Behind Closed Doors

Well, I got my wish. I have certainly been rattled. Now I wish the incessant shaking could stop. It has been over two months since I first arrived in Uganda, and the thoughts and images of my first 3 weeks still haunt me. Being in counseling for those first few weeks I saw and heard things that I will never forget, things I will never let myself forget. I may shock some people by saying this, but I actually liked hearing people’s sad stories. I thrived, being able to listen in without having the stress of counseling. I left that for the professionals (even though they tried to push me to do so). I was petrified. Although I was taught the procedure of counseling, how to probe to bring hidden motives to the surface, I have never been good at comfortably talking to people I just met (just ask Joanne), especially in a professional setting, so I felt inadequate to the task at hand. Instead, I sat like a little creep in my corner, said: “My name is Natalia, and I am a volunteer counselor here at Reach Out”, and devoured all the details I could manage to digest in silence. Sometimes it makes me sad to think that I made the decision to leave counseling, because my decision was not founded on dislike of the program –I left because with a lack of English speaking clients, I would spend 6 hours most days, reading books or sitting idle. I did not come to Africa to be unproductive; I wanted to feel useful, at least for my own sake. But now thinking back, those few moments spent behind locked doors were worth the 6 hours spent idle. They made me furious with the world, with women and men, with the God they believe in; they made my thoughts more murky than usual, made me sad to the point of tears sometimes. But what I valued is exactly that pain—the ability to feel profusely something beyond my own selfish thoughts and feelings.

Some people wonder why I listen to depressing music (or what they believe to be ‘depressing’), and it is not because I enjoy being depressed, it is because those emotions are more real to me than any other. They tug at the very core of all that I know, all that others seem to experience at some point in time. I cling to their words because they resonate, they make me think, they make me long. Just like with music, I cling to the melancholy drone of peoples’ stories. I cannot escape it.

Case 1: To Die Beautiful

            When I first met her, she seemed so young in my eyes. It was something about the shy way she acted, giggling or turning her head every time a slightly invasive question was asked. She, like many others, pretended she could not hear the question “when was the last time you had sex?” Maybe it was my presence, but from what I have learned over the years, it is easier to do the act then talk about it. That is not a distinctly Ugandan phenomena, it happens everywhere. That is also where a lot of the problems lie. From what I have heard, women are not respected if they talk about their sexual desires or preference to men here. As one can imagine, this puts woman in an inferior position where men can do as they please, and women reap what their men sew –including HIV/AIDS.

            They are not allowed to be assertive so their insecurities surface. This is exactly what I saw in her, the insecurity and low self-esteem. Despite the fact that she is being educated at a University level, she still abides by the hush-hush practices of an older, more taboo generation. A friend told me a while back that women are in a constant competition for male affection, simply because there is a higher female to male ratio in Uganda. So in order to secure their man, women often do anything he desires. They will bear children if he so pleases, avoid using condoms if he so pleases, and in the end, if his eyes (and other body parts) stray, they will be hung out to dry like a used rag, with children and possibly the diseases he brought home.

            When asked what she will do if she is found to be positive, she responded with: “I will kill myself”. Although at the time this grappled me, now it really does not shock me that much. Many people respond that way to the disease, mainly because of the stigma involved in having it. Knowledge of her status would be like walking the plank –she would rather jump and drown then face the searing eyes of judgment in her community. While the counselor explained that HIV/AIDS is not a death sentence, that people live long lives, marry, and even have children while harbouring the disease, the girl could not see it that way. It is a hard idea to grasp; that life will be normal after the monster awakes in one’s blood. In all honestly, I do not think I would be able to see it her way either.

            What shocked me the most about her case was when we gave her information about ARV treatment. She  professed that if she was found to be positive, she would refuse treatment like her 5 other friends who died of the disease, not because her noose had already been tied when her results were given, but because she heard that ARV’s can cause weight gain! I was baffled. So self-image does follow you to the grave. However, when I think about it, a lot of sexually active women and teenagers in North America refuse to take birth control for exactly the same reason –the prospect of gaining a few extra pounds. Granted, having a baby is a little less extreme then dying but the similarity between stigma and self-image in Uganda and Canada is striking.

            This girl, let us call her ‘R’, was HIV negative.

Case 2: This Disease Is Killing Our Country

            The story of this 29 year old woman devastated me because of the circumstances that surrounded it. She came in with complaints of extreme stomach and head pain, and with rashes on her arms, and left with the knowledge that the disease had taken over her body. Prior to her divorce, her husband was very verbally abusive to her and his sexual practices were not all that trust-worthy since he would spend many nights outside of their home. When he saw she was sick he blamed her for her illness, and took her 3 children away from her. The thing that makes this case even more heart wrenching is that her youngest boy has been feeling sick since before their divorce, without diagnosis or treatment. You could see it in her eyes, in the fidget of her hands; she feared disclosing her status to her husband because with his history of abuse, she did not know what he would do. But she knew that telling him would be the only possible way to get her son treatment.

            I fought back tears in silence as I listened to her last statement and the strong composure she adourned when saying it. Although she accepted her status without a tear, the look on her face when she said “this disease is killing our country,” could be felt to the core of every bone in my body. Sometimes, when thoughts of HIV/AIDS are at the forefront of my mind, I hear it echo to me before I drift off into sleep at night.

            About a month ago this same woman sat beside me on a taxi, and I could not even muster a hello. I wanted to question her, ask her how she is doing, and ask her if she ever got her son back, but I was tongue tied. I searched her eyes to see if she remembered me, the little creep in the corner that listened as she poured her heart out, and a part of me thinks she did. But taxi’s are not exactly like counseling rooms and HIV/AIDS is not on the top of the list for casual public transit conversation.

Case 3: Three Big Blows

            I honestly do not understand how many hits a person can take before they start to lose all sense of dignity, faith, and joy. “A” made me contemplate this thought. This meek girl with kind eyes sat next to me in the counseling room; she had been there before. This is her story:

            At the age of 10 she was raped by her stepfather on numerous occasions. At the age of 14 she discovered that she had skin cancer due to the visible abrasions forming on her arm. This discovery was a double-edged sword because when the doctors did her blood work for cancer, they also discovered that she was HIV positive. Now, at the tender age of 15, she must deal with the trauma of being raped by a man that was supposed to care for her, she must deal with the treatment of her cancer, and she must deal with a disease that should never have happened to her.

            I hated the world that day, the day I met her as she was being prepped for ARV treatment. I could not understand it, how someone could be so disgusting, so cruel. I distinctly remember having the urge to sever her stepfather’s penis. He had taken away her childhood, her sense of innocence, and I wanted to take away the thing that made him think he had the right.

            Sitting there in that room with her, I noticed how beautiful and gentle she was; she would not hurt a fly. What shocked me the most was just how strong and courageous she was. I have never met a 15 year old who has been through so much, yet still has the capacity to smile with warmth and trust the hand she shakes. She had accepted the disease a year back, but you could see the tremble on her lips, hear it in the crack of her voice—committing to a life of stringent drug adherence, twice a day at specific times, without fail—life is never going to be the same.

Case 4: I Spy, With My Little Eye –Injustice

           

            How desperate does someone have to be to get any sort of help? Do they have to be cringing on the floor as their insides pour out?  These are the questions that ran through my mind as I heard the woman’s story. One month ago she gave birth to her baby. One week ago her husband died. She is malnourished herself but thanks to the kindness of a wonderful friend, she has a roof over her head and a little bit of food if her friend can produce it.  However, this friend is also poor and her mud house perpetuates disease and danger every time her house floods, which is quite often (being rainy season and all).

            While this is devastating and her circumstances are grim, that is not the worst of it. When her eye started itching terribly she went to Mulago Hospital to get it checked out. They turned her away without even glancing at it because she had no money to pay for a check-up. She went back 3 times, all with the same result. Fast-forward a couple of weeks and she is sitting before me; with a concaved eye, barely visible, with what looks like a large spider imbedded under the skin leading away from her eye, on her nose. It looks as if some kind of poison has been injected in her skin, protruding the grotesque insect-like formation. This is what HIV/AIDS does—it finds any spot it likes in your body, a place it feels at home, and strikes.

I was surprised because usually the clients I see do not have any visible signs of infection, so my curiosity drove me to look up the stages HIV/AIDS can progress to. From what I could decipher, this woman was in the third stage: Symptomatic HIV Infection. She has what professionals call “An Opportunistic Infection”. This is where the disease has damaged the immune system so severely that the T-helper cells normally in charge of protecting the body against infections become worn out and die. Without these cells, lymph nodes and tissues begin to disintegrate, and the virus takes its opportunity to infect any body system it chooses, including the nervous system.

It makes me furious to think about the ifs. If only she had an education, she might have had a job that provided income and food for her malnourished family. If only she had money, she might have been diagnosed and treated before the disease took her sight. If only. Another thing that made me mad was Reach Out’s response to getting her food support—rejection. Let me take you back to my first question: How desperate does someone have to be to get any sort of help? Now you tell me, is her case not dire enough?

http://www.avert.org/stages-hiv-aids.htm

           

Case 5: From the Rubble, She Rebuilt

            They say AIDS does not have a face, well in her case they were right. I worked with a chipper old woman who has the cutest fashion sense in the whole counseling department. She is like a dinosaur in the history of Reach Out—there since day one.

            Although I sometimes find myself wondering who at Reach Out is HIV positive, I could not really picture her with the disease. She is so strong and powerful, so humorous. After one of our counseling sessions she let me in on a little secret—after her diagnosis 10 years ago, she seriously contemplated killing herself. Even though she devoted her life to caring for those with HIV/AIDS, the thought of having what they had tormented her. She was a nurse when she contracted the disease from a sick patient she was taking care of. I do not know if they used gloves or anything then, but it definitely makes the prevention methods I learned more real. This friend explained to me that it was because of the phenomenal counseling she received after her diagnosis, that her mind was changed. She became a counselor because she wanted to work with people like herself, who were struggling to find hope in their lives after finding out the news that they have been infected with the virus. She saw the flaws in nursing, how many nurses came into the profession with the ideal of making a difference in people’s lives, but somewhere along the line they stopped caring. They became like machines, programmed to meticulously do their jobs without a sense of joy or attachment. She no longer wanted to be a part of that sphere –she wanted to connect to people and help them overcome the obstacle that changed her life. She is one of the most inspirational people I have met here in Uganda.

Case 6: Teddy

            Like most days in counseling, my day started out painfully uneventful; and then came “Teddy”. I call her Teddy because she wore this funny little beige sweater with brown teddy bears scattered on it –it was endearing, even on a 19 year old. It painfully reminded me that she was just a child. The stress in the room when she walked in could be cut with a knife; she was so stiff and skittish. The regular questioning began and my counselor friend, sensing Teddy’s agitation, could not help but ask her why she looked so nervous. As soon as she did so, Teddy burst out into tears and said she was scared. She hesitantly told us her story.

            She came to the clinic because her boyfriend’s mother forced her to come in an effort to find some dirt on her; she dislikes Teddy and does not trust her or think she is good enough for her son. Teddy was scared of what the mother would do to their relationship if she did not do as she asked, so she obliged. It is crazy, the control some people can have over others. I understand the mothers desire to ensure her sons happiness, but there is a line that seemed to be crossed somewhere. To instill fear in someone to the point of tears and forcing her to get tested is a little going overboard. I had high hopes for her because she claimed that her and her boyfriend always used condoms when having sex, and the last time she tested, 6 months prior, she was negative.

            It is crazy how one word can hold so much power over a person: positive. And then the floor cracks and crumbles under one’s feet. I looked at her as she got her results, this 19 year old girl in her teddy bear sweater, and her reaction terrified me. There was silence for about 3 seconds, before the sound of excruciating hyperventilation came projecting from her, what seemed like, collapsed lungs. I thought she was going to faint as she dropped her head back and stared off into space, but instead, she began to wail. Fits and fits of tears streamed down her face like a violent waterfall colliding with the rocks below. It was as if, at that very moment, her whole world crashed and came tumbling down in a torrent of violent shards. Nothing remained but the emptiness and the fear. I saw her slide off her chair and fall to her knees, in an effort to simply feel grounded. I struggled to fight back the tears as they began to well in my eye sockets, and saw that the counselor to my left was trying to do the same. In counseling you are supposed to know how to control your emotions, but seeing and hearing Teddy made it difficult. Seeing someone so devastated by grief made every fiber of my being detest the injustice of it all.

            As I looked at her face down on the floor in childs pose, I thought about how I would react to such news if I were in her position. I pictured myself sitting in the room in silence with tears pulsing from my eyes, not speaking or looking at anyone or anything; feeling empty and alone. Inside, the silence would erupt into a monstrous flame –blazing and destroying every good thought in its wake. My mind would crumble, even before the virus had the chance to take over. The counselor would say “you will see, it will be okay, you will live life normally”, but her words would mean nothing to me because everything I knew inside myself had died already. Normal was going out care-free into the world; dancing, drinking, living life like a theme park; not pumping my body with pills twice a day for the rest of my life, knowing that the virus that had filled my blood has no cure. I would feel parasitic, not normal.

I did not know how to comfort this girl while these thoughts were running through my head. How can you comfort someone when you feel like you are them? I listened to her eyes speak as they flickered, and I knew exactly what they were saying –“why me lord, why me?” My mind worked alongside hers, as we both struggled to make sense of it all. It is times like these where my faith dwindles. How can I have faith in a God –governor of all things-- when this scared 19 year old girl, who has so much to live for, has just been struck with the news that she is HIV positive?  I know that plenty of people in Uganda are HIV positive and are able to live their lives positively, and I know there is treatment to help the virus remain dormant, but it is hard for me to envision a larger plan at work here.

 As I sat by the TV later that night –listening to my IPod and trying to drown out the news being transmitted –I wondered how her future would look like. I looked over at Collins sleeping on the couch and prayed to some unknown force, to protect his generation from ever going through what Teddy must now go through.

            Behind closed doors are the cases in counseling that shaped my time here. They are the cases that made everything real for me: the poverty, the insecurities regarding body image, the stigma, the patriarchy present, the injustices, and the countless unanswerable questions of faith. While I hoped to find clarity here, all I found was confusion and anger. I am still trying to discover their secrets for living positively. They are stronger people I fear, than I will ever be.

And It All Comes Down to This

      A year of preparing. Months of waiting. Seven shots and daily Anti-Malaria pills. Trying to pack your life in one bag. The bittersweet goodbyes. Fourteen individuals looking for something more.    
      In life there are very little things I know for certain, but one thing I have always felt to be intrinsically true to the core —that the world is too vast and too intricate for humans to only see one perspective, one piece of the larger whole. For me, it has never been enough to live in Canada and call myself a Canadian. My sense of place has always been mixed up in the clouds somewhere. Maybe it is my mind that is in the clouds, wishing for something similar to a combustion of fantasy and reality. A chance to escape, yet a chance to connect. While I love the people that surround my life, and love the security of not having to worry about purifying my own water, or contracting malaria from mosquito bites, or various other things I take for granted, I have never felt at home here. They say the home is where the heart is, well my heart does not just have one home. It was made to be nomadic.   
      In 5 hours I will be on a plane heading into a country that just 3 days ago experienced tear gas attacks and violent riots in Uganda’s capital city, Kampala. Although there is unpredictability and risk involved in an experience like this, I cannot wait to be among the Ugandan people, learning, growing, and seeing the world from their perspective. I cannot wait to see the beauty that lies there, among the people and in the landscape. To a summer spent in my new home —in the Pearl of Africa!   
      Thank you to everyone who has supported me over this past year. It means the world. To my friends and family: I will miss and love you. See you August 20th.

Kumbaya, My Friends, Kumbaya

   

     As the year comes to an end and the month of May rapidly approaches, I find myself recollecting the times spent in anticipation and the friends that changed my views on the world. Coming into this program I had plenty of preconceived notions about what I was setting myself up for, notions that I am glad were refuted.
    I knew some things that I wanted from this experience, and I will admit some of them were selfish ones. I was searching for an out, a way to remove myself from this toxic vortex that I have been caught in for the last couple of years. I felt like as years passed, I remained stagnant in life. It seemed like everyone had a plan, or an inkling towards their future: I had none of that, and it frightened me. I did not want to finish school with bags under my eyes asking myself what was the point of all this. I was tired of the waiting game, I just wanted to know my path already! Nicole described it perfectly —education became like an industry, where the certificate is all that matters in the end. Anything to escape from the threatening “McDonald’s lifer” image, I guess. We lose our sense of significance in the world, our ability to find joy in what we are doing, all to fit some mold of success. I remember liking English once upon a time, I remember the feeling of accomplishment I got from writing a paper I was proud of. Now all I feel is my brain shutting down every time I pick up a pen or place my fingertips on the keyboard —a non-resuscitative flat-line. Somewhere down the line I became a pessimist, not just about school but about everything.
    Although that flat-line still persists, I see a light at the end of the tunnel, a tiny flicker of hope that was vacant before. I discovered this the day I found out I got placed in Uganda, but I discovered it through unconventional means. The second I read Uganda, I found myself thinking “something bad will happen to ruin this feeling”. It was that same day I got into a car accident. I am not going to inflate this by saying I received some sign from God that restored my faith and positivity about the world. It was nothing close to a near death, white light sort of experience, but it was enough to make me realize what my mom has been telling me --that our negative thoughts direct our negative outcomes. I became so pissed off with the world, with the cards I was dealt, that I blinded myself to my part in it all. Granted, I am no where near to being the person that sees the glass half full, but it is a start.
     Part of this transition is due to the 14 amazing individuals I have met and grown with this past year. You are nothing close to the “nerds” and “tree huggers” I anticipated coming into this program. I no longer feel alien, the odd man out; instead, I feel connected to each and every one of you. It is funny how different we all are, yet how strikingly similar. It gives me hope for Uganda, a point of entry that I can cling to. So often barriers are built between people because of race, gender, language, economic and social status, and religion, that we are no longer able to see that a line has been crossed somewhere. Humans become “the other”, they are treated as something parasitic or ‘dirty’, in need of a good sterilization or expulsion. I do not claim to know everything about the history and turmoil that created this rift, but I do know that it is time to stop the blame game, and time to work towards change. Maybe the world needs a good shake or ‘car accident’ to understand this.
    Many people do not understand why I chose Beyond Borders. I could have volunteered with a church (it would have been less work that is for sure), or I could have volunteered in Kitchener-Waterloo (contributed to ‘our’ people, whatever that means). While I do see the value of both these directions, I saw something in Beyond Borders that I needed more —the push. I needed a program that would challenge me everyday to face my fears, a program that would thrust me into a world unknown, without my bearings to catch me. It is one thing to travel to all-inclusive resorts, but a whole other thing to see the other side: the side drenched in poverty, disease, and pain. Some may think I am crazy for wanting to see this side; in fact, I know some of you think this way. But, I truly believe that to be human, to be fully human, it is not enough to live in our tiny bubbles  and claim sanctuary. To be fully human means to step on shaky ground once in a while, to learn to connect, to live for oneself and for others, and to love, despite those barriers that divide us.

Poker Face

You never leave someone behind, you take a part of them with you and leave a part of yourself behind.
-- Author Unknown

Dear friend,

    There are no easy answers, no healing words of clarity. All I can give you are these words, from my heart to yours.
    I remember you as the first person I met outside of our first Beyond Borders class, and from what I noticed, you were certainly not one to hide in the shadows. I remember thinking of how you were one of the coolest, most individualistic people I have ever met: with your rolled up jeans, grey converse, and sweet long board. In an instant I tagged you as someone who marches to the beat of their own drummer, and I am happy to say my impressions were not wrong about you. Your vivacious personality and larger than life heart is what drew me to you, and is what makes you a truly inspirational person.
    When I think about it, it is unfortunate how little humans know about each others pain. They can sit in the same classroom for months and months, ride the same bus, hang out with the same friends even, but their pain will remain hidden, undiscovered by our ‘knowing’ eyes. In today’s class an idea was sparked in me and illuminated first hand — that we are truly the masters of the poker face. This mask shrouds our deepest anxieties, allows our true selves to walk unnoticed throughout the world, but it is not who we are. As connected as we are to it, and as much as we depend on it for our sanity and to keep comfort levels in line around us, that face is something alien to us.
    As I learn new things about you, a part of your mask begins to slip away, revealing your struggles but not your weaknesses. The other day you wrote me with a blog request, and here it is, in all its inadequacy. I am not sure what created the distance between you and your friend, nor do I claim to hold an omniscient view on where you should go from here, but what I do know is that you are a strong, powerful person that has the ability to direct her own path in life. We all try to fill various voids in our lives, in the hopes of eliminating the feelings of emptiness and sorrow we feel, but what we soon realize is that those fillers are just placeholders —they cannot disintegrate the pain, only mask it until another wave of sorrow hits. It is only when we stop aimlessly filling, and start reaching beneath the surface to the real issues that we begin to heal. You may feel like you do not know who you are without this person, that you are lost without him in your life, but what I see is not fragmentation or brokenness, but what it means to be human. Like many of us, you have a choice to make. It may be difficult, it may mean letting some of those walls down and reaching out to him despite the issue that separated you two, or it may mean realizing that there is no turning back, that the light is brighter on the other side. Moving forward does not necessarily mean eliminating your past from your current life, for the past, as I know too well, has a way of haunting the present. Moving forward means not letting the events of the past cripple the person you are or strive to be. I hope that in time you can heal from this pain, and move on to a place where you realize you are whole, with or without him. Maybe your placement in India will open you up to this, and I hope it does.
    Whatever happens, just remember that the crew and I will always be there —to listen and to love.
  
This brings me to a question regarding the person I will be when I am in Uganda: What face will I adorn? Will I open myself up to a population and culture I am not familiar with, one that may judge me or misunderstand me? Or will I cower, and let them see only what I let them see? I hope that I can take what I have learned from Beyond Borders and the wonderful friends in this program, and shed the poker face, to make this experience a real one.

Time To Let Go

   
     When you look at an object what do you see? Do you see the array of shapes and colours, compiled together like a geometric experiment? Do you envision how well it would look with that vintage shirt you have in your closet? The things that catch our eyes are not just things to us, they acquire meaning, and live out our experiences with us. Like loved ones or friends, it becomes difficult to let them go because they are no longer cotton or rayon. They transform, morph not in form or purpose, but in significance. Your favourite blue shirt becomes the night you first met the one, as he accidentally spilled his drink all over its fabric. Your dogs collar in the box in your closet becomes a marker of his presence in your world, despite his passing. The photograph of everyone laughing simultaneously at a joke that you no longer remember becomes a freeze frame of a moment where you felt blissfully happy. They are no longer objects to us, but become symbols of the memories we made, memories we fear of letting go. It is as if discarding them would mean that they did not exist, did not have a place in our lives at all.
    Now think about a friend or family member. Why are they important to you? Is it because it is your obligation to love them because you were born into their sphere? Or do you feel a connection to them because they somehow burrowed into your heart? When I think of my friends I think of tomato tattoos, tinfoil grills, toasters, and fishnets; I think of funny library dates where studying was the goal but not the outcome; I think of  ridiculous camping trips and high heeled breakfasts. All of these sporadic images come together to construct my reality, to mold my experience.
    Last Wednesday, at the Beyond Borders garage sale, a seemingly insignificant thing happened to make me contemplate these things. Powerhouse, Brieanne, brought in a bag that everyone seemed to want. She was about to make the sale, when her mind began to churn and her pulse began to quicken. Something inside her would not allow her to let the bag go. She explained to us that the more she thought about the bag, the more the memories came flooding back to her. The bag was her moms, and she had had it even before Brieanne was born. The bag was there, in the vicinity of the important mother-daughter moments she experienced, trips they took, memories they made. The association between the object and the experience is what she could not part with.
    This realization got me thinking about the past year, and the concerns that were raised in class about separating from significant others, family members, and friends, while abroad for the duration of 3 months. I know that several students are fearful of what the distance will do to their relationships, and afraid of not having someone to comfort them in their times of isolation and struggle in a foreign country, but I try to view it from another perspective: if they are important enough and if they stand by you despite the distance, then they will be there when you get back. If not, then they are not worth it in the first place. We cannot let our fears of things falling apart govern the shape of our experiences, for it is then that we begin to lose sight of who we are.
    No one promised smooth sailing or a walk in the park. There will be times when we will want to throw in the towel and give up. There will be times when we will break down from culture shock. There will be times when we will feel conflicted and scared, and made to question why we even came. That is simply the reality of an experience like this. I did not sign up to be a tourist, I could have gone to France or Italy for that: I signed up to be rattled. We are an evolutionary bunch, we will learn to cope and adapt. So as nervous as I am about letting go and missing those I leave behind, I know from experience that: what does not break you, makes you stronger.

The Pearl of Africa

  
      In the centre of it all is a place that I have heard of, a place like no other. It is not an oasis — pure and untainted, for it has been struck by the human hand, been smeared with pools of crimson red. But despite all that, despite the bloodshed and the loss, there is a rare beauty that thrives within its walls. A unique rhythm pulses through its earthly veins like an uncontrollable cascade of ghostly echoes. In the depths of the forest these echoes take the form of hooves scrimmaging over the terrain, or the swaying of prehensile hands through trees, like children playing on a jungle-gym. The sounds of people greeting and laughing one another can be heard humming through the villages and cities. Can you imagine a place like this? A place where captivation is not a goal but is an essence that can be felt there? Like the oyster that holds a hidden treasure, Africa too encases its precious pearl: Uganda.
    While I often make note of the struggles and hardship that exist in Uganda, I cannot disregard the splendours that exist on its 236 square kilometre surface. Although this plot of land is small in scale, it contains some of the most wondrous animal species, mountains, rivers, lakes, and people that subsist on Earth.

The Land and Climate
    Situated between the African countries of the Congo, Sudan, Kenya, Tanzania, and Rwanda, Uganda is in the middle of it all. Not only does it border with one of the largest lakes in the world —Lake Victoria, but the Nile river, the longest river on earth, also runs through it. These large bodies of water provide Uganda with its lush, green landscape, and allow for over 500 species of mammal to thrive there. The climate in Uganda is quite hot, with an average temperature of 26 degrees Celsius during the day, and 15 degrees Celsius at night. The rainy season takes place during the months of March until May, with an average rainfall of 175mm per month. June to September are the drier months, so it will be interesting to experience this shift when I am there.

The Mountains and Wildlife
    Mt. Stanley in the Rwenzori Mountains, linked on the western edge of Uganda with the Congo, is the tallest mountain in Africa. Despite the tremendous heat within the country, The Rwenzori Mountains are capped with ice and glaciers which adds a nice contrast to the beautiful landscape. While we think of the obvious: elephants, lions, rhinos, zebras, and giraffes circulating the land, I was pleasantly shocked to discover that Uganda is the home of half the worlds remaining Mountain gorilla population (the total being roughly 900 gorillas). In Uganda, this population lives in the Bwindi Impenetrable National Park. For some of you bird lovers out there, Uganda also hosts over 1000 bird species, and is one the most renowned bird-watching destinations in the world.

The People
    With an approximate population of  33 million people, Uganda is quite crowded. However, this allows for a large variety of ethic tribal groups to subside there —the largest being Baganda, which consists of 17% of the population. The official languages of Uganda are English and Swahili; however, in Mbuya where I will be staying, the predominantly spoken language is Luganda. The prevalent religion in Uganda is Christianity, with 85% of the population believing in this faith.

    I cannot wait to see all that this gem of a country has to offer!   

For more information:
    Fitzpatrick, Mary, Tim Bewer, and Matthew Firestone. East Africa. 8th ed., Lonely Planet, 2009. Print.
    http://www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/bgn/2963.htm
    http://www.nationsencyclopedia.com/Africa/Uganda-ETHNIC-GROUPS.html

Are These the Faces of Evil?

    History is seared into the memories of all those who have witnessed, have experienced, and have suffered through the catastrophic events that have shaped their countries. Sometimes we wonder how such events can ever occur, how someone can let an idea of power get so large in their head that they disregard all human life to attain it. The political history of Uganda is one that truly saddens and appals me. It makes me wonder if any substantial change can ever truly occur in a place so devastated by bloodshed.

    Since the history of Uganda is extensive, I will mention only the events and upheavals that occurred since October 9, 1962, after Uganda gained its independence from Britain under the leadership of Milton Obote, the leader of the coalition sector of the National Assembly. Prior to his leadership Uganda was a centralized state governed by tribal based kingdoms. Like many leaders; however, Obote became hungry for absolute power. This yearning caused him to suspend the constitution present in Uganda at the time, and remove the current vice president from office. In September 1967, Uganda was formed into a republic.
    Armed forces commander, Idi Amin Dada, appreciated this change I am sure, and took it in his own hands to snatch the power away from Obote by expelling him from the country, dissolving the parliament set in place, and tweaking the constitution to give him absolute power and authority. Amin is known to be one of the most gruesome presidents in the world due to the large economic decline he produced, along with the social collapse and massive human rights violations he implemented. In 1978, the International Commissions of Jurists estimated 100,000 or more Ugandan casualties during is 8 year reign of terror, where he targeted anyone who was in support of Obote, primarily the Acholi and Langi ethnic groups. In April 1979, Amin was forced into exile after is attempt to storm into Tanzania was stopped by Tanzanian armed forces, and after they captured Uganda’s capital city, Kampala.
    After this expulsion that resulted in the dishevelment of leadership in Uganda, the Uganda National Liberation Front formed a temporary government and created the National Consultative Commission (NCC). Following this instalment, several leaders were appointed but shortly dismissed and replaced, as their desire for power grew too large. Interestingly enough Obote was re-elected, and his reign proved to be one of the world’s worst periods in history because of the horrible human rights violations and persecutions that occurred. In an attempt to prevent rebellion from the National Resistance Army (NRA), led by Yomeri Museveni, Obote ordered his security force to destruct and lay waste to large portions of the Ugandan landscape. This created many of the food production and growth related issues that the poor Ugandans currently must suffer with.
    Obote was expelled for the second time in July 1985, and went into exile in Zambia after Kampala was captured by General Tito Okello, leader of the Acholi troups, who wanted to make the government of Uganda into a military government. Okello created negotiations with Museveni and the NRA and pledged to have improvements in human rights, which he then disregarded as he went on to murder civilians or anyone who was in support of the NRA. In January 1985, the NRA seized control of Kampala and forced Okello to flee to Sudan.
    Museveni and the NRA then formed the National Resistance Movement (NRM) which ensured his sole power over Uganda by limiting the power given to the governments political parties. While elections were held, and most people petitioned against electing Museveni as president, he managed to get win against Kizza Besigye, the Democratic opposition, by creating restrictions, enforcing violence, fraud, and using intimidation tactics to rig his votes. On February 18, 2011, Museveni was re-elected for the forth time.
    It is said that the injustices and abuses of human rights significantly decreased after he was put into power, with greater economic liberations and freedom of the press initiations. As you may have read in one of my previous blogs, freedom of the press in Uganda is not exactly the kind of freedom Canadians experience. The people given the a voice to express are often those corrupted individuals who suffer from prejudices, and the news they freely provide can spark violent uprisings, like the one against gay activist David Kato. I assume these economic liberations are too not in correspondence with our ideas of liberation.
    During this time the Lord Resistance Army (LRA), led by Joseph Kony, increased its might across the land, as they tried to overthrow the Ugandan government. From 1986 to 2006, until the LRA were final barred from Uganda by the military in 2005, the LRA brutally massacred thousands, and abducted and displaced approximately 1.8 million Uganda’s. Their atrocious, inhumane acts include sexual slavery, mutilation, murder, and kidnapping children in order to turn them into rebel fighters. Today the LRA still exists and reigns havoc in the neighbouring African countries of Sudan and the Congo.

    I do not know if I will ever be able to understand how such atrocities can exist in our world. Maybe they are unexplainable, simple not to be understood in the context that I would like to look at them in. All I can do is hope that one day innocent people will not have to suffer and die due to an individuals bloodthirsty urge for power.


For more information visit:
http://www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/bgn/2963.htm