Anna
Monday, June 28, 2010 at 7:56PM Although we’ve been conducting interviews of the Acholi women for some three weeks now, today a lot of the things that I don’t think I’ve been truly processing hit me. I don’t think I realized it as it was happening either.
Meet Anna. She’s 54 and a single mother to eight kids. Besides her own children she supports seven of her brother’s kids, her brother having been killed up north. Her husband had been killed also. Only four of her children are in school right now because she can’t afford to send them all, but that’s still four more than she could have just a year ago. Her home is dark and made of mud and timber, something that leaves her worried in case heavier rains come and potentially collapse the structure. The hut also sits on a steep angle of a hill, where she says urine, runoff, and waste frequently make their way into her home. She has no electricity, something that she says is a particular detriment when it comes to her kids not being able to do homework after it gets dark. She also fears being chased off the land she’s on since she has no rights to it, and when asked what she considers the gravest threats to her safety, she says “next year’s elections”.
When Otto and I approached her home, Anna was waiting for us at the door. She beamed and laughed happily, shaking my hand and inviting me inside. Though we’ve been greeted with kindness and friendliness by most people in Acholi Quarters, Anna was a spirit unlike others. I felt immediately drawn to her energy, as though recognizing her from somewhere. Her eyes danced and sparkled, whether she spoke or reflected quietly on the questions that Otto was translating. Although she was telling me things that were incredibly sad and disturbing, like having her month’s worth of salary stolen once and being attacked by a group of women, the warmth and openness that emanated from her was undeniable. She spoke gently about how happy she was that she could plan and not live from day to day, and proudly admitted that she had gained weight after being able to afford more food for herself and her family. At one point she reached out behind a curtain and pulled out four beautiful bead necklaces and two bracelets, which she had made for Kiersten and I, and reached for my hands so that she could give them to me. Her eyes never seemed to stop laughing.
As we were talking, two tiny kittens kept on tiptoeing in and out of Anna’s open door. Sitting on the ground, Anna would reach out towards the littler one and rub its fur as it curled into a ball on her skirt. Pets are not something that we’ve been seeing much of in the slums, save for a few emaciated dogs that usually lay motionless in the shade or limp around quietly, looking for leftovers.
Though I had another interview after Anna’s, I left the Quarters in the afternoon feeling deeply connected to her. I felt a wave of overwhelming grief and sadness come over me as I thought about her home, her many kids, the poverty she was living in, and the gross neglect of a government that has no interest in people like Anna. Despite all that she had been incredibly kind and generous to me, sitting patiently through close to a hundred questions, when there were countless other things she could have been doing.
It was on my way home that I realized why Anna touched me the way she did: she reminded me of my mother. Her laughter, her energy, her hospitality, the way she welcomed us into her home. The ease with which her face lit up and the strength and conviction of her handshake. To know that this human being was struggling and had suffered for a long time, and associating that feeling with my mother, was just devastating.
Something about my hour with Anna connected something else that made me feel everything I’ve been surrounded with for the past month in a very different, very personal way. I haven’t, for instance, been able to deal with the brutality of what the women had been telling us when we ask about their families up north. How do you react what someone tells you that one of her brothers was cut up into pieces and another boiled alive? The barbarity and inhumanity of the acts is so severe that it doesn’t feel like it can be real. Except that it is and it has been.
In order to process the barbarity of the acts which conceptually I can’t accept as being within human capacity to carry out, even though I know otherwise, I’ve had to think about hypothetical situations within which the horrid acts hit close to home.. Doing so was extremely difficult and I hated doing it. What I felt was anger that was very real, followed by a great deal of mental anguish. I ultimately had to think about something else entirely to get my mind to calm down.
At this point I don’t know whether I should find it as disturbing as I do that I couldn’t ‘feel’ at face value; that I haven’t been able to feel the depth of just how real reality truly is without needing a personal connection to drive the message home.
I hope Anna is sleeping peacefully and comfortably tonight. I hope my mother is too.
Reader Comments (3)
Lucy, you not only have a way with conveying the humility within humanity through your photographs, but also through your words. Thank you for sharing Anna's story with us through your eyes. That was truly beautiful and a reminder that through pain and horror there is still hope that survives it, no matter the amount of pain people suffer. It sounds like the work you are doing is already proliferating into many lives, including my own.
Truly knowing what it is like to have a family member or friend go through such barbaric acts is something I never want for myself or anyone. I too feel extremely angry when I hear an account of such acts. It was great that you could talk to someone that managed to hold on to some joy or happiness with life after such events. It really reminds me that terrible things happen every day, but you have to move on. I believe the only way to move on is by finding joy in someone or something else in life and appreciate what you do have. These people you are talking to are truly inspirational. Thank you for writing about it!
Very moving.