I Hear The Cry of the Acholi

I've been in Uganda now for almost six months. During these past six months, I have not felt as broken as I do now for the people of Northern Uganda. The realization and depth of the damage done to the Acholi people during the war in Northern Uganda is hitting me more and more. I thought I was broken before.... little did I realize.

As many of you are aware I have been spending almost all of my days in Acholi Quarter - a slum in Kampala. This area is where currently over 10,000 people live. They came during the war to seek refuge. The more time I spend in the Quarter - the more I hear and see the devastating affects of the war.

I don't know if I can express to you in words how much these people have been through. I wish I could. Even I can't fully comprehend what their past was truly like. I sit and listen to their stories and I try and comprehend as best as I can - but you and I will never fully comprehend. I hear the stories of husbands being killed right in front of their children. I hear how brothers were abducted and up to now have not been heard from. I hear how families were forced to leave their homes and live in the squalid conditions in the IDP camps. I hear how the people were herded into grass huts only to be locked inside as flames consume the hut and those inside. I hear of sisters taken as wives. I hear of how young boys and girls became fathers and mothers in one moment when the caregivers were killed or died of AIDS. I hear how women and young girls were raped within the IDP camps. I hear of how everyone was sleeping in the bush even if it was pouring rain because its safer than sleeping in the huts at night. I hear of how lips, ear and noses were cut off to cause fear. I hear... I hear... the stories continue.

But mostly I hear the cries of the Acholi.

All of the above was during the war. Now, the affects of the above are taking place. The damage is seeping into a people that once lived in peace and freedom. A culture that was strong has now been weakened. A people who once had beautiful land and grew crops now lays desolate. Familes are now literally killing each other over land. The widows and orphans that survived the war have little or no rights.

As I walked through the slum yesterday I was hit with a reality. There are so many children in the slum. Almost all of them were born in Kampala. They have lived in the slum their whole lives. As I walked around the slum and I smelt the stench from pit latrines, and the open sewage drains that run through the slum I saw countless number of children. These children with no shoes, ripped and torn clothing, protruding stomachs and desperate eyes. I was reminded of something. They were not suppose to be born into this. These children that are now suffering in the slum were not suppose to be born there. These children have been robbed of a beautiful life in their villages. These children have been robbed of their childhood. Life in the village was free and peaceful. There was always food to be eaten from the garden. Here in the slum there is a battle to get enough money to eat. A people that used to dig and plant no longer know how to. Life was good in the village... As much as I hear the individual stories of the war - this war has damaged an entire culture. The children have been stolen from. The children - this generation is the one that is paying the price.

I hear the cries of the Acholi.

I hear the cry of justice.

I hear the call of The Father.

Africa - the people of Acholi - ARISE!