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.