Retrospective post #2

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!

Basket cases and other anecdotes

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.

Hubris of the self-righteous

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 ...

Happiness

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!

One thing is certain

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.

1/3 way there

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.

Shaking off academia

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

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.

The What that we hide

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

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.