by Minot, Susan
Back at the Exciting Hotel she picked up her key where Harry had left it at the desk and saw across an empty lounge Don in silhouette at the bar.
She walked over. Here’s somebody, she said. Everyone else has disappeared.
Don laughed, not happily.
What is it? Jane said.
Must’ve not had enough to drink yet, he said.
That’s not like you, Don.
I’m trying to be not like me. He shook his short glass in small circles. Don’t you think that’s a good idea? I think it’s a good plan.
Is it working?
Lana’s found a soldier, he said. In a deeper part of the room, near a dusty window, Jane saw Lana throwing darts at a tire, watched by a man in uniform.
Have you seen Harry?
Fuck Harry.
Oh. Pierre?
Fuck Pierre. Or maybe you have, too. He lifted his glass. Another one, my friend. The bartender, a man with long holes in his ears, carried a bottle over and poured. Want one? Don said, drawing his face back as if to take in Jane.
No, thanks. I think I’ll let you be miserable all by yourself.
Or you could fuck me, Don said.
What?
Why not?
Jesus, Don.
I find you attractive.
Well, thanks.
What? Not young enough for you?
She regarded him with lowered lids.
Everybody else fucks everybody else here, he said. Why shouldn’t we? His attention turned back to Lana’s dark figure in front of the window, standing very straight, concentrating on her aim. The soldier in full dress sat on the arm of a chair, swigging beer, watching her.
You know, when you’re propositioning someone it helps if you look at the person, Jane said.
I was looking at you, he said. So what do you say?
Boy, I am tempted. She turned to go.
Don shook his head. You don’t know who you are, he said.
In the morning, when they arrived at the gates of the rehabilitation center they found a funeral taking place.
Behind the chain-link fence hundreds of children sat knee to knee in the yard. Hands shielded their eyes from the sun. Except for a few coughs, it was silent, unusual to see so many children without a lot of noise.
At the far end of the yard in spotty shade, a table held a small coffin covered with a white sheet and yellow and orange frangipani blossoms arranged in the shape of a cross. Behind on a bench sat a line of adults in good clothes. A priest in a white robe held a big candle and spoke in Lor. Then he switched to English. The boy will rise together with Jesus, he said. After his blessing a man in a crisp khaki shirt stepped forward. This turned out to be the director of the center. He spoke of a boy named Danny. The boy had been with them for three weeks after returning from eighteen months with the rebels.
Danny was a much-beloved boy here, the director said. He liked to bake. Just last week he was baking bread with cook Carlton. Everyone ate that bread.
Jane and the others stood at the back, against the fence. Pierre’s camera hung untouched at his hip, but Don was snapping away with his Nikon, the clicks sounding loud in the silence.
Today, the director said, we bid Danny goodbye. We will see him again when we arrive in heaven.
Four men on the bench stood. One wore a suit, the others were in button-up shirts. Each took a corner of the coffin and lifted it. The director waded into the crowd of children, trying to plow a passageway toward the gate. Children pulled their knees to the side, but they were too close and he made little progress.
We shall stand, he decided.
Everyone rose, and the white coffin moved over the sea of round dark heads. The faces of the children turned and Jane looked from one to the next. Each one had seen and experienced horror. Out of the silence came a woman’s howl. No one turned, but soon all observed a woman in a dark green dress with squared sleeves being urged forward, without hurry, by two other women. Her green hat was tipped forward above a sobbing face.
The adults followed the coffin through the gate. The crowd of children loosened and some noticed the white visitors. Some gazes were direct and curious, some wounded. But most were blank.
Danny now goes home to Achar, where he will finally be at rest, the director said.
Jane looked at Lana. His village, she whispered.
Another announcement, the director called out. Today there will be no disco. In memory of our friend Danny.
Later they learned Danny’s village was twenty-five kilometers away and they were walking. They’ve probably never even been in a car, Lana said.
We are sorry you have arrived on such a day, said the director, leading them to the administrator’s office. But we will hide our sadness.
Barbara, the woman Jane had made the appointment with, was behind her desk in the same blue tie-dyed dress, as if she hadn’t moved. She wore hundreds of thin braids pulled into a bun and had a reassuring presence. She invited them to sit. Jane took the one chair. Stacks of pamphlets were slid sideways against a wall. Helping Children in Distress, Development Manual 2.
After trauma there is difficulty having fun, Barbara said. So we try to play games with the children. You see they become withdrawn. They do not tell you their inner thoughts. And they have aggressive behavior, because they have been taught to kill. Sometimes they are unable to think for themselves. We try to help them make decisions again.
How many counselors do you have for all these children?
Here there are three.
How many children have returned? Jane said.
We are not certain. Some numbers place it at ten thousand.
Children abducted? Lana said, shocked.
No, children who escaped back.
Don was standing by the one window, arms impatiently folded. How long are people going let this go on? he said.
Eleven years is elapsing, Barbara said calmly.
But how do you put up with it? Don said, dropping his arms. Jane was surprised to see anger in his face.
One learns to have resilience, she said mildly. If you are too sympathetic you cannot work. If you are looking at the children as human beings, every day you will be breaking. Then she glanced out the window. Her face looked healthy and inspiring. This boy Danny, he is the first one to die, she said. And her smooth face cracked into tears.
They walked through the girls’ dorm. Above the doors were written Star Room, Sparkle, Nimaro, meaning friendship. Inside the walls were painted tomato or turquoise, and the floor was covered with gray-and-black wool blankets on foam mattresses. A pink plastic purse hung on a peeling wall. In one room a girl lay alone on her side facing away, a hand cupping the back of her neck.
Often they are tired, Barbara explained.
In the kitchen three cooks were chopping potatoes. They are given hot food, Barbara said. Horsemeat, cabbage, cowpeas, dried fish, meal. For lunch and breakfast there were food bars, a shredded cookie packed tight made of vegetable fat, sugar, protein, wheat and milk. Families nearby had once been bringing home-cooked dishes, but with the increase in cholera it was no longer permitted. The boys slept in another house. There were four times as many boys as girls. The rebels abducted the same number of girls, but the boys had more opportunity to escape.
They stayed visiting all afternoon.
Jane and Lana sat outside with the girls as they crocheted doilies. Jane scanned for girls who spoke English. Their soft voices whispered of target practice and gun drills. One said they used SP 90s.
No, said a girl in a dotted-Swiss pinafore. We used B10s. The gun was so heavy I was afraid it would shoot.
Across the yard came a burst of laughter. Jane looked over to Harry in his white hat surrounded by laughing boys. They were slapping each other with soft hands and rocking backward.
Jane had the feeling, which came rarely, of being in the place you are meant to be.
Barbara brought over a girl named Yolanda. She had been taken twice. After the first escape
she got married, then she was taken again. When she escaped the second time, her husband would not take her back. He said it was because she had been raped.
But you were a wife to a rebel the first time, Jane said, not getting it.
Barbara explained. Sometimes the girls are given a husband, so they are forced to be a wife. They have no choice. Then, other times, they are raped.
But it is force in both cases, Jane said.
One time the girl is a wife, Barbara said patiently. The other time there is violence. Yolanda nodded, as if this explained it well.
Pierre had his tripod set in front of the desk where a boy in a red University of Nebraska T-shirt was speaking just above a whisper. His brother had tried to protect him when the rebels came. His head dropped down. They killed his brother. The boy’s head and arms began to tremble. His head lowered till it was resting on the wooden desk. That’s okay, Jane said.
The boy was led away, and the director explained that when this boy, Victor, returned, word was sent to his parents. Victor waited five days before he heard his parents were coming, then two days for them to walk there. The director greeted them when they arrived and Victor’s father embraced him with tears, but the mother stood aside with arms crossed over her dress. Victor said he wanted to come home, but he was told he must stay the required period of rehabilitation. Then I will come? Victor said. His mother would not face him. His father bent down to him. Yes, he said, looking uncertainly at his wife. This mother was very religious, the director said, and Victor had broken commandments.
How old is Victor?
Nine.
Another interviewee was brought in, a strapping young man, big as a football player. For three years Thomas had been a soldier to Kony, in his inner circle and had seen Kony close up. He was eighteen now. Thomas’s handsome face was still as a mask. When he spoke his lips hardly moved. Don was leaning in the doorway, listening, unusually spellbound. In a dull voice Thomas described Kony’s camps.
At the center was the yard with a border of sticks and branches that sometimes sprouted trees. Kony had them draw a map of Uganda on the ground with the location of the other barracks, the Nile River, and a half-moon, though there was no explanation for the half-moon. Before entering the yard, where God emphasized his power, you must be bathed and have no blood on you. Quarreling was not permitted; one had to keep a clean heart. On guard duty you could not have sex. When you first became a soldier you were not to have sex for two years. Each day they prayed in the yard. Wherever they were, they prayed three times a day, in the evening in song. Some prayer sessions lasted an hour, perhaps three. They prayed for those possessed by the devil, for a sterile woman, an impotent man. They prayed for the Uganda People’s Defence Force, their enemy, to confuse them so they would not fire on the rebels. They would also set guns on top of a hot stove to learn of the danger to their soldiers.
How did that help? Jane said, scribbling notes, even though the camera was rolling.
The guns going off would tell them which weapon would hurt a rebel, he said.
Jane nodded, baffled. She asked about the voices who spoke to Kony.
The tipu called Who Are You would alert Kony that the spirits wanted to speak, and would make an appointment for, say, one o’clock. This tipu was a rude one, Thomas said, and very much complained. The secretary set up a table with a glass of water and the Bible, and Kony would sit in a white gown. He dipped his fingers in a glass and slumped down and a spirit would come into him. Three spirits maybe came at a time. Thomas showed no signs of wonder or pain or disturbance at these things. It appeared he was surprised by nothing.
How many spirits in all? Jane said.
Thirteen. They did not appear together, only two or three minutes for each. For Malia, Kony’s voice was that of a woman. She was from Sudan and gave the military advice. Many were from other countries.
Pierre and Don exchanged a look. This was crazier than they had imagined.
The American spirit, Thomas went on, was Zinky Brinky. He was an intelligence officer who decided the court martial. Sinaska was the one passing messages to God, and King Bruce controlled the stone bombs.
Stone bombs?
Yes. When you draw a white cross on a stone so it will not explode.
Oh, she said.
There was an Italian doctor who gave medical advice—Must be our Dr. Marciano, Jane said—and the Chinese Willing Hing Sue, who established schedules. He also performed miracles, like lifting soldiers into the air during battle. The chairman was Juma Oris. His unpleasant voice made the rules for behavior. No smoking or drinking. One must respect the trees and anthills, for they were superior to us. Do not kill an unarmed person.
Were these rules kept to? Jane said.
No, he said.
In a year or so the spirits were predicted to stop speaking to Kony. Soon the Americans would fight him, Kony said, be unable to defeat him, and then join him. Then everyone in the LRA would become young again and each have ten children, for only children would emerge from the bush, with all the adults dead. The LRA would then fight SWW, the silent world war.
The listeners stared with dazed expressions.
But, Thomas said, his face brightening, wanting perhaps to end on a positive note, Kony told us peace would one day come to Uganda. And when it does, five hundred people will die of happiness.
They left when it was time for the children’s dinner. Jane walked slowly to the gate, not eager to find the guilt waiting for her when she left. A boy caught up to her and handed her a piece of paper. It was not a boy she had spoken to. He had protruding front teeth, and his T-shirt said Hard Rock Cafe in rainbowed letters. His drawing was of a girl with a skirt to her knees and short boots and a bag with a shoulder strap and water bottle sticking out. Is this me? Jane said.
He stared at her. People here often just stood near without having to talk. For me? Thank you, she said. He kept staring, not waiting for anything. She put the drawing in her bag and took out the water bottle. Here, she said. He took it with both hands, looking at her, not at the bottle. The bottle didn’t seem to matter.
They stumbled back to Caffè Roma for a dinner of curry and beer. When their stupor wore off, they commenced bickering.
Why was Don snapping pictures during the funeral? Lana wanted to know. Her hair, curled in the humidity, stuck to her temples. Don seemed genuinely surprised. It was an incredible scene, he said. When the mother started weeping? Exactly, Lana said. I thought we were here to document this, he said. She pointed out that Pierre wasn’t shooting. Then, said Don, he missed out. It’s like being a vulture, Lana said. Feeding off their suffering.
We are trying to help, Jane said in a small voice. At least, that’s the idea.
If you don’t have the stomach for it, Don said, you shouldn’t be here.
Have the stomach for it? Lana said. No one should have the stomach for this. Her cold eye indicated she was including him in this.
Harry placed his napkin on his plate and stood up. I’m done.
Suddenly everyone around the table looked deflated. Tomorrow they were leaving Gulu. They were able to move on from this place. As Harry walked out the screen door, Jane felt a trapdoor open at her feet.
Does anyone have dental floss? Don said. I have goat in my teeth.
In the morning they packed. Harry bunched his clothes into balls and stuffed them into his knapsack.
Is something the matter? Jane said.
We’re not going to make it, he said.
For a split second she thought maybe he meant the trip and the story, but her tingling face knew otherwise.
We’re not? She tried to sound relaxed. She had envisioned this moment. Is that what people meant by being prepared? It didn’t seem to help.
It’s not the best situation, he said.
No, she said. She wasn’t sure which part of the situation he was referring to, but felt helpless to defend any of it.
She turned to her bag and started folding again what
she had already folded. She waited for him to say more, but nothing came. After a while she said, Maybe when we get back … He turned his face to the side to show he was listening, but his back stayed to her. We could … But she didn’t know how to finish.
16 / Stone Trees
ONE DAY Simon comes to me after washing.
I heard you lost your mother, he says. I also lost mine.
A rough boy came a few days ago. He had been with the rebels a long time. Simon saw this boy Zachary kill his mother and father. Mr. Charles and Nurse Nancy suggested a meeting with this boy so there might be forgiveness. Simon had to shake his hand. Mr. Charles said we have been forced to do many bad things, but this is a good thing. Now Simon must sleep in the tent with the person who killed his parents.
I still have a father, I said.
He nods. Then he asks me why I am not kicking the ball with him and the boys. I tell him I do not feel like it. Maybe I am angry. Maybe I do not like being told to do anything. He said he heard I was fast running. Maybe I am, but to him I said, I am not.
He kept his arms crossed and looked, not believing me.
Each time I see Simon I feel a pull coming from him. I do not always like it and sometimes I do like it. Some faces shine from inside and Simon has that. I am always turning to see where he is. Perhaps the pull from Simon will take me somewhere, I am thinking.
I point to his leg. How is it?
He shrugs. He has no worry in his face either.
We must try reconciliation also. Captured rebels have been brought to GUSCO and we are invited to go and greet them if we choose it. Six of us girls from St. Mary’s are taken to Gulu. Janet and Carol come and Judith is there, coming from her home. I have not seen Judith till today. We embrace.