Not just blood pressure issues, but also body pressure issues. Yes, it is common for Ugandans of all ages and size to suffer from ‘pressure in the body’
Not late or out of time, “time bad”
Remember icecream trucks? Here they have “iced cream” bicycles. Gatorade cooler on back, bell/whistle on front
Big trucks / public transport have the six inch tint across the top of the windshield- with words / expressions in another color: “Jealous is Nothing” , “Miami Driving” , “Power of God”, “MINE”, “Baby Boy”, are a few of the popular ones
Peanut butter guaranteed to improve skin condition, help maintain healthy weight, and increase male libido
Water truck: God gives it, but we treat and deliver
Public transport: you hop on a bus in kampala to head to kabale. The bus lists Mbarara, Ntungamo, Kabale etc in the window. Stop in Mbarara, good. Stop at Ntungamo, fine. Driver decides he no longer wants to go to Kabale, pulls over, gives each Kabale bound passenger 5K back from their fare and kicks them off the bus. True Story.
Imagine the response of American parents if they came to school assembly and heard the kids belting out “Touch my body..” (We laugh each time the song is sung)
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Q.o.T.D
Rebekah has a routine of asking a “Question of the Day” as she takes attendance in her classes. Today I attempted to fill her shoes as she went to town and I continued her routine. First class of the day: S2 Chemistry. I wanted to discuss how the lab went the day before, get some feedback on it, and attempt to work through some of the challenges they would (hopefully) list.
Collectively the class listed four areas of difficulty: 1) identifying colors 2) mixing (the salt and water) 3) not knowing what to expect 4) following directions.
Now, I am not a chemist, but I can help with colors, adjusting to the unexpected, and facilitating discussion. (WHEW!!!)
I ran and got a box of crayons, gave each kid a paper, and we tried naming the colors. (For the artists out there, forgive me for my shabby technical descriptions that follow.) We talked about “families” how each color had a name, but could also fit in the “blue family” or the “red family” or the “purple family” etc. This “too cool for school” class quickly forgot how cool they were as they experimented with colors. (PS: explaining “raw amber” and “salmon” and “orchid” is HARD. And these were NOT crayola crayons)
Then we moved on to following directions. Each kid numbered off (1,2,1,2,1,2…) and I wrote two sets of instructions on the board. Only four questions each. “Ones” did their questions, “Twos” did theirs. They really need work in this department, but struggled through.
Finally, we worked on “not knowing what to expect”. This really means that the kids were upset by not knowing what answer was the correct one, and what answer the teacher wanted. In a system of route memorization and word for word answering on exams, experimentation is difficult. Each child received a blank ½ piece of paper. I wrote on the board: 1) Write your answer OR 2) Draw your answer. I explained they could choose #1 or #2. The Question: “Who Am I?” I gave them 15 minutes (the remainder of the class) and told them to begin. They were frustrated.
“Madam, which one do we choose?” “Madam, how can I draw my answer?” “Madam, tell me the one you want” I gently directed them to the board- they had to pick. (yes i realize 15 minutes is a short time for self reflection and definition, but i wanted to start small, less pressure for them)
I collected the papers and went home. Sitting with a cup of coffee I read / looked at their answers. As I looked at each paper, their answers from the Question of the Day resounded in my mind. I asked: “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live, and why?” During class I was irked as the majority listed their home village, few listed the US or the UK, one listed Afghanistan (because they have fighters and he wants to learn to fight. Yes, I will be talking with him)
My initial perception of “momma’s boys/girls” quickly changed as I “heard” their answers to “who am i?”
“Who Am I? I am a Ugandan by nationality. I am a girl called…. I am an orphan girl… I feel embarrassed because I lost my parents”
She told me during the Q.o.T.D. that she would return home to her parents
“I am a girl and my name is… and I have every part that the girl should be supposed to have like breasts and I wear skirts and blouse.”
She said she wants to remain in Kishanje
“Who Am I?” He drew a self portrait: no ears, no fingers, in a school uniform.
He wants to remain in the village
“Who Am I?” He drew a profile face on a school uniform, one hand behind the back. Eyes and ears, but no mouth or nose. Written above the drawing: “I am a good boy for respecting teachers”
He would live in his home village
Three girls drew pictures, Eight wrote their answers. Three boys wrote answers, 2 drew pictures, 5 provided both, and one turned in a blank paper.
“I am a girl called … I am in school, aged… and in my life I like to study more than anything and I like the following things: reading books like chemistry, computer, and biology so I like to be a scientist, reading a bible, novels and magazines, playing soccer”
She wants to live in the UK because it is industrialized. Notice “soccer” and not “football”
“I am … I usually put on long sleeved shirt when coming to school. I cannot pass on somebody without greeting him/her. I usually walk a slow motion. I am short and small boy in all boys of S2. I am a good and well behaved student. I am a wordless person when I don’t want to talk and a wordy person when I feel I want to talk (make noise).”
He wants to go to Afghanistan and learn how to fight
I feel a heaviness. A sense of discouragement. How I view “myself” plays an important role in what I will expect from myself, what I will allow myself to attempt, how I interact with the people around me, and how I make decisions regarding my future.
My heart is saddened by the answers which reflected performance/behavior as the defining characteristic identified- “good girl, well behaved student” or “I like respecting our elders” or “well behaved student who respect elder people”. As though identity comes from this “well behaved-ness”. Were it merely a facet within the description I would feel differently, but it is the only description.
How can I reach these kids? How can I show them that when the day comes that they “mess up”, they don’t lose who they are? They will fail. They will fall. But that’s not the end. When they fall, their true character will be revealed (I hope). Otherwise I fear for the day when their “identity” is shattered.
A final thought- wanting to live in your place of origin for your whole life is not wrong. Limiting yourself and not being willing to dream, work hard, and learn about who you are on the inside is wrong.
Collectively the class listed four areas of difficulty: 1) identifying colors 2) mixing (the salt and water) 3) not knowing what to expect 4) following directions.
Now, I am not a chemist, but I can help with colors, adjusting to the unexpected, and facilitating discussion. (WHEW!!!)
I ran and got a box of crayons, gave each kid a paper, and we tried naming the colors. (For the artists out there, forgive me for my shabby technical descriptions that follow.) We talked about “families” how each color had a name, but could also fit in the “blue family” or the “red family” or the “purple family” etc. This “too cool for school” class quickly forgot how cool they were as they experimented with colors. (PS: explaining “raw amber” and “salmon” and “orchid” is HARD. And these were NOT crayola crayons)
Then we moved on to following directions. Each kid numbered off (1,2,1,2,1,2…) and I wrote two sets of instructions on the board. Only four questions each. “Ones” did their questions, “Twos” did theirs. They really need work in this department, but struggled through.
Finally, we worked on “not knowing what to expect”. This really means that the kids were upset by not knowing what answer was the correct one, and what answer the teacher wanted. In a system of route memorization and word for word answering on exams, experimentation is difficult. Each child received a blank ½ piece of paper. I wrote on the board: 1) Write your answer OR 2) Draw your answer. I explained they could choose #1 or #2. The Question: “Who Am I?” I gave them 15 minutes (the remainder of the class) and told them to begin. They were frustrated.
“Madam, which one do we choose?” “Madam, how can I draw my answer?” “Madam, tell me the one you want” I gently directed them to the board- they had to pick. (yes i realize 15 minutes is a short time for self reflection and definition, but i wanted to start small, less pressure for them)
I collected the papers and went home. Sitting with a cup of coffee I read / looked at their answers. As I looked at each paper, their answers from the Question of the Day resounded in my mind. I asked: “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live, and why?” During class I was irked as the majority listed their home village, few listed the US or the UK, one listed Afghanistan (because they have fighters and he wants to learn to fight. Yes, I will be talking with him)
My initial perception of “momma’s boys/girls” quickly changed as I “heard” their answers to “who am i?”
“Who Am I? I am a Ugandan by nationality. I am a girl called…. I am an orphan girl… I feel embarrassed because I lost my parents”
She told me during the Q.o.T.D. that she would return home to her parents
“I am a girl and my name is… and I have every part that the girl should be supposed to have like breasts and I wear skirts and blouse.”
She said she wants to remain in Kishanje
“Who Am I?” He drew a self portrait: no ears, no fingers, in a school uniform.
He wants to remain in the village
“Who Am I?” He drew a profile face on a school uniform, one hand behind the back. Eyes and ears, but no mouth or nose. Written above the drawing: “I am a good boy for respecting teachers”
He would live in his home village
Three girls drew pictures, Eight wrote their answers. Three boys wrote answers, 2 drew pictures, 5 provided both, and one turned in a blank paper.
“I am a girl called … I am in school, aged… and in my life I like to study more than anything and I like the following things: reading books like chemistry, computer, and biology so I like to be a scientist, reading a bible, novels and magazines, playing soccer”
She wants to live in the UK because it is industrialized. Notice “soccer” and not “football”
“I am … I usually put on long sleeved shirt when coming to school. I cannot pass on somebody without greeting him/her. I usually walk a slow motion. I am short and small boy in all boys of S2. I am a good and well behaved student. I am a wordless person when I don’t want to talk and a wordy person when I feel I want to talk (make noise).”
He wants to go to Afghanistan and learn how to fight
I feel a heaviness. A sense of discouragement. How I view “myself” plays an important role in what I will expect from myself, what I will allow myself to attempt, how I interact with the people around me, and how I make decisions regarding my future.
My heart is saddened by the answers which reflected performance/behavior as the defining characteristic identified- “good girl, well behaved student” or “I like respecting our elders” or “well behaved student who respect elder people”. As though identity comes from this “well behaved-ness”. Were it merely a facet within the description I would feel differently, but it is the only description.
How can I reach these kids? How can I show them that when the day comes that they “mess up”, they don’t lose who they are? They will fail. They will fall. But that’s not the end. When they fall, their true character will be revealed (I hope). Otherwise I fear for the day when their “identity” is shattered.
A final thought- wanting to live in your place of origin for your whole life is not wrong. Limiting yourself and not being willing to dream, work hard, and learn about who you are on the inside is wrong.
Why Rebekah Adams is a Saint
Today Bek asked me to be her lab tech for a chemistry practical on salts. There were 27 students divided into 9 groups of three. Yesterday Rebekah spent 40 minutes of her class period writing the lab instructions on the board for every student to copy. The lab had 2 parts- one involving fire and one involving water. I promise the lab instructions were very straight forward. We had five salts total, each group had to test only three. Bek took two of the nine groups to her fire station, I had seven to facilitate in the water experiments.
I knew it was going to be a long lab when the first girl asked me where to put the water… in the flask thing she was holding. The remainder of the two hours went something like this:
“Aunt, what do I do?”
Me: Follow the instructions in your book. See, start at “1a”
“Aunt, what next?”
Me: 1b
“Aunt, how much water do I add?”
Me: 50 ml, like it says in your notes
“But madam, how do I know when I have added 50 ml?”
“Aunt, what is my observation?”
Me: Write down what you see happening
“Aunt, what color is this?”
Me: Blue green
“Is that a color?”
“Aunt, what color is this?”
Me: purple
“I think you mean purpleblack”
Me: No, I mean purple, royal purple
Student whispers to group “Black”
“Madam, how do I use this?”
Me: I just showed you, same procedure we just did
“Madam, where do I write the color is clear?”
Me: Observations“I haven’t started that part yet”
No, I am not kidding. It was exasperating. Meanwhile in fire land…. Rebekah had her six students gathered around the paraffin stove. It is called a stove cause the fire is supposed to be in a circle- like a gas stove for even heat distribution. I call it the paraffin flame thrower. One six inch flame juts haphazardly from one side, ready to go whichever direction the wind blows. Makes an exciting experiment all the more exciting as you not only record observations, but also keep one eye on the roving flame. For obvious reasons Rebekah burned the salts and the students observed from a safe distance.
With 15 minutes remaining Rebekah brought the class together, reminded them they were “ok” and briefly recapped the objective. It was humorous to see the difference. Empty hands seated at desks suddenly knew what saturation was, and even understood solubility. As soon as a flask or spatula was in possession, saturation and solubility became foreign terms once again.
Rebekah Adams is a saint because she teaches chemistry in overcrowded classrooms, to large groups of entirely ESL (English as a second language) students, without proper lab equipment, lab supplies, or books. She is not discouraged when kids “don’t get it” but looks for another way to explain and remains positive and kind. Whereas her lab tech (me) thought it was hopeless, she held that the kids were learning how to apply what they had been taught, and were discovering what they don’t know- which is good. KHHS doesn’t deserve her, but the kids are worth it, and they appreciate her.
I knew it was going to be a long lab when the first girl asked me where to put the water… in the flask thing she was holding. The remainder of the two hours went something like this:
“Aunt, what do I do?”
Me: Follow the instructions in your book. See, start at “1a”
“Aunt, what next?”
Me: 1b
“Aunt, how much water do I add?”
Me: 50 ml, like it says in your notes
“But madam, how do I know when I have added 50 ml?”
“Aunt, what is my observation?”
Me: Write down what you see happening
“Aunt, what color is this?”
Me: Blue green
“Is that a color?”
“Aunt, what color is this?”
Me: purple
“I think you mean purpleblack”
Me: No, I mean purple, royal purple
Student whispers to group “Black”
“Madam, how do I use this?”
Me: I just showed you, same procedure we just did
“Madam, where do I write the color is clear?”
Me: Observations“I haven’t started that part yet”
No, I am not kidding. It was exasperating. Meanwhile in fire land…. Rebekah had her six students gathered around the paraffin stove. It is called a stove cause the fire is supposed to be in a circle- like a gas stove for even heat distribution. I call it the paraffin flame thrower. One six inch flame juts haphazardly from one side, ready to go whichever direction the wind blows. Makes an exciting experiment all the more exciting as you not only record observations, but also keep one eye on the roving flame. For obvious reasons Rebekah burned the salts and the students observed from a safe distance.
With 15 minutes remaining Rebekah brought the class together, reminded them they were “ok” and briefly recapped the objective. It was humorous to see the difference. Empty hands seated at desks suddenly knew what saturation was, and even understood solubility. As soon as a flask or spatula was in possession, saturation and solubility became foreign terms once again.
Rebekah Adams is a saint because she teaches chemistry in overcrowded classrooms, to large groups of entirely ESL (English as a second language) students, without proper lab equipment, lab supplies, or books. She is not discouraged when kids “don’t get it” but looks for another way to explain and remains positive and kind. Whereas her lab tech (me) thought it was hopeless, she held that the kids were learning how to apply what they had been taught, and were discovering what they don’t know- which is good. KHHS doesn’t deserve her, but the kids are worth it, and they appreciate her.
Our House
Recall the song….
“Our house is a very very very fine house; with two (butt ugly!) chickens in the yard, life used to be so hard, but not its almost harder without power…”
Ok, so I changed the words a bit….
We do have very excellent wall deco. In one corner we have the “photo door”. We removed a door from the bathroom (remember the closet with a hole in the floor?), hung traditional fabric in the recesses, and then hung photos. It is swell.
On another wall is our collection of colored pages (yes, we color, with crayons), and alongside the bright masterpieces we have a rectangle of paper duck taped with care, where we record quotes from our daily interactions. Here are a few giggles for you:
“The man just said you guys are going to grow old in the village. I told him I think you already are.” - MHS
“I like too much sodium chloride on my pumpkin” - S1 boy
Symmetry = Where people are buried
“That is a true lie!” – S4 boy
“I would NOT love to meet them” – response from a student when I asked if he wanted me to introduce him to a group of visitors.
“As we see it, you are quite valuable. Many cows.” – S6 boys to me
“Labek: Warrior Princess. Prepare to meet your fate!” – DWR
Anytime we need a giggle, or a reminder of all the good times, we head to the quote wall. All in all, our decorations make our house a very very very fine house.
“Our house is a very very very fine house; with two (butt ugly!) chickens in the yard, life used to be so hard, but not its almost harder without power…”
Ok, so I changed the words a bit….
We do have very excellent wall deco. In one corner we have the “photo door”. We removed a door from the bathroom (remember the closet with a hole in the floor?), hung traditional fabric in the recesses, and then hung photos. It is swell.
On another wall is our collection of colored pages (yes, we color, with crayons), and alongside the bright masterpieces we have a rectangle of paper duck taped with care, where we record quotes from our daily interactions. Here are a few giggles for you:
“The man just said you guys are going to grow old in the village. I told him I think you already are.” - MHS
“I like too much sodium chloride on my pumpkin” - S1 boy
Symmetry = Where people are buried
“That is a true lie!” – S4 boy
“I would NOT love to meet them” – response from a student when I asked if he wanted me to introduce him to a group of visitors.
“As we see it, you are quite valuable. Many cows.” – S6 boys to me
“Labek: Warrior Princess. Prepare to meet your fate!” – DWR
Anytime we need a giggle, or a reminder of all the good times, we head to the quote wall. All in all, our decorations make our house a very very very fine house.
Momma Said
Are you familiar with the old song that says “momma said there’d be days like this, there’d be days like this my momma said…”? Well, that’s the soundtrack running through my mind these past few days. It all started on Sunday when an S1 boy came to me, trousers in hand. He had borrowed them from an S3 boy and fell while wearing them- tearing the knee. The trousers needed to be fixed ASAP.
Mom tried to teach me to sew before I left- it didn’t take. I had no skills in that department; everything about sewing stressed me out- cutting, stitching, darting, creating, looking at things inside out, you get the picture.
Knowing the S1 boy would get pounded if the trousers weren’t fixed stressed me out more than the thought of sewing the “L” shaped tear, so I resolutely got out a needle and thread. Two hours later I was finishing the mend job and stretching my aching fingers, back, and neck. (Sitting hunched over trying desperately not to mess up too badly takes its toll.) I felt accomplished as I handed back the trousers.
My sense of accomplishment was short lived however; when taking a walk around campus another boy approached me with a serious expression on his face. “Aunt, may I talk with you?” We stepped aside and he whispered “Aunt, I request you help me with my trousers. They have a tear.” (no I am not making the dialogue up, they really say things like “I request you” and “madam” “may I disturb you” etc)
Alas, they were uniform trousers; they needed to be sewn immediately- in time for school the next morning. His “tear” happened to be from the crotch down one leg, over a foot long. Now I hear some of you saying “teach them to fish!” and normally I would agree. However, being unskilled in the “fishing” department and altogether unsure of myself, I decided on an alternative. It turns out sewing is not only stressful, but also boring (to me). So I made the boys sit with me and tell me stories as I struggled with the tricky needle and thread. One helpful student stopped by long enough to inform me that machines could also be used sewing, and I should use one. (Some days I just have to sigh, machines, yeah, I remember those.)
When mom tried to teach me to sew she warned me not to give up; “One of your kids will need something mended one day and you will want to be able to help them.” Turns out momma was right.
I don’t want to say this too loudly, but I am becoming more proficient with a needle and thread. Rebekah and I suffer from the same chronic condition – clutziness- and our skirts often pay the price. We find ourselves needle and thread in hand, “fixing” the latest tear with less trepidation now that we have to mend regularly.
The week continued with a few more “mend” jobs and two impromptu “button” workshops when I “taught” some boys how to sew buttons on their uniform shirts and trousers. One boy watching me thread the needle said “Aunt, I think you are practiced in sewing.” I had to laugh.
Practiced indeed, oh well, “Momma said there’d be days like this…”
Mom tried to teach me to sew before I left- it didn’t take. I had no skills in that department; everything about sewing stressed me out- cutting, stitching, darting, creating, looking at things inside out, you get the picture.
Knowing the S1 boy would get pounded if the trousers weren’t fixed stressed me out more than the thought of sewing the “L” shaped tear, so I resolutely got out a needle and thread. Two hours later I was finishing the mend job and stretching my aching fingers, back, and neck. (Sitting hunched over trying desperately not to mess up too badly takes its toll.) I felt accomplished as I handed back the trousers.
My sense of accomplishment was short lived however; when taking a walk around campus another boy approached me with a serious expression on his face. “Aunt, may I talk with you?” We stepped aside and he whispered “Aunt, I request you help me with my trousers. They have a tear.” (no I am not making the dialogue up, they really say things like “I request you” and “madam” “may I disturb you” etc)
Alas, they were uniform trousers; they needed to be sewn immediately- in time for school the next morning. His “tear” happened to be from the crotch down one leg, over a foot long. Now I hear some of you saying “teach them to fish!” and normally I would agree. However, being unskilled in the “fishing” department and altogether unsure of myself, I decided on an alternative. It turns out sewing is not only stressful, but also boring (to me). So I made the boys sit with me and tell me stories as I struggled with the tricky needle and thread. One helpful student stopped by long enough to inform me that machines could also be used sewing, and I should use one. (Some days I just have to sigh, machines, yeah, I remember those.)
When mom tried to teach me to sew she warned me not to give up; “One of your kids will need something mended one day and you will want to be able to help them.” Turns out momma was right.
I don’t want to say this too loudly, but I am becoming more proficient with a needle and thread. Rebekah and I suffer from the same chronic condition – clutziness- and our skirts often pay the price. We find ourselves needle and thread in hand, “fixing” the latest tear with less trepidation now that we have to mend regularly.
The week continued with a few more “mend” jobs and two impromptu “button” workshops when I “taught” some boys how to sew buttons on their uniform shirts and trousers. One boy watching me thread the needle said “Aunt, I think you are practiced in sewing.” I had to laugh.
Practiced indeed, oh well, “Momma said there’d be days like this…”
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Gulu
"Is it possible we found the place where parents teach their kids not to stare?" - Rebekah Adams
Gulu is so very different from the Ug I have known for the past 8 months. We walk the busy yet quiet streets unhindered. People actually smile at us. People go out of their way to help us. I haven't been shoved once here.
What is the cause? How can it be? Gulu and her people have been caught in a civil war lasting almost 20 years. These people have been taken hostage, murdered, tortured, their children kidnapped, homes and communities destroyed. Caught between the LRA and Ug's soldiers you would expect a different air here.
Children walk with a dance step. "Bye!!" the young ones squeal in delight when they see us coming. The best crown molding, painting, and tile work i have seen anywhere in Uganda.
The Acholi/Luo language sounds foreign to my ears attuned for Rukiga. The straight forward "sound" rules I have adhered to are thrown out the window. It seems as though each word's pronunciation is an exception to the rule. You can almost hear my mind sorting through my brain's file system, frantically searching for the proper response. Nigye. No. Bien, No. Fine, No. Kope! got it!
Some things remain familiar: corny radio commercials, funny advertisements, delicious african tea, amazing fruits, beautiful children, same red dirt as in Kabale, Indian run supermarkets and electronic stores.
But something is different.
Forgiveness.
In the mountain villages of the South I have oft been told that to forgive is impossible. You must never forget when you have been "abused". Retaliation is the only option. Here in the flat lands of the North I see a different message. Murals on walls paint pictures of peace, forgiveness, reconciliation and hope. I search for anger and bitterness on the faces I pass and find only a handful.
Having been here only a few days I can not make a generalization about the place, the people, or their future, but I will say this: from what I have seen, even if war does return in January, if these forgiveness-filled people will continue walking in love I believe they will not only survive, but live.
Mind's Eye Snap Shots:
Women in trousers
Women in trousers
Broken Bodies
Humid
Altered gaits
Extreme Scarring
Women riding bicycles
Smiling Faces
Laughing Children
Clean streets
Well Kept houses
Children speaking incredible English
Hot
No staring
No pointing
Helpful people
Quiet
Men working
No begging
Mothers urging children to greet us with "aphoyo" (thank you) rather than "empa" (give me)
Old women in the market with no English eager to teach us new words
Gulu is so very different from the Ug I have known for the past 8 months. We walk the busy yet quiet streets unhindered. People actually smile at us. People go out of their way to help us. I haven't been shoved once here.
What is the cause? How can it be? Gulu and her people have been caught in a civil war lasting almost 20 years. These people have been taken hostage, murdered, tortured, their children kidnapped, homes and communities destroyed. Caught between the LRA and Ug's soldiers you would expect a different air here.
Children walk with a dance step. "Bye!!" the young ones squeal in delight when they see us coming. The best crown molding, painting, and tile work i have seen anywhere in Uganda.
The Acholi/Luo language sounds foreign to my ears attuned for Rukiga. The straight forward "sound" rules I have adhered to are thrown out the window. It seems as though each word's pronunciation is an exception to the rule. You can almost hear my mind sorting through my brain's file system, frantically searching for the proper response. Nigye. No. Bien, No. Fine, No. Kope! got it!
Some things remain familiar: corny radio commercials, funny advertisements, delicious african tea, amazing fruits, beautiful children, same red dirt as in Kabale, Indian run supermarkets and electronic stores.
But something is different.
Forgiveness.
In the mountain villages of the South I have oft been told that to forgive is impossible. You must never forget when you have been "abused". Retaliation is the only option. Here in the flat lands of the North I see a different message. Murals on walls paint pictures of peace, forgiveness, reconciliation and hope. I search for anger and bitterness on the faces I pass and find only a handful.
Having been here only a few days I can not make a generalization about the place, the people, or their future, but I will say this: from what I have seen, even if war does return in January, if these forgiveness-filled people will continue walking in love I believe they will not only survive, but live.
Travelling Up North
The "Old Me" tends to return whenever my comfort zone is tested. Honestly I am much improved as far as being an OCD control freak is concerned, but my need for control mounts as we speed along the road. As each kilometer takes me farther and farther away from what I know in Kishanje I find myself being short tempered with Dylan and Rebekah. They aren't doing anything wrong. I have to apologize and catch myself.
The reason for the northward trip is twofold: missing Dylan's high school graduation was a big deal to me, so I told him if he came to Ug we would take him on a safari. Secondly, northern UG has been on my heart for many years.
In the 1980's the LRA (Lord's Resistance Army) began a civil war in northern UG. The history is complex and violent. A tentative peace reached only recently is expected to crumble come January.
The continent of Africa, composed of over 50 unique countries is strongly interconnected. In January the deadline for southern independence in the Sudan is expected to result in war. Kony, the LRA leader is currently believed to be chillin in the Sudan. UN aid workers and locals expect he will be denied further safe harbor and will again return to the northern regions of Ug.
Post safari / park experience (which was incredible) we catch an early bus: destination Gulu. If you are not familiar with the history of Gulu, Arua, and the LRA's impact on northern ug check out Invisible Children online.
I am not a born adventurer, so the idea of travelling to a new place to look around and meet locals in hopes of getting a well rounded feel for the area is foreign to me. Rebekah is a pro though, adventuring is in her blood. Dylan is a trooper, following his sisters around Ug, carrying heavy bags and scaring the sketch-balls away. Small children are also afraid of him, but the talking/walking size kids show no fear. He falls asleep on the back seat of the bus and wakes to find five little girls surrounding him; the bravest slowly lifting his hat off his eyes. Bekah and I get a good laugh as the gentle giant entertains all the kids on the bus with funny faces. He's a good kid.
We shall see what this trip brings...
The reason for the northward trip is twofold: missing Dylan's high school graduation was a big deal to me, so I told him if he came to Ug we would take him on a safari. Secondly, northern UG has been on my heart for many years.
In the 1980's the LRA (Lord's Resistance Army) began a civil war in northern UG. The history is complex and violent. A tentative peace reached only recently is expected to crumble come January.
The continent of Africa, composed of over 50 unique countries is strongly interconnected. In January the deadline for southern independence in the Sudan is expected to result in war. Kony, the LRA leader is currently believed to be chillin in the Sudan. UN aid workers and locals expect he will be denied further safe harbor and will again return to the northern regions of Ug.
Post safari / park experience (which was incredible) we catch an early bus: destination Gulu. If you are not familiar with the history of Gulu, Arua, and the LRA's impact on northern ug check out Invisible Children online.
I am not a born adventurer, so the idea of travelling to a new place to look around and meet locals in hopes of getting a well rounded feel for the area is foreign to me. Rebekah is a pro though, adventuring is in her blood. Dylan is a trooper, following his sisters around Ug, carrying heavy bags and scaring the sketch-balls away. Small children are also afraid of him, but the talking/walking size kids show no fear. He falls asleep on the back seat of the bus and wakes to find five little girls surrounding him; the bravest slowly lifting his hat off his eyes. Bekah and I get a good laugh as the gentle giant entertains all the kids on the bus with funny faces. He's a good kid.
We shall see what this trip brings...
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