I wrote this earlier this year (January 2015) about a week after I had returned from Uganda. I'd visited my friend Bobby Lane who lives in Northern Uganda. After I wrote this, Bobby made some changes so this is now something we co-wrote. He posted this on his blog in late January. However I wanted to share this since it is Independence Day and also because I do not want to forget the reality that 21st century Americans do not feel the threat of war like 21st century Ugandans and Sudanese do.

365 dead men, women, and children lay under my feet. This mass grave in northern Uganda was a sobering reminder to the ebb and flow of war on this beautiful continent. Most African conflicts are never completely stopped. The strife simply moves to another place in the African landscape or soul. The monument tells the event in three languages.

Joseph Kony’s Lord's Resistance Army slaughtered humans where they stood. Their trucks never stopped as 7.62×39mm caliber pieces of imported steel sprayed from AK-47s pointed at the relatives of the people walking down the street behind me. Why? “Kony wanted to destabilize the area.” I didn’t understand.

I took a photo with my digital camera and climbed back into Robert’s air conditioned truck. I hit shuffle on my iPod; we drove off.

Americans come to Uganda to raft the Nile or volunteer at one of the many orphanages. Most do both. I’m still not sure why I came.

In 2004 I met a guy called Bobby. I had lost my keys at Wrightsville Beach and was running up the shoreline searching. While searching, I saw my friend Hank and his friend Bobby. Bobby was carrying a broken surfboard. Bobby was odd. So was I. We hit it off. A conversation grew in to a life-long friendship. Over the next decade our paths would cross from time to time. I went to Slovakia, Bobby moved to Peru; I went to grad-school, Bobby went to Africa. I thought it was cool him helping people and trying to do the right thing. He started going by Robert and became a missionary. This annoying change of name marked a complete change of person.

This Christmas promised to be like the last, but I wanted something different. I needed to clear my head. Africa sounded cool and Bobby, no Robert, said that he would pick me up from the airport and had a converted chicken coop I could sleep in. Still, sounded good. I left the US by way of Washington D.C. I was the lone ambassador of my own mind—a confused little country.

Landing in Uganda was no big feat, but getting out of the Ethiopia was. I had forgotten what it was to feel like chattel, but the accommodating airport staff reminded me. Frustrated and sleepy, I found baggage and then my old friend. He looked skinny and we had a Coke.

I don't remember much of my first night. We slept in a friend’s house and the next day at 2am left on this 15 hour road trip. A fine team we made: me, Robert, and his borrowed pickup. Through the dark we passed old Entebbe, Kampala and the ecotourism town of Jinga. Robert woke me when we crossed over the Nile. “To the left is the Nile River, to the right, Lake Victoria.” It was dark, I went back to sleep.

As the sun rose I could just make out a big mountain in the distance. It was beautiful. Robert said it was Mt. Elgon and we could get some breakfast there. He talks like a tour guide when he’s giving “local facts,” but I was hungry. As the sun rose, I finally saw the beautiful land I had traded chicken with dressing and droll conversation for. I was happy.

We left the developed cites as we traveled north. Towns became trading centers and trading centers become villages. My feeling of security began to fade with the black top. I didn’t know that would happen. Robert told stories of hunger and violence in northern Uganda. The place felt more desperate as Robert talked and the villages passed. Even the faces of the people changed. Before Mt. Elgon people looked content sitting beside fruit stands and dried cassava. But here there were no fruit stands, no fruit. The land was turning brown. Trees become smaller, people grew taller. And the only venders were sad-faced women selling bags of charcoal. They didn’t wave like they did before. My tour guide friend said we just crossed into Karamoja.

Robert’s a missionary. He fits the part. Slender and sunburnt, he wears old clothes and worn out boots. When he is not smiling his face gives the expression that something’s not quite right. He smiles most of the time—but only with his mouth. Three years ago he moved to Africa with his young wife, their sons would come later, both born in Africa. He tells stories of political instability and gun shots at night. I’ve never heard gunshots at night. He tells of a few lives that have changed, escaped the violence and found hope in Christ; his whole face smiles.

I had not seen a town for hours and the sun was setting. I wished Robert had saved his more alarming stories for the next day. He told me what a bad idea driving at night was in Karamoja and that’s why he was driving so fast.
I was thinking of what a bad idea it was to drive so fast. By the time we arrived at Robert’s house in Kaabong it was dark. Robert’s family lives at a mission station built in the 90’s, and surrounded by barbed wire. I thought this was excessive until I saw the fences around the local villages and thought Robert needed more barbwire.

A security guard opened the gate and we parked the truck. Robert let the engine run for a few minutes so it could cool down. I unpacked, laid down, but rested little. What if Kaabong got raided tonight? I don't have any cows, would they want my iPod or clothes? How does a raid even work? My mind was jet-lagged; even irrational fears seemed dangerous. I had no idea where I was or what I would do these two weeks in Karamoja. Finally, I fell asleep in my converted chicken coop.

I learned more about the violence of northern Uganda and the lives of the people that live here. Much of the fighting is over cattle. One tribe raids another and that tribe raids in turn. A cycle of violence. The villages around the compound where I slept had been raided many times. Death is a constant presence to the Karamojong.

The Ugandan government finally stepped in and occupied Karamoja. The military presence is everywhere. Through heavy handed policies the Karamojong were disarmed and much of the large scale fighting has ceased, or gone elsewhere. I wondered what is life like for a 31 year old man in the village just over the barbwire fence? I cannot image their lives, one fear melting into another then passed onto the next generation. Could I survive such a life?

I have never lived in fear of wars or raids. In my country you have to go to war to see a war; for many Africans, war comes to them. I thought of how peaceful my life is in comparison. I’d seen hunger before, but seeing the fear of war was a new reality. In my imagination the continent of Africa was starving and poor. This was partially true. But even more, I had thought poverty and hunger was the singular problem in Africa. After spending two weeks in Uganda, I saw that America is not only full of food to eat, but it is also incredibly safe and peaceful. I walked alongside Robert as he tried to help heal a devastated region.

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Two weeks later and I'm in my rural American home. I think of bills and social life—all kinds of anxieties. Here, my sleep is uninterrupted by thoughts of being attacked by a tribe from Lexington, Winston, or Greensboro. I might get in a friendly argument with a friend from Greensboro. But the word "war" or "attack" is far from my mind in North Carolina.

I’m a teacher, I have little. Who would want to raid my house for some old books and frozen chicken? But, in Uganda I felt fear, their fear, and it helps me to realize the gift of living in a peaceful nation. Yes, Africa is in need of much, but nothing more than peace.