"The first time I fled the attackers I was thirteen years old. I found myself huddled behind a huge ant hill, shaking at the thought of being caught. I had never before known what it was like to be frightened by man."
On this life changing day, Alice hid behind the ant hill, with bleeding feet and a thumping heart, shielding her young niece and nephew from the Karimojong men – cattle raiders who had invaded her quiet village. When the ant hill was exposed, the children ran again, for several kilometres, hiding for 3 days amongst river reeds until the gunfire silenced and they dared to make their way back home.
Safely back in the village, the children found only momentary comfort. Alice’s strong, "determined father a chief and leader in the district […] sat motionless, his eyes fixed on a distant spot…" The men had taken their food, clothes and money. Her father was bruised and beaten.
This run in with the Karimojong was a mere rehearsal for the 20 year reign of terror endured by the people of northern Uganda. Long term complex and multifaceted political unrest, amidst the frustrations of postcolonialism, was not new to Uganda. But in 1987, brutal rebels, the Lord’s Resistance Army, revolted against the Ugandan government, gathering strength and numbers through terrorism. Targeting specific ethnicities, including the Acholi, the LRA used torture, rape, abduction, widespread destruction of villages, and the recruitment of child soldiers to achieve their (often nebulous) goals. Their charismatic leader, Joseph Kony, is still making headlines today.
I’m ashamed to admit that headlines made up much of what I knew about Uganda before reading The School of Restoration. I understood that the concept of child soldiers is gut-wrenching, and the fact that war has terrible consequences for families. But there’s simply so much war…so many headlines…it’s so easy to grow numb to it all.
I’m so grateful to Alice Achan for bravely sharing her life story, with the help of Australian journalist and philanthropist Philippa Tyndale. Together they have personalised the headlines, taking readers on a journey to the frontlines of war – and beyond, to those dark places where psychological damage can be as life threatening as any physical scars. Importantly, this book focusses on education as a thread that ties many different human stories together, as Alice identifies the significant impediments for children of war – especially girls – to further their learning.
Alice’s voice reaches us in spare, pragmatic prose, with evocative photography and a helpful glossary of terms. The School Of Restoration is both autobiography and history lesson, punctuated with salient social commentary. It doesn’t pull its punches when outlining the horrors of war, but neither does it wallow in sensationalist detail. It affords dignity to those whose terrifying stories are laid out for our gaze, always returning to Alice’s faith that there is hope and potential if people are given the right opportunities.
The first half of The School of Restoration follows Alice, who is bright and keen to learn from her earliest years, as she struggles to secure a basic education. Besides a generally misogynistic culture, Alice’s personal barriers to learning include the necessity for frequent relocation as war forces her family to scatter in search of work or shelter; the expectation that she will be a makeshift mother for nieces, nephews and friends, particularly as these children lose their own mothers to war or disease; and the deep fatigue that comes from watching those you love decimated and defeated. Reading Alice’s words, I kept returning to the image of a child playing in tumultuous beach waves: as soon as they get a firm footing, another wave knocks them flat. Over and over. Until they almost give up. But not quite.
"I kept asking myself one question over and over again: Why am I still alive when almost every person I rose for each morning is gone?"
For many Ugandans there are even more devastating impediments to creating a brighter future. Alice watches those she loves succumb to the scourge of HIV, which is rife in an environment where rape is common, but sexual and obstetric health education is not. Alice was not abducted by the LRA, but those who were, and who survive to return to their villages, face a lifetime of vilification. Young soldiers are indoctrinated by torturing their own families – and, thus, often rejected when they’re finally free to come home. Young girls are raped and returned with pregnancies they can’t manage, leading to babies they reject, seeing them only as reminders of pain. What’s more, girls with babies cannot go to school, further limiting their potential to improve circumstances for themselves, their families or their communities. Mercifully for these girls, Alice did not succumb to the waves of anguish. Alice did not give up.
Philippa Tyndale first met Alice in 2008, during a period of respite and rebuilding for Uganda. Now in her thirties, buoyed by faith and determination, Alice had not only finished her education, but established a school – the Pader Girls Academy – which Philippa visited as part of her ongoing work in development and philanthropy. With a social work qualification, and several years’ experience of counselling young victims of conflict, Alice had succeed in securing funding from charities and NGOs, and convincing the Ministry of Education of her legitimacy, bringing hope to girls who would otherwise have missed out on an education.
The book’s second half follows the establishment of the Academy which is, indeed, a school of restoration. The first of its kind, it provides schooling alongside counselling and maternal health support to young mothers. Girls, who may be as young as Alice was when she first encountered the Karimojong, can study while they feed their babies. Toddlers play safely under the trees, while their mothers acquire business and trade skills to allow them to generate an income when they leave.
Alice’s advocacy has taken her beyond Uganda, too. To New York, London, and Sydney, addressing NGOs, governments and UN representatives, as a spokesperson – and as a mentor, inviting fellow survivors to share their stories. Her willingness to take progressive action, not revenge, is a lesson to us all.
"Some people confuse forgiving those who killed and maimed in our war with accepting bad behaviour, but it is not that simple. Without forgiveness, we will be left with only angry and powerless victims."
You can read a longer version of this review at charminglanguage.com