War Dance

The Rebels tear homes apart
As war rages in Uganda, Africa.
It leaves families destroyed,
Parents, brothers, sisters,
Relatives, separated. Alone.
People are forced to live
In government camps,
Overflowing, for safety.
We hear part of their testimonies.

A young girl named Rose
Tells her story to the camera…
She says she hid with siblings
In the bush outside her home,
While the Rebels grabbed her parents
From their bed, demanding to know
Where the children were.
Rose heard her mother deny
That she was such,
Before they were taken.
Three days later, the children
Were found by soldiers in the bush.
They begged and pleaded,
“Where are my parents?
Where is my mother?”
The soldiers took them to a tree
On the edge of the African horizon.
The group brought there, is told
To identify their relatives.
A soldier begins lifting heads
Out of a large cooking pot.
Rose falls crying as she sees her mother,
In a way no child should.

A young boy (name unknown)
Hears of the capture of a Rebel
By a military camp nearby.
He travels on foot one morning,
Miles through the dangerous bush,
And speaks with a Lieutenant,
Requesting a moment with the Rebel.
The wish is granted.
He sits near his greatest enemy,
To ask a question.
“Have you seen my brother?
Is he still alive?”
They converse for a moment,
A tear runs down the boy’s face,
Streaking the dirt.
His brother drove a bicycle taxi
And the Rebel confirms that
All drivers were killed.
It was orders.
He goes on to explain to the child
That each Rebel moves up in ranks
By capturing children or killing.
It builds the army, he says.
The boy thanks him,
And leaves.

The Acholi tribe children cling to music.
It brings them peace
In the face of war.
They practice singing and dance;
Some play instruments
Made of wood and strings.
Together, they dream of winning
The National Music Competition
In Kampala, a peaceful city.
For many, traveling to Kampala
It will be their first time
Out of war.

Before their journey, two days away from
The government protected camp,
The children receive matching uniforms
In royal blue and yellow.
The young boy scrubs his skin clean
With soap and water,
Before he puts his on.
Then he sits for hours in the hot sun,
Practicing his wooden xylophone.

As the children of the Acholi tribe
Climb onto the trucks and busses,
Headed to compete,
The village cheers and waves.
The music teacher addresses them,
Assures them to be confident.
“This is not where our story ends.”