Field Journal: September 2013

Personal Reflection: A Season of Learning and Belonging in Gulu

It’s hard to believe I’ve now spent 11 weeks in Gulu. Time, as they say, has a curious way of unfolding—what began with quiet apprehension has grown into a deeply meaningful chapter of my journey. I now live in a spacious house tucked in one of Gulu’s quiet suburbs, within walking distance of both town and my office. The rhythm of life here is slower than what I’m used to, yet somehow more intentional—and it has invited me to slow down and notice more.

Before I arrived, I carried with me a mix of curiosity and caution. I had spoken to a few people about life in northern Uganda, but many questions still lingered. Would I feel safe in a place that only recently emerged from two decades of war? Would I be seen as an outsider? I had underestimated how being from a neighboring country could still come with its own version of “foreignness,” especially in a region so historically shaped by conflict and recovery.

But I was wrong to worry so much. Those fears, like morning fog, gradually lifted. What I found instead were warm, open-hearted people who welcomed me into their lives without suspicion or reserve. In a quiet, powerful way, Gulu reminded me that home is not just where you’re born—it’s where you’re embraced.

A Tapestry of Culture and Connection

One of the most enriching aspects of my time here has been the cultural immersion. The Acholi language, which forms the heartbeat of communication in Gulu, carries a melodic rhythm that reminds me of the Kenyan Luo language. While I can’t yet hold a full conversation, I smile at the small victories of understanding a word or phrase—and the laughter that often follows my clumsy attempts to pronounce something new.

Swahili, my mother tongue, is spoken by a few here, and English serves as a common ground, especially among the educated and expatriate circles. Language has opened doors, but it is cultural humility that has kept them open.

I had assumed, somewhat naively, that being African meant I would naturally blend in without challenge. I soon realized that cultural belonging isn’t something you carry with you—it’s something you earn through presence, respect, and a willingness to learn. What I once considered “culture shock” has become, for me, a classroom. I’ve learned that culture shock doesn’t have to be a jarring experience; rather, it can be a mirror, showing you parts of yourself you didn’t know needed growth.

Through this mirror, I’ve discovered the quiet joy of watching the world without trying to fix it. I’ve learned that effective community engagement begins with listening—not with a plan. True transformation requires proximity, empathy, and the humility to let others lead their own stories.

Small Joys and Unexpected Lessons

Of course, not everything has been smooth. Gulu’s frequent power outages—especially during the rainy season—have tested my patience. There have been days when the lights stayed off for 72 hours. At first, I was frustrated; how can one get any work done under such conditions? But then I noticed that others didn’t complain. Some have generators. Others simply adjust. It reminded me of my rural childhood in Kenya, where darkness was never a crisis—just a pause.

On those long evenings without electricity, I’ve found unexpected solace. I sit outside with the neighbor’s children, listening to their stories, gazing at the stars, hearing laughter echo into the night. Without the glow of screens, I’ve discovered the quiet richness of connection—the kind that doesn’t need charging.

Becoming More Myself

This internship has been more than a professional assignment—it’s been a season of becoming. I have met people from different walks of life, shared meals and stories, been humbled by resilience, and inspired by kindness. I have learned that confidence is not loudness—it is the quiet conviction that you belong, even in unfamiliar spaces.

Most importantly, Gulu has reminded me not to take life for granted. The peace here is fragile, hard-won, and deeply cherished. The people here carry stories that are both painful and profound. Their strength doesn’t come from forgetting the past but from forging ahead with courage.

As I reflect on these 11 weeks, I carry with me the echoes of soft voices, the beauty of unlit nights, the challenge of unlearning, and the gift of learning anew. Gulu, with its history, hospitality, and hope, has given me more than I came with.

I came with questions; I’m leaving with gratitude.