Small World, Big God

I set off early on Sunday morning so I could see Henry when he got out of the church service at his school.  We spent an hour or so running through what was scheduled to happen on Tuesday at the oral argument.  In many ways, it was the visually impaired leading the one without eyes – I am not really sure what will happen on Tuesday.

In Uganda, the court of appeals affords comparatively little deference to trial court determinations.  In fact, the court of appeals is authorized to take new testimony and receive new evidence not presented at the trial.  Because the two points of appeal we are raising focus primarily on legal errors we are alleging, we are not seeking to admit new evidence on appeal.  That doesn’t mean, however, that the court will not want to hear from Henry.  (We had previously unsuccessfully sought permission for Henry to stay in school on Tuesday, rather than attending the hearing).  Accordingly, we spent some time on Sunday morning walking through some possible scenarios that could play out.  Better safe than “sorry, sorry.”

While we were talking, Henry called his sister Doreen and made sure that the family spelled “James Josiah” correctly on the baptismal certificate prepared that day in conjunction with the baptism of Henry’s new little brother in Hoima.  I wish I could have been there for it.

I spent the rest of the morning reading and re-reading the trial court record, such as it is.  The lawyer I had dinner with on Saturday evening had warned me that one of the judges scheduled to be on my appellate panel occasionally quizzed the lawyers about the contents of the record just to make sure they were prepared.  I am already quite prepared, but there is no harm in committing most of it to memory.  After all, the trial court record is rather sparse.

In Uganda, there is no verbatim transcript of trial court proceedings.  Instead, the “record” consists of the trial judge’s handwritten notes summarizing the testimony.  Needless to say, precision is in short supply.  This practice allows the trial judge to skew the record, consciously or unconsciously, in favor of the judgment entered by the court, further hampering efforts to overturn judgments on appeal . . .

Late last week, I learned that my friend Steve Swigert is here in Uganda this week also.  Steve is the Oklahoman who, after reading the article I wrote for Guideposts Magazine in late 2011, connected us with our Twin Family – the Gregstons and Gashes did life together for six months in Uganda in 2012.  I got ahold of Steve on Saturday, and we agreed to meet up for lunch on Sunday at a restaurant overlooking Lake Victoria.  It was great catching up with him and a colleague of his whom also assists Watoto (Mega) Church with agricultural initiatives.  Accompanying Steve to lunch was a larger-than-life retired Aussie.  To clarify, he is retired from work, not from being an Aussie.  I knew I was going to like this guy when insisted on a double bear hug when we were introduced.

I quickly (or not so quickly) learned his life story.  He started out as civil servant, then became a successful businessman, then lost everything investing in and breeding race horses.  After embezzling a quarter million dollars from an organization with which he worked, he checked himself into a motel room and tried to kill himself.  He got close, but God had other plans.  When he came to, he found both a Gideon Bible and a reason to go on.  After serving several years in a prison Down Under, he started an organization doing prison ministry all over the world, including in Uganda.

He was kind enough to give me a business card.  After inspecting it briefly, I turned it over in my hand.  On the back was printed “The Starfish Story.”  I couldn’t help but think “Small world, Big God.”

Cool back-of-a-business-card

I spent the rest of the afternoon practicing and refining my oral argument, and then met up with Justice Kiryabwire, his wife, and David Nary for dinner.  Justice K is the designated coordinator of all things Pepperdine in Uganda.  I am his biggest fan, and it is always good to catch up with him.  David just returned from a weekend adventure in Fort Portal, where David and I are heading after the argument on Tuesday.  It is also where I hope to lead a team of lawyers this summer to help clear the backlog of prisoners waiting for trial.

On Monday morning, I headed to the Court of Appeals to watch the morning session of oral arguments so I could get a sense of how things worked here.  To put it gently, what I saw was confidence inspiring.  The advocates there set a fairly low bar I hope to surpass on Tuesday.

I met up with David and Sarah (from the High Court) afterward and got an update regarding the two juvenile sessions that are just wrapping up right now – one in Kampala and one in Mbale.  Both went quite well, but there are still some kinks to work out.

I then met up with Mark Riley, a Brit who works for the Ministry of Gender trying to help them get their arms around the orphanage/adoption challenges faced in Uganda.  Mark came out to Pepperdine last month and played a lead role in the Inter-Country Adoption conference we hosted.  Mark and I are trying to put together a working document that attempts to find and expand common ground among those around the world on both sides of inter-country adoption.

Next was a meeting with the experienced and highly successful Ugandan counsel, Edward Sekabanja, whose assignment it is to keep me from making a fool of myself and/or breaking court rules in Tuesday’s hearing.  Quite a tall order.  He indicated that the Ugandan court of appeals justices would not have seen a more structured, organized, and persuasive appellate submission in their years on the bench.  That was also quite confidence inspiring.  Once again, the bar has not been set very high.  While at Edward’s office, I was able to pick up my Special Practising Certificate, allowing me to argue tomorrow’s case.

I'm Official

David and I had a quick dinner, and I am turning in early.  My driver picks me up at 5:30 tomorrow morning to take me to get Henry and then to the court of appeals.

Your prayers are appreciated.

Sorry, Sorry

One of the most surprising things I learned about Uganda when I moved here in 2012 for six months was the shockingly low cost of human capital.  While goods imported from Europe or the United States are quite expensive here, the cost of goods and services produced and delivered locally is miniscule.  It is literally possible to subsist on very little income in Uganda because the price of local food is so low.  The reason for this, however, is the cost of local labor is so low.  Unskilled laborers make in the neighborhood of a couple dollars a day.  An unfortunate side effect of this low cost of human capital is the impact that even a relatively small amount of money rolling in from the West can have on the delicate balance.

Friday night, I was the beneficiary of this imbalance, though I didn’t feel guilty about it.

I called the airport at 9:00 p.m., an hour after my prodigal suitcase was supposed to have arrived from Nairobi, Kenya.  (I had earlier been told that the afternoon flight had been cancelled).  After putting me on hold for a few minutes, the Kenya Airways spokesperson triumphantly declared that my suitcase had arrived one hour earlier.

“Excellent.  Is it on its way to me right now?”

“No, sorry, sorry.  The driver is not around.”

“So what time will he be around, and what time will he be delivering my suitcase tonight?”

“Oh, sorry, sorry.  He is not coming back tonight.  He will deliver it to you tomorrow.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry, but I need the suitcase tonight.”  I barely resisted the impulse to tell her I had her “sorry, sorry” right ‘ere.

I didn’t think telling her my two remaining pillows, sound machine, ambien, et al., really missed me and needed to see me tonight would do the trick.  So I tried a different approach.

“Is there anyone there I can pay to deliver the suitcase to me tonight?”

“(Pause) Let me check.”

A few moments later, she “sorry, sorried” some more and told me no one was around with a car.

“If I send a driver out to the airport, will he be allowed to pick up my suitcase?”

“No problem.”

So I called the taxi driver I have been using this trip.  He didn’t give me any “sorry, sorries” – he gave me my suitcase.  When I called him, I prefaced my request with the caveat that it was late and that he should feel free to decline if he didn’t want to go out again.

To the contrary, he told me he would do it for 85,000 shillings.  I countered with 100,000.  (The extra 15,000 is only about six dollars, but that will feed him and his wife for several days).  The fuel costs are nearly double those in the United States, and the trip to the airport is about twenty-five miles each way.  He does not own the car he drives, but pays a flat daily to rent the car.  Accordingly, after a certain level, he gets to keep what he makes.

By midnight, I had my suitcase, pillows, sound machine, and ambien.  The world was right again.  (Incidentally, Friday night was likely the last night on ambien – I am not an addict, just some poor soul trying to adjust to the eleven-hour time difference in time to leave again.).

On Saturday, the same driver picked me up at 9:30 and took me to the Commercial Court.  I am working in the office of David Nary (Pepperdine Nootbaar Fellow living in Uganda for one year) while he is on a weekend trip.  After a few hours of refining my oral argument preparations for Tuesday’s hearing, I met up with an American family who is here in Uganda in the process of adopting two Ugandan children who are badly in need of a permanent home.  The mother and father are good friends of a few of my good friends, so it was nice to spend some time getting to know them.  They have hit an unexpected delay in the process, so they are here longer than anticipated.

Toward the end of the conversation, I asked them where they are living while they are here.  I was stunned to learn that not only are they staying in the same hotel we stayed in for six months in 2012, but they are living in the same exact three-bedroom suite where we lived.  Very cool, and a bit eerie.

After a few more hours of oral argument prep, I met up with a Ugandan lawyer I got to know during my prior work here.  We ate dinner at my favorite restaurant (Emin Pasha Hotel), and he coached me a bit on the logistical aspects of arguing before the Ugandan Court of Appeals.

Hypergamy

I rarely get lost, but when I do, I am not particularly receptive to requests to pull over for directions.  This is one of my many faults.  I am not sure if this allergy to being told I am lost is genetic or environmental.  Either would work in my case – I grew up at the feet of the master – Mr. “I am not lost, woman.”

I am equally allergic to the “did you remember to pack . . .?” question.  My wonderful wife has adapted well to my maladies and rarely pushes my buttons, having concluded long ago that the “natural consequences” approach to child-rearing also occasionally works well with recalcitrant husbands.  Accordingly, she did not suggest that I consider taking a t-shirt and a pair of underwear in my backpack.

She simply remarked, “I always do this just in case the checked luggage doesn’t arrive.”

“Good for you.”

While I appreciated her subtlety, there is nothing subtle about my inflated perception of my own manhood, which such comments directly undermine.

Consequently, as I write this part of the post, I am approaching fifty hours in the same underwear.  The now-familiar sinking feeling enveloped me as the airport baggage crew gave me the “what-are-you-looking-at-Mzungu?” stare when I went stuck my head in the back room after the empty luggage carousel mocked me.  They simply shook their head and motioned to the emptiness surrounding them after fielding my inquiry.

Soon thereafter, I was informed that my bags spent some extra time in Amsterdam and that they should be arriving in Uganda a mere twelve hours late.  Good thing I didn’t have any meetings set for today, unlike last time this happened.

My ensemble last time my luggage didn't arrive

When I told Joline my bags didn’t arrive, she didn’t say “I told you, so,” but she gave me one of those really good “I told you so” looks that even the fuzzy Skype connection failed to mask.  An ever-so-quick flash of a grin, coupled with an ever-so-faint eye-brow raise said everything it needed to say.  It also gave her plausible deniability.  My kids, however, lack the tact of their mother.  “You’re an idiot” about captures their sentiment, though they were a bit less gentle than that.

Speaking of my manhood being questioned, I had a hard time sleeping last night without my sound machine and three pillows, all of which were comfortably tucked into my checked baggage.  I was, however, smart enough to save an ambien for when I arrived.  I had dozed off and on during my LAX to Amsterdam and Amsterdam to Nairobi flights, so it was good to get some pharma-zzz’s.  But after about five hours, I awoke to the distinctly African morning noises – call to prayers from the local mosque, thunderstorms, and indigenous bird squawking.  It is good to be back here.

Six Hours Later . . .

After spending the morning working at the courthouse waiting for my luggage to arrive, I received a call from the airport.

“Your suitcase is now on the way to Kampala from the airport.”

“Excellent.  Wait, suitcase?  Don’t you mean suitcases – two of them?”

“Sorry, sorry.  We only have one of them.  The other one will be on one of the other flights.”

“Um, OK.  When are the other flights?”

“Tonight.”

When my suitcase (singular) arrived, I once again had to relive the humiliation that inevitably accompanies me whenever I travel to Uganda.  (We only own two large suitcases, and I need both of them to bring my pillows with me).  One would think I would be numb to the embarrassment, but apparently I am immune to this form of Novocaine.  So when the delivery guy opened the back of the van and asked me which bag was mine, I knew what was coming.

“Um, that one.”  I said as I sheepishly pointed to the suitcase straight out of a Hannah Montana prop closet.

Me and my source of humiliation

“Are you serious?”

“Go ahead, get it out.  I am just here for your entertainment,” I deadpanned.

He just shook his head, and chuckled a bit.  I thought I heard him mumble, “Here you go, Eunuch,” as he handed it to me, but I may have been projecting.

I guess the silver lining of having my luggage lost is that only one person gets to laugh and point.  I usually disseminate that pleasure among an entire wing of the airport.  The standard line is: “You sure that one’s yours, buddy?  It looks just like so many of the other ones.”  Good thing I don’t cuss.  (At least as far as you know, mom).

When I got the suitcase up to the office and opened it, I was once again confronted with the fact that I am a hypergamist.

If one Googles “Marrying Up,” the first hit is for the Wikipedia page for Hypergamy.  And if one clicks on that link, my picture pops up as the quintessential case.  For those of you who know both me and Joline, this is little more than a “duh” statement.  But how is it relevant here?

Well, when I unzipped my Disney Channel souvenir, I remembered that Joline had separated my underwear and t-shirts into two piles and had put one pile into each suitcase.  (Yes, she packs my suitcases.  See id. at Hypergamy).  Her ostensible purpose was to balance the cushion load so that the electronic equipment I was “muling” for a Ugandan judge would not get damaged in transit.

But I was too smart for her – I figured out that she was hedging against the possibility that one of my suitcases wouldn’t make it.

And I resented her for it.

Which is why I am a hypergamist.

And today, quite proud of it.

The Tenth Time’s A Charm

It took until I was 42 before I left my comfort zone to try to help others who weren’t blessed with the same opportunities my family and culture afforded me.  I often lament the fact that I waited so long, and I am grateful that my children have jumped in early.

Perhaps I am subconsciously trying to make up for lost time now, as I have almost completed my journey back to Uganda for the tenth time in three years.  (I am on a layover in Kenya right now).  I certainly did not intend for Uganda to be a second home when I first ventured here in January of 2010.

This trip, in many ways, is the trip I have most anticipated and most feared since I knew it would be necessary.  In many ways it is surreal that the time has finally come to close the first chapter opened during my first trip to Uganda.

During that trip, I met 21 children who were imprisoned awaiting trial.  Within two months, 17 of the 21 had been released.  Shortly thereafter, the boy (Henry) with whom I had grown close was convicted of murder.  This prompted my second trip during which I prepared his Pre-Sentence Report.  One month later, he was sentenced to one year of probation, released, and restarted school (at Bob Goff’s Restore International in Gulu).  But Henry’s case was far from over.  The conviction could not stand.  It was contrary to both the facts and the law.  The deceased, a fellow prisoner, had died from what appeared to be an asthma attack after an unsuccessful escape attempt while he and the other prisoners were working as slave laborers, hired out by the adult matron running the juvenile prison.

The lawyer representing Henry also represented his co-accused – the adult matron.  Because she faced the death penalty if convicted, and because Henry’s maximum sentence was three years because he was a juvenile, the lawyer called no witnesses in Henry’s defense.  Instead, he called the matron to testify against Henry and told Henry that he needed to take one for the team.

During that second trip to prepare Henry’s Pre-Sentence Report, I also secured a Ugandan lawyer to represent Henry on appeal.  A few months later, I became aware of an obscure provision under Ugandan law that would allow a foreign lawyer to apply for special permission to appear in a single case in Ugandan courts.  Shortly thereafter, I was issued a Special Practicing Certificate and became Henry’s counsel of record on the appeal.

After more than two years of delays, mostly caused by an intervening Ugandan election, the oral argument on the appeal is finally scheduled to take place – Tuesday, March 12th.  The prospect of being the first American to argue before the Ugandan courts is pretty cool.  It is, however, even more daunting.

I still get jitters before teaching Torts – for the 13th time.  Suffice it to say that my jitters have their own set of jitters as this date approaches.  With the help of my then-research-assistant-now- Pepperdine-Law-Dean-of-Students Al Sturgeon, I wrote the appellate brief in the summer of 2010.  So I have been thinking about this case for a long time.  Accordingly, I feel quite ready on a substantive level.  I am more nervous about whole idea of it all than I am in standing up in front of three judges to talk about a case about which I could not be more passionate.

On three of  my prior trips, my luggage was delayed a day or two, which is why I am landing late Thursday night in advance of a Tuesday argument.  Additionally, I will have the opportunity on Monday to watch a few arguments in order to get a better sense of the style and tempo.

As you might expect, I would be grateful for your prayers for my nerves and blood pressure.  There is another potential complication about which I will write if things go according to plan on Tuesday.  Please be praying that there are no logistical complications relating to getting Henry to the hearing without causing him any setbacks in his current situation.  We are praying fervently that this will receive zero media attention in Uganda.

A Collection of Thoughts

I was sitting in my dining room re-reading the posts I have written in the past and reflecting on them. Reading them made me wonder, “What happened to that girl?” What happened to the girl who was never afraid to be who she was supposed to be and follow her call from God? What happened to the girl whose faith was so strong it felt tangible? Where is she? Is her soul still in Uganda? Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that being away from Uganda makes me feel sad sometimes, and at other times, just plain empty.
My main goal is to make you readers realize something. I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s hard to follow the calling of God when I am separated from my home. Okay, so maybe you guys have all heard me talk about how I don’t want to go back and live in Uganda, but that isn’t always true. I wish, I wish, I wish that there was some way I could just escape from Malibu and my school and the snobby rich kids and just go back to a time when I was with people that were satisfied with having so little. I want to live the life God wants me to. I want to be that Christian that other Christians go to for advice.
I want, I want, I want. I am selfish and I always want more. For a while, I thought that I was able to be satisfied with wanting nothing, and never think about wanting more “stuff”. But it’s harder than it seems to live selflessly and do everything God wants me to do all the time. People think that our family is special, but really, we’re just an ordinary family who decided to embark on an extraordinary journey. Today I was thinking about what my life would be like if I had never been to Uganda. So many things would be different, and my life would not be as amazing and I wouldn’t have such a strong relationship with God.
If you can understand this, I want to be in Uganda every second of every day, but at the same time, I just can’t. I am forced to stay in the USA and act like another American pre-teen. But, I have the choice to live an extraordinary life for God and also be stuck home at the same time. I’m pretty sure most of these jumbled thoughts are contradicting each other, but, quite frankly, that doesn’t matter to me. I just want you all to hear my thoughts and feelings so you can be praying for me, and that I figure out how to live a life for God while in California.
Thanks for listening to all these jumbled emotions!
God bless, Jennifer Gash

Fun and Games in Gulu

Malaria has been largely contained in urban Kampala.  While local residents still contract this mosquito-borne illness quite regularly, it usually comes about two weeks after they travel “up country.”  While I religiously take my daily dose of doxycycline when I am here, I don’t bother to coat myself in mosquito repellant every waking hour (like Joline does).  I don’t floss either.  A bite here and there in Kampala is little more than an itchy nuisance.

But when I venture out of Kampala, I break out the spray and vigilantly hunt down the little bat rastards before I turn out the hotel room light each night.

David and I unceremoniously escorted a few of them to the hereafter in our shared room in Gulu before turning in Friday night.  We had to rig our respective mosquito nets in order to avoid the nets touching our heads while we slept.  David outrigged me by a fair margin.  I couldn’t quite close the entire gap between the bottom of the net and the top of the one side of the bed, but figured it wouldn’t matter since I had added a second skin of “Off” to my muscular and toned frame.

So when I jolted awake at 4:30 a.m. to the unmistakable sound of mosquito wings dive bombing my Lincolnesque forehead, I was pissed.  I quickly figured out that the miniature Dracula had already hors d’oeuvred my left hand and right forehead.  Not wanting to turn on the light and wake David, I sprang into action, whipping my hands about my face and body in an attempt to send the offender into hiding onto the net somewhere.  I then lickety splitted the corners of the net together and twisted like a Chubby Checkers aficionado.  (Notwithstanding my earlier wishful musing, I already had the chubby part well in hand).  Since my net was now rendered useless, I compensated by emptying the rest of the bottle of Off onto myself and then mummifying all but my breathing holes.  No more bites that night.

After breakfast, Kelsey, David, and I waited patiently for our Ugandan counterparts to arrive from their hotel across town.  A few minutes after they should have picked us up, they called and reported that they couldn’t get the van going.  They had tried seven push-starts, but to no avail.  They informed us they were going to recruit some locals to give it one last try, and then cry uncle.  Ten minutes, and ten pushing Ugandans later, they were rolling.  David and I couldn’t help but marvel at our strength-of-five-Ugandans-each manhood.

From the hotel, we drove out to the Restore Leadership Academy to catch up with some old friends and to check out the construction progress.  As I have written about before, this secondary school was founded by Bob Goff and Restore International six or seven years ago to bring hope and a sterling education to a region devastated by Joseph Kony and the LRA.  This is also the school where Henry and Joseph enrolled after gaining their release from the Ihungu Remand Home thirty months ago.  After enduring several years of mindless bureaucracy, Restore finally secured clear title to a large chunk of land it had purchased outside of Gulu.  Construction is in full swing and it looks great.

Staff Housing and Boys' Dorms at Restore

Major Progress on the Guest House

“Second John,” as he is sometimes called because he succeeded John Niemeyer (aka “Two-Bunk John”) as Restore’s country director, gave us a tour of the place.  We also got to spend some time with Joseph, who begins his final year at Restore next week.

Joseph, Jim, Kirby, David, Joshua, and Daniel at Restore

It was gratifying to see where the new primary school will be built, which will enable Restore to serve all levels of education in Gulu.

From there, we drove to the Gulu Remand Home to meet with the warden and to tour the facility.  Though grossly underfunded and understaffed, the Remand Home’s warden is doing an excellent job of holding things together.  Likewise, the Resident Judge is doing his best to keep the kids moving through the system.  There is still plenty of work to do, but things are not falling apart like in a few other locations in Uganda.

Mural at Gulu Remand Home

We finished our work at the Remand Home at around 1:00 p.m., so we decided to sample the local cuisine before beginning the five-plus hour drive back to Kampala.  I ordered the goat, and immediately regretted it.  Rather than being in cube-shaped meat hunks on a bed of rice like goats naturally occur in the wild, mine was . . . well, different.  It was in a bowl, rather than on a plate, and while there were a few irregular-shaped meat hunks, they were still clinging to bone shards.  And they had some friends.  One of the friends looked remarkably like a digestive system.

“They are intestines,” (pronounced with a long second i) said Sarah.  “They are very nice.”

“They look like a science experiment.  I am not eating them,” I declared.

“Then I will.”  And she did.

The other friend of the meat-on-a-roof-of-the-mouth-piercing-bone-spear looked more like an octopus than anything else.

Goat "parts"

“What is this?” I asked the two Americans and four Ugandans at the table.

After a pregnant pause following six intent stares, Brian the prosecutor said, “It is [unintelligible Lugandan word].”

“Huh?”

After unsuccessfully searching for an unsurprisingly absent English translation, he said, “It is the part where dung is stored before it goes out.”

“Umm, the anus?” I asked.

“Yes, and the part before that.  “It doesn’t taste bad,” Brian replied.

“Umm, you know what goat anus tastes like?” I inquired.

Sarah, who had previously slurped down the intestines like they were gummy bears, said, “For me, I don’t eat that part.”

I guess everyone draws the line somewhere.

David had taken quite an intense interest in my anus, well not my anus, but the goat anus on my plate, and was turning it over with his fork and studying it.  “It looks like it has teeth,” he finally declared.  He was right.

I asked Kirby how much I would have to pay her to eat it.  She wisely responded that she wouldn’t eat it for a billion shillings.  And she wasn’t kidding.  I concurred.

But David seemed perplexed by our ingestion allergy to the south end of a northbound goat.  So Kirby and I offered him 20,000 shillings each (totaling $16).  His manhood now had a price, and he accepted the dare.  By this time, the attention of the entire restaurant had focused on our table.

We took some pictures and started the “Go, Go, Go” chant.  Just as he deposited the bung hole into his pie hole, I colorfully described the scenario in ways I shan’t repeat because my mother is reading this.  Realization must have finally hit David, because he sputtered and heaved a bit.

David holding it together . . . barely

In the end, he held it together and got it down, but not without nearly five minutes of chewing and chasing with anything he could find that didn’t resemble butt.

When we reached the halfway point on our journey back to Kampala, Sarah barked something to Daniel in Luganda.  He immediately pulled over at one of the many road-side markets.

“Why are we stopping, Daniel?”  David inquired.

“Sarah wants to buy some chickens,” Daniel responded.

“Wait, live chickens?”  David said.  “We can’t bring live chickens into van with us.”

“Yes, we can,” came the chorus.  David hasn’t been in Uganda long enough.

After ten minutes of haggling, we were on our way again . . . with four additional passengers – two roosters and two hens, tied at the ankles.

Roadside Transaction

The rest of the ride home passed uneventfully, with only an occasional note of protest from the new additions.

*          *          *

Sunday morning, I hired a car to take me to pick up Henry from his school for a long breakfast at the nearly-American Café Javas.  David met us there and we spent about four hours catching up with Henry.

When I dropped Henry back off at school, I had a chance to chat with his Physics teacher, who has become a good friend.  This turned into an impromptu Sunday lunch at his sister’s house.

Sunday lunch with teacher Jonathan's sister and niece

I took a quick nap, then headed to the airport.  As I finish this post, I am chilling in the Amsterdam lounge on a four-hour layover.  It has been a good trip, but I will be glad to be back with my family.  I recorded the Super Bowl and am staying off the internet so I can watch it “live” on Monday evening when I get home.  Go Niners.

Déjà Vu

Friday morning began with a torrential rain storm mere words are ill-equipped to capture when uttered by anyone other than Noah himself.  Imagine yourself standing under a high capacity shower head.  Then turn on two more.  Then turn on a Vornado fan so the water blows sideways.  Then plug the drain.  Then kneel.

At one point, the water through which Daniel navigated was a hair under four-feet deep.  I wish I was exaggerating.  Vans such as the one in which we are traveling, by necessity, divert their exhaust pipes up the side of the car so the exhaust blows above the roof.  Without this modification, the rain storms would cripple these vehicles, and I would wear floaties under my suit jacket.

Flood Resistant Exhaust Diverter

When it rains this hard, the boda drivers lose their customers (and their will to navigate the streets on motorcycles), which further swells the vehicular traffic.  This, coupled with the newly birthed rivers flowing through the streets, naturally leads to gridlock.  So we were late getting out of town on our way to the Ihungu Remand Home in Masindi.

*          *          *

Life in Uganda is lived in the moment.  The vast majority of the population grows its own food, fetches water daily from community pump wells, and worries not about tomorrow – today is simply enough.  I often wonder if this at least partially explains the deep and abiding faith in God of most Ugandans.  Likewise, emotions reside quite near the surface here.  And for me, these emotions spill over whenever my work summons me back to Ihungu – where my first glance down into the well of desperation of children waiting for justice came.

I will forget my name, my birth date, and most other things I have seen and done in life before I forget what I saw when I first walked into the boys’ custody at Ihungu three years ago.

“Is this OK with you?” I felt myself being asked.  “What are you going to do about it,” nipped the next question at the heels of the first.

“Nothing.  Not me.  Someone else.  Where would I even start,” came my feeble, but emphatic, reply.  But the questions persisted like a cold sore.  My tongue kept flicking at it, hoping it would be gone each time I checked.

One of the many images I couldn’t shake was of Katwesige Scovia, sitting in the dirt on the periphery, giggling and casting her eyes down every time one of us looked at her or tried to talk to her.  She was fourteen years old.  My Jessica was also fourteen.  My heart broke for her innocence lost, and my mind mourned her hopeless future.

I was overjoyed to learn, however, that John Niemeyer on behalf of Restore International had arranged for her to be enrolled in a Cornerstone program when she was released.  A few months later, however, my sorrow returned when I learned she had dropped out of the program.  Time first scabbed, then later scarred over, this wound.  Every month or two, a memory of Scovia re-surfaced, but she had mostly receded into the teaming masses of memories from my multiplying months in Uganda.

Until yesterday.

“How many girls do you have here now,” I asked Carol.  (Carol, simply known as “mom” to the inmates, is the matron who stays with and cares for them.  Were it not for Sixty Feet, who pays Carol’s salary and provides other necessities for her, the inmates would be motherless (twice over) and unsupervised).

“There are two – one on remand, and one who is leaving on Sunday,” Carol said.

“Where is she going Sunday,” I asked.

“She was released by the court earlier this week, and we are taking her to Kampala so she can go back to school,” she responded.

“Why is she going to Kampala for school,” I inquired.

“She cannot afford to go to school, but she has a sponsor who has admitted her into a program,” she said with a smile.

“Who is sponsoring her,” I queried.

“Sixty Feet,” she said as she pointed to Kirby across the way.

God bless you, Sixty Feet!

I explained to Carol that we needed to talk to each of the children at Ihungu on remand (waiting to go to court) so we can get them lawyers and move their cases along.  She understood and mobilized the troops.  David and a UCLF lawyer set up one station, while Sarah and I set up another.  Kirby set to work assessing the material needs of the Remand Home.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw through the door to the girls’ custody and noticed something familiar.  The open door was relatively new because the old door is actually mounted on my wall at home.

The New Door

There is more about that here and here.  The familiarity that Deja’d my Vu, however, had nothing to do with the door.  It was the girl inside.  She looked to be about 17 and I felt like I had seen her before.  But where?

“We will start with her,” I said to Carol as I motioned to the open doorway.

“Scovia, you come and talk to him,” Carol instructed.

My breath caught as the nickel dropped.  She came and sat directly across from me, her almost imperceptibly smiling eyes meeting mine.  “You are Katwesige Scovia,” I said to her in a whisper, because a whisper spent all I had in reserve.

“And you are Jim Gas,” she declared with a grin.  Close enough.  While I did take a photograph of her, I hesitate to put both faces and names together of children inmates on the web.

“How have you been?  It has been three years, and I never thought I would see you again,” I said.

Over the next ten minutes, we talked about what she had been doing (not much) and why she was again at Ihungu (theft).  I pulled up computer pictures of her and the others who had been with her three years ago and we laughed together.

“Where is John Niemeyer,” she asked.  “Can he visit me on Sunday?”

“He is in America.  He is one of my students now,” I replied.

“When will he visit me again,” she asked, still not quite comprehending.

As I write this, now 24 hours later, I can’t quite decide whether I am glad I got to see her again, or whether well enough was better left alone.  She is still my daughter’s age, and the difference between their lives could not be more profound.  Scovia will likely be released right about the time Jessica starts her freshman year at Pepperdine.  None of this is yet OK with me, but I am learning that what is bigger than me belongs to God.  I am also learning just how small I really am.

After we concluded the fact-finding interviews of the children on remand, the warden arrived from court.  It was good to catch up with my old friend Mr. William.  Before we left, he reminded me that the last time I was there, I had given him enough money to buy meat for the inmates – a luxury they are seldom afforded.  A steady diet of beans and posho (corn meal) is all they get.

“Will you buy them meat again, Mr. Jim,” he pleaded, more than asked.

How could I say no?  For 50,000 shillings, all 26 could get some protein and a little dietary variety.  I gladly forked over the equivalent of $20.  My paltry “generosity” shames me even as I write this.  I could have given them meat for a week and not even noticed a dent.

Trust, but verify.  For accountability, I made sure Carol the matron knew about the upcoming feast.  Soon, the inmates knew and cheered.  Such a little matters so much here – a lesson I too often forget.

From Masindi, we made our way north to Gulu.  I have made this drive enough that I no longer need to change my underwear multiple times during the trip.  The Volkswagen-sized potholes, the daredevil pedestrians, the suicidal bicyclists, the buses and trucks forcing other vehicles off the road at regular intervals, the brush-clearing wildfires, the urinating-by-the-side-of-the-road-while-looking-at-you locals, the road-meat hawkers, and the begging baboons will never grow old.

Gulu Baboons

We arrived in Gulu just before dark.  David, Kirby, and I stayed at the “upscale” Churchill Courts Hotel, while the others set off in search of a more affordable option on which to spend the customary per diem Sixty Feet had graciously allotted them for the trip.  The less they spent on lodging the more they were able to keep.  This disparity of accommodations produced more than a slight pang of guilt, but clean linens, hot water, and electricity (amenities we enjoyed, and they didn’t) brought our accommodations to within shouting distance of a Motel Six.

We enjoyed a comfortable outdoor dinner in what is usually stifling Gulu heat in the hotel’s courtyard before turning in for the evening.

Saturday will be my first visit to the Gulu Remand Home.

Pushing Things Forward

Thursday ended up being a fitting metaphor for the work we have been trying to accomplish in Uganda over the past three years.

In addition to Monday’s plea bargaining session and additional meetings, the primary purpose of this trip was to travel to three of the five Remand Homes in Uganda in order to (i) perform an assessment of the status and needs of the Remand Homes, and (ii) mobilize the relevant constituents for an expansion of the J-FASTER program we established for the Naguru Remand Home in Kampala.  David Nary has done a spectacular job of keeping the ball rolling (and developing further momentum) for J-FASTER, so we have all the pieces in place.

For this Remand Home tour, David put together a crack team.  Joining David and me are Sarah from the Court (Sarah has been working with us on J-FASTER since the beginning), Brian from the prosecutor’s office, Joshua from the Uganda Christian Lawyer’s Fraternity, Kirby Tyler from Sixty Feet (who have heroically funded J-FASTER from the beginning), and David’s driver Daniel.  Since the seven of us couldn’t fit in Daniel’s court car, Daniel secured a court van for our road trip.

Our first destination was to be Mbale in Eastern Uganda.  Our plan was to leave Kampala at 6:30 a.m. so we could make our meeting with the Resident High Court Judge at 11:00, before visiting the Remand Home.  It is often said that when men plan, God laughs.  If this is true, then God ripped his britches in a fit of hilarity at our expense.  I think he is still giggling.

When Daniel arrived to pick up the van in the morning, it was locked up.  The dude with key was apparently still feasting on his morning posho and matoke.  Thirty minutes later, Daniel was rolling.  Another thirty minutes later, we were all rolling.  Literally.

Just as we crested a hill on the east side of town, the gas gauge light came on warning us that we would soon be out of fuel.  And then we were out of fuel.  The customary delay between warning and empty was vaporous.  The engine coughed, sputtered, then went on strike.  Being the experienced driver he is, Daniel avoided the brake like it had malaria, eased onto the shoulder, and began pummeling the horn like he was boda driver who had caught a thief.  All of us scanned the horizon like it was our job, looking for a Shell, Total, or other purveyor of what we needed, and needed badly.  Diddly squat.

What we did see, however, was a gentle down slope for the next kilometer or so.  Chants of “I think I can, I think I can” echoed through my head.  Horn blaring, eyes scanning, breath holding, leaning forward for what seemed like minutes.  “Thar she blows!”  Up on our left, which in Uganda is the side we need, a City Oil station came into view . . . just after the road sloped back up.  We celebrated anyway.

As we hit the bottom of the hill and started to climb, our momentum abandoned us.  The uphill orientation of the van, however, shifted the remaining fumes to at least one of the spark plugs, which fired all it had for the cause, giving us three seconds of acceleration before retreating to its impotence.  It was just enough.  High fives all around.

We had a four-hour drive ahead of us, so we filled one tank . . . and emptied the others (if you know what I mean and I think you do).

“Everyone ready,” Daniel finally asked.

“Ready,” came the unison reply.

Click.  Click.  Click, said the starter when Daniel turned the key.

“Umm, is that a bad sign?” I (the highly trained and keenly perceptive mechanic) quizzically inquired.

Daniel showed remarkable restraint by not throat punching me then and there.  “I must check the engine,” came his calm reply.

Great, I’ll help.  Umm, where is the engine?

Under the front passenger seat, where David was sitting.  That’s a new one.  Like a Ninja, Daniel had the patient opened up and into surgery before I could even get out of my seat in the second row to lend my expertise to the examination.  Fortunately for everyone, my egress was completely blocked by Daniel’s labors.

Checking the Engine

Dr. Daniel quickly diagnosed the problem, closed the patient, and issued his prescription.  “We must push it to start.”

Excellent!  David and I got out – him at the back and me at the open sliding door.  And Kirby got out – a camera.  This was a hallmark moment.

Pushing Things Forward

We recruited several onlookers who must have been members of the Ugandan bobsled team because we had that sucker rolling pretty quickly even on the slight incline.  When Daniel popped the clutch, the car simultaneously roared to life and halted its forward progress.  Simple laws of physics obeyed the Grand Design, the obviousness of which had heretofore eluded me.  When the car’s forward momentum abated, the well-greased sliding door glided along its tracks like a Ugandan bobsled on Siberian ice . . . toward my goofily grinning jack-o-lantern.  Only my cat-like quickness (and my meaty shoulder) averted otherwise certain catastrophe.  Good thing I own the P90X DVDs, or I really could have gotten hurt.  Had I actually taken the DVDs out of the individual wrappers, I might have actually damaged the door.

For the rest of day, every time we stopped, Daniel parked on a downslope if one could be found.  And from the third time forward, I remembered to watch out for the door when Daniel popped the clutch.  On occasion, we had help pushing things forward from locals, and at times we simply had a cheering section as they watched the mzungus wearing the funny clothes push the car.

The rest of the trip could not have gone better.  We made it to the meeting with the judge on time, and he couldn’t have been more receptive.  He was well aware of the J-FASTER program – Chief Justice Odoki had given a report at the recently concluded judicial conference and encouraged its widespread adoption – and was kind with his words of gratitude and encouragement.  Since we had all the players in the meeting – the judge, his registrar, the prosecutor’s office, the defense lawyers, the donor organization funding the enterprise, and the logistical managers of J-FASTER (David and Sarah) – we developed an aggressive time schedule to get the 40 kids currently held on remand awaiting trial (20 capital and 20 non-capital cases) in the Mbale Remand Home.

When Shane Michael and I designed J-FASTER, we thought we were being ambitious in setting up the four-phase process to take place over a three-month period.  With the encouragement of the Resident Judge, we adopted a three-week time table for this session.  I am under no illusions that this time frame will hold, but I am heartened that the Ugandans are not only not resisting this new structure for juvenile justice, but are embracing it enthusiastically.

After a quick lunch, and a quick push start, we drove out to the Mbale Remand Home.  During my three years of involvement with incarcerated juveniles in Uganda, I have only previously visited two of the five Remand Homes.  My first experience was with Ihungu in Masindi, where I met Henry.  Conditions were deplorable there.  My second experience (and now most extensive) has been with Naguru in Kampala, which is a definite step up and at least livable.

The Mbale Remand Home was actually fairly nice.  The grounds are well manicured, the buildings are clean, and conditions are more than adequate for the children.  The staff was professional and seemed genuinely compassionate.  In fact, one member of the staff was recently transferred from Naguru, so he has been through J-FASTER with us and is an enthusiastic supporter.  The new warden there is professional, competent, and pleasant.  At the current time, there are 40 boys and no girls on remand, awaiting trial.

The Tally

Twenty are charged with capital offenses, and twenty are charged with petty offenses.  All forty of these boys now have lawyers, provided by the UCLF.  We took pictures of the boys, verified all the vital information, and worked with the staff to prepare a budget for the upcoming session.

David Interviewing Juveniles

Once again, this meeting could not have gone better.  While the drive home was long, it was quite satisfying.  The satisfaction level climbed two notches when we decided to end the day with a meal at Newab, my favorite Indian restaurant in Kampala.  The goat chops were positively delightful.

*          *          *

As I was relaying the events of the day to my saintly and sage wife Joline last night, she observed that today’s events encapsulated our experiences in Uganda.  We started out driving the car – making things happen ourselves.  We have now progressed to a point where we are filling the car with fuel and accompanying the Ugandans as they drive.  We occasionally need to get out and push things forward to kick start the engine again, but they are now driving.  We are working toward a day when we will simply be standing to the side and cheering them on.

Totally Uncoup

Court holidays in Uganda come early and often throughout the year.  Sometimes they come unexpectedly.  Last Wednesday, the government declared this Wednesday to be a national holiday — NRM day.  NRM stands for the National Resistance Movement, which is the ruling political party of Uganda.  Imagine if President Obama declared next Wednesday to be National Democratic Party Day.

The timing of this holiday was strategic, as talk of a military coup has been dominating the headlines for the last week.  President Museveni, the head of the NRM party, is increasingly embattled this year – his 27th in power.  As President, he is also head of the military and came to power himself in 1986 as a result of a military coup.  A few of the top generals have made some public comments, implying that another coup has been under discussion, though they have recently tried to walk back these comments, claiming they were hypothetical and only intended to increase pressure on Museveni’s government to crack down on a recent spate of corruption.  By calling a public holiday, Museveni curries favor with the working class (because they don’t have to work), and generates lots of media stories about the progress NRM has made for the country during the past 27 years in power.

The timing of the court holiday, however, put some extra pressure on my meeting schedule while I am here in town this week.

On Tuesday morning, I hired a driver to take me out to Henry’s school so I could pay his school fees for this first term, which started on Monday.  (A quick shout out to my parents, who are graciously footing the bill for Henry’s top-flight education).  I had a chance to spend a little time with one of Henry’s teachers while I was out there, and arranged to hire a few tutors for Henry so he can have the best chance possible of excelling in his last year of secondary education before starting university.

The next stop was a meeting with the registrar of the court of appeals.  I am trying to manage my expectations (because I have been disappointed before), but it now looks like the appeal I will be arguing will take place in mid-March in the capital city of Kampala.  I should know more next week.

Since I released my driver when he dropped me at the court of appeals, I took a boda from there over to the Commercial Court to meet up with David.  This time, I selected a driver without a helmet.  This equalized our survival incentives.  Unsurprisingly, this ride was much less harrowing than Monday’s.

David’s driver Daniel drove us to our scheduled lunch with a US Embassy official.  I had met this official when I lived in Kampala last June and wanted to both re-connect with him and to introduce him to David.  When I last met with this official, I had told him about J-FASTER and about the plans we had for it.  He was quite interested and wanted to be briefed on the successes since we last talked.  We also talked about the potential of partnering on future adult justice projects.  It was an excellent meeting, but nothing firm emerged.

From there, I went to the High Court and met with Chief Justice Odoki – the father of Uganda’s legal system.  He will be sorely missed when he reaches the mandatory retirement age of 70 in the next few months.  We then met with the judge who is handling the J-FASTER session scheduled to open next week.  This judge is the one I worked for most directly during my sabbatical stay in Kampala in 2012.  He was pleased to hear about the successful plea bargaining session on Monday.  We also discussed my idea for taking the next step in the expansion of plea bargaining to the adult realm.  No announcement yet, but it looks quite promising for a June launch.  (Joline, Jessica (my oldest), and I will be returning to Uganda for four weeks this summer).

David and I closed the evening with a great dinner with Justice K and his wife, and Justice Mike Chibita and his wife.  I had only briefly met Justice Chibita during my first trip to Uganda in January of 2010.  At the time, he was not on the bench, but was running Uganda’s version of the IRS and was also serving as President of the Uganda Christian Lawyers’ Fraternity.  He is now the Resident Judge for Fort Portal, which is located in southwestern Uganda, near where the Gorillas chill in the mist.  Justice Chibita has been a great friend and mentor to two of our prior Nootbaar Fellows – John Napier and Brett LoVellette.  It appears that our June project will allow me to work rather closely with Justice Chibita, and perhaps to get to know a few of the Silver Back gorillas in the region as well.

My date with Nyquil ended the evening on a rather pleasant note.

*          *          *

The national holiday on Wednesday slowed down the pace of things considerably, except on the roads.  The nightmarish Ugandan traffic all but disappears on Sundays . . . and on holidays.  Everyone stays home or goes to church.  This allowed me free reign in the city.

Next weekend, Pepperdine Law’s Nootbaar Institute for Law, Religion, and Ethics is hosting an international conference on Inter-Country Adoption.  I had the idea for this conference after getting involved in a handful of these cases while I was here in Uganda in early 2012.  This conference will wrestle with the theological, ethical, political, and legal aspects of what some call “orphan care” and others call “child trafficking.”  Here is a link to this conference.  Speakers from all over the world will spend two full days discussing best practices and potential solutions to the world-wide orphan crisis.  Two such speakers (Mark Riley and Isaac Obiro) will be traveling from Uganda to participate in a case-study panel focusing on what is happening on the ground in Uganda.  The third panelist will be Sara Ribbens who, along with her husband Andy, adopted two Ugandan children in 2012.  I have become quite close with, and fond of, both Mark and Isaac, both of whom occupy different ends of the IA spectrum.  Mark is a Brit who works with the Ugandan government and UNICEF to develop and implement systems to resettle abandoned children with either their families or with other Ugandan foster parents.  For his part, Isaac is a lawyer who handles both domestic and Inter-country adoptions.

We met for an hour or so discussing next week’s panel, on which I will be serving as moderator.  I also had a chance to meet an American woman named Darby Priest.  Darby is a fellow ACU grad and a friend of my dear friends (the Istres).  She has been in Uganda for a few months working with Mark and Keren Riley is assisting them with the in-country resettlement of orphans.

David and I later had lunch with Edith Ssempala, former Ugandan Ambassador to the United States.  During my time here last year, I introduced Ambassador Ssempala to my friends at Sixty Feet, and she has since begun working with them in an advisory role.  It was good to connect her with David.  This woman’s faith permeates everything she says and does, and I always feel refreshed after spending time with her.

In the afternoon, David and I met with a lawyer who is working on a country-wide (and well-funded) project with UNICEF dealing with all aspects of caring for children.  She said she had been hearing about the J-FASTER program from lots of quarters and wanted to explore ways to partner with us.  The meeting was quite successful and will lead to several meetings with various groups who could assist in expanding the reach of our work.

I turned in early because Thursday promised to be a long day of driving and meetings on the eastern coast of Uganda.

Settling In

After a memorable trip and first day back in Uganda, Monday held the promise of a day I could really settle in – literally.  One of the main purposes of this trip was to work on settling – by way of plea bargaining – the cases against all of the juveniles in the Naguru Remand Home whose charges had been committed to the High Court.

The Naguru Remand Home, located in the capital city of Uganda, is home to about 150 children who have been arrested and charged with crimes.  These juveniles (ranging in age from 12 to 17) are warehoused at Naguru until they get their day in court.  The charged crimes are divided into two categories – capital and non-capital offenses.  The capital offenses – those eligible for the death penalty if committed by adults – are assigned to the High Court, which is Uganda’s trial court level.  The maximum sentence a juvenile can receive for a capital offense is three years in prison.  The non-capital offenses, those carrying a maximum sentence of one year, are referred to the lower Magistrate Courts.

Of the 150 kids at Naguru, about 50 of them are charged with capital offenses.  But before they can go to court, their cases must be committed to the High Court, which means that the police investigation needs to conclude and the prosecution must prepare an indictment.  There is nothing we can do to help them before this committal happens.  Once they are committed, however, we can move their cases along toward trial or other disposition.

The J-FASTER program we developed and are implementing moves these cases capital cases quickly through the system by assigning the juveniles a lawyer from the Uganda Christian Lawyers Fraternity (UCLF), and getting their cases onto a cause list.  Over the past few months, David Nary has been working with the UCLF, the Judiciary, the prosecution, the governmental agency over the Remand Homes, and Sixty Feet.  Sixty Feet is the Atlanta-based Christian NGO that is critical to making this entire thing happen.  Their generous and unwavering support of these imprisoned kids provides the resources for the entire enterprise.

Yesterday was the culmination of all of the planning – the plea bargaining session.  All 21 kids whose cases had been committed to the High Court are represented by UCLF lawyers.  Fifteen of us gathered around a boardroom table yesterday and discussed each of the 21 cases.  By the end of the six-hour session, we had reached a tentative resolution on 18 of the 21 juvenile cases.  Over the next few days, the settlements will be finalized.  On Monday of next week, the trials for the remaining cases, if any, will be scheduled for trial, which will take place over the ensuing three or four weeks.

While a majority of the juveniles whose cases settled on Monday will still need to serve a few more months under the plea agreements, they now know when they will be going home.  In the past, most of them would still be waiting a year from now to hear when they might get a court date.

After we concluded the day’s proceedings, I got a call from a courier hired by Kenya Airways – he had my bags.  It was nice to get fresh clothes . . . and the four pillows with which I am accustomed to traveling.

David and I had a good Mexican food dinner at Lotus Mexicana and discussed the rest of the upcoming week.  The five-mile ride home took nearly two hours in the car I hired to take me and my bags back to the Sixty Feet compound for the evening.  Yes, traffic blows even at 8:00 p.m.  But I was glad that having my bags with me gave me an excuse not to take a boda boda home.