Genocide Sucks

So I just wanted to give everyone a taste of where I'm at right now in Rwanda.

It's been hard. We've been doing all the memorials at the end of last week and today and tomorrow. We will get a break for three days at apparently this gorgeous location of Lake Kivu to process everything we've seen. To top it all off, my family decided this past weekend was the perfect time to tell me their story from the genocide.

I don't know. It's been hard. We saw a memorial at the national university on Thursday. Wednesday we saw a horrible, horrible memorial where you see all the bodies. And I still haven't fully processed it. And then today we went to the Kigali memorial, which is where my "Rwandan father" is probably buried. And the memorial was very much like the Holocaust museum, but even worse. You see so many awful pictures of mutilated people and streets covered in bodies. This museum also had an exhibit of other genocides that have happened throughout the world and the thing about Rwanda is that they want to tell you it like it is. The pictures were all graphic and I started to get a headache. I'm so tired of seeing dead bodies and people screaming in death and being surrounded by survivors who have horrible stories to tell me.

The last exhibit is an exhibit about the children of the genocide: the orphans and the ones that died. And they know where it hurts. They show these big, beautiful blown-up pictures of children and then have display boards giving you small facts about the children.

Name: Claudine
Age: 9
Favorite food: rice and sauce
Favorite drink: Fanta orange.
Favorite hobby: walking with her dad.
Characteristics: gregarious
Death: Machete to the head

Fuck the world and the people in it.

Sorry. It's just I feel like I'm surrounded by this all the time. Tomorrow I will go to 2 sites, one which is a church where thousands of people were massacred by the very priest that promised to protect them. And I don't get a break at home. I constantly imagine my family on the night they were dragged out of their house to be killed.

I'm just having a hard time right now. I just feel like there's death. Everywhere. I'm surrounded by an awful history of people in pain and I don't quite understand how everyone walks around like everything is okay.

Kigali: An African Anomaly

So I have been in Rwanda for about a week now. I've been a little behind on my Uganda posts so I haven't gotten a chance to post about Rwanda yet.

Kigali is fantastic. It's big and super developed and there are street lights everywhere and the buildings are really nice. The whole city was rebuilt after the genocide so it's basically brand new. Downside to all of that: Kigali's crazy development = American/European prices. No joke. In a "developping" country. So didn't count on that in my budget.

I have a new family! I have a Mamma, a 25 year-old sister named Nadine, a 21 year-old brother named David (pronounced Da-vide - it's French), and an 18 year-old brother named Confiance. They're all really nice. My mother speaks no English, just Kinyarwanda and French. My sister speaks little English, but my brother David's English is better than my French. They all speak fluent French. Confiance is learning both English and French. It's nice to be able to use my French but the language barrier is definitely much harder here than in Uganda.

The country changed it's national language from French to English about a year ago. It's a decision in a long line of decisions to disassociate Rwanda from France, who played a large role in supporting the genocide (a role which is ignored by the ICC). So now you have this country where everyone speaks Kinyarwanda and French, but no English. And in two years time, it will be impossible to get a job without knowing English. Enter me. Who speaks English. And can help my family start to learn. But my Mamma still wants me to speak French, which is nice.

I just wanted to give a quick recap of my Kigali life. Basically, it's awesome!

Acholi: Shakin' that Thang

So, yes, this is a long post. I'm horrible at editing my life. But it is a good life :)

It also has a very different tone than the last post (my days tend to do that here). Just be aware of that.

My last Sunday in Gulu was an interesting and amazing day. I started it with a community, born-again church service. When I say community, I mean a rectangular hut 2.5 kilometers outside of town serving the 30 surrounding families. About 15 adults and 20 children showed up. And me, the only white person to grace the doorless entrance. The service combined stereotypical traditional African religious elements with Western born-again practices. There was a dichotomy that blended into a new religious dimension that, seen from a looking glass, would be viewed as humorous, primitive, and otherworldly. But as a participant, it felt natural, sensible, and fun.

I, of course, got sat next to the screamer. Think your standard African war cry, but less intimidating, and you have the sound I heard throughout the service. It blended well with the small African drums and booming African voices singing to African religious songs. The children danced in front, facing the congregation. The leader, a young father, would continuously change the dance moves, creatively improvising rhythmic combinations, challenging the children to copy him. They were obviously enjoying themselves and I was too. I was mesmerized by the man, the most inventive, charismatic, and talented dancer I have ever seen. I was also mesmerized by the music and, after awhile, danced with the best of them. It was a 2 ½ hour service, but half of that was dancing and singing. The sermon was about sin and love and dedicating your life to Christ, like any born-again service, but it wasn’t as bad as I was expecting (my sister translated bits and pieces for me). In the middle of the service, there was an auction for a bucket of potatoes that one of the women in the congregation was selling. My family outbid everyone because they knew I liked potatoes. Everyone was very nice and I knew the pastor pretty well – he had come over periodically to my house to make sure I was learning “everything Acholi.”

Church was followed by a lazy Sunday afternoon talking with my brother about the upcoming election in 2011. It’s a big deal and a not big deal all at the same time. Right now no one thinks anything will change and after 23 years of having the same president and unfair elections, who can blame them. But I suspect that as the elections come closer and with the addition of Otunna, a former UN ambassador, on the possible candidate scene, things will get violent. My brother joked that he would come stay with me in America during the election months because he wanted to be anywhere other than Kampala. It’s weird to think that in two years time I’m going to think about his safety and read about the riots, hoping he’s okay. He said he doesn’t plan to participate in the riots – he doesn’t see the point at getting shot at for something that will never change. But he told me he had been in two previous riots where he was shot at and people were screaming and hitting the ground. It’s scary. Particularly considering the riots that happened in Kampala a couple of weeks ago. The other SIT study abroad group was on lockdown.

My brother told me he didn’t plan on voting this year. He said he didn’t see the point. Nothing would change; the election would be unfair. He would have to risk his life to vote for something that wouldn’t make a difference. Because it’s unlikely that something would happen to him at the polls in Kampala, I insisted he should vote. I tried to instill my American ideals about democracy onto him. I even compared Otunnu’s arrival as similar to what people were saying about Obama at the beginning. My brother just laughed and shook his head. He is so disillusioned with the system that he doesn’t even bother trying anymore. I told him I would email him on the day of elections to tell him to vote for me. He said he would be on lockdown at that point – but he would read my email if he had internet in his apartment.

When we finished our discussion, my brother, me, and the rest of the family trekked to the Homestay Farwell Party. It was fantastic. All you can eat and drink, including beer. When the students got up and introduced ourselves, our families screeched for us (that scream I told you about earlier). Then we had traditional Acholi dances performed for us and we all got up and joined in. My sister’s cousin is the Gulu representative for Acholi dancing and she taught me the moves. My sister, who is usually a badass Acholi woman, refused to perform the dance because she’s shy. But, once I had gone up there with her friends, she came up too. My brother took pictures and then joined in the boy’s line. I even learned how to screech. Really. It was a very in-the-moment, once-in-a-lifetime, one of the best days of my life kind of time. All inhibitions were dropped, everyone couldn’t stop laughing, and I shook my hips like an Acholi woman. It was fantastic.

When the traditional music stopped, they started playing modern Ugandan music and everyone came out and danced together, children and teenagers. I danced with my sister and played soccer with my younger brother, with whom my relationship had been previously stale due to the language barrier.

Two days later I said goodbye to my family. I brought out my gifts: a soccer ball, juice, a DC t-shirt, a book about Texas, and UNO cards. They genuinely loved them all and I was really pleased. We played UNO for about 2 hours and they read the Texas book and we played football, and my brother loved hearing about the places in DC and where they are all situated. They told me that they only say goodbye to the dead in Acholi culture so they told me they would see me later. My brother is planning to be in Kampala in December so I should see him again. My grandmamma sends her love and greetings to my American family.

Gulu was amazing and I loved my family. I will miss them and I do hope I see them again.

Difficult Decisions and their Impact

In previous posts, I have indicated Gulu’s violent history, a history I knew before I came. But being here adds a whole new level of understanding. I know I can never understand the lives of the people here, but there’s something about being here, about being in a place where such systematic and despicable evil has taken place, that makes one feel closer to the terror felt in the land.

When I’m lying in my bed, staring into the pitch blackness, unable to see three feet in front of me, I think of how my only recourse would be to hide under my bed if the LRA rebels were banging on my door. When I move through the tall, dense grass, I can see how the LRA could sneak through the bush undetected. When I’m in a car that’s driving through that tall, dense grass, my heart stops, waiting for the landmine explosion, rationally knowing they have all been removed. When I wake in the middle of the night to deafening thunder and barking dogs, I instinctively think that the rebels are returning and the thunder is their warning gunshots.

The majority of these thoughts are not rational. The landmines have been removed. The rebels are in the DRC and, if they did return to Uganda, we would know about it before they ever reached Gulu. We would have plenty of time to reach safety in Kampala. But rational thought has nothing to do with experiencing Gulu and its people.

I don’t know fear. I have no true concept of pain. But being in a place where people do, where they lived with fear and pain for 15 years, hearing their stories, brings me closer to the conflict. While I’ve heard many stories and seen many things during my time in Gulu, I want to share one story that hit me on a personal level. This is a story as told to me by my friend, as told to her by her homestay mother.

In 2005, right before the Juba Peace Talks, all but one of the seven kids in the family were kidnapped by the LRA and taken as child soldiers and child brides. On that awful, awful night the LRA came to the Gulu area. The mother woke in the middle of the night to loud banging, demanding she unlock the door. She knew who it was; she knew they would take her children; she knew her children would be forced to kill. She opened the door. She had no choice – they threatened to throw a grenade through the window if she didn’t.

This part of the story freaks me out. She told this very dead, very matter-of-fact. “I opened the door.” No explanation, no excuses. Just acceptance. To open the door, comprehending that the act would destroy your children, would annihilate their soul, must have been the hardest decision she had ever made. Her children’s death or the worst life a child could lead. She allowed her children to be kidnapped. She opened the door.

They were all taken, all but the baby on her hip. The LRA worried the baby might cry and alert the Ugandan army. In one night, she lost six children. This loss was amplified by the questions of whether they were alive, whether they had been forced to kill, whether they had been tortured or raped.

All but one of the kidnapped children have escaped and returned home. They are in school, continuing with their lives, all the while living with the horrors they saw in the bush. The parents claim that the girl who did not return is dead. They didn’t give details on her death or how they knew this.

The part of the story that strikes me is the return of the children. It is an amazing thing that most of them returned, particularly with the children so young – they ranged from 7-15. They returned from oldest to youngest. The older siblings left their younger siblings behind.

As the oldest of four, it is disconcerting, even disturbing, to imagine my family in the same situation. It is difficult to imagine me leaving behind my sisters and brother in such a despicable life, while I, who am old enough to plan a probable escape plan, flee to safety. It is difficult to imagine, but not impossible. In that situation, theoretically, you take any chance you get to escape because another may not come again for several years.

Escape is uncommon and dangerous. If you are caught, you will be killed, usually by another child soldier. The younger you are, the less likely you will escape successfully. It must have been difficult to decide to escape for the two oldest children (they escaped together). They left behind their brothers and sisters who were less able to escape. But it’s understandable, particularly considering they had probably been separated from their siblings for weeks. They had to get away.

That people were forced to do things that doomed their family or to abandon them makes me uncomfortable. Because those are the decisions, the acts that would drive me mad. The human brain can process many horrible acts, thoughts, or sights. But the personal element, the participation in a loved one’s destruction, is too awful for processing or comprehension. The human heart and the human brain are not built to handle the onslaught of that intensity of psychological violence.

I don’t know if I could do it. If I could unlock the door and watch my family walk into the night to live in hell. But I would.

I don’t know if I could flee to a better life, leaving behind my younger, more fragile, more incapable siblings to live in that hell. But I would (have to).

I don’t know if I could handle the guilt of the consequences of my decisions. I don’t think I could.

Thank God that most of the children returned and after less than a year in the bush. Thank God they escaped successfully. Thank God they have managed to continue with their lives.

The Food of Uganda: The Dilemma of a Full Stomach or Taste

Ugandans like their food salty and, if they can’t have it salty, they like it tasteless. Their diet consists of starch, starch, protein, and more starch.

Posho: This is their basic food. It’s corn ground into a powder, then mixed with water, until it’s a sticky, bread-like texture. It tastes like nothing. And it’s served with everything. Rice is the only substitute, but because rice is expensive and posho is super cheap, rice is hardly ever served. My family serves posho every night with either beans, a vegetable, or meat. It takes up the most space on the plate, is meant to be combined with the other dinner item, and is the main thing that fills you up. I didn’t mind it at first, but now I have to force it down. It’s aggravating that it’s tasteless and so heavy. I’m done with posho.

Beans: The beans here are phenomenal. I could eat just them day and night. I don’t know why they taste better here. It may be because they are one of the few things that have any taste, and a good taste at that.

Cassava: Ugandans are also addicted to cassava. Cassava is like a potato, but softer and slightly sweeter. I like cassava but my family serves it all the time. It’s not good enough to eat every day. I miss my Irish potatoes. They have Irish potatoes here, but I think my family looks down on them. According to my family, cassava is clearly better than potatoes. My family made me cassava French fries and, instead of specifying them as cassava chips, they just call them chips. One of the greatest disappointments of my life was when I bit into that fry, expecting potato-y goodness and instead got cassava okay-ness.

Vegetables: Most of the vegetables my family serves me are local vegetables that don’t exist in America. One looks like peas in their pod, but it’s a bean. The other three look like spinach leaves, but aren’t spinach. All of them only have a little flavor and the flavor they do have is not that pleasant. But it’s eatable for a short amount of time. But I’m starting to reach my limit.

Maloqoin: It’s a clump of green paste, which is considered their best dish. It has taste. This is the only dish they eat with potatoes. The first two times I had maloqoin, I ate it by itself and hated it. The third time I ate it with the potatoes and actually thought it was alright.

Matoke: Boiled plantains. I suspect they like this dish is because boiling plantains takes the flavor out of them. If they add onions and tomatoes to flavor it, it’s actually not bad.

Groundnut sauce: peanut butter but liquid-ier. It’s delicious.

Avocado: They eat avocado with anything. But they eat it by itself (with salt of course!). They think it’s strange that when we eat it, it’s in something. I once got served avocado with spaghetti. And also fries. I don’t love avocado, but I eat it. I like the taste of nutrition, a rare taste here.

Cabbage: Also something I’ve started eating here. I’m obsessed. Why haven’t my parents ever served me it? I made some cabbage for my family, because they can’t afford it, and we seasoned it with mushroom powder, onions, and tomatoes. If we hadn’t eaten it with posho, the meal would have been fantastic.

Fish: First time I’ve ever had to stare at the fish’s face as I ate it. No de-boning before serving here.

Breakfast for Dinner: I tried to explain some American food to my family. I made them “pancakes” and scrambled eggs, but it didn’t quite turn out American. But they seemed to like it okay.

Mashed potatoes: I also tried to explain mashed potatoes to them, a staple in my American home. They reacted with revulsion and swore they would never eat it. I was shocked and angry. Eventually, after my temperature rose a few notches, I realized their disgust stemmed from their worry about digestion. The idea of milk and potatoes together doesn’t sit right with their stomachs. I also found out later that most Ugandans are lactose intolerant, just because they’re not use to milk or cheese – no refrigeration. I calmed myself with the thought that I know they would love mashed potatoes and they can digest them just fine. They don’t know what they’re missing.