I told my young son that this COVID-19 experience brings back childhood memories of living under civil war. My son has never experienced civil war; he is only a “tween,” and an American-born child. Like most Americans, he has no first-hand experience with war.
I was born in Uganda, although now I live primarily in America, my second home. I still have vivid memories of living under civil war in my hometown of Kampala, Uganda; uncertain about what would happen, while also trying to keep a functional lifestyle.
Children still went to school, then came home, did their house chores, and played outside. Adults went to work, and provided for their families. We still went grocery shopping, harvested food from our gardens, cooked, and shared meals. We looked out for our families, neighbors and friends. Simultaneously wondering if the guerrilla fighters, or government troops would strike our hometown next, and when, who would be the next target, who would survive, or fall victim to rape, pillage or bombardment!
Schools stayed open until the war drew into our hometown. My older siblings were in boarding school away from home, while my brother and I attended day elementary school. We walked to school together every morning, about one-and-a-half miles from home. After school, I walked home with my friends, until mid-way home, when we split up and continued our separate ways. I often got home before anybody else in my family, and waited outside until an adult returned. As a child, I was not given a house key, out of fear that I would let in robbers (it happened once!). Sometimes, I climbed up a tree in our frontyard to hide from potential attackers, or so I thought!
Throughout this period, war was a daily routine around us. Especially in the rural villages of central Uganda, where people were losing their homes, family and friends to attacks from government soldiers or guerrilla fighters. At night, many people slept in the bushes or banana plantations, afraid of nightly attacks on their homes and lives.
No, life did not fall apart at once, but evolved from “courage under fire,” to uncertainty, to panic, to fear, then physical insecurity and destruction. The neighborhood was engulfed in constant fear, but mostly ‘whispered’ among adults. When neighbors started disappearing, or got raped, even children began smelling the pangs of war. There were even stories of pregnant women whose stomachs were ripped open with pangas at roadblocks, allegedly because “they were carrying bombs.” The biggest threat, particularly in the urban areas, were government soldiers, who invaded private homes almost daily, robbed personal property that they sold to provide their daily subsistence.
I shared with my son the fateful day that the civil war hit right at home. Our school was expecting a special visit from the District Inspector of Schools. On special occasions, our school served “good food” for lunch and porridge for break. Typical school lunch was porridge, and everyone for themselves at break time. Parents with affordability gave their kids money to buy a snack at break from the school canteen. For the special meal, our school headmaster asked us to bring our plates and cups from home.
At night after dinner, I washed my cup and plate, wiped them dry, and packed them in my school bag ready for the next day. The next morning I woke up earlier than usual, got ready for school, then dragged my brother out of bed, onto our morning trek to school.
About 200 meters from home, we saw our neighbors running toward us from the direction of our community market. Someone yelled, “Get back home! Get back inside! They are coming!” “They” was code for “government soldiers,” who were famed for invading homes anytime. “They have guns!” he warned.
We immediately turned around and ran home, painfully cutting short our journey to school, and the much anticipated special school lunch! I still remember to this day! Not because at home, we did not have “special food” or “special meals.” However, having an occasional special meal at school was a moment to yearn for.
That day, we stayed at home, hiding under our beds away from the peering eyes of soldiers. In those days, many people did not put curtains in their windows, afraid that might give away the house as “occupied.” Almost everybody with the means in my hometown had fled, except my stubborn father who said we should all stay.
The next day, my mother decided that all of us, except my father, my youngest brother and herself, would go to live with our aunt in Eastern Uganda for a while, where the war was not intense. My paternal grandfather who was staying with us then, was sent back to his rural home in southern Uganda because it was safer than living in Kampala.
I cannot remember how or when we returned to Kampala, but life picked up for a while, thereafter, until the civil war escalated on a national scale. We were separated from family and loved ones, and lost friends and neighbors. Goods like sugar, salt, flour and fuel became scarce, ushering in a sense of despair and hopelessness.
Yet, the adults around us had to try to keep life “as normal” for their families. Children were still born amidst the turmoil, including our first-born niece to my third-born sister. After the war ended, fear did not immediately stop, without full assurance it wouldn’t erupt again. As an adult now living under COVID-19 in a different geographical space, I feel a similar kind of fear and uncertainty characteristic to living under civil war. Particularly, uncertainty about when life would return to normalcy, and the impact on livelihoods.
By contrast, we did not experience a #toiletpapercrisis, under civil war, as is happening here in the United States. Nor a nation-wide “invasion of the face mask.” The immediate concerns weren’t about respiratory diseases or handwashing, either, but killings, rape, and disappearances. In all, we survived and lived to tell the story decades later!
"My Neighborhood" Artwork by Biko Henderson, 6th Grader, Summit School of the Poconos, PA
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