Workshops and Workshops and Workshops Oh My

Norbert Mao, or Chairman Mao as he is known here in Gulu, not because of his political leanings which seem squarely democratic, but because he is the chairman of Gulu District, famously declared a few years ago that he was never going to attend another workshop in northern Uganda again. This declaration was radical. It was radical, because it thumbed its nose at the international community’s intervention du jour: the workshop.

Workshops are perceived by the international community and now, by extension, developing countries as a good tool for quick and comprehensive learning in an emergency or development setting. People spend all day interacting with colleagues or people they don’t always have time to meet otherwise from their field of expertise. They build connections and learn from each other. The workshop topic is usually one that is of interest and of critical need to participants. For example, here are some recent topics on offer in Gulu: improving health and hygiene in villages, public-private partnership in economic recovery, assessing the current state of peace, transitional justice, etc.

Facilitators are often expert guests flown in from exotic locations like the UK, Sierra Leone, or South Africa on the dime of an eager NGO or donor wanting to demonstrate its ability to bring the most relevant experts to a situation ripe for input. It’s also a good way of advancing the goals of the project, because workshops are monitoring and evaluation darlings. When tallying up impact on the project, workshops are tangible and measurable (i.e., # of people trained in transitional justice).

You’re waiting for the “but...” Here it is:

But…word on the street, spread by Chairman Mao and others, is that workshops don’t necessarily have the good intentioned impact bestowed upon them. First of all, a one day on transitional justice does not a legal expert make. Participants do not become experts on the subject after one day of training or fraternizing with colleagues. However, and despite the fact that many facilitators issue precisely that disclaimer at the start of a workshop, many participants believe they are experts. There are increasing cases of new workshop knowledge being put wrongly into action. Just yesterday I attended a rally in Gulu on cancer awareness and one of the speakers said “If you are aware of cancer you will not get cancer.” Hmmm. I’m pretty sure he knew what he meant, but for the 1,000 people listening, I fear they may now assume they are no longer going to catch this thing called cancer, because they now know it exists. Perhaps if he had a few more workshops on cancer awareness, he’d have gotten that talking point right. (“Do no harm” alarm bells starting to ring yet?)

The flip side to the workshop eager beaver is the participant who fails to apply workshop knowledge. I feel this unintended consequence is more often a culprit. I’m not trying to be self righteous here. In fact, I’ve even issued my own disclaimer to try and circumvent this problem very recently at a workshop I myself am guilty of organizing. I said something like: “While this first step of training on conflict sensitivity is important, it is only a first step. To help you apply this knowledge, we are going to follow up with site visits, evaluations and recommendations, yada yada yada.” Workshop organizers know that a workshop does not go far enough, but very rarely does anyone have time to follow up with activities needed to deepen the knowledge and help participants apply that knowledge. I’m going to try, but time keeps on slipping…

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about the workshop these days is that since the whole international gang has arrived in Gulu and the workshop is intervention du jour, there is constantly a workshop on offer. The average civil servant in northern Uganda must be invited to at least two or three workshops a week! The steady promise of three meals and a sitting allowance (that’s right, a payment to attend a workshop) has meant that civil servants would rather attend his or her third workshop on, for instance, the nature of Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) return than actually do the work to assist the IDPs with return. Besides, workshops are fun. At my last workshop, the best part of the day was the clapping competition. Clapping competitions occur when a presenter finishes and the other participants demonstrate their appreciation by clapping. Acknowledging appreciation is fairly common, of course, but adding a layer of competition to it is, I think, a sign of workshop overdose. Participants were competing on the most creative ways to clap in appreciation. The Mosquito clap, the Mandela clap, the Macarena clap. Yes, the Macarena dance became a clap of appreciation during my last workshop. Alas, this may have been the most engaging part of the day.

It was the clapping competition that got to me. It’s so clear that we’ve workshop-ized every NGO worker or civil servant in northern Uganda. They know the drill: learn a little, eat a lot, play fun crowd engagement games, get paid for it…all in a day’s work in Gulu.

Charles

In June, I received a call from a friend. My good friend Charles had been murdered. I had known Charles for six years. He was working for the Quakers when I first came to visit and hosted me on several trips. Charles knew everything about the conflict in northern Uganda. He had contacts everywhere and therefore one of the most up-to-date and nuanced analysis of the conflict. The year my dad came to Gulu, Charles organized the most interesting and harrowing visit to Atiak. He negotiated with the Ugandan army along the way to allow an unarmed escort pass on a road crawling with LRA rebels.

Over the years we became friends and I got to know his family. His wife is Beatrice, a quiet woman with a fantastic smile, and his son is Arthur who was the light of his life. When Charles wasn’t working and sometimes even if he was, Arthur was with him. The last memory I have of seeing them together was running into Charles and Arthur at the Acholi Inn pool in Gulu. Arthur didn’t have a swim suit, but Charles managed to remove enough clothing and keep enough on to allow Arthur to be submerged and splashing with the other kids.

It isn’t all good memories of course. Charles was abducted when he was young and the trauma of his child soldiering days led him to a nasty battle with alcoholism. He struggled with sobriety, and when he lost that struggle it was terrible. I can only imagine how tough it must have been for Beatrice and little Arthur during those times.

Charles was on a research trip to the other big town in northern Uganda, Lira, when he was murdered. A yet-to-be identified assailant came into his hotel room and stabbed him in the back of the head and in the leg. He died of heart failure and blood lost. I know this because his autopsy report was read at his funeral. It was awful. Just awful.

The funeral was nothing like I had ever seen. As an ex-pat, I think I’m developing a perverse sense of death here in Gulu. Death is common and maybe even predictable. At least once a week I personally know someone who has had a relative or someone close to them die. Usually this is not an old person, but rather a son or daughter or cousin. It is usually a preventable death like Malaria or Typhoid, and increasingly it seems to be death by road accident. I’m worried I’m even becoming indifferent to it. I must confess more than one time I found myself feeling frustrated that yet another staff person is out due to a death in the family. Thank God I’ve managed to stave that disgusting feeling.

Murder is rare these days since the war has ended. Perhaps that is why Charles’ funeral was so dramatic. Hundreds of people were there and many were wailing. There were speeches, of course, and then a bizarre parade around the casket. The casket had a window, which I avoided. Beatrice was hysterical and had to be physically carried through the service. I couldn’t summon the nerve to look at Arthur.

A few days ago, I met Beatrice for the first time since the funeral. I’ve been dreading this meeting. I spoke to her briefly a few weeks after the funeral and she told me that Charles’ family had taken everything Charles had, even the bed they slept in. I had heard stories about widows in northern Uganda. They’re treated terribly. Beatrice was no exception. When I met her this time, she described the chain of events from the moment Charles died of how his family took everything and left her and Arthur on their own. She said it began as she was traveling to claim his body. On that day his family wanted his bank card and his motorcycle. She explained she quickly hid Charles’ computer with a neighbor, because she knew his current employer would want it back and that the family would surely take it if it was in the house. Beatrice spoke for an hour detailing the humiliating intrusion and stripping away of her life by Charles’ family. She said that they wouldn’t even look after Arthur, claiming that not enough money from the sales of Charles’ things could be mustered to pay his school fees or his hospital bill when he got malaria a few weeks ago. They’ve been living off of peanut sauce and corn mush for the past couple of months.

Did I mention that Beatrice is 5 months pregnant?

The good news is that Beatrice is in her last semester in Gulu University. She is graduating in January with a Bachelor’s in Education. With the help of one of Charles’ friends, Beatrice and Arthur have moved into a tiny flat a few meters away from Arthur’s school. She has an impossible task ahead, but she is educated, and she defiantly declares that by hook or by crook she will educate Arthur.

I wish I could say this is an extraordinary case in northern Uganda, but I think only the opposite. Beatrice and Arthur have a typical life. The only difference is that this one happens to touch me personally. I am personally invested in this family. It’s not just that I have heard their story, like you have now, and I feel sad and guilty. I feel these things based on a long friendship. I feel deep personal loss and fear for this family's future. Somehow I’ve got to find a way to help them. Immediately emptying my pockets is my instinct. However, that assistance is fleeting. I will try to help Beatrice find a job. I will make sure Arthur and the new child will have food. I will invite them both to my thanksgiving party. I guess this will help.

Fear God and Strive

On the Gulu-Kampala road, about 40 km from Kampala, I pass through the town of Wobulenzi and wave to my boys at Katikumu Secondary School. Samson and Babu are currently completing their third term of their first year there. The school’s motto is “Fear God and Strive.” Indeed. It is only now that I’m a “parent” of secondary schoolers for the first time that my interest and understanding of it are growing. Secondary school in Uganda is sort of like prison, but in a good way…I think. Samson and Babu, along with all the pupils, are instructed rise at 4:30am (pictures of army boot camp bugles. That’s right 4:30. They begin studying at that hour until breakfast at 6 and then class begins at 6:30. Classes end at 6pm, then posho (a corn like mush that is the staple for Ugandans…culinary triumph it is not) and beans for dinner, then study until bed time at 10pm. They have about 15 subjects that range from Agriculture to Christianity to Math. They have not only biology, but also physics and chemistry – all in the same year!

So I arrived at visitors’ day a few weeks back feeling like I’m putting these boys through hell. But I want more for these boys and that has meant sending them away from their home in Gulu (which is next to my home.) I used to see them every day, but like a good mom, I decided I needed to sacrifice my selfish need to have them hanging out at my house so that they could have a future. Future schmuture. I miss them!

Visitors’ day was just like it is anywhere. The kids are all spiffed up in their best uniforms. The parents’ arms are laden with food, clothes and other booty. The campus is truly beautiful. It sits on a huge hill above the town, with big beautiful trees lining the pathways. The huge imposing auditorium is boldly engraved:“FEAR GOD AND STRIVE.” In fact, that motto appears frequently across the campus and on every child’s uniform. (I can’t wait to get my hands on a school t-shirt.) We were no different from the others; my arms struggled to balance all of the items I could manage to pack up for the boys. I received a call from Babu at 5:30am that morning requesting one last item, a calculator. I tried to explain to him that a call at 5:30am on a Sunday morning was not cool, but this explanation was met with a blank stare and a meager apology. Of course he’s not sorry – 5:30am is practically lunch time for the kid. Samson got a pair of Bata school shoes, which came with a calculator. I bought a ton at the supermarket. I was so excited to feed these boys some meat. However, as I enthusiastically extracted the chicken from my satchel of goodies, I was quickly asked to put it away. Apparently, cooked food from the outside was forbidden. Oops. They explained that they could take the chicken and other morsels back to their dorms and consume them without detection from the glaring eye of the patrons.

We chatted a bit. I reviewed each of their grades, but quickly glazed over. The scoring system in Uganda is dizzying, especially when there are so many subjects. However, some creepy uncle of theirs happened to be present and seized the opportunity to scold Samson about his grades in front of everyone. It was awful. “You are not working hard enough. These grades should be much higher. How do you expect to succeed? You were given a chance by this nice young lady and you can’t screw it up.” Samson hung his head in deep shame and looked like he was going to cry. I was ready to sock this guy.

While I’m not an actual parent, I’m pretty sure that in parenting 101 this line of scolding is borderline abusive these days in the States. Not the case in Uganda, where the authoritative figure very much ascends into this role to the fullest and takes every opportunity to remind subordinates of their place. It’s a cultural difference that I struggle with, as is obvious from my description of it.

We quickly countered this scolding with words of encouragement and enthusiasm. Despite my cluelessness on the grading system, I think Samson was doing ok. He even appeared to be excelling at Chemistry. I made sure to point this out to Uncle Creepy.

As the storm clouds rolled in, we quickly gathered up the booty and packed it up for the boys to take it away. I promised them I’d call them in a week and told them I was planning a big Thanksgiving dinner a few days after they finished up their third term. It was great to see them and I think, despite my pining, they’re exactly where they should be.

Log Frame!

Today I have reached log frame carrying capacity. I simply cannot design another program for this project, which is a shame, because I’m in the home stretch with only three left.

For months I have been saying I have a desk job, it just happens to be in Africa. It’s true! When I first arrived in Gulu, I pledged to visit the “field” at least once a week and by and large, I stuck to that pledge. The “field”, by the way, means going to visit projects outside of Gulu town, where my office is. It means visiting the internal displacement camps that are now emptying and visiting communities in their villages, where most of the work is now located. It’s an important distinction, because many people come to Gulu and feel that they’re in the field. However, Gulu or “Club Gulu” as I now refer to it really doesn’t paint the picture of the challenges people face in their recovery from two decades of conflict. Gulu has a swimming pool and ethnic restaurants. (I just tried the new Ethiopian last night…not bad!) It has admittedly poor wireless internet cafes that serve cappuccinos to war tourists; the countless temporary visitors to Gulu who arrive pledging to solve or study all of northern Uganda’s problems during their short stay. Ok, that was bitchy, especially since I was one of them before I moved here. However, I am saddened to think most of their stay is in Gulu, when they need to be out in the community.

No matter what, when I travel to the field, I return re-energized and re-committed to the work.

The problem is that most of the time I’m now trapped at my desk on the damn log frame. I’m tired of coming up with x # of community dialogues in x # of sub-counties that will require x amount of fuel, stationary, flip charts, etc. etc. Although I did recently get to place bulls in the log frame. Yes bulls, as in the animals! 1 bull was budgeted for lunch for each of the 8 meetings that will take place in 8 sub-counties where traditional leaders will host community dialogues. Ok, I guess the log frame isn’t too bad. I mean, the projects that emerge from the log frame are pretty cool. The two I’m working on now are called “Unpacking the P in PRDP” and “Fortifying Families in Recovery.” The names alone sound good, right? Although just coming up with the names probably cost me a half a day on the desk. Hayden keeps asking me how I could possibly be keeping up with the new season of Mad Men when its not available here. Please don’t tell him that like all desk jobs, I’ve got the internets to distract me.

So I guess I shouldn’t despair. The end of log frames is in sight and the projects starting up are being well received so far. I’ve even managed to squeeze a trip or two to the field in the last month (see Pawel blog.) But for today, anyway, I’m flaking out…I can’t look at the thing today. Today is Maureen Dowd, facebook and a long lunch day.

Kampala, that toddling town

This is going to be an ex-pat living entry; the kind that can be torn apart by researchers for exemplifying the decadence of the “Aid world.” However, I think that ex-pat living, at least outside of a capital city, requires that hard work be supported by life luxuries on occasion.

I just spent the weekend in the Kampala, a lovely treat I try to do at least once a month. Kampala is probably one of the best capital cities in Africa. It has lots of western amenities, such as the fantastic Serena hotel and several great restaurants, and yet it still retains the sub-Saharan developing world feel that keeps it a bit adventurous and frustrating.

Life is far from difficult in Gulu. I have a nice three bedroom house on about an acre and a half of walled in compound, where my dog roams free. There are a couple of ok restaurants and enough ex-pats (the regulars, not the war tourists) to escape with at the weekends via house parties and the occasional trip to a night club (Club Gulu!). Where it begins to wear down on me is in the limited access to western amenities, well food mainly, like chocolate and cheese (Ween!). Also, more and more I’m beginning to realize the weather’s no picnic. It’s not bad, but without air conditioning the heat and dust really do work a number on you. I don’t even realize it until I’m sitting in a meeting in Kampala and wiping 12 layers of red dust from the laptop screen. It was somehow invisible in Gulu, where I guess everything has 12 layers of red dust on it.
This hardship justifies the journey down to Kampala, where I just simply splurge. There’s a mall here. I stock up on Italian brand pasta, juice, wine and cheese. I eat and eat. I have sandwiches. I didn’t realize how much I miss sandwiches for lunch, until I only had the option to eat big formal meals of rice, beans, potatoes, etc for lunch every day. Yes, hard core researchers, at least I have access to a choice of foods, but I’ve realized over my two years in Gulu that what sustains my ability to live there is western luxuries. I cannot go completely local. I need to set boundaries: food boundaries, social boundaries, etc. I haven’t built a fortress from the local communities, the way a lot of ex-pats have. However, I do need to escape daily life in Gulu. Often this is by eating a salad and watching an episode of Mad Men. I admit that more and more I not only enjoy watching Hayden’s satellite tv, but I go for the most outrageous and offensive programming, like the E channel. Like anyone who switches on a tv, sometimes I need a dulling sensory overload to distract you from the stress of the day.

I sound like I’m apologizing a lot. I am. It’s a dilemma and a constant source of guilt to have access to luxury when so many people around you do not. On Thursday, before I left for Kampala, I got a call from a young man I used to work with at NRC. He had been tortured by the armed forces in Gulu, which required surgery on his elbow and eye, and psycho-social counseling. I helped him access both. Two years later, he came to ask me for a job. I didn’t have one to give him and I felt really bad about it. This happens a lot. On the one hand I’m happy that I’m helping the community in northern Uganda recovery from the long conflict. On the other hand, almost daily, I feel it comes up short when I’m unable to assist the stream of individuals I’ve met over the years get jobs or pay school fees.

So a weekend escape to Kampala usually comes at about the right time each month. Last night I had Szechuan tofu and it was delicious. Today, I’ll head back north and I’ll be happy to be home.