Transitions in Justice: Keeping Up Hope

Forgiveness

2008-09-19T09:58:00.004-04:00

I'd like to draw your attention to my friend Callum's documentary on Northern Uganda. It reflects so much that I saw there! And in terms of reconciliation, it's a great lesson in love.

Letters from Uganda

2008-09-05T13:44:00.006-04:00

It's been wonderful keeping in touch with the friends I made this summer. While I readjust to business suits and heels, it's nice to know that not too far away is this lovely world where kids still go play in the yard and women lay down fresh cow dung flooring to welcome their guests. I feel balanced, knowing that both worlds exist and I have recourse to either, and I love hearing that my friends are for the most part doing well. Some of the messages I've gotten since my return have been disturbing, though. A lot of Ugandans seem to think that we in the United States have that we have an unlimited supply of money. Actually, the perception isn't limited to Uganda, it seems to be a global phenomenon. This e-mail is one of those examples ...

hullo maisha i hope your fine this is (OMITTED) trying to communicating to you but my sisster i want to inform you thart I was stoped from work since (OMITTED) so ssister Iam just rguesting you to send for me some money because iam too brock my ssister as you know being amareid person so ssister maisha put my reguest into your considaretion and reply to here is my telephone number (OMITTED) and ssister what ever small it my be I will be glad to recieve it IF you send it by western union PLEASE SSISTER MAISHA HELP ME BECAUSE YOUR THE ONLY PERSON TO HELP IT IS LIKE YOUR MY GOD LET ME END THERE BY WISHING YOU ANICE DAY AND AREPLY TO IAM YOURS (OMITTED)

What can I do with this? I am more offended than sympathetic -- not that this individual is asking for money, but that the individual is intentionally debasing her/himself in order to appeal to me. This is a nasty power dynamic: the supplicant would control my responses, and I have a choice of two evils. I can be the heartless pseudo-friend, or I can be the condescending rich foreigner. I never asked anyone to grovel. I'll help anyone with an honest need. But how do I ascertain whether the need is honest?

I'm going to ignore the e-mail, and any others like it. It's one thing to look out for an IDP kid showing signs of ringworm and unable to pay school fees, it's a different story when an able-bodied person asks for cash for no specific reason. But aside from my personal discomfort, I am reminded of one truth:

If you want to be a respectable person, you have to earn that respect, yoruself. No one else can do this for you.

I love my Dad because he made a life for himself out of nothing. Well, that's one of the reasons. All of the people I love most have overcome enormous odds, or work hard in one way or another, to make the world a more positive place. That is the kind of person I want to be, and that is the kind of person I wish we all were. I'll have to remember that, and keep working always.

More on the way!

2008-08-16T16:56:00.003-04:00

I got home a week ago, today. I spent the next two days asleep in my bedroom, emerging only occasionally to eat MEAT and VEGETABLES. (It seemed extremely important at the time.) Then I flew to California where I am now, snuggled with Ozzie the beagle. I missed him so much! And he did remember me! I was worried he wouldn't, or that he would be offended I'd left him with Mom and Dad for so long, but when I walked into the room he woke up to the sound of my voice and bounded into my arms. What a cute little munchkin! So it seems as though I am forgiven.

Meanwhile, I have to apologize for not finishing this blog sooner. I thought this would be top priority, but I have to prepare for job interviews, draft my evaluation (which is already 20 pages and threatens to become a mini novella), and put together a short advocacy film. Plus, I'm still finishing up little pieces of business for folks in Uganda. Time hasn't been quite as available as I'd expected.

Tomorrow Dad is inviting a bunch of his friends over to look at my pictures and welcome me home. Talk about the proud papa! I asked if I could invite some of my friends, too, and he gave me permission. It's like being seated at the adult's Thanksgiving table for the first time. So I'm really happy;

Enough small chat, though. I still have blogs to post; I just wanted to let you know that they were coming!

Retrospective post #2

2008-08-06T12:05:00.004-04:00

This is a second retrospective entry from Gulu. I have at least one more to publish, possibly two.

***

Well, Gulu is over. I know I haven’t written much about it – the Institute didn’t really give me time. Also, I think it was one of those experiences that I couldn’t write and feel at the same time. There was just too much going on.

I realized how much I had changed this morning when I got on the bus and leaned back to take a nap. Leaning back aimed my eyes right at the ceiling of the bus, where the first thing I saw was grasshoppers crawling out of the bus lights and around the storage compartments. For a second, I felt my body start to tense up, and then I just decided, nah, isn’t worth the effort and went to sleep. I didn’t wake up again until Karuma Falls. Figured if the bugs really bothered me that much, I’d just eat them.

You know, it really has been a journey for me. Yesterday I didn’t even know for sure how I’d get back to Kampala. I was completely reliant on Maisha’s Number One Rule of Travel: As long as you have your passport and a working credit card, you’ll be okay. I’d heard rumors that you could take the Post Bus back to Kampala, that it was new and comfortable and driven safely. The best part is it only costs 20.000/= as opposed to 450.000/=, like I’ve mentioned before. The only problem I could see was transport from the hotel to the bus at 5:30 in the morning. Gulu wakes up at 6 a.m. sharp. Not before, not after. Even the roosters wait until the church bells ring to start crowing. (Okay, maybe one deviant little clucker will let out an early cock-a-doodle-doo, but it’s pretty rare.) So how on earth was I going to get someone from town to bring a car around and pick me up with the delinquent roosters?

I went to the bus park the night before and made an appointment. Of course, I made the one cultural faux pas: I asked how much it would cost. Have I learned nothing in my travels here?

“Fifteen thousand!” one eager driver shouted. Great. It costs fifteen thousand to get from downtown Kampala to Ntinda, and this wasn’t even half of the distance. I mock-scowled at the driver.

“Ten.” I insisted. This was probably still about five times the regular pay, because the guy beamed immediately. Oh well. I swallowed my pride and told myself I had really only spent about $8.

The guy came to pick me up in the pouring rain at 5:25 a.m. He was actually early. I, silly munu, had turned off my alarm clock and gone right back to sleep, figuring he would be at least 30 minutes late and I had time. Uh, oops. It was the horn that woke me up. Forget the fact that the entire ritzy hotel population was sound asleep, this driver just put his hand in the middle of that steering wheel and leaned. I hadn’t even finished packing. I slumped out of bed, threw my things into the bag, deliberately abandoned what I felt I couldn’t carry (i.e., two pairs of shoes that have literally skinned my feet since I got here, medical supplies that I won’t need in Kampala, and Jacqueline’s tub of groundnut paste), and oozed down the stairs to the car. It was raining like mad, one of those blinding Ugandan lightning storms again.

The driver took me to the post office. No one was there. I got out of the car and asked the post office guard when the bus was leaving, and he said it only traveled Mondays through Fridays. My driver snickered. The little cretin! I’m pretty sure he knew this would happen.

“Well,” he had the audacity to say, “you can always hire me.” I thought about all that money going down the fuel pump.

“Do you know the way to Kampala?” I asked. My driver didn’t answer. He just looked sideways and grinned. No way was I going to hire him.

“How about you just take me to the new bus park, just to see if any nice buses are going? I’ll hire you if no one is there.”

He took me around, and sure enough there was a bus with its engine running. Looked pretty full from the outside, too. “But you have resolved to move with me!” my driver said. Yeah, sort of. I had resolved to move with him if my luck gave out.

I smiled a tight little smile and said, “Let me just check with these guys; if I go with them I will pay you for the trip back to the bus park, too.” You could see the little shilling signs lining up in this guy’s eyes. Munu was going to give him even more cash than before, and he wouldn’t have to waste the day trying to find Kampala. Great.

I stepped up to the bus. Three young Ugandan men were lounging on the stairs, trying to look tough and American. It’s cute when Ugandan men do this, because they usually miss the cultural nuances completely. Exempla gratia, one of these fellows was wearing an oversized Winnie-the-Pooh t-shirt. I burst out laughing.

“What?” my driver said behind me.

“That guy is wearing a Pooh Bear shirt!” I laughed, trying to keep the giggles to a minimum. Even if Ugandan men might not look tough doesn’t mean they weren’t child soldiers five years ago. I’m not sure if the driver understood or not, but he heard the word “poo” and started chuckling uncertainly. I just let that one go. Way too early in the morning to offer cultural explanations.

I climbed up to the bus and asked the guys, “Hey, what time is this bus leaving?”

The boys didn’t miss a beat. “Why don’t you climb on board and find out?”

I shrugged. I looked into the bus. There were a lot of people wearing professional clothes, and some kids. It looked safe enough. “Okay, I’m going with them,” I told the driver. He looked at me funny.

“You call me when you get to Kampala,” he said. Great, that raises my confidence tons.

The ride itself wasn’t bad, though. The only bit that got a little scary was where road repairs forced us to detour across a really pitted, narrow road. The bus kept sloping off the side and driving tilted for 100 meters or so before righting itself again. I told myself two things:

1. Mom would kill me if she saw me doing this. I’d better never take this bus again.

2. I’m a fat American. If I lean opposite the way the bus is tilting, I can keep the cabin balanced all by myself.

Number two was a lie, but it made me feel better, and we got through safely after all.

Actually, the ride was pretty exciting. I sat by two silent, strong-looking men and one small talkative fellow who had the most adorable little girl cradled in his arms. He played with her the way I remember Dad playing with me when I was a kid, and it brought all sorts of memories rushing back. Turns out this guy, Peter, works with Invisible Children, and I did a little interview with him along the way. He didn’t really say anything I didn’t know about child soldiers trying to get through school, but it was engrossing all the same.

The two strong silent types to my right sounded like they were offended to be crammed onto a bench with a large tourist. They spoke in rapid Luganda and sounded a little annoyed. That changed, though, when we hit our first pit stop. I wanted goat muchomo so badly (hadn’t eaten dinner the night before, or breakfast that morning), but I only had 10.000/= notes. Muchomo costs 500/= … it’s meat on a stick, a salty roadside bbq kebab that I have learned to love over my road trips. One stick is enough to satiate hunger, two is enough to make your tummy bulge. I got ten. No way would somebody on the side of the road have change for a 10.000/= note; they just don’t carry that much or make so much in sales. Buying ten sticks meant they only had to find a 5.000/= note, possibly an easier feat. But there was no way I could eat that much muchomo – it would probably make me sick. So I gave two to Strong Silent #1, two to Strong Silent #2, and four to Peter and his daughter. It made the Quiet Ones explosively happy.

“Oh, where are you from?” they asked me. “You act like an African!” And they bought extra cassava and water and shared it all around. Peter got extra plantains, so we had a little feast in our bus row. It was kind of nice.

Turns out the two guys on my right are from Kampala, but doing construction work in Juba. They are very disenchanted with Sudan.

“How is Juba?” I asked them.

“Ah, it is a little bit behind,” #1 said.

“Nobody wants to work!” #2 exclaimed. “You see guys our age, and they just want to exchange money.”

“You see people sleeping under the trees.”

“No villages?” I asked. “Used to be, people built huts.”

“No,” the answered, “not anymore.”

I wonder exactly what is happening over there. Are the people really in such bad shape? Has the war exhausted people? Or maybe there are a nomadic group of people living in the Juba region? I don’t know. I will have to ask Dad. I really hope folks are better than that, though.

I mostly hung on for dear life, after that conversation, because road repairs had turned the tarmac into dust, and the bus wobbled the rest of the way to Kampala. I’ve been sneezing black goo since we got into town, and I really hope this doesn’t make me sick. At least on the bus, I was further away from the dirt than I would have been in a car.

Anyway, we made it back into town in one piece, and Vincent from Avarts took me to the cottage I’ve rented. Have I mentioned that I was bloody tired of managing my discomfort? I decided to splurge, this week. Happy birthday to me. I am paying a whole $50 per night for luxury lodgings in Kampala. I was supposed to have DSTV (I don’t) and an internet connection (it doesn’t work), but even without that, I’m in heaven. There’s a miniature market next door. The resort itself is fenced and guarded, secluded in a beautiful residential area on Naguru Hill. Wander outside, and there are goats all over the place wagging their little tails, and kids (the human kind) playing football. Inside, the landscaping is beautiful. Flowers drip off the trees, the neat stone walkways look like someone has polished them, and the lawns are well manicured. Every room is actually a separate porched cottage with a little glass table and African-print chairs in front. Inside, the floors are freshly tiled, the plaster is in perfect condition, the shower has an electronic temperature regulator, the kitchen is complete with a toaster oven and tiny refrigerator, the furniture is made out of wicker, the windows and doors are covered with glass that seals (read, no insect invasions unless they come out of the walls), and all of the cabinets and closets are new. The rooms are bright, the windows are enormous and let in a lot of sunlight; it’s all just perfect. Oh, and the bed! The bed is twin-sized, the comforter is a light blue embroidered with flowers, and the mosquito net is actually tented and framed with pink lace. I feel like a princess in here. I kept oohing over the place until the hotel owner actually got embarrassed, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve lived for nine weeks with dirty concrete floors or gaping holes in the windows and doors to let the insects in. For a month now I’ve been living with cold showers in Gulu, and barely any room to turn over in my sleep, let alone a lacy mosquito canopy. Who cares about television and internet? I feel clean for the first time in months. I even took a shower and then cleaned the bathroom, because there was Tilex available and it made me feel good.

Anyway, Jane Bagonza, the hotelier, says she is going to name this place Maisha. She likes the name and the meaning behind it. I am super happy that such a nice place is going to be named after me. I hope I get to see it someday, after Jane is done. Right now it’s just four little cottages, but she is installing a restaurant upstairs, and she plans to add a mini-mart and a business center. I probably won’t be able to afford this place, by that point, but I sure would like to see it.

Anyway, I’m going to take a nap now. I can feel the muscles behind my eyeballs twisting. There’s something about traveling that is just exhausting. Or maybe it’s just relief to be back in Kampala. G’night!

Make-up post #1

2008-08-04T09:34:00.003-04:00

I have a few things to say about Gulu that I will have to post retrospectively, because of the trouble with my computer and the lack of consistent power. Here is one of those entries.

***

I’m leaving Gulu on Saturday morning with the Post Bus. It’s about 430,000/= ($275) cheaper than hiring a car, and the money that I save … well, I might give some of it to Gladys at the front desk. She works 18 hours a day like everyone else here, and makes 80,000/= per month. That’s about $60, and not enough to eat with even in Uganda. Anyway, Atimango Gladys is special because she just got into the public administration program at Gulu University, and will be taking weekend classes so she can continue to work. For anyone counting, that’s 18 hours of work per day, 6 days per week, plus school. And she can’t afford tuition. So I was thinking maybe I would help her a little bit.

Life has gotten a lot better, with a little adjustment. The lack of water and power don’t bother me so much anymore, and the crazy rain just washes away my bad feelings. I don’t mind so much that people charge me twice the price for everything, or that the kids make a game out of who can catch the munu’s attention. “Munu” is the Acholi version of “mzungu” – white person, essentially. My friend Simone calls this “innocent racism.” The kids especially have no idea they’re being offensive. They just want to rub your arms to see whether the paleness will come off revealing darker skin underneath. It’s fascination, not hatred.

There are just so many little things to appreciate. The frogs here sound like wind chimes. The lightning is like electric diamonds. I found a supermarket yesterday, a real supermarket with boxed juice and bread. It’s run by an Indian who wanted the luxuries of home, and there are as many electronic gizmos as there are kitchen supplies. So you can pick up your television and your Cadbury bar in the same place. It’s got that thrown-together look that everything seems to have here in Uganda, but it’s the best thing I’ve found in town so far.

I also ran into a very interesting person, in my more recent explorations. Any foreigner you meet up here, anyone who isn’t associated with a major group, anyway, is bound to be really interesting. This particular gentleman runs a restaurant across the street from the Institute. It’s called Bambu, and walking in is like stepping into the idealized version of Uganda. Instead of the normal plastic chairs and plastic tablecloths advertising beer, there are real benches with foam cushions and polished wood tables. The landscaping is beautiful, and the bar is very complete. The first thing you will encounter is a stately looking older man sitting at his counter with a beer, watching the sun roll across the sky and chatting softly with his employees. Ask him how his day is going, and he responds with something pithy – “oh, a lot like yesterday.” This is what James Bond looks like when he retires. I’ve wanted to speak with this man since the first time I met him, and finally yesterday worked up the courage to say, “You know, I’m trying to think up better questions for you.”

“What?” he asked.

“Like how did you get here, what was it like setting up shop, what made you come to Uganda – that sort of thing. Slightly more stimulating than ‘how ya doin’.’”

I think this tickled him, somewhat. The mellow look on his face never changed, he just said, “Well, there’s the short answer, the medium answer, and the long answer to all of those questions.” And I knew I had him, at least for a minute. I sat him down and asked him to give me the long version. I got the medium version, until he decided he was tired of company and wandered away. Turns out he used to help the United Nations with security issues, had a café in Spain, and left it in 2005 to try his luck in Gulu. Today he’s snuggled in here with a young lady lover and the occasional Skyy Vodka. He says it raises a few of the local eyebrows, but he doesn’t really care. Now just think about this man’s timing. 2005 was when the ICC indictments came out against Kony and the LRA leaders. The first brick of this restaurant was laid down in 2006, while peace talks were ongoing. That means that the land purchase and licensing went on before that time. How did Mr. Mystery know that the talks would more or less succeed, and Kony would never return? He calls it a “calculated business risk.” I call it double-0 status.

You get fascinating people like that, up here. Like Opiyo, who is doing research on child soldiers and sex slaves for his PhD dissertation. He told me some stories that I am not allowed to reprint, stories that could make a big difference in Kony’s trial if only they are published. And if this dissertation ever makes book form, you must read it. Opiyo Oloya: Remember that name! I also met a gentleman named Callum who freelances for the BBC and Al Jazeera. He told some wild stories too, stories which I can actually retype. Callum has been coming to Uganda on and off for the past five years. He was working on a documentary for the BBC when he got a call from a buddy of his who works with the UPDF.

“We have just won a great victory against the LRA,” his friend exclaimed. “You must come see!”

And so they jumped into the friend’s car and drove from Kampala to northern Uganda, out to the village where the battle had been fought. Apparently, this particular village had only two rifles to guard itself, and the LRA took it very early on in the conflict. Winning the place back involved decimating the troops on the ground. Callum said there were about forty bodies, all told. These villages are tiny, just a small collection of shops, so that number is a lot of people.

The first thing Callum saw when he got out of the car was the body of a four-year-old boy.

“Of course, you realize that when you’re talking about a victory against the LRA, what you mean is that you’ve killed a bunch of children,” Callum explains. “I hadn’t really realized it until that point. It isn’t much of a victory.”

I could see this in my mind’s eye, dozens of corpses, all child soldiers with guns their own size. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine the hurt that their mothers feel? Can you even begin to conceive of what a nightmare this has been for Uganda?

Opiyo and Callum talked a lot about what it takes to turn a child into a killer like that, stories they discovered during interviews. The LRA abducts these kids, maybe three of them, and they make the two youngest kill the oldest child on the pain of death (their death, the deaths of their families, whatever it takes). The entire village sees this, and so the boys are ostracized. They are disowned by their remaining families and their friends. No home will take them in. Schools won’t accept them. They are considered too dangerous to interact with normal society. And so the LRA presses them into service, preying on the children’s cultural prerogative to take orders. Other soldiers beat them constantly and march the boys around in circles for days on end. The children say that they will march three days straight without sleeping, time and time again. Then, when they are finally physically broken, the senior soldiers begin to grant them respect and make these boys feel included. They are given a new identity within their community, and the need to belong somewhere is enough to make many of these children commit to a life of war. Those individuals who still retain enough of themselves to attempt escape are amazing – and there are many.

I knew all of this already. It bears repeating.

Circumstances are better today, though. Victims are going home; the IDP camps are emptying out. Some of these former child soldiers are in school, and you can watch them laughing. There are a lot of people hopping around on crutches, covered in burns or missing limbs. But that doesn’t stop them from living. They keep right on at it. I was right; when I got out here I was too overloaded to see the situation’s reality. But now I can see the exhaustion, despair, mistrust, devastation, and fortitude despite it all. These people maintain a strength that is truly inspiring.

What concerns me, though, is the way the post-conflict situation is being addressed. A lot of NGOs are reducing aid and pulling out, not really thinking about how to re-stabilize society. I talked to one guy working with the Norwegian Refugee Council. He was furious. “Everyone says return to the villages should be voluntary. But if you stop distributing food, what’s voluntary about it? You have nothing to eat, you have to start farming so maybe you can eat something next year. Meanwhile, people are starving!”

A lot of promises have not been kept. The government said it would give farmers basic tools. No such luck. Medicines donated to Uganda are spoiling at Entebbe Airport because there isn’t sufficient transportation to get them to villages up north. Civil society organizations are trying to help, but a lot of them are based in municipalities and never reach the people who need help most. And the schools are so understaffed that they ask parents to pay for extra teachers. This isn’t exactly a request to some suburban PTA; this is demanding money from war victims so that their children can be in a class of 60 or so students. That is, if the camp even has a local primary school. Many of the transition camps do not.

I’m going to stop thinking about this for a minute. I’m getting angry, when what I should really do is work on the problem constructively.

The other day I took a cue from Emily and tried to get a dress made somewhere. It was a mess, and eventually I just gave up. I guess out here, you have to have a dress so the tailors can copy the pattern. Material stores don’t even sell bolts of cloth big enough to make a dress for me, so even if I had a dress to copy, I probably would have had to make it a skirt and blouse, instead. And trying to communicate with the tailors was nasty; they didn’t really want me to hire them. Eventually I gave up and bought a book of East African poetry, instead. It’s surprisingly good; I wasn’t expecting educated literature, and this stuff is on par with the anthologies I’ve got at home.

The next day I went with Fabius and Simone to the main campus to listen in on a discussion about developing an HIV policy for Gulu University. Attitudes towards HIV patients are pretty atrocious out here. The general sentiment seems to be, “well, you asked for it!” This policy is really necessary, and I wish there were some NGOs in the area to inform the committee’s research on the matter. The university and the community both need to confirm that people with HIV/AIDS have legal rights, including the right to work in public places. And if you’re sick, that doesn’t mean God has disowned you. I heard that attitude, too.

Anyway, after the meeting the dean of students gave me a traditional dancing stick made from a cow’s tail and a cork-like staff wrapped in beads the color of Uganda’s flag. You use it to dance for the king, balancing it on your bicep while you flap your arms up and down. I was very flattered to receive a traditional gift like this. Maybe I’ll take it out clubbing, sometime.

Oh, there goes the power again …

All gone

2008-07-27T10:18:00.004-04:00

The power was out for three or four days. Then it came back, but the water stopped running for the next two days. It came back this afternoon, right as the power went out again and my computer crashed. The power has returned (again), but my computer is down for the count. I might have lost all of my pictures and video, which would really be a pity, because I was putting together an advocacy video for the UCICC.

Anyway, I have two major events left to blog about (the Ndere Troupe, from weeks ago in Kampala, and my trip to Pabbo last week). But this probably won't happen until the power is stable and I can slow down, take a shower, and use a computer for the afternoon without bleeding shillings. So my friends, this may be goodbye for a time.

I hold out hope that if I can hard start my computer by exhausting the battery first, maybe I can get into diagnostics at reboot and get the OS running again. Wish me luck, and e-mail me advice!

Mzungu day

2008-07-22T13:01:00.004-04:00

Today was frustrating. Things just don't work up here, it's hard to get work done, and increasingly the institute relies on me for more. It's good to be useful, but it's even more frustrating to be incapacitated.

Anyway, I'm tired. I've hit that point in my stay where I'm ready to come home -- I've been saying this all week, and the feeling will probably keep gnawing away at me until I'm safely on a British plane crossing the Atlantic. I'm still trying to keep active. Tomorrow I'm going to visit the IDP camps with my buddy, Opiyo. Thursday I'm taking pictures of Fabius in his advocate's robes for the new web site I'm developing. Yesterday I typed identification numbers onto 1,000 membership cards for the resource center. This afternoon I chased kids around the tea gardens. So, you know. Life is okay. But I'm still homesick.

I went to an internet cafe to do some research on the institute's bill, and when power went out I decided to walk back to the hotel on my own. I actually managed to find it despite my rotten direction sense by tracing all of the landmarks I remembered on the boda ride over. This involved turning in circles and amusing the residents, but hey, it worked. And on my way back, I wound up at Kope Cafe again.

Kope Cafe was the mzungu restaurant I wrote about back when I first got here. I remember not liking the tourists who were wandering around that afternoon. But at that particular moment, I wanted to be a mzungu again, surrounded by mzungus who would ignore me just like any good American would. So I walked in.

It was perfect.

People ignored me, I could eat lunch in peace, and the lunch itself was so fantastic! After weeks without vegetables -- unless you count malakwang, which I don't -- I had a beautiful steak sandwich which was mostly avocados and tomatoes. It was DELICIOUS. I don't think I've ever liked food quite so much. I can still taste it in my mouth four hours later, and I almost don't want to brush my teeth so it will be there in the morning.

(Hello kids, our phrase for the day is "obvious vitamin deficiency!")

I also had a brownie, which I should have skipped, but I haven't had sugar since I got here, either. That was good too, but not as good as the avocado and tomato sandwich. Mmm, I have to go back, like, tomorrow! It's nice to be a mzungu.

Room service

2008-07-22T12:33:00.001-04:00

The night after the invasion, I asked Jacqueline and Devotah at work what the heck those bugs were. They started giggling. So did Father William, who had overheard my description.

“Did they have four wings?” Devotah asked.

“And did they come off on the floor?” Jacqueline added.

“Those were white ants,” Father William chortled. “Do you know what we do with those? We eat them!”

Okay, it’s going to take me a while to work up to that particular dish. I talked to a few people about it, like my friend Opiyo, the Canadian school principal who grew up in Gulu.

“Oh yeah,” he said over tea that evening. “I just pick them up off the floor and eat them raw. They taste really good.”

Because I have to live here for a little while longer, I’m trying very hard to just accept this. In order to do that, I’ve had to completely rethink the way I conceptualize bugs. I mean, ants are clean creatures, and extremely hard-working. You only have to look at the size of their hills out here to understand that, or watch them carry the whole body of a grasshopper away, like a band of frat boys celebrating over a 500-foot keg.

Okay, I can live with this.

I turn it over in my head again and again, rewriting the grotesqueries into something absurd or poetic. These things are like cheeseburgers. Flying cheeseburgers, just like in a McDonald’s Hamburgler commercial. Should I be afraid of that? Well, okay, maybe if flying cheeseburgers invaded my room at one o’clock in the morning I would be scared out of my wits, but once I knew there was a logical reason for it, I would have hopped out of bed and grabbed myself a nice double-double cheese-cheese burger-burger please. Not going to happen if the ants come again, but at least I’ll be able to think about that if they decide to fly again.

The people here know when the ants are coming. Opiyo says that when the rains come down heavily after a long, hot, dry spell, the worker ant comes and opens up a little eyelet in the mound that others temporarily seal back over. That’s how you know they’re going to fly, when those eyelets appear. Then at night, the workers and the soldiers go, and they look for a new place to make their home. The queen has stayed behind, so they must create their civilization from scratch. They find a good spot with light and moisture, and then they shrug out of their wings, mate, and die. I suppose if the ladies from the hotel didn’t clean the corpses, I’d eventually see the eggs hatch. But so far that hasn’t happened.

So now when I remember the event, sometimes I envision it as an African love ritual. Like the Ndere Troupe dancing with ankle bells, trying to find a partner – only this dance is performed by insects. Imagine them ecstatic to find a new home, calling one another to the light, and like some sweetly unburdened soul casting off every last weight and care – the work at the hill, the unnecessary wings – casting them off and making love with their last, passionate, dying breath.

Anyway, I’m doing my best to accept the situation for what it is, and move on with living. That goes for a lot of things that make me a little bit uncomfortable with Gulu. I can do this for just a week and a half more; I can! And then I will go back to Kampala and meet with Francis again, and we’ll talk about Bashir and life will be easier. But for now, I can handle this. I don’t have to face my fear, I have to embrace it.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t come up with a new way of bug-proofing my room, though. I’m not sure that it would actually work, but I am very thorough now, every night, with how I go to bed. Lights go off when the sun goes down. If I need to work, I do it by the light of my LCD display – which is set to turn itself off after three minutes of no use. That means even if I do fall asleep working, my room will be dark within five minutes. Before I go to bed, I spray the room with insecticide, especially the window and door, and any cracks in the wall. Then I stuff the big crack under the door with the mosquito net I bought for the four-poster bed in Kampala and set up the mosquito net over my bed so it’s nice and taut. I don’t want the net touching me with the ants flying against it, entrée or no. And now I know not to go outside, when they fly. It will only make matters worse. But hopefully if I keep the lights out and my room warded, this won’t happen again to such a degree. Then again, bags of white ants? If what Simone says is true, I’ve hardly seen ants at all. I should be ready for … how should I think about it, this time? I should be ready for a denser wave of guests.

My friend from home

2008-07-22T12:15:00.006-04:00

I’ve met some really cool people since I’ve gotten here. There’s Opiyo, the New Vision opinion columnist who writes from Canada, and Justin Moro, another New Vision reporter. The folks here on staff are pretty incredible. One guy has a scar on his forehead that must either be tribal cutting or remnants of the war. I’m not sure which. Jackie down in reception tells me that people here work 18 hours a day, so when I hear them say they’re doing okay, I really admire them. I would not be okay with that sort of working schedule. I need at least six hours of sleep per night.

One of the best surprises here, though, was meeting Charlton. Charles is from Philly, too. He’s one of these tall, healthy people whose age you couldn’t begin to guess, and he teaches phys ed at Microsoft’s School of the Future.

I met him while I was downstairs sucking on a soda. Charles wandered into the room wearing a Penn Relays t-shirt, and he was too light-skinned to be Ugandan.

“Are you from Pennsylvania?” I asked.

The man blinked, and turned around. “Yeah, how did you know that?”

Oh my goodness. English! English without an accent and without any arrogance behind it! I was in heaven.

We wound up talking for a couple of hours. Charles, it turns out, is teaching kids at the IDP camps around here to play basketball. He says they pick it up really fast. When he talks, you can see the amazement in his face – kids who actually want to be in school, kids who have been child soldiers and sex slaves, picking up a ball and messing around and laughing. They still act just like kids, he says, despite everything.

The human spirit is really amazing. You know, we might be even more tenacious than mosquitoes.

Anyway, comparing experiences with someone else from home was illuminating. There were things I looked at but never really saw, and Charles brought that home. Likewise, it sounds like there were some things I learned that he hadn’t. So we really helped each other out. It’s good to have a travel buddy. Makes me feel all glowy inside.

Anyway, Charles left this morning three weeks ahead of schedule. He says he’s worried about a flare in violence because of the Bashir indictment, but honestly I think it he’s leaving because he misses his fiancée. He’s so smitten, always talking about her. It makes me very happy to see healthy relationships like his. (Also, the judges probably won’t issue an arrest warrant for another week, and Khartoum is pretty far away to worry about violent spillover.)

But while he was here, it felt like being in college again, hanging out with Suzanne and John and Taylor in the cafeteria. Those were great days, when I knew a friend would always be around for dinners, laughs, and good stories. This was the same. I got to look at all of Charles’ wonderful photographs. He is very talented; no automatic camera adjustments for him. He has an eye and the expertise to compose really great images.

And speaking of a small world, it turns out he knew Carolyn and Jennifer. Have I written about them yet? I’m not sure, so I’d better jot down a recap, just in case I haven’t.

Carolyn Davis used to be an editorial writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer. She has a great eye for social causes and wound up in Uganda, oh, probably back in 2005 or so, just to see what effects war had on the country. We all worried about this woman traveling out to Uganda where malaria was prolific and the LRA was still very active, but she went with human rights activist John Prendergast, and when she came back she had amazing stories about Kitgum and Gulu and Pader. One of the stories that trip inspired focused on Jennifer Anyayo, a young Acholi woman and burn victim. LRA soldiers invaded her home, shot her father, forced her into her hut, and set it on fire. They told her not to come out, and she says that they laughed while she screamed. Anyway, the fire took most of her face and part of one hand before the soldiers left and neighbors came to pull her out of the fire. It’s amazing that she lived.

Actually, Jennifer is one of the reasons I decided to go to law school. After seeing what happened to her, and what was happening to so many people in Uganda, I couldn't just keep ignoring the basic, fundamental suffering that children were going through on a daily basis. If it weren't for Carolyn's story about her, I probably would never have come to Uganda.

We did what we could for the girl. We brought Jennifer to the United States for a year’s worth of reconstructive surgery. It didn’t really do anything to improve her physical appearance, but there were certain functional benefits – she has eyelids, now, and a bit of flap where her nose used to be. Also, she learned a lot of English and took some intensive tutoring, which hopefully caught her up a little bit in school.

Charles had read all about this story and contacted Carolyn to learn more about Uganda. He was especially struck by a photograph of four girls playing netball at sunset. He said that he just knew he would have to go and be with these people. So he hooked up with an organization that brings sports to war-affected youth, and he did what he could to make the kids happy.

I like that. Charles was really polite around people too, not brash and bossy like a lot of the tourists I’ve seen. I trusted him almost immediately – in fact, on the night of the white ant invasion I even sent him an SOS by cell phone (“help bugs please call reception I cant leave my mosquito net”), but he had traveled that day and was sound asleep.

Being around him just made me feel better about everything. He kept saying that I was a good traveler, that he would learn a thing or two from me. That made me laugh, especially after the insect invasion. Me? A good traveler? What do I know? The only advice I really gave him was that trick about net tucking.

Hotels should post instructions for those things. Oh well.

Later we went to Binen, a local restaurant, where I introduced him to goat stew and bo’o. We talked a lot about his kids and our travels, and he kept going on about people’s living conditions. I’m so busy psyching myself up to handle things, I sometimes miss the conditions that other people are living in. Here are kids playing soccer next to a sewage drain, jumping right into the effluent to fetch the ball. There people are living right next to a garbage dump, in tiny little concrete homes that Charles compares to a catacombs. I hadn’t really thought about it like that. When I look, I see the kids playing outside, the cat and the ducks and the laundry hanging on a line, and my mind stops there as if it refuses to see the negative. It’s nice in some ways, but I need to accept the whole picture.

Anyway, I’m going to miss my hometown friend. Charles, if you ever see this, I’m wishing you safe travel back to Kampala and the United States. It was great meeting you. Hope to see you and Deirdre back in Philly.

I'm a Godmommy! (Or I will be, soon ...)

2008-07-22T12:11:00.001-04:00

Today I got this from my friend Joan, who is just awesome:

Hullo Maisha,

Joan here. How are you girl...........i hope you are having a blast in Gulu. Hurinet is not bad, just that we miss you. Maisha, you left at atime when some of us needed to associate more with you......you are just a gift sent by God! But i trust we will meet again,keep in touch.

I have a request, that you be my little Girl's God Mother. She is 6months old, and yet to be christened. We have looked around for a credible person with a humerouis personality, and Honestly Maisha...you stand out.

If you deem this possible, please get back to me (I already discussed with the Dad) so i send you her images and we proceed.

Thanks Maisha, and please keep the smile on your face glowing....you are such a blessing.

With many more regards

Joan Asiimwe
Hurinet-U

Your Worst Nightmare & Etc.

2008-07-20T06:03:00.003-04:00

From a few nights ago

Your first night in Gulu, you wake up with buzzing in your ears. Two mosquitoes are hovering no more than an inch above your head inside the mosquito net. There are another half dozen still trapped outside. You don’t like bugs. You spray the room. The next night? It is another mosquito in your net and a whole bunch outside the room. You spray again, decide you’ll have to get used to it, try not to choke on insecticide. The night after that there are two or three of these dragonfly-like pests sort of like June bugs that have beaten their wings off against your floor. You think maybe they’ve come in through a crack in the wall or something, so you spray the windows and set up your mosquito net extra tight. Tonight?

Whizz. Whizz. Patter patter patter patter. Whizz! I wake up. I have fallen asleep with my lights on, so there is no darkness to obscure the view. When I look up, there are about a dozen of the dragonfly things batting themselves against my mosquito net. I instantly scrunch into the tiniest ball I can manage, but they’re hurling themselves full throttle into the mesh. I can’t take my eyes off the sheets without flinching because it looks like they’re going to stick right in my eye. So much for being the mighty adaptable tourist.

This is an entomophobe’s nightmare. I look down at the ground, and there are at least another dozen of these things, not counting the stray bug parts. Some of the insects are crawling around like cockroaches, having torn their own wings off. Others are still fluttering about, in the process of beating themselves to death. Some are fighting with each other for God knows what. Survival instinct, I guess. They know they’re history.

You squeal. You are really not comfortable with this. You think, God, I have to call reception. But you don’t know the number. You don’t know if anyone is actually awake. What you really want to do is cross this room full of bugs and get outside to safety.

It takes you thirty minutes to work up the stamina to put on your clothes (checking them for bugs first), pack your two most important bags, and rush outside. And as any rational-thinking person would have guessed, things outside are even worse. The ground is littered with these bugs; carpeted. You dance onto the empty spots on the floor as fast as you can and run downstairs. You try not to think about how many insects have been compacted under your feet, or whether any have flown up your pants. The stairwell is more cluttered still. Nobody is in the reception area. Maybe the bugs ate them. The things are here, too, although in smaller number.

You decide, in your delirium, that this feels exactly like a Stephen King novel come true.

Eventually, you make your way into an alley that has been only minimally invaded. You find a dark tiled room with a door that almost seals itself shut. Not really, but it’s closer than the gaping window shutters they have everywhere else. It’s where you are typing now – your dark sanctuary behind closed glass doors. Every time a mosquito gets close to you, you don’t just flinch, you thrash. And that’s when you realize: No. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Your suitcase is still in your hotel room, and the door is wide open.

In your fantasy world, you ran down a stairwell free of bugs, found someone at reception, begged for a new room, and demanded that they relocate all of your personal belongings. Cost didn’t matter; you could pay for the transfer. You curl up in a nice, cushy bed and watch TV (this room actually has one) until the nightmare goes away. But in reality, not only do dreams not come true, but you need to go back upstairs. Your feet are already covered in insect bites, and you’re sweating profusely – and it stinks.

I want to go back to Kampala tomorrow.

As many photos as I can upload before my connection dies

2008-07-16T12:09:00.001-04:00

Joyce tries hard not to be angry.

Karuma Falls
We're not allowed to stop, so Joyce's husband slowed down to let me snap a furtive picture at this point on the Nile.

Bugging me

2008-07-16T12:02:00.000-04:00

… And I just swallowed another mosquito. Oh joy, it’s stuck in my throat.

People here ask me, “Are you afraid of mosquitoes?” Answer: Yes. Although I’m more afraid of swallowing foreign blood.

Gulu has been … ah, how shall I put it? Interesting. Certainly more challenging to adapt to than Kampala. It’s better than Moroto, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I have a feeling this is going to be an endurance challenge, and I’m glad I began my stay in a bigger city.

The mosquitoes are only one aggravator. The dust storms are another. We’ve had them almost every day since I arrived, big clouds of dust that sweep around town for an hour or so, making people squint and cover their ears. If you open your mouth to speak, dust rushes in and coats your teeth, until you wind up chewing it. I’m not sure whether I can tolerate this for full three weeks, with my sinuses. (I had surgery in 2005 to open them up, and I still react badly to colds and allergies.) I have no idea how the locals tolerate this dust for years – and it’s not even the dry season! But lack of power I’ve gotten used to. And the water has run consistently, which is great.

The other thing driving me nuts is the tourists. You know, when I arrived here in Gulu, the staff at the Institute for Peace and Strategic Studies, as the Centre for Conflict Management and Peace Studies is now called, introduced me to an American from Louisiana named Jeffrey. Jeff wasn’t so happy to see me, and now I think I understand why. A lot of the foreign aid workers here are self righteous and annoying, not to mention ignorant. Yesterday I watched this tall American man yell at the two girls in the reception office about the lack of power like it was their fault. They didn’t respond to his complaints, only listened looking concerned, until I finally snapped. “You know, it’s out all over town,” I said.

The man looked at me oddly. “Well, I was just across town ten minutes ago, and the power was working just fine.”

“Yeah,” I retorted. “It was. Then about five minutes ago up the block at the Internet café the lights went out, and people had to start their generators. The problem with a hotel this big is that one little generator doesn’t power the whole place, so they wait until the kitchen needs electricity for cooking and then turn the motor on. This happens a lot in Gulu, and even in Kampala. It’s not their fault.”

The guy looked at me, looked at the girls, and then wandered over to the stairwell.

“How will I see the way to my room?” he asked. My internal response: Little boy, it’s plenty light still. Just walk up the stairs and quit whining! The folks at Pearl Afrique must be used to this kind of abuse, though, because they summoned a staff member with a flashlight to show the king to his royal chambers. By the time someone got there, a small crowd of these people had congregated at the base of the stairwell, looking up worriedly.

“Why are the lights off?” one twenty-something woman mewled. “Why don’t they put them back on?”

You know, when I was in undergrad a group of friends and I wrote this short story about a blackout in a grocery store in Los Angeles. We decided people wouldn’t be able to handle it, would start acting panicked and fatalistic, like death had come to their precious civilization. Meanwhile, the story went, a small group of bongo players laughed and started dancing in the produce section.

Talk about foreshadowing! I shook my head and marched upstairs, not wanting to admit that these people were actually compatriots.

Then there are the slow talkers. These guys make me want to hit my head against the wall.

“DO … YOU … HAVE … A PHONE … CHAR … GER!!!” a young man from Utah asked the internet café attendant. The Ugandan, who happens to also be named Jeff, stared at the tourist for a long time, not because he didn’t understand the man’s English, but because he was trying to figure out whether the American’s impediment was mental or physical.

“You want me to get you a plug for your phone?” Jeff clarified, perplexed that the man would be asking for phone charging service at an internet café.

“YES. THAT … WOULD … BE … VER-Y … NICE,” Utah brayed, pleased that he had succeeded in communicating. I tried really hard not to laugh out loud.

These Americans, you can spot them from a mile away. They move in groups, carry large backpacks for no reason, and do their best to dress like Jane Goodall. Their only incursions into Uganda involve posh safaris led by other Westerners in the richest areas of the land. This is why the government has been ousting people from their homes to establish wildlife parks – because tourists like these will pay anything to see an elephant.

Please tell me that I don’t act like this.

Anyway, I’ve started calling these travelers “tourists” because clearly they don’t do anything to interact with the resident population. And if you don’t know the people, how are you ever supposed to foster development suited to the community? I wonder if any of these tourists have even tasted malakwon or sim sim. And I’ve never heard one of these people say “kopango” or “afoyo.” It’s like they just want to come see this sad, war-torn land, so they can help the poor people and be enlightened.

Ego tourists. That’s all they are.

Anyway, I should curtail the bile because clearly NGOs and CSOs out here have done a great deal of good. Even a provincial, self-righteous American can be useful, under knowledgeable guidance. But I don’t think I’ll be going to a lot of fancy restaurants, even if I do want good food. Being in a room full of these people is just too grating.

And now I’ve been at least as self righteous. But it feels good to get that off my chest. I'll go be cranky in silence, now.

:)

The trip up

2008-07-16T11:13:00.002-04:00

After surviving minor flooding in Karamoja, I decided to hire Aron to drive me to Gulu. He’s a friendly man, I talked with his wife on the phone once, and I like the couple. The rate was reasonable – 150.000 /= to hire the car for the day, plus fuel. The total price would have been about $300, the same as Onyango would pay.

A few days after I made the arrangements, Joyce from the Human Rights Network of Uganda comes by and tells me to cancel my driver. I’m not sure why, but after a while I discover that her mother lives in a village near Gulu and Joyce wants to visit. She has her own car and can locate a driver, but she doesn’t have money for fuel. That’s where I would come in. I pay the fuel, I save the 150.000 /= hiring fee, and life is beautiful all the time.

Only I don’t know Joyce’s car, and I don’t know Joyce’s driver, and I already have these arrangements. So in an act of extreme caution, I explain to Joyce that I won’t change my plans. I invite Joyce to ride with me in the car that I’ve hired, and we’ll detour to her village. This infuriates her. She spends the entire day making increasing efforts to pressure me into ditching my driver. First she offers to call and cancel the arrangements herself. Then she slips me a note that says “please think of my son as your own. Do not disappoint me,” as if her boy might die if we arrive in a different car. Finally she walked into the room and just stared. This had the opposite effect than she intended. Instead of acquiescing to hire her driver, I got very, very angry. I mean, I am a human being entitled to my own volition. I am not an ATM. I do not dispense cash on command. And I don’t bend my plans to travel with a strange driver who, it turns out, has not even been formally hired yet. Certainly not two days before the trip with a woman who previously got me lost in Kampala. I rarely put my foot down, but I did this time. No. I will not be manipulated into changing carefully laid plans.

Ha ha.

Joyce pouts because she really wants to spend the night at her mother’s house, and I can only hire the car for one day. But when she discovers I won’t flex, she apologizes for being pushy and agrees to ride with me. Aron has told me he would pick me up at 7 a.m. on Saturday morning, so I tell her to meet me at K.K. Health Club at that time.

Saturday morning rolls around. 6:30, 6:45, 7 a.m. I get a call from Joyce saying she’s coming right over. 7:15 a.m. and she shows up. But no Aron. I apologize, tell her to hold on for a second, and I ring Aron. No answer. So we keep waiting. 7:30 a.m. 7:45. By now I’m getting embarrassed. Something in the back of my head whispers, he’s not coming. He found another job that’s paying him more, and if you’re lucky he’ll find you another driver, but it’s going to be late and he’s not coming. About two minutes later I get the call.

“Hello, madam!” It’s Aron. “Why have you not been picking up your phone?” Because it hasn’t been ringing. “I cannot drive you. I forgot that there is a presidential convoy and I have been hired.” What did I tell you? “I have told my friend to come and get you, he is on his way.”

Great. So all that planning, all that quarreling, and I still have to ride with a stranger. I go back to Joyce.

“Hey Joyce, still want to go in your car?” Joyce looks at me like she’d like to do some oil drilling in the general region of my frontal lobes.

“Yes,” Joyce says. “But what about your driver?”

“Yeah,” I say sheepishly. “Turns out Museveni wanted him more.”

So I wound up going with Joyce, after all. I paid the driver 50.000 /= to apologize for the short notice. Joyce told me later that the driver was her husband, which ticked me off, but by then the money was gone. But I guess in the end I saved money, even if the car we rode in was smaller.

The ride itself was surprisingly uneventful. I didn’t much want to talk to Joyce, so I wound up just sleeping in the passenger seat. Occasionally I would wake up and talk to Joyce’s husband (she refused to tell me his name) about the Rift Valley or the tobacco plantations, and I took a quick film of a baboon sitting by the roadside. We saw some falls on the ride over, passed two small IDP camps, and suddenly we were there.

Despite taking half the time we took to reach Moroto, this ride was both hot and humid, so I pretty much curled up in my miniscule hotel room and went to sleep as soon as I checked in. And that was it.

Sister Rain, Life is Great!

2008-07-13T12:48:00.001-04:00

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 …

Laughable linguistics

2008-07-09T12:19:00.001-04:00

I've been here long enough, now, to be really aware of my surroundings. The first few weeks I was taking in so much, I couldn't really see the city around me -- I had no way of understanding it. Now I can recognize a shop from a distance; I know what a supermarket looks like; I can tell the difference between a player and a gentleman; I can pick cultivated land and uncultivated land, or rich from poor.

There are still a few things I have to keep in the foreground of my consciousness. English, for example, is much easier to understand when I focus on the differences. It could be as much as word selection: I say waste basket, they say dust bin. I say zee, they say zed. I say batteries, they say cells. If someone doesn't understand me the first time, I slow down when I'm talking and start using synonyms, hoping that eventually I'll hit on a word similar to what the Brits use. It usually works in four or five tries.

It helps, too, to remember the differences in pronunciation. Just like the Wikipedia entry will tell you, in one prevalent dialect, the "l" and "r" sound are the same. And maybe it's the English influence, but a lot of vowel phonemes shift. For example, "sir" can sound like "sah." Emphasis falls on different syllables -- in English stressors typically fall on the first or third syllable; here, it's the second. So Makerere university sounds like ma-CARE-reh-ray. And you can bet when folks speak they will put the right emPHAsis on the wrong sylLAble. And then there are what I think of as bouncing vowels. Terminal consonants are no good here; words are supposed to end in vowels. So you get these gratuitous "eh" and "ah" sounds at the ends of words. To my ears, it sounds like someone has thrown down the word and it bounced off the floor a little -- that's why I call them bouncing vowels. Exempla gratia, bouncing becomes "bouncingeh." Cat might become "catah." And it seems common to give words that end in "s" a second syllable. Clothes really are cloth-es, just like the entry below says. Words might be "word-es."

Then there are the little things I have learned in Swahili and Luganda. Masao means "stop," as in stop the taxi, please, this is my exit. Webale means "thank you." I learned that one last night, and it makes me feel a lot better to be able to properly thank my guests. Sevo is "sir," and nyambo is "madam." Habari gani means "how are you" in Swahili, and the answer is something that sounds like "musuri." And then, of course, there are my three words from Karamoja: Ajoka (how's it going?), ajok (it goes), and alakara (thanks).

Of course, I'm not the only person around here who has trouble with language. The evidence: Across the street from my hotel in Ntinda is a shop called "Shandard Signs." You will also find "Kololo Close" for a clothes shop in Kololo. Today I saw a matatu with the words "Prays Jesus" written in the window. Malapropisms like this are very common. And then, there are the communications that are just culturally awkward. For example, the sign "GAIN BUMS QUICKLY - no side effects." Well gee, I'm glad I can gain my bums without catching a cold or something ...

Animal house

2008-07-09T12:12:00.001-04:00

Last week, after I talked about some goofy animal antic for the 5,802,934th time, Stephen suggested that we go to the zoo at Entebbe. I almost told him I didn't want to -- I mean, the whole novelty of being here is that I've never seen these animals integrated with the public before. That's what makes them special, even if they are just domesticated cattle. But Stephen is such a wonderful person, I didn't want to say "no." Besides, Entebbe is breezy and green; Lake Victoria is right there, and hanging out with Stephen any time is fun. So what the heck. We went.

I am so glad Stephen suggested it! The zoo at Entebbe is nothing at all like the Philly zoo. For one thing, the keepers aren't quite so concerned about keeping animals in their habitats. There were caged birds that looked like large bald eagles but sounded like sea gulls -- apparently they fish the waters of Lake Victoria. An hour or so after I saw the animals in their enclosure, I looked up and saw one flying overhead. And halfway through the afternoon a bunch of monkeys jumped the fence of their enclosure and started romping on the playground. Crested cranes would glide within five feet of the visitors, clearly feeling like they had more right to the sidewalk than park visitors. (I can see why Uganda chose the bird for its flag. They are graceful as they are beautiful.) But we got our biggest surprise first thing in the afternoon, while Stephen and I were trying to teach an enclosure of African Grey Parrots to say our names. All of a sudden we heard a cough directly behind us.

"Do you think we are safe?" Stephen asked uncertainly.

"I don't know," I answerwed, still laughing at the birds behind the wire. The cough came again, loud and deep. "What is that, anyway?"

We turned around. No more than ten feet away from us, behind a flimsy wire fence, a lion stood in full glory clearing its throat. "Bloch! Bloch!" it belched, turning its head in our direction. My eyes slid to the side -- I didn't want to make direct eye contact with the cat, just in case. My gaze rested on a sign.

"Caution. This animal is DANGEROUS."

"Um, Stephen?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's go ..."

It didn't take much urging. Stephen took off down the path, me not far behind. The lion kept on chuffing, like it was about to hack up a mean hairball. Frankly, I didn't want to know. Hairball, cough, love song, warning -- I just wanted more than a thin fence between me and the king of the jungle. Mulago hospital might not be equipped to deal with lion maulings and all that.

"Are you scared?" Stephen asked, laughing.

"Yes!" I said, skipping quickly ahead of him.

The animals at Entebbe Zoo are much more active than our captives in the U.S. This probably has a lot to do with the fact that Entebbe only keeps native species in spacious surroundings, and mixes them with other animals from their natural environment. You could tell most of the beasts are happy. The antelopes weren't jumpy, the parrots were curious, the otters were mating, the warthog had recently given birth, and the chimpanzees literally danced for snacks. It was kind of neat, watching an alpha male stand up and clap his hands, or the little female sulk in a corner, hugging her toes. They just looked comfortable being themselves.

What bothered me, though, was the zoo-goers. People just didn't seem to understand the sign "don't feed the animals." One woman, amused by the proximity of a monkey, tried to see if it would play with her cell phone. Now, I have a beagle. I KNOW how dumb captive animals can be about small, destructible objects. Apparently this woman does not have a beagle, however, because she teased that monkey with her cell phone until he took it from her.
And ate it.

"Ah!" She shouted. "It took my phone!" (My reaction: No, really?) People rushed over and watched as the monkey peeled the battery cover off the back and started to gobble down. All I could think, horrified, was that a monkey that small would probably have trouble passing plastic. I hope the little guy makes it. Anyway, he ate a big chunk of plastic, then dropped the phone in disgust.

"Do you think I could get it back?" the girl asked.

"Oh sure," her friend said. "There are plenty of zookeepers; they will get the phone." And then he proceeded to hand HIS phone to the monkey, as we all hauled him backward. The little monkey looked peeved that he didn't get to sample phone #2.

Can a monkey get free night and weekend minutes? Because apparently dumber primates can ...

Anyway, it was an amazing day, from the swarms of dragonflies, to the kissing sitatunga, to teaching the ape statue to read the newspaper. (Stephen has a delightfully twisted sense of humor.) This was really the first time I went anywhere purely for fun. It was great seeing the lake and walking with the crested cranes. I only have two more real vacation days here; I hope they're as wonderful.

Apologies

2008-07-09T12:07:00.002-04:00

I've been having too much fun. Too much fun means no time for writing, unfortunately. So I have a lot to catch you up on -- I haven't even covered Karamoja yet, have I? And that was incredible.

I promise to work on this soon, and I'll post a few of the shorter entries I've written in the meantime. Hopefully I'll have more time to write the longer posts in Gulu. I leave Saturday.

Wishing you all well!

From my comrades in arms (and hysterics)

2008-06-28T07:21:00.007-04:00

I found this on the Facebook group "You know you've been in Uganda a long time when." Anyone who has been here will roll on the floor laughing, because it is all so true:

Your phone rings and it is a wrong number and you can keep the Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello's going back and forth like a tennis match until eventually the caller realises you are the wrong number and abruptly hangs up, after spending at least 2 minutes worth of airtime. (Natalie McComb)

You get arrested and start bargaining over the bribe whilst you drive yourself to jail. (Jason McKelvie)

When malaria number 10 is cause for a party. (Ailsa Woolard)

When the power goes off in Chicago during a storm and it makes you homesick...(Sarah Larson)

When you enter into a room of people and say 'Well done!' (Tamar Stockley)

Your standard response to someone's greetings becomes "I AM FINE, HOW ARE YOU?!". (Maanan Madhvani)

[Maisha's personal favorite:] You start saying "the what?" in every what? In every sentence. (Christopher Laughlin)

Al's bar becomes a form of speed dating! (Tom Slater)

You start referring to people as “this one” or “that one”. (Heather Lawrence)

Clothes becomes a two-syllable word. Clo - thes. (Ruth Townley)

When the sight of a boda-boda with a passenger carrying yet another boda-boda [effectively a boda-boda breakdown service] does not cause you to raise an eyebrow. (Kaz Kasozi)

When you stand in a queue and feel something is very wrong because it is orderly and the person behind you respects your personal space. (Nick Astles)

When you're no longer surprised that a boda boda guy will try to convince you to become his customer by running you over. (Andrea Bohnstedt)

When you have named the potholes. (Nanna Schneidermann)

Your knees ache from squating over a long drop 4 times a day because you ran out of ciproflaxcin a month ago...(Jeremy Schmitz)

Its 32 degrees C outside and you can still see one or two people fully dressed Sweater and all. (Kaliika Annat)

When you know that a Swiss Loll at the Belgian bakery is a Swiss Roll. And that the man asking for Lose actually refers to Rose. (Sanne Andersen)

When you don't get confused even though the person you're talking to keeps mixing up 'he' and 'she' in the same sentence. (Kirstine Corneliussen Magoola)

When you point with your lips and say yes with your eyebrows. (Marcia Baugh)

When are reluctant to let go of a new, CLEAN 1000 shilling note. (Daisy Asiimwe)

You start thinking drinking beer with a straw is cool. (Joel Wandurwa)

When your home does not have an address. (Alice Kimbowa)

When you exhibit NRE bar behaviour in a Michelin star restaurant in a ball gown in London... (Naomi Swain)

When people use please in everything they say when talking to you and it does not sound weird at all ... 'bye please' ... "thank you please" (Mimmy Khamis )

When you still have to look left,right and left again before crossing a one way street. (Francis Musinguzi)

When that article in Wikipedia on Ugandan English totally makes sense (Martin Ucanda / Anne Mugisha)

When you consider going to Garden City a "trip to the Mall", made even more special if the escalator is switched on (Stuart Cook)

The idea of using someone's establishment as a waiting or meeting room without giving them any business does not appall you at all (Lydia Namubiru)

You yell "muzungu" at other muzungus you see walking down the road as you pass them in your car (Virginia Earwicker)

... Wow, I just went to the article in Wikipedia on Ugandan English, and it totally does make sense!

WHO TOLD???

2008-06-28T05:01:00.002-04:00

Someone told Mom that I'm heading to Karamoja, and that Karamoja is dangerous. Please, please, with all respect, don't tell Mom things like that! I always leave my location with my travel insurance company in case anything happens, and we have lawyers and CSOs here who know our position -- as well as the military, since they're sending us with an escort. I promise we'll be fine. We take overly cautious measures. Telling Mom will just worry her when there's little she can do. I just blog about these things because I need to get concerns off my chest, but that's because I'm a worrier.

... Maybe I should save these posts until I get back ...

Little updates

2008-06-27T10:12:00.004-04:00

Storks
I found out the name of that bird I keep rattling on about! It's the Marabou stork. They are these big gray and white birds that almost look like vultures, and when they launch themselves into the sky they're like aeroplanes taking off.

Are you lost?
People keep asking me that question. It had me very confused. Was there a reason? Am I too soft-spoken? Do I look confused?

Finally I figured out what the question means. I'm not doing anything wrong, and fortunately I don't look as lost as I feel. It's just the local way of saying "hey, where the heck have you been? We missed you."

Like shaking hands, there are a million little things I didn't know, here. For example, the currency sign for shillings is /-. Dialing out of the office involves calling the secretary, giving her the phone number, then hanging up and waiting for the ring to reconnect you. And names are different -- everyone has a Christian name and an African name. Evidently it doesn't matter what order you list them in, or which name gets the honorific (although it is most frequently associated with the African name). So my boss, for example, is Onyango John Francis or John or Francis or Onyango or John Francis Onyango or Mr. Onyango or Mr. Francis or ...

As for handshakes, there are two distinct methods. You can do the firm European grip for business associates, but there's also a shake for friends. First you pump once Euro-style, then you flip your hand upward and grasp, then you flip back down and clasp hands one last time. If you're very fond of the person, you hold hands for a moment after that while you're talking, as if you've just forgotten to let go. The first time someone shook my hand that way, I was afraid it was going to turn into some sort of arcane system of shaking, like in the U.S. where you might rap knuckles, pound fists, slap palms or whatever. But this is actually pretty straightforward and standard, by comparison. Also, more sweetly affectionate -- or maybe I'm just romanticizing things.

Current events
A lot has been going on at the ICC and in Uganda.

Yesterday, Juba peace negotiations between the government of Uganda and the LRA came to a halt again, because eight of the LRA's twelve negotiators resigned over arguments with Kony.

Two days ago, Thomas Lubango Dyilo's trial was temporarily stayed because the prosecutor refused to release potentially exculpatory documents. It will be interesting to see what happens to the DRC general allegedly responsible for a campaign of cannibalism.

On May 23, the ICC issued an arrest warrant for DRC general Jean-Pierre Bemba, accused of crimes against humanity in the Central African Republic. Bemba was in Belgium seeking refuge. One day after the arrest warrant was issued, in compliance with its obligations under the Rome Statute, Belgium turned Bemba over to the Hague. It is a rare instance of the ICC interacting effectively with the international community.

In Zimbabwe, Mugabe won elections that many people are claiming is unfair. The U.S. declined to recognize him as president, and Mugabe, like much of his party, has come into criticism by much of the international community.

Travel
I leave for Moroto in the Karamoja region Sunday at some insane hour, like 5 a.m. We're stopping in Mbale to pick up our focal point person, and I will be the only woman in the car with five other men. Am trying not to think about it. Just focusing on Karamoja, and how beautiful it will be, and how excited I am to see the people and browse the art and enjoy a few days out of Kampala. I've been here a month, now. It is actually starting to feel more like home. Sort of.

It's not always bad

2008-06-24T10:39:00.005-04:00

Having written that last depressing post, I'd like to say that Uganda is actually a nice place. I'm sitting in the office right now feeling like a movie star on vacation. There's a rooster outside that's been crowing its head off all morning, birds tweeting, cows lowing, the perfect breeze coming in through the window, and the rustle of palm fronds just across the fence. Tonight, when I go home, I might just get a free massage at the gym. Well, not exactly free. I might have to tip my masseuse a whole dollar.

I was talking with Onyango this morning, chatting about the western media. "They never show something nice in Uganda, like Queen Victoria Park. Queen Victoria is beautiful. They never even show pictures of a good hotel." And there is some validity to that statement. When's the last time you saw something nice about Uganda on TV, outside of the National Geographic Channel or PBS?

Last week Onyango took me and a partner from his soon-to-be law firm out to dinner. The place was called Faze 2, and wow, not only was the food delicious, but the setting was gorgeous! We had the perfect patio seats, meat on skewers and steaks on sizzling plates, delicious fruit shakes, and excellent service. Even the smaller pubs are cute, once you get past the dusty storefront to the well-kept back patios.

It's easy for me as a westerner to criticize governmental corruption and bad hospitals, but keep in mind this country hasn't been around as long as the United States, and it has a whole lot more to deal with in terms of cultural conflict and business disputes. Think Hawaii Housing Authority v. Midkiff, and you've got an idea of what property managers deal with every day, trying to figure wrestle clear title from the Kabaka (the Baganda king), the national government, and the squatters who have been cultivating the land for decades. Try to build a new business on land like that, and see how many wars you have to contend with before you see any economic development!

But folks still manage. The people who can afford it are much more educated than we are in the U.S. My boss, for example, speaks seven languages. He has his bachelor's and master's degrees in law, and is about to return to school for a second masters in international relations. He's thinking he might get an LLM after that. Meanwhile, he owns two separate businesses, coordinates the UCICC, and is applying for a fourth job with a religious political human rights association. And he's raising a family. That's what people are like, out here. Everyone who can afford it is brilliant and industrious. It's the best way to survive.

When I write those sadder posts, please understand that this isn't the armpit of the world. Uganda is very, very rich in very many ways. That's part of what makes working to support it worthwhile. It's just that there's no public safety net. If something doesn't work in your favor, there is no welfare to fall back on, no credit line to draw on, and likely no doctor to tend to your wounds. I guess that's the biggest difference between Uganda and the United States. You've got only got one shot to live like a king. (But when you do, oh, what easy luxury!)

What would you do?

2008-06-24T08:48:00.007-04:00

Anyone arrested or detained on a criminal charge shall be brought promptly before a judge or other officer authorized by law to exercise judicial power and shall be entitled to trial within a reasonable time or to release. It shall not be the general rule that persons awaiting trial shall be detained in custody, but release may be subject to guarantees to appear for trial, at any other stage of the judicial proceedings, and, should occasion arise, for execution of the judgement.

International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, Article 9 sec. 3

[post redacted for security purposes]

Advocacy and cattle raids

2008-06-19T09:29:00.005-04:00

It looks like I am in charge of organizing and hosting the UCICC's annual general meeting. I just found out today. I have three days to figure everything out, from budget requisitioning to catering to minutes to scheduling. After that, we will be traveling north to Karamoja, and I will be out of commission for a full week. The UCICC meeting is two days after I come home.

I guess it's not that bad, except that I have to write and organize a petition to the Parliament of Uganda, first. That part ... yeah. That's going to take time. Petitions out here are published as books. The sample copy of a Kenyan petition that I'm holding in my hand right now is about 40 pages long. And I have to figure out how to distribute this thing, and get the signatures for it. So I broke out in a cold sweat when I heard the news this afternoon. Advocate for the nationalization of the Rome Statute? Me? Well, if you say so.

On the other hand, psh, I can totally handle it! I've already got a five-page document, and I've barely started. It's just surprising, suddenly becoming the point person for a national campaign after having been here for only two weeks. I kind of love it. And I feel much less guilty about not having written memos or opinions, now.

The trip to Karamoja actually gives me more concern. Supposedly we have to arrange a military escort. The soldiers will be there as an extra precaution, but I'm still nervous. There are a lot of cattle raiders in that district, and I don't mean cute cowboys with spangled outfits. I have a friend who got caught in one of those raids, once, and had to duck under her counter while gunfire whizzed overhead. I suppose I'm not in as much danger as my journalist friends who have spent time in Iraq and Jerusalem, but then, I never intended to put myself in a potentially dangerous situation, either. So I'm trying not to think about it. It's funny, because you ask people here if it's safe, and they say "Sure, it's safe!" Then they talk about potential guns and death while I quietly try to slow my heart rate.

Please don't tell Mom until I'm back in Kampala safely. She's already so scared, she can barely speak coherently. Poor Mom. This internship is a lot harder on her than it is on me.

Anyway, I'm going to get back to working. These next two weeks are going to be busy. Do me a favor and send me an e-mail to let me know how you're doing. It feels so good to hear from people in the United States. Like strawberry ice cream on a muggy day in Philadelphia.

Workin' on the railroad

2008-06-18T09:55:00.006-04:00

I was chatting with Alejandro on Skype today, and he asked me what I was doing.

//Chewing some really tough beef,// I typed, trying not to get juice splattered on the keyboard. But that wasn't what he meant.

//No, I mean at work!// the response came.

Oh, that. I guess I haven't written much about that, because this part of my life, anyway, is easy. The Uganda Coalition for the International Criminal Court is a tiny organization, not even a full-fledged NGO. The full-time staff in our bureau is one lawyer who knows quite a bit about the ICC but is actually more of an advocate for victims' rights. The rest of us are interns. I've already seen two people cycle out on their way back to school. Apparently there are other bureaus scattered throughout the country, with a focal person in each office. Their job is to educate people in the region about the activities of the ICC, discuss the many forms of justice available in Uganda, and advocate for victims' rights. This manifests as training sessions with police officers, university outreach, fundless campaigns for legislation, regional information sessions with locals, more intensive sessions about the ICC for paralegals, playwriting, poster making, and generalized public relations. We write articles, visit courts when human rights cases are involved and talk with advocates, magistrates, justices, and members of Parliament.

The work is really very similar to what I did for the newspapers. At first I was a little bit nervous. Onyango or one of the interns would hand me a paper and ask, "Can you type this for me?" I began to worry that they were doing this because I am a woman, therefore I must be more like a secretary. But as time went on, I discovered that this is actually because I'm the only person here who can really type. Everyone else in the office hunts and pecks, and it takes them ages to type up a manuscript I can have completed in a few minutes.

I've spent the bulk of my time building a web site for the organization. You can check it out at www.ucicc.org. I've also set up a Facebook group for the UCICC, and a MySpace profile comes next. The UCICC has very little notoriety outside of Uganda, so I am trying to develop a presence online. Hopefully it will help us find sponsors. I've also drafted a few information packets, drawn up a poster, generated some logos, read through the 1995 Uganda Constitution, edited a paper for a university outreach session, helped with logistics for the annual general meeting, and written letters to Parliament. Nothing fancy at all. I can tell you a lot more about the Rome Statute and the structure of the ICC now than I could have two weeks ago, I know the exact date Uganda ratified the treaty (14 June 2002), and I can rattle off the names of the five LRA leaders for whom the ICC has issued a warrant: Joseph Kony, Okot Odhiambo, Vincent Otti, Raska Lukwiya, and Dominic Ongwen.

That's about it.

Really, the work is simple and quiet. It takes me a long time to get anything finished, but only because of connectivity issues and power fluctuations. Also, because people here like to talk. But talking is how I do most of my learning, and I don't regret a minute of it. Today I got to play with a baby. That was fun. Babies smell good. Everyone said she looked like me, then asked when I was going to have a child. I can't seem to convey that I am not exactly hot stuff in the United States. To them, over 20 and you get married. That's that.

I guess this pace is what I need, after last year. It's allowing me to shore up the few strands of self-respect I've got left, which is good, because our readings at school have been hard to swim through and I haven't tested well. At least I know that I can be useful in the world of NGOs. I've been setting people up with e-mail addresses and teaching staff the basic elements of photography, videography, and web site creation. The women in HURINET-U's capacity building department are especially happy about that.

I do wish I had more legal work to do. Alejandro has been writing policy papers in Hong Kong, and Emily is drafting court opinions. That sounds awesome! I'm trying to read what they've done, so I can learn from them, too. It makes me a bit nervous to know that I'll be going to a firm next summer with only partially relevant professional experience. To feel better, I tell myself that by the time I'm done I'll have lived for ten weeks in a developing country, handled sickness and financial trouble and pushy men and communication issues, and supported a drive to pass implementing legislation for the ICC. It's not like I haven't gotten a lot out of this, already, right?

There are a few interesting subjects I've come across that we didn't mention in class, too. National corruption is a big one. I'll write more on that in another post. Reasons for implementing ICC legislation is a big question, too. A lot of people here truly believe that the only purpose for embracing the ICC is to end the war in the North. They're not thinking longterm about the resolution of potential future violations or jurisdictional issues such as rationae personae.

This morning I had a fantastic conversation with a young man who is trying to categorize victims of the war in the North. His thoughts were very interesting. You have rape victims, land mine victims, victims of (generalized) violence, child soldiers, torture victims, and the list goes on. If you lump all of those people into one category and grant them some award, how should that award be divided? Who has suffered more, and who will need more for recovery? I gave him some information about victim participation in ICC trials, but I'll bet his report will be a lot more detailed than that.

Since brevity is the soul of wit, I will be brief. There is a lot to learn here. Maybe not book learnin', but that's not my comparative strength, anyway. It's experience, and all the richness of life.

Western Union is my best friend

2008-06-17T03:53:00.002-04:00

The crisis is over, after only one night. I even remembered I had soup mix, so I got to eat something yesterday. Still, it gives me a little perspective on what the days must feel like for people who don't have enough to eat. I was scared.

Mom sent me enough money to live off of for weeks, bless her heart. I have to find a good way to pay her back. She and Dad always say "what is ours is yours" (honestly, they just might be the best people in the world), but days like this, when I literally feel cut off from every resource I have, mean a lot. I don't have a credit card, I don't have a bank card, international calls don't work, the power goes out, the water gets shut off, and the roads are closed down ... but I still have my family! I wish they knew. My eyes are literally welling up, right now. I love them so much.

Uganda for less than $3

2008-06-16T09:40:00.003-04:00

Ack.

I tried to go to the bank on Friday. Work was busy, though, and when I finally got a chance to hit the road, traffic was so backed up I realized there was no way I would make it to downtown Kampala while the doors were still open. So I gave up.

I tried again on Saturday, and certain roads were shut down. It took two hours to get from Ntinda to downtown Kampala, and by the time I got there, the bank was closed.

The banks aren't open on Sunday.

Today I went back, and the teller refused my credit card. She also refused my debit card. Which means I have no money. Well, that's not entirely true. I had 10,000 shillings. I spent 5,000 trying to call the bank to get them to reopen my account. I got as far as giving my social security number before the phone cut out on me. And as much as I argued, the girl at the phone booth insisted I owed her the full 5,000. Then I had to take a matatu back home. I am down to 4,000 shillings now -- less than $3. Thank God for Skype and Western Union. I think I'm getting Mom to wire me some cash. I think.

So I probably won't get to eat tonight. Well, I have peanut butter and Nutella at home, for what it's worth. Which is still probably more than most people get on a daily basis.

I did, however, have myself my first good cry.

Trust, Government, and Corruption

2008-06-16T04:27:00.004-04:00

On Friday, the parent network that sponsors the Uganda Coalition for the International Criminal Court held its Annual General Meeting. HURINET (Uganda) is a HUman RIghts NETwork of about 270 NGOs throughout the country -- although I am under the impression that most of these NGOs are regional divisions of the same body. Once a year they come together to review accomplishments, reinforce goals, discuss strategy and elect new officers. It was great for me, because I met folks from different human rights organizations all over Uganda. The oldest (and hence most respected) member of the network works in Gulu. He's a very nice man named Otto I hope to visit next month. I also met a lady from an organization called Hope After Rape, and others from an organization that rehabilitates torture victims. They all seemed willing to share information and tour me around their organizations. One woman even told me she was going to be my other mother in Uganda. (It was a sweet gesture, but she left before I could give her my e-mail address or phone number.)

I was assigned to take minutes. And I did, too -- 25 pages worth of notes. I guess schools here don't teach kids to type without looking, because people kept approaching me about how fast I could move my fingers. I'm not a fast typist by U.S. standards, but I had a small audience when I described the learning method: practicing the home row, branching off from that, covering your hands with paper so you can't see the keyboard ...

The meeting itself began normally enough. A professor gave a very fine speech on the differences between networks and networking, and the reasons why so many networks fail. The chairman of the organization followed with a welcome, and then the secretary of the organization reviewed the previous year's minutes. During the review, a very heated debate came up about a civil suit brought against the state by HURINET. I've since discussed the conversation with UCICC members, and here is what I pieced together about the facts:

Certain individuals were accused by the national government of being members of a rebel organization called the PRA. According to one HURINET staff member, this PRA doesn't actually exist -- it's a figment of the government's imagination, a mechanism used to condemn political threats like President Museveni's primary campaign opponent, Besigye. The government line is that the PRA is planning a coup. The staff member I spoke with said this isn't true, it's only government paranoia.

But forget, for a moment, whether or not the PRA exists. A number of men were put in prison. At a pre-trial hearing, a judge set bail for these individuals. The accused paid the set amount and were free to leave prison. Only the state refused to give the men up; Some of the men remained in prison for much longer, and at least one is still incarcerated.

HURINET brought a complaint seeking the release of two accused parties. The lawyers were concerned that the government had circumvented the rule of law to keep a number of individuals detained. One staff counselor was sent to represent their case. The state was represented by eight attorneys.

Now here's the kicker, here's why the folks at the Annual General Meeting were upset: One of the government attorneys happened to be the vice chair of HURINET. Nathan Twinomugisha is a founding member of HURINET on the staff of an amnesty organization run by the government. He accepted payment to attend this trial in Swaziland and act on the government's behalf against his own organization. His actions at trial may not have been so bad; apparently, all he did was explain to the Court what amnesty was; according to the HURINET counselor, he didn't say a word at the trial. Explaining amnesty would actually work in favor of the accused, who would be given a temporary reprieve from arrest. So the problem was not what Twinomugisha said, if he in fact said what he claimed. The problem is that he concealed his participation in the trial from the board and body of HURINET. That hiding was enough to call his entire behavior into question. HURINET staff members wanted to know -- had he revealed any secrets about the organization? Had he revealed their counselor's strategy? How far would the man go, for government money?

Here in Uganda, as in many East African nations, human rights workers see the government as the enemy. The government is the perpetrator of the most greivous human rights violations; the government is the threat to civilization. This presents two interesting conundrums:

1. If the government, the force that regulates civilization, is also a corrupting influence, how can that civilization possibly be sustained?

2. If human rights workers refuse to work within the government, how will that government ever come to believe in human rights?

I posed the latter question to various members of HURINET, and they bristled somewhat. The line is clear enough to them: human rights good, government bad. For me, the two have to be reconciled or both will face extinction. I believe Twinomugisha made a mistake, going off to this trial without alerting the HURINET board first. It's as if Dick Cheney accepted a large sum of money to secretly attend an Al Qaeda training camp -- even if his mission were to dissuade terrorists from attacking, U.S. citizens would still question his actions. All the same, though, I found the conversation distressing. The underlying insinuation was that no government employee should ever be involved with HURINET, and no human rights worker should ever get involved with the government.

If human rights workers never become legislators, how will human rights ever be incorporated into the law?

If the government keeps flaunting human rights, how will people ever trust their elected officials enough to allow for a stable government?

And if you can't trust the human rights workers to be free of corruption, who the hell can you trust?

I'm including my notes on the discussion, below. I know it's odd to include meeting minutes in a blog, but I found the argument very interesting.

Speaker 1: The rumor is with my ears that a member of HURINET represented the state. Would someone give us the real truth?

Prior Attorney: My response would be that the state was represented by eight lawyers. These eight were seated on one side, and I was seated on the other side. The lead counselor for the state was the solicitor general. The other eight lawyers were together and did not speak. Now, maybe (name redacted), it would be good to mention the name so that I can confirm whether the person was there or not.

[Goes through the list of counselors he can remember.]

Speaker 1: The vice chair participated. The vice chair has an interest. I don’t know whether that is not tantamount to what you lawyers would call a “conflict of interest.” If I were in Nathan’s position, I would decline. To me, that poses a problem. It is like shooting yourself in the foot. That is all I can say for now.

Speaker 2: There are many of us who are members of human rights organizations but also act in other capacities in our professions. From what we know of Nathan Twinomugisha, he has demanded to explain to whoever needs to know the process of amnesty. I wonder if explaining the process of amnesty conflicts. I know, because I am a lawyer, that this is not a problem. He does not prosecute because he is not a part of the ministry of justice.

National Coordinator: The issue here is that the board of HURINET received a communication from a person who was in Swaziland attending a session, who had accosted the vice chair there and actually thanked him for coming to represent HURINET. The vice chair actually corrected him and said “I am on the other side; I have not come to represent HURINET.” The matter was brought before the board, and a communication was made to the vice to explain what his situation was, but also the lawyer who participated and represented HURINET was asked to make a submission. What was at issue was not talking to PRA suspects and advising them. What was at issue was that the advice was at a closed session in Swaziland and was part of the group of eight that acted against HURINET. We received communication, but it is not for me to declare what the board decided or resolved.

Speaker 3: Are these two suspects out on bail, now? I ask because there is no information, but I happened to meet one of the suspects at a funeral. He is out on bail, and he has to report three times a month in Ajumani, Arua and Kampala.

Secretary: Yes, the PRA suspects were released, but on very stringent terms. Let me call the meeting to order.

Prior Attorney: One person is still in detention and has not been let out.

Secretary: Should we consider this right now, or should we give it another moment and discuss it in detail? I would like to get a consensus from the members.

Speaker 4: I believe in a fair hearing. We are all human rights activists who believe in a fair hearing. We have the person accused here, in our midst. Let’s hear from him, and hear what exactly happened. It seems like we are condemning him without hearing what has happened.

Secretary: It seems like, from the speaker, it seems like we are in consensus about discussing this now. I suggest that I hand over the microphone to the chairperson to lead us in this discussion and start with his view on this matter.

Chairperson: Thank you very much, Secretary. Definitely, we will give an opportunity to Nathan to illustrate his view, but we welcome any person to give it. But I would remind you that our lunch there is getting cold. A communication was received from “a friend of HURINET.” He wrote an e-mail to me as chairperson saying that he was disturbed that our vice chairperson was attending a session in Swaziland. Our communication to the African Commission was being heard, but he was on the other side. He was saying that this was not acceptable. How could we have somebody on our board speaking against us? He thought that the board should consider this issue as a conflict of interest, and he was saying that we should actually, if possible, take disciplinary action against the vice. But we said, before we do that, we should give him an option to explain himself. We wrote to the vice asking if it was true, if he was there, and also why he acted that way and compromise his position on the board? At the same time, we also wrote to our lawyer in Swaziland to tell us what the position of Nathan was. As the lawyers explained, Mr. Nathan was on the other side, the side of the state, defending the action of the state. Nathan explained his position in writing that yes, he was there, but that he did not talk during the session. Later on, we invited him and other members of the board to a special board meeting, and this was one of the issues we wanted to talk about. At the end of it all, Nathan admitted that it was an error on his part, and if there was any other African Commission session, he wouldn’t sit there. He admitted that he was on the other side and made an error to have done that. We would like to hear as much from you as possible, but the board’s view is that at all times, we should be united. We should be seen to be acting together. We should not act in any way that would indicate that we are not together. The board took this as a very, very serious issue. I am glad that, at the end of it, Nathan admitted that it was wrong for him to have done that. That is where it is at the moment. Is there anything else I have left behind? Okay, then I would like to give Nathan a chance to respond.

Nathan: It is true that I wear another heart. In an organization, you will find many members. When this opportunity came, the Amnesty Commission said to go and explain what amnesty is. I asked them to put in writing what I was supposed to say, and I have the letter here. You see, many countries don’t know what amnesty is. They wanted me to explain to the African Commission what amnesty was. When I arrived there, someone explained to me that HURINET had filed a case against the state. Actually, I played a very, very little role. This communication was not going to be heard if I were not in Swaziland. The lawyer from HURINET had not arrived, and the case had already been postponed. I told them the lawyer from HURINET is coming, please be patient. I told them “please don’t go.” If they had left, this case was not going to be heard. They said, “do you know this lawyer?” I said “yes,” because I was staying almost in the same room. They agreed with me, and they waited. So you should be thanking me that this case was heard. I never uttered any word. My interest was, I just sat. I never uttered one sentence. And so I never prejudiced the case. I have been with them, I have given their human rights, I have given them amnesty.

Chairperson: Any reaction? Let’s have ten minutes.

Speaker 5: What Nathan has said really doesn’t convince me, because you fly all the way from Uganda and you do nothing, and you try to convince me. Mr. Chairman, this is very, very serious. When he came back, he should have been suspended immediately from his vice chairmanship. That is how things are done. And he is sitting there comfortably right next to you. Are we becoming part of propaganda machinery for the government? How will we know what you are telling the lawyers that were representing the government? The court has awarded billions of shillings, and no one has paid. The victims are there. This is a very serious matter. Thank you very much.

Speaker 6: Chairman, thank you, and members, thank you. I think, to me, if we are fighting for human rights, we need every available avenue to do it. If Nathan happened to be on the other side and convinced the other members to see it the way HURINET sees it, then he is the mole. He was there on the path of the Amnesty Commission. Are we going to say, anyone who does anything for the government should not be one of us? It is not an issue, it is good, we should have more members on the other side.

Speaker 7: Thank you, chair. I was one of the ones who went with HURINET. We were disappointed by the rumor, but we can confirm it. I don’t condemn Nathan to have gone there and do what he did. Just as we heard here from the secretariat that HURINET is a mirror, and it reflects good, and it reflects also bad. So, what went on in Botswana is exactly what is before us. Nathan already explained, but in the back of my mind as a lawyer, I would have said “I am involved with HURINET. Please send another lawyer if one is available?”

Speaker 8: Where are our professional ethics? You, as a lawyer, you have professional ethics. Two, as vice chairperson of HURINET, you should have absconded from going there. Three, how do you go to do nothing and just keep quiet? The board should have noted that this was a conflict of interest. We have standing, governing policies.

Speaker 9: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. My standing here is not to convince, but let us try to reason. Let us ask ourselves what was our vice’s motive, doing this? We’ve heard a presentation in the morning about networking. We brought our vice chairman on board because of how we think he could have been of help to us. I know he is very useful. Let us refer to what went wrong. If we knew HURINET had interest in that case, HURINET should have known that he was going to speak against HURINET. He should have consulted us and seen how we reacted. If he had a spirit of putting HURINET down, we should have seen that motive. If he had motives other than that, maybe we can make use of him in these issues. Let us push HURINET as a network. If he feels that he cannot uphold the values of HURINET, then the (inaudible).

Speaker 10: We can only condemn Nathan if the constitution prohibits what he did. If the constitution does not prohibit what he did, then condemnation would be improper. You must disclose that you have an interest here, to declare. He disclosed and participated, so the decision is for the members to make.

Speaker 11: We have been given these papers considering the activities here. He went there escorting the other team. In this paper, in number five, they list the lawyers. In number six, they say “the abovementioned government lawyers consulted together to defeat …” (etc.) With all these documents, it becomes very hard to convince me otherwise of the role of Nathan.

Speaker 12: At least I’ve heard from the other side. What I’d like to tell everyone here is that we should look at our constitution. We need to resolve this matter. We asked Nathan what he did, and the other lawyer can bring out something. If what Nathan did, because the issue at hand is now what Nathan did, is it a conflict of interest? We may have to make a decision. If it is not in conflict, then we will have to see what to do.

Speaker 13: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I wanted to ask a question. Mr. Twinomugisha was sent by the government to explain what the amnesty act was all about. (Inaudible.)

Speaker 14: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Having heard all this about Nathan, I would say that if Nathan is abrogating HURINET’s constitution, then he should be liable for that. (Inaudible.) He should cease to be the chair.

Chairman: The position of the board, you have heard it. We met, we heard from both sides, and Nathan said he had made an error. But if the AGM has got something else they would like to do, then that is it. You are the supreme body of HURINET. You either accept the judgment on his side, that he would not do it again, and that was enough. Or if that is not enough, it is up to you to take some other action. Therefore, what I am proposing is that we have some people from the floor proposing a way forward on this: Whether you want to leave it on the level that the board had left it, or you want to go forward. I would like to hear from one or two people to suggest a way forward on this, and then we close. Before that, I would like the National Coordinator to read out some relevant sections which the board actually considered when we heard this news of apparent conflict of interest, and which we thought we would use.

National Coordinator: Concerning the matter, inasfar as the constitution is concerned, this is what it provides:

The general meeting may remove from office on any of the grounds:
1. Using the funds of the network
2. Acting contrary to the interest of the network
3. Vote of no confidence, when 2/3 of the members of the committee are in attendance

Speaker 1: Mr. Chairman, I would like to cite an incident which happened in 2001, when I was on the board as vice-chair. Our secretary, without consulting, joined a campaign team for the president. We communicated to her that it would be in her best interest that she resign, and she did. If I were Nathan, I would bow out like a gentleman. But he is unremorseful.

Nathan: He is quoting an affidavit that is not dated. Should we take this paper as anything? When was it made? Read it!

[Proposed and seconded that there be a vote of no confidence.]

Chairman: Before we take a vote, let’s hear from one more person.

Speaker 15: Are we doing enough to self-regulate and make sure we admit credible institutions with our best interests at heart. We get our mandate from the Constitution of Uganda, Article 38. We become an entity that can be sued or to sue. (Etc. Too rapid to transcribe.)

Chairman: In the meantime, Mr. Nathan be suspended from the Board.

Speaker 16: Inaudible.

[Argument ensues about whether 2/3 of the members are present]

[Break for lunch]

[Welcome back]

Chairperson: There was discussion with legal officers of HURINET to advise us on the way forward, and the advice is that the board should go back and make a definite resolution on this and then report back to the body. This is because the provisions in the constitution do not actually support the motion of suspension. If you members agree that this motion is withdrawn, and you can agree with the suggestion of the legal officers that the board goes back and takes a definite stand on this, which then, when they do that, they will advise the members of the network – is that acceptable? I would like to spend maybe five more minutes on this.

Speaker 1: I want clarification, because Nathan is on the board of the Human Rights Commission, and I have heard that he is no longer on the board.

Chairperson: That Nathan is not the vice chairperson.

Speaker 2: The members are the ultimate owners of the organization.

Speaker 3: This is timely advice. We were acting on rumors. We should leave it to the board.

Speaker 4: The constitution is very silent to such scenarios. We might need to get back to that chapter.

Speaker 5: Who is superior? The board, or the AGM?

Speaker 6: We have a competent board, and we are going to have elections. Let’s leave it to the new board to come up with something, and if they fail, they can come back to the AGM.

Board Member: Thank you, chair. The board looked at this situation, and you have heard our position. Let’s resolve it, because it has ongoing implications, some financial. We may have to call another general meeting.

Nathan: I agree with what the legal minds have said. It would be sad for a human rights organization to ignore a constitution.

Speaker 7: This is a very contentious issue, and I am not convinced because you did not address it at all. Did you have a hidden agenda? Let us finish it today and afresh.

Speaker 8: We have a constitution. Let’s stand by it. The people we are dealing with are people who have dealt with legal issues. Maybe the vice chair will leave the seat. You can’t tell.

Speaker 9: I believe that an extraordinary meeting of the board was called, it should have been put on the AGM to consider. But since it was raised as a rumor by one of our members, we should throw it back to the board to consider, and then take their minds.

Legal Advisor: I know this is a contentious issue, and we would like to dispense with it today, but where there is a constitution, our hands are tied. There are three relevant positions that we have looked at. One of the most appropriate things to do would be for the Board to meet and vote on the matter. They would inform you at the next AGM. That is article 10. The other provision is to come from the board, and not from you as the AGM. It is a 2/3 majority of the board that must make a vote of no confidence. The board has the power to vote and then make a recommendation to the AGM. The constitution does not tell us what the AGM can do. We cannot say that you can vote on it, because the constitution does not say anything. Then, the other provision is for the members of the AGM to move a vote of no confidence by 2/3 of the board. But there must be notice at least one month in advance, and there was none.

Chairperson: It seems like there is consensus that the Board is being given the responsibility to go back and reconsider this issue. Number two, it also gives homework. My advice here is to think about this issue. This gives time for Nathan to resign or whatever. Sometimes, in the interest of an organization you say “let me do this” rather than going all the way to the supreme court. Is there anyone with a serious objection to our going back as a board to resolve this as Nathan thinks about this issue?

Speaker 10: As the legal advisor said, our hands are tied.

Chairperson: Thank you very much. We move on.

Kitten

2008-06-16T04:26:00.002-04:00

Maybe it was that same day, maybe it was a day or so later. I don't know. Time doesn't matter so much, here. Anyway, I was walking home, listening to the birds cry. I've mentioned the birds here, before. They are amazing. There are birds that look like crows, only maybe twice as large with white breasts. There are big black birds with plumage that turns into a rainbow when the light bounces just so, kind of like an oil spill over the midnight ocean. There are birds I think might be vultures, and others that look like herons, others that look like turkeys, and some that look like cranes. And of course, there are the massive man-sized birds that I can't name. I'll have to learn what they are, before I leave.

Anyway, I pay a lot of attention to their music because it is so different from what I hear at home. And as I was walking back to the hotel that particular night, the birds were really active. One in particular seemed insistant and close by. I finally realized it must be right next to my foot, so I looked down to see what kind of bird it was.

Turns out, it was the kind of bird that is a cat. A kitten, to be precise. Small little lonely thing, all black and brown patches with big, bright blue eyes. It must have been hungry, because it kept peeping these little "meep! meep!" sounds, and it was desperately trying to reach me. That's what I'd mistaken for bird song; the creature was still too small to sound like an actual cat. I was separated from the kitten by a trench about two feet wide, and the little thing was getting ready to pounce across just to snuggle up to me. There was no way it would have made the leap, so I stepped over to it, instead. It kept mewing and padded over to my legs. I didn't know what to do. The kitten was adorable, but a thousand red flags went off in my head at once. I'm allergic to cats. Having an allergy attack here would be bad. Christine says people with cat allergies don't react to kittens, but I've never tested that theory before. And it probably had fleas. It definitely had ear mites and mange. But it was still the cutest thing in the world. Couldn't I pick it up and take it to the vet? Its eyes were bright blue; I've never seen blue eyes on a cat like that. Maybe the color of kittens' eyes change as they age. This was certainly a tiny creature; it could fit into my palm. Maybe it had just opened its eyes.

But where was its mother? I looked around and couldn't see anything. I had no way of knowing whose house it came from, or where its litter was. I had nothing to feed it with, and no way of knowing what to feed a kitten. And are there vetrinarians in Uganda? There must be, because people rely so much on their cattle. All the same, though, I don't know any. And even if there are vets, is there medicine? For a kitten?

The cat kept approaching me, and I lowered my computer case so it would have something other than me to caress. I knew if I touched it once, I was a goner. Oh, not like I'd die or anything (Mom told me not to touch any animals; rabies is a problem in Uganda and I'm not vaccinated!), but if I touched the kitten I would for sure pick it up, cradle it like it wanted to be cradled, and take it home. I'd probably feed it and let it get its fleas all over my hotel room, and wind up killing it because I don't know how to take care of such a young cat. It would probably be better off with its own mother. But how to help it find its mother? I didn't even know how to scoop it up so I could bring it to the homes in the area. Someone would have claimed it, right?

As I'm thinking all of these things, the cat saunters over to my computer case and starts rubbing all over it, reaching up and stretching out its little claws to hook into the bag, trying to climb up toward my face. It was so adorable, I bent over and almost started petting it with a finger. Almost. Then I realized -- what am I doing? I can't take care of a cat! I don't know how. And what am I going to do, take it to Gulu with me? Import it back to the United States? There is a pet store not far from where I'm staying, but the only time I looked in, all I could see was a desk and bare walls. I think it's a place you order animals to be bred for you; it's definitely not PetSmart.

So I let logic take over. I straightened up, and walked away from the kitten. "Mew!" went the little voice behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to see this tiny, indignant face. It was as if the cat were trying to rationalize how, with all that cuteness, I could possibly leave it behind.

"I'm sorry, kitten," I said. "I can't take care of you." And I walked away. Not the easiest thing I've ever done. I hope it found its home.

Mulago Hospital

2008-06-16T04:25:00.001-04:00

There is a woman named Joyce who works for the Human Rights Network in the same office where the UCICC is located. I'd seen her once or twice and taken her picture, but that's all. Anyway, at one point John Francis and I were editing our new web site, and Joyce came up and announced, "John, I am leaving. I know you won't come with me, so I am taking her, instead." And she pointed to me. "You will come with me, right?"

"Uh, sure," I said. I've been learning to roll with the punches, here. People say they will do something, then don't. Or they say they'll be at such and such a place at a certain time, and they show up hours later. In the same fashion, they will suddenly tell me that I am in charge of something two seconds before I am supposed to have the task completed. I am learning to stay calm and just expect that kind of instant responsibility. Thank goodness for my newsroom training: I am used to making snap decisions under tight deadlines, and it helps in an environment like this.

Anyway, I'm here to serve these people's needs, so if someone wants me to go for a ride, I'll do it. I obediently followed Joyce to her car.

Yeah, so this ride was interesting. Joyce is a nice lady, but a horrible driver. As much as I've said that I never want to drive in Uganda, I'd be more willing to get behind the wheel than ride with Joyce again. And that is saying a lot, because even in the United States I'm a pretty horrible driver. Of course, I didn't know she was a bad driver until I was already in the car. At that point, it was the best I could do to look unphased. I watched the road as closely as possible and tried to calm myself with conversation. "So where are we going?" I asked.

"To visit my friend in the hospital," Joyce answered. "He was in a car accident."

Great.

Mulago hospital is the biggest hospital in Uganda. I hope it's not the nicest. When we got in there, there were gnats everywhere. Some flies, too. Paint was peeling off the walls, and the ratio of patients to personnel was ... overwhelming. People were on gurneys in the waiting room and in the halls. Most of the wards were common rooms; private rooms were reserved for the most serious cases. That's where Joyce's ex-boyfriend Augustine was staying.

I don't know how to evaluate Augustine's chances. When we saw him, he could barely speak above a whisper. Apparently he got into a car accident one day as he was coming back from his university (Augustine is just becoming a medical doctor) and sustained abdominal punctures which have subsequently become infected. He's on antibiotics but has needed a number of surgeries. One of his legs is broken, too. He has been in the hospital for three weeks, now. There aren't a lot of X-ray machines here; I don't think there are any CAT scanners or MRI devices or anything. Onyango has told me stories about people hit by shrapnel who nearly die of infection because no one can find the pieces embedded in the victim's flesh. Even western surgeons are afraid to operate without the necessary equipment.

There really isn't a convenient way to end an entry like this. I guess ultimately I just wish Augustine the best, and I have a heightened appreciation for the work John and Andrea are doing in Mali.

Sisterhood

2008-06-16T03:19:00.003-04:00

Coming here has surprised me with the realization that many of my personality quirks are, in fact, cultural habits I didn't know I had. There are things that I do that are somewhat uncommon in the United States that turn out to be completely appropriate, here. For example, some of my closer friends have pointed out that I am overeffusive in my affection. If I like someone, I tell them how pretty / handsome they are, I give hugs, I bring presents, I feed them, etc. A lot of Americans have told me I'm a pushover -- that I'm too nice, and people take advantage of me because of it. I come here, and instantly the women at work start telling me how beautiful I am. They hold my hand when they want to take me somewhere. We go on field trips together. They've brought me gifts, I've bought them food; we support one another. It's strange and wonderful, having affection so readily reflected. I really do trust these women, too. They seem completely sincere -- just like the children here are serious about playing, and the men, when they flirt, are about as subtle as a big rig wearing a tutu. People here seem very honest. Even the liars are obviously lying, it's like artifice is largely unpracticed. The ladies have started including me in their activities, and I love it. I feel almost like I belong somewhere.

Case in point: Early last week, Zam rushes into the board room where I'm fighting with my computer. "Would it bother you if we come in heah?" she asks, and then waves in a crowd of giggling women. Apparently, Zam's friend has come by to sell shoes. And what shoes! They all have spike heels that are at least three inches high. Name brands I couldn't repeat, but I remember Emily told me she used to sell them at Nordstrom's. Shiny shoes, glittery shoes, jeweled shoes, severe shoes, party shoes, zebra-print shoes, you name it. The shoe saleswoman brought them in two large canvas handbags, and the ladies from work started pulling them out and setting them on the table for examination. There was so much laughter!

"What about this one? Do you have it biggah?"

"Next time you bring shoes with no heels!"

"These ah all pawty shoes! Do you have any foah office?"

"I want to get those. But these ah good too, eh? Once you staht picking them, you can't stop!"

"Take both and pay me back latah."

I wished Emily were there. She would have gone bananas. It was such a cute little scene. Eventually, a young intern named Katuele picked out one pair of shoes she liked. All that work, and only one woman found anything she liked in her size. (The saleswoman brings many different styles, but only one size of each pair -- if you want a different size, you have to ask for it and wait until she comes back again.) Supposedly, we get the shoe sale sequel next week. I want to watch the purchasing ritual, just because it's cute seeing these women hug one another and squeal over the shoes like teenagers.

Joseph Kony is dead

2008-06-11T10:34:00.006-04:00

Another aside, as reported on the front page of Uganda tabloid Red Pepper:

Friday, 06 June 2008
LRA LEADER KILLED HIMSELF - USA INTELLIGENCE
The latest on Kony is that US Intelligence and government personnel are suggesting that the Juba peace talks be closed because the LRA rebel leader is no more. Sources close to UPDF in tracking Kony's communication have not tracked any correspondences either on radio or satellite communication. Information from within the LRA seems to suggest that he could have committed suicide in the same style as German dictator, Adolf Hitler.

Saturday, 07 June 2008
BIRDS FEAST ON KONY'S BODY
Kony in his will to his son he made it clear that when he dies, he should not be buried under the soil but be left above the ground as an Acholi hero. Kony had become so paranoid that he sent away all his 40 wives suspecting they would conspire to kill him. He had accused some of them of sleeping around with his deputy, Otti Vincent.

My response:
I wonder what Kony thinks about these headlines?
Someone still trusts U.S. intelligence?
Also, I love the relationship between large and small type, here. Eye-tracking studies in the U.S. have shown that many people only glance at headlines. Hm, their loss ...

Do you want matoke with that?

2008-06-11T07:21:00.005-04:00

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to talk about food.

Anyone reading this knows me. I like to eat. Specifically, I like to eat cheeseburgers. It is as much an addiction for me as nicotine is for a smoker. Give me french fries, give me trans fats, and add a slice of cheesecake to top it all off.

Uganda is not a place for fast food.

There are signs here and there that advertise "fast foods," but all they really mean is that you will get the same goat meat, matoke, rice, beans, and potatoes that you'd find anywhere else more quickly because it's already been cooked. The local fare is pretty standard. You can swap out your goat meat for chicken (which I don't recommend, because the chickens here have tough skins and very little meat) or beef (which I also don't recommend, because the beef is tough and stringy). Some places offer fish, and I've found one restaurant in Karamoja that sells your goat-chicken-beef-fish selection drowned in ground nuts. However, you will still get beans, rice, matoke, and potatoes whether you like it or not. Maybe with a chapati.

A Culinary Glossary
matoke: cooked mashed bananas
chapati: a big doughy crepe without anything on it
ground nuts: seeds mashed into a stew that tastes vaguely like peanut butter without any sweetener

Matoke is definitely a favorite, here. The first time Jamira dragged me out of the house, she took me to this restaurant and asked, "Have you evah tryed matoke?" I shook my head no, and she insisted I try it. The next day I tried a new restaurant on my own. The waiter's English was so garbled, I finally gave up. "Just bring me anything. Food. Anything," I said. He brought me a plate with a small side of goat and an oversized helping of matoke. Mmm, thanks. The day after that, I ate lunch in Kampala with Onyango. Who ordered for me. Guess what he ordered?

There are days when I don't eat anything here at all. The idea of consuming one more bite of matoke makes me want to cry, so I drink a lot of juice and water and ignore food entirely. Most days I have one meal, and maybe a slice of bread with peanut butter at night. This is, by far, the least I have ever eaten since I threw out my lunches in high school, and I eat like a queen compared to most people.

I do allow myself one indulgence: one bottle of Fanta per day. I'm not sure why I developed this obsession with Fanta (I don't want Pepsi, or chocolate, or anything else Western -- just Fanta), but at the moment it is the most satisfying beverage in the world. Must have something to do with replacing electrolytes. The clerks at Quality, the supermarket around the corner from my hotel, all recognize me at this point. I pick up my Fanta and scuttle out of the store as they try to take me on weekend getaways. Their attempts at seduction are honest and simple, but they make me feel awkward. All the same, my Fanta is worth the trouble. I wonder if the stuff is addictive.

Despite the sugar habit, I'm glad Emily convinced me to get a tight suit back in the U.S. One and a half weeks after landing, and it's not so tight anymore. Jeans that fit just right before I left home are actually sliding off my butt, now. I'm going to have to buy a belt, and I might have to go shopping for smaller sizes when I get ready for interviews this fall. Not that shrinking makes me sad. Lord knows I let myself eat too much in the U.S.

People have no trouble telling me that, here. "You need to exercise your muscles," said John, today. "All you do is eat and sleep," Jamira told me two nights ago. They were both teasing, so I tried not to look completely abashed. I walk to work and back every day, and I doubt I'm consuming more than 2000 calories. If only they knew the difference.

Of course, when I say I only eat one meal a day that doesn't mean I'm suffering. All the local food is fresh and starchy. It probably has more vitamins than our processed junk in the U.S., and it definitely expands in the stomach. One small meal each afternoon is all I need to feel full for the rest of the night. I'm usually just starting to get hungry again when lunch rolls around the next day.

It's different for a lot of people here. Two nights ago, I dragged Jamira to downtown Kampala for dinner at a nice restaurant. She'd just mopped my floors and done my laundry, and aside from the payment I wanted to thank her for all her work. So we went to this posh hotel called the Grand Imperial, where a local band was singing American tunes (badly) and Zairian high life (excellently), and I bought us both a huge meal with incredible African tea for about $20. Most of the people at this restaurant were fat -- either rich Ugandans or foreigners like me. But when we finished dinner, I started walking home and was immediately confronted by children. I guess they come out at night to beg. These aren't like homeless people in the U.S., full-grown adults who could potentially hold jobs or fend for themselves. These are five- and six-year-olds, usually taking care of other kids, and clearly starving. Makes me feel bad about all the matoke I throw out.

You can't say no to the little ones. At least, I can't. There isn't any justifiable reason. It's not like I'm going to run out of money if I give them a few cents each. So I hand them a 500 shilling piece, which will buy at least two bananas, or a 5000 shilling bill if I have it on me -- that gets a nice meal at a local restaurant, or a loaf of bread at the supermarket. And I try not to think about going to the bank, yanking out a few hundred bucks, and just walking down Kampala Road giving handouts. I still have student loans to consider, you know?

Eating is complicated. Maybe I'll never feel right about it, no matter where I am in the world.

Getting around

2008-06-08T08:43:00.007-04:00

The power died a lot, yesterday. No problem, really, except that I had to throw away my leftover goat meat (BOO) and I couldn't finish writing in the dark. Today is Akim's birthday. I hope my phone works enough to call him.

Jamira came over this morning with a bunch of gigantic, intensely sweet bananas and three newspapers: The Monitor, New Vision, and Red Pepper. The papers were really interesting. I'm taking them home. A lot of what we study is in their pages.

Since today is a public holiday, I think I'll venture out to town and have dinner somewhere. Jamira tells me there's someplace called Nando's on Kampala Road. Maybe I'll try that. She's also mentioned the Sheraton, Grand Imperial, Equatorial and some other spots. Those are supposed to be harder to find. I wish I could take Jamira to Buddakhan. Maybe if I go corporate, I'll buy her a trip the U.S. She's helped me so much, I want to pay her back. Maybe I could send her money for school.

What was I writing about, yesterday? Oh yeah, the boda boda. So I hop one to get to work in the morning, and when we stop I offer the driver 1,000 Uganda shillings (USH). I know this is too much. It costs 1,000 USH to take the taxi from Ntinda to Kampala. You go through several other neighborhoods to get there. A boda boda is more expensive, but not that much more. I probably owed the guy 500 USH. He doesn't neglect the opportunity to extort more, though.

"Why not make it 1,500 USH?" he asks.

I pause, grinning. "Because I'm only half mzungu."

The driver laughs so hard he almost knocks himself out of his seat, and he drives away, waving. Later that day, I took another boda from Kampala to Karamoja. The driver stopped in Kololo. "Here you are," he says.

"Uh, no." I argue. "I am supposed to be near a police station."

"How do you get there?" the driver asks, challenging me. Lost, I call Vincent, then hand the phone to the driver so he can get instructions. They talk for a minute in Luganda, then the driver gives the phone back. "You told me Kololo, but it's Karamoja. That's farther! 10,000 shillings."

I pretend to be upset. "I said Karamoja in the first place! I'll just find myself another boda." And I started walking away.

"No, no, come back, come back," the driver shouts, and I turn around.

"Five thousand," I demand. Little do I know, I have just stumbled upon the actual price of the ride.

"Make it seven thousand," he counters, and I grumble.

"Fine, but I'm still a mzungu." I think Ugandans are tickled by this, because the driver laughs his head off. When we finally get to the police station of Kiira Road in Karamoja (like I had directed in the first place), I gave the guy his 7,000 shillings. Then I held up another 500. "If the man on the phone had paid you, how much would you have gotten?"

The driver looks down at his pedals, but it doesn't take much coaxing to get the answer out of him. "5,000," he says.

I handed him the money and grinned. "That's what I thought."

The driver saw the laughter in my eyes and flashed me a big grin. "God bless you," he said, before scooting off. I really do have to learn the value of things.

Back to my day, today. I am way too shy. I go from my room and safe talks with Jamira straight to the internet cafe. I should go find some beautiful place to walk and see the wildlife. But just watching people seems adventure enough. Folks stare, and I grin like an idiot to make them feel comfortable, and they stare more. I am meeting people, though ...

Out of time, more later.

Clown cars and death matches

2008-06-08T08:24:00.004-04:00

Today I hunted my office down. It took some effort. I called the agency and asked for directions, but of course didn't know any of the landmarks. Have I mentioned that street names are very irregularly posted? Anyway, I wound up jotting down the landmarks that the receptionist gave me, guessing at their spelling by her pronunciation -- not an easy feat when you're speaking with someone with a thick Lugandan accent. Then I went downstairs and wandered around the health club asking people where Old Kiira Road going toward Kyanbogo University might be. Nobody had ever heard of Kyanbogo (although ironically, I actually spelled that correctly). There were arguments concerning the location of Old Kiira Road. Eventually, the folks at the health club put me on a boda boda, gave the driver a lot of directions and gestures in Lugandan, and sent us off.

It was my first time on a boda. Have I explained these particular vehicles, yet? They are these tiny sticks of a motorcycle, more a scooter really, with an elongated back seat for extra passengers or baggage. Using them is kind of fun, but it's also like riding a Vespa with a death wish. Over potholes. In the rain. Without stoplights or helmets or seatbelts or handholds.

Don't tell Mom and Dad that I rode on a boda, and I promise never to take one again.

The other form of public transport that I've encountered is the matatu, which I've written about before. These vehicles are the size of a minivan and usually sit 12-15 people. A conductor sits by the door waving people in, and the car will stop roughly near your destination, wherever the driver sees fit. If one person in the back corner of the vehicle wants to get out, five or six people are displaced from their seats and might have to fight to get back on. And here's to hoping you can actually find your desitnation from the spot where the conductor drops you off.

Of course, locating yourself is no easier on a boda. I thought Philly cab drivers were nuts, but at least they know where they're going. No such luck in Kampala! If you can't tell your driver exactly how to get where you're going, they'll just take you somewhere and stop, then ask for more money. This might be because they're lost ... or maybe they just know that you are. Here's to being a stranger.

Negotiating prices is half the fun. Drivers will radically overcharge a mzungu. After all, we're rich. I have to explain to these Ugandans that the U.S. dollar is only half the value of a euro, and I'm a student so I don't have a lot of money in the first place. I tried to explain it to Jamira last night, I even went into details about student loans and how I'll be working to pay the money back for the rest of my life. She just looked at me as if she were thinking "a dollar is a dollar, you crazy mzungu." Oh well.

Uh. The power just died, and I'm writing in the dark ...

5/30 to 6/1 (continued)

2008-06-08T07:44:00.004-04:00

Here are two other things that Africans value:

Family
On touching down in Nairobi, I had my first exposure to NTV (Nairobi TV). It was airing an hour-long expose on marriage. How to do it, what to consider, its sanctity and value. There were guest speakers and questions from the viewing audience. It made some sense. The African (Banjul) Charter on Human and People's Rights gives States a mandate to protect the family unit. Article 18. So I was not surprised that when I reached Uganda, most locals that I spoke with who were my age were also married.

"Will people think I'm strange for being single?" I asked Vincent as we drove home from the airport.

"No," he replied. "We do not interfere with your personal business. But you will get proposals." And then he laughed and laughed and laughed until I about melted into the car seat.

Land
At one point on the ride to Kampala, I started talking to Vincent about my Sudanese land project.

"Maybe I can help you with that," he said. "We are very much similar in Uganda, eh? More so than in the United States. You use money, yeah? But for us, money is not always good. If you have land, that is something to pass on to your children. That is the only way you are sure of wealth. Land is very important, and people get very, very excited about it."

(At this point writing in my journal, I fell asleep.)

The sun just came up. You should hear the birds outside! They almost sound like monkeys. Folks at the health club where I'm staying have already started blasting Afropop in the pool area outside my bathroom window. Heck, that started before the sun came up. Now I can hear car horns tooting, too. That's what they do, says Vincent. They don't honk, they toot. Cute.

(Another gap in time)

I tried to eat a little bit today, and it really made my stomach feel better. Asia came by and taught me how to take the matatu into Kampala. Now if I can figure out where the UCICC is, I'll be set. Sort of.

I need a few things. A purse. Better walking shoes. And most of all, a wedding band. A guy today on the matatu wanted to take me out. I said I didn't have the time, but he literally followed me home. It was creepy. I hid for a while in the ladies' room downstairs in the gym, but he waited outside for a long time. Asia finally told him off. So as of now, I have decided that I am officially married.

Michael, darling, do you remember where we took our honeymoon? (Ahem, I hope you're not mortally offended that I married you without asking your permission.) By the way, you might want to take some anger management classes, because your jealous streak has just become extremely violent. Just let me know if you want to move in to Ntinda. The flights aren't that bad, and I have a spare bed with a mosquito net and everything.

Sigh.

I have to get brave enough to go out on my own. It's just hard, trying to parse together the heavy English and explain everything I say. Conversations are repetitive and exhausting. Being outside is strange in itself. The clay earth turns into dust without rain, and the dust blows into every orifice. Sometimes it feels like my teeth are coated with it. And then when it rains, everything turns to slippery mud. So wears thin the veil of optimism. It's late and I'm hungry again, but I can't just go out and pick up a microwave dinner. I really don't want more bananas and bread. What will I feel like in six weeks? I have no friends here, little money, and only a thread of language. I think I'm going to go watch season three of Battlestar Galactica. Maybe that will make me feel better.

You know what I want? A Ugandan woman to be my friend. My banking problems resolved. Not to feel trapped behind a mosquito net, three locked doors and a guard with a rifle. Why do I always have to be the scared one? Why can't I be free-spirited and adventurous, like Professor Burke-White and Asia?

Well, I wanted to face my demons, and here they are. Just wish I could stop crapping long enough to stare them down.

(A day goes by.)

I prayed today for the first time in aeons. Seemed appropriate. I asked for a Ugandan friend -- a woman I would feel safe around. Then I proceeded to hide in my bedroom all day.

Around five p.m., the cleaning lady called from the door. "Hello! Are you there?" Jamira wanted to know why I hadn't come out of my room for three days, and whether I was bored. "You have to move about Uganda," she said, and she took me out tot he grocery store and sat with me for dinner. I bought food for both of us. Tried goat meat for the first time, and this cooked banana mush called mtoke. Darn fine stuff! And not just because I'm eating a meal a day.

Jamira and I talked about school and family and traveling and money. "Uganda is so poor!" she said. I respectfully disagree. It's true that there is no money here, but you have only to smell the grass at night after a rain, hear drums of the nightclubs down the streets, or watch the children run around laughing. This country is rich in land, spirit, and family in ways that put the USA to shame. Jamira thinks I'm nuts for saying so. Maybe I am.

Anyway, I'm thankful for the friend. I had a good evening walk, too. People wander up and down the streets, crowds cluster around plastic tables and swell out of bars. Feels like college nights in Hollywood, smells like jasmine.

I still haven't heard about my luggage.

Am reviewing material about the ICC before work tomorrow. Lord knows, with my sorry test performance in Public International Law, I need it. I feel like I understand this stuff well enough, though: the beginnings of formal international criminal proceedings at Nuremberg, the justifiable criticism that such trials represented victor's justice, the attempts to codify internationally criminal acts and subsequent penalties to avoid future critique, the advent of international criminal tribunals such as the Internantional Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia and the International Criminal Tribuna for Rwanda, their expense, the eventual signing and ratification of the Rome Statute, the U.S. abstention and fears, and the problems reconciling peace and justice.

I have read Kony's indictment. I know that the ICC has jurisdiction over genocide, war crimes, crimes against humanity, and crimes of aggression. I know that the Coalition for the International Criminal Court was a lobbying force for the ICC, and now serves as a public educator and advocate. I'm honored to play the tiniest role.

What else should I learn? Besides how to get to work, of course. Sigh.

Random aside: I am journaling beneath my mosquito net right now and still can't kick the feeling that I am trapped inside a nylon stocking.

Quick aside

2008-06-08T07:25:00.004-04:00

We have begun to receive our grades from last semester at school. Once again, the grade I am most proud of was for a class I barely understood. The course I excelled in throughout the semester, I got a horrible grade. So I'm taking a moment to vent. I don't understand what I'm doing wrong, but clearly, either the system does not reflect our skill, or everything I know about essay writing is wrong.

Either way, I hope employers are able to see through the lie that is my transcript. This summer and my seven years as a journalist have proved that I am not only professionally competent, but a quick learner and a strong asset to any team that I work with. So I've decided not to let grades bother me any more. I hereby vow to:

1. Continue working myself to exhaustion
2. Ignore my grades
3. Pursue my desires regardless of whether my transcript reflects my interests

I have a very clear purpose for entering the legal profession. I intend to follow it. Somehow, there will be a way.

5/30 through 6/1

2008-06-04T10:45:00.003-04:00

Well, I’m here. We’re off to a mixed start. I managed to get my flight to Nairobi rebooked at no extra cost. Score. Flew out here next to an international documentarian named Alex who was both friendly and fascinating. Slept and watched Om Shanti Om, an adorable Bollywood film about an aspiring actor and the superstar actress he loved. The flight itself was very comfortable.

Nairobi airport, however, is not so nice. I was bitten by … something. Trying not to panic about the expanding red mark on my leg. The flight was delayed, and when I got to Entebbe, one of my bags was gone – the one full of books for the human rights clinic. At least Entebbe Airport is more manageable than Nairobi and London. The floors are brand new, polished marble – fresh since last year. The terminal I was in was small, no endless halls, no getting lost. You just walk off the plane, stand in line for your visa, pick up your bags, walk ten paces to the lost baggage claim, and go through customs. Customs was fun; we got to examine my three remaining bags. Bag #1 was fine, but the bag with my toiletries, shoes and books had turned into a cesspool of goop. I was worried that would happen! Unfortunately I had to mix my luggage so that I could meet the weight limits, so before I left I made sure that everything was sealed, wrapped, and padded. What I didn’t account for was the TSA search. Some brilliant airport employee decided to take my shampoo out of a plastic bag, unscrew the cap, then replace the shampoo in my luggage without the cap on. The contents flowed everywhere, mixing with the red ink from the Target bags I had used to wrap our textbooks for Gulu. It ate through the plastic bags and canvas pockets, corroded my shoes, and gooped up the books. Incredible. The customs agent let me pass without going through that bag at all, that’s how nasty it was. And bag #3 had ripped open. I’ll have to get someone to repair it for me if I intend to bring it home. Hopefully I won’t have to – my goal is to come back with two bags or less. I should have more for other people than I have for myself.

Leaving the airport took my breath away. Entebbe is beautiful. So pristine! And very, very verdant – life erupts out of the ground like lava; shooting grasses, splayed vines, trees like rockets. The canopy that mushrooms out above it all is blue like the heart of a fire, and the cranes flying over Lake Victoria must be nearly as large as men.

And the people, you should see the people! Flawless skin nearly black, deep eyes, faces all determined angles, and sudden, lightning-white smiles. They are friendly in an uncanny way. Even the customs agent – I offered her my bag of Starburst, and she smiled and said, “Oh, I have to have your phone numbah!” I didn’t have my phone here in Uganda yet, but I gave her my e-mail address. I hope she writes.

This world is absolutely timeless. I mean that in many different ways, too. Flora and fauna seem prehistoric, neighborhoods are both modern and pre-industrial, and society itself has long since ditched its day planner. Witness the sunny California architecture of one lovely home: its giant windows, plastered walls, and tiled roof paired with goats chomping the grass in the front yard. Consider how friends who say “I will meet you at eleven” might arrive at one or two in the afternoon or even seven o’clock in the morning.

I’ve mentioned before that I booked my hotel room through a company called Avarts Housing Agency. The owner, Vincent, and his employee, Asia (pronounced ah-shuh), had promised to meet me at the airport. And indeed they did, poor things. My plane from Nairobi was an hour late getting off the tarmac because of some mechanical problem, and our landing was further delayed because there was no space on the runway. I was one of the last people off the plane, and so one of the last people to make it through immigration. Then I had to file a report for my lost baggage. I was about two and a half hours late getting out of the airport, and there were Vincent and Asia, bright smiles, happy to wait. “Oh, we expected that!” they said, and waived off the extra fee I offered them for their trouble.

They also weren’t angry when MoneyGram closed my account instead of transferring the hotel fee. Day one, and I have to scavenge up $1,150 somehow. I tried an ATM, but no luck. We went to a bank, and they turned me away. “No forane Visas heah, try Bahclay’s.” We go to Barclay’s. “Not this queue, you have to go to the forane bureau downstayuhs.” We go to the foreign bureau. “Do you have yoah passpoat?” No, sleep-deprived Maisha was stupid enough to forget it back in the car. (Cut me some credit, though. I had been in airports or in the air for more than 36 hours. I don’t even remember taking my passport bag off, but I must have been sweaty and dumped it in my duffel bag.) So we get the passport, wait in line at the foreign bureau again, where I finally offer up my Visa and passport.

“Sorry, yoah card has been declined.”

I turned around and walked out. It wasn’t until we were half way to my hotel in Ntinda that I realized I could have just tried my credit card instead of my debit card. Oh well. Next time.

I had a few shillings from the airport ATM – probably the transaction that triggered the account freeze – but certainly not enough to pay for my hotel stay. The landlord, Kawooya Kasule, was gracious enough to let me move in anyway. Before I leave, I have to buy that man a thank-you gift. I mean, technically I paid for four days’ stay with the $100 security deposit, but I still felt like I was living on Ugandan hospitality.

It is hard being somewhere with randomly limited services. This especially hit home during my first two days. The hotel that I’m staying at is actually a health club with some rooms over it. So I can visit the sauna and get a free massage, but there is no clock in my room and no satellite to adjust my cell phone, so for a day I wandered around with no bloody idea what time it was. I can have a “girl” do my laundry for the equivalent of $3 (the exchange rate is also mystifying – $1 is about 1650 shillings), but “doing the laundry” here involves rubbing it the clothes really hard and then pressing them with an iron. No washing machines. There is, however, a courtesy tub that the hotel owner left in my shower; I am supposed to take care of my unmentionables with that.

A few things I miss intensely. My internet connection, for one. I am a junkie – a complete addict. My student loans, signing up for classes, checking grades – I’m supposed to do all of that on the net. But there isn’t a connection at the health club, and I have yet to try the internet cafes. Even phone service is a problem. I bought a mobile phone, but there is a seven hour time difference between Uganda and Pennsylvania, and ten hours between Uganda and California. So it’s not like chatting with home is easy. Not to mention, I have a limited number of minutes on my prepaid card. They go fast if I call internationally, and the connection is spotty so I spend half the time repeating myself. My phone was the cheapest one available, this Nokia that’s so small I can cover the whole thing with my hand. I have to hold it up to my ear to hear, then move it down to my mouth and yell to communicate, and I accidentally cover the internal antenna even for a second the person on the other end of the line can’t hear. In other words, my phone is pretty much useless.

What I missed most immediately, though, was toilet paper. There wasn’t a square to spare in my little apartment. The holder was completely empty. And of course, I didn’t realize that until it was much, much too late. Kasule, the hotel manager, took a long time explaining the accommodations to me. He was very proud of the pool, and the billiards table, the step aerobics room, and the sauna. He showed me how to use the water heater, then the keys, and then he gave me a tour of my apartment naming every piece of furniture. My eyes were dry and I had no idea what to say to make him feel as though I was settled, and the more I nodded the more Kasule talked. He explained the cleaning services, told me about the people who were moving in to neighboring rooms, and then started describing how to get around the city. I thought it would never end. Eventually Asia saw me swaying on my feet and came to my rescue. “She has had a long flight, musei (old man – respectfully), let’s let her rest.” She took the man by the arm and practically dragged him down the stairs and out the padlocked gate that serves as my front door. I tottered into my room and collapsed on a bed. Then it hit me.

Malarone, my malaria medication, has been wreaking havoc on my intestinal system. It started in the United States, although I didn’t realize that until just recently. (I was sick in the supermarket parking lot at home; I thought it was just nerves, but now I’d guess otherwise.) As soon as I relaxed, it was like being punched in the gut and given an enema at the same time. I tried to ignore it, but I literally couldn’t contain myself. I dashed for the bathroom and erupted.

That’s when I realized that there was no toilet paper.

I panicked. I really, truly panicked. There were no towels here, no tissues, no toilet paper, not even a newspaper or a bunch of leaves. Nothing. And there was no way in the world that I could get up to dig through my bags. I won’t tell you the gory details about how I finally resolved the problem; let’s just say there is a certain shirt that has a new home in a Kampala dumpster.

After that, I slept for a good eighteen hours, waking up only to call Mom for help with my bank account and race to the bathroom. Fortunately I found some tissues in my medical bag (YAY!!!!!) on day two. I feel as though my body is expelling everything Western. Uganda is certainly the best diet I’ve ever had. Malarone works just like Alli, and I’m so afraid of eating, I didn’t touch food at all until this morning. Even today I’ll only risk simple carbs.

Other things that will take adjusting:

• I have to go outside the hotel room and flip a switch for hot water. When I’m done, I have to switch the water heater off. But “hot water” doesn’t mean anything remotely resembling warmth. “Hot” isn’t even lukewarm, just a half step above freezing.

• People carry rifles around here. A lot. Especially the soldiers. These men are helpful and friendly like anyone else.

• The beds have mosquito nets. The problem with these nets is that they trap mosquitoes in as much as they keep mosquitoes out.

• People begging on the streets are Live 8 Africa starving, not healthy like our U.S. transients.

• Muslims here really do stop working to pray five times per day, but those that I’ve met will also shake a woman’s hand.

• People here are nuts about football (soccer). As we were coming home from Entebbe airport, we got stuck behind a convoy of buses holding screaming fans. Everyone had on the same turquoise t-shirt, and they were all waving flags and trying to get us to honk. Other fans wove around the convoy on motor scooters – those must be the boda bodas I’ve heard about.

• Driving is insane. First of all, it’s on the left side of the road, like in England. Unfortunately, that is the only aspect that is like England. There are no traffic lights to speak of excepting a few in downtown Kampala, and subsequently there are no crosswalks. Emily should probably never come here; she would have nightmares trying to get around town. (For those of you who don’t know Emily’s story, she was hit by a truck while using a crosswalk. She flew thirty feet and rolled. According to Ems, morphine did nothing for the pain. She had to go through therapy, and she still has scars. So it’s understandable how much she hates jaywalking.) Emily has made quite the impression on my sense of traffic safety and I try to be careful on the streets, but it isn’t easy. The roads are narrow, walking space is limited, and drivers will swoop into opposing traffic lanes just to pass slow cars. Getting through intersections is a game of chicken, and it’s clear that the city planners never considered certain concepts like whether an incline is too steep for a puttering 20-year-old Toyota, or whether the angle of a turn might make oncoming traffic invisible. In other words, don’t drive in Kampala. If you have to hit the streets, put someone else behind the wheel so you can close your eyes and pray.

Nothing I’ve experienced so far seems unfamiliar – I consider all of these things eventualities in a trip to Africa, so I’m not complaining. It’s just odd feeling it happen to me, like living in a situation comedy that I’ve seen a dozen times.

Waking up left me completely disoriented. I checked in the mirror, and it looked like an ogre had been hitting me in the face with an iron club. And I smelled like rhino sweat. It was just foul. So I took a frigid shower, changed my clothes for the first time in at least 60 hours, and wandered outside asking people what time it was. I got a lot of bemused stares.

Folks really don’t know how to treat me, here. I’m noticing that more and more as time goes on. In Pennsylvania, most folks’ initial assumption is that I am African American (as in, I must venerate Tupac and have obviously forgotten my gold hoop earrings at home). Here they call me mzungu, which Asia says basically translates to “rich whitey naïve to the ways of the world.” I’ve always managed to defeat assumptions at home, and I’m sure I’ll do the same here. It’s just strange being seen as a black person among whites and a white person among blacks, an outsider no matter where I am in the world. It makes me feel all Langston Hughes inside:

Cross
My old man’s a white old man
And my old mother’s black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back
If ever I cursed my white old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I’m gonna die,
Being neither white nor black.

But really it doesn’t matter. I’d feel foreign even if I looked exactly the same as everybody else. I just don’t know this place. Honestly, it’s a delight to learn. Take the economy, for instance. Shillings are the official monetary unit. But you can easily trade in other currencies. I don’t mean foreign currencies either; these alternatives are quite home-grown. For example, laughter is worth a lot of money. If you can make someone laugh, it won’t be half as hard to negotiate prices. People will charge you less just because they like you.

Optimism is another quality that has tangible value. Look at the individuals who have made it here, and they are the happy ones. Look at those who struggle, and they are sad. It’s not like rich people are wealthy, either. Folks that I’ve met so far come from very little money. Even Vincent, the housing agency owner, raised goats as a child. It is the ability to see good in anything that gives people the strength to endure. I’ve seen that in my dad, and I see it here.

Food is worth a lot, too. And water. Give anyone something to eat or drink, and they’ll bend over backwards for you. It’s the easy route to friendship. Music works in much the same fashion.

The oldest unit of trade is, of course, sex. Bat an eye and look pretty, and people will help you with anything. Asia is the master of this. Men carry her bags, they take her on all-expense-paid weekend vacations, they buy her drinks, and they give her rides in the middle of the night. She has these poor souls completely enthralled. I can understand why, despite missing Poland, Asia has stayed in Uganda for so long. All she has to do is point, and she can have anyone or anything she wants.

Money counts for something here, too, but it sure isn’t the country’s most valuable commodity. This is one thing we westerners have to understand as we come in with our NGOs. We just can’t go around restructuring local values to match ours, or assuming our own values will hold as a structure for business. It won’t work, and maybe the Africans have a better idea of how to value life.

…

OUT OF TIME AT THE INTERNET CAFÉ
THIS ENTRY TO BE CONTINUED

LHR

2008-05-29T11:19:00.003-04:00

Flying British Airways was absolutely magnificent. The seats were big and squishy, with headrests that were actually designed to support a nap. There were video screens on the back of every chair, and an entire movie and television lineup. I watched a lot of Doctor Who. (I know, there's no accounting for taste.) Where domestic airlines serve peanuts for food (literally), we had complimentary wine, dinner with dessert, multiple beverage services, AND breakfast. And this was a seven hour flight. I wanted to stay awake to watch The Godfather and a few new releases I've been meaning to catch, but the plane hummed me to sleep. What a great flight.

I think Fate was preparing me for what would come next. Heathrow was a mess! The check-in attendant in the United States advised me to speak with an employee about my luggage as soon as I touched down in London. Only, when I touched down in London, there were no airline employees to be found. Only a long gray hall, followed by another long gray hall, followed by another, and another, and another. I stopped counting at five, and focused instead on putting one foot in front of the other. I have about 80 pounds of carry-on luggage, and 100 pounds of checked luggage. Carrying all those books for Gulu has its costs. Just ask my traps.

Anyway, after a long, long walk I finally progressed from Terminal 5 to Terminal 4. I was supposed to go to Terminal 3. The sign pointed me out an automatic sliding glass door. Full of confidence, I walked toward the door. It never opened. There was a bus outside leaving for Terminal 3. I tried to wave down the driver, tried to slide the door open -- no luck. I turn to the woman at the security desk behind me. "Is something wrong with the doors?" I asked.

"No, it's my job to open them. Oh look, you just missed your bus. The next one will be by in a few." I sigh. I wait for the bus. It's a ten minute DRIVE to get from terminal 4 to terminal 3.

I am falling asleep as I type, so if you see a random note about purple bumblebees playing poker in the shower, you know why.

Upon reaching terminal 3, I am told that my flight was canceled. The airline blames it on a technical strike. It took three hours just to get a turn to talk with the booking agent. He told me I wasn't stranded. He told me that all I had to do was get my paper ticket from the Virgin Atlantic main desk and take it to Kenya Airways so that I can book a new flight with them. Sounds easy enough. I start to leave when I realize ... I have no idea where I'm going. So I ask a security guard for directions. He says something in a thick British accent that I barely understand.

I tried to follow the directions. Exit, left right left. Only that doesn't work. I wind up going in a circle. I smile at the flight attendant offering directions as I go by the second time. The third time around the terminal, I wind up in immigration. Not what I thought I wanted! The time after that, and I'm actually having conversations with the security guard outside of Virgin Atlantic. He asks where I'm going. I tell him. He sends me back to the little Virgin Atlantic desk upstairs that can't help me.

It turns out, everyone is wrong about where this desk is. The desk isn't even IN the building. Finding it on my own was a minor trick ...

Okay, must finish typing quickly, because I really am falling asleep with my eyes open.

Seven hours later, and I am officially rerouted through Kenya airlines. There were some great moments. I made friends with a lot of folks going Nairobi who were likewlse stuck in London. I got to hear the "Mind the Gap" recording on the underground, again when I took the Heathrow Express train, at one point. And when I explained my ticketing situation at the Kenya Airways counter, four clerks simultaneously break out into a rousing chorus of "Always Look on the Bright of Life."

So I'm just rolling with the punches. Or sleeping over them. I'm going to go take a nap.

JFK

2008-05-28T15:54:00.003-04:00

I'm at the airport, writing to kill time. I have six and a half hours until my flight. I was so worried about rush hour traffic, and security, and extra baggage. Turns out I didn't have any extra baggage (right on the limit, though), no traffic, and, well, I haven't gone through security yet. They accepted my passport at the gate. That was good. And I figured out what I did wrong with my FAFSA this morning -- did I already post that? Hope not.

Anyway, I finally get to unwind. I've been digging through my carry ons to see what I actually packed. The town car showed up an hour early, so I sort of panicked and rushed out the door -- which means I didn't finish up packing well. My rule of thumb for traveling is "always have your passport and a credit card." I'm safe, on those fronts. But there are other things I will have to work out.

Example. I couldn't for the life of me find my camera battery recharger. I will have to order one online and have it mailed to me in Uganda, or rely on disposable cameras -- the batteries are almost dead already, unfortunately. Looks like I'll be shooting more video. I forgot my sound recorder, too. Grumpy about that! I suppose I can tape interviews with my camcorder, but its charge is short and I can't edit those sound files as conveniently. Oh well. I didn't have time to pick up my dry cleaning, so I only have three suits. Hooray for mix and match. I wonder if they sell plus-sized clothes in Uganda. And at the last minute, Darien tossed me my iPod. Great idea! Only I forgot to bring the plug. Maybe I can find something here at the airport in the next six and a half hours.

Honestly, what I should do is call Mia and see if she wants to meet me for dinner. I mean, I haven't gone through security yet. I wonder if she's in the state.

Actually, it's not so bad, sitting here. It's actually beautiful. Some people who walk by, you can tell exactly what country they come from. Oh, that guy's GOT to be Irish. And then he starts talking, and boy was I right! Some people, you can't tell. Well, I can't tell. For example, this stylishly-dressed white couple. I had them pegged as American for sure. Only they didn't speak a word of English. Maybe they are American, but once the language started spilling out of their mouths, I suddenly wondered.

Here is a British woman who looks like a slender version of Drew Barrymore. Here is an Iranian woman wearing the traditional burqa. There goes a lovely-smelling African woman with her baby tied to her back in a sling.

It isn't hard to keep entertained. Especially sitting next to the "Kosher Cafe / Hot Nosh" vending machine. I actually saw someone eat out of that, too.

Speaking of eating, I should go find lunch. I had a banana when I got to the airport a couple of hours ago, but nothing else since Sandy forced me to eat last night. (Nerves.) There are some nice sandwiches not far away. Maybe I'll go see about that. And an iPod charger. And a paper journal, in case I want to write something to post later.

Love you all. I'll make phone calls, if I can find a place to charge my phone.

The people I love

2008-05-27T20:06:00.002-04:00

Last week, when Emily was leaving for Gaborone, I could tell she was scared. You could hear it in her voice. So I brought her donuts when I took her to the airport, and did my best to be a supportive friend. Small stuff, really. She was very appreciative, and I was a little embarrassed. I mean, I didn't do anything special.

Today, I understand better. I have been feasting on Tums. My blood pressure is 147 over 88. I had to fight with my insurance company twice. I needed to verify my identity with the guy on campus who is disbursing our loans, and it took an hour to find him. In the meantime, I discovered that FAFSA still hasn't processed my student loans, even though I submitted my application weeks ago. And my Stafford lender has stopped making loans entirely, so I have to find a new lender. I am trying very hard not to panic. Supposedly I can do all of this from Uganda, over the internet. I am doing my best to just breathe.

Then Michael called. Michael is my absolute best friend from UCLA -- I call him my big brother. He's got an inner strength that I absolutely admire, and a mind to match. I didn't pick up the phone because I was crying just then, but when I saw his picture flash up on my cell phone, it was like ... it was like breathing cool air after being in a steam room for too long. Better. I literally hugged the phone. (And kept crying.) Later, I drove by my friend Jessica's house to give her a video game strategy guide. She saw the strained look in my face, and insisted that I come in, sit down, watch some sketch comedy with her. She bought me pizza. I adore Jessica. And I talked on the phone with Mom for about an hour, too.

I need these people so much, right now. Family and friends -- they are the reason I can go out and take risks like the one I am taking tomorrow. I love you guys. Thank you.

Malaria? Blame Aetna

2008-05-26T17:00:00.012-04:00

If I had any idea how much money this trip would cost, I would have planned better. The hidden expenses are incredible. Example. I booked my plane ticket, yes. But how to get from home to the airport? I was initially going to take Amtrak. $120 each way is pricey but tolerable. But there's a problem. Amtrak won't allow me to take all my bags. So I try shuttle service. Only no shuttles pick people up from Philly to take them to JFK. It's just too inconceivably far. Forget that on the other side of the country, shuttles drive that distance all the time. We call it "commuting through Los Angeles."

Please forgive me. I am cranky today.

So I decide to rent a car from Philly Airport and drive to New York. Mom balks at this. I don't know the roads, I don't know the traffic, I get lost easily, she will put extra money in my account if I please, please, please find ground transport. Okay, fine. She's right. I would probably wind up in D.C. before I made it to New York. So on a friend's advice, I book a sedan. It costs $200 one way. Ouch. Only, after I book the trip they let me know it's $200 if I have only one piece of luggage. With five pieces of luggage, the price goes up to $320 one way. Plus gas. Plus tolls. Plus a tip. Suddenly, I'm paying $500 for a one-way trip, which adds up to an extra THOUSAND DOLLARS just to get from Philadelphia to New York and back.

I don't care if I have to sleep in the train station, I am not booking a sedan back home. I'll just abandon most of my luggage in Gulu, see if I can crash with my aunt in Manhattan, and take Amtrak home in the morning. Details TBD.

Next crisis. I rush to the store to get my prescriptions. Only guess what? They don't have Malarone for me. I'm supposed to start taking my malaria pills TOMORROW, but Savon's won't be able to get the meds until Thursday -- at which point I will be in London. I panic, and the pharmacist notices and says, "Well, I guess I could see if we could speed it up."

The rational part of me is very thankful that he says this. The rational part of me recognizes that this is customer service -- pushing a delivery time for one concerned customer. But the part of me that has been too nervous to sleep since school let out is throwing a temper tantrum. Gee, THANKS, buddy, Maisha-angry says. It's good to know that you threatened me with Thursday on a whim, that you weren't actually basing your estimate on any sense of how long the prescription delivery would actually take. I manage to bite my tongue and wait fifteen minutes while the pharmacist dawdles behind the counter, only he never fills my scripts. Instead, he lets me sit around for a while and then tells me that my health insurance will only pay for one month's prescription at a time; it'll be an extra $500 to purchase the other two months' worth of medication at full cost.

I try to swallow my frustration. I call my health insurance company, hoping for some sort of policy override. They are closed for Memorial Day weekend. I didn't even know it was Memorial Day weekend.

Meanwhile, I still haven't gotten my tax return, my economic stimulus check, the fellowship that is supposed to be paying for all of this, or rent from either one of my tenants (although to their credit, it's not due until June 1). And I am smarting from the extra fees that I paid to get to Florida for that conference. And I have to pay another thousand to MoneyGram shortly for my hotel room. I am the closest to zero dollars that I have ever been in my whole life, and that is with a healthy dose of support from Mommy and Daddy.

I guess I'm tense because this doesn't begin to consider the administrative junk I have to take care of at home and abroad, or the laundry and cleaning I have to do before Wednesday. I miss my dog; I miss my easy, aimless life of science fiction and junk food; and I miss having a paycheck. I have felt terrifically out of sorts ever since law school began, and this hiccup of time before flying out? Cool as I try to be, it feels like I'm choking.

(It'll be okay, it'll be okay, it'll be okay ...)

To my friends traveling in Africa:

2008-05-25T18:33:00.006-04:00

Avoid South Africa! For now, anyway.
Details from my emergency travel insurance:

Security Situation Updates - South Africa

May 25, 2008 12:20 GMT
ANC Holds Rallies against Xenophobic Attacks

Members of the ruling African National Congress (ANC) organized public meetings and rallies on 25 May against the ongoing xenophobic violence in the country.

President Thabo Mbeki addressed a public gathering at Healdtown in Fort Beaufort in the Eastern Cape. ANC President Jacob Zuma and other leaders are expected to hold public meetings amid the Gugulethu community at the Bekkerton Hall in 'Springs' on the East Rand, Dawn Park community at the Mapleton open grounds, and Delomore community at the Jerusalem open ground.

Rallies are scheduled to be organized at the Etwatwa stadium, Mehlareng stadium in Themisa, Huntersfield Stadium, Orange Farm communities at the Leshata Secondry School, Raphela Secondary School, Thetha Secondary School and other areas in Gauteng with substantial immigrant population.

Security personnel backed by the military remain on high alert level particularly in the suburbs of Johannesburg to avert any further outbreak of violence.

At least 50 people have been killed and nearly 25,000 displaced in a wave of xenophobic violence that began on 11 May in Alexandra township, north-east of Johannesburg. The attacks have targeted foreigners of African origin including nationals from Mozambique, Malawi, Zimbabwe and Somalia. The residents accuse the migrants for increasing crime levels within the country as also for depriving them of employment and housing. An estimated three million Zimbabweans as well as 50,000 Mozambicans are believed to be currently residing in South Africa. The mobilisation programme of the ANC is an attempt to curb the rising anti-immigrant violence and restore stability in the affected communities.

Despite deployment of military personnel in Johannesburg on 22 May, the security situation remains fragile. The subsequent spread of violence to other regions of the country including provinces of Mpumalanga and KwaZulu Natal in the east as well as in Western Cape is indicative of the deteriorating law and order situation within the country as well as government's inept handling of the crisis.

Travel disruption is likely due to the scheduled rallies and public gatherings. There remains a high possibility of further outbreak of violence targeting immigrants in the country. Foreign nationals and businesses face a high risk of being directly targeted and also face a risk of incidental violence. International SOS will continue to monitor the situation and provide updates as warranted.

Gentlemen, start your engines

2008-05-24T10:40:00.007-04:00

I'm almost there, already. Less than a week until I take off! This is the first chance I've had to feel anything, too -- life has been so busy with finals, only now can I step back a moment to think about what I am doing.

At the conference last week, uncle Lako pretty much told me I was foolish booking this trip alone. I guess that worried me a little bit. To admit my silliness, watching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (that scene with the giant stick bugs) worried me more. But then today, an incoming law student friended me on Facebook, and he has more than 200 photos of Kenya, and looking through them got me giddy -- Africa can be so beautiful! I mean, it's paradise, when people aren't killing one another. So I can't wait to go. And I have something good to work for.

Meanwhile, though, I am just trying to keep my life in order. Insurance, loans, registration, tenants -- everything has to be in order before I leave. It's a lot, and I won't get it all done. I'm working on accepting that. I'll just have to coordinate from Uganda as best I can.

For now, I'm sleeping as much as I can, eating healthy food, and trying to handle at least one administrative detail every day. (Do I have enough keys made? Does Sarah know everything she will need to know to move in? Why is Marguerite's e-mail bouncing, and how can I arrange for her to discuss condo regulations with the new tenant? When does my health insurance policy renew? Where in God's name is my federal tax return? What do I need for a visa? How am I going to get from Entebbe to Ntinda?) But eh, it'll all get done. Or it won't. I will leave soon, anyway.

Life sparkles.

p.s. -- Emily is blogging about Botswana now, so you should definitely check out her blog. The link is in the lowest group on the right.

My twin sister

2008-05-22T02:34:00.002-04:00

At orientation, the dean of Penn Law said that one in three of us would likely marry a classmate. I haven't exactly found a husband, but I have made a great friend. Emily Torstveit is my twin sister (we've been confused with each other more than once), and the forerunner in our summer adventures. Just this morning she landed in Gaborone to do legal work with the University of Botswana. I am so excited for her! Off the plane, and already starting to explore! Hang on, Ems, I'm not too far behind you ...

Basket cases and other anecdotes

2008-05-17T08:58:00.013-04:00

I think the presentation went well, yesterday. Had some clear and astounding successes, made some clear and astounding mistakes (not the least of which was forgetting my pants, darn it). At the end of it all, my uncle Lako, who is a professor of African studies at the Claremont Colleges, stood up and pounded his chest, beamed with pride, and gave me a bear hug. So I'm satisfied with the outcome. Alex de Waal is here, which is kind of giddy amazing. And many others are here too who are of that same caliber. I found out that my uncle Darius was once a law clerk in Sudan. I had no idea! So when I feel like an ignorant child, I have to remember, the folks I'm speaking with are activists on the ground, professors, and some of the most controversial social movers in the country. (And by that, I mean people who have been imprisoned for their political activities, chiefs, ministers, etc.) I need to ease up on myself.

This is just amazing. I can't even organize what I'm writing, there is so much to say. Like all the people here -- German, Norwegian, Austrian, Swedish, Sudanese, Canadian, American, Mexican. We have young people and old people, Arabs and Fur and Christians and "animists" (the connotations of that word makes me giggle). There is a lot of anger in the conference room, but twice as much laughter, and everyone gets along despite the controversy of ideas. In fact, perhaps we get along because of the controversy of ideas. Having a safe space to express our thoughts allows us all to learn about one another, like one another. I wrote this last year in my old MySpace blog (which I have since taken down) -- I am amazed at how well Sudanese can handle sadness and anger. They just laugh at it. Happiest people in the world. One professor said that in the North, they have this phrase: "It is like a block of ice. It will melt away."

The presentations yesterday were fantastic. I left a little bit early, when the world started smooshing together in weird angles and sliding over itself, and I started confusing dreams with reality. It's been a while since I've slept properly. I missed an impromptu discussion about recent violence in the suburbs of Khartoum with Mr. de Waal, but I was worried about what would happen if I didn't get to bed. Still, there was plenty that I did see.

One Parisian student from Norway spoke about developing "friendships" between the U.S., the U.K., China, France, and Sudan. She suggested that such alliances were necessary to make the Darfur Peace Agreement actually meaningful, and her whole presentation was spoken in the language I learned in Public International Law. With a French-Norwegian accent.

Another woman spoke for nearly 30 minutes about basket-weaving. Sounds boring, right? It wasn't. She started off by proclaiming the falsehood in the notion that Fur women are pitiful, weak victims in the genocide. She told the story of Zamzam, the warrior who managed the kingdom of Fur for her ailing brother and rode on horseback into battle, just like any man. She told us about another woman who raised orphans even though she had very little, herself. At one point, the government requisitioned her donkey for fighting, and this woman went and told off the general. "If I were part of the government, I would give you my donkey," she said. "But I am not. I am a poor woman raising orphans. You should be taking care of me!" And then she shamed the soldier into giving the donkey back. Basket-weaving, according to our presenter, is a continuation of this kind of personal empowerment. The creator comes up with her own design -- and you should see the colors! Rich blacks, bold reds, whites that almost burn. The designs reflect whatever they see. One woman made a design that looked just like the "no signal" image on her television. Another woman wove Arabic words into her basket when the northern Government declared that all women must learn how to read. The baskets are a strong creative expression made during a time of destruction. Despite the desertification rampant in the environment, these women have developed a network to obtain weaving materials from further south. And you can see pictures of them, gathered in the IDP camps, laughing and making their baskets. And they earn money this way, and make their own lives better. They save themselves from the genocide.

A Sudanese-American like me talked about learning Dinka in Cairo. She said that, in Dinka, the happy answer to the question "how are you" translates to "my heart, mind, and body are all together." Conversely, when you talk about being homesick, you say "I am here, but my heart is at home." ... I know that feeling.

Some presentations were just adorable. One woman from Germany had spent months researching Bari culture. The irony here: Two of our group members, my uncle Lako and my friend Scopas, ARE Bari. So they had a few things to say, where they thought the presentation had holes. (Like I said, it's hard to compete in this environment, as a foreigner.) One of the most precious moments occurred in the middle of this woman's Power Point. Ulrike, the presenter, is German, and she had some trouble with consistent translation and formatting. Her quote marks were backwards, forwards, inverted, and all over the place. She combined a lot of words, and every once in a while wrote in German without realizing it. Clearly, Ulrike has a good deal of respect for the Bari she was interviewing, which is what made this so funny ... in one header, she slipped back into German. Instead of writing "The Bari," she wrote "Die Bari." You could see the giggles hiccuping through the crowd when that title popped up.

I made mistakes, too. One of the FAO papers I relied on was incorrect, or just dated. Oops. Naseem Badiey, an American at Oxford who will be presenting on a very similar topic, was able to correct me on that point because she has been in direct contact with the mayor of Juba. She says she'll pass some of her sources on to me. Another gentleman who spent some time in Rumbek asked me to think more about the development of the Southern Sudanese Land Commission, the Interim Constitution of Southern Sudan, and the Sudanese People's Liberation Movement's desire for rule by the communities. I asked him for more sources. And my new friend from U. Khartoum wrote a very heated response to my suggestion that Sudan adopt a pluralist government system similar to the U.S. I will have to be careful about how I phrase that in the future. I don't mean that Sudan should mimic U.S. policies and structure. All I meant was that it seems as though the national government will be taking care of cross-border issues, and the local governments will be taking care of internal issues, with some control by the federal government over local practice where local practice threatens the survival of the state, and some control by local governments over federal practice where federal practice threatens a local way of life. From here on out, I will excise the words "Western," "U.S." and "developed" from my writing unless I have no other choice. They provoke a strong negative reaction.

On a positive note, I got more response to my presentation than any other speaker. People were just excited -- the southerners were glad to see the root of the issue addressed, and solutions proposed. Apparently people have been talking around this topic for a while, afraid to step onto an emotional land mine. Northerners were curious about my proposals on how to balance cultural and economic needs by securing easements, leases, exactions and consultations with the involved communities. Women wanted to know more about gender issues. Foreigners wanted a clearer explanation of the North / South divide. I had answers for all of them, and could point to specific sources. It was fantastic. And I had, by far, the most technically savvy Power Point out there, and I finished within the allotted time. It made me proud. Law school and journalism have done me some service.

I can certainly see a paper developing out of all of this:

Part I: Explanation about why land use in the South is such an important topic, with historical background and comparison to conflict in the rest of the peripheral states
Part II: Description of cultural practices in the rural areas
Part III: Description of the clash between culture and development
Part IV: Description of urban planning issues, especially in Juba
Part V: Accommodating returnees and women
Part VI: Conclusions on the state law / cultural law split

It could easily be a dissertation, but I think for now I'll start with ten pages per section. Besides, I'm still nervous about going to visit. And I don't know that this can be a dissertation until I live in Sudan for a few months.

Oh help. Look at me. I'm talking about a Ph.D. I'd better watch my mouth.

Anyway, Uncle Lako filmed me giving my talk. If the sound came out, I'll post the video (and videos of other people talking) as soon as I get home to my USB cable.

One hour before the presentation

2008-05-16T07:28:00.003-04:00

You know that dream where you wake up and go to school and take your classes and suddenly realize you're not wearing any PANTS?

Yeah. I forgot mine in Pennsylvania ...

Hubris of the self-righteous

2008-05-15T17:30:00.004-04:00

Poorer, sleepier, happier. I have arrived in Florida. So far I've read about 150 pages worth of material on land usage, and as ready as I feel for this presentation, I have a lot more to prep. I don't even know how to pronounce the names of half of the cities I'll be talking about, not to mention the communities. (Jur. Kakwa. Yei. Malakal.) Thank goodness I have intelligent people supporting me in this project, and I can back up my assertions with strong research.

I walked into the hotel lobby today to find a woman from the UK chatting up the hotel attendant. "Are you going to the conference, too?" she asks. I say yes. "Will you be speaking, or simply attending?" I tell her I'll be speaking. "Oh. What will you be speaking on?" I tell her land use issues, and fail to elaborate because the three hours of sleep I got last night make it difficult to form coherent sentences. She blinks. And then she begins her rant about academics.

"I am not here to speak," she says. "I am here to do some fund raising. Do you go to a school? You will start a fund raising group for us. We help children in Darfur. We are really doing something, not just talking about land-use issues."

Uh-huh. While I am curious to know about the children of the Fur, I have to bite my tongue to avoid verbally upbraiding this woman. Hostility is no way to make friends, and academics are important to any humanitarian recovery process, too. I could explain to her that these silly "land-use issues" that I will be talking about have embroiled Sudan in civil war for forty years, disenfranchise whole communities of people, result in epidemics of violence and water-borne disease, and reflect the very source of contention in Darfur. I could tell her, if we can't make peace work in the South, how are we supposed to make peace work in the North? I could say that I am taking care of children, after my own fashion, and that I have seen my own share of scattered families and destroyed villages, too -- maybe not the quantity she has, if she works in Sudan, but certainly on a more personal level.

But I swallow my pride and nod. I promise to visit her information booth, tomorrow morning. And I will; I will go listen to what she has to say. Because I am going to have to learn to manage my own sense of self-importance, and deal with others who have inflated egos, too. That's just how the world works, and I want to support every effort that I can, if only by listening.

Hm. I expect more of this to come up in my career. A lot more. I mean, look, I even made that crack about saving the world, this morning. Please tell me if that kind of humor becomes crude. Splinter in your neighbor's eye, log in your own, and all ...

China

2008-05-15T16:52:00.004-04:00

While my focus is currently on east Africa, I couldn't neglect to mention the recent earthquake in China. The following is a repost from our Penn Law announcements.

As you may be aware from news reports, a 7.9-magnitude devastating earthquake hit the central China, Si Chuan Province, on 5/12/2008. The death toll from the disaster was raised to nearly 19,000 (the number is increasing) while tens of thousands of people remain missing and hundreds of thousands are injured. Rescue teams are now digging through collapsed buildings in schools, factories and residential areas to reach victims trapped beneath rubble. Many families lost their beloved and homes in this deadliest natural disaster in three decades in China. Survivors now are in great need of water, food and other supplies.

Many charities and non-profit organizations are now open to donation for China earthquake. If you would like to know more information with respect to ways to donate, please click the following links or contact the charities you are familiar with:

American Red Cross
http://www.redcross.org/news/in/profiles/Intl_profile_ChinaEarthquake.html

Mercy Corps
http://www.mercycorps.org/

China Red Cross
http://202.108.59.10/english/index.htm

Hong Kong Red Cross
https://www.redcross.org.hk/donation/user_donation.asp

Thank you for your concern and kindness.

Arrgh

2008-05-15T06:11:00.004-04:00

You can't save the world if you fall asleep and miss your flight.

Am on the phone right now, paying the $150 reassignment fee plus the additional charge for the altered flight, so I can get to Florida for the Sudan Studies conference. This is the most expensive domestic flight I've ever taken, literally.

I'm not sure where I made the mistake. Did I wake up, turn of my alarm clock, and go back to sleep? Was I conscious when this happened? Did I neglect to set my alarm? Was my alarm not enough to wake me up? I was working on my presentation last night. I was exhausted, trying to read through that 96-page report from U. Khartoum. I haven't been able to sleep for the past, I don't know, week or so. So maybe ... who knows. Who cares. It's only $218. I don't need money. Really.

... I didn't believe that last time, either ...

... I'm going back to bed.

:(

Happiness

2008-05-14T18:05:00.002-04:00

So I'm finally settling in to putting this presentation together. Hoo-rah. And I just got a 100-page report from James Okuk Solomon of the University of Khartoum, the full-fledged version of the FAO's land tenure report. It's like Christmas.

Now to read it all and assimilate it into my presentation. In one night. Tee hee!

Packing

2008-05-13T07:59:00.003-04:00

I have two duffel bags. One is in the trunk of my car. It has a year's worth of work by the International Human Rights Advocates' Gulu team: books, binders, syllabi. It's quite a pile. Last night, I had to figure out how to move the bag from the law school to the car. Fortunately, some friends were around. Rob is a small man with a slight frame, and he is interested in corporate law. When I told him what was in my bag, he said that he'd never imagined himself doing anything to address human rights issues abroad. And then he carried that monster of a duffel the whole way to the car.

The other bag is in my living room. It has neosporin, Hydrocortizone cream, Advil, Tylenol, Ace wrap, Tums, Claritin, bandages, multivitamins, you name it. None of these items are coming home. I'm somewhat awed that I have both of these duffels. They're symbolic, to me: my nanosecond of protest against chaos.

No more shopping, please!

2008-05-11T00:20:00.004-04:00

Thanks to C for the note that my e-mail address was broken. I fixed it below, but just to reiterate, that's melonai at law dot upenn dot edu.

In other ramblings, I just got back from a 12-hour shopping trip with Emily, who is a super-fantastic shopping buddy. During the past 48 hours, I have spent $500 on my plane flight and hotel room for the conference in Florida, $250 on medical supplies (and I haven't even purchased the mosquito repellent or water filtration system yet!), $400 on suits so I will look official on the job, and $100 on books for research on Sudan. And I encouraged Em to do some pretty naughty things, herself.

I am ready to stop spending now please thank you. Sigh. I love Penn for giving me a grant, but it is NOT sufficient to make a solo 10-week trip, even to Uganda. Oh well. I'll just repeat what I wrote earlier about not needing money, until I finally believe myself. (Actually, I got a note from the financial aid office that I will be receiving more money than I thought, but that said funds would be taxed, which I was not expecting. Easy come, easy go. I wonder if Professor Burke-White is working his magic behind the scenes.)

Postcards

2008-05-10T08:46:00.003-04:00

By the way, e-mail me your address if you want a postcard. If there ARE postcards, I will send one to you. I don't promise they won't be goofy, though. :)

melonai@law.upenn.edu

One thing is certain

2008-05-10T08:38:00.002-04:00

Yay! My hotel room in Ntinda is confirmed! This makes me happy. And a friend of a friend used, um, methods to confirm the validity of my passport. It's valid! I'm still going to write to the passport agency, but I finally feel like I'm on the right track.

Going shopping with Emily today to buy suits. She has a veterinary appointment with Gordon the fabulous kitty in the middle of the day, so hopefully I will be able to use that time to run to the library and check for books by Francis Deng, who seems to have written a lot about the Dinka.

Does anyone know where else I can get info about Dinka culture? I need to write back to my friend, Jok. He wrote a book. And is Dinka. And should know.

Things to do

2008-05-09T22:56:00.003-04:00

take care of my insurance renewal for the year

sign the lease with my new tenant

pick classes for next semester

pick firms to interview with this fall

buy new suits

get a water filtration system

find the malaria and antibiotic prescriptions so I can actually get them filled

pack

take the 20-hour writing contest

research lots

draft that presentation

read the books on Ugandan history

get my passport straightened out

so i can get a visa

remember everything that I DON'T already have on this list

laugh

spend as much time with friends as possible

call home just to check in on my dog

P.S., God kicked me out

2008-05-09T22:55:00.004-04:00

Looks like I will be staying at the expensive Ntinda hotel instead of the Christian medical clinic, after all. Oh well. Who needs money?

1/3 way there

2008-05-09T22:29:00.007-04:00

Finals are over. I finished yesterday, thank goodness. I think I slept at least 15 hours today, and probably more. It feels fantastic to be done, although I did make some mistakes this year that I vow to learn from, professionally. More on that after grades come out, on the off chance that one of my professors is actually reading this.

In the meantime, I have begun to gear up for my upcoming trips. Today I booked my flight and hotel room for the Sudan Studies Association conference in Florida. Looks like I'll be the first person to present. I'm a bit nervous about that, given how much I haven't done yet ... but truly, if I keep my presentation simple, I think everything will be fine. Mostly I want this to be a networking opportunity, to meet people who know more about southern Sudanese culture and land usage than I do. And I should be able to do that, just by presenting my preliminary thoughts and questions on the subject.

I've already met one woman from Oxford who will be presenting on the same topic. I honestly wish she were reporting on something else, so there would no chance she could make me look amateur, but hey, at least we can trade notes. Maybe we can grab dinner together one night; I'll be flying back home before she presents. (It saves me $60, and at this point I need all the money I can get for Uganda.)

Am also struggling with the national passport agency to figure out whether my book is still valid. Do you know, there is no easy system for looking that up? Sigh. Logic was never the government's strong suit.

Anyway, it's good to be done with classes so I can focus on (ha ha) the important stuff. And it's good to know that I'm 1/3 of the way through law school. I have learned an enormous amount, and I feel proud of that, even if I'm not a straight-A student. And what fantastic projects coming up! Already, I have so many ideas for the International Human Rights Advocates next year!

More soon. Happy day to you all.

Public International Law

2008-05-04T02:04:00.005-04:00

I just finished formatting my study group's Public International Law outline. It's 104 pages, not including the cover page or the table of contents, and the conversion to PDF format is crashing my computer as I type. I might not get a great grade in this class, but I have a darn fine outline. I'm so proud! Keep your fingers crossed for me: I download the take-home exam tomorrow morning, bright and early.

If you're reading this, and you were part of my study group, you're the best!

2008 Global Health Career Day

2008-05-03T13:54:00.010-04:00

Friends,

I wanted to share a conference with you that was held here at the University of Pennsylvania last March. I found it extremely pertinent to issues of human rights and humanitarian relief - here, there, everywhere. This is a long presentation, but certainly worth a ten-minute glimpse. Any of you involved in the medical field might consider watching this in full, for reasons of professional development. The title of this blog posting will link you directly to the conference's web site, where you will find videos of each presentation. I tried to include them here, but unfortunately the file sizes are too large. Instead, here is the presentation schedule.

Love to you all!
- Maisha

***

8:30-9:30 a.m. Keynote Address: Global Health: A Declaration of Interdependence

Introduction: Steve Larson, MD, Assistant Dean, Global Health Programs, University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine

Speaker: Richard Guerrant, MD, Director, Center for Global Health, University of Virginia School of Medicine

Dr. Richard Guerrant is an internationally-recognized expert on enteric infections. He is the founder and Director of the Center for Global Health (CGH) at the University of Virginia (UVA), School of Medicine. The CGH draws students from UVA’s Schools of Medicine, Nursing, Law, Commerce, Engineering, and Arts & Sciences. Students travel to Latin America, Africa, and Asia, building new relationships and helping to strengthen and diversify the institution’s long-standing research exchanges with international partners. This support of emerging leaders in the US and abroad contributes to developing a critical mass of scientists and health professionals working to improve the health of people globally.

9:30-10:45 a.m. Clean Water: A Multi-Disciplinary Approach to Global Health Problems
Ensuring the health and wellness of global communities requires a collaborative effort that brings scientists and health care providers together with educators, government leaders, economists, and community representatives. Using the central theme of water and sanitation, this panel will highlight strategies for a collaborative, multidisciplinary approach to global health and community wellness.

Richard Guerrant, MD, University of Virginia School of Medicine

Samantha Beers, Esq., EPA

Stanley Laskowski, Philadelphia Global Water Initiative

Shannon Márquez, MEng, PhD, Temple University College of Health Professions MPH Program

11:00-12:30 p.m. Collaborative Partnerships in Global Health
Over the past decade, the health and wellness of global communities has received considerable attention in the news. A diverse group of participants ranging from private industry to academic institutions can now be found on the frontlines of global health. A central theme for effective collaboration in global health involves capacity building and sustainability. This panel will highlight a variety of models and approaches intended to achieve these results.

Stephen Gluckman, MD, University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine (Botswana)

David Spiegel, MD, CHOP (WHO)

Anthony Sauder, PE, PG (Engineers Without Borders)

Debra Abraham, MSN, RN University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing (Hospital Albert Schweitzer)

1:30-3:30 p.m. Advisory Panel : Multi-Disciplinary Opportunities in Global Health
The rapidly growing interest in global health is a shared phenomenon experienced by schools across PENN’s campus. This panel provides an opportunity for students to learn more about Global Health career opportunities among a variety of diverse disciplines.

Marjorie Muecke, RN, PhD, University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing Global Health Affairs

Neal Nathanson, MD, University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine Global Health Programs

Stephen Sammut, University of Pennsylvania Wharton

Robert Collins, DMD, MPH, University of Pennsylvania School of Dental Medicine

Sarah Paoletti, Esq., University of Pennsylvania Law School

Hong Truong, University of Pennsylvania School of Engineering, PENN Engineers Without Borders

Giang Nguyen, MD, MPH, University of Pennsylvania MPH Program

For Your Amusement

2008-05-02T10:07:00.005-04:00

I've been looking up videos and pictures of Kampala, just so I know what I'm getting into. This made me giggle for about 30 minutes straight. I hope you have fun with it, too. It's by Bebe Cool, originally posted on UGPulse. (I know Emily will like it, because it has animals.)

Change in plans!

2008-05-02T09:02:00.005-04:00

I met a lovely woman named Martha Wright at the seminar presentation last week. Martha lives with the Karamoja in Uganda, in an area somewhat to the north of Kampala, south of Gulu. Definitely the type of woman I admire. She is a Penn graduate with her Ph.D in education. She dresses simply, and the shape of her body radiates strength ... like someone who has been molded by sun and dirt, not treadmills and salad. She told me these stories about being raided, and about using a winch to pull her convoy out of mud puddles. This is the kind of woman I want to be -- if I could be like this woman, I could live through anything.

Anyway, Martha is helping me find a place to live, for much less money than the housing agency. She introduced me to a man named Charles Howard, who has been her special hire driver in the past. Charles will be taking a qualifying exam -- presumably for university studies, I think that's what qualifying exams are -- so he can't drive me from Entebbe airport. But he is making arrangements with a friend of his to take care of me. He has also found me a different place to live, in a protestant hospital's guest house in Mengo. It's much cheaper, and comes with breakfast every day. No swimming pool, but like I said before -- that's okay! And there is a restaurant where I can buy meals.

Maybe I like this situation because I implicitly trust Martha. After hearing her talk about the Karamoja, I can tell from my own experience that a) she's got a good bead on Uganda, and b) she is not a scary religious fanatic. And by "good" I mean she does not come off as ignorant, or aggressive, or prejudiced, or hyper-evangelical, all of which I have seen U.S. relief workers become. She sounds educated and caring, and I like her ideas about helping people by learning about them, first. She just makes sense. So I will transfer much of that trust to the people she puts me in contact with.

Here's the interesting part: I realize that I have embedded myself in a religious network. All of these people are Protestant. That ... might mean ... going back to church. You might call this my first cultural surprise. I will be very honest. Here in the United States I have made a good effort to stay away from the Christian church, ever since a somewhat nasty experience with a fellowship group during my undergraduate years. I will omit details; let me just say that I railed against narrow-mindedness and forcible evangelism.

Now, to gain awareness of the people I live with, and to buy a social pass around them, I might have to attend service. Okay. I can do this. Actually makes sense -- if I want to learn about people of course I need to learn about their spirituality. The part of me that will be Christian until the day I die (you cannot be born and raised in a religion without it claiming some lasting part of you, no matter how much you try to separate yourself intellectually) says that this is poetically appropriate. Here God called my father out of Sudan, protected him all the way to the United States, and set him up as a doctor. Here God is calling me back to the Continent, and protecting me with His people in a hospital. Of course it would happen this way. How else would things possibly work?

Insha'Allah.

I am late for a study group. Must run. Wish me luck: I hope this living situation works out.

Room of One's Own

2008-04-24T05:27:00.009-04:00

Apparently, this is to be my new home. It's expensive; I was expecting to find something for less than $500 USD per month, but at least I don't have to set up utilities or buy an air mattress upon landing. Should I have bargained harder? The hotel prides itself on having its own little pool. Too bad there's that safety warning out on water. I'll have to settle for using the "aerobics" downstairs.

Penn Law Presents

2008-04-23T21:40:00.008-04:00

A Just Peace: Beyond Conflict in Northern Uganda

Professor Burke-White's transitional justice seminar presented on their trip to Uganda, today. As mentioned in the clip, the group is presenting a report to the Ugandan government about how best to address reparations and justice for northern Uganda.

Lights were dimmed for the Power Point presentation, but I tried to take pictures without flash, anyway. (Flash leaves those horrid shadows. I protest!) The sound clip is excerpted from an earlier interview I conducted with Professor Burke-White concerning this same project.

A Note from John Francis Onyango

2008-04-22T11:19:00.003-04:00

Hi Maisha,
Did you get accommodation etc. I have a good friend in Gulu who works with the UN Volunteers...he will show you around town when you go there.
regards

(This is why I love Uganda already. So friendly! Look out, I think I'm moving to Africa.)

Updates

2008-04-22T09:07:00.009-04:00

I have to write briefly, as we're really down to the wire at school:

Passport: Not valid, after all. Must reapply. BLARGH!

Visa: Can't apply until passport situation is fixed.

Housing: Still trying to find. Probably won't get that cute little house in Kisaasi. Owner wants 6 months' rent. Boo! Hotels are much more expensive, but at least they come with utilities and furnishings.

Money: Running out. When do the scholarship funds come in?

Projects: Still working on them!
- Uganda project turned in. I was late, but at least it's done. Lots of revisions in mind for the class syllabi I plotted out, but I'll make fixes when my own classes are over.
- Sudan project in the works. Will have to write it up DURING the writing competition. Good thing I'm only giving a preliminary report. Am considering applying for a Fulbright on this subject, and will definitely write a journal comment on the land use issue, whether for Penn or someone else.
Home Life: Tenant moving out. Must find new roommate. During finals.

Finals: At least I started studying earlier, this semester.

Dog: Peeing on floor, mysteriously. Vet says he's depressed. Took him to parents in California, where he would have had to stay for the summer anyway, so he can get some time exercise in the back yard. I could use extra exercise, myself.

Sanity: Good thing I never had it to begin with ...

Ticket

2008-03-31T07:37:00.006-04:00

Running late, quick notes:

Well, I have a plane ticket! It was $2,000, a bit expensive because one of the U.S. carriers fell through. At least I'm flying mostly on European planes, though. Am curious to know what the Kenya Airlines flight will be like.

Am also looking for a place to live. Through the recommendation of a previous intern, have found a responsive housing agency that promises to find me a home. Kampala is gorgeous, from their photos. Nicer than Philadelphia. A lot of pink residences, blue skies.

The end of the semester is a whirlwind. Hope I can write more soon.

Already distressingly Western

2008-03-26T07:37:00.006-04:00

Another quick note:

I have been corresponding with folks at the UCICC about where I might live this summer. It's a little bit awkward. I want to start my letters, "Dear Ms. / Mr. So-and-so," like we do here in the United States. But I also know that the Acholi, at least, have only one name -- Jennifer Anyayo, for example, is really just Anyayo. Jennifer is the Christian name she uses here in the United States. So I feel just a wee bit awkward. The person I've been writing to, Onyango John Francis, is probably just Onyango. Or John Francis. But of course, I've been calling him Mr. Francis, which is probably separating his Anglicized first name. He signs his e-mails Onyango, but far be it from me to use first names without permission, especially the name of a supervisor I haven't met before. Hello, social awkwardness! I should ask Alison what to do. She'd know.

Guess I'd better get used to the cultural faux pas.

Quick note

2008-03-24T15:20:00.003-04:00

I might not be able to post much over the next month. Finals are looming; I have a lot of studying to do if I am going to prove my merit in public international and criminal law. (Am a tad bit anxious about this, wish me luck!) Anyway, I definitely have more to write about culture, gender, and what a friend of mine used to call "cosmic hubris," but it will have to wait for another week.

'Til then, take care!

Exciting news!

2008-03-21T08:58:00.009-04:00

Penn Law's International Human Rights Advocates have accepted my application. I'm going to be the Director for Clinical Groups for the 2008-2009 academic year! This is very exciting, because I should be able to continue our partnership with Gulu, or maybe start a project on Sudan.

But it gets better! Emily Torstveit is going to be student group coordinator and Nanda Srikantaiah is going to be the 2L director. These women have become good friends, and I have every confidence that their energy and abilities will make IHRA's next year amazing. Kyle Dandelet will be the next spring break coordinator. I just met him yesterday, and he seems like a very competent and outstanding person.

So hooray for next year! Incidentally, I just realized that I haven't posted much about the law school yet. It's a beautiful campus. You can take a virtual tour online.

Somebody else's problem

2008-03-16T22:56:00.014-04:00

"And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother?
And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?"

Genesis 4:9

I want to write more about responses to crises and social apathy. I mentioned this subject before in my post "Where Altruism Lies," in the section "The Bigger Picture," where I hinted that there may be utilitarian and political reasons for international cooperation to foster a baseline standard of living for all human beings. Here I would like to approach the same discussion from another angle -- what do we become, if we shut our eyes to the value of human life? I stumbled across one example as I prepared for my criminal law class tomorrow morning. And with Professor Robinson's permission, I thought that I would share the story, just as I encountered it in my textbook. A sensitive reader may want to skip this post; the material is very ... powerful.

The following text is excerpted with the permission of the author, Paul H. Robinson, from his book Criminal Law, Case Studies and Controversies 463-471 (1st ed. 2004).

CAUTION: This true story contains graphic violent and sexual content.

The Case of David Cash

It is Memorial Day weekend, 1997. Best friends Jeremy Strohmeyer and David Cash are seniors at Woodrow Wilson High School in Long Beach, California. Classmates consider Cash smart but socially awkward. He acts cool by spiking his hair and growing sideburns, but he is still baby-faced, short, and interested in subjects like engineering. In contrast, Strohmeyer is outgoing, wild, and worldly, after living in Singapore for several years while his mother was working there. He drinks, has a fake ID, and is very flirtatious. The two have a firm friendship, though, after meeting in computer class during their junior year, just after Strohmeyer returned to the States. Both have aspirations for after graduation. Strohmeyer wants to be an officer in the Air Force, like his adoptive father, and Cash a nuclear engineer.

Strohmeyer is responsible for introducing Cash to the wilder side of high school by taking him to parties and getting him drunk for the first time, even bringing a camcorder to tape the evening. Cash's parents, who are reconciling after being separated for years, are not terribly concerned. They treat Cash leniently because he has always been independent and trustworthy, and his grades remain good. Even when Cash returns home drunk with Strohmeyer, they do not get angry. Strohmeyer also shows off to Cash his upper-class lifestyle, which includes a maid, a jet, and four cars.

Strohmeyer's behavior is increasingly wild and erratic, and his grades have dropped since he returned from Singapore. For example, a teacher who once described him as one of the best students he ever taught has recently changed his mind; he now sees two different sides to Strohmeyer. In school, he is thought of as a hard partier with a violent temper. His Internet sign-in name is "Killer." He also has a secret interest in child pornography. Recently, he had an Internet chat, under the screen name "flyboy1030," where he wrote that he fantasizes about sex with five- or six-year-old girls. He even asked a girlfriend to dress up in a young girl's school uniform and put her hair in pigtails. (She refused.)

Over the past year, Strohmeyer has slowly spiraled into a destructive pattern. He uses drugs more often, drinks frequently, and is taking amphetamines, the combination of which explains his recent behavior at parties. At one, he spit in a jock's face and screamed profanities at a girl after she asked him to leave. On another occasion, he sneaked a kitten out of a host's house and threw it out of a car's window as he drove away. He even incited others to help him throw marshmallows, then books, and finally bottles down a hallway at a party, which he followed up by personally kicking holes in the walls. His parents think he is just going through a typical teenage rebellion stage, while classmates attribute his behavior to extreme senioritis.

Nonetheless, Cash still looks up to Strohmeyer. Strohmeyer is one of the "cool kids," and helps Cash overcome his struggles of trying to fit in by introducing him to people and giving him the chance to hang out with the other "cool kids." Cash sometimes joins Strohmeyer in a big group when it goes cruising the town, which occasionally also includes harassing prostitutes and the homeless. Strohmeyer often brags about smashing eggs in the faces of prostitutes.

Strohmeyer also benefits from his friendship with Cash. As the more impressionable of the two, Cash helps Strohmeyer feel cool by laughing at all of Strohmeyer's jokes and pranks and defending his actions. Cash is also allowed to drive his mother's red Chevrolet convertible, while Strohmeyer's parents never allow him to drive their cars. The two recently used Cash's mother's car for a road trip to UC Berkeley, during which they got their tongues pierced. The university is Cash's top choice. A serious car crash ended their trip, but Strohmeyer's father bailed them out by purchasing them airline tickets back to Long Beach.

For the long Memorial Day weekend, Cash's father invites Strohmeyer along for a trip to Las Vegas as a thank-you to his parents for letting Cash stay with them for three weeks. Cash is looking forward to the trip.

On the evening of Saturday, May 24, 1997, they leave for Las Vegas. On the way, they stop at several towns for food and gas, reaching Primm, on the Nevada border, at midnight. There they visit the Primadonna Casino. Cash's father gives the two some money and tells them to meet up again at 3:00 a.m. He then goes to play poker. Cash and Strohmeyer want to ride Wild Bill's Roller Coaster, but cannot find the entrance. Instead, they end up at another casino and then an arcade. Neither place thrills them, and they eventually make their way back to the Primadonna.

Sitting by the pool, Strohmeyer uses his fake ID to order some drinks. He has a whiskey and Coke, while Cash goes for a strawberry daiquiri. As the night creeps on, they grow restless. At one point, Strohmeyer tries sneaking into the gambling section, but casino security promptly kicks him out. They order more drinks and play arcade games. Strohmeyer starts talking to a girl who he thinks has a nice body. He asks for her beeper number, but she refuses, recalling later that she thought he was creepy. Strohmeyer leaves to get more drinks, but when he returns he keeps trying to talk to her. He tries to impress her by showing off his nipple and tongue piercings. When her mother arrives, they quickly leave.

Cash and Strohmeyer are tired of playing video games and decide to urinate on them to entertain themselves. They quickly become distracted, however, by two young children having a spitball fight. One of their wet paper towels hits Strohmeyer, and he throws it back. He then starts playing with the kids, and they run through the rows of video games.

One of the children is seven-year-old Sherrice Iverson of South Central Los Angeles. Like them, she has grown tired of waiting for her father. Casino security has twice taken her back to her father and she had already fallen asleep in the driver's seat of a video game. She is used to the long nights that the Nevada casinos trips bring, because her father, a diabetic on disability, has "gamblin' fever." While thinking it too dangerous to allow Sherrice to play in front of their house in South Central, he thinks the Primadonna is safe and lets her have the run of the place. Sherrice is generally well cared for; she always sports freshly pressed clothes and neatly braided hair. At age seven, she likes "The Little Mermaid," purple, and jump-roping, but is still afraid of the dark. When she grows up, she wants to be a "nurse, policewoman, model, or dancer." She is less than four feet tall and weighs about forty-six pounds. Her playmate on this night, Strohmeyer, is almost six feet tall and weighs about one hundred fifty pounds.

They continue playing in the arcade for another ten minutes or so, until Sherrice runs into the women's restroom. Strohmeyer gets a drink of water, takes a puff of his cigarette, and follows her in. A few seconds later, Cash follows after him. In the bathroom, Sherrice swings a plastic "Wet Floor" sign at Strohmeyer and he gets angry. He picks her up, placing one of his arms under her armpit with his hand over her mouth, while using the other arm to lift her into the handicap stall, locking the door behind him. He chooses this one because it has more room.

Thinking that the game has gone too far, Cash becomes a little concerned. He tries to get Strohmeyer's attention by standing on the toilet in the stall adjacent to the handicap one. Cash tells him to let Sherrice go and tries to convince him to leave the bathroom. He then starts tapping on Strohmeyer's head to get his attention. Finally, Cash catches Strohmeyer's attention when he knocks off Strohmeyer's "Bruins" hat. Strohmeyer just stares back weirdly, like "he [doesn't] care what [Cash] is saying." After his unsuccessful attempts to get Strohmeyer to stop, Cash gives up. He leaves the arcade and waits for Strohmeyer and his father on a bench in the resort's courtyard.

Strohmeyer notices Cash's intervention, but quickly refocuses on Sherrice. He takes off her boots, followed by her pants and underwear. She screams when he "fingers" her a few times. He notices blood on his index finger. To quiet her down, he puts her on the floor, with her hands pulled around her neck. He holds her in this position for about ten minutes and then puts her on the toilet and begins to masturbate against her body. He thinks she is unconscious but alive.

When women suddenly come into the restroom, Strohmeyer quickly props her up on the toilet and sits on her, so that only his feet show under the stall's door. With people still there, he tries masturbating again, but cannot maintain an erection. Strohmeyer quickly covers her mouth when he hears Sherrice gasping for air.

After the restroom empties, Sherrice is limp. Strohmeyer thinks that it would be cruel to leave Sherrice as she is. He considers her future as a "vegetable" and decides to "put her out of her misery." He tries to break her neck. Despite hearing a loud pop, he sees her still moving, and uses all of his strength to do it again. This time he is convinced that she is dead.

Strohmeyer cleans up by putting Sherrice's boots, pants, and underwear in the toilet. He then wipes his forearm clean of white foam and blood before finally putting Sherrice's legs in the toilet and propping her up so that none of her limbs are visible from under the stall door. Twenty-two minutes after following Sherrice in, Strohmeyer leaves.

As he walks out of the casino, he stays close to the walls of the arcade in an attempt to avoid the security cameras. He meets Cash. On their way to the car, they talk to a valet and show off their piercings. Cash asks Strohmeyer what went on in the bathroom after he left. Looking him straight in the eye, Strohmeyer answers, bluntly, "I killed her." Cash later recalls being shocked by the revelation and having no idea how to react. His only other question of Strohmeyer is whether she was "wet" when he digitally raped her.

Shortly afterwards, Cash's father arrives and they finish driving to Las Vegas, arriving there on the morning of Sunday, May 25. They check into the Holiday Inn at noon. Strohmeyer and Cash play slot machines, drink beer, ride a roller coaster, and check out all the casinos. During their explorations, they discuss what happened at the Primadonna. Cash is convinced they will be caught because of the video surveillance that was all over the resort. He is also worried that they made themselves conspicuous by showing off their piercings and saying that they were from Long Beach. They make a pact not to tell anyone. If caught, they make up various excuses for Strohmeyer to use, ranging from sheer innocence to intoxication to insanity. Early Monday morning, the three arrive back in Long Beach. At the Primadonna, meanwhile, a female employee has found Sherrice's body and has informed the police and the girl's father.

On Tuesday, school is back in session, but Cash sleeps in and skips his classes. He hangs around the house all day and during the five o'clock news sees that there is a videotape of him and Strohmeyer entering and exiting the restroom. Realizing that they will certainly be found, the color drains from his face. He calls Strohmeyer to tell him about the video. Cash watches it again with Strohmeyer. To gain perspective, they decide they need to tell someone about the incident. They tell the whole story to a friend, James Trujillo, in a Kinko's parking lot. When Trujilo does not believe them, Cash tells another friend, Jeremy Philips, who tells Cash to turn Strohmeyer in to the police.

The next day, a classmate, Melissa Ellis, sees the video on television before school. She immediately recognizes the pair, identifying Strohmeyer from his posture and walk and Cash by his sideburns and hair. Strohmeyer and Cash drive to school that day in Cash's mother's red convertible with an LA Times newspaper in the backseat. On the front page of the paper are pictures of the two (stills from the videotape). They talk with Justin Ware, whose mother called him at 10:00 p.m. the night before to see if he recognized the boys in the video. Ware asked them if they really did it; Strohmeyer says he did. Ware is speechless. The pair goes to class and Strohmeyer acts normally the entire day, goofing off and flashing his piercings.

Later, Ellis runs into her friend, Lisa Cota, and finds out that she too recognized Strohmeyer and Cash in the video. They talk to Carmela Rhmyer, who says that Strohmeyer just told her that he and Cash were in Las Vegas over the weekend, but that he was drunk and is innocent. Later, a girl in Ware's class says that the LA Times photo looks like Strohmeyer. Ware tells Strohmeyer about it and asks him what he is going to do. Strohmeyer says, "Nothing," and that another student has already confronted him. Strohmeyer and Cash go to Taco Bell for lunch and make "last supper" jokes throughout the meal. Cash thinks they will be arrested when they return to school. Acting on information from Ellis and Cota, Assistant Principal Greg Mendoza contacts Officer Birdsall about the video. Birdsall interviews the two students and arranges for surveillance on Strohmeyer's house.

Strohmeyer goes home after school, growing increasingly anxious. He calls an ex-girlfriend, Agnes Lee, and asks her to come over. Although she feels ill, she does not want to let him down and goes. They go to Jamba Juice, where she notices that he is nervous and fidgety. She drops him off at his house just as his older sister, Heather, is arriving. He runs back to Lee's car and asks her to stay because he has to tell her something -- that he has done something horrible. He tells her that he strangled a young black girl and asks her to leave the country with him. He also says the girl was sexually molested, but (falsely) blames it on Cash. Lee refuses to flee with him and tells him he deserves to be punished. When she gets back to her house, she sees the video and recognizes Strohmeyer and Cash. Lee calls her father and recounts her conversation with Strohmeyer. Her father immediately calls the Long Beach police. They contact Lee, who warns them of Strohmeyer's temper and desire to leave the country.

By now, Cash has received a phone call from his father, instructing him to stay home. Cash is certain that his father is now aware of their involvement in the crime at the Primadonna. Cash calls Strohmeyer to explain that his father knows and that he will probably be forced to talk to the police. Strohmeyer agrees and says that he understands the situation. He is now aware that he is being watched. He takes his ADD medication off the shelf, empties the bottle into his mouth, and writes a suicide note. He then goes out on the porch to smoke a cigarette while the police sit in their cars, watching patiently. Strohmeyer's sister drops their mother off at home, but he does not want her to see him in this state and scrambles out the door and down the street. He does not make it very far, however, before the police overtake him.

They take him to a community hospital, after his mother alerts them to his drug ingestion. Meanwhile, Cash's father asks Cash if he saw the video. They go to the police department. Cash is scared, thinking, "even though I didn't do anything, I could get into more trouble." The police take his picture and interview him, but do not charge him with a crime. cash goes home to finish homework that is due the next day.

At the hospital, Strohmeyer tells the police he wants to talk and get things out in the open. They inform him of his rights. He tells them that Cash had nothing to do with the murder. Strohmeyer "wanted to experience death." He describes that it was like a dream and he can only remember bits and pieces. After giving a full account of the evening, Strohmeyer adds that he hopes some good will come of his crime, in the form of parents keeping better watch over their children.

At school the next day, Cash is curious whether things will be different and what people's reactions will be. His day is cut short, however, when he is thrown out of class for his project -- a collage of pictures of pierced female genitalia. When he finally returns to school, Cash is shocked to learn that he will not be allowed to participate in his class's graduation or its prom. He is told that his diploma will be sent to him and the cost of his prom tickets refunded.

The story is sensational and the media quickly descends on Cash. They interview him and even pay for the video of him getting drunk for the first time with Strohmeyer. he sells it for $1,500, keeping $500 for himself, and gives the rest to Philips for orchestrating the deal. Cash and Phillips later show up outside the school prom, standing through the sunroof of a limo screaming, "I'm not going." The media cover the stunt heavily, and Cash later recalls that he enjoyed being in the limelight. He later goes with friends to watch a belly-dancing performance at a restaurant.

On Saturday, May 31, Sherrice's funeral is held at Paradise Baptist Church. Her parents are not speaking to each other and both are using Strohmeyer and the Primadonna. (Sherrice's father is also involved in another lawsuit for slander, after a casino official told reporters that the father asked for $100, a six-pack, a hotel room, and payment for Sherrice's funeral, after learning of her death.) The Primadonna files cross-claims and third-party claims against Cash and Strohmeyer. Sherrice's mother says she still dreams about her daughter. Strohmeyer's parents are receiving death threats.

In an interview with the LA Times, Cash says that "if anything, the case has made it easier for [me] to score with women." When asked whether he is angry with Strohmeyer, Cash says no, only that he misses his friend. When asked if he feels sorry for Sherrice Iverson, he says that the "situation sucks in general." He says he feels worse for Strohmeyer because he knows him.

"It is very tragic, okay? But the simple fact remains I do not know this little girl. I do not know starving children in Panama. I do not know people that die of disease in Egypt. The only person I knew in this event was Jeremy Strohmeyer, and I know as his best friend that he had potential. ... I'm sad that I lost a best friend. ... I'm not going to lose sleep over somebody else's problem."

The aftermath: Strohmeyer was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. Cash was never charged, and went on to attend UC Berkeley, where other students reportedly shunned any association with him. Nevada passed the Sherrice Iverson Bill, making it a misdemeanor to omit reporting the murder, rape, or sexual assault of a minor 14 years of age or younger.

Shaking off academia

2008-03-16T12:27:00.005-04:00

It has been a busy spring break. I finally got to do a bit of research for an independent project I dreamed up for the Sudan Studies Association. I'll be going to Florida mid-May to present a paper on land laws and their effect on resettlement in southern Sudan. It's been a tough project because most of the source material I need is only available in Arabic. I've had to rely on journal articles describing Sudanese legislation to learn about the legislation, itself. Fortunately, I have recently encountered a group of British academics who should be able to get me a full translation.

I've been working as fast as I can, because I won't have time for things like this when I go back to class tomorrow. But for all the reading that I've done, the most powerful lesson thus far has come from my mother.

I make a point of calling home at least once a week. The conversations are comfortable and rejuvenating -- Mom tells me everything the family has been doing, I tell her everything I've been doing. It doesn't matter that she doesn't understand the legal doctrine I'm learning, or that I don't know the co-workers she's describing. This is how we weave our lives together, like any healthy family does.

On this particular call, I started telling Mom about my project for the SSA. I was going over some of the more controversial provisions of the 1984 Civil Transaction Act when she stopped me.

"You mean, if you leave your land for more than a year, the government takes it?"

"Yeah, Mom. And that's a real problem for people who are running to the cities for protection from violence."

"You mean ... your father's land isn't his, anymore?"

That stopped me -- the little break in my mother's voice, more than anything else. I know how much my father has lost. I think about it all the time. Officially knowing he has no home to return to -- that's no surprise. But you have to understand about my mom: She is one of the strongest women in the world. Perhaps because she grew up with bombs falling on the neighbor's house, perhaps because she was born that way, my mother has an inner strength surpassing most. If there is an emergency, Mom handles it. If there is a death in the family, Mom handles it. If there are tears, Mom handles that too. So hearing her voice crack -- I'd imagine watching the planet shatter would be just as surprising.

Maybe it was just the remnants of a cold, maybe that pinprick of sorrow is something I made up. But I realized something. Academia is just as much of a filter for dealing with these issues as self-enforced ignorance. The only real knowledge I will ever have comes from knowing people, seeing places, experiencing life myself. That is not to say research isn't useful; it is a powerful tool. But at some point, I need to cast off my protections and really feel.

Another celebrity

2008-03-15T12:45:00.004-04:00

For those of you interested in Sudan, you might want to investigate this blog, Making Sense of Darfur, hosted in part by Alex De Waal, fellow of the Global Equity Initiative at Harvard and a director of Justice Africa, London.

Legality in the absence of government

2008-03-14T22:45:00.019-04:00

International law is different than every other type of law because there is no central government to create and enforce legislation. The central principle of public international law is that States are sovereign; they can do whatever they like. The only international law is what States agree to -- supplemented ever so slightly by what a vast majority of other states agree to and are willing to enforce. This lack of government and inability to bind has generated a debate among legal scholars: if States can do whatever they want, does international law actually exist?

This is the field I want to work in -- a field so discredited in the United States, a major Ivy League university like Penn only has one assistant professor teaching the subject as an elective. Of course, different countries treat international law with varying degrees of respect. In Europe, for example, international law is still regarded as a significant force. Study is mandated, and students memorize the Geneva Conventions, the U.N. Charter and other such sources of international law. The law is taught as if rules lead to the outcome of every case. By contrast, in the United States we determine the politics underlying a case and assume that States will strategically employ international legal rules to reach the politically desirable outcome. Professor Burke-White says that a good international lawyer can figure the law like a European and like an American.

The problem with adhering strictly to legal codes is that sometimes there is no rule leading to an outcome that seems absolutely necessary. And in the absence of a legislature, how else can a set of laws develop except by new activities that eventually become customary practice or are codified into the law?

I encountered an excellent example early this week while I was working on my criminal law outline. I found this material especially useful because it refers specifically to the concerns presented to the International Criminal Court. But before I address the ICC, more background on legality for my non-legal readers:

Background in Criminal Law
In the United States, we employ a criminal code established by the legislature and a set of interpretive rules that almost always favors the defendant. The U.S. justice system would rather let guilty defendants go free than impose penalties on the innocent. It embodies a strong preference for leniency and popular oversight, and as follows:

1. Our laws rely on elected officials to determine what is and is not criminal, because that gives the public voting power over the individuals who make acts criminal. If the populace disagrees with a proposed code, the power of our vote should make legislators responsive to that intuition.

2. The court cannot spontaneously decide that an act is a crime without a prior legislative act criminalizing that activity -- protecting defendants from arbitrary, political, or retributivist criminalization.

3. A defendant must have sufficient notice that his or her act is criminal.

4. The court cannot interpret an ambiguous statute to make an act criminal unless there is strong evidence that such interpretation was intended by the legislature.

Collectively, we call these ideas the "legality principle." It has its advantages and disadvantages. Take this situation for example (taken from Professor Paul Robinson's criminal law book, and based on a true story):

Keeler and his wife Theresa get a divorce. Five months later, Keeler learns that Theresa is eight months pregnant with another man's baby. He stops her on the road one day as she is returning from dropping off their daughters at his house. He helps her out of the car, saying he wants to talk. Then he shows his anger. Yelling "I am going to kick it out of you," Keeler knees his ex in the abdomen, hard. She starts experiencing pain, and goes to the hospital. The fetus has suffered a fractured skull. If it had been born that day, it would have had more than a 75 percent chance of survival.

But Keeler was not prosecuted for murder -- or any other kind of criminal homicide, for that matter. The laws for criminal homicide only forbid the killing of a human being. Neither the Model Penal Code nor the state code include the unborn in their definition of "human being," so Keeler could not be found guilty on those specific charges.

As a result of the legality principle, working with the criminal code is like writing a poem. There's an old Latin saying: nulla crimen sine lege, nulla poena sine lege (no crime without a law, no punishment without a law). Prosecutors have to figure out how to achieve a desired effect within rules that frequently seem to work against their objective. The art lies in taking these rules that could work contrary to your objective, and turning them into advantage.

In Keeler's case, prosecution tried him for assault on the mother and illegal abortion -- a felony offense that earns a punishment as severe as some homicide convictions.

Synthesizing My Homework: The Legality Principle's Relevance in International Law

Warning, Graphic Subject Matter Below

But as I mentioned earlier, international law has no legislature to establish a code. Instead it evolves around concerted State practice. So what happens when a case falls outside traditional definitions and rules, like Keeler's did?

This problem came up in the early prosecution of war crimes. There was no rule, "No person, group of persons, or State shall systematically kill members of a specific race, religion, or social group so as to eliminate that group for a perceived social purpose." There was no rule, "No person, group of persons, or State shall form alliances with political parties which kill members of a specific social group." Imagine, at Nuremberg, having to try a high-ranking member of the Nazi party for direct or complicit involvement in the deaths of hundreds of victims who might not be identifiable, with little direct evidence of the defendant's specific involvement in that case. So the international community defined new crimes and began to prosecute in new ways, contrary to the legality principle.

Justice Robert H. Jackson, Chief of Counsel for the United States in the Prosecution of War Criminals, justified the prosecutions by asserting that "our test of what legally is crime gives recognition to those things which fundamentally outraged the conscience of the American people and brought them finally to the conviction that their own liberty and civilization could not persist in the world with the Nazi power." The problem with that defense is that it imposes the values of one culture on the people of another culture. Who is to say that the accused knew that their acts were criminal, or that they were acting with some sort of blameworthiness? It may be easy to incriminate Adolf Hitler, but what about the Japanese general who is directing his troops as per the orders of his government? Do you hold him accountable for following orders? Is that fair?

This is not equitable, this is victor's justice, the critics say. This is revenge seeking, not law.

Hard to argue. Still, even divorced from emotion there seems to be an intuitive split between what is necessary to war, and what is unnecessary to war. Burning crops so that military forces cannot be fed -- that makes some sense, in its cruelty. Raping a woman with a foreign object. That may have a psychological objective, but it has no direct impact on troops and seems unnecessary.

Professor Burke-White actually encountered the latter case during his work with the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. To strengthen the prosecution, he had to find definitions of rape that included the insertion of foreign objects (as opposed to traditional sexual contact). In a world of vastly different standards governing sexual contact, it wasn't easy. In some societies, punishment might be imposed just for unlawfully touching a woman's hair. In other societies, it might not be unlawful for a man to engage in nonconsensual sexual intercourse with a woman provided he does not cause her lasting physical harm. With so many varied definitions, how do you prove to a judge who may or may not share your cultural standards that what the defendant did is wrong?

The answer, of course, lies in aggregating as much law in your favor as possible: treaties, State practice, learned opinions, legislative histories, custom, etc. You construct the most powerful argument possible, and then you hope the court finds in your favor. I'll tell you what I hope. A thousand years from now, if humankind still exists, I hope we will have worked out a better system. Until then, however, I really have my work cut out for me.

Comments enabled!

2008-03-13T13:01:00.004-04:00

A very dear friend let me know that I had comments restricted to blog members only. They are now open to the public, pending review. Feel free to post anything, from the personal to the professional. I will approve anything appropriate for a mixed professional and family-based audience.

Besides, blogging is good for your health. So says my friend Frank.

The What that we hide

2008-03-12T23:02:00.000-04:00

I just got an e-mail from an old high school classmate. I love social networking web sites; you never have to say goodbye to anyone. Esteban is a Ph.D candidate in anthropology at Berkeley, now. His travel photography is striking. I've posted a link to it in the sidebar to the right; if you have time, the site is worth review.

But the springboard for my next memory is really what Esteban said in his e-mail. I hope he doesn't mind my posting this snippet:

"I took a look at your blog, and it occurred to me that you might be interested in the book You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers. Pretty hilarious book about traveling. I really enjoyed it."

I'll bet it is. I haven't read Eggers in a long time. The only novel of his that I have read in its entirety is A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. It was okay. I liked the first hundred pages or so. After a while it got self-involved and I thought the humor ran dry, but the story still kept me until the end.

Then last Christmas, someone gave my father What is the What. It seemed an appropriate present -- the story of a Sudanese refugee given to a Sudanese refugee. Christmas morning, my father read the first chapter and laughed, laughed, laughed. "You have to read this!" he says. And he is very excited.

After hours of urging, Mom is the first one to realize that Dad needs to share something. So she picks up the novel and starts reading aloud to my brother and me. After A Heartbreaking Work, I assumed Eggers would narrate with his witty cynic's voice. I expected to giggle 'til I cried, the way my father had crowed over those early pages.

Alas, no. The first chapter, the fragment that Dad loves, is the story of a refugee who was robbed and severely beaten by two ignorant African Americans. Maybe other readers see humor like my father does, but to me, hearing the story was just painful. Here is my kinsman, this poor Sudanese immigrant, smacked about by strangers and robbed of basic furnishings donated by his church. Here are my other kinsmen, the African Americans, beating the snot out of a poor man for personal gain. I feel ill on both counts, as if I am the abused and the abuser. And my father, peace be upon him, is still trying to laugh off the pain.

By the time my brother and I figure out that there is no comic reprieve on the horizon, Mom has fully hurled herself into the recital. So we did what we always do. We tuned out. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep on the couch. He lowered his head and pretended to play with some electronic gizmo. If we could have let our actual feelings touch our faces, we both would have been locked in a grimace. But some code of ethics -- I am not sure where it comes from or how we know, but we do -- some unspoken understanding keeps us both stoic. We sit through the pages, until Chapter 1 is over. Mom closes the book. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas to my father's staggering pain.
To my grandfather's pain.
To my grandmother's pain.
To my uncles' pain.
To my cousins' pain.
To Valentino Achak Deng's pain.
Merry Christmas to the country I will never know.
To the Lost Boys and the nameless ones before them.
Merry Christmas to sixty years of suffering.

I don't know. I might try to read another book by David Eggers. He's a perfectly good writer. It's just that right now, I'm not sure I have the heart.

A trip without leaving

2008-03-12T17:08:00.000-04:00

Proud as I was to purchase my little 2-bedroom condo in East Falls, I have found a new home. It is here, on the fifth floor of the Biddle Law Library. It's amazing what you can find on these shelves! International journals in French and English (I have never had so much fun reading in French), comparative policy studies, country-specific journals ... I had to stop myself from squealing when I ran across the Journal of African Law. This could be so helpful for my presentation on land law this May with the Sudan Studies Association!

So I started scouring our database for articles to copy, and almost burst out laughing. One in every five articles written post 1996 is by someone I know. It's a mind trip -- like the time I walked into Barnes & Noble looking for history books on Sudan, and found exactly two titles: one written by John Prendergast (whom I have had the fortune to meet, but do not know well) and one written by Jok Madut Jok (the handsome Dinka I should have married when I had the chance).

Law school makes me feel like an idiot most days, but every once in a while I have to recognize the fact that I might actually know something about the world. And that rare feeling is positively delightful.

Where altruism lies

2008-03-10T13:11:00.000-04:00

I wonder what other people see when they look at international crisis and relief videos like the ones I just posted. Video is effective in disseminating information, and so I include what I believe are better documentaries. But the medium can also foster a certain misconception that makes me uncomfortable; a type of hubris I would very much like to address.

Seeing People
Back in the 1980s, there was a prolific ad campaign requesting aid for for relief efforts in Ethiopia. The country was enduring a severe famine, and these ads portrayed dark toddlers with enormous staring eyes, ribs standing out like trellises above their swollen bellies.

Even as a kid, those ads drove me crazy. Yes, I wanted to share my 50 cent-per-week allowance. But there was something both alienating and dehumanizing about these images. On reflection, I was probably angry that the clips relied on deliberate emotional manipulation to part me from something of value. But more than that, I don't like the way these ads make relief recipients seem less like people and more like ... I don't know. Cows. Mute. Helpless. Needy. Personally ineffective.

These are not the Africans I know, and I have met a range. Scopas Poggo, Jok Madut Jok, Ali B. Dinar, Beniah Yongo-Bure, Lako Tongun, Stanley Einstein Matthews ... and those are just the professors! I'm not counting priests, social workers, entrepreneurs, doctors, or environmentalists. I haven't spoken about those who returned home, the relief workers. I'm not talking about the revolutionaries or the intellectuals who have been imprisoned for trying to make their country a safer place. And I'm not talking about the ordinary people, either; the mothers who work three jobs to send their children to school, the fathers struggling to keep their families housed in a discriminatory environment, the students who are working to put themselves through university ...

When I think about people from east Africa, I do not think about feeble, weak individuals that the world should blindly pity. Many of these people are decently educated by Western standards. Others have no formal training but are sensitive to the environment and to family life in ways that we here in the United States are just starting to learn. These are respectable, emotionally complex, multifaceted individuals who are unfortunately besieged by political conflict; conflict fomented by poorly planned state boundaries and ethnic tension. I am confident that many war victims will make something of their lives regardless of their dire circumstances, with or without foreign assistance.

Perhaps, as the daughter of a successful refugee, I am overly optimistic. But I remember being struck by the amount of laughter at my first Sudanese Studies Association conference last year. Here were northerners and southerners, Muslims and Christians, men and women, emigrants and Sudanese, all sitting together discussing conflict resolution. They might have disagreed with one another about various topics -- sometimes vehemently so -- but they were still able to go dancing together after the talks were over. As one gentleman from Khartoum explained, these troubles are like a block of ice. They will melt away. So we tell ourselves in order to survive.

So to me, any "oh, let me save these poor souls" attitude seems condescending and flatly offensive. A million times better, in my opinion, to think "let me help these people manage their circumstances."

You DO Have an Effect
It is undeniable that many east Africans face enormous social and political obstacles to living in stable environments. But here in the United States, as in many different countries, we can help alleviate those problems without sending troops, or even large sums of money. We can support acknowledgment of political crises on an international level, and that acknowledgement will enable future redress of grievances. We can trade and form alliances with governments who treat their people in accordance with basic international standards of decency, and enforce sanctions on governments that do not. We can open student exchange programs and internships. We can write comparative policy reports and advise capacity building. We can offer microloans, we can send doctors, we can send engineers. We can distribute STD information packets with birth control. We can teach neighbors to host community forums for conflict resolution. Maybe we can even expedite immigration for refugees from countries going through recognized conflict.

On an individual level, we can support intergovernmental and non-governmental organizations like the UNICEF and Human Rights Watch that are already engaging in such activities. We can write to our politicians whenever foreign aid is reduced, or when the United States hasn't acknowledged conflict abroad. We can volunteer for larger organizations, or we can donate directly to institutions abroad. There are second-graders who hold book drives for libraries in other countries. If you've been following all my posts, you saw the video of the boy who lost his water can -- why can't we send water cans? Blankets? Inflatable beds? Tents? Underwear? Shoes?

Okay, I'm emotional. Let me slow down.

The Bigger Picture
My point is, this is not some desperate affair that no one can solve. The mechanisms I mentioned above are helpful because they support stabilization and autonomy; they do not create economic reliance. True, Joseph Kony is not going to walk out of the jungle and lay down his arms because Joe Smith in the United States donated $5 to Amnesty International. But. Giving one bucket to a twelve-year-old boy might save a family of four from dying of thirst. And who knows what that family of four will turn out to be?

Making the point personal again, somebody saved my dad, and now he's a doctor in south-central Los Angeles, fighting his own battle against disease in one of the most impoverished areas of the West Coast. And because he was spared from hunger and violence, my brother was born and is working as an electrical engineer in Santa Monica. And me, I'm studying law in Philadelphia and putting together a human rights clinic for a university in Uganda. Look at the impact, and that was just one little act, just one person saved.

But -- and this is the last bar of soap in the box, I promise -- the reasons for anyone to be interested in foreign affairs is much, much broader than just one personal experience. Even under-developed nations like Sudan have valuable resources. Oil, for example. And in our current energy crisis, how valuable would those resources become if they were effectively managed and marketed across the hemisphere? Not to mention, small nations can be the source of disease such as Ebola, diseases which threaten to become a pandemic if they are not effectively quarantined and treated. And here's another angle: Think about the influence Afghanistan has had on our global political situation over the past ten years. And these are relatively powerless countries. Broaden your thinking to China and macrolending. Think about Russia's oil pipelines and how its control influences the United Nations Security Council and our allies in Europe. Recognize that the Berne Convention has affected intellectual property rights in the United States.

We cannot ignore other countries; not for humanitarian reasons, and not for business reasons. This is the wisdom of small tribes, an entry that I will write another day: For the sake of survival, you cannot ignore your brother. The person you take care of today will save your life tomorrow. The person you angered yesterday will let you die, given the choice.

Those kids whose lips were cut off by soldiers from the Lord's Resistance Army -- we can't afford to discount them. They might seem a world away, but their lives and ours are interconnected. We are all interconnected. And we benefit mutually from helping one another survive.

A boy looks for water

2008-03-10T12:37:00.000-04:00

From Alarm.inc

Video Description
Walking through the camps, the story of this young boy made a personal impact.

Joseph Kony

2008-03-10T11:44:00.000-04:00

From Journeyman Pictures

Video Description
He's Africa's most wanted man. The leader of the feared Lord's Resistance Army. In his first interview for over twenty years, Joseph Kony explains why he's fighting.

"I am a freedom fighter not a terrorist", proclaims Joseph Kony. "We are fighting for total democracy." It's a surprising statement from a man widely believed to be a mad fantasist fighting for God. It's taken nearly a year of negotiations for Kony to agree to this interview. In his jungle hideout in the DRC, he seems relaxed and at ease. He weighs up each question with consideration and is surprisingly articulate. "The LRA has never been involved in any abductions, rapes or mutilations. That's just Museveni's propaganda." Perhaps mindful of his reputation, Kony denies suggestions God told him to fight. He does, however, admit to being guided by "very many spirits." And Vincent Otti, his number two states: "We are fighting to defend the 10 Commandments." It's believed Kony is about to begin peace talks with the Ugandan government. He's been following the case of former Liberian leader Charles Taylor with interest. But Kony himself has no fear of an international tribunal. As the VP of South Sudan states: "If we can bring about a peaceful settlement, the legal process can be done later."

Gulu

2008-03-10T11:08:00.000-04:00

From Ned.com

Video Description
Working through the many issues in Gulu, Uganda, caused by 20 years of war and the ongoing ravages of extreme poverty and global indifference.

Ned.com is a global, all-volunteer, member-governed, online social network (in combination with real-world locations) that is made up of social entrepreneurs, activists, artists, social purpose enterprises, grassroots nonprofit, non-governmental, and community-based organizations, and is collaborating and taking action locally, nationally & globally, in order to make the world a better place.

The problem with passports, end of a trilogy

2008-03-10T01:45:00.000-04:00

Have you ever seen "Along Came Polly"? Horrible movie, but there's a certain truth to the lead female character. She likes to dance, she likes spicy food, she's willing to give up extraneous comforts to live a simple, vibrant life. But the woman is a complete mess. She can't keep track of anything; don't EVER ask her to manage a practical task like finding her keys.

That's a lot like me. Tonight was the quintessential example. I was ready to go to bed around 11 p.m. It's spring break, and I'm still recovering from too many sleepless nights with my first appellate brief. Sleep is the most delicious thing in the world, right now.

Only problem is, I couldn't find the remote control for my overhead lights. The switch on my wall only controls a small table lamp. There's only one way to control the Hampton Bay lighted ceiling fan in my bedroom, and that is with the remote. Usually I keep it in bed with me so I can finish typing or studying, then just hit the switch and pass out. So today when the remote wasn't in my bed, I was mildly annoyed. What could I possibly have done with it?

I had just changed the sheets on my bed that afternoon, so I thought maybe the remote had fallen under the mattress. Nope. I stripped the bed, too, to see if I'd covered it over. No way. Checked under my desk, folded all the clean laundry on my computer chair, sorted all the dirty laundry on the floor (writing a paper means my life is a mess for a while), still no remote. By this point, I feel like I'm crawling beneath a desert sun. The light won't go off, and all I want is sleep!

So I sort a bunch of stray paperwork, take out the trash, clear the dishes in the bedroom ... it's a stretch to think the remote might be under my dinner plate, but you never know. I even move the bookshelf and my dresser drawers. No luck. I check Ozzie's dog bed. Lord knows my beagle has done odd things before. There was that one day I found my glasses under his pillow. He had chewed off the plastic earpieces and "buried" it for future playtime. But on this particular occasion, the munchkinhead was totally innocent. No light switch in his bed.

By 1:30 a.m. I have become completely desperate and loopy. I start going through old boxes of paperwork, including boxes I haven't opened since I lived in Center City more than two years ago. And naturally the remote control wasn't there -- it was sitting on my desk in plain sight, but you know what?

I found my passport.

In at the Ugandan Coalition

2008-03-06T10:46:00.000-05:00

Dear Maisha,

The UCICC team has considered your application for internship starting June 1 2008, for 10 weeks. I am glad to inform you that it has been accepted. Terms of reference and all the necessary detail will be sent to you by the end of May. Looking forward to receiving you at UCICC.

Rgds.

Rose

*********************
Rose Nakayi
Project Coordinator
Uganda Coalition for the International Criminal Court (UCICC)
C/o: Human Rights Network-Uganda

The problem with passports, part deux

2008-03-04T16:25:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I was holed up on the sofa, staring at my blank appellate brief. For some reason I have an enormous amount of anxiety about this particular assignment. It should be easy -- even pleasant. Heck, it's about dog toys. But I am mind-numbingly tired right now, and I just can't seem to focus.

So I'm sitting on this couch in pajamas, pushing my beagle off me, trying to type a word or two between mental blocks, when roommate #2, Darien, walks into the living room.

"You have a package, and it looks kind of important," Darien says, and he hands me a thin priority envelope like a waiter serving a fine dish.

We both guess what it is. Darien thinks that he has just given me my new passport. As a dual citizen from Japan, big D knows how important it is to get out of the country now and again. As he sees it, he's handing me my freedom.

Unfortunately, Darien is only partially right. After the call last week, I know that the government has not magically changed its mind about issuing me a passport book. I smile my cranky little smile, and rip open the envelop.

Yep. There it is. The passport application that I hadn't even canceled yet.

Here we go, again ...

The problem with passports

2008-03-03T11:07:00.001-05:00

Let's just say, it's a good thing I started early.

I don't travel much. The last time I was out of the country was February of 2002. It's strange, I'll admit, for someone who is interested in international work. I haven't been to Asia or Africa or even South America; I have to catch up with my peers.

Anyway, I don't want logistical trouble getting to Kampala this summer, so I have been trying to expedite my passport renewal. From the start, I figured I'd spend a day in a federal building somewhere, trying to get my passport updated. The only problem is, you can't make an appointment to get your passport renewed unless you a) only have 14 days before your trip, b) have somehow lost your old passport, or c) only have 14 days before you need to apply for a visa.

I didn't clearly fit into any of those categories. I'm not leaving the country until June; I thought I had my most recent passport; and I don't have a clear 14-day visa deadline. I just want to apply soon because I have no idea how long it will take the government of Uganda to respond. So I (foolish rookie!) called passport services to arrange a personal appointment but was shunted off the phone by a cranky government employee. The conversation went something like this:

ME: Hi, I'd like to make an appoin...

PASSPORT LADY: Are you leaving in fourteen days?

ME: No, b...

PASSPORT LADY: Then don't call!

ME: Wait! I need a valid passport to apply for a visa, and I don't know how long the visa processing time will take, s...

PASSPORT LADY: Well, you have to send an application in by mail with form DS-11.

ME: Actually, I already have a pas...

PASSPORT LADY: Well then why are you trying to make an appointment?

ME: ...sport, I'm just trying to get my passport renewed before my life gets busy in a few weeks, so I have time to apply for a visa.

PASSPORT LADY: Well then you have to mail in a DS-82, which you can find on our web site.

ME: Yes, but I would like to do this quickly. Is it even possible to make an appointment?

PASSPORT LADY: You might be able to make an appointment; are you applying for a passport for the first time?

ME: Ma'am, please listen to me. I would like to renew my passport in time to apply for a visa.

PASSPORT LADY: Where are you going? You can just get a visa at the airport.

ME: I would rather not fly across the world without assurance that I will actually be granted a visa, thank you.

PASSPORT LADY: Where are you going?

ME: (sigh) Entebbe airport in Uganda.

PASSPORT LADY: You can apply for a visa at that airport.

ME: Yes, I am aware that I can apply for a visa at Entebbe airport. However, I have assisted friends in obtaining visas before, and I know that, on occasion, the process gets complicated and takes a while. I would just ...

PASSPORT LADY: Mail in a DS-82.

ME: (giving up) Okay, but can you answer some questions for me about expediting mail renewal?

PASSPORT LADY: When are you leaving?

ME: I just want a basic answer.

PASSPORT LADY: When are you leaving?

ME: June.

PASSPORT LADY: You don't have to expedite your passport.

ME: Look, I am a very busy person and I just want to make sure I start this process earl...

PASSPORT LADY: You don't have to expedite your passport.

ME: ... (hanging up the phone)

Thank you, government employee. I couldn't even find out whether to write separate checks for passport renewal and expedited service, or whether to put it on the same check. But I wasn't going to fight with the woman any longer. I wrote my check, made my best guess, and mailed the darn DS-82 to National Passport Services.

Last week, I got a phone call. The passport center can't process my passport renewal. Supposedly, I renewed my passport in 2001 (I don't remember doing this, but it makes sense, since that was the last time I traveled abroad), and until I can find that passport and mail it in, the government won't issue me a new book.

Now, I have no idea where that passport is. I don't even remember applying for the renewal. So I have to cancel my expedited renewal service (there goes $75) and apply again (for $135) in person (read, WITH AN APPOINTMENT) at a federal building or a post office.

In other words, if I'd gotten that appointment the first time around, this wouldn't be happening.

In other words, I've spent almost two weeks running around in circles for nothing.

In other words, I'm really glad I tried to renew my passport early.

And this isn't even the government of Uganda that I'm dealing with, yet.

Celebrity crush

2008-03-03T10:16:00.000-05:00

I've been working on syllabi for the Centre for Conflict Management and Peace Studies in Gulu. The two classes I am designing are, respectively, press freedom and political speech, and refugees and internally displaced persons. It's been a lot of fun working on these projects, in part because I can include cross-disciplinary material from whatever source I like. So I've been throwing together essays and poetry, sociology reports and surveys, legal cases and legislation.

One of the project perks is writing to professors for help. Just this morning I got in contact with Guy S. Goodwin-Gill, distinguished scholar and professor of law at Oxford University. Professor Goodwin-Gill literally wrote the book on international refugee law, so I am very excited to have his input on my project. Might as well say I ran into Brad Pitt -- that's how giddy I am about corresponding with this man. He was extremely helpful, too; gave me a syllabus to use as a reference for my refugee class and a whole list of links to different source material.

I've also been in touch with professors from Harvard, USC, Tufts ... it's a lot of fun. I hope I get to study with these people some day. Human rights and public international law at the University of Pennsylvania is still somewhat limited, and while I love Professor Burke-White, I do wish more faculty taught courses in the field. Academics have a wide range of perspectives, and I worry how narrow my education might be, coming largely from one man.

In part, that's why I'm so adamant about doing additional research. Every article I read, every chapter of a book is the voice of another intellectual. And while my extracurricular independent studies cannot go into the same depth as our regular coursework, at least I am building some foundation in topics that I hope to work with in the future. At minimum, I know what sources to check for research, and what fact patterns to watch for in practice. Meeting folks like Sarah Paoletti and Adam Kolker, and writing to people like Eric Werker and John Prendergast -- that is the kind of networking I enjoy. I'm so lucky to have this opportunity!

Okay, I have to get back to writing my appellate brief, but I wanted to leave you with this editorial from the New York Times:

Africa's Next Slaughter

Update on my application with the Ugandan Coalition for the International Criminal Court

2008-03-03T10:11:00.000-05:00

Dear Alison,

Greetings from UCICC. Thank you for your e-mail and for finding us an intern.

I am going to support the application before the team at UCICC and will inform you of the decision taken by in the coming week.

Kind regards to all your colleagues

On 27/02/2008, Alison I. Stein wrote:

Dear Onyango John Francis,

I hope this email finds you well. It was wonderful meeting you in Kampala in January. The meeting was quite helpful for our research.

You had expressed interest to us in having an American law student come to Kamapla to work with you for the summer. We have been thinking about the right candidate since we returned, and I am very pleased to introduce you to Maisha Elonai. Maisha has done research and worked on the issues in Northern Uganda and on issues relating to the ICC. Her family is from Southern Sudan and so the region means a lot to her. She would be a fabulous asset for the UCICC, and has great interest in working with you this summer. Further, she has funding that would allow her to do so.

I have attached her resume and cover letter. Please be in touch with her directly regarding planning and logistics. And please feel free to contact me with any questions.

All the best,

Alison Stein

Alison Stein
University of Pennsylvania Law School
Class of 2009

Introductions

2008-02-27T17:55:00.001-05:00

Hello Fabius,
I hope this email finds you well. I am very pleased to introduce you to Maisha Elonia, the University of Pennsylvania Law Student candidate we would like to send to Gulu to work with you this summer.

Maisha is very bright and committed to the issues in Northern Uganda. Interestingly, her family is from South Sudan, and so these issues mean very much to her.

Attached is her resume and cover letter. Please be in touch with her directly about logistics for the summer--the sooner the better as she will need to arrange and raise money for her travel. Her intention is to spend half the summer with you and the other half with an NGO in Kampala.

All the best, Alison

ps. The curriculum is coming together quite nicely.

Alison Stein
University of Pennsylvania Law School
Class of 2009

Maisha Elonai
[Address ommitted for privacy reasons]

Mr. Fabius Okumu
Centre for Conflict Management and Peace Studies
Gulu University
P.O. Box 166
Gulu-Uganda

February 17, 2008

Dear Mr. Okumu,

It is a joy and a deep honor to finally write to you in person. My name is Maisha Elonai. I am a first-year law student at the University of Pennsylvania working with Professor Burke-White and Alison Stein on our Uganda Committee. I would like to formally request the opportunity to visit Gulu University this summer in order to further assist with curriculum development.

My interest in international law and human rights work has personal roots. My father was forced to flee his home in southern Sudan as a young man, and since then recurring conflict has devastated our remaining family. Anything I can do to help others seek true, lasting peace would be more than educational to me – it would give meaning to my family’s survival. I hope both to learn from you and to do work that will ultimately benefit the students of Uganda.

I offer the Centre my developing understanding of law, any assistance that you request on topical research and curriculum development, and my professional ability in journalism and graphic design. I am prepared to stay in Uganda for ten weeks this summer beginning around June 1, and I hope to split my time between Gulu University and the Ugandan Coalition for the International Criminal Court.

Attached is my résumé so that you may review my professional and academic history. Please feel free to contact me at any time. I am most readily available by e-mail, but I can also be reached by telephone or by mail at the address listed above.

I look forward to speaking with you soon.

Sincerely,
Maisha Elonai

Dear Alison,

Thanks for the information.

Unfortunately I cant open the attachments due to unforeseen technical problems
at the internet cafe.

I hope to open from our office since our internet failure is being rectified.
But we highly welcome her to our University.

Warm Regards.
Fabius.

Exodus

2008-02-21T04:27:00.000-05:00

I am undeniably a United States citizen. Sometimes my father looks at me, and shakes his head. "How did you get so American?" he'll ask.

Sorry, Dad. You kind of made me here.

I was always aware of Sudan and this separate, foreign background, but my life is many other things.

The Gratuitous Autobiography

My first memory is going to the supermarket and getting a bag of gumdrops from the clerk. I wonder if she still remembers that, too. When I was a little girl, I used to pick up Eucalyptus leaves in our back yard in San Pedro and put them into a soda bottle to collect the smell. Eucalyptus is still one of my favorite scents, actually. I grew up wanting a dog, but for the longest time our family wouldn't get one. Dad wanted to save the money we'd be spending on food and veterinary care to send to our family in Sudan. You really can't oppose that, but the smaller pets we did wind up adopting -- mostly lizards -- just weren't the same. Finally, during my senior year in high school, Mom fell in love with a little golden Boxer puppy at a pet store, and that turned out to be the ultimate breaking point. Her Royal Highness the Princess Titania is a Labrador / Boxer mix, and she absolutely rules our family. Won't drink unless you turn on a water faucet for her. Won't sleep unless you tuck her into bed. But she has been enormously loyal and a fantastic playmate, and I think Tania is the prettiest thing on four paws.

What else should you know about me? In high school, I was a model student. On the varsity swim team, in the drama club, lots of volunteer work with the Methodist church across the street, straight As. I wound up going to UCLA where I discovered nightclubs, the Santa Monica pier, and (oh yeah) academics. My four best friends were a poet, a doctor, a dancer, and a 6'2" gay man who might have been a lion wearing human skin. I was pretty happy, then.

After college I went into journalism, as mentioned in my first post. Life as a copy editor and page designer mostly consists of sleeping until noon, schlumping in to work, working until midnight, gorging on In-N-Out cheeseburgers, and playing video games until oblivion's embrace at 4 a.m. In Philadelphia everything is roughly the same, except that there is no In-N-Out, and you neglect to go to jazz clubs instead of neglecting to go to the beach.

I've never been good with relationships. I have a beagle and a condo. I think about things like book sales, or movie times. At my weight, the American Heart Association says I will die of cardiac arrest before I turn 75. I am relatively content with all of the above.

Open My Eyes

But there is always this extenuating factor in my life; always this memory of my father. I remember how hard he cried when we found out that Grandmother had passed away. I remember how, when my uncle died, dad stayed perfectly composed but lost most of his hair within a matter of weeks. I remember his stories about the barking lion, and the hippo that he once accidentally stepped on when he was crossing a river. And I want to fix things for him, want to go to Omar al-Bashir and work out some sustainable development plan that will unite and pacify the people of Sudan, will lead everyone to health and prosperity, or peaceable secession, or whatever is necessary to end the conflict that has now spanned generations.

Studying law might just give me the opportunity to indulge that fantasy -- at least in part. This semester I am taking a class in public international law, and after only four weeks I can already see direct, practical applications for our readings on self determination, the weight of regional custom, rights of indigenous peoples, and international systems of justice. What is more, my angel of an adviser has arranged for me to go to Uganda where I will be working with the country's coalition for the International Criminal Court, and then traveling north to a large refugee town called Gulu, where I will help a university implement a curriculum that a group of Penn students and I have designed.

It isn't Sudan, but it's darn close and much more manageable. Uganda borders the south of Sudan, and in fact some tribes in the southern periphery split across the border. The northern region of Uganda has been torn by civil conflict of its own for approximately twenty years, largely along ethnic lines. Before she was removed from editorial writing, my friend Carolyn wrote a truly fantastic series in the Philadelphia Inquirer that gives a simple explanation of the situation; you can read it here. To give a brief description, though, imagine thousands dead, more than a million displaced from their homes, children forced into slavery as soldiers and prostitutes, graphic acts of violence like amputating lips, and collapsing public infrastructure. I will write more about Uganda's situation soon, but at the moment I am rushing so I can get back to my homework.

The country is ripe for sociopolitical change. Not that I would have any particular influence, but I hope that working with the Coalition for the International Criminal Court will ultimately help to relieve municipal affairs. I've had a lot of fears about going to Africa -- malaria, land mines, isolation -- but the work, and my father, and the hope for any little change at all makes any other concern insignificant.

Still, you should have heard the call when I told Dad that I was going to Uganda:

"You're going alone?"

"Um, yeah. I mean, you could come visit."

"This is Africa. You know they have bugs in Africa, right?"

"... Yes, Daddy."

I love my father. He is the sweetest man alive. Always taking care of me. (And by "taking care" I mean "teasing.")

The preparations have already begun. I have to renew my passport, I have to get a visa. That is an adventure all by itself; I will describe that comedy later, too.

Some Girls Buy Shoes

Yesterday I went to Student Health Services and blew $260 on the six required immunizations that I didn't already have. Meningitis, polio, flu, yellow fever, Hepatitis A, typhoid ... Both arms are throbbing up and down; and yes, I do feel like a pincushion. An expensive pincushion. I'm still trying to decide whether or not to get the rabies vaccine; that's another $500+, and not something I can really afford on a student budget -- although I suppose I could apply for another loan. Oh well. I'll figure that out, later.

I also had a lovely discussion with the travel consultant about malaria pills, prices, and effects they might have on me in particular with my quirky history of clinical anxiety and depression. I have my prescription for multiple courses of antibiotics, too. Just call me a walking chemical treatment.

I worry about leaving my dog with Mom and Dad; I worry that the little guy will be depressed. I worry about money -- Lord knows I don't have enough to do this; I'm going to drop another $135 to expedite my passport renewal, and then I have to pay for the visa. The university granted me a fellowship, but that only covers $4,500, and I've already spent close to $500 of that without even buying a plane ticket.

But you know, I can't wait. This was meant to happen. I will study criminal law and human rights; two of my favorite subjects at school thus far. And what a setting! Who knows what I will see and explore. Who knows who I will meet. I can't wait to explore Kampala, and I hope to make friends for life in Gulu.

But I won't do any of that well if I can't concentrate on my homework. Sigh. I guess I'd better get back to it.