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.

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.

At 13 Years Old, I Decided I Had to Leave

Concy, Age 16

The LRA [Lord’s Resistance Army] killed my parents when I was seven. My father was a simsim farmer. He used to sell his harvest for good money. Someone told the LRA that he was a man with good profits, so one day, they came to our homestead. The militants demanded our money and my father gave it to them. They said they wanted more, but there was no more. The last I saw of my parents was both of them being taken into the bush by soldiers. There, they killed them.

For some time, I was taken care of by my grandmother. When she passed away, I was sent to live with my father’s sister. My auntie was burdened with many children of her own and did not have the ability to care for me. She used me mostly for labor. For a while, we were living in a [internally displaced people] camp. Whenever there was a need to collect food, she would send me, knowing that it was very dangerous. There were times that I would see the militia on the road to our family’s plot. I would hide when I spotted them, but I was always so afraid they would find me.

Once we left the camp, the discrimination didn’t stop. The other children in the household went to school and would receive clothes, and I received nothing. I would be given the leftovers of the food the others ate--which was very little--and had to eat alone while the others ate together.

At 13 years old, I decided I had to leave. I planned to find myself a husband to support me.

I found a young man who was 16 and agreed to live with me. He was formerly abducted and lost both of his parents as well. He has given me two children already, but one died.

When my uncle came to collect the dowry [to make our marriage official], my boyfriend’s family refused, so we are still not married.

My boyfriend received vocational training as a driver [from a reintegration center catering to formerly abducted youth], but hasn’t been able to find employment. We tend our own plot, but the food is often not enough to feed our family. We also work in others’ gardens to help us make a little extra money for things like medical expenses.

The Peace Club has helped us a lot in times of difficulty. They have provided me with counseling when I needed it. I also enjoy participating in the dance and drama activities as a way to relieve stress. The Club has also given my family small amounts of money when we are faced with an urgent need, like my child’s medical expenses. They are like family to me, which I do not have.

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.”

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.