Reconciliation, corruption... and truth?

The NGO I work for hosted a private conference this past weekend on national reconciliation: “Building Consensus on a Sustainable Peace for Uganda.” We invited a couple dozen parliamentary MPs to attend a workshop on transitional justice, to get them thinking about moving past Uganda’s legacy of conflict.

There was some fascinating discussion. It looks like Uganda may be moving towards a South African-style Truth and Reconciliation Commission. If it does, I may be able to say I was in the room when it was first discussed.

Although, believe it or not, there was a lot of discussion about whether to include the word “truth.” Like Jack Nicholson, they fear many won’t be able to handle it, particularly with regards to the government’s abuses in the North. Internationally, the war with the Lord’s Resistance Army is seen only through the lens of the atrocities of mad, mad Joseph Kony with his 40 wives, thousands of kidnapped and brainwashed children and his quest to install a government guided only by the Ten Commandments. But in fact the Ugandan army is also guilty of atrocities, as Human Rights Watch has recently pointed out. One friend told me that at one point the sodomizing of civilians by government soldiers became so widespread that a whole subgroup of male Acholi society received a nickname meaning “Those who find it hard to bend at the knees.”

So, the LRA is sometimes explained (though not justified) as somewhat of a response to government brutality and a North-South imbalance in political power. In turn, Museveni is seen to have used the LRA’s horrors as a pretext to maintain militarized political power, holding an entire population at ransom. Some believe that President Museveni has deliberately kept the LRA alive and kicking – indeed it is a bit puzzling that the army has been unable to subdue a few thousand rag-tag rebels.

All of this is why many eyebrows were raised when the ICC indicted LRA commanders and the Chief Prosecutor, Luis Moreno-Ocampo, appeared at a triumphant press conference hand-in-hand with a smiling President Museveni. One-sided justice, to be sure. The ICC also comes under fire for interfering in a peace process that may have lured Kony out of the bush. Now he certainly has no incentive, with an international arrest warrant hanging over his head. And so the war continues.

As for me, I’m still trying to figure out what I think of the ICC’s involvement, but the local consensus is hard to ignore: the ICC is widely seen as a huge impediment to peace. They say it doesn’t fully grasp the willingness of Ugandans to forgive, reconcile and move on. Indeed, one wonders where South Africa would be today if, just as Mandela was negotiating reconciliation, the ICC swooped in and indicted F.W. De Klerk. It’s all a bit of a shock to a Western law student bombarded with talk of the moral righteousness of the ICC.

But perhaps one of the most telling lessons of the weekend had nothing to do with reconciliation, and more to do with the reason nothing ever seems to get done by African governments. First, the conference had to be moved from a more modest location to the glitzy Imperial Botanical Beach Hotel after the MPs threatened not to show up. Then they demanded “motivation” in order to attend, amounting to a $75 “travel allowance.” Of the 30 or so invited, at least 5 simply didn’t bother to show up (and a couple left early). And when we were there, they complained about all manner of petty things, particularly the fact that at coffee break they were forced to pour their own tea. At the workshop itself, they seemed more interested in hearing their own voices than on having any genuine discussion. I even saw one MP browsing the local movie reviews as the RLP presenters discussed mundane issues like war crimes and how to achieve sustainable peace. I also got an interesting souvenir that pretty much sums it all up – an MP’s business card with standard government info/look on the front, and on the back an advertisement asking me to invest in his “Rise & Shine Projects & Investments”

Happy Radovan Day

The Butcher of Bosnia is caught, at long last. Back when I was in Sarajevo, I was sitting in my friend Sanjin’s small apartment when the newscaster breathlessly announced that General Ratko Mladic – the second most wanted after Radovan Karadzic – had been captured. Sanjin immediately poured large shots of plum brandy and jubilantly wished me a “Happy Ratko Day.” Of course, that news report later turned out to be false, but I experienced a bit of the joy that is undoubtedly being felt in Sarajevo today. So, Happy Radovan Day, old friends.

In an odd coincidence, a friend a few days ago also sent me a report speculating that Karadzic may have been around Foca, a small town in Eastern Bosnia, in April 2006 (this also makes a good read). It just so happens we were there visiting at the same time. It was an odd little town, one where you suspect that everyone you see on the street is a closet mass murderer, hiding some sinister past as they sip coffee. Probably a bit like it feels to live in Rwanda today. I wouldn’t be surprised if Karadzic was at one time being sheltered by the residents there, just as I wouldn’t be surprised if elements of the Serbian government have known for a long time that he’s been practicing medicine just outside Belgrade under a false name. Something deep inside the establishment must have shifted.

"His Excellency, Barack Hussein Obama"

How a workmate just referred to him, adding "Coming soon."

Lost in translation, Part I

Most Ugandans never learn how to swim. Even some of the fisherman. So "swimming" means something different - basically getting wet up to your waist.

Before I figured this out, I asked Rosebell whether it was possible to swim in Lake Bunyoni, wanting to know about parasites and the like.

Her response: "No no no, it's too deep."

Uganda Headlines

RAPE: THE MEDICINE THAT COULD SAVE YOU FROM HIV
- The New Vision (ostensibly trying to refer to a new drug that can prevent contracting HIV if taken shortly after sex)

NORTH LEADS IN POLYGAMY
- The New Vision, August 17, 2007

I DID NOT EAT DRC PYGMIES
- The Daily Monitor, June 1, 2008

WHY UGANDA IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN MANCHESTER UNITED
- The Daily Monitor, June 2008 (an argument that actually needs to be made)

Thanks to my roomates for collecting some of these.

UGANDA ISLAMIC INSTITUTE FOR THE STUDY OF EVIL SPIRITS
- prestigious academic establishment just outside Kampala

AFRICA CHRISTIAN INSTITUTE FOR DEVELOPMENT (Trust ACID)
- sign in Hoima

"SUFFER NOW, ENJOY TOMORROW"
- motto of Kitana Primary School, near Murchison

"GAIN BUMS QUICKLY (No side effects)!"
- ubiquitous advertisement in Kampala

Bunabumali

There is not much to say about this past weekend that Siena hasn’t already said better, but I’ll prattle on anyway.

A 7-hour bus/taxi journey with multiple transfers, detours and delays (the usual), then a hike through the hills until we reach Bunabumali. Norman’s orphanage is perched halfway up the hillside, surrounded by green mountains, every inch of them cultivated. The kids sing for us, most dressed in little yellow uniforms. We hand out a ball we’re donating, and play for hours. We sleep in a dusty hut, listening to Norman’s brothers rustle around in their hammocks through the mud walls in the room over. Woke up to an insistent rooster at 4:30am. Not even bloody dawn yet! So much for that theory. Climbed the mountain, finding houses all the way to the summit. At the top truly feels like the middle of nowhere, even though I’m sort of standing on someone’s front lawn. On the way down, we meet Norman's excitable and energetic grandmother who nurses her shin splints as she asks me to marry her and take her back to Canada (awkward). Then I get acquainted with the village bathroom, having been handed two sheets of crumpled looseleaf paper to use as TP.

Just before dinner, Norman suddenly brings up the topic of circumcision as I’m biting into a mango. His tribe is the only one in Uganda that does it, but not until the boy turns 19! He was covered in yeast, and not allowed to sleep or bathe for 3 days. Apparently the idea is to make you so pissed off you don’t even care if your tip gets snipped. Then the entire village gathers around (Norman says 30,000 attended his), perform some ceremonies, and do the deed. The boy musn’t move or make a sound. And then you’re a man, except you have to wait a few months to heal. Norman said the only truly difficult part of the whole process was “After, when you see a very nice girl and you get happy down there, it hurts sooo much.”


Apparently our stay was only the 3rd time white folk had ever slept in the village. The usual curious looks everywhere we go. Norman’s family is exceedingly gracious and thank us profusely for coming, but they reluctantly admit that our presence might make the neighbours jealous. When we leave, Norman’s sister does her hair, puts on her best dress, polishes her shoes and walks us to the bus stop. She talks to Siena about her dream of attending Columbia University.

Refugees

More photos from the camp here.

Kyangwali in photos

The settlement

The 56-year old woman – ancient, by African standards – sits cross-legged on the grass in front of me, under the shade of a mango tree. She is a refugee from Sudan. She holds her palms up to show me her thick calluses, to prove that she must do all the farming now that her husband is too sick and elderly to work. Every day she has to bathe him. There are also 7 children to care for. Her face is creased, her skin dusty. A series of triangular scars on her forehead. The interpreter tells me they are characteristic of the Dinka tribe, a kind of identifying badge.

I ask her why she has come to talk to me. She says she has no problem a lawyer can solve. Inside I sigh – today I’ve had too many people with problems I can’t solve. Over the past two weeks of 12 hour days I feel I’ve started to become too hard, a bit too inhuman. I am the only white person in a camp of 20,000 and refugees follow me everywhere, expecting perhaps that I have a couple of flight tickets to Canada tucked in my back pocket. We are staying in the camp church, and every morning I come out with a towel around my waist to find refugees camped outside my door. At one point I even gather around a crowd and tell them I’m not a lawyer, that they should go talk to one of the other team members (all Africans) who are in fact my bosses, that just because I’m a mzungu it doesn’t mean I have “magic powers.” They all laugh at this – at least I got a few smiles – but no one goes anywhere.

It’s not the horrific stories that wear you down so much, but having to tell so many people each day that there is nothing I can do for them. We’ve come to report on the human rights situation in the camp, as well as help some refugees who have tangible legal problems we can solve. Criminal accusations, land disputes, problems with the authorities – things like that. I’m tasked with doing intake of individual refugees, identifying potential cases. My everyday makeshift “office” is a patch of shade under a mango tree next to a primary school. Nearby, giggling girls in pink-uniforms play some kind of handball at recess – after staring at me for a bit.

The “camp” is not in fact a camp, but a “settlement,” I am told more than once. Each refugee is issued a small plot with a field to cultivate crops. The government has a “self-sustaining” refugee policy in which the 300,000 refugees in Uganda are expected to provide for themselves (after being given land and some initial assistance). The result is actually quite an idyllic-looking village with lots of space and greenery, dotted with mud huts with reedy rooves. Not the tightly-packed rows of tents I was expecting. Some have been living in such settlements for decades. But grave problems persist, not the least of which is that every last inhabitant seems to suffer from PTSD. All live in absolute poverty.

I issue those who come to sit around my tree little slips with numbers on them and my signature. The first few days when I didn’t, it was chaos. A few times someone comes up with a fake slip, and I rip it up and call them a liar. They slink away, and then later I feel bad for snapping at someone who is more desperate for help than I ever will be.

90% of those I talk to essentially want “resettlement,” the buzzword for being sent to what is seen as paradise: Canada, the US, Europe or Australia. Typically this can only be done if the refugee cannot live a secure life in the country of asylum – perhaps they are still being pursued by their persecuters there. But the demand is overwhelming and it is usually impossible to tell which claims are genuine. Sadly, humanitarian agencies are overwhelmed by exagerrations and fabrications, real solvable problems getting lost in this mass of desperation. A general mistrust of refugees pervades the NGO community. A UNHCR representative I meet calls resettlement a “poison” in the system. My colleagues warn me to fight this creeping suspicion, but every night we all chuckle at some of the more outlandish stories.

So whenever what looks like a resettlement request comes up I tell them my organization can’t help them, that we are mandated to improve the lives of refugees in Uganda, not to try and ship them out. Crushing so many hopes takes a toll. Every day a few cry. I start to get annoyed, exasperated. Occasionally I yell at refugees following me, the ones who try to thrust letters in my lap as I eat lunch.

At least this old lady before me has warned me that I won’t be able to help her. She doesn’t ask for resettlement. She only says that she wants to tell me her story so that when she dies someone will remember it.

Debora lived in Mading Bor. She was a Dinka, a tribe of cattle herdsman inhabiting the vast savannah of southern Sudan. When she was young they carved the angular scars on her forehead, forever indicating her clan affiliation.

As a young woman she wanted to marry another man of the same generation. But her father didn’t allow it – the man was poor and wouldn’t be able to pay the required bride price in cattle. So she was promised to a much older man, the one she bathes every day now.

The younger man felt his honour impugned, which is everything. One day he arrived at Debora’s house. He held the old man on the ground and cut out one of his eyes with a knife. Then he turned on her, beating her viciously. He promised the old man that he would come back to claim the other eye – and to kill Debora.

Together Debora and her husband fled the town. The coming tide of cyclical Sudanese wars pushed her ever southward until she reached Uganda. Now she lives in Kyangwali refugee settlement. Relatives have warned her that if she returns to Sudan, her former husband-to-be is waiting to murder her. In the camp her life is unbearable. There is not enough food to feed her 7 children and the husband is incapacitated. She says she will die soon and asks me to remember her, to carry on her story.

I promise I will, but as I say it I wonder if I actually will. She shouts out something, and grabs my arm, smiling. She begins to tear up as she speaks rapidly. The interpreter whispers in my ear: “She is blessing you, thanking you. She is glad her story will survive outside of... here” He motions to the landscape, to the settlement, to Africa.

Other stories stick with me too. The 10-year old boy in primary school who wanted to be a professional footballer and talked about his alcoholic father – in a free-association art exercise he drew a picture of two people having sex. The children who had been taken away from their parents, had been living outside until they stopped to ask for water at a pastor’s home, filthy and confused. The sad-eyed guy cradling his broken arm, injured in a fight with Ugandans around the camp who dislike their foreign, resource-sucking presence. The Sudanese lady who I thought was motioning for me to take her picture, but was in fact asking for money, and whose photo I kept taking as everyone around laughed. Seeing Congo in the distance across misty Lake Albert. Betty, 18, who was raped by the lakeshore and has a 2-year old baby as a result – her foster family has since tried to sell her to another man. The raft of young widows with families to raise who complain about drunken men knocking at their doors late at night. The woman who told me her father had arranged to have her husband killed – the father had offered him up as repayment in blood for a murder the father himself had committed – and now she is being fought over by several brothers, each of whom promise to kill her should she marry one of the other brothers. The earnest, soft-spoken Congolese pastor, caught up in Lendu-Hema tribal conflict at the camp, who grabs my hand and says just wants to live in “peace,” repeating that last word like a mantra. Jean Bosco, who was enslaved by the SPLA at home, forced to carry manure, tortured and accused of being a spy. The pretty Acholi woman who breastfed in front me and answered my questions with the oddly appealing, melodic “Aaayyy” in place of “Yes”. Mark, who seemed to find me wherever I was in the camp, grabbing my arm and pleading with me to save him because his father had killed someone and the victim’s family was out to get him, an all-too-common story of Sudanese blood feud. The local refugee leader with a leopard-skinned cowboy hat who told me people were out to poison him because they were jealous he had spent 9 months in Japan. Coming upon a man bleeding from his ear after a fight between government soldiers and refugees – a disputed goal in a football game led to a soldier striking him with a baton. The dead-drunk Congolese mathematics teacher whose wife and daughter had been executed and who tells me he simply can’t live much longer – he shows me his blistered hands, explaining that he won’t survive as a farmer. The mother with a 2-year old girl on her back – the infant had been raped by a 10-year old boy the week before. Jane, 17, who had been lured back to Sudan by her uncle only to find that he wanted to force her into marriage – she only wanted to finish school. Susan, the 15-year old rape victim in a torn grey dress, who spoke so softly I had to put my ear to her face to hear her (I got one of the lawyers to take her case). The Sudanese refugees boarding buses returning to Sudan, seemingly gleeful to be going home, but leaving behind those too scared to depart, those stuck in this torturous limbo.

Really, there is too much to say about the visit, which is why I’ve been too shy to even start blogging it. But there is my stream-of-consciousness for now.