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

Time Lessens What Actions Heal

It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
- Rose Kennedy

    This quote lingers in my mind like a menacing cloud over a cheery village. At any moment the bubble can burst and drown the joys away, taking with the outpour all hope and sanity that once thrived there. All it takes is one event to shatter our existence, changing the way we view the world as we knew it to be. Eventually the pain, as if under a heavy anaesthetic, will numb away, but the bitter thoughts will remain gnawing at our psyche. All we want is to feel normal, but normal is not a luxury we can afford. We can spend thousands of dollars on cars and clothes, but even those cannot mask the deeply seated wounds we harbour within ourselves. We wait for time to run its course, for it to come and sweep away all the cobwebs in our troubled lives, but waiting for time is just that --waiting.
    I bear the scars of my unhealed wounds like many humans do, but this is not my story. Sometimes I find my days stream like a series of events that somehow all connect and intertwine in some way of another. Today was one of those days.
    As I served salad at St. John’s Kitchen this afternoon, I was talking to “red persuasion”, another volunteer, and she told me about an incident that occurred the previous week. In her story, a woman in line threw her plate full of food at a man, and was later seen causing the same kind of ruckus and violence towards him. It was later understood that they had previously been in a relationship, one that obviously did not end well. The wounds from their broken relationship remain unhealed, and she cannot cope in a healthy way. Maybe in time the pain will lesson and she will be able to move on; however, I am not one to know for certain.
    Wounds were also excavated within the walls of my home today. For years one of my family members has struggled with some deeply rooted wounds that the rest of us are blind to because he refuses to let us in. We try to help, plead with him to get some professional help, but he refuses, claiming that there is no cure for his problems and that professionals know nothing about what he experiences because they have not lived it. Yet for years I see his body, his soul, and his personality drastically alter; even his views and beliefs shift almost daily. The problem is that he cannot see that what he is doing to himself is trickling down and damaging everyone in the household. He says that he is living for me, but what he does not understand is that I do not want anyone to live for me. I want them to fight for themselves, for the life they could have, alleviated from the wounds they carry. I believe time can heal some things, but sometimes time is not enough to tackle the bigger issues.
    This brings me to my questions about my upcoming experience at Reach Out. There, people are struggling with tremendous physical and psychological issues that stem from poverty, lack of education, poor health-care, HIV/AIDS, among others, yet everyone I speak to says the same thing: they are the most joyful, kind-hearted people you will ever meet. How does someone who suffers so much, for whom everyday is a battle between life and death, have the capacity to smile and exude so much happiness in their life? I cannot fathom this. Maybe money is the problem. Our society thrives on what we can get from those slips of green -- the power, respect, goods -- but what we do not gain is the release we desire from those suffocating, unsealing wounds, because the problem was never money in the first place. Money was only a smokescreen for the real issues at hand. Or maybe our society has become so self oriented, adopting too highly a survival of the fittest mentality, that we forget about the healing that can take place within a community like the one I will be a part of in May.
    I have not even stepped foot in the country yet, yet I desire something the Ugandan people have -- the ability to heal and live life joyfully, despite the hardships that they have come across, the hardships that threaten their lives. 

Cultural Etiquette: What Not to Do

    It is human nature to revel in rebellion; to feel that rush of excitement pulsing in your veins. You get a taste of that forbidden fruit, and like a leach, you cling, and refuse to unlatch until you are satisfied. But what if you are not a rebel? What if you are just a plain Jane, trying to glide below the radar. You do everything you think is right from the perspectives you have adopted over years of endless parental and societal grooming. Get ready to throw those teachings out the window for you are not in Kansas anymore. So clank those heals all you want, you cannot have your way this time. You are in Uganda now.
    I am quite known by my friends to do and say ridiculous things at any given time. While in Canada this can seem humorous, in a foreign country this may create conflict. Even things we Westerners would not think twice about here, may be considered offensive in another country. So I would like to dedicate this blog to cultural etiquette: the What Not To Do in Uganda.
    Sarcasm. While it is a cultural norm in the Western world to use this ironic tool, in Uganda it may not be understood in the same way as you intended it to be understood. This may cause you to offend people without intending to. To prevent this, avoid sarcasm!
    Greetings. Although handshakes are quite universal, refrain from using your left hand. It is interesting to note that when females greet other females, sometimes the left hand is extended over ones elbow while shaking hands. When greeting a male, handshakes are used if the women extends her hand first, if not, nodding is also acceptable.
    Personal Space. You do not have any, so get used to claustrophobia and hug-a-thons. From what I learned from Krista, a previous Beyond Borders student, Ugandan people are very friendly and will constantly try to hug you. When talking to you, people usually stand less than an arms length away, so get comfortable with people invading your personal space.
    Eye Contact. Prolonged eye contact can be seen as aggressive or even promiscuous, especially when directed at males. Often when talking to men, Ugandan women look down or away as to not cross these boundaries. This may be a challenge for me, considering that I stare at people all the time without even realizing I am doing it. Also, I am somewhat of a feminist, so the idea of women looking down when talking to men irritates me. However, I must remember that it is not my culture I am living in, I am there to be engrossed in Ugandan culture, and not there to offend anyone.
    Time. Expect Ugandans not to follow the same ticking clock as you. From what I have read and heard from Krista (as she told her story about having no one to greet her at the airport during her arrival), Uganda’s are not punctual. It is normal for them to arrive one or two hours after your scheduled meeting time. Interesting fact: those with higher statuses are late more than those from a lower status. This seems opposite from Western ideas, for Westerners are trilled about the importance of time management and punctuality, especially if of a higher position.
    Food. Avoid digesting ice cubes! The water can make you sick. This is one I would not think of.
    Clothing. A lot of leg is a big no, no. In Canada, it is so common to dress in shorts and miniskirts in the Summer, but in Uganda this can make you a target, especially if you have blond hair and light eyes. This may be unbearable because of the humid African weather, but it is better to be safe than sorry.
    Overcharging. This is not so much a what not to do, but more of a be aware that this will often occur. Locals will often try to overcharge you in taxi’s, shops, markets, etc., because as a foreigner you are automatically flagged as having more money. This will definitely be a challenge for me because I hate haggling, and avoid it when purchasing products.
    Gestures. Some gestures I found particularly interesting to read about because they are so different from North American gestures. The signal for “come here” is illustrated by facing one’s palm downwards and making a scratching motion with one’s fingers. Signifying with a palm facing upwards and flicking one’s fingers downwards can mean various things: “what’s up?”, “what?”, “sorry, what can I do?”, “you know”. While these two gestures are not particularly necessary things to know, they may be interesting to observe and understand while living there. Also, pointing with only the index finger can be viewed as a rude gesture, because it is a gesture used for pointing at animals. It is better to point with the whole hand. One gesture that might be useful for me is knowing how to hail a taxi. While there are different methods of doing this, such as pointing downwards to signify a short distance, or pointing with a flat hand at a waist height to signify a medium distance, pointing upwards repeatedly is strongly urged if you want to get a taxi quickly. This gesture signifies that you intend to travel a long distance, but even if you do not intend to travel to a far away location, taxi drivers will more readily stop because they have the potential to make more money. Another gesture that can be viewed as disrespectful is leaning on one’s left hand at the dinner table, or stretching out one’s legs.
    Religion. Religion is a large phenomena in Uganda, and one of the first things Ugandan’s will ask you about is what religion you are affiliated with. Westerners must watch what they say when talking about religious beliefs because it can offend someone from Uganda.
    Night crawling. Avoid traveling alone at night. In Canada I do not really think twice about this. This is not because Canada is not dangerous at night, but that my moms incessant paranoia about going out alone at night makes me want to rebel against her fear sometimes. However, being in a foreign country, I do not think this urge to rebel will be quite as strong.
    While this is probably not a conclusive list of things to avoid or be cautious of in Uganda, it covers the important points and helps me gain a greater understanding about the culture and customs of Africa. Although some items may seem ridiculous to Westerners, as a traveler, it is important not to push the boundaries that we would often push in our home countries. We are the guests, so we must abide by there rules even if we do not like them. The point of this experience is not to change their way of life or push Western beliefs onto them, the point of this experience is to be the foreigner; to see how it is living in their shoes, and to learn from their way of life. It is easy to just come in thinking we know everything, being from a developed country, but it is far more difficult to let the underdeveloped nations take us by the hand and lead us along their path in order to show us the flaws in our own society.
  
For further interest, also visit:
http://www.culturecrossing.net/basics_business_student_details.php?Id=30&CID=212
http://www.everyculture.com/To-Z/Uganda.html

Learn to Say Nkwagala

    All it takes is one word to engulf nations; one word to transcend the barriers of time and space. It is something universal, fundamental. Humans yearn to capture it, like children chasing fireflies-- with open jars and outstretched arms. They are mesmerized by that spark, projected from some mysterious inner source. A flicker of light, against a world shrouded in darkness. What they desire most is to feel that light flicker within themselves; a light to eliminate the encapsulating darkness they experience in their inner world. For some this word is nothing but a hallmark term; overused and oversold. For others it is one of joy, sustenance, and survival. This word simply put, is love.   
    Love is exactly what I witnessed today as I spent my Valentine’s Day afternoon volunteering at St. John’s Kitchen. Not even five minutes passed before a stranger came up to me-- all smiles-- as I was wiping down a table, and wished me a “Happy Valentine’s Day”. It was phenomenal to witness the power of that sentiment, alive in a place like a soup kitchen. This man did not know me, I have never met him; he is a visitor, I, a volunteer; but the exchange between us was not one of cynicism about a holiday known for its consumerism, the exchange was something deeper, more in-tune with a spirit of friendship that the holiday is meant to portray.
    The spirit of this day did not end there, for as I went around cleaning tables, a man I see regularly-- let us call him ‘Bob’-- sparked a conversation with me. Generally I would have simply answered with a one or two word response, but being there made me think about my purpose at St. John’s: it was to learn from people. So I asked him about his hobbies and interests (crafts, biking, reading), asked him about where he came from (Toronto), and learned his perspective on the world he lives in. What I learned is that Bob likes Kitchener because compared to Toronto, it is less polluted and less condensed with people and traffic. He also mentioned that in times when coming to a soup kitchen was necessary, the food in the Toronto soup kitchens was bland and not as nourishing as it is at St. John’s. It was so interesting to hear this perspective straight from his lips because when Joe and Rebbecca mentioned St. John’s as a nurturing community, it seemed more like their words spoke from a place where they wished it to be so. What I found even more astounding, was that this man, out of nowhere, produced a necklace for me to have. To have little, and to give regardless, that is truly the meaning of the word love.
    Aesthetics also sparked an interesting thought in me about the nature of Valentine’s Day. She told me a story about her dearest friend who died recently, and after her death she became really close with her friends children. So close in fact that the son asked her if she would be his sister. Then this morning, Aesthetics received a text from him asking if she would consider it incestuous if he asked her to be his valentine. Curious, she asked other volunteers what they thought, and all came to the conclusion that yes, it would be considered incestuous. After some thought, she disregarded their opinions. We think about Valentine’s Day as a day to celebrate the love between couples, but often forget about the love between those who have come together in another way. They are bonded not in consummate love, but in a mutual love for a person that passed, a person that in death, brought them together.
    With Valentine’s Day on my mind, I was curious about the Ugandan view on this day, and whether or not they celebrate it as we do. Robert Jamieson from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, pointed out that Kampala, the capital city of Uganda, comes alive and is transformed “into a giddy sea of red and black” (the traditional Valentine’s Day colours warn in celebration) on this day. Many say that the hype was brought over by American tourists and adopted by the younger generation of Ugandan people over the years. However, many older individuals criticize the craze that is associated with this day, considering it a “strange foreign habit”, one that “is a brief, giddy, respite from life that can be punishing here”. This shows an interesting perspective, that Valentine’s Day is ornamental and enchanting, yet it is a temporary euphoria against the problems that the country faces on a day-to-day basis, problems like war and HIV/AIDS.
    While I cannot argue against these opinions, I think a little enchantment is not a bad thing. Everyone needs escape once in a while, everyone needs to feel loved. Love has the power to transform, all we need to do is let it.

Hoarders

Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are. - Chinese Proverb

Pressure and stress is the common cold of the psyche. - Andrew Denton

    Humans are hoarders. Not of ratty, old clothes, or torn slips of scribbled on paper, or even boxed up memories, but of stress. We fill our minds like we do our closets. Stuff all our pains and tensions into one confined space. As an obstacle arises, we push it to the very back of that confined space so that we do not have to face it right away. What happens when that closet can no longer hold its contents? Will it simply explode or will it, like some work of magic, expand to hold what we force it to hold?
    This morning I felt like this metaphoric closet of mine was about to explode as I was reminded of what still needs to be done prior to departure. I could not help but zone out at times, as I began to feel my stress levels rise and could not channel it into something positive. Maybe that is the suppressor in me, shoving my tensions in the back of the closet. The thoughts of finances, immunization shots, flight arrangements, fundraising initiatives, filling out scholarships, finding answers to my questions, juggled between a full five subject course-load and work, hit me hard. I do not even know where to start, and that is what makes it overwhelming. There is so much to do and so little time to do it. What challenges me is not the task itself, but it is the stress of getting it all done that holds me back. I have never been very good at time management, although I am exceptional at procrastination and indecisiveness.
    Over the years I have acquired this not so pleasant art. It is as if my mind cannot function properly, cannot spit out what it needs to say until the pressure is on and time is ticking to a close. This procrastination is something I desperately need to work on, because it does nothing but make me stagnate and makes the tensions rise within my body. I thrive on pressure, but I wish I did not have to. This stress is something that I need to learn to mediate, especially now as my placement in Uganda inches closer and closer.
    There, I will not be able to push things back like I do way too often here, for I will be thrust into situations that may require rapid decision making and initiated actions. This scares me, but what I have learned this past year after some reflecting, is that juices flow when you are invested in something you love and when it is something you are passionate about. The beauty of words and how they can be strung together to create a tremendous effect is what kept me in my major; however, I often find myself bored. The courses that are required of me do not stimulate my mind like a good book or song does, and that is where my passion wavers. I feel like my brain retains nothing in those instances, and writers block ensues.
    My goal for the rest of this term is to somehow let go of some of those stresses; learn that I am not superwoman, I cannot do everything all at once. All I can do is remember how passionate I am about what the Beyond Borders students are trying to achieve, and take baby steps in order to meet my goal!

La Luta Continua

  

     The struggle for equality is one that all humans face; whether it be trying to break the double standard between men and women, struggling to attain equal wages for all workers, alleviating prejudices towards different races, or fighting for equal rights for gays and lesbians, among others. In some countries this struggle is less apparent, more subtle in skimming the surface of our social awareness. In Africa, it hits you over the head with a hammer (literally). On January 26th 2011, David Kato, a prominent LGBT activist was brutally killed inside his home. This marks a very sad day for a community that spends their lives fighting for equal rights, against a nation that remains deaf to their pleas.
    This is not a story about a person that simply wants to be called nicer names, it is a story of a homosexual man against an entire nation that refuses to budge in their strong, prejudicial beliefs. In North America we see how hard the LGBT community fights to have the opportunity to get married and have families, or to simply live their lives without the stigma of the evil eye against them. However, Africa faces a whole new set of issues, escaladed to the extreme. People like Kato must fight to stay out of prison for being who they are, fight against a population who wishes the death penalty against them, and fight against a system that continues to oppress and berate them day-after-day. It is not enough to be looked down upon, one must be ‘hung’ also.
    The Globe and Mail reports on the death astound me. How can the prominent Ugandan newspaper, The Rolling Stone, publish an article exposing 100 gay persons to a clearly hateful public, with a headline streaming “hang them”. I doubt something like this would ever be publishable in a North American newspaper, with its various human rights guidelines. What baffles me more is how the editor, Giles Muhame’s, could deny his part in the murder, claiming it was not what he intended. Then go further to say, “There has been a lot of crime, it may not be because he is gay. We want the government to hang people who promote homosexuality, not for the public to attack them. We said they should be hanged, not stoned or attacked.” It is funny how the government slaying people is alright, but civilians doing the same goes beyond some higher moral code.
    BBC News illustrates an even more shocking view, one that spits on the grave of an already dehumanized being. Priest, Thomas Musoke, preached to the gay community at Kato‘s funeral saying, "you must repent. Even the animals know the difference between a male and a female”. Although the scorn of homosexuality is not isolated to this faith, it takes on new meaning in this context. I beg to ask the question, what ever happened to all human life being sacred in the eyes of God? Apparently equality was not what Jesus preached at all.
    What about the police’s role? The investigation into his murder is clearly one that is swept under the rug, as Uganda’s police spokeswoman, Judith Nabakooba, claims, “At the moment, we think theft is the most likely motive” (BBC News). That motive somehow seems fishy to me, considering all the death threats Kato received after his homosexuality was publicized. This makes me wonder, are the police fighting for justice? Or are they shrouding a issue that they simply do not want fixed? Considering the Anti-Homosexuality Bill that the African parliament is questioning whether to enforce, and the illegality of homosexuality in 37 African countries as it is, it is difficult not to assume the latter.
    It is sad to hear that a person who devoted his life to changing the face of a very prejudicial world, lost his life fighting for the same cause. Was it a lifetime wasted? Or did humanity learn something from his tragic death? Can equality ever be attained in Africa? Or is this too much to hope for? These questions, I wish I could answer with a positive air.

To read more about these heated articles, follow the links: 

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/africa-mideast/ugandan-gay-activist-beaten-to-death-after-threats/article1884393/

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-12306077

http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2011/01/27/uganda-promptly-investigate-killing-prominent-lgbt-activist

http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2009/10/15/uganda-anti-homosexuality-bill-threatens-liberties-and-human-rights-defenders

Pay It Forward!

     As promised, my little acts of kindness. Curious about Joanne’s proposition to the ‘Beyond Borders Crew’ to perform a kind gesture to a stranger over the Christmas break, I decided to try out her suggestion. One night before work I made my occasional Timmies run, and saw a middle-aged man waiting behind me in his truck in the drive-thru line. It was not much, but it felt good buying his coffee for him without his knowledge. I do not actually know what his reaction was --it was dark and I was running late-- but I assume he was confused as to why a random would buy him his drink. In all honesty, it did not really matter what his reaction was, I did not do it to see his reaction or to get a thank you. I did it because a lot of times people focus on money like it is a force that governs their lives, so they must hold onto every penny. Yes, humans need money to live, but often times they forget that it is not the most important thing. While this act is nothing life changing, it is one step towards the vision I desire for our world.
    The night before our first class at The Working Centre, I wanted to make sure I knew where it was prior to so I would not be late. So one night I drove down with my brother, and then parked at the Mary’s Driving School parking lot after I had found it to try to determine what root is the fastest root to get take. While doing so, a man came up to the car and lifted his finger. I was unsure of what he was doing because it looked like he was signalling ‘wait a minute’. So finally my brother rolled down the window slightly. The man roughly told us his story.
     He just got out of a 11 year sentence in prison, and was wondering if we could spare $0.25. He stepped back to show us he was not threatening. I was confused at the amount he asked for. What could he do with $0.25? Phone calls cost more then that now-a-days. So instead I gave him as much as I had on me, $7 worth. When he received the money he asked “really?” as if he could not believe my kindness. To me it was nothing, to him it was something. He shook my hand and thanked me profusely, then as he walked away I wondered if he was being genuine. Often times people wonder if their good deeds are going to good causes. Sometimes we just have to hope that they do. I watched him walk away and saw him meet up with a friend waiting nearby. This sparked doubts in my mind, made me think that my money was going towards something other then food. But then I thought about how threatening it would seem if two men came up to my car. Would I have still opened up my wallet to them? Probably not. Maybe they realized this theory. I drove home with a clear head, knowing that at least I tried to help someone who asked for it, regardless of their motives.
    The next day when we were taking a tour of St. John’s Kitchen, I spotted the same man outside the building that was outside my car window. It is often difficult to distinguish the crooks from the needy, that is true. But how would you feel if you turned someone away that was genuinely in need?

PAY IT FORWARD!

Appearances and Realities

     They walk in, line up, take their place amongst the others. I look at their faces, wondering what has led them to this place. What series of events have been strung together in their lives to lead them to the doors of St. John’s Kitchen? Did they lose their house or job? Do they suffer from addictions they cannot manage? Or did something else happen to them? Their struggles are written all over their weather beaten faces, yet their faces are not as grim as one would expect. They grab their trays and their plates and patiently make their way down to get food. Every mouth opens with a “yes please, thank you”. Maybe what their faces illuminated for me was a sense of humility and gentleness, an image that their bodies did not likewise express. One man even jokes, “I will not die today” to the staff and volunteers. This lightly spoken line is one that rings through my mind like a gong waking me from a daze. The humorous manner in which it is spoken does not lighten the harsh reality of what is said. The irony is that they are in a constant battle with death. Daily they fight to put food in their bellies, and to hide from the harsh winter winds that threaten their health and well being. Yet they did not project their negative circumstances into negative energy on those who were behind the counter serving them. We are the outsiders after all. They looked not with judgment or anger, but with gratitude. That is one thing I did not expect.
    My first impression of St. John’s Kitchen: Ummm? I was a little taken aback when I first met the coordinator, let us call her ‘Aesthetics’. She was not expecting me, and was wondering why I was there and why she had no knowledge of my placement. I was intimidated by her at first, but then when “Pink Panther” showed up, and she began to joke saying, “oooww he’s cuteee, look at his arm muscles and pecks. Men are aesthetically pleasing for me” I could not help but laugh and loosen my opinion of her.
    When I finally got my sexy hairnet and apron on I felt quite lost because everyone was running around and I had no clue what to do or where to start! With a little help from ‘J-dawg’, another volunteer, I slowly took to action. I swept, prepared food, and served. It was an interesting first soup kitchen experience, and three hours well spent! I am looking forward to going back and seeing how things change over the course of the term.

Reach Out, Mbuya. Reach Out!

   
    My first reaction: tears. Tears not of sadness or of pain, but of overwhelming joy. It is funny how one word, one name, can have such an effect on a person. Uganda -- that is all it took to satisfy months of waiting, months of sleepless nights. Finally I know what it is I have been stressing over, vigorously reading for, and pumping my body with redbulls for, over the last couple months. It is with this word that I shed some of the earlier doubts I may have had about this experience being the right one for me.
    When I received the email regarding my placement, it took so much effort not to rapidly scroll to the bottom to read the long awaited news. I held my bearings, just in case my negative feelings were right, and I would have to prepare myself for adjusting my expectations. Although all the countries available --Ukraine, Dominican Republic, Kenya, Uganda, India, Peru-- would have been extremely rewarding, my heart was set on two. When I saw “you will be going to the Reach Out Mbuya in Mbuya, Uganda”, I definitely had a little solitary dance party in my sisters living room. After sitting in shock and mildly hyperventilating for a couple minutes, that is. I got one of my choices!
    I am very excited to work with Reach Out Mbuya, a faith-based non-government  organization in south-eastern Africa that helps the poor, urban victims of HIV/AIDS deal with their day to day struggles. Not only does this organization work towards prolonging their lives as long as possible, their holistic approach to healing is very inspiring. They not only deal with the physical pains of living with the disease, but also work to nourish the mind, body, and soul of a population that has lost hope in their lives.
    I am not naive to the fact that I will not make a huge change in the large scheme of things in a time span of three months down there, but I will fight with all my heart for all those who are suffering, for all those who simply need someone to be there through it all. I recognize that this experience will open doors that I may never have wanted open. Doors that many people distance themselves from because they hide certain truths that distress them, and make them question the state of the world they live in. But it is about time that those doors were opened, that the secret struggles of a population are revealed. It is only when we open our eyes to the pain of others that we can learn to connect with those different from ourselves. And who knows, maybe learn that despite it all, we are not as different as we originally thought.
    Although I will have to face many challenges and heart wrenching situations in Uganda, I hope that through it all I can learn and grow as a person, see things in another light, and appreciate everything I have been given in life so much more. I have a feeling that this experience will change my life forever. There is no turning back now. Uganda here I come!
  
    If you are interested in what this wonderful organization is doing, and would like to learn more: http://www.reachoutmbuya.org/index.php

You Are Stronger Then You Think You Are

    Life is full of unrecognized opportunities. Opportunities we let slip from our fingers because of fears we let govern our lives. Those fears cripple us, force us into corners where our deeply rooted desires and dreams are suppressed. We walk around feeling like shells because what we fear most of all is jumping out of the comforts of our lives, and jumping into something unfamiliar-- an uncharted territory, a road less traveled. If we think about the sublimity of a vast ocean --the depths, the darkness-- we fear what may be hiding beneath the surface. Fears like this take over our bodies and our minds, creating shackles that we ourselves fasten. They prevent us from rising up to our full potential and acting against the injustices we see in the world. I have lived a life of fear for most of my life. In all honesty, I still live life this way. I let my dreams fall by the wayside, let the uncertainties of life create uncertainties within myself. It is true what they say, we are our own worse enemies. I know this because I feel it every time I get an idea in my head. The little voice comes out, “you are not good enough, you can’t do this”.
    The day I heard about Beyond Borders was one of the scariest days of my life, not because I learned of the challenges that I may face living alone in a foreign, impoverished country, but because it was an opportunity I knew I wanted so badly, an opportunity that I knew would be challenged by the little devil within myself, coming to persuade me to cower like I always do. I fought every ounce of doubt, because for the first time I was not going to let the fear win. This is my life, I will live it.
    The first step I took was applying and receiving an interview. Those who know me know that I am terrified of interviews. I will avoid them at all costs. It is hard to persuade people to believe in you when you do not fully believe in yourself. I told myself I was not going to get it, told myself that if I did not get accepted I would leave the University of Waterloo, and hope for more luck in Toronto. Yes, a part of it was me running. When I got accepted I was both filled with joy and panic, because I knew this meant I would have to face those demons that have been harboured in me for so long. They could no longer be shoved in a corner. I remember the night before our first class last term vividly, I did not sleep a wink. I could not let go of the thoughts of inadequacy for an experience like this. Our first class I could barely introduce myself without stuttering. Next, the dreaded presentation. In high school I nearly blacked out twice while presenting, so you can imagine how thrilled I was at the concept of potentially doing it a third time. I did not even go overseas yet, and I already faced some of the biggest challenges I could imagine for myself. To some these are like walking on a cloud, but they pushed me beyond belief.
    I was hoping, in this blog, to describe the ‘simple acts of kindness’ that I have completed over the Christmas break, but that will have to wait until next time, since I like to go off in tangents! I will instead leave you with a final thought. For all those who are trapped in the chambers you yourselves create: there is a way out. Fight for all the dreams you have, and do not let the opportunities slip through your fingers. It is the biggest injustice you can do to yourself.