Sister Rain, Life is Great!

I’d really like to sleep, but for the moment I’m hopped up on African tea, so I might as well write.

It’s been too long since I could write anything substantive. I was right, though, that coming to Gulu would leave me with enough personal time to let me start writing again. I knew too many people to enjoy that sort of leisure anymore in Kampala. Not that I’ll be able to take advantage of this for long … already on my first day here, a New Vision reporter invited me for tea, I chatted with the representative for the office of the president, and I met an entire jazz band. I’ve been here less than twelve hours. Something tells me that Gulu will keep me busy.

I think I’m getting into the swing of life in Uganda. Of course, if I say that with any certainty, life will come tickle me in the ribs – introduce something I wasn’t expecting, make me a little bit lost again. But I have begun to learn that Ugandans adapt to the lack of technology and infrastructure by helping one another. The lack of maps / water / electricity / medical care / traffic lights / internet connection / phone service / postal security / etc. is largely made up for by one entity: community. You ask the person sitting next to you whether you can read their newspaper when they’re through. You take tea with your neighbor instead of watching television. If you’re sick in the hospital, your friends stay the entire time to keep you company and administer your prescriptions. If you’re too frail to carry your own water, the kid next door will take your jerry can to the bore hole. I won’t say life is as easy here as it is in the States, but I will say there is a sensitivity to the people here that outstrips any community I see among most Americans. Now I know where my own family gets it.

Yesterday, on my last day at HURINET-U, the folks at the office threw me a party. I’ve seen other interns come and go, but for some reason they singled me out for this honor. I guess they really liked the web sites I built? Anyway, it was touching. Moses proposed. Joann said she was going to make me her daughter’s godmother. Betty drew me a card (“beautiful …” it says. “I am so sorry you are living [sic].”) Zam and Onyango gave me presents. And me? I cried a lot. I guess these past two years have been hard – watching my friends get laid off, living with my colleagues’ resentment because I was so young yet still working, deciding to go to law school, leaving without a peep from most folks in the office (how can you worry about one person quitting when management is firing dozens?), then going to law school where I struggle immensely to maintain the lie that I’m keeping up with these sharp young minds. Some days I hate myself so much, I wish I never existed. Yet here I have some value. Here, my body shape is attractive, my need for starch to avoid heartburn is satisfied, my tendency to be friendly is returned, and I have skills that people need. I know how the swan felt when he discovered he wasn’t a duck. I feel like I’m home. It’s difficult to accept this, but wonderful, too. I am so glad I came.

A few days ago, Nanda and I had a good laugh over instant messenger. Traveling for both of us has been much easier and infinitely more life-affirming than school. Give us crimes against humanity over civil procedure any day. At least we can begin to deal with the former.

But enough moping. Maisha iko sawa – life is good here. And I have a lot of events to describe! Moroto, Ndere Troupe, Gulu … I don’t know where to start! Simple things first. Words I have learned:

Kopange? How are you?
Kopa. I am fine.
Afoyo! Thank you!
Beh. It’s good.
Ni na? What’s your name?

People tried to teach me “I’m going out” and “good morning,” but I have already forgotten those. There’s a lot to absorb, in new places. For example, yesterday I met Gladys and Jackie in the reception, and Justin Moro from New Vision, and Milton from the Office of the President, and Godfrey and Christopher and another Christopher from a jazz band, and Geoffrey and Sarah from the restaurant, and Devota and Job and Jeffry and Fabius from the Centre, and Ali the motorcycle mechanic. There are a few others I can’t remember. I also learned, roughly, how to get from Gulu University to my tiny hotel room in Pearl Afrique. Also, that the Acholi kneel when they greet people. I haven’t had the guts to do that one, yet. I feel a little foolish, because I’ve only seen it done in an outlying village that I visited on the way to town. If people were kneeling all over the place here, I’d feel more confident about trying.

Mosquitoes are worse here than in Kampala. I’ve finally started wearing the recommended deet. I tried to go without, and woke up tonight to the sound of … well, to be honest, the buzzing sounded a little like Trent Reznor in hell. I spent almost an hour with my eyes squeezed shut, wondering whether it would be better to turn on the light and face the skeeters or try to sleep through the night. Finally the buzzing in my ears got the better of me, and I turned on the lights. And then sprayed EVERYTHING in this room with DOOM until the place reeked of insecticide, and covered myself in repellent. Even though I used the mosquito net just like Uncle John taught me (keep it up during the day and pull it all the way down at night, then tuck it under the mattress) two of the little cretins found their way in through holes in the mesh and had a small BBQ on my flesh. My elbow is so covered in bites that it’s swollen. I think I’m doubling my malaria meds when I have breakfast tomorrow morning. (Note: This morning a mosquito came after me, and I backhanded it. It landed on the mattress, and I sprayed it with DOOM directly. After being partially squished and sprayed, it still got up and started flying again. I had to repeat the process before it died. AMAZING. I’ll give the little bugs one thing – they’ve got tenacity!)

But the town is surprisingly okay. I expected kilometer on kilometer of refugee camps. We passed two. They weren’t so big. And the IDP residences were huts like the ones Dad lived in as a kid. I asked about this; I’ve seen pictures of Ugandan refugee camps that look a lot worse. My co-worker Joyce said that so many NGOs are in the area, even the IDP camps are becoming more like permanent settlements. It’s made land use issues troublesome, but at least people have a baseline quality of life. You do see some effects of the war, though. Every once in a while you see someone who is missing a limb, or has an odd limp or something. But it’s not as bad as I thought. I guess after working with burn victim Jennifer Anyayo (LRA soldiers set her house on fire with her in it), I figured many people would show the same evidence of violence as she does. Not so. What a relief.

Maybe I’m missing something. When I arrived in Kampala, the reality of the place took time to sink in. I was so overloaded with new information there were things that I didn’t see. Maybe it will be the same here. On the other hand, maybe civil society organizations are that effective. This place certainly feels more technologically advanced than, say, Moroto. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I have to describe the road trips. They were both exhausting, but some of the most exciting times I’ve had in Uganda.

… That darn mosquito is still kicking. (I haven’t had the guts to get toilet paper and squish it, yet. Bugs disturb me, if you couldn’t tell. I have to work myself up to a good squashing.)

So, trip #1: Karamoja is in eastern Uganda. The people there are mainly cattle herders, with an emphasis on cows. Traditionally they’ve raised their own breed of short-horned cow, but the long-horned cows are being introduced into the region because they are hardy and produce a lot of milk. Ask the Karamijong, though, and they still prefer their traditional cattle. Supposedly the beef tastes better. Like I’ve mentioned before, this region is also rife with cattle rustlers. I told you the story about my American friend living in Karamoja who bought herself a donkey to help with household chores. Bad idea! The cattle rustlers came through firing their guns and took the donkey almost immediately. Martha swears she’ll never buy any kind of cattle again.

In the world of Uganda, the Karamijong are a minority group. People in central, western and northern Uganda tend to react badly to them, because of their country habit of walking around naked. Now that I’ve been to Karamoja, I understand why. It’s hot there. Really, really hot. The land is “arid,” by which I mean little water, more dust than I’d ever imagined possible, enormous cactus trees, anthills taller than people and short, shrubby coniferous shoots. Vegetation with wide canopies dangled pods the length of my forearm, and other trees hosted circular birds’ nests straight out of National Geographic. With the darting quail and the occasional dik dik, it was like stumbling onto another planet. The temperature is so high, you drink water and it immediately leaks back out of your skin. And because the people are somewhat secluded, the Karamoja region receives less by way of government services than any other area of Uganda. I’m not sure that the town we stayed in actually had public power. People turned on generators in the evening, and now that I think about it, I don’t think we had non-generator electricity even once. Water comes directly from wells and frequently isn’t available, gas is cranked by hand from the pumps, and utilities are just offline. Phones work sometimes, and there are no public internet cafés. People have begun to rely on solar power to run their machines, but the power goes off whenever the smallest sprinkling of clouds is overhead. So if you need to use a photocopier to make 100 duplicates of a document, you’ll probably have to hit the start button 300 times to get the desired effect. I know this from experience.

The good news is that the many of the folks who aren’t stealing cows are wonderful. We only spent one full day and two half days in town, and by the time we left I could recognize and chat with many people I met on the street. Large portions of the local community turned out each afternoon to watch the kids play football, and the guys shooting pool at the local pub boasted so loudly about their skill that I was constantly in stitches. I met one lady from a radio station in Arua; she turned out to be one of those wonderful women who hugs you all of the time and takes you places and talks with you for hours. (It’s hard to be lonely, here.) And folks in the villages were very kind. Kids would jump and wave for attention, everyone was stares and smiles. The Karamijong don’t get many visitors, actually. Just the UN and a handful of daring NGOs.

Our regional focal person, a man named Jean Marc, was the epitome of effusiveness. He talked more than my Uncle Darius, which is saying a lot. Uncle Darius is a linguist who will keep anyone on the phone for hours; longer, if you don’t tell him you’re busy. But Jean Marc, he probably couldn’t keep quiet if Okot Odhiambo held a gun to his head. It was charming to hear all of his stories, but I’m really glad he only rode with us from Mbale onward. Jean Marc insisted that we drive without the planned military escort, which made me nervous. Then he started explaining why he didn’t want a military escort, and that made me more nervous still. Apparently, rebels and cattle thieves don’t like the military, so they openly fire on vehicles traveling with soldiers. You’re possibly in more danger with an armed guard than you are without. As we moved onward, Jean Marc started pointing out these crosses along the roadside – places where members of the clergy had been murdered. “But this place is safe, now,” he insisted. “I don’t know why people are afraid.” Mmm.

Before we passed into Karamoja, though, we stopped to visit Onyango’s mother. She lived about halfway to Moroto, our destination town, at the place where the tarmac ends. What a wonderful woman! We drove off the road into this tiny village – think clay brick houses with aluminum siding for roofs, and a block or so of shops to support the entire community. Onyango directed us to a pair of gates that were clearly a sign of riches. Anything made out of sturdy metal would have signified wealth, here. A beautiful, large woman swathed in pink cloth threw open the doors, and you could see a kid (perhaps one of Onyango’s brothers) running into the compound with a live chicken in one hand. Mama insisted we come inside and sit down. Her home was made out of simple concrete, but you could tell she was doing well because she had sofas covered in doilies and a small television on the cabinet. The walls were covered in religious pictures and posters from the ruling political party. There was the mandatory photo of Museveni, too. Everything was very clean, not a speck of dust. I am amazed at how she did this, because keeping my hotel rooms free of the street clay has been a nightmare, and I’m the only person occupying the room. Onyango has several brothers and, I think, one sister. Many of them still live with the parents, so how Mama keeps the house tidy is beyond me. She must have help, and they must work all day.

Anyway, Onyango had brought a new television set as a present. It’s African custom to give gifts every time you visit your parents, and men are under a greater obligation than women. I wasn’t sure whether I should offer a gift or not, but it’s always better to err on the side of caution, so I gave Mrs. Onyango an Indian scarf I had purchased the day before to hide my hair. She clutched it to her breast and absolutely beamed. (At least I wasn’t accidentally implying that I was her daughter in law or something. That would have been awkward, considering Onyango already has a permanent girlfriend.) We only wanted to stay a short time, but Mama insisted everyone sit down and be welcome. Before we knew it, a kid was coming around with a pitcher of water and a bucket, and we were all washing our hands for supper. We had sim sim, matoke, and ground nut chicken. It was amazing. I’m not sure how Mrs. Onyango made that meal from a squawking bird so quickly, but she did a fantastic job. It was a feast. I felt pretty guilty eating, because none of the rest of the family took food, but you do not say “no” to a mother. I know that much about being African.

A policewoman walked into the house and joined us. I think her name was Faith or Hope, or something like that. I don’t remember exactly. Anyway, she threw open the curtain, strode into the house, and said pointedly, “you’re all under arrest!” My eyes must have gotten big, because she started cackling. Apparently, she’s Mama’s best friend and confidant. Onyango knows her well; she is the police advocate for children – more like a social worker than an actual cop. And she turned out to be one of those precious souls, too, making us all laugh constantly. I told her I would only be confined in an American prison, so she would have to come back to the United States with me if she really wanted me in jail. This only made the woman giggle.

On our way out, Mrs. Onyango gave us three gigantic bunches of bananas, two mangoes, and a million hugs. We were stuffed, but we tried to eat as many bananas on the road, anyway. We only got through so many before the sun started baking the fruit to death, splitting the peels and turning the insides brown. I knew they would go bad before we reached Moroto, so after everyone declared that they couldn’t eat another bite, I rolled down the window and started handing out bananas to kids. They swarmed the car in a heartbeat, yelling and grabbing for food. I was glad someone could eat it. Aron, our driver, started laughing.

“Do you know what they’re calling you?” he asked.

“Uh, no,” I said, blinking in mystification. Everyone in the car started laughing.

“They are calling you ‘sister,’” Aron said.

“Like, a religious sister,” UCICC intern Stephen Tumwesigye added.

“Maisha, you are a nun!” Onyango laughed.

Eh, I guess there are worse fates. I mean, I’m always bent in meditation over my computer and my books, and I don’t have a boyfriend, so it’s about the secular equivalent of piety, right? I just don’t have a habit.

Somehow, this concept of me being a nun caught on and went with us all the way to Moroto. At one point, a prison warden who was participating in the training session said, “I want a picture with the sister!” I laughed.

“Someone told you I was a nun, huh?” Only I forgot that sarcasm doesn’t translate well. The officer took my statement to mean that I really was a nun, and soon everybody was calling me “sister, sister.” Uh, oops. Sorry, God.

The training session went smoothly enough. I led people in a meet and greet, helped to moderate group activities, took minutes, and hosted a segment on victims’ rights and roles in the ICC. The crowd was very diverse. We had police officers, the prison warden, traditional leaders, a village elder, representatives from CSOs, a newspaper reporter, and the woman from the radio station. There were about forty people in all.

It was difficult to explain the ICC to them. The International Criminal Court, for my non-legal readers, was created to try four and only four types of crimes: genocide, war crimes, crimes against humanity, and the crime of aggression. The first three crimes have a very strict definition laid out in the ICC’s founding document, the Rome Statute. The fourth crime, the crime of aggression, is undefined and subsequently not litigated. In fact, no one can be tried for this crime until the states party come to a consensus about the definition. The Rome Statute went into force in 2002, so the ICC can’t try any crimes before that date. So you see, there are limitations.

The people at this workshop, they had trouble with that. Some of the worst occurrences in Uganda happened before the ICC was formed, who will try those crimes? What about the 130+ Aboke girls who were abducted and forced into sexual slavery? The questions ran like that. And crimes against humanity? Well, that must mean cattle rustling. It is, after all, the most hideous crime the Karamijong could imagine. And if a government official steals money intended for the care of tuberculosis victims, then that must be genocide.

We tried to describe the concept of “intention” to the participants. In order to be convicted of genocide, you must intend to actually kill a specific group of people. The politician just seeking to acquire money isn’t committing genocide, because he could care less whether or not the TB patients die. Likewise, cattle stealing isn’t a crime against humanity, just simple theft. There is no intention to destroy a certain people, just desire to acquire wealth. But you try explaining that to a village elder, and he just shakes his head. Clearly, you are a young mzungu who just doesn’t understand that as village elder, he can correct your definitions in his wisdom to make them better. We did our best to keep the conversation in line, and most people, I think, still took information away. They had very specific ideas, though, about how the ICC was weak and what it needed to do to improve.

Some of their points were very relevant. “How is the ICC going to communicate with victims who are all the way out in the villages?” they wanted to know. There are no telephones, and village people can’t afford to travel to the “field offices” in Kampala. And what about victim protection? The Rome Statute declares that victims have a right to their own well-being, but the Trust Fund for Victims does nothing to ensure a witness’ safety. And how would witnesses even get to the trial? Will court be held in Kampala? That’s too far away. The Hague might as well be another universe. And what good will compensation do for victims if it doesn’t come until the end of a trial? By then, the victims will have died for lack of medical care.

We struggled with a lot of discussions, not the least of which was comparing traditional justice mechanisms such as mato oput to westsern justice and the ICC. Everyone here knows that no punishment will ever make up for the violence experienced in Uganda. The only thing to be done is to forgive and to move on. Many participants felt that denying the Acholi their traditional ceremony in favor of a western trial would only keep the peace process at an impasse. I asked whether they believed Kony would truly make peace if the ICC gave up. They thought for about 10 seconds, and collectively decided that no, Kony had gone mad. He will never stop, no matter what type of justice is pursued.

The village elder was furious that the ICC wouldn’t just hold a trial in absentia and convict Kony to death, then order in some superpower to find, detain, and kill the man. Again, fundamental principles of the rights of the accused were difficult to explain, and harder still to defend. And why not endorse the death penalty? After all, ICC convicts would be the most dangerous criminals in the world.

There is a certain paradox to the ICC’s behavior on many levels. Example: Uganda can’t capture Joseph Kony, so it asks the ICC to help. The ICC investigates Joseph Kony, produces arrest warrants, and tells Uganda to capture Joseph Kony so it can prosecute. Right.

It’s not hard to understand the Karimajong frustration. This weekend word spread that Moreno-Ocampo is gunning after Omar al-Bashir, now. I was excited to hear it at first, but now I wonder – is it really a good idea? I mean, we can’t prosecute Lubanga, we can’t capture Kony, are we really going to try for a sitting president? And what havoc would this create? Would it help or aggravate the situation in Darfur? Granted, Sudan’s war crimes court is doing absolutely nothing … Well, they convicted someone of stealing a chicken, I think. But that isn’t exactly solving the problem.

I don’t know. The ICC is useful, but not so much for its intended purposes. I believe that the five arrest warrants issued for the LRA leaders initiated peace talks in Juba. But then it stalled those same talks. In DRC, the ICC led to the creation of war crimes courts that are actually effective. But then it messed up Lubanga’s trial. Will it do any better with Jean Pierre Bemba? Good question.

Moreno-Ocampo, for all the good he has done, needs to recognize that while dictators and rebels can’t act with impunity, he can’t act with impunity either. What the ICC does can affect hundreds of thousands of people. A good prosecutor has to weigh the effects of his case. Is the ICC doing so? Is it worth establishing a limited system of international justice at the expense of the African people? Or would the harm continue, anyway?

You can see that I get as diverted by these questions as the Karimajong. Anyway, there wasn’t much to the trip beyond the educational workshop, the drive, and watching Aron shoot pool with the local folks. My only diversion was running down to the market to pick up some traditional wraps. I bought three with the intention of giving one to Dad, one to Akim, and keeping one for myself. But Onyango, Stephen and Aron all wanted wraps and they never got a chance to stop for them, so I gave the cloths to them, instead. It’s okay. It’s not like Dad and Akim were going to wear these wraps out to the disco. Meanwhile, Stephen and Aron and I all had fun wrapping ourselves up like the Karimajong and taking pictures. Stephen kept yelling, “serious!” As in, stop laughing. Of course this only made me laugh harder. We managed one photo together where we both looked semi-sincere before I broke out into a big ol’ grin again. On the way out, I filmed a domesticated ostrich and an anthill that must have been at least eight feet high.

The skies had broken open on our first evening in town. It was remarkable, because supposedly the region had gone twenty four months without any rain at all. But every day we were in Moroto, water fell from the sky. Some people said it was because government officials had killed a cow and prayed. Other people blamed it on me. In fact, by the end of the workshop I had a new name – Sister Maisha Bora Nakiru (Sister Rain, Life is Great). And the rain did follow us all the way home. In fact, we sort of drove back through a flash flood. The water might only have been a foot or so high, but with all the potholes in the road and the rivulets through the clay that much water was scary as all bejeezles. We would drop into a hidden pothole and crack our heads on the ceiling of the land rover. Muddy orange water would splash up as high as the windows, and for a second you wouldn’t be able to see if you were going off the road or not. And then you’d come up for half a second and KER-SPLASH! Back down you’d go again. The rain became so thick Aron started talking about parking at a homestead. But we persisted, and by 12:30 a.m. had made it back to Kampala safely.

I have never felt so glad to have running water and electricity. Satellite television seemed like a gift from the angels. And boy, did I sleep!

So that, my friends, is the story of trip #1. You can see why it’s taken me a while to update this blog. On Microsoft Word, this entry is seven pages, single-spaced. (I write on Word when my access to the Internet is limited, then copy and paste the file into this blog. It gives me time to think about what I want to say.) I am a slow writer.


… Actually, I have just arrived at an internet café, so I’m going to post this now and write more later …