The flight from New York City to Entebbe felt surreal. Landing down on the red dirt and driving to our apartment with the green scenery flying by, felt even more so. At the end of it all, saying goodbye to the friends I’ve made and leaving a place that felt like I lived in for so long, but in reality only eight weeks, didn’t feel any more real either. In a way, it felt like my entire summer was something I dreamt up, but the knowledge, reflection, and growth I experienced was very much real. I am extremely grateful for this opportunity and the relationships I have made with my community partner, Kiyita Family Alliance for Development (KIFAD). Below are a few reflections and scattered thoughts I’ve had during my time here in Uganda, hopefully giving you a picture into my life there.

The red dirt that gets on anything and everything.

Farmland!

Identity

With the majority of my international travel in the past being to China, I could not help but compare the two experiences. I was surprised to find the amount of Chinese characters decorating walls of buildings, the sides of trucks, and people’s T-shirts in Uganda. Similarly in China, my relatives often wore T-shirts with random English words or advertisements for companies like Ford. Boda-bodas (motorcycles) in Uganda are as common as scooters in China. In both places when crossing the street, you’ll see swarms of two-wheelers weaving in and out of crowds, and you send a little prayer that you won’t be hit or lose a kneecap. The area we stayed in was rural, with many crops and farm animals just outside our apartment, reminding me of my dad’s home village. Toilets in both countries were often just a hole in the ground. In many ways, Uganda unexpectedly felt familiar.

Chinese characters on a T shirt. It reads: to walk TianFu, a 10,000 steps are needed.

“Mzungu” is a Swahili word that means foreigner or white person. Wherever we traveled, my partner fellow, Jordan, and I always stood out because of our light skin color. Children and adults alike would shout, “Mzungu! Hello mzungu!”, when they spotted us. As someone who looks Chinese, many people additionally would also shout “Hello China!”, “Ni hao”, or attempt to mimic sounds associated with Mandarin. Because of the surprising amount of Chinese people in Uganda, it was actually quite hard for many to understand I was actually from the US. Funnily, I’ve gotten guesses ranging from Japanese and Korean to Ukrainian and Singaporean. Before arriving in Uganda, I had actually read that some locals disliked Chinese people due to economic competition and exploitative working conditions. I had worried that I would be met with dislike, but interestingly enough, people often responded more positively to me being from China than from the US.

Coming from the US, it was surprising to have your racial identity constantly be acknowledged. While I knew it usually came from a place of curiosity, some days, I wished I could just blend in. On days when I felt cooped up in the apartment, I would go out running or walk around town to explore the area. I still remember the first time I did this alone, how it felt to be bombarded with attention from the moment I stepped out of the apartment till I came back. Especially when I was out of breath and bright red from a run, the last thing I wanted to be was perceived. Still, I welcomed using my identity as a way of starting conversations or building connections with strangers. I enjoyed engaging in conversation with those that would point me out and then ask me other questions, or kids that would run up excitedly and join me on my run or whatever I was doing at the moment. I hated having my race be shouted at me from a passing boda-boda zooming away or those that called out but were not interested in engaging further, leaving me with no chance to respond or connect.

Showing friends around my favorite spot to walk.

Being a mzungu also carried assumptions about wealth and power. During our work with KIFAD, we interacted with many vulnerable communities and households. In interviews, many asked if I had brought anything for them such as money or food. While helping teach a session on stress management, many youth asked if I could personally help them out through bringing them with me back to the US. Upon hearing I was here to work with a non government organization (NGO), a waitress at a restaurant begged me to help her as well. Friends and strangers alike would request money from me. Many viewed the US as a land of opportunity and wealth, a dream they realized would be tough but nonetheless clutched preciously. These conversations and moments were difficult to navigate, and deeply reminded me of the privilege I hold and the opportunities I have been given.

International Relationships

Working with KIFAD this summer has allowed me to understand the inner workings of NGOs. KIFAD has several projects, but Jordan and I specifically worked on KIFAD’s initiative on tuberculosis (TB), examining the services and community structures they support to improve accessibility to TB care. One key service offered to all patients, no matter their reason, is drug delivery to the patient’s household. As I visited households living greater than 5 kilometers away from the main health center, which took at least a 10-20 minute boda-boda drive, drug delivery is a critical service for those that simply do not have the time, money, or strength to make that distance to receive care. This project is subcontracted under the US Agency for International Development (USAID), which recently had faced funding freezes due to US budget cuts. As a result, many of the services KIFAD offered were suspended, notably, drug delivery. During an interview, I spoke with a patient who heavily relied on drug deliveries due to their disability. In February when this service stopped, they were unable to obtain and take essential TB medications for a whole month. Before this year, I had no real understanding of USAID’s impact on other countries and the very real effect of funding cuts; however, witnessing several of these drug deliveries, as well as talking to many households that rely on this critical service, I firsthand saw the importance of funding these services and their impact on a very personal level.

In class, we discussed the often unbalanced relationships between foreign investors and local organizations. During our KIFAD orientation, I noticed the top down nature of this relationship. Foreign investors, such as USAID or IDI (an organization under USAID that manages infectious disease initiatives), would design the project plan, while local NGOs such as KIFAD, would function as implementers, with little room for revision or input. When we were asked to help write a grant proposal based on our summer research findings, it often felt like NGOs depended on direction from investors. Rather than from a grassroots level, funding up top dictated where effort and action was taken. Initiatives ended when projects ended. However, many of these projects are designed in such a way to perpetuate sustainability beyond the project end date, either by continuing the work through volunteers or increasing the knowledge capacity of involved parties. Through discussions with our direct supervisor, he explained his thoughtful approaches to addressing systemic issues at the health center, such as long diagnostic wait times or poor contact tracing, and how he ensured each intervention genuinely benefited the community. It was incredibly inspiring to see how he worked to bring sustainable change.

I appreciated how our working relationship with KIFAD was a two way street. On our last working day, we led a capacity building session to give suggestions on their youth education sessions and to teach new skills. Skills ranged from teaching how to scan, upload, and share a document to utilizing Google forms to streamline attendance taking or survey responses. Though these systems and skills seem so ubiquitous or simple to us, simply teaching them has made a difference in making work they do more efficient.

Our Project 

This summer, we worked on conducting a rapid interview based assessment on the hidden household costs of TB in the Namayumba Subcounty. In 2001, Uganda eliminated user fees at all governmental healthcare facilities to increase healthcare access and reduce household financial burden. On hearing this, I was quite surprised and even jealous when I compared that to the US healthcare system. However, due to significant under investment into the system, many households still turn to seek care at private facilities, facing major out-of-pocket costs. Beyond this, there are several other costs associated with accessing TB care due to the nature of the illness. 

Working in a foreign currency made it difficult to fully grasp the magnitude of cost for these households. Because of the language barrier, sometimes it was easy to forget how deeply personal and private these financial questions can be. As foreigners, many households also expected that we would provide financial or medical help. Throughout this interview collection process, I constantly wondered why we were conducting this research when local translators could better understand survey responses within a situational context. But KIFAD’s director often reminded us of our value as impartial third-party observers.

Observations!

There are several things or quirks I’ll miss about Uganda. First, the sounds. Although we lived in a rural area, a primary school and several farms were located right next to us. My mornings would first begin with the neighboring rooster dramatically crowing, followed by rhythmic squeaking from several crow-like birds that usually perch on our apartment roof. By 7 am, sounds of children playing and talking in class at the nearby school start to fill the air. At night, distant music, talk shows, or religious prayers play, remarkably clear despite the distance. Around 10 pm, local party music begins and honestly doesn’t stop until like 3 or 4 am in the morning (they’ve played some serious bops). Although previously disruptive, I’ve grown to fondly associate them with the soundtrack of Uganda.

Our sight on the apartment balcony. We live right next to the school and various farms.

Uniquely Ugandan expressions. For example, “sweet” is used to describe anything that is delicious or good, rather than purely the taste of sweetness. I initially noticed it when someone asked me if the savory food I was eating was “sweet”, and being very confused, I explained it was savory before realizing their true question. Two phrases I most likely will continue to use in the US are “kotonda wange” or “oh my god” and “banange” which is used to express surprise or shock. Our friend who lived with us would use that all the time as we told her our stories. “Olimba-limba-limba” or “you’re lying”, is also a fun phrase to tease your friends with.

The power of boda-bodas. No task is ever too big for a boda-boda, something I quietly admire from afar. I’ve seen people carry three goats sitting on the back of one, a giant couch, and even a boda-boda on a boda-boda. The possibilities are quite limitless when it comes to carrying things on a boda-boda.

Fun boda-boda rides! But always safety first with the helmets.

Lastly, Uganda is a remarkably welcoming country. Bordering two countries with conflict, it has one of the most open refugee policies in the world, offering support and refugee camps for many fleeing conflict. People are also quite collaborative. If your boda-boda guy doesn’t know the way, they’ll ask for directions from other drivers, without the other drivers trying to steal you as the customer. Living in a small town, people will start to recognize you. One day, the bus driver of the primary school next to us spotted me and pulled over, offering a free lift to my apartment. I also became a regular at a nearby chapati stand. Every time they saw me, they would chuckle when I asked to buy a chapati, and would even shake their heads when they spotted me walking over from afar and they’d already ran out. With little and obscure road signs, it can be difficult to navigate an unfamiliar area. However, don’t fret! Strangers often go out of their way to give you directions, even offering to walk you to your destination to make sure you don’t get lost. More than once, strangers have helped us get a boda-boda back home, even bargaining the price down for us. Strangers will also feel your pain as theirs, saying “sorry” although they had nothing to do with the cause. For example, one time I had tripped over a curb and was met with several vendors lining the street calling out “sorry” for me.

During a visit to Makerere University, we spoke with a security guard. He wondered if people in the US were as kind and welcoming as the people in Uganda. Both Jordan and I looked at each other, then had to sadly shake our heads no. I wish we could’ve told him yes.

My last chapati in Uganda.

I will miss these chickens running around.

Saying Goodbye

The last day in Uganda felt surreal. That night, we played a local version of Uno with some friends, slowly saying our goodbyes. Boarding the plane late into the night, this whole experience almost felt like a fever dream. I still don’t think I’ve registered that I’ve come to, lived in, and left a country I barely knew a year ago. Life there had become so normal. I will definitely miss KIFAD and its incredible people, the boda-boda rides, the chapati lady across the street, and even the chickens roaming the grass. Goodbyes are hard. My time here has been marked with unexpected challenges and moments of flexibility, learning, and lots of laughter. I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for the world and the intertwining relationships that entail it. Thank you Loewenstern for this experience and opportunity. I have so many fond memories of Uganda I will forever cherish, and I hope to continue the work I’ve started there.

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.