Hands Full of Heart Stones

The Man Up Campaign

2009-07-03T10:26:00.000-07:00

Since I left Soroti and The Goat Project, I have been working for the Man Up Campaign, meeting with local partners in Kampala, Goma, Kigali, and -- starting tomorrow --Johannesburg. These local partners are small, grassroots organizations working within their own communities, with youth, to seriously address the issue of Violence Against Women -- largely through music, dance, art, film/theater, or sports. I am inspired and motivated by the energy and dedication I see in these programs and the in the people who lead them. This may be the best job in the world! Man Up does not have its website running quite yet, but since I have been asked to explain the campaign over e-mail quite a lot, I thought I might share here a bit more about the initiative, its goals, and the plan. (Note: I did not write the following. It was created as a collaborative effort of our incredible team to share with partners and donors)

Man Up is an international call to action for young adults to eradicate violence against women (VAW) using music, sport, and technology. On the occasion of one of the largest gatherings in the world, World Cup 2010 in South Africa, Man Up will host a global youth summit with the goals of supporting organizations tackling VAW, building a network of youth advocates and defenders, and linking the efforts of small local projects and mainstream organizations with the corporate, entertainment and sports communities.

The fact that one out of every three women around the world has been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused in her lifetime is a reality that must be addressed, forcefully. This is a five-year campaign, but the rewards will potentially extend for generations. Already there's a momentum to make this happen. This campaign will succeed with the support of artists, entrepreneurs, activists, athletes, educators, and concerned citizens "manning up"-whether they are male or female-and saying that gender violence against women must end. It's not just a women's issue, it's everyone's issue. Man Up is a call to action for the next generations to do things differently.

The Man Up Youth Summit will bring together a diverse group of 200 young men and women aged approximately eighteen to twenty-five years representing 32 World Cup competing nations and 18 at-risk countries, who are committed to eradicating VAW within their communities. Summit participants will be given the tools they need-and want-to plan and execute proposed initiatives, including seed grants with the support of a worldwide network of NGO partners. A multi-functional website will facilitate communication, on-going training and global advocacy.

The Summit is action-oriented. The purpose is to help participants make their ideas into real projects. Workshops are focused on skill building and provide the participants with the tools necessary to execute their projects and be advocates against VAW. The Summit will introduce various training and teaching techniques, particularly those that address and utilize relevant cultural influences and forces, namely hip-hop and sports, both of which have been extremely successful in youth-based development.

Renowned speakers and practitioners will join the Summit to promote the Man Up agenda and offer their own experience and perspective to the youth delegates.

Following the summit, a global virtual network will launch, providing participants with training, access to experts and additional resources. The network will be an action-based advocacy hub with a myriad of tools to empower GBV youth activists around the world.

It is Man Up’s aspiration that year-by-year, through strengthened NGO (non-governmental organization) and governmental partnerships, the number of grantees will grow and that past grantees will sustain their projects with the assistance of Man Up-developed tools and resources. We hope to reconvene in Brazil in 2014, prior to the World Cup.

Man Up is led by Jimmie Briggs, a former reporter with LIFE magazine, and now a New York-based writer, teacher and freelance journalist. Over the last decade, he has focused professionally on child soldiers and the lives of war-affected children in writing for publications such as The Village Voice, The Source, El Pais, People, Essence among others. A National Magazine Award finalist and recipient of honors from the Open Society Institute, National Association of Black Journalists, Alicia Patterson Foundation and Carter Center, among others, his book on child soldiers and war-affected children, Innocents Lost: When Child Soldiers Go To War, was published in 2005. He is a frequent speaker at colleges and universities. Briggs’ presentations on civil rights and diversity issues, human rights abuse in war-affected countries and child welfare have brought considerable attention to issues often discarded in the general media. Briggs has worked for the UN Special Session on Children, Seeds of Peace in both New York City and Kabul, Afghanistan, as well as numerous other organizations including Oxfam, Amnesty International and the ENOUGH Project. He has received distinguished fellowships for his writing and advocacy, and his work has appeared in The New York Times Magazine, The Washington Post, Vibe, Outside, and Fortune, Additionally, he has served as an adjunct professor of investigative journalism at the New School for Social Research, and was a George A. Miller Visiting Professor in the Department of African and African-American Studies at the University of Illinois: Champaign-Urbana. His next book, to be published in 2010, is The Wars Women Fight: Dispatches from A Father to His Daughter.

A Pretty Pair: Carla and Joyce

2009-06-29T23:43:00.000-07:00

These were taken on my last day in Gulu. Carla and Joyce are a happy duo. Aren't they wonderful together?

I am in Kigali now, after a very fast few days in Goma meeting with partner organizations for the Man Up Campaign. The complexities and messiness of the DRC, the reality of being there, created a kind of static for me, and I need some time to think. We know that the greatest beauty can sometimes be found among the most horrendous pain and suffering. In Goma I was moved by very young Congolese artists, musicians, filmmakers, dancers and painters, working to actively build peace and promote art and dynamic social change in their country. I spoke with women rebuilding themselves and their communitiies after brutal, brutal rape. I met health care professionals treating the sick and the wounded with passion and grace, all while pushing hard to learn more and improve their own skills. At most moments I simultaneously wanted to leave very quickly but also stay, stay, stay much longer to dig deeper, and do more. I will write more about it soon. For now, happy pictures of Joyce and Carla. I'm off to explore Kigali before another Man Up meeting. Love to you!

Goats as a Tool for Child Protection, and the Story of Martina

2009-06-28T05:32:00.001-07:00

Martina is 12 years old and she has epilepsy. She wears an emerald green dress, and somehow this child seems to radiate light. She is painfully shy and her cheeks blush crimson as I speak to her. “Yes,” she nods voicelessly, as I ask her simple questions. And when I move to something that requires a true reply, she looks up at me with a bright smile and dancing eyes, still silent, but answering me with a look. “Things are better now.”

For several years Martina went to school, always uncertain what the day would bring. Sometimes she would have epileptic fits, convulsing in the middle of class, or in the schoolyard in front of her peers. As her body shook, Martina’s classmates would run after her, hitting her and beating her with sticks so hard that her young body often bruised. They did this for fun and play, but also to chase the evil spirit out of her that they believed lived inside. Teachers stood back. On-looking adults did nothing. Martina said that she did her best not to cry.

Identified by TPO Uganda as at-risk, last year Martina received a goat. (If you don’t yet know about the Goat Project, please read about it HERE or HERE). TPO considers the Goat Project to be a child-protection program, and I quickly learned again why.

It wasn’t long after the goat was delivered to Martina, during a follow up visit, that the TPO counselor learned about the specific, dangerous trouble she was having at school. A team of TPO staff, together with someone from the sub-county’s child-protection committee went to visit the school. They spoke to all the school’s staff and explained Martina’s condition. They explained epilepsy medically, and the serious physical risks involved with the children’s habit of hitting Martina mid-attack, and then spoke of the emotional impact as well. They coached the school’s staff on how best to explain this to the students, and deal with questions or backlash.

And it worked. Martina goes to school now in peace. Her teachers, the students, as well as her family members all know how to help her during an attack. She says that some students still tease her, but that she doesn’t mind because everyone gets teased for something, and no one is hitting her any more. Not one single person. And then, her face lights up. “Do you want to see my goat?” she asks. It is my turn to nod. Yes, I definitely want to see her goat!

She leads me past the spacious living area, out into a field of corn and overgrowth. She leads the way, and I can scarcely see her emerald dress through the grasses that brush my forehead. And then she stops, turning to find me. “There” she points, without words, the luminescent grin returning. I look, and tethered to a tree with a long rope is a black and white speckled goat, munching happily on the greens. I didn’t know it was possible, but in a moment, Martina’s face lights up even more. She takes a few more steps and clears the way through some of the bush. There, hidden entirely in the growth, are two kids, little baby goats, bleating quietly. And I know what this means without being told: money for school fees. More goats, more babies, more money, more food, something that this child is bringing to her family, a way she is contributing to her own future. And she cannot hold the pride she feels inside. It spills out of her, into the wild grass where we stand.

What do you want to be when you grown up, I ask her spontaneously. She does not wait a moment before answering. “A nurse,” she says. “I want to help people get better and understand.”

I think that it is a fabulous plan.

(Thank you, sweet Leah, for changing Martina’s life last year with a gift of a goat. In this, as in so many other ways, you are here with us. Thank you from her, from her family, and from us. We love you.)

Photos of Martina and her goats to come once I am back home in the U.S.…

Back to the Goats

2009-06-28T05:30:00.000-07:00

I was recently in Soroti, eastern Uganda, on phase II of my trip: 4 days working with TPO Uganda, documenting the Goat Project. In the process, my love for this program was deepened. I met with families as their disabled child received a goat for the first time, and ones who had received their goat last year and could speak to the change it caused in their lives. I talked to staff, local officials, health care workers, community leaders, family members, and children, each shockingly honest about the state of disabled children in this corner of the world, and impact and efficacy of the Goat Project. It was fast, and it was whirlwind, but it was very special. I love my work. More soon.

(Thank you, generous friends and family who donated goats for our wedding. You were here with me! I have met some of the exact individuals your kind gift has helped and I have no words to explain how wonderful this was, and how lucky I feel Minh and I are to be surrounded by you in our life.)

First Chores, Then Play

2009-06-19T01:01:00.000-07:00

Baby Aber's Photo Shoot

2009-06-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

I have a zillion more of this series, but they take 15 minutes each to upload, so they will have to wait until I am back in the U.S.

hugs from Gulu!

Raw

2009-06-18T09:53:00.000-07:00

Ten days before I left for this trip, my friend Leah died in a car accident in Ghana. She wasn’t yet thirty. She was working on international food policy. She was headed to the beach for the weekend.

I only knew Leah for a few years, but Minh used to joke that he was afraid we’d run away together, kindred spirits. To be honest, I always held pride in this little joke of his. It felt like such a compliment, every time. As her dear friend Maria said: “Leah was somethin’ special. There ain’t no more Leah’s in this world.”

And that, you see, is exactly the problem. And I can’t sort it out. I can’t wrap my mind around this absence. This fact. And yet, today, here, in this moment now, it feels so real. Too, too real. And I am so mad that I shake.

I try to imagine what she would say to me here, sitting under this mango tree, hot tears blazing down my face, children coming home from school staring at the mzungu trying hard not to make a scene in public. “But I had a wonderful life!” she would start, gesticulating with her hands, and tilting her head. “But you are in Africa! C’mon. Get up and go visit your friends, do your work. Keep going! I am fine.”

No, I say. It is NOT ok. How is it ok? How can I believe in a world where Leah is senselessly gone? Someone doing such good…real good in this world. Someone with such passion and spirit and life! How can that life be gone? And if it is, since it is, what the heck are we doing here anyway? I feel like her death is supposed to make me feel even more strongly about my work; more committed. We always talked about our work, compared our work, took turns being amazed then wonder-fully jealous of one another’s work. We complained in good humor, and dreamed in good faith. Neither Leah nor I ever knew what was going to come next, but wasn’t that the beauty of it? Leah was ok with the uncertainty and made me feel confident too, proud and more comfortable with flowing with life, asking questions without real answers, and taking risks for the beauty and humanity of it all. I sit here now, and I hate to be this way, but I don’t want to flow or dream right now. Right now I am only asking, really, what is the point?

I used to have an answer to that question. When asked about the point of it all, I pointed to my favorite, favorite quote – an Irish proverb, actually: “It is in the shelter of each other that the people live,” it says. Take care of one another, love. To me, this seemed so completely crystal clear. This was the point. But now, now….I’m honestly not that sure. God, I am angry.

In Jewish tradition, focus is not placed on the afterlife, but rather, the life we are living now. Even the Kaddish, the prayer said for the dead, speaks only of the miracle that is this world, this life. But you see, I whisper in between the lines of the Kaddish, we really need Leah back in this life. We really, really need her here. Surely, there has been some terrible, terrible mistake.

Here in Uganda, a country where she has never been and will never be, her absence to me is profound. Perhaps it is because we talked of traveling here together one day. More likely, though it is because this is a place where Life and Death are intimate partners and good friends. Here, the joy and the pain, the ins and outs of a day, they are all raw. There is no pretense of “forever.”. Everything, and everybody will one day cease, and that day…well, it could be today. I feel Leah here as I walk the path in the morning past the chickens and goats and cows, down into town. I feel Leah as the grass tickles my legs and the breeze gives a momentary respite from the searing mid-day sun. I feel her so much as I simply go about my day.

I look down. The red dust is swirling around my ankles and knees as a storm brews across town. The road is pocked with holes– the mark of rainy season – and a truck rushes down the road, like an elephant on a balance beam. Everything can be swept away.

An old woman walks past me now, hunched over a walking stick, eyes cloudy, dress to match the grasses. “Apoyo” she greets, and raises a hand. I smile and greet her in return. Three children in blue-checkered uniforms balance on the back of their father’s bicycle, returning from school. They smile and wave wildly “Muno, Hiiiiiiiiiiiii” they shout, using the word for “foreigner”. “Acholi, Hiiiiiiiiiiiii,” I offer and they erupt in gales of laughter that I have met their call of “foreigner” with the word for their own tribal identity. Six strong women turn around in passing and smile at the exchange. They are each holding a day’s worth of labor on their heads, doubtlessly walking home to bathe the children and prepare the evening’s meal.

There is something faint in the distance. Wailing. Is it screaming, even? In a moment I recognize this sound. It is the sound of mourning. Somewhere nearby, a family has lost a member. Someone beloved is gone. Yes, I want to say….yes, I understand. The void is too deep for words or flowers. I know, and I am sorry. So, so sorry.

Someone Lost A Tooth Today

2009-06-18T00:31:00.000-07:00

Good Morning

2009-06-17T04:51:00.000-07:00

The One, Obama

2009-06-12T20:22:00.001-07:00

As soon as I left Entebbe airport and was securely seated in the front seat of my guest house's car, my driver had one question. It had clearly been burning on his tongue since he had greeted me, 10 minutes earlier. He was having a hard time containing himself. "So," he said with excitement, "I am hearing that you are from the American capitol, Washington." Yes, I said, I live in DC. I smiled. I knew exactly what was coming next.

"How is the one, Obama?" he launched in. "Are you knowing him? Are you seeing him? He is so smart. I am reading about all Obama policy. His wife, she is also so, so smart. What is she like in Washington?”

Since arriving one week ago, it is not an exaggeration to say that I receive a version of this same, enthusiastic question at least once, if not several times each day – usually, as soon as people learn that I am from DC. I am frequently asked about the president’s personal habits, what they “take for lunch”, and, most often, about the well being of “the ones of Obama” (i.e. the family), and how they are doing.

The funny part is, I am expected to hold a knowing answer, like a cousin. I do, afterall, live in the same city.

Yesterday over lunch, a colleague here raised the O question for the first time, admitting she had wanted to for some time, but had been waiting patiently. “Well,” I told her with a sly grin, “my husband works across the street from the White House.”

“Ahh!” she shrieked. “You are not serious!!! He must be a very important man…”

In our beading cooperatives, the interest is most assuredly on our intelligent, compassionate, fashion-forward first lady, a committed mother, like our beaders. They connect with her. They love her. They want to know why I haven’t yet personally delivered one of their gorgeous paper-bead necklaces to Michelle Obama, perhaps over tea. They have spent hours imagining which of their creations would best compliment her neckline, her coloring, her style. “But you live in Washington! So close!!” they say with exasperation. “You take it to her house.”

I explain that it is much more complicated than that, but that yes, I would also love to see Michelle Obama wearing one of their necklaces, elegant paper jewels made from the rubble of camp life, made from the hopes of women who are just now, 20 years later, reconstructing their lives and returning home after so much war. Too much war.

People ask about Obama here, and they smile. They connect. They understand Hope, and as they rebuild their homes, they are beginning to believe in Change. And, they think, maybe their dreams are possible, too. After all, somewhere out there, far away in America, is that one, Obama.

The closest we get to knocking on Obama's door is advocating to our government on behalf of the voiceless. Check out this year's Lobby Days, and come to DC or write a letter to your representative.

A Smile For Your Day

2009-06-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry. I didn't fall off the face of the earth. I was just a tad sick and unable to do much internet for the past week. But I'm better now, and I have a little smile for your day. This was taken my first day in Gulu, just after I arrived. Joyce has grown! She is healthy and strong, and sassy as ever. Her shyness has disappeared, and I can hardly sit for 5 minutes with Carla and the other women before being pulled and tugged at with choruses of "Aimee, you just come play! Aimee, you just come play now!" The game of choice is a hybrid of monkey in the middle and dodgeball, played with a soft sock ball, and I must say, I'm getting quite good! Joyce has a killer throwing arm.

Carla\s health is good, and the family's most pressing problem now is getting by now that Joyce's father is gone. To my delight and amazement, chickens that I bought last year were clucking away in the yard, and Carla\s structure for the charcoal was built and holds a prominent space in the courtyard, housing the charcoal she has been selling. It is a _very_ slow process, however, and it will take some time before this actually supports the family. (We have been discussing new and innovative business practices, like making a sign for the side of the road, and perhaps selling the charcoal where others are not. Hmmm...) I feel that all these issues are surmountable, though, and overall I'm very heartened. I'll spend as much time with them as I can before leaving for Soroti on the 21st.

I'm sorry I have not been in touch. I know many of you have been waiting to hear from me, especially about Joyce. I caught an African Bug...or rather, the bug caught me, and I have been in my hotel room (thank god for my clean hotel room with flushing toilet, hot shower, and mosquito net without holes) for the past 3 days, a sick puppy. Today I'm feeling better and have made it up the road to the Acholi Inn, where I am sitting outside and using their wireless internet -- so fancy -- while I recover a bit. Doctor Jolanna, the Czech doctor I met two years ago while caring for Joyce, saw me this morning and gave me some new medicine and eating instructions, so I"m well on the mend! It was nice to see her familiar and friendly face, too.

I have a lot of Paper to Pearls work to catch up on, so it will be a busy week or so, but I'm looking forward to seeing the women I have worked with in the past, again. Especially those at Awer. Most have left the camps now and are back in their villages, working their fields. As always, my objectives for the trip have shifted dramatically since I arrived, but I enjoy the fluid and ever-changing nature of this work (even if it can sometimes be frustrating!), and the kind of thinking and response it requires of me. I learn so much in each single encounter I have here, and only hope I have within me a fraction of as much to give in return.

I miss you all and think of you every day!

Love and "Greetings" from Gulu,

Aimee

Hello From the Future

2009-06-03T20:14:00.000-07:00

This poor neglected blog. I haven't written in so long, but I find myself on the road again, and feeling the need to say hello (Hi, Nana! Hi, Uncle Scott! Hi, Mom!).

I'm so out of the blogging "groove" that I am not sure what to write. That, coupled with travel fatigue and a brain of jello, makes it hard to hold a coherent thought. But just wanted to let you know that I am sitting in The Future, and it looks like the Dubai airport. In the new Emirates terminal, light pours in from long, glass skylights and tall arched windows. It is pristine. So much glass makes it feel spacious and open. Cosi (this is new!) sits across from Hermes, next to a prayer room, and I have never seen such a beautiful, colorful mix of people, seamlessly flowing through the corridors to their destinations...

This past week many people asked if I was excited for this trip. I sounded crazy, but I wasn't. There was too much going on, too much to do to be excited. And as great as it is to travel and work, I hate leaving Minh.

But now, backpack strapped on, boarding pass in hand, only one flight away from Uganda and two travel legs away from old friends and my favorite 5 year old, now I am excited! This will be a unique trip for me. Short in comparison to those of the past two years, and much, much busier.

I'll be gone almost 6 weeks in total, in 4 countries, working for 3 separate projects. I'll do my best to stay connected here and let you know how my days are filled (Nana, Mom, Uncle Scott...and anyone else out there :) )

Oh, the plane is boarding, so off to Kampala I go. Thinking of you all.

With LOVE

Aimee

Stand By Me

2008-12-18T05:59:00.000-08:00

This is just awesome. Hang in there past the first few moments. It gets better and better....

Stones and Stars

2008-12-15T11:05:00.000-08:00

Sunset

Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.

leaving you, not really belonging to either,
not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,
not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing
that turns to a star each night and climbs-

leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)
your own life, timid and standing high and growing,
so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching
out,
one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next,
a star.

By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Robert Bly

Can Ribo Mon Matino (or, why I am here in the first place)

2008-02-21T05:35:00.001-08:00

If you have purchased any paper bead necklaces from me during this first year, or you have entered my apartment and seen the piles and piles of colorful jewelry spread out on my living room floor (and even if you have not done either of these things), I would like to personally introduce you to the incredible women behind the beautiful and unique beads.

These women, from Awer IDP camp, create the jewelry that many of you now wear. Their transformation over this past year has been great, and much of it is thanks to you.

Between the time I met them, and now, just one year later, they have moved from making necklaces that I bought but could not sell or really wear myself, to jewelry that moves through trendy boutiques and gets sold when someone asks a wearer "That is so beautiful and different! Where did you get it???"

Part way through the year the women became serious about their work. They decided that they wanted more training; they decided to build a workspace for beading together, they decided to name themselves and thus become a true cooperative. Thus Can Ribo Mon Matin, or "Women United from Their Problems" was born.

And it is true that their problems are significant. Most of these women care for between 5-10 children and have no income to speak of. Nearly all of them began their childbearing when they were children themselves. They live in a congested and unsanitary camp for the internally displaced and cannot farm their own land. Their husbands, if alive, do not have work. They largely depend on the World Food Program and other aid. Many have lost family to AIDS, or are HIV positive themselves.

For the better part of this year, my friend and partner in all this, Tiffany, has continued to visit and advise the women of Can Ribo Mon Matino at Awer. I send her money, she purchases the necklaces, she sends them back to me (and also to her family in Texas). I sell the necklaces to you and send the money back to Tiffany. The cycle continues….

Your purchases have allowed them to become businesswomen. Without your support there is no way that their quality of life, and the quality of their work would have improved so dramatically, that they would have a workspace, that they would now be able to build a small, small business. Medicines are now more easily purchased, and small bellies filled. It is still a struggle, but things seem more hopeful for these women and their families.

One thing that has moved me greatly is something a bit less obvious. The women of Can Ribo Mon Matino have moved from being simple bead-makers to being creative artists. Their work has developed in color and style. They are taking chances, using their own ideas of beauty, pushing the envelope just a bit. This may not seem particularly incredible or note-worthy. The women are after all in a creative profession now, so to speak. However this move into unique and inspired creations is, in fact, monumental.

Camp living is about survival. It is day-to-day, hour-to-hour, what-am-I-going-to-eat-and-feed-my-children-tonight-living. It is praying that a fire doesn't spark and fly across a sea of thatched huts, charring your few possessions: a water jug, a pot, a sleeping mat, a change of clothes. It is hoping against hope that your newborn and maybe even your older child survive the year. In this kind of living, there is little room for imagination.

So together with the smiles on their faces and the obvious improvement in their living, the originality of these women and the spirit they have begun to infuse into their work moves me. It makes me certain that something is going right, and that it is worth finding them a more sustainable venue for their craft. This is especially important now that Tiffany is leaving Uganda in June. And that is why I am here in Gulu this time around. I knew you were wondering.

If you are interested in selling these unique and beautiful paper bead necklaces to your friends and family, please just let me know. I will be bringing home many, many, many. For more pictures of the women and the beads click here, into Tiffany's flickr account. It is definitely worth a look-see.

Big hugs to you all, and thank you for sending me so much comment/e-mail love!

xo,
A

Books, Afghanistan, Advocacy, and Slowly by Slowly

2008-02-21T02:08:00.000-08:00

I lost 2 big posts today to a corrupted flash drive, and I am SO frustrated. I will do my best to re-write them later, but for now I will leave you with a small antecdote from an afternoon last week.

I was outside Charity for Peace giving a short lesson in English "conversation" to the street kids who hang out there while waiting for a meeeting. I had in my hand the book A Thousand Splendid Suns, written by the same man who wrote The Kite Runner. (Incidentally, I tore through the book in 2 days. Anyone looking for a great novel should pick it up). One of the CFP employees with whom I was speaking noticed the book and started asking about it's premise. "This one is in Afghanistan, yes?" I told him yes, it is a fictional book about Afghanistan.

"Ahhh, that place is so sad, just like this place," he told me. "I would like to know that place. It is also a place which is crying. I just pray for them for peace. But," he continued...."for them, they are fighting tribes against tribes, interests against interests. It is complicated and difficult. For us, we are fighting against our brothers. It is our family!! This should be easier, but it is not. I do not know how you end such a deep family problem. I am hoping. I am praying. We might, might be close. We should be close. It is coming slowly by slowly. And maybe those ones in Afghanistan..." he trailed off and tapped my book... "maybe those will also soon know some peace."

If you would like to know what you can do to help bring peace to northern Uganda, visit www.resolveuganda.org. Lobby Days are almost here, and even if you can't be in DC, you are only a phone call away from your representative. Participate in your democracy and if you care, let them know. You can click here to send a letter directly to your elected official. All you have to do is enter your own address, and the work is done for you. So easy! Send the letter that is provided, or write your own. It is coming, as they say here "slowly by slowly" and that isn't quite fast enough.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

2008-02-15T08:08:00.000-08:00

Today is my mom's birthday. Her gift from me is 2 hours + in this internet cafe, as the power flickers in and out, trying to get a few posts up. I hope you have a wonderful birthday, Mom, and a very special year. I miss you! Thank you for your love and support in all my crazy endeavors, and for chatty morning coffee time, across the country and sometimes across the world. I love you. xoxoxoxo (This picture is of myself, my brother, mom and dad, and was taken when my mom was just about my age! It is one of my very favorites)

Love and Joy(ce)

2008-02-15T02:07:00.000-08:00

Today is Valentine’s Day and I miss Minh. After a day of working with TAKS and Paper to Pearls, I decided to head to Joyce’s house for a short visit. After all, there is no one in Gulu I love more! I walked in from town and turned down the dusty road toward her home. Four small boys raced bicycle rims past me, pushing the metal circles with sticks and shouting playfully at the funny “muno” (white person), in their neighborhood. In a moment, another child raced out to the road, and seeing me, ran back from where she came, crying “Abalo! Joyce! Abalo! Joooooyyyyyce!!!!!” I slowly made my way up the path, but within another instant there were the children, flying toward me, a tangle of arms and legs and ripped dresses and toothy grins. Joyce was toward the back, but pushed her way up to the front of the pack, and before I knew it she had leapt into my arms, her head on my shoulder, panting and out of breath from the sprint. Her small hand played with my hair for a moment before I put her down. The other children ran ahead to tell Carla that I was there, but Joyce stayed by my side chit-chatting in Luo, so much to tell about the day’s activities!

I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with all the children outside. There were many rounds of the perennial favorite: “everybody jump,” which is exactly as it sounds, and which we transformed into a type of “simon says” hybrid. They all sang their ABCs and several nursery songs, and I began teaching “You are My Sunshine” and a version of “London Bridges Falling Down”.

For me, though, the best part was watching Joyce return every so often to Carla, just to make sure that she was watching. Carla, preparing the evening meal would smile and nod at Joyce, acknowledging her performance and games and antics, and Joyce would continue, right in the game with the other children.

I have thought of this scene all evening long. The truth is, many people have come together in order to ensure the brightest possible future for this special child. We can provide food and shelter, the very best education, mentorship. We can support ultimate self-sufficiency. We can care, adore, pray, and even love Joyce. But this kind of love, this kind of support – the genuine, constant, non-wavering, daily, deeply rooted love of a mother is not something we could ever, ever give her, no matter how much we wish it possible (and if you know me, you know I have wished it possible!!).

There was never a question in my mind that Joyce needed to stay in Gulu, with her family, with her people. Despite this knowledge of my mind last year, my heart spoke differently. I wanted her with me. I loved her. Not a day passed in the US when I didn’t think of her, speak of her, yes, at times cry for her. And I think that this is mostly because, although I knew she was being cared for, I hadn’t seen her loved. Carla has changed that. Joyce has a real family now. She has someone who is constantly looking out for her best interest – not because she is obligated, but because she cares, and she loves.

I will always love Joyce, but I can already feel a change. Maybe it is the sadness and heaviness lifting. Carla told me that Joyce is “here” – and she placed her hand over her heart. I understood, maybe too well. But the most beautiful part is that Carla is also here, in Gulu, beside Joyce as she goes to sleep and wakes up, prepares for school and returns, suffers from her sickness and succeeds in staying healthy. She is here, and will continue to be here as Joyce lives her life and grows.

In as many ways as I can be, I will be with her, too. I will love her in all the ways I can. But now when I am at home in America and I think of Joyce I will see her in my mind’s eye running over to Carla for assurance and a smile and then returning to me, for an afternoon of games.

Reunion

2008-02-15T02:05:00.000-08:00

I spent 4 full days in Gulu before I saw Joyce. I wanted to go and meet her family together with Grace, her mentor, and Grace wasn’t available until Saturday. With so much aid and so many people in and out of their lives, it was important to me that Joyce and Carla, her stepmother, see Grace and I as a team and understand that we work together.

When Saturday finally came, I tried to keep my expectations low. Very low. Perhaps Joyce wouldn’t remember me. She is, as they say here, a very stubborn child, and she is four. Chances were high that she would hide behind Carla or not want to interact with me at all, be shy or a bit scared, or just stubborn. For this, I was prepared (or so I told myself). Also, I tried to remember, she could be sick or not doing well. Although I had been told otherwise, I am not sure I really believed it.

As Grace, her 4 year old daughter, Laura, and I approached the home, she filled me in on the details of Joyce’s life. Within moments though, I saw for myself. Joyce was outside playing with her friends when we arrived: boisterous, lively, jumping up and down and up and down and up. In an instant we were spotted and suddenly a mess of 3-6 year olds were tearing toward us at breakneck speed. Joyce went straight for Grace. Once in Grace’s arms she looked over at me. Her eyes got big and she smiled, then buried her face in Grace’s shoulder. Grace spoke to her for a minute and then put her down. “Who is this? Grace asked in English. “Aimee” Joyce said with a small smile. Shyly, she walked over, took my hand, and we walked to the house.

I had never met Carla before. When I was here last year, her Aunt Mary was caring for Joyce. Shortly after I left, Carla, Joyce’s father’s second wife, arrived and began to care for Joyce. For a short time the two women shared the responsibility, but eventually Joyce was left solely in Carla’s care. Mary went back to Pader, and Carla stayed in Gulu with Joyce, going to Pader every few weeks (with Joyce) to tend her garden there.

Instantly, I liked Carla. She greeted us with warmth and hospitality. She smiled. She swooped Joyce up into her arms and absent-mindedly cleaned the dust off he face. She spoke of Joyce with the pride and utter adoration of a mother, adding with feigned irritation that Joyce is, indeed, “a very stubborn child,” and then erupting in laughter. We sat for a long time visiting, Grace translating and chatting between us, Joyce staying close to Carla, moving to Grace, and eventually climbing up into my lap.

I noticed that the home was clean. Spotless, clean. Mattresses, clothes, and playthings hid behind a freshly hung, cheery curtain. Pots and a kettle were neatly placed in the corner. There was nary a mosquito to be seen. This was still the same one-room, concrete block, tin roofed place she had lived last year, half the size of most modest bedrooms in the US, and housing 6 people, but somehow for the first time, it seemed like a home.

Joyce was clean. The sore on her arm is still problematic, but was covered with a fresh bandage. Her ears were not oozing, her nose was not dripping. She had gotten taller, put on weight. Her eyes shined. Dare I say it? This beautiful child looked healthy.

I left with Grace to go run errands and pick up staples for the family. For the past year, we have been supporting (through Grace and Invisible Children), Joyce and her family in their most basic needs: food, rent, and of course Joyce’s schooling and medical needs. This has been fundamentally necessary in order to bring her and the family to a point of stability, from which they can move forward.

It has clearly worked. Carla will be taking a class on money management and business before starting her own small venture selling charcoal in the very near future. The family will then begin providing for their own basic needs, and we will continue to support Joyce’s education and medical needs.

As we moved about town picking up rice and beans, sugar and flour, I chatted more with Grace, and played with Laura. We returned to the home to quickly drop off the goods, and I asked Carla if I could return to visit during the week, without Grace. She smiled and nodded yes, of course. Then I turned to Joyce and asked Grace to ask her the same thing in Luo: could I come back during the week to visit and play? Would that be ok? Joyce paused for a moment, looking at Carla, Grace, and then me.

“You come back tomorrow,” she said.

New Vision

2008-02-15T02:03:00.000-08:00

I could tell we were getting closer to Gulu as the satellite IDP camps began to crowd the landscape. I anxiously arranged my belongings in preparation for a chaotic arrival into town, and I realized (maybe for the first time), I’m back!!! The bus careened left and then right, and suddenly vast and open land was replaced with brick and concrete, dilapidated storefronts, red and yellow and purple advertisements painted across half completed buildings, and long-abandoned scrap-wood scaffolding about to topple at the next big wind. Men on bikes and women selling bananas, boda-boda drivers and business people counting boxes of inventory scattered to the sides as the bus pushed through the narrow street and screeched to a halt. I knew this place, I had held it in my heart all year hoping for this return. And so, I was utterly unprepared for my own response to this scene. I was, in a word, horrified.

I did not have time to consider this visceral response, because before I could register much more, I was off the bus in a sea of bags and travelers and boda-drivers eager for a fare. I quickly assessed my belongings and jumped on the back of a bike side-saddle, balancing my big pack on my shoulders and my small bag carefully beside me. My simple, simple Luo somehow found my lips, and I greeted my driver and told him exactly where I was headed. Within seconds I was flying through Gulu town past familiar storefronts, familiar scenes: the men gathered outside the bike shop, the herd of cows outside the World Food Program tents, the children happily racing out of the schoolyard, the women carrying water back for the evening. The boda-driver chatted with me, and after a moment he paused…. “Wait, you tell me,” he said, “is this Lakica Aimee? You were here maybe just one year ago?” Yes! I replied. “Ahhh, Lakica Aimee, You are MOST Welcome! he enthusiastically re-greeted me. “How was your journey? How is your family?” (Did I know this man?) “Why have you been gone so long?” I hopped off the boda and recognized my kind-chauffer. He had driven me to the hospital many, many, many times last year when I was caring for Joyce.

So, somewhere between the bus and the boda, my friends, my vision changed. The dismay dissolved into a warm familiarity and affection. Instead of registering horror, I saw the workings of a day – a day in some ways unlike mine at home in America perhaps, but earnest and raw and true in its drive and ambition and hope. A day filled with stuff to get done, people to love, and things to accomplish. Just that quickly, my eyes didn’t register the poverty in the same way, if at all. Just that quickly, I felt at home.

Later that night I sat up in bed thinking about that moment of transition. Which vision of this place was real? Upon leaving the bus did I lose sense of “reality,” or is one only really able to “see” a place by looking past the trappings and into the heart of a day, the heart of the people there? I wasn’t sure.

I was jolted by my own reaction yesterday on that bus. Maybe even ashamed. But today, I am grateful for it. I think that maybe we need both – each to truly appreciate the other. If we do not allow ourselves to be moved by what we see and experience, we become complacent. However, to stay in disgust and shock is to possibly miss the heartbeat of a place, and maybe, then, to miss the point.

The Road

2008-02-15T01:53:00.000-08:00

Fast food stops: I had almost forgotten the insistent (and persistent!) shouts of the road-stop vendors, trying to sell water, peanuts, bananas, roasted cassava, and goat on a stick (mochomo). The latter is usually beat against the window of the bus as the seller cries: mochomo!mochomo!mochomo!mochomo! For my snack? Roasted cassava and a bottle of water, please.

Chicken to go: Tonight’s dinner gets bought (live) on the road by the man seated behind me.

2.6.08

This morning I boarded the Post Bus (so named because it leaves from the post office and delivers the mail as it stops in each town) at 7:30 a.m. in Kampala. It rained for much of the journey, and the drops seeped into the old bus as it lumbered down the road, swerving to avoid potholes and streams of women carrying the day’s supplies squarely on their heads. I was grateful for a sweatshirt I borrowed in New York keeping me dry (thanks, Craig!) and the relative emptiness of the bus – no passengers or livestock crowding the isles. So nice.

Although I have only traveled this road a few times before, it was familiar and I settled into the ride easily. The sights and smells did not shake me awake with last year’s sense of wonder, electric in all its newness. No, on this journey instead I slept and chatted with my seat-mate, and watched Uganda pass by my window. With each mile I could feel the landscape slowly seep into me, like the rain that turned the road from a billow of dust to a soaked, deep red earth, full of possibility, leading me north.

Innocent

2008-02-15T01:25:00.000-08:00

Hello from Kampala! I arrived safely after a night in Dubai and a quick stop through Addis. After hearing some wonderful news, I quickly decided to stay in Kampala an extra night. I am sleeping at Cornerstone, a little refuge in a very nice area, in the midst of Kampala's chaos. Desiree, Jesse, and James, if you are reading this, the whole gang there sends their greetings and wonders when you will be returning. Thank you for the connection!

Just before I left DC I sent an e-mail to my friends Innocent and Phionah, letting them know that I would be in country. Phionah coordinated the training that I did last year in Arua, and works with TPO in Kampala, so I was sure I would see her. Plus, I had pictures to deliver. Innocent is a trainer and psychosocial worker for TPO Uganda, but he lives in Arua and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I would not be making it to Arua. Still, I wanted to let him know that I would be in Uganda. Well, I must be lucky! As soon as I arrived I found out that Innocent was in Kampala for the week for work, along with our teacher Dr. Nancy Baron! I couldn't believe my good fortune. I immediately extended my K'la stay and arranged for dinner with both Innocent and Phionah. I had photos to deliver to both and was able to do so in person! Phionah picked the place, apparently for my western sensibilities, and soon I was introducing them both to Mexican food, Ugandan style.

Seeing them both was a wonderful homecoming. Innocent and I became fast friends last year, and we easily slipped back into conversation, as if it had only been a week. With Innocent's smile and gentle "You are most welcome to Uganda," I did, indeed feel welcome.

Back to Uganda

2008-02-03T11:07:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

Hello from Dubai! I hope this finds everyone well! This is going to be short, but I wanted to share that through the amazing generosity of a small grant, I am en route, back in Uganda for 5 weeks. Now, a year later, I will be continuing some of the work that began during my time in Gulu last February-March. I feel so privileged and excited to be returning, eager to see old friends, and hopeful about the journey. I will be resurrecting my old blog and updating it as much as possible in order to share my return trip and work with any of you who would like to follow along. I don't have anything up yet, but will post from Kampala as soon as I arrive.

For the next five weeks you can find me here. Please, please leave comments. I love hearing from you - it brightens my day. Sending each of you my very best and wishing you well....

xoxo,
Aimee

2007-12-08T16:08:00.001-08:00

Three Words

2007-12-01T15:41:00.000-08:00

Berre sent this to me today and I think that it is too good not to share: a short video of people from all over sharing three words that speak to their moment. All set to a pretty great song. Click here.

The Grindstone

2007-11-28T20:09:00.000-08:00

So I'm down to the wire. Really. In three weeks I will be done with school (and I will be 29!!) but before then I have a master's project to complete and another big paper to write. I am definitely, without question, a master procrastinator -- and this year, with these papers, it is no different. Ugh.

I mean, I definitely have been working hard all semester, but I don't know if I have been serious. Seriously serious. Like I was in the beginning of my program. Now is the time.

This past week, as I've been working, I have been daydreaming of that night in the not-so-distant future when M and I can go out to dinner and then walk around some fancy schmancy part of town with the white lights glittering (it is that time of year, so pretty). We will have crepes for dessert and then browse the bookstore and craft shop and I will think about things like wedding invitations and pleasure reading, and maybe my next trip to Africa, without feeling guilty. And without having all.that.work.sitting. right.there. over.my.head.

But until then, while I am being seriously serious (and I am!), I think I will leave you with some links. They are my procrastination, really. But maybe you need procrastination, too?

I made this delicious pumpkin cranberry bread twice over Thanksgiving weekend. You should definitely try it.

Matidi's photos are always stunning.

Go see whose prints are up at Tiny Showcase.

If you like ceramics or pottery, window shop and look at all the beeeeauuuutiful things here and here. You can also go on a mini-vacation out to a farm, right here. Ahhhhh.

And if you want to keep me company in the land of seriously serious
(seriously nerdy! m would say) ....well then....welcome! Here's where you will find me while I am working:

It feels like I am always on this website. If you have any interest at all in human displacement or forced migration, everything you ever possibly wanted to know is located at this site. This is where I often get lost and sidetracked and soon it is 2 hours later and I have forgotten what it is I was originally looking for. Hmmm...maybe m is right about that nerdy thing.

This briefly addresses the main topic of my work this year: child-mothers. Very generally, I am focusing on educational opportunities for them and their children.

I use the reports, articles and research off of this site, too. Pretty amazing resources on health, human rights, trauma, and psychosocial work. Another place I can spend hours.

And to keep me motivated and moving forward? These dear images from last year:

People at Awer IDP camp waiting for their food rations.

Little Joyce, in a moment of wonder.
My incredible friend Achiro (who is now back in school!), and her beautiful daughter, Miriam

Alright. That is all for now, friends! Back to work. Love to you all...

Weekend of Thanks...Thanks for the Weekend

2007-11-25T08:49:00.001-08:00

A very restful, cozy Thanksgiving at home in DC. Ashley came up from Florida to spend a low-key, homey weekend with us. We baked, ate, played Scrabble, watched movies, got our arts-n-crafts on, went to the farmer's market, walked through the fall leaves, and just hung out. It was perfect. Thankful? Oh, yes.

Old School :: She

2007-11-18T20:55:00.000-08:00

Ohmygosh! I have been looking for this song for maybe 3 years, and tonight I found it! I can hardly believe it. Willamette girls, do you remember this gem?

Dancing around the tiny, crowded Bistro (or the halls of our house) to Deb Talan and Hummingfish is one of my favorite college memories. I suppose we might have all wanted to be "She". As soon as I found it I had to play it for M. He doesn't suit the pronoun, but the rest fits perfectly. Thank you to Replikate who led me to both lyrics and music through google magic.

Art and Soul

2007-11-18T10:24:00.000-08:00

If you have been to any of the places I have lived since 1998, you probably recognize these two ladies! They are postcards, actually. They belong to a larger set, and when I lived in Jerusalem I collected them all from street vendors. In truth, I was drawn into each one: the colors, shapes and tone, the simplicity. They resonated with that space and time of my life so deeply, and are still among my most favorite and cherished possessions. They are pretty beat up with sticky-tape remnants on the back and folded corners, but everywhere I have lived they have traveled with me, always hanging somewhere near my nightstand.

I have been contemplating putting them in something other than the cheap clip frames that have held them for 10 years, and so last night I pulled them out and found the name of the artists on the back: Irene and Azriel Awret.

Here is what a little google time can do: Irene and Azriel are both Holocaust survivors. They moved to Israel in 1949 and helped to found the Tzfat Artist's Colony, which is still thriving today and which I have visited many times. In the 70s they moved to the US, and settled in Falls Church, Virginia...15 minutes from where I live today! Can you believe that? How could I have not known this earlier? The Awrets have a truly amazing story, so if you would like to read more, the Washington Post article is right here.

I thought about possibly buying a larger print of their work (which was originally ceramic relief -- I'd love to see that), but the more I consider it the more I think I will just keep my dear postcards as-is.

What small pieces of art do you cherish? When and how did they come into your life?

Southern Charm and Celebration

2007-11-14T10:27:00.000-08:00

We spent last weekend at a wedding in Arkansas, and I could not have had a better time. It was so special to see my two very dear friends marry one another. You know when you just know that the match is the very best thing possible? A very smart M had tissues on hand the whole time. I was pretty teary! As if it could get any better, I also got to spend time with my old high school boys, and get to know the bride's extended family who I had been hearing about for years! There is also something very special about being around to help out in the details. All the weddings and celebrations I remember most and loved the most are the ones in which we were put to work! Tying, assembling, schlepping, whatever. Afterwards, I always feel a certain kind of tangible investment and connection to the marriage that is hard to explain. Does anyone else feel similarly?

They had a real autumn celebration in Searcy, complete with a bluegrass band at the rehearsal dinner, football on the lawn the morning of, a beautiful bridal brunch, a kickin' dance party, and stunning details like the honey-pot gifts with their first initals, B&E, printed across the the top. Southern hospitality and charm rang true. I miss everyone already.

He Only Looks Sweet and Innocent

2007-11-13T12:35:00.001-08:00

A little while ago we brought out the down comforter and got cozy for the fall. Matisse decided it was an excellent time to channel his inner hunter. Thanks to my new camera we managed to capture the tiger in action. Don't let him fool you. He only looks sweet and innocent...

Doors

2007-11-08T19:33:00.001-08:00

Layers and layers and layers... An old door on Capitol Hill. I've always wondered what I would see if I creaked it open....Have a wonderful weekend, friends. We're headed down south to Arkansas for a dear friend's wedding.

Hitting the Books

2007-11-06T07:04:00.001-08:00

It is crunch time for me at school. Time to buckle down and get serious. But I'm not the only one studying. Look at our little student! And that belly... Thank you so much to Tiffany and Grace for the updated photos. Planning my next trip out there for a few different reasons - none more exciting than seeing Joyce. But more on that soon...

Of course, YES

2007-11-04T18:02:00.001-08:00

Last weekend I was home to celebrate my grandfather's 80th birthday, with my family from far and wide. On Saturday afternoon, my dad, sister and I went to Balboa Park to wander around. It is my favorite place in San Diego, and both Ashley and I wanted to soak it in before we headed back east. We were taking pictures in front of the pond and the arboretum when my sister's phone rang. She walked off to talk to her boyfriend. I turned around and my dad was also MIA. Curious, but typical, so (also typically) I settled in with my camera, taking pictures of the kids and the coy fish and the beautiful day.

After a moment, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was M! He was not supposed to be in San Diego. He was supposed to be at home, in DC. In fact, I had spoken to him 30 minutes prior and he had lamented the icky weather, the cancellation of his frisbee game, and the fact that he would be home on the couch playing guitar for most of the afternoon. I felt bad for him, and didn't mention how gorgeous it was at the park. Five minutes later I received a text message from M of Matisse, my cat, stretched out on the couch, apparently also settled in for the rainy weather. This is why, when I saw M's face there, at Balboa Park, I was in such a state of disbelief that I could hardly speak. Luckily, I didn't have to. He simply asked me to marry him, and I, of course, said YES.

We walked across the park to the Japanese Tea Garden, where M said my sister and dad would be waiting. As we approached I saw them both -- plus my mom, uncle, grandfather, and M's parents and sister...from Connecticut and Oakland! They had surprised him at the airport earlier in the day! We spent the rest of the weekend celebrating both our new engagement and my grandfather's birthday with our families. It was perfect.

After 4 1/2 years together, I didn't think that M could surprise me like that. Boy, I was wrong. I'm with one romantic guy!

Happiness.

PS If you would like to see his version of the story, click here.

(photo taken from afar by my sly and sneaky dad)

New England Color

2007-10-20T06:44:00.001-07:00

We're in Connecticut for a wedding this weekend and oooooh, the fall color is beautiful. More soon....

Update :: Joyce

2007-10-15T19:15:00.000-07:00

My sweet and spunky girl is growing and I am so, so, so very happy! Many of you have been asking about Joyce: her health, her family, her future. It has been difficult to answer many of those questions because the answers were sometimes elusive, and a good (responsible) plan challenging to put into place from over here. Oh, Uganda. Oh, Joyce.

But now...now we have a plan. Of sorts, at least. And Joyce is not in limbo. And I have hope.

Joyce's TB is gone, and her HIV is under control. She is in school! All these things began before I left, but they remain stable. Honestly, this is somewhat miraculous and due to the hard work and dedication of many amazing people. Joyce's burns wounds are being actively treated and she goes to Gulu Independent Hospital regularly for specialized care.

Joyce's Aunt Mary and her stepmother, Carla share the role of "mother" and care for Joyce with all they have, trading time (a few weeks at a time) to each return to their small gardens and homes in a different district. She is surrounded by a slew of cousins at all times, including Emma, Mary's 15 year old daughter, who shared hours and hours and hours with me at the hospital drawing, playing games with Joyce, and teaching me about her culture, language and family. Joyce is very loved.

And school! Preschool has never been so great, and her teachers report that she is doing very well and likes it, too. But best of all, Joyce has a new friend, Grace.

Ocwee Grace is a mentor/guide/friend to Joyce and her family. She is an accomplished and loving Acholi woman who works with Invisible Children, who is partnering to help support Joyce. Since Invisible Children already has a mentoring system for the students in their secondary school program, this worked well. Most importantly, though, Joyce adores Grace.

Grace oversees Joyce's educational, nutritional and medical needs, works with the family to ensure that they understand all aspects of her specialized care, and assists where/when necessary. Right now she also oversees helping with the family's basic food needs. Without immediate proper nutrition Joyce wouldn't get better.

However (and this gets me excited!), we're working on the possibility of supporting Joyce's family in setting up an income generating activity/small business venture so their only sustained assistance will be Joyce's hospital bills and schooling. Jimmie and I are going to be doing everything we can to help make this a reality.

In the meantime, we hear from Grace (through the ever patient and fabulous Tiffany) that Joyce is "growing very fat", going to school, and always making her laugh.

Music to my ears.

I want to thank you all so much for asking about Joyce, remembering, caring... I miss her somethin' awful (hope to get back to see her very, very soon), but nothing is better than knowing that she now goes to sleep at night with a full belly, next to a loving family, with medical needs met, and a day of school awaiting. Who knows what the future may hold....but it looks bright to me!

(Thanks to Tiffany and Grace for the updated photos)

Tiles, Texture, Fall

2007-10-13T13:21:00.000-07:00

Mav, over at Port2Port (one of my favorite morning visits) has been taking beautiful photos this week of "everyday texture." The changing weather, and Mav's photography have had me thinking of these pictures I took of Dubrovnik roof tops. I loved the color, the wear, and yes, the texture. My colleagues watched me obsess over them then and take these pictures as we walked the old city walls. And now, somehow they remind me of fall. Today DC was blustery and cool -- mid-month, October is really here. Yay!!

YES!

2007-10-09T18:49:00.000-07:00

A while ago, Ali wrote about the little silly things out in cyberworld that make her smile on a dreary day. It's a good thing to know: what can get you out of that funk.

Here is something that is always, one-hundred percent guaranteed to make me grin.

Click here and then press play. YES! The Relay Project was begun by an old, childhood, summer-camp friend of mine, Lucy Raven, and her friend, Rebecca. It is an "audio magazine," an innovative, artistic exploration of sound in our lives. I think it is brilliant and very special special. The Relay Project Theme is my all time favorite.

From their website: The Relay Project is a magazine you listen to. A publication of sounds released on CD, it occupies the gap in your library between the records and the journals, swapping the sounds from one for the pages of the other. Each track is created by a different contributor, though each CD is curated as a whole. Content is limited to things that make noise, but is otherwise boundless: interviews, stories, found and archival sound, virtual vacations, documentary, music, field recordings, affirmations, dissentions, voice, breath. As an audiomagazine, we’re interested in...." Read more here.

If that makes you smile, even just a little, then check out this and this and this. (Not the Relay Project, but related.)

And if you want to keep going on your own, well, here you go. Happy listening!

P.S. In high school I covered my ceiling with collage. Greeting cards, magazine tear-outs, fun things, beautiful things that inspired me. Making those collages used to entertain my friends and me for hours! But the centerpiece was a big, huge multi-colored "YES" sign that was pinned up just above my pillow. So silly, but I loved it. Maybe that is why I get such a kick out of the "Relay Project Theme". I looked for a photo of that ceiling, that sign, for this post, but it wasn't to be found. Oh well.

Bienvenido A Miami

2007-10-07T13:55:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago M and I headed down to Miami to visit Little, who isn't so little any more. She got her nickname when she was just a baby, and it was fitting, considering that she is 10 years younger than me and 8 years younger than our brother. Now she's a freshman in college and a good 2-3 inches taller than her big sis..but to me she'll forever be "Little." M and I went to visit for "Parents and Family Weekend" -- we got to see the dorm, eat in the dining hall, and explore a bit of Miami. I have to say, her environs are pretty different than my old haunts in the Pacific Northwest, but the sun and the palm trees suit her and she seems really happy and grounded (not that easy to be in Miami).

We found this perfectly unusual flower while walking through campus. Isn't it spectacular? The flowers, ocean breeze, palm trees and tropical birds and plants fooled M and I into thinking we were on a Hawaiian vacation. But the best part was spending good, quality time with Little. We toured, ate, caught up, ate some more, and had a terrible time saying goodbye. Somewhere along the line my little sister became one of my favorite people in the universe. Thanksgiving can't come soon enough.

La Raiz Y El Camino

2007-10-03T18:57:00.000-07:00

Since I shared the special book I found for Danielle a few days ago, I thought I'd also show you my other find -- the one that stayed with me. On the same trip to the same used book store, I sat on the floor and poured over this quiet, captivating book of photography by Mariana Yamplosky, all taken in Mexico. I am mesmerized by the movement, the light and shadow...the deep spirit she captures in each of her photographs. I had never heard of her before finding this book but I find these photos so moving. Here is a small sample. I wish I read Spanish so I could understand the introduction!

Happy Trails

2007-10-01T06:09:00.000-07:00

Found at Idletime Books, this treasure is going straight to my dear Danielle. D is a brilliant filmmaker/photographer who trailed her camera through a small part of Africa, too. Luckily, our paths crossed. The vintage design on the cover of this book (a 1924 1st edition!) captured my imagination. I think it is even more beautiful when you can hold it in your hands. A good chunk of today was spent immersed in the world of tangled jungles, open savannahs and many, many lions. I hope you like it, Danielle!

From Google Books: With illustrations from the author's photographs. Johnson, previously a photographer of wild men in the islands of the South Seas, takes his first African safari in the early 1920s. With his wife Osa he journeys through Eastern Africa, photographing and hunting wild animals. Filled with thrilling adventures, near-fatal mishaps, and moments of quiet beauty, this is the story of the beginning of the Johnson's love affair with Africa. In beautifully descriptive prose, Johnson describes the creatures of the Savannah. A wonderfully entertaining book.

Although some of Johnson's observances (including references to local people as "savages") are much less than politically correct today, this book gives a rare and intimate glimpse into an artist and adventurer's first encounter with Africa, from a time long-gone. Treasure.

PS You should watch Danielle's disarmingly charming short doc, "81 year-old Sweethearts," right here. You will smile the rest of the day. I promise.

Flooding in East Africa

2007-09-28T05:48:00.001-07:00

Photo via BBC News.

Since returning, I have not said much about Uganda or told you much about the incredible organizations with whom I worked. Today, I have to share. Massive flooding in Uganda has left over 1/3 of the country depending on disaster relief. Many of those in the north who are displaced are now displaced again. There is a desperate need for medical supplies, in order to prevent further disease spread and death. ReNUH (Restoring Northern Uganda's Healthcare) is an amazing organization I saw on the ground and (after all the time I spent in the hospital with Joyce) believe in entirely. They are staging an emergency campaign to get medical supplies to those communities who need it most. They are gratefully accepting monetary donations as well as physical donations. And it's all tax deductible! There is a desperate need for:

Blankets
Clothing
Tarps
For malaria: Lumartem or other Artemesian-based combination therapies, insecticide treated mosquito nets
For cholera: Oral rehydration salts, IV fluids, ringer lactate
For respiratory infection: Ampicillin, penicillin, amoxicillin, choramphenicol, co-trimoxazole, (fever reducer) paracetamol
Other items: ARV's, anti-venom, deworming pills, water purification tablets, latex gloves

The situation is dire. If you are connected to a health care facility, or are moved to help in any way, learn more here. Your pennies can move mountains. Pass it on.

Summer Berries in the Early Fall

2007-09-25T11:35:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago M and I went to Delaware to visit family. Cousins, cousins, and more cousins!! A grand time was had by all, especially during our afternoon berry-picking, which ended in berry-stained fingers, berry cobbler, berry preserves, and berry vinaigrette (with spinach and berry salad, of course!). I loved the late afternoon light on the berry patches.

Play

2007-09-24T12:36:00.000-07:00

I LOVE this. Turn up the volume and check it out. Only 2 minutes long. Nature is amazing.

Anyone who has a pet can testify that play is not exclusive to humans. And, in the wild, different species often are at odds. But, Stuart Brown witnessed something different. Here, he describes Norbert Rosing's striking images of a wild polar bear playing with sled dogs in the wilds of Canada's Hudson Bay.

Overheard

2007-09-24T07:22:00.000-07:00

Standing on the metro this weekend, headed to Eastern Market (which is the same direction as the stadium), I was beside two very, very enthusiastic sports fans. These two freckle-faced boys must have been about 10-11 years old, and just couldn't sit still, the excitement was too great! When one of their mothers insisted that they calm down (or there wouldn't be any game to attend), the boys slumped down in their metro chairs, temporarily defeated.

Looking around, the boys observed the train full of rush hour commuters. I held my book, and balanced beside the door. Several young women in suits chatted about a briefing on the Hill. Many city dwellers listened to their music, leaving the day's work behind them, including a very handsome, silver-haired, blue-suited gentleman sitting directly next to the boys.

"You know what I wonder?" one said to his friend. "You know what I REALLY wonder?"
"What?" replied his friend, with shrug.
"Well, I wonder what old people listen to on their ipods anyway. What do they listen to? I mean, it's weird. It's like.....they like music or something."

I almost laughed aloud. It was just too funny. Instead, I exited at Eastern Market with the handsome silver-haired gent and his leather cased ipod, and wondered: what was he listening to, anyway?

Probably a book on tape.

Goodbye, Summer. Hello, New Year.

2007-09-17T13:19:00.000-07:00

Hello, Friends. Over the past many months I have left this space empty. I've needed the time and distance to think, to ground myself. This summer was, for me, a long meditation on a knot of big and small questions that has lead to now: the Jewish New Year. I always find the new year to be a centering time, and that has never been more true than this year. I am excited about re-inhabiting this space -- filling it with ideas, friends, creativity and life, and moving forward into the new year.

This past weekend the weather here in DC broke, and just that quickly, summer is officially over. I love the feeling of fall-on-its-way. Here, before the leaves turn color, a few pictures of the past few months, including a trip home to California and traipses through Rock Creek Park here in DC. Would you believe it if I told you that the two middle, very green photos were taken a 10 minute walk from our apartment, directly off of one of the busiest streets in the city? Magic.

Mostar

2007-05-15T06:04:00.000-07:00

Little Feet

2007-05-10T11:04:00.000-07:00

This morning was our presentation to UNICEF. This afternoon we submitted the report. Hooray! Many meetings, classroom observations, discussions with directors, 3rd grade dance performances and cups of coffee later we are ready to return home. We spoke with the EU and OSCE, parents and teachers, community members, little ones, and so many others. I have certainly gotten a good taste of lovely Sarajevo and leave with more questions, ideas and an a much deeper appreciation for post-conflict education reconstruction. There have been so many layers to my experience here and I would like to come back. But one last team meeting, one last dinner and I am home. Summer in DC awaits! See you soon...

Aimee

PS I just love all these little shoes. The children leave them by the door each day as they enter the classroom and then spend the day wearing slippers!

Dubrovnik

2007-05-07T00:51:00.000-07:00

And Then You Remember...

2007-05-06T11:00:00.000-07:00

That this is a town that was ravaged by war. That these hills rained bullets and bombs and heavy artillery. Landmines sit just under the skin of the land. Ten years later the scars are still fresh, wounds still visible. The land is being rebuilt, yes. The people go on with life, and the streets smell sweet with coffee and orange blossoms, but divisions are deep and this was a war zone. All it takes is a closer look.

Sarajevo Snapshots

2007-05-02T05:36:00.000-07:00

Sarajevo Snapshots

2007-05-02T05:26:00.000-07:00

Sarajevo holds a few of my favorite things! (Top to bottom: Fresh produce markets, cups and cups of Turkish coffee - here coffee pots being sold in the old town, and houses in the hillsides)

Springing Forward

2007-04-28T11:45:00.000-07:00

Hi Friends,

I returned from Uganda over a month ago now, and when I arrived back in DC spring was (technically) already here. But I was cold in my bones. It's been hard for me to warm up, difficult to return to my life here. It's been slow.

Cherry blossom season is my favorite time of year here, and I was lucky to get to share it with my sibs, who came to visit for a week. It was fabulous to get to spin with my sister as the petals spilled and floated from the trees, and so good to hear about my brother's awesome work back at home.

This month M and I escaped several times into the Shennedoah Mountains, a favorite retreat. We visited friends, and poked around the trails and the towns, relaxing. We found a few vintage treasures (one involves food and the color red, and the other jewelry, so that's pretty much perfection) and a dear library, among other things.

So after this hiatus and recharging period -- a mini winter hibernation -- I feel like I'm getting back into my skin. And....

I'm off to Bosnia in just under an hour. This time the trip will be short: 2 weeks working on a consulting project. I'm excited, but a little sad to leave M and Matisse so soon! I have really missed blogging, and will try and post from the road. If you feel so inclined, please leave comments. I enjoy them so much!

love and cherry blossoms to you all,
Aimee

Missing This Funny Face...

2007-04-17T21:28:00.000-07:00

so, so much. Trying hard to get back into the swing of things here. Trying to prepare for Bosnia, too. Slowly, slowly. Or, I guess, quickly, quickly.

Sigh.

Favorite quote of the week:

"Wandering around has changed me more than I thought, I am not me anymore. At least, I am not the same me I was." -Che Guevara

I've wandered around quite a lot before, but I've never felt changed in quite the same way...so deeply. (Photo courtesy of James -- thank you!)

Home!

2007-03-29T15:24:00.000-07:00

I landed in the concrete jungle known as JFK on Tuesday. It felt strange to be back, but wonderful to see m again. Some nasty African stomach bug hitchhiked back home with me, so I've been sleeping on the couch, resting, and drinking clear fluids, just like Mom always told me to do.

I want to thank you all for following me on this grand adventure of my past three months. Thank you for supporting me and sharing my experience. You might never know how much it has meant.

Just because I am home doesn't mean that I am going away! On the contrary, I have found that it was nearly impossible to process and share most of my time in Uganda on this blog in real time. Too time consuming, too overwhelming. That is why, as I readjust to life here, I will continue to share photos and stories from my time in Uganda, as well as current events that deserve our attention. So please stay connected, and let me know what you think, or what you'd like to hear more about. Love to you all....

Aimee

So Little Time

2007-03-22T00:43:00.000-07:00

Dear Friends,

It's hard to believe that I will be leaving Gulu in just two days, and home within the week. I am overflowing with stories, news, and photos to share, both beautiful and horrifying. I will return with these packed carefully and tightly as I consider what may be my next steps for (and within?) this area I have come to love deeply.

A quick update, with more to follow...

Guess who is home, playing with the neighborhood kids, and enrolled in pre-school? Yup, Joyce! If there was ever reason to hope, I have found it in the form of a 3 year old girl picking out her first school bag (purple blue with flowers).
Northern Uganda is in the midst of a severe food crisis. The UN has cut rations in the camps, (which were originally only enough to meet minimum needs for survival -- not health) in HALF. I have been spending a lot of my time in the camps and will share my impressions and understanding of this once I get home. Suffice to say, this is catastrophic, and worse, the people living there have only learned of these cuts in the past two days. Please, read more here.

Much love to all,

Aimee

Gulu Town Snapshots

2007-03-14T17:23:00.000-07:00

Women's Day at Awer IDP Camp

2007-03-10T06:54:00.000-08:00

We Love To Read!

2007-03-10T06:47:00.000-08:00

Hungry?

2007-03-09T02:05:00.000-08:00

I pass this restaurant all the time, and yesterday I snapped a photo. It's my favorite. I haven't dined there, but it makes me smile every time.

Abductions and Agony - 20 Years

2007-03-06T11:23:00.000-08:00

Gulu Town

2007-03-06T11:22:00.000-08:00

A Big HELLO to You from Africa!

2007-03-04T03:59:00.000-08:00

Joyce will be leaving the hospital sooooo soon. We are (clearly) very excited!

Assessment and Community Development Meeting at Pabo Secondary School

2007-03-04T02:41:00.000-08:00

Pabo's teachers lounge.
After school study session
Measuring the area for a new block of classrooms.
Students move the bricks that their parents made for the new construction.

Pabo is the only secondary school in the district that has not physically relocated in the past 10 years. It serves the largest IDP camp, which has the same name. For now, only pictures. Words will come later.... they are too many and require more time and thought than I have here.

Love to all, A.

Doing a Schools for Schools Assessment -- St. Joseph's

2007-02-28T20:43:00.000-08:00

A Few Weeks Later

2007-02-23T19:29:00.000-08:00

Once again, it's been a while. Sorry!!! The past weeks have been chaotic, and there hasn't been power for several days. The lack of power means that all internet cafes are running on generators and are even less reliable than usual...if that is possible! I have been both busy and relaxed in Gulu. Here, you "hurry up and wait" and then run around like crazy once things fall into place.

Can you believe that this is Joyce? These pictures were taken early last week, and things have changed even more since then. I promised to tell you what I have been doing and how I became involved in her care, and I haven't forgotten...

The first week that I was in Gulu I found myself taking Philomena, a one year old baby to the hospital for severe malnutrition. Her mother, living in one of the IDP camps, was severely depressed and had stopped caring for her child and producing breast milk. I was asked to accompany them to the hospital, in what would become an extended process of connecting mother and child to the appropriate long-term assistance. But this is a different story.

After several hours at the "best hospital in Gulu" (more on this later, too!) we sat outside waiting for multiple test results. Knowing that this could mean another few hours, I went to settle myself under the nearest tree when I saw a familiar face -- Jimmie Briggs!

Jimmie and I met when I was living in Cambridge. He came to Harvard for a brown bag lunch discussion of his book "Innocents Lost: When Child Soldiers Go to War" and we hit it off immediately. We have been corresponding since. I knew that he would be in Gulu, but I didn't know why, and we hadn't yet connected. Yet here we both were, with small, sick girls in our arms, at the hospital. It is a very small world.

And so I met Joyce. She was accompanied by Ryan , Adam, and Jimmie, who were determined to help her to the best of their ability. They had met her earlier that day with her caregiver, Patrick. We spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for results, singing Acholi children's songs, and talking about the beauty and pain that is Gulu.

Over the next few days, Adam, Jimmie and Ryan committed themselves to Joyce's full and extended care. The problem was, they had to return to the US immediately. I, however, had just arrived. I was committed to working on Schools for Schools,and some personal research, but I didn't have a firm 9-5. I was flexible. I had just been in Arua working on family and community oriented, culturally appropriate psychosocial services. I was also quickly falling in love with Joyce.

So here we are, a couple weeks later. I work with Joyce's family, essentially as a liason to Jimmie, Ryan and Adam. I work with the doctors and nurses, meet with HIV/AIDS NGOs, ensure Joyce's care is up to par, navigate Ugandan culture and health care, and plan with her family for her extended needs (school, clean housing, food, medical services, etc). Oh, and I also play. A lot. Joyce has transformed in the past few weeks, and we color, drum, dress the African baby doll, and somehow communicate despite the fact that I don't speak 3-year old Luo and her English is limited to "baby" and "I am fine". She loves sharpening the colored pencils, playing clapping games, and putting her "baby" to sleep. She is a three year old girl. I hope that as soon as I am back home and have faster internet I can share video clips and pictures that show you this and really introduce you to Joyce. Tragedy does not preclude joy or possibility.

I am so grateful for support I have received from friends who have been here much longer than I -- friends who have known her family, friends who know Uganda. They make this possible. I will be leaving Uganda in less than one month. The thought moves me to tears, but my ultimate goal is to be unnecessary and unneeded. And to return. To visit Joyce.

Joyce

2007-02-15T20:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

I'm sorry that I have been silent for this past week, since I have been in Gulu. My life has been full and busy, challenging and changed, difficult and filled with immense beauty all in one breath. I struggle to be able to share this with you fully. I will try slowly, as I did before, by sharing small stories. Hopefully, these stories will, over time, paint for you a picture.

To begin, I would like to give to you a story of one child who has stepped into my life. It is my hope that you will hold her, with all the strength and gentleness that you can find within you. Long before I came, others were here, and others knew her. My friend James wrote on his blog last summer about Joyce. His words are eloquent, personal and true and so, to begin Joyce's story, I will quote him. His story is called "Joyce, a war in microcosm". Joyce is just over three years old now, but she should have died before her second birthday. Two years ago...

"the taxi van that she was riding in with her mother and aunt was attacked by LRA soldiers. She is the only survivor.

The van was traveling the rutted dirt road from Pader, where Joyce lives, to Kitgum, where her father is stationed as a soldier in the UPDF, the Ugandan government army. About two miles out of town the van was ambushed. Bullets pinged and thudded into its metal sides and broke through its windows. The driver swerved into the tall grass by the side of the road but the rebel soldiers were ready. They fired into the van mercilessly. Most everyone had been shot before they set flames to the vehicle and watched it burn.

Joyce was still alive inside, and unharmed. Her mother and aunt were not moving, could not save her. She wriggled free from their heavy bodies and escaped the burning taxi. I imagine she screamed as she ran toward the road – tears soaking her vision and terror pumping her small legs.

The rebels saw her. They ran after her, catching the toddler easily and dragging her back to van. Perhaps the inferno was too hot, or maybe they wanted to try something new, but they didn't throw Joyce back into the van. Instead they laid her on the ground and covered her with the brown grass of Uganda's dry season. And they put a match to it.

Flames rose and burned down into the pile of grass, quickly turning the kindling to glowing red embers, and these sinking down to Joyce's smooth young skin. Once again she struggled free. Once again she ran for the road. And once again she was caught, dragged back, and thrown into a flaming pile of grass.

The government army was on its way and the next time Joyce got up to run away the rebels retreated instead of giving chase. Joyce was severely burned over 45% of her body. The muscles of her left arm were charred and useless and the skin of her face was falling away from the bone. The soldiers rushed her to the nearest hospital for first aid. Later she would be transferred to Gulu for a series of surgeries.

Left without her mother, Joyce is cared for by her sister and the women of her village. She looks small for her age, and though noticeably thin she does not seem malnourished. Her scars are thick and dark, swirling like flames up her arms and covering her hands. Her forehead is high and rough from burns, hair coming in small tufts over the top of her head. Scars create a mask of tissue on her face, out which she stares with serendipitous brown eyes. Her manner is quiet, reserved but not fearful, sadly thoughtful.

You might think, after spending some time with the two year old, that she is always contemplating something sad. Perhaps the depth of depravity to which man can fall. Or maybe that is what you contemplate while you watch her.

I asked her father why the rebels had done this, why they would attack a van full of civilians, and why, when a child who can pose no discernable threat to anyone breaks free, would they risk the extra time and effort to see her tortured and killed. His answer was, basically, that is the nature of this war.

Kony and his band of children are notorious for attacking innocent civilians. The victims are abducted or tortured or killed – sometimes all three. And the motivations behind such attacks, and the LRA's continued terrorism in general, are sorely enigmatic. Victims are left to ruminate on the senselessness of their ordeals and the government is stuck trying to fight or make peace with an army that has motivations beyond sane comprehension.

For this reason, among less forgivable ones, the UPDF is often late in heading off attacks like that on Joyce's taxi. When not met head on by the enemy, government forces arrive in time only to clean up the mess that the rebels assuredly leave behind. Joyce, in a somber but important way, is lucky. The army was there to save her life.

Much as Joyce's story is symbolic of this war, it is also predictive of what will continue if the world does not act to end this conflict. The Ugandan government is keenly aware of international attention, and you and your family and your friends and your elected officials can give them the attention necessary to spark decisive action. The wheels of peace are turning in Uganda. All they need is some grease. Be the grease."

Fast forward 8 months. Joyce's father is in a neighboring town with the army. She is cared for by her aunt and some extended family, and a man named Patrick who has vowed to watch over her. Patrick is a pillar of his community, with a story of his own that would shake you to your core. I met Joyce through happenstance or fate, or maybe God...however you choose to believe...when one day I was at the hospital with another sick child. She was accompanied by Patrick and three other gentlemen, to whom I will introduce you shortly. She tested positive for TB and HIV that day, as we all sat in the sun waiting for results and results and more results for these two small beings -- and yet again the world changed.

Joyce has been in the hospital for several days now, and she is getting stronger. I am working on her behalf, as an intermediary of sorts....but more on this soon. For now, love to you all, and (I hope) your love to Joyce.

Surveying the Scene

2007-02-15T20:42:00.000-08:00

And How Are You?

2007-02-07T04:14:00.001-08:00

If you ask the young children here, "How are you?" they will proudly answer "I--am--fine!"

Very often, if you say "Hello!" they will answer, "I--am--fine!"

This is a very fun game.

But friends, I'd like to know...how are YOU????

Send an e-mail or drop a little something in the comment line. I would love it.

The Walk to Water

2007-02-07T03:32:00.000-08:00

During my time at Ikafe, two words were repeated more than any others: welcome and water.

From the moment I arrived, it was made clear to me that water was the most pressing concern for all: those in the camp, those living in the surrounding communities, even the staff of the various aid agencies. The water was in short supply, the water was not enough, the water was too far....

In most rural African villages, as elsewhere in the world, it is perfectly normal for people (usually women) to walk to the borehole each day to collect and carry the water back home. Often, women do this twice in a day, as the water must be used for cooking, cleaning, drinking, bathing, growing, and, well, living for the entire family. The borehole is often a social spot, and walks to and from the borehole a time for chatting and catching up with neighbors. This is normal. This is Africa.

But sometimes the borehole is too far. It is generally thought that a walk of under 1 km is an acceptable, normal distance to walk for water. 2 km is just too far. And this is about what the women of Okubani walk each day to water: 2 km there, 2 km back. As you can imagine, this causes a myriad of problems.

When water is too far, basic hygeine often gets ignored. Health drops. Wounds fester.
When water is too far, work does not get done. The walk and wait takes up a significan portion of the day, and other critical tasks aren't completed. This can lead to family stress, and bigger problems at home.
When water is too far, conflict often errupts at the borehole. People fight over limited resources.

And the problem repeated to me over and over and over again by women and men alike?
When water is too far, girls are raped and sexually assaulted.

This one was a shock to me.

It seems that in order to address the serious problems caused by the long walk to water, families started sending their daughters to the well at night, where they could sleep. The young girls would wake at dawn, be among the first to gather water, and be home in time for the day's work to get done (by their mothers), and (usually) to get to school themselves. However, recently, there has been a series of "defilements" at the borehole.

It is probable that a very small percentage of these girls were actually meeting "boyfriends", but in many cases (and I was unable to determine how many there had been) I was told, girls were being raped.

And why? A long walk to water led them to vulnerability and compromised safety.

This has disturbed me for weeks now. I think about it constantly. I have been told that another borehole is not really an option...it is just too dry. It is true: in Okubani, dry, sealed boreholes lay like tombs in plain sight.

A series of community discussions took place in an effort to get families to think of alternative means of collecting water. Perhaps even (!!!) sending men. No longer in Okubani, I can only hope that they find a solution. I am sure that they will. In a place that does not need more pain or problems, rape has deep, long lasting personal and social consequences. One need only speak to a group of child-mothers to get a profound sense of what this means...but that is another post.

I'm in Gulu now, and will probably stay here for some time. There is a lot going on, and a lot to learn here. Still figuring it all out...more soon.

Until then, wishing you all fresh and steady streams of water,

Aimee

Poem

2007-02-05T23:14:00.000-08:00

An old friend came back to visit yesterday. Out of nowhere, a poem I heard often as a child started swirling through my mind. I've been thinking of it so much over the past 24 hours that I wanted to share it with you, too.

When I was very young, my rabbi in San Diego would frequently read this during the service. I loved the rhythm and the sound of the words, I remember getting lost in their cadance and song, and somewhere along the way, it embedded itself in my memory and my self. Being here, it has come to mind again. I don't know the name of the poem...I can't remember. And there is a possibility that I have not rewritten it exactly, perfectly correctly. I apologize to Judy Chicago for this in advance.

For today, it is my meditation in northern Uganda. Love to you all, and more soon as I get settled in Gulu.
******

And the all that has divided us will merge.
And then compassion will be wedded to power.
And then softness will come to a world that is harsh and unkind.

And then both men and women will be gentle.
And then both women and men will be strong.

And then no person will be subject to another's will.
And then all will be rich and free and varied.
And then the greed of some will give way to the needs of many.

And then all will share equally in the earth's abundance.
And then all will care for the sick and the weak and the old.
And then all will nourish the young.

And then all will cherish life's creatures.
And then all will live in harmony with each other and the earth.
And then everywhere will be called Eden once again.

-- Judy Chicago

A Happy Pair

2007-02-03T22:35:00.000-08:00

Recipients of TPO's goat project

A Little Humor

2007-02-01T22:06:00.000-08:00

Over the past 36 hours, the local mosquitos have been well fed. My forehead looks like a midnight buffet, with no fewer than 23 bites dotted across, from temple to temple. It's super cute.

In real news, I'm hoping to wrap things up here in Kampala, and head north again by Sunday or Monday. I can't wait to get out of the city and back into the towns and villages again. I will keep you posted.

Love to all!

Aimee

A List

2007-02-01T00:07:00.000-08:00

A few days into our training, we broke up into country groups. Those of us fortunate enough to come from stable, peaceful countries sat with classmates from other places: Uganda, Burundi, Egypt, Vietnam, DRC. The nationals of those countries then listed the problems of their home, as associated with current or past conflict and/or catastrophe. I sat with the Ugandans and took their notes. Their list has since become very real to me, as I've seen and heard of most of these problems now myself. The list, the words themselves, though, are seared in my mind. I'd like to share with you what they shared with me. The friends who shared these work in the field, mostly up north, every day. I'm warning you, these are not easy to digest. They are painful, real day-to-day problems. The first set was determined to be the most prevelant and severe, and then after that tehy are no particular order -- and in their words.

Problems of Conflict Areas - Uganda
Disease
Poverty
Ongoing insecurity
Displacement
Depression and psychological stress
Change of behavior: drugs, alcohol,prostitution, defilement, abuse
Violence

Increased school dropout
Loss of traditional values
Early marriage
Early pregnancy
Rejection of many by the community (esp.returned combatants, child mothers)
Lack of activity, despondence

Isolation
Starvation
Hygeine
Family disintegration
Rape

AIDS
PTSD
Loss of life in crossfire
Moral decay

Aggression
Suicide
Loss of hope
Loss of property/land

Continued abduction
Interruption of economy, no way to earn a living

What to do?
Try not to get overwhelmed.
Take a deep breath.
One step at a time.
Makes you feel pretty fortunate, doesn't it?

A Quick Note

2007-01-31T03:55:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

Today I've had a little time to post some ramblings. Little snippets of my time here. I'm still processing quite a lot, but I wanted to start sharing..at least something!! I just realized, though, that if you read my posts from top to bottom they won't make much sense. I refer to previous thoughts as I progress, so you might want to take a look from bottom to top! It still might not make much sense -- like I said, just rambling -- but little by little I'll get there. Thank you for caring and following me around Uganda. The past few days have felt a little lonely as I'm adjusting from being with my big group "family" to traveling alone. Just a little change! I think of you all often and am thankful every day for your love and support. More to come from Uganda. My love to you always, Aimee

PS Just in case anyone gets the urge to call across the world , my cell phone number here is (from the US): 011-256-77-465-4360 :)

To Give a Goat

2007-01-31T03:34:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: Through an exciting new partnership between TPO Uganda and the Polus Center, you can now donate a goat to a mentally disabled child in Uganda and transform a life, family, and community. Read below to learn more. Click here to give. Thank you all for your interest, love and support. Through your encouragement over the past year we were able to make this possible.

In the camps and in the villages, finding a way to address the unique issues surrounding children with special needs is of vital importance . It is rare to see a special needs child, and even rarer still (almost never happening) to see an adult with mental disabilities and special needs.

It is believed that for every special needs child seen, at least one (or several) exist. Why are they not a visible part of the community? Why don't we see special needs adults?

It must be assumed that most special needs children don't make it to adulthood. There may be many reasons for this, including limited food supply and necessitated decision making for parents with many, many mouths to feed. Additionally, mental disabilities are often understood to be a curse or spiritual malady, and attempts to "cure" it isn this fashion often go awry.

Special needs children are sometimes found by workers locked in tukuls, being fed adequately but not cared for properly or integrated into family and community life. This is due to both the social stigma (would you want your neighbors to treat you as cursed?) and a general lack of knowledge about mental illnesses. Parents often have no concept of their child's potential and actual limitations, and don't know how to provide the best care.

Often, a special needs child becomes a major secret within a family, which (in a very communal society) breeds isolation, and sometimes problems like alcoholism and violence within the family. But let's back up....

How is anyone supposed to be able to help at all, if we can't even identify families with these children in the first place? Enter TPO's goat project!

IN communities where this was found to be a prevalent problem, TPO began a (now very succesful)program. It goes something like this:

It is announced that any child with special needs will receive a goat free of charge. The goat is only given directly to the child. A parent may not receive the goat on the child's behalf. In a context where goats provide much needed food and income (think milk, cheese, and then breeding for meat), this is a highly valuable comodity.

Giving the goat allows TPO to identify the child and family and see if individual, family interventions are necessary. Is there abuse? Starvation? A feeling of overwhelming helplessness? What is the situation? Community members are usually intrigued, and facilitated community dialogues, sensitization and education can begin. Slowly, over time, this leads to a change in attitudes and understanding of special needs children. Often,support groups are started as families with these children learn, with great relief, that they are not alone. Finally, the child, who now OWNS a goat has status within the family and a small charge to care for and love. And all for a $45 goat. The continued, positive results -- even after goats have ceased to be given -- have been overwhelming.

TPO has recently identified several new villages where they will begin the project for the first time. Anyone want to give a goat?

Rich in Name, Part 2

2007-01-30T23:21:00.005-08:00

Just as we were to leave, the village leader asked me aside. “We have been thinking and talking,” he said. “We have been thinking of your name and its meaning. We think that in Africa it is different than in America. You must have a name that reflects you in Africa, in Okubani. We think that you should be called Ajikoru. It means, “one who loves a lot.” This way, with both your names you are complete. You are both loved, and it is clear that you love others very much. If you did not, you would not be in Okubani. This is clear. It is a circle.”

I am honored by my Arringa name. Sam practically had to drag me back to the car.

Member of the Tribe

2007-01-30T23:21:00.004-08:00

“What is your religion?” they asked.

I knew that this question would come and had considered how I might answer. The people here are deeply religious, but most are Muslim or Christian and are unfamiliar with anything else.

“I am Jewish,” I answered.

I was met by puzzled looks. Finally, one of the elders spoke.

“But,” he said hesitantly but with pride, “isn’t that your tribe?”

“Yes!” I said.

They were thrilled. They knew my tribe! But I continued. “It’s both religion AND tribe.”

Puzzled, concerns looks. Moments of silence. Finally one of the men broke out howling. “Religion AND tribe!!! This is very, very funny!!!” A second leader gave him a quick look of death and a slap. The laughing man calmed down. I gave a basic explanation of Judaism, which they took in, wide-eyed. “Well,” one said, once I was done, “I am happy to know your tribe. Greetings to them from our Arringa tribe. We wish your brothers and sisters well. I smiled and promised to deliver the message.

Rich in Name

2007-01-30T23:21:00.003-08:00

Ezama’s youngest child sat on his lap, sniffling. Several chickens and a grey cat wandered into the tukul and were shooed away. The baby, distracted, stopped crying. He had been frightened by my foreign, mzungu face. He had never seen a white person before. Relieved, I grinned at the baby who returned with a cautious coo.

“What’s his name?” I asked Ezama.
“Alijonee,” the proud father replied.
I repeated the name. “It’s nice,” I said. “What does it mean?”
“It means,” Ezama told me, “it is very bad to be poor.”
One of the village elders turned to me.
“Your name, Aimee. What does it mean?”
“Beloved,” I replied, suddenly acutely self aware.
“Ahhh, he answered, as all the men nodded. “You are very rich in name.”

Later that night, far from Okubani, as Sam and I talked about the day, I asked him about the relative wealth of the village. Surely, I thought, I may have misread some of the signals. Perhaps they were not as bad off as they had shared. “No,” he told me “The names. That is one way to know. Only the very poorest places have poverty names. It is very unfortuate,yes.”

Ezama

2007-01-30T23:21:00.002-08:00

As soon as Sam and I arrivec at Ikafe, our host Ezama was there to greet us. He rode with us back to Okubani (the TPO driver kindly drove us) explaining the whole way that the community was very excited to meet us. We greeted some of the women and children outside of Ezama’s tukul and then were ushered inside to sit in one of the four chairs placed around a small, short table. I learned later that Ezama had pulled many strings and worked for quite a while to to gather these chairs for us. As we sat, Ezama repeated many times, “You are most welcome, you are most welcome,” a common, beautifully hospitable Ugandan refrain. I would hear it dozens and dozens more times before the day was through.

We hadn’t been seated but moments when the community leaders began arriving: local religious and political leaders, representing various spheres of influence. I was grateful that Innocent (a Ugandan friend an coursemate) had taught me the most respectful way of shaking hands.

It is worth noting that I was the only women present. When Ezama’s wife entered she sat on her knees to bring food (rice, motoke, tea) and quickly left.

Ezama’s home had been prepared for our arrival. Hand crocheted doilies framed the door and hung from the roof. The dirt floor had been recently swept, and the posters on the wall freshly taped (he told us). The posters were from the IRC with messages like: Ways That Bird Flu Spreads; Discuss Your Sexual Needs With Your Partner for Safety, Health, and Respect; and Alcohol Effects Community . The table was set with seemingly every object of weath: a broken cell phone, a wind up radio, and a photo album which he proudly insisted we peruse. Inside were photos of Ezama dressed smartly, standing proudly outside of various buildings. I asked what they were and learned: where he had received his teaching certificate, and several town halls – trips into “big cities.” His biggest trip? Into Arua, from whence I came.

“I love to travel,” he told me.
“Me too,” I replied with a smile.

Okubani

2007-01-30T23:21:00.001-08:00

It’s easy to see why the people of Okubani believe themselves forgotten. Their village sits att he edge of Ikafe, but before the refugees arrived, they tell me, their isolation was severe. The land is parched and will not produce much. Cotton, their sole cash crop, is not growing like before, and the government has recently declared that it will pay less, making the taxing venture hardly worthwhile for the people. Or so said two Okubani men as they sat under a tree, cleaning the cotton, and afternoon turned to dusk. A few meters past, close to the mosque, (an expanded, large, thatched tukul), and under another tree sat a man with a sewing maching – the town tailor. Clothes hung on low branches above him, stiff and hot in the stale air. Not far from him I could see a clearing lined with empty stalls and inquired. The market, I was told.

What do they sell, I asked.

Fish from the Nile, sometimes cotton, and necessities like salt and sugar. Fabric from Congo, came the reply. Things come over from the Sudan, things go back into the Sudan. “This is how we stay alive,” they said. “If there is to be a marriage, then there is cattle, although cattle are few.” A lively conversation ensued in the local language. I asked Ezama what was being discussed. “They are debating,” he said, “how many cattle you would bring in dowry.”

Eager to change the subject, I pointed to homes in the distance. “How far does your village extend?” I asked. He pointed and drew a large circle in the air.

“This is our countryside, he said. And then, pointing closer to the dusty path and the women weaving mats outside their homes, “and this is the city. Some people want to be close to the development. Big development. The same in the USA, no?”

Ikafe

2007-01-30T23:21:00.000-08:00

2-3 dusty, dry and rattling hours north-east from Arua you will find Ikafe refugee settlement, “home” to southern Sudanese refugees who have been here as long as 15 years (some say longer). I have spent some time over the past few weeks at Ikafe and the surrounding communities. We were initially invited as guests, to visit several host families at Ikafe. We were to spend the day with them: eating, chatting, listening and learning. The families were given the resources to host us, so we were not drawing from their very small supply of food. However, many families insisted on sending us away with gifts, and one of my colleagues returned to Arua with a live chicken in the back of her car!

TPO works in Ikafe, and the staff chose our host families for their relative stability and their various standing within the community, so that we may understand “normal” in this complex and terribly impoverished camp environment.

The families were delighted to have us there, many commenting that this was their first visit with a mzungu (foreign/white person). Others mentioned that other mzungus always treated them as dirty, left as quickly as possible, and never wanted to eat with them.

Many of the families told us that they had been preparing for us for days, looking forward to the visit for weeks. All of us had very unique experiences, depending on our hosts. Common questions to us included:

“What do you grow on your land?”
“Why are you so far from your family/clan/tribe?”
“What is your religion?”
“How many wives/children do you have?”
“Is there rain in your home?”

Questions we asked included:
Who is in your family?
Have you ever been to Arua? (to discern how much/little they have traveled past the camp
What do you think of the peace agreement?
How did you become a refugee?
Are you planning on going home?
What problems do you face here?

The International Rescue Committee (www.theirc.org), in conjunction with the Office of the Prime Minister, administers most programs inside Ikafe, including the health services. I was given a gracious tour of the maternal health center and the general health clinic. The former consisted of two beds for birthing, and a scale set inside a sparse room. Two midwives tended to dozens of pregnant women, mothers and babies lined up outside the clinic, breast feeding and tending to their little ones. The birth rate at Ikafe is astronomical, and conditions for birthing poor, although better than some places. The doctor shared that the top health problems faced at Ikafe are: disease (malaria, typhoid, and waterborne diseases mostly), malnutrition, and birthing problems. HIV/AIDS is growing, but not severe in the camp. It is an ongoing struggle to identify these patients. The doctor shared, though, that the school had recently initiated a better health education program, and many of the psychosocial projects were geared toward changing attitudes about sexual behavior and associated health problems.

I had an opportunity to learn more about this because I was hosted during this initial visit to Ikafe by Ezama, a teacher at Ikafe’s school. Ezama, a Ugandan national, lives in Okubani, the abutting village. The school serves the national and refugee community alike, as does the health center. Ezama and Okubani left a lasting impression and I learned more in 8 hours than in much of my formal education.

A Good Question

2007-01-30T04:10:00.002-08:00

So, what is psycho-social work, anyway? Well, after almost 3 weeks here I now have a pretty good idea. Putting it into words is another matter entirely. Here is my own best shot (TPO friends, any input???):

Critical, creative, compassionate problem-solving aimed at mobilizing, utilizing, and engaging existing resources at family, community, societal (and sometimes individual) levels. Psychosocial work involves identifying and rebuilding protective factors at all levels. Interventions attempt to address and mitigate compounded social issues that create or contribute to mental health problems. In addition, psychosocial work responds to serious mental health problems appropriately, according to culture, context and need.

Examples coming!

Good Mornings

2007-01-30T04:10:00.001-08:00

Every morning I wake to the sound of the goats bleating outside my window, and the generator turning on for its few hours of day time work. My room has concrete floor and fits a small twin bed canopied in a white swath of mosquito netting, a table, and a chair. On the table I have arranged my books, class materials, clock, toiletries, and few medicines (so I remember to take them!). My window looks past the edge of the property, where goats and a few chickens wander, out to where our neighbors live in their small, thatched huts (tukles). The tukles are arranged in groupings by family, with each one functioning, effectively, as a room of a house. The tukle nearest my window has been painted around the bottom in recognition of a recent celebration. I can wave to the mother as she sweeps in the morning, and watch the girls bring the water from the borehole, yellow jerry-cans balanced carefully on their strong heads.

There are 14 other rooms like mine, all in a row, with shared bathrooms at the end of the corridor. All of us women live here – the men are one building over. Every night kerosene lanterns sit outside each room, lining the corridor and casting a warm glow through the hallway. I’m usually asleep before the generator turns off at 11:00 p.m. (it runs for 4 hrs in the evening), But if I stay awake, I read or write by lantern light. It is very comfortable here.

The center functions as a training site, but prides itself on being part of the neighborhood, so to speak. We are roughly 2 km outside of Arua town, but pretty rural. The people are very welcoming and kind. They don’t give us a difficult time, and no one begs us or asks for anything, which I feel is pretty amazing. But we don’t take pictures and absolutely do not give anything to them, in terms of money or gifts. This community, although poor by many standards, is self reliant and capable. Giving, although well intentioned, could, in effect, create a very negative situation.

A few nights ago we had a big party. We opened the gates of the center, and all of our neighbors came over to dance. There are several traditional dance and music groups in the area, and they performed/danced with us. Some of the kids dug a pit and built a xylephone into the ground using pieces of wood. It must have been 6 feet long! When it was done, 8-10 of the children gathered around and starting playing the newly created instrument. Boy could they play! Music filled the neighborhood, and we all danced well into the evening, until it was time for the little ones to go home to sleep. We’ve done this several times, and it’s so much fun for all. I think that one or two of the pictures I previously posted (or Minh posted for me!) are from these dance parties.

Back in touch

2007-01-30T04:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

I am sorry that I have been so out of touch! Between slow internet connection and being busy, it has been difficult to post. I usually have about an hour and a half free during the day, and must choose whether to wash my clothes, take a walk through the neighborhood, rest, or go to town. The internet center in Arua is good, but the computers are slow. Everything here takes longer, and in some ways, I love it. Watching the clock is pointless. Time takes…its time. I am learning to breathe again.

Class, however, is progressing at a clip. The days when we are in class are long, and often aren’t done until 9:30 pm. It’s a good thing, since, of course, there is so much to learn! In order to have the proper tools and context for any field work, I know that it is essential that we spend quite a lot of time prepping, and I’m glad that I’m getting a good dose. I’m trying hard to absorb it all. A typical day (when we stay “in school”) looks something like this:

7:00 wake up
7:30 short walk with a friend – say good morning to our neighbors in the village
8:00 breakfast (usually fried eggs, toast, coffee)
8:30 class (today: Analyze field based assessment done at Ikafe refugee camp)
10:30 tea
10:45 class (today: Designing prevention and treatment interventions at individual, family, community levels based on assessment)
1:15 lunch
2:00 class (today: Identifying at risk groups, differentiating between need and crisis)
5:30 break
7:00 dinner
8:00 class (today: Clarifying roles of helpers: expatriates, nationals from outside community, local community-based helpers)
10:00 done!
10:30 fast asleep

A day in the field or at the camps looks entirely different, but that is for another post. Truly, it is taking a while for my words to catch up to my experiences here. It is sometimes difficult for my mind to believe my eyes, and processing all of this takes some time. There is a lot to take in, and so much to share.

Neighborhood Kids

2007-01-23T08:44:00.000-08:00

Somaya

2007-01-23T08:43:00.000-08:00

Gathering Water In Our Neighborhood

2007-01-23T08:41:00.000-08:00

On a Walk

2007-01-23T08:40:00.001-08:00

Arua

2007-01-23T08:39:00.000-08:00

Wild and Crazy Downtown Arua

2007-01-23T08:38:00.001-08:00

A Small Visitor

2007-01-23T08:32:00.000-08:00

An afternoon with neighbors

2007-01-23T08:19:00.002-08:00

Sunrise Outside My Room

2007-01-23T08:19:00.001-08:00

TPO

2007-01-23T08:16:00.000-08:00

The Road Outside the TPO (Transcultural Psychosocial Organization)

2007-01-23T08:12:00.000-08:00

In Uganda

2007-01-09T08:25:00.000-08:00

Hi Friends!!

Greetings to you from Arua, Uganda! After 9 very bumpy, beautiful hours we are arrived from Kampala, dusty but happy. I only have a minute, so this is just to say that I am here safe and sound. My group is truly phenomenal, Uganda beautiful and gracious, and I feel incredibly privileged to be here. More tomorrow, but for now off to dinner.

Love to you,
Aimee

Coming and Going

2007-01-04T12:02:00.000-08:00

M gets back from California tonight, and I leave tomorrow. 26 hours together. (Sigh). It's not enough, but I'll take every second that we have.

We're driving up to New York tomorrow morning, because I fly out of JFK. I'm flying through Dubai and spending the night in a hotel airport. Unfortunately, it will be dark so I won't get to see any of the city. I hear that Dubai is opulent. Doesn't Michael Jackson have a house there? After the night in Dubai I fly into Kampala via Addis Ababa and meet the other people in my program. We'll spend the night in Kampala and then drive the 7 hours north to Arua.

DC - NY 206 miles
NY-Dubai 6,843 miles
Dubai-Addis Ababa 1,563 miles
Addis-Kampala 1,183 miles
Kampala-Arua 523 miles

Total miles here to there: 10,318
Wow.

King of the Jungle

2007-01-02T12:39:00.000-08:00

I think Matisse knows that I'll be going soon. He's been very, very cuddly. Even more than usual, if that's possible. It makes it (a little) harder to leave!

Kim Family Auction

2007-01-02T10:49:00.000-08:00

The Kim family benefit art and craft auction begins tomorrow. Many amazing artists have donated their work, so check it out! All money raised will go to the Kim family who lost their beloved husband/father, James, after the family was stranded in the Oregon wilderness for 9 days. James left to find help and was found deceased days after the rest of his family was rescued. To find the auction click here. To learn more about the inspiring strength of James Kim, click here.