Chapter 2

i have been working on chapter 2 for the past two months. usually i produce hundred pages in a weeks time, but for some reason, chapter 2 has been giving me so much headache! chapter 2 haunts me through the week at work, is always in the back of my mind and on the weekend i dread the moment, i have to open the pages and weed through the written work of chapter 2 and give it some structure. but, then, each time i get to that point, i think of all that chapter 2 stands for. and that gives me a boost...what is chapter 2? it is all about Machel Report. for those who do not know the name Graca Machel, take a minute of solitude from your hard, busy day, and google in the name. wife of Nelson Mandela and avid advocate for rights of children, Machel has vested much in the report presented to the United Nations General Assembly back in 1996. she was called to investigate the situation of children in the conflict areas, or even better conflicting world. world full of riches and beauties and yet jammed with hungry, hurt and abused children.... chapter 2 goes beyond the report itself. it actually looks at the recommendations in that report, and attempts to set up methodoogy for the case analysis. it looks at programmes and activities being conducted in efforts to fulfil the DDR (disarmament, demobilization and reintegration) aspect of peace building and sets up a new formula for DDR.

in the process of doing such, i read through many reports and books and look through many files and photos and documentaries witnessing of violations of children's most unique trait - innocence. there is only that much one can read and write about the evils in this world. i sometimes walk outside and feel like it's a miracle to see a child smile with pure joy chiseled in his or her face. and so chapter 2 haunts me. and for each smile i steal from a face of a beautiful child of Vienna streets i think of one child whose smile has been forever erased. and then i want to have that silly chapter 2 finished so i can move on, move on to action rather than writing.

In searching for some other documents, I stumbled upon this statement, which I had to prepare prior to acceptance into PhD programme. Though somewhat personal, I thought I should put it here...It gives an insight into some aspects of who I am...and it raises even more questions for those who do not know me....

...The weight of the train pressed the tracks against the frozen ground. The sparks flew around and through the train wheels, dancing in the dark night, falling onto the white snow and dying out there. The tracks seemed to groan underneath the load of the cold January. That night, the train’s cargo was bursting with tears, and sad, lifeless and hopeless faces mingled among us. I observed my mother. Her body swayed back and forth, following the beat of the train wheels, but her face distinguished itself from everyone else’s. Deep concentration was chiseled in the lines of her face and energy shone in her eyes as she tried to prepare a few pieces of bread for us to eat. The spreading of the margarine on the thin slices of bread consumed her; her eyes were fixed on what she was doing. As I observed her in her work, all the sounds, except the groaning of the train disappeared into the whiteness of the night. I moved my body to a seat close to the window and gently blew hot air on it to steam it up. Hastily I wrote my name on it, and looked out onto the scene stretching for miles. The lights from other compartments reflected onto the frozen earth, producing, due to train’s speed, a never-ending line of shadows. How many were sitting in the same boat as us, I wondered. How many were abandoning home and family and possessions, to chase a hope, a dream of freedom? The train groaned once more. I moved away from the window and reached for the bread my mom offered me. I ate silently, gazing at my mom’s enthusiastic eyes, my dad’s protective posture and my brother’s fearful face. My brother finished his bread in silence. After finishing our dinner, we leaned against each other’s bodies and allowed the train to sway us to sleep…
It has been estimated by UNICEF that over 25 million people are forced to abandon their homes, leave their belongings, and seek a hiding place or refuge due to conflicts and war in today’s world. Over 20 million of those people are children[1]. That cold winter night in 1992, my brother and I contributed to that number. And since that night, today’s children also share our fate.

Millions of children find themselves in conflicts in which “they are not only bystanders, but often the prime targets.”[2] They are seriously injured, maimed and permanently disabled. They die because of poor hygiene, disease, and malnutrition, or are exploited as soldiers. Specifically, they are often under attack by combatants or abducted and used as sexual slaves. States faced with the violations of human rights often claim that such involvement of children in armed conflict “is regrettable but inevitable”; however, Graca Machel claims in her report that it is not. She argues that children are involved in warfare as a result of conscious and deliberate decisions made by adults, and that these decisions must be challenged, in order to refute the flawed political and military reasoning.[3] The Impact of Armed Conflict on Children report-better known as The Machel Report-presented to the United Nations General Assembly at its 51st Session in New York City on 26 August 1996, called for all Member States to realize that the systematic abuse and violation of children’s rights during an armed conflict is “an area in which everyone shares responsibility and a degree of blame.” [4] I concur with Ms. Machel. We do carry responsibility, as this world is interconnected and one political, social or economic variable influences another. But wanting to assume the responsibility without appropriate tools to tackle the challenge will ultimately lead to apathy, hopelessness and despair.

Conflict destroys the infrastructure, the economy and the stability of a country. The first two can be rebuilt and stability achieved, but only if the future generation of the country is still intact. Who will rebuild the country, if not the young and dynamic hands and minds? If children are maimed, molested, abused, psychologically and emotionally scarred, and killed, the downfall of any state is inevitable! I am only one person, but an ocean is made out of individual drops of water. I know that my drop can contribute to a ripple effect. That cold night in January, I thought the worst was behind us. But the nightmare was yet to come, and my brother and I have felt the brunt and the weight of it for years. I promised myself after those years of struggle and immense pain that I would do all in my power to ensure that today’s children will have a safer childhood. It is a path and responsibility worthy of struggle and I want to assume it...

______________________________________________________________
[1] Kastberg, Nils. 2002. Strengthening the response to displaced children.
<http://www.fmreview.org/FMRpdfs/FMR15/fmr15.1.pdf>. 12. January 2005.
[2] Machel, Graca. Impact of Armed Conflict on Children. United Nations Resolution A/51/306. Read by Secretary-General Kofi Annan at the 51st session in New York City on 26. August 1996 (Paragraph 1).
[3] Ibid., Paragraphs 316 and 317.
[4] Ibid., Paragraphs 316 and 317.

The invisible giant, Kalongo, Uganda

Last year I dedicated my research to Uganda and the conflict which has swept the northern section of the country. Traveling hours on dirt road, being bumped up and down, right and left, feeling every muscle and fat particle in my body receiving a massage, a friend of mine and I arrived to Kalongo, a very beautiful village on the north east side of Uganda. This spot of earth, despite of all the devastation and war, seems so peaceful, as if untouched by the cruelties of the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA). 20+ years ago, an Italian doctor came to this village and fell in love with the people, and the simplicity of life. So he stayed. Built a mission, a hospital, and in a way covered the village with an invisible cloak of safety and protection.

Walking with a local friend one day down the main road to visit a young man, who was a child soldier and now was reintegrated and had his own shop, my friend pointed to a particular spot. He drew imaginary line from left to right, and then looked at me with a big smile on his face. It was not a happy smile, rather a wise smile, as he was to depart some wisdom onto me, the silly Mzungu.

"The rebels came all the way till here. Not a step further."

We continued on, visited the young man. The sentence did not leave me the entire visit. An alarming feeling of being so close to the spot where rebels came made me shiver with cold sweat. Listening to the young man, talking to him, in the back of my mind, I constantly kept hearing, the rebels came all the way till here...not a step futher...I kept wondering why they did not advance. If they made it to that point in the street, it meant they came all the way through the village. The only territory that was behind the imaginary line, that remained untouched was the mission and the hospital. Then, on the way back to the mission, to the small house where I was staying, I observed. I looked at the things which made this part of the village different. The mission was peaceful, none of the sisters, the doctors, nor villagers working there were kind of people that could hurt a fly, let alone stand up to the rebels, fuming with rage, holding guns and shooting around them wit mad frenzy. I passed all the houses many times during that week, and did not notice anything special...

The night shelters were on the right, houses with four walls, but no windows, and a wired fence around them. These shelters were mainly for the night commuters- children and youth, who marched for hours from their homes to this place every evening after school and chores, to spend the night there and then walk back home for hours in the early morning to go to school and do chores, only to repeat the ordeal in the evening. All in hopes to stay away from rebels and not get abducted and carried into the bush to uncertain, but definitely cruel life. If rebels were up for a real treasure, these shelters were it - coming here and dragging the children from here at night would not have been too difficult. But they didn't.

My head was throbbing while thinking of all this. Why did they not? They surely thought of it! They must have...And then, I noticed something I never noticed before. As we walked pass the line where LRA was stopped, I noticed a brick wall. The wall was hidden well in the growth of trees and flowers, but it was there, and it stretched all around the mission, the hospital, the church, and all the transit centres, training centres and buildings which once were used for night commuters and now housed the ex-child soldier centres. It was a long wall. While looking at the wall on the right, I glanced to the ground. Hidden in all the dirt and earth, there was a line, a metal line. Upon closer observation, I noticed that this line ran from one side of the wall to the other. I cleaned the dirt off the line with my foot a bit and a big AHA formed in my head. A line was not a line, but rather a guide rail for a gate. In my head, I imagined how this must have looked a few months ago. A closed metal gate and a long wall which stretched to the left and to the right at the end of the village...and all villagers crowded in that section of the village, hidden and frightened as the gun shots came closer and closer...then silence. Rebels at the gate. Villagers and night commuters behind the gate.

That was it? All it needed to stop the rebels was a wall and a gate? That was too simple of a solution. But, then I turned around and looked at the rest of the village. Little round mud huts, everywhere your eye could reach. A few buildings down the main road, no doors, no glass windows. The wall and the gate stood as an immense contrast, almost as standing at a fortress, looking up and wondering how you would get in. Hah! Funny...Sad.

Sure, some days UN peacekeeprs were present, but their presence never stopped rebels in this region before...Actually, they were on the other side of the gate themselves. The gate and the wall stood as unreal giants in this village and protected hundreds at time. How simple yet brilliant, and how good that an Italian doctor thought of putting up the wall some 20+ year ago. He probably never gave it a second thought, but since then, that wall has saved many lives. Like an invisible giant, vowen into the trees and flowers.

Kakule

It's a new year. Time to plan new adventures and to discover new cultures. But, while I sit here in Vienna, Austria and dream of my next adventure, my heart longs to share what my eyes have already seen. Sometimes, I close my eyes and can still hear the drums, the singing, and the giggling of the children in those far places. It is strange to consider that a 10-hour airplane flight and 5-hour dirt road drive can take you to new dimensions, new worlds and new realities. And not to mention, to new perceptions of oneself. So, here is one story. Not that this is particularly most important one, but one that has been on my mind lately.

In October 2007, I ventured to Eastern Africa. One of many destinations, was Beni, DR Congo. This place has unfortunately received very little media attention. If one knows to open UN-related sites, and to check NGO sites, then one will learn of carnage and suffering Eastern Congo has been experiencing on-going for the past two decades.

When I was visiting Beni, it was relatively peaceful and calm. My interests were vested in visiting and observing daily life in a transit centre, or CTO as the staff calls it. This was a centre specifically dedicated to helping the rehabilitation and reintegration efforts for children associated with armed groups - in clear text, ex-child soldiers. On day one, I met a young boy, Kakule, who was 12 years old. This boy was very shy, he did not dare look into my eyes while speaking to me. He would play nervously with his hands, looking down at his feet. In order to speak to him, I had to have two translators - one to translate from English to Swahili, and other from Swahili to his tribal language, a form of Lwo. This was an interesting situation for us all, as we all learned a lot about each other in those 30 minutes. He spoke of his family, and how long he was fighting with the Mai-Mai group. He was in the bush for 5 years. That is a long time, dreadfully long time for anyone, especially for someone that young.

The first time Kakule actually dared to look at me, and our eyes met was on day three. The children got accustomed to the fact that I was around, a white European woman. They could not imagine why I would even keep on coming, and so they took special interest in watching me and observing my every move. During lunch, I sat down with them and got into a conversation with an older boy about his experiences. He gestured to me that he was in commando by acting out shooting with a AK-47 and sounding it loudly. Then he lifted his thumb, as to motion, this was a good thing. All children looked and awaited my reaction. Even Kakule. I smiled at him, and told him a story. I shall not repeat the story. It is of past that transpired in my own life. But, it was a story which made them all understand that I understood how unfair life has been to them. They all gathered around me. They all stared at my lips while I was telling the story, as if they wanted the words and the translations to come faster. Their eyes grew bigger, and they followed the story with so much interest, as if it was the best bed-time story one could tell. Kakule stood very close to me. He looked at me without breathing. His big hazel eyes were full of life and fire. After I finished the story, they all stood around me for a moment. It was a silent moment, in which I so wanted to speak the languages they spoke and they seemed to long for more stories from other worlds and other lives. Eventually, they started walking away, to play with a ball, groom each other's hair or play cards. But, Kakule stayed by me. He was looking at me and couldn't stop looking at me. I touched his shoulder slightly, and he smiled. His eyes had that sparkle...joy and peace. No words said, but no words were needed.

Often I look at the photo with him on it. The staff at the centre was able to find his mother, and he was relocated back to his village. But, his village is on the border of two different conflicts. With no means of keeping in touch, I keep wondering whether Kakule was safe. Was that fire and that joy still burning in his eyes? Did the rebel groups skip his village and he was not abducted again, to fight and to suffer a fate no child ever should?! How beautiful, that a single moment and a smile can leave such a long-lasting impact. Kakule, the pure little boy showed me more love and more life in one eye contact than I assumed possible. If you look long enough at the photo, you will spot him easily...he has the biggest smile and there is something in his eyes that will catch your attention.