So I left Uganda.

It was so surreal to be driving away from Kampala towards the airport. I hope I appreciated it enough. And saw enough. And experienced enough.

I went to bed last night doubting if I should stay or go. I felt safe in the house where I was staying, but felt weary about venturing in to the city and up country, which is problematic when the prisons I needed to visit are in up country.

I would have stayed if the people that are most important to me would not have wanted me to leave, but it is impossible to stay in a far away country who just experienced terrorist attacks with no internet and limited phone connectivity when your mom and dad are freaking out at home. And it was not just the attacks, many rumors were flying around about other bombs being found before they had exploded. Suspects were arrested, but it still felt unsafe.
I was scared, so I left.

From Monday...

In the name of positiveness, I have decided to write about a few non-bomb related things that have happened recently.

First and most importantly, dresses. Handmade dresses. Thats right. Plural. I will soon be the owner of three handmade dresses made from beautiful African fabric. I already have two in my possession and am just waiting for the third which will be ready on Monday! Last week, I ventured in to a market and found a small dress shop with a wonderful and kind woman who tailors dresses. So in true 'Merican style, I bought three.

Secondly and not so positively, Charles is lost. We cannot find him. He is supposedly at Luzira Upper Prison, but they tell us that he isn't there. We have no clue. I understand how they lose inmates here, but I do not understand how they allow a system where inmates are lost to continue. Let me take this opportunity to explain to you and even demonstrate to you how I understand the admission and records process of Ugandan Prisons.

Paper. Pencil. Chalkboard. Chalk. That is all you need. When there is a new inmate, you write his name, offense and sentence on a new piece of paper and you put it somewhere. Every day the inmates are counted and the numbers are written on the chalkboard. Simple. So how do you find out where a inmate is? Or if he has been relocated? You go to the prison and ask. Don't bother looking online or calling. You'll need to visit the prison yourself and ask them to either go through the pile of papers or to go around to the wards and yell the inmate's name. Practical.

Third, during dinner the electricity came back on! I admit it, I am dependent. I have not suffered from blackberry withdrawal, I can deal without constant internet access, but a whole weekend is too long. I was starting to suffer from anxiety. It is one thing if I could just easily and afford-ably call the important people in my life, but I can't. I am in AFRICA! Also, I know I said I wasn't posting about the attacks, but venturing in to the city to find an internet cafe is not the best idea. But guess what? Now I can boil water quickly. I can see while I am using the toilet. And I can update my blog! From home in my pajamas! It is a beautiful thing. Oh electricity please please continue to provide me with overhead lighting, hot water, and, most importantly, the internet.

Simplicity.

In the name of positiveness, I have decided to post double today and to write about a few non-bomb related things that have happened recently.

First and most importantly, dresses. Handmade dresses. Thats right. Plural. I will soon be the owner of three handmade dresses made from beautiful African fabric. I already have two in my possession and am just waiting for the third which will be ready on Monday! Last week, I ventured in to a market and found a small dress shop with a wonderful and kind woman who tailors dresses. So in true 'Merican style, I bought three.

Secondly and not so positively, Charles is lost. We cannot find him. He is supposedly at Luzira Upper Prison, but they tell us that he isn't there. We have no clue. I understand how they lose inmates here, but I do not understand how they allow a system where inmates are lost to continue.  Let me take this opportunity to explain to you and even demonstrate to you how I understand the admission and records process of Ugandan Prisons.

Paper. Pencil. Chalkboard. Chalk. That is all you need. When there is a new inmate, you write his name, offense and sentence on a new piece of paper and you put it somewhere. Every day the inmates are counted and the numbers are written on the chalkboard. Simple. So how do you find out where a inmate is? Or if he has been relocated? You go to the prison and ask. Don't bother looking online or calling. You'll need to visit the prison yourself and ask them to either go through the pile of papers or to go around to the wards and yell the inmate's name. Practical.


Third, during dinner the electricity came back on! I admit it, I am dependent. I have not suffered from blackberry withdrawal, I can deal without constant internet access, but a whole weekend is too long. I was starting to suffer from anxiety. It is one thing if I could just easily and afford-ably call the important people in my life, but I can't. I am in AFRICA! Also, I know I said I wasn't posting about the attacks, but venturing in to the city to find an internet cafe is not the best idea. But guess what? Now I can boil water quickly. I can see while I am using the toilet. And I can update my blog! From home in my pajamas! It is a beautiful thing. Oh electricity please please continue to provide me with overhead lighting, hot water, and, most importantly, the internet.

last night...

Last night, I walked down the same hill I have walked down everyday since I have arrived in Kampala. I walked with Bea and Jonathan, two constants in my life here. We walked to same bar I have watched every world cup game I have been interested in. I drank a Bell beer Chatted with the waitress who adores me. Smiled at the Ugandans' enthusiasm for football. We watched a messy, yet entertaining game of football and then climber the same hill home.

The electricity at the house has been out all weekend, which is a good enough reason to go straight to bed. I awoke to a knock on my door at 7am like I do every weekday. I answered it, flipped the switch to see that the electricity was still not working. This was a good enough reason for me to crawl back in to bad. I awoke just before nine and was greeted with the news of the bombings.

My first thought was to call my mom. My phone had been off to conserve power so I had received no panicky phone calls from my parents or friends. I immediately called her and could hear the relief in her voice when she answered the phone. I instructed her to call my dad and the Clinton School to let them know I was okay.

I knew I needed to check my email and Facebook to let everyone know I was okay. I knew you'd be worried. But I was a bit anxious about leaving the cozy confines of the APP house. But here I am at an internet cafe in the city center.

It feels as though 64 people did not lose their lives last night in a terrorist attack during an event which was suppose to be celebratory. The matatus still rule the road and I am still called Muzungu. I will still go to Western Uganda tomorrow to complete my last prison visits in Uganda. And I will still be leaving next week.

Yet I am a bit shaken. I have never lived in a city which has been attacked. Ugandans have seen worse, alot worse, and therefore I somehow understand their lack of panic.

Dear Ben and Mark,

It is really fun to write a blog post to both of you because I know you will never read it.

But I just wanted to let you know that every time I see "entry 2" underneath your blog title on someone else's blog list I laugh.

Way to "try" and keep a blog. And yes I know, "Ethiopia won't let you access blogs..."

Love,
Julie

"Have you seen darkness?"

Jonathan asked me that question on the way to "up country" on Monday. We had set out for western Uganda with the objective of visiting four or five prisons. Jonathan is now my research assistant for the remainder of my time in Uganda. He also happens to be from western  Uganda, which was a plus for both of us. It was a plus for me because he knows the area well, along with the local language. It was a plus for both of us because we got to visit his family in his village.

Jonathan's mother and one of his brothers lives in a village outside of a small town or trading center called Lyantonde. They live on a small plot of land that is covered in matoke (banana) trees, avocado trees, coffee plants, tomato vines, and ground nut plants. They live off the land.

Lets just say that his mother and I were amazed by each other. I doubt we could have been much different. The only thing we have in common is our common gender. She is elegantly elderly. In her sixties. She has had nine children. Lost her husband in political conflict. She speaks a language that no one outside of western Uganda knows of or uses. Has lived in a village all her life and does not know how to use a cell phone. She maintains her home singlehandedly by hand. She washes and cooks and farms and peels and sweeps and builds by hand. (I watched her cut the peel off of a bowl full of bananas and could not help but wonder how many hundreds or thousands of bananas she has peeled in her lifetime.)

She muttered "momo" for the first 20 minutes after my arrival, the expression of shock and awe in her language. She asked if my hair would gray with age. I suppose, she was awestruck by its color and texture. And she wondered if my skin was too delicate to use a sponge. She was amazed that I was willing to carry bananas on my head and help load our vehicle with produce to take to town. She mocked my loud American laugh. She did not think I would eat the matoke or beans or ground nuts she offered, but I did and enjoyed them. She giggled when she heard I was 23 and still single and without children.

We could not speak to each other, but she continued to speak to me. Even when Jonathan wasn't around to translate. It must be something that comes with motherhood. She needed to tell me things, my guess is that she wanted to tell me what she thought of me. She would just look at me, and talk for awhile, then smile and laugh. Sometimes it was followed by a hug or a touch on my hand.

We spent Monday night in the village. It was truly dark. I have seen beautiful stars sitting along lakes in Wisconsin and from the hills of Arkansas. But looking at stars from a village miles away from spotlights and cars and cities in Africa is not comparable to stars seen in the most rural of rural Africa. It was darkness at its best, not scary but beautiful and calm.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

I will be boarding a plane for the United States exactly three weeks from today. It is odd to feel like I am going home soon. I have mixed feelings about it.

I am excited. I have missed my friends and family so much. I studied abroad my junior year in college. I was away from home for much longer than 10 weeks, but being in Greece for a semester was an escape from my life in the US. But lets be real, I had nothing to escape from in the US this summer. I truly enjoyed my first year at the Clinton School and feel as though I have met some of my best friends. Who knew I would be excited to return to Little Rock, Arkansas?

I am anxious. For many reasons. I feel like I have been gone for ages. And that I have somehow changed. I have adjusted to Uganda. To Ugandans. To the people I work with and for. It is odd to think that I will have to adjust to my home and my family and best friends.  I am also anxious about my project. I worry that I haven't done enough or that it won't make an impact on this organization that has so much potential. I am sure it is due to fear of failure, but still.

I am sad. I am just starting to feel at home here and now I have to leave. Really. But I suppose most things work this way. You get really good at navigating campus and you graduate. You figure out how to be the best at your job and you are promoted. You realize the value in Social Change class and the semester is over.

I am sentimental. I have decided to make a conscious effort to appreciate the little things that I love about Kampala. The dried jonja (banana) chips. The lingering handshakes. The way they say I look "smart" instead of "nice" or "pretty". The misspelled words on signs that never fail to put a smile on my face. Ugandans' obsession with Obama. The fact that due to my skin tone and alien-like qualities I have the ability to put a smile on a child's face just by waving or saying hello.

I am hopeful. I will miss my access to prisons. They somehow make me hopeful. Hopeful that I have learned of possibilities in prisons. Hopeful for humankind because if mothers can raise children, if inmates can create beautiful things, and if prisoners can praise and preach inside of prison then those of us on the outside should be just as capable if not more.

Mission: Find Charles

I went to Mulago Hospital two days ago to check on Robert and Charles. Robert was there, patiently awaiting our arrival which meant a nice cleaning and a meal.

But Charles' bed was empty. My heart sank. I knew this did not mean he was off getting care, I knew this meant he was discharged. Discharged although he has three skull fractures.

So Jonathan and I are going on a wild goose chase to find him. This will be an adventure. Old Kampala Police Station here we come.

"Today you are African."

That is right folks. And they were talking to me.Super pale and blonde me.

So he might have been a tad intoxicated and overly enthusiastic about the Ghana World Cup game, but still. He told me that I was African. Although I am still mourning the loss of the United States in the World Cup, it was amazing to watch Ghana play tonight in the quarter finals.

It was amazing due to the Ugandan fans of the Ghana team. The Ugandans continuously referred to the Ghanians as "we".

Lets talk about how far away and how different Ghana and Uganda are.

I was planning on telling you how many miles Ghana and Uganda are away from each other, but Google Maps cannot calculate directions between the two capitals of Accra and Kampala. So I do not know. But I do know that they are far.

East Africa and West Africa are not only many miles away, but their cultures, histories, and languages can barely be compared. Most Ugandans will never reach Ghana and most Ghanians will never reach Uganda. Superficially, the only thing that unites them is the color of their skin and the continent they share. Yet all night Ugandans referred  to Ghanians as their brother and fellow African.

I guarantee Americans would not cheer for Mexico or Canada over a European or South American team because they share a continent. So Africans must share something that Americans do not share with our neighbors to the south and north. Something greater than complexion. If I had to guess, it would be respect. Respect built from similar struggles, struggles only understood by Africans.

The Ugandan fans tonight continually said "This is our only chance!" and "If God is African we will win tonight.". Yes, they were merely drunken cheers at a bar in Kampala, but those chants united individuals across an entire continent. A continent proud of the Ghana team regardless of win or loss tonight.

I now believe that it means more to be an African, than to be a member of any country, even a member of the United States.

Finally.

I finally feel comfortable here. I think it is a good thing, but I suppose could also be bad if I feel too comfortable.

For the last month, I have felt like a tourist. Always lost, always being stared at, always having difficulties truly communicating beyond "hello" and "how are you?" with Ugandans.

But I think I get it. I now know how to make Ugandans laugh. They understand my now slower English. I can barter with the rest of them. I traveled alone to three meetings today. And I am having a dress handmade! It is an amazing feeling.

The day I gave a sermon.

Yeah that's right, I gave a sermon. Take a second. Breathe. Pick your jaws off the floor.

I grew up in a very white Episcopalian Church with a very elderly congregation in Central Illinois, it wasn't exactly fun to go to church. This morning myself, the executive director of APP, and his friend were invited to a service at the condemned section (death row) of Luzira Upper Prison. The service was amazing and very fun.

But try to imagine this. Church in prison. Not just that, but in death row. In Uganda. And not to be stereotypical, but these folks aren't just black, they are African. They can dance. And sing. And play the drums. And they know how to praise the Lord!

It is also worth saying that Ugandans are very religious people. Christianity is by far the most popular religion and religion is taken very seriously. With that being said, when one enters prison, or in this case death row, inmates cling to what remains, and for most, that is their religion.

And although I am not religious, the service was moving because I knew it truly meant something to the people in my presence. They weren't there because going to church is the "right" or "proper" or "moral" thing to do, they went to church because they continue to have faith when there are not many reasons to maintain it. They go to church because the pastor is one of the few people who continue to care for them. Church and God has become their salvation.

Going in to the church service I did not know what to expect, besides the fact that I would most likely be asked to say a few words. (Ugandans love speeches.) I prepared myself the night before because I did not feel comfortable reading from the Bible and speaking of God, so I brought the book of poems that David Montieth gave me.

I read a poem that reflected what I have learned in Uganda and Ugandan prisons. I think it went well, that is with the inmates, they were just pleased to listen to a new face from the outside speak to them. It didn't go over so well with the pastor. He later told me that he thought my sermon was missing something. (God) And I told him the truth. He didn't like the truth that much and blamed my whiteness and Americans' love of material things over godly things.

Oh well, you can't win every battle.