A Reflection on Peace Day

In recognition of today as The International Day of Peace, the recent violence about a certain video, and what seems from the outside to be a growing violence and separation between people in America, I share this little reflection.

In Uganda, there are little to no problems between religions. The Muslims, Christians, Hindus, everyone, we all exist in peace. People are friends with no care as to your religion, only sharing a love for the overarching great uniting power, whatever you might call it.

In mass on Wednesday, it was mentioned, "It doesn't matter whether you are Christian or Muslim... if you are Christian and your Muslim friend loses a family member, you still go to the service. We all celebrate God together; even our Muslim teachers sing in the choir at our Catholic mass. We all have skin, we all have faces, we all have families. We are the same people."

I have realized in my time here the immense differences that can exist between cultures... something that may be a very large insult in America can be a huge compliment here. Here, more than anywhere, I have grown to really see in a new way that the only way to understand each other, is to understand each other. Engage in dialogue. Share experiences. Share differences. And share similarities.

We all smile in the same language.

Today, I challenge whoever reads this to work towards understanding today. Engage in a conversation. Smile. Take one minute to increase peace in your world. Because your world is my world. And my world is your world. And our world is the whole world. Each act increases peace. Let's all make a concerted effort today to increase peace, to create peace, to build peace in our world.

"Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding." -Albert Einstein

Sending Peace from Uganda

Amurika?

As I was leaving school today, two fighter jets flew by overhead. This was incredibly strange for me, since it has been months since I have heard any airplanes at all. So I was staring up at the sky, looking in awe, when the man next to me just pointed and said, "Obama." I didn't know what to say.

It was probably just a premature fly-by for the EPIC American football showdown between P4 and P5 scheduled for tomorrow at 330. I hear Obama was really pumped about it, and all the major news networks are covering it, so you should probably tune in.

Witchcraft

So today, I showed up to school in time for mass, and soon heard, “Madam Anna, did you hear the bad news? Madam Ritah (another teacher) has a dead goat.” So now, at first, I thought that the reason it was bad was because it was a loss of some serious money. You can sell a goat for enough money to feed you for a month. But it turns out Madam Ritah does not even keep goats. Instead, it was my first personal interaction with witchcraft. Now I’ve heard a lot about witchcraft from different stories and beliefs that people have, but I have never seen the results personally.

Madam Ritah came out of her door this morning to find a dead black goat wrapped in a canvas sack laying on her doorstep. This is a sign that you have been bewitched, and you are going to die soon, according to the balocali religion (the indigenous religion which includes belief in witchcraft). But now that Christianity has worked its way far into Africa, there is an awkward intersection of the different religions. So people who believe in God believe that as long as you really believe in God, then the witchcraft has no impact on you. Now this is interesting. They don’t say that witchcraft isn’t real, they just say that it has no power over you if you believe in God. (Also, the witch doctors, after their work is finished, usually say something about how it was God who made it work anyways.)

But anyways, after mass, Father came and blessed the goat and the house, saying prayers and sprinkling holy water. Then he said that we should not waste fuel in burning it, (Christians usually burn all things pertaining to witchcraft) but instead we should just bury it. So the hole was dug, and Madam Ritah was dragging the goat up the road towards the hole when a man passed her on the road and started yelling at her that she was crazy and was going to be bewitched, and that she should just leave it alone. So she pulled up short, uncertain of exactly what to do. Then another man arrived on a boda (motorcycle taxi), looking all sorts of important, pulled out his kenzel (traditional Busoga attire for men) and started digging through his bag for the materials to cast away the evil spirits, remove the goat, and even call forward the person who did it. As he was just about to start, Madam Ritah muttered under her breath that she had no money to pay this man. Now his head whipped up and around, saying SERIOUSLY!? This is a matter of your life! And he continually lowered his prices, until he had said, you just pay me 3,000 shillings (just over a dollar). By this time there was a large group of neighbors who had congregated around, and the belief in witchcraft is incredibly strong just in her neighborhood. Apparently 3 witchdocters live nearby. So all the women (note, the women, not the men) started offering to split it all, for everyone to add a little, so that Madam Ritah would be ok. but Madam Ritah refused, because she wanted to follow Father’s instructions and keep her own faith strong. So now we stood outside her house for maybe an hour as people argued back and forth, and I understood very little of what was going on. But I do know that people were yelling, and it’s clear that this stuff made some people really, really uncomfortable.

So anyways, right after Madam Ritah refused to pay the man any money, another man, (who apparently is another local witch doctor, who knew there were so many just right here???) brought a rope, slipped it around the goat, and dragged him off to spot unknown. Now all the teachers really rallied behind Madam Ritah, saying that it  probably wasn’t even cursed, someone’s goat probably died of natural causes, and they wanted to make some money, so they brought it there, hoping she would hire a witch doctor, etc etc. And she really had incredible strength, as all these different people were bombarding her with what to do. It was a great community moment.

Then I could tell that both her and her daughter who is in P5 were still a little bit nervous, so I said, you know what really brings the Holy Spirit and can chase away the bad spirits? Laughter and dancing. So then after school was finished, a bunch of the students and I went over to her place, where she was sitting, and I pulled out my music player and we danced and laughed and sang and had a wonderful time, to chase away whatever evil spirits might be remaining there, and for her to have a good memory in her mind as she went to bed.

Overall, a really interesting day… not a normal day in the life. Culture. Learning. Dancing.

Sending love from Uganda

Comments Which Would Never Be Made In America

"But you know these university students... they're not very good with computers."

Finding Community in Struggles

I wrote this post about a month ago, and forgot to post it, but here it is now.

Today I saw the most beautiful expression of love and community in the midst of a tragedy.

When I was walking to school today, late in the morning because I didn’t have any morning classes to teach, I ran into three of the teachers walking towards me. Now, I was really confused as to why they were walking in my direction, since it was away from school, when they greeted me with, “Good morning, Teacher Ann (nickname… obviously Ann right?). We have some bad news. The husband to Madam Salaama has died.” So, as I went, I also changed my trajectory and turned towards Madam Salaama’s house. This is the common, expected reaction from someone in Uganda. Or at least in Busoga region (my region). When you find out that someone has lost a family member, you drop everything and go and visit. It doesn’t matter if that person is your best friend or just someone you know, you go and visit. So, as we walked to her house, the sounds of wailing were greeting us. As we drew nearer, the mournful howling just grew louder. Here, when someone dies, you wail. You don’t just cry, it’s the all-out throwing of the body, screaming, gnashing of teeth wailing.

When we finally reached the house and entered inside, we found many of the teachers already there. As we each went to give Madam condolences, she gripped us each in turn, searching for the strength she needed in our eyes and handshake. The other teachers quietly greeted us as we joined the ranks, sitting on chairs, stools, tables, and the floor. Very soon, the entire small room was packed full of people, headmasters from different schools, teachers, friends, neighbors, church-goers; everyone around. People who all walked in and told about how they had heard, and had dropped everything to come and make sure she was ok.

She received a call that her family from the north was going to come for the burial, and with that, it brought her a whole new wave of grief. But it made the teachers spring into action. Up until now, the general consensus is that of the Holy Cross schools, St. Jude’s has the least amount of staff unity and has a stubborn staff who doesn’t work together. But oh wow, did that change. Immediately, everyone was carrying things out of the room, and the whole house, working together to make as much space as possible for the many many guests who would be visiting the house in the next few days. We carried, swept, dusted and cleaned, without really a word being said, as Madam continued to sit on the floor, fighting with the news.

After preparing the house very well, we continued to sit with her, accompanying her in her grief. About three hours later, a few of the teachers who had left brought back the students who had come to school that day. As the maybe 50 elementary aged kids filed into the room, they filled up all the remaining possible space (I didn’t even think there was any) and proceeded to sing song after song about God’s love and having strength, songs of grief and songs of hope. It was eerily, sadly beautiful… the sounds of the wailing coming from the hill as more people came to check on Madam Salaama against the rising sounds of 50 children’s voices singing out to bring strength and love. We stayed with her late into the evening, as more people came and went, and people came back with everything they needed for sleeping, to stay there, so as not to leave her alone in her grief while he was still not buried. People did not complain, did not question, did not bat an eyelash. They just did it. And you can tell that there was no resentment, no feeling of being holier than thou, simply a true expression of love and community, and everyone pulling together and doing their part to make sure their sister in Christ was going to be ok. Is there any more beautiful expression of love?

I hope this post finds you well… I’m giving thanks this day for all of you in my life.

Sending love from Uganda.

Cleaning House

So yesterday, me and two of our neighbors, Sandra and Keith, undertook the highly necessary but overwhelming job of cleaning the front of our house. This happened because I had just spent more hours than I care to admit washing my clothes (unfortunately the problem of procrastination in laundry which plagued me in college (ahem) has followed me to Uganda, and even more unfortunately, now that doesn’t mean that I have a bigger bag to throw down the stairs to the machines, but rather more hours sitting in the chair scrubbing) and I had left over water. I started by just mopping the front verandah with my soapy water, but soon Keith and Sandra were saying, Anna! Let us help!

This is something that I find incredible in the culture here. Children really really want to help. Every time I do my laundry, kids offer to help. Heck, every time I do anything, kids are ALWAYS offering to help. And then when you do accept them to help you with cleaning, they really enjoy it. It’s not a chore, it’s something to do, and something to do with other people you love and care for.

So I said, OK! And figured with the extra hands, maybe we could wash off the walls which have been engrained with dirt and mud over the past who-knows-how-long by dirty kids trying to be spiderman. (One of our neighbors’ favorite activities is to yell “SPIDERMAN!” And run at the wall, trying to climb up it. When they all do it in unison, it provides endless entertainment for us. However, this activity results in an INCREDIBLY dirty wall).

Thus, a few minutes later saw me turning on my music as loud as it goes, and with Keith and Sandra, beginning to attack the wall. Literally, within minutes, we had a crowd of kids and some adults staring at us, both from inside and outside our fence, laughing. One thing I’ve learned here… people here almost NEVER laugh AT you; rather, when they laugh, they are usually either happy or surprised (not mutually exclusive). I’m sure we were a sight, though: a mzungu who didn’t really know what she was doing, with two small children who were directing her, all at various heights and standing on various pieces of furniture, knocking down spiderwebs, cleaning rags, and scrubbing at a wall. Besides all that, as we worked, occasionally either Keith or Sandra would yell out, “Stop working! It’s time to dance!” and we would take a dance break for a song or two, then resume our cleaning.

I looked to the side of our house, and all the older females of the neighborhood were gaping at us, and calling me over. One asked me, “Anna, why are you cleaning?” I answered because it was dirty. To which she then replied, “Ah yes, we were wondering if people even lived there because it was so dirty. But now people will not doubt that you live there.” Oops. That’s embarrassing.

I learned a few things. First of all, I learned even more deeply and truly the importance of cleanliness to this culture. It’s an interesting thing… in this town of constant dust and mud coating everything, people are more concerned about cleanliness than anywhere I’ve ever been in America. It is not uncommon to sweep your dirt, to make it look cleaner. Now, I was a little embarrassed that we haven’t measured up to the standards held by the local culture, but now I have a determination to do the best I can. It even seems like a respect issue… I am respecting you, my visitor, by having a clean house. An interesting thing.

Secondly, I learned something about the love of a neighbor. These two kids spent their entire afternoon helping me clean, instead of playing with the football like they usually do. But they saw what I was doing, and helping me was way better than playing games.

Thirdly, I think I learned something more about the dignity of work, and in doing hard work, that one can take pride in. Keith and Sandra helped me make the front of our house spick and span, and as soon as we were finished, yes we invited all the watching children to come and play on our porch, but they made sure that everyone washed his or her feet before stepping forward. So, as we spent the next half hour playing sports together, we left our completed work, but with a feeling of accomplishment.

Fourthly, dancing. This is a yearlong lesson: When there’s an opportunity to dance, take it.

Sending love from Africa: keep dancing, my friends.

There Is Nothing to Do But Laugh

Usually, I LOVE road trips here in Uganda. I mean, this is a strange thing to say, because road trips usually include stuffing yourself into a vehicle which does not provide enough leg room or sitting room. This is not usually the ideal of fun, and if I don’t get a window seat, then it’s definitely something to just grin and bear. But when I get a window seat… ahhh life is good.

Uganda is so (relatively) highly populated, and most people have very small houses. Especially people who are living along the roadsides. They usually have houses that are a part of a concrete “apartment complex.” These “houses” consist of usually two rooms, one front room for entertaining and one back room for sleeping… for everyone in the family. And families are not considered a legitimately real family unless there are at least 4 kids, and that’s a really small family. So, needless to say, the houses themselves are incredibly cramped quarters. But because of this, basically all of life happens outside. Which means that when I get to observe as we fly down the roads, I get to see a million snapshots of life. And life in Uganda is beautiful.

As we drive by, I see babies learning to walk, then others waddling around their compounds. I see small girls carrying their baby brother or sister on their backs. I see women packing their goods into bags to be shipped, others selling their fruits and vegetables, sitting out on tarps by the roadside. I see men sitting in circles playing cards, or waiting on their boda bodas for customers. I see people pushing their bicycles heavily laden with bunches of bananas, Gerry cans of water, cans of milk, or bags of cement. I get to see people having conversations, bartering, holding hands, welcoming each other, smiling, laughing, crying, sitting, hugging, dancing. It’s really like seeing life as I fly by down the road. And it’s amazing.

So then last weekend I was on my way back from an ordination in Musoma, Tanzania. It was a beautiful ordination full of dancing and singing and ululations and fun. But the real adventure was our journey back to Jinja. Ok, first of all, I was told before going that the journey was supposed to be about 8 hours on the road, basically hugging the edge of Lake Victoria around. This was if we had gone by private car. Instead, we chose to go by public shared taxi, a mode of transport called “mutatu” in Swahili. I knew that the journey would take more than 8 hours, since the trip there took a little over 12 hours. But luckily we were traveling in a group that fluxuated between 12 and 14 people, so it didn’t take long to fill up a shared taxi which officially is considered filled at 14 (but people often stuff them more full). So… we prepared for a long journey, my iPod fully charged, wearing my most comfortable t-shirt and a pair of awesome travel trousers (“pants” means underwear in Uganda… so I’ve refrained my use of that word after the awkward silence and laughter that followed the first two or three times I said it), a full bottle of water, and some roasted corn kernels as a snack for the road. We set off at the lovely hour of 4:30 in the morning. There’s something wrong with being awake before the sun rises, but there you go, what choice did we have? And this, my friends, is where the adventure began…

4:30AM: Leave our retreat house in the car of our great friend who was willing to wake up at that ridiculous hour to drive us to where we would pick the first mutatu.

5:03AM: The mutatu finally hits the road, all of us piled inside, as we all drift off to sleep quickly, only to occasionally be reawoken by the biggest potholes.

5:52AM: The mutatu is stopped on the road by a police check telling them that their tire pressure is low, and they should look at it. However, this is all unbeknownst to us because we all speak only English and/or Luganda, not Kiswahili.

6:17AM: Anna is rudely awoken by a small pop and a hiss coming from below her. The mutatu pulls over.

6:19AM: Analysis is made, and indeed, the tire popped. Now, the rest of us become aware of what the taxi was previously pulled over for.

6:20AM: We now realize that the taxi not only does not have an extra tire, but it also does not have a jack. This leads to:

6:21-7:12: Standing/Talking/Sitting/Dancing/Singing by the side of the road, watching the clouds lighten over the mountains which have the most strange rock formations, where many boulders perch precariously upon each other, and one slight breeze would seem able to topple them. This then leads to discussion about how the rocks may have gotten there in the first place. Analysis: God. Cool. While this is happening, the taxi driver, and the conductor (the man who sits with his head out the window trying to get more passengers, collects the money, and tells the driver when to stop) are trying their darndest to make a jack out of rocks. It’s quite the endeavor, and I’m appreciating seeing their mechanical skills at work. By this point though, I’m relatively certain there’s no way that these rocks are ever going to be able to really lift the car. But at 7:12…

7:12 AM: We spot another taxi coming down the road (up to this point, our only fellow road goers were bicycle riders and one other rude taxi who did not want to stop for us) and all frantically wave our arms trying to get the man to stop. And indeed he does, gives us his jack, then drives away (I wonder… did he ever get his jack back? How in the world, if he did?)

7:24 AM: We set off again, after the two men have managed to raise the car, and have somehow shifted the tires around so that as long as we go slowly, we will be able to make it. Don’t ask me how this worked, I’m definitely no physicist.

9:35 AM: We reach the border of Kenya, and get through the border crossing, with our fellow American travel companion having slight issues with his passport. Here, we meet with the other Holy Cross members who left hours after us. Oh joy.

10:27AM: We find another taxi on the Kenyan side of the border, telling us it will take us all the way to the Tanzanian border. We are very excited about this and pile into the slightly smaller vehicle. But… the driver decides it’s important to have other people board the vehicle, at which point we inquire as to where they will sit. Turns out they will just put a board between the single and the double seat, and the person will sit on the wooden board. Alright, just glad it’s not me.

11:29 AM: The driver starts driving like a madman, whipping around corners, and pulls frantically into a taxi park, then yells at us to get out without reason and get into the other taxi behind us. We comply. But this taxi is the smallest I’ve ever been in… I now can have a greater compassion for tall people, since my knees were crushed up against the seat in front of me. I’ve never had that problem before!

1:35 PM: We arrive in Kisumu, which we did not think we were going to stop in, but alas, here we are, because even though both this and the taxi before it told us it was going to take us all the way to the border apparently decided it didn’t want to. We then spend over half an hour waiting as all the different taxi conductors in the park are fighting over us.

2:12 PM: We board another taxi, which says it will take us to the border. This is great, but by now we’re not entirely trusting them. But we pile in anyways. However, I went into the furthest behind seat… which means I’m behind the wheels, which means that every bump in the road is approximately 389420 times worse. And this road is BAD. Plus, the ceiling above us is not padded at all; instead it’s just a metal bar. So, I spend the next hour and fifteen minutes crouched over so as not to get a concussion as we are flying around the back of the taxi. 

3:45 PM: Our taxi breaks down, so we coast into a parking lot, where they find another taxi to shove us all into. However, by now, people are a bit cranky, so when they try to add extra people into the car, our travelers start fighting. Now, all of a sudden, there are people yelling in Luganda, Lusoga, and Swahili. And no one is understanding each other, but people are just mad.

4:17PM: Our group leader finally sticks his head in the taxi and just says, hey guys, we’re not going to win, let’s just allow it and go so we can continue. At which point the woman sitting behind us says, “Ah, ok! Now that someone has said something I understand.” The entire car breaks out into pure, whole-bellied laughter. People are wiping their eyes from tears of mirth as all the tension breaks. Amazing. The way in which people allow themselves to have their attitudes and perceptions and frustrations changed immediately is incredible and inspiring.  

4:28 PM: After adding so many people that there are three people hanging out the door as the door stays open, I am again dozing. But alas, again I am rudely awoken by a harsh scraping noise of metal on pavement. After all sorts of movies, my first thought is that we’ve lost the motor. But no, it’s just the door. A five minute pit stop spent trying to figure out the best way to affix it back to the car (rope), we’re back driving again.

5:15 PM: We arrive in Busia, and make the border crossing from Kenya to Uganda. I get such a great kick out of walking across borders. It’s fun. But now on the other side, our guide is telling us that he knows Busia really well, so we’ll just walk to the taxi park. But… he apparently has a sense of direction similar to mine, which means that we get a nice tour of the Ugandan side of Busia. We decide the theme of this trip is, “I have nothing to do but laugh.”

6:10 PM: We finally find the taxi park and decide on a taxi as not only the conductors are fighting, but the sky is getting darker and darker. We are going on very little food and are all just a little cranky. We pull out of the Busia taxi park as the storm clouds are gathering behind us, about to let loose.

8:32 PM: We finally arrive back in Bugembe, safe and sound, but mostly laughing. Thank the good Lord.

What did I learn from all of this?

1. Don’t ever pay taxi drivers before they deliver you to where they promised.

2. Learn how to communicate in a common language.

3. I really really appreciate the personal space given when traveling by public transportation in the States.

4. Sometimes things go wrong. But hey, that’s life. You can either be upset about it… or you can find the humor in it and just laugh. And laugh. And Ugandans love to laugh. And I love to laugh. It was truly inspiring. Every time the tension was growing… someone would crack a joke and it never really broke. And all that on a trip like this where we had maybe a cob of corn each and had no sleep. Throughout the whole thing, no one was quarrelling with each other, instead there was this amazing sense of community, which only grew throughout the entirety of the trip. It was a truly beautiful experience, although I don’t know that I’d care to repeat it again anytime soon.

Sending love from Uganda.