be still.

i’ve been back from Uganda for over a week now. i was a little bit sick for most of my first week back, but i’m mostly better now.

i’ve had a little bit of distance from the experience, so maybe i’ve been able to process it all a little bit—to decide how i feel about my time there, or maybe even if i learned anything about the world or about Karamoja or even about myself while i was there.

i’ve only seen a few people i know since i returned. But, of course, each friend (particularly those who haven’t themselves been to Karamoja) has questions about the culture of the people that i spent time with.

i’m not a trained anthropologist. More importantly, perhaps, i didn’t have the energy (diligence?) to devote much mental activity to noticing cultural details. But some things stood out, and those things tended not to be positive.

Now i’m back in America, and every once in a while people want to know what i think about the area. It’s hard to know what to say, but it’s easy to feel what to say. So i don’t end up saying what i think about the area—i say what i feel about the area. And when my experience is mediated to observers through my emotions, surely a darkness and misery exceeding the darkness and misery of day-to-day life in Karenga (is that a quantifiable kind of thing?) is communicated to the hearer—my emotions are clearly not a neutral medium of transmission; it is evident to me that my emotions distort the message, which i was never that careful with in the first place.

The children irritated me. They got inside my head. They would call me names. They would mock me. If i took a single step in their direction, they would cower in fear. They would sneak up behind younger children, pick them up (sometimes by their heads), and carry them toward me. Their reason for doing this was solely to frighten the younger children. And they would stare. Stare and stare and stare.

The children were cowards, and i usually hated them (i think). That’s a harsh way to feel toward kids—they’re young, you can’t expect them to behave like adults, whatever. They were cowards, and i usually hated them (if that’s what that emotion was). It wasn’t so much for their behavior that i hated them—although their behavior was usually heinous—rather, i hated them more for what their thoughts and actions suggested about their lives. It seemed that nothing was expected of them, they were held to no standards. They did not seem to be shown any love. Predictably, then, they did not seem to have the capacity to show love. And i wasn’t strong enough or wise enough or good enough in the five or six weeks that i spent in Karenga to shower the hundreds of kids i was in contact with with the love that i, in my feelings of western superiority, thought they needed. Or even one or two of the kids that i was in contact with. And i don’t think that i could ever be.

That doesn’t excuse hatred—if that’s truly what i felt toward them. In any case, it doesn’t excuse what i felt toward them, whether that was hatred or not. Whatever i felt toward the kids was wrong, but i assure you: i felt it.

This isn’t a post about what i should have felt. We could talk for ages about that. You wouldn’t come out of it saying ‘what you felt is what you should have felt, sam.’ But when i’m asked about the kids in Karenga, that’s what i know how to say right now.

There was a guy named Robert. He is about my age, maybe a little older. i think he’s around 27. Robert was really well built—even bulky, at least by local standards. He was usually one of the best players when we would go for football (or ‘play soccer’, for people who aren’t from Uganda). He’s applying at masters programs in United States—Michigan State and UConn, among others. When i returned from a week and a half of relaxation in Timu Forest, Robert stopped me in the road in front of the mission.

‘samuel! How was Timu? Do you remember my name?’

i had talked with him a little bit before we had left, but not much. Before i had the chance to vindicate my memory or to lose face by admitting that i had forgotten, he quickly followed his question with ‘anyway, it’s Robert, in case you forgot.’

We talked about Sudan—he had been there the day before—and he offered to take Stephen and me on his bike. We didn’t end up taking him up on the offer, but the offer was out there. As a friend.

‘i hope you go for football tonight,’ he said by way of parting.

i thought about Robert after unloading another round of harsh words tonight. If i didn’t see anything kind or compassionate or friendly or unselfish this summer, it’s because i wasn’t willing to see it. i’m always willing to allow a few exceptions—almost exclusively people who hosted us, be they mzungu missionaries or local priests and seminarians—but not for the culture at large. But Robert was just a piece of the culture at large, and he treated me kindly and unselfishly.

He was admittedly much wealthier and better educated than most other people in Karenga. But on the other hand, that meant that his English was much better than that of most other people in Karenga. And that, in turn, meant that i could communicate with him much more easily. Perhaps if i had been able to speak and understand Karamojong, i would have had access to more such experiences in the culture. It’s dangerous to form too strong of opinions about those that you can’t even speak with.

i don’t think i should think that Karenga culture is awesome. It’s clearly not. But i’m embarrassed by some of the things that i feel about Karenga. And when i’m asked about it, those are the things that i say.



come, be still
be together
told about the
joys and victories or
at the very least the
gracious finesse
of each blessed
failure come,
be still
be together
hold one another
in a sort
of esteem and
persuasion
of each self
will be sure to
follow
one
another
across
the
silence
would speak
and surely would to
the other
say come, be
still be together
but i don’t
even know how to
hear
what that one says
with words or not