There are some things that should just never happen to anyone. Some things that are so awful that it is hard to imagine they actually ever happened. Some things that there are really no words to comfort those affected, or to make anyone else understand. Recently, I went to a place where one such thing happened.
The sun was just finishing its days work and starting to let the brown earth cool as George and I cleared over a hill on a motorbike, revealing before us miles and miles of a dusky flat green plain. We are about a mile away from the village of Barlonya, in northern Uganda.
“What does ‘Barlonya’ mean?” I ask George, my Ugandan counterpart in this week of monitoring AIDS education groups.
“Field of richness,” he replies.
He is taking me to this village about 7 kilometers from the village of Ogur where we are staying. He says it is important for foreigners to understand problems in other countries, especially places the rest of the world turns its back to. A way for the cries of the powerless to be heard.
Northern Uganda has been recovering from the effects of a recent civil war. But by civil war, it politically had nothing to do with the majority of Ugandans, and very few initiated any fighting. What was happening was a group of rebels, called the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) began attacking many villages to try to take over the country. They terrorized people and abducted children to be soldiers. As a result, most people fled to IDP (internally displaced people) refugee camps, protected by the Ugandan military. They were refugees in their own country. Anyone found outside of these camps risked being abducted, raped, and/or killed by the rebels.
One of these camps used to be found in Barlonya, which was the site of a major attack on innocent civilians by the LRA in 2004, one of the bloodiest days of the war. George is taking me to the memorial site in Barlonya, along with the mass grave, that were constructed by soldiers and the Ugandan government after the attack.
Our motorcycle reaches the middle of town where there are several groups of 10-15 men standing around chatting, telling about their day’s adventures, no doubt. Being a white man attracts the stares of many, something I am still uncomfortable with, despite the fact that it hasn’t changed in 3 years. Their stares seem to ask me where I am from and why in the world I am in their village. I start to ask myself the same question.
I feel ashamed, embarrassed almost. What do they think of me? Do they think I’m a wealthy tourist coming to see the horrors that happened? Why do I deserve to come see this memorial? I didn’t suffer anything for it. My life has been relatively easy, and is obvious by the still-new clothes from Target I’m wearing and the 10 pounds of extra fat I could do with getting rid of. Their life has been a struggle. Mine hasn’t. But George assures me these people think none of these things—they’re just indifferent to it all.
We approach the memorial, surrounded by concrete slab that is the mass grave. It resembles a curving sidewalk. 400 bodies lie underneath it. Maybe 450, no way to tell. Even more rotted in the woods around.
The memorial is large, and comprised of several white tile steps leading up to a platform with a wide concrete pillar on it, resembling a large headstone. We pull up in the opening of the line of mass graves which appears to make a wide circle around the memorial. I am not sure how to act in this situation, where to step, what to say, how to look. But chickens and goats are walking around this large circle. And people are walking around, almost oblivious to the memorial, simply stepping on the grave as if it simply part of the landscape. A small hurdle to get over while carrying water to their house. Maybe they’ve just moved on. Maybe they feel that it’s easier to step over the grave than move around it, as if doing so would bring back memories of the atrocities they encountered 5 years ago.
We approach the memorial and step up to look at the small brass plaque that is in the middle of pillar/headstone on the memorial. The plaque reads, “In loving memory of the 121 innocent civilians who—”
George interrupts me, “The government is embarrassed by its military’s inaction in defending the people, so they’ve minimized the number so it’s not quite as big.”
If they wrote a more accurate number, it would just make their mistake even bigger.
“They even chose an odd number to make it look like it wasn’t even rounded!” he says.
But the people don’t seem to care. Most of them have more things to worry about, like moving on with their lives.
As George is telling me about what happened, two boys ride up on a bicycle to see what this white guy is doing at their memorial. The one who is pedaling is black as night, but with an innocent face. The one riding on the back is lighter-skinned and looks more mischevious. I ask George to translate some things for me that I want to ask.
So I proceed to ask them if they were around when there was the attack. They both said yes, and started to tell us what happened.
A man from the camp had gone out to the bush to check on some locally-made beehives that he keeps in some trees. When he got close, he found the rebel army eating his honey, so he rushed back to the camp to inform the government army that the rebels were on their way.
Although it is believed the rebels were planning to attack the village at night, the boys say the rebels must have seen the man and rushed to attack the village before the army had time to assemble or people had time to escape.
“What time of day did they attack?” I ask
“Right about now” they say. A chill runs down my spine.
“Right over there on behind that hill,” the boys point to where the rebels came from, the opposite direction from where we came.
The rebels shot a few bombs at the area where the government soldier’s barracks were, then separated into three groups to attack the village. Armed with machetes, guns, and torches, they forced people into their mud homes with thatched roofs and then lit them on fire. Ripping babies from mother’s arms and throwing them, along with many elderly into the burning buildings, it was clear the rebels were trying to kill everyone. People who tried to escape were shot at, or whacked with machetes.
People had only two options, burn to death or get shot at while trying to come out of the burning homes.
“How did you get away?” I hesitantly asked the boys.
“I just ran when I first heard the attack,” said the dark one. “I just ran. Some of the child soldiers tried to grab me and hit me with their machetes but I was able to get away because of all the people.”
“Where did you go?” I asked.
“I just ran along the main road all the way to Ogur. I didn’t stop, not even once.”
Another chill runs through me as I realize that is the same road that I just came down, in the opposite direction, with the ease of a motorcycle. It’s 7 kilometers.
“Do you see all shea trees around?” the boy asks me.
I do see them all, and am quite surprised at the large number of shea trees around because I haven’t seen many of them in this area.
“People would hide behind the trees as they were running so they wouldn’t get shot,” the boy says.
George says Barlonya gets its name because of the rich soil that is here, making it easy for shea trees to grow, among other things. I don’t want to look at the ground, though, as if doing so would force me to see the rivers of blood that must have flowed 5 years ago.
George asks the boy if he lost anyone in the attack.
The boy looks away, appearing to try to remember. Maybe he’s just trying to forget. With a soft voice, and a tear forming in his eye, he replies, “Yes, I lost my father. He was shot by the rebels.” Luckily the rest of his family made it away safely, although he says his mother has never been the same. Sadly, most other people of Barlonya have similar stories. Many fathers, and mothers, and best friends, and cousins, and people’s favorite shopkeepers—over 400 of them—unnecessarily lost their lives that day. I don’t really know what to say, not that anything I could possibly say would be of any possible benefit to this boy.
“How old are you?” I ask him.
“13”, which means he was a mere 8 years old when all of this happened.
An eery feeling sweeps over me again. I knew what I was coming to see, and had heard the story before, but being here, in the blood-soaked soil, reality seems to hit. As I look out at the mass grave, George tells me that the after the attack the government soldiers grabbed all the bodies and simply buried them, 4-5 people high, in a trench, in order to try to hide their mistake in not reacting to the attack and allowing so many people to fail. Maybe the people stepping on it are showing an act of rebellion.
As I look closer at the white concrete contrasting to the dark soil, I realize it is not a circle, but just two sides bending about halfway past the memorial. As I look closer, I notice the two sides of the mass grave resemble two arms, open as if asking for something. Asking for mercy. Or possibly forgiveness. Or perhaps just reaching out to God because there was nothing else to hold onto.
George asks me if I’m ready to go, which I am. The sun is almost gone now, and we thank the boys for talking with us. I take one last look at the memorial, almost in disbelief, and climb onto the motorcycle as we drive away.
The shea trees now are silhouetted against the evening sky, reminding me of how I’m easily riding away down this same path the boy had to run for his life on just a few years ago.
As we ride along, I think to myself how awful some people can become. Joseph Kony, the leader of the LRA, says that his army is trying to take over in the name of Jesus Christ because God told him to do so to enforce the Ten Commandments. I wonder if people in this area view all Christians like this, the same way that so many Americans view all Muslims based on the attacks of a few terrorists. Kony, much like Osama bin Laden, claims that the Lord has instructed him to do these awful things.
As we continue, we come to the village between Barlonya and Ogur. It is called Cooromo, which George tells me means “Men are the same.” Are they? How could one man do so much harm to so many? Would we in America do the same? Then I think to myself, we often have. We can call it many things, and say we do it for many reasons, but many innocent women and children have died in the wars that my country has engaged in, most recently Iraq. Some wars are justified (to some anyway), but the truth is that war really just ends up in many deaths, and in recent history (like Barlonya or Iraq), the deaths of those not at all involved in the struggle. Maybe all men really are the same, at least without God's help.
As we approach Ogur, I am glad to be removed from Barlonya. It is painful to be there, to realize that you are standing where so many people brutally lost their lives. But I also feel guilty for even thinking that. I hopefully will never know what pain these people went through. And my pain at hearing it will never take the place of the pain they experienced.
But I do find comfort and hope knowing that this is far behind them. And they have moved on, out of necessity. The war was officially over about 2 years ago, and most people in this area have started their lives over. Kony is no longer in Uganda, he has moved onto Sudan and the Congo. But his effect still stains the memory of thousands, and after today, one more. And all I can think to myself is, this should never happen to anyone.
Cory Fish
Samaritan's Purse
P.O. Box 21810
Kampala, UGANDA
+256 783 594 830
