Tiny Eyes: Kenya and Uganda
I take yoga classes at a Hindu Temple around the corner from
the house. It is an impressive temple, large, ornate. It is on a lovely, green
compound and is a gathering spot for the Indian community (the Asians as the
Kenyans call them). People come and walk the grounds, pray, meet, eat. At
night, when it gets dark, the lights shine on the pagodas, flags fly, chants
fill the air—it’s another world.
My yoga instructor is an Indian woman. While I only get to
class every so often, I love it. It’s simple, but really hard. Make sense? The
simplicity is the practice, the room, the dress. The teacher is in sweat pants
and a t-shirt, no fancy yoga clothes, no new-age garble, just the practice. On this
evening there are 14 of us, half men, mostly Indian. We start with a chant then
lead into the practice. No talking, just practice, breath, move. She is tough,
really tough. I am focused, wondering if my head can implode from the blood
that is rushing down, wondering how I can hold a position for 20 breaths,
trying desperately to not topple over and crush the person next to me, recommitting, as I
always do, to come to class more often. Ha!
I am next to a tiny Indian man who is in his tennis whites,
he is adorable. We catch each others' eyes every so often with a look of ‘good
lord this is tough.’ Another man is two mats over and you would think he is
having knee surgery with the grunts and cries he is letting out. It makes me
smile, chuckle, which is good because I feel the way he sounds.
There is a door in front of me, with a window that leads into
other parts of the temple. Partway through class I notice there are two kids
peeping through the window. Their eyes are just above the window pane. They
laugh and watch, I smile.
Their eyes bring me instantly to northern Uganda, to another
pair of eyes. Northern Uganda, home of Joseph Kony. Until a few weeks ago,
most people had never head the name Kony, but a video on him went viral (that
is a whole other fascinating story). I was Kony’s region, Kidepo Valley,
meeting with local government officials last month. We were sitting in an
office with the local commissioner. Outside hundreds of people gathered, the
World Food Program (WFP) was distributing food. Long lines of women patiently
waiting while kids ran around and men lingered. This region has been riddled
with war for decades. Driving up here you quickly notice there are no huts, no
huts, no huts....drive....nothing, then all of a sudden you come upon a cluster
of hundreds of huts, all very close. Security. This was their way of protecting
themselves. Now that peace is settling across the region, slowly people are
moving out of the villages to begin cultivation, farming, but it will take
time. Signs on the street warn of land mines. “Don’t touch foreign objects” the
signs say.
Back in the office we are talking about programs we may work
on in this area. The commissioner sits at his big wooden desk and we are lined up
in front of him, on wooden chairs. There is a big open window behind us and we
can hear the commotion of the food distribution. In the widow are dozens of
eyes. Children peep above the window pane and listen. They stare at my skin,
hair and they watch eyes wide open. Across the room is a door that is open (it
is hot and the breeze feels nice.) Kids, poor kids wearing filthy t-shirts, dresses,
shorts peep around the door way to stare, to listen. They catch my eye, giggle,
back away, then creep towards the door again. The commissioner says nothing, he
lets them listen. He is a politician, he likes the audience.
