Notes on Prison Theater in Northern Uganda, Part 1

I hadn’t traveled to northern Uganda in December of 2006 to create prison theater. In fact, I had just completed an intense process of helping to devise and direct an original play in a New York state correctional facility, and was looking forward to a little break from the intensity of prison work. My wife and I had traveled to Africa as volunteers for a human-rights organization, but when I discovered that the regional prison, housing nearly 500 men and women, was located just a half mile from my residence, my curiosity got the better of me. Having volunteered since December 2005 for a New York state nonprofit, Rehabilitation Through the Arts (RTA), I had become quite invested in learning more about prison culture and the conditions under which prisoners live. To get a glimpse inside a Ugandan prison would be incredible. I had to at least try to gain entry. I knew my inmate friends in New York would love to hear about the similarities and differences between their experience and that of the Ugandans. They had jokingly implored me to check out the “African prison scene” for them. One week later I was knocking on the red metal door leading into the North District Regional Prison. I never imagined that I was making the first small steps on what would become a long journey culminating in a three-week prison theater collaboration between myself and nearly 100 Ugandan inmates.

The human-rights group we were working and living with had invited us to attend a Catholic Mass at one of the many Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps outside of the town center. It was Christmas morning and my wife and I had arrived the night before after a harrowing bus ride from the capital city of Kampala. We were tired but felt that before we could be of any assistance in Uganda — if, indeed, we could be any at all — we needed to understand the reality of the situation on the ground.

The people of northern Uganda, consisting mainly of people belonging to the Acholi tribe, have not known peace since the country achieved independence from Britain in 1962. After enduring the brutal regimes of Milton Obote and Idi Amin, theses northern districts — specifically, Gulu, Pader, and Kitgum — became embroiled in a civil war between the government military (the Uganda People’s Defense Force, or UPDF) and the rebel group known as the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA). The war continues today, although many are cautiously hopeful that the peace process is finally moving forward. One of the most tragic aspects of the war has been the abduction and impressments of tens of thousands of children into the fighting. Many of these children have been made to kill parents and other family members before being hauled off to “the bush,” where they are trained in guerrilla warfare and where they serve as frontline troops in the fighting. Children grow up in the bush with no family except for their fellow “soldiers.” Having been made to commit atrocities before their abductions, many believe that they will be considered criminals if they return to their villages. Many remain in the bush for years and can grow up to be enthusiastic leaders in the rebel army, blurring the line for the rest of society as to the difference between victim and victimizer. The government has moved hundreds of thousands of people into crowded and unsanitary IDP camps, ostensibly to protect the citizens from the LRA. Instead, they are still preyed upon by armed soldiers, and suffer from disease, malnutrition, and a general malaise brought on by living in such difficult and unpleasant conditions.

On that first morning in town my wife and I traveled 20 kilometers to one of the IDP camps, where we were to attend a Mass presided over by the regional bishop. It was at the camp where I had the good fortune to meet Pastor Okello, a Protestant minister and, surprisingly, an officer at the local prison. I told him of my work in the United States, and explained my interest in coming by to look at the similarities and differences between the facilities at home and those here in Uganda. Like almost all of the Acholi people I met, Pastor Okello embraced an opportunity to be hospitable. He smiled broadly and shook my hand. And so it was that I found myself, one week later, knocking on the red door leading into the facility.

There are 45 prisons in Uganda, “of various security levels including prison farms, located throughout the country.”* These prisons were considered adequate until the 1970s, but today the buildings are dilapidated and there is no budget to make the necessary renovations.

As a result, sanitary facilities, water supply, lighting, fencing, roofing of houses and prisoners’ wards are all in dilapidated conditions. Accommodation for prisoners has been reduced to only 8,000 against the pressure for accommodation of nearly 16,000 prisoners currently in custody. Staff are equally hard hit, and live in similar … conditions. Out of the nearly 3,000 housing units, less than 2,000 were originally built for human habitation.

Caseloads are severely backed up throughout the country; men and women are housed in remand centers for months and sometimes years, simply awaiting trial. The 45 official, Ugandan prisons count their population at 16,000; there are actually 26,000 if the populations of the remand centers are included.

The North District Regional prison, a remand center, sits about 100 yards from the red dirt road that cuts through town on its way to Sudan, 80 kilometers to the north. Making a hard left off the road, the boda boda (moped-taxi driver) approaches a one-story stucco building that was built, I am later told, sometime in the 1950s. The façade of the building is a faded yellow and the roof is constructed of layered, red tiles, similar to those one might see in a traditional Spanish villa. There’s nothing that makes me think this building is a prison; there is no guard, no gate, no barbed wire surrounding the facility as there is in the United States. The only indication is the small, white arrow at the road with hand-painted black letters reading, “North District R.P.” I am dropped off before the red metal door. Here, too, I can tell that I am at a prison — or at least at some government building where security is at a premium. There is only a small, barred window from which a man wearing a red beret greets all visitors. He seems to know that I am scheduled to arrive, and he tells me that Pastor Okello had gone to lunch and that I should wait under the mango tree. I had rushed from lunch myself to be sure that I was on time, but I am reminded yet again that “Acholi Time,” as the Western workers from the local NGOs say, is a bit slower than what I’m used to.

I met Pastor Okello in town for a soda a few days earlier. He had asked that we speak a bit before I came over to the prison. During that conversation, I was somewhat reluctant to mention that the work I did in prison involved theater — more accurately, “drama” (to Ugandans, “theater” refers to an operating room in a hospital). It wasn’t that I had anything to hide; I just didn’t think anyone would understand what I was talking about. But at some point during our conversation, he asked me if I did ministry inside the prison.

I should mention that Uganda — as is true of many sub-Saharan African nations — has been and continues to be greatly influenced by the Christian missionary movement. The vast majority of Ugandans are Christian, and while they do understand that there are other religions out there in the world, most are unaccustomed to meeting people who aren’t “saved” by Jesus. My wife is Jewish. The first question she was asked upon her arrival in the country was, “Are you saved?” Surprised and somewhat confused by the question, she responded in the affirmative and let the matter drop. When I asked Pastor Okello if there were services at the prison for different religions, his answer sounded like the punch line to a joke: “Of course,” he said. “The Catholics are at 8, the Protestants are at 10, and the Pentecostals are at midday.” When, in response to his query, I answered that I was not a minister of faith, but rather a drama practitioner, Okello saw no contradiction. He told me that they, too, used drama at the prison. They used it to bring the men closer to Jesus.

I was completely shocked that drama was being done in this small outpost that — apart from the traditional dancing I had seen amongst some of the local children, and the wooden shacks that charged people to watch bootleg DVDs on small television screens — seemed to offer little in the way of cultural activity. When he asked me if I used my drama to convert the nonbelievers, I struggled to find something to say that could bridge the gap in our respective languages and outlooks. “Well,” I started. “I do work that I hope uplifts the men and helps them lead better lives when they leave prison.” The pastor was pleased with my answer. He extended his hand and offered me his wide smile. “Come to the prison on Monday. We are having a performance. You can watch the performance and also meet Ojok David, the director.” I was beside myself. Not only was there a drama program here, but I was lucky enough to be in town during one of their performances. I was thrilled.

Before departing, Okello told me that it would be good if I could bring something to the prison as a sort of gift to the “O.C.,” the Officer-in-Charge. As the facility struggled for supplies, he asked if I could bring some soap for the inmates. I agreed, shook hands, and took my leave, excited at my good fortune.

It’s Monday, New Year’s Day, and I am sitting drowsily on one of the split-log benches under the mango tree that stands off to the side of the building. I take off my backpack and rest my head on a box of mukweno, the crumbly blue soap that is my price of admission for today’s drama. I wait for about 20 minutes and begin wondering if there is really going to be a drama today. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if something had changed and no one thought to get in touch with me about it. More likely, I misunderstood my conversation with Okello entirely; maybe there isn’t even a drama program here. I start to drift off and I hear the lowing of a cow getting louder and louder. I open my eyes to see her, a big white and brown one, trotting across the driveway to the field across from where I lay. There, under another tree, is a family of cows — two calves and another female — munching the grass on the prison grounds. It feels a long way from New York.

After some time I hear the buzz of a moped and sure enough, I open my eyes to see Pastor Okello approaching. Well over six feet tall and weighing over 225 lbs., he is a sight to behold on his scooter. He is a giant on his moped, his knees splayed out to the side and his large torso towering above the handlebars. Soon after he arrives, a barrel-chested man approaches. He is bald and looks to be about 40 or 45 years old, although I can’t be sure. He carries himself impressively, and has a dignified and elegant presence. We shake hands and he says something to the pastor in the Acholi language, Lwo, and then asks him in English what time the drama is set to begin. This man, David, says that they are taking a small break and that it will begin shortly. Then he walks off without another word. Pastor Okello turns to me and tells me that he doesn’t really like going to see the dramas because they “encourage sin.” He says something I can’t understand about a man touching the breasts of a woman. I assume he is talking about something sexual in the drama, but I’m not sure. After he tells me, he smiles an enormous smile and giggles. His giggle is infectious. Its high pitch is incongruous with his large, fleshy frame and it makes his whole body shake up and down. When he makes a joke or just finds something amusing, he giggles and his whole big belly shakes and shakes. Then he holds out his hand and I grab it and we hold each other’s hands, laughing together.

For no apparent reason, Okello tells me we can go in now. He gets off his moped and tells me to leave the soap where it is; the guards will come to get it. I leave the box of blue soap on a bench under the mango tree in the middle of the driveway of the prison and follow Okello into the prison.

We enter through the front door and arrive in a small, bare lobby. The guard salutes and welcomes me. Unlike in America, I do not have to submit to any search. By dint of the fact that I’ve arrived with a superior, I’m trusted. I suspect it would be a form of insubordination to inspect the guest of a superior. The lobby is a small, square space. Next to the front door is a large, barred window. Across from it is another door leading into the back courtyard. This door is positioned next to a chalkboard upon which is written the date, the number of “convicts,” the number of new arrivals, and other various bits of information. I don’t have time to process it all; one of the guards swings open the heavy metal door, letting the afternoon sunlight flood into the dark lobby. He motions for me to pass and I step into a large, open courtyard with Okello. A sea of black men rise when they see us. Most of them are dressed in what I guess is the prisoner uniform — yellow gym shorts and yellow, short-sleeve pullover gym shirts. Many others, however, are dressed in street clothes — whatever they came in with, I imagine. Okello had told me the other day that they get supplies at the discretion of the government. If men don’t have uniforms yet, they must wear whatever they have or can receive from relatives. None of the men that I observe — and there seem to be about four to five hundred in the courtyard — are wearing closed shoes. Many are barefoot and the ones who are not are wearing either cheap looking flip-flops or plastic shower shoes.

Okello has the men sit. They stare at me with curious eyes. I am the only white man in the place. All of the men are either seated on the ground or standing within an open concrete structure, which I later find out doubles as the chapel and the medical clinic. There are three wooden chairs along one of the long walls that enclose the courtyard. I am ushered into one of them and Okello sits to my right. David, whom I discover is the director of the drama program, greets me once again and sits to my left. He tells me, fairly emphatically, that he has been doing this drama work for a very long time. Two maroon bed sheets hang on a wire in the middle of the yard. This is the stage curtain. Two shirtless men stand at each of the posts. Only Okello, David and myself sit in front of the curtain. The inmates sit, at best, off to the side. Many sit in what would be, if this were a traditional theater space, the stage-left wing. Still others sit behind the playing space, forced to watch the actors’ backs throughout the performance.

The courtyard itself might just as easily be the courtyard of any of the cheaper hotels we’ve seen here in Uganda. Windows look out onto a floor of red dirt and broken concrete. Several trees grow around the perimeter with clotheslines in between, upon which hang damp pieces of laundry. Beneath the pieces of laundry are small plastic washing buckets filled with stale, soapy water. As I look around, it seems that there is little to prevent the inmates from climbing the walls, gaining the roof and jumping to freedom. Most of the low roof is free of obstruction. Another section of roof, toward the back of the yard, has two cords of sagging barbed wire strung along it. I’m sure there are wet days when the yard is cheerless, but today the men look fairly relaxed lounging in the hot sun and warm shade.

One of the inmates, a tall thin man whom the director calls Peter, steps in front of the curtain. He seems cognizant that most of his audience (sitting behind the curtains) can’t see him so he sort of cheats stage-left as he makes his pre-show announcements. Peter serves as the MC throughout the afternoon and announces each of the various segments of the performance. Okello translates for me because Peter’s announcements, as well as the entire performance, are conducted in Lwo.

The performance begins with a traditional Acholi war dance called the bwola. Twenty or 30 shirtless men, dressed in blue shorts and carrying small drums that they strike with wooden mallets, stomp and dance in rhythmic unison from the far side of the courtyard. They are also chanting and singing. Okello tells me that most Acholi boys begin learning this dance when they are between the ages of four and seven. The men form a circle and two of them position themselves in the center with larger African drums. They pound out a heavy bass for the treble of the smaller percussives. Around some of their ankles are bells made of seashells. With each stomp and movement these, too, add to the beautiful sound. The dance goes on for some time and then stops abruptly. I begin to clap at the end of the dancing but no one else does. The inmates sit quietly and wait. The shirtless men standing at the posts close the curtain by walking toward one another with their half of the bed sheet.

Peter steps out to introduce the next part of the show. I have no idea what to expect. I had thought that I would just be watching a play, but what transpires over the course of the next three hours reminds me of a Ugandan “Carol Burnett Show.” Actually, considering the music and the fact that most of these men are country villagers, maybe the old variety show, “Hee-Haw,” is more analogous. There are three separate skits: one about a drunk father who, through his propensity to drink, ruins his family; one about a cuckolded husband; and one I really couldn’t make heads or tails of. Between each skit is a different kind of musical performance. These include a performance of Congolese music featuring a beautiful sounding harp-like instrument called the udungu; a performance of several men playing the lukeme (African thumb-piano) while one man chants and sings; and finally, an Acholi dance called larakaraka, the music of which features a bowed string instrument called the rigi rigi and a percussive instrument made from a dried and hollowed calabash seed (a gigantic seed the size of a very big watermelon) called an awali, in which they pray that the LRA, Joseph Kony, will release their abducted children. There is also a poem about HIV/AIDS, and several competitive events. I have never seen anything like it in terms of content and variety.

The most benign of the competitive events is a regular old sack race. There is a starting line and the men fold the sacks just past the line. When someone shouts “Go!” they grab their sacks, get in and try to beat their fellow inmates to the finish. David and Okello laugh and discuss between them the best strategy. They both agree that “kangaroo” is the best approach. The audience howls with delight. Another contest has the men try to finish a package of dry biscuits (three to a package) in 15 seconds. Strange as it seems to me, the competitors and audience members all seem to be enjoying themselves. A third event asks the men to try to finish a cup of boiling tea in the fastest time. This is a bit strange because it seems to me someone could burn himself. In fact, the tea is too hot, and no one finishes. One by one, they place their cups down and run off stage, to the laughter of the spectators. All is in good fun, but nothing can prepare me for the last event, which is quite disturbing.

Seven men stand in a line facing Okello, David and me. A plate of chicken and beans is placed before them, about six feet away. The rules are simple: the first one to cry gets the food. I’m stunned when I understand the premise. I proceed to sit and watch these seven men, some who look as young as 20 and others with white hair covering their heads, try to make themselves cry for their supper. It is painful to watch. The crowd, including the pastor and David, howl with delight and make bets about who will “win.” I am, of course, a cultural outsider so I can’t say how these people best deal with the trauma they have endured for the past 20 years, but this exercise seems troublesome. In the short time I’ve been in the North District, every single person I have met has had at least one person in their family killed or raped by soldiers in Joseph Kony’s rebel army. People have been mutilated. Children have been abducted and impressed into rebel service, and made to kill and maim their parents and siblings. This entire region is an open scar. Now to watch these men digging into the recesses of their memories to find something that will produce tears is so painful to me.

I can see who the “winner” will be right away. Okello and David ask me and I point to a young man who I can tell is actually taking his time to recall a memory. Most of the other men are simply trying to keep their eyes open long enough to sting their eyes and generate tears, but this young man and one of the senior citizens are in their own separate worlds. They are somewhere else. And I can tell that the old man won’t cry. He seems dry, as if he has cried all the tears he can cry for one lifetime. The competition goes on for too long. Three minutes, four minutes. The crowd loves every minute. They are pointing and shouting and laughing. Finally I see a huge tear run down the cheek of the young man that I predicted would win. The crowd goes absolutely wild. They cheer and stomp and clap. But the crying man does nothing for a moment. He is actually lost in the memory. Even when his fellow competitors grab him and hoist his arm in the air his face is blank, as if he isn’t aware of what’s happening. Then I see him literally shake his head back and forth as if he is shaking the thought out of his brain. He runs forward and grabs the plate of food and scurries to the back of the courtyard, eating as he runs.

Throughout the performance, Okello, who had previously made the comment that the dramas encourage sin, giggles and shakes through the entire display. He seems particularly amused by the men — clearly relishing their roles — who are playing women. He and David assure me, when I ask, that they are not homosexual, but to my eyes, the two young men would look right at home in any number of gay clubs in New York. They wear stuffed bras and short skirts and dance extremely suggestively to the Congolese and Acholi music. There are incredibly charged moments of blatant sexual flirtation between the male musicians and these two cross-dressers. At points, the “women” lick their lips and grind their pelvises in the direction of one of the musicians, who then holds one of them by the hips or waist. The audience stomps and shouts approvingly. As most school-age Acholi girls keep their heads shaven until they are out of high school, it is easy to forget that these actors are really men. A few times I believe they are female. It amazes me that the pastor is not upset but instead he is laughing and looks over to me saying, “What do you think of our African drama? What will you tell them in America?” He can barely finish his sentences before his own giggling cuts them off.

Finally, after the final larakaraka, Okello stands and addresses the men who have now crowded around in front of us. He goes on for some time, preaching the Bible. I watch the inmates as he speaks. Some look interested. Some look bored, and a few make disapproving clucks with their tongues and whisper to their neighbors. I can’t understand what he’s saying but he is definitely preaching to a mixed audience. Afterward he invites me to stand and say a few words “to encourage the men.” I have no idea what to say but I mutter something about what I do in the States and how I much I enjoyed being with them today. They applaud politely after my words are translated.

David escorts me out to the front and I ask if I can speak to him at some later time to decipher some of the things I didn’t understand. He agrees. We shake hands and I walk slowly off, replaying the many scenes I’ve just witnessed. The sun is setting now and the northern sunlight picks out the fire colors in the soil and seems to bleach the colors out of everything else. I am tired but exhilarated. I wonder if I could bring one of my ex-inmate friends to Uganda with me to learn some of the traditional dances. I wonder what the American men would think of all of the music and chanting. I wonder if David would be interested in learning some of the American techniques for devising work to help the men deal more directly with the issues that have brought them to prison.

A few days later Okello brings me into the office of the O.C., Okulu Michael. Before I can speak, Michael, an obviously intelligent man, launches into an explanation of how he thinks I could help the program. He asks if I can donate a television set so that he could try to keep the men occupied and entertained. A bit thrown-off, I ask if I can explain a little about what I do. He agrees, and after I talk about my work in the U.S. and the kind of ideas I have for the North District Regional prison, Michael is a little embarrassed and says that perhaps he should have let me speak first. We laugh together and thus begins what becomes, over the next several months of cross-Atlantic correspondence, a warm and collegial relationship.

What transpires that first afternoon is a wonderful conversation about prison drama traditions in the U.S. and U.K. Michael had been educated in psychology at Makerere University in the capitol city of Kampala, and he immediately understands that a theater program could have some social and/or rehabilitative benefits for his men. He agrees to speak to his superiors about initiating such a program in the summer of 2007. We exchange contact information and agree that I will contact him if and when I become sure that I’ll be returning to Uganda…

…At this moment, I am sitting on Emirates flight # 901 to Entebbe, Uganda. It is June 2, 2007. We’ve gotten official approval from Kampala to begin the prison program on June 18. I am nervous. Despite my best intentions, I am feeling insecure about my ability to overcome the language and cultural barriers that I am going to encounter in the North District. Can I build the kind of trusting relationship that will allow me to investigate the issues that many of the inmates are dealing with? Was I wrong to use the word “rehabilitative” when my training as a community-based and applied-theater practitioner can only offer indirectly rehabilitative outcomes, as opposed to, say, a drama therapy program? Am I going to be able to work in a way that allows me to offer what I have while also respecting the local theatrical and dramatic forms? In short, am I up to this? The flight is 18 hours long. I take my wife’s hand and look out the window, somewhere over the vast sea that separates New York from Africa — several thousand miles that might as well be a million. To be continued…

Kevin M. Bott is a doctoral student in the Educational Theatre program at New York University where he is studying arts partnerships between academic institutions and the communities in which they are situated. He is particularly interested in theater as an educational and empowerment tool for individuals returning to mainstream society after having served time in prison. Bott is a volunteer with a New York-based nonprofit, Rehabilitation Through the Arts (RTA), with which he has facilitated prison theater programs since 2006. He is also founder and lead facilitator of The Contact Project, a theater program housed in a New York City outpatient clinic serving formerly incarcerated and drug-dependent individuals.

NOTE: At the request of the author, the name of the Ugandan prison was omitted and the names of individuals were changed for security reasons.

* All prison statistics from “Baseline report,” The Justice Law and Order Sector (JLOS) — Republic of Uganda, June 6, 2002 <http://www.jlos.go.ug/reports.php>.

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Notes on Prison Theater in Northern Uganda, Part 1

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