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.

Stranded, Running Barefoot in the Rain

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.

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 boda boda—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.

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 boda driver found an alternative path through the grasses.

After more than two hours, we arrived at our destination.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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!

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.”

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.

Finding no suitable covering, we continued running along the long road to Pader.

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.

She bent low and entered the hut. A few seconds later, her hand gestured out, telling me to enter.

“Karibu! [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.

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.

My friend Nighty used to make this alcohol and once refused me a sip, claiming it makes muzungus 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. 

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.

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.

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 waragi would make me drunk, or at least, so I gathered from the charades of the couple within the hut.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

“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.”

To Combat Future Security Threats, World Leaders Must Prioritize Development

“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.”
-Colin Powell, former U.S. Secretary of State and retired 4-Star General of the U.S. Army

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.

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.

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.

“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?”

His inquiry was profound.

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.

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?

When I co-founded Kids for Peace 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 (Bhutta 2002). 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.

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 (Borgen Project). According to the Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessments, the federal budget for 2012 proposes the greatest spending on defence since World War II (Business Insider).

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 featured 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.

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, Nuru International, 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.

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.

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.

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.

Connecting Girls, Inspiring Futures: Celebrating Girl Child Education on International Women’s Day

The individual’s name has been changed and her photo is omitted to protect her privacy.

Four years ago, Francine could have never imagined she’d be speaking on International Women’s Day in front of a crowd of hundreds.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Amidst an environment that often seems absent of hope, Francine's future is 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.

Happy Women's Day to women everywhere!

Tabling on behalf of the Pader Girls Academy at the International Women's Day celebration

A trailer for a new documentary on providing education to war-affected girls.

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.