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| The National Memory & Peace documentation Centre, RLP, Kitgum, Uganda |
My second post comes during one of those rare occasions when I simultaneously have stable power and internet. It is incredible how quickly you get used to having neither, but as soon as you get word of wi-fi, or the lights turn on, you pounce on your pile of electronics that lie in wait in the corner of the guesthouse. So what could I possibly be doing in lieu of the internet, you ask?
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| A chicken roams our guesthouse in Kitgum. Photo courtesy of Chelsea Dunlap |
I wake up at 7am and drink my morning nescafe to the sound of roosters crowing. Despite
what I initially thought, this is not just a morning occurrence. As I finish up this post in mid-afternoon, I am listening to no less than three roosters. On
weekdays I walk to the Refugee Law Project
(RLP) office among goats and chickens, and either spend my day at the compound or get into the RLP truck and head to surrounding villages. I have spent the majority of my time in the
field meeting people who were greatly affected by the war, conducting
interviews and focus group discussions around psychosocial healing, and meeting
with local officials. One thing became clear within the first week at RLP: I love
this work more than anything I have ever done.
After work and on weekends I spend much of my time in town and in
the marketplace (my negotiating skills are flawless, thanks to Kevin Welber and
Craig Zelizer), as well as learning Luo, the local language of the Acholi. The
title of this blog post, apwoyo, means thank you, and I say it about 30 times a
day: to my coworkers, to boda boda drivers, to the women in the market, to
people in the villages. This, I’ve found, is the most vital word in my
vocabulary. And there is a lot to be thankful for. I’ve met many incredible
human beings, all of whom have helped me, made me feel welcome, and shown me
hidden places where I can find yoga mats, grapes, mustard and hot sauce. They have
made sure I was safe, called me to see how I am doing, and stopped by just to
say hello. They have made this place a home.
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| Help did arrive, and this baboon joined us for part of the ride |
Perhaps the biggest lesson I’ve learned so far came on the way to
Gulu, when our car broke down on the side of the road. Our four hour journey
became a ten hour one, and at some point while we were waiting for help, unsure
if it ever would arrive, my colleague, good friend, and companion on this
journey, Chelsea Dunlap, turned to me and said “don’t think about it too much.”
This has become my motto. Every day there are times when I have no clue how
things are going to turn out or any sense of what is going to happen next. After the trip to Gulu I have learned to
simply go with it. It has made life far more enjoyable, and certainly isn’t
context specific. There are many times in the US where adopting this attitude
would make a world of difference.
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What is context
specific is peacebuilding. Theoretically, I knew this. This is one of the principles
the Conflict Resolution program is built on: a community driven approach is the best way to achieve sustainable peace. But in practice, this has proven
even more profoundly important than I could have known. The staff at RLP in
Gulu are Acholi, and as a result the work they do is deeply rooted in the
culture, the context, and the history of the Acholi people. This has made all
the difference. When we meet with communities in the surrounding areas, they
all have stories about the failure of Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) to actually help, and in
many instances the NGOs have done more harm than good. They have frequently approached things without this cultural context, and the result was failed projects and a breach of trust between the community and the organizations. This brought me to my
second lesson: always listen.
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| A village we visited during the Institute for African Transitional Justice |
During my second week here, while I was
participating in the Institute for African Transitional Justice, we listened to
survivors of the war who had constructed their own memorial sites to remember
the dead and the missing, created their own support groups, and had
started their own advocacy networks. It became abundantly clear that the last
thing they needed was for someone to come in and tell them what to do. They
know what they need, and the best thing the international community can
possibly do is to listen.
One month in, and the roosters have become part of the
background hum of life. The red dirt roads and mango trees have become my
scenery, and people in local stores and cafés know my name. I have danced a traditional
Acholi dance, and eaten more local food in huts and houses than I can recall. I wake up
every day with apwoyo at the ready, grateful for the nine weeks I have left here.
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| View from Guru-guru mountain |
Until the next time power and internet unite!
