The rock bottom for women and girls

“The status of women in the DRC is rock bottom,” a diplomat said to me. “It is truly, devastatingly worse here than anywhere else in the world.” She elucidated her comments with anecdote after anecdote of just how bad women have it. A recent study found that women work on average 17 hours a day and men work 7. This sounds not unlike elsewhere, where women work and take care of families, but the work here is hard; hard labor hard. Women carry backbreaking loads of goods and children, they toil in the fields under the blistering equatorial sun that splits stones and they are beaten by their husbands for not working hard enough. The diplomat also revealed the clueless, hapless world of the international community that cannot produce much evidence of  meaningful impact. Perhaps she was having a bad day. But I worry she wasn't.

This meeting reminded me where I am. The farce of capital city comfort almost got me. There were lots of discussions of issues in the abstract today, with mindless droning of some shameful UN agencies. “We issued an annual report on gender blah blah blah.” I’ve assuaged my guilt over comfort on this trip with reminders of the dues I’ve paid in Gulu and Juba and elsewhere. I may even still let myself off the hook a little bit. It’s ok that not every field trip I take consists of propelling myself on shoddy, crappy airplanes to the arse-end of nowhere to get up close and personal with human suffering.

But perhaps I can do better. When I returned to the office this evening, I made it my mission to tweak my agenda slightly. “Can we ask some of these groups if it would be possible to meet with their beneficiaries?” I worried a bit about overstepping the hospitality of my colleagues, but I suppressed my fretting. This was my shot to speak to a few women and girls here in Kinshasa who suffer the world’s worst poverty and inequity. Their world cannot be substituted by visits to refugee camps in Yei or secondary schools in Pader. I must meet women here.

I also met the Minister of Gender today. She was a fabulous woman who towered over me, dressed to the 9s in an exquisitely tailored dress. I didn’t have high expectations of the meeting, because many leaders here are unabashed patrons of power. However, she gave me some hope. She outlined her priorities and chief among them was to get out into the local communities. Programming at national or even provincial level was not enough. We needed to get to the mango tree.

As always, the mango tree is my touchstone. It propels me and engages my sense of what is responsible development programming. Although I may not bump up and down on roads thousands of kilometers from nowhere on this trip, I think I can do better. I must try.

Ali Boom ba yay!

Well, I made it to Kinshasa. Piece of cake! The airport was not that scary. One a scale of 1 to Juba, I give it a 5.5. Heck, if they hadn't asked for my immunization card, I'd probably even give it higher marks.

My first day was a flurry of meetings where I floated in and out of jetlagged consciousness. I was doing that embarrassing dozing head bob in the car between meetings...

Today after what felt like 17 hours of sleep I feel much better. My IFES minder, Bernadette (chosen because she speaks the best English) picked me up and took me to the market. We went to buy fabric. I know I know,  I'm addicted. But how can one not buy fabric ("liputa" in Lingala) when one is in the heart of Africa?

Speaking of the heart of Africa or Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, I visited the shores of the Congo River after the market. This river is lesser known than the Nile, but it is infamous because of Conrad and of course the Belgians. It is wide and fast moving and I cannot imagine the crazy places to which it leads.

Admittedly it is a bit hard to reconcile the DRC I am experiencing with the one rated by the UN's Human Development Index as dead last in the world. I knew that coming over. There is often talk among development folk of being stuck in capital cities and not seeing the "real" Africa. It is true, but I'm relatively ok with that for this trip. I have paid my dues bumping up and down on God-awful roads to hold meetings under mango trees.

For now I'm focused less on getting to know Africa (we're pretty acquainted...) and more on figuring out my new job. This trip will help.

Ok, maybe writing this while devouring a "Salada Nicoise" overlooking an Olympic size swimming pool is a bit ridiculous. (There is actually a water aerobics class being taught and not one Congolese among the students.) Ahem.

But it's Saturday and the rest of the week promised to be busy with meetings to help me figure out how and where to break in with gender programming here; programming that reaches the mango tree...

The hurricane and the Hubers

In an effort to preserve some moments of Huber history I feel the need to write down a few reflections from the last few weeks.

My grandmother, Alberta huber, died two weeks ago. She was 95. She was ready to meet her maker and for the most part we were ok with it. I was amazed by my Aunt Beth who took on the lion share of caring for Nana, and at the end kept a near constant vigil as I for one traipsed off to Libya. From giving her gold medals to opening windows my Aunt tried to help Alberta go with peace and grace, and she finally did. Her funeral was a celebration and not too emotional except my brother's occasional outburst or my aunt's sweet sniffles. I was only overcome once and that was when I was presented with her engagement ring. It seemed too extravagant a gift and I did not feel worthy.

Then my parents drove down for "meet the parents" weekend. This deserves a blog in and of itself but suffice it to say it went well. The Aaronson and Huber clans did well.

My parents scurried off on Sunday to beat out the hurricane which was expected to devastate the eastern seaboard. In DC we worried but the storm mostly spared us. New York and New Jersey were not spared. The history of Sandy is well documented and awful. 

My house on the Highlands was spared because it was indeed on high lands. The town was wiped out. 1,200 of the 1,500 houses in downtown Highlands will be bull dozed.

My parents had no structural damage but lost power and as of this entry still don't have it. They claim it's not so bad. They have a gas stove and a fireplace and plenty of wood. They have the camaraderie of their great neighbors. Each night of the early days hosting communal grilling parties and drinking into the wee hours.

 

Four days after the storm it was clear that my dad was finally going to have to put down his beloved dog Maggie. Just a week after my grandmother passed, Maggie did too. She went with  my parents in the room reassuring her and weeping. It's too much.

 A few days afterwards my parents are trying to rebound. My dad is back to work but exhausted. My mom called the mayor's office. They were kind but that was all. So they wait for power and the Jersey shore reels in its destruction.

We are lucky of course but it is never easy. I'm amazed that they have stuck it out. We tend to dwell on our Huber crazy, with the often quoted adage "Sell crazy somewhere else. We're all stocked up here." But perhaps we should give a little more time and credit to the incredible strength of this family. I am amazed.

Live Presidents

On Saturday Hayden and I went to a campaign rally for Obama in Bristow, VA. With just 3 days til the 2012 presidential election, I was excited to finally have a chance to see president Obama speak in person. As a bonus, Bill Clinton introduced him. Also there was Tim Kaine, former governor and current senate candidate and slightly oddly, Dave Matthews.

Dave sang a few songs which were forgettable save his incredible voice. Tim came out and if I were being honest he cast a bit of a "they made me run" vibe.

Then Bill. Oh Bill! He was hoarse as hell from trotting across the country campaigning like crazy. Even without a voice, the man could talk. In hindsight and reflecting on both men's styles, Clinton speaks like you are sitting next to him at a picnic, both of you munching on BBQ ribs shooting the shit. In a hoarse but pronounced southern draw he declared "when I was a little boy my grandmother  told me not to get caught with my hands in the cookie jar. Mitt Romney not only gets caught (pause to chuckle to himself) with his hand in the cookie jar, but he digs it in farther desperately seeking more cookies." Woo hoo! He had the crowd in his palm. All of us in the freezing cold Virginia night loved Bill Clinton.

Then the big moment...even though people say Clinton is a tough act to follow, actually waiting for a glimpse of Obama was bigger. He literally sprinted onto the stage and everyone went nuts. He had an uncharacteristically frenzied and infectious bound to him as he approached the mic. Maybe I was inadvertently swept into the moment because he entered to U2's song "City of Blinding Lights." 

He gave a speech that was at once different and complementary to Clinton's. To Clinton's folksiness, Obama offered the unmistakable air of a sitting president. He preached to us like he understood his job is to tend to us in the thousands. It was not intimate, but it was awesome. He boomed his familiar campaign speech across the outdoor amphitheater. Though familiar it felt invigorated. Perhaps it was the final days of the campaign. He used a new talking point about being merely a prop in this great campaign that he said was up to us. He reiterated the promise to work for all and that it was an American imperative to support each other. My God, how could the other side not agree with this?! He captivated us with his preaching. We were truly his lambs.

We had to drive an hour outside of DC. We then had to wait in a line for two hours that snaked through a seemingly endless parking lot where the temperature dipped into the low 40s. At one stage in the line I joked to Hayden that Obama was losing votes with such inhumane conditions.

All was forgotten as the sense of history superseded petty complaints. It was Obama's history, on the eve of a victory that seemed impossible to halt (indeed he was victorious). And it was my history too, because I knew standing in the cold, in my platform boots, leaning on Hayden for warmth that I would remember this moment for the rest of my life. This was the moment I finally heard Obama speak and Clinton too. And it was awesome.

A few tastes of Tripoli

It would be remiss of me not to blog about food in Tripoli. Suffice it to say that I ate well. The food is influenced by Italian/Mediterranean and Middle Eastern. Last night I ate at a restaurant so swank we were greeted by a Maitre'd in a tux. There was amuse-bouche of goat's cheese and olives served and my Fettuccine Di Mare had an identifiable but exquisite fish in it that was to die for. As we walked back to the car we spotted a sweet shop which of course was chock full of baklava-type treats. To-die-for.

Of course it was predominately five star hotel-based eating for me on this trip..for security reasons naturally. I did manage to sneak away for a nice Turkish meal. I did also noticed that we were always the first to arrive at a restaurant. Libyans, like their Mediterranean cousins eat late. They were usually coming while we were going.

I must make special mention of the divine fresh juice I had at every place I dined at. Amazing from the kiwi smoothie brought to me at check in to the fresh unsweetened lemon juice to the tripoli speciality: the cocktail, a artfully layered with fresh mango, strawberry and kiwi in a bright swirl of colors.

 As I rushed to the airport, I managed one last meal of Libyan soup, which was like a Minestrone, except with chick peas instead of pasta. Good stuff.

Shop til you drop - Tripoli souk edition

When I travel for work, I always try to go shopping. I can't help it. I have the girl gene for shopping. So when I met a young Tunisian human rights activist here in Tripoli, I asked her (after much serious conversation about women's rights) if she would take me to the souk.

Assuming it was for practical reasons, Maha and her Libyan friend Munira, picked me up at my hotel and took me to the souk, a.k.a., the Marks & Spencer-like shopping mall. I tried to humor them for a bit, but looking at gaudy Turkish imports of lingerie and bedding was not exactly what I had in mind.

So I called my colleague Halima, who had earlier given me the scoop on Libyan handicrafts, and asked her to explain in Arabic what I meant by shopping. She did and off we went to the main Souk in Old City. As we pulled up in the taxi, the taxi driver burst out laughing and mentioned that this was the site of Gadaffi's last speech, where he promised victory, etc. etc.

Great...

Anyway, a little on edge with that comment, plus being uncovered and seeing lots of police around, my shopping gene fended off my chicken shit gene and I surged toward the souk.

It turns out that Maha had quite a lot of shopping to do herself and I felt relieved that I wasn't dragging these ladies here. She bought a ton of stuff for her house. And Munira was browsing as well. Methinks the shopping gene is universal!

After picking up a trinket or two just to say: "I bought these in Libya," we wandered out of the market and over to a scenic area with a water fountain and a castle-like structure - probably the old walled city - and took some pictures. Munira went off to her next appointment after I thanked her with a ton of "shukrans."

Maha and I waited for the driver to take me to my next meeting. We talked about Tunisia and activism and I promised to help her network with some people coming to Tripoli next month. Faraj, the driver turned up, and Maha launched into what I thought were directions, but soon they were laughing and chatting. She's electric and accessible to everyone. She looped me into the convo too - happily translating back and forth and giggling with us both.

Who's 'Cray Cray'?

I just had a scan of yahoo.com, which I continue to hold as the bell weather of what America is really thinking. It turns out America is crazy. Here is a sampling of headlines:

“Druglord’s daughter to give birth in the US”

“3 dead and 3 wounded in Ohio Apartment Shooting”

“Walmart moms give narrow edge to Obama”

Oh the commentary I have on each one of these gems.

So I’m trying to figure out why Libya crazy feels different and restrictive even. Is it cultural? Yes, definitely. Despite being a self-proclaimed anthropological gender specialist, I giggled and took a picture of an Abaya shop today. The Arab perspective on women is very challenging for a Western mind. But before I go getting all judgmental, I must admit it’s not all bad news. Women are pioneers in Libya too. Is it political? Well, having been here for a bit, the answer might be yes, but the jury is still out on what political space will look like here. It seems to be trending Islamist, but many are quick to point out that this does not mean extremists will take over.

Or, do Americans have too much freedom? Of course there’s no such thing, but when I click on OMG website (yes, I chose to do that) and see the headline “Honey Boo Boo is Cray Cray in LA,” I can’t help but think that maybe there is a limit and that limit might be televising obese child beauty queens. But it does seem that American freedom is where I tend to hitch big differences to when I travel. It is a wonderful difference that, ok, sometimes we don’t use to the best of our potential. But I feel truly able to say (almost) anything and do anything within the (mostly) fair rule of law.

Maybe to save myself from liberal and anthropological guilt, I can also say that I maximize my American freedom, because it is familiar to me. It is my culture (except for the beauty brat). Navigating rights in Libya or other foreign places is not easy for an outsider. Indeed, contrary to popular belief and political opportunists, it’s a party here right now in Libya, especially compared to the previous regime hosted by the O.G. evil dictator. There is much talk about “liberation,” and the women I talk to are excited about opportunities more so than concerned about challenges.

Is freedom in the eye of the beholder? No, I think we must hold the Universal Declaration of Human Rights as the standard for all of humanity. But how those rights are made available to and embraced by different nations, classes and ethnicities is crucial to their success.

Cautious Pioneers

Yesterday I met a ton of fantastic women. This shouldn’t be a surprise given that this is what I’m here to do. However, at first glance Libya, like many conservative Muslim countries, doesn’t seem like the place you will meet impressive women. Not many are spotted on the streets. The ones who do venture out do so completely covered and usually with an escort. At night, more crickets than women are spotted…

I went to the Libyan General National Congress yesterday to meet some of the women who were elected. We drove up to the impressive pre-Gaddafi's demise structure that was built to lavishly host African Union leaders with plush couches, gilded mirrors and opulent chandeliers. Apparently only one section in the back was damaged during the liberation of Tripoli, because a few of Gaddafi’s hardliner (and ill-fated) guards hid out there for a fleeting moment. The rest stands perfectly preserved. With some hesitance, the new Libyan government is taking up residence.

In what seems to be a constant theme in Libya right now of “opposite-world,” I met with the first elected women leaders in Libya’s history. In the extraordinary aftermath of “liberation,” a history teacher, a chemistry teacher, and a couple of housewives now run the country. How does a housewife in a conservative culture get elected? I’m still not sure of the answer. The conversation could have gone better. They are warm and eager, but they needed help. Not monetary support, but rather skills support. They are pioneers sure, but they’re not exactly celebrating their status as the first elected women in Libya. They are not treated badly by their colleagues or husbands, but they are frozen in terror of their actual tasks at hand. Libya’s inventing democracy. Right now. It has never been present and it is alien. Their concerns were not “how do we codify women’s rights?” “how do we make sure women have access to healthcare?” “how can we make sure women in rural areas gain skills?”

Instead, they needed help making decisions. “We’re afraid. We don’t understand legal issues. We are not lawyers. The men are confused too. We need help doing our jobs.”

Hmm, not exactly the women’s issues I was expecting to tackle. At the end of the meeting, one of the housewives made a beeline for Halima, our Libyan-American staffer. She asked her for a recommendation for a babysitter. Halima was floored. She could not imagine these very important, pioneering women so fixated on ordinary issues. We launched into quite a conversation afterwards about how to encourage and support these women. We also realized that before we get issue platforms together, there are a whole host of “government 101” tasks at immediate hand.

Tripoli Tales

“Are you a Muslim?” a teenaged girl asked with exclamation, while giggling and elbowing her friend.

I explained that I was just visiting. I can’t describe the friendly eagerness on her face. At once I felt out of place not for not being Muslim, but because I can’t remember the last time I felt the youthful exuberant energy this girl was projecting. She was like the Sun.

Today I had my first set of meetings to discuss women’s issues in Libya. I got a pretty good glimpse of the challenges to women’s participation that exist. For example, while there are more women in University than men, most women graduate and get married and never work, because that is the cultural expectation.

As I try to digest these opportunities and challenges for my job, my mind drifts to personal interactions I had today. The young girl stood out. Also, my guide for the week, Halima, who is a lovely woman born and raised in Virginia of Libyan parents. She returned to live here about 6 years ago. She told me her story of living through the “liberation of Tripoli.” She told me that she convinced her 8 year old child during a visit to the hospital 3 days before the liberation that the bloodied soldiers being carried in where actors in a movie. He bought it, since he’s a Sylvester Stallone fan. She said her children cheered with each precision bomb dropped by NATO. It sounded like a scene from Life is Beautiful.

 

We drove past the beautiful Mediterranean Sea, whose brilliant unique color blue does not judge if it laps at the shores of Libya or Italy. The only sadness is that there is nothing, NOTHING built up on the waterfront. The real estate mogul in me says “buy now in Tripoli!”

An exciting moment came when I got back to my hotel room. As I always do when I visit a Muslim country, I studied and studied and studied the covered women today. I figure the skill to perform the perfect head wrap is genetically predisposed in Muslim women. I’ve never been able to do it. But every time I try, I discover a new trick. So when I visited the Islamic Cultural center today I was at least a step ahead of my colleague who could not keep her scarf on her head. Mine was static (which was good, because it’s humid here and covering the hair is a good thing.) Anyway, I caught something about the wrap today – an extra loopdee loop that I had not tried before and I think I’m now pretty darn close to the perfect wrap. I’ll never tell now that I know the secret!

 

 

Nervous Nelly goes to Libya

It seems that Jess in HD is going to be a travel blog and although I did not blog from New Mexico or Cape May, I'm getting back on the board this week from Tripoli, Libya.

My first impressions begin in Frankfurt. With the exception of one very German looking guy munching casually on a sandwich while browsing the newspaper, everyone looks a bit skiddish. I was expecting to be awkwardly juxtaposed with a bunch of bad ass security dudes, but unless they are all Libyan families, I don't see anyone remotely resembling Russell Crowe. The women I see are completely covered. Shit. I gaze sheepishly down at my sloppy jeans and neon green sneakers and wonder how I can still find myself in such an amateurish predicament.

My mind is preoccupied by the following:
- I hate flying
- Especially to Libya
- I hate new routines (IAD-FRA-TRI)
- The Nats lost :( but at least the Yankees clinched
- really, Libya?
- And finally, wow, I really blew it on the dress code.

It turns out I probably should have been a little more focused on my visa situation. I did not get a visa before I left and all I possessed was a letter written in Arabic alledgedly saying that I could pick one up at the airport upon arrival. I went up to the NON-NATIONALS sign and found a mean looking young agent smoking a cigarette (everyone was smoking and working - so weird.)

He gruffly gestered that I needed to go over to a counter to my right, with big windows and small awkward openings to shout into (in English, useless). About 8 Libyan men are behing the screen. One of them grabs my passport and the letter and says "Take Seat Take Seat." I look left then right. No seats. He insists so I leave my passport and walk about 15 feet away to a bench.

I had been prepared for this, sort of. After about 15 minutes he came back with a receipt and told me to go get some Libyan dinar. To do this, I had to walk down a long hall way, down 2 flights of stairs, past baggage claim (hoping my bags were there), through exit security (what's up with exit security??) Just when I realized I would have to exit the airport without my passport and luggage I heard my name. Liz, my colleague who I had already met, was there with money. I embraced her, grabbed the cash, wound my way back through to my friend at immigration (no one stopped me) and got my passport and luggage.

The ride in was interesting. As one always does, I tried to callibrate what city Tripoli was most like. I was surprised that is was much more like a developing country than I was expecting. I'm going with somewhere in between Khartoum and Cairo.  There is evidence of war as we got closer to the small downtown. I saw a huge demolished compound and exclaimed "Wow, what was that?" "That," Liz said, "was Qaddafi's compound." "THE compound?!" "Yep!" Apparently you can now take tours of it...let's see if we can work that in.

A few other noticable damaged buildings. Some great murals (I took a couple of pictures, but haven't figured out how to transfer them to the computer yet.) We pulled up to the super swanky Raddison Hotel. I sipped my crushed Kiwi juice while waiting for my key. Gym, spa, etc etc. My room actually looks out onto the Meditterrean Sea.

I had suspected this wouldn't be a South Sudan style trip. This much is true. What's next? Not sure.

Oh, one more note before I pass out. I do not feel afraid here. There doesn't seem to be tension in the air. It seems like a normal hustling bustling city. That anxiety, at least, is put aside for now.

Call, interrupted

I’m going to try to write this without committing blasphemy, but it may not be possible. I got the giggles during the call to prayer the other night. The Muezzin had started his call and suddenly there was a huge amount of feedback. Anyone who has been in a Muslim country knows how loud the call to prayer is. The speakers used by Mosques must be better than Bose. The amplifiers in Mosques must be the envy of rockstars around the world. The call to prayer is LOUD. So you can imagine how loud the feedback was. I’m pretty sure it shattered windows.

Anyway, I got the giggles, because the Muezzin of course did not give up. After all, it was the call to prayer, the evening “salat”. He’d start with the familiar, “Allah Akbar,” and then there was something like a mini-explosion, then feedback and then the very familiar sound of fumbling with the mic. You can just imagine the scene…panic that the window for salat was closing and this call would have to be skipped. He kept trying though and twice the power went out. The force of the amp was so great it took out what could have been about 10 city blocks.

Giggling to myself locked away in the ARC guest house (perhaps entertainment came a bit cheaply given my isolation), I thought, “TIA (this is Africa.)” Only in Africa and never in the Middle East would the salat be thwarted by technical difficulties. Only in Africa and never in the Middle East would the most reflective time of day be interrupted by a willful struggle to right this malfunction. Only in Africa…

Point, Khartoum

Actually it's two points that get Khartoum out of the red in my book.

The first is www.goodhairdaysgalore.com! The arid bone dry air of Khartoum has given me GREAT hair days. I barely have to put any product in. I do none of my usual tugging and pulling to get my curls to ease their clench a bit so that I don't look like a cupie doll or a Q tip.

Psychologically, and this is no joke, it's been a real load off not stressing about my hair. I am far too consumed I know, but it's a true source of daily stress and it's gone. In its stead is an obsession with looking in the mirror and marveling at how effortless the curls fall exactly as I've always wanted: just below my shoulders in near perfect spirals. None of the "f" word (frizz, shhh!) See exhibits below.

The other victory is in the food category. Khartoum draws its food influence far more from its Arabness than its Africaness. I've had lovely fresh baked bread every day and fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, yogurt and olives. There is this salty cream cheese that I got from the little shop down the street that is to die for.

The restaurants here don't win for esthetics, but the food has been good. I ate at GAD the other night and had very tasty grilled chicken (and given my current obsession with finding chicken that doesn't suck, it was an extra delight.) There was lots of babaganosh, hummus and fresh parsley salads. At the ex pat place, Solitaire, they have this lemon mint juice slurpy thing that is out of this world. And for some reason that makes no sense to me, they give you free desserts - I had a piece of cheese cake and a kiwi custard and chocolate tart.

At home, I have a good enough kitchen and cook fresh eggplant. Tonight I will cook my sweet potato stirfry because I have all the ingredients. And some how the cucumber yogurt salad tastes better in the Arab world.

I should have left my granola bars at home. Nice work, KRT, nice work.

KRT: The obstructionist zone

This place put the frustration in frustration. I told Jeanne it was like a lackadaisical Venus fly trap. 

The dream of traveling to Darfur is looking dim. Wait a minute, I don’t even really want to go to Darfur. I mean, professionally and programatically I do – there is a very cool project we are trying to start in Gereida. We are going to try and create communication and dialogue channels between pastrolists and farmers. We going to build markets and peace! Well, actually the town got sacked by rebels the day before I arrived, so it turns out we’re not going to do shit.

http://www.sudantribune.com/South-Darfur-town-falls-to-rebel,42535

On top of that, apparently my visa says "Khartoum only," despite me applying to go to Darfur, so it's unlikely my travel will be approved. Oh, and they changed the procedure for travel permits the day I arrived. And then again the next day. Listening to our administrative staff makes things clear as muck. In addition to the dizzying obstructionist bureaucracy, everyone's from a different country so there are thick accents, competing languages, etc. No steps forward, 42 steps back.

This is my Khartoum face:

Arrival Khartoum

Firstly, it’s friggin hot. Africa hot hot Mr. Bigglesworth. It’s 43 degrees C today – that’s a wopping 112F. But it’s ok, because there’s air condition. Oh, and the other good news is that on a scale of Juba to 10, the Khartoum airport is a solid 7.5. None of the crazy of Juba airport. The Sudanese scrum is not there. 

I get why Juba is so petulant. It has none of the infrastrure of this place. Khartoum is fairly modern, power grid. Also the food is pretty good – very Arab influence, so lots of good bread, olives and feta.

I arrived at the ARC office/guest house, which is a four story building with 24 hour electricity and most importantly, air conditioning. Seriously, I would not survive without it. I just washed some dishes with burning hot water that came out of the cold tap.

 

Making peace with Kony 2012

My initial reaction to Kony 2012 is full of typical criticisms already much analyzed and supported by friends and colleagues:

1.      It’s a neo-colonial, white father approach to Africa that astounds in its ability to arrogantly supplant indigenous solutions.

2.      It’s full of self-serving inaccuracies. (Incidentally the inaccuracy most irksome to Ugandans seems to be the geographical misrepresentation of Uganda in Central Africa. It’s minor in terms of LRA atrocities, but for a prideful Uganda set to lead the East African Community, it is an unforgivable gaffe.)

3.      It’s 30,000ft fluff that evaporates before it reaches people recovering or still suffering from the conflict.

While I cringe at the attention the makers of the video have earned, it is starting to dawn on me that this peaked attention could be directed to the many effective, responsible efforts already in place.

I think of Archbishop Odama, Bishop Ochola and the Acholi Religious Leaders Peace Initiative who first brought this to the world when they spent the night in the Gulu bus park. They raised awareness about the night commuter children who slept huddled in bus parks and other places in town up until around 2006, hoping that their concentric circles of little defenseless bodies would somehow protect them from being snatched up in the night by the vicious Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA).

I think of the Paramount Chief, Betty Bigombe and the other Acholi leaders who schlepped over and over again into various precarious bush settings to coax out the LRA commander, Joseph Kony himself, and his other commanders. They could not give up, because they peered over Kony's shoulder and into the eyes of the hordes of children surrounding this man who had been violently abducted from their people. Although these efforts were blunted in 2008 perhaps forever, they continue to look for ways to talk the LRA into peace.

I think of the opposition political heroes, such as my friends Member of Parliament Betty Achan and Presidential candidate Norbert Mao, who literally risk their lives protesting the continuing marginalization policies of the Government of Uganda.

I think of the incredibly vibrant Ugandan civil society, with inspiring organizations like the Justice and Reconciliation Project , Concerned Parents Association, Christian Counseling Fellowship, UMECS Uganda and many others.

I think of individual heroes of this conflict, like my friends Agnes Ocitti, Charles Komekech, Alice Achan, Mike Otim, George Odoki and so many many others who died or continue to fight for peace and justice regardless of their own painful experiences of conflict.

I think of UN Security Council resolution 1653 and 1663. The great impenetrable UN managed to do the right thing on this conflict with the help of a few friends from Canada, the UK, OCHA, UN DPA and international NGOs like the Quaker UN Office, Oxfam International, Save the Children, Caritas Internationalis and many others.

I think of the powerful and attentive research of Erin Baines, Ledo Cakaj, Marieke Wierda and Ron Atkinson.

I think of the many international efforts on the ground to support the recover from conflict in northern Uganda: Stability Peace and Reconciliation in Northern Uganda (USAID/SPRING), American Refugee Committee, The Uganda Fund, Norwegian Refugee Council to name just the ones for which I have proudly worked.

I think of (and still grumble about) the involvement of the International Criminal Court in indicting the LRA leadership.

I think of the US Government’s LRA Disarmament and Northern Uganda Recovery Act (2009), which passed into law due to the back breaking work of Senator Feingold, colleagues and friends at Resolve.

I believe this incredible constellation of action has paved the way for a lasting peace which is taking hold in northern Uganda.

Finally, however, I think of a comment a colleague of mine made a while back, “It would be nice if the infrastructure of recovery in northern Uganda could be transferred to DRC, South Sudan and the Central African Republic.”

I’d like to end on this very last reflection. There is yet much work to be done. But the good news is that behind the blazing, fleeting comet of K2012 is a vast cast of actors, led by those directly affected by this conflict, to end things once and for all. I will continue to be inspired by and follow their lead. I hope those who recently caught the spirit of this long effort to end the conflict will too.