It feels strange to be back.

Well after a very long 27 hours of travelling, during which I managed to catch a fairly nasty cold, I finally got home yesterday. I'm currently hiding up at my country house, unpacking and preparing myself to venture into the city. After nearly 7 months in East Africa, it feels strange to be back in the US. First of all, there are far too many white people and everyone is driving on the wrong side of the road. Secondly, the world just seems so quiet and tame. Nobody is walking anywhere while balancing large bundles on their heads, there's no livestock spilling into the streets, the sidewalks are so clean and rubbish-free, there are traffic lights, the power is on all the time!
And it's winter here. No snow yet, but it won't be long in coming... By 5:15, the sky is pitch black and there are almost no sounds, save the passing car that sweeps by on the perfectly smooth paved road. No roosters, no children, no distant sounds of music.
This afternoon I was exhausted and just gave up trying to do anything, the early darkness took me over and physically depressed me. I curled up in front of the fireplace with some hot cocoa and gazed down at the pekoe tattoo on my ankle... And to think, one week ago I was laying on the beach in Kendwa... I do miss TZ already, but it feels good to be home too, even if it does take a little while to get readjusted to 'civilization' :-)

Kwaheri Kilimanjaro

I sit in the Kilimanjaro airport, slow sipping an ice-cold Tusker beer and watching my last African sunset. The bright salmons and deep purple reds intensifying as the encroaching African darkness creeps across the sky. The first few stars appear, twinkling over Kilimanjaro. She has peeked out from behind the clouds to make one final appearance for me, her lightly snow capped peak just glancing out from behind the clouds.

After 7 months, I am leaving Africa. This time, not knowing if and when I will return. This continent, this place, these people have touched my soul. As I write this, the uncertainty of my return is sinking in… my throat is tightening and my grief works down to my stomach.

I hate leaving; I hate saying goodbye. It takes so little to do so much, and I’m only just getting started. I don’t know the answers, I don’t have a plan, but I do know that being home is not necessarily part of the solution. I need to be here, to feel like a part of this place, so that I can measure my effect, actually see the results of the work I am doing. New York is hard; I feel like giving up on trying to explain this place to people who have never been and will never come.

Africa sticks to your skin, gets into your blood, circulates and settles into the deep parts of your brain and soul. Like an infection, a first love, these feelings will not simply dissipate, nor do I want them to. Any grief, the pain I will experience in my life will always been relative to the pain and grief I have witnessed here. The shock of a drought year, the decades of war, the loss of a child… My pain is nothing next to the thousand natural shocks that African flesh is heir to.

I came with the right attitude. Open eyes, open ears, open mind, open heart. I came here wanting to see and learn, not impose and change. And what, if anything, have I learned? Impossible to synthesize, probably more about myself than about any of the places I’ve been. I carry with the smiles of the Ugandan children, playing barefooted soccer in the dirt, the lingering laugh of Rwandan children, screaming upon our arrival, the singing and clapping of Congolese women, the catcalls of Zanzibari vendors on the beach… And breathtaking Kilimanjaro. Whenever this gracious old lady decides to make an appearance from behind her cloudy veil, to peek out immodestly from behind the clouds, to flaunt her curves and barely snow-capped peak, I stop. You can’t take your eyes off her. As I watch this sunset and slowly sip this beer, one thing is certain: it’s not over Africa. I’ll be back.

In the Shadow of the Volcano: Democracy and Justice in Congo

"The current situation in Congo shows that bringing democracy and justice to war-torn countries is often more meaningful for the givers than for the recipients. Holding elections and prosecuting perpetrators of mass crimes are laudable goals. However, more fundamental change—addressing problems of citizenship, ethnicity, land ownership, the theft of natural resources, and the weapons trade—is required before peace is possible and political and judicial institutions can operate effectively. The population that rebuilt Goma out of the same volcanic rock that destroyed it displayed the resilience and ingenuity of the Congolese people. As long as Congo, Africa, and the international community fail to confront the sources of conflict, however, that creativity will serve only to rebuild again and again what has been destroyed, rather than to construct a new and vibrant nation."

-Excerpt from "In the Shadow of the Volcano: Democracy and Justice in Congo," by Phil Clark. Dissent, Winter 2007

AK-47s, Volcanoes and a Brief Departure from Reality

Adrenaline hits me like an electric shock, a lightening bolt. My heart thumps against my rib cage. The reverberations echo to my toes and fingertips. My throat tightens. I clench my fists. Whatthehellisgoingon. What the hell is going on. What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On. My senses are on high alert. But, like a stalked prey, it’s too late. I hear the click of the AK-47’s safety being removed. I see men in uniform running. I smell the humidity of the Congolese pre-rainstorm air mingled with sour odor of sweat. I taste fear. It’s my own primal fear for my life, confused with the fear of those around me. We crossed the border from Rwanda into the Democratic Republic of Congo a few minutes ago and now we are surrounded by soldiers barking at us in French, nervous young men who look more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later.

Our crime was to snap a picture of an old Belgian colonial building, elegantly dilapidated and crumbling into the red clay dirt of the palm fringed property, just a few hundred meters from the banks of Lake Kivu. This building also happens to be the Goma HQ of Congolese Intelligence Agency (CIA?). We are pushed inside, forced into a small windowless room. Behind the desk sits a grim little man, not pleased with being in the office on a Saturday.

The other girls are panicking around me, filling the office with loud English arguments, trying to make sense of the situation. Inside, I am panicking with them, worse-case scenarios flashing through my mind. On the outside, the ice queen reigns, I maintain my sang-froid. As the only French-speaker, I am the group spokeswoman. The others are kicked out of the office as the chief officer begins his formal interrogation. He is arrogant and insecure, pompously inflating his own importance and the gravity of our accidental crime. He clings to the procedure and will not let this slide. Thank God I understand this, the insecurities of men and the ridiculousness of African bureaucracy. I bow to his authority, reinforce his importance, validate his work. I answer his questions and, after nearly two hours, manage to convince him that we are not spies or undercover insurgents or rebel-supporters. He chastises me repeatedly and demands that pay a “fine.” Oh, that’s what it’s all about… And here’s where the ‘cute blonde on the verge of tears’ thing helps out, as I negotiate our “fine” down from $500 to $200.

Welcome to Congo where corruption and bribery are rife and central government is a joke. The DRC is a country the size of Western Europe, covered in dense tropical jungle and chock-a-block full of lootable natural resources. Combine that with what I have termed the ‘Africurse Trifecta,’ aka serious colonial exploitation, post-colonial mismanagement and conflict, and neo-colonial abuse, then throw in small arms proliferation and ethnic grievances and you get quite the mess…. With only 300 miles of paved roads and zero infrastructure!
However, after their first ever democratic presidential and parliamentary elections in June and the run-off elections last month (thank you MONUC), it looked like things were finally sort of calming down. That is, up until the weekend I decide to go for a visit. Last Tuesday, supporters of the losing presidential candidate, Jean-Pierre Bemba, set fire to the Supreme Court and rioted in the capital Kinshasa. Then on Saturday, the day we go in for our visit, a rogue general and his dissident soldiers decide to launch a mini-rebellion about 15 miles from the city we were visiting. Not that we could possibly have known any of this because we were distracted by the anti-French protests across Rwanda.

Anyway, back to the story. After my two-hour interrogation, during which our cameras and passports were confiscated, we emerged from the building into the hot afternoon sun. While we were $200 lighter, we gained an escort, a young officer called Filo. We walked along Lake Kivu, admiring its vast expanse and craving its cool waters as the Congolese sun beat down and stung our pale skins. We passed the UN peacekeeping forces’ camps: India, Bangladesh, and South Africa… And they drove past us, perched on the backs of white pick-up trucks emblazoned with the UN logo, weapons across their laps, conspicuous blue berets cocked to the side.

Those blue berets were some of the few spots of color in the dark grays and dull browns of Goma. In 2002, more than half the city was destroyed when the Nyiragongo volcano erupted, spewing rocks and ash for miles. Hundreds of thousands of people fled across the border into Rwanda as the molten lava obliterated the city and spilled into Lake Kivu.
Four years later, Goma remains a surreal city. Craggily black lava rock still coat parts of the town. Buildings are nothing more than empty facades with people setting up stalls outside storefronts. And the volcano looms, tucked behind the mist and low-hanging clouds of the rainy season.

While the scars of the volcano are still apparent, the signs of years of pain and suffering are hidden just below the surface in this war-torn nation. As we sat around our Congolese luncheon feast of chicken and goat stew, boiled plantains, rice, beans, fufu, and ice-cold Primus beer, we spoke to some of the locals. Unfazed by the bazooka-toting soldiers escorting their boss into the restaurant, they expressed hope for the future of their young new democracy. The women even broke into song for us as we left, their voices rising above the intermittent pops of gunfire in the distance.

As we sped away, back towards the Rwandan border on our motorbike taxis, tears of regret, pain, helplessness and dozens of other muddled emotions stung my eyes. Those voices are what I am carrying with me from my day in the Congo. Not the sunburn on my shoulders, not the cuts on my feet from the sharp lava rocks, not the mud that has permanently stained my flip-flops, not the antique wooden carvings we picked up in the market, not my first near-death experience in a war zone… No, it’s the voices that will haunt me and call me back, soon I hope...

Missing the forest for the trees

My first few weeks at the ICTR, I got caught up in the frustrations of UN bureaucracy, in the petty challenges of this lumbering tribunal. Now, as my time here comes to close in a couple of weeks, I'm taking a step back. Instead of focusing on those trees, I'm finally catching the full view of the forest. My, what a forest... Full of passionate, intelligent, committed individuals from around the world, all toiling together. We want to believe that this work is making a difference, that this work has meaning outside of these four walls, that someone else cares and is paying attention. And the truth is that it does, it must matter somewhere, somehow, to someone, that here at the ICTR we convicted the first head of state for genocide, that rape and other sexual violence is now considered as a crime of genocide, that the media's incitement of ethnic hatred and violence is punishable, that all this history is now on record, and that we are challenging the culture of impunity.

Of course, there are many flaws, but the ICTR is nothing if not an experiment, the detainees our guinea pigs. The case I have been working on, known as Military 1, is one of the most high-profile cases. The four accused, Theoneste Bagosora, Gratien Kabiligi, Anatole Nsengiyumva, Aloys Ntabakuze, are the 'big bad' guys, four of the top Rwandan military leaders. They are currently standing trial for their roles as the central figures in planning, promoting, and executing genocide and other crimes against humanity. We are arguing that the 1994 genocide was partly a military coup, organized as a desperate attempt to cling to power at the end of the war with the RPF. The military stood to lose the most under the Arusha Peace Accords, and it seems their thinking went something like this, 'we must kill all Tutsi cockroaches and their politically moderate Hutu accomplices so there is no support for compromise with the RPF... and then we get to stay in power forever.' It all makes a bit more sense when viewed in the larger context of colonial and post-colonial history, Rwandan culture, and regional politics. (Too complicated to get into here, but I'm happy to recommend reading etc).

Anyway, our case has been going on for 5 years now, and it's finally coming to a close. This is our final session, but this last sprint feels slightly anti-climactic. As Kabiligi's defense team slaps together the final witnesses, the judges' assistants in Chambers are already busy writing the judgement. We are confidant that all these guys are going away forever, but then what...?

There is no glamour. There is no glory. There is no instant gratification. We're in it for the long-haul, the unrecognized long hours and weekends at work, and the chance to say 'I was here, I was a part of this.' Because no matter how boring the photocopying, no matter how unrewarding the translation work, no matter how stressful the witness preparation, the greater purpose looms. While it is easy to get lost in the details, to lose sight of this greater purpose, it can still be felt. Every time I swipe my UN badge, every time I see those 4 accused sitting at the back of the courtroom, every time I hear or read shocking and horrific witness testimony, I remember.
I remember Rwanda; the stories, the people, the faces, the children, the smell, the skulls...
And I remember that I am part of this huge undertaking, this noble, expensive, catastrophically important venture, that we can only hope is contributing to this notion we call 'international justice.'

World reaction: it's about time guys

While most people in my office seem pretty aloof about the far-reaching implications of the overnight change in American politics, the rest of the world seems pretty thrilled... Well at least according to "the world" polled by CNN.
Other catchy titles this morning? Slate definitely hold its own:
The Rich Aren't Republican Anymore
Hey, it was a huge day at the Supreme Court, too!

While the Economist was so harsh as to be humourous with its "the Vultures Gather" cover story, which included the following gems:
-"Republicans deserve to get clobbered next week."
-The midterm elections will serve as a referendum on a "simultaneously incompetent and cavalier" administration.

As ever, The Onion still has the best headlines:
Rumsfeld: 'My Half-Assed Job Here Is Done'
Republicans Blame Election Losses On Democrat
Politicians Sweep Midterm Elections: Resounding Victories In All States, Counties, Cities, Towns

Even though, Comedy Central/the Daily Show seem to have predicted Rumsfeld's ouster before anyone else... "Fake news"? I think not...

In other election news, let's give a warm round of 'welcome back' applause to our former-Marxist friend, Daniel Ortega!
And, *drumroll* we are pleased to welcome the new President of the Democratic Republic of the Congo! Oh wait, we need like a month to count all the ballots of the run-off round. The UN is spending millions of dollars a year on MONUC, whose sole mission at this point is the election, but c'mon! Give us a break here! You try to do the counting in a country the size of Western Europe with only 300 miles of paved roads! Besides we kinda think some people cheated and
we're kind of nervous either way about announcing a winner because of all those angry mobs hovering on our doorstep...

Feeling blue

Well, the overnight political reveral in the US has pushed this blog into uncharted territory: commenting on US politics. I won't bore people with my opinion and predictions, mainly because they would be semi-articulate and largely uninformed. Actually that probably puts me on par with most people blogging on this subject...
Just to clarify my position though, I generally don't adhere to strict partisanship because I find that the polarization of American politics undermines mature political dialogue and progress. However, if pressed to define myself, I'm a Democratically-leaning moderate, who happens to be pretty thrilled about the current blue-ing of America.

Anyway, a couple of things about the current elections stand out for me:

-We have our first woman Speaker of the House. This is exciting mainly because Pelosi is now 3rd in line for the Presidency, just in case you-know-what happens (oh shush you're all thinking it).

-Massaschusetts has it's first black governor, Deval Patrick, who happens to be only the second black governor in US history.

-The first Muslim congressman ever elected: Keith Ellison of Minnesota

- NY had a series of historic Democratic victories, including taking back the governorship. I have a lot of respect for Eliot Spitzer and welcome him to a tough job. Not quite sure what to think of Andrew Cuomo. His father was a great politician (and one of the best public speakers in US history) so he has some big shoes to fill.

- Continuing with NY, I'm encouraged by Hilary's landslide win, including her victories in traditionally Repulican districts of the state.

- Ohio and Florida are looking blue, which is promising for 2008.

-Unfortunately, as always, women and racial minorities are still seriously underrepresented in the American political scene. I guess I'll have the French presidential elections to look forward to...

...Anyway I'm holding my breath for MT and VA, as I head home under the misty evening rain. Just remember, this isn't a victory, it's an opportunity.

For sale, my dream car

(Read description, then scroll down to see picture)

A good friend of mine from Nairobi, has requested my help in disposing of his vehicle. He urgently needs the money to enable him complete building his residential house in Maswa Know anyone who may be interested? These are the details and a picture of the vehicle:

*TOYOTA HILUX FOR SALE*

-Metallic blue
-5 Passengers
-6 Cylinder power
-Customised Suspension
-Engine Noise completely harnessed
-Efficient fuel consumption 10ml/bm
-Quick sale ~ USD. 4,500.00 only
(Remember: First come first served!)



 

40min to freedom

The rain streaks horizontally across the office windows. The wind blows perilously sharp sticks against the large glass panes. Every hour or so, there are 15min of deluging monsoon... Just enough time to start gathering the animals 2 by 2, and then it all stops. The sun briefly reappears from behind the thick haze of clouds. No I'm not home in NYC; it's the 'short rains' season here in Tanzania. I suppose that refers to the brief time of each downpour as well as the length of the season itself (about one month).

*Sigh* only two and a half weeks ago, I was on the beach in Zanzibar on a getaway with some friends for the long weekend. What, you didn't get a 4-day weekend 2 weeks ago? You mean to say that you culturally insensitive bastards worked during Eid-el-Fitri, the end of Ramadan? Golly I love working for the UN and getting the holidays of every major religion off, plus half-day Fridays ;-)

Anyway, as usual, Zanzibar was glorious... especially after over a month of confinement to my barnyard of an office. It’s just such an easy trip from Arusha--40min on a cheap little puddle jumper flight and you land on an island paradise, where the white sand beaches are dotted with cheap little bungalow-style hotels and thatched roof bars complete with hammocks, bonfire pits and reggae music squeaking out of the ancient stereo systems.
This time around I was in Kendwa on the North-West tip of the island with a bunch of guys from work for three days of relaxing, tanning very carefully under the hot tropical sun, being that corny tourist girl that picks up seashells along the beach, and wowing the beach hawkers with my Swahili skills. Then I was joined by my Romanian/Canadian co-intern/friend/housemate Catinca (she fills a lot of categories) and her very funny quasi-Mafioso father who generously sponsored the rest of the weekend. On the last evening on the beach, we hired a boat taxi to take us to Nungwi at the very Northern tip of the island and our whole group set off for a sunset 'cruise' and decadent dinner. On our way back, as the lights of the beach bars glittered along the coast, a different light appeared under us in the water. It was a bioluminescent algae bloom, glowing ghostly green. The phosphorescence is caused when the water is agitated around the algae, so our little skiff looked like Tinkerbelle, leaving a trail of fairy dust in its wake.

The next afternoon, Catinca and her father dragged me off the beach kicking and screaming, after I had embarrassed myself by begging every bar/restaurant owner on the beach to give me a job so I could stay there forever… Ok, I didn’t actually do that, but it certainly crossed my mind. If I’m not back in NYC by Christmas, you know where to find me…

Dilbert works at the UN!

  

Diary of a super important legal intern

I sincerely apologize for the rather long interruption in my regular stream of updates. Here are some long overdue snapshots from my *new life* as a Legal Intern in the Office of the Prosecutor (OTP) at the UN Intl Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) in Arusha, Tanzania:

Scene 1:
I'm settling into the pace in the overcrowded intern office on the 7th floor at the ICTR . There's a lovely view of Mt. Meru out of our panoramic window, not that I can see the view because I got stuck at the desk near the door. There are 12 people in my office, representing 11 different nationalities, usually chattering back and forth in a mix of the two official languages here, French and English.
It's day 3 at work and I finally get my computer, a nice Dell Pentium 4. Unfortunately I need a surge protector/extension cord to be able to plug it in. After 20 minutes of asking various people, calling around different offices, and promptly being handed off to others, I finally get the correct extension and am able to speak to a guy at the Building Management Services office (BMS).
-Hi, I'm Eve, a new intern in OTP. I would like a request an extension cord for my office computer.

-Ok, have you filled out a request?

-Um, no. That's why I'm calling.

-No no no no no, you cannot simply call the office. You must fill out the online request form.

-Right, but I can't get online because I can't plug in my computer yet.

-Yes, but you must complete the special form online and have it signed by your supervisor.

After a full 5 minutes of this verbal circumnavigation, I sigh and hang up the phone. But no, I am not yet defeated by the complex absurdity of UN bureaucracy. I march down to the BMS office, conveniently located down the block, outside the UN compound, and I find my telephonic interlocutor. After a 10-minute conversation about his family, health, kids etc, he hands me an extension cord! Victory is mine!
I happily trot back to my office, plug in the computer, start everything up, click on Internet Explorer and then… realize my Internet connection is not working…

Scene 2:
It's the end of my first week at the ICTR. After several days of translation work, photocopying and other tedious assignments, I am called down to the courtroom during an afternoon session. I try to conceal my excitement as I put on my suit jacket, smooth my hair, kick off my flip-flops (office norm) and slip on my heels. I grab my shiny new security ID badge and proceed down to Trial Chamber 1 where my case, Military 1, is being heard. I scan my ID and the light switches from red to green as the door clicks open. I push past the heavy curtain, appropriately colored "UN blue," and pause by the simultaneous interpreters' booths to bow to the judges. I pull up a chair next to Kartik, the assistant legal officer, and he hands me a stack of important confidential documents. I look eagerly down at the papers, waiting for my assignment. And then Kartik asks me to make 15 collated copies so we can distribute them as exhibits in court. Oh, more photocopying… Yay.

Scene 3:
Late afternoon on Friday, the end of my second week at the Tribunal. I'm already here much later than most people on Friday, a half-day of work here. Dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt (it's casual Friday, aka "cultural attire" day at the UN), I walk down the clinical hallway to the office of Rashid, one of the trial attorneys. I hand him a thick witness binder, containing confidential protected witness information and certain background searches I had performed as preparation for this witness taking the stand the following week. As I walk back down the hall, gearing up to leave, I pop into the office of Greg, another trial attorney on the Military 1 case, just to wish him a nice weekend etc. We get to talking and he asks what I'm working on…

What I'm thinking: I'm working on finally getting out of here so I can go meet my friends for happy hour.
What I say: I just finished preparing the Higaniro binder for Rashid.

Greg: Oh so you're done? How would you like to work on one of my witnesses?

What I'm thinking: Cool beans, I'd love to do some more substantive work. Let's talk about in on Monday cuz I need to get outta here.
What I say: Sure, no problem.

Greg (passing me a huge thick binder): Oh great. Here's all the info. Go ahead and read through the documents, do an analysis of his statements, translate the Belgian immigration documents, and draft some questions for cross-examination.

What I'm thinking: Oh my God, I am totally unqualified for this job. I'm just going to back out of this door s-l-o-w-l-y.
What I say: Yup, I got it.

Greg: Oh and it'd be great if I could get this by 10pm tonight before I leave for Nairobi.

What I'm thinking: 10pm?! Are you nuts? It's already past 4pm on FRIDAY, aka 3 hours after everyone else has already gone home! Find some other sucker buddy, I'm outta here!
What I say: No worries, I'll get started on that ASAP.


Welcome to my life :-)

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens"

These are a few of my favorite things...
I thought I’d share my summer reading list in case any of you are interested in learning more about any of the issues I’ve mentioned over the past three months. I won't bore you with the list of fiction that I've read to keep me relatively sane. Besides, I haven't really read much non-fiction at all because, as you know, once I’m in something, I tend to just keep digging deeper and deeper... Anyway, over the past few months, I’ve mostly been reading Africa/development/conflict related non-fiction, in this order:

1- Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux—famous novelist travels overland from Cairo to Cape Town; great descriptions of the continent and interesting insight (though I don't 100% agree with his conclusions)

2- Shake Hands with the Devil: The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda by Gen. Roméo Dallaire—memoirs of the UN force commander in Rwanda during the genocide; sometimes a little too "I talked to him, then to him, then I went here, then I went there..." but terribly informative and a great insider's perspective

3- We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families by Philip Gourevitch—journalist’s investigation in Rwanda one year after the genocide, heart-breaking stories and terrific insight

4- The Zanzibar Chest: Life, Love and Death in Foreign Lands by Aidan Hartley—young journalist working in African war zones intertwines his narrative with a family history; prose is a little heavy at times, but a great read

5- Emergency Sex (And Other Desperate Measures): True Stories from a War Zone by Heidi Postlewait, Kenneth Cain, and Andrew Thomson-- 3 UN workers share stories from Cambodia, Somalia, Haiti, and Rwanda; interesting and fun read

6- Guns, Germs, and Steel: A Short History of Everybody for the Past 13,000 years by Jared Diamond—the Ultimate history book, the researcher explains scientifically why human societies ended up so differently on the various continents; loooong and a little dense at times, but fascinating thesis and v. well demonstrated

------------------------------------
Additionally, I've seen several films (mostly documentaries) that are relevant to the above issues... All are highly recommended:

1- Invisible Children, 3 young Americans travel to Uganda, and almost by accident make a documentary about the war-affected internally displaced children in Northern Uganda

2- Soldier Child, about the abduction and indoctrination of child soldiers in the Lord's Resistance Army in Uganda

3- Sometimes in April, fictional film about the Rwandan genocide--better than Hotel Rwanda

4- Ghosts of Rwanda, PBS documentary about the genocide and Western inaction

5- Life and Debt, case study of Jamaica and the noxious effects of the World Bank policies on its development; great interviews, music, camera angles etc... beautiful example of documentary film-making at its best

Back on the banks of Lake Victoria

Just a quick "jambo" from Kisumu on the banks of Lake Victoria in western Kenya. I'm settling here for the next couple of weeks to help out at Africa Now, the NGO I interned for last summer in the UK. Despite being exhausted after my first long day in the field, I wanted to share some sad news with you guys: unfortunately, I somehow managed to sweet talk my way into an internship at the UN International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, which means that I'll be going back to Arusha, Tanzania in a couple of weeks and staying there until XMas. (*pausing here to give you all a moment to grieve my prolonged absence*)
But, in all seriousness, I am psyched about this opportunity to intern at the Office of the Prosecutor and help work to put the big bad masterminds of the genocide away in some desolate jail cell forever and ever and ever. I've already been in contact with most of the other incoming interns and they seem like a really interesting, multicultural, international group of people... So more good times ahead for Eve in Africa!
Anyway, to keep your minds off of your imminent depression, I finally took some time to upload some more pics! So scroll back to past posts and check out my links :-)

Masai on the beach and other tales from Zanzibar

Last time I had a chance to sit down and devote some time to an update, I was in Arusha, Tanzania sitting under beautiful Mt. Meru (spitting distance from Mt. Kilimanjaro) and doing research at the UN International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR). I'll write more about Arusha some other time (For now, the pics are here: http://smith.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2010862&l=339a4&id=5902101 ). They seem very distant from me now as I sit in this small internet cafe hearing the evening call to prayer echo through the streets of Stone Town on the island of Zanzibar.

The formal academic program ended about 10 days ago and since then I've had some much needed vacation time. Last week I was in Nairobi with my Kenyan friend Muthoni from Oxford. She showed me around town a bit--and by town, I mean the suburbs, since downtown Nairobi is notoriously crime-ridden, thus the moniker "Nairobbery." We quickly got tired of the dreary weather and decided to head to the coast. Transport in Kenya, as in most of the continent, is quite challenging, but we decided to brave the roads and go from Nairobi to Mombasa by bus... The bus wasn't exactly your air-conditioned Greyhound, but at least there weren't any goats or chickens in it. I was, as usual, the only mzungu on the bus, which the gaggle of veiled women thought was just about the funniest and strangest thing they had ever seen.

The 500km over the bumpy pot-hole ridden highway through the Kenyan plains only took 9.5 hours, which includes the fact that a) we left 30min late, b) had a 45min rest stop, and c) stopped for another 45min to change a punctured tire. For most of the ride, I napped and between dosing enjoyed the beautiful scenery... Lots of little villages, really just glorified groups of shops and street vendors, squatted along the highway in the ever-changing scenery of hills, sharp escarpments, and plains dotted with cattle and their young Masai herders. As I sat there thinking about the Kenyan landscape and the artificial and imperialist creation of the national park systems, I saw some zebra along the side of the road... Who needs national parks, which just dispossess local populations, when the whole country is basically a big national park? Oh goodness, my last semester of college is haunting me (thanks Prof Newbury).
Anyway, we finally got to Mombasa and installed ourselves at Muthoni's flat at the Tamarind on the North coast, about 15min from the city centre. Sitting on the balcony, in the evening warmth, hearing the soft laping of the Indian Ocean below me, I was in absolute heaven--except for the mosquitoes which quickly smelled out their sweet new prey. After a couple of nights in Mombasa, we flew back to Tanzania down to Zanzibar to meet up with Page, an American friend from the academic program.

Zanzibar is an island in the Indian Ocean that historically served as an important trading centre between Africa and the Middle East. For hundreds of years, ivory and African slaves sailed one way on the monsoon winds, and spices and silk went the other. In the meantime, lots of Arabs settled in the Zanzibar archipelago (including, rather famously, the sultan of Oman who decided to relocate his capital here in 1832) and intermarriage between Arabs and Africans ensued, which gave rise to a coastal community with distinctive features, and a unique hybrid language derived in part from Arabic and the local Bantu dialect... That language is now known as Swahili, a name which comes from the Arab word sawahil which means 'coast'.
Skip forward a hundred years or so: Zanzibar finally gained its independance in 1964 and together with the mainland (Tanganyika) formed the nation we know as Tanzania (look at that clever little word melding ;-) ).

Anyway, sorry for that historical digression, but the history is absolutely fascinating and still very visible, most notably in the architecture and the predominantly Muslim population (97%). When I arrived, the light cloud cover over Stone Town could not mask the beauty of this UNESCO World Heritage Site... Traditional dhow boats float on the bright blue harbour waters that suround the bustling little bazaars, cobblestone streets, narrow alleys, and white-washed houses with dark wood carved doors--oh just see for yourself: http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&q=zanzibar%20stone%20town&sa=N&tab=wi
After an overnight in Stone Town, we drove out to the south east coast to Paje, a miniscule fishing village on one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. The quiet palm tree-lined beach extends for miles; silky soft white sands trims the Indian Ocean; and the sun glistens in gold and silver flecks on the surface of the warm and shallow turquoise waters. We just tanned, read (I'm rather appropriately in the middle of the Zanzibar Chest), ate freshly caught seafood, got pekoe (black henna) tattoos, watched fishermen come in with the daily catch, dodged some tiny jelly fish, did a little souvenir shopping (with the random local Masai who roamed the beach), and went for long walks down the deserted beaches. We must have been among only 50 or 60 other tourists (mostly Italians and some Brits), and we felt like we had the place to ourselves as we lay comatose on the beach for 4 days.
But that mini-escape from reality is over, as I'm back in Stone Town this evening before flying back to Mombasa early tomorrow mornaing. I have about 5 more days of holiday before moving out to Kisumu in Western Kenya to do some volunteer work with Africa Now, the NGO I worked for last summer.
Anyway I'm off to enjoy my last evening in this little island paradise (I seriously recommend it--check out the link to my pics)...

A little expedition south

Last week our group went on a little 3-day excursion to Butare, a region in Southern Rwanda that borders Burundi. Butare (the town) is a mid-sized university town that suffered some of the worst atrocities during the 100-days of the genocide. We didn't have the opportunity to visit any of the sites down there, as we spent most of our time at the Center for Conflict Management at the University, hearing a rather interesting "reinterpretation" of Rwanda's role in the geopolitics of the Great Lakes region. In order to vent some of our frustrations about the blame shifting/evasion tactics/blatant lies we heard at the Center, we decided to go on a nice long drive South. It was possibly the most beautiful drive I have ever been on, zooming along the roads that wind through the hills, revealing jawdropping views at each turn and breathing in the fresh mountain air. Along the roads, women in brightly colored wraps walked along, swaying gracefully under the impossibly large loads they balanced on their heads; schoolchildren waved and chased after our van screaming "bazungu!!" (plurual of muzungu); and men laboriously tried to navigate their rickety bicycles up and down the hills, sometimes latching on the back of our van to get themselves pulled along.
The hour drive went by in an instant, and suddenly we were at the border of Burundi. A couple of us (yeah, including me) didn't have our passports, so we just sort of snuck into Burundi illegally... and then promptly turned around because after a few minutes the border guards somehow noticed 3 white kids tiptoeing around. But anyway, I just feel pretty badass having illegally snuck across an international border. It also just reinforced my feelings about the absurdity of some of these borders in the region. In the actual area where we crossed, the border between Rwanda and Burundi is just a narrow little stream, maximum 6 feet across and 3 feet deep--one side Rwanda, one side Burundi.
Anyway, after about an hour of sketchily hanging around the border area, we drove back up to Butare, and then onward back to Kigali the next day...

Dust to dust....

In the first week of my stay in Rwanda, I visited 3 important sites: the Gisozi Genocide Memorial in Kigali, and 2 churches outside Kigali where massacres took place during the genocide: Ntarama and Nyamata.
Gisozi feels very much like a glossy modern Western-style monument, and actually it is, having been sponsored by the William Jefferson Clinton Foundation and the Belgian Government (I literally *gagged* when I saw that--talk about guilt $$). The interior musuem is small, and the core is crammed full of pictures, explanative texts, a chronology of the genocide, and interactive displays (including video interviews with genocide survivors), and artefacts from the genocide (yes I'm taking about machetes, clubs, torn bloodied clothing, burned ID cards, and bones). After being thoroughly horrified by that, you go upstairs for "Genocide 101," a 20th century history of genocide (Armenia, the Holocaust, Cambodia, Yugoslavia) which concludes, as always, with the slogan "Never Again."
Saved for last, the most tragic area was the Children's Hall, where blown up pictures of smiling kids where superimposed with the date and means by which they were killed (i.e Sarah, age 3, killed April 13 1994, hacked to death with machetes; Denis, age 10 months, killed April 20 1994, thrown against a wall)... My stomach heaved and my throat was clenched as I blinked back tears and walked out of the final hall and into the garden.
The beautifully landscaped hillside gardens are meant for remembrance and contemplation... and I just sat there, stunned and numb, unable to even formulate clear thoughts. As you walk out of the gardens, you pass the core of Gisozi: the 11 large crypts, mass graves where 256,000 people are interred.
In silence, we left Gisozi and drove out of the city towards the churches. Ntarama was our first stop, a Catholic Church where thousands sought refuge, and were slaughtered, during the genocide. Over 5,000 people where killed there after a siege on the church by the Interhamwe militia. Most of the remains of the bodies were left as they fell--left in situ almost as a "dark warning for future generations." Only the skulls have been neatly aligned on wooden shelves at the back of the Church so that the dead could be counted. As I walked in, I immediately took a step back as the strong musty smell of death and decay filled my nostils. All my senses were totally overwhelmed and I had to step outside. I sat on the steps on the Church- steps that people walked on everyday for years to come and worship with their family and community, steps that people walked over seeking refuge- and I started to cry. I couldn't decide whether or not I was strong enough to go fully inside and see for myself, but I realized that part of me needed to see, needed to witness, and needed to pay my respects.
Bones, decaying clothes, plastic rosaries, and children's school books lie scattered between the pews. A dusty light filters through the bullet holes and grenade blasts that have not been plastered over. Flies and mosquitos hover in the air around you and bats nap in the rafters. Only a token metal roof covers the Church and surrounding buildings so that during the rainy season, water doesn't leak in through shrapnel holes in the roof. Walking along the pews, trying not to step on bones, I realized that the thick layer of grimey dust on the floor was human remains, slowly crumbling back to ashes and dust.
Feeling intensely hurt and sick from the sights and smells, I left the Church to walk around the grounds. A small monument was erected on the property, just a garden patch and a long and low concrete wall where the names of the deceased are etched for eternity.

At Nyamata, the 2nd Church we visited, the remains were removed from the Church interor. Over 10,000 people were killed there, and their remains were placed in long white tile underground crypts. Where whole bodies where identifiable, they were placed in coffins. Others were dismembered and scattered--either by the militiamen or by the scavenging dogs and rats that picked at the bodies for months after the massacre-- and the remains are lined up on huge metal shelves in the crypts. I couldn't manage to walk down into the crypts, and just stood at the top of the steps, peering down...
My heart and soul ached as I left the Church, and I was silent again on the drive back to Kigali. One magnificiant ability we as humans are endowed with is our capacity for imagination... Unfortunately, we cannot control our imagination, and with images of death fresh in my mind's eye, I saw the roads littered with bodies as we drove through the countryside. Every puddle on the roadside became a pool of blood, every farmer cutting back overgrowth with a machete became a militiaman, every child's laugh became a scream of terror...

I felt totally overwhelmed, insignificant, helpless, powerless, and useless... and to some extent I suppose that I still do. What can one individual do in the face of genocide? Yes, there were many many heros whose individual contributions helped save countless lives during the genocide. But overall, one million Tutsis and moderate Hutus were still slaughtered as the world stood by and watched. We're happy to come in and help clean up the mess after the fact, and we give lots of "never again" speeches and apologize and regret our inaction... But Rwanda is not a unique case study, just scan your eyes a little higher on that map of Africa, and you'll come across the Sudan. God forbid that we actually get our hands dirty and try to stop the ultimate crimes against humanity while they are happening. Instead, we argue over definitions, issues of sovereignty and money as innocent human beings die. Again. And again. And again.

Paved in guilt

I arrived in Rwanda last Tuesday, after a long slow drive south over the Equator from Uganda. Crossing the border by road, as opposed to the sanitized version you get in intl airports, was a rare and interesting event... I think that border crossings reveal so much, not only about the countries you are crossing between, but also about the general concept of borders in general. The border guards and customs & immigration bureaucrats on both sides were almost comedically serious about passport stamping and making sure our forms were perfectly filled out. As we stood in those impossibly long lines, I watched as villagers on the distant hillsides calmly walked across the porous artificial borders along centuries-old dirt paths.
After a very long day of driving, we finally pulled into downtown Kigali. Similarly to Kampala, Kigali (pronounced Chi-gali in Kinyarwanda) is spread out over about 10 of the thousand hills of Rwanda. And that's pretty much where the similarities with Uganda end. While Kampala was grimy, bustling, and effusively friendly, downtown Kigali is cleaner, cooler, prettier and quieter. But the quiet here doesn't feel calm, it feels like the quiet of someone holding their breath... Generally Kigali feels a bit more closed, and ever so slightly more hostile, especially towards muzungus--totally fair game considering how badly we fucked up here. However, the city has very low crime rates and feels totally safe--one of the few perks of being in a police state/military dictatorship (I'll get back to you on the others). Indeed, I'm not as harassed by street kids and beggars because the police round them up and illegally hold them in deplorable conditions in detention centers in the city (well documented by HRW).
Otherwise, the people here are welcoming once you crack the surface a little-knowing a little Kinyarwanda really helps and often elicits endless giggling. Unfortunately, it's a really tricky tonal language. Example? Someone told me that at a genocide memorial event a little while ago, a pastor who was giving a speech spent a lot of time practicing the phrase "we will remember forever," because a slight slip of the tongue would have produced the phrase "we will revenge forever," not exactly the message he wanted to convey...
Anyway Kigali is a beautiful city and is really Westernized and luxurious after Kampala. No no no, there's no hot water from the taps, but there is a continuous electricity supply. Well, almost continuous. It blinks out for a couple of seconds once a day, but that's nirvanic next the consecutive days without power in Kampala. Plus the city is just generally very well-maintained, with beautiful landscaping and roads with fewer potholes than NYC--as many say, paved with Western guilt money. Also, it's relatively easy to get around on the moto-taxis that zip up and down the hills around town. Ok, they are kinda dangerous, but I always wear a helmet and it's really the only way to get around if you don't have private transport!

The first week in the Rwanda was emotionally trying, intellectually challenging, and physically exhausting because we visited several genocide memorial sites (more on that to come). For that reason, we have a lot more free time to relax and explore the city on our own. Last weekend a few of us just spent all day lounging by the pool at the Hotel Milles Collines (feat. in Hotel Rwanda), drinking beer, and watching the World Cup (OMG FRANCE IS IN THE FINALS!! ALLEZ LES BLEUS!!)...
More to come on Rwanda soon... In the meantime, scroll back to some older updates and check out the new links to some of my pics from the trip thus far! (there are also some pics from Rwanda on the link below, but I must warn you that they may be disturbing)

Le Pays des Milles Collines

Last Sunday I said goodbye to Kampala and my wonderful huge host family, and our group headed off on a long bumpy roadtrip south to Rwanda. On our drive down, we stopped over in Mbarara (say that 5x fast) for a couple of days in order to visit a Rwandan refugee settlement.
The Orchinga Refugee Settlement was originally founded by Tutsi refugees fleeing the revolution in Rwanda in 1959. It was pretty much a Tutsi settlement through the genocide in 1994, when there was a demographic reversal: Hutu refugees fled Rwanda and Tutsi returned home. At its peak in '94-'95, Orchinga had over 7,000 inhabitants. As of now, there are around 2,000 refugees living in the settlement--notice that I did not say "camp." Orchinga covers several square miles and looks like your standard African rural village. In fact, the settlement is very much a part of the area, fully integrated with the local economy and surrounding villages.
However, they are still refugees, thus "protected" under international laws and conventions and catered to by many well-meaning international NGOs. I think you can sense a little cynicism on my part concerning international refugee law and the UN refugee policies, in particular the forced encampment policy. In my humble opinion, forcing refugees to stay in camps near the border illegally restricts their movements, makes them totally dependent on outside aid, just so they (they= the host goverment, UNHCR, and a plethora of NGOs) can a) keep track of them and b) take pictures of them so they can guilt Western donors into supporting what is essentially an unsustainable and dehumanizing system. Ok, so that's my blurb on intl refugee policies...
Anyway, that is not to dismiss the situation of the Rwandan refugees in Uganda. They have been living at the settlement for over 10 years and are still afraid to return to Rwanda, where they fear retribution simply because they are Hutu and will be assumed to be "genocidaires." The ones I spoke to decried their innocence, but cited ongoing incidents of violence against Hutus. They get information about these incidents from other Hutu refugees, some are new arrivals and others tried to return home but came right back. They emphasized that security was their primary concern, but it became clear over the course of the conversation that they are also very concerned about their property. Many of them lost their land by fleeing and they don't really want to return and deal with that, when they can just stay at the settlement on the plot of land they were given. In fact, most of them said that they had no real desire to return to Rwanda at all!
In addition, many of the refugees talked about the problems with Gacaca, a traditional justice system that the Rwandan government revamped to deal with genocide-related crimes (in the regular system, trials for all those accused would have been backlogged for over a hundred years). The refugees complained that many people were forced into false confessions, and that others give false testimony if they have a grudge against someone... The Hutu refugees
have no faith in the current justice system, especially since it doesn't take into account crimes committed by the RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Front) against Hutus during the civil war. In addition, they fear the current government under President Kagame (who headed the RPF and essentially stopped the genocide) because they believe he wants to eliminate all Hutus and that he will continue to manipulate the political system until he does (Kagame won the elections in 2003 with 95% of the vote... Suspicious much?).
Anyway I was pretty suspicious of most of the refugees claims, especially their claims of continued mass killings and raids on villages. They seemed rather savvy about the international system and even specifically requested that we send Human Rights Watch (by name!) to come interview them so that the truth could be told. I'm sure that some of the stories are true, but it also seems like their stories have been hyperbolized and perfected to appeal to the international community, so they can continue to get support from UNHCR and NGOs. I mulled over this on the very bumpy ride back into Mbarara, 40km that took 2 hours... And continued to think about their stories the following day as we drove the long and winding mountainous road into the country of the thousand hills...

Kony Update

So after nearly 20 years, the enigmatic Kony granted BBC an interview (see link) and claims he's not guilty of any war crimes. Riiiight. All those kids made up their stories and they all secretely work for the Museveni regime.
Anyway, looks like the International Criminal Court (ICC) indictments have made Kony and his followers a little nervous--now the LRA is requesting peace talks and Kony is decrying his innocence. This interesting shift in the rhetoric and dynamics of the conflict was initiated in April when the government of Southern Sudan decided to intervene more directly and mediate some peace talks, not only between the Sudan and the LRA (who you will remember often use the Sudan as a training ground, raiding local villages and disturbing the fragile peace there along the way), but also between the LRA and the Ugandan government. While most people don't necessarily think of the Sudanese as the best people to be mediating conflict (*cough* Darfur *cough*), it seems to me that this is the closest Uganda has ever come to a peaceful resolution of the conflict. I guess I should have prefaced that by saying that I personally don't think that a military solution is viable in this case. While an Angola-style assassination of Kony and the rest of the LRA commanders seems like a great idea, it's just not that simple... Anyway, I think this whole situation needs to be handled very carefully and with minimal outside intervention. Yes the ICC indictment has been helpful, but it's not going to end the conflict on its own, and further Western meddling will probably just aggravate the situation (esp since the ICC is such a political and controversial institution).
Ok, enough political rambling from me... But if you're interested, please do read up on the situation and feel free to challenge me on any of my opinions :)

Lukewarm beer and ice-cold showers

Oh yes, warm beer... You see, the power supply is so sporadic and inconsistent in Uganda that no matter how long your beer is sitting in the fridge, it's likely never to get really cold. Then again, it seems like some people here enjoy drinking beer at room temperature, since oftentimes you have to specify whether you want a warm or cold (aka lukewarm) beverage. Oh well, it's still bubbly and refreshing--and at least it's safe to drink, unlike the water.
And as for the water, well water heaters require electricity, right? So I haven't had a proper hot shower in nearly a month. Yes, even when I was staying with the MP (the Hon. Charles Angiro) and his family, there was no hot water. It's ok though because I have now perfected the art of the 3-minute shower, which is quite a feat (as those of you who have lived with me know). Not that it matters much, since we just smell like "Eau de Mosquito Repellent" all the time.
Anyway, despite ice-cold showers at my homestay, I was lucky to have a shower and a flush-toilet (a real luxury here). In other homestays, some of my colleagues were stuck with washing buckets and pit latrines. I also got lucky in other aspects of my homestay as well. The family was so warm and welcoming, it was impossible not to feel instantly at home. The huge meals also eased me right in :) Just like in South Africa, being "fat" is a good thing in Uganda. Clearly, I was not "fat" enough and was constantly urged to reserve myself huge portions of the carb-rich meals--think potatoes, mashed plantain (called matoke), and rice, with a side of beans and pasta. However, this dinner took place at around 10pm, and was preceded by "tea" at around 8pm, which consisted of bread, some more bread, and African tea. Yes, in Uganda, most people tend to eat 4 big meals a day, but most of people look tall and thin. The new South Beach diet? Not exactly...
Anyway, the World Cup fervor also helped with the homestay family bonding. I was staying with a huge family of mostly boys, and the TV was constantly showing either games or highlights of previous games (at least when the power was working). Since I mentioned that the family was so big, maybe I should explain a little bit. You see, Charles and his wife Helen (who lives in Kampala only part-time bc of business) have 9 children of their own. However, all of their kids are grown up and living on their own, though a couple are settled in the neighborhood. Since their house was empty, they have opened it up, taking the African traditionally extended family to a whole new level. So now, instead of having their own kids at home, they have the children of distant cousins staying with them (actually some of the kids are not even relatives at all). Most of the kids were affected by the conflict and some were staying in the IDPCs until Charles basically rescued them, so they could be safe and go to school in Kampala. While I was staying at the house, there were 14 children (4 girls, 10 boys) staying there are well, aged between 3-22... and apparently this number fluctuates regularly, as we had 2 additional people just sort of randomly appear one afternoon. It was a great vibe, but at first a lot of the kids were really shy around me. The skin color/language barrier was quickly overcome though when I brought home a soccer ball and kicked it around with them in the yard, telling them to practice a lot so that one day Uganda could make it to the World Cup Finals.
So the lesson learned here? As many people have said before me, football in general, and the World Cup in particular, is truly a way to bring the world together (except in the USA, but we're too cool for that, right?). Oh le oh le oh le oh le!!

20,000 living victims

As difficult as it was to be in the IDPC and witness the everyday struggles for life in Northern Uganda, the camp was nothing compared to my experience yesterday, when we went to a rehabilitation center for former child soldiers.
The worst part about the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) is their use of child soldiers. Kids as young as 5 have been abducted, indoctrinated, and forced to commit the most horrific atrocities you can imagine. When we first met the group of 53 children at the center, we spent a lot of time introducing ourselves, explaining what we were doing, and answering questions about the USA (such as: are there green people there? is Tupac still alive? how many clans are there in America? is it true that you put your old people away and then burn their bodies when they die?--yes retirement homes and cremation do sound weird when put that way). Afterwards, having set up a comfortable space (though unfortunately working through translators, most of the kids only speak Acholi), some of them shared their stories with us, and I feel it my duty to share them with you...
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Felix is now 16 years old. He was abducted from his home at age 12 in the middle of the night, along with his brother and several other children from his village. He was tied to the other other children with a thick rope and they were marched at gunpoint through the bush in the dark. That first day, Felix was forced to beat his own brother to death with a large stick. Later on, he was also forced to cut off the ears and lips of other boys who tried to escape. Sometimes, they made him puncture boys' lips and put a lock through their mouths, to make sure they literally kept their mouths shut about their experience of abduction. The LRA commanders made him carry extremely heavy loads over long distances. He didn't have shoes and the soles of his feet were cut up and bloodied. Once, they made him kill a man, cut up the dead body, and cook an eat part of it. After 7 months in captivity, Felix managed to escape. He is now the head boy at the rehabilitation center.
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Bosco is only 14 years old. He was abducted at age 10 and forced to kill many people. He was treated mercilessly and was marched to the Sudan to receive training. Many times on that walk, the rebels threatened to kill him because he kept collapsing from lack of water, food, and sleep. He was abandoned in the bush on one of those walks. He drank his own urine to survive. The boy he was with died a few days later, but Bosco survived. He was recaptured by the rebels and kept for over 3 years, and only escaped because a Ugandan soldier shot him in the leg and the rebels abandoned him. He has permanent nerve damage to his leg and will have a limp for the rest of his life...
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David was abducted at age 10, having escaped from 7 other attempted abductions. He was kept for 10 years, 6 of which were in the Sudan. He raided local villages for food and supplies, helped abduct other children, killed countless people, attacked refugee camps, and was promoted several times. A few months ago, he was caught in an ambush, got shot in the right leg, and was also abandoned... He left his right leg out there in the bush, but managed to survive the injury and crawl to freedom.
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Margaret is a 20 yr old woman who was abducted at age 10, and used as a virginal sex slave for the LRA commanders. Early on, she was forced to kill a man with a group of other girl captives. They made her march hundreds of miles and almost died of hunger several times. Her clothes were worn to shreds and she was forced walked around naked for a while. She raped countless times by many LRA commanders. Now, she has a 2 year old son, Onek, and she is pregnant with her second child. She escaped only 2 months ago.
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And these are only samples, little tibits from the lucky ones who managed to escape... It is estimated that over 20,000 children have been abducted by the LRA over the years.
...So while Joseph Kony may be insane, he is also extremely smart. He targets young, malleable kids, destroys their social ties by forcing them to commit atrocities against their own family members, terrorizes them so much they fear to escape, nearly starves them so they are completely dependent on the LRA's mercy, and brainwashes them with harsh military training in a foreign country (mainly the Sudan). I'm sure many of you are horrified by the above stories. But they are not just stories, these are the lives and real experiences of CHILDREN. Though many may also be thinking, "I could never do those things," how can we so easily deny these children their humanity? They are victims, they were forced, they were tortured. If any of us were in that situation at that age, we would have done the same thing. In any case, the Rachele rehabilitation center does an absolutely amazing job (cehck it out: http://www.childsoldiers.net/xcms/lang__en/4656/default.aspx), and these kids are the definition of resilience. After our looong talking session, we spent about an hour playing volleyball and soccer with the children... And guess what? They were kids all over again. They weren't victims, or murderers, or soldiers, or suvivors. They were just kids, squealing and laughing, kicking a ball around in the red dust.
(see link below for pics)

That man, Joseph Kony

Kony is insane; Kony thinks he's the Messiah; Kony has 100 wives; Kony is a cannibal; Kony wants to free Acholi-Land; Kony is a homicidal maniac; Kony wants to create a govt based on the 10 Commandements... There are many rumors about this elusive and mysterious man, Joseph Kony, the rebel leader of the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) that has wreaked havoc across Northern Uganda for 20 years. The product of a historical divide between Northern and Southern Uganda, ethnic rivalries, and tumultuous post-colonial politics (wow, way to reduce decades of history and a complex geopolitical situation to 3 clauses), the LRA was formed some 20 years ago in an effort to overthrow the new government of Yoweri Museveni (he came to power in '86 and is still the current president... way to go "democracy"!). However, what began as a political movement with some strong religious overtones (originally founded by Alice Lakwena and called the Holy Spirit Mvt) morphed over the years into a rebel movement of unspeakable violence and brutality. This conflict has raged on for 2 decades, with little to no attention from the international community, despite displacing nearly 2 million people, causing the deaths of hundreds of thousands of civilians, stoking conflict in neighboring countries, and causing general regional instability.

I have just returned from a week in Lira, a district in the conflict zone in Northern Uganda... What I saw and heard over the past few days has not only changed my views of the conflict and the possible ways forward, but also of how I view conflict in general. For the first time in my life, I visited an Internally Displaced Persons camp (IDPC). IDPs are basically refugees, but since they do not cross intl borders, they do not have the same rights, privileges, and protection as refugees. While the UN did pass a special protocol for IDPs, they still do not get the same kind of attention and support that they need. Indeed, the situation in Northern Uganda was called the most neglected humanitarian crisis in the world by the UN Head of Humanitarian Affairs, Jan Egeland. I visited the Barr camp, which has nearly 50,000 people living in it. It did not look like the kind of refugee camp you see on CNN. Rather, it looked like a terribly congested rural village, with thousands of small mud huts squeezed together. The settlement is almost semi-permanent since most people have been there for 4 years. Yeah, 4 years. And this is a recent camp, the product of the conflict surging again in 2002/2003. Many camps further North have housed displaced people for over a decade.
I had the opportunity to speak to many people, and sat down and interviewed a group of women in the camp, many of them single heads of households with several dependants, including vulnerables such a infants, sick people, and elderly family members. They struggle for food every day, and can barely access basic necessities like water, clothing, sanitary towels etc... Rats eat their medicine, and they don't have any farming equipment to grow their own small crops. Diseases like cholera and malaria are common, and fires can quickly sweep across the camp, destroying the few possessions they have left.
Yes, of course there are many NGOs operating in the camp, such as the World Food Program and the Christian Children's Fund, but all the NGOs are gradually phasing down their activities in the camp, due to funding constraints (aka donor fatigue) and the belief that people should begin returning to their villages because it is "safer" now. (Actually I'm totally rethinking the role/usefulness/wisdom of NGO relief work... Seems like sometimes they just perpetuate the problems... More on that later) Anyway it is indeed safer now, especially in the Lira District, but people are scared to go home, terrified of being killed or abducted. Even though many people have gradually begun returning home, their villages have been destroyed, torched and looted by rebels and the military alike. Even once people settle back home, they are extremely fearful of nighttime raids and attacks... Rumors spread quickly about "that man, Kony," and one accidental gunshot can send everyone fleeing back to the protected camps. So as long as peace and security cannot be guaranteed, these people will still be homeless and stranded within their own country, ignored by their government and forgotten by the rest of the world...

If you want more basic information about the conflict, check out the BBC link below...

From the dusty streets of Kampala

Seems like there's so much to say about Uganda, and so much I want to try to share with you all... Unfortunately, I thought I knew what I was getting into from reading, documentaries, etc, but nothing can actually prepare you for what it's like on the ground in a poor, developing country like Uganda that has been struggling with civil and regional conflict and under quasi-dictatorial rule for about 20 years.

Kampala is a bustling city to say the least... Endless swarms of people around, who endlessly stare at a muzungu like me. It's absolutely not threatening, in fact Kampala in many ways feels safer than parts of Cape Town. You don't see the same kind of polarized wealth that is so prevalent in South Africa... In Uganda, everyone is poor. Yes, there are definitely degrees of poverty, but I'm staying with a member of Parliament, and let me just say that a US senator would not last 5 minutes in his house (more on that to follow, but it's just been 24 hours so I need some more time to process all this).
Anyway, back to Kampala. The city is actually quite lovely in terms of climate and the location on Lake Victoria, but it's crumbling--not that it was ever really properly built. Most of the roads in the city center are paved, but there are potholes the size of lunar craters every other meter, and the streets are totally lawless. Traffic laws don't really seem to exist, and there are no traffic lights and few street signs. Minibus taxis jockey for the best positions on the main roads and little 'boda boda' motorcycles precariously weave through traffic, picking up passengers along the way. Others load up their bicycles with goods and sometimes kids, and try to make their way over the 14 hills that Kampala spreads over. Pedestrians must wait for traffic--not the other way around, and as I explained earlier, crossing the street is a long process. I've adjusted by crossing with the locals, who seem to have an innate sense of how not to die when scrambling across these busy streets. Also remember to watch for open manholes and barbed wire along the way ;)
Otherwise the streets of Kampala are busy with commerce. There's a panoply of storefronts selling seemingly unrelated wares like irons, shoes, wooden furniture, second-hand refridgerators, and "African" crafts. Private security guards sit in front of many stores, casually sitting in the shade with assault rifles across their laps. The guns wouldn't creep me out so much if the guards weren't younger than me and seemingly napping in shade during the hot afternoon hours. Yeah, exactly. Between security guards, the streets are lined with homeless people and street children, most of them refugees from the North, where the conflict still flares. Some of them try to make a little money selling newspapers and cigarettes on the sidewalk, but others are so desperate and sick that they can't do much more than lie there... It's impossible to not feel for them, but we were told that we shouldn't give them money. This is probably the biggest challenge I have faced-- how can I walk by a baby and her young mother when you realize, after a brief glance, that the mother's leg was chopped off? Or an old man with no hands?
But I guess that's why I'm here, studying peace and conflict in this context... The program is about experiential learning, and the academic part really just puts everything in context so we understand what we're seeing and experiencing everyday. Plus I feel like I'm actually contributing to something since we will be working with various NGOs in the different places we travel to as a group...
Anyway I'm going to head back to the "compound" now to share the evening with my new (huge) Ugandan family... and to shower. The soil here is a fine red clay, and during the dry season, red dust covers everything. All the Africans look prim and proper, but us muzungus, with our pale skin, definitely look more disheveled. You don't really feel or look dirty (actually I thought I was tan) until you bathe and the drain water is brown. Lovely, I know.

(For a visual of the above descriptions, check out my pics from Uganda at the link below, or check out this gorgeous photo gallery of Kampala and the surrounding region: http://www.pbase.com/danfung/uganda)

Greetings from Uganda

Hey everyone!
I'll have to keep this one short, bc electrical problems make a constant power supply impossible in Uganda... Ah, feels like Zimbabwe all over again :)
So anyway, hello from Kampala! I'm sitting at a tiny internet cafe, where I paid about 800 Ugandan shillings for an hour of internet (about 50c). Nearly as overpriced as my $1 beers last night. Crazy.
Anyway, I just wanted to let you all know that I'm alive and well and enjoying my time in Uganda so far... It's only been 3 days, but I already feel like my 3 weeks here are short-changing this vibrant, bustling, humid, dusty city, where everytime you cross the street your life literally flashes before your eyes. But it's ok, because there are probably about 200,000 people also crossing the street with you, so the minibus drivers and motorcycles have a lower chance of hitting me. There are about 2 million people in Kampala, and they ALL are always out wandering the streets it seems.
Anyway, even though I clearly stand out as white, a "muzungu," and get many stares and hellos from the locals, they are possibly the warmest friendliest people I have ever encountered. When you ask for directions, they don't bother giving you verbal directions, they actually walk you where you need to go. Yeah, try that on Madison Ave.
Anyway I'm off to further adventures in the city, more from me soon-ish...

By the way, I graduated

Yes indeed! After 4 years, it's the end of my illustrious college career (as of 2 days ago). I can't quite believe that I'm a certified, diploma-carrying alumunae (cum laude) of Smith College, finally joining the ranks of notable alums like Margaret Mitchell, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem, Barbara Bush, Nancy Reagan, Julia Child, Rochelle Lazarus, and of course our Commencement speaker, Rep. Jane Lakes Harman.
But even though I'm in denial, the pictures prove it...







Now if only I had a job... 

Ron y revolucion

This is a long overdue update, but, as usual, life has been hectic. I really should stop opening my updates with excuses... Anyway, as many of you know, I took off to Cuba for spring break with Jacqueline--yes the same travel buddy of Grecian notoriety. I won't bother with a blow by blow of our trip, but I would like to share some thoughts and observations about Cuba, a place that is still misunderstood and misrepresented in the West.
The propaganda immediately greets you on ride from Havana's Jose Marti airport into downtown. Giant billboards of Castro with big red lettering "VAMOS BIEN," anti-Bush posters, and graffiti murals extoling the glory of la revolucion or Che Guevara (el Che has been dead for nearly 40 years, but he's still totally idolized).
At first glance downtown Havana felt and looked a bit like a postcard from the 1950s, esp on the Malecon, the long avenue that runs along the waterfront: bright colored old chevys and lots of people stolling around in the warm sunshine. But after a day, the truer picture emerged: one of underdevelopment and decay.
Habana vieja, the old city center, has been renovated and completely redone as part of the investment in tourism infrastructure. But the residential neighborhood right next door, Centro Habana, is quite literally crumbling. People walk in the middle of the streets to avoid the chunks plaster that fall off building facades and the debris that litters the sidewalks. However this part of la Habana has a musical pulse, with music from different radio stations pouring out the windows and old men sitting on street corners with guitars on their laps. In fact, most of Cuba felt that way, and we had the privilege of seeing some of the world-renowed Buena Vista Social Club perform at the glorious old Hotel Nacional.
However, despite the constant upbeat musical soundtrack, I felt little joy or hope in Cuba. Cubans it seems have given up and are just trying to get by day to day. After 47 years under Fidel Castro such routine despair is understandable. Cubans can't even access everyday things like shampoo--even though it is plentiful in the small stores in tourist hotels, they cannot purchase it with regular pesos. This is one of the many examples of "tourist apartheid," whereby tourists are allowed certain privileges (like satellite TV) while Cubans are isolated from foreign visitors as well as the outside world. The lucky few who get to work within the tourism sector have access to the "convertible peso" and can purchase some of these things, but sometimes it's just easier to tip your hotel maid in cosmetics rather than cash. Most people we interacted with were either other tourists or Cubans who worked in tourism (museums, restaurants, hotel, bars etc). However, everyone knew we were foreign (the whole American accent/white skin thing somehow tipped them off) and we got several marriage proposals when strolling along the streets (hey lady, you wants Cuban boyfriends? I marry you, yes? You take me to America, ok?). Just another example of how stuck people feel in Cuba--and that's just in Havana! I can't imagine what it's like in the impoverished rural areas, which we only passed on the bus ride from Havana to the beach resort area of Varadero.
Oh my, I could go on for a while about the total hypocrisy of Varadero, but ultimately the beach is gorgeous and the rum flows freely, so I don't want to bash it too much... In fact, that's true about Havana too, and I don't want to give the impression that I didn't enjoy my time there. Cuba is lots of fun, even though I found myself laughing more 'at' than 'with.' I mean, Castro is a classicaly paranoid totalitarian and some of those anti-Bush billboards along the Malecon are just so shocking it's hilarious. I'm just really glad that I got to before he dies, which may be never seeing how long he's lasted so far...
Anyway, viva Cuba libre! and enjoy the pics :)

(oh about the pics, just click on the link below, but you have to sign into the kodak gallery- a free process which will literally take 30 secs... I just need people to sign in since this link is on my blog, aka open to the entire world!)

Holy Sh*t it's an Eve update

Well it's been a long time since my last real update-- 51 days to be exact, which is NOTHING in geological time, also known as Africa time, Caribbean time etc ;) ... I guess the last you heard from me I was chillin' in Cape Town--developing my conflict resolution/mediation skills, partying like a rockstar to make up for my antisocial behavior during the first semester, working diligently on my tan, and taking excessive amounts of pictures to document the whole thing... I don't want to bore you with the details of my 3-week stay in South Africa (ooo I met Ex-President and Nobel laureate FW de Klerk!!), but needless to say, I had a great time and I can't wait to go back--soon hopefully!

You all saw most of my pics online and received no narrative from me to explain 'em, but they were pretty self-explanatory. Quick summary: lots of random white people (other ppl in the program), some Africans (some program ppl, and also my wonderful homestay family from last year--Tina has grown sooo much!), beautiful pics of Cape Town (easy to take great pics of such a gorgeous city), scenery from the townships (not beautiful in quite the same way), a 'toga party,' an essentially talentless talent show, and endless pics of nights out in the Mother City with South African friends (oh and some crazy Namibians).

Anyway after Cape Town, I stopped over in the UK for a few days to reconnect with friends in Oxford and London. While the stay was basically a long weekend, it was, as always, good times with lots of alcohol and uncooperative weather.

After the little stopover, I came back through NYC for 48h before turning around and leaving again (this, I believe, is what is now known as "pulling an Eve")... This time the destination was Montreal for the McGill MUN conference. It was great to be back in Montreal, a little taste of Europe on this side of the Atlantic. Plus the weather was really warm! Wait, let me qualify that, it was really warm for Montreal in January, which means it was 30ºF/0ºC all weekend--which is tropical compared to lows of -15ºF/-45ºC in previous years.
Well the conference was a success (plus I got to very briefly see Ivan) and I drove the team back to Smith in the white Smith College soccer mom minivan--hot, I know...



And then the spring semester started--my LAST semester as an undergrad, which is terrifying/exciting/overwhelming and uber busy as usual. Actually that's a little bit of a lie because I've had a rather chill start to the semester... The second weekend of the semester I had a fantastic mini-bday party in NYC at Baraonda with a representative slice of the NYC crew...




And then the next day I flew off to the French Alps for a week. It's my family's traditional annual week of skiing in the most beautiful place in the world... So what if I missed a week of classes? It was a 'sudden family emergency,' and I just HAD to go for a week ;-) The skiing wasn't fab bc there wasn't much snow (as opposed to the record-breaking amount that was dumped on NYC just as I was leaving--the ultimate definition of IRONY), but it was great to spend time with the fam, eat great food, breathe the fresh mtn air, and keep partying like a rockstar etc...



And now it's back to the grind of the SC. More from me soon!

Greetings from the Mother Land

Hello friends and happy new year!

Well I finally got through the roughest finals of my life thanks to a 4 day extension on some of my papers... Clearly there's no way I could have written 5 papers, which totalled over 80 pages, in just a week. It was very intense and I pulled many all-nighters, but working over XMas weekend wasn't all that bad--it's rare to get presents and freshly baked cookies during a study break!
Conclusion: clearly being a senior at Smith is rough, but being a senior and taking 3 seminars is just masochistic. And my masochism continues because I basically had zero time off between finishing finals and getting on a plane to go back to South Africa... which is where I am writing to you all from. Indeed, Eve is back in Africa and loving it :)


So I'm in Cape Town participating in a 3-week symposium on Int'l Mediation and Conflict Resolution which is organized by an American org but taking place at University of Cape Town (check it out)... The classes/training sessions are pretty intense since it's essentially 9-5 every day--particularly hard on me since I am not fully human until noon. But I'm learning a lot about mediation (not mediTation), methods of conflict resolution, and diplomatic skills etc plus meeting some of the top people in the field, as well as the future leaders in the field, aka the other participants in the program. The group is pretty big: 80 people from around the world (DRCongo, Rwanda, USA, Holland, Norway, Colombia is a small sample), of all ages (the range is 19 to mid-30s but most are college age), and all different types of experiences and backgrounds (clueless sophomores to the former assistant to the Congolese President). Clearly there's so much to learn from the other participants and it's such a great opportunity to forge a future network...

Basically I'm feeling like I'm really equipped to solve all of the world's problems... Just give me a year or so and BAM! World Peace ;-)

Anyway, even if those plans don't work out, I'm still having a great time back in Cape Town. Ok, that's not entirely true because I got some terrible food poisoning this weekend and I literally spent New Years Eve getting to know the toilet down the hall... way to bring in 2006, right? I'm back on track now though and I'm loving the hot sunny weather, the food (the kind that DOESN'T inflict 2 days of debilitating illness), the beach, the beauty of the city and all the other wonderful things about Cape Town. I'm especially looking forward to re-connecting with some of the people that I met when I was here last year (or technically 2 years ago now), in particular my precious homestay family in the township. I'm heading back to Langa this weekend to see them and my little sisi Tina who is now 4 years old! And clearly I am bringing her and all the neighborhood kids tons of gifts... I love being Santa :)

Anyway as much as I LOVE sitting in a computer lab while the sun is shining outside, I think I'm going to leave it at that for now... I hope you're all well and I look forward to seeing some of you in the UK in a couple of weeks when I stop through on my way back to the USA!