It's So Hard to Say Goodbye

To quote Boyz II Men, it is SO hard to say goodbye. These here are the very last moments I will be in Uganda until...next year? The past few days have been a crazy whirlwind of fun times and sad lasts. In the last week I have shelled g-nuts for odi (peanut butter), I have had a sleepover with 14 DMP kids where I slept on a mat in our office, I have recorded an 80s revival Chistmas song in an actual music studio in Uganda, and have otherwise tried to enjoy every moment I still have.

I kept trying to kid myself that I would not cry, but who am I kidding? I'm a big softie.

I will write a wrap up blog soon. Next time you hear from me I will be own your side of the world again. Until then, but maber and apowyo matek!

Some fun times

Things have been going really well here lately. I have been spending most of my days playing with Brian and Sue who recently came up with a song whose lyrics consist only of “Madisson, Madisson, Diana, Diana.” I have been eating lots of chapatti, drinking some Nile beer, and doing my best to take everything in before this is over and I’m sitting in the States waxing nostalgic. Thursday I made a small child scream bloody murder simply by existing. She was wearing a bright orange dress and looked so adorable that I thought I would greet her. As soon as she saw me there was loud frightened crying and a look on my face that said, “What did I do?” Monica called from a distance, “She fears your color!” Whoops!

Anyway, I figured I would continue the ramblings of my Rwanda vacation. Not all of my time in the country was as serious and momentous as my last entry might suggest. For most of the time, we simply had a lot of fun. We got into Kigali late at night, without a hotel in mind and without a basic knowledge of the languages spoken (Rwandan or French!). This was the way most of our trip would go, without a plan. At first I worried about our lack of planning but the impromptu nature of our vacation allowed us to adventure and rely heavily on the kindness of strangers. So it happen when we first arrived. Cramped into a overloaded taxi van, I found myself practically hugging a nice young man with a video phone watching scandalous music videos. In a crazy twist of fate the man spoke a little English. I asked him if he knew a hotel we could stay and he not only recommended one but also found us a private car to take us there and ensured that we did not get overcharged. Oh thank you taxi man! You have no idea how much you helped us and how much we truly appreciated your kindness. We got to the Hilltop Hotel and randomly met the manager of the place. He gave us a ton of information about where to go and things to see.

The next day we explored Kigali, went to the Memorial Center, and checked out the office of tourism. They told us there about some places we could go to camp and hike which we decided to do the next day. For lunch we went to a place called Bourbon Coffee. It was a cuter, less corporate Starbucks with a full food menu. We sat outside, which gave us an incredible view of Kigali, and ordered some delicious American style food. I had a vegetable sandwich (with cheese!) and French fries. Between the five of us we also consumed a full bottle of Heinz tasty, wonderful, perfect ketchup. Fabulous. Late into the day we went to the supermarket to buy food and water for our next day’s camping adventure in Nyungwe Forest, my very first camping experience ever.

Aftet a long bus ride through practically the whole country (it’s true, Rwanda is small) we arrived at the national park. We were greeted by a hiking guide and some primates as well. It was getting late by the time we got there so we rented our tents and set up camp. The night was one of excited firsts: first time pitching a tent, first time starting a campfire, first time peeing in the forest. It was all very thrilling. The rest of the night was spent around the campfire chatting, telling secrets, and wishing for marshmallows. We met some guys who had been spending their summer exploring the continent. We spent a good time exchanging stories about African transportation (broke down taxis, puking children, cramped spaces, etc.). After a while, we got into our tents and sleeping bags and spent our night in the hills of Rwanda.

In the morning we awoke early and started on our hike. Rwanda is known as the land of a thousand hills and I am proud to say that I successfully hiked one of them. We found out that to hike in the forest we would each have to pay 30 US dollars. LAME. We thought we might be able to get around it by going without a guide. So we followed the signs for the green trail, which we knew was easy. It was gorgeous scenery with beautiful views of the Rwandan hills. We walked into some waterfalls and saw a pretty interesting caterpillar. Some how and without our knowing it, we traveled off our easy green path and stumbled upon what we would later know as the difficult red path. We figured we would continue on our path hoping for that trail’s end. However, when we did not find it after an hour and a half, we decided to turn around and go back. What was once a relaxing simple downhill trek became a strenuous uphill battle with nature. I soon grew exhausted and every group of steep wooden steps felt like another mountain. We finally, breathless and thirsty, made it back to reception where we were promptly and kindly asked to pay our 30 dollar hiking fee. Ho-hum.

From camping, we went back to Kigali where we spent one more night before heading back to Uganda. We were leaving Rwanda a day early to go white water rafter on THE NILE RIVER. I will admit I was feeling mildly (okay, terribly) nervous about the venture as I had never been rafting before and am not the most expert of swimmers. I figured though that the company would not let me go if they thought I might die trying. Right? So we went ahead. We got on a bus early in the morning and after watching a few people bungee jump, we got ready to raft. We were told to get into groups of 9, find life jackets, a helmet, and a guide and we would head to the boats. We did just that and found Greg, a mildly (okay, terribly) attractive white South African with a lack of propriety and a love of flipping rafts. We got into the rafts and learned the basics of rafting. We talked about safety and what to do in sticky situations like being flipped or trapped under the boat (Hold on to the boat, it’s a big life preserver. Get under the boat, find the air pocket, breathe, get out). With all of that talked about Greg flipped us over for practice and we all got back into the boat heading for some sweet rapids.

The morning rapids were supposed to be the tamest, preparing us for an afternoon of grade five rapids. However it was in these that Greg took the liberty of flipping us over. I held on for my life but went under the boat. I did just as I was supposed to except for perhaps a little extra panic than was necessary. The most important thing they told us was not to panic but it just is so hard not to when you are not sure where you will find your next breath of air. Even though it was death defying, being swallowed by waves was completely exhilarating. The day continued on just like the morning, full of rapids, flips and verbal abuse (PADDLE! HARD FORWARD! PADDLE! COME ON!) from Greg. At one point, I was thrown so far from the boat after it flipped that a friendly kayaker had to take me aboard and bring me back to the boat. For the last rapid of the day, we had to climb out of the boat because between where we were and where we were going was a huge group of rapids grade 6 and 7 that are only for the most extreme, skilled kayakers and rafter. It was terrifying to see those rapids up close and know that one wrong move and we could have been in them. Eep! The last rapid is called “The Bad Place” and Greg told us that he had a bad feeling about us going there that day. Instead he opted for the “chicken line” which was not dangerous but still gave us some waves. We got through and had a short bit of paddling to the other side of the river where our belongings and free drinks were waiting. As we paddled, I heard a hissing noise of sorts and when I inquired about it, learned that it was a leak in the raft! Ah, I felt pretty happy to skip “The Bad Place” after I heard that one.

After the rafting, everyone drank and talked and hung out until it was time to get back on the bus heading to Kampala. We had met a woman from Michigan on our boat named Kerry and we chatted with her. She is in Uganda working on a public health proposal for HIV/AIDS education and her company put her up in a really fancy hotel for her time in the country. She invited us over for breakfast and hot showers, partially out of kindness and a little out of pity. We parted ways and went to the travel hostel we got a discount for by rafting.

In the morning I did that which I never thought I would. I took a boda boda in the capital city of Kampala. It was so busy and the driver zipped in and around cars rather dangerously. I was so happy to have survived when we finally reached Kerry’s hotel. We got to her room, which was nicer than any I have ever stayed in in the States. She ordered us room service and trusted us in her room as she went to meetings. We took hot glorious showers and slept in a king size bed with a padded headboard and we watched hours on end of awful movies (Fantastic Four, Herbie Fully Loaded). It was an unexpected wonderful way to finish off our vacation, in the lap of luxury surrounded by American movies and excess.

14 Years

So we are back from our week and a half vacation and there is so very much to update you all about. I spent my Independence Day in a small village IDP camp and spent that weekend going to Acholi masses, dancing with the local women, singing with children, and eating lots and lots of food. My time in Pajule was some of the best I have spent since I have been in Uganda. I want to write much about it but I want to do it justice and right now the events of my Rwandan vacation are at the forefront of my mind. So I shall start there and tell some stories from Rwanda.


While I was in Rwanda, the main thing I wanted to do was visit some of the memorial sites from the country’s 1994 genocide. Perhaps this sounds morbid, and not too exciting a way to spend a vacation from my humanitarian work in Uganda. I will admit though, the genocide is one of the few things that I know about Rwanda, and its story intrigues me greatly. Most of what I knew came from scattered reading and a compelling movie starring Don Cheadle, so coming to the country was a chance to understand better just what happened.

When we arrived in the capital city of Kigali, one of the first places we went was the Kigali Memorial Center. The building is situated on the top of a big hill, with an amazing view of the city below. Part museum, part memorial site, the center is dedicated to telling the story of the 1994 genocide and remembering its victims. The inside begins with an incredible exhibit explaining Rwanda before the genocide, telling the story of colonization and racial division between the Hutu and the Tutsis created by the European powers as a means of social classification. It explains the events leading up to the genocide including the killing of the Hutu president, which brought the country into great upheaval and chaos.

The exhibit continues with Rwanda during the genocide. It gives the history of what happened, personal accounts from survivors, photos and stories from the mass killing sites including a church where 10,000 were killed and a church/school where 20,000 were killed. They talked about the horrific ways in which people were killed, how rape was used as a weapon, and how so many children were left without parents. It was all so much to take in, so much to think about.

Through the hall, the story continued about the end of the genocide and told stories of the western world that did little to help the situation and in fact evacuated all aid workers, whose presence could have helped to end the war. Stories of survivors and those who helped them escaped were particularly compelling. One woman was known for her spirits and told would be killers to stay away from her home or the spirits would get them. They ran away in fear and she continued to hide a number of innocent Tutsis in her home.

The hall of information led to a big circular room. On the entire surrounding wall were pictures hung on wire with metal clips. Hundreds of pictures showed the faces of victims, all put there by surviving family. Seeing all of these faces made it all seem so real, this man stuffing his face with food or this woman with the hilarious hair. These are the people who were killed from no reason, thrown into latrines, shot and left for dead, raped by known HIV+ men. It is one thing to hear the stories but to see the faces just brought it all so close.

Just when I felt like I saw more than I could bear I walked into a quiet, empty room with class cases lining the wall. I walked up to get a closer look at the contents of the cases and was confronted with the skulls and bones of the unknown victims of the genocide. The fact that they were there nameless spoke loudly of the anonymous and indiscriminate way in which they were killed. Seeing those pictures and moving next to a pile of bones really hit me hard. In the last case I noticed some smaller skills. Though I am not sure, I thought they might be of children and the thought of it really brought me to an awful place.

When I left this room, I continued on to one that held the clothes worn by victims, including kid pajamas and a Superman sheet. A video played with survivors talking about their lives now. It was hard to think about these people, so affected by the genocide, so much taken away from them. And they must simply try to move on and live because they were the ones lucky enough to do so.

I finished on the main floor and went up to the extended exhibit upstairs. There I saw that which brought out a lot of the sadness I had tried to suppress downstairs. This wing of the exhibit was a special memorial for the children killed. Big posters with the most recent picture of the child told the “vital stats” of the children: name, age at time of death, favorite food, favorite drink, personality. I would read the first few stats chuckling about someone’s love of Lemon Citron or beans and rice or gregarious personality and then I would get to the last two lines. Last words: Mom, when do we run? Cause of death: Hacked by machete; Cause of death: Thrown against a wall; Cause of death: Shot in the back; Last words: The UNAIR will help us; Cause of death: Grenade explosion; Cause of death: Torture wounds.

In that room, I actually released some of the sadness I was holding onto since I entered the building. I shed a few tears but I think the biggest part of me didn’t feel I should. There was just so much there, so much sorrow that I tried not to think about it because if I did, it might just debilitate me. At the time of the genocide I was 7 years old. These children are me. These children are my brothers and my cousins. To think that as I was in my home protected, safe, and in the company of a loving family, Hubert sat scared unsure of whether he would live or die, hoping badly that someone would help him.

When I finished in this room, I walked down a long hallway filled with pictures just as the one I saw downstairs, this time the photos were of children. I left the building and headed outside to the memorial gardens and mass graves. When we passed, I saw this huge group of tourists, mzungus most of whom I thought were Americans. Seeing all of them there really made me think hard about why they were there, why I was there. I think that the whole time that I was there, I felt guilty being there, being a tourist to another person’s hell, death, misery. Who am I to see the skulls of those who died? Am I deriving some sick twisted pleasure in witnessing another person’s agony? I felt guilty, as though I should not be there, should not be taking a picture, should not be there. I don’t know why I felt this way, but it was strong and relentless. I struggled with myself, justifying that I needed to see it. I need to see what can happen when people ignore problems, seeing them as “tribal fighting” or “ethnic tensions”. I need to see it because I need to feel the reality of a situation I had only before read about or seen a movie version of. I had see it because it strengthened my resolve to help where others turn their backs, and to educate the youth in America to do the same. I had to see it because looking at the sorrow does not bring me sick pleasure but saddens me and inspires me to work to ensure it does not happen again.

When we left the Memorial Center, I was feeling very overwhelmed and introspective. I was shut down, didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to hear anyone share their thoughts or ask me mine. I was silent. Then as we were walking up to the hill to find a taxi, this little boy carrying a jerry can full of water was standing right next to me, looking at me with a smile on his face. We were walking pretty fast and he was keeping pace, his mother a few feet behind him. Unfortunately I did not know the greetings in the Rwandan language and so I could not even speak to him. I relied instead on faces. I smiled at him and made silly faces and waved at him and his mother all of which were reciprocated. We soon found a taxi, parting ways with the small boy but this moment shared with the child really meant a lot to me. After all of the sadness of the memorial, here was this little boy living life, happy, walking down the road amazed at the site of a mzungu. In that moment the hurt and the conflict I was feeling very much washed away and was replaced with joy, energy, and silliness.


As we made our way back to Kigali for lunch, I was confronted with one thought over and over again. 14 years. The genocide occurred in 1994, a mere 14 years ago. 14 years and the city was a wasteland. 14 years later and the city is gorgeous, nicely developed with paved roads and much business. It is pretty, modern, and peaceful. 14 years to forget the pain of the past. 14 years to rebuild.



My time in Kigali was not the only moment the genocide showed itself to me while I was in Rwanda. On a return bus ride from the Nyugwe Forest, I sat next to a kind man with his own story to share. The bus was not particularly crowded and I looked forward to a nap after a long hike in the hills. However, the roads were curvy and it was nearly impossible to fall asleep. To keep myself entertained for the remainder of the ride, I began chatting with the man sitting next to me. He worked in the prosecution office in the district of the park, though I was not sure if he was a lawyer or not. He told me that his family lives in Kigali so he was on his way for a visit. We made idle chitchat about the best national parks in Rwanda, but soon the conversation took a more serious turn.

I asked if he had ever traveled outside of Rwanda before and he, perhaps confused, asked if I meant during the genocide. I hadn’t meant that so we talked about general travels, but since he brought it up, I figured it was okay to inquire further. I asked if he had been in the country during the genocide and he said yes. I clumsily asked, “What was that like?” As though answering an overly curious child he said, “There is nothing I can say to you to express what it was like.” He went on to tell me that his family was over one hundred before the genocide and afterward they were only about twenty. His sisters and father were all killed. He told me the story of when his father was taken. He was 14 then and twice before the army had come to the house searching for them. Both times prior, they had hid behind something and were not found. This time though, his father was tired of hiding and would not any longer. When they came to the house, they took his father. He did not know what came of his dad until about a year later when they found his body where it had been left after he was killed. My new friend told me this story so openly and honestly and so very matter of fact. Though telling a tale wrought with grief, he did not cry. He was calm and stern. Again I was brought back to the thought of 14 years. 14 years a scared teenage sat trembling behind a cupboard while his father faced his destiny. 14 years later and that boy is a serious man of the law, prosecuting and working for justice.

My friend tells me that he wants to write a book about his experiences. I tell him that he really should, that many people would be interested in reading it. I ask him if he has thought about a title of the book yet. He tells me, “I have been thinking about it a little bit. I think I might call it, ‘My Life in a Genocide.’”

The Children

A note to my readers: Hello everyone! This update will be the last one for a while as my Dwon Madiki coworkers and I are travelling to Rwanda and will be spending a week there. We will be touring the country on motorbikes, hiking on volcanoes, and exploring some of the country's genocide sites. I shall update again when I return with many stories from Rwanda.

P.S. Before I left, I interviewed with the Dearborn Press and Guide, the paper in my hometown. They wrote a really lovely article about what I am doing here in Uganda. If you would like to read it, it can be found online at: http://www.pressandguide.com/stories/070208/loc_20080702006.shtml

I have reached the halfway point of my trip here in Uganda. Less than a month remains until I leave here for home and the start my life in “the real world” with apartment hunting, job interviews, and responsibilities. As the days bring me closer to my journey’s end, I find myself trying to hold on to everything, knowing that soon this whole experience will feel like some distant and beautiful dream. I have been spending my days at the office in the back of the compound playing with the neighborhood children. They are the ones who continuously fill my heart with joy, and the ones who inspire me to continue working with Dwon Madiki. I thought I would take the time now to tell you a little about them

(This group shot was taken by Brenda. Diana is on the far left and Sue next to her.)
Brenda
I have written about Brenda before and the first video I posted before my trip even began was of her singing to us. In a way I felt like I knew her before I even arrived. Brenda is one of the DMP children who I know the best. She is frequently around the office, always doing work and helping out. The day I learned to cook cabbage, she made g-nut paste, started the fire, and helped us sift through the rice for stones. When she is not working, Brenda loves to sing, and always does so for Madisson and I. She is a blossoming reader of English and an expert on just who finds the “Reel of Cotton”. Recently her true calling may have been discovered. Sitting around in the office, I had my camera out and I showed Brenda how to take a picture. She loved it and was soon taking pictures of all of us. Today, a group of girls were hanging out in the temporary structure. Brenda told all of them where to sit, (including me) and when we were situated, said, “Okay, I take a picture.” The group shot of all of us turned out excellently. Also discovered today, her oddly ticklish ears!

Sue
Susan is a young girl of about three years old. She almost always wears a red white and black dress. She has the biggest eyes I think I have ever seen and she always just stares into your soul. She laughs big and with great joy. She loves to dance with the munus even when there is no music playing. Today, as I talked on the phone with my mom, Sue climbed on my lap, grabbed for the phone and giggled wildly. I had never known who she was or where she lived, figuring she just was from around the neighborhood, but today I learned her story. At the age of one, her mother abandoned Sue. Remarried, she wanted nothing to do with the baby of her former marriage. Friday, the woman who cooks for us when we are in the office, is her aunt and took her in as her own.

Diana
There is a special place in my heart for Diana. She is boisterous and playful and always asks me to, “Come!” pulling on my hand and leading me to …wherever. Usually it is to play Fossi or to just walk around. She hugs me and gives me high fives and just always hangs around me. Kevin tells me it is because we have the same name. Today she asked me to sleep here in the office one day and I told her I would as soon as we get back from our trip to Rwanda. I recently learned about some of the troubles Diana has faced. She has epilepsy, which she takes medication for. Last year Diana’s brother took some of her tablets and got sick. Though he was rushed to the hospital he could not be saved.

Derrick
Derrick is one of the most mischievous yet loveable boys. When I see him around the compound, his first reaction is usually to run. I chase him around and bug him like he is the little sibling I never had. When he is feeling a little calmer, he reads with me, especially the story of “The Rainbow Ball”. Though he seems more the class clown type, he is a very bright student. When he is not at school, he likes to take Grace’s bicycle out for a spin. Recently he has missed a few days of school because of a bout with malaria.

Baby Nathan
Baby Nathan was born around six months ago and was named after the Invisible Conflicts founder of the same name. He is a very happy baby and usually very quiet. He is very active and loves to stand. He does not yet know how to crawl but I think if it were up to him, he would skip the step completely; he’d rather walk!

Brian
Madisson likes to refer to Brian as “your favorite” as in, “Your favorite is here; I was playing with your favorite today.” There is good reason for this title. Brian is a boy of about four who lives in the home right next door. I first encountered the little guy as he sat in front of the office holding onto a pole. When I looked back a moment later he had scurried up the pole and was looking down at me from five feet above. He follows me around and gives me high fives and sometimes I just run after him as he squeals in fear of tickles. As we sat together in the temporary structure, he gave me a high five and I put my other hand on top of his. He followed suit and we continued the pile of hands, a fun game indeed!

Ephraim
Ephraim is a recent addition to the collection of children I have gotten to know here. He is fifteen years old and in secondary school. He loves math and one day hopes to be an engineer. When I asked him what he wishes he could change about Uganda, he said, “When I am an engineer, I will fix the roads. They are so bad here.” He has a lot of drive and I truly believe he will accomplish this goal. He has not been in school as of late and I did not find out why until yesterday. Ephraim goes to one of the best secondary schools in Gulu district. The school was well known for its athletics team, and had won many awards. However, this was due to the fact that the head teacher was letting in athletes even though they were not very great academically. A new head teacher came and decided to stop this practice, letting in students based solely on merit. When the athletic team lost its first meet in thirty years, an uproar was caused and the student athletes trashed the school. While the school repairs are made, the teachers have gone on strike. The students must wait patiently for word on the radio that their school has been reopened. To fill his days away from school, Ephraim has been working with Madisson and I doing algebra problems, solving system of equations.

These are just a few of the faces I have come to know here in Gulu. These are the children who have known nothing but a war torn country their whole lives. I work for peace in Northern Uganda because I hope that one day soon they will see it.