On Saturday morning we put our new magic letter to use. We first met up with staff from the Uganda Human Rights Commission (UHRC) at their regional office in Gulu. They thought it would be a good idea if we took the Commission's 4x4 as opposed to our Corolla for the long journey to meet right to health complainants in the neighboring districts. We didn't refuse the offer, and we're very glad that we didn't. It took several hours to reach our first interviewee, who lives deep in the bumpy country side of Lira, where the roads are far less forgiving than the ones nearby Gulu town. A decal on the SUV's rear side window is a reminder of the region's recent history of war. It's faded color is also curiously resonant with much of the population's own wish to hold on to their past. Brother Carlo at Lacor keeps telling me that nobody wants to talk about the war anymore; they just want to move on with their lives. While riding the bus back to Gulu on Friday night, I sat next to a college student who was sifting through notes that outlined the different modes of file transferring through the internet. As our bus began pulling out of Kampala, she pulled out a cone made out of newspaper filled with what looked like a bunch of miniature green french fries. She asked me, "Do you know what these are?" I had read that it was grasshopper season in the Central part of the country, and so I guessed. My co-passenger was happy to offer me a taste of the novel insect delight, and to be honest, like most fried foods, it was pretty good. All this to say, via the grasshopper, we struck up a conversation. She was a native of Gulu studying journalism at the local university, and when I mentioned to her how much I enjoyed living in the town, she jabbed, "You like it just because of Kony" (referring to Joseph Kony the head of the Lord Resistance Army). This was not the first time that I came in contact with a local conviction that whites only come to Acholiland to satisfy some curiosity about misery. While our bus was mired at a police checkpoint, I tried to assure her that it was the town's friendliness, like her grasshopper gift, that I greatly appreciated. Even though she didn't resist my explanation too much, I got the feeling that she accepted it with a bit of skepticism as we shifted the conversation to complaining about our insanely long and overheated roadside delay. Having experienced several conversations like this one since being in Gulu, I often find myself having to consider how much of a role the context of this community's recent conflict should play in our documentary film. I'm hopeful, however, that we can share their current stories of using human rights to achieve better medical services without having to drag in the past too much.
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Our UHRC 4x4 rests sheltered from the sun while we conducted interviews with the first complainant we met that day. Besides competing with the wind, the roosters provide a constant noise that we are fortunate to overcome with our fancy lapel microphone. Maneuvering in sync with the shade has also become a routine task while filming in the villages, not only for lighting purposes, but also for the sake of keeping ourselves and the interviewees from getting scorched.
This is the home of the first complainant who met that day. Her name is Esther, and her case was picked up by the UHRC after someone from the regional office was notified about her situation by a local radio station. We sat underneath a tree just across from this two-room hut as she shared with us her story. An audience of her relatives and neighbors gathered around us, some requesting to have their pictures be taken with the camera, others just curious to see what the mzgunus were doing in the village.
Esther had no problem telling us her tragic tale, especially since it had already been broadcasted on one of the district radio stations. She required a hysterectomy but was unable to pay for the procedure after it was performed at a private health facility. The surgeon had kept her hostage at the hospital for over 3 months until it was leaked to the media what was happening to her. One of her sons was forced to do manual labor in order to help pay off some of the bills, but at a rate that would take years to achieve. Another son, a soldier in Somalia, was also unable to send back the full amount of money to pay her debt. When her story was released, the surgeon became furious and demanded she leave the premises. The unpaid $70 of her $170 tab was forgiven, but her medical records were withheld from her. Who leaked her account to the local press is still an unsolved mystery, one that we hope to pursue. The UHRC is also intent on retrieving her medical records, which without them she has been unable to receive appropriate followup care. She still suffers a great deal of pain in her abdomen since having the surgery, and responded to most of our questions while lying on her side, finding it too difficult to sit up right for too long.
Here are a couple of videos taken by Meredith that give a short picture of our afternoon in Lira. During the middle of the interview, a parade bicycles passed behind us. When we drove out of the village after our visit with Esther, we came to an intersection where a fleet of bicycles were parked outside of a small home. Our UHRC liaison noted, "There must be a wedding or a funeral." Interestingly, the nearest health center is over an hour way from Esther's home, and the only way she can get medical treatment, while hardly able to move from the pain in her stomach, is by riding on the back of one of these bicycles.
On Saturday morning we put our new magic letter to use. We first met up with staff from the Uganda Human Rights Commission (UHRC) at their regional office in Gulu. They thought it would be a good idea if we took the Commission's 4x4 as opposed to our Corolla for the long journey to meet right to health complainants in the neighboring districts. We didn't refuse the offer, and we're very glad that we didn't. It took several hours to reach our first interviewee, who lives deep in the bumpy country side of Lira, where the roads are far less forgiving than the ones nearby Gulu town. A decal on the SUV's rear side window is a reminder of the region's recent history of war. It's faded color is also curiously resonant with much of the population's own wish to hold on to their past. Brother Carlo at Lacor keeps telling me that nobody wants to talk about the war anymore; they just want to move on with their lives. While riding the bus back to Gulu on Friday night, I sat next to a college student who was sifting through notes that outlined the different modes of file transferring through the internet. As our bus began pulling out of Kampala, she pulled out a cone made out of newspaper filled with what looked like a bunch of miniature green french fries. She asked me, "Do you know what these are?" I had read that it was grasshopper season in the Central part of the country, and so I guessed. My co-passenger was happy to offer me a taste of the novel insect delight, and to be honest, like most fried foods, it was pretty good. All this to say, via the grasshopper, we struck up a conversation. She was a native of Gulu studying journalism at the local university, and when I mentioned to her how much I enjoyed living in the town, she jabbed, "You like it just because of Kony" (referring to Joseph Kony the head of the Lord Resistance Army). This was not the first time that I came in contact with a local conviction that whites only come to Acholiland to satisfy some curiosity about misery. While our bus was mired at a police checkpoint, I tried to assure her that it was the town's friendliness, like her grasshopper gift, that I greatly appreciated. Even though she didn't resist my explanation too much, I got the feeling that she accepted it with a bit of skepticism as we shifted the conversation to complaining about our insanely long and overheated roadside delay. Having experienced several conversations like this one since being in Gulu, I often find myself having to consider how much of a role the context of this community's recent conflict should play in our documentary film. I'm hopeful, however, that we can share their current stories of using human rights to achieve better medical services without having to drag in the past too much.
Esther had no problem telling us her tragic tale, especially since it had already been broadcasted on one of the district radio stations. She required a hysterectomy but was unable to pay for the procedure after it was performed at a private health facility. The surgeon had kept her hostage at the hospital for over 3 months until it was leaked to the media what was happening to her. One of her sons was forced to do manual labor in order to help pay off some of the bills, but at a rate that would take years to achieve. Another son, a soldier in Somalia, was also unable to send back the full amount of money to pay her debt. When her story was released, the surgeon became furious and demanded she leave the premises. The unpaid $70 of her $170 tab was forgiven, but her medical records were withheld from her. Who leaked her account to the local press is still an unsolved mystery, one that we hope to pursue. The UHRC is also intent on retrieving her medical records, which without them she has been unable to receive appropriate followup care. She still suffers a great deal of pain in her abdomen since having the surgery, and responded to most of our questions while lying on her side, finding it too difficult to sit up right for too long.
Michael, what an incredible story. I can't wait to see your footage! And to hear how you're going to track down the person who reported her "detention" to the media. Do you have any leads?
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