Feasting on Ants and Folktales at the Feet of a Chief

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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.  

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.” 

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.” 

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.”

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. “Baba (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.

“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. 

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.

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.

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!”

Chief Okot blessed my journey and I bid his family farewell. 

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.

A meal of mashed ants, beans, and greens with peanut butter.

 Sitting with Chief Okot and one of his children.

“Do you think you made a difference?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

So, did I make a difference?

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...

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.

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.”

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.”

Countering the Headlines: A Response to Kony 2012

By now, Facebook, Twitter, TV and newspapers have been full of reactions to Invisible Children’s Kony 2012 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.

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.

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?

As many articles have mentioned, the LRA left Uganda six years ago (a fact Kony 2012 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.

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 Kony 2012. 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.

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 Kony 2012 are on to something.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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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.

Peace-building in War Torn Northern Uganda: A Success Story

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The young people support one another because, in the words of one member, “without each other, we’d have nothing.”

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.

Tell the World: A Child Soldier’s Story

Bosco, Age 25 (A pseudonym has been used and his photo is omitted because of the sensitive nature of this story)

“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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I knew that night, I must escape. I no longer feared death and knew I could not continue as I was.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Members of the Peace Club helped me talk to my mother. Now, we understand one another and have a good relationship.

We [child soldiers] lost out on our education along with our youth. Without skills, we will always be poor.

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.

“I Miss Their Love More than Anything”: A War Orphan and her Family

Susan, Age 17

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Living with HIV-Infected Parents

Brenda, Age 16

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.

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.
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.

There is an uncle who sometimes helps when my parents need to go to the hospital, but now he is sick too.

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.

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.
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.

I 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.

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).

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.

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.

With her mother’s approval, our date was set.

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.

“Don’t forget to wear your long blue dress!” She told me. “It will look perfect with the headscarf I will bring you!”

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!”

Little by litte, Shami was stealing my heart.

Shami walked proudly into the photo booth with her muzungu 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.

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.”

“You are a very smart girl,” I told her. “You will do it. I know you will!”

“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.

My heart beat a little faster.

“Do you like to read?” I asked, hopeful.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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!”

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.

Shami standing behind her mother and three of her brothers

4 Chickens and a Dream

The journey to Nighty’s village began around 9am with the solicitation of drivers and fierce negotiation led by Nighty. After finally settling on a price, four adults and three children piled into a 1980s Honda Civic that appeared to be driven right out of a salvage yard.

While Nighty insisted that her village is close to Pader, the journey took over three hours. Several times, we exited the vehicle to push the mighty Civic over bumps or to pull it out of the ditches of the poorly maintained dirt road.

When we arrived at the part of the journey where we took the small car off-roading, I knew we must be close. Nighty pointed out a gathering of a few dozen huts which she explained were the remnants of an IDP camp, largely abandoned now as people have returned to their homes.

Nighty’s family lives on an isolated plot located several miles from the main road and center of Abilo Nino village. Her father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and a slew of children live together in several bandas, subsisting off the land and selling what little crop they can to afford items like clothing and sugar.

Upon arrival, I greeted each family member in traditional Acholi style, spent a short while helping to grind jeenut paste (peanut butter), and then followed Nighty around the compound as she proudly showed off the grounds, well-tended crops, and simple bandas.

The place was beautiful, isolated and peaceful. With fields of sunflowers, high stalks of maize, goats and chickens, it seemed like an idyllic place to raise children.

“You think this is a peaceful place now, but not long ago, this very plot was taken over by the LRA,” Nighty’s uncle explained. “They used our home to cook for the militiamen, and those of us who survived the raids were driven to the camps.”

After a thorough tour of the compound, Nighty’s aged mother invited me into the women's banda. Inside, she set a woven mat upon the dirt floor and swept the ground before placing the meal she had prepared for her first ever muzungu guest: sweet potatoes, pasted malikwang and boyo (greens mixed with peanut and sunflower seed butter). The long journey left me quite hungry, and I was delighted by the vegetarian meal.

Outside, the men gathered in a circle of plastic chairs, awaiting my return. When the father of the family finally spoke, calling everyone to order, the lone English-speaking uncle translated.

“It is such a great honor to host our muzungu friend,” the father began. By three in the afternoon, when the father began his speech, the compound was teeming with nearly fifty people. Word spread quickly about the fair-skinned visitor and every clan member hurried to the compound to witness the event.

As part of a formal ceremony, each elder took a turn giving an oration. All expressed great appreciation for my visit, and then presented a unified dream, a desperate request to help their family.

“You see us before you, living very poorly, some of us with nothing to wear. We do not want your pity, your clothing, or medicine, all we want is education for our children,” one man spoke. “We will give you a plot of land, build you a home upon it, and provide you whatever you need, but our children will be nothing without an education.”

“I will marry you and care for you myself,” one of Nighty’s brothers generously offered.

Each elder echoed the same sentiment, first thanking me profusely for visiting, and then asking me to do anything I could to help their family plan for financing their children’s educations.

Nighty later explained that of her entire family, only one uncle had received an education and the rest remained illiterate. The youngest generation, mostly under six years, have little hope of going to school without a miracle. It was clear that the elders dreamed I would be part of that miracle.

After listening to each speech, I was invited to give my own. I had been moved by their appeals and wanted to communicate deep gratitude for their welcome, but I knew that I could not marry Nighty’s brother, build my home within their compound, or--most regrettably--cover the costs of educating each child on my own. It is one of the greatest disappointments of my time here, wanting to do so much, yet feeling helpless when asked to provide the assistance requested of me.

Before leaving the village, I was informed that the five homesteads had prepared gifts. Nighty took my camera as each head of household shook my hand with a wide grin and presented me with a live chicken, four in total. I am quite sure I have never held a chicken in my life, and my facial expression betrayed me as my mind wandered to thoughts about what a vegetarian would do with four chickens and how I would get them home. [The men tied the chickens’ feet and placed them in the trunk of the car for me. I squirmed every time I heard them squeal on the ride home.]

From a family with very little, I was treated with great honor. Despite my inability to make grand promises, I was embraced upon my departure and invited to visit anytime.

On the ride home, I played American music for Nighty, allowing my own mind to wander to ways I could help her family and others like hers. In time, my thoughts were interrupted as Nighty began to share with me for the first time her own war story.

As I have begun to gain the community’s trust, I have heard many stories of the war, each one equally moving. Nighty’s was no exception: the story of a young girl who ran away from the war, making it all the way to southern Uganda where she found work as a domestic servant and fish factory worker. She returned home to find that everything had changed: several family members had been killed, their homes burned, and the plot overtaken by rebels.

This is the story of the friend who gave me a soda and invited me into her hut on one of my first nights in Pader. Despite not having a clear solution for her family’s struggles, I will never forget them, their warm welcome, four chickens, or dream for their children.

Nighty's immediate family members gather for a portrait.

Amnesty for Rapists

Imagine the situation: by 1999, the war in Northern Uganda had been raging for over ten years. One of the primary tactics of the rebel forces was to abduct children and forcibly recruit them into their armies which mutilated, raped, and pillaged their own people.

In 2000, the government of Uganda decided to grant amnesty to all members of the LRA who disarmed. This move was considered part of the peace process, a step towards rebuilding the North and reintegrating former combatants, many of whom joined the rebel movement against their own will.

This weekend, I treated myself to a musical at the National Theater in Kampala, Uganda. The play, called Mama Obama’s Restaurant (Ugandans are second only to Kenyans in their love of President Obama), told the story of the aftermath of the war in the North from the perspective of a restaurant waitress who had been repeatedly raped by LRA militants. On stage, she suffers an emotional breakdown as she must serve her former assailants dinner. They mock her in the process, asking what she has done with the baby she conceived at 15, and the play ends with the young woman crippled on the floor, writhing from the distress caused by her memories.

The title, Mama Obama’s Restaurant, is a metaphor for the growing pains of democracy, something the playwright likened to the struggles President Obama’s mother must have faced as a single mother.

Like so many wars, the war in Uganda is typically told from the perspective of men. Who were the heroes? Who displayed courage? Who worked for justice?

But in all wars, the stories of women and children must also be told.

What happens when we grant blanket amnesty to all of the rapists, the mutilators, the murderers? Do victims deserve some kind of justice, or can war be written off in the books of history as a kind of sunk cost, where anything can be forgiven for the sake of peace?

Still So Far to Go

“Have you heard the story of Angelina of Aboke?” Francesca, a woman who works at the Uganda Fund, asked me. I nodded that I had, having just completed the book Aboke Girls a few days before.

“Well, do you know what happened once Angelina’s daughter returned? It was such a shame, so, so sad.”

Angelina was the mother of one of 139 girls who were abducted in a one night LRA raid of a prestigious Catholic girl’s school in Aboke, Northern Uganda. Angelina became a leader of the movement to return the girls from LRA captivity, speaking out for peace and forgiveness from the capital city of Kampala to the White House. For her courage and dedication to peace building, Angelina received several awards, including the UN Prize in Human Rights.

Angelina’s daughter, Charlotte, had been forced to marry one of the highest officers of the LRA. “He was an evil, evil man,” Francesca told me, shaking her head with pity. “He was known for being so bad. Angelina knew this from the intelligence reports, and even that her daughter had become mother to two of his children while in the bush.

“Still, she preached the gospel of forgiveness, encouraging families to accept their abducted children back in the home.

“But when her own daughter finally returned, after more than seven years in captivity, it was too much for her to bear. She looked at those little children and she just hated them, really hated them. She hated them so much because of what that evil man had done, that she could no longer accept her daughter in her home.

“And she had been the leader of the reconciliation movement, the preacher of forgiveness.”

I looked away, saddened by the news of the heroine I admired.

After a long pause, Francesca continued, “In time, Angelina received counseling and was able to accept the children back. But my point is, even for the woman who was most strongly advocating for reconciliation, the process was difficult. There is still so far to go, so far to go in healing Uganda.”

From the girls at PGA, I have learned that many families, influenced by cultural mores and traditions, could not bear the idea of accepting illegitimate children or their child mothers. In some of the worst cases—usually girls forced to marry highly ranked rebel commanders—they were disowned by their clan, blamed as complicit in the LRA’s violence. As a result, these girls face the challenge of starting completely anew, some uniting resources to buy their own plot of land to start a new clan altogether.

“But there is so much hope,” Alice interjected, not wanting to leave the conversation on a sour note. “The girls they are confident…when people mock them for being mothers, they respond that they will perform even better. I’ll give you an example. When the Academy first opened, our girls would play against other schools, and they would be taunted, with the other team shouting ‘mothers, mothers, mothers.’ At first this really demoralized them, but they found the courage to continue playing through the chants, and eventually won game after game, securing the championship title from the District. Now, no one dares mock them as ‘mothers,’ and the girls know that despite the challenges they’ve faced, they can do as well or better than their peers. They have so much commitment and so much hope.”

“They Told Me It Was Impossible”

“When we began taking in the girls, the ones with the little children, they all told me I was crazy.” The lamp created soft yellow shadows upon Alice’s face as she spoke from across the darkness. “They told me it was impossible; that the girls who got pregnant were a lost cause. ‘How could you possibly have a girl with a baby in class?’ They asked, but look at us now, five years out, and our girls are owning businesses, working as nursing assistants, tailors, and even teachers.”

Alice is the Founder and Director of the Christian Counseling Fellowship (CCF) which runs the Pader Girls Academy (PGA), a school that caters to young women who—largely for reasons related to the war—are unable to attend mainstream school. Most of PGA’s 315 girls were abducted by the LRA and became child mothers as a result of forced marriages. Others became mothers at as young as 12 years old because of the notoriously rampant sexual assault which occurred in the IDP camps of Northern Uganda.

I met Alice on my very first day in Pader. When I arrived, it was mid-morning, and a crowd gathered in the town’s soccer field for an Independence Day celebration. Out of curiosity, I went to see the festivities, choosing the last remaining seat which was serendipitously next to Alice.

Alice is an anomaly in Acholiland. At six feet tall, other Ugandans tease her about being “American height,” though her perfectly spoken Lwo, refinement, and taste in bright African dress testify to her Northern Ugandan ancestry. In a society with few female leaders in the public sphere, Alice assails gender norms: she is outspoken, works outside the home as Director of two successful organizations, and remains unwed without biological children despite being in her mid-30s.

Locals call her “Auntie” as a sign of reverence, testament to her importance in the community and exceptional gifts, being both intelligent and compassionate. She interprets her firmly rooted Christian faith as requiring Christ-like love for the meek, and her natural genius has allowed her to accomplish amazing feats without advanced educational training.

I now live in Alice’s compound which offers an open invitation to anyone in need. Among the regular residents is an HIV-positive child, a deaf teenager, an abandoned woman with children, and a constant stream of guests from nearby villages coming to enjoy a free meal and loving company.

The founding of CCF was itself an extraordinary endeavor, requiring courage in a hostile environment. The very idea of educating unwed, child mothers went against Acholi culture and customs. “You will encourage promiscuity!” people criticized. “These girls should be at home with their children, made responsible for what they have done!”

“You know, Jesus never judged,” Alice told me one night as we discussed the motivation behind PGA. “Take the story of Levi where Jesus dined with the sinners, or that of the prostitute where he said ‘He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone.’”

Indeed, the girls of PGA need compassionate support, and they have found it in Alice, the teachers at PGA, and the staff of CCF.

In the weeks since I first learned of PGA and the women’s empowerment work of CCF, I’ve become increasingly inspired to support Alice’s work, to become a part of the lives of the women at PGA and the children impacted by CCF’s programs. As part of PGA’s Peace Club, I am working with the young women to create a foundation of personal peace, to serve their community, and create love and joy for themselves and others. At CCF, I am working to document the organization’s work in child protection, HIV/AIDS, and women’s issues in the region. As part of this, I will be leading a media campaign next year that draws attention to the plight of women in the region and the projects that encourage change and foster hope.

The preacher at PGA's church asked all those in need of prayer to come to the front.

Students of the Pader Girls Academy

PGA Peace Club girls acting out school bullying.

Alice with Mary, a Director at the MacArthur Foundation who chose to provide seed funding for PGA.

Make me an instrument of peace

For many years, I have hung the Prayer of St. Francis in a place where I can see it when I wake to remind myself that each day can begin with the intention of promoting kindness.

When I arrived in Pader, I knew little about the village outside of what history books and human rights reports shared about the brutal violence which occurred in the region: the dismemberment of bodies, the killing, the abduction of children. I came with no set plan of action, but with an open mind and a willingness to give of my time and skills.

After my first two weeks teaching at FRO’s rehabilitation center, I approached community leaders with an explanation of my prior experience in peace building work and asked about their perceptions of what is most needed to promote sustainable peace and development in Pader. Their answer was unanimous: work to educate our most vulnerable children.

In the days following, I tirelessly labored over (and might I admit, stressed about) a plan to educate 1500 primary school children identified by a coalition of international NGOs as the most vulnerable and war-affected. All of these children are fully or partially orphaned, many were abducted by the LRA, and most care for themselves and siblings. None could access education without the support of donors to cover the expense of school fees, uniforms, school materials, and a basic living allowance.

I learned that it costs $30/year to cover all of the expenses associated with a child’s school attendance in Uganda, less than I spend in one night of dinner and a movie back home. For less than $8,000 more/year, the entire program supporting 1500 children in 56 Northern Ugandan primary schools could be administered and have all operational costs covered.

After agreeing to find funding to support this program, I was greeted with another request: help bring peace education to schools in Northern Uganda. I jubilantly accepted this challenge after seeing how happily the Kids for Peace Peace Pledge was received. Over the next few months, I will work to support peace education beginning with the most local primary schools and eventually reaching several more remote schools in areas that once served as battlegrounds for the terror waged by the LRA.

The enormity of the challenges I am facing here are at times overwhelming. While I’m constantly hearing about new “causes” to support here and realizing that one person can only do so much, I know that even so, all people can begin the day with the intention of doing the most they can to foster peace and spread hope.

The Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
Where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

The Faces of Youth

Here in Pader, I spend part of my time teaching at a vocational school operated by Friends of Orphans (FRO) for vulnerable youth. To be admitted to the center, a young person must be a formerly abducted youth (a child soldier or child bride of the LRA), a war orphan, disabled, an AIDS orphan, and/or a child-headed household. Many of my students qualify in more than one way, with the majority once belonging by will or force to the Lord’s Resistance Army.

I cannot picture a single soldier amongst the boys who are kind, courteous, and quick to help me in the classroom. The girls, many of whom leave at lunchtime to feed their children, seem like any other teenage girls, except more responsible and wise to the value and privilege of obtaining an education after having it denied to them for much of their lives.

The classroom can be a distracting place. Several times a day, chickens chase each other across the cement floors, squawking loudly; the wet season’s rains cause a deafening cacophony of sound as water tumults the metal roof, impeding instruction; and intermittent power means I often must teach in dim light, using my lively imagination to come up with adapted lesson plans.

I teach Computers, English and Debate to the vocational school students, and am shocked by some of the stories that surface in our storytelling practice. During free writing exercises, I provide students with simple prompts, like “Tell me about your weekend,” which often result in responses that leave me heart-wrenched for days to come.

One timid teenage girl shared that over the weekend, she was faced with deciding how best to support her 12-year old sister who was raped by a man in the village. My job as an English teacher—to correct the grammar of the stories shared in my class—suddenly seemed trivial as my humanity compelled me to inquire about the steps taken to ensure the health, counseling, and legal support of this young girl.

In the smiling faces of the students, I can tell how deeply they appreciate their educations, the security within the gates of the FRO rehabilitation center, and the healing they are able to experience here. In the furrows of their brows and serious, aged eyes, I am reminded of the cruelty these brave youth faced during wartime and continue to face as they struggle to survive in Pader.

“Same, Same, but Different:” Women, Men, and Rural Life

One of my favorite nights in Pader so far, Nighty invited me over for a soda. I am not normally a soda drinker, but with few sugary items available, I jumped at the chance to try a pineapple flavored Novida.

When I arrived, I was hurried into Nighty’s thatched-roof hut, away from the drinking men surrounding who always love my visits. Inside, Nighty had carefully swept her dirt floor and cleared her belongings to make room for three plastic chairs and a worn wooden stool. Her other guests awaited my arrival: her vivacious and opinionated 24 year-old sister named Alice, and her sister’s friend, Sange.

We spent the evening chatting and joking like childhood friends. Outside, Nighty’s customers drank and listened to spirited African music, and every now and then, the women and I would suspend our conversation to teach one another how we would dance to the beat. They laughed and laughed at my attempts at mimicking the tidal movement of their gyrating hips as they demonstrated the traditional dance of the region.

Of course, in a room of young women, the subject of conversation eventually turned to men. Did I have a man? What is dating like in the United States? Do I plan to meet the family of the man I have most recently dated?

I quickly learned that in Northern Uganda, a woman may be courted for as short as a few days or as long as a year before she introduces her suitor to her family for approval and marriage. I explained that I once dated a man for two and a half years, but decided not to marry him, and that I could reasonably date many men in my life for long periods of time before deciding I wanted to marry.

“Why do you think it will take such a long time?” Alice asked. “Western men are supposed to make very good husbands. Me, I am waiting for a Western man. White men know that an African woman will be very obedient and make a good wife, so they like us too.” The others all agreed, they were waiting for Western men to come to the village and ask for their hand in marriage, and even Nighty—the one with children among us—said that she would take up a Western man if she had the chance.

“Why do you like Western men so much?” I asked, amused by their interest in those I am quick to dismiss. I was expecting an answer involving money or looks, the superficial qualities that girls in the U.S. fawn over, but was surprised by their response. “One of the main causes of death for a woman here is beating. Sometimes, a woman is beaten badly, but there is no money for the hospital, so she dies at home. We have heard that Western men do not beat their wives. Also, we are told that they are not players and they do not drink as much.”

Humbled by their response, I agreed that it is not culturally acceptable for a man in America to hit a woman, but I shared that even some men in America do, that others can be “players,” and still others drink too much.

Sipping our pineapple bubbly, we allowed the conversation to return to lighter things, to dancing, travels, and what life is like back home.

Nighty, the businesswoman

“Miss, how are you? Where are you going?” a woman’s voice hollered in
accented English from afar. While men ask me this all day long, I was
surprised to hear a woman speaking to me.

Nighty is robust and young, with hair cut close to her head and a joyous presence. Her beaming smile and inviting voice drew me to the
side of her homestead, where she waited by her mud wall to talk to me.

After shaking her hand and introducing myself, Nighty proudly
proclaimed that she is a businesswoman. When I asked about her
business, I had a hard time following: something about transforming
liquids, placing things to dry, making mush. With the confusion
apparent on my face, Nighty welcomed me into her mud hut so that I
could see for myself.

Nighty’s small, circular hut serves as the sleeping place for herself,
her husband, and her three small children. Under the only bed, millet
is drying, and big vats of liquid in varying stages of murkiness take
up most of the rest of the ground space. The strong aroma solved the
mystery: Nighty makes alcohol, and the corral she built in front of
her hut—full of drunken men at 2pm—serves as a testament to her
business’s success.

Nighty says she is so happy to have a foreign friend now. She met one
woman from Canada some years back, and loves to admire the beauty of
foreigners. I told her that I think she is beautiful too, which she
responded to by inviting me to visit her during the evenings.

During my first evening visit, I brought her citrus fruit and beans,
which delighted her nearly as much as my headlamp pleased her
five-year old daughter. With my invitation to join for dinner and her
promise to help me practice Luo, Nighty and I are forming a bond that
I hope lasts for the duration of my stay in Pader.

Welcome to Pader

After a brief stay in Kampala, I began the long journey to Pader,
Northern Uganda. During the ten hour bus ride, I saw the land around
me transform from the semi-tropical and relatively prosperous south to
the increasingly dry, desolate, and poor north. At one point, an
Acholi mother with two young children sat beside me. Her oldest
daughter, roughly 3 years old, laughed and laughed every time she
looked at me. Occasionally, she’d reach out to touch my skin and then
let out a big belly laugh with her sparsely toothed, orange slice
smile, a sweet, innocent reaction to the unknown. Later in the day, I
encountered a younger boy, less than two years old, who looked at me
with a horror-struck countenance and then broke out into tears. I
preferred the little girl’s response.

Pader is one of the most remote regions of Uganda, and was hard hit by
twenty years of Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) warfare which ended with
a peace agreement in 2008. During its heyday, the LRA abducted an
estimated 60,000 children who were forced to become soldiers and child
brides, and 1.5 million Northern Ugandans were herded into internally
displaced people (IDP) camps, living in notoriously abysmal conditions
for over a decade.

Today, Pader is a graveyard of NGOs, with locals telling ghost stories
of foreign humanitarians who passed through, leaving few remains of
the tens of millions of aid dollars spent here. While NGO buildings
and jeeps sprinkle the town and countryside, the liveliness of these
organizations departed and left in its wake a slew of empty
guesthouses and restaurants.

Food is scarce in this dusty and dry district, so World Food Programme
trucks pass by often, with Food for the Hungry, Mercy Corps, and
several others having some presence here. While many habitations
advertise restaurant services, most are seldom open, and those that
are offer only a small fraction of what is on their menu.

With the coming dry season, the availability of food and water will
become even rarer, introducing me to paucity like I have never before
experienced.