An Afternoon Soundbite

In the middle of giving a tutorial on how to use the new template I created for my NGO's quarterly newsletter, my supervisor says in a deep, rich accent:

"Johldan, can I ask you -- is there something about Jewish eyes? A Ugandan woman in town whose grandparents were Jews told me that you can tell who is a Jew by looking in their eyes. So, every time I look at you I keep thinking I will find something special or strange in your eyes, but I haven't found anything yet. Every single day I am looking ... So, is it true? Can you tell who is a Jew from their eyes?"

Two minutes later ...

"What about Jewish hair? It's always curly, yes? When I see Jews in the movies, they have curly hair. When your hair was long, was it curly?"

30 seconds later ...

"Do you call yourself Jewish or just Jew? And what about Israelite? Are you that, too?"

This promptly put an end to newsletter template orientation and opened up a more lively conversation about the myths, mysteries, and intrigue of my Tribe. Yes!

Jews in Uganda ...

Much has happened since I last wrote. I've learned a lot about HIV, written a questionnaire to identify the ways in which HIV-positive patients and doctors are stigmatized in Ugandan hospitals, visited the source of the Nile, hiked to the Sipi waterfalls, been told on the buffet line at Plate Cafe that I'm "eating like an African" (read: eating sumptuously with hefty, starch-heavy servings) and experienced several day-long, city-wide power outages ... which accounts for the lull in activity on this blog ... writing in the dark on a juiceless laptop is quite challenging ...

I also visited Uganda's Jewish community -- the Abayudaya (Lugandan for Children of Judah)-- to attend the installation ceremony of its first rabbi. I also spent Shabbat with them, which was pretty magical. Check out my article about the Abayudaya which was published in this past week's Jewish Forward.

Culture Shock Snap-Shot: My Male Maid

I have a maid. His name is Silva (or is it Silver? Hard to say). He lives behind the patio in a stucco hut against the wall where the lizards and the rats run their night-time obstacle course. He wears white cut-off jeans that fall just below the knee, a button-down white shirt, and rubber galoshes. Sometimes he wears battered flip-flops. A white radio ear piece dangles from his right ear, reverberating a reggae beat . When I leave for work, he offers a gentle wave and wishes me “a good journey.” When I arrive home at the end of the day, he offers: “Welcome back” and a warm, smile-nod. On Saturday, he calls to me from my kitchen where he has already entered without knocking. Privacy does not rank high on the Ugandan values chart; shared space does.

“Hallo? Hallo? Madam?”

I stumble to the stucco arch-way in my boxer shorts and tank top, tripping on the tiny step at the foot of my room, and squinting at the glare from the sun. Silva sees that I am half asleep. “Good morning, Madam. You were still sleeping?” He hands me a pile of heavily starched and ironed laundry.

It’s 8am on a Saturday, and a male Ugandan maid has waltzed into my flat unannounced to hand me a pile of clean laundry.

“Are you staying home today, Madam?”
“For a little while.”
“May I wash the floor?”
“Yes, thank you.” I hear myself reply because I really have no choice.

Answering “Yes” feels uncomfortable and exploitive, but answering “No” suggests disrespect, dissatisfaction, a lack of appreciation. A “No” might even cost him his job, should the landlord think I am not pleased. In Uganda, this is just how it is: if you don’t live in the slums or out on the street, you have a maid. S/he comes with your flat and is included in the cost of rent, much like the sink and the burner. You have a maid whether you’re black or white—it’s not about race. You have one whether you live modestly or luxuriously—it’s not about class.

So, Silva washes my clothes, scrubs my shower, fixes the gas stove when it breaks, irons my shirts so I don’t get jiggers. When day breaks, he sweeps the patio speckled with flaky mosquito wings and sun-crunched mango leaves. When night falls, he does the same. He asks if there is anything special I would like.

I would like to do my laundry myself. I would like to offer you a cup of coffee. I would like you to be treated kindly by my landlord. I would like you to have a more dignified job. I would like to be your friend.

“No, Silva, I am just fine today. Thank you.”
“Have a nice day, Madam. Nice day and a good journey.”

The Animal Kingdom Walks to Work

A little less exotic, but no less loved.

July 4th Came Early

The July 4th celebration hosted by the U.S. Embassy in Uganda was on June 29th. Too difficult to celebrate July 4th on a weekday. It was an outdoor, picnic-style lawn event in a small village on the outskirts of Kampala. We watched Ugandan acrobats flip around in khaki, janitor-like uniforms. We listened to American pop music ... like Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears. My veggie burger—with a delightful peppery kick—was tasty. So was the pineapple and the “Happy Birthday, USA!” frosted cake. The fireworks were … fireworks: loud and flashy and colorful. On my camera, they look like a muddy, rain-splattered windshield (which is why they did not get uploaded).

An eclectic assortment of Americans joined in the fun—doctors, diplomats, public health officials, Christian missionaries, and liberal Jews. The Jews, I learned, are all in Uganda doing health-related work. They somehow know half of my friends in the U.S. or are my mother’s students. There were a number of mixed Ugandan-American couples, too, and an impressive showing of Americans with adopted Ugandan children.

So, no fireworks tonight, and no listening to NPR’s recitation of the Declaration of Independence. Instead, I get homemade challah, fresh mango, and some red, white and green (yes, green) Star of David-shaped pasta from the Ugandan market’s Indian food section (I will photograph it once it's cooked). Who knew?

Happy 4th of July!

An Unexpected Gift

It’s rather queer (read: odd) for a girl to live with a boy if the two are not married. Yonatan’s co-workers are fascinated that he lives with a girl (me). They ask questions about “the madam” (who is not his wife). Where is she from? What does she look like? How does she find Uganda? Yesterday, they give Yonatan a gift to bestow to her—a fresh cucumber. Lesson learned: Find an opposite-sex flatmate in Uganda, and “the madam” will be rewarded in vegetables ... ?

You Lunch, You Learn

I’m learning a lot about lunch. First and foremost that it’s essential – bountifully so. Next to riding bodah bodahs, it might be the most valued experience in Ugandan society. At the office, Lillian prepares lunch for our staff (all three of us) in a half-indoor, half-outdoor kitchenette area on the grassy plot where the chickens peck at garbage. She dishes out our meals in huge tupperware containers for each person. On Tuesday, we eat sautéed green bananas, ground nut sauce, potatoes, unidentified root vegetables, a smattering of roasted tomato skins, and the creamiest, sweetest avocado (a whole one!) I’ve ever tried; all mushed together with a thick, stew-like consistency. Everyone eats fast and furiously. I am supposed to finish my lunch in one sitting, but there’s enough food in my container for about three of my small, American muzungu selves. I tell Lillian that lunch is delicious. It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s that I’m small and there isn’t much room in my stomach. There is laughing and thigh-slapping and squealing, so I laugh right along, mocking myself. Winnie jokes that by the time I leave, I will be eating like a Ugandan woman. “Don’t worry, Johldahn, we will teach you how to eat. You will get fat. Fat is beautiful, you know.” I deviantly smuggle the leftover mush into my bag and eat it for breakfast the following morning.

On the days when lunch involves chicken or pig, I take my lunch elsewhere.

“Where are you going to take your lunch today?” Winnie asks.
“Plate Café. I like the pumpkin there, and the mustard greens.”
“How much do you pay for the buffet?”
“5000.” (about $3.25)
“That’s too much.”
“Really?”
”Yes. You need to ask for a reduced price, especially since you don’t eat meat.”
“People bargain at a buffet?”
“Of course, Johldahn. You are in Uganda. You bargain for everything.”
“I don’t like to bargain. I’m not used to it.”
“Ah, but you must, especially since you are a muzungu. Otherwise, they take advantage of you.
“So how much should I ask for the buffet?”
“3500. Nothing less. Speak to the manager, not the girls.”
“The manager is Ugandan?”
“Yes. Tell him where you work and that you will be coming to the buffet every day until you go back to the U.S. If he doesn’t reduce the price, you will no longer eat there.”

* * *

At Plate Café, I ask to speak to the manager about a reduced price. I am taken to a back room where there’s a fake brown leather couch, an over-sized oak table, and a computer that doesn’t appear to be working. The sign on the wall reads: “No Ponography” (the ‘r’ in ‘Porn’ is missing). A woman in a navy blue suit appears. She asks how she can help me. I explain my situation and she tells me to follow her down the corridor to speak with her boss. He is very dark with a big booming voice, bulging eyes, and a thick, fleshy mouth.

“Hello, how are you? How are you feeling?”
“Fine, thank you, how are you?”
”Oh, I am fine, Very, very fine.”
“Am I interrupting?”
“No, no, no. I am here for you. You are always welcome.”

I tell him that I enjoy the buffet, especially the pumpkin and the mustard greens. I also say that I enjoy the ground nut sauce. I explain that I don’t eat meat, that I plan to come eat here every day for lunch, and that I am requesting a reduced price of 3500.

“Where do you come from, Seestah?
“The United States.”
“Ah yes, yes …” He’s thinking for a moment; probably thinking that I am rich.
“3500. You see, I think that price is a bit too little. We are on hard times here, you know.”
“Yes, I understand.” I am a terrible bargainer.
“How about 4000.”
I think for a second, but not long enough.
“Sure. 4000.”
“Good. 4000. I will tell the girls. You will pay at the front. 4000. A special price.”
“Thank you,” I say, extending my hand for another long handshake.
“Tell me, Seestah, what are you doing here?”
“Health and human rights work. Anti-stigma & discrimination for HIV/AIDS.”
I’m learning the buzz phrases used here.
“Ahh, this is good. We need more of this. Enjoy your lunch. You are always welcome.”

* * *

Back at the office, Winnie asks how I did.
“4000.”
“Johldahn.” She laughs, and sucks on her chicken bones.

A Baby

There is a baby on the side of the road. It’s lying on its back, wrapped in a dirty lavender sarong. Its arms extend upward, convulsing against the sky. Its body shakes each time a bodah bodah speeds by, coughing up exhaust and red clay. I hover and stare. I’m not breathing and my heartbeat feels like fear. Snot drips from its nose and its eyes are puffy; I wonder if this baby has AIDS.

From across the road, I hear: “Miss? Do you want this baby?” He’s laughing and his teeth are a sterile white. I stare back at him, uncertain and powerless. “Does it have a mother?” I hear myself say. “I think it’s sick.” He’s still laughing, and I force myself not to cry. “You want to take this baby, yah? Do you?” He is mocking me, maybe. I study the fibers of the dirty sarong as his laughter breathes into a sigh. “Don’t worry, Miss, the mother is cleaning the street. She is over there with the broom. This baby is hers. It’s OK.” I lift my gaze to the street and see her walking slowly, the way I might walk under water. She has rough tufts of straw, a plastic red bucket, and a fistful of trash. She wears a huge grin and warm eyes that I trust. She offers me a gentle nod. The baby is hers.

No Jesus, No Pig

“This Jewish religion … it’s scary.”
“Scary? How so?”
“It’s strange. You know, strange people, strange words, strange food.”
“It’s just different.”
“What about the Bible? How do you interpret it.”
“We have the Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament. But we don’t use the New Testament.”
“Ah, I see. So, how do you pray? What do you talk about? Jesus?”
“Well, no.”
“No Jesus?!”
“No Jesus.”
“Isn’t that boring?”
“Not really. There’s a lot to talk about.”
“What about God?”
“Yes, there is God.”
“But no Jesus?”
“No Jesus. Jews don’t believe Jesus is God.”
“Ah, I see. And what about the food. You eat meat?”
“Yes, some Jews eat meat if it’s prepared a special way. Cows and chickens, but no pig.”
“No pig?!”
“No pig.”
“And no Jesus.”
“Right, no Jesus.”
“Wow. Scary.”
“Just different.”

Christ the King

On Sunday I go to chehch (church). I choose “Christ the King” from the options on my map. I wear my Sunday best (a blue and white polka dot dress) and arrive on time. 300 people shuffle out from the early service, and 300 more line up for the late. We swarm the back door, elbow to elbow, thigh to thigh. Men wear suits. Women wear traditional batik patterned dresses with fancy, colorful hair wraps. Some sit outside in plastic chairs to listen to the service amplified through outdoor speakers, fanning themselves with poorly photocopied passages from “Peetah and Pole” (Peter and Paul). A small child waddles his way through the purple and yellow summer skirts. His smile kisses my knee, and his soft arms and tiny chest press into my leg. I run my fingers along his fuzzy head, and he looks up at me wanting to be held. I am one of about five white faces. When it’s time to go inside, I sit toward the back next to a girl who looks about 15. She’s bald, with soft features and sad eyes. She whispers to herself and never looks at me.

Christ the King is Catholic. The ceiling has cracked planks of wood with fans that don’t spin. The Jesuses on the walls are white. The preacher is black. He wears an orange and green patterned shirt with geometric designs that I trace with my eyes. He tells us about Peetah and Pole, about sins, about Jesus, about children, about dying. Twice he mentions “the Jews.” I stare at Jesus’s face, then at the preacher’s. Then back at Jesus. Two days earlier I’d asked my co-worker, Deenie, if she imagined Jesus looking not white. She gave me a quizzical grin and said “I have nehvah seen a black Jesus. Jesus looks like you.”

Christ the King’s hymns are sung in English and Luganda. The lyrics are projected on a screen near the front of the alter for all to sing along. The choir sings pleasantly, and everyone follows in chilling unison. Some kneel. Some stand. Everyone takes communion. At the end of the service, we wish each other “Peace with Christ” which, among my pew neighbors, is a simple “Peace” or “Peace with …” before their voices trail off.

I wonder how long people have been coming to this church in their traditional African outfits. I wonder when they started believing, or if they really believe at all. I wonder when Christ the King arrived in Uganda, erected by foreign missionaries who’d never seen a black Jesus or maybe even a black preacher, but knew what they were bringing was the truth.