Lamenting a Layover Part Two

Wednesday evening, some random guy and I got into a yelling match in Luganda on the outskirts of the taxi park. It felt like my final straw was just about to snap. The previous week, the idea of leaving Uganda was far from favorable. Earlier this week, the promise of a shower, scented lotion, a curling iron, pants, my car, and continuous electricity (I am writing in the dark currently) had changed my previous sentiment into something more along the lines of “get me out of here.” So as I was standing there telling the man to leave me the hell alone and he was yelling at me to put my number in his phone, it took all my will power to not chuck his phone at the boda boda driver who was trying to cheat me.

Last week, I was stopped by a group of Tanzanians asking for directions to a good place to eat. I am white; I don’t look like I belong here. But in that moment, I started to feel like maybe I was blending in a bit. Maybe the little work I had put into learning Luganda and the ease I now have even while being catcalled made me fit in. This little high lasted less than a week. Now creepy men are coming out of the woodwork asking me for my contact information, one man was wondering if I could find him a white wife when I got home, and another guy was hoping he could have my laptop when I left.

Thus, frustration, annoyance, and a supreme desire to board a plane colored my mood as we drove out into one of villages on Thursday. First we dropped off Prose and Immy, the trauma sensitization counselors. Afterwards, Bettina and I drove to Njeru Primary School, one of the schools that received my project this Monday in the afternoon. I sat there in the truck reading through my book on the history of American intelligence gathering and craving a salad. Rose, the counselor I had been working most closely with, had arranged for me to go back to one of the schools and witness the launch of one of my sites. I should have been much more excited but instead I just wanted to take a nap and fume about the man who had the audacity to ask for my laptop.

I am so glad I didn’t take a nap. All during my internship, I kept trying to get Kitovu Mobile to tell me what they actually thought about my project and how it could be approved. The answer I always got was, “It’s okay.” The same answer I got to just about every other question I asked. Therefore, I doubted whether anyone thought it would be effective. I, myself, was worried that the teachers wouldn’t keep up with answering question and students wouldn’t take the initiative to write anything. For over an hour, Bettina and I listened to the teachers answering questions in a forum format. We had dropped this box off on Monday afternoon; that means the children had a little over two days to write questions and submissions. Even after an hour, there were still many questions left in the box. The head teacher told me that he believed the teachers learned so much from the questions and were better able to address the problems of their students. Furthermore, he promised that once a week, the teachers would sit down and answer the questions in the same manner.

When we picked Immy and Prose back up from their session, they and Bettina began speaking to each other very quickly in Luganda. After about ten minutes, Prose tapped my shoulder and told me that my project was perfectly in line with what they wanted to achieve in their work. She was thrilled with how the teachers had a better chance to utilize their counseling skills and with how the children felt so comfortable asking such sensitive questions. She then went on to tell me that based on the results they were seeing now, the counseling department would probably try to implement my project in other schools.

I am currently on cloud nine.

That being said, I am amazed by some of the questions the students asked. These children are in P5-P7 ages 10-15. The inquiries speak so much about the issues and concerns these children have. Here is a little sample of what was asked:
1. The first slip of paper pulled from the box was merely a statement written by a girl. It stated that the girls were tired of boys touching them inappropriately.
2. We were told if there was a bomb blast, we should fall to the ground and cover our heads. What should they do if we are in a car?
3. What should girls do to avoid boys that give gifts for sex?
4. My father died in the war; I now can’t get basic necessities. What can I do to provide for myself?
5. I share a room with my elder brother and he keeps demanding sex. How can I tell him no?
6. I have a sight problem and don’t feel comfortable telling people. What can I do to share this problem with people who can help me?
7. I had sex and have missed my monthly period, what do I do now?
8. Other girls told me that if I don’t start having sex now, I won’t be able to reproduce later. Is this true?
9. How did HIV start infecting humans? Where did it come from?

Friday, we dropped the fourth box off at St. Gabriel Primary School and went back to one of the other schools that is piloting my project. At this school, there are forty-five students in the P5-P7 classes. These students had about a week to write and submit their questions. When we opened up the box to look through the questions and submissions, there were over forty-five slips of paper within the box. Once again, the questions were fascinating:
1. I am pregnant and in P7, what do I do now?
2. Some of the kids can’t use the latrines without making a mess; is there any way you can teach them how to squat better?
3. Why do boys continue to touch us inappropriately even though we have told them to stop?
4. Why does the cook give us bad yams sometimes?
5. Statement: we would like the head teacher to stop caning us so much.

So now it is up to the teachers to take on the responsibility of counselor and confidant. My role is over. All things considered, if it wasn’t, I would have a much harder time packing my things and saying goodbye to my host family, co-workers, and friends.

So, here I sit, desolate and forlorn in Dulles International Airport. I have three hours left until boarding my last flight and am too tired to go in search of food. It is a good thing I typed most of this post several days ago because my head is currently not working very well. over 36 hours of no sleep is not becoming for me. Maybe in a day or two I will be capable of reflecting intelligently on returning home. But right now, I just really miss boda boda rides.

Enamored

Damn you, Africa. First you gave me malaria. Then you gave me septicemia. I have never been this frustrated in my life nor so constantly confused. I have a continuous layer of dust on my body at all times, and my hair has never been quite so unbecoming. But to top it all off, you made me fall in love with you.

I had had a tedious morning and was walking through town. After about five children called “BYE MZUNGU” to me, one grabbed my arm to test whether my skin was magically different, and twelve boda boda drivers asked me “sister, sister, where are you going,” I was mildly annoyed. All of a sudden, I hear someone yelling, “Nakiwala, Nakiwala!” (one of my Luganda names that I use to introduce myself since Hilary is a bit hard to say and a man’s name here.) Upon turning around, a boda boda driver I took a few days ago waved to me and asked how I was doing.

But now not only do boda boda drivers recognize me but also my neighbors. One man came up to me and welcomed me back as I was walking home. Even better, a few weeks ago, I was at a training session for teachers; students from a nearby school saw me and asked the headmistress to introduce me to them. Next thing I know, I am standing in a room with over 200 children being asked questions like “what is science?” and “what are the names of your parents?” A week later, I showed back up at the school, turns out this is the second school piloting my project. I stood up and introduced myself as Hilary. Since so many people have problems pronouncing my name, I asked them to repeat it back to me. My question was met with 130 blank stares. Finally, one brave boy raised his hand and told me my name was Nakiwala. I squealed a little, clasped my hands together happily, said yes, and sat back down. They remembered me.

Instead of watching the World Cup final the whole way through, I decided it would be more fun to chill out with my family at home. I caught a boda boda, something I can now do completely in Luganda. Here is the problem with my newfound Luganda skills, the drivers try having conversations with me in Luganda. Here and there I can hold my own, but in general, I normally end up laughing and saying “sitegedde” (I don’t understand.) Well, this time, I got home and paid the boda driver. But as I was taking out some shillings, he grabbed my phone and put his number in. Next, he flashed himself so he could have my number. I grabbed my phone back and scrambled into my house after saying good night. He is now in my phone as “boda boda = NO!” Next, I changed into my pajamas and ended up watching a soap opera called Passions with two of the women a little older than me that work for my family’s catering business. Next thing I know, we are cracking up as a talking baby doll was thrown over the dock after kicking a seven-year-old girl.

I have a morning routine. Wake up, stretch, wash face, brush my teeth, listen to music as I dance around my room putting on make-up, drink some tea, greet my family and workers, then head off to work. When I get home, sometimes, I help the workers for our catering business peel potatoes. They all try to talk to be in Luganda, and I attempt to string together simple sentences. They laugh at me, and I just clumsily keep at the potatoes or whatever else they think I can handle.

If I am not helping out, Tosha and I try to bond over our mutual love of Disney movies. I sing along and she laughs at me. If we aren’t watching movies sometimes we take photos on my computer or tuzina (we dance) to random music videos or the radio. Once again, my family laughs as I twirl her around or try to teach her the twist.

I have even become better at walking over the pothole-ridden roads. We all know my coordination leaves much to be desired. One day, I was walking down a hill to work and trying to figure out the best placing for my feet; a lady said good morning as she passed. I lost my concentration as I turned back to say hello and ended up falling on my butt. She threw out her hands exclaiming, “sorry sorry!” Meanwhile, I sat there laughing. The first few weeks I was here, I would trip and fall a good ten times a week. Now I have it down to only about five and can cover it up so much better.

The place that is building the ballot boxes for my project is called Masaka Vocational and Rehabilitation Center. This organization trains disabled students in things like knitting, carpentry, and computers. Last semester, I took a sign language class and can pull out some random phrases and sentences. The man building my boxes is mute and an absolute sweetheart. Literally, I just want to hug him. Anyways, I really wanted to show him how thankful I was for the amazing work he was doing so I signed thank you. He asked my name, something I am still competent enough to be able to sign. After that, I was far out of my league. But the way he smiled when I tried to sign to him…

Last weekend, Laura, Lyndsie, and I went to Kampala for some shopping, sight seeing, and relaxation. On Friday evening, we went out to meet some friends of Laura. It wasn’t until five o’clock in the morning that we got home. That alone should alert you to how good of a time we had. I am the girl who goes to bed by ten o’clock on weekends in college.

It is little moments, tiny things here and there, that make it so hard for me to consider I only have two weeks left. I am not only comfortable here but enjoying the haggling with vendors, the calls of mzungu in octaves only audible to canines, falling on my ass because I step in potholes, chowing down on banana chips, spending time with my family, and meeting truly amazing and lovely people. Damn Uganda. There is such a soft place in my heart for this country now.

Spring 1994

During the spring of 1994, I had just turned three. My sister, Britta, was my best friend (and I am lucky enough to still consider her among those closest to me). I lived in Cortland, OH and had already started pre-school. My mother and father were beginning to realize that the next several years would be spent catering to a picky eater who could hardly stay seated at the table. At three years old, I had little a care other than perhaps my bedtime and wishing I had McDonalds on my plate instead of the bland concoctions my mother liked to call food.

That was my spring of 1994. Meanwhile, in Rwanda, close to a million people were killed in 100 days. During the massive bloodbath, the international community failed to provide any meaningful assistance in what they referred to as “acts of genocide.” Children the very same age as me whose best friends were their sisters and brothers were being bludgeoned to death, smashed against walls, or hacked to pieces by machetes. Their last words were, “UNAMIR will come” and “Mom, were can I run to?” Parents could provide little comfort since they too were manically massacred with machetes, raped, buried alive, or thrown into latrines and then stoned until the screams ceased. Safe havens such as churches were hardly secure. Priests would sell out their own congregations exposing their followers to some of the cruelest deaths imaginable.

I was startled when I got to Rwanda this weekend. The Western influence in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, was overwhelming. Buses that leave on time, drainage systems, no littering, and hamburgers? I sure wasn’t in Uganda anymore. The Western influence is, in large part, a product of the guilt money Europe and the USA has poured in after failing to aid Rwanda during its darkest hour. Up until a few years ago, I had never heard of the Rwandan Genocide. This weekend though, I visited Des Mille Collines, the hotel that the movie Hotel Rwanda is based of off and went to the Genocide memorial. I understand that often times, we try to forget the worst parts of history. Who wants to dwell on the evil that humans are capable of committing? However, I wish I had learned about this genocide sooner. I wish I knew more about the genocides that have occurred in the past: the Balkans, the Holocaust, Armenia, and Cambodia. It is too easy for people to forget it is humans that are capable of the very worst atrocities and the most compelling compassions.

The conflict between the Tutsi and Hutu people was fueled originally by colonization. Initially, Tutsi and Hutu were names for economic standing. However, colonizers took the labels and applied them to ethnic groups. The Europeans would measure noses in order to distinguish Tutsi from Hutu. If you had ten cows or more, you were automatically Tutsi as were all your decedents thereafter. During the beginning of colonization, the Tutsi minority was given the power in the government; but when independence came, Hutus were put into power. Resentment from years of oppression led to the beginnings of violent conflict between the Tutsi and Hutu. Tutsi began to leave the country for refugee camps in bordering nations. However, they would reinvade the country periodically in attempt to reestablish their part of Rwandan society. Aided by media, the Interahamwe, extremist Hutus, began to circulate that Rwanda would be much better off without the Tutsi “cockroaches.” Massacres continually took place in the years leading up to 1994. However, it wasn’t until Prime Minister’s plane was shot down on April 6, 1994 that the full out genocide began.

Today, bodies are still turning up, many of them unidentifiable. People are still displaced in refugee camps. Teachers are largely unqualified because so many of those who were didn’t make it through spring 1994. Orphans head households. Women suffer from the HIV they contracted while being mercilessly raped. The ramifications of the Rwandan Genocide are still coursing though the nation. But as an outsider just spending a few days in the capital, the brutal past was easy to miss unless you looked for it. The countryside I drove through was breathtaking. Hills and valleys filled with people laboring in fields. Huts nuzzled into hillsides. I kept trying to picture the streets and valleys littered with bodies. I tried to imagine extremists carrying bloodied machetes to these peaceful homes. The church I attended on Sunday was one of the churches that gave up its congregation to the Interahamwe; I tried to feel the fear that once consumed its walls. But try as I might, I will never be able to fully comprehend the pain nor the horror of that spring. Maybe that is part of the reason humans are doomed to repeat history. Even those who try to comprehend never entirely will. We cannot feel what others feel unless we ourselves experience it. But I can’t help but think that we would repeat a little less if more people wanted to understand and empathize.

Secrets and Sex

Last year, right after the last day of high school and before the day I graduated, I had one day off with which to do anything. My one close friend, Brittany, and I planned a trip to Bloomsburg University. After over four hours of driving blasting E.S. Posthumus and various songs from the Angels and Demons soundtrack, we arrived in this tiny Pennsylvania town, parked, and began to hike up numerous hills and through various buildings. You are probably wondering why we chose to come here, of all places, during what is normally a big celebration day. Basically, this convoluted trip was for the sole purpose of reading other people’s secrets.

Post Secret is a website that receives copious amounts of postcards daily. Regular people write their darkest secrets on creatively made postcards, send them to a man named Frank, and every Sunday, new postcards are posted online for public consumption. There are also numerous exhibits all over the United States. After visiting one of the smaller ones, I’d advise trying to see one in a bigger city; nonetheless, there is a reason why we all have an affinity for the unknown and concealed. We love secrets. We relish finding out when other people’s secrets are worse than ours, and we are comforted when someone shares our own secrets. What’s more is the therapy of being able to say a secret out loud. It doesn’t have to even be attached to your identity; it just has to be in the open.

Basically, this same concept is central to my project idea. My project is simply building locked boxes where students can submit questions or any other communication anonymously. The key is given to a male and female teacher that have already gone through the Education for Life training provided by Kitovu Mobile (this training covers everything from sex education to how to counsel children who have experienced trauma.) At the end of each week, the teachers check the box, read through submissions, answer questions, and then post submissions and answers for children to read. Simplistic, yes?

Here is my thought process: from day one, everyone has said ignorance is one of the major factors in trauma and contracting HIV. These kids just don’t have access to accurate information. The next thing I noticed from going to the field and visiting other schools is that children are petrified to ask questions. Furthermore, it just isn’t something people seem to do here if they are confused. At the workshops I observed with Kitovu Mobile, whenever one of the children got up the nerve to ask or answer something, he’d stand up hunched over, put his chin to his chest, mutter something unintelligible, and then quickly sit back down before he was done. Questions say so much about the people we are. They point to our confidence, what we do, what we want, what interest us, and what scares us. So if we remove the identity attached to a question, we can remove what sometimes constrains people from seeking needed information.

The video attached to this post is of one of the schools that is piloting my project. The students are primary five (ages 10-12) and they are singing a song as an energizer during the Education for Life workshop on STIs and HIV. My project is becoming a part of the Education for Life series and will continue even after the Kitovu Mobile facilitators move on to a new sub-county.

For those of you who know me, it probably isn’t a huge surprise that I am working with secrets, privacy, and anonymity. However, this isn’t the only thing that really interests me here. I mentioned before that I was looking into Afri-pads. These are reusable pads made here in Uganda that empower adolescent females to continue to be mobile during their periods. It also encourages better sanitation than that which is commonly practiced in some of the villages. I like this initiative mainly because the gender inequalities here are enough to make my blood boil on a daily basis. In the Western world, we sometimes scoff at the idea of feminism and female empowerment. Been there, done that. (I know I talked about this before in an earlier blog post but I have more to rant about.)

Everyday at work, I take field notes. They consist of a description of my observations, what the children contribute in workshops, and my reflections (which can sometimes be philosophical or extremely lacking in intelligence.) I am attaching part of my notes from this week (they are from the same school and class as the video); I believe more people need to be aware of what my notes contain.

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HIV/AIDS (Slim)
Human Immuno Deficiency Virus (Kawuka)
Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (Ndwadde)

The difference between the two was explained. HIV is the virus that causes the condition of AIDS. After this, children were asked to list how HIV was spread.
1. Sexual intercourse (okuegadanga) - 84%
2. Exchanging sharp objects (okuwanyisiganya ebintuebisala)
3. Accidents (obubenje)
4. Blood transfusions (okusibuakoomusayi)
5. Mother to child (okuvakumuzadde)

One boy asked: if an infected person gets injured but a HIV negative person is not injured, would the uninfected person become infected?

Another boy asked: if a HIV negative person is cut and a HIV positive person comes in contact with his blood, will the negative person become infected?

A third boy asked: if share my toothbrush with a HIV positive person, will I get infected?

When asked the age that children start “playing sex” the kids said for girls (abawala) is 7 years old and for boys (abalenzi) is 11 years old. Next, the children were asked what gifts boys can give to girls to persuade them to have sex:
• Sweets ~ 50/100 /= (about 2.5 or 5 cents)
• Pancakes ~ 100 /= (5 cents)
• Ssente (money) ~ 500 /= (25 cents)
• Chapatti ~ 1000 /= (50 cents)
• Soda ~ 600 /= (30 cents)
• Obudengo (cake) ~ 500 /= (25 cents)
• Obujati (bread) ~ 500 /= (25 cents)
• Cake ~ 1000 /= (50 cents)
• Dindanzi (cake) ~ 200 /= (10 cents)
When asked what girls can do to persuade boys to have sex:
• Bawndiika obubalauwa (love letters)
• Babayimbira (love songs)
• Okwambala min (wearing mini skirts)
• Obuwowo (perfume)
• Okwambala mpale (wearing tight clothes)
• Bapapaza (walking style)

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I converted the price values next to what boys can give girls into American currency. I’m not going to ruminate on that because it is something you can do yourself. Instead, let’s look into the difference between what boys give girls and vice versa. Everything a boy gives a girl has a price value attached. However, nothing that girls give boys has a price value. Furthermore, half the time they aren’t even giving anything. Their mere presence seems to be enough to tempt boys into sex. In the end, it seems that is up to a female to refrain from sexual activity and in turn prevent males from engaging in it as well. I don’t believe this conclusion is unfounded. When asked how to avoid sex and contracting HIV, answers range from: don’t accept gifts from boys to wear modest clothing. Not once has it been suggested that boys stop paying for sex through gifts.

This belief that it is a female’s responsibility to control sexual activity is hardly singular to this culture. In my own up-bring, I was instructed in catechism to carefully choose my clothing not only because of the way risqué outfits reflected upon my virtue, but also because of the temptation it could provide for males. In a book I read about a month ago, Nine Parts of Desire, authoress Geraldine Brooks comes to the same conclusion as I during her immersion in the Islamic culture:

“Almighty God created sexual desire in ten parts; then he gave nine parts to women and one to men,” said Ali, the husband of Muhammad’s beloved daughter Fatima and the founder of Shiite Islam. At my Catholic school, we were taught the reverse: girls, the less sexually active gender, had to guard their behavior because boys, driven crazy by lust, weren’t capable of guarding theirs. In either culture, women somehow managed to get the wrong end of the stick. Women bear the brunt of fending off social disorder in the Catholic tradition because they aren’t considered sexually active, and in the Muslim tradition because they are. (39-40)

This is a universal. Why is it that women are forced to carry not only their own honor but also the honor of men?

A big thank you to anyone who actually managed to read down to this point. (Especially if you are male and not my father.) Here is the deal: we don’t really live with gender asymmetry daily in the Western world. At least not to the point that it is yelling in front of your face. But I am the only person in a room of over 130 people with a look of horror on my face as children say girls are paid less than the equivalent of 10 cents for sex and boys willingly offer such incentives. Is it just the cultural background I am from screaming this is a massive problem?