Getting Closer

If I was dying for a place to settle a month ago, imagine the ants in my pants now! While the Roma Hotel right in the heart of Gulu has been good to me (and I must say, it is my Cheers, where nobody knows my name but everybody knows the mzungu), I need my own space. Besides, I don’t want to overstay my welcome and need to get out of my eating rut: rice and beans and plain omelets – of course with African tea (tea brewed with steamed milk – most Africans pour a bucket of sugar in each cup). I need to shake it up. I keep getting close to my goal, but apparently there are a number of hoops a person must pass through to secure a place to stay. The word on the street is that I will meet this landlord for a flat I looked at two weeks ago and be able to move ahead with the process, though I have to devise a way to come up with three months rent from Gulu, where I am not sure if money can be exchanged. I can say that I have zero desire to get back on a bus to Kampala for as long as I can avoid it (I long for the order and timeliness of Rwandan minibuses).

Earlier this week I went to visit a sister at Catholic Relief Services. It was certainly out in the boon docks, but it is always so pleasing to drive, or more accurately 4x4, through different areas of Gulu. It is simply beautiful: lush trees, dirt roads, little huts, women bent at the waist doing the washing and children running. I also saw the government army barracks, enclosed by barbed wire fencing. Anthony, the driver for ACORD, told me that the fence is lined with land mines, so to say the least, I shall not be taking a walk in this area of Gulu, and I wonder if there has been any outreach to let the surrounding communities in on this bit of information. On my way back from my visit, I saw a Mamba (I suppose it is an armored vehicle) and several large trucks with government soldiers excessively armed escorting a World Food Program truck (keep in mind that the rebels are very hungry and could potentially attack for food and sustenance). These are little reminders that I am in fact living in a “war zone”. Not to mention the fact that people in Kampala look at me with “shock and awe” when I tell them where I am living (see, here is an appropriate use of “shock and awe”). This shock seems to stem from a general lack of information that the southerners have about the experiences of the north, which in turn is another manner in which the conflict is perpetuated. My work colleagues also tell me that I don’t fit into the general American stereotype. I ask them what they mean and I am told that most Americans are proud and very security-conscience, generally refusing to work (in Gulu) without armed guards or a secured building. I have personally not met another American in Gulu, but I was amused at the typecasting, as I am content with our little office building on the edge of town where you never know when a goat will pop in.

I am getting people onto my women and peacebuilding bandwagon. We shall see if the rhetoric is met with action, but I am organizing a forum for people and organizations to share information and to collaborate. I paid a visit to the Deputy Vice Chancellor of Gulu University and it looks like I might indeed have the opportunity to do some teaching, namely on gender and conflict or women’s human rights. It is a great opportunity, and I do love an audience, but admittedly I am a bit nervous about it.

This week I was reflecting on the fact that I haven’t seen David in awhile. I was hoping this meant that he got himself into one of numerous programs for children here in Gulu where he can get fed, shelter, and some education. As I was eating my dinner out on the veranda Friday night I heard that familiar voice saying, “It’s me, David.” I can barely see him out in the darkness, but notice he has his buddies with him. I ask him how he is and he gives me the reply he always has: “Not fine. I must speak to you.” I relent, leave my table and go out to speak to him, firmly telling him once again that he must join one of these programs. While I believe that David, as a boy (I am guessing 12), should not have to take care of himself alone, I also recognize that there have been cultural changes in the youth due to the war. As so many children have been independent of their parents (if their parents have been killed, if they are commuting to Gulu for protection, if the children have been abducted or if they are combatants, etc.), they no longer respect their elders or authority and may not necessarily want to give up their freedom – especially when children have been so cruelly let down throughout the course of this conflict. Many children in this region have learned that you get what you want through the use of force. So reasoning that perhaps David has not really attempted one of these programs I have mentioned, I tell him that he must take responsibility for himself (though wincing inside as I just wish he had a parent or relative who would take care of him). I once again reiterate that I cannot help him, but that he will be assisted in the manner he needs if he just seeks out a program. I hope the next time I see him it will be under better circumstances but I just don’t know…