Story 1
I sat down in a taxi on its way to Kampala. It was a van that would normally have the capacity to fit around 8-9 people, but had been modified for use as a bus. And on a busy morning like today, it was not uncommon for me and my peer fellow to be number 15 and 16 on board. Frankly, I always viewed myself as an anti-claustrophobe. The huddling, the closeness, even with strangers, it calms me—it feels safe. On this particular day, I was pressed next to a lady whom, for this story, I will call Cathy. No more than 5 seconds following our departure, Cathy places her arm next to mine:
“You’re so white,” she says to me with a chuckle.
I looked over at her smiling and started smiling myself before I looked down at our arms, skin-to-skin, a human venn diagram. My arm was olive-white, hairy, with young skin, hers was deep dark, shaved, wrinkled with experience. Between our two arms, beads of sweat were beginning to form and mix—we had only spent minutes in the 110 degree vehicle.
“I am!” I respond playfully, honestly unsure about what to say, but curious where the conversation may lead.
My skin itself a passport exposing my non-nativity to Uganda, Cathy asks me where I am from and why I was here.
“I am from the United States, and I came here to learn and work.” She chuckled again.
I explained to her that I came here to work with an NGO in the area on an initiative to improve TB testing in the Namayumba Subcounty, to which she responded that it is very difficult to get a job in Uganda, and the competition has left many people without a livelihood. I was aware of this situation, and as an intern for an NGO I understood that I was not a direct abettor to the circumstances, but the reality never struck me as much as it did at this moment—explaining to her that a foreigner came to work in a place riddled with unemployment. So I asked her, “Please be honest, how do you feel about foreigners like me coming here to work?” I prepared for the worst, my body braced where my mind couldn’t. I eased up when instead of antagonism, I was met with nuance. She said that she appreciates collaboration when possible—particularly in the medical field. However, when she sees white doctors come to Uganda, she embraces the goal, but is regretful of the consequences.
“The sick only go to the white doctors. They think those doctors know more and are better trained,” Cathy lamented. For the remainder of our ride, I listened to her worries, and after a year of thinking about my role working for the NGO, I was grateful to finally hear a local perspective. I didn’t have an answer to her concerns, nor did I feel justified in even trying to offer one for a location that I had only learned about through books. I have come to understand that the best thing I can do in the meantime is to listen.
Story 2
I grew up in a religious Jewish family with a father that instilled in me a respect for religion, and a mother who instilled in me a curiosity for it. Having spent a week in Uganda, I became close with a colleague, a young lady that I will call Liz. Liz was a devout Anglican Christian.
In the first week of our stay, I asked her if my peer fellow and I could accompany her to her local church service on Sunday. She hesitated, anticipating my request would soon reveal itself as a joke, but upon recognizing the sincerity in the question, gleefully agreed.
Sunday came, and I woke up at 5:30 am. My suitcase had exploded open the second I got to my room in Uganda days prior, and I decided I would wake up early that morning to iron a shirt that had become unrecognizable amidst its wrinkles. After all, I had only been to church a handful of times, and I wanted to fit in.
At 7:00 am, I grabbed my motorcycle helmet, and exited the door. In my helmet I had my notebook—Liz recommended that I bring it: “You might hear something that you want to reflect on or remember later.”
At around 7:50 am we arrived for the 8:00 am service at St. Jude Wakiso. The building was packed, it seemed as though half the town were in one building, easily 400 people in the pews. 400 people who gathered there every day—a community, everyone knew everyone.
At 7:52 am I walked in with my peer fellow and Liz. As we stood beneath the decorated arched gateway, I became tense when I saw that the only open row was about halfway down the full building. I predicted the stares, there was no hiding here. Truthfully, I hesitated less when I jumped off a plane to skydive than I did that first step into the church. I just wanted to do this right.
Liz led the way, as 800 eyes stared upon the two “Mzungu (white)” who entered the church. I kept my gaze forward. “Am I being respectful enough?” “Am I welcome here?” “Am I invading a personal space, should I have even come?” I followed behind Liz, and as much as I tried, her body was unable to shield me from the collective gaze of a town. I felt alone in this moment, a knot in a tight-knit community simply by walking in. I cannot escape being an outsider here, my skin color shared only by my fellow peer and the man on a cross staring down at me.
I had two goals that morning. 1) Not stand out too much. As a white Jew in an African church, maybe I was a little ambitious. 2) Learn about how the town residents go about Sunday service. The service was entirely in Luganda, and other than the occasional “amiina (amen),” and song lyrics on the wall, it was difficult to follow. I may have misjudged my ability to blunder, however, if I thought my entrance was the most embarrassing thing that would occur that day.
Following the initial ceremonies, people from the front row began walking up to a box and placing their hands inside. I was well aware of church donation boxes, but since a person had previously come down the aisle requesting money, I assumed this was something different. Row by row, people emptied their seats, approached the box, and returned. I watched as it slowly became our row’s turn to get up and tried to meticulously plan what I was going to do in this mysterious, rugged box.
Three people were still in front of me in line when I had a revelation.
“The box must have water in it, I thought. Perhaps, a ceremonial hand washing.” I was proud to have figured it out, and felt prepared for what I was going to do.
Two people in front of me.
“Was everyone putting their left hand in first?”
One person in front of me.
“No… no… it’s definitely right first.”
My turn…
Like every person before me, I reached into the box to wash my hands, until I realized that it was not water in the box, but money. I was empty handed inside a box that I assumed held cleansing water, and now had to nonchalantly act as though I was placing money inside a box or risk the shame of faking a donation. Ironically, I had actually planned to donate to the church to show my gratitude for Liz, but the thought of holding the line to sift through foreign currency, calculate the exchange rate, and choose an acceptable donation was more painful than my entrance. So I took my hand out, walked back to my seat, and hoped that among the 800 eyes watching me, not a single one noticed that I had not placed money in the bin, or worse—thought that I had stolen money from it.
At no point during this whole experience did anyone ever make me feel unwelcome, it was me who did that to myself. In fact, I was treated no differently than anyone else in that building. I was respected.
A young man beside me even spent the whole sermon showing me where we were up to in the day’s passages.
I chose to write about him in my notebook, it’s what I wanted to remember from that day.