You can find my writing from the first Uganda Trip in 2006 at http://www.booksofhope.org/Uganda.php
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Dear Friends
Hello all!
The Ugandan curriculum for the sophomore year of high school (which very few northern Ugandans can afford to attend), includes a course called "Studies in Development". A large component of this course requires learning the layout and grid of New York City. I could have used the information these hut-dwelling war-weary students have learned upon my return trip to the US. With Joshua and Anisa's help I found my way between Newark and La Guardia Airports. Hey, I just came from Uganda, but it's hot in NYC!
I returned last night. If you're interested, below is a message that didn't get out before this.
Thank you for your interest.
love, molly
28 July, 2006
Dear Friends
I’ve nearly completed the month I’ll spend here in northern Uganda. When I arrived the rains had held off. The rain was poor last year, perhaps it will skip this year all together, they said. Pessimism was in the air. Even if rain came, do they have seeds and can it possibly be safe enough to head to the fields? A month ago the peace talks between the Lord’s Resistance Army and the Ugandan Government had just begun in Juba, Sudan. The war weary inhabitants of northern Uganda did not see much hope in the government’s gestures toward peace with Kony and the LRA * (see below).
However, in the month I have been here optimism has grown. My visits to different small towns (trading centers turned IDP - Internally Displaced Persons -camps) seem to coincide with the coming of rain. So much so, I have earned the Acholi name “La Kot” which means “rain”. It doesn’t sound that great to me, but I’m told it is an honor to have such a name.
Acholi are rural people. They would like to be living in their villages. From their villages they could travel by foot to trading centers – small towns where crops can be traded or sold for Ugandan Shillings. The trading centers are found every 10 kilometers or so along the dusty main roads of this area. A trading center has a primary school and a Catholic Church (or, once in a while, the Church of Uganda). Most trading centers and villages are abandoned today. Traveling the rural roads of the north we pass empty churches riddled with mortar holes and damaged overgrown schools housing drunken Ugandan soldiers. Fr. Marvin tells me to look for mango trees. Where there is a mango tree there used to be a home. In some places, there are hundreds of mango trees. Every one of them shaded a family with a story.
The trading centers and villages were abandoned in early 2004 when the LRA attacks escalated beyond the threshold of human capacity to live. The Ugandan government assigned certain trading centers as safe IDP Camp where the people will be guarded by the national army. The national army isn’t much to speak of. Still, they are armed; the LRA is armed (by Sudan, they say); but the villagers aren’t.
I have been visiting the mission of Fr. Marvin Fuentes Murillo, a Camboni Missionary from Costa Rica who has been in Uganda for 10 years. When Marvin begins to talk of what he has seen and experienced in the past 5 years his words are like water from a well that has ached to be released. Once he begins details come forth in a disorganized flow of memory and horror. He'll describe the candy filled pockets of the 75 year old Italian priest who was gunned down in his car then set on fire. He’ll tell of guns in his own face, the shoes he was wearing and children shot dead. We stop on the road as he remembers the trading center here three years ago… the bodies, the injured, his prayers. He’ll describe what goes through your mind (and what doesn’t) the moment a wall is all that is between yourself and those who wish to kill you. In his own sitting room he shows me where he threw the lock, which is still on the door, when the boys with machine guns demanded entrance. He shows holes in the walls from gunfire and points out paths impassable due to landmines. He doesn’t tell of being beaten with the blunt side of an axe; others, who have also suffered, share that detail. He knows he is still in shock.
My visits have been to camps in Kitgum, Padipe, Mari-Opei, Agoro and Namokora. At the IDP camps, villagers live in huts of mud and grass which are too close together and prone to bad fires. There is limited food or room for roaming animals and children. If you ask an IDP where they are from they will tell you their home is a village there… gesturing with their hand and making an “e-e” sound. The higher the pitch of the “e-e” the further away they feel from their village home. The village is home, where the water source is a river, the mud is in abundance to make the huts, and there is land for crops of staples (peanuts and sesame). There is plenty of room for cows, goats, chickens and children to safely roam. Their village is where they were born, therefore the place they believe they must be buried – like their ancestors - in order that their spirits not haunt the world scared and homeless. The village is the beginning and the end of the journey.
The last attack was in October. Could it be over? Perhaps the LRA is finished. In the two years of living in camps the food has dwindled. The trading centers carry only leafy green okra and tomatoes the size of a baby’s fist. No peanuts or sesame to grind into wholesome paste to serve with wet millet bread. (This is like going to the supermarket for your hungry family and only finding spices). Now, with the light of possible peace and the incoming rain villagers begin to venture to the vast abandoned land. They are tentative as they till the soil, now holding out for seeds. In the past two years they have had no crop so no seeds to carry each person into the next year. Their hope is the UN and non-governmental organizations** to supply seeds to get them started. If there is peace, and rain continues, perhaps seeds will come…
Peace and love,
molly
*Fr. Carlos Rodriguez, one of the regular commentators in The Weekly Observer, a Ugandan newspaper, summarized the frustration with peace talks well when he wrote:
Anybody who has been involved in any past attempts to bring an end to LRA’s terrorism through dialogue is aware of the complications and dilemmas involved in it: Ceasefires can reduce violence and save lives, but can also give rebels opportunities to rearm and reorganize. Talks can be an opportunity for bringing peace at hand, but could also give unfair legitimacy to armed groups who have committed unspeakable crimes against humanity. There is also, of course, the question of sacrificing justice in the interest of peace or putting justice first, as the ICC (International Criminal Court) is keen to do, while at the same time leaving a crucial question unanswered: who shall enforce justice by, for instance, carrying out arrests? (The Weekly Observer, July 13-19, 2006, p.9)
**The most active international organizations I’ve seen here – this is only by my limited experience, there are probably others – are: UNICEF, AVSI (Association of Volunteers in International Service), Doctors without Boarders and, of course, the Camboni Missionaries.
The Ugandan curriculum for the sophomore year of high school (which very few northern Ugandans can afford to attend), includes a course called "Studies in Development". A large component of this course requires learning the layout and grid of New York City. I could have used the information these hut-dwelling war-weary students have learned upon my return trip to the US. With Joshua and Anisa's help I found my way between Newark and La Guardia Airports. Hey, I just came from Uganda, but it's hot in NYC!
I returned last night. If you're interested, below is a message that didn't get out before this.
Thank you for your interest.
love, molly
28 July, 2006
Dear Friends
I’ve nearly completed the month I’ll spend here in northern Uganda. When I arrived the rains had held off. The rain was poor last year, perhaps it will skip this year all together, they said. Pessimism was in the air. Even if rain came, do they have seeds and can it possibly be safe enough to head to the fields? A month ago the peace talks between the Lord’s Resistance Army and the Ugandan Government had just begun in Juba, Sudan. The war weary inhabitants of northern Uganda did not see much hope in the government’s gestures toward peace with Kony and the LRA * (see below).
However, in the month I have been here optimism has grown. My visits to different small towns (trading centers turned IDP - Internally Displaced Persons -camps) seem to coincide with the coming of rain. So much so, I have earned the Acholi name “La Kot” which means “rain”. It doesn’t sound that great to me, but I’m told it is an honor to have such a name.
Acholi are rural people. They would like to be living in their villages. From their villages they could travel by foot to trading centers – small towns where crops can be traded or sold for Ugandan Shillings. The trading centers are found every 10 kilometers or so along the dusty main roads of this area. A trading center has a primary school and a Catholic Church (or, once in a while, the Church of Uganda). Most trading centers and villages are abandoned today. Traveling the rural roads of the north we pass empty churches riddled with mortar holes and damaged overgrown schools housing drunken Ugandan soldiers. Fr. Marvin tells me to look for mango trees. Where there is a mango tree there used to be a home. In some places, there are hundreds of mango trees. Every one of them shaded a family with a story.
The trading centers and villages were abandoned in early 2004 when the LRA attacks escalated beyond the threshold of human capacity to live. The Ugandan government assigned certain trading centers as safe IDP Camp where the people will be guarded by the national army. The national army isn’t much to speak of. Still, they are armed; the LRA is armed (by Sudan, they say); but the villagers aren’t.
I have been visiting the mission of Fr. Marvin Fuentes Murillo, a Camboni Missionary from Costa Rica who has been in Uganda for 10 years. When Marvin begins to talk of what he has seen and experienced in the past 5 years his words are like water from a well that has ached to be released. Once he begins details come forth in a disorganized flow of memory and horror. He'll describe the candy filled pockets of the 75 year old Italian priest who was gunned down in his car then set on fire. He’ll tell of guns in his own face, the shoes he was wearing and children shot dead. We stop on the road as he remembers the trading center here three years ago… the bodies, the injured, his prayers. He’ll describe what goes through your mind (and what doesn’t) the moment a wall is all that is between yourself and those who wish to kill you. In his own sitting room he shows me where he threw the lock, which is still on the door, when the boys with machine guns demanded entrance. He shows holes in the walls from gunfire and points out paths impassable due to landmines. He doesn’t tell of being beaten with the blunt side of an axe; others, who have also suffered, share that detail. He knows he is still in shock.
My visits have been to camps in Kitgum, Padipe, Mari-Opei, Agoro and Namokora. At the IDP camps, villagers live in huts of mud and grass which are too close together and prone to bad fires. There is limited food or room for roaming animals and children. If you ask an IDP where they are from they will tell you their home is a village there… gesturing with their hand and making an “e-e” sound. The higher the pitch of the “e-e” the further away they feel from their village home. The village is home, where the water source is a river, the mud is in abundance to make the huts, and there is land for crops of staples (peanuts and sesame). There is plenty of room for cows, goats, chickens and children to safely roam. Their village is where they were born, therefore the place they believe they must be buried – like their ancestors - in order that their spirits not haunt the world scared and homeless. The village is the beginning and the end of the journey.
The last attack was in October. Could it be over? Perhaps the LRA is finished. In the two years of living in camps the food has dwindled. The trading centers carry only leafy green okra and tomatoes the size of a baby’s fist. No peanuts or sesame to grind into wholesome paste to serve with wet millet bread. (This is like going to the supermarket for your hungry family and only finding spices). Now, with the light of possible peace and the incoming rain villagers begin to venture to the vast abandoned land. They are tentative as they till the soil, now holding out for seeds. In the past two years they have had no crop so no seeds to carry each person into the next year. Their hope is the UN and non-governmental organizations** to supply seeds to get them started. If there is peace, and rain continues, perhaps seeds will come…
Peace and love,
molly
*Fr. Carlos Rodriguez, one of the regular commentators in The Weekly Observer, a Ugandan newspaper, summarized the frustration with peace talks well when he wrote:
Anybody who has been involved in any past attempts to bring an end to LRA’s terrorism through dialogue is aware of the complications and dilemmas involved in it: Ceasefires can reduce violence and save lives, but can also give rebels opportunities to rearm and reorganize. Talks can be an opportunity for bringing peace at hand, but could also give unfair legitimacy to armed groups who have committed unspeakable crimes against humanity. There is also, of course, the question of sacrificing justice in the interest of peace or putting justice first, as the ICC (International Criminal Court) is keen to do, while at the same time leaving a crucial question unanswered: who shall enforce justice by, for instance, carrying out arrests? (The Weekly Observer, July 13-19, 2006, p.9)
**The most active international organizations I’ve seen here – this is only by my limited experience, there are probably others – are: UNICEF, AVSI (Association of Volunteers in International Service), Doctors without Boarders and, of course, the Camboni Missionaries.
Monday, July 24, 2006
None is like this
24 July, 2006
Dear Friends,
More than of anyplace else I’ve ever been I don’t know how to tell of northern Uganda. To put down facts of suffering does nothing to relay the experience of this place. I only know how much I want to share what has too many facets to be described.
The earth is dry sand packed solid then baked by the brightest sun you’ve ever seen. Most Acholi adults are taller than me. Given the powerful sun, I have to cast my eyes toward the dull brown ground instead of lifting my eyes to the friendly faces of adults who wish to try out a conversation with me (with my very limited knowledge of the Acholi language my conversations would be very short anyway). The children, on the other hand, are right in my line of vision.
We are in Mari-Opei, only 16 uninhabited kilometers from the Sudanese border. We are at the foothills of a mountain range which embraces this northern region of Uganda. Here the landscape is flat, dry and bare as the children’s feet which are calloused and thick. There is a determined gritty sound that tough bare feet make against the dry packed earth. It’s a sound that runs up my spine when I’m not thinking of it, like nails on a chalkboard - only heartbreaking. Not that the shoeless children feel themselves at all unfortunate. At the moment they are gathered around the place where I’ve stopped, next to their open recess field. Most have never been so close to a person as light-skinned as me. My color can make babies cry and small children scream in fearful delight. They gather wide-eyed and curious, ready to bolt at any sudden move I might make.
This is the birthplace of Fr. Robert Obol, the priest studying in Ohio who invited me to visit his country. Next to the school is a tree planted years ago (the large trees were planted by the British, I am told). To my non-horticulturist eye, trees here seem to be all root and branches. There is no trunk, only long thin growths stretching to the ground and branches running horizontal before reaching for the bright sun above. Under the shade of a tree is a wooden table with six chairs. The school uses this shady spot as its office. A big branch of the tree stretches forth and has a radio hanging from it. It is tuned to BBC News. From this flat land, embraced by distant mountains, in the span of less than ten minutes, I heard reports of an attack on a market in Iraq, of people suffering following a bombing in Mumbai and evacuations of Lebanon.
While I sat, wanting to soak up the reality of the world news, more children gathered around in clothes mostly donated from distant lands. This was one of my first days in Mari-Opei. I had yet to realize that the clothes they wore that day would be the only clothes I would see them in; one outfit was all they had so all they wore day in and day out. When the buttons fall off their thin shirts they sew the shirts shut rather than spend precious resources on buttons. To spite the lack of quality in their clothes, I am struck by the quality of their eyes. To think of it now brings tears to my own. They have very little hair, their skin is fresh and dark, their eyes bright and white. First they fear my look; their eyes dart away if they happen to meet mine. Then, somehow, in only moments, courage is found. One meets my eyes, then another and soon I have twenty or more sets of bright truthful vulnerable eyes meeting mine. We have no language in common, until they start to teach me to count. In unison they begin to shout: Acel… Aryo… Adek…
I have been blessed to have visited many places. None is like this.
Love, molly
Dear Friends,
More than of anyplace else I’ve ever been I don’t know how to tell of northern Uganda. To put down facts of suffering does nothing to relay the experience of this place. I only know how much I want to share what has too many facets to be described.
The earth is dry sand packed solid then baked by the brightest sun you’ve ever seen. Most Acholi adults are taller than me. Given the powerful sun, I have to cast my eyes toward the dull brown ground instead of lifting my eyes to the friendly faces of adults who wish to try out a conversation with me (with my very limited knowledge of the Acholi language my conversations would be very short anyway). The children, on the other hand, are right in my line of vision.
We are in Mari-Opei, only 16 uninhabited kilometers from the Sudanese border. We are at the foothills of a mountain range which embraces this northern region of Uganda. Here the landscape is flat, dry and bare as the children’s feet which are calloused and thick. There is a determined gritty sound that tough bare feet make against the dry packed earth. It’s a sound that runs up my spine when I’m not thinking of it, like nails on a chalkboard - only heartbreaking. Not that the shoeless children feel themselves at all unfortunate. At the moment they are gathered around the place where I’ve stopped, next to their open recess field. Most have never been so close to a person as light-skinned as me. My color can make babies cry and small children scream in fearful delight. They gather wide-eyed and curious, ready to bolt at any sudden move I might make.
This is the birthplace of Fr. Robert Obol, the priest studying in Ohio who invited me to visit his country. Next to the school is a tree planted years ago (the large trees were planted by the British, I am told). To my non-horticulturist eye, trees here seem to be all root and branches. There is no trunk, only long thin growths stretching to the ground and branches running horizontal before reaching for the bright sun above. Under the shade of a tree is a wooden table with six chairs. The school uses this shady spot as its office. A big branch of the tree stretches forth and has a radio hanging from it. It is tuned to BBC News. From this flat land, embraced by distant mountains, in the span of less than ten minutes, I heard reports of an attack on a market in Iraq, of people suffering following a bombing in Mumbai and evacuations of Lebanon.
While I sat, wanting to soak up the reality of the world news, more children gathered around in clothes mostly donated from distant lands. This was one of my first days in Mari-Opei. I had yet to realize that the clothes they wore that day would be the only clothes I would see them in; one outfit was all they had so all they wore day in and day out. When the buttons fall off their thin shirts they sew the shirts shut rather than spend precious resources on buttons. To spite the lack of quality in their clothes, I am struck by the quality of their eyes. To think of it now brings tears to my own. They have very little hair, their skin is fresh and dark, their eyes bright and white. First they fear my look; their eyes dart away if they happen to meet mine. Then, somehow, in only moments, courage is found. One meets my eyes, then another and soon I have twenty or more sets of bright truthful vulnerable eyes meeting mine. We have no language in common, until they start to teach me to count. In unison they begin to shout: Acel… Aryo… Adek…
I have been blessed to have visited many places. None is like this.
Love, molly
Friday, July 14, 2006
Dear Patient Friends
July 14, 2006
Dear Patient Friends,
According to the CIA fact book, the median age of a
person in Uganda is 15.
UNICEF is the division of the United Nations that
deals with children and children’s needs. You can
spot the word UNICEF at all angles in Kitgum. Usually
it’s black writing against a white background.
Sometimes it’s blue on white. The word UNICEF is
emblazed on jeeps that take the unkempt roads with
ease. The word is clear in the daylight on the huge
empty tents waiting to be filled by the night
commuting children at sundown. UNICEF is on the
packets of the iodine tablets to clear the water
against the cholera outbreak. It’s on scraps of tarp
that cover the burnt remains of the roofs of huts in
the camps built too close to each other to prevent
fire.
The Lords Resistance Army (LRA) targets children. But
then, children are most of Uganda. The LRA is a
rag-tag rebel group known internationally for
kidnapping children between the ages of 8 and 12. They
murder and force the children to watch or even
participate in the murder. Once they beat humanity
from their victims they recruit the young people to join
their ranks. They take girls. This is what is most
horrific in the eyes of the local people. The people shake
their heads hoping not to imagine the fate of the
girls. Sometimes, after months or years, the girls
escape - a baby or two on their backs.
Kitgum Town, with its one bank, a hospital (with one
microscope) and bicycle taxis, is the biggest city
many here have ever seen. Most people who are now
living in Kitgum are not from Kitgum. They will tell
anyone who asks that they are from a now abandoned
village, not too far, mostly within the 65 kilometers
between Kitgum and the Sudanese border. But with the
last 10 years of terror from the LRA, no small village
has been safe. The government set up camps. People left
their home villages, they left their community, their
rural school, their crops and their dead buried near
their family hut which they also abandoned. The LRA
raided the abandoned villages. They stole the crops and
burned all that could be burnt. In most cases, there
is no village left.
The camps are sprawling huts, small, built too close
together and full of children. Near each camp is an
army base protecting its residence from the next LRA
attack. Yet, few feel their children are safe. They
send them into town at night. A child packs a mat, a
blanket and heads to the UNICEF tents in well lit
areas of Kitgum. They find their way, younger
siblings in toe, to the hospital ground, school yards
and the football (soccer) fields. They lay on the
ground, the dust powdering their skin. They pull the
blanket – often shared – close to their chin or
over their heads and sleep as children sleep, angelic
and hopeful.
It cannot be said that anyone appears unhappy in
Kitgum. Perhaps because there has been peace for
three months. Actually, the raids stopped about six
months ago, but it took three months for the awful
frozen shock of terror to melt before people could
realize nothing has happened of late. There has been
no truce, no amnesty (to spite international media,
northern Ugandans are sure Kony will never fall for an
amnesty agreement – Museveni’s word is worthless).
The raids simply stopped. But so has the food.
The LRA, who hides in southern Sudan, grows in number
(by kidnapping children and forcing them to become rebel
soldiers) and in size (most in the LRA are not full
grown adults) from the village raids. But now, with
villagers in the camps, there are no crops for the LRA
to raid. The hope is to starve off the rebels. But
in the process the villagers in the camp go without
food too. The World Food Program provides basics,
corn and oil and rice. A staple of this region is
millet, but the WFP doesn’t supply millet.
Right now, as I sit with my journal writing this
letter home, a young man greets me. He has a beaming
smile and wears brown clothes. His name is Simon and
his right arm is missing just above the elbow. He
looks about 16 and had heard I am from the North
America - a rarity in these parts. He wants to know
if I know Dr. John Wood, also from North America. He
knows little more of John Wood than his continent of
origin. I explained how very big North America is.
Simon assured me that he is fairly certain John Wood
is not from Mexico.
Simon also told me his father and older brother were
lost in an LRA raid. First their village was
attacked, then Simon was taken by the rebels. The
Ugandan military followed, attacking the rebels and
their hostages at the same time. In that second attack Simon
lost his arm and the LRA left him for dead. Simon was
taken to Fr. Tarcisio (who, incidentally, found his arm
when he went to bury the dead) who brought him to
John Wood, the head of St. Joseph Hospital in Kitgum.
From Simon’s beaming impression of North America, John
Wood must have made a wonderful impact on Simon’s
life.
There is more to write but little time. I’ve now
transcribed what was in my journal to a computer which
is running on batteries because the electricity has
failed this morning. It’s dark and the battery is
draining fast.
So thank you for reading again. I am well.
love, molly
Dear Patient Friends,
According to the CIA fact book, the median age of a
person in Uganda is 15.
UNICEF is the division of the United Nations that
deals with children and children’s needs. You can
spot the word UNICEF at all angles in Kitgum. Usually
it’s black writing against a white background.
Sometimes it’s blue on white. The word UNICEF is
emblazed on jeeps that take the unkempt roads with
ease. The word is clear in the daylight on the huge
empty tents waiting to be filled by the night
commuting children at sundown. UNICEF is on the
packets of the iodine tablets to clear the water
against the cholera outbreak. It’s on scraps of tarp
that cover the burnt remains of the roofs of huts in
the camps built too close to each other to prevent
fire.
The Lords Resistance Army (LRA) targets children. But
then, children are most of Uganda. The LRA is a
rag-tag rebel group known internationally for
kidnapping children between the ages of 8 and 12. They
murder and force the children to watch or even
participate in the murder. Once they beat humanity
from their victims they recruit the young people to join
their ranks. They take girls. This is what is most
horrific in the eyes of the local people. The people shake
their heads hoping not to imagine the fate of the
girls. Sometimes, after months or years, the girls
escape - a baby or two on their backs.
Kitgum Town, with its one bank, a hospital (with one
microscope) and bicycle taxis, is the biggest city
many here have ever seen. Most people who are now
living in Kitgum are not from Kitgum. They will tell
anyone who asks that they are from a now abandoned
village, not too far, mostly within the 65 kilometers
between Kitgum and the Sudanese border. But with the
last 10 years of terror from the LRA, no small village
has been safe. The government set up camps. People left
their home villages, they left their community, their
rural school, their crops and their dead buried near
their family hut which they also abandoned. The LRA
raided the abandoned villages. They stole the crops and
burned all that could be burnt. In most cases, there
is no village left.
The camps are sprawling huts, small, built too close
together and full of children. Near each camp is an
army base protecting its residence from the next LRA
attack. Yet, few feel their children are safe. They
send them into town at night. A child packs a mat, a
blanket and heads to the UNICEF tents in well lit
areas of Kitgum. They find their way, younger
siblings in toe, to the hospital ground, school yards
and the football (soccer) fields. They lay on the
ground, the dust powdering their skin. They pull the
blanket – often shared – close to their chin or
over their heads and sleep as children sleep, angelic
and hopeful.
It cannot be said that anyone appears unhappy in
Kitgum. Perhaps because there has been peace for
three months. Actually, the raids stopped about six
months ago, but it took three months for the awful
frozen shock of terror to melt before people could
realize nothing has happened of late. There has been
no truce, no amnesty (to spite international media,
northern Ugandans are sure Kony will never fall for an
amnesty agreement – Museveni’s word is worthless).
The raids simply stopped. But so has the food.
The LRA, who hides in southern Sudan, grows in number
(by kidnapping children and forcing them to become rebel
soldiers) and in size (most in the LRA are not full
grown adults) from the village raids. But now, with
villagers in the camps, there are no crops for the LRA
to raid. The hope is to starve off the rebels. But
in the process the villagers in the camp go without
food too. The World Food Program provides basics,
corn and oil and rice. A staple of this region is
millet, but the WFP doesn’t supply millet.
Right now, as I sit with my journal writing this
letter home, a young man greets me. He has a beaming
smile and wears brown clothes. His name is Simon and
his right arm is missing just above the elbow. He
looks about 16 and had heard I am from the North
America - a rarity in these parts. He wants to know
if I know Dr. John Wood, also from North America. He
knows little more of John Wood than his continent of
origin. I explained how very big North America is.
Simon assured me that he is fairly certain John Wood
is not from Mexico.
Simon also told me his father and older brother were
lost in an LRA raid. First their village was
attacked, then Simon was taken by the rebels. The
Ugandan military followed, attacking the rebels and
their hostages at the same time. In that second attack Simon
lost his arm and the LRA left him for dead. Simon was
taken to Fr. Tarcisio (who, incidentally, found his arm
when he went to bury the dead) who brought him to
John Wood, the head of St. Joseph Hospital in Kitgum.
From Simon’s beaming impression of North America, John
Wood must have made a wonderful impact on Simon’s
life.
There is more to write but little time. I’ve now
transcribed what was in my journal to a computer which
is running on batteries because the electricity has
failed this morning. It’s dark and the battery is
draining fast.
So thank you for reading again. I am well.
love, molly
Saturday, July 8, 2006
"Have some, it's especial for this region..."
"Have some, it's especial for this region..."
The region is
Dear Friends,
Why am I in northern
I arrived in
None-the-less, I was relieved to be on the low flying 19-seat prop plane as we took off to the northern city of
As we neared the landing in Kitgum the sand and clay soil looked soft and comforting compared to urban
So I had my first meal of a local specialty - upon closer inspection I could see the crunch was the small legs and external skeleton of the insects. I received the information that things were busy right now as one of the Camboni mission parish's catechists had died that day - snake bite.
There is so much more to write. Ugandans are wonderful people. As with all new cultural experiences, I find I sink into the experience. What impacts me today will go unnoticed tomorrow as a new layer of the life here is revealed before my eyes. Thank you for taking the time to read this.
love and peace,
molly
p.s. My sister, Christina, arrived in her community in
MDL
Links:
#1 - On Fr. Tercicio - http://www.worldmission.ph/5June06/Tarcisio%20pazzaglia.htm
#2 and #3 - On the LRA - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord's_Resistance_Army and http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/5157220.stm
#4 - On HIV/AIDS in
#5 - On L’Arche - http://www.larcheerie.org
Sunday, June 20, 2004
India - 2003-2004
In 2003-2004 I was an Ambassadorial Scholar with Rotary International. I spent the year at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. During my time I traveled through the north of India, across Pakistan and to Nepal. What follows are posts from that trip.
Wednesday, May 5, 2004
A Letter from India - May 5, 2004
Dear Friends and Family,
Well, it’s my brother, Devin, who’s here now. This still does not mean the whole family has been here: Patrick and Lisa hold good jobs and have no intention of visiting in my final week in India. Yep, this is my final week. It’s unbelievable to me that I’ll be back in the US so soon. India is not a place one just stops being in. Nor is it a place anyone can really see in a lifetime, certainly not in 10 months.
In my last letter I promised to share a bit about the trip to West Bengal that my sister, Christina, and I went on.
India’s spring festival of love, excitement, childhood and cheer is called Holi. It’s celebrated by evening fires and daytime color. It happened that Christina and my trip coincided with Holi.
She told me her name was Nayna in the limited English the Sisters taught her. The purse probably communicated my lack of intention to stay, though I didn’t want to send such a message. It fell from my shoulder as I attempted to teach her patty cake. Her legs tucked under her, she sat on her bed ladylike with eyes brightly looking up into mine. I wondered if I saw hope in their glow, or if it was just my own need for reassurance. Her toes poked out, round and shiny, beneath her dress. Her bony palms slapped my own, while her fingers, cold and swollen with blue nails, hit my wrists. She’s dainty, enchanting in her smile, four years old and dying. She lives at the Sisters of Charity’s Orphanage in Durgapur about 160 kilometers north of Kolkata1.
Nayna’s room is poorly lit, filled with child-sized hospital beds whose railings raise and lower to ease a caregiver’s task. Four beds are pushed together in an effort to conserve space. The other three children appeared to be boys, but that’s because their heads are shaven. They each lay in a bed, unable to sit up. Christina took interest in one in particular. His arms bent stiffly and collapsed towards his chest accentuating his handicap. Sister told Christina that he has cerebral palsy. His mouth was open in effort and expectation as if about to speak his first words. No word would be spoken. His expression is one of excitement at Christina’s attention.
Already, a week before Holi, pink powder had been thrown at Christina and me through a bus window. Knowing it was all in good fun but without color to return the assault we could only duck from the pink dust.
Without really planning it, but lead by our common interests, Christina and I found ourselves on an expedition to organizations and agencies that work to address needs here in India. Christina, who works with the L’Arche Community (a community of intellectually handicapped people and their caregivers) in Erie, PA, wanted to visit a sister community called Asha Nikitan in Kolkata. My scholarship here in India is through Rotary International, so I was interested to learn of Rotary Projects in the area. Rotary Clubs are all over India. As a Rotary Scholar I have the wonderful luck of being welcomed about anywhere. Amitabha (Amit) Bajpayee is the contact Rotarian I had in the area. Thanks to him we were hosted all along our travels.
The powder is the mildest of the fun. Come Holi Morning, syringe type water shooters and buckets filled with colored water are aimed at every moving target.
Amit belongs to the Rotary Club in Durgapur. He brought us to the Missionaries of Charity Orphanage where Nayna lives. The next day he brought us to the Speech and Hearing Action Society. SAHAS was begun by Mr. and Mrs. Jajodia whose son was born deaf and were told that in India deafness would mean he was also destined to be without speech. The Jajodias were fortunate enough to go to Los Angeles (John Tracey Clinic) where they were trained to teach their child to communicate with the 2% hearing he still had. Today, their son is 16, still deaf, but fluent in both Bengali and English. In addition, through the founding of SAHAS, there are 80+ children whose parents might not have been so fortunate as to go to Los Angeles, but who are learning to communicate in spite their being deaf.
Two little boys, one 4, the other 3, in royal blue shirts and clean faces ran in circles through the doorways that connect the three rooms making up SAHAS’s building. Our serious conversation of the continuing needs of the Center – including a larger building – was repeatedly interrupted by happy shrieks from the boys. I wanted a picture, I thought of just their ordinary play. But the boys’ parents wouldn’t let it be. Pictures are too rare to be wasted on candid play. Each boy stood still for a moment, the small cords of the hearing aids tucked under their collars. They looked at the box between our faces then blinked, startled by the flash. The second boy reached for the camera. Timid that it might flash in his eye again, he cautiously turned it around in his hand and then attempted to look through it himself. I turned it away from his face and lightly tapped the button showing how to make the flash. In an instant he made it flash taking an up-close picture of me.
Holi is a festival to pretend we don’t know any better. Children assault their elders with pink water then tackle their wet hair with yellow dust. Wives take the opportunity to pour purple water over their husbands and husbands smear pasty undiluted die in their hands and rub it all over their wives’ faces. No person, car, dog or even cow gets away without color.
Of the projects we’d come to Durgapur to see, I was most interested in learning about a school that the Rotary Club of Durgapur was running themselves. I had read a bit about it, learning that it rested in an area on the boarder of two districts, each of which believed the village belonged to the other. For this reason neither district took on running the school. Before the Durgapur Rotary built a school, the local people wanted their children to receive an education. They were holding school in the shade of a tree in the hopes of bringing it to the government’s attention.
On our day to visit the school the classes were extended into the late afternoon in order for the children to meet us. The homes around were thatched but the school was brick with four classrooms and three walled pits outback serving as toilets. The school was very poor, cracked blackboards hung on each room wall and insect infested bamboo served as beams. Damage from last year’s monsoon caused the roof of heavy tiles to sag. The children were shy, not accustomed to visitors. Their eyes raised inquisitively while their chins obediently cast themselves down. A few had been taught English rhymes, like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. They proudly recited their rhyme and sat as quickly as they had stood.
Once the children were dismissed, a strong thin father carrying his even thinner four or five year old son arrived. The school building was converted into a simple health clinic. Once a week, a doctor comes from the city to address the health needs of the families in the village. The boy had cerebral palsy, we were told. The doctor explained to us in English the simple (and economical) uses of homeopathic medicines. In the dusty heat, the child clung to his father, trusting his loving efforts would carry him to what good there is to be done.
In Kolkata, the Asha Niketan house had a huge terraced roof, perfect for Holi celebration. There was great excitement in the air as everyone donned their oldest outfit expecting its colorful retirement. We climbed the stairs, some more capable then others. A few bounded up taking the steps two at a time. Others held back, apprehensive to see what the day held. The youngest of the community, Bidhan2, only 10 years old, had the most severe physical disabilities. He could walk only short distances; his legs bent weakly attempting to balance his upper body which was a perpetually in moving "S" shape. Now he clung to the railing, pulling himself up in jolted movement. Christina, who is more instinctively generous than I, quickly knew to lift him slightly, taking some of the weight off his legs allowing him to lift one to the next step. The intimacy and trust was immediate.
Once all of us were on the roof the colors came out. Buckets of purple water were poured on one another. Then yellow and pink dust was smeared on one another’s face, hair and clothes. A puddle of purple formed on the cement rooftop. We cupped the water from the puddle in our hands and threw it at each other again. A short wrestling match took place in the puddle. Bidhan, clinging to the rail of the porch, smiled in the sunlight, unable to throw water himself but covered with color all the same. After the wrestlers relaxed, with the help of others, Bidhan made his way to the purple pool on the ground. Lying on his stomach, he allowed his hands and arms to swim in the water, the air and happiness. There’s bliss.
I fly back to the US on 12 May. Devin will say a couple more weeks and visit Pakistan. Incidentally, when Devin went to the Pakistan Conciliate here in India there were at least three times the number of people applying for visas then there were eight months ago when I stood in that line. The India/Pakistan relations have been improving daily since the ceasefire on Eid, last November.
I look forward to seeing so many of you again. Thank you so very much for all the support you’ve shown in the past 10 months (and before too!). I thank God every time I think of having come here. I wouldn’t have taken the risk of it weren’t for family and friends who supported, believed in and prayed for me. Thank you.
There is no fitting way to stop living in India, nor is there a fitting way to stop writing about it. I don’t say it lives on in me, but that it simply lives on, to be watched, participated in, worried about, born to, threatened by and loved. To have had moments of my life lived here has been an honor and, I hope, an act of peace.
peace and love,
molly
* The Speech and Hearing Action Society is looking for information, diagnostic equipment, hearing aids and other needs for children born deaf. Any connection of techniques or technology would be used well in Durgapur. Please contact me if you have any information that could help children born deaf in India.
1 Calcutta’s name was changed to Kolkata in 2000
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