Our new arrivals

I am not in the habit of writing about individual children at the home because I think it is a breach of confidentiality.  Children often come to me and talk about their lives, not expecting their stories to be broadcast.  However, we have just received three new children whose story really should be told.  In any case, there is a need for sponsors for these children.  Their names are Luka (9), Foni (6) and Nana (3).

Luka, Foni and Nana

Their story reflects both the terrible civil war situation in other parts of South Sudan and also the very common family situations which cause children to end up uncared for, either as street children, neglected children or in a home such as Cornerstone.

Most people, including me, are uncomfortable with the idea of children’s homes or orphanages.  It can be very difficult for institutionalised children to manage once they leave.  Therefore we tend to think children are better off in a family or with a loving foster family.  It is a much more natural environment.  

However, in South Sudan this is rarely possible.  Many marriages are polygamous and it is culturally acceptable for stepparents to discriminate against those who are not their own offspring.  The wicked stepmother is alive and well, and lives in South Sudan.  Conversely, where divorce takes place and the mother remarries, her children are rarely accepted by her new husband.  In spite of what I had always heard before coming to Africa, the tribe does not often behave like an extended family.

Last week at morning devotions, we were told the following simple facts:  Three new children would be coming to live with us, aged 9, 6 and 3.  They come from Bor, where the fighting is intense.  Their parents have both been killed and the children were rescued from their home, which had been set on fire.  They speak only their own tribal language.  The eldest boy is in a very emotional and traumatised state, repeatedly asking for his mother.  The children were all asked to be very kind and patient with them when they arrived.  

I now know the whole story.  The father was the first to die.  Then, sometime later, soldiers shot the mother while she was trying to escape, carrying the youngest child.  The older two hid in their hut, which was then torched.  Amazingly, none of the children were hurt.  The youngest stayed next to her mother’s body.  A Good Samaritan rescued them all and put them in a truck of people fleeing the fighting.  The truck dropped everyone in the middle of nowhere.  Another truck came and agreed to take them all to Nimule.  Nobody took any responsibility for the children.  When they arrived, they left the children at the police station.

 In the meantime their uncle, who is a soldier, discovered that his brother and sister-in-law were dead and assumed that the children must also have been killed.  Fortunately somebody told him about the rescue, although nobody knew where the truck had taken the children.  The uncle frantically tried to track them down and discovered that they were in Nimule.  He and his family came to Nimule to find them.  As the uncle had to go back to Bor he left his wife and children to care for the orphaned children.  This turned out to be a very bad move.  His wife, in true wicked stepmother style, had no intention of caring for the children.  She simply did not feed them.  Another Good Samaritan alerted the police, who contacted Pastor Juma, the pastor at Cornerstone.  Fortunately Pastor Juma speaks some of the children’s language so he was able to converse with them.  The eldest broke down in tears when he said that they hadn’t eaten for two days.  He kept asking for his mother even though he knew she was dead.  Pastor Juma contacted the uncle and asked him to return to Nimule to sign an agreement for the children to live at Cornerstone.  He arrived at the weekend and was relieved to find a home for the children.

The children arrived at their new home on Sunday after staying a few days elsewhere while the uncle arrived and the agreement paperwork was sorted out.  

I had been very worried in advance about how the home would cope with these traumatised children and how the new children would cope with being at Cornerstone.  I prayed about it a lot and asked friends to pray too.  My fears proved to be completely unjustified.  I was at church when they arrived, but heard from the matron that they had looked terrified when they arrived in the home’s office and said goodbye to their uncle.  

Nana and her two new friends run to school
on her first day at nursery

Then some of the ‘old hands’ were asked to show the children around and look after them.  Literally minutes later they were all playing happily with children their own age in spite of the language barrier and their recent experiences.  It was a joy to watch them.  To see them play, you would never imagine the hardships they have been through.  They are incredibly resilient children.

The school agreed to let them start straightaway even before the school fees are paid, so today the children attended our school for the first time.  The eldest was tested as he said he had been to school in Bor.  He performed very well and was placed in Primary Four where he is the youngest child.  His younger sisters have never been to school before and were placed in the nursery.

Now all that remains is for Fulaa Lifeline (the home’s supporting charity) to find sponsors for these children to pay for their living expenses.  

Independence Day

9^th July was South Sudan’s third Independence Day.  It was a very muted affair at least in Nimule.  The current situation in South Sudan is no cause for celebration. 

The evening before, I was teaching some children in my room.  At the end of our session, they told me that if they did not sing the National Anthem correctly the police would shoot them.  They took this threat very seriously and were really scared.  I did my best to make a joke of it for them.  I asked them to sing the national anthem to me.  All the children know it really well as they sing it at school assembly every morning.  They sang it for me and I applauded them and assured them that they were excellent singers (which they are).

After I went to bed I got cold feet thinking about it.  Most probably it was the thoughtless threat of someone who wanted them to do their best.  However, elsewhere in the country, the police or soldiers have proved themselves quite capable of shooting innocent people, including children.  

On the day itself I was invited to lunch with my friends on the other side of Nimule.  I hopped on a boda and we set off.  We could see a long line of jeeps with huge national flags slowly going down the road with people also walking in the procession.  Before we had reached the centre of town we were stopped by the police and told that because of the Independence Day procession the road was closed to other vehicles.  The boda driver took me by a very different route along foot-wide footpaths through long grass and small villages of huts where the children were hugely excited at the sight of me on the boda.

I had a nice lunch and chatted with my friends before being driven back along the main road.  As we passed the football ground where the Independence Day speeches and main celebration were being held, it was very evident that large numbers had stayed away.  I don’t think there were more than 400 people there in all and plenty of soldiers in jeeps.  We passed the market which is usually a hive of activity with lots of roadside stalls.  Even on Christmas Day it is busy.  Yesterday it was completely empty.  Everyone was at home taking a day off work and keeping a low profile.  Maybe they, like the children, also thought things could take a bad turn.

I was expecting the next day to be a normal school day.  I don’t learn by experience, do I?  I arrived at the school to find school children playing football but the staff room locked and no teachers.  Finally the headmistress arrived at around 10 o’clock.  She told me that Radio Miriya (the national radio station) had announced an extension to the public holiday at 9 o’clock that morning.  This does not explain why the school wasn’t open at 8am.  Yet another day with no teaching.

Football versus school - no contest!

Football fever is in the air.  The children at the home are able to watch the World Cup courtesy of some visitors who paid for a satellite subscription for them.  This week the fever has hit the school.  Instead of going to lessons, most students have spent the school day playing football.  The teachers sit and watch.  When I asked what was going on I was told that there is an inter-schools football competition soon and the children need to practise.  The headteacher even said that football was of equal importance to education.  I was speechless.

A few children still go and sit in their classrooms, so I have been teaching them.  Nice as it is for me to have such small classes, it means I can’t follow the curriculum because I will leave so many children behind. 

This week I introduced very simple dictation and word search puzzles to my much reduced English class.  Today I read them a story, which was a great hit.  The book was one of the children’s books given to me by my hosts in Kampala as a goodbye present.  I am also working with small groups who had similarly low marks in last term’s exams.  This is going very well in terms of increasing their confidence, but the poor children have a very long way to go.  Some can’t read even basic words such as ‘a’, ‘and’ etc.

For maths I have mostly been doing revision exercises, although this morning I introduced Suduku as a bit of light relief.  This afternoon we did a round-the-class times-table test which went very well.  Last term multiplication was a serious weakness, so I was very pleased to see progress in this area.  It is a challenge to find interesting off-curriculum maths for them as I am not a real maths teacher.

It will be catch-up time when the football finishes.  However I have been warned by a Ugandan teacher that next term the obstacle will be drama and singing, which will again take precedence over lessons.  No wonder the exam results here are so poor. 

Football is not the only barrier to education the children face.  Last week many children were sent home for not wearing socks and covered shoes.  One bare-footed mother came to the school the next day to complain that she could not afford shoes either for herself or her children.  She saw me and asked if she could have my sandals.  I was feeling so totally outraged by the headmistress’ mocking attitude to this parent that I took my sandals off and gave them to the woman.

On Tuesday about two thirds of the school were sent home for non-payment of school fees.  Football did not stand in the way of this punishment!  Clearly school fees and smart footwear take precedence over football, with education at the end of the list of priorities.

My journey back to South Sudan

On Wednesday last week I had a call from the Visa Application Section at the British High Commission to let me know that my passport had arrived and was ready to collect.  The woman on the phone said, “Do you know where we are?”  I said, “Yes” unhesitatingly because I have passed the British High Commission, which has a sign pointing to the visa section next door, several times.  I said my goodbyes to the kindergarten teachers and children, who did some lovely songs and dances to mark my departure.  Then I went back to the Grail and had more goodbyes and good wishes.  I have made lots of new friends here and it has been hard to say goodbye.  I was given a present of books by Prisca to take back with me and also some cloth to be made into a dress by one of the market ladies when I arrived home.  They asked a man named Kenny who works for the Grail to come in the morning to drive me first to the British High Commission and then to catch a bus to Gulu for the first leg of my journey.

The next morning, Kenny arrived and we set off.  Did I mention that he is profoundly deaf and relies on sign language and writing for communication?  For some reason I don’t understand he can’t lip read at all.  In the UK he would not be allowed to drive, but here nobody bats an eyelid.  It was a scary drive as traffic is totally chaotic anyway, but adding the ingredient of someone who can’t hear cars and bodas honking added a whole new dimension.  However, we arrived at the British High Commission in one piece and I went inside.  It took some time to get through their very rigorous security.  Finally I got to the desk and asked for my passport.  The lady at the desk told me I had come to the wrong place.  The Visa Application Section where my passport awaited me was at a totally different place.  I asked her to draw a map so I could give it to Kenny, which she did.  She said that she sees people every day who have come to the wrong place.

I went back to the car and mimed the lack of passport to Kenny, giving him the map.  Off we went again.  We followed the directions but couldn’t find the place.  We stopped and Kenny attempted to ask the traffic police for help.  They pointed us in what turned out to be completely the wrong direction.  We stopped and asked people several times, until at last we found someone who was really able to help.  At the time it wasn’t funny, but looking back, I can see that it had all the hallmarks of a Mr Bean type adventure.  All the attempts at miming to Kenny would have been very funny if we hadn’t been so desperate to actually arrive at the visa section.

We finally made it.  It was in a small back street miles from the centre of town, in a wing of a micro-finance company building.  No wonder nobody could help us.  The map could easily have been done as a joke.  It bore no relation to reality at all.

Anyway, I was given my passport, still in its DHL envelope.  The lady at the desk asked me to check before leaving, which I did.  My new passport was definitely mine.  I was a bit disappointed that my old cancelled passport wasn’t included as it has my Ugandan visa in it, but this was not an emergency as I had taken a photocopy of the Ugandan visa before sending off my old passport and also had the receipt from the Ugandan Border Post.  It was only later that it dawned on me that my driving licence, which I’d sent as proof of ID, was also missing.  It will be difficult to get it sent to me now I’ve left Uganda.

Kenny took me to the bus station in the centre of town.  I wrote ‘thank you so much’ on a piece of paper which I gave to him and mimed goodbye.  I was bustled into a bus, paid my fare and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  It was about one and a half hours before the bus was full and ready to leave.  In my experience in Africa, it is extremely rare for a bus to leave before it is completely packed with people, so this was not out of the ordinary.  Timetables?  Not in a country (continent?) without clocks.

On the way we passed the Murchison Falls and saw lots of baboons sitting at the roadside, eating pineapples whole, skin and all.  Unfortunately we were travelling fast and the road was also bumpy, so I was unable to take pictures.  We arrived at Gulu bus station after a journey of six hours.  I went straight to my usual hotel only to find them full.  They were good about directing me to another hotel very close by, so I was not left to panic.  The new hotel was a bit more expensive, but fortunately had a special offer on so that as well as bed and breakfast, my dinner was included in the price.  It turned out to be a much better restaurant than the one at the other hotel, so I dined very well on the most tender goat stew I’ve had yet.  Usually meat here is very tough.

I spent a comfortable night and left the next morning after breakfast.  The journey back was mainly along a dirt track, but unlike previous times on this road, there was no dust due to the rainy season being well advanced now.  The road got wetter as we went, ending with a very cautious drive through alarmingly deep muddy water shortly before reaching the border.

Fortunately, the Ugandan border officials were happy with the photocopy I had had the foresight to make of my Ugandan visa in my old passport and cheerfully stamped an exit visa in my new one.  I traipsed across the border and bought my extortionately expensive monthly visa at the South Sudanese border post.  Then I caught a boda back to Cornerstone.  School was just finishing when I arrived.  Children greeted me with great smiles.  I went to say hello to the teachers before going to my room to unpack.  It was still only just lunch-time!  .

I had a very warm welcome from the children at the home, who were delighted to see me.  Some came to watch me unpack.  I showed them the children’s books I had been given by Prisca.  They were over the moon.  I spent the rest of the day either reading the books to them, or letting them read the books to me.  They are a huge success and just right for this particular group of children.  The stories are culturally African, with nice pictures on every page, have fairly simple language, but are suitable for older children.

Much as I enjoyed the stay at the Grail, it is very nice to be home again.

The end of my stay in Uganda is in sight

As mentioned in other posts, the reason for my stay here has been to allow me to send my passport back to the UK for renewal.  According to the Passport Office website this should take around four weeks.  They warned not to chase applications until after that.  So, I called on the four week anniversary.  To my horror I was told that the waiting time had increased to eight weeks.  Bear in mind that my visa for Uganda is only for two months and I would need my passport to get a new visa.  I was worried about remaining illegally.  Also, financially it would be a problem as I am paying for my accommodation at the Grail, even though not at hotel rates.  

Then, while looking at the shrine, I had a phone call from the Passport Office.  A very dipsy woman asked if I could collect my passport from Khartoum!  I had to explain to her that Khartoum is the capital of the Republic of Sudan.  I live in South Sudan (a separate country since 2011), the capital of which is Juba.  I was now in Uganda as the situation in South Sudan was not stable enough to remain without a passport.  Also, I would have been unable to fetch it as there is no local post.  The nearest DHL is in Juba, 193 kms away from Nimule.  There are ever increasing numbers of road blocks on the way to Juba which would have required sight of my passport to allow me through, and very likely bribes as well.  I had explained this situation in my original application, but clearly she hadn’t read it.  I don’t know what training the Foreign Office gives their staff, but it clearly doesn’t include either geography or current international affairs which might affect their work.

She asked me to send proof of my address in Kampala and said that she had sent an email asking for this but it had bounced back.  I agreed to ask the Grail for a letter.  It seems to me a very insecure way of checking that I am genuine.  Anybody could forge such a letter.  However, never mind.  There is such a thing as being too security conscious.  To complain might be the same as stabbing myself and others in my positino in the foot.

I was left feeling that I might have difficulties ever getting my passport back.  However, when I checked my emails the next day, the email had come.  The Grail produced a letter for me which I photographed with my mobile and emailed back to the Passport Office straightaway.  Today I received another email from the Passport Office confirming that my passport is ready and has been sent to Kampala.  I will be called by the British High Commission when it arrives.  

Hurray!  All my worries were groundless.  I will be heading back to Nimule as soon as I get my passport.  I have felt very guilty about not being there for the beginning of the school term, and also for the children at Cornerstone, who I have been told are missing me very much.  I will only be a couple of weeks later than hoped.  I am so glad that the eight week backlog was a pessimistic prediction.

The last few weeks of my stay in Kampala have been a rest cure.  The Grail has been a great place to stay.  The community has been feeding me up, particularly with fruit.  I am well rested and well fed ready to go back.  I have managed to have internet access put on my phone (remarkably cheaply), so I will be able to access the internet regularly when I get to South Sudan unlike before.  I am hopeful that one of my new friends (mentioned in the previous post) will be able to give me some used textbooks to take with me.

Trip to the Uganda Martyrs Shrine

Uganda Martyrs Day, 3^rd June, is a public holiday in Uganda.  It is also very important across the African continent.  Even the kindergarten where I am working is called St Kizito’s, the name of the youngest martyr.  Each year many people come on foot from countries such as Rwanda, Berundi and the Democratic Republic of Congo.  Some come from even further afield.

Model showing the method of burning the martyrs to death

The Uganda Martyrs were among the first converts to Christianity in Uganda.  The Kabaka (king) of that time was the son of the Kabaka who had invited the missionaries to come from Europe.  He strongly disapproved of the fact that the new Christians placed God before their service to the Kabaka.  When he found that twenty-two of his own pages had converted he decided to execute them.  The youngest was only fourteen years old.  They were given the option to give up their faith, but they all decided to die for their religion.  These were not the only people to die during that time, but are the ones that had most attention as they were killed en-masse and with plenty of publicity, so there is plenty of documentation.  Extraordinarily there is even a photograph in the Cathedral Museum of all the martyrs together at the time of their religious instruction.

The martyrs were killed in various places around the kingdom and in various gruesome manners, but many were burnt to death at a place called Namugongo (link) on the present-day outskirts of Kampala on 3^rd June 1886.  Namugongo was the traditional execution ground for the Buganda kingdom.  There are two shrines, one Catholic and the other Anglican, about two kilometres apart.  The larger number of martyrs were Anglican, but as Catholics tend to venerate their martyrs more than the Protestant churches, the Catholic shrine is the larger one.  I am glad to say that both denominations celebrate all the martyrs regardless.

Very early in the morning I went with Prisca, a member of the Grail community, to Namugongo to attend Mass there.  The minibus dropped us at some distance from the shrine.  The crowds were vast but (at first) well organised so that we gradually made progress towards the shrine.  It took over three hours to walk about half a mile.  As we got towards the entrance the crowd became frighteningly dense so that we were packed together so tightly that we had trouble breathing.  There was a small girl in front of me with her mother.  Due to the sudden crush, her mother had no warning to pick her up.  She was stuck among a sea of legs and was crying with fear.  Thankfully her mother managed to pick her up, but she could easily have died.  We later heard that there had been more than one million people.  Two people died in the crush, trampled underfoot.

 

When we were close to the gates, security guards spotted my white face among so many Africans and plucked us both out and through a security gate, so we were more fortunate than most.  Many of the crowd outside were unable to come in at all due to lack of space.  

The actual spot where the martyrs were killed is beneath the altar inside the basilica, which only holds 1,000 people and was therefore closed.  Mass was conducted from an island in a small artificial lake at the bottom of the hill.  Once inside we saw a sea of people sitting and standing on the hillsides surrounding the lake.  We were lucky to find a small shady spot where we could sit, but we were too far away to hear much of the Mass.  As a result it was more of a tourist experience than a religious one.

At the end of Mass Prisca was keen to go down to the altar at the lake-side.  It took a very long time before it was possible to do so due to the crowds making their way out.  When we eventually moved forward, we caught the end of a speech.  It turned out to be the President of Uganda, Museveni, speaking about the desirability of pan-African unity and the importance of religion in achieving that unity.  It was a good speech, but given the situation between Muslims and Christians in so many African countries, not very convincing.  It was still impossible to get near to the altar, so Prisca and I sat down and ate our picnic before leaving.  My bean and tomato sandwiches had been reduced to a pulp in the crowds and greatly resembled ‘bush’ (an unappetising hash of bread, beans and salad eaten in Sudan).

On the way back on the mini-bus I discovered that my purse was missing.  It is possible it was stolen but more likely it had fallen out of my bag at some point.  Fortunately most of my money was in my room at the Grail, and as credit cards are barely used in Uganda I didn’t have one with me.

I decided that I would go back to Namugongo by myself the next day to experience the place without the crowds and also see if my purse had been handed in.  I found my way back easily and was pointed towards a police post.  The police had large sacks of very pathetic belongings which had been stolen but retrieved by the police.  They made a report on my missing purse and its contents and took my phone number.

Then I noticed a guide taking a small group around the shrine so I rushed to join them.  Unlike the day before, we were able to go into the basilica and saw the actual site of the martyrdom.  The guide told us about the huge impact of the martyrdoms on the spread of Christianity in Uganda.  The Uganda Martyrs went to their deaths with such calm conviction that it made a deep impression on all witnesses.  Even the Kabaka and the chief executioner were filled with remorse and converted.  We walked down to the artificial lake.  This was originally a swamp where the executioners and torturers ritually washed after executions to absolve themselves from blood-guilt.

At the Anglican shrine

After the tour, I talked to a British woman and her Ugandan friend who had also been looking at the site.  It turned out that she is a member of the British Council, in Uganda to promote e-learning and also to support a charity which wants to stop local tribes losing their languages and cultures.  Her friend is the headteacher of a very prestigious local secondary school.  I told them about the standards of teaching and lack of resources in Nimule.  They are both keen to help and we exchanged contact details.  I think that the loss of my purse was an act of God to ensure that I would meet these very useful contacts.

I stand in front of the tree where the martyrs were tortured at the Anglican shrine.

Afterwards they invited me to go with them by car to visit the Anglican shrine.  As mentioned earlier the Anglican shrine is much lower-key, but still very interesting.  There are full scale models representing the events of the martyrdom.  Somewhat foolishly, they are in the process of major building works in the shrine itself which made it hard to access.  A very bad piece of timing.

A small slice of the First World.

Before dropping me off at a mini-bus stand, my new friends took me to see the Mandela Stadium, a huge stadium which is used for national sporting events.  It was built in 1999 in time for the Millenium.  

All in all, it was a very interesting and useful two days.  Never have I experienced such crowds, even for the Papal Mass when I was in Singapore in 1986.  I hope not to have that particular experience again!  Given that the attendance on Ugandan Martyrs Day gets bigger each year, I think I will not go to Namugongo on the 3^rd June again.