Whitehead Communications

Dear Amos Wekasa, I've got a story for you from #KoiKoiNE

4/22/2018

Kidepo Valley National Park, Uganda - Photo credit Mudo Eve AKA @nze_eve

Dear Amos Wekasa,

I’ve followed your work promoting tourism in Uganda over the past few years. I’ve watched you speak and greeted you briefly in a line for food at some conference. The other day, I read you wax eloquently in a WhatsApp group about your strategy to invest in marketing Uganda. You also you praised the work done on Ugandan upcountry roads by UNRA and testified that you spend most of your time on the road. I related to that. I’m based in Kampala now, but have traveled to Entebbe, Masaka, Mbarara, Kabale, Ibanda, Kasese, Fort Portal, Murchison, Gulu, Kitgum, Moroto, Kidepo, Soroti, Mbale, Jinja and places in between.

Mountains framing Uganda's Kidepo Valley - Photo credit Arnold Mugasha AKA @ShotByMu

Recently, I had the chance to go on another beautiful road trip with my friends at #KoiKoiUG, this time to Kidepo Valley National Park. It’s so picturesque and full of the kind of wildlife that excites (like lions)! But of course, you must know this already. You’re a master at this Ugandan tourism thing, and I am just a student.

I don’t know if you’ve met the makers of #KoiKoiUG at Kafunda Kreative, but they have struck on a powerful model for Ugandan tourism promotion by picking up on the symbiotic relationship between talented upcoming photographers and the contemporary desire to slay and post great pictures on social media.

Working on my roadtrip hairstyle - Photo credit Arnold Mugasha AKA @ShotByMu

They also recruit bloggers to come along, and trips are open to the general public (with limited spaces that sell out fast). Please come with me on one of these trips if you can. It would be awesome to travel with you.

As a fellow traveller of Uganda, let me share my experience of Kidepo Valley with you, and everyone else who reads this and has thought about how to improve the tourism industry in Uganda: The good and bad; the ugly and beautiful.

Please allow me to be free and generous with words as I paint a picture of travel to the extreme ends of Uganda…

Roland Byagaba of Writivism, captured by Mudo Eve AKA @nze_eve

A beige and green bus tagged with the word "GALVANIZE" rattles over UNRA's speed bumps carrying 22 #KoiKoiUG travelers upcountry to experience and promote local travel across Uganda. This time we are posting across social media with the hashtag #KoiKoiNE, because we're headed to the North East (Kidepo Park in Karamoja) with our collection of Ugandan photographers, bloggers, and whomever booked a seat online for an affordable Ugandan adventure. I fit into the last category this time – though I’ll you tell the story anyway – having sent 400,000 UGX ($108 USD) Airtel Money to Kafunda Kreative leadership to cover 3 nights and 4 days of transport, food, accommodation, and activity fees (which is the most affordable long weekend roadtrip I know of).

My phone pic of one of our #KoiKoiUG bus mates, Deon Sekiranda.

I've taken the seat just behind the bus doors, placed my bare feet up on the stairs' railing and slid open the window on my left to temper the heat with a breeze. Sun blushed and dust clinging to sun-screened skin, it's a relief when the wind fills with the smell of rain and - after a dozen hours on the road from Kampala - the light takes on the golden quality of a conclusion. It takes us about 13 hours to reach Kidepo after passing through Gulu for something to eat (I enjoy the karo, or is it ‘kalo’?).

#KoiKoiNE benevolent dictator Fiona Komusana, enjoying the bus vibes. Photo credit Mudo Eve AKA @nze_eve

As the hours pass on the KoiKoi bus, debates break out amongst busmates, usually about feminism and similarly contentious topics of our time, with travellers twisting in their seats and shouting over a playlist of Ugandan classics that roar from someone's mobile speaker in the back seat. Radio's sweet melodies play (RIP) and his voice stings the heart with beauty and loss. May God have mercy on Moze’s soul.

Soon the playlist switches to the Black Panther soundtrack and a new theme begins to find its footing in our journey: Wakanda is Uganda, and Black Panther is our pride!

Joel Jjemba - a member of our #KoiKoiUG leadership and First Family, poses Wakanda-meditation-style for @ninnojackjr

Crazy Koikois at Aruu Falls doing the most to represent Wakanda=Uganda! Photo credit Mudo Eve AKA @nze_eve

My phone pic of the GALVANIZE bus parked in Karamoja

The final stretch of marrum road towards Kidepo Valley National Park, draw out, with sun setting and a periodic sign to say you’re still far. Someone speculates that we’ll arrive after the park closes and will have to sleep in the bus, keeping out watch for lions.

I don't worry though. What's the point? We'll get there when we get there, and things always work out in Uganda 'somehowly.'

Sure enough, we make it to Uganda Wildlife Authority's Apoka Rest Camp and begin to unpack. My usual travel bestie didn't make it, so I've sign up to share a room with a talented young photographer and sweet as pie KoiKoi sister named Mudo Eve. She spent the trip experimenting with “lighting painting photography,” as we sat still and she waved her DIY light saber behind us through a long exposure, with beautiful results.

It is my 5th time travelling with KoiKoi and I'm used to the low-rate hostels we stay in. Like I said, it is an affordable trip. Plus, I've lived in plenty of less than ideal accommodations as a student and young professional over the years and usually take it easy, but the shortcomings of these UWA accommodations strike me harder this time, probably because I've spent the last few months working from a new 5-star spot in Kampala named Skyz Hotel (as a consultant to assist in building up the marketing and communications team).

I've become used to correcting an errant comma, a waiter forgetting to include the perfect biscuit when serving a latté, and straightening table mats so they are Obsessive-Compulsively aligned. It’s my first time working with a hotel, but I was a waitress and bartender for many years so I understand the importance of making sure our guests’ experiences are top quality. Obviously I'm not paying 5-star rates in Apoka, but it got me thinking about the need for HR training and investment in the accommodations, because did I mention they were sold out far in advance? In my amateur opinion, what I saw was demand to expand the Kidepo tourism business.

Sunrise view from UWA Apoka Rest Camp, as captured by Joel Jjemba AKA @JoelJjemba

One review on Trip Advisor describes Apoka accommodations as distinctly "uncharming" – despite being tucked into one of the most beautiful landscapes ever. The house they offer us has so much wasted space, with two kitchens and not one cup, plate or cutlery anywhere to be found. The cupboards are missing doors. The floors are dirty. The sheets are strewn with lizard poo. There is no soap or toilet paper and certainly no complimentary bottled water. They knew how many of us were coming – we booked months in advance – yet they offer us 4 beds for 7 people, though none of us are married or particularly in the mood for experimenting with such intimacy after 14 hours on the road. I like Eve, but sharing a bed with her on night one of our Easter weekend getaway gets a hard "no" from me, and we set off back to the main rest camp to inquire after extra mattresses.

Checking in with the Kampala office through social media while visiting Manyatta village. Photo credit Pius Enywaru AKA @enywaru on Twitter and @penywaru on Instagram

Upon our return, I consider negotiating our reentry to the collection of bandas by the main office, kitchen and campfire, only to be warned by our #KoiKoiUG companions that "the toilet situation is really bad here guys." Two dirty, broken toilets are meant to cater for all our non-self-contained bandas and half a dozen tents, each accommodating two people, plus the staff and people like me who hang around to eat and gather for activities. The toilet doors do not close, and I think about something Patrick Bitature said recently about how this strips you of your dignity. These toilets again have no toilet paper, but it is brought in response to our requests, which makes me wonder: why really would they not take care of this ahead of time, knowing people are coming? This is what I mean by a need for training and investment.

I'm told the Apoka Rest Camp also has 14 self-contained bandas, but they had already been booked for Easter by January. Apparently there is one other hotel nearby that is significantly more expensive – around $300 a night. That’s not my level, to be honest. What do you think of this gap in the market for good service and decent lodgings at around $80 or 300k per night? Do you have any friends who could build a hotel in Kidepo Valley like that? Because I would stay there, and from the look of Saturday night at Apoka Rest Camp, the place would probably attract all sorts. The lady tending bar told us she had a profitable weekend.

Group shot of the #KoiKoiNE travellers - as taken by all photographers present, AKA @KafundaKreative

Anyway, Apoka supplies us with a couple extra mattresses to set up in the kitchens of our temporary home, which at least has a couple of functioning bathrooms for seven of us to share. Though the cold showers pour right onto the tile, which gathers around the toilet and stays there in a pool at your feet, and of course no slippers (flip flops) are supplied to help you walk on water when nature calls. This is not the kind of experience I want to offer tourists who come all the way to see what is truly a beautiful park.

Ah, but the trip from Kampala to Kidepo through Gulu has been long, and we accept it all. We sleep. We wake to day two of our adventure. Our trusty driver Paul Nsubuga arrives in the morning (on time) with the Shell-fuelled GALVANIZE bus to ferry us to the main UWA site in the morning to meet the rest of our KoiKoi travelling party for eating and adventure.

Slaybudy enjoying the UWA Apoka Rest Camp rolex - Photo credit Mudo Eve AKA @nze_eve

At UWA camp, breakfast is rolex and fruit. For lunch, we line up in the scrappy kitchen for a man sitting on the ground to scoop rice and beans with a plate out of large metal cooking pans. (In no way does this resemble the buffet service at Chapter Two restaurant in Kampala, with its shining silverware and uniformed staff offering table service… But Uganda is full of glaring contrasts.) The Apoka Camp Site kitchen is too dirty and disorganized for me to entirely trust the food, but I eat anyway and they do make a pretty good breakfast rolex, plus there is something sweet about an experience so different from what you’ve been used to lately.

Manyatta in Karamoja, on the outskirts of Kidepo Valley National Park - Photo credit Arnold Mugasha AKA @ShotByMu

On the morning of his birthday, Ninno Jack Jr. greeted me with “can I shoot you?” I said yes. We went to a nearby junkyard and he captured the beauty of that place with me in it. There really are a lot of amazing Ugandan photographers, though one could argue that the beauty of Uganda makes it easy, or at least a joy to photograph.

See Ninno Jack Jr.'s results!

Kidepo Valley photoshoot by @ninnojackjr

Kidepo Valley National Park in Uganda was the first place I ever saw a lion close enough for it to count, and I saw two!

Queen Elizabeth National Park teased the thrill of a lion sighting, though it was too far away to really count. In Murchison Falls National Park, a leopard walked right out in front of my whole family at Amin’s old Pakuba Lodge and posed for us on video. It was glorious!

It takes nearly two days to fly from Canada to Europe and down to Uganda, at about $1500+ per return ticket, an exhausting and expensive journey. I testify with all my heart that it’s worth it to experience all the wildlife Uganda has to offer, the colour and fruit, music and art, and most of all the people. The country is overrun with kindness and clever conversations. But let’s be honest: the customer service and tourism facilities really need work.

Beautiful Uganda - Photo credit Arnold Mugasha AKA @ShotByMu

I’ve used more words than are advisable for a blog post or letter, but so often we travel through life and never record our experiences. Telling Ugandan stories is what #KoiKoiUG is all about, and I think it’s what you’re about too, Amos. Thanks for sharing in this one with me. I hope that soon we’ll meet and I can listen to your stories of travel across the Pearl of Africa – and for anyone else reading this open letter, please leave a comment to join in this discussion with us!

Camera phone pic shot by Roland Byagaba at sunset in Kidepo Valley, Uganda

If there is a movement to invest in Ugandan tourism, please count me in! With so much beauty in one country, we have every reason to share the includible blessings of Wakanda/Uganda with others the world over. We just need to put our head together - and resources - to figure out how to make the very best of the Pearl of Africa.

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War, peace and a view of Kampala

4/8/2018

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Skyz Hotel Rooftop - Naguru, Kampala.

Sitting on a hill or rooftop looking over Kampala is the perfect setting for a conversation – the kind that opens up your mind. This week I had a couple of such “bird’s eye view” meetings with friends smarter than myself who had so many interesting ideas to share. We looked out over the green hills sprinkled with orange tiled rooftops, the sparkling lights as sun set, and the snaking lines of Kampala traffic that just make you laugh, because what to do. A real life “meeting of the minds” has become evermore precious as the days fill with smartphone notifications… It makes you think about how people talk to each other on social media, and how much more enjoyable it is to hash out a difference of opinion in person, sitting together over tea and eats and a beautiful view.

Skyz Hotel - Naguru, Kampala. Photo by Mehul Kanani

It has become clear that social media is not a “safe space,” especially Twitter. People with entirely different worldviews argue with each other about the beliefs they hold dearest, which of course they have a strong motivation to defend. So quickly we go from an offensive tweet to “I hate you and everything you stand for!” I am talking about activist, social commentary Twitter here, but even “it’s not that serious” Twitter gets dragged into these conflicts all the time.

The questions I had for my smarter friends this week were: 1. what is the value of a brutal, militant style of communication; and 2. is it possible to bridge the gaps between people with different beliefs and tactics in order to collaborate better, or is it even necessary?

I found some answers in this video of Trevor Noah interviewing Barack Obama in which Trevor posed the question: "it is often difficult to skirt that line between speaking your mind and sharing your true opinion on race whilst at the same time not being seen to alienate some of the people you are talking to [...] I always wanted to know how you navigated that through your two terms."

Obama offered an insightful response. "There have been times in my public life when I said 'how can I say this diplomatically? How do I say this, as you indicated, in a way that it's received?' So there have been very few instances where I've said "well that was racist. You are racist.' There have been times when I've said 'you know, you might not have taken into account the ongoing legacy of racism' [...] Now some might say 'you are not speaking truth to power because of that diplomacy,' but I don't think that trying to appeal to the better angels of our nature is somehow compromise [...] and I would add, everybody's got a different role to play. You know, Chris Rock is doing stand up and there's a benefit to him doing something that is different from the President of the United States doing something. For one thing, he doesn't have to edit his language quite as carefully, because I am still subject to some restraints [...] children are watching and I try to comport myself in a way that my mother would approve of."

Obama pointed out that “everybody's got a different role to play.” I took this to mean that one approach is not necessarily better than the other, but actually they work together in the big picture. The Chris Rocks get people talking, checking each other and themselves, and breaking barriers. The Obamas nurture the relationships needed to build a better system.

I figure, even if the fighters and the diplomats aren’t working closely together, they can still be complimentary. An army can be motivated by the thought that just talking won’t solve the problem and someone’s got to fight, while the diplomat can point to fighting on the TL and say to the man, "look, there is a war going on out there, so it may be in your best interest for us to come to an understanding."

When I say “diplomat,” I really just mean taking interest in the interests of your adversary, and seeing if you can make them your ally. For example, as a woman I'm alert to discussions of feminism, and I am willing to hear a man out when he feels bad about being publicly shamed, unfollowed, blocked and labelled a rape apologist for tweeting something he didn't fully understand. That softens the ground for a discussion about this issue in relation to other injustices in our culture that hurt people of all genders, including him. I’ve found that listening to another person’s point of view creates trust that allows for more consideration on both sides, which helps you agree on solutions.

I know what works for me, but that is not to say it is the right way, because there is no one right way. The fact is that we are all coming from a different point of view, and so conflicts are going to come up. Everyone has to choose for themselves if they’re going to fight for it, if they want to learn from it, and whether they want to make a friend or an enemy. It could probably help if we all got better and giving and receiving feedback. Maybe our communications skills will collectively improve over time, because with globalization and social media, we’re getting a lot more practice at disagreeing. I’ve found it beneficial to have an open mind, be moderate, reasonable and compassionate, but that is not going to work for everyone. Still, I pray that we all get the chance to take the high ground, see life from a “bird’s eye view,” have a laugh and be at peace.

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Breaking ice with fire

3/2/2018

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Last year, not long after the Season 7 finale of Game of Thrones, I had one of those epic conversations with friends that lasted late into the night and kept me up later writing about it. I never posted… Until today.

Image source: http://clipground.com/group-conversation-clipart.html

Our conversation started with a disagreement over the #MenAreTrash movement, then it took the scenic route through the difference in freedom of speech between Rwanda and Uganda, followed by debating if it’s a good idea to tell your partner you cheated on them, to how to parent your child in the information age, but I think the conversation we were having was about communication. We were trying to figure out how to handle aggressive confrontation of different worldviews, which can be uncomfortable – hurtful, even.

I am a feminist, but I have argued on both sides of this “not all men” debate. I believe that #MenAreTrash is a slogan that invites defensive criticism, because all generalizations have to be wrong in some cases, but I am also grateful that we have been incited to engage in this conversation. #MeToo I have been disrespected and abused by powerful men more times than I can count or care to remember. Thank-you Twitter Feminists for creating a space where I can share that vulnerability with confidence. I also know so many men who have never done any of these things and are really good people, so I don’t want to say that all men are garbage. On the other hand, it is satisfying to see a woke man talk his bro out of liquoring up a chick with intent to take advantage. If the objective of #MenAreTrash is to make people realize that we have social problems that we must change, then I think it is effective. To see my friends arguing about #MenAreTrash though – it was combative, chaotic and infuriating. The communication was devastating, like breaking ice with fire!

At some point the conversation turned to Rwanda. One of my Ugandan-Rwandan friends was complaining about how difficult it is to criticize the status quo in Kigali compared to Kampala. Another friend with roots in both countries talked of the paranoia over spies listening in, that it was a police state, and anyway, they said, the memory of genocide is still fresh. It turned out that one of our group identified as Hutu and the other Tutsi, though they both said they were Ugandan. They agreed that in Rwanda, to say “he is Hutu” or “she is Tutsi” could make a person recoil and correct you that “no, we are all Rwandan.” In Kampala, we can sit around a table decorated with empty bottles and speak freely about politics, complain of tribalism, disagree and make a scene, but my friends said that in Kigali it’s not the same. You may have to shut down that conversation before you get yourself in trouble. That is communication with consequences.

Then someone asked: is it better to get caught cheating, or would you rather confess to your partner first? Eh, now this is a situation where communication has consequences. We did a survey of the half-dozen as-yet-unmarried people in the discussion, and in almost all cases, whether the cheater confessed or was caught, the relationship ended. Preemptive confessions saved the relationship sometimes, temporarily, but mortally wounded the relationship anyway (leading to a slow death). Finding out that your spouse is cheating on you hurts. It is information that nobody wants to receive. The blowback is severe. It’s not a message that any guilty person would want to deliver. Yet, it is morally right to be honest (of course, it is also morally right to be faithful). We need our partners to be honest with us. Much of the pain of being cheated on is unraveling all the lies you’ve been told and suffering from the realization that you cannot trust this person whom you love. Loved. Done. To the left.

But can you have too much honesty? How much hurtful information can the mind handle? And what of the minds of our children: the undeveloped minds who grow up on our Facebook pages, learn to dance like music video vixens on YouTube at five years old, and cyber bully each other through school. Children these days can borrow an auntie’s phone and access all the information on the internet. Wholesome values can get lost in the information overload. I have a little girl at home and I’ve been honestly talking with her about all the deepest topics of social political philosophy since before she finished potty training. It started like an inside joke with myself, but by age six she started leading the conversation. We discuss the Ugandan news, money, love, hate, sexism, racism, religion, power… She tells me all her secrets, her insecurities and questions about life. She asks me about sex and politics and death, and I give her honest answers. Sometimes I worry that I say too much. She is growing up in a safe home where we can make up yoga moves, explore and express ourselves so freely, but the world we’re raising our children in now is not safe.

One of my friends pledged that when his children turn 16, he will lay out all the forbidden drugs in front of them and explain how to use each one, what to do and what not to do, and even offer to try two of them together just to give them an informed choice. Mind you, he doesn’t have children yet. I’m not sure I could go that far with mine, but my father did give me some sage advice about drugs that he learned in the 60s, which may have helped me avoid a drug overdose in my own life. Other parents would have preferred to avoid the drugs subject entirely. Some would say that talking about drugs with your children just makes it Ok for them to do drugs. Others could argue that they will be faced with the choice to take drugs anyway, so you might as well prepare them. Is it possible to be too informed or too free?

Coming from a Canadian point of view, I think back to times since the Second World War when the UN was formed, the civil rights movement swept across the globe and people more or less agreed to have liberal, democratic peace. It didn’t last, though. The collective unconsciousness became restless, opened pandora’s box and let out all our demons. Maybe the trauma of war can keep one generation peaceful, or two, but then the next comes out with No Fucks Left To Give. Enough of liberalism – Make America Great Again! We are tired – Togikwatako! Down with The Patriarchy – #MenAreTrash!

I have been told by many Ugandans that they believe Uganda needs a dictator like Idi Amin, or else they will destroy themselves and each other. Idi Amin said something like: “you have freedom of speech, but freedom after speech – that I cannot guarantee.” He may have been speaking of a deeper truth – a law of nature.

I believe that with creation comes destruction. To build, we break. Maybe it goes around in seasons, with intermittent periods of painful conflict and growth. My parents’ generation enjoyed a pleasant harvest season, but now winter has come and we are here fighting ice with fire!

And yet, some of our minds have been stretched to accommodate more than someone who is not so exposed, or is traumatized, or whose mind is still developing. We must not forget that there is a place for aggressive confrontation, but also there are consequences beyond our understanding, and not everybody has the same level of tolerance for debate, or the ability to engage in it. Our elders may be traumatized with good reason, as they remember why it’s not always the best strategy to fight. Our children may not be ready to handle some ugly truths. Some people just had a bad day and can’t even with your lugezigezi.

The world also needs peacemakers, empaths and bridge builders. We all need to learn how to accept different views and approaches, to listen, and to express ourselves freely but carefully. Be real, be honest, but also be thoughtful of others, because you won’t be triumphantly flying away on the back of a dragon after you burn your fellow humans to ashes. You will look up from the screen and face the reality of the destruction you caused. We all wish for safety, health, prosperity and happiness. We all want the best for our children. So let’s disrupt to create a better world, not destroy it. But feel free to disagree.

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Dear Feminists: We Have A Problem

12/10/2017

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Source: soirart tumblr

[Disclaimer: the following is only my point of view on a sensitive topic, and it does not represent so many other people and their experiences. My approach will not work for everyone, so please do not use these words to silence anyone. Rather, let's all listen and reflect.]

Ok, as a feminist myself, I’ve been watching the gender war on Uganda’s Twitter timeline and I have to admit: we have a problem!

First of all, why are we fighting?

What is our objective when we harshly shut down and/or block anyone who disagrees with us?

How will this help us better understand each other and find solutions?

In the past few weeks, many of my friends in Uganda – especially the men – have lamented in private that they feel social media has become a toxic and dangerous place where they could easily be insulted and shamed for anything they might say that offends a feminist. The term “Feminazi” has gained ground as those with more traditional or potentially oppressive beliefs about women’s roles in society are consistently attacked by a small group of outspoken feminists whom some characterize as extremists. These are the womyn who preach that #MenAreTrash (Mother God, please forgive me for calling out your activists). I am thankful for the women who speak out against injustice, because I do believe that the efforts of social activists have made our world a better place. However, the #MenAreTrash approach has many people believing that feminists are all angry, sometimes hypocritical, and just wanting to bring down men and promote female domination, rather than deconstructing the current (unjust) system to build more equity among the sexes.

Let’s look back to the approaches of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. in the civil rights movement of the 1960s. Both, I believe, had an important role to play, but when Malcolm X said that white people are the devil and promoted violence against them, this did not win him as much popular support at MLK’s more positive and inclusive approach. Furthermore, when Malcolm X went to mecca, he ended up changing his mind about all white people being evil. Would I be wrong to compare #MenAreTrash to The White Devil? An extreme, angry, aggressive approach does make people think and talk, but it also creates an equal and opposite reaction. You have to ask yourself: are you an activist because you want to create positive change, or are you fighting just for the love of fighting? We may need a more MLK style feminism on the TL to persuade the masses that social equity is good, reasonable and in everyone’s interest, so everybody is welcome to make a positive change.

I’ve been raising a little girl over the past few years, and it’s taught me some things about human nature. When she does something cruel and I berate her and shame her in all her wrongness, she just shuts down the ability to reason, cries and says that Auntie Anne is mean. When I show her love and empower her to consider how she is capable of doing better, she changes her behaviour. Similarly, when I present a funding proposal to grown corporates without considering their interests in the partnership, I’m brushed off like any other beggar, but when I frame the proposal in such a way that uplifts the funder just as much as the funded, then we can make a deal.

We need a fair deal that includes men (and “Patriarchy Princesses”) in gender equity, and that also means cutting out the loopholes that allow some Ugandan feminists to claim the best of both worlds. You can’t ask for financial freedom and expect the men to buy all your drinks at the same time. You can’t rail against men battering their wives while laughing it off when women batter their husbands. You can’t chant “down with The Patriarchy” and then expect him to give you his sweater. He also feels the cold. Buy your own sweater!

Dear feminists, we have a problem. You are feeling the backlash too, aren’t you? The fact is that movements for social change must be inclusive if they are to get enough support to make a difference. Whether we live in a just or unjust society is up to the beliefs and actions of all members of that society, so if men are not welcomed to be part of building justice, then feminists are working against themselves.

Our world has become increasingly divided by ideology. Try to walk the middle path in 2017, and people are bound to throw stones from both sides. I’ll probably offend both a misogynist and a feminist by saying this, but here we go: feminism is needed, it is right, but it has taken a wrong turn.

Instead of focusing on the fight, let’s focus on building what we want to come after. Feminists must persuade our oppressors that updating gendered expectations can be good for everybody, even them. We must be more patient, inclusive, interactive and encouraging to stem the backlash and nurture a popular movement. Go ahead and block whoever disagrees with you if that’s what you need to hold onto your sanity, but don’t fool yourself that separation will help the cause. It won’t. To create social justice is to be open to new ideas and choose the best for everyone, together.

[Note: I have also learned the flaws in my reasoning by engaging further with people of different points of view on social media and in person (for example: it's worth recognizing that Ugandan women have also suffered in their attempts to dialogue with men about their oppression, so they shouldn't be judged for taking another approach). May this conversation continue, with more people from all sides engaged in a way that helps us better understand and find solutions.]

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Would you kill a kitten?

11/10/2017

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The struggle for kittens in Kampala is real. You know those little ones around your ankles at the kafunda begging you for scraps? These Kampala kittens, they have white fur with patches of grey or brown or black, and eyes that speak to your soul and persuade you to drop a grisly bit of meat into their little paws, as if doing so could be counted as a tithe to God, just by helping out another living being in need with what you’ve been given.

My dogs killed my kitten. I love my dogs and I want to defend them as if #NotAllDogs would do such a thing, but they did. I think the problem was that all of them were served their food at once, and one of my biggest dogs killed the kitten to assert its dominance and have all the food for itself. I don’t know because I was in Ibanda when the incident occurred and my investigations with house management have been inconclusive, but you know dogs. They are animals. The biggest and strongest one becomes in control of everyone and eats all the best meat himself. That’s Toby for us. He was probably the one who killed Cordelia, may she RIP. A friend told me today that his dogs once killed a kitten too, which kind of normalized the idea that dogs are always killing kittens by nature, though I’m not sure that conclusion would hold up with a statistics expert.

One day not long ago, I turned onto Tank Hill Road from Barnabas and saw in front of me a kitten, bloody and jerking back and forth on the road as if it had just been hit. I had two seconds to make a decision. This animal looked as if it was suffering while dying. Do I drive around this kitten or put it out of its misery? What would you do? I mean really, if you were driving and you saw this scene, how would you react?

I did not kill the kitten, but for a second I considered whether it would be a reasonable act of mercy. Maybe the car behind me didn’t see it and splat. Maybe the kitten suffered longer. Maybe it miraculously made it to the side of the road. Maybe it survived! Unlikely, but possible. At least there was a chance.

The struggle is real for kittens in Kampala, I tell you. They are so small and weak and dependent. Dogs kill kittens. Kids abuse kittens. As an “auntie,” I have had to teach young children that holding a kitten by the neck is not ok. That empathetic logic is apparently not inborn. We have to teach each other to be kind and gentle, or else our animalistic nature will just allow that big is big and kittens will be killed.

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White Privilege as I've lived it in Uganda

10/9/2017

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#KoiKoiUG panel at Writivism 2017 in Kampala. Photo credit: Andrew Pacutho.

Ok, I think it’s about time for me to write about White Privilege in the context of Uganda. A little self reflection – and you don’t have to go deep – brought me to the conclusion that I am experiencing a lot more privileges than my Ugandan friends in their own country.

I don’t like the word “expat,” because Ugandans in Toronto are not called expats – they’re called “immigrants” - and also it sounds too close to “expert.” We cannot deny that many white people in Uganda are paid more than their Ugandan colleagues, regardless of some migrants' inferior expertise in their roles and responsibilities.

On many occurrences, I have been waved through security checks while the Ugandan people I’m with are asked to open their bags. I actually have to say: “here, check mine too.” I often joke cynically that the biggest terrorist threat in Uganda could be a muzungu’s purse.

I have traveled a lot with my Ugandan friends around the country, and I have one friend named Nvannungi who likes to tease me with the reminder: “Anne, your White Privilege is showing!” (This blog is dedicated to you, Leadership.)

Last year, I travelled upcountry with my housemate Zalwango, and we noticed that many of the hotel staff and other service providers would look me in the eye while speaking, and pretty much ignore her. They’d offer to carry my bags and not even notice when she held out hers. I tweeted about this and was advised that I was served better in the expectation of better tips - muzungu = $$$ - never mind the reality of the situation, which was that my friend and I were splitting the cost of the trip and deserved equal service. We were both upset, not at the people themselves, but at the injustice in that way of thinking.

I have worked on so many funding proposals and pitches of different kinds with teams of Ugandans, and we noticed that when a Ugandan teammate contacts a potential partner, they are often ignored, but the name Whitehead gets a reply. I understand the lack of trust in a market that can often be too “unserious” about professionalism and integrity, and I do good work, but my muzungu name also has a more positive prejudice.

When a Ugandan welcomes a muzungu into their country, they open doors (literally and figuratively) lead you in and offer you the best seat available. They are warm and receptive. They take time to talk with you, and offer you any food or drink they have. A Ugandan will speak their very best English with a muzungu, and then praise the migrant for even one or two words in the local language that they can fumble out. A Ugandan does not expect a foreigner to learn their languages the way a Ugandan would be expected to speak English in America.

Through a confluence of a trending news cycle and my relationships in Uganda’s media – and I think some White Privilege – I found myself this past week in the middle of a story that run faster than Kiprotich. Everyone was giving me credit for PR that I wasn’t doing, calling me a “manager” of someone I wasn’t even working with at the time, and no matter how many times I responded to this, people just believed I must be running things. I believe this was confirmation bias at least partly based on the assumption that a Ugandan man – mbu muyaye – could not express himself so eloquently and confidently without a muzungu writing for him, which is just not true.

This thinking is a symptom of the same mindset that believes “local” is an insult, and better things must come from outside countries. Meanwhile, so many amazing creators are making Uganda proud to be local! Mindset change is so needed to deal with these injustices that rob society of development, but people’s thinking is changing mpola mpola…

So, what can I personally do to remedy my situation of benefiting from cultural and systematic injustices? Well, I think it is my responsibility to make sure to treat everyone with respect, and to listen and learn from others. If I notice that my white privilege is showing, I should take a minute and consider whether I could make another choice to help bring more equity to the situation. As for opening doors that not everyone can, once I am inside I will do the best work I possibly can to stay there and make a positive impact. When I know Ugandans who have value to offer, I will recommend them for jobs, and if my clients ever try to underpay artists, staff, entrepreneurs, etc. I will argue on the behalf of the oppressed, because we all deserve that dignity.

It’s not so easy sometimes. Honestly, privilege of any kind – whether based on your gender, class, etc. – it can mess with your head and make you think you’re a VIP. But then look down at the world from space and all us humans and our drama are even too small to see. We are nothing, or we are all VIPs.

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Uganda youth need mindset change, not pocket change!

8/21/2017

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Image source: http://www.eylean.com/blog/2016/07/the-inevitable-search-of-a-new-agile-mindset/

There is a very problematic mindset among people in Uganda who think first of getting money before valuing anything else that could actually bring them more benefits (i.e. customer satisfaction/loyalty, professional network, experience, work ethic, skills, etc.). The Project 500k team in Ibanda has begun offering free, useful, inspiring and life-changing education to youth. We quickly learned that most of the youth we were targeting actually wanted to be paid to attend these workshops! I understand if someone doesn’t have even $1 for transport to reach the venue, that is a boundary to participation, but people will pay school fees to pursue a degree that will not help them get a job, and yet when we are offering them employability and entrepreneurship skills for free, they just want cash.

Similarly, the Ugandan Government’s Youth Livelihoods Programme offers capital to youth groups who propose a business idea that could sustain them over time, but many rush to submit an application and then they take that money – which is meant to be a repayable loan – and just split the cash and eat it all immediately, without ever investing in the asset of a business that could continue generating profits to take care of their needs in the long term.

The youth of Ibanda and others who know the Ugandan situation better than myself keep telling me that youth here are only looking for a short cut to get rich. They want a life like their role models, whether it is Patrick Bitature or Kim Kardashian, but they do not want to go through the years of struggle that got successful people to where they are. Patrick started by travelling from Uganda to Kenya and back just to resell a few kilograms of sugar. His Simba Telecom empire began with a modest downtown hustle of selling phones, one by one. Kim Kardashian was a lowly personal assistant, organizing Paris Hilton’s closet, before she could afford to adorn herself with designer apparel.

One night, we returned to the Bitature residence in Ibanda after a Project 500k workshop and we were joined by Honorable Abbas Agaba (Kitagwenda MP and former President of NRM’s Youth League) and the State Minister for Works, General Katumba Wamala, who were in the area planning a new road. Of course, as the conversation flowed, these two could not escape our questions about the role of Government in solving the youth mindset problem. It soon became clear that this is not just a youth problem, but a national crisis.

Our discussion took the long route through the territory of Parliamentary greed, public ignorance, the archaic education system, flawed expectations of the electorate and the failings of a free and inclusive democracy. We talked of the tabloid take down stories, buying votes with soap or soda, and the distinction between campaigning and actually running a country. My Whitehead Comm teammate Florence Kakatshozi and our colleague Shakib Nsubuga shot one difficult question after another at these representatives of the country’s Government, and they indulged us generously, late into the night. General Wamala pointed out that, with time, things sort themselves out. After all, he said, when he was our age, he would not have been confident enough to sit at a table with an old man like he has become and have a conversation like this one. I asked him how he manages Government work when people are always coming to him for handouts, and he said that, to some extent, one must swim with the tide or drown.

Our group was split on how to proceed: do we meet people where they are – enticing them with incentives and facilitation, hoping that once we draw them in we can wake them up – or do we stubbornly refuse to fall into this unsustainable trap and take a more principled approach? Nataliey Bitature insisted that we refuse to play into a losing game by appealing to the mindset of just wanting cash today and to hell with tomorrow. She is a woman of robust principles. Others argued that this was not practical. We must appeal to the existing mindset in order to change it, and these people need money now. But if we reward begging, won’t that just reinforce the problem?

Standing on principle vs. being practical – it is a tricky balance. How to we shape a better world without isolating those who are not ready to embrace a better way? That is of course assuming that patronage and handouts are wrong, and it is better to work toward “a greater good” – using resources efficiently, equitably and ethically to build a more productive and empowered citizenry. Am I wrong?

How do we gently wake the sleeping to join us on a marathon, when it is so much more comfortable to stay in bed? That is my job, so let me get on with it… But if you have any ideas, please comment below before you go. I value what is in your head more than what is in your wallet!

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Can we say it as we feel it, fwaaa?!

8/16/2017

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Photo cred Florence Kakatshozi - Twitter: @Kakatshozi / www.ugandanstoryteller.wordpress.com

We finally reached Ibanda at 2am, a road journey long enough that we could have flown to England. That’s another story, from which the lesson I picked was to communicate better - like ask the driver “is this your first time driving to Ibanda?” before you fall asleep. I wasn’t asleep, I just lost my phone so wasn’t checking Google maps as I would usually, and I may have been the least qualified in the car to know where I was, but anyway… we arrived with five hours to go until we were to be on the job running a workshop, training trainers for Project 500K. I spent most of that time thinking about a conversation I had at 2:30am with my colleague, Shakib Nsubuga.

I asked Shakib, if he went to school in the UK, why didn’t he have a British accent? He said it was his choice not to change his accent in a way that could seem unauthentic, though there were times when adaptation was needed to be appropriate for the audience he was communicating with. We agreed that accents can naturally be fluid. He reminded me of a lot of reading I did in grad school about Accommodation Theory and how communication style adapts to the audience, group, and culture. I read studies showing that people change the way they speak to mimic the person they’re speaking to, even subconsciously. From childhood, we pick up on our friends’ slang. We also modify the volume of our voice, the speed, enunciation, tonation, pronunciation, and diction or use of language.

What causes this communication of accommodation? The most obvious reason is the desire to fit in with your people. Usually, we pick up on manners of speak from our friends. In secondary school, I used to say Brutal all the time, like exams and social blunders and everything was Bruuutal - because that’s what my friends said, and that was our worldview in the Canadian education system, free and relatively high quality though it was, in retrospect. Now, I am conversant with the meaning of Blessers and what it is to just do things Fwaaa! Again, something in this use of language reflects the culture of my friends now in Kampala, Uganda. I am sure anyone can name similar manners of speaking that they have picked up from their social groups throughout their lives.

The other side of being like your group, though, is not being like ‘the other.’ This can be problematic for anyone who communicates outside of one homogenous group. Trevor Noah wrote in Born A Crime that it’s easier to be an insider as an outsider than an outsider as an insider. Shakib suggested that it’s more acceptable to adapt as a minority toward the majority than the other way around, and that sounded sensible to me. Shakib and I both experienced coming back from somewhere else to our people from before, and being changed. Coming back with an accent can be suspicious. Where did you get that accent from? Is it fake? We judge, though we do not really know other people’s experiences.

Google defines “accent” as “a distinctive mode of pronunciation of a language, especially one associated with a particular nation, locality, or social class.”

It is easier to communicate in a British accent to British people, because they’re more likely to understand. Similarly, when I was a regular on Ugandan radio in 2010, my manner of speaking became more Ugandan to be better understood, then I learned that it can be offensive to simplify your English as if assuming that the person you are speaking to is not capable of understanding you as you are.

This conversation has continued among our traveling group, with my teammates criticizing certain Ugandan media personalities and Kampala socialites for modifying their accent in a way that seems artificial, when it is known that they have not left the country for long, or ever at all. Some thought that news anchors were trying to show off how they’ve travelled, or just wanted to be perceived as superior.

This begs the question: why is it wrong to consciously develop an accent that does not reflect your upbringing? Digging deeper into this question, my colleagues suggested that in Uganda, people believe that foreign-sounding English is superior to a local accent, which is the result of a widespread inferiority complex. More generally, there is an insecurity within people about how their voice reflects their identity. This train of thought leads to a larger discussion of social stratification, people’s aspirations and the offence of cultural appropriation, which I’ll leave for another day.

But what do you think? To what extent is our own manner of speaking unconscious? How much of our communication style is a choice, and are there moral guidelines we should apply to these choices? Oba we just say it as we feel it, fwaaa?!

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As crazy as washing cats

6/13/2017

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Source: http://www.life-with-siamese-cats.com/bathing-a-cat.html

From the balcony I saw my housemate Juko washing the cats in a basin. It must have been his first time, because no one washes a cat a second time. (Am I right? Have you ever tried?) The first one was the kitten Cordelia, and she didn’t fight back. She just froze in terror as he pushed her face close to the water.

But Romeo fought back. He was a kitten, but I can see that he’s a man now, the way he clawed against the bucket edge and lunged forward with Juko’s hands wrapped tight around him. Romeo is strong now. Through his short white and grey hair, you can see muscle tone. He got attacked by the dogs the first time he went outside, but now he roams around the compound freely and loses the dogs in the trees. I once saw Romeo jump eight feet in the air onto a tree branch. It was magnificent. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the monkeys came through while Romeo was in the trees, and I hope I am here looking out the window at the time. Anyway, he was not going down in a tub of soapy water. It was very obvious to me that this cat was fighting for his life.

“Juko, you are washing the cats?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I don’t think they want to be washed. I mean, look. That one is fighting for his life!”

Juko laughed.

I considered making a Nalufenya joke and decided that was inappropriate. Juko told me that he wanted to dry the cats on the balcony, so I offered to help. I wasn’t optimistic about the plan, because it was around 6pm and there wasn’t a lot of sun left for drying, but nevertheless I went downstairs to find the cats.

Have you ever seen a wet cat? It’s possibly the most pitiful sight on earth. They’re so skinny like little rats, and shivering. I don’t know if a cat can feel shame, but a wet cat embodies the feeling.

“Salsa,” I asked my niece, “These cats need to warm up. What makes you feel warm?”

“I feel warm when there’s a hot breeze blowing on me.”

“You know, actually, that’s brilliant. I do have a blow drier… but I had something else in mind. What do you like to do when you get out of the pool and you’re all wet and cold?”

“A towel?”

“Yes. A big fluffy warm towel. Come on, let’s go warm up the cats.”

“We could also get your blow drier!”

“Yeah, maybe, Salsa. Let’s try the towels first.”

Cradling a kitten in a towel has to be the second cutest experience there is, and the first is watching a six year old do it. I should have taken a picture, but we were living in the moment. We got Cordelia and Juliet into the towels and on the mend from their near-death experience. I cautioned Salsa to be careful with them, because they were probably traumatized.

She understood and kept watch while I went looking for Romeo with a towel over my shoulder. I scoured the house and walked the tree line, using my phone as a torch, peeking around for where I might go if I were a cat, but I couldn’t find him. Having witnessed Romeo’s experience, I imagine it must have hurt his pride and he doesn’t even want to be found right now. I hope he comes back soon though. I’ll give him extra cuddles.

The moral of this story is: don’t wash cats. For the sake of human-cat relations, I beg!

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A Comical Tale of One Noisy Neighbourhood in Kampala

5/20/2017

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Source: https://www.aussie.com.au/blog/dealing-with-noisy-neighbours/

In the style of my friend and mentor Simon Kaheru, allow me to share with you today a true story of how ridiculous Kampala can be, with the caveat that I may come off as the aging grumpy neighbour in my own story who is failing to fit into a city that loves its noise. It all began one Friday (yesterday), after I’d gotten up at 5am to prep a client for a morning interview, then boda’d around Kampala from meeting to meeting throughout the day, constructed the beginning of another long report, and finally arrived home around sunset, exhausted and so ready to settle into a peaceful night of reading, yoga and sleep, just when it seemed everyone else around me was ramping up for a night of TGIF celebration.

That Friday evening, there turned out to be a party in my residential neighbourhood of Muyenga that had hired a PA system and cranked it to the max. The over zealous DJ switched from one song to another every ten seconds, though in the transitions each song bear no rhythmic or melodic resemblance. With an apparent desire to reach sensory overload, the DJ threw layers of random noises on top, from horns to ringing phones to his own shouting “owulila?” (yes, I hear you), while singing along off key over the entire song. At one point, the DJ began to make noises on the microphone that could have been an attempt at something like beat boxing, but instead sounded like the result of a large serving of beans. At that point, the whole charade felt like one of those humorous moments on a TV talent show when a horrifically inadequate contestant cluelessly and catastrophically failed with enthusiasm, and I began looking around for the button that I as the celebrity judge could push to make it stop and say “sorry buddy, try again next year.”

This is when, at 19:45, I turned to my new support group: the Bukasa-Muyenga Neighbourhood Watch Whatsapp group, a forum for my neighbours to communicate with the local community police (note: speak to your local officers about joining one for your security). As politely as possible in my exasperated state, I asked: “Dear police friends, when is noise pollution too much and we can legitimately seek action?” Knowing that my delicate ears may be clashing culture-wise with the Ugandan appreciation for a lively beat, I was seeking advice on how to approach what I had identified as a common problem in our residential neighourhood. I cited Hotel International as a frequent annoyance in playing loud music, and tried to explain how the sound echoed against my hill in a way that made it sound like my bedroom was right beside the DJ booth. I received no reply for an agonizing period, through which time perhaps the plentiful group membership checked the group and thought: “eh, this muzungu wants quiet on a Friday night? Leave her.” Then finally between 9pm and midnight I received two replies: one advised that I call Hotel International directly, and the other advised that I contact the Muyenga OC officer. After midnight, the noise showed no sign of stopping, so I did both.

It is not the first time I have called Hotel International asking them to please turn it down. Yes, that’s me calling, and I’ve been told that Dr. Ian Clarke tried this for years with the result of instilling a late shut-off, yet there has been no end to the echoing madness. This time, I was informed that the hotel number was not currently available, and at 00:03, I briefly wondered if perhaps the manager had not re-registered his SIM card and voice calls had been switched off. I waited until midnight to call the hotel, because last time this happened, they responded with a tone of confusion, explaining that they would turn off the PA at midnight, not understanding why blasting dancehall music might interfere with my Wednesday evening program of Netflix and chill (for the record, Sheebah’s “Farmer” does not blend well with particularly solemn moments in Black Mirror).

Then, I sent a Whatsapp message to my OC, explaining that some function down the hill (at the hotel or perhaps elsewhere) was very loud, and could he please respond to the noise pollution as a matter of environmental protection, appealing to the Environmental Police Force attached to NEMA, as advised by one of my neighbourhood watch members. The OC then informed me that the noise I was complaining about actually came from the wedding party of a divisional police commander, and it would soon come to an end. Awkward! I had landed in one of those Ugandan situations where my complaint was actually directed at the police themselves, so who could I go to for help?

By 1am, I was rolling back and forth in my bed with a level of frustration and hopelessness last experienced in a particularly terrible bout of rain-induced traffic jam on the way to an important appointment, and I was now regretting that I had planned a night in at all. I could have gone out on the town with my friends and actually danced to decent music, if I had known I would be cursed by this sonic oppression in my own bedroom! That is when I took to Twitter and, having been broken by the last straw of my exhaustion, I wrote to UMEME pleading with them to shut off the power in my neighbourhood!

As my Twitter followers enjoyed a good laugh, I began praying that the police commander would decide it’s time to go consummate the marriage and call it a night.

Ten minutes later, my prayers were answered! (Lesson learned: there are times in this country when only God herself can save you.) UMEME responded to my tweet with sympathy, but did not shut off the power, which was probably for the best. An hour later, I fell into a blissful sleep punctuated by bizarre anxiety-induced dreams, and a few short hours later I awoke to repeat the cycle. Oh Uganda, I love you. Police, I appreciate you keeping me safe (if at times a little insane). DJ, please go get some mentoring on how to do your job like a professional entertainer (there are plenty of great ones in Kampala that you can turn to). Dear readers, please let me know when you feel like a peaceful evening of introverted reading, yoga and sleep. You have a friend in me.

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