Being Other

“Munu!”

“Munu! Munu! Munu!”

“Munu, bye! Munu, bye!”

“Munu, you give me that.”

“Munu, you give me 1,000 shillings.”

It began sweet and endearing enough. The first weeks, I did not mind being identified as munu. It was simply the way the population around here got my attention. They were not afraid to speak to me, address me, and joke with me. Yet, the word munu always was spoken in these casual interactions.

Currently, in my last week in Gulu, I am still made joyful when small children yell out “Munu!” in excitement and come to shake my hand. They throw any English greeting at me that they can think of in a hurry, and it’s adorable. Though, the children I pass between home and work (a whopping 500 meters), tend to yell joyously, “Munu, bye!” Though I know what they are trying to say, I cannot help but realize that yes, most white people never seem to stay for long… so might as well say goodbye before even saying hello.

As these past few months pushed onward, I found myself beginning to have one prime desire:

Please, just let me be a human being.

I am constantly reminded that I am not Acholi, that I am not part of this community, that I am different and always will be. Everyone who passes me on the street or greets me first sees the color of my skin. In there eyes, I often do not feel like the dynamic, multi-layered human being that I am. I feel that they make assumptions about me from the minute the see my skin color parading across the road. I feel that they see a large dollar sign sometimes, sometimes they see someone who is there to help in any way, sometimes I feel they see just an interesting attraction to stare at for a few moments as they pass the time. There eyes are always on me (and this is true; it really is not impolite in any way to stare here). I slip in the mud and an entire block of people bursts out in laughter.

I have tried to connect this feeling to the minorities in my community. I have wondered if I, indeed, have at times seen the color of someone’s skin before the vibrancy of their heart. Though I will never know what it feels like to be a minority in the place where I live, I do have a better idea of what it feel like to be other now. I must admit that being here, it is blaringly obvious that I do not come from anywhere near here; in the United States, I feel that many of us have realized that though someone’s skin color is different, they are just as likely to have been born where you are standing as you are.

Overall, I would not say this feeling of otherness has greatly affected my attitude and time here. Yet, it has been inescapable, and I do long for the time in the United States when I do not constantly feel like the odd-one-out.

Looking forward to being with all you munus,
Karen