Gilbert Nuwagira
Growing up in south western Uganda, I would hear whispers of stories told in hushed tones; stories of what the River Kagera had brought in 1994 and of the then on-going Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) insurgency in Northern Uganda. The latter stories were relayed to us by people who had not been in northern Uganda. Going through school in the early 2000s, the curriculum was silent on the ongoing conflicts at the time. Although we learned of the rebellions leading to independent East Africa, I can see in hindsight that there was a notable silence on how the aftermath of those rebellions was handled. My young self was thus unaware of and removed from the multiple gross human rights violations that were happening in my country.
That stories need to be told is an understatement. Stories break the shackles of ignorance and tear down barriers as people gain a more nuanced understanding of their past and how it is actively shaping their future. Untold stories are like ulcers that continue to feed on the fabric of society even after the “guns go silent.” Failure to create spaces to share untold stories become active forms of silencing and a recipe for future conflict. The disruptions caused by conflict often remain unknown, which makes for an even stronger case for stories to be told. Communities need to reckon with their shared past and different experiences without negating other people’s accounts. Telling stories is a way of giving space to persons who have lived through tumultuous times and to acknowledge diverse histories whose trajectories are often otherwise erased. Acknowledging lesser-known parts of our history (whether they damn us or glorify us) is important for all generations, especially when this knowledge can inform policies, laws, practices, and frameworks that avoid repeating past wrongs.
