I’ve meant to write this post for a while, but things kept coming up.  Now, in the heart of my final papers, it seems I ready.

On March 26 I got the “Email of Good News.”  I had been stressing about summer internships, continuously spending more time on that search than on my school work.  But I (and two other Fletcher students) was selected to receive a Critical Language Scholarship.  This three year old program is sponsored by the U.S. State Department and “is part of the National Security Language Initiative (NSLI), a U.S. government interagency effort to expand dramatically the number of Americans studying and mastering critical need foreign languages.”

I will be continuing with my Arabic studies, and was assigned to Sana’a, Yemen.  That was actually my first choice location: I had heard great things about the program in Yemen, and amazing things about the country.

That said, I was a little nervous.  Earlier in the year I had read a report about al Qaeda regrouping in Yemen, and around the time of my acceptance into the program there were three attacks in Sana’a (all small arms, but all targeting U.S./Western interests).  I’ve been to places where the State Department has put out a travel warning, but I’d never read as dire a warning as the March 19 one for Yemen.

On April 3, my plans were put into a spin when I received this Email: “Due to the current security situation in Yemen, under advisement of the U.S. Department of State we are in the process of locating an alternate site for your summer program.”  Yes.  I knew the program would still go through somewhere, and yet I spent several days stressing about where: Amman? Cairo? Beirut? Tangier?  On April 9 I was officially informed that the program would not take place in Yemen this summer and they were looking for another location to take us.

It was late afternoon on April 14 when I got a phone call from the Program Associate of the administering organization.  While they continued to search to move the whole Sana’a group together, an opening had come available in my second-choice location: “Would you like to go to Salalah, Oman?”  YES I WOULD!

From late June to late August, I will be studying Arabic for most of the day at Dhofar University.  For those unfamiliar with Oman (I had to look up most everything about it), here’s some info from the State Department and World Factbook.  I didn’t think Oman was that big, but apparently Salalah is over 1000km (a 12-hour drive) from the capital, Muscat!  Here’s something on Salalah (that doesn’t look like the desert!).  My mom noted that Salalah seems awfully close to the Yemeni border.  She’s a worrier.  Oman is safe as can be (inshaAllah).  And, as this experience shows, the program is very concerned for (possibly over-sensitive to?) our safety.

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Christa (a dear friend who is visiting me here in Uganda) and I were seated cross-legged on the cement floor of Denise’s kitchen sorting peanuts under the glow of a lantern. We’d slaughtered a chicken and were preparing a feast for our last night in Goli. Most of the village doesn’t have electricity, and without the usual hum of African radio programs, the natural night sounds become that much louder and more noticeable. So, when we heard the dog making coughing noises outside the house, Christa and I exchanged startled glances. Denise, who was bent over the charcoal burner churning cassava and millet, paused in her work, sucked her teeth, glanced outside, and sighed, “It seems that someone has poisoned my dog.” With another suck of the teeth and a shake of the head, Denise refocused on the millet-cassava mixture.

Earlier the same day, we were seated in a small café when a seemingly crazy man walked in, hair ragged, clothing unkempt, various-sized bottles strapped to his back. When he was out-of-earshot, Denise explained that he’d been a fighter during Amin’s regime and had killed an entire busload of children. “He pretends to be crazy now.” Denise shrugged and sucked her teeth again.

Late in the evening, just before we settled into the sitting room for supper, Denise received a phonecall from Helen, the contact person of a nearby group of people living with HIV/AIDS. We’d visited that group last week to speak about Children of Hope. Helen was calling to inform us that the group’s chairperson had vomited blood yesterday and passed away; Helen was announcing the funeral.

I used to think that my African friends used teeth-sucking as a sign of sadness, disappointment and maybe even disgust. But I’m realizing that more than any of those emotions, it’s an expression of resignation, acceptance and fatalism. The transience of life on this continent never fails to blindside me. And I guess the constant reminders of mortality can be overwhelming if one doesn’t cultivate the ability to suck teeth and shrug.

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I entered Fletcher ready to immerse myself in academia, ready to absorb all I could from my courses and professors, ready to subsist on oatmeal and caffeine… In short, I entered Fletcher as an innocent student, hardly suspecting that I’d leave Fletcher as a mafia accomplice. If there were any evidence to the contrary, my experience in Uganda has surely confirmed my affiliation with the Fletcher Mafia. Guilty as charged. It wasn’t a choice I made; it just kind of happened. And I’m so grateful that it did.

My research here would have been decidedly compromised—even impossible to conduct—had it not been for contacts and advice from a few friends back in Medford (Rachel, Jessie, Liz, Mina, Drew, Josh, Teddy, Camilla…). Those initial contacts led to an expanding web of helpful, insightful and extraordinarily inspiring connections. The way in which everything and everyone just seemed to fall into place was almost alarming.

I reflected on this over dinner with Tom, Linda and Xanthe. Xanthe, a PhD student conducting dissertation research, has become a dear friend and confidante; we exchange text messages nearly every day. Tom and Linda are MAHA alumni, and Tom is now working for Save the Children. Their home is a little Kampala oasis for me. The four of sat on their balcony, sipping wine and watching the light fade on the waters of Lake Victoria. Over a meal of take-out Indian food, we reminisced about Fletcher faculty; we discussed the DDR situation in Northern Uganda; and Linda offered advice about NGO management in Uganda.

No matter where in the world I travel, I’ll always be able to find someone connected to Fletcher. It’s both shocking and incredibly comforting to realize that there’s no way to escape this mafia.

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I’ve recently remembered an old undergrad life lesson: Be as productive as possible early in the Spring Semester. Once the weather gets nice, work will be impossible to do.

In New England, we take our Seasons seriously. But that transition from Winter to Spring is always a difficult one: like a stadium full of fans willing a better outcome. One day is spectacular, the next not so much. Days in a row of heat… followed by some April snow. Incidentally, I’ve noticed over the past week that trees are beginning to bud.

Thursday was officially the first nice day of the semester. Sunny, topping out at 72 degrees. Cold beverages on the grass outside Fletcher. Talk of speeding to the nearest beach. Classmates came away with sunburns.

I’ll admit: I thought it was a good day for an ice cream (Kimball’s Farm had, happily, opened the day before). Sadly, no one would go with me — and, as it would’ve been my fourth ice cream that week, I decided I was better off not going alone.

Friday, in typical Boston fashion, dropped about 25 degrees and was raining off and on. As of then, the forecast called for rain through to Sunday.

In typical Boston fashion, weatherman be damned! It was 62 degrees and sunny this afternoon. Dilemma: do work, or get outside? It has been so long since I’ve been productive, that I at least decided if I wasn’t going to get any work done then I’d get some exercise.

I got my bike out of the basement and headed, for my first time, to the Minuteman Bikeway. This 11-mile path (from Cambridge, through Arlington, into Lexington) was crowded with families and individuals walking, biking and skating on such a great day. Sometimes the surroundings were calming nature. Sometimes I rode behind parks, schools and monuments. Sometimes I found myself behind vacant lots and factories.

Overall, I was glad to get out of the house. Of course, New England being as it is, the sky began to threaten on my return home. The air chilled and random droplets fell from the sky. I made it home before the clouds burst open: it rained hard most of the evening!

I wonder if tomorrow will be Winter or Spring?

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After having blogged about my Ugandan adventures for the past few months, I thought I should add a little note about why I’m really here. I’ve been conducting research for my MALD thesis in the Lango Subregion of Northern Uganda. Its title is Land Insecurity in Northern Uganda: The Impact of Displacement on the Lango Subregion. For over 20 years, Northern Uganda was embroiled in the conflict with the Lord’s Resistance Army. The prospect of peace is greater than ever before, and fingers crossed, the final peace agreement will be signed on April 15. Optimistic about continuing stability, internally displaced persons (IDPs), especially in the Lango Subregion, have begun returning home.

Upon their return, however, they are encountering several challenges with respect to land. So, for the past couple months, I was interviewing returned and returning IDPs to identify these challenges. They are as follow:

• Border disputes and “land wrangles”: Over the course of displacement, vegetation became overgrown and dense. The inability of some returnees to identify land boundaries and the purposeful encroachment of other returnees has led to conflict.
• Gender: Women, especially, are having trouble accessing land. Traditionally, they were allocated land through their fathers or husbands; they didn’t have control over land, themselves. And yet their land rights were protected under the patriarchal system. However, tradition has been exploited and women are increasingly being deprived of land.
• Other vulnerable groups: Orphans, unmarried women with children, formerly abducted people, and illegitimate children are also at risk of landlessness.
• Land degradation: The conflict, poverty, and climate change has impacted the state of the land while people were displaced.
• Resistance to return: While most IDPs express a desire to return home, there are some that prefer to remain in the camp. However, the land that the GoU gazetted for the IDP camps was formerly owned by individuals. Questions arise as to the rights of former owners of camp land and the rights of those who wish to remain on it.
• Traditional dispute resolution: Traditionally, disputes were resolved by clan elders. However, the respect they formerly commanded is not what it once was, undermining their ability to effectively resolve conflicts. Also, during the conflict and displacement, many elders died or were killed, leaving a vacuum in cultural leadership.
• Suspicions of government land confiscation: The people of Northern Uganda are deeply distrustful of the government’s intentions towards their land. Rumors are rampant that the GoU has plans to confiscate large areas of land in the interest of agricultural industrialization. Government discourse has done little to adequately dispel rumors.

These issues are compounded by the fact that they are operating in the context of two unique systems of governance—informal “customary” law and formal law. Over the course of the conflict, the GoU set up new laws and institutions to govern land use and access. While the GoU recognizes customary tenure it has done little to support and legitimize customary governance and leadership. Though respondents expressed continued faith and trust in the customary system, the role of new institutions, statutes, and policies has been to undermine the traditional land governance system. Consequently, the two governance systems are in competition with one another.

The ability of a dual system of governance to resolve land conflicts and address land issues will have an enormous impact—not only on recovery and development—but also on the sustainability of peace in the region. Respondents repeatedly warned that the next cause of conflict in Uganda could be the issue of land. And so, my research recommends that a system of governance be developed that will harmonize customary law with formal law—one that will more adequately be able to address land issues, especially in Northern Uganda.

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For the past week, I’ve been working with Children of Hope Uganda, a newly-established organization that focuses on Children Living with HIV/AIDS. They’re based in Goli, a village bordering the DRC. Children of Hope partners with health centers and groups of people living with HIV/AIDS in order to promote testing, treatment and care of children. Children of Hope is the only AIDS organization in the entire district that focuses on kids. And yet the need for this kind of work is overwhelming.

The overall rate of infection in this subcounty is 10%. I’m not sure why, but I hadn’t really attempted to conceptualize what that meant… In fact, when I first heard that statistic, I thought to myself, “Oh, well that’s not so bad in comparison with other areas in Africa.” But the reality of “1 in 10” hit me hard yesterday. I did a round of home visits with Denise, a founder of Children of Hope. Before we left, I put some water and sunscreen in my bag and strapped on my sturdy walking sandals. I needn’t have bothered, because we didn’t walk far. We ended up stopping at nearly every neighboring compound.

Anita and her two younger sisters live at the first compound we visited. They’re all HIV+ orphans living with their grandparents—a trend that seemed to characterize the relationship between a lot of these children and their caretakers. Anita was seated on a piece of kitenge under a tree when we arrived. I lifted her onto my lap and was appalled at how light she was. She’s 7 years old, though she could pass for 4; I’d only ever seen a body like hers in photographs.

Denise cuddled the children and offered gentle yet firm advice to caregivers. Diagnosed in 2002, Denise’s CD4 count had fallen to 10 (normal is 400). With the support of family members and a perseverant spirit, she managed an incredible recovery from her initial state; her CD4 count is now 382. Now, she spends her time chairing the local organization of People Living with AIDS, counseling villagers, visiting homes to provide support, and sharing her experience and testimony as a person living with AIDS. She’s an inspiration, as are the other members of Children of Hope.

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Motorcycle taxis, “boda bodas,” are the fastest way to travel short distances in Uganda. In Kampala, they can weave through the horrible traffic, and in rural areas, they navigate the rutted, dirt roads more quickly than other vehicles. You can usually get to where you’re goin’ for a maximum of $2. And I love them. A lot. Motorcycles have become my guilty pleasure. I say “guilty” because I know they’re unsafe; I also know that my mother is one of the only people who regularly reads this blog. But I can’t help it; it’s part of who I am… A blossoming biker chick.

There’s little I enjoy more than hopping on the back of one—sitting side-saddle as Ugandan modesty necessitates—and cruising through the streets of Kampala. And as much as I loved conducting research here, I’ve got to admit that one of the best parts was that it enabled me to ride through the countryside—on dirt roads and on narrow cow paths—on the back of my translator’s motorcycle.

But yesterday, enjoyment reached new heights. Elobo, a friend in Lira, pulled up to Mama Santa’s mango tree on his brother’s motorcycle. When I mentioned my desire to learn to ride, he said, “Ok, get ready.” So, I awkwardly hitched up my skirt and took hold of the handlebars. With Elobo seated at my back offering pointers, we sailed through the side streets of Lira, jolting over the ruts in the road when I failed to avoid them, chickens and small children scattering as we approached, men pointing and laughing at this crazy, beaming muzungu.

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