Wow. Leaving in two days. It’s kind of starting to sink in a little bit. Tonight we have a group dinner, then tomorrow we have discussions and free time in Kampala, and then on Sunday we leave for Entebbe, where we’ll see the Botanical Gardens and have our farewell dinner before boarding my flight back to Boston!
The past week has been pretty relaxing. I got to Gulu on Sunday night and spent most of the night finishing up the final touches on my paper and preparing my presentation for Monday. I stayed with some of the girls who had stayed in Gulu for the past month, in this great house with electricity, running water, and even a kitchen – definitely different from my last Gulu experience! We spent all day Monday listening to each other’s presentations. Even though it was a good way to learn about what everyone did, I’m glad they separated the people who did research in Uganda from the people who did research in Rwanda – it would have been way too much!
With my presentation done early Monday morning (gotta love alphabetical order…), I had nothing to do for the rest of our stay in Gulu, so I spent some time exploring the market and got a couple of dresses made. Somehow, after Kampala and Kigali, muzungu café didn’t seem quite as wondrous as it had before. I have to say, I’m not a huge fan of Gulu. I had thought that it would be so cool, after hearing about it all the time and because it’s got the highest concentration of NGOs anywhere, but it turned out to be a lot different from what I expected. I think part of it is that I’m a city girl, which isn’t going to change just because I go to a different continent – Gulu’s a little too small-town for me. The town also doesn’t have a lot of natural beauty the way places in Rwanda do – everything is flat and dusty/muddy. I think I also expected that the small town aspect and the high number of NGOs would make it a very strong community, but honestly, I didn’t get that feeling. I didn’t feel like I knew a large portion of the population, and the NGO workers sort of had their own clique. A lot of the people in our group loved Gulu and thought of it as home, but I really didn’t feel that way.
So it was a bit of a drag to be back in Gulu, instead of exploring Kampala, but I’m glad that I got to go back to my homestay family for dinner on Tuesday night. Of course, they were thrilled to see me again, and quizzed me on my Acholi vocabulary (I didn’t do very well in this quiz). Somehow, there were even more children and extended family members there than before – it really amazes me how big families are here. Mostly it was nice to go back to remind myself of how long this semester has been and how incredibly much I’ve done/seen/learned while I’ve been here. When I was sitting in my usual chair in the big sitting room in the pitch dark, it reminded me of the reality of living without running water and electricity, which I’ve been fortunate enough to have at least partial access to ever since I left Gulu. Living in Gulu permanently would be so different from visiting it for a month, knowing that sometime in the near future you can leave and enjoy the luxuries you’re accustomed to.
I think one of the most striking things about being back in Gulu was how very different Northern Uganda is from Rwanda, or even Western Uganda. Even little things like accent, which people had told me was really distinct in Northern Uganda, but which I hadn’t been able to pick out until I went back there… The level of underdevelopment relative to other places we’ve been is both shocking and unsurprising (given that the region has been in conflict for the past 23 years), and consequently, day-to-day life is completely different. I think there’s such a tendency for people to think of Africa, especially Sub-Saharan Africa, especially two countries that are right next to each other, as one homogenous place, even though there are so many differences.
Anyways, my overall impression of returning to Gulu was that sooooo much has happened in this semester, and it’s going to take a long time for me to even really understand all of it.
On Wednesday, we left Gulu for Murchison falls. On Thursday we went on a mini-safari and saw giraffes (which I think are really gorgeous), elephants, lions, baboons and gazelle-like animals. One baboon actually tried to climb in the window of our bus! Then we went on a boat ride to the waterfall, which is the main tourist attraction of Uganda. We saw a lot of hippos and crocodiles on the way, which frankly was much more interesting than the waterfall…
Now we’re here in Kampala, wrapping up our trip! I’ll write more soon as I keep thinking about everything that’s happened this semester.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Back in Gulu
I finished my paper! It's 64 pages, including two maps and two sample interviews, and has 148 footnotes. I also gave my 20-minute presentation this morning, so I am officially done! yay!
We're back in Gulu, though I'd prefer to be in Kampala. On Wednesday we're going to Murchison Falls, and then in Friday we'll be back in Kampala, and I'm coming home Sunday night!
We're back in Gulu, though I'd prefer to be in Kampala. On Wednesday we're going to Murchison Falls, and then in Friday we'll be back in Kampala, and I'm coming home Sunday night!
Friday, December 4, 2009
Eid (11/27)
Today was the Muslim holiday of Eid, which is kind of like the Muslim version of Christmas. Yesterday, someone had told one of the boys in our group that there would be a big prayer service in the morning and that he should come and take pictures. I thought that this would be such a cool idea, but it seemed a bit weird and intrusive to take pictures of a big religious event that I wasn’t part of – especially because the Somalis are so religious. So last night, we asked someone on our way back from dinner at our usual place whether it would be ok to take pictures. He said that he would ask the organizers and meet us there in the morning a little before the start of the prayer session. At 7:30am, I was waiting on the playing field. It looked like the guy wasn’t coming, but then I bumped into the son of a woman I had interviewed. I explained what I wanted to do, and he said he’d go ask and see what he could do.
A couple minutes later, he came back and explained that it would be fine for me to take pictures, but that since I’m a woman, my head had to be covered for the ceremony. The boy took me back to his home, and his sisters did me up in full Muslim garb. As in, a full-length black robe, a dark brown cloth tied around my forehead, covered by an elbow-length black headscarf.
It was really bizarre to be dressed like that. The hole that my face fit through was a little tight, but otherwise the whole outfit was really comfortable. I got fewer stares and more encouragement than I expected, and for a brief time I could almost pretend that people didn’t notice this outsider – I almost felt anonymous, like I blended in, for the first time since I came to Africa. But it wasn’t the depersonalizing anonymity that people sometimes ascribe to headscarves (especially the burkha, which I don’t think I could ever wear), or other uniforms. Rather it was the sort of anonymity one feels when walking down a city street in the U.S. – i.e. exactly the kind of anonymity I’ve been craving. It’s been really frustrating to me that I can’t go anywhere without everyone staring at me, yelling “muzungu! How are you!” 29 times at me, and wanting to tell me all their problems. (Of course, now that I look at the pictures of me, I’m struck by how unlike myself I look and by how much I still stick out.)
The prayer session started around 8, with a line of men in long white gowns at the front of the field and a line of women in their flowing, colorful robes at the back of the field. I awkwardly pulled out my camera and hoped that no one was glaring at me as I started to take pictures of the women. A cluster of children – adorable girls in their best clothes with painted arms – came up and clamored for me to take their pictures.
Obviously, I couldn’t really understand any of what was happening in the service, and to be honest, I don’t know much about Islam. But especially standing back with the women, I was struck by what a distant, all-powerful being their God seems to be. I guess because I believe so much in holding true to personal, internal values and finding ways to make the basic values of any religion have meaning to you, personally, it seems very strange to me to stand in a line and bow down to a line of men in front of you, and to a loudspeaker blaring a prayer in front of them. It doesn’t seem to me to be a very personal religion. But as I said, I really don’t know much about Islam, and I definitely don’t mean to be criticizing their beliefs in any way – just that I don’t understand them and need to learn more.
After about 45 minutes, the winds were picking up, blowing the light, silky fabrics in the air and lifting the dust on the football pitch. Clearly a rain storm was about to break. We all hurried off the field and into Somali town, where I got to take more photos. At this point, anyone who hadn’t noticed me during the prayer service or who had been praying in one of the mosques instead got to see this muzungu in Muslim clothes taking pictures of everything with her fancy camera. For the rest of the day, people have been coming up to me and telling me how surprised they were to see me dressed as a Muslim or how beautiful I looked, or, in the case of many of the women, smiling at me in a confidential way as though to say that I’m one of them now. I guess it’s similar to the way people appreciate it when you make an effort to learn and use at least a few phrases of their language – I was trying out a part of their culture, and they seemed glad.
A couple minutes later, he came back and explained that it would be fine for me to take pictures, but that since I’m a woman, my head had to be covered for the ceremony. The boy took me back to his home, and his sisters did me up in full Muslim garb. As in, a full-length black robe, a dark brown cloth tied around my forehead, covered by an elbow-length black headscarf.
It was really bizarre to be dressed like that. The hole that my face fit through was a little tight, but otherwise the whole outfit was really comfortable. I got fewer stares and more encouragement than I expected, and for a brief time I could almost pretend that people didn’t notice this outsider – I almost felt anonymous, like I blended in, for the first time since I came to Africa. But it wasn’t the depersonalizing anonymity that people sometimes ascribe to headscarves (especially the burkha, which I don’t think I could ever wear), or other uniforms. Rather it was the sort of anonymity one feels when walking down a city street in the U.S. – i.e. exactly the kind of anonymity I’ve been craving. It’s been really frustrating to me that I can’t go anywhere without everyone staring at me, yelling “muzungu! How are you!” 29 times at me, and wanting to tell me all their problems. (Of course, now that I look at the pictures of me, I’m struck by how unlike myself I look and by how much I still stick out.)
The prayer session started around 8, with a line of men in long white gowns at the front of the field and a line of women in their flowing, colorful robes at the back of the field. I awkwardly pulled out my camera and hoped that no one was glaring at me as I started to take pictures of the women. A cluster of children – adorable girls in their best clothes with painted arms – came up and clamored for me to take their pictures.
Obviously, I couldn’t really understand any of what was happening in the service, and to be honest, I don’t know much about Islam. But especially standing back with the women, I was struck by what a distant, all-powerful being their God seems to be. I guess because I believe so much in holding true to personal, internal values and finding ways to make the basic values of any religion have meaning to you, personally, it seems very strange to me to stand in a line and bow down to a line of men in front of you, and to a loudspeaker blaring a prayer in front of them. It doesn’t seem to me to be a very personal religion. But as I said, I really don’t know much about Islam, and I definitely don’t mean to be criticizing their beliefs in any way – just that I don’t understand them and need to learn more.
After about 45 minutes, the winds were picking up, blowing the light, silky fabrics in the air and lifting the dust on the football pitch. Clearly a rain storm was about to break. We all hurried off the field and into Somali town, where I got to take more photos. At this point, anyone who hadn’t noticed me during the prayer service or who had been praying in one of the mosques instead got to see this muzungu in Muslim clothes taking pictures of everything with her fancy camera. For the rest of the day, people have been coming up to me and telling me how surprised they were to see me dressed as a Muslim or how beautiful I looked, or, in the case of many of the women, smiling at me in a confidential way as though to say that I’m one of them now. I guess it’s similar to the way people appreciate it when you make an effort to learn and use at least a few phrases of their language – I was trying out a part of their culture, and they seemed glad.
Thanksgiving
It (was) Thanksgiving, which means it’s time for a list of things I’m thankful for! I don’t want this to be an I-traveled-to-a-third-world-country-and-now-I-have-so-much-more-perspective-than-you list, and I don’t want it to be a list of things I miss from home – just a list of things in my life that I appreciate right now.
I am thankful for, in no particular order:
- Family
- Friends
- Having this opportunity to travel to Uganda and Rwanda
- Electricity
- Flushing toilets
- The Internet
- Commonwealth
- The circumstances I was born into
- Warm socks
- Feel-good movies
- People who hold me to high standards
- Independence
- Having the means and opportunity to work towards my goals, whatever they may be
- Ice cream
- All other Western food (if I list everything I miss it will take forever)
- People who can see past appearances
- Intelligent humor
- The idea that all people are equal
- Late afternoon sunlight
- My camera
- Being able to help other people
- Rainboots
- Skating
- Good laughter
- Interesting classes with good professors
- Alone time
- Being able to make decisions
- Café’s
- Good literature
- Baking
- Stephen Fry
- Nerdfighters
- Art
- Honesty
- Kindness
- Washing machines
- Stars
- Being able to drink water straight from the hose on a hot summer day
- Being able to communicate in French
- The opportunity to meet and learn from many different people
- Grocery stores and libraries that are open 24/7
- Blue Pilot Precise V7 Fine-tip pens (seriously, I came with a box of fifteen, and I’ve used all but two completely up)
- Boston
- New York City
- Ideas that are so cool and brilliant that they blow your mind
- The invention of the blog
It’s a bit strange that I’m “celebrating” Thanksgiving here in Uganda. Thanksgiving has never been a big deal for our family, but it started to make a lot more sense as a holiday when I went to college – a chance to come home and eat a home-cooked meal actually did seem like something to celebrate. Plus the Commonwealth Thanksgiving assembly/reunion of recently-graduated students is always such a highlight. Last year was especially great, when Britt came home with me and we went over to the Cash’s for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m really genuinely sad to be missing Thanksgiving.
Part of what’s so strange is that I’ve totally lost track of time in terms of what I would normally be doing right now in the US. Earlier it was a lot easier to imagine those beautiful crisp fall days with clear blue skies and brilliant foliage, going for runs down Riverside Drive, the start of school, going downtown to the Halloween parade… I could imagine early fall, but I’m really having a hard time grasping the fact that it will be winter when I get back – that I’ll be plunging into the Christmas season and will need to wear winter clothes. Thanksgiving is a bit of a reminder of the fact that it is getting colder by the day back home: something I don’t miss.
Tonight they opened the new canteen on base camp, and it’s so bizarre and out of place. It reminds me of a pool-side café at a hotel, only without the pool. In honor of the canteen opening, there’s a big party tonight, with big speeches thanking the various aid organizations that contributed to building the canteen – which will be primarily used by their employees. Now they’re playing a mix of Ugandan and American music (earlier they were playing Celine Dion and slow Michael Jackson songs – a clear sign that no one had come yet. Why do people always play slow Michael Jackson songs at the start of dances and stuff when no one’s there??). Anyways, the canteen really changes the vibe of being here.
I am thankful for, in no particular order:
- Family
- Friends
- Having this opportunity to travel to Uganda and Rwanda
- Electricity
- Flushing toilets
- The Internet
- Commonwealth
- The circumstances I was born into
- Warm socks
- Feel-good movies
- People who hold me to high standards
- Independence
- Having the means and opportunity to work towards my goals, whatever they may be
- Ice cream
- All other Western food (if I list everything I miss it will take forever)
- People who can see past appearances
- Intelligent humor
- The idea that all people are equal
- Late afternoon sunlight
- My camera
- Being able to help other people
- Rainboots
- Skating
- Good laughter
- Interesting classes with good professors
- Alone time
- Being able to make decisions
- Café’s
- Good literature
- Baking
- Stephen Fry
- Nerdfighters
- Art
- Honesty
- Kindness
- Washing machines
- Stars
- Being able to drink water straight from the hose on a hot summer day
- Being able to communicate in French
- The opportunity to meet and learn from many different people
- Grocery stores and libraries that are open 24/7
- Blue Pilot Precise V7 Fine-tip pens (seriously, I came with a box of fifteen, and I’ve used all but two completely up)
- Boston
- New York City
- Ideas that are so cool and brilliant that they blow your mind
- The invention of the blog
It’s a bit strange that I’m “celebrating” Thanksgiving here in Uganda. Thanksgiving has never been a big deal for our family, but it started to make a lot more sense as a holiday when I went to college – a chance to come home and eat a home-cooked meal actually did seem like something to celebrate. Plus the Commonwealth Thanksgiving assembly/reunion of recently-graduated students is always such a highlight. Last year was especially great, when Britt came home with me and we went over to the Cash’s for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m really genuinely sad to be missing Thanksgiving.
Part of what’s so strange is that I’ve totally lost track of time in terms of what I would normally be doing right now in the US. Earlier it was a lot easier to imagine those beautiful crisp fall days with clear blue skies and brilliant foliage, going for runs down Riverside Drive, the start of school, going downtown to the Halloween parade… I could imagine early fall, but I’m really having a hard time grasping the fact that it will be winter when I get back – that I’ll be plunging into the Christmas season and will need to wear winter clothes. Thanksgiving is a bit of a reminder of the fact that it is getting colder by the day back home: something I don’t miss.
Tonight they opened the new canteen on base camp, and it’s so bizarre and out of place. It reminds me of a pool-side café at a hotel, only without the pool. In honor of the canteen opening, there’s a big party tonight, with big speeches thanking the various aid organizations that contributed to building the canteen – which will be primarily used by their employees. Now they’re playing a mix of Ugandan and American music (earlier they were playing Celine Dion and slow Michael Jackson songs – a clear sign that no one had come yet. Why do people always play slow Michael Jackson songs at the start of dances and stuff when no one’s there??). Anyways, the canteen really changes the vibe of being here.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Italian Somalia
Earlier this week, I went over to the house of a Somali guy I’d seen around and who had stopped me on the way home the day before. I’ve been trying to avoid eating at the refugees’ houses—even though it’s culturally polite to serve guests food when they come over—because they need the food more than I do, and I have no way of knowing how well it’s been prepared (a lot of refugees use water from the lake, which is green and has things crawling in it – yum!). So when he invited me over for dinner, I declined, but he made me promise to call him the next day. I figured I could at least get an interview out of it, so the next morning, I gave him a call. I quickly realized, as we were walking to his house, that his English was nowhere near good enough to do an interview, and I hoped one of his family members would speak English, or that we could make a quick visit. No such luck.
As we walked to his house, he took me to the houses of all of his relatives to say hi. When we finally arrived, I found a large Somali girl of eighteen lying on a mat with green facial cream all over her face, which lit up as she shouted, “America!! My sister!” She was so sweet and welcoming, but unfortunately, that was pretty much the entirety of her English. With no one able to translate for me, I figured I would try to make some sort of conversation for a short while, and then head out. They offered me tea, which I accepted so as not to be rude. We managed to communicate enough for me to give them my contact information, which I’m beginning to regret, and to establish that the sister was going to return to her large house in Kampala with two TVs after her interviews to be resettled in the US, and that I absolutely have to call her when I get to Kampala so that she can take me around. It took a long time for them to decide whether they would find me in Canada or the US (you would think refugees, of all people, would understand the idea of being born in one country, but living in another…), but eventually they agreed that I would pick them up at the airport in Boston when they arrive.
Kate and I have both been telling people that we have fiancés back home, in a (mostly vain) attempt to ward off marriage proposals. Naturally, the topic came up within my first twenty minutes of entering the house – are you married? It was then decided that my new Somali sister would marry one of my fiancé’s friends when she joined me in the US, and that the brother would marry one of my friends.
So that was all we talked about. In very broken, heavily accented English. For three hours.
Somehow they talked me into eating lunch. Considering that they weren’t exactly struggling to make ends meet, and the water they used to wash their dishes looked very clean, I figured I would probably be ok. Unfortunately, when they talked me into it, I didn’t realize that they hadn’t started making it yet. Or maybe it was ready sooner, but they figured that the longer they kept it away from me, the longer they could yell “America!” and “my sister!” and “you call me! Kampala! You call me!” at me.
I realize I sound very ungrateful for the way they welcomed me into their home. I’m really trying to work on being more patient with other people, but it’s a struggle. I’m so used to having alone time, or being able to go for a walk by myself and just be anonymous – something that is literally impossible here. As one of only a handful of bazungu in the entire refugee camp, I stand out. It’s such a strange feeling to have so many people want to be friends with you just because you’re white, and therefore wealthy.
On top of that, I’m just not that patient with people asking the same question over and over and over again. I think with this particular family, the issue was just language barriers, but it’s still frustrating to feel like people are taking up your time because they are hoping to take advantage of the opportunities a friendship with you could entail. I’ve also noticed that repetition is part of the slower pace of life here. The Ugandans make fun of us for always rushing everywhere, and they joke about Westerners who don’t take time to greet and chat with every single person they know when they run into them, regardless of whether or not they’re running late. Everything about life is slower here – Africa time. One of the manifestations of this fact is in the way people talk. They take a very long time to say not very much, partly through repeating things multiple times. Drives me crazy.
On an entirely different note, it’s difficult for me to feel sympathy for this particular family. The Somalis are definitely at the top of the refugee food chain. Very few of them farm at all, whereas most of the other refugees can barely afford to do anything but farm. Instead they run businesses or depend on their relatives in other countries. Their clothes, even their children’s clothes, are always clean and in good condition, but when you go out to the more rural areas of the camp, other children are half-naked, or wearing tattered, filthy rags. But the main thing that separates the Somalis from everyone else is their resettlement process.
The US has made Somali refugees a priority (the government determines a quota of people they will accept from different countries), and they are doing mass processing of the Somalis throughout the region. There is a staff of six UNHCR workers (who are the only other white people here, and they don’t even live in the camp) whose job is just to interview every Somali in Nakivale to compile their refugee claim, which will allow them to begin a lengthy interview process that ends, usually, in resettlement in the U.S. Since they’re interviewing all the Somalis, you have people like this family I was visiting who live comfortably in Kampala and only come to Nakivale to pick up some free food and do their interviews to get to the US. Personally, I don’t understand why refugees who are clearly doing alright here in Uganda are given priority over refugees of other nationalities who are bathing in and cooking with unsafe water, who are afraid of being killed in their homes by other refugees, who can’t survive on the food they are given so they have to go out and work for the Ugandan nationals – who don’t pay well, and have been known to rape refugee women, and the camp police can’t do anything about it.
But anyways, I finally told the family, as we were approaching two and a half hours since I’d arrived, that I really had to leave, lunch or no lunch, and they scrambled to bring me a heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Heaven. It turns out Italy colonized part of Somalia (something I didn’t know), and passed on all of their culinary wonders. Homemade tomato sauce, garlic… the only thing they didn’t pass on is the fork. For those of you who have never eaten pasta with your fingers, I can now tell you how it is done: insert two or three fingers into the pasta like the tines of a fork, grasp a few strands of spaghetti between each finger, and rotate your entire wrist a few times, cupping your hand to twirl the spaghetti around your fingers – much like you would twirl pasta on a fork. Then stick as much of it into your mouth as possible, and if your technique is really good, lick all the tomato sauce off your fingers as you pull them out of your mouth.
As we walked to his house, he took me to the houses of all of his relatives to say hi. When we finally arrived, I found a large Somali girl of eighteen lying on a mat with green facial cream all over her face, which lit up as she shouted, “America!! My sister!” She was so sweet and welcoming, but unfortunately, that was pretty much the entirety of her English. With no one able to translate for me, I figured I would try to make some sort of conversation for a short while, and then head out. They offered me tea, which I accepted so as not to be rude. We managed to communicate enough for me to give them my contact information, which I’m beginning to regret, and to establish that the sister was going to return to her large house in Kampala with two TVs after her interviews to be resettled in the US, and that I absolutely have to call her when I get to Kampala so that she can take me around. It took a long time for them to decide whether they would find me in Canada or the US (you would think refugees, of all people, would understand the idea of being born in one country, but living in another…), but eventually they agreed that I would pick them up at the airport in Boston when they arrive.
Kate and I have both been telling people that we have fiancés back home, in a (mostly vain) attempt to ward off marriage proposals. Naturally, the topic came up within my first twenty minutes of entering the house – are you married? It was then decided that my new Somali sister would marry one of my fiancé’s friends when she joined me in the US, and that the brother would marry one of my friends.
So that was all we talked about. In very broken, heavily accented English. For three hours.
Somehow they talked me into eating lunch. Considering that they weren’t exactly struggling to make ends meet, and the water they used to wash their dishes looked very clean, I figured I would probably be ok. Unfortunately, when they talked me into it, I didn’t realize that they hadn’t started making it yet. Or maybe it was ready sooner, but they figured that the longer they kept it away from me, the longer they could yell “America!” and “my sister!” and “you call me! Kampala! You call me!” at me.
I realize I sound very ungrateful for the way they welcomed me into their home. I’m really trying to work on being more patient with other people, but it’s a struggle. I’m so used to having alone time, or being able to go for a walk by myself and just be anonymous – something that is literally impossible here. As one of only a handful of bazungu in the entire refugee camp, I stand out. It’s such a strange feeling to have so many people want to be friends with you just because you’re white, and therefore wealthy.
On top of that, I’m just not that patient with people asking the same question over and over and over again. I think with this particular family, the issue was just language barriers, but it’s still frustrating to feel like people are taking up your time because they are hoping to take advantage of the opportunities a friendship with you could entail. I’ve also noticed that repetition is part of the slower pace of life here. The Ugandans make fun of us for always rushing everywhere, and they joke about Westerners who don’t take time to greet and chat with every single person they know when they run into them, regardless of whether or not they’re running late. Everything about life is slower here – Africa time. One of the manifestations of this fact is in the way people talk. They take a very long time to say not very much, partly through repeating things multiple times. Drives me crazy.
On an entirely different note, it’s difficult for me to feel sympathy for this particular family. The Somalis are definitely at the top of the refugee food chain. Very few of them farm at all, whereas most of the other refugees can barely afford to do anything but farm. Instead they run businesses or depend on their relatives in other countries. Their clothes, even their children’s clothes, are always clean and in good condition, but when you go out to the more rural areas of the camp, other children are half-naked, or wearing tattered, filthy rags. But the main thing that separates the Somalis from everyone else is their resettlement process.
The US has made Somali refugees a priority (the government determines a quota of people they will accept from different countries), and they are doing mass processing of the Somalis throughout the region. There is a staff of six UNHCR workers (who are the only other white people here, and they don’t even live in the camp) whose job is just to interview every Somali in Nakivale to compile their refugee claim, which will allow them to begin a lengthy interview process that ends, usually, in resettlement in the U.S. Since they’re interviewing all the Somalis, you have people like this family I was visiting who live comfortably in Kampala and only come to Nakivale to pick up some free food and do their interviews to get to the US. Personally, I don’t understand why refugees who are clearly doing alright here in Uganda are given priority over refugees of other nationalities who are bathing in and cooking with unsafe water, who are afraid of being killed in their homes by other refugees, who can’t survive on the food they are given so they have to go out and work for the Ugandan nationals – who don’t pay well, and have been known to rape refugee women, and the camp police can’t do anything about it.
But anyways, I finally told the family, as we were approaching two and a half hours since I’d arrived, that I really had to leave, lunch or no lunch, and they scrambled to bring me a heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Heaven. It turns out Italy colonized part of Somalia (something I didn’t know), and passed on all of their culinary wonders. Homemade tomato sauce, garlic… the only thing they didn’t pass on is the fork. For those of you who have never eaten pasta with your fingers, I can now tell you how it is done: insert two or three fingers into the pasta like the tines of a fork, grasp a few strands of spaghetti between each finger, and rotate your entire wrist a few times, cupping your hand to twirl the spaghetti around your fingers – much like you would twirl pasta on a fork. Then stick as much of it into your mouth as possible, and if your technique is really good, lick all the tomato sauce off your fingers as you pull them out of your mouth.
Tuesday market
There’s an amazing market every Tuesday about 45 minutes away from base camp, near where we were going to live, before we got housing in the camp. Last Tuesday, Kate and I walked to the market, after escaping a drunk old man who would not leave us alone (I got in a big argument with him about whether or not there was poverty in the US – I am learning to be more patient with people, but sometimes it drives me crazy when people won’t leave us alone because we’re white/rich… anyways). The walk to the market cuts through this open savannah that’s almost eerily nondescript. Every so often, you’ll bump into a herd of cows with gigantic white horns, usually accompanied by this completely incongruous pure white bird that’s somewhere between a duck and a swan. In the distance, we could see these tremendous purple storm clouds gathering over the mountains.
When we reached the market, a fine drizzle began to fall. Most of the vendors were pulling tarps over their wares, and we weaved through second-hand clothes and vibrant Kitanga fabrics, finding the pineapples just in time to negotiate the price down to 45 cents each and grab six of them before a wall of rain washed over us, drenching us immediately. There was nothing to do but head for cover. By the time we reached it we were already soaked to the skin, so we shrugged, said what the hell, and walked all the way back to base camp.
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but Uganda is a country of mud. Gloopy, slippery, get-between-your-toes mud. We slipped along the dirt/mud roads, a pineapple in each hand, dodging puddles and begging each passing van not to splatter our already-dripping clothes. When we finally made it back, the rain was still pouring, monsoon-style, so we put down our things, took out some soap, and had a rain-shower behind the house. When we came back inside, I put on my thick, warm socks (oh my god I could not be more grateful that I brought them with me); we lit some candles for a nice rustic ambiance, and listened to the rain beat down on the tin roof.
When we reached the market, a fine drizzle began to fall. Most of the vendors were pulling tarps over their wares, and we weaved through second-hand clothes and vibrant Kitanga fabrics, finding the pineapples just in time to negotiate the price down to 45 cents each and grab six of them before a wall of rain washed over us, drenching us immediately. There was nothing to do but head for cover. By the time we reached it we were already soaked to the skin, so we shrugged, said what the hell, and walked all the way back to base camp.
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but Uganda is a country of mud. Gloopy, slippery, get-between-your-toes mud. We slipped along the dirt/mud roads, a pineapple in each hand, dodging puddles and begging each passing van not to splatter our already-dripping clothes. When we finally made it back, the rain was still pouring, monsoon-style, so we put down our things, took out some soap, and had a rain-shower behind the house. When we came back inside, I put on my thick, warm socks (oh my god I could not be more grateful that I brought them with me); we lit some candles for a nice rustic ambiance, and listened to the rain beat down on the tin roof.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Nakivale
I’ve finally gotten on the internet!! It’s been a long three weeks without any internet access, and apologies to anyone who’s tried to reach me during that time. It turns out that refugee camps don’t have free public wifi after all… I have a bunch of blog entries that I wrote during my stay in Nakivale so that I would remember stuff, that I’ll post bit by bit so it’s not an information overload. Also the next week is going to be pretty boring as I’ll just be writing up my paper (40 pages in about 4 days – piece of cake, but still boring), so this way I can still post interesting entries.
11/23:
I’ve now been at Nakivale for almost two weeks, and I really need to write down some of what I’ve been experiencing, so that I don’t forget it all. There’s just so so so so so much to say! I haven’t even been logging my work time (we’re supposed to keep track so that we can prove we worked for at least 120 hours) because between observations, casual conversations and formal interviews, it’s pretty much a 24-7 experience. It’ll take months to write everything I have to say about the past two weeks, but I guess I have to start somewhere…
I’m living on base camp, which is where all the aid workers (who are almost all Ugandans – a sore point with the refugees, many of whom are educated and unemployed) live. This is an ideal location because it’s right in the middle of everything.
To the left of base camp is Somali town and New Congo, which are both fairly “urban” settings, as the camp goes, with many shops and restaurants. We’ve been eating at this great Somali restaurant that has amazing tea, burger-type things slathered in mayonnaise, samosas, and these latke-like sweet cakes that are dripping in grease. There’s a tiny sitting space, and a window for people to come up and buy stuff street-vendor style, both of which are usually managed by a short, stout Somali man with glasses that everyone calls “Professor.” Every day we can hear the call to prayer go out through the Somali zone. Also, I think women look so beautiful in their headscarves. I definitely have issues with the perda, where everything but the eyes is hidden – Jeremy and I were talking about whether it can be considered an acceptable part of culture, and even though I don’t think I really have the right to tell them that they can’t wear it, I don’t think I could tolerate, say, a government that forced them to wear it. I guess I wouldn’t have such a problem with it if it didn’t come (for me, at least) with this loaded connotation of inferiority.
In front of base camp is the Sudanese zone, and to the right are the main offices of UNHCR and the Office of the Prime Minister (OPM), which manages everything in the camp. UNHCR is building a new office, and it looks ridiculous. There’s a huge brick wall around it, with an imposing metal door, both of which are topped off with large metal spikes and barbed wire. Sends a pretty clear message. Further down the road is Isangano, which apparently means “meeting place” in Swahili. This is the one place in the camp where all the different nationalities come together. It’s mostly a commercial area, where people sell clothes, food, and basic supplies. Walking through Isangano is like walking through a photo exhibit. Actually, the whole camp feels that way, and it’s killing me that I’m not taking photos yet. Especially because I’m here as a researcher, I really don’t want to be seen as the-muzungu-with-a-fancy-camera-and-therefore-a-lot-of-money, so I’m going to wait until my last day and then just go everywhere in the camp, say goodbye to people and take photos.
Anyways, I’m living in a house with three other women, currently. Earlier, there was another girl, Kate, who was part of the other SIT Uganda group, who was staying in the room I’m in right now. She had been here for about a month when we got here, and she left a few days ago. At first, we were sharing this room, which is really more of a closet than a room, and is covered in bat poop and mostly full of random junk. I was sleeping on the floor, and I have to say that I’m pretty happy about having a mattress now. Having Kate here was really great because not only was she sweet, friendly and wonderful, she had figured out a lot of the basic stuff about the camp, so she could answer all the stupid logistical questions, and all the refugees love her – so helpful! [Incidentally, we discovered after a few nights that her mother has been reading this blog without even realizing that I was coming to Nakivale – what a crazy coincidence, huh?]
Base camp has electricity for five hours every night, from 7pm until midnight, which is perfect. On Friday and Saturday nights, there wasn’t any electricity and it was pretty painful. Naturally, I had decided that Friday would be a good day to get caught up on typing up my interviews, and had completely used up all my computer’s battery, so without electricity there was literally nothing I could do, and everyone else in the house had gone to Mbarara, the nearest city, for the weekend. I didn’t even have a book to read, plus I’m in danger of using up all my paper and pens, so I couldn’t even write stuff the old-fashioned way. Basically, I slept a lot. When power came back on Sunday, I could have cried of happiness.
Most of my time is spent interviewing people and trying to set up more interviews. So far I’ve done 28 individual interviews, and 5 group discussions, so I’ve spoken to a total of 63 people. I really need to talk to more Congolese, though, because they make up a huge proportion of the people here and they’ve probably got the most complex inter-group relations. I’ve been asking people about their relations with other groups of refugees (both other nationalities and other groups within their own nationality). I’m still not really sure what I’m going to write.
A fair number of people say that there’s no conflict because everyone is a refugee here and they’re all equal. When I was interviewing the Burundians, they usually said in individual interviews that nothing was wrong, but the group discussions became a litany of complaints about how the Burundians are treated worse than any other nationality and how their relations with all the other groups are terrible. Talking to the Sudanese and the Congolese groups that live nearby, it seems that a lot of times the tribal conflicts that drove people out of their country in the first place are replicated here, which makes a lot of sense. Then yesterday, I went out to the farthest village of the camp, Gisura, which is a very rural area. The farther you go from base camp, the more it feels like a standard village that we would drive through in rural Uganda. The people seem to be much more poor than the people who live near base camp, and they live as subsistence farmers. In Gisura, there are Congolese and Rwandans living together completely peacefully (according to the people I talked to – I want to go back and find out more), even intermarrying. So assuming that that’s actually true, and it’s not just a coincidence of the people I happened to speak to, I want to look at why these people are living peacefully while others are having so much conflict.
The diversity here is so incredible. The most common language is Swahili, followed by Kinyarwanda, English, French and probably Lingala – though I don’t know that it’s in that order. It’s really cool to listen to people talk in several different languages in one conversation.
11/23:
I’ve now been at Nakivale for almost two weeks, and I really need to write down some of what I’ve been experiencing, so that I don’t forget it all. There’s just so so so so so much to say! I haven’t even been logging my work time (we’re supposed to keep track so that we can prove we worked for at least 120 hours) because between observations, casual conversations and formal interviews, it’s pretty much a 24-7 experience. It’ll take months to write everything I have to say about the past two weeks, but I guess I have to start somewhere…
I’m living on base camp, which is where all the aid workers (who are almost all Ugandans – a sore point with the refugees, many of whom are educated and unemployed) live. This is an ideal location because it’s right in the middle of everything.
To the left of base camp is Somali town and New Congo, which are both fairly “urban” settings, as the camp goes, with many shops and restaurants. We’ve been eating at this great Somali restaurant that has amazing tea, burger-type things slathered in mayonnaise, samosas, and these latke-like sweet cakes that are dripping in grease. There’s a tiny sitting space, and a window for people to come up and buy stuff street-vendor style, both of which are usually managed by a short, stout Somali man with glasses that everyone calls “Professor.” Every day we can hear the call to prayer go out through the Somali zone. Also, I think women look so beautiful in their headscarves. I definitely have issues with the perda, where everything but the eyes is hidden – Jeremy and I were talking about whether it can be considered an acceptable part of culture, and even though I don’t think I really have the right to tell them that they can’t wear it, I don’t think I could tolerate, say, a government that forced them to wear it. I guess I wouldn’t have such a problem with it if it didn’t come (for me, at least) with this loaded connotation of inferiority.
In front of base camp is the Sudanese zone, and to the right are the main offices of UNHCR and the Office of the Prime Minister (OPM), which manages everything in the camp. UNHCR is building a new office, and it looks ridiculous. There’s a huge brick wall around it, with an imposing metal door, both of which are topped off with large metal spikes and barbed wire. Sends a pretty clear message. Further down the road is Isangano, which apparently means “meeting place” in Swahili. This is the one place in the camp where all the different nationalities come together. It’s mostly a commercial area, where people sell clothes, food, and basic supplies. Walking through Isangano is like walking through a photo exhibit. Actually, the whole camp feels that way, and it’s killing me that I’m not taking photos yet. Especially because I’m here as a researcher, I really don’t want to be seen as the-muzungu-with-a-fancy-camera-and-therefore-a-lot-of-money, so I’m going to wait until my last day and then just go everywhere in the camp, say goodbye to people and take photos.
Anyways, I’m living in a house with three other women, currently. Earlier, there was another girl, Kate, who was part of the other SIT Uganda group, who was staying in the room I’m in right now. She had been here for about a month when we got here, and she left a few days ago. At first, we were sharing this room, which is really more of a closet than a room, and is covered in bat poop and mostly full of random junk. I was sleeping on the floor, and I have to say that I’m pretty happy about having a mattress now. Having Kate here was really great because not only was she sweet, friendly and wonderful, she had figured out a lot of the basic stuff about the camp, so she could answer all the stupid logistical questions, and all the refugees love her – so helpful! [Incidentally, we discovered after a few nights that her mother has been reading this blog without even realizing that I was coming to Nakivale – what a crazy coincidence, huh?]
Base camp has electricity for five hours every night, from 7pm until midnight, which is perfect. On Friday and Saturday nights, there wasn’t any electricity and it was pretty painful. Naturally, I had decided that Friday would be a good day to get caught up on typing up my interviews, and had completely used up all my computer’s battery, so without electricity there was literally nothing I could do, and everyone else in the house had gone to Mbarara, the nearest city, for the weekend. I didn’t even have a book to read, plus I’m in danger of using up all my paper and pens, so I couldn’t even write stuff the old-fashioned way. Basically, I slept a lot. When power came back on Sunday, I could have cried of happiness.
Most of my time is spent interviewing people and trying to set up more interviews. So far I’ve done 28 individual interviews, and 5 group discussions, so I’ve spoken to a total of 63 people. I really need to talk to more Congolese, though, because they make up a huge proportion of the people here and they’ve probably got the most complex inter-group relations. I’ve been asking people about their relations with other groups of refugees (both other nationalities and other groups within their own nationality). I’m still not really sure what I’m going to write.
A fair number of people say that there’s no conflict because everyone is a refugee here and they’re all equal. When I was interviewing the Burundians, they usually said in individual interviews that nothing was wrong, but the group discussions became a litany of complaints about how the Burundians are treated worse than any other nationality and how their relations with all the other groups are terrible. Talking to the Sudanese and the Congolese groups that live nearby, it seems that a lot of times the tribal conflicts that drove people out of their country in the first place are replicated here, which makes a lot of sense. Then yesterday, I went out to the farthest village of the camp, Gisura, which is a very rural area. The farther you go from base camp, the more it feels like a standard village that we would drive through in rural Uganda. The people seem to be much more poor than the people who live near base camp, and they live as subsistence farmers. In Gisura, there are Congolese and Rwandans living together completely peacefully (according to the people I talked to – I want to go back and find out more), even intermarrying. So assuming that that’s actually true, and it’s not just a coincidence of the people I happened to speak to, I want to look at why these people are living peacefully while others are having so much conflict.
The diversity here is so incredible. The most common language is Swahili, followed by Kinyarwanda, English, French and probably Lingala – though I don’t know that it’s in that order. It’s really cool to listen to people talk in several different languages in one conversation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
