Glenna Gordon
18 November 2007
The United Nations High Commission on Refugees spokesperson called me on a Saturday morning about two weeks ago and told me I'd be leaving that Sunday. I packed my bags, and showed up at the UNHCR compound in Kololo at 8a.m. Sunday morning, groggy, loaded myself into the white 4 by 4, and prepared for a 10 hour drive to western Uganda.
I'd heard news trickling in of some eight or 10,000 Congolese refugees fleeing to Uganda, but I wasn't really prepared for what I'd see.
The Nyakabanda Transit Camp, where the refugees had found some sort of refuge, covers a huge swath of territory, green grass surrounded by robust hills, now covered with small tents constructed out of plastic sheeting and scattered refugees trying to make meals out of their meagre rations.
Potato peels, sugar cane husks and garbage litter the ground; smoke, children's cries and the native language of these Congolese refugees, Ufumbira, fill the air.
Everywhere I went, people told me of family members they lost, atrocities they'd witnessed and rebels they were fleeing.
I asked people for interviews and pictures; they asked me for food, money, and plastic sheets to make small tents to protect themselves from the cold and wet of the dank Kisoro night.
Everyone tells me they are hungry.
Sorry, I say, I don't work for the UN. But if you speak for us, they say, people will listen. I tell them, the UN knows, but I don't think they understand that. Maybe it's the UN that doesn't understand.
All day long, people asked me for help. And there was nothing I could do. I felt helpless. And then midday on my last day there, a lady came up to my translator and me, and said please, I've just produced, and held out a new born baby, not more than an hour old.
I don't have blankets or plastic sheets or food or anything, she said. I couldn't not do anything. The UN compound, just a few meters away, encased by wooden fencing, was off limits to refugees, but not to me. I took her into the compound with me - no questions asked, since she was with me, and I could move in and out of the compound freely.
The newly born baby that the author named Jacob.
I approached a junior UN staff person (I knew not to bother someone senior), and told her the lady's story. Within minutes, she had a blanket, some rations and a place to stay for the night. It started raining, and I told her to just stay put in the chaotic compound, no one would notice her there and make her leave, so she should just stay until someone made her leave.
When it was time for me to go, she gave me the little boy to hold. What's his name? I asked. You name it, she said. No, I can't do that. Why not? I've already named six children, she said. I thought of names, my brother, my boyfriend, my father's name, all popped into my head, but their names were too Anglophone.
Jacob, I've always liked the name Jacob, wanted it for a son, if or when I have one. Yacoba, yes, Yacoba, she said. This is Yacoba.
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