This past week, I’ve finally been able to get started on my field research. I’m looking at how displacement has impacted the ability of returning IDPs to access their former agricultural land. This ability is probably the single most important component of a recovery process. I’m focusing on the Lango subregion and specifically 3 subcounties within that region. This week, my translator, Sammy, and I are in Ogur subcounty.
We’re settling into a rhythm. Every morning, we hop on Sammy’s motorcycle and head due north on the road that leads to Sudan. The tarmac road lasts about 7k; where it ends, the dust begins. As soon as we spot a lorry heading in our direction, Sammy slows down, pulls over, and we let the dust settle before we continue. Fortunately, there was a big rainstorm last night, so I’m eager to see the landscape without the dusty lens of the dry season. It’s gorgeous. Every once in awhile, a rocky mass juts up 200 feet from the flat topography. The thatched huts are nearly imperceptible, as they camouflage themselves into the dry season grasses. One expects everything to be brown this time of year, so the flowering trees—reds, yellows, purples—always catch me by pleasant surprise.

After a 45-minute drive into the bush, we roll into Ogur, the subcounty headquarters, where we stop and duck under the thatch of Mama Lucy’s café. We join the men on the hut’s two crowded benches and sip Lucy’s famous chai before continuing our journey to one of the nearby villages.

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On Friday morning, I received frantic emails from both Jessie and Rachel, the two phenomenal Tufts students who joined me in Uganda in January. “Rebels walking out?! What’s going on, Natalie?! How are people reacting?” And I thought to myself, “Huh. That’s funny. I haven’t heard anything about this.” Everyday, I buy the paper and I bring it home for Mama Santa and me to read together. So, upon leaving the internet café, I stopped by “Write and Read Bookshop,” and sure enough, the headline of the New Vision was “LRA walks out of talks” (next to the article promoting the UB40 concert). Startling news—especially considering that the Juba peace talks seemed to be going so well just one day prior, when a headline of the Daily Monitor read, “Kony agrees to be tried in Uganda.”

The real kicker was that when I came home, pulled up my chair under the mango tree, and told Mama Santa, she was nonplused. She rolled her eyes, threw up her hands, and said, “Oh, these people…” I have the impression that the average person here feels relatively disconnected from the talks between the Ugandan Government and the Lord’s Resistance Army. I’m not sure if the disconnect stems from resignation, fatalism, or disgust. There’s frustration with both parties at the talks; nobody here seems confident that the GoU and the LRA have the interest of the victims at heart. Of course, 18 months of unpredictable negotiations is probably enough to make anyone throw up her hands. Mama Santa didn’t feel that the LRA’s exit from talks was cause for alarm. And sure enough, the LRA was back at the table on Friday, ready to sign the latest agenda item.

On a positive note, I think that the resignation or disinterest can also be attributed to the fact that the situation has been relatively peaceful for the past 18 months, so people are more concerned with rebuilding their own lives than following unpredictable peace talks. As long as the situation “on the ground” is stable, whatever happens in Juba, happens.  

For now, last night’s UB40 concert in Kampala has superceded all else in terms of newsworthiness. 

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When discussing the role of technology in Kenya’s recent post election troubles, a big part of the story here and elsewhere has been the use of mobile phones both as a one-to-many communication tool (Twitter, ect…) and as a way to exchange resources in times of need (Mama Mike’s and mPesa).

On January 3rd, a few days after the election, Juliana from Afromusing first reported that the government sent its own message threatening those who use SMS to mobilize public action. At first I was concerned that Kenya was going the way of Ethiopia, who completely shut down the SMS system during the election process in June 2005.

However, its important to point out the context in which these messages were sent.
NPR (and many others) ran a story which shows not an imperiled government stiflying democratic organizing, but a government that was startled by the violent, tribal-based SMS messages being sent in the days following the election. NPR reports that the text from the government on January 3rd was a warning, not against ‘public unrest’ (which some had reported), but against ‘violence’: “The government advises that the sending of hate messages that can result in violence is an offense that can result in prosecution.”

The NPR story goes on to report that the government message, sent to millions in Kenya via carriers like Safaricom, was in response to eerily violent messages being forwarded en masse. Messages like this:

“Fellow Kenyans, the Kikuyu’s have stolen our children’s future…we must deal with them in a way they understand…violence.”

“No more innocent Kikuyu blood will be shed. We will slaughter them right here in the capital city. For justice, compile a list of Luo’s you know…we will give you numbers to text this information.”

Human rights activists added that part of the problem was that otherwise upright citizens contributed to this hate speech because of the ease and excitement of forwarding these messages.

The story also interviews Safaricom CEO Michael Joseph who said that the government indeed did consider shutting down the SMS system, but mobile phone providers convinced them to pass up this idea, and instead allow the providers to send out messages of peace and calm, which Safaricom did to all nine million of its customers.

We rightly spend a lot of time talking excitedly about how digital/networked technology can be useful for democracy and human rights advocates in Africa (see our wonderful recent conversation in Istanbul). However, like the Mabira forest protests in Uganda, this story is another sobering anecdote that reminds us that these technologies can also be used for violent public action. As is often the take-away from our investigations, the message seems to be, technology is neutral.

cross-posted to my blog: In An African Minute.

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In my short trip to Istanbul last week, I stayed in Taksim, a neighborhood known for its soulful public protests as well as its raucous nightlife. On the first night, walking back to our hotel on Istiklal Cadessi, the main shopping street, we saw a small group of neo-nationalists protesting the recent constitutional provision allowing headscarfs in universities. These Kamalists generally cling to Ataturk’s secular legacy, and think that any turn away from secularism is not a gain for civil liberties, but the first step on a slippery slope towards Islamism. Calmly lined up across from this group of protesters were several dozen police in riot gear.

Most of my time in Istanbul was spent talking to amazing people about whether the internet has a positive effect on democracy, a negative effect, or no effect at all. The question wasn’t posed in an academic sense, but in true Berkman fashion, by talking to technologists and activists who are experimenting with ways to use the internet to organize, promote ideas and help improve lives. Check out a full summary of the event on the I&D blog.

cross-posted to my blog, In An African Minute. 

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I arrived in Lira yesterday, and I’m staying with Santa, a friend of Gideon. Santa is old. I’m not sure exactly how old she is, but she told me that she completed secondary school in 1957. I look at her, wrinkled face, wiry hair emerging from beneath her headwrap, and a million questions come to mind. She’s seen so much—colonial rule, the ebb and flow of dictatorship in Uganda, and more recently, this LRA conflict. I wonder what she makes of this conflict here in the north, what she makes of this presidency. I’m eager to ask her these questions, but I’m learning patience in my dialogue with people here. The information will be revealed from this “elder” in good time.

Last night, we talked about more universal issues, like relationships and fidelity. The electricity was out; we sat under her mango tree and shelled peanuts in the moonlight. Mama Santa’s a tough cookie—not only because of what she’s witnessed in Uganda but because of what she’s experienced in her personal life. She told me of how she adopted all of the illegitimate children of her husband upon his death, bringing the total number of her “children” to 15. Thinking of my own mother’s hardships and of other women I admire, I asked her, “Oh, Mama Santa, do you really think that men can be good, like women?” Her wrinkled face broke into a grin; she slapped her knees; she laughed; and she rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Natalie. We women—we’re strong.”

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The past couple of days in Gulu have been a welcome change from Kampala. I’m feeling much more grounded and focused, which is what I lacked while I was in the city. The best part about Gulu is that I feel that I have “family” here. Shortly after I unlocked the door to my room at “Hotel Tropicana,” Gideon, my surrogate father, called and said, “After you have rested from the journey, you come home. We will have dinner together here.” Since then—even in these short few days—I’ve settled into the rhythm of walking down the narrow alley next to the hotel and pushing open the metal door to the compound Gideon’s family shares with a few other families.

We stretch out on a woven plastic mat while Comfort, Gideon’s wife, prepares dinner. Across the small courtyard, other women are also bent over their gas burners, grinding stones, mortars and pestles, making dinners for their own families. Every once in awhile, they look up to share a laugh or to reprimand a child. Matthew, Gideon’s 5-year-old son, climbs over me, calls me “Sonya,” and says, “Guttentag.” Sonya is Gideon’s German friend; my skin reminds Matthew of hers. Overhead, large bats flap, silhouetted against the moonlit, dusty, indigo sky.

Initially, I’d planned on spending the next few months here in Gulu, next door to this “family” of mine. Even though I feel a bit sad to be heading to Lira tomorrow, I’m confident that I’ll find equally welcoming, generous friends to add to my extended African family. That’s the way it is here. One would have to try hard to keep these warm people out of one’s life.

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I’m sitting at a desk in my Medford apartment. My neighbors just returned home from a day of miscellaneous weekend activities and I can hear them greeting their endearing dog, S, who is (not surprisingly) excitedly bouncing about. Sharing a split-level house this year has worked out beautifully; the occasional and always pleasant domestic sounds that filter down from above are welcome distractions. They function as periodic reminders that life (of the social variety) exists beyond graduate school. 

This is my first entry on the Fletcher blog. Admittedly, I’ve been putting it off.  I’ve rationalized my procrastination with the conciliatory thought that when I finally get around to posting, I’ll have something interesting to say…oops. 

About me. I’m a first-year MALD student. My fields of concentration are Human Security and International Security Studies. I’m most interested in post-conflict reconstruction and the potential of information mediums, such as radio, print, and TV, to advance the basic human needs of war-affected populations through the spread of information. I’m also getting pretty deep into resilience research. More on all of that later, I’m sure. 

Preface for the remainder of this entry and every other entry I’ll make here: I don’t particularly enjoy mincing words. (You’re wondering – why the Fletcher School of International Law and Diplomacy? Well, I haven’t finished the program yet, so the mincing can come later.) I’m also working from the assumption that you’re reading this blog because you’re interested in reading something honest, even if you find yourself disagreeing with it – or thinking that I’m a complete fool. 

I came to Fletcher on a different track than the one I’m currently on. I’d worked in DC for three years in a field only distantly related to my long-term academic and personal interests. I then spent a year in Turkey running a little business and learning Turkish. Fantastic. 

Orientation week at Fletcher marked the start of a crash course in my perceived personal career potential – devaluation. Did I speak Arabic, Chinese, or French? No – try German and Turkish. Had I spent two or more years overseas, working in a field clearly related to my current graduate and professional interests? No – I’m a “career changer”!! Oh no! My professional prospects are dismal! The sky is falling! The message from above: it was time to turn on my personal insanity mode to rapidly reinvent myself! Most importantly, it was time to feverishly network (read: NETWORK! NETWORK! NETWORK!)! Oh no, again! In short, the time had come to have a something of a meltdown and miraculously come out the other side a valuable and consequently – hirable – human being.  

Not surprisingly, I spent much of my first semester retooling my conception of the type of work I wanted to do post-Fletcher. I also spent a lot of time encouraging myself to rebel against the negative air abounding from those expert in helping us international relations-oriented people find the jobs we want. Realism is great. So too, however, is encouragement. 

Something I’ve been figuring out slowly. If something feels profoundly unnatural and loathsome, it’s probably not what I ought to be doing. Rarely is there only one answer to a problem (at least of the non-mathematical variety). 

Not feeling depressed by certain job-related realities, however, does take a certain amount of effort. I acted on a recommendation a professor gave me in a conversation after class last semester. Reflecting on my remark that a panel on jobs in human security created a dismal picture of future professional opportunities, she noted that I should look at a listing of recent Fletcher grads’ current occupations. I did. Supremely encouraging.   

More in a bit. All this writing about professional potential reminds me that I have school work, and work for work, to get done. In the meantime, here’s a link to a book I nearly consumed last week. Fascinating.

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The “Backpackers Hostel” is a confusing place. I’ve been staying here for the past few days, while conducting interviews in Kampala. It’s one of the cheaper accommodation options in the city. The grounds are beautiful and the rooms are adequate, but it feels like a parallel universe.

Right now, the reggae music is blasting. A round German guy is leaned over the bar gazing into the eyes of the beautiful Ugandan bartender. A Swiss couple is leaning over the reception desk, flipping through whitewater rafting guides. A Norwegian laments the loss of his cell phone at a club the other night. This American sits in her booth, laptop open, checking messages on Facebook.

Somewhere, Uganda is happening, but not here—not within the guarded walls of this hostel. Or is Backpackers Hostel a part of this Uganda-place? Should it be?

The patrons are young folks from all over the world—a mishmash of development/aid workers, adventure-seeking tourists, and researchers, like me. We all bring our diverging perceptions of “AFRICA”—perceptions that range from naive romanticism to jaded disillusionment, and we discuss all of our opinions in the bubble that is Backpackers. My hunch is that none of us know what we’re talking about, and I wonder whether we’re really entitled to be forming our judgments.

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Last night’s African Cup of Nations final was a bummer-and-a-half. It felt good, though, to watch Cameroon’s Indomitable Lions play, even if they were a slightly less-than-indomitable against the Egyptian Pharaohs. It made me nostalgic for Makong, when 80 villagers would crowd into the living room of “le president du village” to watch the static-filled screen, clumsy winged-termites teasing the fluorescent lights, platters of taro and yellow sauce at our feet, children pressing into the doors and windows… I think that those football games were the only time when I was not the primary spectacle in the village; maybe that’s part of the reason I enjoyed them so much.

In any case, sitting in Kampala’s Hotel Olympia last night just didn’t have the same feel. Maybe it was the lack of “piment” in the chicken stew, maybe it was because I wasn’t sharing my chair with three wiggling children, maybe it was because they haven’t got 33 Export in Uganda, or maybe it was because I simply haven’t quite figured this place out yet. I’m sure I’ll get my bearings soon, but for now… mes lions indomitables, vous me manquez-oh…

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On Thursday I was invited into the world of Fletcher Reflections. This came with a lot of responsibility: what to write about?

As luck would have it, that evening was the Fletcher Town Hall Meeting.

Speaking of IT, Dean Uvin asked, “what can be done of all the students in my lecture who are clearly not typing notes on their laptops?!” (Note to Student Body: the professors are on to us!)

The answers student gave varied from the “I need my laptop because I haven’t hand-written since elementary school,” to the “some internet exploration is essential to the class” to one student’s brave “maybe you’re boring?”

That last student had obviously never spent any time with Uvin, but perhaps that’s beside the point. This query gave me something to ponder over the coming days.

Absolutely, there are times in class when you need the internet. Hypothetically, let’s imagine a seminar discussion that turns to the Hundred Years’ War. You may know nothing about it! Your only possible input to the discussion would be “It lasted 100 years.” Not only would you be wrong, but you in no way added to the conversation.

But with the internet, BOOM! You have your answer. Other times it’s good to check your facts — or help out a professor who may’ve forgotten his own.

The internet, however, also serves as a distraction. Sit in the back of any classroom, and you’ll see laptop screens browsing Email, Facebook and various news outlets. Last spring I sat in on a course at another school to help with my decision of grad program. A girl in front of me spent the entire course period skimming a well-known celebrity gossip site.

Most of this activity is limited to distracting the user. That’s not only the case. I recently found myself behind two colleagues, who spent most of a class Gchatting each other (the modern day equivalently of note-passing) and giggling incessantly.

I hope this post isn’t coming off high-and-mighty. Hands down: I am a culprit myself. If I’m in class with my laptop or PDA, I’m checking my Email every time the professor takes a breath!

A good question (Uvin’s main point, and one that I can’t answer) is why? I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s not like any Email I get is time-sensitive. Yes, sometimes I get an important message from a friend or possible-employer, and maybe someone did send an interesting article to the Social List. But is my life going to be over if I don’t read that message immediately?

I’m going to be honest: the most urgent Email I ever receive is a notification of free food in the Hall of Flags. I’ll admit, additionally, that in the process of writing this post I’ve thrice unnecessarily checked Email and/or Facebook.

For the record, I didn’t write the during a class… simply during time I need to be spending on class work. I’d better get to it.

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