9-October 2010
Today is Uganda’s Day of Independence – also known as Uhuru in Kiswahili. Forty-eight years ago the country gained its independence from Britain and embarked on a tumultuous process of self-rule. The day is full of celebratory events similar to what we experience in the U.S. on the 4th of July – food, drinking, and well, food and drinking.
However the sentiment about Independence is not unanimous here. Opinions are as diverse as the people of Uganda. Some feel that celebrating is important in creating unity among the nation; others feel no reason to celebrate when they continue to live in poverty. Some feel that life was actually better under British rule, while now the governments are so corrupt and war has been so rampant that they see little practical benefit in national liberty. Some are angered at the government expenditure of money on public celebrations, while roads and hospitals remain neglected and under-budgeted. (I’d hate to see their reaction to the cost of even an average show of fireworks here in the U.S.) I’ve noticed a general, though not absolute, correlation in the socioeconomic status of a person and their opinion of the issue: those with less money tend to feel Independence Day has little to do with them. If it’s not helping to bring them food or care for sick relatives, why celebrate it?
While we don’t make a huge event of the day ourselves, we use it as an excuse to enjoy and gives thanks for the good company and family around us. I spend the morning in the kitchen mud hut behind our house, relaxing on a mat on the floor and taking morning tea with “Mama” Florence, Neil, Reagan (the 10-year old boy Florence cares for), and Rose (the feisty young woman Florence has hired to help her with cooking and cleaning). We laugh and converse in a mixture of English and Lwo, and later I help Rose mingle posho and kwan kal for the mid-day meal. We take turns going inside Florence’s half of the house to watch the Kampala parade on her 15” television, which resembles any parade you might see in the U.S. The energy of the day is relaxed, and our gentle conversation and laughter mirrors our tranquility.
Once cooked, we pack up the food and drive the few kilometers to the school where Florence’s youngest son, Willy, studies and lives. All four of Florence’s children are away at school – Willy in Primary 7 (7th grade) and the oldest, Vincent, in his 3rd year of University. Visiting days are few throughout the year, and Florence is excited to see her son. Willy’s father meets us at the school, and despite a long history of domestic violence and eventual separation, he and Florence are now on cordial terms (I could write pages about her stories, survival, and attitude of forgiveness, and perhaps in another letter I will). Together we enjoy a relaxed and casual meal on the grass of the school compound, discussing politics, school exams, and family in the slow enjoy-life type of way that has been rare for me to experience in the U.S. Reagan latches onto Willy as an idolized older “brother,” and steals Neil’s camera to document the day (I’ll be attaching pictures shortly!)
Neil and I have been discussing recently how much we truly feel a part of a family here. People say that “culture shock” tends to set in anywhere between 1 and 3 months after arriving. However I think I felt the brunt of the “shock” of separation and disconnection within the first few weeks, and as time goes on life here has only become more comfortable and intimate. As we all learn the subtleties of each others’ ways of being, we are able to relax in each others’ presence and truly get to know each other. Every night we move “next door” to Florence’s half of the house and eat dinner with Rose and Reagan. Reagan has latched onto Neil like a barnacle, and Rose and I, while barely knowing a dozen words in each other’s language, are forming a bond I can only describe as wonderful. We use the words lamera, omera, and mamana (sister, brother, and mama) with ease, and Florence regularly refers to us as her “children” to her neighbors and colleagues. If Neil and I are staying out late some evening, we call to let her know we won’t be home for dinner. Far from feeling like a burden like I might expect, given my western value of freedom, it makes me feel loved and looked after. I’ve met several ex-pats and volunteers here in Gulu that only live with other white people in walled-off, guarded compounds, having few interactions with the towns-people and not getting to know their neighbors, let alone get home-cooked meals provided daily. Seeing these examples makes me appreciate my new home even more.
As Neil so eloquently said the other day, "It feels good to wake up here." I couldn't agree more. It hasn't been long, but I'm already sensing next May will bring with it a fair share of tears as we say goodbye to this family that we're becoming a part of.
S.C.
(Some of you have been asking about my internship - more to come soon, I promise!)
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| Morning brunch - mucele (rice), matoke (cooked bananas), mandazi (cakes), chai, and other delicious things. |
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| Florence's son Willy, with her "temporary" son Reagan who she is taking care of at the moment. |
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| The family: Neil, Willy, Florence, and me |
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| Florence, Willy, me, Rose, and Neil |
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| Mama ki an |
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| The neighbors attempt to teach me to dance Acholi. My munu ass needs a lots of practice. |
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