in their bunk beds, trying to see how much longer they can extend their slumber without consequence. I flip on the switch under the ironing table to turn the current onto the iron. There are two reasons to iron one’s close in Uganda. The first, to make you look “sharp.” Image is very important here, and how you look reflects upon your family. Maybe it’s because many people cannot afford a lot of clothes, or even new clothes, making it all the more important to have what clothes you do have always looking as nice as possible. The second reason, and my primary motivation, is to kill the eggs of a certain fly which sounds like it’s straight out of an Alien film. Usually, one only has to be concerned with these flesh-burrowing bugs if clothes are laid out to dry on the grass. Even though mine are dried on a line outside, I would rather not experience the sensation of having eggs germinate under my skin, later to emerge through a growing sore said to resemble a large pimple. (I have already had some intense Malaroid dreams on that which involved me pulling out larva with tweezers from a sore on my cheek.)
6:10am - I’m ready. We’re supposed to leave at 6:30, but know 7:00 is our earliest departure time. I spend the next fifty minutes sipping my ginger tea, sweetened with sugar and listen to the pounding of rain outside: rainy season is upon us. I ignore the two slices of bread before me, feeling that my body is still handling the matooke and posho carbs of the night before.
My 12 year-old brother, Isaac, is also finished getting ready early and sips his tea at the head of the table, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but looking smart in his grey and white school uniform. We sit and chat for half an hour while the rest of the house is awake and in a hurry to make up for the past thirty lethargic minutes. Isaac “remembers” he has not gotten his homework signed and drops the stack of four subject notebooks in front of me with five minutes to go. But I don’t fall for his trick so easily: “It’s Alice’s absenteeism not absentee, which gets her into trouble,”
“But we don’t have time!” Isaac whines, making sure to emphasize this fact with the stomping of feet while covering his face. He had altered his original plan of giving me his homework to sign the night before to five minutes before, but I still refused to sign the papers without proper review.
“You should have given this to me yesterday then!” Reluctantly, Isaac makes the corrections just in time to pile into the station wagon along with Kim, Eric, Adam, and Elizabeth, the neighbor who is about Kim’s age (six). The four cram together in the back seat, while I get shotgun, with mom at the wheel. We’re jostled from side to side on the uneven dirt and rock path to the neighborhood road. It’s a little smoother, but scarred by periodic speed hills (not bumps), which cause our car to bottom out every time, despite going over the humps at a diagonal. When we reach the paved road, our pace picks up, but now we are too concerned with avoiding potholes to stick to the designated left side.
We merge into the traffic at a main road and immediately begin the tedious stop and go of Kampala traffic. Pulling into a gas station, we pay the man 10,000 Uganda shillings (about $5) for an eighth of a tank, maybe less, seems like the gas gauge is always hovering at empty. Not sure why this is. I’ve heard some pumps are rigged to pump slower than what the meter says. There may also be a fear of siphoning or car theft.
Bottoming out again, we’re back on the road to drop Isaac and Kimu at their grade school. In another 30 minutes and 6 miles, my mother pulls over to drop me at my taxi stop for a 25 cent ride to the Resource Center, about 2 miles away.
5:45 am - Got to get up early to make it over the potholes and through the traffic jams to school. Being both the Muzungu and the only female besides my mom and Naka, the house help, I get to walk just a few steps over to the indoor bathroom, complete with flushing toilet and shower - quite the luxury. I am always thankful that I don’t have to walk through the house and courtyard, out to the pit latrine: a ceramic hole in the concrete floor of a long narrow room. I have recently learned that this is actually called and “Indian toilet” as it differs from a pit latrine in its ceramic exterior and flushing apparatus.
Brushing my teeth in the mirror, I take account of how I have already changed. Tan lines outline my tanktops and are highlighted by the pink of yesterday’s sun. My face is completely devoid of makeup; not even a solitary speck of mascara clings to my lashes. I haven’t been this natural since grade school. It’s sad that I’ve had to go a week of looking at myself without tar outlining my eyes to accept my natural face. Mostly, I just don’t see the point of makeup here. More-so than even my all-girls-Catholic high school, no one cares. Besides, I already get more than enough attention from my light skin and gender alone.
Other changes are the small hairs growing back on my scalp from my stint with narcolepsy medicine. Lucky for me, the perfect, equatorial climate is so conducive to sleeping that my afternoon lecture naps seem to be understood as perfectly acceptable. I can also see where all the matooke has been stored; my stomach already developing a convex curve I have resorted to one meal a day in order to try and suppress.
Grabbing my khakis and shirt, I walk further down the hall to the bunker where my two younger brothers still lie in their bunk beds, trying to see how much longer they can extend their slumber without consequence. I flip on the switch under the ironing table to turn the current onto the iron. There are two reasons to iron one’s close in Uganda. The first, to make you look “sharp.” Image is very important here, and how you look reflects upon your family. Maybe it’s because many people cannot afford a lot of clothes, or even new clothes, making it all the more important to have what clothes you do have always looking as nice as possible. The second reason, and my primary motivation, is to kill the eggs of a certain fly which sounds like it’s straight out of an Alien film. Usually, one only has to be concerned with these flesh-burrowing bugs if clothes are laid out to dry on the grass. Even though mine are dried on a line outside, I would rather not experience the sensation of having eggs germinate under my skin, later to emerge through a growing sore said to resemble a large pimple. (I have already had some intense Malaroid dreams on that which involved me pulling out larva with tweezers from a sore on my cheek.)
6:10am - I’m ready. We’re supposed to leave at 6:30, but know 7:00 is our earliest departure time. I spend the next fifty minutes sipping my ginger tea, sweetened with sugar and listen to the pounding of rain outside: rainy season is upon us. I ignore the two slices of bread before me, feeling that my body is still handling the matooke and posho carbs of the night before.
My 12 year-old brother, Isaac, is also finished getting ready early and sips his tea at the head of the table, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but looking smart in his grey and white school uniform. We sit and chat for half an hour while the rest of the house is awake and in a hurry to make up for the past thirty lethargic minutes. Isaac “remembers” he has not gotten his homework signed and drops the stack of four subject notebooks in front of me with five minutes to go. But I don’t fall for his trick so easily: “It’s Alice’s absenteeism not absentee, which gets her into trouble,”
“But we don’t have time!” Isaac whines, making sure to emphasize this fact with the stomping of feet while covering his face. He had altered his original plan of giving me his homework to sign the night before to five minutes before, but I still refused to sign the papers without proper review.
“You should have given this to me yesterday then!” Reluctantly, Isaac makes the corrections just in time to pile into the station wagon along with Kim, Eric, Adam, and Elizabeth, the neighbor who is about Kim’s age (six). The four cram together in the back seat, while I get shotgun, with mom at the wheel. We’re jostled from side to side on the uneven dirt and rock path to the neighborhood road. It’s a little smoother, but scarred by periodic speed hills (not bumps), which cause our car to bottom out every time, despite going over the humps at a diagonal. When we reach the paved road, our pace picks up, but now we are too concerned with avoiding potholes to stick to the designated left side.
We merge into the traffic at a main road and immediately begin the tedious stop and go of Kampala traffic. Pulling into a gas station, we pay the man 10,000 Uganda shillings (about $5) for an eighth of a tank, maybe less, seems like the gas gauge is always hovering at empty. Not sure why this is. I’ve heard some pumps are rigged to pump slower than what the meter says. There may also be a fear of siphoning or car theft.
Bottoming out again, we’re back on the road to drop Isaac and Kimu at their grade school. In another 30 minutes and 6 miles, my mother pulls over to drop me at my taxi stop for a 25 cent ride to the Resource Center, about 2 miles away.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Dancing with Prisoners: The Way to Reconciliation
Pulling up to the prison gate, our bus is passed by a truck-full of prisoners, clad in orange jumpsuits. The men are smiling and returning our stares. We wonder how many of the men before us were Hutus that had tortured and killed Tutsis and Tutsi sympathizers not even 16 years ago. There is no scarlet letter signifying their guilt, their orange outfits only tell us that they had been convicted of some crime, which may or may not have been related to the genocide.
As we walk through the front courtyard, a strange reversal of roles seems to take place: Men and women walk around, some aimlessly, some carrying out tasks, but all with relative freedom, while our group is led through, unconsciously formed into ordered pairs. I mention to the girl next to me how uncomfortable I feel about the situation, meaning the fact that we are being led through a prison as a tour group, but she takes me to mean the fact that we seem to be, yet again, the center of attention. We had no idea how literally those feelings would manifest.
After being caught by surprise at the settlement camps, we were sure to ask the night before if there was any sort of preparation we should have for the prison visit. Our academic director, Martha shrugged casually and said, “No, not really. You will hear a few testimonies from prisoners and have time to ask questions as a group.” Kale (ok), that sounded doable.
We line-up outside a large, brick building. I can’t see inside for the people standing in front of me, but I can hear music being played...odd. As I shuffle closer to the building’s entrance I see a decorated stage with chairs, which a prison guard is ushering us towards. The first in line had already grabbed the back rows, hoping to sink into the background of the elevated stage and spotlights. With no other options, I hesitantly took one of the front-row seats. Before me, hundreds of prisoners some wearing the convicted orange others the still-awaiting-trial pastel pink, are being lead into the audience, to sit facing us. To my left, three men play electric guitar and bass, a new-age and upbeat tune. No one seems to find this odd, except the 32 muzungus on stage. This didn’t seem like something we should be prepared for?!
I turn again to the same girl as earlier and say, “There is no foreseeable way that this can be made ok.” She just nods her head, half listening, still trying to make sense of what we have been led into. I was angry that the program had once again led us into a place of distress and severity with no more qualification for our being there than the fact that we hold U.S. passports. Already, I had been questioning why we should even be allowed to speak to prisoners when we are development studies students, not peace and conflict. But we were not only getting privileged access, we were honorary guests privileged to a special presentation.
After a few words from the head of the prison, eight men wearing traditional warrior outfits complete with spear, dance into the room to the beat of drums. They are clearly very experienced and they seem to be really enjoying the opportunity to share their talent. The faces of the prisoners in the audience are too generic to glean any emotion. A second speaker gives his “testimonial,” which consists of admitting his guilt in facilitating and partaking in the genocide and expressing his regret. This brief and generic guilty plea is followed promptly by a modern dance group. After the speaker seemed to brush aside such a horrendous atrocity with a few choice words, the performance of a few men about my age dancing in such a familiar style helped to alleviate some of my stress and anxiety about the situation. The people in front of us were no longer murderers, they were just...people. Since I could not distinguish between the varying levels of guilt, it was as if they were all the least horrible factor: innocent until proven guilty, right?
Other people in my group were not so quick to forget an forgive. We had, after all, just come from a horribly emotional memorial of the genocide to being asked to dance with possible perpetrators of that genocide. For me, I think I was ready to join with Rwanda in the reconciliation stage. My past exposure to the genocide had allowed me to go through the stages of grief, the final one perhaps being my breakdown during Sometimes in April. The most enlightening stage was my African studies course with Beth Dougherty my sophomore year. We studied the conflicts of Sierra Leone, Liberia, Angola, the Congo, Somalia, Eritrea & Ethiopia, as well as Rwanda. From the beginning Beth instilled in us a unique understanding of the actors in these atrocities. It was explained that the perpetrators of these genocide were not animalistic, freaks completely removed from ourselves, they were victims of their situation. We were brought to the realization that had we been in the same situation, we do not know that we would have acted any differently. It is impossible to know if one would or would not submit to authority or mob mentality till they are in the situation. Looking out at the prisoners before me, I could not feel anything besides pity and sorrow. There was a sense of relief when I was brought out on the floor to dance. It was a very literal way to connect with the people and to remove ourselves from the falsely elevated status.
After the dance party, we were led to a small room across the prison courtyard to speak with the head of the prison. The Tutsi woman stood before us confident and proud. After a briefing on the prison, she told us that she was a survivor of the 1994 genocide; looking at the deep scar above her right eye, I wondered just what that entailed. She related her initial hatred and bloodlust for the Hutus who were responsible for the genocide. In 1996, she came to work for the prison. As she worked with perpetrators of the genocide, the realization slowly grew that revenge would bring no solace and would only perpetuate the cycle hatred and anguish. Forgiveness and reconciliation is the only option for Rwanda’s future. And that is what we had just partaken in. If this woman could forgive the people responsible for the slaughter of her loved ones, who was I to judge?
And that was the second time I cried. Twice in one week, definitely a record for me. Here was a prison system that was actually based on rehabilitation and reconciliation, at least from what we heard and saw. In the U.S. convicts too often come out much worse than when they went in, many to become repeat offenders. Our “justice” system is based on punishment, which surely only harms our society in the long run. Though there are still rumors of discrimination and animosity between Hutus and Tutsis, from what I saw of Kigali and the prison, there is hope for Rwanda.
As we walk through the front courtyard, a strange reversal of roles seems to take place: Men and women walk around, some aimlessly, some carrying out tasks, but all with relative freedom, while our group is led through, unconsciously formed into ordered pairs. I mention to the girl next to me how uncomfortable I feel about the situation, meaning the fact that we are being led through a prison as a tour group, but she takes me to mean the fact that we seem to be, yet again, the center of attention. We had no idea how literally those feelings would manifest.
After being caught by surprise at the settlement camps, we were sure to ask the night before if there was any sort of preparation we should have for the prison visit. Our academic director, Martha shrugged casually and said, “No, not really. You will hear a few testimonies from prisoners and have time to ask questions as a group.” Kale (ok), that sounded doable.
We line-up outside a large, brick building. I can’t see inside for the people standing in front of me, but I can hear music being played...odd. As I shuffle closer to the building’s entrance I see a decorated stage with chairs, which a prison guard is ushering us towards. The first in line had already grabbed the back rows, hoping to sink into the background of the elevated stage and spotlights. With no other options, I hesitantly took one of the front-row seats. Before me, hundreds of prisoners some wearing the convicted orange others the still-awaiting-trial pastel pink, are being lead into the audience, to sit facing us. To my left, three men play electric guitar and bass, a new-age and upbeat tune. No one seems to find this odd, except the 32 muzungus on stage. This didn’t seem like something we should be prepared for?!
I turn again to the same girl as earlier and say, “There is no foreseeable way that this can be made ok.” She just nods her head, half listening, still trying to make sense of what we have been led into. I was angry that the program had once again led us into a place of distress and severity with no more qualification for our being there than the fact that we hold U.S. passports. Already, I had been questioning why we should even be allowed to speak to prisoners when we are development studies students, not peace and conflict. But we were not only getting privileged access, we were honorary guests privileged to a special presentation.
After a few words from the head of the prison, eight men wearing traditional warrior outfits complete with spear, dance into the room to the beat of drums. They are clearly very experienced and they seem to be really enjoying the opportunity to share their talent. The faces of the prisoners in the audience are too generic to glean any emotion. A second speaker gives his “testimonial,” which consists of admitting his guilt in facilitating and partaking in the genocide and expressing his regret. This brief and generic guilty plea is followed promptly by a modern dance group. After the speaker seemed to brush aside such a horrendous atrocity with a few choice words, the performance of a few men about my age dancing in such a familiar style helped to alleviate some of my stress and anxiety about the situation. The people in front of us were no longer murderers, they were just...people. Since I could not distinguish between the varying levels of guilt, it was as if they were all the least horrible factor: innocent until proven guilty, right?
Other people in my group were not so quick to forget an forgive. We had, after all, just come from a horribly emotional memorial of the genocide to being asked to dance with possible perpetrators of that genocide. For me, I think I was ready to join with Rwanda in the reconciliation stage. My past exposure to the genocide had allowed me to go through the stages of grief, the final one perhaps being my breakdown during Sometimes in April. The most enlightening stage was my African studies course with Beth Dougherty my sophomore year. We studied the conflicts of Sierra Leone, Liberia, Angola, the Congo, Somalia, Eritrea & Ethiopia, as well as Rwanda. From the beginning Beth instilled in us a unique understanding of the actors in these atrocities. It was explained that the perpetrators of these genocide were not animalistic, freaks completely removed from ourselves, they were victims of their situation. We were brought to the realization that had we been in the same situation, we do not know that we would have acted any differently. It is impossible to know if one would or would not submit to authority or mob mentality till they are in the situation. Looking out at the prisoners before me, I could not feel anything besides pity and sorrow. There was a sense of relief when I was brought out on the floor to dance. It was a very literal way to connect with the people and to remove ourselves from the falsely elevated status.
After the dance party, we were led to a small room across the prison courtyard to speak with the head of the prison. The Tutsi woman stood before us confident and proud. After a briefing on the prison, she told us that she was a survivor of the 1994 genocide; looking at the deep scar above her right eye, I wondered just what that entailed. She related her initial hatred and bloodlust for the Hutus who were responsible for the genocide. In 1996, she came to work for the prison. As she worked with perpetrators of the genocide, the realization slowly grew that revenge would bring no solace and would only perpetuate the cycle hatred and anguish. Forgiveness and reconciliation is the only option for Rwanda’s future. And that is what we had just partaken in. If this woman could forgive the people responsible for the slaughter of her loved ones, who was I to judge?
And that was the second time I cried. Twice in one week, definitely a record for me. Here was a prison system that was actually based on rehabilitation and reconciliation, at least from what we heard and saw. In the U.S. convicts too often come out much worse than when they went in, many to become repeat offenders. Our “justice” system is based on punishment, which surely only harms our society in the long run. Though there are still rumors of discrimination and animosity between Hutus and Tutsis, from what I saw of Kigali and the prison, there is hope for Rwanda.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Emerging From My Cave
This past week was the most random, intense and emotional week of my life. Never before have I been battered so relentlessly with such strong and conflicting feelings and actualities. I will try to recount the week within a reasonable-length post, which of course will leave a great deal out. If there is any point you, the reader, would like me to elaborate on, please let me know.
“Imagine him being dragged forcibly away from there up the rough, steep slope...without being released until he’s been pulled out into the sunlight. Wouldn’t this treatment cause him pain and distress?” - Socrates in Plato’s Republic
While rereading Plato’s parable of the Cave during the eight-hour car ride to Kigali, Rwanda, I recognized a wonderful parallel to what I am currently going through:
Day 1:
Watching “Sometimes in April,” I break down into a sobbing mess. I rarely cry, ever, but I am thankful when the DVD breaks two thirds of the way through and I can take the chance to excuse myself to my hotel room.
For some reason, the movie gave me the slightest feeling of what it might have been like to have lived in Rwanda during the genocide of 1994, and it scared me beyond belief. I was upset because I had caught the smallest glimpse of this tragedy and because I knew that feeling would soon become as distant and illusive as it always was.
Day 2:
We are taken straight from a successful development project at a rural school and dropped into a refugee settlement without a clue as to what we were getting into (a theme for the week, as it turned out). Separated into groups of seven, I followed the group headed to the Rwandan settlement, while others met with Somalians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Sudanese, Burundians, and Congolese. The setup of the site visit was like a sick and twisted safari where we gawked at the refugees for about an hour and a half before leaving the park in our rented vans.
The “interviews” were horribly awkward. We hadn’t prepared any questions because we had no idea what was going to happen. It was horribly awkward. An english class for adults was kicked out of their one-room classroom to make way for us seven American students to sit around for an hour, grasping for questions that might in some way validate our presence there. But they knew better: the Rwandans, like the Somalians and Sudanese and others, had seen American students come by, sometimes for a day, sometimes a month, it didn’t really matter because nothing ever came out of it. The refugees demanded explanations for our visits, and rightfully so. Even we were questioning why we had any right to be granted access to these camps, to use these people as guinea pigs for practicing our art of “rapport building” and interviewing.
We asked a few questions and learned some interesting things about the current situation of Hutus in and outside of Rwanda, but the people with the real questions were our interviewees: “What are you going to do?”
Hell, what can we do? They knew full well that we couldn’t provide any help or improvement. And yet they still talked to us and told us how hard life is for them in the settlement and back in Rwanda. In under two hours, I learned just how insignificant and yet relatively powerful I am and had no idea what that meant.
I am emerging from my cave of ignorance into a light far brighter and more disorientating than the equatorial sun. The hour spent in the settlement camp was so overwhelming and frightening, it is enough to scare me back into my cave of encompassing darkness.
“And once he’s reached the sunlight, he wouldn’t be able to see a single one of the things which are currently taken to be real, would he, because his eyes would be overwhelmed by the sun’s beams?”
Day 3:
Rwanda Genocide Memorial
I feel blind and helpless, groping for any bit of something to make sense of this new knowledge and these new feelings. The memorial left me emotionally numb. I just could not understand the violence, the hate, and the ignorance.
1930 Prison (see next blog for more detailed description)
We are told that we will be taken to the Kigali prison to hear testimonies from actors in the 1994 genocide...this wasn’t quite the case. We are placed in front of prisoners, many of whom are perpetrators of the genocide but none of whom are designated, as honored guests. They show off their culture to us and ask for our participation in turn. We are taken from the stage and led to the floor to dance with and for hundreds of prisoners. The experience is humbling, moving, and horribly confusing. Here we were dancing with possibly murderers, but we had no way of knowing who they were and what they had done. We had just come from a memorial which cried out for the thousands lost, yet here we were dancing and laughing with those who have been convicted of the crime.
Clive Owen walks by us at the mall
Day 4:
Rwandan Genocide Memorials: churches where thousands were killed
Clive Owen
The victims and perpetrators of the Rwandan genocide are no longer superficial shadows projected on a television screen, I have met the Hutus in the settlement camps and danced with the convicts in prison, and I have listened to the Tutsis now left in charge. But what does it all mean?
“And if he were forced to look at the actual firelight, don’t you think it would hurt his eyes? Don’t you think he’d turn away and run back to the things he could make out?”
The temptation to run back to my happy cave of ignorance in the United States is so strong that I fear it will be too much to resist. Even now, not even a week later, the emotions are fading. Two years ago, I was set on studying rural health in IDP camps in northern Uganda. After Ghana, I knew I could not go into rural health. After the refugee camps, I know I can’t even spend the six weeks of my independent project there. There is too much suffering, too much hopelessness, and I am too paralyzed by my own insignificance and remoteness to be of any use. But at least I know that. So now I am in the adjustment period: still blinded, senses numbed, but I am beginning to see the slightest silhouettes of something tangible.
NOTE: just learned that a grenade attack occurred in Kigali the day after we left. (don’t tell my grandmothers)
Republic, translated by Robin Waterfield. Oxford University Press 1993.
“Imagine him being dragged forcibly away from there up the rough, steep slope...without being released until he’s been pulled out into the sunlight. Wouldn’t this treatment cause him pain and distress?” - Socrates in Plato’s Republic
While rereading Plato’s parable of the Cave during the eight-hour car ride to Kigali, Rwanda, I recognized a wonderful parallel to what I am currently going through:
Day 1:
Watching “Sometimes in April,” I break down into a sobbing mess. I rarely cry, ever, but I am thankful when the DVD breaks two thirds of the way through and I can take the chance to excuse myself to my hotel room.
For some reason, the movie gave me the slightest feeling of what it might have been like to have lived in Rwanda during the genocide of 1994, and it scared me beyond belief. I was upset because I had caught the smallest glimpse of this tragedy and because I knew that feeling would soon become as distant and illusive as it always was.
Day 2:
We are taken straight from a successful development project at a rural school and dropped into a refugee settlement without a clue as to what we were getting into (a theme for the week, as it turned out). Separated into groups of seven, I followed the group headed to the Rwandan settlement, while others met with Somalians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Sudanese, Burundians, and Congolese. The setup of the site visit was like a sick and twisted safari where we gawked at the refugees for about an hour and a half before leaving the park in our rented vans.
The “interviews” were horribly awkward. We hadn’t prepared any questions because we had no idea what was going to happen. It was horribly awkward. An english class for adults was kicked out of their one-room classroom to make way for us seven American students to sit around for an hour, grasping for questions that might in some way validate our presence there. But they knew better: the Rwandans, like the Somalians and Sudanese and others, had seen American students come by, sometimes for a day, sometimes a month, it didn’t really matter because nothing ever came out of it. The refugees demanded explanations for our visits, and rightfully so. Even we were questioning why we had any right to be granted access to these camps, to use these people as guinea pigs for practicing our art of “rapport building” and interviewing.
We asked a few questions and learned some interesting things about the current situation of Hutus in and outside of Rwanda, but the people with the real questions were our interviewees: “What are you going to do?”
Hell, what can we do? They knew full well that we couldn’t provide any help or improvement. And yet they still talked to us and told us how hard life is for them in the settlement and back in Rwanda. In under two hours, I learned just how insignificant and yet relatively powerful I am and had no idea what that meant.
I am emerging from my cave of ignorance into a light far brighter and more disorientating than the equatorial sun. The hour spent in the settlement camp was so overwhelming and frightening, it is enough to scare me back into my cave of encompassing darkness.
“And once he’s reached the sunlight, he wouldn’t be able to see a single one of the things which are currently taken to be real, would he, because his eyes would be overwhelmed by the sun’s beams?”
Day 3:
Rwanda Genocide Memorial
I feel blind and helpless, groping for any bit of something to make sense of this new knowledge and these new feelings. The memorial left me emotionally numb. I just could not understand the violence, the hate, and the ignorance.
1930 Prison (see next blog for more detailed description)
We are told that we will be taken to the Kigali prison to hear testimonies from actors in the 1994 genocide...this wasn’t quite the case. We are placed in front of prisoners, many of whom are perpetrators of the genocide but none of whom are designated, as honored guests. They show off their culture to us and ask for our participation in turn. We are taken from the stage and led to the floor to dance with and for hundreds of prisoners. The experience is humbling, moving, and horribly confusing. Here we were dancing with possibly murderers, but we had no way of knowing who they were and what they had done. We had just come from a memorial which cried out for the thousands lost, yet here we were dancing and laughing with those who have been convicted of the crime.
Clive Owen walks by us at the mall
Day 4:
Rwandan Genocide Memorials: churches where thousands were killed
Clive Owen
The victims and perpetrators of the Rwandan genocide are no longer superficial shadows projected on a television screen, I have met the Hutus in the settlement camps and danced with the convicts in prison, and I have listened to the Tutsis now left in charge. But what does it all mean?
“And if he were forced to look at the actual firelight, don’t you think it would hurt his eyes? Don’t you think he’d turn away and run back to the things he could make out?”
The temptation to run back to my happy cave of ignorance in the United States is so strong that I fear it will be too much to resist. Even now, not even a week later, the emotions are fading. Two years ago, I was set on studying rural health in IDP camps in northern Uganda. After Ghana, I knew I could not go into rural health. After the refugee camps, I know I can’t even spend the six weeks of my independent project there. There is too much suffering, too much hopelessness, and I am too paralyzed by my own insignificance and remoteness to be of any use. But at least I know that. So now I am in the adjustment period: still blinded, senses numbed, but I am beginning to see the slightest silhouettes of something tangible.
NOTE: just learned that a grenade attack occurred in Kigali the day after we left. (don’t tell my grandmothers)
Republic, translated by Robin Waterfield. Oxford University Press 1993.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Dr. Matembe Part II: A “Discussion” on Homosexuality
Recently, Uganda has found its way back into the world news headlines. After decades of commendable development success and leading the fights against AIDS in Africa with brilliant strides immediately following a tumultuous period of fear and destruction under Idi Amin, Uganda appears to be backtracking. AIDs is on the rise again, schools are failing, and now a new bill has been introduced which would codify discrimination.
But is Uganda taking steps backward or merely displaying precisely where it stands in the “development” process?
Prompted by a question posed by one of the SIT students, Dr. Matembe explained her own double-standard when it comes to discriminating against homosexuals and bisexuals (she didn’t even know where to start on Transgendered, transsexuals, queer, and any other new letters that have been added to GLBTTQ). Ultimately, she summed up her position and the position of most Ugandans to the fact that they do not properly understand alternate forms of sexuality. Because of her strong stance on gender equality, Dr. Matembe has been approached by people of the GLBTTQ community for support. Where I fully sympathized with her argument was in her explanation that no one has been able to explain the situation in a satisfactory way. She said that people need to come, not saying that Ugandans are wrong and backwards, but that they need to approach the issue from a culturally and historically sensitive perspective.
Uganda has changed quite a lot in the past, almost 50 years of independence. Yet the severe marginalization of women in this society alone should be an indicator to Americans that perhaps Uganda just is not ready to fully except such obscure ideas as homosexuality. Is the United States, supposedly one of the most “developed” and progressive countries in the world, not also grappling with the issue of homosexuality?
A New York Times article came out about a week before I left for Uganda, which traced the new-found fervor against homosexuality back to a few Evangelical Christians from the U.S. They came to Uganda spewing the typical propaganda that “homosexuality is an attack against the family,” and that “homosexuals will come into your schools and convert your children.” (not direct quotes) Dr. Matembe recited some of these slogans in order for us to know what the current, popular understanding of homosexuality in Uganda is. What these evangelicals didn’t understand is the culture of Uganda. Here, the family is everything. Family is above the individual, above the state and everything else except God. When something is said to be an “attack against the family,” supported by Bible verses (perverted and decontextualized though they may be), Ugandans will not respond merely by boycotting Spongebob. It is no wonder that it was so easy to drum up enough fervor to want such a “threat” abolished.
Yet most Ugandans I have heard from are not in favor of this bill. Mostly, the consensus seems to be that this is not an issue that parliament should be spending time on. First and foremost, there are already so many things that need attention: schools, roads, and healthcare. Secondly, this is an issue which is better dealt with inside the home. and Thirdly, the issue of homosexuality is so small and obscure in Uganda that there is no need to spend any thought, time or effort on such an irrelevant bill.
Though I am not sure I agree with the last reasoning, it is interesting, and in a way comforting, to hear such ambivalence toward the bill, especially when it has been so hyped up on the global stage.
Unfortunately, Dr. Matembe’s response got rather personal and strayed from merely giving a cultural and contextual perspective of the Ugandans to giving her own personal opinion of homosexuality. It’s an argument I’ve heard dozens of times before, complete with the verse from Leviticus, (which also houses rules against eating shellfish), and adamant swearing of loving the person and just wanting them to be “normal.” Hearing these horribly misguided arguments always gets my heart pounding and my fist a’clinching. I probably gained about 12 grey hairs, but I kept my mouth shut. Why?! Why would I stay silent when a woman of power and influence who claims to be a follower of the god of mercy and compassion uses a book about love in order to validate her ignorant discrimination? Because it was neither the time nor the place.
However, some of my colleagues did not think the same way as I. With a few impassioned remarks from the students and poorly guided prompts from Dr. Matembe, the conversation turned into an attack of the speaker’s personal ideals and views. This is what I mean by not the time nor place. The place was an academic setting in which a speaker came to discuss the gender issue in Uganda. The time was shortly after she had explained what the issues are surrounding the homosexuality bill; too soon for us to be able to address the many faults and failings of her argument in a way that would be calm, controlled, situationally sensitive, and most of all, productive. When it comes to homosexuality, the issue in the United States is political and religious. When the same debate occurs in Uganda, between American and a Ugandan, it is tricky to see that we are not just dealing with a mere problem of misinterpreting the Bible and not understanding that homosexuality is not a choice. These two problems continue to create hurdles in the fight for gay rights in the U.S., so now add in a completely different culture which we have only started to understand these past 3 weeks.
As students studying abroad, we are meant to enter another culture with patience and understanding; to take a step back from issues in order to view them in a more neutral and anthropological stance. This is why I was ashamed by my colleagues who instead turned the situation, into an absurdly uneven and nonacademic debate. My goal was to learn as much as I could from the speaker about the issue, use my own time and further conversations and research to understand more fully the situation. That knowledge then could be used to form a more solid stance on which the argument against this bill can be made. And considering the bill to criminalize homosexuality is fast approaching, this is a far more important and pertinent debate which needs to happen before anyone can even begin to explain why homosexuals deserve every right and freedom as heterosexuals. From what I could tell, the students who turned against the speaker had no goal except to feel a sense of justice from telling one woman that she is wrong; not convincing, not changing anything, just letting the room know that his/her view on homosexuality is precisely what everyone, including Dr. Matembe, suspected.
So there we were at square one: Americans who have come to Africa not to explain, not to teach and develop, but to tell Africans that their thoughts and understandings are wrong, without providing any sufficient or sustainable alternative. Well done...
But is Uganda taking steps backward or merely displaying precisely where it stands in the “development” process?
Prompted by a question posed by one of the SIT students, Dr. Matembe explained her own double-standard when it comes to discriminating against homosexuals and bisexuals (she didn’t even know where to start on Transgendered, transsexuals, queer, and any other new letters that have been added to GLBTTQ). Ultimately, she summed up her position and the position of most Ugandans to the fact that they do not properly understand alternate forms of sexuality. Because of her strong stance on gender equality, Dr. Matembe has been approached by people of the GLBTTQ community for support. Where I fully sympathized with her argument was in her explanation that no one has been able to explain the situation in a satisfactory way. She said that people need to come, not saying that Ugandans are wrong and backwards, but that they need to approach the issue from a culturally and historically sensitive perspective.
Uganda has changed quite a lot in the past, almost 50 years of independence. Yet the severe marginalization of women in this society alone should be an indicator to Americans that perhaps Uganda just is not ready to fully except such obscure ideas as homosexuality. Is the United States, supposedly one of the most “developed” and progressive countries in the world, not also grappling with the issue of homosexuality?
A New York Times article came out about a week before I left for Uganda, which traced the new-found fervor against homosexuality back to a few Evangelical Christians from the U.S. They came to Uganda spewing the typical propaganda that “homosexuality is an attack against the family,” and that “homosexuals will come into your schools and convert your children.” (not direct quotes) Dr. Matembe recited some of these slogans in order for us to know what the current, popular understanding of homosexuality in Uganda is. What these evangelicals didn’t understand is the culture of Uganda. Here, the family is everything. Family is above the individual, above the state and everything else except God. When something is said to be an “attack against the family,” supported by Bible verses (perverted and decontextualized though they may be), Ugandans will not respond merely by boycotting Spongebob. It is no wonder that it was so easy to drum up enough fervor to want such a “threat” abolished.
Yet most Ugandans I have heard from are not in favor of this bill. Mostly, the consensus seems to be that this is not an issue that parliament should be spending time on. First and foremost, there are already so many things that need attention: schools, roads, and healthcare. Secondly, this is an issue which is better dealt with inside the home. and Thirdly, the issue of homosexuality is so small and obscure in Uganda that there is no need to spend any thought, time or effort on such an irrelevant bill.
Though I am not sure I agree with the last reasoning, it is interesting, and in a way comforting, to hear such ambivalence toward the bill, especially when it has been so hyped up on the global stage.
Unfortunately, Dr. Matembe’s response got rather personal and strayed from merely giving a cultural and contextual perspective of the Ugandans to giving her own personal opinion of homosexuality. It’s an argument I’ve heard dozens of times before, complete with the verse from Leviticus, (which also houses rules against eating shellfish), and adamant swearing of loving the person and just wanting them to be “normal.” Hearing these horribly misguided arguments always gets my heart pounding and my fist a’clinching. I probably gained about 12 grey hairs, but I kept my mouth shut. Why?! Why would I stay silent when a woman of power and influence who claims to be a follower of the god of mercy and compassion uses a book about love in order to validate her ignorant discrimination? Because it was neither the time nor the place.
However, some of my colleagues did not think the same way as I. With a few impassioned remarks from the students and poorly guided prompts from Dr. Matembe, the conversation turned into an attack of the speaker’s personal ideals and views. This is what I mean by not the time nor place. The place was an academic setting in which a speaker came to discuss the gender issue in Uganda. The time was shortly after she had explained what the issues are surrounding the homosexuality bill; too soon for us to be able to address the many faults and failings of her argument in a way that would be calm, controlled, situationally sensitive, and most of all, productive. When it comes to homosexuality, the issue in the United States is political and religious. When the same debate occurs in Uganda, between American and a Ugandan, it is tricky to see that we are not just dealing with a mere problem of misinterpreting the Bible and not understanding that homosexuality is not a choice. These two problems continue to create hurdles in the fight for gay rights in the U.S., so now add in a completely different culture which we have only started to understand these past 3 weeks.
As students studying abroad, we are meant to enter another culture with patience and understanding; to take a step back from issues in order to view them in a more neutral and anthropological stance. This is why I was ashamed by my colleagues who instead turned the situation, into an absurdly uneven and nonacademic debate. My goal was to learn as much as I could from the speaker about the issue, use my own time and further conversations and research to understand more fully the situation. That knowledge then could be used to form a more solid stance on which the argument against this bill can be made. And considering the bill to criminalize homosexuality is fast approaching, this is a far more important and pertinent debate which needs to happen before anyone can even begin to explain why homosexuals deserve every right and freedom as heterosexuals. From what I could tell, the students who turned against the speaker had no goal except to feel a sense of justice from telling one woman that she is wrong; not convincing, not changing anything, just letting the room know that his/her view on homosexuality is precisely what everyone, including Dr. Matembe, suspected.
So there we were at square one: Americans who have come to Africa not to explain, not to teach and develop, but to tell Africans that their thoughts and understandings are wrong, without providing any sufficient or sustainable alternative. Well done...
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