tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85578787420976300252024-03-13T13:19:34.319-07:00Gadabout GramFollow along as I travel the world and work for peace.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-74911200474164393772014-06-15T06:43:00.000-07:002014-06-15T06:43:21.848-07:00Mostar, Bosnia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The small city of Mostar has been a tourist destination since the 19th Century, drawing visitors from around the globe to revel at the 16th Century architecture and Ottoman charm of the city built alongside the banks of the Emerald green Neretva River. But in recent years, visitors who leave Mostar's romantic Old Town encounter the visible scars of a devastating war.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-89KnetQujWY/U5tCtiQArWI/AAAAAAAACJU/wu6IFXL-VNU/s1600/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-89KnetQujWY/U5tCtiQArWI/AAAAAAAACJU/wu6IFXL-VNU/s1600/image.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lYGJO59njFs/U5tConNGQdI/AAAAAAAACJE/Rf-RE0dpsfI/s1600/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lYGJO59njFs/U5tConNGQdI/AAAAAAAACJE/Rf-RE0dpsfI/s1600/image.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a><br />
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While I was a four year old playing Evil Knievel on my bicycle (some things never change), the most fortunate children of Mostar had escaped to refugee camps. Those left behind, saw their streets turned into battlegrounds, and bore witness to, or themselves perished in, the mass executions, ethnic cleansing, and systematic rape that plagued the historic city during the Bosnian war. Much of Mostar was reduced to rubble during the nine-month siege that began in April 1992, including the famous Stari Most bridge commissioned by Suleman the Magnificent in 1557. </div>
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Today, while the Old Town has been restored and a vibrant modern strip houses street cafés, boutiques and restaurants, much of the city continues to lay fallow under the posted signs "Beware of ruin." Some apartment building and shops plastered over the bullet holes and replaced the stones damaged by mortar attacks, while others chose to keep portions of the war's destruction visible, reminding those within of all the building and it's inhabitants have endured. Many homes are still abandoned--perhaps their owners fled, were expelled, or fill one of the hundreds of gravestones marked "1993." The siege was so intense at its height that all of the parks within the city were converted into cemeteries to enable quick burial amidst the flying gunfire. </div>
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Graffiti throughout Mostar reads "remember '93," with other messages displaying the persistent ethnopolitical complexity in Bosnia. Graffiti touting one ethnocentric political party's slogan are crossed out and replaced by another party's message. <br />
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In college, I studied the Yugoslav Wars, but as is always the case with visiting war-torn regions, written histories do little to convey the depth of human suffering. Walking the streets of the city and seeing the destruction firsthand, I wept for those who lost their lives and those who survived, having witnessed the numerous acts later deemed "crimes against humanity." </div>
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It's hard to imagine what it means to have nothing left, to have one's whole livelihood robbed by war or ethnocide, but seeing a decimated community attempt to rebuild serves both as a testament to the utter devastation of war and the indomitable spirits of its survivors. </div>
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Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-84016681238349094902012-09-14T16:39:00.003-07:002012-09-14T17:24:22.383-07:00Peace-building where “Peace” is a Dirty Word<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Working in the West Bank and Israel afforded me an
opportunity to test out my hypothesis that peace is what our world needs most, and
empowering and inspiring children to believe in and work for peace will help us
get there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In the West Bank, I worked in what was once “the eye of the
storm,” the largest refugee camp in the region known during the Second Intifada
as a hotbed for the al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade and infamous for the number of
suicide bombers it produced. Today, the Balata
Refugee Camp houses nearly 30,000 inhabitants in .25 sq.km of land. The narrow
streets of the camp are alive with the activity of shop owners, street venders,
young men and children, making a walk through the camp a crowded and chaotic
event.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">When I first expressed interest in partnering with a local
organization to bring a peace curriculum to the children of this camp, the idea
met resistance. “If you pacify the youth, you will crush the Resistance.” I was
told. “How can you work for peace without first working for justice?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I explained the basic premises behind my work with children.
I believe all children deserve to know peace. I believe children growing up in particularly
chaotic and violent environments are in need of special attention to help
cultivate their own peace, and I believe the actions of children can lead to more
peace in their communities and the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">With an explanation my partners deemed satisfactory and weeks
of curriculum negotiation, I was allowed to begin my work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The first day of any <a href="http://www.kidsforpeaceglobal.org/">Kids for Peace</a> meeting begins with the simple
inquiry “What is peace?” I typically ask children what peace means to them, when
they feel the most or least at peace, and what they do to create peace for
themselves and others. When I asked the attentive
group of children how to create peace, a little boy’s hand shot up in the air. “Fight
the enemy!” he shouted, bursting out of his seat. Trying to redirect my line of
questioning, I continued, “What do you do to create peace for yourself when you
don’t have any, for example, when you’re feeling angry?” I paused, waiting for
my typical answers of “Read a book,” or “Go for a walk.” A little boy
enthusiastically replied, “I beat my little brother.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It was going to be a long and bumpy road to cultivating peace…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">As the days went on, I worked with the children participating
to develop skills to prepare them for facing future challenges. We learned and
practiced nonviolent communication, conflict resolution techniques, and ways to
ease anger and experience peace personally. They planned days of service and
prepared to make a recycled trash herb garden as a project to improve their
community’s environment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The happiest day for me was <a href="http://greatkindnesschallenge.org/">The Great Kindness Challenge</a>-Balata Camp Edition, a day dedicated to blanketing the camp with
kindness and altruism. For three days preceding, the children made preparations
for their day of kindness. Guided by a checklist of kind acts translated into
Arabic, the children wrote thank you cards, made “Kindness Matters” posters in
English and Arabic, designed “Pinwheels for Peace,” and strategized about how
they could reach the most people possible with their good deeds. I proudly
watched the seriousness with which they pursued service to others, and shared
in their delight when the clock struck 5pm and they ran out into the camp’s
streets, marking the start of their 24 hours of kindness by sharing smiles with
at least 20 people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The Great Kindness Challenge was a beautiful day which left
my heart full of hope. The next day, however, I was confronted with the
realities of promoting peace in a sometimes hostile environment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A photographer had visited my children’s group a few days
before the day of kindness, documenting the children’s work. Unbeknownst to me,
the photos were posted on a Facebook page with a sizable local audience under
the simple title, “Peace-building Project in Balata Camp.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The response was immediate from furious viewers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“How dare you allow a white girl to teach our children about
peace. All Americans think Palestinians are terrorists,” one angry commenter
wrote. “If her goal is achieved, the resistance to occupation will be over,”
wrote another outraged individual.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Quickly, I saw the fragile threads upholding the fabric of my
peace program unwind before my eyes. Was that it? Was my chance at working with
children to promote peace in the refugee camp over?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I immediately responded with a PR campaign, believing that the
outrage arose from a misunderstanding. People were not against the values of
kindness, respect, and altruism, but rather, they were afraid of the word “peace.”
I drafted a carefully worded explanation for the photos posted on the internet describing
the groups’ goals of providing children with a safe space to foster peace for
themselves and serve their community.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The storm fortunately passed, and the peace work was permitted to
continue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My experience working with children in the Balata Refugee
Camp was equal parts inspiring, educational, and frustrating. The program was
very popular with the children who loved the crafts, fun, and games of the Kids
for Peace curriculum and confirmed my belief that all children desire to be
good and to do good. At the same time, the realities of working in an ongoing
conflict zone necessarily transformed my work. The reason Kids for Peace targets children is because
of the deep biases that sometimes inform adults. With one simple word--“peace-building”—months
of work was nearly derailed, underscoring the fragility of peace in tense
environments. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gnT5v6OwKns/UFO-TZpGOzI/AAAAAAAACAY/n93NmTK7mag/s1600/DSC_1013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gnT5v6OwKns/UFO-TZpGOzI/AAAAAAAACAY/n93NmTK7mag/s320/DSC_1013.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young boy draws his idea of peace for our Peace Puzzle. His image include the Al Aqsa mosque, the symbol of the al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade and a continuing point of contention between Israelis and Palestinians, as well as the Palestinian flag and the word "hope."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Girls write the script for a skit on conflict resolution, sitting in front of the boards made with the Peace Pledge in English and Arabic. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In preparation for The Great Kindness Challenge, a girl shows of her thank you card to a camp volunteer. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me helping girls make "pop-up" thank you cards for The Great Kindness Challenge.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kindness Matters</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinwheels for Peace</td></tr>
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Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-88886451405096334332012-09-14T14:40:00.000-07:002012-09-14T17:33:39.047-07:00The West Bank's Refugees<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Refugee camps are designed to offer a temporary home to
individuals rendered homeless by crisis or conflict, or for whom insecurity
requires evacuation. Ideally, camps serve as a safe space to offer solace to
the vulnerable until they can return to their homes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">For those living within the West Bank’s camps, there will likely
be no return. They are permanently
displaced people. Many had family members who first left modern day Israel in 1947.
Since then, they have lived through several wars and incessant confrontations, witnessing
few signs of progress toward finding a sustainable solution to end the land
dispute that has long plagued the region. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In May and June, 2012, I worked in the West Bank’s largest
refugee camp leading a peacemaking group with children. Simultaneously, I
listened, asked questions, and read. I learned about the UN Resolution 197 which guarantees uprooted peoples the right to return; I spoke to people who
explained that allowing this would mean the end of Israel; I read the opinion
of Alan Dershowitz who accuses Palestinians of not integrating refugees in
order to perpetuate anger and foster terrorism; and I learned firsthand from
the children of the camps how their life experiences inform their understanding
of the conflict that impacts nearly every aspect of their daily lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">When faced with an uncertain future, humans tend to lose hope
or commit themselves to an idea and work tirelessly towards its fruition.
In the camps I worked in and visited, I saw a people who were tired, but hadn’t
given up hope in their conception of justice, met individuals with regrets
about tactics used in the past, but who ultimately wanted what would bring
their people peace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I saw firsthand how life within the camps might impede a
sense of personal peace. Most camps are over-crowded with schools strained to
their maximum. “Palestinians are the most paranoid people in the world,” I
heard several Palestinians joke, a sentiment rooted in the distrust that
develops after decades of warfare and instability. During my time in the West Bank,
periodic security missions by IDF forces took terrorist and opposition suspects
out of their homes in the middle of the night, further contributing to the
pervasive sense of unease within the camps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">As much as meeting Israel’s settlers is critical to
understanding the complicated dynamics of the West Bank’s wars, so too is
meeting the land’s landless, the refugees who persist without a home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RO9r8_PDyU8/UFOjyTnCFUI/AAAAAAAAB_4/akwU2B5RJlk/s1600/DSC_1020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RO9r8_PDyU8/UFOjyTnCFUI/AAAAAAAAB_4/akwU2B5RJlk/s320/DSC_1020.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Murals on the walls of the Balata Refugee Camp describing the camp's history</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VU6fphwnRJY/UFOjzhz-gDI/AAAAAAAACAA/bkKsURuYyNw/s1600/DSC_1023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VU6fphwnRJY/UFOjzhz-gDI/AAAAAAAACAA/bkKsURuYyNw/s320/DSC_1023.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GZHdEBfOxh4/UFOj1OihzfI/AAAAAAAACAI/X55rtEhgBzE/s1600/DSC_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GZHdEBfOxh4/UFOj1OihzfI/AAAAAAAACAI/X55rtEhgBzE/s320/DSC_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XNJ6GLoqZQ8/UFOjxHk4_vI/AAAAAAAAB_w/OA8ZSDDU8TE/s1600/DSC_0999.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XNJ6GLoqZQ8/UFOjxHk4_vI/AAAAAAAAB_w/OA8ZSDDU8TE/s320/DSC_0999.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mural in a Bethlehem refugee camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-14350877098293585382012-09-14T14:29:00.001-07:002012-09-14T17:11:09.161-07:00Coming Face to Face with the Men on the Walls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mIzZLNY2Yh4/UFOhYefolQI/AAAAAAAAB_k/CgbrAlyAkcE/s1600/DSC_1058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mIzZLNY2Yh4/UFOhYefolQI/AAAAAAAAB_k/CgbrAlyAkcE/s400/DSC_1058.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martyrs' Square in Old City, Nablus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Upon the walls of the ancient corridors of the West Bank’s
city of Nablus hang banners of young men pictured holding machine guns. These
are Nablus’ martyrs, men—often only months out of adolescence—who died for the
cause of establishing a Palestinian state.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">To many Palestinians, these men are heroes, making the
Ultimate Sacrifice in hopes of establishing a free and just land, bidding a
final farewell to this world with the pull of a string and the detonation of a
belt. Some see their cause as noble, affording them a special place among God’s
chosen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In my country, government leaders have shown no hesitation in
calling the acts of violence committed by these men “terrorism.” Their targets
were usually civilians, their tactic to breach security at the Israeli border
and find a crowded place with the goal of killing as many civilians as
possible. Terror reigned. Men, women and children died. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Yet in the streets of Nablus, I met some of the most
hospitable and kind people I have ever known. I was daily beckoned by shop
owners to share a cup of tea and discuss life in the West Bank and beyond. From
the people I met, I developed a nuanced understanding of terrorism and terrorists,
peaceful Muslims who want to live a righteous life, as well as those who explain
“just” warfare in religious terms—a tactic utilized by different religious
peoples for centuries. I learned that many Palestinians see the actions of the
Israeli military in the West Bank as “terrorism.” I looked up the definition of
“insurgent”—the term most often used by the U.S. media to describe Iraqi and
Afghani militants—and realized that in these countries, rebels probably justify their behavior by calling U.S.
efforts "terrorizing" as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Terrorism does not arise out of nowhere. It has its basis in
ideas, ideas formulated over time that inform the way one views the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">As I left Nablus behind to begin my
work in Israel, I wondered what ideas informed those young men pictured on the
posters. What did they grow up hearing? What ideas informed their thinking? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">-------</span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Note:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><i>It took me a while to post my final entries from my
time in the Middle East in part because I needed to process all I had seen,
experienced and learned. I realize the issues I am discussing in my blog posts are controversial, and that no one is without biases in how they interpret "the facts." My primary aim is to introduce those reading this blog to some
of the complexities of the conflict, ideas espoused by locals and the
international community, and—ever important to me—the prospects for peace. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><i>I left the Middle East with more questions than answers, as I
imagine you will notice in this short essay and the ones to follow. I hope
these entries will provoke thought and discussion rather than offer
generalizations about complex problems. I traveled to both sides of the
Israel-Palestine debate, worked for peace with Christian and Muslim Arabs and
Jewish Israelis, and made friendships that I hope will last a lifetime. This
was a unique opportunity afforded by my American passport, and one I do not
take for granted as most living in the midst of the conflict never get to
experience “the other side.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-9600380189047234932012-06-25T14:41:00.002-07:002012-06-25T14:58:46.524-07:00Peaceful Resistance, One Pitcher at a Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On a rocky hillside in the ancient village of Taybeh, the
fragrant smell of roasting barley emanates from an inconspicuous factory. Inside, the Khoury family is busily
overseeing several tanks of brewing liquid which will eventually be bottled and
packaged as the Middle East’s only microbrew.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kaF43Amyp0Q/T-jaXCSrh6I/AAAAAAAAB_I/awG3wEgHVhI/s1600/DSC_1025-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kaF43Amyp0Q/T-jaXCSrh6I/AAAAAAAAB_I/awG3wEgHVhI/s320/DSC_1025-2.jpg" width="320" /></a>The brewery occupies an interesting position in Palestinian
politics, history, and economics. Its founders, David and Nadim Khoury had
escaped the violence and instability of the West Bank to attend college in
Boston, Massachusetts. There, David fell in love with brewing beer. When the
Oslo Accords were signed in 1994, the brothers decided to move back to their
home village of Taybeh and support Palestinian people by bringing business: beer
business.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Alcohol is forbidden under Islam making Taybeh’s position in
the majority-Muslim West Bank a precarious one. The beer is produced in
Palestine’s last remaining entirely Christian town, but this fact alone has not
dissuaded extremists from targeting the Khoury family and the town of Taybeh in
acts of violent protest. David’s car has been torched, someone has shot at him,
and the factory was nearly burned down in 2005 during a period of religious
riots following the honor killing of a Muslim woman from a nearby town after it
was discovered she had engaged in a relationship with a Taybeh villager. Fourteen
homes were destroyed and the West Bank nearly lost its only brewery. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wgr_WNlEPmo/T-jaQ1F1XrI/AAAAAAAAB_A/zhP0cUcUnQY/s1600/DSC_0986-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wgr_WNlEPmo/T-jaQ1F1XrI/AAAAAAAAB_A/zhP0cUcUnQY/s320/DSC_0986-2.jpg" width="320" /></a>Explicit violence is not the only challenge the family
faces. The occupation of the West Bank results in stringent regulations and
policies that dissuade business and make life particularly hard for beer
brewers. The water for Taybeh comes from only two miles away, but this water
source is under Israeli control. The water is prioritized for the Israeli
settlements built on the hilltops surrounding Taybeh who receive a constant
flow, while Palestinian villages in the region are pumped water half of the
week, and only after they purchase it from Israel. After the production of the beer,
it must be transported through several checkpoints to reach distribution sites
within the West Bank, and particularly stringent checkpoints to enter Israel
for local use and export abroad. Brew Master Madees Khoury explained that
several times, shipments have spoiled while awaiting inspection or have been
refused entry into Israel, impeding all foreign export.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Despite the many challenges facing the small operation, the
family produces one terrific set of beers earning their moniker “The Finest in
the Middle East” (my personal favorite is their “Dark,” a rich and smooth
stout). The business remains viable, surviving its greatest challenge yet
during the Second Intifada and becoming a point of Palestinian pride in more
liberal cities where alcohol is legal. Their billboards often read: “Drink
Palestinian, Taste the Revolution.” </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More than anything, the Khourys see their business as a form
of civil resistance. Born in a moment of hope after the historic Oslo Agreements,
the family dreams to someday see a free and prosperous Palestinian state.<br />
<br />
“The
Christians of Taybeh have lived through countless occupations since the time
Jesus entered this town,” Maria Khoury explained to me, “and they have always
responded through peaceful resistance. This is a matter of great pride in our
village. We are not a violent people, and we will support Palestinian
independence not by strapping on bombs, but by brewing beer, providing jobs,
and investing in Palestine.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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Cheers to that.</div>
</div>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-21868298367681438632012-06-25T14:34:00.002-07:002012-09-15T04:05:00.502-07:00Apartheid’s Witnesses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dVrIT9WmTpM/T-jZNLUsIAI/AAAAAAAAB-4/qKoFbWnKf-U/s1600/DSC_0889-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dVrIT9WmTpM/T-jZNLUsIAI/AAAAAAAAB-4/qKoFbWnKf-U/s320/DSC_0889-2.jpg" width="213" /></a> “When I was young, I
couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand seeing the injustice of apartheid in my
home country of South Africa. It became so bad that my husband and I decided we
had to leave. We didn’t want to be a part of a country that oppressed its own people.
That was 1968,” Rosemary told me. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So you decided to come to Israel?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, we considered many places—the United States, Europe—but
my husband thought it was important that Jews have a state to live peacefully
and prosperously. Even then, we were pretty secular, and I felt less strongly
about it than him, but we decided to give it a try for a year. We left South
Africa, had our first daughter here, he started a law practice…and we stayed.
Now, my grandchildren are here and I couldn’t even imagine leaving.” </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rosemary and I sat on the porch of a Palestinian souvenir
shop and sipped sweet tea the shop owner brought us. Across the street, we
watched one of Hebron’s 16 urban checkpoints as Israeli soldiers repeatedly
turned Palestinians away, forbidding them from crossing into the Israeli part
of town where we now sat. Rosemary played with her glass with a forlorn face. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jLy7eAp_5B0/T-jX1oYBEBI/AAAAAAAAB-o/rvrRGXiWX3w/s1600/DSC_0890-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jLy7eAp_5B0/T-jX1oYBEBI/AAAAAAAAB-o/rvrRGXiWX3w/s320/DSC_0890-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
“It’s awful,” she said, “It makes me sick. I came to Hebron
today because I felt I had to see it for myself, and it’s even worse than I’d
imagined. People in Israel just don’t know. They don’t <i>allow</i> themselves
to know."<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rosemary was one of several Israelis I met during my time in
Hebron who felt the military presence within the city, the presence of sometimes hostile settlers, and the imposition of road blocks and checkpoints unnecessarily oppressed Palestinians and infringed upon civil liberties. Another woman,
Rebecca, played with the golden charms of the Star of David and Hamsa Hand
dangling from her neck as she told me why she regularly visits Palestinian
families in the city to check in on them and draw attention to abuses that
occur. Despite her conservative religious and Zionist beliefs, she felt a
moral obligation to bear witness to the violent abuses committed by Hebron’s
settlers. Her decision has drawn great
criticism from her religious community in Jerusalem, yet she still visits
Hebron twice per month, sometimes accompanied by a friend, often alone.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rosemary and Rebecca are part of a larger movement by Jewish
Israelis to oppose the most blatant abuses of Occupation. Several Israeli
organizations work to draw attention to human rights abuses in the West Bank,
including B’Tselem and Breaking the Silence, yet the number of open Israeli
dissenters still remains a minority. In many parts of the West Bank,
Palestinians have still never met a Jewish person who wasn’t working for the
Israeli Defense Forces or living in an illegal Israeli settlement,* perpetuating
mischaracterizations of all Israelis as unjust aggressors.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As was the case in segregated America and apartheid South
Africa, Occupied Palestine has created 2 distinct classes of people with
different laws determining freedom or oppression. Resentment seethes in the
archetypical city of Hebron, and patiently waits for the right moment to boil over. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*All Israeli settlements in the West Bank are considered
illegal under international law, though Israel disputes the International Court
of Justice’s ruling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Note: All names in this post have been changed. </i></div>
</div>
Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-51330105379708277802012-06-25T14:11:00.001-07:002012-06-25T14:39:33.286-07:00Aisha, Alive and Well<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4ZpQoYOciM/T-jRnfnlNfI/AAAAAAAAB-M/Il1kSGnMQJ0/s1600/DSC_0907-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4ZpQoYOciM/T-jRnfnlNfI/AAAAAAAAB-M/Il1kSGnMQJ0/s320/DSC_0907-2.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aisha watching a game of soccer belo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
From behind a barred window, chained for added protection, seven
year old Aisha watched outside. In the small sports gymnasium two stories below,
young boys wearing kippa with face-long payot played a game of soccer, surrounded
by high walls and barbed wire. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys are children of Jewish settlers living in Hebron, a
city with roots predating the biblical era and archaeological records as old as
the Bronze Age. Their parents are some of the most extremist Zionists in the
West Bank, choosing to live in the only Israeli settlement located in the heart
of an Arab Palestinian city. In order to discourage violence between the 500
settlers and 165,000 Arab Palestinians living in Hebron, Israel maintains a
presence of an estimated 4,000 soldiers who oversee 116 roadblocks, closures and
checkpoints and man several military stations for each home inhabited by
settlers (<a href="http://www.tiph.org/en/News/?module=Articles;action=Article.publicShow;ID=1640">TIPH</a>).
The enforced segregation of the city has resulted in the closure of 1,829
Palestinian businesses located near settlements, 77% of the Old City’s
Palestinian-owned markets (<a href="http://www.acri.org.il/pdf/ghosttown.pdf">ACRI</a>).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aisha’s walk home through the Old City requires her to pass
through two Israeli checkpoints where armed soldiers have the choice to
question her extensively or allow her to pass. On this day, joined by her
foreign friend, travel was a breeze. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Old City’s ancient corridors are full of life, with
vendors beckoning passersby to buy their fresh produce, fragrant spices,
colorful ceramics and tapestries. Above the open-air market, Palestinians have
installed a roof of nets and fencing to protect themselves from propelled
objects and waste thrown by settlers living in apartments above. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Mfd8PSMOri8/T-jTS8JZ8HI/AAAAAAAAB-U/9S0lT0sUU7c/s1600/IMG_1730-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Mfd8PSMOri8/T-jTS8JZ8HI/AAAAAAAAB-U/9S0lT0sUU7c/s320/IMG_1730-2.jpg" width="204" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aisha running through a checkpoint</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Aisha held my hand while flitting through the market,
propelling me quickly through the ancient streets and tunnels, dodging food
carts, donkeys, and pedestrians. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we neared Aisha’s house, her older sister Sundus pointed
out their uncle’s home, located in the shadows of a Palestinian home illegally
taken by Israeli settlers who have ignored Israeli eviction orders for months.
Her uncle’s roof now serves as a permanent home for Israeli Defense Forces who
have built a watch tower over the family room. Sundus whispered to me that two
days ago, the soldier in the tower yelled explicit profanities at her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Without warning, little Aisha picked up a stone and threw it
toward the tower.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Aisha, what are you doing?!” I screamed, knowing how many children are shot and killed in the West Bank for throwing stones. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a moment, I thought she had understood the fear in my
voice. Then, I saw her bend over again, pick up another stone and throw it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Aisha!!” I yelled, as I saw the soldier turn toward us with
his gun, “We have to go now!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we retreated from
the soldier’s post, Aisha closed one eye and formed her arms in the shape of a rifle.
“Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop,” she mimicked, pointing her arms back toward the
soldier and the settler’s home behind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we finally made it to Aisha’s home, her mother greeted
us, “alHamdu lillah,” “Praise God.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Arabic, I later learned, Aisha means “alive and well.”
Born during the Second Intifada and raised in an environment of incredible
tension, everyday Aisha makes it home safely is a day worthy of giving thanks
to Allah. </div>
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<br /></div>
</div>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-11855191163602723522012-05-25T09:35:00.001-07:002012-05-25T09:39:12.490-07:00Remembering Rwanda<i>"If you must remember, remember this...the Nazis did not kill 6 million Jews...nor the Interahamwe kill a million Tutsis, they killed one and then another, then another...genocide is not a single act of murder, it's millions of acts of murder." </i><br />
<br />
-Stephen Smith, Executive Director of Aegis Trust, 2004<br />
<br />
<br />
During the days preceding April 10, 1994, women and children crowded into the Nyamata Catholic Church, 35km south of Kigali. Since April 6, when Rwandan President Habyarimana's airplane went crashing down, hateful messages filled the radio waves encouraging Hutus to find and kill their Tutsi and moderate Hutu neighbors. Rwandans listened carefully as lists of names were read, knowing that minutes after hearing their own, roves of armed militias would come hunting for them.<br />
<br />
<br />
Families of Tutsis crammed inside Nyamata Church just as they had before during periods of ethnic violence. So many arrived this time, however, that the small church's capacity was overloaded. Two thousand women and children hid within the sanctuary, while several thousand more gathered on the grounds surrounding.<br />
<br />
<br />
On April 8, the Italian priests at Nyamata were evacuated along with thousands of other foreign diplomats and expatriates throughout the country. Those within the church knew this made them more vulnerable to the chaos, but they imagined that as in years past, the angry mobs would fear committing acts of violence under the gaze of the crucifix.<br />
<br />
<br />
As the days passed, Hutu militias became emboldened and hate overcame fear of God.<br />
<br />
<br />
On Sunday, April 10, gunfire was heard in the streets surrounding the church. Mothers clung to their babies and tried to calm their young children. The armed men of the Interahamwe militia approached, carrying guns, machetes, and clubs, sending those gathered outside the church’s main sanctuary running in all directions. Within the church, women attempted to stay the iron doors as rapid gunfire surrounded them, but their efforts were useless against the grenades and jackhammers of the genocidaires.<br />
<br />
<br />
Within hours, over 10,000 women, children, and civilian men lay dead within the sanctuary and on the grounds surrounding. The church is particularly noted for the extent of torture and sexual violence that accompanied many of the killings. Men who were known to have HIV were chosen to rape women, and others experienced long and torturous deaths chosen specifically for the protracted pain they would cause their victims.<br />
<br />
<br />
I visited Nyamata on a quiet Sunday morning. As I toured the grounds of the memorial site, church bells rang nearby.<br />
<br />
<br />
The church has remained largely untouched since the massacre 18 years ago. Inside the main sanctuary, the Virgin Mary looks down from her perch above the altar. Below her gaze, the bloodstained clothes of thousands of the massacre’s victims rest in heaps upon the sanctuary's floor. Bullet holes riddle the tin roof, and only shards remain of the church's stained glass windows.<br />
<br />
<br />
A massacre of the most appalling kind occurred here, and was replicated in churches, homes, streets and hillsides around the country during the 100 days of Rwandan genocide.<br />
<br />
<br />
At the Kigali Memorial Center, built on the grounds of a mass grave housing the remains of an astonishing 250,000 individuals, the Aegis Trust has done an impressive job of remembering the lives of the genocide's 800,000-1.1 million victims. In the children's exhibit, large photographs of children murdered during the genocide--some smashed against walls, others hacked by machetes in their mothers' arms--are accompanied by placards telling each child's favorite game, food, and personality characteristics. In the main exhibit, video testimonies of survivors accompany the historical information, giving disturbing and often harrowing accounts from some of the few Tutsis who escaped the unprecedented violence.<br />
<br />
<br />
Genocide is a type of murder which does not discriminate between innocents and combatants, making equal victims of babies and adults. It’s an act of incredible violence and inhumanity which makes people, even years later, uncomfortable to imagine. We shudder at hearing how ruthlessly an infant—unaware of ethnic distinctions, religion, or politics--can lose its life, yet few times in history have international leaders shown the bravery necessary to save the lives of those caught in the middle of genocidal plots.Visiting the sites of massacre and mass violence in Rwanda made clear the true definition of genocide as the act of thousands upon thousands of individual murders. No matter how much study I could have done before, no one is prepared to witness some of the worst acts committed by humanity.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z4yvUuxnIZQ/T7-0HW5OKbI/AAAAAAAAB8s/eQV0tof1lXY/s1600/DSC_0388.jpg-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z4yvUuxnIZQ/T7-0HW5OKbI/AAAAAAAAB8s/eQV0tof1lXY/s320/DSC_0388.jpg-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The mass grave on the grounds of the Kigali Memorial Center.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dy5Nh3m0AUw/T7-0Jkw-jAI/AAAAAAAAB80/aaUg4_W8tNk/s1600/DSC_0400.jpg-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dy5Nh3m0AUw/T7-0Jkw-jAI/AAAAAAAAB80/aaUg4_W8tNk/s320/DSC_0400.jpg-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The Nyamata Church which now serves as a memorial place for the 10,000 victims murdered within the sanctuary and on the grounds surrounding.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-19935875975421958042012-05-07T02:34:00.000-07:002012-05-07T02:37:18.813-07:00A Clinic in the Hills<div class="MsoNormal">
Uganda’s
nickname as “The Pearl of Africa” undoubtedly
comes from its lush and hilly Southwest. Along its western border, the Rwenzori Mountains separate the Baamba and
Bakonjo people and their cattle herding from the majority Banyarwanda of the Democratic
Republic of Congo. Further to the south, the Virungas
Mountains and their crystalline lakes are
shared by Rwanda, DRC and Uganda.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I met my friend Alexi during a weekend trip to Jinja. Also
from the coastal North County of San Diego, we talked about our shared friends,
life at home, and the trials and triumphs of our work in Uganda. As a
public health Peace Corps volunteer, Alexi had been assigned to work in a government
health clinic in a small, remote village called Kazo in Southwest, Uganda. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Home to the Banyankole people, Kazo is a beautiful and
peaceful land, but one battling the vicious plague of HIV/AIDS. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arrived at the health center having very little experience
interacting with HIV/AIDS patients. On my first day there, Alexi showed me
around the different wards and then introduced me to the clinic staff who
welcomed me into the lab and walked me through the process of HIV testing,
result delivery, and counseling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One by one, patients came in and sat down to have their
fingers pricked by a small needle. A drop of blood was placed upon a reactive
strip of paper and within minutes, results would appear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the span of an hour, I watched as six patients extended
their hands and winced as the needle went into their finger. Of the six who
came through on this Tuesday morning, half would find out they were infected
with HIV. Perhaps the most tragic of
cases was a young girl barely 17 years old. As the clinicians read the positive
results, they talked amongst themselves about the unfortunate case: with all of
the outreach efforts to educate the community about the risks of unprotected
sex, how did this girl become a victim so young?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As each patient returned to the lab for results, they were
counseled. Two young men under the age of 21, both negative, were reminded of
the risk of sex and warned that a negative test did not necessarily mean they
did not have the virus in their bloodstream. Those who had positive results
were sent to a trained counselor who explained their options for treatment and
offered advice on how to continue living as fully as possible with the
virus. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During my second day at the clinic, I was taken to a room
where tubes of HIV-positive blood were entered into a CD4+ analysis machine. The
machine was in its first week of use at the clinic, a celebrated recent
addition provided by the Ugandan Ministry of Health. I watched as the machine counted
the CD4+ levels within each sample, essentially determining how able the body’s
white blood cells are to respond to viruses and diseases. While a healthy
person has a CD4+ count ranging from 800-1300, the lowest CD4 count of the day
belonged to a 21 year old girl whose blood cell count was only 23, well below
the threshold of 200 that makes one highly susceptible to opportunistic
infections. Below 50 CD4+ cells per micro-liter of blood, the immune system
becomes too weak to fight off normally harmless illnesses that can rapidly
cause weight loss, blindness and death. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was amazed by how the clinicians casually handled each
result which affected me deeply. Minutes after recording a patient’s personal
information and extracting their blood, they would be forced to play the role
of God, informing a patient about their status and estimating how long they had
to live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After some time, one clinician suggested I receive an HIV
test. At first, I refused, sure I was HIV-negative. But as I sat there in the
lab and watched patient after patient enter, I started to think: in the past
few months, I had cut my hand open with a knife in a kitchen shared with an
HIV-positive woman; I had been pricked by a used, but supposedly sterilized
needle when I was sick with malaria. I sat beside the lab worker and my heart
raced as he prepared the needle. While I knew my chances of infection were much
lower than those who had knowingly engaged in risky behaviors, I suddenly
understood the uncertainty and anxiety present in a world where roughly 13% of
the population has the deadly virus. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My results appeared quickly, and luckily were negative, but
the experience of receiving the test in such a setting shook me to the core. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the past 30 years, AIDS has ravaged Africa, debilitating families and prematurely ending lives. I realized early in my visit to the Kazo Clinic that the life of a medical
health provider in Africa is incredibly noble, but ill-suited to my
compassionate nature. For Alexi, an aspiring MSF doctor (Doctors Without Borders),
dealing with such cases had become the norm. Over the past two years, he had witnessed countless patients come in with weakened, skeletal bodies, suffering from infections like pneumonia and tuberculosis, who came to the Kazo Clinic to die.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-45717225271898301602012-04-25T02:57:00.000-07:002012-04-25T03:18:17.467-07:00Feasting on Ants and Folktales at the Feet of a Chief<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For several days, I thought about what gifts to present
during my weekend visit to the chief of the Kabala clan. From experience, I
knew the occasion would be highly ceremonial and that a typical guest would bring
a couple of live chickens or a young goat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dreaded the thought. As a longtime vegetarian, I wasn’t
fond of presenting animals for slaughter and perhaps most honesty, I’d
developed a disdain for chickens that made the notion of a several hour
motorcycle ride carrying the restless, squaking birds by their feet less than
appealing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, I settled on a mix of local items and favorite American
treats: Pader honey, sugar, and tea
combined with coffee, popcorn, and packs of chewing gum my parents had sent
from home. I boarded the motorbike
hopeful that the chief would accept my inanimate offerings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By late morning, after hours of motorbike travel on the
pitted and puddled rainy season roads, I found myself at the base of a mountain
surrounded by the lush greenery characteristic of Northern Uganda this time of
year. While I was expecting a homestead of several mud-brick and grass circular
huts, I found instead a four wall, small home with embellished windows and glass
panes. The chief’s house, I would later
learn, was a gift from the government of Uganda, an offering given to every
chief of every clan in the country in recognition of their ceremonial and
judicial significance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rwot Okot Francis Lafyet became chief in 1968, inheriting
the position as the youngest son of his dying father. Long before Europeans
came to Uganda, chiefs and kings ruled supreme in matters of material,
judicial, and spiritual affairs. When disputes arose between clan members,
chiefs were solely responsible for determining the truth and administering
justice, often weighing material evidence alongside the readings of oracles. Today,
the role of chief remains a mix of judge, spiritual leader, and sage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For several hours, I sat upon a grass mat at the feet of
Chief Okot listening to a description of his official duties which ranged from
officiating over twin ceremonies (slaughtering a white goat and white hen and
sprinkling the bodies of newborn twins with the blood as a blessing) to
settling cases of murder (bringing together members of each clan and deciding
the number of cattle that must be paid to the grieving family). As respected
criminal arbiter and bestower of blessings, the chief received certain remunerations for his services. “That tree there, I can never pick from it
myself. Others must bring me the fruit,” he told me, pointing in the distance
to a mango tree with loaded branches. “I also must never dirty my hands working
in my garden. It is to be the first planted every season and the first
harvested, and the whole community contributes.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most fascinating to me was his historical account of the
conflicts and wars that plagued his land during his 45 year governorship. First, there were the Karamojong, the warrior
tribe inhabiting Northeast Uganda famous for cattle stealing and raids that
often resulted in “bride prizes” and burnt Acholi huts. Chief Okot recounted
three major conflicts with the Karamojong that began just after his coronation
as chief, including one scuffle that resulted in the loss of his entire cattle
herd, the mark of his once extensive wealth. “They left us completely poor,” he
told me, “and we never recovered. As you see even now, I am a chief that cannot
afford more than rags for my children or to welcome you with due honor.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the most recent protracted conflict with the Lord’s
Resistance Army (LRA), chiefs played an important and unique role as peacekeepers.
Respected by the Ugandan national military forces, civilians, as well as LRA
militants, Chief Okot often found himself leaving the IDP camp to meet rebels
“in the bush,” negotiating the return of abductees, relaying important
information, and attempting to broker peace. “Many of those coming back from
fighting would come to me first. I did cleansing ceremonies and sometimes arranged
meetings with their victims’ families. Afterwards, they could be fully welcomed
back into the community.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the patience one might expect of an elder and story
teller, Chief Okot answered my questions one by one, using his son as a
translator. After listening intently to stories about his role as chief, I
couldn’t help but ask him to indulge me a little further. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baba</i> (Father), I have read many folktales through the years from
throughout Africa, but I have yet to know of those most central to the Acholi
tradition.” Chief Akot’s eyes sparkled as a wide, checkerboard smile spread
across his face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Let me tell you the tale of the hare and the elephant,” he
began. “We have so many stories about the hare.” For the next 30 minutes, I
listened attentively from the mat at his feet as I heard how the hare tricked
the elephant, lion, hyena and leopard in a series of clever maneuvers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the story drew to a close, the chief turned to me and
asked if I would permit him to ask his own set of questions. He asked about my
home, my family, the logic behind my names, and my experience in Uganda. “How
would you compare life at home to life in this place? Why don’t you make your permanent home here?”
I answered carefully but truthfully as I explained the major differences in
social services between the two lands and the benefits and shortcomings I
perceived in the two very different ways of life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Satisfied by my answers, he told me it was time for us to
take our lunch. With the guidance of one of his eighteen children, I was taken
into the home, separated from the elders who would eat outside together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We feasted on greens cooked with peanut butter, beans, and
mashed white ants, a delicacy of which I could only bare the smallest taste. At
the end of our meal, I returned to the mat outside, kneeled before the chief
and presented him with my gifts. After
he had accepted each one, he responded delightedly, “today, I am a rich man!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chief Okot blessed my journey and I bid his family farewell. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I looked behind me from the seat of my motorbike, I
thought of the life this man had traveled, from newly ordained chief, powerful
and rich to where I met him today, sitting on the porch of his
government-constructed home with few possessions, listening to stories of his
leadership and sharing tales of my own. Though he had no phone or computer, the
chief insisted I leave him with my contact details in the United States, hoping
that we would someday share again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-axp9D7JuuHs/T5fOI8lTQVI/AAAAAAAAB2I/dzb2_Qo81-c/s1600/IMG_1988.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-axp9D7JuuHs/T5fOI8lTQVI/AAAAAAAAB2I/dzb2_Qo81-c/s320/IMG_1988.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A meal of mashed ants, beans, and greens with peanut butter.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZKLnS7lqvzU/T5fN1s_S8JI/AAAAAAAAB2A/glacBq7vNb8/s1600/IMG_1981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZKLnS7lqvzU/T5fN1s_S8JI/AAAAAAAAB2A/glacBq7vNb8/s320/IMG_1981.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sitting with Chief Okot and one of his children. </div>
</div>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-28882774325359040902012-04-25T02:36:00.001-07:002012-04-25T03:26:36.959-07:00Stranded, Running Barefoot in the Rain<embed flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=https%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2F107369284700538770908%2Falbumid%2F5735277666042577857%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26authkey%3DGv1sRgCJjXgK2eou2YPA%26hl%3Den_US" height="267" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" src="https://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="400"></embed>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rainy season in Northern Uganda means the near cessation of
reasonable transit options. Roads often become so poor that buses cannot pass, tires
sink in quicksand, and only the most daring or determined attempt to journey long
distances by bicycle or motorbike.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the morning of my expected arrival to the home of Chief
Okot, I searched long and hard for a driver willing to brave the roads in a hired
vehicle. With no takers, I weighed my remaining options: cancel my visit and
thus, resolve to never meet the chief, or brave the several hour journey from
the back of a <i>boda boda</i>—a cross
between a Harley and a bicycle, less sturdy than a motorcycle, but with an
engine and long saddle making it decidedly more than a bike. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I climbed aboard behind two riding mates and braced myself
for the helmetless ride along the soggy and pitted road. At times, the bike
slipped and slid along, as the driver walked his legs on the ground to steady
us and regain balance. At others, the road became entirely impassable, forcing
my friend and me to wade through the muddy waters while the <i>boda</i> driver found an alternative path
through the grasses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After more than two hours, we arrived at our destination.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By late afternoon, thunderclaps could be heard in the
distance as dark clouds engulfed the nearby mountain. I hurriedly said my goodbyes to the chief as
his family ushered me off before the storm. Francis, my driver, knew as well as
I did that if we were to have any chance for safe arrival back to Pader, we
would have to beat the approaching storm. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sped off down the dirt road at reckless speed, sending us
flying over bumps and swerving to avoid pot holes. After only thirty minutes,
we came to an abrupt stop. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What is it?” I asked, looking behind at the now black
clouds quickly racing towards us. His gaze directed mine toward the tire below
me, now flat with no hope of carrying us the rest of the way to Pader. Our
options were few: stay together, stranded on this deserted road, or proceed by
foot as he attempted to bring the motorbike back to the village we came from
for repairs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nearly leaped with each long stride as I tried to gain
distance walking down the road away from the storm. My friend and I lasted
about 10 minutes before being struck by heavy wind against our backs so strong
it propelled us running forward. The wind was soon accompanied by rain, hitting
us hard enough to sting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laughed as I registered the entirety of our circumstances,
taking off my sandals as I ran, soaked, feeling the squishy earth beneath my
feet. Of course I should find myself stranded on a deserted road in the middle
of a torrential storm running barefoot on the same day as listening to folk
stories at the feet of a tribal chief!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend worried. “Daniela, I am so, so sorry I have placed
us in this terrible situation. Let us look for shelter and if need be, we can
stay until a bus passes at three in the morning.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suggested a large tree, but my friend thought that would
make us even greater victims of the harsh wind, rain, and striking lightening
surrounding us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finding no suitable covering, we continued running along the
long road to Pader.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p>Eventually, we saw a homestead in the distance, likely the
only structure we’d see for miles. My friend and I hashed out a plan: she would
approach a hut first while I hid at a distance and would give me a signal if
the inhabitants seemed safe and welcoming. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She bent low and entered the hut. A few seconds later, her
hand gestured out, telling me to enter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Karibu</i>!
[Welcome!]” A woman within greeted me. Inside the hut, it was nearly too dark
to see, but the aroma of homemade alcohol and wooden embers sent a sudden
feeling of warmth through my body. The
woman sat upon a mat on the dirt floor, removing pebbles from a basket filled
with large white ants which she would eventually fry. On a mud oven, she boiled
a container of waragi, a local alcohol made from sorghum. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My African dress, now soaking wet, weighed heavily upon my
body. The woman’s husband offered me their only stool as his wife poured me a
steaming cup of her brew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend Nighty used to make this alcohol and once refused
me a sip, claiming it makes <i>muzungus</i>
sick. I now held the warm drink cupped between my hands and sipped from it as I
watched my sandals float outside the hut’s entrance and ducks swim by. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My saviors seemed delighted by their surprise visit and
entertained me with Acholi music played on a battery operated radio. I began to
plan my next move.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I called my landlord in Pader—no answer. I called again, still nothing. On my third
try, I heard a voice. “Daniela, what is it? Where are you?” She asked. I
explained my situation and asked if she could find someone in town willing to
pick me up. In about a half hour, my
phone rang. A Land Cruiser was on its way, and in a few more hours, I would be
home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the end now in sight, I reveled in my good fortune. I
swayed to the music with my new friends as we listened to the rain falling
outside. The man and woman urged me not
to drink too much from the cup they had given me. Drinking a whole cup of <i>waragi</i> would make me drunk, or at least,
so I gathered from the charades of the couple within the hut. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the ants came off of the fire, crisp and golden, I
cringed. “Ants, twice in one day?” I thought to myself. For weeks I had avoided
the flying white ants offered to me by people in Pader, and here I was, taking
one gingerly from the smiling woman in front of me, making it dance in my hand
instead of my mouth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They don’t taste like chicken, nor do they taste anything
like the firey, acidic Argentinian ants I sampled in the raw as a child. I do know that locals warn against eating too
many, as they are famous for causing bad diarrhea. I exercised restraint as the
rest crunched on them by the handful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a couple of hours, my phone rang again as the driver
of the Land Cruiser approached. I found
my sandals and waded barefoot through the waters to the side of the road. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unlike the motorbike, the Land Cruiser barreled down the
road at high speed, crashing through the puddles and sending water splashing as
high as the roof. I held onto the side bar of the passenger’s seat as we
shifted steeply left and right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In no time, I was in my room again, sipping hot tea in my warm,
dry clothes. In only a couple of weeks,
I would be far from dirt roads and rainstorms, mud huts and white ants,
reunited with my parents in the Tuscan countryside. <o:p></o:p></div>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-44592302071300136952012-04-25T02:33:00.000-07:002012-04-25T03:09:57.046-07:00“Do you think you made a difference?”<embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="https://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="400" height="267" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=https%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2F107369284700538770908%2Falbumid%2F5735269973149909281%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26authkey%3DGv1sRgCPXmu96zq937QQ%26hl%3Den_US" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since October, one aspect of my life has remained
consistent: every Sunday afternoon, I could count on a call with my
parents. They would worry immensely when
I wouldn’t make our scheduled chat, but more often than not, they would listen to
stories of my work and life in the village and offer encouragement when I
needed it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On one of my last days in Pader, my father acknowledged the
elephant in the room (as he often has). “So, do you think you made a
difference?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I paused, quickly recounting my first and last days in
Pader. Over the last few days, I had said goodbye to each of the groups of young
people I worked with as a Peace Club patron. At Friends of Orphans, I hosted a
celebration of the student leaders’ accomplishments after escorting them to
meet NGO staff and local leaders with whom they could partner after my
departure. At the Pader Girls School, news of my coming absence was met with
tears. Several girls refused to pose for a photograph, crying until I reassured
them that their Peace Club would continue and that I would not forget them. After
convincing the girls to do one last “Let there be peace!” cheer, the mood
lightened, and I managed to say my goodbyes. The girls escorted me home,
singing the words of Matisyahu’s “One Day” the whole way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My last official day at CCF coincided with the
organization’s anniversary celebration, recognizing ten years of service to
war-affected women and children. I had worked hard in the preceding weeks to
help organize everything from the exhibition tents to the final program of
speakers and presenters. After the exhausting five day event, I was met in the
kitchen of my home by the organization’s Executive Director who expressed
genuine gratitude for all of my efforts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, did I make a difference?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In future resumes, my experience in Pader may be summarized
by a list of achievements: the creation of a Kids for Peace curriculum for
war-affected populations; training over 400 Peace Club members in Pader and
Agago Districts; directly leading four peace clubs whose members organized
service days, human rights trainings, peer counseling sessions, and shared
their Peace Pledge with international ambassadors, local leaders, and members
of the Ugandan Parliament; developing the capacity of two local NGOs through
technology training, monitoring and evaluation, and documentation; teaching
English and computer skills to formerly abducted children; etcetera, etcetera...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the reactions of my students, I do hope it is not too
far of a stretch to imagine that for some, I had the kind of impact upon their
life that the best teachers of my youth had upon my own. It may not be an earth
shattering revolution, but from small but meaningful interactions, the course
of one’s life can change.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Led by Northern Uganda’s youth, I hope a culture
of kindness, peace, and environmental awareness continues to develop. The
youth have learned new skills, exercised leadership, and seen that “it feels
good to do good.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am leaving Pader satisfied with what I have accomplished
in my short time here. I won’t miss all of the challenges of daily life I
faced, but I will miss working with others every day to do “all the good we can,
by all the means we can.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-39813885547650943242012-03-15T03:10:00.002-07:002012-03-15T03:42:01.871-07:00To Combat Future Security Threats, World Leaders Must Prioritize Development<i>“We can't just stop with a single terrorist or a single terrorist organization; we have to go and root out the whole system. We have to go after poverty.”</i><br />
-Colin Powell, former U.S. Secretary of State and retired 4-Star General of the U.S. Army<br />
<br />
Every week, I teach an English lesson at a vocational school for war-affected youth in Northern Uganda. One day, as most of my students concentrated on answering their writing prompt, a new student asked if he could practice his English with me through conversation.<br />
<br />
Otim began by telling me about himself. He shared about how the war in Northern Uganda had affected his family and how he was abducted by the LRA for two years. When he returned to his village, he found his father had been killed by the militia and his family was now too poor to pay his school fees. <br />
<br />
When it came time for Otim to ask me questions, he began by inquiring about the Peace Club I lead at the center, a group he heard about from his friends. “What exactly do you do?” he asked. I explained that I aim to empower the youth with tools to help them create peace for themselves and their community, and I gave examples of the kinds of projects we undertake and skills we develop.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me, Madame, I understand what you are saying, but you see, for me, I cannot have peace for myself until I know I can have a future. And I cannot know I will have a good future until I find a way to afford an education. Without an education, the children I will someday have will suffer just like I did. So how can you help me find peace?”<br />
<br />
His inquiry was profound. <br />
<br />
In a war-affected community where the economy was devastated by 20 years of insecurity, education suffers, and without education, the prospects for a productive peaceful, future are bleak. <br />
<br />
How could I expect Otim to feel peace if he does not believe he stands a chance at making a livable income to afford his own needs and those of his dependents? If another terrorist militia swept through the North with promises of a better future for Acholis who chose to join, would Otim pick up a weapon?<br />
<br />
When I co-founded <a href="http://www.kidsforpeaceglobal.org">Kids for Peace</a> in 2006, I was highly influenced by my own upbringing during the period of fear following 9/11 and the wars against terrorism that followed. At 12 years old, I learned something that changed me, and which I still think of often today: many of the terrorists responsible for the 9/11 attacks were war orphans or living in extreme poverty resulting from the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan (<a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1122273/">Bhutta 2002</a>). When war-affected populations—and in particular, children—are left with memories of violence and few chances for improving their circumstances, a culture conducive to terrorism, extremism, and violence can form.<br />
<br />
For years, foreign policy leaders have recognized this connection, yet little has changed in the way we approach national security. We continue to spend a relatively minute portion of our federal budget on creating security abroad through development relative to defensive spending. In 2010, the United States federal budget allotted 19% of its total expenditures to the U.S. Department of Defense, while only 0.39% went to poverty-focused development assistance (<a href="http://www.borgenproject.org/#!__usforeignaid">Borgen Project</a>). According to the Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessments, the federal budget for 2012 proposes the greatest spending on defence since World War II (<a href="http://articles.businessinsider.com/2011-07-19/news/30079641_1_defense-budget-budget-cuts-budget-requests">Business Insider</a>). <br />
<br />
In the absence of strong government-led development efforts, NGOs have attempted to fill the gap, with many organizations working to empower violence-affected communities. One effort recently <a href="http://kristof.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/03/13/linking-extreme-poverty-and-global-terrorism/#more-10983">featured</a> on Kristof's New York Times blog is led by Jake Harriman, a former US Naval Academy graduate who spent 7 years in the U.S. Marines. After two deployments to the frontlines of the War on Terror, Harriman decided to enroll in Stanford Business School to develop skills to enable him to create an organization aimed at combating terrorism through poverty alleviation.<br />
<br />
Harriman’s story is moving and his efforts are worthwhile, but his impact will inevitably be restricted by the same limitations of capacity nearly all NGOs face. With limited time and resources, Harriman's organization, <a href="http://www.nuruinternational.org/">Nuru International</a>, has chosen to focus its current efforts on the Kuria District in Kenya through an ambitious plan to create social change in that community. Other organizations with similar missions are chipping away at the problem of extreme poverty in other regions of the world, but the reality persists that NGOs simply lack the capacity to solve global poverty alone. <br />
<br />
Campaigns for ending poverty like ONE and Make Poverty History have lobbied world leaders and created the economic case to demonstrate that the resources exist for improving the futures of the world’s poor if only the international will existed to make necessary changes that would allow them to do so. <br />
<br />
Without a fundamental restructuring of the way powerful countries think about national security, poor communities will continue to breed the type of ignorance that serves as a barrier to peace and an incubator for insecurity. Without access to education for young men like Otim, warlords like Joseph Kony will continue to be able to indoctrinate militias in world views based upon irrationality and violence. Organizations like Nuru make an important step in the right direction, but for the kind of widespread change necessary to create cultures conducive to peace, foreign policies of the world's most powerful nations must adapt to offer greater assistance to the world's most poor.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-27475663242424914742012-03-11T05:55:00.011-07:002012-03-11T06:18:26.596-07:00Countering the Headlines: A Response to Kony 2012<iframe width="460" height="258" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Y4MnpzG5Sqc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
By now, Facebook, Twitter, TV and newspapers have been full of reactions to Invisible Children’s <i>Kony 2012</i> video for almost a week. The video has received 71 million views on YouTube and has been the number one trending topic on Twitter since its release. <br />
<br />
Some have heralded the short film for making Joseph Kony a household name, while others have sharply criticized Invisible Children for oversimplifying the conflict, misrepresenting the LRA’s dwindling influence, and offering a flawed strategy by suggesting viewers spend $30 on publicity kits to decorate their neighborhoods in posters and stickers. Some headlines have suggested Ugandans are “outraged” by the video, while others have claimed making Kony famous will harm efforts aimed at his capture. <br />
<br />
Amidst all of the confusion and discussion, what are we to believe? Should we click “re-post?” Is our money best spent on a publicity kit?<br />
<br />
As many articles have mentioned, the LRA left Uganda six years ago (a fact <i>Kony 2012</i> points out in minute 15). In the beginning of 2011, the last remaining internally displaced people camp closed, and nearly all northern Ugandans have returned home or relocated, resuming their lives in relative peace. Children no longer trek at night to find safety in Uganda, and they probably don’t in the regions the LRA has relocated to either.<br />
<br />
It is estimated that the LRA now consists of only 400 or fewer militants spread throughout a vast region of Eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, Central African Republic, and Southern Sudan. Their decline does not diminish the heinous nature of their war crimes, with children still returning from “the bush” with horrifying stories of forced violence and abduction, but the magnitude of their continuing threat is overstated in <i>Kony 2012</i>. With juxtaposed images of children sleeping in safe centers with maps of the LRA’s current presence, the video seems to equate the violence and instability which occurred in Uganda in the early 2000’s with ongoing LRA operations elsewhere in Central Africa, a gross overstatement of the LRA’s current capacity.<br />
<br />
While this may be misleading, the video does make an important contribution by highlighting the affect roving militias have on several regions of central Africa today by drawing attention to one such group and suggesting that all humans have a responsibility to care about and take action for peace. In over 25 years of terrorizing populations, never before did 70 million people talk about Joseph Kony in one week, and that fact alone means the creators of <i>Kony 2012</i> are on to something.<br />
<br />
Ugandans are also talking about the video. Over the past week, several people—from Directors of NGOs addressing the needs of Kony’s victims to international diplomats—have discussed the video or its contents in my presence. Never once have I heard “outrage,” but rather, a general sentiment of support for any effort aimed at finding Kony, some trepidation about the strategy suggested by Invisible Children, and a general feeling of “a little too late” for Uganda. <br />
<br />
The video has resulted in some positive international attention for Ugandan NGOs. Over the last few days, the main community-based organization I work with in Pader has received several inquiries about how donations can be sent for Kony’s victims who continue to be in need of educational assistance and livelihood support. <br />
<br />
I do not believe the video will create more harm than good. Even the Ugandan military has acknowledged the video’s overwhelming popularity and has restated its commitment to finding Kony at any cost. Reminding governments that citizens care is almost never harmful and keeps pressure on governments to be accountable to their people. <br />
<br />
Raising awareness about the hardship caused by conflict and violence can make a difference. Surely, Congress won’t order the withdrawal of Obama’s 100 advisory forces now that millions of Americans know about Joseph Kony and the LRA.<br />
<br />
“Making Kony famous” has now been achieved, and I thank Invisible Children for increasing awareness. A persuasive—if flawed—video has resulted in many more people knowing about the impact of ongoing violence in Central Africa. <br />
<br />
This was all accomplished at zero cost to the public thanks to the capacity of the internet to spread ideas rapidly and for free. The video’s popularity likely surpassed what Invisible Children could have imagined, eliminating the need for publicity kits all together. Unintentionally or not, creating a controversial video shot by a controversial NGO has managed to keep the spotlight on Kony and this video well past the initial days of salience from its release.<br />
<br />
So go ahead and talk about Kony, tell your congressmen you care, and keep sharing any material you find interesting about the LRA because the Ugandan government has listened to you and responded that it won’t give up. But please, don’t spend $30 on a goal that has already been achieved for free. That money can be much more effectively spent addressing the needs of those living in areas affected by Kony and the LRA to whom $30 can mean nearly a year of education or life sustaining tools for income generation. <br />
<br />
--<i><br />
About the blogger: After graduating Harvard in 2011, Danielle began working on post-conflict reconstruction projects in Northern Uganda focused on research and service delivery to LRA-affected women and children. During her undergraduate studies, Danielle researched human security and mass violence with a focus on the history of recent conflicts in Central and East Africa. </i>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-25286021932372513212012-03-08T22:22:00.004-08:002012-03-08T22:36:45.938-08:00Connecting Girls, Inspiring Futures: Celebrating Girl Child Education on International Women’s Day<i>The individual’s name has been changed and her photo is omitted to protect her privacy. </i><br />
<br />
Four years ago, Francine could have never imagined she’d be speaking on International Women’s Day in front of a crowd of hundreds. <br />
<br />
In 2008, Francine lay in a coma in a hospital in Nairobi. Doctors rushed to repair a severe fistula wound while Francine fought to stay alive. <br />
<br />
At the age of 11, Francine had been abducted from her home in Northern Uganda and forced to become the wife of an LRA commander. After suffering severe complications from pregnancy in an LRA camp in Democratic Republic of Congo, Francine was airlifted for medical treatment in Kenya.<br />
<br />
Francine’s story is one of remarkable wisdom, determination, and service. Knowing that medical care was inferior in her home country, she hid her passport in her Kenyan hospital room so that she could remain in the country until fully recovering from her surgical operation. <br />
<br />
Reunited with her family back in Uganda, Francine was determined to return to school. After eight transformative years living in the bush where she was forced to give up her childhood for all the duties of a wife, Francine was too old to attend a normal secondary school. At 19, she walked through the gates of Pader Girls Academy for the first time, where she would spend three years catching up on the education she missed.<br />
<br />
Francine was a natural leader. Out of 300 students, she was chosen by her peers to lead the girls as Head Girl of the Academy, serving as the primary representative of student interests at the school. With persistent study, she also excelled academically, earning one of the top scores in the District on the country’s academic assessment exams. <br />
<br />
Francine’s success was remarkable, and she never took for granted the opportunity she had been given, nor did she forget the thousands of other girls who returned from captivity without access to education. In 2010, Francine traveled to the United Kingdom to speak to the House of Lords as a representative of all of the girls in Uganda suffering as a result of the war. <br />
<br />
For her outstanding performance at the Academy, Francine was one of five girls in her class awarded a scholarship for advanced study in Uganda’s capital. For the first time this week, Francine dressed in a new school uniform as she entered A-level (equivalent to 12th grade/1st year of university in the U.S. system), an achievement of a small and proud minority of Ugandans. <br />
<br />
Today, I sat beside this outstanding young woman as she prepared to speak at Uganda’s National Women’s Day Celebration in Kampala. Out of all of the charity’s focused on women’s issues in Uganda, the Pader Girls Academy was chosen as the sole beneficiary of the event’s fundraising activities this year. Beneath a banner that read, “Connecting Girls, Inspiring Futures,” the theme of Women’s Day 2012, Francine shared her future goal, to become a human rights lawyer and advocate for other girls affected by war. <br />
<br />
Amidst an environment that often seems absent of hope, Francine's future <i>is </i>inspiring. With educated women leaders like Francine—strong, determined, wise, and dedicated to serving others—communities really can change, individual lives can change, and the persistence of violence can change. <br />
<br />
Happy Women's Day to women everywhere!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ms3vchBBBUk/T1kOBD5WIeI/AAAAAAAABqE/F13oL5EMjuw/s1600/DSC_1055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ms3vchBBBUk/T1kOBD5WIeI/AAAAAAAABqE/F13oL5EMjuw/s320/DSC_1055.JPG" width="315" /></a></div>Tabling on behalf of the Pader Girls Academy at the International Women's Day celebration<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7wwOaVV4rqg" width="460"></iframe><br />
A trailer for a new documentary on providing education to war-affected girls.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-87023511244315047182012-02-11T04:28:00.000-08:002012-02-11T08:03:27.282-08:00Peace-building in War Torn Northern Uganda: A Success Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HUiSf4xDIG4/TzZeBnpVZhI/AAAAAAAABpU/SJKkqFPfi6M/s1600/Child%2BProtection%2B031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="201" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HUiSf4xDIG4/TzZeBnpVZhI/AAAAAAAABpU/SJKkqFPfi6M/s320/Child%2BProtection%2B031.jpg" /></a></div><br />
On a hot, dusty Saturday morning, I climbed into the front seat of an NGO 4x4, prepared for a bumpy ride. Together with my driver and translator, we set out for Acholibur, a small town in Northern Uganda located about an hour’s drive from my home in Pader. I was told I would be meeting with war-affected youth who had helped start a peace club in their community. <br />
<br />
As we pulled up to the tall chain-linked fence surrounding the community center, twenty dirt-covered children left behind the car tires they were rolling and ran to the gate to see their visitors. My typical greetings ensued: young ones jumping up and down, chanting “mono, mono, mono” (the Luo word for “white person”), kneeling down to shake my hand, and begging for pictures when they saw my camera. <br />
<br />
Inside the main building, fifteen youth waited to speak with me. They knew a foreigner was coming to listen to their stories, learn about the club, and share their messages of peace more widely. What I heard over the following hours were incredible stories about children’s experiences during war, and how youth can work together to accomplish amazing feats for peace. <br />
<br />
The club began in 2007 when a group of former child soldiers came together to discuss how they could help others returning from Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) captivity. Since then, the Peace Club has grown in membership and purpose, from twenty girls and twenty boys at its start, to an informal community group that now serves more than 200 war-affected youth. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NGQazPDpBws/TzZeSM2zKQI/AAAAAAAABpg/rwrP6RiUGws/s1600/Child%2BProtection%2B024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="179" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NGQazPDpBws/TzZeSM2zKQI/AAAAAAAABpg/rwrP6RiUGws/s320/Child%2BProtection%2B024.jpg" /></a></div>Members of the club donate their time to work in landowners’ gardens, tend livestock, keep bees, and raise seedlings. The Club uses these proceeds to help war-affected young people when emergency cases arise: when a child mother cannot pay for medicine for her baby or a war orphan lacks the means to pay the parental contribution component of primary education.<br />
<br />
Leaders of the group have partnered with local NGOs to receive training in psychosocial counseling. There are now peers on hand to discuss issues affecting young people in Acholibur like HIV/AIDS, child abuse, and domestic violence. They have worked hard to learn about the resources available to them, and the club now serves as one of the main locations for youth to go for counseling and referrals. <br />
<br />
The young people support one another because, in the words of one member, “without each other, we’d have nothing.” <br />
<br />
The following posts are stories shared by Peace Club members about their experiences with war and how the Peace Club has changed their lives. The content deals with themes of violence that may be discomforting and not suitable for all audiences.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-5323361660482331862012-02-11T04:22:00.000-08:002012-02-11T08:08:13.329-08:00Tell the World: A Child Soldier’s Story<i>Bosco, Age 25 </i>(A pseudonym has been used and his photo is omitted because of the sensitive nature of this story)<br />
<br />
“Tell the world, so they may hear our voices and help us,” Bosco told me as he shook my hand and began to stand up from his seat at the interview table. I took a deep breath, making a concerted effort to contain my emotions. I thanked him for his willingness to share, and forced a smile when I wished I could offer a hug to him and the several other youth I would talk to over the course of the day. <br />
<br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
When I was twelve, I was awoken one night by the sound of angry voices outside of my hut. A man with a gun forced his way inside and ordered my two older brothers and me to march into the bush. With the sounds of our mother wailing behind us, we disappeared into the tall grasses surrounding our family’s compound, each carrying upon our heads the massive load of cargo we had been given by LRA fighters.<br />
<br />
By the early hours of the morning, tiredness overcame my two brothers. When one whispered to the other that he could not go on without rest or water, a commander spoke up: “it looks like two people among us need to be laid to rest, for they have shown they are too tired. Kill them!” I looked away, as my two siblings were beaten and then cut to death. <br />
<br />
As the brigade moved on, we spotted another homestead. “Now it is time to see if you have the strong heart of a soldier,” my commander told me. I stood at a distance as other boys were sent in to raid the group of huts. Within minutes, they returned with a man—about forty years old, by the looks of him. I was ordered to beat him to death with a stick. At first, I wanted to refuse, but I knew what would happen to me if I did. <br />
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After a while, we left our homeland behind, escaping Ugandan government forces and finding refuge in Sudan. In the land of the Dinka [the cattle herding warrior people of Southern Sudan], we struggled to survive. Hunger and thirst were everywhere. Many boys died and I was sent with eighteen others to loot a Dinka encampment for food. We knew the order would result in a fight. <br />
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As we approached the Dinka’s mud brick settlement, gunfire rang out from in front of us. Eleven of the boys were killed and the rest of us fled in all directions from the soaring bullets.<br />
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Eight of us returned to our camp with no food. Six had lost their guns in the process, and were ordered by our commanders to be killed for the mistake. I escaped death only narrowly by agreeing to join a brigade returning to Uganda. <br />
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My new company received strict orders from Joseph Kony [the LRA’s mystic leader]: “when you reach Uganda, anything that is found living should be killed.” Under this command, we gathered and murdered one hundred thirteen civilians as we marched from Gulu to Pabo Sub-county.<br />
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The killings in Pabo were the final straw for me. I became quiet, distant, and unresponsive. My superiors noticed my changed behavior and commanded me to eat from the flesh of our next abductee so I could gain the strength of two men. I was spared this fate when another commander decided this would take too much time. Instead, I received 100 strokes and marched on. <br />
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I knew that night, I must escape. I no longer feared death and knew I could not continue as I was.<br />
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In the middle of the night, I faked the need to use the restroom. I grabbed my gun and thirty-two bullets, and set off running into the bush. <br />
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Six soldiers chased after me. When I had gained some distance, I climbed a tree, grabbed my gun and shot the rounds until each of the six fell below the grassline.<br />
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I threw my weapon and prayed I would never use one again. I found a shallow well nearby and crawled within, waiting quietly for sunrise. <br />
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Local leaders received me with apprehension, turning me over to the Ugandan government’s army. After being handed from one barracks to another, I was finally reunited with my parents after five years in captivity.<br />
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My happiness and newfound freedom lasted only a short while. Days after returning home, I was in town when members of the LRA went to my homestead looking for me. When they didn’t find me there, they killed my father and left my mother badly beaten and unconscious.<br />
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My road to recovery has been long. Some people in town bully and torment me, telling me to call on my dead father for help, or fight back like I would have done in the bush.<br />
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After the death of my father, I lost all hope to live. I preferred to remain quiet, spending most of my time alone… until I heard of the Acholibur Peace Club. <br />
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I wanted to know peace myself and to create it for others. Now, when I start to feel un-free, burdened by anger or sadness, I go to the Peace Club. It is helping me forget about my past experiences and create a new life rooted in peace.<br />
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Members of the Peace Club helped me talk to my mother. Now, we understand one another and have a good relationship.<br />
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We [child soldiers] lost out on our education along with our youth. Without skills, we will always be poor. <br />
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My story is really like so many others. Around here, you will hear the same thing over and over again. The youth need the world’s support so we can continue our educations and work to rebuild our lives.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-21140228520606820132012-02-11T04:17:00.000-08:002012-02-11T05:02:47.354-08:00“I Miss Their Love More than Anything”: A War Orphan and her Family<i>Susan, Age 17</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tnRvEmanDF0/TzZcJgZnbXI/AAAAAAAABpI/KzQ-LxURHlE/s1600/Child%2BProtection%2B010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="228" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tnRvEmanDF0/TzZcJgZnbXI/AAAAAAAABpI/KzQ-LxURHlE/s320/Child%2BProtection%2B010.jpg" /></a></div>When I was only seven, both of my parents were killed by the LRA. My father was a teacher back then, and someone told the militia that my family would have money. They came to our home in the middle of the night and demanded all the money we had. At the time, there was nothing there for them to take, so they killed my father. They decided to abduct my mother and gave her a heavy load to carry. She wasn’t strong enough, so they cut her in two pieces and left her to die. <br />
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At first, I was given to my maternal uncle to be cared for, but after he became sick and died, I was given to the wife of my paternal uncle. Life was so hard with my “stepmother.” She had many of her own children to care for and could not support my siblings and me.<br />
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At 16, I became pregnant. The father promised to care for me and my baby, but then vanished. Around the same time, my stepmother sent my siblings and me away from her home.<br />
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Now I am on my own to care for my one year old child and my three siblings. The second born in my family used to help me with the chores like gardening, but he recently died. Life is so hard. My younger siblings are still in primary school, but are often sent home because we cannot find the money to pay the PTA [parental contribution] fees. <br />
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My main support comes from the Peace Club where I have received psychosocial counseling and sometimes am given a small sum of money to help me with expenses.<br />
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The worst experience of my life has been missing the love of my parents. There has been so much discrimination against me since they died. I miss their love more than anything.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-34411126912620140252012-02-11T04:15:00.000-08:002012-02-11T04:58:37.323-08:00Living with HIV-Infected Parents<i>Brenda, Age 16<br />
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My family struggles because of HIV. Both my mother and father have the disease. We are peasant farmers, but with my parents weak and sick all the time, we often don’t produce enough for a surplus. <br />
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School fees are a big problem. Most terms, I talk to the head teacher at my school so that I can pay my fees bit by bit [rather than at the start of the term]. My head teacher is understanding, and usually allows this, but by the end of the year, we often haven’t made the full payment. <br />
When my parents are sick, there is much more work to do at home. I am the oldest, so I need to take care of the younger children. I also have to tend our crop and cook, so my education is not always the priority.<br />
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There is an uncle who sometimes helps when my parents need to go to the hospital, but now he is sick too.<br />
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Most of the community is supportive of my family. At times, neighbors will fetch water when I am in school so that my parents have enough to drink.<br />
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Last year, we were given two goats as a form of livelihood support from an NGO. The goats produced twins. When these goats multiply again, we will sell one to help pay school fees. With my parents sick, I make the goat rearing and business decisions for my family. <br />
There are very many families like my own in Northern Uganda who need assistance because of HIV/AIDS. I am so grateful for the little support we’ve received so my siblings and me can go to school.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-88549762568042095402012-02-11T04:12:00.000-08:002012-02-11T04:46:59.847-08:00At 13 Years Old, I Decided I Had to Leave<i>Concy, Age 16</i><br />
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The LRA [Lord’s Resistance Army] killed my parents when I was seven. My father was a <i>simsim</i> farmer. He used to sell his harvest for good money. Someone told the LRA that he was a man with good profits, so one day, they came to our homestead. The militants demanded our money and my father gave it to them. They said they wanted more, but there was no more. The last I saw of my parents was both of them being taken into the bush by soldiers. There, they killed them.<br />
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For some time, I was taken care of by my grandmother. When she passed away, I was sent to live with my father’s sister. My auntie was burdened with many children of her own and did not have the ability to care for me. She used me mostly for labor. For a while, we were living in a [internally displaced people] camp. Whenever there was a need to collect food, she would send me, knowing that it was very dangerous. There were times that I would see the militia on the road to our family’s plot. I would hide when I spotted them, but I was always so afraid they would find me. <br />
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Once we left the camp, the discrimination didn’t stop. The other children in the household went to school and would receive clothes, and I received nothing. I would be given the leftovers of the food the others ate--which was very little--and had to eat alone while the others ate together. <br />
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At 13 years old, I decided I had to leave. I planned to find myself a husband to support me.<br />
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I found a young man who was 16 and agreed to live with me. He was formerly abducted and lost both of his parents as well. He has given me two children already, but one died. <br />
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When my uncle came to collect the dowry [to make our marriage official], my boyfriend’s family refused, so we are still not married. <br />
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My boyfriend received vocational training as a driver [from a reintegration center catering to formerly abducted youth], but hasn’t been able to find employment. We tend our own plot, but the food is often not enough to feed our family. We also work in others’ gardens to help us make a little extra money for things like medical expenses.<br />
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The Peace Club has helped us a lot in times of difficulty. They have provided me with counseling when I needed it. I also enjoy participating in the dance and drama activities as a way to relieve stress. The Club has also given my family small amounts of money when we are faced with an urgent need, like my child’s medical expenses. They are like family to me, which I do not have.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-40649155744105703572012-01-21T07:57:00.000-08:002012-01-27T22:23:53.582-08:00Camping Under Serengeti StarsIf Ngorongoro was a bowl filled to the brim with wildlife, the Serengeti is an immense pantry with the greatest assortment of flavors, but only for those who know where to look.<br />
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The grasses in the Great Plains stand five feet tall in some places, providing the perfect shelter for grazing animals to hide from view. Compared to the other parks of Northern Tanzania, this made viewing the animals relatively difficult, resulting in only a few sightings per day rather than the near constant stimulation elsewhere.<br />
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Though animals are harder to spot, the sights to be seen in the Serengeti are not replicated anywhere else in the world. Sizable prides of lions rest effortlessly within the grasses, stomachs full from their plentiful selection of prey. A glance up at an Acacia may satisfy the onlooker with branches swaying from the weight of leopards. In one tree, I saw three, including a young cub. While books claim Lake Manyara National Park is the only place in the world for spotting tree-climbing lions, I had the fortune of witnessing this rare site in a lone tree of the vast Serengeti plain. <br />
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I’ve never been so excited to sleep as I was at the prospect of camping in the Serengeti. Using a new tent with entirely translucent walls, I was prepared for exciting nights of stargazing and animal watching. At one campsite, dusk brought a herd of running giraffes through the camp. At another, elephants drank from the waterspout at dawn. <br />
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I imagined the night like a childhood slumber party: giddy with anticipation for what surprises my sleep-mates might share. I went to rest beneath the brilliant starry sky, and drifted off to the lullaby of buzzing insects and the faint sound of nocturnal animals in the distance. After long days of game driving, I have never slept so well, at peace in the middle of the wild Serengeti.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nLO2e0Anzk8/TyOLl1VS96I/AAAAAAAABl8/0AMMfkI38m4/s1600/DSC_0481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="228" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nLO2e0Anzk8/TyOLl1VS96I/AAAAAAAABl8/0AMMfkI38m4/s320/DSC_0481.JPG" /></a></div>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-9122939312695073352012-01-21T07:54:00.000-08:002012-01-27T22:56:13.962-08:00The Bowl of the Earth: Ngorongoro Crater<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IOJ1XWBvftQ/TyOVphBQviI/AAAAAAAABms/-GAviHltc4A/s1600/DSC_0454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IOJ1XWBvftQ/TyOVphBQviI/AAAAAAAABms/-GAviHltc4A/s320/DSC_0454.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Imagine a massive bowl created to preserve all of nature’s precious beauty with inescapable ceramic curves to keep intruders out and protect the prized contents. <br />
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Ngorongoro Crater is such a place, both a geological and natural wonder. About 2.5 million years ago, a volcano taller than Mount Kilimanjaro erupted, causing the top of the mountain to collapse inwards. The lasting crater is the largest caldera in the world, surrounded by high mountainous walls serving as a natural enclosure for a rich diversity of wildlife. <br />
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The descent into the crater takes about an hour, winding down steep roads, first through rainforest, and then through large groves of flat acacia trees. Below, sprawling savanna grassland and alkaline lakes welcome a dense concentration of Africa’s most famous wildlife. <br />
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I arrived early in the morning, in time to witness a spectacular sight of migratory Abim stork taking flight from around a herd of zebra. The early morning soft blue haze created a silhouette backdrop for the storks circling above and the stately black and white zebra below.<br />
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I spotted seven lions during my stay in the crater, some languidly resting off in the distance, others pacing just outside our vehicle. The regal males with their crowning gold manes reflecting the afternoon light matched only the majesty of the lone elephant, wandering at a distance with a backdrop of verdant rainforest and dark black clouds gathering above.<br />
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Ngorongoro is nature’s diamond, a miraculous place deserving as much recognition as the vast Serengeti. In a relatively small land area of 100 square miles, viewers enjoy as many different types of animals as one could see in the world's best zoos.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-83430274712306688652012-01-21T06:42:00.000-08:002012-01-27T23:02:30.344-08:00"Zoo, zoo, zoo!" Lake Manyara National ParkDriving through the Tanzanian countryside on my way to Lake Manyara National Park, I remembered how my brother used to sit in the back seat of my family’s station wagon chanting “zoo, zoo, zoo,” as if it were his own calming mantra. The truth is, we both loved the zoo. My parents bought season passes each year which allowed us unlimited visits to the San Diego Zoo and Wild Animal Park. My grandparents, aunt, and uncle would all entertain our imaginations as we crawled through the plastic termite mounds, explored the canopy from the Skyfari, and insisted on taking the monorail several times around the simulated safari park. <br />
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As I prepared to enter my first real safari park in Northern Tanzania, I fondly reminisced, appreciating the care my family took to make my brother and me curious about the world surrounding us. <br />
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The “real deal” is even cooler than I imagined. Standing out of the popped-roof of the 4x4 safari vehicle, the wind blew through my hair, leaving a sweet fragrance like a bike ride through southern honeysuckle.<br />
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In only a few hours, I saw hippos, giraffes, a large herd of migrating wildebeest, warthogs, monkeys, zebras and baboons. The black mamba snake which crossed my path—one of the deadliest in the world, killing a human in only 15 minutes—tied with the adorable baby blue monkey for my favorite animals of the day. <br />
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Safaris bring even their oldest guests back to childhood, wide-eyed and in amazement of the world surrounding. At once, I was six again, climbing through those termite mounds, chanting “zoo, zoo, zoo” to the driver in front of me.Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-51019286180836290592012-01-21T06:40:00.000-08:002012-01-27T23:22:53.926-08:00"I've been to the mountaintop:" Seeing Africa from it's Highest PointIn the miniature room of Kilimanjaro Backpacker’s Hotel, I unpacked and repacked my bag for the second time, cautiously accounting for each piece of climbing gear, knowing that missing only one could inhibit my ability to reach the summit of Africa’s tallest mountain safely.<br />
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Mt. Kilimanjaro is the fourth tallest of the Seven Summits and the world’s highest freestanding mountain. At 5,895 meters (19,340 feet), glaciers make a permanent home and the thin air offers about one-third of the oxygen our bodies normally enjoy.<br />
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From Machame Gate, where my trek began, blue monkeys taunted tourists attempting to eat their last restaurant-prepared meal. I had been told I would be joining a group of five, and patiently waited until a minibus arrived and four men and a woman jumped out, belting a Polish drinking song with lyrics meaning “the party must go on.” <br />
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My expedition crew contained 23 people, with a ratio of 21 males to 2 females. The five Polish twenty-eight year olds were friends from business school, enjoying a trip around east Africa. Three had climbed in the Himalayas and one shared his plans of reaching the summit of Mt. Everest. Also joining us were two guides and a large team of 14 porters and assistants tasked with ensuring our safety and well-being.<br />
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Day one began with an easy trek through the forest, one of the five ecosystems the mountain boasts. On Day two, we continued, <i>pole pole</i> (Swahili for slowly, slowly) up the mountain, making easy progress on the 50mi trek to ensure acclimatization. By day three, many of my peers were showing signs of altitude sickness: headaches, nosebleeds, heavy breathing, and an inability to sleep soundly at night. <br />
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The fourth day began with what the guides call, “climbing the wall,” a near-vertical ascent that takes an hour and a half. The porters accomplish this while still balancing duffel bags filled with gear on their heads, a truly amazing feat. <br />
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After a quick lunch at 4,600 meters, the sleet began to fall and blow cold ice against my face. We had already been walking in clouds for hours, and ominous thunder claps could be heard in the distance. Nine hours of high-altitude, steep hiking would be followed by a two hour rest period before attempting a dawn summit. <br />
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At the 11pm preparation meeting, the rest of my team decided they would not summit that night. The weather, their health, and sheer exhaustion made the sunrise summit less than appealing. They would wait another day, and then decide whether or not to continue to the top.<br />
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Exhausted, too, from the long day of hiking and no sleep, I decided I still wanted to go for it. My guide and I set out at midnight, pole pole up the final ascent, a very steep 1,350 meters to the top. In the frigid night, the clouds had all disappeared, exposing a beautiful star-filled sky and city lights of Kenya and Tanzania many miles away. From the East, a thin layer of clouds shot heat lightening into the sky. While I was told it was -15 degrees that night on the mountain, below in the African savannah, it was dry season and people were sweating through sleep in 85 degree weather.<br />
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As I climbed higher and higher, I passed many faces I had seen in earlier days, some still smiling, many showing visible signs that this moment was one of the hardest of their lives. Some wobbled on their feet, drunk from the lack of O2. Others, could be heard vomiting behind rocks, while still others, literally crawled towards the top. My body ached all over, with muscles unable to replenish themselves with so little oxygen. Fortunately, I experienced no serious altitude sickness. By focusing on yoga breathing, slow and deep, I made it to the summit, about two hours before our expected arrival. <br />
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It was still dark when I reached the famed sign. I wanted to wait until sunrise, but the low temperatures, blowing wind, and thin air made it almost impossible. I waited as long as I could, taking in the beautiful views from the roof of Africa, and then began my descent as the sun peeked out from the clouds below. <br />
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The full descent is accomplished the 24 hours following a successful reach of the summit, resulting in extreme exhaustion. On top of it all, my crew ran out of food, so I am quite sure I have never been so physically depleted in my life.<br />
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Climbing a mountain like Kilimanjaro requires quite a bit of preparation, both physically and mentally. Over a year ago, I had written “climb a mountain taller than you thought you could” on my Embrace Life List, a list of goals and dreams I have written down to accomplish in my brother’s memory. It was with great joy, on the brink of tears, that I checked off number 17 from the top of the mountain and raised my handwritten sign in remembrance of my brother's spirit.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UVZN3RhPj7Q/TyOiQWMn4xI/AAAAAAAABok/wNblsvLBsZI/s1600/DSC_0257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UVZN3RhPj7Q/TyOiQWMn4xI/AAAAAAAABok/wNblsvLBsZI/s320/DSC_0257.JPG" /></a></div>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8557878742097630025.post-73667455132381792011-12-09T10:54:00.000-08:002011-12-09T11:27:55.052-08:00I knew that it could happen, that I could fall in love in Uganda“You are going to be my friend,” the young girl making my breakfast omelet told me with a big grin on her face. <br />
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Every day for two weeks, I stopped by the restaurant/shop that Shami’s parents own as I finished my morning run. Often, I would buy a rolex, the Ugandan version of a breakfast burrito: two eggs cooked with onions and tomato, wrapped in a chapatti (a fried tortilla). <br />
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Since coming home from boarding school in Kampala at the end of November, Shami would run out of the shop when she saw me coming to cook my rolex on her hot stone oven and talk to me about her studies, the day ahead, life. On days when there were no eggs available or I wasn’t hungry, I’d stop by just to say hello, buy a slice of bread or a water.<br />
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As time drew near for me to depart from Pader for the holidays, I told Shami I’d spend a whole day with her. At eleven years old--old enough to have responsibilities like fetching water and overseeing the shop--Shami needed special permission from her mother to spend the day out. <br />
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With her mother’s approval, our date was set.<br />
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Shami came by my house early in the morning to tell me the plan for the day: first, we would go to the photo booth in town and have several photos taken; then, she would take me to the mosque; and finally, we would return to her family’s restaurant for a lunch prepared by her mother.<br />
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“Don’t forget to wear your long blue dress!” She told me. “It will look perfect with the headscarf I will bring you!” <br />
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On our way to the photo booth, Shami spoke excitedly, asking all about my life. She asked if I am the only girl in my family, and explained that she is now; her older sister died of disease. When I explained that I too am the only girl, she responded with delight: “That’s it! We shall be sisters! You will be my older sister in America and we will be sisters forever!”<br />
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Little by litte, Shami was stealing my heart.<br />
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Shami walked proudly into the photo booth with her <i>muzungu </i>friend and told the shop owner with authority that we would take three photos with the Japanese garden background. We posed like models, then like sisters.<br />
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Our giddiness on the walk to the mosque made it feel like we’d skipped the whole way. Shami continued in her cheery manner and told me of her dreams: “Some day, I will be a doctor.”<br />
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“You are a very smart girl,” I told her. “You will do it. I know you will!”<br />
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“I want to help my family out of poverty, and I want to help other people too. I study very hard in school and have been number one or number two in my class every semester for the past two years!” Shami told me with pride.<br />
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My heart beat a little faster. <br />
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“Do you like to read?” I asked, hopeful. <br />
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“I love to read! I love to read about everything: history and science and even stories. I love to study science, and even though I’m not the best in mathematics, I like to do the work. I am a very hard worker. My parents like it when I am home because I work so hard in the shop, and I am like that in school as well.”<br />
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We entered the mosque and sat behind the curtain separating the women from the men. With each warm breeze, the curtain moved just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the imam and men sitting on the mats in front of us.<br />
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After prayers, I told Shami I wanted to take her shopping. I had noticed she wore the same worn school uniform most days, and I wanted her to have a new one for the coming school year and a change of clothes for Christmas. <br />
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Shami was delighted. When we arrived back to her home, her mom had prepared a huge lunch for us: pasted and non-pasted greens (boiled greens with and without peanut butter), sweet potatoes, beans, peanut butter, and water.<br />
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“Mama, mama! My sister has agreed to help me with my math!” Shami told her mother in their native Luganda. “And she wants me to go to University, all the way in America! She says if I keep working hard, I will go to Harvard some day, a university where they pay the school fees if you are poor!”<br />
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I looked at my little sister and I believed it. I believed she would become a doctor some day and that she would go to Harvard. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tId7FdQrpCo/TuJYkwI1fEI/AAAAAAAABlU/r1REhIfMabQ/s1600/IMG_1871%255B2%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tId7FdQrpCo/TuJYkwI1fEI/AAAAAAAABlU/r1REhIfMabQ/s320/IMG_1871%255B2%255D.JPG" /></a></div><i>Shami standing behind her mother and three of her brothers</i>Danielle Gramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00296699811135755282noreply@blogger.com1