I’m in the car, on the four-hour drive back to Kampala. It’s rainy season but for the first time in 11 days, it hasn’t rained. As far as the eye can see the landscape is lush, tropical and stunningly beautiful. Everywhere you look your eye takes in a rich, intense hue of green.
We’re in southwestern Uganda, in a refugee settlement near the border with Congo where International Medical Corps is conducting a photo camp/art therapy project with National Geographic and some of the best photographers in the world – who also happen to be hilarious and absolute sweethearts.
The goal of the project is essentially two-fold: teach a group of 60 kids, ages 12-20, a new skill; and use their photos as a therapeutic tool for them to tell their stories that we can then pass onto the rest of the world.
Today was difficult for me: joyous to watch the kids “graduate’ from the workshop, but heart-wrenching to say goodbye and know that their struggles will continue long after I leave.
These refugees of war – some orphans – have come here primarily from Congo and Rwanda. For many, this is just the most recent stop after years of forced migration from one camp to another, one country to another. I met children – now young adults – who have been here since the genocide in Rwanda in 1994. Camp life is all they’ve ever really known. But whether they’re recent or long-term refugees, the refrain is the same: they miss their real homes and lives before arriving here and hold tight to the hope that someday they will return.
Chris Rainier, who photographed International Medical Corps programs in Bosnia, Somalia and Indonesia, said to me that as a photojournalist, he often goes into a disaster zone and sees doctors, nurses and supplies brought in, “but we tend to forget the emotional stability of the people who’ve been affected. So this program is focusing on bringing some joy and happiness and the ability for people to talk about the experiences of coming from a war or famine zone. Photography is the perfect catalyst for that.”
For the kids taking part in our photo camp, their situation is particularly burdensome. For myriad reasons, none of them is in school – although they all desperately want to be, and they see their futures as bleak. One 12-year-old girl dropped out after her teachers caned her – she was too poor to buy soap to stay clean, or to buy the proper clothes. She now cares for her ill grandmother.
Many of the kids said they don’t attend school because they must care for siblings or a sick relative, or are responsible for tending the home, which usually involves walking long distances to fetch firewood and water, or cultivating their families’ gardens (when asked why they’re not in school, they frequently say simply, “because I dig.”
We heard stories of young girls who had been raped. There are girls in the settlement who said they sold their bodies for clothes or transportation. For this very reason International Medical Corps began working here, under the auspices of the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees, three years ago, educating men, women and young people on HIV/AIDS and sexual and gender-based violence.
All of the children spoke to us about the horrible conditions in which they live: mud-dirty drinking water; families of ten cramped into one-room homes; and a subsistence diet of rice, beans, cassava (a bit like a potato) and rarely any meat.
As one 16-year-old Congolese boy who came here almost a year ago, told me: “It’s not right, living like this. You should see it. When you come to my house you see how my mother looks. It was not like this in Congo. It is hard here.”
This was reflected repeatedly in their photos.
Powerful photos.
We all were astounded that children, most of whom had never held a camera, could absorb instruction so quickly, then go out and produce such compelling and technically proficient shots of their lives and the people and things that matter to them: smiling sisters, despondent brothers, plates of food, a field of corn, a child’s hand.
When we arrived on the first morning of photo camp, the children were gathered at the community center, quiet, unsure of why they were there, polite, timid. It proved a stark contrast to their reaction once we began explaining the workshop, shooting photos of them, and then handing them each an Olympus E-330 digital camera that they would be borrowing. Their eyes lit up. They handled the cameras gingerly at first. Then as they became comfortable, they began exploring their surroundings, snapping everything, snapping each other, searching for the new, interesting angle. They relished taking a photo and then examining it, perfecting it, showing it to anyone nearby. My heart burst to see the huge smiles on their faces.
On the following day, we sat with the children to discuss and “critique” their work. When we heard the narratives behind these photos, they immediately took on added power. One 14-year-old student took a phenomenal shot of a baby in his mother’s lap, her hands gently resting over his loins. We viewed it as symbolic of love. But he told us the mother had covered up her baby, ashamed that she was too poor to clothe him and thus wanting to hide his sex.
Another 17-year-old girl took a fantastic photo of two little boys sleeping side-by-side amid some sticks. We thought it was sweet; she said it reminded her of how children hid during the genocide in Rwanda.
We all felt a heavy burden to hear out these stories and help these kids. Lynne Jones, International Medical Corps’ mental health technical advisor, worked closely with the photographers, community educators and translators (in Swahili and Buganda) as they talked through the painful events these children had witnessed and experienced – and continue to experience.
Lynne says she’s found that what makes photography such an effective tool is it’soften easier for a child to talk about a picture than answer a straightforward question. “They have much more to say. The picture shows things that they might have found hard to articulate. Plus, for these children who are not in school and don’t necessarily have a skill, they are mastering something and showing that their lives have meaning. That’s very important.”
In all, we pored over approximately 24,000 photos taken over the past week.
Today, we returned to the community center and held a ceremony for the 60 kids and their friends and family.
On display were 8×10 glossies of two photos each student chose as his or her favorite. They also each received a few other smaller prints, a CD of all the photos they shot, and a certificate of achievement.
When they were in the audience and were shown a sample packet of what they would be receiving, they broke into cheers. Later, they proudly held up their packets and “diplomas” (they loved that word) for our cameras.
It all was fabulous. But it’s not nearly enough. Every single child, in addition to their deep desire to go back to school, has now caught the photography bug and wants to continue taking photos, honing their craft. They want to keep learning, perhaps become professional photographers. One boy had offers from people in his village to take pictures for money. As the staffs at International Medical Corps and National Geographic watched this program unfold, we became keenly aware that we must – must – implement a permanent, sustainable art therapy program here and in future locations. You cannot teach these children to fish and then take away the fishing pole. There is simply too much creative brilliance, livelihood potential, and psychological relief not to leverage the opportunity.
Photographer Ed Kashi told me: “I feel a tremendous responsibility to leave a lasting impression here and in other photo camps we do around the world so that, for those who have the desire and the talent, they can continue and become photographers.”
I adore every one of these kids and hated saying goodbye. I will never forget Theo’s contemplative, downcast face, which would transform into a huge grin when you’d compliment one of his many beautiful photos. Or Joyce, with the angelic singing voice, radiant smile and great eye for detail. I have promised to write both of them and I will keep that promise. It is one of many I made here that I am determined to keep.