Beyond the Vapour Trail Read online

  She grew the garden, feeds and bathes her mother, cooks, shops, goes to school – when her mother isn’t too sick. She’s twelve. So when I told them she was going to be sponsored, they couldn’t hide their smiles. The mother showed me her 7 foot by 10 foot room - that’s their home. The mattress is a bag – like a wheat bag – on the concrete with grass in it.

  Then they wanted to give me a gift. So Betty caught one of their only two chickens, tied its legs, and gave it to me. Eyalama noi thank you very much, was all I could say. So I gave her a gift of 10,000 shillings and asked her to buy a small goat. Before I left she knelt in front of me, grabbed my hand and just kept thanking me. She didn’t want to let me go.

  She had such a big smile. I think she was a little sad when I left, though.

  We couldn’t stay long. Chicken in boot. Driving back this endless train of refugees - some packed into vans and trucks with goods and people hanging off all the edges. Others on bicycles with maybe charcoal to sell, or digging implements - these are the most valuable things they can carry. Others on foot, herding cattle or with large packs on their heads.

  Sorry, babe. Long email.

  We’re leaving early in the morning. I’m safe, OK. Otherwise we’d have gone already.

  I love you,

  Brett

  That night reports indicated the LRA had drawn closer and were within striking distance of Soroti. The Ugandan army had still not arrived. As I went to bed, I listened to the night sounds, and faced the possibility that I might wake to shouting and gunfire. It seemed unlikely, but my boarding house was right on the wrong edge of town, among the last few buildings on the north side. If the LRA did decide to raid, it would reach these houses first. I studied my small room. What would I do? There was only simple furniture: dresser, single bed. There would be no hiding under it. Perhaps it would be better to face them. Would a white man make a tantalising target, or would I be left alone? I examined the window. It opened well enough, so I could slide out the window into the backyard, leap the rear fence and make a run for it, or more likely sit quietly in a dark corner. But if I was seen trying to run that could easily draw fire. Undecided, I simply went to sleep.

  The LRA did attack Soroti, beginning at the edge of town where I was staying, but it was a different night, after I left. The attack began at one o’clock in the morning. An eyewitness said the gunfire lit up the streets like a fireworks display. The fighting continued until 7 a.m., and people began fleeing the city using any transport they could find. Gunshots, looting and burning of houses occurred for several nights.

  My next morning was just an ordinary dawn and I packed to leave. Out in the dining area at breakfast I grabbed a local newspaper. The front cover showed a photo of a couple murdered by the rebels, an explicit photo of the bodies beside their hut. The paper was sending a strong message. There were already more than five thousand displaced people in Soroti itself and the number was steadily growing. Our teams were setting up emergency shelter and access to food, water and support. The number was to rise to a hundred and twenty thousand within the next seven or eight weeks.

  But the situation confused me. Where the hell was the army? The official line over the years had been that the LRA hid in the south of Sudan and therefore the army could never track it. But the LRA never used vehicles. Its soldiers travelled on foot. Sometimes they even announced that they were coming to a village the next day, sending a message ahead to warn that anyone with their doors shut will be burnt inside their buildings. That’s military clumsiness, to announce where you will be. Any modern mobile army could track them down with that kind of intelligence. And now an entire week had passed since the attacks began, and yet the Ugandan army had not driven the five or six hours up the road to Soroti.

  Over fried eggs and toast I chatted with a journalist from Kampala who was staying in the small guesthouse with me. He was young, educated and articulate. I asked what he thought.

  ‘I don’t understand. It’s a basic role of any government to protect its citizens. So where is the army? And why can’t they catch them? The LRA are on foot.’

  ‘I think it is related to tribalism. If the president of a country favours his own tribe, it can make other groups unhappy. But with the LRA around, the people up here are too busy to cause you any trouble.’

  That made sense. It was classic divide and rule, a pattern the Assyrians and the Romans understood. The English used it, and colonial countries consciously created borders in some places to exploit it. It took centuries for Europe to move away from tribalism, so it’s not surprising that some countries in Africa struggle with it today. And of course we never hear about the successful African countries that don’t struggle with tribalism – but that’s another issue, don’t get me started.

  I drove away with a mix of emotions. I wanted to stay and be part of the response, but that was not my role. On the way back to Kampala, we passed the UPDF finally arriving.

  Back in Australia a few weeks later I sent Betty a letter and included photos I’d taken of her with her mother. But before my letter even arrived in Uganda, I was notified that the LRA had kidnapped Betty. Her mother was shattered. The community told our local staff she just lay down and ‘died of a broken heart.’

  It was horrifying. How could a child who had experienced so much grief be dealt another blow? The girl who’d had so little of anything in her life, taken away, knowing there was no-one to care for her mother. And then to be brought into the incomprehensible savagery of the LRA. It’s not that I didn’t care that this happened to thousands of other children; I did. But I can’t deal with every story that crosses my path with my emotions fully switched on. I noticed long ago that many of those in difficult lines of work – police, special armed services personnel – can switch off their emotional response to traumatic situations. If we do that all the time, we can become cold. I resolved long ago that I wouldn’t disconnect – I never want to reduce my capacity to respond as a human being. But sometimes, like them, I take a hands-off approach and reserve my full emotional response for when it’s needed.

  I wanted to do something, but I felt powerless. I even wondered if it was possible to contact Kony. The truth was, I was an adult in this young girl’s life and yet I didn’t have a clue what to do, how to help.

  CHAPTER 8

  Betty Alajo

  When Betty was kidnapped by the LRA in 2003, this was just another one of the world’s ignored horrors. A single child abduction in Australia could capture the nation’s attention. The fact that twenty-eight thousand Ugandan children had been kidnapped over the last ten years didn’t register as newsworthy in countries like Australia or the United States.

  A decade later, thanks to a moment of marketing brilliance, the story of Joseph Kony, the LRA and the children fell into the hands of some people who understood how to use social media. The Kony 2012 video went viral. Thirty-five million people watched the video in its first three days online. Suddenly it was the story of the moment. Whoever they were, they were clumsy with facts, but they had the world’s attention. They bypassed the editors and controllers of news content so effectively that this feat became part of the story.

  CNN, BBC World and other world media outlets instantly picked it up. And what was the response of the academic experts pulled into the studio limelight, blinking, for their authoritative moment? Most of them made a story out of the inaccurate details in the video. As if the important thing here was not the fate of these children, but that factual errors had been made in telling their story. And the media, which valued angles more than it did the children, stole the story away from the children still living in daily hell to make a snide comment on the YouTube phenomenon and viral marketing.

  What the hell happened? It was so simple. Correct the facts – no, the LRA was not currently operating in Uganda – but build on the momentum to gently awaken a sleeping world. Instead, within days the story was discredited. As if the children no longer existed. Traditional media, which had ignore
d the story for twenty years, killed it. And the so-called experts impressing their peers dug the hole to bury it in.

  Back in 2003 there was no such awareness. My organisation ran Children of War Rehabilitation Centres in Gulu and Pader in Uganda. For those children who managed to escape from the LRA, these centres gave them immediate and long-term medical assistance and psychosocial support – things like art therapy, counselling, life skills, assistance to trace their families, and then family counselling. Beyond this they were given educational and livelihood opportunities. Fourteen thousand children passed through these centres between 1995 and 2012, with most being successfully rehabilitated and settled back into their communities. It was a quiet and beautiful piece of work.

  But there was no news of Betty. I knew that she and the others who were taken would have been forced to walk north. Just keep walking. Keep up or be killed by other children. It was believed that the LRA would march the children beyond Uganda into the deep forests of Sudan, which was too distracted by its own civil war to bother with the LRA, and the Ugandan army couldn’t cross the border. More recently in 2013 I flew over the massive wilderness of South Sudan in a small plane and began to realise why they hid there – forest as far as the eye can see from the air above, a truly great untouched wilderness. A thick, unbroken forest across several countries.

  I also knew that girls like Betty were kidnapped to provide wives for the commanders. There was a high likelihood she could be infected with HIV. Eighty-nine per cent of all girls rescued at this time had HIV/AIDS, according to one report. She would be forced to labour, and might be forced to kill – or be killed if she refused. The first time the children are told to kill, it’s often with a machete, and someone they know, like a relative. That way the shame and horror begin to yield control of their minds. How could they ever consider returning home after that?

  At the time of the kidnap I spoke to the staff from Uganda, in a complete sense of disbelief.

  ‘You have to trust God for her return,’ my friend said.

  ‘Really? Why, when twenty-eight thousand other children have been kidnapped, should God have mercy on one?’

  She let my comments pass graciously.

  At this point in my life I was towards the end of fifteen years of chronic depression. The wastepaper basket of my soul was littered with attempts to make sense of life, and I was a little resistant to what I saw as truisms or simplistic certainties. I used to dismantle the arguments of overly evangelical Christians or overly evangelical atheists with equal dexterity.

  One morning about a year after Betty disappeared, I joined a small group of our staff who were having a devotion. The leader asked each of us to write down a prayer request and put it in a bowl. Even in my agnostic space, I thought, Well, why not? I was constantly concerned about Betty, who still didn’t know her mother had died but must have wondered every day, wanting her mother. Sixteen people were to write their prayer request on paper, put it in a bowl, and then take turns in taking one out at random. The idea of prayer to me seemed empty and hollow. So I did a transaction with God or the universe or whatever was there. I said, I’ll go last, and if I end up with my own piece of paper, I’ll take that as the Possibility meeting me halfway that she will find her way home. OK, it’s a bit like rolling the dice and believing the result and it’s not quite the same odds as one out of the twenty-eight thousand other children escaping, but it was the best I could manage that morning. I was powerless to help Betty. It had been more than a year. I’d give anything a shot. Even prayer.

  I let the fifteen people take a piece of paper out of the bowl before me. The only remaining scrap of paper was the one I had written. Not amazing odds really, but I decided to be simple enough to follow it as a working hypothesis. If life emerged from time and chance and matter, then maybe her life could emerge from this mess.

  Within days an email arrived from Uganda, and the subject line was ‘Betty Alajo’. This came out of the blue after more than a year of total silence. I couldn’t open it fast enough.

  From: James Monge

  Sent: 12/11/04

  To: Brett Pierce

  Subject: Fw: Betty Alajo

  Dear James, Eric and Elizabeth,

  Greetings to you. We are glad to inform you that the girl that Brett Pierce had wanted to have as a sponsored child, who had been formerly abducted is now back with us in the programme area. She was recently returned by the UPDF.

  Am sure Brett would like to know this. Her name is Betty Alajo. Brett had written to her a letter, and sent her some photos that were taken during his visit at the time of evaluation just before the war; which we kept and have now passed on since she has returned.

  Kindly advise on this issue.

  Regards,

  Samalie.

  From: Brett Pierce

  Sent: 12/11/04

  To: Samalie

  Subject: Re: Fw: Betty Alajo

  Greetings Samalie,

  Thank you for remembering.

  I sent James an email weeks ago, and haven’t heard anything. I hope you’ll forgive me contacting you directly, but after this silence for over 12 months, I’m very keen to hear more. This is what I sent to James.

  “Samalie asked for advice on the issue in her message below? From my perspective obviously I am very committed to sponsoring Betty. However, this is not a normal situation - children who return from the LRA may require trauma counselling or other support. Also, before she died, her mother had moved away from the other relatives - I imagine for good reason.

  Please let me know if there is anything above and beyond that can be done for her. No child should experience what she has, and she is one of so many others.”

  How is she? Where is she living? Does she need trauma counselling? Will she be in the program?

  I hope you are well. You had a very intense introduction to the program in Arapai – but I admire your skills, networking ability, etc, and so am confident you will do a great job.

  Take care,

  Brett

  From: Samalie

  Sent: 15/11/04

  To: Brett Pierce

  Subject: Re: Fw: Betty Alajo

  Greetings Brett,

  I am well, and we are moving on. I returned from Kampala yesterday, so I have just seen your mail. I will send you the details you need as soon as possible. For now, Betty seems to be fine. We spent some time tracking her through local contacts, until we got her. She came to office and all the staff were very happy to see her. She was very cheerful. She told us that she was made to be a baby sitter for one of the wives of the LRA rebel commanders since she was still young. In that way she was able to receive food, and she was spared from the rigours of fighting, or abducting other girls. She looks healthy, but within she carries a lot of trauma.

  Currently Betty lives with her grandmother, the mother of her late mother. Since her grandmother had no quarrel with her, she gladly took her in when she returned.

  I will send you more detailed information as soon as possible.

  Samalie.

  It was still another two years before I was able to return to Uganda to see her. Eventually I was asked to run a workshop at Jinja, the source of the Nile according to Ugandans. (Colleagues from a number of other different nations assure me the Nile originates in their country. Ah well, it’s a perspective thing.) So while I was at Jinja, one of the many sources of the Nile, I hastily arranged a trip to Soroti to visit Betty.

  As we drove north it was evident that electioneering was in the air in Uganda. In each little town, billboards or posters of politicians in suits looked a little stiff and formal beside the large images of President Museveni, with his relaxed open top button and cowboy-style hat. And occasionally we’d encounter crowds of people marching down the road, with their colourful political signs and slogans and clothing and their movement dance-like as they chanted, every foot striking the ground in unison.

  We arrived at the project office we had worked from during the LRA raid in
2003. And that’s where I saw Betty again. You’re imagining one of those emotional reunions with the big hug and tears. That’s not what happened. Betty came into the office and was extremely shy. The office was a world of adults and she was clearly a little overwhelmed.

  There was a debate going on in our organisation at the time. For child protection reasons many offices preferred a child to meet their sponsor in a neutral location, such as the office. I understood this, but I held a different perspective. I argued that children should be in an environment where they felt most comfortable – and children feel more at home in their own space. Protecting children is paramount, but we need to build aware communities that protect children. Most abuse happens from within communities, within families, and this is as true in my town in Australia as anywhere else. Create systems and structures where identification and reporting of abuse are within the grasp of every child and family; build resilient children who know what to do. This approach has since become part of the main thrust of our organisational approach: that child sponsorship now strengthens community mechanisms to protect children.

  After meeting Betty at the office, we were also able to visit her home. When we arrived at her grandmother’s home she transformed into a young girl on her own turf, surrounded by her extended family. Betty relaxed and became a different child when she was with her family – with a cousin for a close friend, an aunt and her grandmother. Lots of neighbours came to check us out, too.

  One of Betty’s jobs was to manage the chickens –considerably more than the two she had kept with her mother. She had a good head for business with the chickens, apparently.