Being White

Being White

I knew I would be different. I knew I was white. I knew Africans were black. I knew I would be the small percentage of white in a black culture. But what I didn’t know was how difficult it would be. I didn’t know what the real implications of being white in a black culture were. But now I understand.

It wasn’t until I became the minority where I started to learn about what it meant to be white. I had never thought about being white until recently. What is “white culture”? What are the implications of my skin color to Uganda, to Africa, to the rest of the world? Growing up in a non-diverse area, the opportunity to look at being white never came up. It was just how it was. I naively thought everyone saw the world through my lens. Sure, there was the slave trade starting in the 1600s, the civil war in the 1800s, and the civil rights movement in the mid-1900s, but that is in history now, that’s all over right? There is no such thing as inequalities because of race now right? We don’t live in a world that judges both character and wealth by the color of one’s skin do we? WRONG.

The truth is that we live in a world that strongly operates based on the assumptions of race. And thee most powerful and privileged race in the world is that of the white individual. In east Africa, the term mzungu is labeled to all white people in the country. It can be offensive at first because in the US it is rude to identify someone by their race, but here in Uganda the term literally translates to someone of good standing. So when children are running after white people screaming mzungu! Mzungu!, simply trying to catch a smile or wave, they are telling that person how well-off they are. In other words, they are saying because I am white, I have good standing and I’m essentially better.

In the United States if one is a minority, (African-American, Latino, Asian, Native American, etc) they are more likely to be in poverty, be unemployed, be in prison, not go to college, have teen pregnancy, develop a mental illness, be an alcoholic, not make as much money, and the list seriously goes and on and on of ways non-whites are discriminated against. We live in a world that is dominated by the color white. And the reason it is so powerful is because no one sees it—it’s invisible.

Each of the times I have visited a public place in Kampala where security checks are at every door, I have never once been inspected. If a traffic officer sees me in a vehicle, our car is exempt from the rules of the road. Because I’m white, it’s like I’m above the law, and above morality. At my internship in rural Kisoga, children crawl on my skin, rubbing it up and down, simply wanting to just touch it. All of this drives me crazy, not just because of the attention, but because I don’t want anyone to believe that I am any better than anyone else because I’m white. I don’t want to be treated like a god. If those children touch my skin they won’t be healed. I’m human, I’m a sinner, and just because I’m white doesn’t mean I don’t struggle and I don’t have hardships.

I have had to realize the position God has put me in in this world. I am white. And that is not going to change. I need to be an advocate for the discrimination and disparity happening around the globe due to racism. Yes, my skin has power, but more than that it has influence. And as I navigate what that really means in this world, I will have to learn to speak up for those who cannot and use my whiteness for good.

This next 10 days I will living in rural Capchorwa, east Africa, to live with a host family on a farm and do life with them. I couldn’t be more excited. Please pray for an open-mind and adaptability as I navigate what rural African living is!

Ali

Invisible Children

 “They came in the night,” she said. “We knew the knock as soon as we heard it. We knew we were helpless at that moment and we were going to have to go with them. They grabbed my brothers by the arm and chained my parents outside in the back of our home. When I heard the two gunshots following my brothers wailing, I knew what had happened—they made them kill my parents. They abducted me and told me I was going to be a commander’s wife and I was responsible to satisfying him. He was 63, I was 11. I screamed and cried every night but no one heard me. There was always the thought of escaping, but everyone knew it would be triple the horror to escape and be caught. A boy from my village tried it once and when he was caught, as punishment for trying to get away, they made the other boys kill him with sticks. And then they made them smear the boy’s blood on their faces as a reminder not to run away. The other boys were his friends, but they too would be killed if they didn’t kill him. I became pregnant with the commander’s baby, but even being pregnant didn’t stop them from making us walk hundreds of miles, days and nights without water or food. I wanted to die. But something in me wanted to fight, something in me said I have to keep moving. God had a plan for me, and it was to live.” –as told by a Ugandan woman previously abducted by Joseph Kony and the LRA

This is the short story of a young woman who was a previous child solider in the Lord’s Resistance Army. Gulu, northern Uganda is where this took place from 1986-2006. I spent this past weekend in Gulu visiting different NGOs and getting the opportunity to hear the stories of some of the women who were abducted. Uganda declared peace in 2006 with the LRA, but the leader (Joseph Kony) is still abducting children in the Congo. Uganda knows the war isn’t over, and there is a possibility he will return to Gulu—the place he started.

Kony would target children ages 11-14 and abduct them from their homes in the middle of the night. He would turn the boys into child soldiers, often making them kill their own family to psychologically destroy them and also not give them any reason to return home. The girls were used as sex slaves for the commanders in the army. They were forced to be wives and bear children of rape.  At the project I visited, there were five women who shared their stories—all of whom were in slavery for 7-10 years. They have been working at this organization called Amani for the past 8 years to try and reintegrate into society. With no family, children of rape, and intense trauma, they face battles every day I will never even come close to understanding.

Hearing this story in person from a woman with wet tears and gasping sobs, made everything I had ever learned about trauma come to life. Everything from the Kony 2012 movement and the LRA, it just became real. As tears rolled down my face, I thought about how shielded I was about what really goes on in the world. It’s not that I believed atrocities didn’t happen, but I live in a bubble. It has just been about donating money to help, to make oneself feel better about themselves. It was about gaining knowledge to engage in political conversations, but not about living a compassionate lifestyle. It was never about the people. Because the people were “out there” or “over there”. They were invisible. Yes, people mattered, but they were too far away to really care. But when I was able to hear a real story of a real person, it suddenly became about the people. Those “invisible children” became visible. And once they are visible and they look you straight in the face, you will never forget those eyes. Because those eyes are the surface of a human soul, no different than mine or yours, worthy of time and resources, and seeking for the same longing every human being has had since the beginning of time: to be unconditionally accepted and loved.

Presence

What I have thoroughly enjoyed about the Ugandan culture, and I believe this speaks to most of Africa, is that presence in the basis for all human relationships. Simply being with another person, sitting in silence, is more powerful than any mumbled speech just to fill space and alleviate the uncomfortableness a person feels. 

When I was staying with my host family the last two weeks in Mukono, we would eat most of our meals in silence. While this was strange for me at first, because supper is usually a time for catching up on each other’s day, supper was a time to be simply present with each other. I came to enjoy such times because there is so much that happens without communication. In the United States we would measure “time spent together” on the basis of our conversation or activity. While  here in Uganda, spending time together is simple being present. This has worked in my advantage in a lot of ways here because of the language barrier. English is the national language, but most of the people I work with don’t k now English. Since going to school is a privilege and costs money, a lot of people cannot afford the fees and therefore don’t learn English as a language. But as I interact with kids and adults, language hasn’t even been a necessity. I have learned that there is so much communication that happens non-verbally anyways—who knew? One of my closest relationships here in Uganda is with a little Muslim boy names Shehebu—he’s 3. As soon as my van pulls up to the office and I get out of the car, he is running towards me in the same shirt and trousers he was wearing the day before with a big smile on his face yelling “Ali! Ali! Ali!” I have been able to pick up a few phrases from him in Luganda here and there (kids really are the best teachers), but mostly we communication through play. We became buddies just from simply being in the same room.

What would it mean if our relationships weren’t formed by words or actions, but by simply sharing the same air? Would there be less fighting because our value would be in our humanness and not our prestige, social class, race, religion, sex, etc etc etc? I long for this in our world—that each person has value because they are human.

For we ourselves know what it means, as a stranger passes us on the pavement, to catch a fleeting, spontaneous smile and to know we are recognized not by name but simply for our humanity. For a moment our presence to one another, eye to eye and face to face, dispels the isolation and lifts our hearts. –John Taylor

Ali