I was listening to a program where they interviewed a lady (doctor/psychiatrist) who had written a book about her experience after accidentally killing someone. It was part of a car accident; she was 22, and was cleared by the police. A 6 year-old boy ran out from behind a set of mailboxes along a country road and she hit him. However, she never received any support or counselling, was devastated for more than a half year, could hardly move out of her apartment and attend classes . Even after that it stayed with her for life. Now at the age of 45 she had written a book about it and gives counselling to folks to whom this has happened as well.
The story brought me back to my own experience, something that is never really far removed from my mind, and will always stay with me.
It was 1978. It was the second day in Uganda and the medical superintendent of the leprosy hospital, where we I was going to work as the manager of a 2500 acre dairy farm, thought it was time to introduce us to the powers in Kumi, the town near where our center was located. One of the persons on our list was the police commissioner.
At the time, Uganda was under the rule of a brutal dictator (Idi Amin) who had instilled fear and whipped up the masses to a frenzy. It was strange, there was a police state (or an army state), but at the same time there was a form of anarchy in the land and he had allowed people to pass justice like this by themselves, without proper hearings and trials (you could only hope that village councils or elders were impartial when it cam to passing judgement, if you could get that far). You could not trust anyone, not your neighbor and maybe not even you relatives. They could rat you out and before you knew it you could end up in a cardboard box in a banana plantation. We always joked about the crocodiles in the Nile that they were very well fed, because that's where a lot of the bodies of the assassinated folks ended up. On the other hand being in the village (or in the rural part of the country) was great. People were nice and extremely hospitable; however, as you could understand everyone was very guarded. You did not end up in those cardboard boxes in one piece, playing hide-and-seek, and lets not talk about what you looked like when you ended up as alligator bait.
Soon after our arrival at the police station, a riot broke out; a group of what I would estimate to be at least 100 people was running towards the building chasing a man. The man entered the building and the mob stayed outside; we noticed the man had torn clothes, was sweating, and had a noose around his neck. He was standing very close to my wife, as in the hope that the proximity to her would give him some protection. When she moved, he would move with her, like her shadow.
The commissioner eventually explained that the man was accused to have stolen a banana on the market. Idi Amin had proclaimed that anyone caught stealing; however small an item, must be executed on the spot and that was exactly what the mob was trying to do. He had escaped the mob that was trying to kill him and made it to the station in the hope that the police would save him, and send to jail.
So how did this tie in with the program I heard over the radio?
While not completely correct, in Uganda it was the first time I somewhat came in contact with being a privileged person. As a 24 and 25 year old white guy I was treated as an important person, while the local folks were treated like dirt. We were sitting on stage next to the minister, the governor, the police chief, the director of the bank, the bishop, all the dignitaries when they came to visit. I was called the Swahili word "Mzee" which can be loosely translated to "wise old man." How is that for a 24 year old guy. When visiting a local village we were the center of attention, we were given gifts, it was ridiculous, a chicken, even a goat. People were poor and still we received gifts.
Well, a few days after our visit to the police station, I was the only European (or manager) at the hospital and got a call to come immediately. The medical superintendent, the anesthesiologist (who was the fixer, but that's another story) and the accountant had gone to Kampala on business. In the middle of our campus were a group of local folks from one of the surrounding villages. These villagers that were holding what looked like a 16-year-old boy. The boy had a rope around his waist and a pig tied to the other end. Long story short, they accused the boy of stealing the pig and asked me what to do with him and pass judgement. Remembering my experience and the police station a few days earlier, I told them that I would take him to the police. However, after extensive negotiations, I was told that the boy wanted to be tried by his elders. I did everything I could to convince him that he was better off going to the police, but to no avail. My discussion with the crowd and the boy through a translator (both language and cultural translation) took close to an hour. Finally, being new in the country (I was there for about a week) and only 24 years old, I felt I had little authority and eventually gave up.
A few hours later, I was told the boy was dead. He was stoned, just outside the gate of the hospital. It seemed that he had been escorted off the property of the leprosy center and that was it! My assistant farm manager Mr. Opuno (I was the farm manager) and I drove to the place where people told us the body was located. The pig that was still attached to his body and actually had started to nibble on the boy's body. We had to untie the pig and after discussing the issue with Opuno we decided to inform the police what had happened. Later that evening the parents of the boy came and removed the body.
It is an amazing horrifying experience to see and touch a dead body at the young age of 24, especially when it is someone that young and someone you had tried to protect. I can only imagine what folks go through when their children die or get murdered.
To this day, I feel somewhat guilty for this boy’s death, or that I could have avoided it. I did not want to rock the cultural boat at the time, I was only there for one week. My inexperience, my age and probably lack of persistence lead to his premature death. I think about this event frequently, if not daily.
The story brought me back to my own experience, something that is never really far removed from my mind, and will always stay with me.
It was 1978. It was the second day in Uganda and the medical superintendent of the leprosy hospital, where we I was going to work as the manager of a 2500 acre dairy farm, thought it was time to introduce us to the powers in Kumi, the town near where our center was located. One of the persons on our list was the police commissioner.
At the time, Uganda was under the rule of a brutal dictator (Idi Amin) who had instilled fear and whipped up the masses to a frenzy. It was strange, there was a police state (or an army state), but at the same time there was a form of anarchy in the land and he had allowed people to pass justice like this by themselves, without proper hearings and trials (you could only hope that village councils or elders were impartial when it cam to passing judgement, if you could get that far). You could not trust anyone, not your neighbor and maybe not even you relatives. They could rat you out and before you knew it you could end up in a cardboard box in a banana plantation. We always joked about the crocodiles in the Nile that they were very well fed, because that's where a lot of the bodies of the assassinated folks ended up. On the other hand being in the village (or in the rural part of the country) was great. People were nice and extremely hospitable; however, as you could understand everyone was very guarded. You did not end up in those cardboard boxes in one piece, playing hide-and-seek, and lets not talk about what you looked like when you ended up as alligator bait.
Soon after our arrival at the police station, a riot broke out; a group of what I would estimate to be at least 100 people was running towards the building chasing a man. The man entered the building and the mob stayed outside; we noticed the man had torn clothes, was sweating, and had a noose around his neck. He was standing very close to my wife, as in the hope that the proximity to her would give him some protection. When she moved, he would move with her, like her shadow.
The commissioner eventually explained that the man was accused to have stolen a banana on the market. Idi Amin had proclaimed that anyone caught stealing; however small an item, must be executed on the spot and that was exactly what the mob was trying to do. He had escaped the mob that was trying to kill him and made it to the station in the hope that the police would save him, and send to jail.
So how did this tie in with the program I heard over the radio?
While not completely correct, in Uganda it was the first time I somewhat came in contact with being a privileged person. As a 24 and 25 year old white guy I was treated as an important person, while the local folks were treated like dirt. We were sitting on stage next to the minister, the governor, the police chief, the director of the bank, the bishop, all the dignitaries when they came to visit. I was called the Swahili word "Mzee" which can be loosely translated to "wise old man." How is that for a 24 year old guy. When visiting a local village we were the center of attention, we were given gifts, it was ridiculous, a chicken, even a goat. People were poor and still we received gifts.
A few hours later, I was told the boy was dead. He was stoned, just outside the gate of the hospital. It seemed that he had been escorted off the property of the leprosy center and that was it! My assistant farm manager Mr. Opuno (I was the farm manager) and I drove to the place where people told us the body was located. The pig that was still attached to his body and actually had started to nibble on the boy's body. We had to untie the pig and after discussing the issue with Opuno we decided to inform the police what had happened. Later that evening the parents of the boy came and removed the body.
It is an amazing horrifying experience to see and touch a dead body at the young age of 24, especially when it is someone that young and someone you had tried to protect. I can only imagine what folks go through when their children die or get murdered.
To this day, I feel somewhat guilty for this boy’s death, or that I could have avoided it. I did not want to rock the cultural boat at the time, I was only there for one week. My inexperience, my age and probably lack of persistence lead to his premature death. I think about this event frequently, if not daily.
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