Weekend in Mbarara

We went to Jerico Road for sunday fellowship. The boys performed skits and traditional dancing. This skit confused Bek and I until we heard quotes from us... yes, the two ladies in red were Rebekah and I! We couldn't stop laughing.



Me and the kids in Mbarara. They are growing so big. Each time we make the trip that way, it seems the kids have changed so much. The boy next to me in the tan shirt used to fit on my lap back when i met him in 2007. Now he is up to my shoulder and is such a "big boy" too cool for anything but the occasional hug when no one is looking :)



A second skit performed by the Jerico road boys: about borrowing money and the escapades of those who don't pay it back. The borrower is pretending to be a table... so the lender can't see him. It was a hoot.


Jerico Road is a ministry / home for former street boys. Power just left, network soon to follow, will continue next time!

Oh, Uganda

Uganda has a lovely national anthem, really, catchy tune, sweet lyrics, I think it is swell. When we first started life at school, Bek and I would run around doing last minute things each morning as the kids had assembly. Each assembly would close with the singing of the national anthem.

One day one of my boys approached me and asked to speak privately. “Aunt, I am concerned for teacher Rebekah. When we sing the national anthem she should not be moving. She must stand still. If a soldier saw her he would shoot her. Please Aunt, tell teacher Rebekah to not move for the song.”

Noted. Stand still while anthem is sung. Also, don’t sing along because we are not Ugandans. I am going to type the lyrics out, and try desperately not to hum along… MOLLIE: STOP READING HERE (and be on the look out for soldiers- don’t sing!!)

Oh Uganda, May God uphold thee, We lay our future in thy hands. United free for liberty, together we all will stand.

Now the song, as stated earlier, is catchy, but the funny thing is all the hard “t” and the tricky “th” sounds. Essentially the whole school sounds like it has a lisp each time the song is sung.

OK MOLLS, You can come back.

Again, as I mentioned before, non Ugandans are not supposed to sing the song… so we have to catch ourselves throughout the day. Why? Because when dearest Molls was living with us, each time we came across something illogical, poorly thought out, not complete, or just plain weird, she would sigh, and say, “Oh Uganda”… And as our days are filled with illogical, poorly thought out, not complete, or just plain weird interactions / discoveries, the days are also filled with “Gaah! STOP SINGING IT! SHHHHH (Bang, flick, slam- anything to make the offending party hush)” I think here it should be noted that I am usually the offending party, I suffer from the inability not to sing out loud whatever song is currently playing through my mind; which, much to Rebekah’s consternation, is pretty much all day long. (I am trying to sing really quietly though. And I can’t whistle the songs cause everyone knows that if a girl whistles she will grow a beard. They don’t know I am Italian, the beard thing is probably inevitable)

Such is life in this place we call…. Uganda.

Cultural Insensitivity, Sensitivity, and Hypersensitivity

In my months here I have spent time thinking about culture. I realize “culture” is a broad topic and should not be thought of as an easily understood or defined idea, so please don’t think I am making any brilliant claims of grandeur or assertions that my thoughts are well developed. My thoughts rabbit trail, and I find them hard to capture and put down on paper.

Some days it is glaringly obvious that the culture I was raised in is not the culture I currently live in. Other days I am lulled and see only the similarities. Is it wrong to focus on differences and look only for what is not the same? Maybe not, maybe it is just limiting. Is it best to focus only on what is similar and disregard the differences? Probably not, but perhaps it is less abrasive.

I find myself on a pendulum, swinging from cultural hypersensitivity to rebellious thoughts of complete insensitivity. Cultural sensitivity mandates that Rebekah and I wear skirts; skirts that cover our knees when sitting and reinforced with a half slip. It shapes our conversations as we respond to a variety of greetings with awareness to the age of the person we are speaking to. It requires we appreciate and taste a variety of unpalatable foods/drinks offered to us. It challenges us to carefully consider the words we use when speaking: trousers, not pants, joking, not silly; we are girls, not ladies or young women (because to be a woman and to not be married means you are a prostitute). Are we always culturally sensitive? No. Do we make mistakes? Yes. Do we try our hardest? Yes.

Cultural hypersensitivity is being afraid to wear trousers to sleep in, making sure there is always a skirt or piece of fabric by the door in case someone knocks. It is being afraid to speak up for myself for fear of offending someone (who may in fact be doing the wrong thing on a moral level). I see hypersensitivity in visiting mission teams; a team member who is allergic to eggs doesn’t speak up for fear of offending and goes without eating breakfast for 10 days.

Cultural insensitivity is wearing trousers when we have to trek up and down mountains carrying backpacks loaded with the food we want to eat while in the village. It is easier to hike in pants, but insensitive. It is not taking the time to assume the proper respectful posture and tone of voice when an elderly person stops me to greet. Regardless of where I need to be or what I am carrying I must stop and greet. Cultural insensitivity is deciding that today, I don’t want to be put on display merely because I am “color white” and not taking the position of “prestige” offered to me. It is deciding that just because they always do something one way, it is ok if I do it differently.

But is it insensitive to do things differently or not play according to the expectations of others? I like French fries with the skin on… or here it is called chips. However, if I make chips without peeling the potatoes it is almost abusive. No I am not being facetious. If I go to church, I don’t want to take the seat of the bishop on stage so they can make me “feel welcome”; I want to sit in a pew like a regular person and enjoy the service without being on stage for display. Why would a person refuse a position of honor? Gasp, shock, chagrin.

So the inner struggle remains. The balancing act between being culturally sensitive, not compromising on moral or ethical issues, and not becoming enveloped in fear of making a mistake is still being refined.

I'm a Lady

Uganda is comprised of beautiful scenery, gorgeous children, weird plants, and more than her fair share of characters. Somehow Rebekah and I get exposed to quite a few larger than life characters. I don’t know if it is the travel we do, the fact that we are a bit of an oddity in our region, or if God just wants to remind us not to take ourselves too seriously.

The road from Kabale to Kishanje winds over and through the hills and valleys of this region. It passes through countless villages, town centers, open air markets, and brings us into contact with old and new faces. There are common stops along the route, allowing for the loading and unloading of supplies and passengers.

Lets start in Kabale town. We stay at this homey hostel called Edrisa, in the local language it means “window”. The staff takes good care of us and we are able to relax, eat yummy food, and even sleep in the dorm with no hassle. Enter character number one. We call him “the shouting preacher man”. He rarely makes an appearance in the morning, but come afternoon and all through the night he is bound to present a sermon or two. In between breaks for waragi (the local vodka of sorts), he preaches about wearing trousers, the word of god, bicycles, and local news events. His pulpit happens to be the road right in front of Edrisa, so many a night I have fallen asleep to his vehement speeches.

Around the neighborhood is “elephant man” named thusly because he makes and sells elephants for a living. They are cute as can be, cleverly crafted out of banana fibers. He generally can be found in front of Edrisa or the other back packer hostels. I get a kick out of watching him work. He pantomimes “come, see me in my wheelchair, come help me, come buy this cute elephant” and the gullible mzungu walks over. 10,000 shillings for an elephant. At this point I generally look at him with one eyebrow raised… the real price is 4,000 shillings. He laughs and rolls away with a 10 note usually.

Hop on the truck with me. In the back of a large lorrie you are bound to meet at least one character. Generally not larger than life, but memorable. It usually begins with comments directed at you, but not to you- you know, the ones like “I see the mzungu rides in a truck. Have you ever seen a mzungu in a truck?!” And then progresses to direct inquisition like affronts: “mzungu, where is your husband?” “mzungu, come here”, “mzunugu, what is my name?” (they really mean, ‘what is your name’, but tenses are hard). Some days I am tired, so I pretend I can’t hear them – after all, my name is not mzungu, so how do I know they are talking to me? The persistent ones are harder to ignore, especially when they bodily grab me and begin the questioning again as I am held prisoner. Times like that I generally answer their questions with questions. Confuses them and gives me a laugh, reminds me not to get angry that a stranger is currently demanding personal information from me. “Mzungu, what is my name?” “Mukiga, tell me, what is your name?” “Mzungu, where is your husband?” “Mukiga, where is your wife?” As you can see, we get far.

I have told you before about the “For me I know” statements… they still frustrate me. Last week I was told, “mzungu, the children love you, see they dance for you! For me, I know when I come to America with you, children will dance for me.” Uh huh, deep breath. “Sebo, do you have an identity card? No, well, you should get one. Then work on getting a passport. The visa will take a few years to process. You won’t like my place, we don’t have obushera (the beloved local drink). And children won’t scream “Ugandan!!” if you go to America.” A shocked look. Ori Kubiiha!! (You lie!!) No, I am not lying; believe it or not, people of all color live in America. You would not be noticed.” “Mzungu, for me, I know you are wrong.”

Oh well.

About 30 minutes outside of Kabale town there is a parish called Ikarama. Love Bruce is the character you are most likely to find in Ikarama. Today as Rebekah and I waited for our friend we were meeting up with, we had the pleasure of being serenaded to by Love Bruce. Are you familiar with the Shania Twain song called something like “always and forever” or “in your eyes”…. You know, right? I may not know the title, but I do know the chorus and most of the verses…. Bruce begins the song with a throaty “I am a lady” which is not part of the song and then slurs through at least one verse. Then begins the speech about his baptized irishes; “Here, take them, baptized irishes for you, I know you are hungry. “ Now here, if something is baptized, it is named… no, I did not ask what he named his potatoes. He continues with a long monologue about whether he is a man or a lady. He is both his own husband and his own wife. He is working in impregnating himself. Then comes the dance and acrobatics. Verse two of the song, (poor Shania) more confusion about his state of being (here, there, wife, man…) and loud slaps on the windshield. At this point I am looking around for the truck driver (we have a new one… ) and see that he is enjoying the show. Love Bruce may be called that “because he loves” but the fact that we were not appreciating his performance was too much for him. “Now Mzungu, Here I am greeting you and you refuse to greet me. Are you a person or not? Are you a woman? Are you a lady? I’m a lady, I greeted you. (SLAM on the windshield.)” He takes a break when he sees his reflection and discovers there is a sticker on his forehead. Excellent. Removing it from his forehead he slams it onto the windshield and gains his second wind. “I’m a lady! In your eyes I’m a lady”.

Indeed Bruce, in my eyes… maybe not a lady, but a character for sure.

True Lies

If you become a Christian then your life will be blessed. Your crops will never die, the insects can’t disturb them. You know you are being good when you are rich. Be aware of Evil Spirits, they are more powerful than you think. God is powerful, but so are the witch doctors, evil spirits, and curses. If someone places a curse on you then you will suffer. Real Christians pray loudly and for many hours. Real Christians attend fellowship at least four times a week. When you become a Christian then life becomes easy; you never hunger, you never have to work hard, you never have to be sick. If you are sick it is because you are not being good. You lose your salvation when you aren’t good. God punishes you when you aren’t good. Being good is required; but it isn’t really clear how to be good. Trial and error is the only way to figure out what God wants. If your life is not being blessed, then you are doing something wrong, try again. In the bible it says that men are better than women; consequently men have authority over women and women must obey and respect men or they can lose their salvation and God won’t bless them. In the bible it says that you must cane children or they won’t behave. In the bible it says that all you have to do is tell God what you want, and He must give it to you. If He doesn’t give it to you, ask again, and louder. Prayers are more effective when shouted, repeated, and accompanied by yelling at satan, evil spirits, and chanting. In the bible it tells how women brought suffering into the world when eve, the weak one, ate the apple; consequently all disease and suffering comes from women. Additionally, women (and girls) should be punished more severely as they are weaker and more prone to making mistakes. If a girl becomes pregnant it is because she did something wrong, girls get pregnant all on their own.

True lies.

Someone once said that the best lie is 99% truth and 1% not. Truth is something I have struggled with during my time here. Is truth determined by majority vote? NO. But as my dad reminded me, Justice is determined by majority vote. Because people are fallen creatures “justice” is often a reflection of an individual’s personal desires, will, and feelings rather than a reflection of truth. It is hard to swallow most days.

True lies are particularly destructive because of the intended audience and the implementation or medium through which they are spread. What are true lies? A student introduced that phrase to me; I am sure he did not know the impact it would have on my inner dialogue as I have since struggled with the idea. True lies can be one of two things: part a- a lie told blatantly in jest, or part b- a truth twisted to serve a selfish purpose, and thereby convoluted and tainted, changed from truth to a non truth.

Part A: any time a kid asks me how old I am I tell them without hesitation that I am 85 years old. This is an example of a true lie – something told blatantly in jest, easy to identify as not truth. (with one caveat: white people are mystical creatures here… for the more skeptical ones and the ones who know more than three “bazungu” it is obvious that we do age… for the unknowing, it is quite possible that I may in fact be 85 years old, being a mystical creature and all)

Part B: If you become a Christian then your life will be blessed. A twisted truth, and thereby no longer true. If you become a Christian yes, your life is blessed- but not in the traditional “I am wealthy, never sick, and am now a super awesome person” sense. If you become a Christian, a follower of Christ, you are called to a life of self sacrifice (deny yourself, take up your cross), a life of obedience (follow Me), a life that is counter cultural (forgive, turn the other cheek, seek first the kingdom). How does that fit in the world we know? Do the math: Self Sacrifice + Obedience + Counter Culturalism = a life transformed. The transformed life is the blessing.

Change is painful. I am a living testament to that fact. I don’t even like change… and yet… I am blessed.

Doweries Should Be Abolished In Africa

This was the debate topic given to the P5 and P6 classes this week. At the invitation of some of my kids I went up to the primary school to witness this weekly event. Yes weekly. Topics such as “Polygamy Should Be Outlawed In Africa” and “Secondary Schools Should Not Be Built in Rural Villages” are given to the fifth and sixth graders to ‘debate’.

According to the teachers, the purpose of the debate is none other than to increase English speaking skills at the school. Now from a western perspective, debates are for learning how to articulate and defend your beliefs. (Or in my experience, thanks to Mr. P, learning how to articulate and defend the point contrary to my belief) Debates are for learning how to research, how to self reflect, and how to persuade the (audience, judges, etc) that your views are the best defended. Or something like that.

Two sides: four boys and one girl on each panel. One chair person, one secretary, one time keeper, and one other boy who just liked to sit by the chair person.

I arrived a bit late but that wasn’t a big deal. When I sat down though you could see the kids sizing me up; they know me as “auntie Le” the one who hugs them, gives them soap, listens to their worries, and who lives at the scary secondary school. What role was I playing today? Thankfully one of my kids from 2006 was the next speaker; utterly comfortable and confident around me, he proceeded with not an ounce of hesitation- with a handmade microphone crafted from a stick and a paper box. The ham got the ball rolling and the kids laughing. From that point on they were utterly free with me. Soon the teachers filtered out and just I and the kids remained. It got a bit ludicrous at times, as the kids observed protocol and addressed eachother as “the honorable so and so” and directed “point of inquiry” or “point of clarification” or “point of support” through the chairman (whose name was “Mission”).

Chair Person Mission was also bouncer, reinforced by DJ/Soldier Isaac, and demanded silence from the audience. I giggled as this lanky awkward boy would stand with a stern face and say “Patience, what are you doing with that ka-boy?” or “Desire, stay down!!” He usually followed his commands with threats such as “Kibondo, if you don’t be silent you will kneel for 25 hours”. The threat was amusing as “kibondo” is a nickname, and the kids all laughed as they tried to remember the real name of their class mate.

The arguments were a bit lacking. The kids are given the topic one week before the debate and are expected to “research” the points. Research consists of asking older siblings at the secondary school for talking points. Statistics are made up. There is a broad generalization of EVERYTHING. And the same five or six points are restated again and again during the course of the 2.5 hour debate.

The “opposers” were the stronger team as it consisted of the head boy, the sports prefect, and two other confident English speakers, my ham kid included. Even if their points were lacking, the fact that they could shout louder and held the positions of power gave them an edge. The “proposers” had only two confident English speakers, so they were often out matched. Another tactic of the “opposers” was to bog down the speaker for the “proposers” with “point of inquiry”.

Apparently according to debate protocol, the opposite side is allowed to demand the definition of any term used by the speaker. “Point of inquiry directed through the chair person” “allowed” “would the speaker explain the term ‘culture’?” If the speaker is unable to define the term, the point is not allowed. The stronger English speakers on the opposers team used this frequently.

Now as a loving aunt, I want to see all my kids succeed. But sometimes that means giving them a dose of their own medicine. I sat next to a sweet girl called Shallon who soon became my accomplice: after head boy or my other ham kid got up to make a point, I would direct point of inquiries through her. (the audience is allowed to ask for clarification too!) The first time it happened, head boy sailed through no problem. The second time however we caught him… he paused, looked at Shallon, confused as to how she could ask such a question. My ham kid stands up, eyes wide, points at me and mouths “YOU!!!” So of course I laughed.

From that point on, when the stronger opposers would ask an unfair point of inquiry, I would give them “the look” and they would catch themselves. The unconfident English speakers were already traumatized having to get up and present an argument, the harassing needed to stop.

Here were the main points:
Proposers: Doweries in Africa Should be Abolished
- It begins a marriage in poverty
- It leads to love as the man and woman have chosen eachother
- Kids eat better because the man has money
- It leads to holy matrimony

Opposers: Doweries in Africa Should Not be Abolished
- It leads to respect as the girls family will respect the boy for being a good provider
- It leads to respect as the girl must do what the boy says now that he paid dowry
- It leads to respect between the mother in law and the son in law
- The kids eat better because if the man doesn’t work, the woman can go home to her family and get food
- It respects African culture

As you can see, the arguments were a bit shallow and redundant, but I was proud of them for being so passionate about the side they were assigned to.

At the end, Chair person Mission stood and said “And now, we will have our Auntie Le come and speak a word of encouragement to us”. Umm… ok…. Yay for impromptu speeches. So while the secretary, time keeper, and chair person tallied the points I stood and spoke to the kids. I told them the importance of knowing what they believed, the importance of being able to articulate their beliefs, and then I defined articulate…. I told them I was proud of them for standing up to defend or challenge the statements made, how thinking for yourself is important. I told them I loved being with them. I told them to keep discovering who they are and what they believe.

Why? Because even if the teachers say that debate is merely for the promotion of spoken English, I believe it can be something more. If these kids can learn to think about their culture, their beliefs, their environment, then maybe they can learn to think outside the box that the UG school system places them in. Maybe they can learn to question. Maybe they can learn to challenge the status quo.

I realize that questioning, challenging the status quo, and self reflecting are hard things. I realize that in so doing there is a huge potential for backlash as questions and challenges are not welcomed in this school structure. I realize it will make life harder for them- at least for a while. Ultimately I believe knowing who they are, what they believe, and why they believe it, will empower them.

Will it happen? Probably not- at least not for the majority of the kids here. I am not giving up on them, I am not limiting them; I am recognizing the reality of life and school in the village. But for the handful that do take it further than route memorization and creepy chanting, life will be different. And for this reason I will continue to speak “words of encouragement” to them every chance I get. Because I know they are special, they are capable, and they can make it.

Me and Mollie about to enjoy yoghurt ug style. in a plastic bag. probably chilled and unchilled at least four times before we partake (due to power shortages). when it is super sour we add a spoon full of sugar and say that sour cream is good for us too, almost as good as yoghurt is.

Our House: see the note about this.... the door, the quote wall, the beautiful crayon drawings.

Introducing...

Meet Dylan and Caleb. Dylan is my brother. Caleb is a student. I saw Caleb, the largest kid on campus, who is ridiculously strong and gentle (though he fights that reputation) and immediately decided that any time I missed Dylan I would poke Caleb. I gave him warning. He tolerates it quite well all things considered! In all seriousness, neat, neat kid.

note the matching goofy smiles and the avoidance of eye contact. they were both being cool and not smiling and so i had to threaten them. big sisters can be scary.

These are not secondary students as I am sure you realized, they are local neighborhood kids who don't go to school but graze cows and goats. The third one from the left, in the pink ruffled dress is Ariyo, the darling girl who runs after the other kids telling them that I have a name, it is not mzungu. She is holding the hand of one of her older sisters and her little brother who is almost 2. He just now started walking. The rest are her friends from the fields who now greet both Rebekah and I and come for hugs. They are wearing new outfits provided by mom, erica and sarah (thanks to elle and chloe for sharing!!)