…and then we danced.

August 9, 2010

Though I’ve been home from Uganda a solid month now, I’m still busy processing all that I experienced while there. I’ve sat down to write this blog several times, but words escape me, I get tangled in the intricacies of all I saw and abandon the effort. But Uganda still comes to me in my dreams- often when I least want it to. I’ve seen a nice little slice of the world, but I’ve never been anywhere that boggled my mind quite the way this place did. When family and friends ask me what it was like, I can only say that I saw the very best and the worst of humanity, all in the span of 10 days.

Last March, I met a lovely American woman named Devin Hibbard. She was at the Global Shea Conference in Bamako, Mali in an attempt to make trade connections for her Ugandan shea butter. I had no idea that East Africa was capable of shea butter production and she and I struck up a conversation. I learned that she was a cofounder of Bead For Life, an amazing NGO in Uganda that teaches poverty-stricken women to roll beads for BFL’s paper bead jewelry. The women participate in a 15-month program through BFL, during which time they are offered literacy and business training as they roll beads to earn an income. At the completion of the program, they’re encouraged to start their own business ventures to permanently escape poverty. It’s a fabulous concept and one that BFL has pioneered and managed quite well. Devin, however, wanted to expand the organization in an effort to impact more women and she was championing a new shea program in Northern Uganda. Devin graciously invited me to visit her and I began planning my trip to Uganda almost immediately upon my return home from Mali. I’d heard of the conflicts in Northern Uganda…seen a documentary or two…but I started a more diligent study of the area and its history. I had visited “remote” African villages on several occasions, and seen plenty of abject poverty all over the third world. Almost as soon as I landed, however, I realized that my false sense of preparation would melt quickly in Uganda. You’ve likely heard about what’s happened here too, though you may not yet realize it.

A Ugandan woman selling beads at Bead For Life headquarters in Kampala, Uganda

Keep in mind that I landed in Uganda having already spent 3.5 weeks in Africa. My time in Ghana and Morocco had left me physically and mentally exhausted and I was pining for home and all the comforts that come with it. I was battling a cold and missing my babies. No rest for the weary, after 24 hours of flying from Casablanca, through Dubai and Addis Ababa, I landed in Kampala and spent one night sleeping like a baby before setting off the next morning with Devin. As we drove six hours north to Lira town, she and I talked about how various American political policies impact Africa, about AIDS education and treatment, about the intricacies of serving a population who have all too often become dependent on Western aid. We stopped for the night in “the nicest hotel in town”, which offered rooms for $10 a night…mosquito net and breakfast (a hard boiled egg and slice of bread) included in the price.

My hotel room in Lira

The next morning we drove another two hours over rutted clay roads to reach Orum, an internal displacement camp for Ugandan victims of the LRA insurgency. Religious fanatic Joseph Kony founded the Lord’s Resistance Army twenty years ago and proceeded to terrorize almost the whole of Northern Uganda for the next decade and a half. His rebel soldiers were a mobile army, traveling from village to village burning homes, enlisting little boys as soldiers and abducting young girls. They were driven out of Uganda a few years ago, but now continue their reign of terror in the Congo and Sudan. They left behind 1.4 million displaced Ugandans (80% of whom are women and children) who will struggle for the rest of their days to rebuild their lives. More than 30,000 children have been forced to become foot soldiers on the front lines of the insurgency. The widows of the IDP camp are the very women Devin has enlisted to gather the shea nuts needed to make the shea butter Americans adore in their cosmetics. Devin had arranged for two groups of women to greet us and share their stories. She had warned me that virtually every woman in Northern Uganda had a walking case of PTSD (post traumatic stress syndrome), but I was utterly unprepared for what I heard.

Graves of some of the LRA victims in Orum

We began the conversations casually, with my asking about how they were, telling them how much I loved their shea butter, etc. The usual niceties. I was timid about introducing the subject of the rebels, but Devin assured me that such talk wasn’t taboo and that the women would graciously share their stories. So we sat together and I asked each one “Are you married?” “Is your husband alive?” “How many children do you have?” “Have you lost any?” “What was your life like with the rebels?” The women, who had previously been careful to make eye contact, each slowly gazed out into the distance, their eyes glossing over a bit and told me their stories: most husbands were dead, several of the women were living with HIV, many children had been taken as foot soldiers, most girls terrorized by the rebels. Their voices were low and I felt like their eyes were dams holding back a river of emotion that they dare not unleash. Stories of inexplicable horror poured out, the things you see in movies, the kind of terror that haunts the dark crevices of your nightmares…Kony and his followers as the ultimate boogey men.

Bullets holes from the rebels in Sarah’s concrete home

I slid my sunglasses down over my eyes as the tears rolled down my cheeks. I just kept thinking “I cannot imagine…” And though I sat there with them, saw the residual horror for myself, I still can’t. I cannot imagine what it would be like to wake up in the middle of the night to the heat of my thatched roof set ablaze, to the sound of gunfire, to the cries of my children. Sweet Cecilia, the tiniest woman I have ever seen, took my hand, her fingers like tiny paws, soft and dark and squeezed it and said “I wish I had wings so I could fly away from this place.” And just when I was starting to really, really lose my composure, we got up and…danced. That’s right, we danced. Because what else can you do when you’ve lost virtually everything? When evil has come to visit and roost for years- stealing your home, your family, your security and your hope? You get up the next day and you dance. Because that’s all that’s left to do.

The women dance after sharing their stories

It was a heady experience. And I admit that it felt horribly uncomfortable and unnatural when they asked me to join them in a dance, their voices high in a traditional African trill, just moments after telling me of the worst atrocities I’ve ever heard. But they were insistent, so I danced. And it did, indeed, help heal my soul. Sarah, one of the local project coordinators, later took us on a walking tour of Orum and told us of life “back then.” Past the mass graves, past the spot where they snatched her father, past the spot where she had rescued her infant daughter from the mud puddle where the rebels abandoned her, past the tall tree where the rebels would perch so they could monitor the village. Sarah is the only survivor in her school class- the others all victims of either HIV or the LRA. On the walk, we encountered Helen, who had previously shared her story with me in one of the small groups. She was balancing 30 or 40 pounds of water in a jug on her head, returning from the well to her hut. She invited us to come along. We walked dirt paths, past free roaming cattle and children playing with abandoned tires. As we rounded a corner, she said “this is my home” and I spotted a gorgeous plot of wildflowers. No one here grows flowers- the land is reserved for crops that feed their families and daily life leaves precious little time for leisure activities like flower gardens. But this patch of brilliant purple, red and green was quite obviously loved and well tended. As I walked over to it, I complimented Helen on what a great space it was. And then I stopped. It was a mass of gorgeous flowers, which obscured a series of concrete slabs that served as graves. Her father, her brother, her son…and on and on. Six in all. All rebel victims over the series of years that the LRA came to roost in Orum.

Sarah and Devin on a walking tour of the IDP camp

And that, dear readers, is when I lost it. Completely and utterly lost it. Red faced, shoulders shrugged, hands shaking, no-composure-left sobbing. And Helen just stood there- staring at the remnants of her family, smiling gently and telling me it was okay. But it’s not. And it likely won’t ever be. And yet she had joined us in dance. Because what else is there to do?

Helen and her children with her family graves

Bella Lucce works incredibly hard to cultivate socially responsible suppliers of all the exotic ingredients we use in our product range. And while we generally have to treat those sources with some secrecy as they’re proprietary business resources, I want desperately to share this one with you. Bead For Life offers the most amazing shea butter. If you create personal care products, you need it. Bella Lucce is transitioning almost all of our products over to it and we couldn’t be happier with the results we’re getting. East African Shea is softer than the traditional West African variety, melts immediately on the skin and formulates beautifully. At Suppliers Day in New Jersey last May, one of the world’s foremost shea experts, who has dedicated his life to its study, confided in me that he believes the East African shea is better for the skin than West African. Bead For Life’s shea butter is fair trade and organic and every time you purchase it, you’re creating a bridge out of poverty and a step towards recovery for Cecilia, Sarah and Helen. You have no idea how critical this income is, how important being able to provide for their surviving children is, how vital this opportunity is for them. And you I assure you that you’ll be making a difference…I’ve traveled 9,000 miles to see it for myself.

Buckets of Bead For Life shea butter ready for transport back to Kampala

Later this week, I’ll post another blog to illustrate just how the shea is gathered and processed. It’s a fascinating process. In the meantime, you can meet some of the shea gatherers. You can also ring Malinda at Bead For Life and ask her to tell you more about that dreamy shea (303.554.5901). She’s an absolute delight and she’d love nothing more than to tell you about it. Please tell her I said hello…

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