What is Heaven? It is realizing and appreciating the complexities and nuances of life. It is looking inside each of those moments of bliss, despair, awe, to savor the shiny and the dark. Those are my thoughts as I sit here on Saturday, July 14th, in Paraa Lodge at Murchison Falls Park, Uganda, and look back on the tiny seconds of my trip.
SAFARI
Like yesterday. Seven hours—again—in a car on dusty, unfinished roads watching the bush rush by. Our driver and safari guide, George, is another skilled pothole dodger and an expert on the flora and fauna of Uganda. He and Birdman, I mean Doug, became fast friends as they discussed the Blue Teraco and elusive Spoonbill, the two birds Doug really wants to see.
George’s smile is full and white as a new half moon in the night sky. His laugh rumbles from low down deep somewhere inside him and warmly spreads out across the savannah we view. His laugh, an invitation to laugh as well. George points out that the darker giraffes are aged, and the young ones light in color. A herd of giraffes gazes inquisitively at our car—not fifteen meters away. Throngs of giraffes stretch their necks out atop the distant hills, like statues reaching for the sky.
Elephant dung rich in undigested food indicates a wise old bull or female. The large grinding teeth wear down after years of eating grasses and Acacia trees. Sweet and earthy, the unmistakable smell of fresh elephant dung indicates they have just passed very close. But I need not even venture from the balcony of my room to watch elephants. A tiny herd lives near the hotel. I watch one forage through the bush from my hotel balcony, and I hear the hippos call, gruff and throaty, from the Nile. In the afternoon sun, the hippos resemble a collection of giant polished black stones emerging from the water. Squares of sunlight reflect off their backs.
The lions hunt late in the day, hiding in the tall yellow grass. Ugandan Kob, giraffes, Kep Buffalo, Harte Beest, and Oriki , a small antelope, walk nearby. The lion and lioness stand now and again to look at their potential meal. I lock the cats in my binoculars. Large, brown eyes peer through the grass right down the barrel of my binoculars at me. Or so it seems. Yawning and stretching, they settle back in the grass. Even wild cats are lazy.
Whistling Acacia trees grace the landscape of this African Rift Valley. Insects bore holes in the tiny berries that hang from the thorny tree, and when the wind blows the berries sing. Softly. I really have to listen. And Sausage trees. Three foot long grey seedpods shaped like giant sausages dangle from the tree’s vines like pieces of sausage in a butcher’s window.
CHILD SOLDIERS
As I look at the vegetation in the savannah, I wonder what it was really like for the former child soldiers I interviewed four days ago. How was it to live out in the bush up north—unwillingly—away from family and home? Those children, ages twelve to nineteen, told Elizabeth and me their stories. Sometimes waiting even five hours to be heard. To show us their official white papers with their small black and white photograph stapled in the time right hand corner. Their name. Date of abduction by Kony’s Lords Resistance Army. Date of return. And formal signature at the bottom of the paper by some unknown official to validate the truth of their days under Kony’s command. As if the shrapnel in one’s leg, the bullet wound in another’s neck, or the nightmares that plague all of them were not testament enough.
I promised the children I would tell their stories. They want the world to know. The following are very brief and the least upsetting excerpts from just a few of the interviews. I have given the first name and last initial of the children to protect their identities. Every child was abducted by Kony’s LRA and forced to fight against his or her will.
SAFARI
Like yesterday. Seven hours—again—in a car on dusty, unfinished roads watching the bush rush by. Our driver and safari guide, George, is another skilled pothole dodger and an expert on the flora and fauna of Uganda. He and Birdman, I mean Doug, became fast friends as they discussed the Blue Teraco and elusive Spoonbill, the two birds Doug really wants to see.
George’s smile is full and white as a new half moon in the night sky. His laugh rumbles from low down deep somewhere inside him and warmly spreads out across the savannah we view. His laugh, an invitation to laugh as well. George points out that the darker giraffes are aged, and the young ones light in color. A herd of giraffes gazes inquisitively at our car—not fifteen meters away. Throngs of giraffes stretch their necks out atop the distant hills, like statues reaching for the sky.
Elephant dung rich in undigested food indicates a wise old bull or female. The large grinding teeth wear down after years of eating grasses and Acacia trees. Sweet and earthy, the unmistakable smell of fresh elephant dung indicates they have just passed very close. But I need not even venture from the balcony of my room to watch elephants. A tiny herd lives near the hotel. I watch one forage through the bush from my hotel balcony, and I hear the hippos call, gruff and throaty, from the Nile. In the afternoon sun, the hippos resemble a collection of giant polished black stones emerging from the water. Squares of sunlight reflect off their backs.
The lions hunt late in the day, hiding in the tall yellow grass. Ugandan Kob, giraffes, Kep Buffalo, Harte Beest, and Oriki , a small antelope, walk nearby. The lion and lioness stand now and again to look at their potential meal. I lock the cats in my binoculars. Large, brown eyes peer through the grass right down the barrel of my binoculars at me. Or so it seems. Yawning and stretching, they settle back in the grass. Even wild cats are lazy.
Whistling Acacia trees grace the landscape of this African Rift Valley. Insects bore holes in the tiny berries that hang from the thorny tree, and when the wind blows the berries sing. Softly. I really have to listen. And Sausage trees. Three foot long grey seedpods shaped like giant sausages dangle from the tree’s vines like pieces of sausage in a butcher’s window.
CHILD SOLDIERS
As I look at the vegetation in the savannah, I wonder what it was really like for the former child soldiers I interviewed four days ago. How was it to live out in the bush up north—unwillingly—away from family and home? Those children, ages twelve to nineteen, told Elizabeth and me their stories. Sometimes waiting even five hours to be heard. To show us their official white papers with their small black and white photograph stapled in the time right hand corner. Their name. Date of abduction by Kony’s Lords Resistance Army. Date of return. And formal signature at the bottom of the paper by some unknown official to validate the truth of their days under Kony’s command. As if the shrapnel in one’s leg, the bullet wound in another’s neck, or the nightmares that plague all of them were not testament enough.
I promised the children I would tell their stories. They want the world to know. The following are very brief and the least upsetting excerpts from just a few of the interviews. I have given the first name and last initial of the children to protect their identities. Every child was abducted by Kony’s LRA and forced to fight against his or her will.
WARNING: SOME MAY FIND THE FOLLOWING INCIDENTS TOO DISTURBING TO READ. IF YOU THINK THESE BRIEF NOTES FROM FORMER CHILD SOLDIERS MIGHT UPSET YOU, SKIP AHEAD TO: "WHAT THEY WOULD TELL THE WORLD."
Winnie A.—Fourteen years old. Spent eleven months in the bush until she was freed by the Ugandan army. Remembers carrying huge loads, including hundred pound bags of maize, during the day and sleeping on the loads at night. Children’s injuries tied with spear grass. Her strongest memory: when a person was killed the children would have to beat the corpse with a stick.
Dennis O.—Nine years old when he and three siblings were taken by rebels. Dennis marched with rebels for one year. Ordered to kill someone and did so in order to live. Sticks the size of a giant pestle used as weapons. Legs became so swollen from carrying heavy loads that he could not move. LRA abandoned him in the village of Opete. Dennis crawled for three days until he reached a hut. People took him to an IDP camp (a place where Internally Displaced People set up camp to escape the war) where Dennis was reunited with his mother. All of his brothers and sisters escaped and found their way home.
Kenneth O.—Now fourteen years old. Spent one year and ten months with the LRA. Escaped around Uganda’s Independence Day, October 9th. Kenneth was sent by his parents to dig in the garden when the rebels, led by his auntie, captured him. Beaten fifty times with a Panga (machete) every time he expressed a desire to go home. In the LRA, if beatings failed to make a child conform, the child was forced to kill. Carried a commander’s chair from one location to another. Knelt by his commander during battles. During one battle, bombs from the Ugandan army exploded near him. Remembers a close friend dying in front of him. During the confusion of battle, Kenneth crawled under leaves and hid until morning. Alone. Emerged from leaves and while walking, met an older man. Together they found the man’s IDP camp. Stayed there two weeks. Kenneth then taken to a reception center, a place where escaped child soldiers are received and rehabilitated. He was given a basin, a foam mattress, saucepans, maize, cooking oil, and jerry can for carrying water. Eventually reunited with his mother, but now lives with grandma since mother worries he will be abducted by the LRA again.
George O.—Ten years old when abducted and spent four years in the bush with the LRA. In the beginning, LRA superstitiously smeared his hands with Shea butter to keep him from escaping. Brought a “heap of sticks” and beat him terribly with sticks and wire locks as part of initiation. In one large battle at Kaberadmaido, LRA left their wounded to die. George was shot in the stomach. Bullet went out his back but he kept walking with LRA to Acholiland, without medical care. Became too sick and couldn’t move anymore. LRA abandoned him. George crawled to Pajule and after being harassed by the Ugandan army for being a “returnee,” George received care. In hospital for one month since wound was severely infected. After being released from the hospital and spending one month in a counseling center for returned child soldiers, and three weeks for more services at Gusco Center, George reunited with his mother. Village had a traditional cleansing: an egg was placed between two Opopo branches. George stepped on the egg. A goat was sacrificed and George was welcomed back into his village. Dreaming of coming home kept George alive while he was in the war. George thinks the world should get rid of Kony.
WHAT THEY WOULD TELL THE WORLD
We interviewed many other children and mothers, and since their stories were even more upsetting I have decided not to include them here. I did ask them what they would tell the world if they could tell the world anything about their ordeal, and the following are a few responses:
1. “Being a child soldier destroys their academic future; lasting psychological effects make them abnormal in the mind.”
2. “I want Kony to accept the peace talks and then he can come and live with the people again. If he refuses to accept peace, he should be made to disappear. More than anything, I want all of the children to come back from the bush and be assisted with their education.”
3. A mother said, “I am afraid to tell the world anything because my child is still in the bush with Kony’s commanders.”
4. Another mother said, “Being a single mother and raising a former child soldier is very hard—especially when sickness comes. The only source of income is digging in the garden.”
5. Perhaps fourteen year old Bonny, a former child soldier, said it most succinctly, “My present state is not what I desired. What I am today is not who I was.”
WHAT I WOULD TELL THE WORLD
Seconds are composed of what is before us, what is behind us, and what is in us. What is before me is a plane flight in a four-seater (UGH!!) to Semliki Park tomorrow; a chimapanzee walk; tea with my family in the morning; another jungle exploration with George, our guide, work in September, more Ugandan smiles, and the unwritten pages of my book. What is behind me are days spent with Betty, a new Ugandan friend who served as our translator in the IDP camps and facilitated interviews with former child soldiers; being sung to by the children of St. Clare’s Boarding School in the Budaka district; eating dinner with Savior and Sanyu and holding them as tightly as I could when saying goodbye; shopping for Ugandan crafts in the African Village; watching a mother baboon carry her brand new baby on her back; countless Ugandan smiles; listening to the stories of former child soldiers. What is in me: all of the above dark and shiny moments, for as fourteen year old Bonny said, “Who I am now is not who I was.”
Winnie A.—Fourteen years old. Spent eleven months in the bush until she was freed by the Ugandan army. Remembers carrying huge loads, including hundred pound bags of maize, during the day and sleeping on the loads at night. Children’s injuries tied with spear grass. Her strongest memory: when a person was killed the children would have to beat the corpse with a stick.
Dennis O.—Nine years old when he and three siblings were taken by rebels. Dennis marched with rebels for one year. Ordered to kill someone and did so in order to live. Sticks the size of a giant pestle used as weapons. Legs became so swollen from carrying heavy loads that he could not move. LRA abandoned him in the village of Opete. Dennis crawled for three days until he reached a hut. People took him to an IDP camp (a place where Internally Displaced People set up camp to escape the war) where Dennis was reunited with his mother. All of his brothers and sisters escaped and found their way home.
Kenneth O.—Now fourteen years old. Spent one year and ten months with the LRA. Escaped around Uganda’s Independence Day, October 9th. Kenneth was sent by his parents to dig in the garden when the rebels, led by his auntie, captured him. Beaten fifty times with a Panga (machete) every time he expressed a desire to go home. In the LRA, if beatings failed to make a child conform, the child was forced to kill. Carried a commander’s chair from one location to another. Knelt by his commander during battles. During one battle, bombs from the Ugandan army exploded near him. Remembers a close friend dying in front of him. During the confusion of battle, Kenneth crawled under leaves and hid until morning. Alone. Emerged from leaves and while walking, met an older man. Together they found the man’s IDP camp. Stayed there two weeks. Kenneth then taken to a reception center, a place where escaped child soldiers are received and rehabilitated. He was given a basin, a foam mattress, saucepans, maize, cooking oil, and jerry can for carrying water. Eventually reunited with his mother, but now lives with grandma since mother worries he will be abducted by the LRA again.
George O.—Ten years old when abducted and spent four years in the bush with the LRA. In the beginning, LRA superstitiously smeared his hands with Shea butter to keep him from escaping. Brought a “heap of sticks” and beat him terribly with sticks and wire locks as part of initiation. In one large battle at Kaberadmaido, LRA left their wounded to die. George was shot in the stomach. Bullet went out his back but he kept walking with LRA to Acholiland, without medical care. Became too sick and couldn’t move anymore. LRA abandoned him. George crawled to Pajule and after being harassed by the Ugandan army for being a “returnee,” George received care. In hospital for one month since wound was severely infected. After being released from the hospital and spending one month in a counseling center for returned child soldiers, and three weeks for more services at Gusco Center, George reunited with his mother. Village had a traditional cleansing: an egg was placed between two Opopo branches. George stepped on the egg. A goat was sacrificed and George was welcomed back into his village. Dreaming of coming home kept George alive while he was in the war. George thinks the world should get rid of Kony.
WHAT THEY WOULD TELL THE WORLD
We interviewed many other children and mothers, and since their stories were even more upsetting I have decided not to include them here. I did ask them what they would tell the world if they could tell the world anything about their ordeal, and the following are a few responses:
1. “Being a child soldier destroys their academic future; lasting psychological effects make them abnormal in the mind.”
2. “I want Kony to accept the peace talks and then he can come and live with the people again. If he refuses to accept peace, he should be made to disappear. More than anything, I want all of the children to come back from the bush and be assisted with their education.”
3. A mother said, “I am afraid to tell the world anything because my child is still in the bush with Kony’s commanders.”
4. Another mother said, “Being a single mother and raising a former child soldier is very hard—especially when sickness comes. The only source of income is digging in the garden.”
5. Perhaps fourteen year old Bonny, a former child soldier, said it most succinctly, “My present state is not what I desired. What I am today is not who I was.”
WHAT I WOULD TELL THE WORLD
Seconds are composed of what is before us, what is behind us, and what is in us. What is before me is a plane flight in a four-seater (UGH!!) to Semliki Park tomorrow; a chimapanzee walk; tea with my family in the morning; another jungle exploration with George, our guide, work in September, more Ugandan smiles, and the unwritten pages of my book. What is behind me are days spent with Betty, a new Ugandan friend who served as our translator in the IDP camps and facilitated interviews with former child soldiers; being sung to by the children of St. Clare’s Boarding School in the Budaka district; eating dinner with Savior and Sanyu and holding them as tightly as I could when saying goodbye; shopping for Ugandan crafts in the African Village; watching a mother baboon carry her brand new baby on her back; countless Ugandan smiles; listening to the stories of former child soldiers. What is in me: all of the above dark and shiny moments, for as fourteen year old Bonny said, “Who I am now is not who I was.”
2 comments:
Ms. Seibert, I think you are doing a wonderful thing by journeying through Uganda. I read your posts and even though you're not in school you are still thinking as deep as you possibly can. I also really liked how you wrote, those similies and vivid vocabulary really made me feel like I was in Uganda. If you keep posting, I'll keep reading.
Hi Gretchen, Doug, and Elizabeth,
Thank you for sharing in such vivid and personal detail your experiences, thoughts, feelings, and impressions.
Love,
Marcia
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