A Permanence

The 15-year-olds of a few entries ago have launched a full-fledged attack. I innocently left my guesthouse room this morning with a hankering for the slice of bread and banana that comprises the guesthouse’s “full-service breakfast each day!” As I stepped foot into the main lobby, I was met with cries of “Rohbet!” and saw THREE 15-year-olds standing at the entrance, eyes wide with soon-to-be-unfulfilled expectations. They’re multiplying! I must have appeared pretty visibly horrified, because one of the guesthouse workers took it upon himself to explain: “these are your friends, Rohbet, you know them?”

Okay, whoa. I definitely didn’t tell them where I lived.

And to top it off, the breadbasket was empty. Oh man, so not worth it. “Oh, hi,” I said in the general direction of the adolescents before casting a look of fire at the worker. “Gotta run!” Without another word, I turned around and defiantly marched back in the direction of my room, smiley-face-pajama pants and all. Had I packed my Spongebob PJ pants, I would have marched back out. Nobody messes with Spongebob. Alas, that is not the case, and I am even now writing this from the tenuous security of my little locked room, tucked away until the intimidating front-line disperses and forgets I live here. If you have received this, I’ve made it out alive.

Though not without struggling through a bout of sickness. Who gets a SORE THROAT in Uganda? Seriously. I’m actually pretty embarrassed. “How are you today, Rohbet?” the cleaning lady questions as I emerge from my cocoon of self-pity late that morning. I give a “so-so” gesture with my hand (hint: not culturally transferable) and point at my throat. “You are choking?” “Nope,” I gasp, “just a sore throat.” “Oh, sorry! I hope it is not malaria.” … me too, my dear, me too. Though perhaps that would feel more legitimate? *knocks on wood*

Luckily for my damaged ego and my masochistic desire for a few sleepless nights over here, this thing progressed into a full-blown sinus headache attack with sniffles, cough, the whole works. A common cold, Africa-style. I think it’s more intense over here? Pity me?

*cue Creed’s “My Sacrifice”*

No, I’m actually fine. It took a full two weeks to get rid of this thing, but I finally no longer carry two rolls of TP in my backpack “just in case.” Oh stop, they were for my runny nose. ;)

Reluctant to pursue the heavy “med-cocktails” informally prescribed by local friends, I opted to take the standard “cold caps.” The downing of these hefty pills makes me question my role as an officer in the infamous “I can sing real good but can’t swallow pills! LOLz!” facebook group. Look it up. And anyway, I’m my bubbling, bushy-tailed, bright-eyed self again, so all is well.

Well enough, in fact, to venture back to the Internal Displaced Persons (IDP) Camps that litter the Northern Ugandan countryside in search of true wisdom. These things are just as brutal as I remember them to be. The otherwise blissful, natural horizon is broken by these manmade abominations, arching menacingly in the distance. As we near one, I am truly overwhelmed by the sprawling monstrosity of tiny huts (maximum ~10 meters wide for an entire family), placed at most 2 meters away from one another. Thousands of these inadequate structures embody daily life for the tens of thousands of Camp residents, caught between unfamiliar neighbors in a foreign land they were quite unwillingly forced onto. (Remember the mandated mass migration of people into these camps, enforced through the burning of original huts and villages within 48 hours of the original “announcement” in order to ensure the government-sponsored initiative was taken seriously.) I can already see the crowds of idle children, drunken and dejected men, and struggling, garden-bound women on the outskirts of the Camp. Some greet me with inquisitive waves, eager to learn of the reason for this foreigner’s arrival; others, with nothing more than an apathetic, hopeless, near-bitter gaze of someone who has been promised one too many times a better future by people closely resembling myself.

Dante never visited a displacement camp in Northern Uganda.

I roll into the Camp from my two-hour boda ride, face entirely covered in dark red dust and the occasional dead insect, hair flipped back into something only a Jew-fro can truly produce. I wince as I walk, sorry I was born without a butt (there is literally nothing there). The children gather, taking my arrival as a welcomed change in the otherwise bleak scenery. Their tattered clothing ranges from the vestiges of a NY Giants jersey (how did that get here?) to a tiny little rag around the neck that may have one time been a dress, leaving their entire body exposed to the elements. I hear giggles and cries of “yesu” – “Jesus.” There are *so* many things wrong with that on so many levels, I won’t even begin to count them.

Needless to say, I try to put on a humble, “I’m here to help and I care about you but I am not a savior or hero and don’t how know much I can truly provide right this second” demeanor and make my way to the youth group meeting organized by the same NGO I’ve been tagging along with. The introductions are fairly straightforward for me now, and the locals greet my feeble attempts at communication with cries of jubilation – most people in the Camps do not understand English, so they do truly appreciate my attempts at speaking with them and thanking them for their willingness to help me in my research. I like to think that the research will ultimately help them in some way; I have promised to send my report back to all of them. Maybe it will make a difference, an impact, on the way the world envisions conceptions of forgiveness, reconciliation, and “justice.”

The interviews have been filled with the sort of insight that makes me truly thankful for the opportunity to discuss these issues, regardless of whether or not I know exactly what I’m looking for with this research. (~~Subtle cue to advisor: if you’re reading this, what am I doing?? Love, Rob~~) I’m going to compile some of the most intriguing quotes for an upcoming entry; get excited, I am. We’ve got some gems over here.

My recent NGO excursions have also taken me to local primary schools with the intention of setting up “Peace Clubs” for our sponsored children with The Child Is Innocent, initiating the program in order to further the goal of “promoting leaders” in the youth of Uganda. Why, of course I’m qualified to do this! Truth be told, I’m partnering up with a Ugandan-board member who is coincidentally a phenomenal primary school teacher and quite capable of leading the program with just a bit of direction and encouragement. We’re working together to get this thing off the ground, collaborating with local school administrators to get people excited about this new extra-curricular.

The crowded room of 50 boarding primary school students, sharply dressed in school uniforms, looked on eagerly as the timid munu stepped in front of them. “How are you?!” I enthusiastically greeted in their local language, thinking it would be a good icebreaker to hear the muzungu stumble over basic salutations. *Draws in breath through closed teeth* -- ooh, not quite the desired result. The children are prompted from day one to be extraordinarily respectful to any visitor, and such a laugh would have demonstrated otherwise. So my humble attempt at engaging the students resulted in a fairly awkward period of silence where I waited for one of them to crack a smile. …Nothing.

So I broke out into my slow English depiction of the program, encouraging them to get involved and get excited for the opportunity to become “ambassadors of peace” within their own communities at home. Nice, right? My tediously chosen words and careful pronunciation proved to be futile; the “translator” on the side of the room asked in English “do you understand this man?” to which the room replied with a collective “Noooo, Mr. Otega.” He subsequently repeated everything I said in Pidgin English, similar to my attempts at Luo, I imagine. “Rohbet from America. Peace program starting. He wants you to like Peace. You are excited?” “YES!” Success.

My partner-in-crime, the Ugandan teacher, got up after me and put me to shame. This woman knows how to lead a classroom. “Good morning, children,” she boomed, prompting the students to all stand up and recite “good morning, miss, thank you for coming, we are blessed for you” in unison. Ooh, she’s good. She continued to very effectively rally support for the program, picking up the pieces where I left off and making sure these kids were on board. All of them want to sign up!

Really interesting highlight of her speech:

“Children, if another person comes up to us and bops us, is it okay to hit him?” “Nooo.” “Do we bop him back?” “Nooo.” “Does hitting back bring peace?” “Nooo.”

So what do we do? “We forgive them.”

Does that strike you as it strikes me? Not even a “we sit with them, discuss our problems, try to work out a compromise, ask for an apology.” Just flat out forgiveness and understanding. Of course, it might be simplified a bit for the room of 10 year olds. Or a room of 10 year olds and a naïve muzungu, for that matter. But still, I’m surrounded by this ideal. It’s part of the community, embedded in daily life here from day 1.


Quick sidetrack – ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: FREEGANISM IN UGANDA (Wikipedia if you don’t know what that is. Sigh.)

I was innocently passing the 2-hour wait for my vegetable curry in a nearby muzungu café (muzungu because it serves pizza and smoothies, Uganda-style), quietly reading a local newspaper article about the Hepatitis E outbreak in the neighboring district.

Suddenly my ears perk up, and I manage a quick outburst: “...Did… did you say, DUMPSTER DIVING?” Wow, you know how to catch *my* attention. Not that I was featured in a picture with my roommates in a Crimson FM article eating donuts out of a dumpster. (…) I get into a 15 minute long discussion with these women about “freeganism,” the highlight being human beings waste too much. No but really. I know someone who has lived for THREE YEARS only off of “trash.” And for that matter, she has *never* gotten sick from the food. Not once. Food for thought, right? *giggles* Anyway, worth mentioning that this phenomenon is spreading across the world by word of mouth. Also, this is the mandatory “vegan” reference I have to make to keep my blog title. I’m done.

While we’re on the food-related train of thought, though, here’s a little insider info. For those who are interested, I have here the ingredients listed on my late night snack of choice/staple food more broadly, the infamous “Ginger Snaps”: “Wheat Flour, Sugar, Syrup, Vegetable Fat, Ginger Powder, Baking Agent, Salt, Permitted Flavours and Colours.”

Permitted, eh? And what’s with those “u”s in there? I just don’t really trust it. But beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.


Next subheading: ARRESTED [PART II] IN UGANDA

“Muzungu, stop right there. You’re under arrest.” Not again, I thought. How often do you get to think “not again” when you hear that? Hopefully not a lot, I guess. Hard. Core.

I had been harmlessly riding through the bustling town for a meeting, lost in thought as I gripped the back of the speeding boda, when we were met with two men holding an intimidating chain across the road and a group of curious onlookers gathering around the vehicle and preventing us from turning around.

Far from projecting any sort of comforting, “we’re official” type of atmosphere, these guys looked a little vigilante, taking justice into their own hands. No but seriously, I was shaking in my dust-filled boots [sandals]. Where was Justice when I needed him? (Emailed me again recently, actually, and he’s now writing from internet access inside some dark jail cell somewhere in central Uganda.)

“Muzungu, it’s time for jail.” Only half-sure they were kidding and not really seeing the joke in this incident, I cracked a forced smile and started uttering the equivalent of “dude, what’s up?” to lighten the mood. I really couldn’t read the situation at all, and never before had I seen anyone punished for a traffic violation. Traffic law general rule: size = right of way. Unless you’re a herd of cows: then you have the right of way, dawn til dusk. That’s pretty much it.

My bumbling around did just the trick, though, and they dropped the act. There was actually some sort of town-wide bodaboda meeting in the local common grounds, and my boda driver was skipping out for a quick shilling-fix from an oblivious munu. Not on their watch. They kicked me off the boda and made me walk the 5 kilometers to the meeting. Never before have I been so appreciative of African time, rendering me early for the gathering that had been set to start an hour and a half before my arrival.


Last ADHD mood change, and I’ll just be explicit: here comes the “downer-but-maybe-it-can-inspire-you” portion of this entry (that wasn’t the IDP camp section?).

So as a result of a bunch of miscommunications and misunderstandings, one of the NGOs I worked with all last summer and am currently working with again, The Child Is Innocent (TCII) has recently lost ties with its Canadian branch (originally both U.S. and Canadian branches existed), leading to over 50 of the 102 children being dropped from sponsorship. The situation will be remedied, but as of now, it is pretty ridiculously dire. We must keep these children in school – the prospect of their having been promised the opportunity for a well-earned ride through primary and secondary school and our having to take that away from them makes my legs weak and my skin crawl. That will simply not be the case. That said, I’m going to start up some intensive fundraising efforts in the very near future.

I went to visit a mother of one of the TCII-sponsored children this morning. Her story can only very poorly be conveyed through words, but here I do my best to articulate what I have seen:

I ride through the decrepit IDP Camp, just waiting for its residents to finally leave the veritable Hell-hole it represents, and end up at the very back edge of the thousands of “homes.” I follow the TCII employee into a nondescript hut, immediately struck by an overwhelming inhalation of smoke from the inner cooking pot (there’s nowhere else to put it). Through the haze, I see the outline of a small, older-looking woman sitting on a straw mat about half a foot away from me. I greet her, coughing, and suggest we move outside in broken Luo. She agrees, and I shift the two feet back out the door.

Sitting down, the woman looks healthy, strong even. But as I turn back to greet her again in the blazing intensity of the equatorial sun, I see she is still slowly making her way out of the doorway, bracing herself with all the force of her arms. She is severely physically disabled, hobbling at a 75-degree angle against the protest of her weakened limbs. She makes it just beyond the doorway before suddenly losing balance and dropping to the ground, a mound of dust exploding out from beneath her fallen body, pained expression on her face.

I don’t know if the severity, the true tragedy of that incident can come across in this description. It is all I can do to keep from crying right there.

I hurry to her side with the other TCII member, making sure she is okay and offering to help move her to the relocated small straw mat beside me. We slowly make our way to the seat, half-crawling, before she tells me her story, preemptively wiping at her eyes throughout the course of the conversation:

Rose is the mother of 8 children in total. She is 40 years old. Roughly 20 years ago, she is crippled; it is her belief that she has stepped on some “poison” dropped in the garden by a local witch doctor (ajwaka) with the intention to ruin her life. Upon consulting some of the local physicians, I find it is more likely that a case of tuberculosis spiraled out of control, targeting in on her spine and leaving her with a painful, debilitating, degenerative-paralysis disease.

As time goes on, Rose continues to have children, convinced that her future and wellbeing depend on an abundance of offspring as is so often the understanding of the local people here. The disease worsens, however, and she begins to lose control of her feet, her hands, her neck, her jaw. The translator strains to hear exactly what she is saying, and even I can tell the words are distinctly blurred as she determinedly spills them out with an extremely deliberate motion of her lips.

She has finally progressed to a point where she is entirely incapable of caring for herself, let alone the wellbeing of her eight children. Her alcoholic, abusive husband sometimes offers to help feed her in between bouts of beating her. He is a peasant farmer, growing only enough food to help sustain his family, but he often shirks responsibility in his regular haze of numbness. This leaves the eldest daughter to tend to the garden and supplement the meager, insufficient World Food Program rations with whatever she can reap from the family plot. Even so, the children are horribly malnourished; they watch me with bloated bellies and tiny little arms as I continue writing desperately from the three-legged chair they have provided.

The brief interview done, I stand and tell Rose I think she is “very brave and courageous,” hoping it translates and knowing it will not be able to carry the same amount of sincerity with which I mean for it to come across. I wave goodbye to Rose and the crowding children surrounding her, still sitting in the same place. When I leave, she will crawl back to her hut and sit in the smoke-filled room again. For me, this is a reality attainable only through a lengthy $2 boda ride. For Rose and her children, this is it. This is everything.

This is permanent.

And even when they move back to their original village, hopefully within the next few years as the conflict is officially resolved, Rose’s paralysis will continue to worsen.

*

Aware of this dire situation, the head of the TCII-Uganda branch has accepted the eldest daughter as a qualifying student for the sponsorship program. While she will not be able to continue supporting her family on a regular basis as the de facto sole-breadwinner of the crew, her next-in-line has taken over this role for the time being. It is TCII’s intention to continue helping relieve this family’s children of an all-too-certain future, characterized by lack of opportunity and a daily struggle for survival.

An Italian man originally committed to sponsoring this child. In fact, he vowed to secure three sponsors, leading the TCII head to place three such children in school (one of which being orphaned, her parents both having been brutally murdered by the rebel army in the recent war).

The money has yet to materialize. We speculate it is because of the formerly referred to miscommunications.

Who is going to tell this girl she can no longer go to school? That she needs to stay here in this Camp? That she needs to unpack her tiny sack, filled with ripped sheets of paper, a few meager outfits, and a surplus of new hope for the future?

Not me.

And this is why I am going to embark on a fundraising mission to end all fundraising. If you would like to be apart of this, *please* let me know. If you were looking for that “I should donate something to somewhere” place this summer/year, I’ve found your match. Every little bit helps, really. Additionally, if anyone has any suggestions at all re: good crowds to target or fundraising tactics, I’m all ears. Sponsorships themselves are fairly expensive – $750/year for as long as the kids are in school – but people often team up (i.e. big groups) in order to cover the cost. www.thechildisinnocent.org. These kids are truly amazing, inspiring, [synonym].

Of course, I can talk to you in more detail about what resulted in the sponsorship drop if you care to know – it is the most genuinely ludicrous situation I have ever come across, and I’ll spare you the details unless you want a little reassurance/NGO-dirt. *sigh* Barring a longer, tedious explanation, I ask you to take my word in my vouching for the legitimacy of this endeavor.

And regardless of financial contributions (I know many of us are poor college students), I feel confident that it’s equally as important to spread awareness about this type of thing. If nothing else, you know Rose and her daughter exist, and you can take that with you. They can use all the good thoughts they can muster up, so please keep them in your hearts.


End: shameless solicitation. (I promise I only do this because I need a BUNCH OF HELP. I also promise I will not give the money to Justice.)


And with this epic blog entry finally completed, I’m off to join in some Sunday night guesthouse debauchery. This is primarily made up of a growing group-watching of an Animal Planet-esque documentary on ferrets. I kid you not; I saw them watching it when I came in. It’s a full house.

Will sell himself & a copy of Ferret Shananigans for a donation or two,
Rob