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"The land grows people" : indigenous knowledge and social repairing in rural post-conflict Northern Uganda Gauvin, Lara Rosenoff 2016

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 “The Land Grows People”:  Indigenous Knowledge and Social Repairing in Rural Post-Conflict Northern Uganda by  Lara Rosenoff Gauvin  B.A., Concordia University, 1998 M.F.A., Ryerson University, 2009  A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Anthropology)  THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver)   July 2016  © Lara Rosenoff Gauvin, 2016  ii Abstract This	dissertation	examines	how	individuals	and	communities	“move	on”	after	two	decades	of	war	and	mass	internal	displacement	in	rural	Acoliland,	Northern	Uganda	(~1986-2008).	Based	upon	fieldwork	from	2004	to	2012,	it	explores	the	multi-generational	angst	regarding	youth’s	disconnection	from,	or	disinterest	in,	tekwaro	(Acoli	indigenous	knowledge)	in	the	conflict	and	post-conflict	years.	Attending	to	the	ways	that	everyday	inter-generational	practices	engendered	by	a	return	to	the	land	activate	a	range	of	social	relationships	and	engagements	with	tekwaro,	I	assert	that	these	interactions	re-gather	different	generations	in	the	rebuilding	of	social,	political,	and	moral	community.  I	first	re-narrate	the	history	of	one	rural	sub-clan,	and	explore	how	ngom	kwaro	(ancestral	land)	is	their	prime	idiom	of	relatedness.	Detailing	experiences	of	displacement	during	the	recent	war,	I	acknowledge	the	tic	Acoli	(livelihood	work)	necessary	for	survival	upon	their	return	to	the	land	as	a	vital	framework	for	inter-generational	engagement.	I	then	consider	adults’	and	elders’	preoccupation	with	the	decline	of	woro	(respect)	and	cuna	(‘courtship’	processes)	within	the	IDP	(internally	displaced	persons’)	camps.	Exploring	how	cuna	affects	relations	and	their	organization,	I	examine	contemporary	cuna	processes	as	important	frameworks	for	inter-generational	interaction.	I	finally	consider	how	the	responsibilities	and	relationships	activated	through	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	(sub-clans,	lineages)	are	key	to	understanding	both	tekwaro	and	relatedness,	and	examine	the	creation	of	one	sub-clan’s	written	constitution	as	another	significant	framework	for	inter-generational	negotiation,	participation,	and	engagement.   iii I	emphasize	that	these	engagements	with	tekwaro	work	to	elaborate	and	re-elaborate	relatedness,	and	thus	serve	as	important	practices	of	social	repairing,	grounded	by	communal	stewardship	of	the	land.	Rather	than	addressing	specific	transgressive	violences	experienced	during	the	war	years,	the	results	of	this	research	suggest	that	social	repair–the	striving	for	the	restoration	of	sociality–implicitly	concerns	resistance	of	the	seeping,	inscribing,	relational	effects	of	those	violences.	Rather,	a	return	to	the	land,	and	the	system	of	land	tenure	itself,	provokes	inter-generational	participation	that	serves	to	make	and	remake	relatedness,	orienting	social	relations	away	from	the	fragmenting,	unprecedented,	Acoli-on	Acoli	violence	(Oloya	2013)	experienced	during	the	years	of	war	and	displacement.  iv Preface I received ethical approval for this study through The University of British Columbia Behavioural Research Ethics Board (H11-03483, approved January 30, 2012) and through the Ugandan National Council for Science and Technology’s (UNCST) review processes (permit no: SS2747 and Ugandan President’s letter no: ADM 154/212/01, approved March 12, 2012). 	Though this dissertation could not have been written without much assistance, this dissertation is an original intellectual product of the author, Lara Rosenoff Gauvin. I acknowledge the hard work of my research assistant Nyero Augustine Caesar, as well as Oyil Francis Abonga, with transcribing some of the data from audio to written form. Translation of speech and text from Acoli Luo to English was mostly done by myself, the author, in consultation with the above named assistance. The workbook ‘Tekwaro Pabwoc’ that is included as Appendix A is the result of collaborative work between myself, Nyero Augustine Caesar, Binayo Okongo, and other elders of Pabwoc. I have their permissions to reproduce the workbook here.  All figures, except the following, are by the author: -Figure 8, Regional Map of Uganda. Reproduced here with permission: CC BY-SA 3.0. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uganda#/media/File:Uganda_Regions_map.png, accessed on February 10th, 2016. -Figure 20, by Oguti Yolanda. Reproduced here with permission. -Figures 11, 18, 24, 26, 31, and 32, by Ryan Gauvin. Reproduced here with permission.  v Table of Contents  Abstract .......................................................................................................................................... ii	Preface ........................................................................................................................................... iv	Table of Contents ...........................................................................................................................v	List of Figures ............................................................................................................................... ix	Glossary ........................................................................................................................................ xi	Acknowledgements ..................................................................................................................... xii	Dedication ................................................................................................................................... xiv	Chapter 1: Introduction-What Makes Home Alive Again? .......................................................1	1.1	 Photo Series Excerpt–“Ngom Pito Dano”/“The Land Grows People” .............................. 1	1.2	 The Seeds of Social Repair ................................................................................................ 9	1.3	 Social Repair .................................................................................................................... 26	1.4	 Brief Project Overview .................................................................................................... 38	1.5	 Framework: Tekwaro, Relatedness, and Social Repair ................................................... 42	1.5.1	 Tekwaro as philosophy ............................................................................................. 44	1.5.2	 Tekwaro as a basis of social organization ................................................................. 46	1.5.3	 Tekwaro as practice .................................................................................................. 54	1.5.4	 The land as primary metaphor of relatedness in rural Acoli ..................................... 62	1.6	 Chapter Outlines .............................................................................................................. 66	1.7	 Conclusion ....................................................................................................................... 69	Chapter 2: Research As Relationship-Ethos and Methodologies ............................................72	2.1	 Introduction–Obligation ................................................................................................... 72	 vi 2.2	 Being Me in Acoliland ..................................................................................................... 75	2.2.1	 2004: When the sun sets… ....................................................................................... 84	2.2.2	 2005: “Roco Wat i Acoli” (Restoring relations in Acoli) ......................................... 88	2.2.3	 2006-2008: After the cease-fire ................................................................................ 89	2.3	 Pabwoc Sub-Clan and Villages ...................................................................................... 104	2.4	 Methodologies ................................................................................................................ 107	2.4.1	 Pabwoc East village ................................................................................................ 109	2.4.2	 The youth group ...................................................................................................... 118	2.5	 Analysis.......................................................................................................................... 122	2.6	 Conclusion: Research As Relationship .......................................................................... 124	Chapter 3: Ngom Kwaro (Ancestral Land): “We Are Sons and Daughters of Bwoc” ........127	3.1	 Introduction–Home Fires Finally Burning Again .......................................................... 127	3.2	 History of Pabwoc (Tekwaro Pabwoc) .......................................................................... 136	3.2.1	 Looking for the ancestors ........................................................................................ 136	3.2.2	 The scattering of Bobi ............................................................................................. 144	3.2.3	 Pabwoc in contemporary times ............................................................................... 147	3.3	 “Moving Up and Down Unsettles the Mind” ................................................................ 151	3.4	 Gang–Village, Home ..................................................................................................... 159	3.5	 Pabwoc in 2012, 3 Years After Return .......................................................................... 168	3.5.1	 Kit me kwo–ways of life ......................................................................................... 174	3.5.2	 Tic Acoli–Acoli work–as social repair ................................................................... 178	3.6	 Conclusion ..................................................................................................................... 190	Chapter 4: Woro (Respect): “You Say It Is a Violation of Your Rights” .............................193	 vii 4.1	 Introduction–Respect ..................................................................................................... 193	4.2	 “Woro pe!”–“There Is No Respect!” ............................................................................ 196	4.3	 Cuna–Traditional Courtship .......................................................................................... 200	4.4	 Cuna, Obligations, and Privileges .................................................................................. 207	4.5	 Woro, Cuna, and the IDP camps .................................................................................... 212	4.6	 Contemporary Engagements with Cuna ........................................................................ 220	4.6.1	 Beatrice and Kilama ................................................................................................ 220	4.6.2	 Fiona and Augustine ............................................................................................... 223	4.6.3	 Other cuna considerations ....................................................................................... 228	4.7	 Conclusion ..................................................................................................................... 232	Chapter 5: Kaka, the Sub-clan: “I Would Have Marched With My Kaka Too” .................235	5.1	 Introduction .................................................................................................................... 235	5.2	 A Very Terrible Story .................................................................................................... 244	5.3	 Responsibilities and Relationship .................................................................................. 250	5.4	 The “Bracketing Away” of Wartime Violence From Social Relations ......................... 258	5.5	 “Streamlining Indigenous Knowledge” and Land Rights .............................................. 265	5.6	 The Constitution of the Bobi-Pabwoc Foundation ........................................................ 275	5.7	 Conclusion ..................................................................................................................... 284	Chapter 6: Re-membering After War and Displacement ......................................................286	6.1	 Introduction–Re-membering .......................................................................................... 286	6.2	 Contributions ................................................................................................................. 291	6.3	 Future Research ............................................................................................................. 299	6.4	 Final Words and Reflections .......................................................................................... 302	 viii Bibliography ...............................................................................................................................305	Appendices ..................................................................................................................................357	Appendix A Tekwaro Pabwoc Workbook .............................................................................. 357	Appendix B Household Survey Guiding Questions ............................................................... 386	Appendix C Timeline: National Politics, Omono Justo Langoya’s Family’s (the Author’s Host Family’s) Major Life Events, the Author’s Visits. ................................................................. 389	   ix List of Figures  Figure 1- Acan Almarina and Omono Justo Langoya. Pabwoc, 2012. ........................................... 2	Figure 2- Ataro Santina. Pabwoc, 2012. ......................................................................................... 3	Figure 3- Alal Rose. Pabwoc, 2012. ............................................................................................... 4	Figure 4- Aceng Beatrice, Kilama Amos, and Vita Kisumu. Lotibol, 2012. .................................. 5	Figure 5- Oguti Yolanda. Pabwoc, 2012. ....................................................................................... 6	Figure 6- Anjello Ludega and Cecerina Ludega. Laguri, 2012. ..................................................... 7	Figure 7- Aparo Beatrice. Pabwoc, 2012. ....................................................................................... 8	Figure 8- The Republic of Uganda. .............................................................................................. 12	Figure 9- Aceng Beatrice in front of her hut in Padibe IDP Camp, 2006. .................................... 14	Figure 10- Padibe East and West Sub-counties, Lamwo District, Republic of Uganda. .............. 15	Figure 11- Wang oo. Pabwoc, 2012. ............................................................................................. 71	Figure 12-	Aceng	Beatrice shares seeds with her camp neighbours. Padibe IDP Camp, 2007. ... 91	Figure 13- Aceng Beatrice waits in line with her brother to collect food rations from the WFP. Padibe IDP Camp, 2007. ............................................................................................................... 91	Figure 14- Nyero Augustine Caesar, Padibe Boys School. Padibe IDP Camp, 2008. ................. 92	Figure 15- Aceng Beatrice’s extended maternal family’s homestead. Panyinga, December 2007........................................................................................................................................................ 95	Figure 16- Acan Almarina (Mama) shows us how to light the cooking fire. Padibe IDP camp, 2008............................................................................................................................................... 97	Figure 17- Approaching a homestead in Pabwoc, 2012. ............................................................ 105	Figure 18- Acan Almarina looking at a rainbow in her homestead. Pabwoc, 2012. .................. 109	 x Figure 19- One of three main roads in "the center". Padibe Town Council, 2012. .................... 110	Figure 20- Augustine and author conducting the village survey. Pabwoc, 2012. ...................... 114	Figure 21- Diagram of Kaka Bobi Clan. ..................................................................................... 139	Figure 22- Aceng Beatrice squeezes between huts in Padibe IDP Camp, 2006. ........................ 155	Figure 23- The “new” road that bisects Pabwoc, 2012. .............................................................. 168	Figure 24- Borehole in Pabwoc West, shared by all residents of Pabwoc. Pabwoc, 2012. ........ 170	Figure 25- Acan Almarina and Omono Justo Langoya's Homestead’s Residents, 2012. .......... 171	Figure 26- Three of the ten houses in Acan Almarina and Omono Justo Langoya's homestead. Pabwoc, 2012. ............................................................................................................................. 172	Figure 27- Sketch of the homestead of Omono Justo Langoya and Acan Almarina in Pabwoc, 2012............................................................................................................................................. 172	Figure 28- The graves and wang oo area in Acan Almarina and Omono Justo Langoya's homestead. Pabwoc, 2012. .......................................................................................................... 173	Figure 29- Okot in his tobacco field in the gardens. Pabwoc, 2012. .......................................... 179	Figure 30- Harvesting millet, Lugoyo gardens. Pabwoc, 2012. ................................................. 181	Figure 31- Ox-plough. Pabwoc, 2012. ........................................................................................ 182	Figure 32- Foraging mushrooms on the homestead. Pabwoc, 2012. .......................................... 185	Figure 33- Bringing firewood home in the dry season. Pabwoc, 2012. ...................................... 188	   xi Glossary  cuna  courtship gang home, village kaka chiefdom, clan, sub-clan, or lineage structures. Refers to a kin-based heterarchical affiliation. Used interchangeably by residents of the Padibe sub-counties. kit me kwo ways of life ngom kwaro ancestral lands ribbe kaka clan, sub-clan, lineage unity tekwaro indigenous knowledge. Usually translated by others as culture, history, tradition, or oral tradition. tic  work (tasks) wang oo literally, the fireside, fireside chats woro  respect    xii Acknowledgements I am grateful to many for the support, strength, and spirit, which went into this work.  First of all, apwoyo matek to the community of Pabwoc! You have been generous, kind, and patient teachers. I also need to thank my lapwony madit, my supervisor Dr. Patrick Moore, for convincing me to attend the University of British Columbia (UBC) and for believing in me, and my work, throughout these years. Without your unfailing support, I surely would not have had the heart to complete this work. I am also grateful to Dr. Erin Baines; you are an inspiring co-conspirator, cheerleader, and provocateur. Dr. Pilar Riaño-Alcalá; you drew me to UBC, and your continued engagement and investment in my work and my person is so appreciated. Dr. William McKellin, you are a wonderful ally, and I am so grateful for your understanding, for your generosity and assistance, and for your confidence in my capabilities. Thank you all for standing by me.  I would also like to acknowledge funding support from the following donors without whom this work would not have been filled with the profound possibilities which it was: The Bottom Billion Fieldwork Fund, Liu Institute for Global Issues (UBC); Joseph-Armand Bombardier Canada Graduate Scholarships Doctoral (SSHRC); The Trudeau Scholarship, The Trudeau Foundation.   To my fellow students and colleagues within the Department of Anthropology and at the Liu Institute for Global Issues, thank you for inspiring me, supporting me, challenging me, and making me feel part of a larger community of people who care about the world in which we live: Marlee McGuire, Laura Lee, Beth Stewart, Brenda Fitzpatrick, Sara Kormanisky, Oralia Gómez- xiii Ramírez, Denise Green, Tal Nitsan, Enyoung Choi, Shayna Plaut, Asha Kaushal, Chris Tenove, Ricardo Chapparo-Pacheco, Katherine Fobear, Dada Docot, Gloria Kendi Borona, and Mascha Gugannig. To my friends and colleagues from the Trudeau Foundation, who have stoked my fire and encouraged positive ‘irreverence’, thank you! Most especially, Alana Gerecke, Danielle Peers, and Zoe Todd. To Juliane Okot Bitek, you have enduringly supported my work and person. Thank you for your love, insight, and for holding me up!  To Jenifer Wolowicz whose weekly “shut up and write” sessions were simply invaluable- we were in it together! Thank goodness. Seriously, thank you so much.  To Martin and Illone Utian, whose hospitality often allowed me a quiet space to work. Thank you for taking me in.  To Aceng Beatrice, whose generosity implicated me in her life and changed the course of mine. Apwoyo Matek Aciro!  To Mom, Dad, Hélène, Norm, Mark, Sharon, and my siblings, thank you for your unconditional love. To my sister Valerie, thank you for always believing in me. To Nana (Sharon), thank you so much for taking great care of Ambrose while I dedicated my time to this project. Your support means, and does, so much! And finally, to my husband Ryan and son Ambrose, I could not have done this without your understanding, participation, encouragement, sacrifice, and love. You are my everything. I love my boys!   xiv Dedication  To Acan Almarina and Omono Justo Langoya.     1 Chapter 1: Introduction-What Makes Home Alive Again? This	thesis	is	about	how	communities	“move	on”,	rebuild,	restore	relations,	and	perform	social	repair	after	war	and	mass	displacement	in	the	rural	Padibe	sub-counties,	Northern	Uganda.	I	explore	here	how	a	return	to	the	land,	and	the	system	of	customary	land	tenure,	provokes	kin-based	inter-generational	interactions	that	serve	to	engage	multiple	generations	in	the	negotiation,	elaboration,	and	learning	of	tekwaro,	Acoli	indigenous	knowledge.1	I	understand	these	engagements	with	tekwaro	as	processes	that	serve	to	make	and	remake	relatedness,	both	historically,	and	in	the	contemporary	context.	Re-elaborating	relatedness	itself	is	understood	as	social	repairing,	and	thus	concerns	the	refusal	of	the	war-violence’s	power	and	capacity	to	fragment	social	relations.	 1.1 Photo Series Excerpt–“Ngom Pito Dano”/“The Land Grows People” The	following	photographs	are	excerpts	from	a	series	of	“self-portraits”	co-created	with	residents	of	Pabwoc	(and	some	from	Padibe).	They	are	included	here	to	both	introduce	the	work,	and	some	of	my	main	interlocutors,	and	to	represent	how	community	members	wanted	to	“picture”	themselves	in	their	own	photo	albums,	and	on	their	own	walls.				                                                  1	Although	the	Acoli	word	tekwaro	is	generally	translated	as	“culture”,	the	word	itself	has	a	large	semantic	range	(not	unlike	in	English)—it	literally	means	“under	the	ancestors”,	and	the	Acoli	concept	itself	often	includes	history	and	tradition	as	well.	I	use	the	term	“indigenous	knowledge”	in	places	throughout	the	dissertation	to	more	accurately	represent	the	Acoli	concept	in	English.	A	more	complete	conception	of	tekwaro,	and	a	theoretical	exploration	of	its	translation	as	indigenous	knowledge	is	explored	in	section	1.4.	  2 Figure 1- Acan Almarina and Omono Justo Langoya. Pabwoc, 2012.    3 Figure 2- Ataro Santina. Pabwoc, 2012.    4 Figure 3- Alal Rose. Pabwoc, 2012.    5 Figure 4- Aceng Beatrice, Kilama Amos, and Vita Kisumu. Lotibol, 2012. 	  6 Figure 5- Oguti Yolanda. Pabwoc, 2012.    7 Figure 6- Anjello Ludega and Cecerina Ludega. Laguri, 2012.    8 Figure 7- Aparo Beatrice. Pabwoc, 2012.    9 1.2 The Seeds of Social Repair I	returned	to	Pabwoc	in	April	of	2015.	It	was	my	first	visit	since	my	main	period	of	fieldwork	for	this	project	in	2012,	two	and	half	years	earlier.	A	lot	had	happened	in	those	years.	In	Canada,	my	husband,	Ryan	and	I	had	a	son,	Ambrose,	and	I	was	writing	the	chapters	you	are	reading	now.	In	Pabwoc,	my	host	family	(Omono	Justo	Langoya,	his	wife	Acan	Almarina,	their	children,	and	Omono’s	two	sisters	Ataro	Santina	and	Rose	Alal)	had	changed	too.	They	had	fresh-built	grass	thatched-roof	houses	in	their	homestead,	a	new	granary,	more	livestock,	and	first	babies	were	born	to	Augustine	(my	host	family’s	eldest	son	and	research	assistant)	and	his	wife,	Ojara	(my	host	family’s	second	eldest	son)	and	his	wife,	and	to	Docus,	my	host	Auntie	Santina’s	daughter.			Time	had	passed.	It	was	now	six	years	since	my	host	family	left	Padibe	Internally	Displaced	Persons’	(IDP)	camp	to	which	they	were	forced	to	flee	during	the	war	between	the	Lord’s	Resistance	Army	(LRA)	and	President	Museveni’s	Government	and	military	(UPDF).			During	the	war,	they–like	100%	of	the	rural	population	in	Acoliland–were	pressured	by	LRA	and	UPDF	violence	to	abandon	their	homes.	Camp	life	was	not	like	home,	and	home	(gang)	had	turned	into	something	else.				 Home	is	dead	and	its	dead	are	silent.	We	are	in	the	camp.	Home	is	dead.	Who	do	you	find	in	it?	Acoliland	is	dead	silent.	Home	is	dead.	  10 Our	large	homestead	has	turned	into	bush.	The	large	grazing	land	has	turned	into	bush.	Home	is	dead.	 -Excerpt	from	a	song	by	Murugut,	local	songwriter	from	Patongo,	Pader	District.2		The	LRA-Government	war	is	particularly	rooted	in	events	that	occurred	in	1986	in	Uganda,	when	President	Museveni	and	his	National	Resistance	Army	(NRA)	finally	seized	power	from	Tito	Okello	after	a	five-year	guerilla	war.	3	Acoli	men	who	had	served	in	the	Acoli-dominated	United	National	Liberation	Army	(UNLA)	army	under	defeated	Milton	Obote,	and	then	Tito	Okello,	fled	north	to	their	homeland	to	escape	NRA	retribution	(Branch	2011).	This	indeed	came	in	the	form	of	a	military	campaign	by	Museveni’s	newly	named	National	Resistance	Movement	(NRM)	against	“opposition”	in	the	north.	Defeated	soldiers	took	to	the	bush	to	form	a	new	rebel	group,	the	Ugandan	People’s	Defence	Army	(UPDA).	By	1988	however,	an	agreement	signed	between	the	NRA	and	the	UPDA	led	to	the	demobilization	and	return	of	some	UPDA,	but	others	retreated	further	into	the	bush	to	re-group	(Baines	2015a).	Some	joined	Alice	Lakwena,	who	fought	what	has	been	called	a	“Holy	War”	against	the	NRA,	reaching	Jinja	District	before	defeat	(Behrend	1999).	Some	former	Acoli	troops	then	reorganized,	under	the	leadership	of	Joseph	Kony,	becoming	the	                                                2		As	part	of	this	study,	Francis	Oyil	collected	and	translated	local	songs	composed	about	war	and	camp	life	throughout	Northern	Uganda.	3	However,	the	roots	of	the	war	is	often	attributed	to	the	British	Colonial	administration	of	Uganda,	and	its	enduring	legacy	of	divisive	ethnic	politics	manifest	in	successively	violent	post-colonial	government	changes	(Baines	2015a,	Branch	2011,	Finnström	2008).	Chapter	3	contains	a	more	in-depth	discussion	of	Colonial	intervention	in	Uganda,	specifically	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties.		  11 Lord’s	Resistance	Army	(LRA)	(Doom	and	Vlassenroot	1999,	Van	Acker	2004).	The	LRA	soon	found	fertile	bases	for	themselves	in	Southern	Sudan,	which	had	been	plagued	by	war	since	1983,	when	the	Sudan	Peoples	Liberation	Army	(SPLA)	began	fighting	the	Khartoum	government.	The	Sudanese	government	in	Khartoum	allied	with	the	LRA,	as	the	Government	of	Uganda	openly	supported	the	SPLA	(Apuuli	2011).		The	LRA-Government	war	has	been	characterized	by	many	people	I	met	in	Acoliland	as	“squeezing	civilians”	from	both	sides.	Children	and	youth	were	targeted	by	the	LRA	and	forced	to	porter,	work,	fight,	abduct,	kill,	or	harm	civilians	(Baines	2015a).	LRA	attacks	and	raids	on	homesteads	were	frequent,	as	punishment	or	warning	to	civilians	who	were	seen	as	“collaborating”	with	Government	(see	for	examples,	Amony	2015,	JRP	2012).	On	the	other	side,	by	the	height	of	the	conflict	(2003–2005),	as	many	as	1.3	million	Acoli	were	forcibly	relocated	by	Government	to	IDP	camps	and	were	unable	to	access	their	residential	and	agricultural	lands	(Bøas	and	Hatløy	2005).	As	will	be	further	explored	in	Chapters	3	and	4,	massive	international	non-governmental	organizations	(NGO)	interventions	tried,	yet	failed,	to	respond	to	the	burgeoning	needs	of	the	displaced	population;	including	food,	water,	medical	services,	and	sanitation	facilities	(Branch	2011,	Dolan	2009).	Since	my	host	family	was	first	displaced	from	their	land	in	1997	as	a	result	of	nearby	LRA	massacres,4	their	livestock	has	been	raided	by	Government	soldiers,	the	immediate	family	narrowly	escaped	from	LRA	attacks	several	times,	their	fruit	orchards	were	burned	(people	                                                4	I	discuss	more	fully	the	reasons	and	details	of	this	displacement	in	Chapter	3.	  12 are	unsure	of	who	actually	did	the	burning),	their	sister	was	killed	in	an	LRA	attack,	extended	family	members	were	abducted	by	the	LRA,	and	they	experienced	years	of	extreme	poverty,	hunger,	and	disease	from	Government’s	policy	of	forced	displacement	to	the	so-called	“protected	villages”	(Allen	and	Vlassenroot	2010,	Dolan	2009),	in	their	case,	to	Padibe	IDP	camp.		Figure 8- The Republic of Uganda.  Showing the location of Pabwoc, in the Padibe East and West sub-counties, Lamwo District, Uganda.   	  13 When	I	first	visited	Northern	Uganda	in	2004	(as	a	photographer),	close	to	the	height	of	the	war,	100%	of	the	rural	population	in	Acoliland	was	displaced	to	IDP	camps	like	Padibe,	where	overcrowding,	lack	of	sanitation	facilities,	and	inadequate	foodstuff	led	to	emergency	level	excess	mortality	rates,	over	1000	deaths	per	week	(UMH	2005).	While	Government	maintains	that	the	IDP	camps	were	there	to	protect	the	population	from	LRA	attacks,	many	scholars	hold	Government	responsible	for	the	high	death	rates	and	inhuman	living	conditions,	and	call	the	camp	conditions	genocide	(Otunnu	2006,	Obote	1990,	Whitmore	2010),	a	form	of	social	torture	(Dolan	2009),	and	a	violation	of	international	humanitarian	law	(Okello	and	Hovil	2007:437).5			I	first	met	my	host	family	on	my	third	visit	to	the	area,	amidst	these	conditions,	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	in	late	2006	(as	a	photographer/researcher).6		Huts	were	built	so	close	together	that	their	thatched	roofs	touched	and	you	could	barely	squeeze	between	them.	Despite	the	ceasefire	announced	two	months	before,	the	family	was	still	unable	to	access	their	gardens	for	fear	of	persistent	LRA	violence	and	Government’s	military	(UPDF)	intimidation,	and	they	were	almost	entirely	dependent	on	World	Food	Program	(WFP)	aid	for	subsistence.	Poverty	was	visually	striking	in	the	camp,	and	the	smell	of	underserviced	and	overcrowded	                                                5	There	was	also	discussion	amongst	academics	of	the	international	community’s	complicity	in	the	terrible	conditions	that	caused	egregious	harm	(Branch	2008,	2011,	Dolan	2009).	6	I	have	been	visiting	Acoliland	since	2004	and	have	spent	a	cumulative	period	of	14	months	in	the	area.	I	will	details	these	visits,	as	well	as	the	circumstances	of	these	visits,	in	Chapter	2.	Please	see	the	timeline	graphic,	Appendix	C,	for	quick	consultation.		  14 conditions	belied	the	high	rates	of	cholera,	typhoid,	and	respiratory	illnesses	(UMH	2005,	ARLPI	2001).7			Figure 9- Aceng Beatrice in front of her hut in Padibe IDP Camp, 2006. A fire earlier in the year had torn through the camp, burning most residents’ possessions and their straw-thatched roofs.   	In	comparison	to	the	abductions	and	extreme	brutalities	inflicted	by	the	LRA,	including	massacres,	forced	killing,	beatings,	the	looting	of	foodstuff,	and	the	night	commuting	phenomena,8	the	plight	of	the	internally	displaced	population	during	and	after	the	war	has	been	given	less	attention	and	consideration	(Porter	2013:20).	However,	the	years	of	forced	displacement	had	profound	consequences	on	Acoli	society.		                                                7	A	more	detailed	account	of	the	family’s	experiences	during	wartime	is	recounted	in	Chapter	3.	8	“Night	commuters”	was	the	term	given	to	tens	of	thousands	of	children	who	commuted	to	town	centers	from	peri-urban	areas	for	nightly	protection	from	LRA	brutalities.	The	LRA	would	often	attack	(and	abduct)	at	nighttime.	  15 	I	am	concerned	here	with	these	consequences,	and	in	learning	how	war-affected	individuals	and	communities	in	rural	Acoliland	conceptualize	and	address	these	transformations	to	“move	on”	with	their	lives	after	their	experiences	in	the	IDP	camps.	How	they	return	to	a	“dead	home”	and	make	it	living	again.	To	do	so,	I	situated	myself	within	one	rural	village	(Pabwoc),	in	Padibe	West	sub-county,	Lamwo	District,	Uganda.9			Figure 10- Padibe East and West Sub-counties, Lamwo District, Republic of Uganda.   Showing the locations of Pabwoc, and Padibe Town Council (also referred to as 'the center', the former Padibe IDP camp, and Padibe trading center).                                                   9	Lamwo	district	was	created	in	2009,	and	was	part	of	Kitgum	District	during	the	war	years.	The	district	itself	borders	South	Sudan,	has	a	population	of	170	033,	and	a	low	population	density	of	30	people	per	km2	(Human	Rights	Focus	2013).	  16 I	learn	about	survivors’	“assumptions”	regarding	social	relations	(Strathern	1992:3),	and	explore	how	Acoli	people	believe	the	war	and	displacement	affected	these	relations.	Because	of	residents’	emphasis	on	the	war	and	displacement’s	impact	on	tekwaro,	I	specifically	dwelled	on	contemporary	moments,	events,	and	practices	that	re-activate	inter-generational	engagement	with	tekwaro,	generating	participation	in	the	creation	and	re-creation	of	people’s	own	social,	political,	and	moral	communities,	their	kaka,	or	after	Oloya,	their	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	(lineages,	clans,	chiefdoms)10	(Oloya	2015:02).	I	have	learned	that	these	practices	are	engendered	by	a	return	to	the	land,	and	to	the	customary	system	of	land	tenure	that	itself	provokes	and	hosts	these	interactions.	I	have	come	to	appreciate	these	practices	as	important	sites	of	social	repairing	in	rural	contexts	because	of	how	they	re-orient	social	relations	away	from	the	fragmenting	effects	of	the	war	violence	experienced.			In	considering	what	“social	repair”	means,	I	was	having	a	conversation	with	Omono	Justo	Langoya	(the	father	of	my	host	family,	hereafter	Baba)	about	seeds	on	my	recent	visit	in	2015.	My	husband	wanted	me	to	ask	for	some	of	Acan	Almarina’s	(the	mother	of	our	host	                                                10	I	translate	kaka	terms	that	account	for	relationship	in	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	today	in	Padibe,	rather	than	common	anthropological	models	that	hold	that	a	clan	is	an	association	of	agnates	that	may	not	have	common	descent,	while	lineages	all	have	common	descent.	Using	the	recounting	of	Pabwoc’s	history,	I	call	their	apical	ancestor	group	the	clan,	which	includes	non-genealogically	linked	sons.	I	call	all	those	sons’	groups	(genealogic	and	through	allying	and	adoption)	of	the	apical	ancestor,	the	sub-clans.	I	further	call	the	sub-clan’s	sons’	groups	(all	genealogically	linked)	lineages.	Descending	from	the	apical	ancestor	then,	is	clan,	sub-clan,	and	lineage.	A	larger	group	that	includes	clans	is	further	called	a	chiefdom.	These	English	terms	are,	as	seen,	not	the	best	suited	to	descriptions	that	are	fluid	over	time.	Kaka	fits	better	as	a	description	for	all	these	kin-groups	that	connotes	heterarchical	alliance	and	relationship.	Residents	often	use	“clan”	in	English	to	denote	these	various	levels	of	kin-based	communal	governance,	and	I	retain	their	references	in	the	quotations.	  17 family,	hereafter	Mama)	millet–wondering	if	her	heirloom	seeds	would	grow	in	Canada.	I	talked	with	Baba	about	“heirloom”	seeds,	what	that	meant,	and	then	I	wondered	about	seeds	after	the	IDP	camps.	Mama	grew	most	of	the	family’s	foodstuff	(about	90%),	and	it	takes	quite	a	lot	of	seed	to	reap	a	good	harvest.	It	also	took	quite	a	few	planting	seasons	to	procure	enough	to	feed	the	whole	family.	I	knew	that	some	NGOs	gave	people	seeds	to	help	them	return	to	their	land	and	their	subsistence	farming	way	of	life	upon	leaving	the	IDP	camps,	but	I	wondered	if	individuals	and	families	were	able	to	conserve	any	of	their	own	“heirloom”	seeds	from	before	the	war	and	forced	displacement.			Baba	answered	in	a	way	that	I	have	not	forgotten.	In	the	dark	warm	house,	his	face	lit	by	a	battery-powered	lantern,	he	said:		You	see,	here	in	Acoli,	even	if	a	house	is	completely	destroyed,	and	you	cannot	see	any	ruins	of	the	house	even,	beneath	where	the	old	house	stood	you	will	find	enough	seeds	to	start	planting	again.	Even	if	the	bush	has	grown	over	it,	you	must	remember	where	it	was	and	dig	down,	especially	under	the	kitchen	house	of	course,	and	there	the	seeds	will	be.	You	see,	some	fall	while	grinding,	and	also	the	ants,	they	are	very	important,	they	take	the	seeds,	and	store	them	underground	in	the	land.			This	dissertation	explores	processes	of	social	repair,	looking	to	how	everyday	practices	of	quotidian	labour,	survival	from	the	land,	and	the	organization	of	social	relations	mix	into	each	other	in	the	ways	that	people	rebuild	and	re-create	life	and	living	after	upheaval–where	the	seeds	of	social	repair	are	found	and	the	ways	in	which	they	are	used	to	make	  18 home	living	again.	According	to	Pilar	Riaño-Alcalá,	social	repair	is	“the	set	of	actions	and	processes	that	individuals	mobilize	to	reconstruct	social	relations,	negotiate	strategies	for	coping	with	violence,	and	to	get	on	with	daily	life”	(2015:284).	I	learned	that	the	practices	and	actors	that	actually	work	to	repair	social	relations	in	rural	Padibe	are	deeply	embedded	in	processes	that	are	aimed	at	successful	subsistence,	and	living	“in	community”	on	the	land	in	the	present	and	future,	but	less	concerned	with	addressing	specific	conflict	or	displacement	breaches	and	violences	from	the	past.	I	take	relationships,	and	thus	the	ways	in	which	people	understand	and	articulate	how	they	are	related,	as	a	main	analytic	tool	in	this	study	to	understand	social	repair.	Relatedness,	specifically	Janet	Carsten’s	notion	of	indigenous	idioms	of	relatedness	(1995,	1997,	2000),	allows	for	the	centering	of	relations	between	people	living,	past	and	future,	and	between	people	and	their	physical	environment,	including	ants,	humans,	and	seeds.	Understanding	that	the	land	itself	is	the	main	symbol	of	relatedness–of	kinship,	or	how	people	are	related	and	what	being	related	does–in	rural	Acoli	becomes	my	frame	for	attending	to	the	practices	which	individuals	and	communities	engage	in	as	they	“move	on”	after	war	and	upheaval,	how	they	practice	and	re-elaborate	that	relatedness,	and	how	that	relatedness	works	as	social	repair.		My	interest	in	social	repair	in	Acoliland	first	emerged	in	tandem	with	the	displaced	community’s	own	concerns.11	On	my	fifth	visit	to	Northern	Uganda	in	2008	(as	a	photographer-researcher),	I	was	staying	next	door	to	my	host	family	in	Padibe	IDP	camp.	                                                11	This	immediate	post-war	description	is	borrowed	in	part	from	Rosenoff	Gauvin,	Lara.	2013.	In	and	Out	of	Culture:	Okot	p'Bitek's	Work	and	Social	Repair	in	Post-	Conflict	Acoliland.	Oral	Tradition.	28(1):	35-54.		  19 At	that	time,	the	ceasefire	of	the	previous	year	and	a	half	had	changed	things	considerably.	People	all	over	Acoliland	had	begun	to	return	to	their	villages	after	a	decade	or	more	of	forced	displacement	into	squalid	camps.	Like	much	of	the	rural	population	who	had	been	forcibly	displaced,	my	host	family	was	planning	to	return	to	their	ngom	kwaro	(ancestral	land)	at	the	end	of	the	year.	Bush	was	finally	being	cleared,	seed	was	being	sown,	boreholes	were	being	checked,	and	houses	were	being	built.			At	the	same	time,	however,	Acoli	men,	women,	children,	and	youth	struggled	to	deal	with	the	past	two	decades	of	war,	abduction,	suffering,	poverty,	and	internal	displacement.12	Children	and	youth	who	grew	up	dependent	on	humanitarian	aid	in	the	congested	camp	were	being	reintroduced	to	“normal”	village	life	primarily	based	on	subsistence	agriculture.	Youth	who	were	able	to	escape	from	the	LRA	continued	to	struggle	to	reintegrate	into	their	families	and	villages,	or	adapt	to	town	life.	Kin	organizations	(lineages,	sub-clans,	clans,	chiefdoms)	tried	to	cope	with	the	effects	of	the	decades	of	violence,	internment,	and	destitution	as	re-settlement	began	and	land	conflicts	were	common	(Atkinson	and	Hopwood	2013,	Whyte	et	al.	2012).	Food	was	not	yet	plentiful.	Thousands	of	people,	mostly	youth,	were	still	missing	with	their	whereabouts	unknown.13	Thousands	of	deaths	had	not	been	properly	mourned.			                                                12	Other	peoples	were	also	affected	by	the	war,	namely	the	Lango	and	Iteso	in	Uganda	(and	communities	in	DRC,	South	Sudan	and	CAR),	but	I	keep	my	references	here	to	Acoli	individuals	and	communities	in	rural	Acoliland,	Northern	Uganda.	13	A	report	released	by	CAP	(2012)	estimated	that	there	were	still	1036	children	or	youth	missing	from	Gulu	District	alone.	  20 While	relieved	from	the	threat	of	armed	violence,	and	the	confinement,	hunger,	and	disease	of	the	IDP	camps,	many	of	the	rural	youth	I	spoke	with	expressed	anxiety	about	their	disconnection	from	tekwaro	Acoli,	what	I	will	translate	here	as	Acoli	indigenous	knowledge,	but	what	is	generally	translated	as	culture,	history,	or	tradition.	They	admitted	that	they	did	not	know,	and	in	many	cases,	did	not	want	to	know,	Acoli	kit	me	kwo	(ways	of	life)	after	life	in	the	displacement	camps.	Their	general	angst	was	shared	by	many	of	the	adults	and	elders	who	feared	that	youth	who	had	grown	up	only	in	the	IDP	camps	didn’t	know,	or	were	“out	of”	tekwaro.	Some	said	that	the	youth	were	labongo	ngeno	tekwaro	(lit.	without	trust	in	indigenous	knowledge,	or	the	ancestors).	Enoji	Onguti,	a	blind	elder	I	spoke	with	that	July,	the	oldest	man	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties,	told	me	that	tekwaro,	Acoli	indigenous	knowledge,	was	not	“destroyed”	or	“made	to	get	lost”	by	the	war	and	camps,	as	many	have	asserted,	but	that	it	is	just	that	the	youth,	and	many	others,	are	not	“within	it”	anymore.	Luckily,	he	added	with	a	smile,	they	can	come	back	within	it	anytime.		When	questioned	by	a	curious	and	stubborn	anthropologist	(myself),	others	expressed	that	although	the	problem	is	expressed	as	lying	with	youth,	youth’s	estrangement	from	tekwaro	actually	belies	adults’	and	elders’	disengagement	from	tekwaro	as	well,	because,	as	Rwot	Madi	explained	to	me	while	visiting	a	neighbouring	village,	“it	is	up	to	adults	and	elders	to	teach	the	youth.	When	people	talk	about	youth	being	out	of	tekwaro,	it	is	not	really	the	failure	of	the	youth,	but	of	the	adults	and	elders.”	A	16	year-old	girl,	Apiyo,	who	was	visiting	with	us,	also	added,	that	“it	is	very	difficult	(to	learn	tekwaro),	because	the	youth	of	today	don’t	have	anyone	to	guide	them.”	A	mother	of	seven	likewise	expressed	to	me	that	people	should	not	blame	the	war	for	the	problems	with	youth,	that	blaming	does	nothing,	that	it	is	  21 really	up	to	the	elders	to	start	teaching	again.	Even	youth	and	young	adults	reflected	on	this,	as	did	Oyil,	a	35	year	old	father	of	three,	one	evening	around	the	fire:	“war	has	really	eroded	tekwaro	because	we	do	not	have	elders	around.	Even	me,	I	cannot	tell	about	tekwaro.	Because	I	was	too	young	in	the	war.	All	of	us	should	be	blamed.”			It	was	intriguing	that	rural	elders,	adults,	and	youth	repeatedly	used	the	concept	of	youth’s	disconnection	from,	or	ignorance	of,	or	disinterest	in	and	refusal	of	tekwaro,	Acoli	indigenous	knowledge,	to	communicate	their	immediate	post-conflict	reconstruction	and/or	reconciliation	concerns.	These	expressions	were	particularly	different	from	fierce	debate	in	policy,	academia,	and	urban	Ugandan	civil	society	regarding	the	capacity	and	possibility	of	extending	national	amnesty	laws	and	using	“traditional”	Acoli	justice	mechanisms	in	addressing	violent	crimes	from	the	war	(Allen	2007,	Armstrong	2014,	Baines	2007,	Finnström	2010,	JRP	2005,	Komakech	2012).14	Yet,	as	corroborated	by	other	scholars	working	in	Acoliland,	high	levels	of	inter-generational	angst	regarding	tekwaro	monopolized	popular	discourse	at	that	time.			Kristen	Cheney	in	her	Northern	Ugandan	chapter	about	Ugandan	children,	speaks	about	how	the	circumstances	of	war	and	displacement	have	completely	overturned	the	inter-generational	social	structure	of	the	Acoli,	and	noted	that	elders,	parents	and	counselors	alike	complained	that	the	war	was	destroying	Acoli	culture	(Cheney	2007:200).	“Whether	                                                14	The	issuing	of	five	arrest	warrants	to	the	LRA’s	top	commanders	(including	Kony)	by	the	International	Criminal	Court	(ICC)	in	2005,	and	its	implications	to	the	viability	of	the	Juba	Peace	Process	which	began	in	2006,	provoked	much	of	this	debate	(see	Apuuli	2004,	2006,	2008).	  22 or	not	people	who	lament	this	loss	of	tradition	and	family	are	idealizing	the	past,	their	assertion	of	loss	indicates	a	deep	cultural	anxiety	over	the	fate	of	inter-generational	relationships”	(201).	Opiyo	Oloya,	a	scholar,	educator	and	journalist,	writes	in	an	article	for	a	Ugandan	national	newspaper	of	the	loss	of	Acoli	education	from	the	circumstances	of	war,	leading	him	to	declare	that	one	of	the	biggest	tragedies	from	the	war	was	“the	death	of	culture”	(2002).	The	Acholi	Religious	Leaders	Peace	Initiative	likewise	spoke	of	a	“collapse	of	cultural	and	moral	values”	(ARLPI	2001:17).	Chris	Dolan	(2009),	in	his	investigation	of	the	displacement	camps	as	a	form	of	social	torture	by	Government,	explores	what	he	calls	“cultural	debilitation”,	which	refers	to	how	people	living	in	IDP	camps	within	the	war	zone	experienced	overcrowded	living	conditions	as	“vectors	not	just	for	bacteria	and	viruses,	but	insofar	as	they	resulted	in	various	practices	which	would	not	have	been	tolerated	under	other	circumstances,	as	vectors	for	social	breakdown	and	moral	disintegration”	(169).	Sverker	Finnström,	in	his	work	on	Acoli	cosmology	in	wartime,	notes	that	“young	men	and	women	complained	that	there	is	no	guidance	from	more	senior	people,	while	older	men	and	women	saw	few	possibilities	to	guard	and	guide	the	youth.	Thus	traditional	values,	cultural	knowledge,	and	social	institutions	of	everyday	life	are	threatened”	(Finnström	2008:146).			There	is	some	relevant	insight	from	further	afield	on	what	is	now	known	as	the	African	continent	that	explores	the	effects	of	war	and	displacement	on	both	indigenous	knowledge,	broadly	conceived,	and	inter-generational	relations.	Alice	Honwana	(2005),	for	example,	describes	how	the	wars	in	Mozambique	and	Angola	created	what	she	calls	a	“crisis	in	moral	  23 values”,	linked	to	a	breakdown	in	the	institutional	initiation	of	youth	into	adulthood,	that	resulted	in	what	some	locals	express	as	a	“retardation”	in	the	maturation	process.	Studying	“child	soldiers”	in	varied	contexts,	she	sees	the	dramatic	shift	of	social	roles	and	responsibilities	of	children	in	war	intrinsically	linked	to,	as	she	describes	it,	a	“breakdown	of	societal	structures	and	long-standing	moral	matrices	in	contexts	of	extreme	social	crisis”	(2005:37-8).	Hirut	Tefferi,	a	scholar	and	practitioner	who	specifically	focuses	on	displacement	of	children	and	youth	in	East	Africa,	similarly	emphasizes	that	the	social	roles	and	responsibilities	that	are	distributed	in	relation	to	age	and	generation	have	been	particularly	undermined	by	large-scale	displacement	from	protracted	conflict	whereby	conventional	frameworks	for	adolescents	to	transition	to	adulthood	are	disrupted	(2008).		In	ideal	circumstances,	attachment	to	community	is	developed	through	processes	of	socialization	and	initiation	that	involve	the	inculcation	of	established	values…in	many	conflict	situations,	however,	the	destruction	of	families,	communities	and	traditional	rituals	often	means	that	adolescents	miss	out	on	engagement	with	the	established	processes	through	which	a	sense	of	group	belonging	is	developed.	(Tefferi	2008:29-30)		These	studies	point	to	war	and	displacement’s	breakdown	of	social	structures	of	organization,	and	the	intrinsic	value	systems	and	moral	signposts,	within	which,	and	by	which	youth	become	socialized	as	participant	members	of	a	community.	Speaking	of	war	and	displacement’s	effects	on	values,	morals,	and	social	roles	and	institutions,	all	connected	with	inter-generational	relations,	begins	to	converge	with	rural	Acoli	communities’	  24 preoccupation	with	youth	being	out	of,	or	unwillingness	to	be	in,	tekwaro,	both	by	circumstance	and	by	continued	choice.			Youth’s	disengagement	from	tekwaro,	as	understood	by	my	interlocutors,	manifests	itself	in	many	practices	and	discourses,	much	of	which	will	be	explored	in	Chapters	2	through	5.	However,	I	first	encountered	the	phenomena	when	it	was	finally	deemed	safe	enough	(by	camp	residents)	to	leave	the	IDP	camps	starting	in	2008.	Many	youth	did	not	want	to	return	to	their	family’s	lands	to	farm.	Although	finding	employment	is	exceedingly	difficult	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties,	they	were	not	interested	in	spending	their	days	toiling	in	the	fields.	Additionally,	there	was	much	discord	created	from	the	high	levels	of	perpetually	unsanctioned	unions,	and	resulting	children,	that	originated	during	the	displacement	years.	As	I	will	explore	in	Chapter	4,	these	significantly	impacted	women	and	children’s	statuses,	other	male	family	members’	potential	unions,	as	well	as	land	access	rights	through	the	customary	tenure	system	in	place.	There	was	also	significant	worry	about	youth	not	knowing	their	extended	kin	networks,	their	lineage	and	clan	relations.	Without	growing	up	in	villages	where	spatial	dimensions	mirrored	kin	relations	(a	village	often	corresponds	to	a	sub-clan),	there	was	a	lack	of	the	participatory	responsibilities	related	to	kin	relationships	that	instill	moral	values	and	that	reinforce	kin	authority	and	governance	(regulated	by	the	kaka,	as	explored	in	Chapter	5).			Exploring	inter-generational	relations	of	uneasiness,	and	understanding	what	people	mean	by	tekwaro,	indigenous	knowledge,	have	been	fundamental	to	my	exploration	of	war	and	  25 displacement’s	impacts	on	rural	Acoli	society	and	subsequent	understandings	of	community	practices	of	social	repair.	Conceptualizing	social	repair	as	how	individuals	and	communities	“move	on”	after	war	and	displacement	and	how	they	make	home	alive	again,	privileges	relationships	(as	in	social	repair),	and	as	I	explore	here,	inter-generational	as	well	as	human-land	ones	as	primary	sites	for	this	kind	of	work.			The	next	section	explores	what	I	mean	by	the	term	social	repair,	drawing	upon	contemporary	studies	of	lives	during	and	after	war	as	well	as	important	critiques	of	transitional	justice	practices.	I	explain	that	consideration	of	land	tenure,	and	how	the	land	is	an	idiom	of	relatedness	itself,	is	an	important	contribution	in	understanding	how	individuals	and	communities	in	rural	settings	“move	on”	after	war	and	displacement.	The	social	repairing	that	occurs	in	Padibe	thus	suggests	that	it	is	important	to	reorient	social	repair	to	an	alternate	coordinate	than	the	defining	constraints	of	the	touchstone	of	violent	acts	themselves.	I	then	introduce	the	research	project	and	my	initial	research	questions.	A	full	description	and	analysis	of	my	research	ethos,	engagements,	and	methodologies	will	expand	upon	this	brief	overview	in	Chapter	2.	I	finally	build	up	my	theoretical	framework,	unpacking	the	concept	of	tekwaro	to	show	how	a	return	to	the	land,	and	the	system	of	land	tenure,	engenders	inter-generational	participation	in,	and	engagement	with,	tekwaro	that	re-elaborates	relatedness,	and	how	that	constitutes	vital	social	repair	practices.	The	remainder	of	the	introduction	will	detail	the	main	contributions	of	each	chapter.		  26 1.3 Social Repair Although	most	studies	of	lives	during	and	after	war	emphasize	the	ways	that	people	navigate	experiences	of	violence	that	have	become	incorporated	into	relationships	and	the	everyday,	for	rural	Acoli	in	Padibe,	repair	itself	consists	of	separating	the	violence	“out”	again;	or	re-orienting	relationality	itself	to	a	different	set	of	coordinates	grounded	in	indigenous	notions	of	relatedness.	Social	repair	in	rural	Acoli	is	thus	the	refusal	of	the	powerful	categorizing	and	organizing	capacities	of	violence.	This	refusal	is	practiced	by	re-elaborating	kin-based	non-violent	frames	of	relationality,	particularly	those	grounded	by	the	land,	and	the	customary	system	of	land	tenure.	This	section	will	first	review	existing	literature	on	social	repair,	and	then	advance	my	own	understandings	of	the	concept	based	on	the	results	of	the	current	study.	 An	“anthropology	of	social	repair”	was	only	first	identified	as	such	by	Rosalind	Shaw	in	2007.	Emerging	in	response	to	the	discipline’s	increasing	focus	on	instability,	disintegration,	and	conflict,	Shaw	notes	that	recent	works	have	shifted	focus	to	explore	processes	and	practices	that	remake	(rather	than	undo)	social	worlds	and	sociality	itself.	For	example,	Carolyn	Nordstrom	who	worked	in	Mozambique	during	the	1990s	urged	for	an	expanded	conception	of	violence	and	analyses	of	war	that	encompassed	reconstruction	as	well	as	destruction,	and	survival	as	well	as	suffering.	Approached	this	way,	violence	could	be	better	understood	as	a	“dimension	of	living	rather	than	as	a	domain	of	death”	(Robbens	and	Nordstrom	1995:6).	Through	this	lens,	Nordstrom	became	alert	to	creativity	  27 and	imagination	as	important	strategies	of	survival	and	reconstruction	amid	the	people	she	encountered	(1997).	Along	with	Anthony	Robben,	she	states:	In	peeling	back	the	layers	of	the	many	realities	that	impinge	on	this	question	of	what	violence	is,	we	find	that	even	the	most	horrific	acts	of	aggression	do	not	stand	as	isolated	exemplars	of	a	“thing”	called	violence	but	cast	ripples	that	reconfigure	lives	in	the	most	dramatic	of	ways,	affecting	constructs	of	identity	in	the	present,	the	hopes	and	potentialities	of	the	future,	and	even	renditions	of	the	past.	(Robbens	and	Nordstrom	1995:5)		Shaw	herself	tackles	the	question	of	“the	ways	in	which	people	in	conditions	of	violence	and	political	flux	reweave	their	lives”	(2007a:67)	in	post-war	Sierra	Leone,	and	locates	the	reconstructive	processes	within	memory.	This	focus	on	memory,	she	states,	allows	for	a	consideration	of	how	upheaval	is	realized	as	lived	experience,	and	how	suffering	is	transformed	into	enabling	narrative.	Her	earlier	work	(2002),	examines	the	manifestation	of	memories	of	the	slave	trade,	colonialism,	and	the	contemporary	war	in	non-linear	embodied	practices.			Pilar	Riaño-Alcalá	also	specifically	attends	to	memory	practices	as	forms	of	social	repair.	For	her,	memory	is	a	“cultural	practice,	a	form	and	system	of	action	that	relates	to	a	domain	of	knowledge	and	a	locus	of	experience”	(2006:11)	that	negotiates	the	lived	experience	of	violence.	The	various	memory	practices	of	youth	in	Medellin	that	she	witnesses,	including	place-naming	(81)	and	ghost	narratives	(123),	suggests	memory	itself	as	an	ongoing,	  28 everyday,	relational	sociocultural	process	of	reconciliation,	or	moving	on.	In	her	more	recent	work,	she	also	explores	how	what	she	terms	“grassroots”	processes	of	social	repair,	particularly	commemorative	practices	of	a	displaced	Wayuu	community	in	Colombia,	call	upon	the	memory	of	their	peoples’	connections	to	the	land,	the	supra	natural	world,	and	the	dead,	to	demand	justice	after	a	massacre	that	killed	members	of	their	community	(2015,	N.d.).		Michael	Jackson	studies	storytelling	events	during	and	after	conflict,	mostly	in	Sierra	Leone,	as	particular	mediators	of	social	relations	(2002,	2005),	and	emphasizes	that	the	stories	people	tell	about	violence	in	their	everyday	lives	gives	great	insight	into	how	people	make	communal	life	viable	in	war	as	well	as	in	peace.	Erin	Baines	similarly	examines	life	histories,	of	women	abducted	by	the	LRA	in	Northern	Uganda,	and	posits	that	they	are	particularly	effective	in	understanding	how	those	affected	by	violence	“persevere”	(2015),	and	how	that	perseverance	is	itself	a	political	act.			In	addition	to	a	focus	on	creativity,	imagination,	memory	practices,	and	storytelling,	studies	of	“social	repair”	generally	remind	us	that	lives	in	war	should	be	engaged	with	as	sites	of	social	reproduction	(Lubkemann	2008),	and	not	merely	as	sites	of	interruption.	In	his	study	in	Mozambique,	Lubkemann	concludes	that	rather	than	being	overwhelmed	with	dealing	with	acute	violence	itself,	people	were	actually	engaged	in	re-negotiating	social	relations	and	key	life	projects	(2008).	Because	contemporary	warfare	is	often	long-term	or	continuous,	this	“chronic	crisis”,	as	Henrik	Vigh	describes	it,	demands	that	lives	must	be	  29 approached	as	“a	terrain	of	action	and	meaning	rather	than	aberration”	(Vigh	2008:6).	The	demand	for	acknowledgement	of	the	agency	of	those	whose	lives	have	been	entangled	in	political,	systemic,	and	structural	violence	is	thus	a	key	consideration	in	the	study	of	social	repair.			There	is	also	concern	about	the	nature	and	social	impact	of	violence	itself.	As	Veena	Das	poetically	points	out–the	event	of	violence	“attaches	itself	with	its	tentacles	into	everyday	life	and	folds	itself	into	the	recesses	of	the	ordinary”	(2007:1).	Particularly	examining	the	violent	events	around	India’s	Partition	and	the	1984	riots,	her	work	explores	what	it	means	to	live	together	again,	and	what	happens	to	the	subject	and	the	world	when	memories	of	violent	events	are	incorporated	into	ongoing	relationships.	Attending	to	processes	of	social	repair	thus	acknowledges	that	violence	does	not	harm	isolated	individuals,	but	that	it	is	inherently	relational,	as	it	becomes	mixed	into	everyday	life	and	relationships,	affecting	friendships,	families,	and	communities	(Theidon	2006).	Any	understandings	of	moving	on,	or	“reconciliations”,	must	then	also	be	understood	relationally	(Borneman	2002).			A	significant	interlocutor	in	questions	concerning	how	people	in	Northern	Uganda	“move	on”	after	the	war	and	displacement	(as	well	as	in	other	parts	of	the	world),	has	been	the	international	legal	practices	and	processes	known	as	transitional	justice.	A	definition	of	transitional	justice	includes:			 The	full	range	of	processes	and	mechanisms	associated	with	a	society’s	attempts	to	come		 to	terms	with	a	legacy	of	large-scale	past	abuses	in	order	to	ensure	accountability,	serve		 justice	and	achieve	reconciliation.	These	may	include	both	judicial	and	non-judicial	  30 	 mechanisms,	with	differing	levels	of	international	involvement	(or	none	at	all)	and		 individual	prosecutions,	reparations,	truth-seeking,	institutional	reform,	vetting	and		 dismissals,	or	a	combination	thereof.	(UN	Report	of	the	Secretary	General	2004)			And	while	the	UN’s	definition	arguably	subsumes	the	practices	reviewed	that	many	have	identified	as	“social	repair”	(i.e.	the	full	range…),	studies	that	highlight	social	repair	also	contribute	to	substantial	critique	of	international	transitional	justice	policy	and	practice.	While	international	bodies	like	the	United	Nations	supposedly	eschew	“one-size	fits	all”	approaches	to	transitional	justice,	the	majority	of	their	actions,	recognitions,	and/or	support	to	transitioning	societies	still	predominantly	focus	on	the	individual’s	relation	to	the	State,	through	criminal	prosecution	in	the	form	of	tribunals,	truth	commissions,	and	government	and	security	system	reform	(ICTJ	N.d.).	Addressing	these	mechanisms,	Das	et	al.	insist	however,	that	“legal	procedure	may	well	play	a	role,	even	a	decisive	one,	in	community	coping,	but	that	role	cannot	account	for	the	continuity	of	everyday	social	experience,	not	can	it	alone	bring	about	the	repair	of	social	ties	and	institutions”	(2001:23).		As	legal	scholars	Laurel	Fletcher	and	Harvey	Weinstein	asserted	in	2002,	the	nature	of	war	had	shifted	from	inter	to	intra	state	conflict,	and	the	targeting	of	civilians,	the	destruction	of	infrastructure,	and	the	breakdown	of	socio-economic	institutions	and	networks	of	intimate	familial	relationships	(the	foundation	for	a	functioning	community	as	they	describe	it),	are	now	key	elements	of	contemporary	conflict.	Emphasizing	the	communal,	rather	than	the	individualized	impact	of	war,	the	authors	assert,	“human	suffering	at	a	communal	level	is	a	  31 shared	feature	of	contemporary	conflict”	(Fletcher	and	Weinstein	2002:576).	Warning	against	imposed	transitional	justice	interventions	after	violence	and	upheaval,	such	as	truth	commissions	or	trials,	they	emphasize	that	we	must	first	ask	locally,	“what	is	social	reconstruction?”	(623).			Others	have	argued	that	there	is	little	empirical	evidence	that	national	and	international	mechanisms	such	as	truth	commissions	and	criminal	trials	effectively	deter	further	conflict	or	provide	realistic	foundations	for	societal	reconstruction	(Weinstein	and	Stover	2004).	Some	assert	that	nation	building	goals	often	obscure	the	need	for	reconciliation	among	affected	populations,	and	unless	transitional	justice	initiatives	resonate	with	a	majority	of	survivors,	and	address	the	communal	rather	than	just	an	imagined	individualized	impact	of	war,	they	ultimately	fail	to	assist	in	reconciliation	processes	(Theidon	2006,	Shaw	et	al.	2010).	Worse	still,	they	may	serve	to	further	entrench	historically	violent	social	relations	(Hinton	2010,	Alfred	and	Corntassel	2005).			Transitional	justice	practices	have	been	further	critiqued	as	a	hegemonic	enterprise	that	uses	a	contemporary	“stage	theory”	discourse	to	support	neo-imperial	governance	projects	(Hinton	2010).	Its	narrow	conception	of	time,	and	ignoring	past	injustice	associated	with	colonialism	or	the	slave	trade	for	examples,	ignores	historical	atrocity	and	continuing	imperialism	that	perpetuates	the	violences	of	inequality,	poverty,	and	conflict	(Arbour	2008,	Clarke	2009,	Cole	2001,	Riaño-Alcalá	2006,	Soyinka	2000).		As	a	“rule	of	law	movement”	(Clarke	2009),	the	practice	of	transitional	justice	emphasizes	ideologically	informed	legal	processes	that	construct	truths	(or	“fictions”,	Clarke	2009)	wherein	civil	and	  32 political	rights	are	distinct	from	social,	economic,	and	cultural	ones	(Amadiume	and	An-Na’im	2000,	Arbour	2008,	Okello	2010,	Arrazia	and	Roht-Arrazia	2008,	Roht-Arriaza	2006).	Furthermore,	transitional	justice	practices	reliance	on	the	redemptive	power	of	speaking	and	remembering	(Shaw	2007,	2007a,	Cole	2001),	and	specific	testimonial	narratives	(Jackson	2005,	Ross	2010),	seen	in	an	emphasis	on	trials	and	truth	commissions,	ignores	local	cultural	concepts	and	expressions	of	personhood,	damage,	repair,	and	redress	(Shaw	et	al.	2010).	It	thus	tends	to	posit	those	who	experienced	violence	as	conflict-affected	people	in	need	of	rescue	by	an	external	authority,	rather	than	as	individuals	and	communities	capable	of	dealing	with	their	experiences	(Clarke	2009).			In	contradistinction,	the	study	of	social	repair	acknowledges	the	everyday	as	a	primary	site	where	agents	might	pursue	deceptively	“mundane”	activities,	and	looks	to	lived	actions,	practices,	and	stories	narrated	rather	than	to	historical	or	legal	documentation	and	process,	as	found	in	dominant	transitional	justice	practices,	to	understand	how	people	meaningfully	restore	relationality	(Riaño-Alcalá	and	Baines	2012).	Considering	a	more	place-based	or	localized	transitional	justice,	would,	according	to	Shaw	et	al,	consider	the	"local"	as	a	standpoint,	a	shifted	center	from	which	the	rest	of	the	world	is	viewed	(2010:6).	They	call	for	a	place-based	practice	(2010:22),	which	incorporates	a	more	nuanced	understanding	of	what	justice,	redress,	and	social	reconstruction	looks	like.	In	the	same	volume,	Moses	Chrispus	Okello	further	emphasizes	that	understanding	local	practices	of	“social	repair”	or	“justice”	are	not	enough,	and	that:	  33 A	shift	to	"place-based"	forms	of	justice	is	not	merely	a	matter	of	equity	but	offers	a	means	of	moving	our	conceptual	frame	beyond	that	of	international	law	by	allowing	local	critiques,	priorities,	and	practices	to	show	us	alternative	ways	of	conceptualizing	justice	and	rights.	(2010:279)			Accounting	for	these	various	contemporary	contributions	in	my	own	understanding	of	social	repair,	I	suggest	that	in	addition	to	considering	specific	survivor-centered,	agentic	memory	practices	(Riaño-Alcalá	2006,	Shaw	2007a),	spirit	engagements	(Baines	2010,	Igreja	et	al.	2008,	Perera	2001,	Theidon	2012),	life	project	negotiations	(Das	2007,	Lubkemann	2008),	storytellings	(Jackson	2002,	Baines	2015a,	Oloya	2013),	and	grassroots	processes	(Riaño-Alcalá	2015,	N.d.),	understanding	how	individuals	and	communities	“move	on”	after	upheaval,	must	also	fundamentally	consider	how	the	majority	of	people	are	able	to	subsist,	which	in	rural	Northern	Uganda,	particularly	must	consider	the	land	and	customary	land	tenure.		As	I	have	learned	in	the	rural	Padibe	sub-counties,	the	land	itself,	in	addition	to	being	vital	for	subsistence,	is	also	fundamental	to	relatedness,	to	the	ways	in	which	people	understand	how	they	are	related	and	what	being	related	does	(as	will	be	explored	in	Chapters	3-5).	I	thus	understand	that	the	land	is	also	essential	to	social	repairing,	to	how	people	go	about	re-elaborating	relatedness	after	conflict	and	upheaval.	I	learned	that	inter-generational	activities	that	engage	people	in	tekwaro,	in	indigenous	knowledge	that	itself	engenders	participation	in	the	creation	and	re-creation	of	social,	political,	and	moral	community	  34 becomes	possible	mostly	because	of	how	the	land,	and	the	mode	of	land	tenure,	are	a	powerful	unifying	and	organizing	force	in	rural	Acoli.	As	Acoli	scholar	Rose	Nayaki	explores,	“customary	land	tenure	goes	beyond	land	as	‘an	object’	to	perceive	land	as	‘an	item’	that	defines	peoples’	identity,	social	class,	and	social	relationships	as	well	as	relationships	with	the	soil/land	that	they	had	to	put	to	use“	(Nayaki	2011).	As	further	explored	in	Chapter	3,	strong	connections	between	the	land	and	human	social	relations	have	long	been	articulated	by	indigenous	communities	(Basso	1996,	Todd	2016,	Watts	2013,	are	some	few	examples).	According	to	many	scholars	(Girling	1960,	p’Bitek	1971),	the	name	“Acoli”	was	given	by	the	Arabs,	however	locally	they	were	known	as	Luo	Gang	or	Ugangi–the	Luo	that	were	found	in	the	village	or	homestead.			The	land	in	rural	Acoli	is	necessary	for	survival	and	for	subsistence.	As	an	item	or	symbol	that	shapes	social	relations,	and	that	lies	at	the	heart	of	indigenous	knowledge	of	a	people	known	as	“people	of	the	home”,	land	in	Acoli	is	thus	able	to	re-gather	people–despite	the	relational	effects	of	the	violences	of	war	and	displacement–in	participatory	encounters	that	work	at	re-elaborating	relatedness,	of	social	repairing.	In	Chapters	3	to	5,	I	particularly	show	how	tic	Acoli	(work	relating	to	subsistence),	the	creation	of	social	unions	and	the	legitimization	of	children	through	cuna,	and	kin-based	community	governance	(kaka)	are	all	grounded	by	the	land	and	land	tenure,	and	all	work	at	re-elaborating	relatedness.	I	understand	elaborating	and	re-elaborating	relatedness	in	contemporary	post-conflict	and	post-displacement	contexts	as	constituting	social	repairing. 	  35 Additionally,	I	learned	that	engaging	with	how	the	land	provides	both	impetus	and	structured	opportunities	for	constituting	and	re-constituting	community	(and	the	organization	of	social	relations),	through	interactions	with	tekwaro,	tries	to	“undo”	or	“unfold”	the	relational	impacts	of	violence	experienced	during	the	war	years.	Similar	to	what	Shaw	calls	the	“art	of	forgetting”	(2007),	or	Cole’s	“directed	forgetting”	(2001),	social	repair	in	these	contexts	seeks	a	re-creation	of	everyday	life	whereby	the	violence	of	those	years	is	“bracketed	away”	from	everyday	social	relations.	I	use	the	term	“bracketed	away”	(exploring	this	more	in	Chapter	5)	to	particularly	differentiate	these	practices	from	Cole	and	Shaw’s	forgetting,	and	to	emphasize	that	people	have	to	draw	upon	other	frames	of	relationality–rather	than	on	the	violences	experienced	during	the	war	and	displacement	years–specifically	kin-based	relatedness	rooted	in	the	land,	to	survive	and	live	with	themselves	and	others	again.	A	return	to	the	land,	and	to	the	customary	system	of	land	tenure,	thus	provoked	practices	that	serve	to	elaborate	and	re-elaborate	relatedness.	I	understand	these	practices	as	social	repairing	in	contemporary	rural	Acoliland.		An	emphasis	on	“bracketing	away”	the	violence	is	due	in	large	part	to	the	kinds	of	violences	experienced	during	the	war	and	systems	of	customary	tenure.	For	examples,	the	rates	for	Acoli	youth	who	experienced	abduction,	and	thus	who	were	also	forced	to	commit	acts	of	violence	were	very	high.	About	one	in	four	girls	and	one	in	three	boys	were	abducted	at	some	point	during	the	war	(Annan	2008),	which	indicates	that	approximately	28%	of	youth	were	abducted	and	forced	to	commit	acts	of	violence.		Another	study	estimates	that	about	20%	of	abducted	youth	were	often	forced	to	beat	or	kill	their	own	family	members	(Annan	  36 and	Blattman	2010).	The	camps	themselves	were	a	form	of	collective	“social	torture”	(Dolan	2009)	by	Government,	where	other	forms	of	close	relational	violence,	leading	to	what	John	Jaramogi	Oloya	(2015:282)	calls	the	“disintegration	of	the	households”	were	facilitated.	Notably,	Opiyo	Oloya	states	that	the	“Acholi-on-Acholi”	violence	committed	and	experienced	in	this	war	was	unprecedented	(2013:7).	Enoji,	the	eldest	man	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties	touched	on	this	when	I	asked	him	if	“Kony’s	war”,	as	it	is	often	called	(lweny	pa	Kony),	affected	tekwaro	pa	Acoli.	He	answered:		Ah-there	is	always	bad.	Even	up	to	now	and	up	to	tomorrow.	But	this	war	brought	into	Acoli	that	people	can	kill	their	own.	It	has	really	made	the	world	to	get	spoiled	and	up	to	now,	people	are	killing	one	another.	And	now,	the	world,	the	world	is	not	as	it	used	to	be.  	On	top	of	the	violence	forced	between	people	who	were	often	related–by	immediate	family,	lineage,	clan,	in-laws,	or	chiefdoms–mass	displacement	of	the	entire	rural	population	from	their	lands	struck	at	the	very	heart	of	relationality;	the	organization	of	social	relationships	and	communal	governance.	I	thus	learned	that	the	processes	involved	in	social	repairing	in	2012	did	not	reference	violent	experiences	or	categorizations	of	individuals	from	the	war	and	displacement	(such	as	rebel,	IDP,	abductee	etc.),	and	rather	called	upon	unifying	kin-based	categorizations	and	experiences	(daughter,	son,	mother,	uncle,	lineage,	sub-clan	etc.),	social	relationships,	and	sociality,		“the	world	as	it	used	to	be”,	relationally,	grounded	by	the	land.			  37 Although	Veena	Das	emphasizes	how	violence	becomes	folded	into	ordinary,	everyday	life	and	ongoing	relationships,	social	repair	in	rural	Padibe	seems	to	suggest	the	ways	that	people	try	to	“unfold”	and	separate	those	particular	violences	back	“out”	from	the	relationships	themselves;	the	ways	that	they	“bracket	away”	the	violences	experienced	during	the	war	from	everyday	life	and	social	relationships	in	post-conflict	and	post-displacement	contexts.			If	social	repair	in	rural	Acoliland	is	understood	as	what	makes	home	alive	again,	and	examines	how	ongoing	processes	of	the	creation	and	re-creation	of	community	through	inter-generational	engagement	with	tekwaro	occurs,	provoked	by	a	return	to	the	land,	then	the	results	of	this	study	question	what	we	may	or	may	not	understand	about	social	repair	by	assuming	a	priori,	and	maintaining	that,	violence	is	an	enduring	primary	point	of	reference	in	social	repair,	indeed	in	“justice”	practices	in	general.		For	people	in	the	rural	Padibe	sub-counties,	two	to	three	years	after	return,	repair	indicated	a	refusal	of	the	defining	power	of	the	violence,	and	the	continuous	work	of	re-orientating	life	to	a	different	cardinal	point,	to	the	land,	and	to	relatedness–to	kin-based	relations	that	order	life	on	the	land.	Practices	concerning	the	procurement	of	food	from	the	land,	like	work	(Chapter	3),	the	legitimization	of	unions	and	offspring	(Chapter	4),	and	sub-clan	governance	(Chapter	5),	then	become	primary	in	understanding	both	the	war’s	effects	on	social	relations,	and	the	ways	in	which	people	seek	to	repair	them	through	the	creation	and	re-creation	of	an	everyday	not	still	categorized,	defined,	and	thus	not	still	organized	by	their	recent	experiences	of	forced	violence.		  38 	The	next	section	briefly	introduces	the	research	project	and	questions	to	better	situate	these	learnings	about	social	repair.	I	follow	by	elaborating	on	my	own	conceptualization	of	social	repairing	by	considering	how	tekwaro	is	grounded	in	the	land,	the	metaphor	of	relatedness	(Hutchinson	2000)	in	rural	Acoliland.	After	considering	tekwaro	as	philosophy,	as	a	basis	of	social	organization,	and	as	practice,	I’ll	finally	argue	that	participatory	inter-generational	interactions,	grounded	and	engendered	by	the	land,	provoke	engagement	with	tekwaro	that	constitutes	social	repairing.	This	conceptualizes	social	repairing	as	the	quotidian	creation	and	re-creation	of	social,	political,	and	moral	community,	as	the	unspectacular	participatory	engagements	with	tekwaro	necessary	for	continuous–though	not	in	any	means	static–practices	of	relatedness,	and	thus	of	repair.		 1.4 Brief Project Overview In	May	2010,	after	consulting	with	who	would	become	my	host	family	(including	some	members	of	their	extended	family,	or	lineage)	at	a	lunch	in	their	village	of	Pabwoc	East	(about	one	year	after	they	left	Padibe	IDP	camp),	I	was	invited	to	live	in	their	family’s	homestead	to	conduct	my	PhD	research.	I	told	those	gathered	about	a	conversation	I	had	had	with	a	young	woman,	Beatrice,	with	whom	I	had	worked	while	she–and	they–were	still	displaced	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	from	2006	to	2008.15	The	conversation	occurred	while	we	were	reviewing	photographs	that	I	had	taken	of	her	over	the	previous	three	years	in	                                                15	Beatrice	was	not	directly	related	to	Augustine	or	the	people	of	Pabwoc.	However,	they	knew	her	from	when	I	worked	with	her	in	the	camp	(2006-2008).	She	was	also	from	the	same	place	(geographic	and	genealogic)	as	Augustine’s	mother,	Panyinga.	Augustine	is	also	godfather	to	her	first-born	son.	  39 preparation	for	an	exhibition	and	booklet.	Discussing	potential	venues	in	Canada,	I	then	asked	if	she	would	like	me	to	organize	a	photo	exhibit	here	in	Padibe,	or	perhaps	in	the	closest	town	of	Kitgum?	After	a	long	sigh…and	after	thinking	for	about	a	minute,	this	was	Beatrice’s	answer:	No,	I	do	not	have	much	to	say	to	people	here.	They	already	know	my	situation.	Rather,	I	want	to	learn	from	them.	I	want	to	learn	about	Acoli	tekwaro	to	make	my	future	look	like	other	people	and	to	make	me	fit	in	the	society.	Because	I	missed	learning	tekwaro	when	I	was	young	and	even	when	I	was	growing	up.	I	would	ask	other	Acoli	to	teach	me	the	way	of	how	to	live	with	others,	and	how	to	be	a	good	Acoli	woman.	(Personal	communication,	July	2008)		I	then	described	how	others	talked	about	youth	being	“out	of”	tekwaro,	and,	provocatively,	of	youth	not	wanting	to	know	“tekwaro”,	and	I	asked	if	they	thought	that	the	topic	of	war	and	displacement’s	effects	on	tekwaro	and	youth,	and	on	community	in	general,	was	appropriate	to	research.	Several	people	said	they	would	welcome	attention	to	questions	of	tekwaro.	Specifically,	Acaa	Margaret	delivered	an	impassioned	speech	detailing	her	own	concerns	about	youth	and	tekwaro.	She	said	that	they	too	were	very	worried	about	youth–that	most	youth	did	not	want	to	farm,	and	that	they	lingered	in	the	town	center	(former	camp)–but	that	the	adults	were	so	very	busy	with	the	work	of	rebuilding,	that	they	could	not	pay	sufficient	attention	to	it.	She	concluded	that	it	would	be	good	to	have	me	there	to	“turn	people’s	minds’	to	these	things.”	A	male	teenager	also	spoke,	saying	that	adults	and	elders	do	not	make	time	for	teaching	these	days,	yet	there	are	many	things	that	the	youth	  40 would	really	like	to	know.	Perhaps	my	presence	would	also,	as	Auntie	said,	“help	turn	the	adults	and	elders	minds	to	youth	again.”		I	returned	to	Canada	after	that	2010	visit,	and	coordinated	the	project	with	Augustine,	my	host	family’s	eldest	son,	by	email.16	Although	this	would	be	my	first	time	doing	research	with	Augustine’s	family	in	Pabwoc,	it	was	an	extension	of	relations	established	previously	when	I	lived	next	to	them	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	for	one	month	in	2008.			In	consultation	with	Pabwoc’s	elders	and	sub-clan	leader,17	it	was	agreed	that	I	could	live	in	Pabwoc	for	my	project.	They	requested	that	I	create	a	book	for	them	about	tekwaro	Pabwoc,	detailing	the	sub-clan’s	history	and	the	founding	of	the	village,	among	other	details.	I	agreed.18	I	asked	if	I	could	conduct	a	full	village	survey	while	living	there,	to	document	residents’	recollections	of	their	movements	during	the	war,	but	also	to	discuss	with	them	their	conceptualizations	of	tekwaro.19	I	also	wanted	to	participate	in	daily	life	as	much	as	I	was	able,	including	sub-clan	meetings	and	gatherings,	when	appropriate.	They	agreed.	Augustine	asked	if	I	would	like	to	partner	on	a	project	with	a	youth	group	he	had	co-founded	while	in	the	camp	(in	2003).	The	group	had	created	cultural	programs	for	other	displaced	youth	in	the	war	years	using	music,	dance,	and	drama.	They	were	now	looking	for	funding	and	partners	for	a	new	project	of	“cultural	revival”,	and	he	had	introduced	me	                                                16	Augustine	had	a	room	in	the	center	and	could	access	the	internet	more	readily.	17	Pabwoc	is	both	a	village	and	a	sub-clan.	With	time	the	village	of	Pabwoc	has	grown	and	has	become	Pabwoc	East	village	and	Pabwoc	West	village.	More	details	in	Chapter	3.	18	I	had	asked	what	I	might	do	with	my	time	that	was	useful	to	them.	It	is	attached	here	in	pdf	form	as	Appendix	A.	19	The	original	survey	that	served	as	a	guide	for	the	conversations	is	attached	here	as	Appendix	B.	  41 to	them	in	2008	and	again	in	2010.	As	will	be	further	explored	in	Chapter	2,	I	agreed	to	collaborate	with	the	group.			This	period	of	fieldwork	in	Pabwoc	for	which	we	were	organizing	adds	to	my	previous	experiences	in	the	area,	namely:	a	cumulative	two	months	of	traveling	throughout	the	north	during	the	war	in	2004	and	2005	(as	an	unpaid	photographer),	a	cumulative	of	four	months	living	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	between	December	2006	and	July	2008	(as	a	photographer-researcher	pursuing	my	MFA),	and	the	two	week	consultation	visit	previously	described	in	2010	(as	an	anthropologist),	where	I	stayed	in	Padibe	Town	Center	(the	former	camp,	called	the	center	by	residents)	and	visited	friends	and	acquaintances	in	their	home	villages.	For	this	main	period	of	fieldwork	in	2012,	I	lived	in	Pabwoc	with	my	host	family	from	March	to	October,	with	a	short	break	in	May.20		Attempting	to	understand	the	inter-generational	strife	and	the	idiom	of	tekwaro	being	used	to	express	post-conflict	concerns,	I	attended	to	inter-generational	relations	and	the	transmission	of	Acoli	indigenous	knowledge,	and	asked:		1.	How	and	why	is	tekwaro,	and	attention	to	inter-generational	knowledge	transmission	referenced	and	mobilized	by	the	different	generations	in	dealing	with	the	conflict	and	its	effects?		2.	How	were	inter-generational	knowledge	transmissions	transformed	during	war	and	                                                20	A	timeline	can	be	consulted,	see	Appendix	C.	  42 displacement,	and	how	did	those	transformations	shape	people’s	everyday	relational	practices?		The	next	section	elaborates	the	framework	within	which	I	have	come	to	understand	both	these	questions	themselves,	as	well	as	some	answers	to	these	questions.	Thinking	through	the	idea	of	tekwaro	itself,	guided	by	the	work	of	Acoli	scholar	Okot	p’Bitek,	I	explore	how	engagement	with	tekwaro	is	a	learning	process	that	involves	inter-generational	interactions,	negotiation,	and	appropriation.	Drawing	attention	to	how	land	tenure	and	social	organization	practices	engendered	by	a	return	to	the	land	provides	frameworks	of	engagement	that	perform	social	repair,	I	emphasize	that	engagement	with	tekwaro,	both	historically	and	in	response	to	the	recent	years	of	war	and	displacement,	contributes	to	the	creation	(and	recreation)	of	participatory	social,	political,	and	moral	communities.	I	close	by	providing	an	overview	of	each	chapter	of	the	dissertation.		 1.5 Framework: Tekwaro, Relatedness, and Social Repair My	thinking	through	tekwaro	and	social	repair	in	the	rural	Padibe	sub-counties	is	reliant	on	the	teachings	of	the	late	Acoli	writer	and	scholar	Okot	p‘Bitek	(1931-1982),	specifically	on	my	understanding	of	three	of	his	ideas	about	tekwaro,	indigenous	knowledge,	or	as	he	usually	translated	it,	“culture”	or	“oral	tradition.”	First,	he	conceptualizes	“culture”	as	a	philosophy	of	a	people	as	it	is	lived	and	celebrated	in	society	(1986:13).	He	states	that	culture,	or	to	use	terms	he	employs	interchangeably	throughout	his	work,	social	philosophy,	or	worldview,	or	ideology,	refers	to	a	people’s	shared	interpretation	of	the	“meaning	of	being	alive	in	this	world”	(1986:14).	Second,	p’Bitek	asserts	that	the	  43 organizations	that	people	live	in,	which	he	call	institutions,	are	informed	by,	and	built	around	a	people’s	culture,	their	social	philosophy,	their	worldview,	their	ideology	(1986:13).	He	emphasizes	that	“African”	identity	is	relational,	and	contrasts	this	belief	with	the	Western	liberal	concept	of	autonomy	and	individuality	by	stating	that	man	is	actually	only	human	because	of	his	connections	to	others	(p’Bitek	1986:19-20,	Imbo	2002:131).	Importantly,	he	states	that	when	one	becomes	odoko	dano,	a	human	being,	one	has	“imbibed	the	philosophical	ideas	of	the	society	as	well	as	how	to	live	and	celebrate	it”	(1986:27).	Tekwaro	then,	in	addition	to	being	social	philosophy	is	also	a	guide	for	the	organization	of	social	institutions,	and	informs	concepts	of	personhood;	it	is	thus	intimately	entwined	with	relatedness.	Third,	he	asserts	that	tekwaro	as	philosophy,	and	concerned	with	relatedness,	is	not	something	separate	or	distinguishable	from	“the	way	of	life	of	a	people”,	and	that	tekwaro	and	relatedness	are	only	truly	expressed	in	“life	as	it	is	lived”,	through	practice.21			P’Bitek’s	insights	into	tekwaro	as	philosophy,	as	the	basis	of	social	organization,	and	as	practice	provide	a	coherent	frame	in	which	to	consider	the	pervasive	inter-generational	angst	around	tekwaro	that	first	prompted	this	study.	I	will	build	upon	each	of	these	points	in	turn	to	show	why	kin-based	inter-generational	practices	themselves,	provoked	by	a	return	to	the	land	and	subsistence	farming	way	of	life,	are	precisely	the	processes	that	activate	participatory	engagement	in	tekwaro,	which	elaborates	and	re-elaborates	                                                21	p’Bitek’s	ideas	on	social	philosophy	also	deny	the	oft-separation	in	Western	philosophical	practice	between	reflection	and	practice	(Wiredu	2011).	  44 relatedness.	Kin-based	intergenerational	practices	in	rural	Acoli	are	thus	important	potential	sites	for	social	repairing	in	post-conflict	rural	Acoliland.	 1.5.1 Tekwaro as philosophy First,	tekwaro	imagined	as	social	philosophy	concerned	with	worldviews	and	the	meaning	of	being	alive	in	the	world	necessarily	takes	a	processual	view	of	tekwaro.	My	use	of	the	translation	of	tekwaro	to	indigenous	knowledge	reflects	this	stance.	As	the	world	changes,	cultural	philosophy	must	be	adapted	and	made	relevant	by	those	who	use	it.	Although	residents’	may	seem	to	speak	of	tekwaro	as	a	“thing”	that	one	can	be	“in”	or	“out”	of,	these	expressions	do	not	reference	a	set	of	static,	unchanging,	“traditional”	ideas	about,	and	correlating	practices	within	the	world.22	The	transmission	of	indigenous	knowledge,	therefore,	is	never	a	simple	act	of	transfer	of	knowledge,	but	rather	the	contemporary	engagement	and	negotiation	with	the	past	to	make	sense	of	the	present.	Audra	Simpson,	in	her	work	in	her	own	Khanawake	Mohawk	community,	adamantly	fights	the	idea	of	so-called	authentic	static	cultural	traditions,	and	suggests	that	“…the	past	and	the	present	are	in	a	conversation	with	each	other	–	that	culture	(and	as	such,	tradition),	is	a	matter	of	communication,	creation	and	meaning”	(Simpson	2003:142).	Marilyn	Strathern,	in	her	study	on	changing	notions	of	kinship	in	England	with	the	advent	of	new	reproduction	technologies,	also	emphasizes	that	transformation	is	inherent	in	tradition	“…ideas	can	only	emerge	from	their	antecedents,	it	is	tradition	that	changes:	indeed,	it	is	all	that	can”	                                                22	I	am	aware	however,	that	in	many	parts	of	the	world	the	fight	for	recognition	of	political	and	territorial	sovereignty	within	settler	states	is	linked	to	proving	the	ongoing	practice	of	“ancient”	traditions.	As	Shaylih	Muehlmann	argues	(on	language),	the	measure	of	authenticity	is	both	a	formal	and	informal	criterion	for	the	recognition	of	indigenous	rights	(2013).	  45 (Strathern	1992:11).	Jennifer	Cole,	in	her	examination	of	social	practices	through	which	the	Betsimisaraka	remember	the	colonial	past	in	Madagascar,	states,	that	“what	is	remembered	as	“tradition”	is	perhaps	the	most	“modern”	construct	of	all”	(Cole	2001:8).	And	Gloria	Emeagwali	and	George	Sefa	Dei	emphasize	that	African	indigenous	knowledge	is	in	perpetual	flux	from	dialogue	with	contemporary	events	and	other	knowledges:		 Through	time,	such	forms	of	knowledge	while	transformed	have	not	been		 abandoned...	Such	knowledge	has	adapted	to	the	times	to	serve	pressing	social		 issues	and	challenges.	Such	knowledge	has	not	remained	static,	neither	has	it	been		 confined	to	the	shores	of	the	African	continent.	Like	all	knowledge	systems,	such		 knowledges	have	diffused	and	interacted	with	other	ways	of	knowing	from	other		 communities.	(Emeagwali	2014:ix)		To	be	“in	culture”	then	does	not	imply	the	strict	following	of	a	so-called	traditional	regime	of	practice	and	thought,	or	a	complete	refusal	of	other	forms	of	knowledge,	rather	it	implies	engagement	with	one’s	own	indigenous	knowledge,	and	thus	participation	in	(including	negotiation,	disagreements,	and	contestations	with)	the	living	social	philosophy	of	one’s	social,	political,	and	moral	community.	The	explicit	link	between	tekwaro	or	indigenous	knowledge	and	philosophy,	worldviews,	or	ideology,	helps	to	emphasize	tekwaro	as	processual,	as	participatory	or	needing	active	engagement,	and	as	something	relational–that	comes	about	by	or	through	social	relationships	and	interactions.	Especially	in	considering	the	inter-generational	angst	regarding	tekwaro	in	post-conflict	contexts,	this	  46 link	also	brings	up	important	questions	regarding	the	transmission	or	learning	of	tekwaro.	As	Barbara	Myerhoff	expressed	in	some	of	her	final	writings:	In	anthropology	it	is	a	truism	that	culture	is,	above	all,	learned;	it	is	not	innate.	It	is	a	set	of	arguments,	a	set	of	understandings,	on	how	to	adapt	to	the	world,	how	to	look	at	the	world,	that	is	passed	on	from	generation	to	generation.	But	one	of	the	things	that	we	have	looked	at	very	little	is	how	it	is	learned.	(Myerhoff	2007:61)		Social	repair	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties,	as	I	understand	it	and	as	I	explore	in	the	substantive	chapters	of	this	thesis,	is	primarily	found	within	these	“learning”	processes,	these	interactions.	And	these	interactions	are	manifest	in	kin-based	inter-generational	relations	themselves,	in	sometimes	friction-filled	processes	whereby	elements	of	tekwaro	(or	philosophy	or	worldviews	or	culture)	are	variously	evaluated,	adapted,	departed	from,	applied,	rejected,	and	ultimately	transformed	to	serve	the	needs	of	contemporary	socio-economic,	cultural,	and	political	life.			1.5.2 Tekwaro as a basis of social organization  Understanding	tekwaro	as	fundamental	to	the	organizing	principles	of	how	people	live	together	is	not	novel,	as	evidenced	in	anthropology’s	long	engagement	with	questions	of	culture,	kinship,	and	social	organization.	Some	of	the	earliest	anthropological	work	comprised	investigations	into	how	people	were	related	and	the	forms	of	social	organization	  47 that	ordered	daily	life	(for	example,	Morgan	1963,	Rivers	1914,	1968,	among	others).23	Based	on	biologically-informed	conceptions	of	“blood	relations”,	relationships	that	ordered	everyday	life,	as	well	as	institutions,	were	discerned.	These	scholars	mainly	focused	on	the	political	and	legal	rights	and	obligations	associated	with	descent,	and	applied	their	analysis	to	understanding	a	range	of	local	social	organization	practices,	from	marriage,	to	land	tenure,	to	politics	(for	examples,	Evans-Pritchard	1965,	Fortes	et	al.	1940,	Malinowski	1913,	among	others).	Much	of	this	work	took	place	within	the	Colonial	context	of	domination,	and	as	Clarke	points	out,	“in	the	early	twentieth	century,	as	anthropology	was	increasingly	shaped	by	scientific	rigour,	ways	of	sorting	and	typologizing	subjects	were	connected	to	ways	of	making	objects”	(Clarke	2004:1).24	Others	soon	began	to	emphasize,	however,	the	exchange,	communication,	and	networks	between	various	social	relations,	rather	than	strictly	descent	(or	blood	relations),	as	key	to	understanding	social	organization	(Lévi-Strauss	2006,	Mitchell	1969,	Gulliver	1971).	More	processual	approaches	built	on	these	histories	of	the	discipline’s	engagement	with	questions	of	“how	people	are	related”,	and	began	to	better	acknowledge	the	interplay	of	historical	and	contemporary	events,	as	well	as	several	different	“categories”	of	relations	reckoned,	for	example,	by	such	things	as	residence,	ritual	affiliation,	and	usufruct,	in	addition	to	strictly	biology	and	marriage	(Needham	1971,	McKellin	1991,	Rivière	1971,	Turner	1996).	Yanagisako	(1977)	pointed	out	the	gender	bias	in	kinship	and	its	categorizations,	and	                                                23	However	much	these	scholars	were	or	were	not	part	of	the	Colonial	enterprise,	wittingly	or	unwittingly	(I	discuss	this	more	in	Chapter	2),	I	include	their	work	here	for	a	consideration	of	the	genealogy	of	the	concept	of	relatedness	within	the	Anthropological	discipline.		24	Problematically,	but	in	this	quest	for	scientific,	comparative	studies	of	societies	as	objects,	these	analyses	did	not	often	contend	with	the	dynamic,	processual	elements	of	these	practices.	  48 further	contributed	to	a	processual	approach	by	stating	that	a	male-centered	approach	with	pre-conceived	analytic	categories,	such	as	jural-political	and	domestic	domains,	detracts	from	better	understanding	what	kinship	is	really	all	about.			While	these	more	nuanced,	processual	approaches	grew	the	analytic	use	of	“kinship”,	David	Schneider’s	incriminating	critique	(1984)	finally	rocked	the	field	of	kinship	studies,	cementing	what	he	had	begun	in	1968	by	charging	that	kinship,	and	thus	social	organization	studies	that	relied	on	kinship,	were	based	on	westernized	cultural	models	of	“the	facts”	of	genealogy	and	biology	(biogenetics).	Other	cultures	and	societies	may	not	perceive	the	creation	and	foundation	of	life	in	the	same	way	(sperm,	egg),	and	any	insights	one	could	obtain	from	the	analysis	of	social	relations	based	on	an	ultimately	foreign	model	(etic)	would	thus	be	the	western	anthropologist’s	projection.	Kinship,	if	used	as	an	analytic	concept,	needed	to	be	defined	in	terms	understood	and	lived	by	the	anthropologist’s	interlocutors.		Building	on	Schneider’s	critiques	that	the	so-called	“facts”	of	relations	varied	from	context	to	context,	from	culture	to	culture,	and	from	time	to	time,	Janet	Carsten	(1995)	took	up	the	acknowledgement	and	use	of	indigenous	models	or	idioms	of	“the	facts”	as	an	alternative	and	generative	way	to	inquire	into	kinship	and	everyday	social	organization.	Working	with	a	Malay	community	on	the	island	of	Langwaki,	Carsten	found	that	substances	like	blood	and	food	were	mutually	constitutive	of	personhood,	and	there	was	no	binary	separation	between	what	people	in	her	own	culture	term	“the	social”	and	“the	biological.”	Someone	  49 would	thus	become	both	fully	human	and	related	through	the	mutual	sharing	of	substance.	This	had	a	significant	impact	on	a	variety	of	everyday	factors,	including	how	people	reckon	descent,	practice	marriage,	pattern	their	residency,	and	share	food.	Carsten	points	out	that	although	Schneider	critiqued	the	social-biological	binary	projected	from	his	own	culture’s	biogenetic	beliefs,	his	critique	at	the	same	time	did	not	surmount	this	same	binary.25			In	support	of	a	concept	like	relatedness,	Sharon	Hutchinson	(1996,	2000)	explores	blood	and	cattle	as	“interpersonal	binding	social	media”	for	the	Nuer	communities	she	worked	with,	and	makes	sense	of	how	Nuer’s	“cultural	paradigm”	transformed,	as	did	their	social	organization,	with	peoples’	navigations	of	diverse	historical	changes	from	Colonialism,	to	the	introduction	of	cash,	to	two	civil	wars.	She	looks	to	changing	idioms	or,	as	she	puts	it,	“metaphors”	of	identity,	personhood,	and	relatedness	in	Nuer	communities	through	time	to	explain	shifts	in	social	organizational	practices.	For	example,	while	in	pre-colonial	times,	collectively	owned	cattle	exclusively	begat	children	(through	bridewealth	exchange,	for	men),	the	introduction	of	money	to	the	equation,	while	still	mostly	mediated	through	the	category	of	cattle,	indicated	the	decreasing	power	of	extended	relations	in	this	most	important	aspect	of	life.	This	shift	from	the	necessity	of	extended	political	alliances	(access	to	cattle),	for	reproduction,	but	also	for	subsistence	and	security	in	local	wars,	to	the	viability	of	smaller,	autonomous	communities	therefore	also	coincided	with	a	decrease	in	                                                25	Many	scholars	have	taken	up	this	social-biological	divide	as	a	cultural	bias	inherent	in	how	Western	society	conceives	of	knowledge	inquiries	(research)	that	essentially	naturalize	a	constructed,	social	process;	to	“discover”	truth,	rather	than	to	be	engaged	in	actively	constructing	it	(see	Haraway	1989,	Franklin	1998,	as	examples).	This	connects	to	the	making	of	“objects”	by	earlier	kinship	scholars.	  50 the	power	of	elderly,	cattle-owning	men.	The	relational	blood-cattle	paradigm,	or	metaphor	and	idiom	of	relatedness,	had	thus	transformed	with	the	introduction	of	money,	guns,	and	paper.	Marilyn	Strathern	similarly	emphasizes	that	a	society’s	assumptions	about	social	relations	largely	depends	on	the	way	they	perceive	the	creation	of	personhood	(Strathern	1992),	and	that	those	conceptual	categories	of	personhood	and	relatedness,	while	fluid,	necessarily	impact	human	practice	and	social	organization	through	time.			Throughout	this	thesis,	I	draw	on	and	expand	Janet	Carsten’s	(1995,	1997,	2000)	approach	to	questions	of	how	people	are	related	in	the	everyday,	to	kinship,	personhood,	and	social	organization,	as	well	as	to	prescriptions	for	how	these	are	constituted	by	indigenous	knowledge	itself,	as	“relatedness.”	My	use	of	the	term	“relatedness”	foregrounds	the	importance	of	indigenous	cultural	concepts	of	“the	social”	when	seeking	to	understand	“social	repair”,	and	as	a	result,	suggests	that	in	contemporary	contexts,	land	is	indeed	the	primary	idiom	of	relatedness	in	rural	Acoliland.	As	such,	the	land	is	able	to	act	as	a	ground	(so	to	speak)	for	the	re-gathering	of	kin	and	community,	and	as	an	impetus	and	host	of	inter-generational	engagements	with	tekwaro.	The	land	as	relatedness	in	Acoli	centers	how	the	land	itself	acts	as	a	mediator	that	allows	people	opportunity	for	interactions	that	re-create	relatedness	in	post	conflict	and	post-displacement	contexts.	It	also	suggests	that	elaborating	or	re-elaborating	relatedness	in	communities	itself	constitutes	ongoing	historical	processes	of	social	repairing–the	ways	in	which	communities	respond	to	both	internal	and	external	conflicts	(whether	they	be	local,	national,	regional,	international	etc.).		  51 I	am	thus	also	particularly	interested	in	how	conceptualizing	categories	of	relationality	according	to	indigenous	conceptions	of	relatedness	allows	a	nuanced	consideration	of	what	has	been	termed	the	“morality”	of	relatedness,	or	the	more	moral	aspects	of	kinship.	This	is	of	course	primary	to	Okot	p’Bitek’s	own	assertions	that	it	is	precisely	one’s	kin	relations	that	make	one	human	(1986:19).	Obligations	and	responsibilities,	as	well	as	privileges	and	rights,	are	fundamental	to	the	morality	of	kin	relations.	As	one	elderly	woman	explained	to	me	while	shelling	g-nuts	one	cool	evening	around	the	fire:	“Needing	people	creates	good	relations.	Not	needing	people,	by	having	too	much	money,	can	create	many	many	problems	here.”		The	assertion	that	relatedness,	or	kinship,	is	fundamentally	about	morality	was	first	emphasized	within	anthropology	by	Myers	Fortes	(1969)	when	he	spoke	of	kinship	amity,	and	stated	that	“kinship	is	binding;	it	creates	inescapable	moral	claims	and	obligations”	(1969:242).	Bloch	too	emphasizes	that	it	is	the	generality	and	continuity	of	kinship,	which	are	of	prime	importance,	and	that	these	attributes	are	due	to	its	morality	(1973:88).	The	“morality	of	kinship”	has	also	more	recently	been	brought	to	the	fore	again	in	contemporary	work	on	what	is	now	known	as	the	African	continent	that	engages	with	policy,	for	example	in	Elizabeth	Cooper’s	work	on	the	so-called	orphan	“crisis”	in	Kenya	(2011:42).		I	have	chosen	to	make	my	analytical	interest	in	morality	explicit	because	I	came	to	understand	that	how	people	are	troubled	by	questions	of	who	should	be	responsible	for	who,	and	why,	are	not	just	experienced	as	per	a	distinctive	moment	of	change	in	  52 political	economic	history	[…]	questions	of	why	and	how	kinship	implicate	responsibilities,	and	whether	or	how	these	relate	to	any	morality	of	kinship,	remain	under	examined	and	under-theorised.		The	concept	of	a	morality	of	kinship	is	also	echoed	today	by	several	Acoli	scholars,	notably	Opiyo	Oloya:		In	Acholi	culture,	a	relative	is	someone	you	can	rely	upon	in	difficult	times,	someone	you	can	trust	and	expect	to	help	you	out	of	trouble.	This	is	understandable	because,	as	P.	Oruni	(1994)	points	out,	identity	and	relations	between	individuals	are	defined	by	wat	(constitution).	He	notes,	‘every	aspect	of	Acholi	life,	the	rights,	obligations	and	privileges	of	the	individual,	social	service	administration,	civics,	politics,	defence	and	security,	is	defined	and	exercised	in	accordance	with	provisions	of	Wat	Constitution.’	(Oloya	2013:18)		Oloya	further	states	that:	Culture	is	the	aggregation	of	shared	values	in	a	defined	system	from	which	individuals	derive	not	only	their	identities	but	also	their	orientation	to	the	world.	There	is	an	assumption	of	solidarity	and	unity	of	purpose	among	those	who	subscribe	to	those	values.	(Oloya	2013:17)		My	focus	on	relatedness,	and	my	inquiry	into	tekwaro	to	both	understand	and	examine	changing	practices	that	can	create	and	re-create	relatedness	after	wartime	and	  53 displacement,	aspires	to	a	nuanced,	relational	exploration	of	how	tekwaro	(as	“social	philosophy”	and	the	basis	of	social	relations	and	social	organization,	and	thus	of	morality)	was	affected,	or	how	people	believe	that	it	was	affected,	by	their	recent	experiences	of	violence.	This	ultimately	allows	an	appreciation	of	the	inter-generational	practices	involved	in	engaging	with	tekwaro,	through	which	relationality,	morality,	as	well	as	rights	and	responsibilities	are	learned/transmitted/adapted	(as	will	be	explored	in	Chapters	3	through	5).			Again,	the	results	of	my	learning	suggest	that	the	land	itself	is	the	main	idiom	(Carsten	1995)	or	metaphor	(Hutchinson	1996)	of	relatedness	in	context.	Although	blood	relations,	exchange,	and	commensality	(to	name	a	few)	are	all	idioms	or	metaphors	that	contribute	to	relatedness	as	I	understood	it	in	the	rural	Padibe	sub-counties,	the	land	itself,	and	practices	directly	and	indirectly	concerning	the	land	(access,	residence,	tenure,	inheritance,	labour,	commensality,	etc.)	are	what	ultimately	constitute	relatedness.	Activities	centered	by	people’s	relations	with	the	land,	activities	that	engender	engagement	with	tekwaro,	which	serve	to	manifest,	elaborate,	and	organize	social	organization	and	indigenous	governance,	and	that	provokes	participations	in	one’s	social,	political,	and	moral	community,	is	precisely	what	I	understand	to	be	practices	of	social	repair	in	the	rural	Padibe	sub-counties.	This	study	thus	suggests	that	attention	to	how	people	and	communities	subsist	and	survive,	to	the	relations	whereby	one	accesses	and	produces	that	subsistence,	to	land	tenure	and	the	land,	is	still	fundamental	in	considering	relatedness,	and	the	complexities	of	how	people	reckon	they	are	related	and	what	being	related	does.	It	is	thus	also	essential	for	  54 understanding	the	basis	of	how	they	remake	relatedness,	what	I	understand	as	social	repair.	“Ngom	pito	dano”,	a	mother	of	seven	told	me	as	we	walked	to	the	gardens	one	day,	“the	land	grows	people.”		1.5.3 Tekwaro as practice Understanding	tekwaro	as	social	philosophy,	as	the	basis	for	social	organization,	and	as	“ways	of	life”,	fundamentally	engages	with	both	methods	and	theories	of	practice.	An	examination	of	everyday	inter-generational	practices	of	social	repair	in	a	rural	village	is	thus	a	result	of	both	my	practical	and	theoretical	orientation.	Practically,	I	undertook	my	longest	period	of	fieldwork	living	in	the	rural	village	of	Pabwoc	East	in	2012.	It	had	been	about	two	to	three	years,	or	two	to	three	agricultural	cycles,	since	most	residents	had	returned	to	their	ngom	kwaro	from	displacement,	after	an	absence	of	between	6-11	years.26	90%	of	village	residents	survived	at	that	time	from	subsistence	farming	alone,	and	thus	an	obvious	priority	was	the	hard	work	necessary	for	producing	enough	food	stuff,	of	rebuilding	houses	and	granaries,	of	working	to	establish	i)	a	functioning,	sustainable	and	sustaining	homestead,	and	ii)	the	governing	structures	that	secured	that	homestead.	An	emphasis	on	practices	that	contribute	to	these	goals,	grounded	in	the	land	and	land	tenure,	and	a	subsequent	privileging	of	the	relations,	and	notions	of	relatedness	that	contribute	to	those	goals,	is	due	in	large	part	to	the	specifics	of	the	time	and	place	of	my	research.			                                                26	The	number	of	years	varies,	and	will	be	further	explored	in	Chapter	3.	  55 The	rural	village	as	the	unit	of	social	space	in	this	study	also	contributes	to	understanding	land	as	the	prime	idiom	of	relatedness,	and	the	valorization	of	the	activation	of	inter-generational	relations	and	thus	inter-generational	practices,	over	peer	relations	for	example,	for	similar	reasons.	Based	on	my	calculations	according	to	the	Republic	of	Uganda’s	2014	Census,	85%	of	people	in	Acoliland	(comprising	the	seven	districts	of	Gulu,	Kitgum,	Pader,	Nwoya,	Agago,	Amuru	and	Lamwo)	live	in	rural	areas;	as	opposed	to	peri-urban	or	urban	areas	(for	example,	Padibe	Town	Council,	the	center,	is	not	considered	rural	in	the	census).	As	will	be	explored	throughout	the	work,	residents	access	land,	the	primary	livelihood	resource,	in	most	rural	areas	through	the	norms	of	customary	tenure,	and	approximately	90%	of	all	land	in	Acoliland	is	under	customary	tenure	(Atkinson	and	Hopwood	2013:	i).	In	the	case	of	Pabwoc	East	(and	much	of	rural	Acoliland)	customary	tenure	is	governed	by	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	(clans,	sub-clans,	lineages)	(Oloya	2015).	I	use	the	term	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	after	John	Jaramogi	Oloya’s	description	of	Acoli	community	governance	as	social,	political,	and	moral	(2015:02),	to	describe	both	contemporary	and	historical	Acoli	social	organization	and	their	attending	indigenous	social	and	political	institutions.	The	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	transmit	important	communal	privileges	(like	land	rights),	and	responsibilities	(like	upholding	moral	norms),	inter-generationally.	A	study	of	social	repair	practices	of	those	who	remained	in	the	town	center	(former	IDP	camp)	or	who	migrated	to	one	of	the	large	city	centers	in	Acoliland	(Gulu,	Kitgum	or	Pader)	may	very	well	emphasize	the	primary	importance	of	other	kinds	of	relations,	notions	of	relatedness,	and	thus	practices,	that	both	help	make	sense	of	philosophically	and	organize/secure	life	and	  56 livelihood	in	those	specific	social	spaces.27	Different	concepts	of	relatedness,	in	different	times	and	in	different	social	spaces,	would	thus	necessarily	emphasize	different	practices	as	constitutive	of,	or	contributive	to,	social	repair.	Conceptualizing	social	repair	as	intergenerational	practices	of	engagement	with	indigenous	knowledge	provoked	by	a	return	to	the	land	is	thus	due	to	the	study’s	interest	in	how	the	majority	of	residents	in	Acoli–those	still	living	in	rural	areas	and	surviving	from	the	land–make	home	living	again.			My	understanding	of	how	inter-generational	engagement	with	tekwaro	actually	works	to	re-elaborate	relatedness	and	perform	social	repair	draws	upon	two	separate,	yet	connected	approaches	to	knowledge	transmission	or	learning.	Both	conceptions	of	oral	tradition	as	social	action,	and	practice	theory	consider	learning	as	relational,	and	as	something	that	occurs	in,	between,	and	through	interactions.		Recognizing	Acoli	oral	tradition	as	a	form	of	social	action	draws	upon	Okot	p’Bitek’s	ideas	of	oral	tradition	as	inter-generational	and	performative,	and	insists	that	oral	traditions	are	the	principal	means	of	socialization	and	education	(despite	formal	schooling),	whose	practice	or	performance	promotes	moral	development	(Apoko	1967,	p’Bitek	1963),	enforces	social	norms	(Okumu	2000),	reinforces	reciprocal	kin	relations	(Ocitti	1973),	and	provides	the	conceptual	tools	for	people	to	examine	and	act	in	all	aspects	of	social	life	(p’Bitek	1963,	1974).	Although	these	authors	mostly	focused	on	specific	Acoli	oral	                                                27	I	have	to	acknowledge	here	that	individuals	and	families	have	sought	different	means	of	social	repairing,	including	migration	to	city	centers	in	Acoli,	elsewhere	in	Uganda,	and	abroad	as	well.	Rather	than	being	wholly	concerned	with	all	practices	of	social	repairing,	I	am	concerned	here	with	what	this	specifically	looks	like	within	the	spatial	confines	of	the	rural	village	in	Acoli.		  57 literatures,	such	as	songs,	folk	talks,	and	proverbs,	p’Bitek	reminds	us	that	oral	literature	cannot	be	dis-embedded	from	its	social	contexts	(1963).	Dances	where	songs	are	sung,	and	wang	oo	(fireside	chats)	where	folktales	are	told,	as	examples,	are	part	of	a	range	of	practices,	of	“ways	of	life”	where	oral	tradition,	or	as	Ociiti	(1973)	describes	it,	“indigenous	education”	is	invoked.	Thinking	about	oral	tradition	described	in	the	ways	the	above	authors	do–or	conceptualizing	oral	tradition	as	an	essential	part	of	indigenous	education—particularly	draws	upon	Gloria	Emeagwali’s	(2014)	definition	of	indigenous	knowledge	as	“the	cumulative	body	of	strategies,	practices,	techniques,	tools,	intellectual	resources,	explanations,	beliefs,	and	values	accumulated	over	time	in	a	particular	locality.”  	Indigenous	knowledge,	oral	tradition,	and	indigenous	education	is	thus	understood	as	a	kind	of	inter-generational	social	action	that	constitutes	social,	political,	and	moral	communities	through	inter-generational	interactions.	Engaging	with	indigenous	knowledge	is	thus	a	social	and	relational	activity	whereby	reality	is	constantly	being	created,	affirmed,	contested,	and	reproduced.	Ruth	Finnegan,	an	oral	tradition	scholar,	emphasizes	the	creative	interactions	involved	in	performing	oral	traditions,	and	states	that	“when	oral	literature	is	seen	as	“social	action”	rather	than	as	sociocultural	reflex,	change	and	creativity	appear	as	the	normal	exercise	of	human	capacities	rather	than	as	disobedience	to	the	governing	rules	of	a	static	system”	(Finnegan	1977:268-271).		Barbara	Myerhoff	also	speaks	of	conflict	and	compromise	as	essential	to	inter-generational	knowledge	transmissions;	as	the	means	by	which	meaning	is	created	by	everyone	involved	(2007:81).	To	speak	of	tekwaro	in	this	way	emphasizes	how	interactive	practices,	specifically	inter-  58 generational	ones,	are	the	main	means	through	which	social	philosophy	and	the	organization	of	social	relations	are	transmitted,	elaborated,	and	transformed	through	time.		At	the	same	time,	Pierre	Bourdieu’s	theory	of	practice	(2008)	also	examines	how	individuals	and	communities	pass	on	knowledge	and	learn.	He	conceptualizes	the	social	world	as	made	up	of	people	who	exert	agency,	strategize,	survive,	and	cope,	based	on	a	combination	of	their	historical	knowledge	and	lived	experiences,	within	larger	structures	that	also	serve	to	shape	and	define	that	knowledge,	and	those	experiences.	The	interactions	between	these	elements	is	termed	“habitus”,28	a	learned	system	of	generative	schemes	(2008:55),	that	results	from	perpetually	ongoing	interactions	and	processes,	from	everyday	practice.	This	concept	acknowledges	how	generative	schemes,	what	I	understand	as	an	element	of	social	philosophy,	an	aspect	of	indigenous	knowledge,	interact	with	individuals’	specific	histories	and	agencies	through	everyday	practices.	In	the	case	of	a	rural	village	in	Acoliland	then,	how	individuals’	“learning”	or	“appropriation”	of	indigenous	knowledge	is	a	kind	of	social	action	that	occurs	through	everyday	activities	of	engagement	and	practice.		The	notion	of	habitus,	and	its	system	of	generative	schemes,	also	resembles	Sir	Frederic	Charles	Bartlett’s	schema	theory	in	his	1932	work	on	remembering	(1961).	Bartlett	was	a	                                                28	As	Shaw	eloquently	addresses,	although	some	charge	that	habitus	references	a	closed	cycle	of	repetitive	change	and	static	reproduction,	De	Boeck	for	example,	she	reminds	us	that	the	past	(precolonial,	preindustrial	etc.)	was	no	less	marked	by	fragmentation	and	crisis	than	the	present.	If	one	acknowledges	that	there	has	always	been	experiences	of	rupture	and	disjunction,	then	understanding	habitus	as	encompassing	reactions	to	rupture,	rather	than	simply	reproducing	an	ideal	static	notion	of	stable	time,	is	inevitable	(2002:5)		  59 psychologist	who	undertook	experimental	studies	on	remembering,	imaging,	perceiving,	and	recounting,	and	who	describes	remembering	as	a	cognitive	social	practice	whereby	an	individual’s	past	associations	and	experiences	are	continuously	rearranged	and	changed	through	their	encounters	with	contemporary	phenomena.	His	idea	of	“conventionalization”	specifically	looks	at	processes	whereby	new	experiences	become	internalized,	or	appropriated,	in	social	settings.	Maurice	Bloch	draws	upon	this	work,	and	emphasizes	that	“passing	on”	or	transmitting	“culture”	involves	acts	of	re-creation	(2005)	whereby,	what	he	calls	cultural	schema	interact	with	new	experiences	to	re-create	knowledge.	This	is	partly	so	because	of	how	cultural	schema	allow	an	individual	to	infer,	to	perceive	knowledge	that	is	not	necessarily	represented	or	communicated,	knowledge	“that	goes	without	saying”	(2012).	It	is	these	inferences,	or	the	capacity	for	inference,	that	essentially	works	to	assimilate	new	information	and	experiences.	Elaborating	on	this	function,	William	McKellin	(1995:22)	emphasizes	that:	“during	information	processing,	the	features	used	to	represent	knowledge	are	matched	with	the	features	of	new	information…New	information	that	does	not	fit	the	established	configuration	of	features	is	not	rejected,	but	used	to	modify	the	previously	existing	schema.”			How	oral	tradition	is	transmitted	inter-generationally,	how	knowledge	is	re-created	by	a	learner,	how	new	information	modifies	previously	existing	schema,	or	how	one	learns	through	interactions	was	also	the	focus	of	much	of	Lev	Vygotskiĭ’s	work.	Vygotskiĭ	was	a	Belarusian	psychologist	who	mainly	worked	in	developmental	psychology	in	the	1920s	and	1930s.	He	found	that	learning	occurs	through	interactions,	which	leads	to	the	  60 internalization	of	knowledge,	which	then	leads	to	the	appropriation	of	the	knowledge	(Vygotskiĭ	1978).	One	learns	to	use	a	pencil	from	a	teacher,	but	then	one	can	use	a	pencil	to	draw	what	one	likes,	perhaps	unlike	the	teacher	had	taught.			Whether	conceptualized	as	social	action	processes	involved	in	the	inter-generational	practice	of	oral	tradition	(as	explored	by	p’Bitek,	Okumu,	Apoko,	Ocitti,	and	Finnegan	above),	or	in	re-creative	learning	through	interactions	(as	explored	by	Bourdieu,	Bartlett,	Bloch,	McKellin,	and	Vygotskiĭ	above),	both	approaches	stress	practices	whereby	individuals’	agencies	interact	with	larger	corpuses	of	knowledge	to	produce	new	knowledge	that	orders,	or	provides	guidelines	for	individuals	and	society.		This	continuously	negotiated	and	re-negotiated	knowledge	serves	to	establish	relations	between	individuals,	and	reproduces	and/or	reconfigures	the	worlds	in	which	people	live	(Ortner	1996).	Inter-generational	interactions	therefore	engender	multi-generational	participation	in	the	continuous	work	of	building	and	rebuilding	relatedness,	and	the	creation	and	re-creation	of	social,	political,	and	moral	communities.	I	recognize	practices	whereby	these	interactions	occur	as	significant	sites	of	social	repair	in	post-conflict	contexts	because	of	how	they	are	implicitly	concerned	with	remaking,	and	redefining,	social	relationships	and	their	organization.			When	speaking	about	tekwaro,	generative	schemes,	social	philosophy,	or	cultural	schema,	it	is	clear	that	what	one	remembers,	both	consciously	and	unconsciously	necessarily	impacts	and	is	impacted	by	the	practices	employed	by	self	and	others	to	navigate,	  61 strategize,	and	cope	with	contemporary	life.	These	insights	are	thus	valuable	when	considering	how	individuals	and	communities	“move	on”	after	war	and	displacement,	and	helps	identify	what	social	repair	consists	of	in	context.	Rosalind	Shaw	addresses	this	in	discussing	how	while	people	almost	never	discuss	the	slave	trade	where	she	worked	in	Sierra	Leone,	past	traumatic	memories	of	the	slave	trade	are	embodied	in	contemporary	practice.	She	asserts	that	contemporary	experiences	of	violence	(a	kleptocratic	state,	a	violent	rebel	war)	are	experienced	in	terms	of	images	and	practices	that	serve	to	connect	present	and	past	experiences	of	“predatory	commercial	flows”	(2002:12).	As	Shaw	puts	it,	“people	do	not	respond	as	tabulae	rasae	when	they	construct	and	confront	transformative	events	and	political	processes;	rather,	experiences	of	those	events	and	processes	that	become	sedimented	as	memory	are	themselves	mediated	and	configured	by	memory”	(Shaw	2002:10).	Jennifer	Cole	also	examines	contemporary	social	behaviour	and	practices	that	mediate	memories	of	colonialism	and	contemporary	upheaval	in	Madagascar.	In	her	work	with	Betsimisaraka	she	emphasizes	the	way	that	these	practices	(and	the	memories	they	enable)	“are	part	of	larger	historical	processes	of	transformation:	they	are	part	of	Betsimisaraka	efforts	to	survive”	(2001:29).	Hutchinson’s	investigation	in	South	Sudan	of	how	“global	historical	factors	of	ever-increasing	scale	and	complexity	are	subtly	registered	within	regionally	specific	social	and	cultural	fields”	(1996:29)	is	another	example	of	how	studies	of	war	and	upheaval	fruitfully	utilize	these	insights.			The	results	of	the	current	study	highlight	that	there	is	an	explicit	connection	between	the	learning	of	indigenous	knowledge	and	elaborating	relatedness,	and	that	relatedness	itself	is	  62 linked	to	people’s	ongoing	efforts	to	manage	and	deal	with	historico-political	events	and	processes,	including	violence.	Elaborating	and	re-elaborating	relatedness	is	thus	social	repairing	in	context.		1.5.4 The land as primary metaphor of relatedness in rural Acoli How	the	appropriation,	assimilation,	or	application	of	new	knowledge	functions,	drawing	upon	both	oral	tradition	and	practice-based	and	cognitive	approaches,	is	especially	interesting	to	consider	while	thinking	through	inter-generational	angst	regarding	tekwaro	in	the	post-conflict	period.	I	understand	that	these	learning	interactions	take	place	within	processes	that	provide	frameworks	for	inter-generational	engagement,	processes	that	are	themselves	provoked	by	a	return	to	the	land.	As	I	will	explore	more	fully	in	Chapter	3,	the	land,	as	the	idiom	of	relatedness,	acts	as	an	anchor	(Carsten	2007,	Hutchins	2005)	for	frameworks	wherein	elaborations	of	indigenous	conceptions	of	relatedness	are	practiced.	And	it	is	therefore	these	frameworks	of	practice–which	provide	guidelines	and	sites	for	interactions,	internalization,	and	appropriation	of	tekwaro–which	constitute	social	repairing	in	rural	Acoliland.			Understanding	how	these	frameworks	of	practice	work	to	re-gather	people	in	interactions	that	re-elaborate	relatedness	(social	repairing)	resembles	Star	and	Griesler’s	(1989),	and	Star’s	(2010),	idea	of	a	boundary	object.	They	describe	a	boundary	object	as	a	thing	or	action	that	mediates	between	people,	and	according	to	Star	(who	was	interested	in	the	nature	of	cooperative	work	in	a	natural	history	museum),	boundary	objects	host	  63 interactions,	allowing	different	groups	to	work	together	without	demanding	complete	consensus	or	homogeneous	understanding	(2010:602).	As	McKellin	explores	in	Managalase	political	discourse,	taking	up	the	idea	of	a	boundary	object,	common	ground	and	cooperation	is	the	result	of	processes	of	interaction	and	then	negotiation,	mediated	in	part	by	boundary	objects.	Boundary	“objects”	can	also	be	processes	or	frameworks,	in	his	case	the	processes	involved	in	the	indirect	form	of	discourse	called	Ha’a	(McKellin	2016).			In	post-war	Acoliland,	common	ground	and	cooperation	between	peoples	is	achieved	through	frameworks	of	practice,	or	boundary	processes,	like	subsistence-related	works	(explored	in	Chapter	3),	courtship	practices	(explored	in	Chapter	4)	and	the	creation	of	a	sub-clan	constitution	(explored	in	Chapter	5).	These	frameworks	are	provided	by	the	land	itself,	specifically	the	organization	of	social	relations	by	the	customary	system	of	land	tenure.	I	consider	these	practices	constitutive	of	social	repair	because	of	how	they	provide	for	opportunities	of	inter-generational	engagement,	and	subsequent	learning	of	tekwaro	and	the	re-elaboration	of	relatedness,	without	necessarily	requiring	consensus	or	homogenous	understandings.				This	may	explain	why	the	transmission,	or	learning,	of	indigenous	knowledge	in	the	contexts	of	war–and	particularly	displacement–is	generally	more	difficult,	and	why	there	is	heightened	generalized	angst.	Youth’s	appropriation	of	indigenous	knowledge,	of	applying	and	adapting	tekwaro	to	severely	changed	life	circumstances	and	socio-economic-political	realities,	to	war	and	displacement	experiences,	already	becomes	much	more	challenging.	A	  64 lack	of	frameworks–rooted	in	the	land–that	provoke	kin-based	inter-generational	interactions	and	guidelines	for	cooperation	during	the	years	of	displacement	and	violence,	in	the	case	of	rural	Acoliland	at	least,	exasperated	the	already	substantial	challenges	of	learning	or	transmitting	tekwaro	in	rapidly	changing	contexts.	And	although	there	are	deep	histories	of	upheaval,	change,	and	flux	of	rural	communities	in	Acoliland	(as	I	will	explore	further	in	Chapter	3),	the	recent	LRA-Government	war	is	the	only	such	incident	in	the	past	100	years	to	massively	uproot	families	and	communities	from	their	lands.	Furthermore,	the	predominant	presence	of	other	frameworks	for	social	interactions	within	the	IDP	camps,	those	organized	by	Government,	NGOs,	and/or	churches,	all	affected	the	kinds	of	knowledge	that	was	re-created	or	learned	or	transmitted	during	the	years	of	war	and	displacement.	These	effects,	including	reduced	authority	of	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations,	and	decreased	participation	of	community	members	therein,	became	some	of	the	primary	concerns	of	the	rural	population	as	they	left	the	IDP	camps	and	returned	to	land	governed	through	customary	tenure.			Beginning	from	Okot	p’Bitek’s	ideas	about	tekwaro	as	social	philosophy,	as	relatedness,	and	as	practice,	I	am	able	to	think	alongside	the	pervasive	inter-generational	angst	regarding	tekwaro	in	post-conflict	contexts.	I	can	then	understand	the	angst	itself	as	an	expression	of	concern	with	multi-generational	engagement	in	the	building	of	relatedness,	and	of	social,	political,	and	moral	community.	I	thus	understand	social	repair	in	the	rural	Padibe	sub-counties	by	considering	how	the	transmission,	or	rather	the	learning	of	indigenous	knowledge–as	processual,	relational,	and	practice-based–takes	place	through	various	  65 interactions.	These	interactions	are	hosted	or	engendered	by	frameworks	that	are	rooted	in	the	land	that	enable	the	often	friction	filled,	yet	generative	and	inventive	interactions	to	take	place.			The	idea	of	participation	in	these	interactions	or	practices	is	paramount.	Inter-generational	practices	themselves	are	sites	of	encounter	and	struggle	between	the	generations,	of	engagement	in	the	hard	work	of	the	transmission	and	of	learning	indigenous	knowledge.	It	is	engagement	with	indigenous	knowledge,	and	its	evaluation–including	disagreements,	contradictions,	conflicts	and	“imperfectly	shared	meaning	and	knowledge”	(Wolf	1999)–	and	finally	its	application	or	appropriation	in	the	present,	not	the	strict	following	of	traditional	protocol,	that	is	key	to	its	transmission	or	learning,	and	it	is	this	that	is	key	to	relatedness.	Re-creating	relatedness,	or	re-creating	a	social,	political,	and	moral	community	of	relations	grounded	in	the	land	through	participatory	kin-based	inter-generational	interactions,	is	what	I	have	come	to	understand	as	important	practices	of	social	repairing	in	rural	contemporary	post-war	contexts.	The	return	to	the	land,	and	to	village	life	under	customary	tenure,	thus	had	the	strength	and	power	to	re-orient	social	relations	away	from	the	defining,	categorical	effects	of	violence	experienced	during	the	years	of	war	and	displacement.	In	the	substantive	chapters	of	this	thesis,	I	attend	to	these	practices,	as	I	came	to	learn	them	through	various	methodologies	in	my	time	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties.		  66 1.6 Chapter Outlines Before	fully	exploring	the	specific	practices	that	I	learned	were	important	to	social	repair	in	these	post-conflict	contexts,	I	first	begin	by	situating	myself	within	the	study.	Chapter	2	“Research	as	Relationship”	interrogates	my	own	positionality	in	studying	a	community’s	response	to	war	and	displacement	that	is	not	my	own,	and	I	turn	to	scholarship	on	indigenous	research	paradigms	and	methodologies	that	challenge	me	to	grapple	with	the	ethical	dimensions	of	researching	with	peoples	who	have	suffered	various	violences,	including	colonization,	and	who	continue	to	suffer	from	its	enduring	manifestations.	Discussing	this	reflexivity	as	carrying	“generative	doubt”,	I	then	examine	how	my	research	questions,	methods,	framework,	and	outputs	emerged	from	and	privilege	my	long-term	relationships	in	the	area,	and	detail	my	own	history	in	Northern	Uganda.	I	then	discuss	how	my	interests	in	tekwaro	pa	Acoli	and	learning	how	to	live	in	the	village	engendered	interactions	that	led	to	embodied	and	experiential	lessons	regarding	relatedness	that	cultivated	a	research	ethos	that	valorizes	responsibilities,	“obligation”,	and	accountability.	Support	for	a	youth	group’s	project	on	“cultural	revival”,	the	co-creation	of	a	workbook	with	the	Pabwoc	sub-clan/village	about	their	tekwaro,	and	a	village	survey,	complicated	and	complemented	living	and	participating	in	everyday	village	life.	Applying	ideas	explored	here	in	the	introduction	regarding	learning	and	the	creation	of	knowledge,	I	consider	how	recounting	my	interactions	with	individuals	and	communities	over	the	years	in	Acoliland	is	important	in	acknowledging	how	the	knowledge	offered	in	this	dissertation	was	itself	created	through	participatory	interactions	between	myself	and	my	generous	teachers	in	  67 Pabwoc	and	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties.	I	thus	contemplate	my	practice	as	“research	as	relationship.”		Chapter	3,	“Ancestral	Land”,	primarily	sets	up	and	examines	the	main	idiom	of	relatedness	in	Acoli	as	ancestral	land	(ngom	kwaro).	I	first	detail	the	remembered	deep	history	of	one	village	to	show	how	the	village	lands	provide	an	anchor	(Carsten	2007:7,	Hutchins	2005)	for	historical	and	contemporary	kinship	relations	and	kin-based	communal	governance.	I	then	provide	a	description	of	everyday	village	life	as	it	was	in	2012.	Recounting	the	recent	history	of	that	same	village/sub-clan	through	wartime	and	displacement,	I	conclude	by	exploring	how	the	contemporary	practices	of	Acoli	work	(tic	Acoli)	necessary	for	a	successful	return	to	subsistence	farming	life	on	ancestral	land	engages	different	generations	in	tekwaro.	And	how	these	engagements	provoke	a	participatory	relatedness	that	constitutes	social	repairing	despite	the	fragmenting	effects	of	violence	experienced	during	the	war	years.			Chapter	4	“Respect”	is	the	second	substantive	chapter	and	explores	the	importance	of	the	notion	of	respect	(woro)	to	relatedness	in	Acoli.	Examining	village	debates	and	focus	group	discussions,	I	explore	why	traditional	courtship	(cuna)	was	repeatedly	linked	with	woro,	and	why	people	widely	believe	that	cuna	was	the	most	important	practice	relating	to	tekwaro	affected	by	the	war	and	life	in	the	camps.	Detailing	historical	cuna	practices,	I	show	how	aspects	of	so-called	“traditional”	courtship	processes	activate	a	range	of	inter-generational	interactions	with	tekwaro	that	both	guides	assumptions	and	serves	to	  68 negotiate	local	ideas	of	gendered	and	generational	personhood,	and	rural	kin-based	communal	governance,	rooted	in	the	land.	I	then	turn	to	contemporary	examples	of	couples’	engagement	with	cuna	practices	and	issues	to	contemplate	how	these	sites	work	to	create	and	re-create	relatedness,	and	thus	perform	social	repairing	in	rural	Padibe	sub-counties.		Chapter	5	“The	Sub-clan”,	is	the	third	and	final	substantive	chapter	and	attends	to	how	responsibilities	concerned	with	kaka	(here,	the	sub-clan)	anchored	in	the	land,	are	vital	to	relatedness	in	contemporary	contexts.		Referencing	a	murder	that	occurred	during	my	fieldwork,	I	explore	the	implications	of	the	sub-clan	as	an	interdependent,	communal	or	“corporate”	entity,	and	acknowledge	contemporary	performances	of	sub-clan	identity	and	unity	as	promulgating	indigenous	Acoli	law,	rooted	in	the	land.	In	regards	to	the	most	recent	war’s	unprecedented	“Acholi-on	Acholi	violence”	(Oloyo	2013:7),	I	explore	why	most	violence	committed	during	the	war	is	“bracketed	away”	from	everyday	life,	social	relations,	and	their	organization.	Finally	turning	to	the	creation	of	a	sub-clan	based	non-profit	foundation,	and	the	writing	of	its	constitution	as	an	inter-generational	process	of	social	repair,	I	examine	this	practice	whereby	active	negotiation	and	renegotiation	of	tekwaro,	and	thus	its	transmission	and	learning,	are	perhaps	most	obviously	at	work.			The	concluding	chapter	emphasizes	that	attending	to	conceptualizations	of	relatedness	to	understand	social	repair	allows	for	a	valorization	of	contemporary	inter-generational	practices	as	sites	of	interaction	that	enact	relational	learning	experiences.	These	learning	  69 experiences	of	and	with	tekwaro,	indigenous	knowledge,	are	constitutive	of	social	repair	because	of	how	they	re-elaborate	relatedness	by	provoking	engagement	and	participation	in	people’s	social,	political,	and	moral	communities.	I	emphasize	how	a	return	to	the	land,	and	the	system	of	land	tenure,	is	thus	capable	of	re-gathering,	or	re-membering	individuals	as	community	in	post-conflict	contexts.	The	remaking	of	social	relations	made	possible	by	the	land,	and	land	tenure	systems,	is	a	contribution	to	studies	of	lives	during	and	after	war	and	upheaval	because	of	how	it	privileges	conceptions	and	practices	of	relatedness	in	refusing	the	defining,	fragmenting,	un-relatednessing	power	of	violence	on	social	relations.	Suggestions	for	further	research	on	community	initiatives	regarding	land	rights	and	conflict	follows,	and	I	conclude	with	a	reflection	on	the	personal	impact	of	the	study.		 1.7 Conclusion I	began	this	introductory	chapter	by	talking	about	the	seeds	of	social	repair,	and	how	those	seeds	can	be	found,	in	surprising	places,	and	in	perhaps,	to	those	outside,	unlikely	circumstance	and	practice,	such	as	grinding	grain	or	ants	foraging	and	storing	their	food.	Then,	focusing	on	people’s	pervasive	concerns	with	tekwaro,	indigenous	knowledge,	and	inter-generational	relations	in	the	immediate	post-war	period,	I	attended	to	why	tekwaro	was	being	used	to	refer	to	post-war	and	post-displacement	concerns,	rather	than	bringing	LRA	perpetrators	to	justice	or	holding	Government	accountable	for	the	camps,	as	was	frequently	explored	in	academic	and	policy	writings	at	that	time.	Considering	other	recent	work	on	youth	in	conditions	of	war	and	displacement,	I	show	that	the	community’s	angst	around	indigenous	knowledge	belies	astute	observation	of	war’s	impact	on	knowledge	  70 transmissions	and	social	organization	generally,	and	on	established	transitions	to	adulthood	and	attachment	to	community	specifically.			Sketching	my	conceptualizations	of	how	communities	“move	on”	after	war	as	a	form	of	“social	repair”	then	provides	an	overview	of	the	concept,	and	explains	how	inquiring	into	social	repair	practices	is	well	suited	to	center	the	community’s	apprehension	regarding	tekwaro	and	inter-generational	relations	in	post-conflict	contexts.	Emphasizing	the	importance	of	land,	and	land	tenure,	to	people’s	practices	of	social	repair,	I	assert	that	the	research	results	reorient	questions	of	repair	away	from	the	specific	experiences	of	violence	to	re-elaborating	relatedness	and	everyday	social	organization	that	secures	subsistence.	A	brief	project	description	(which	will	be	expanded	upon	in	the	next	chapter),	including	my	research	questions,	then	contextualizes	the	study’s	main	learnings.	I	then	turn	to	the	work	of	Okot	p’Bitek,	who	conceives	of	tekwaro	as	social	philosophy,	relatedness,	and	practice,	and	build	a	theoretical	framework	that	allows	a	processual,	relational,	practice-based	approach	to	tekwaro	that	privileges	indigenous	models	of	relatedness	to	understand	contemporary	instances	of	social	repair.	A	chapter	overview	follows,	and	shows	how	the	three	substantive	chapters	of	this	dissertation	explore	the	land	as	an	idiom	and	material	anchor	of	relatedness	that	provides	the	impetus	and	structure	for	inter-generational	interactions	with	tekwaro	that	are	necessary	for	the	rebuilding	of	social,	political,	and	moral	community.		  71 After	over	ten	years	of	visiting,	speaking	with,	eating	with,	dancing	with,	skype-ing	with,	and	living	with	people	in	Acoliland,	Northern	Uganda,	I	have	learnt	much	from	them	about	war,	displacement,	and	the	role	of	land,	family,	sharing,	responsibilities,	and	indigenous	knowledge	in	“moving	on”,	in	social	repair,	in	making	home	living	again.	I	cannot	easily	communicate	the	breadth,	nor	the	depth	of	what	has	been	taught	to	me,	yet	I	try	here,	in	some	way,	to	pass	on	some	of	that	knowledge.		 Figure 11- Wang oo. Pabwoc, 2012. Photo by Ryan Gauvin, reproduced here with his permission.     72 Chapter 2: Research As Relationship-Ethos and Methodologies 2.1 Introduction–Obligation I	conducted	the	bulk	of	my	fieldwork	while	living	in	Pabwoc	East	Village	in	2012.	Although	I	usually	stayed	within	the	village,	I	also	traveled	by	bicycle	(30	mins.)	or	by	foot	(75	mins.)	to	Padibe	Town	Center	sometimes	to	visit	friends	and	acquaintances.	Something	significant	happened	my	second	week	there.	It	was	the	dry	season,	and	I	was	preparing	to	bicycle	to	the	center	early,	before	the	heat	settled	in.	After	waking,	washing	up,	exchanging	greetings	with	my	host	family	and	passers-by,	and	sharing	a	little	breakfast,	I	was	getting	ready	to	leave	the	homestead	when	Auntie	Santina	looked	me	up	and	down,	buttoned	my	shirt	a	little	higher,	and	told	me	that	my	shoes	were	dirty,	and	that	I	had	to	put	on	clean	ones	(I	was	38	years	old	in	2012).	I	kind	of	shrugged,	intending	to	obey,	but	also	added	that	I	would	probably	get	dirty	from	all	the	dust	on	the	road	anyways.	She	replied	that	I	was	now	a	part	of	Pabwoc,	and	as	a	daughter	of	Bwoc	had	to	represent	them	well	outside	of	the	village.	In	any	case,	the	proper	Acoli	word	to	use	in	response	was	ayubo	(I	will	arrange,	fix	it)–and	not	to	talk	back.	Iwinyo?–she	asked	if	I	heard	and	understood.	Awinyo–I	replied	as	I	stooped	back	inside	the	house	to	change	my	shoes.		Growing	up	I	did	not	think	about	how	my	behavior	and	choices	reflected	on	my	family.	I	am	a	daughter	of	divorced,	middle	class,	Jewish	Ashkenazi	parents	from	Montreal,	Canada	(or	what	is	now	known	as	such),	who	always	felt	like	an	individual,	and	while	close	to	my	small	extended	family,	I	certainly	did	not	ever	think	on	how	wearing	dirty	shoes	might	affect	them.	This	very	ordinary	interaction	and	moment	marked	a	distinct	shift	for	me,	and	  73 throughout	my	fieldwork	and	up	until	the	present,	I	reflect	on	what	being	a	hosted	“daughter	of	Bwoc”	means,	both	in	terms	of	ethical	engagement	as	a	researcher,	and	of	my	perceived	responsibilities,	and	thus	“obligation”,	in	both	personal	and	professional	capacities.			Thinking	through	these	responsibilities	and	“obligation”	necessarily	contributes	to	my	inchoate	considerations	of	research	and	relationship	that	coalesce	in	thinking	through	my	positionality	within	Northern	Uganda.	Who	I	am–as	Antonius	Robben	and	Carolyn	Nordstrom	frame	it	(1995:11)–as	a	historical	product,	and	as	a	nexus	and	network	of	privilege?	While	“good-willed”	anthropologists	have	long	engaged	in	research	on	social	inequality	and	violence,	it	is,	as	Victoria	Sanford	points	out,	“the	very	unequal	power	relations	produced	by	wealth	that	enable	anthropologists	to	travel	the	world	and	carry	out	research”	(2006:6).	Yet,	if	scholars	see	inequality	and	injustice,	however	much	they	are	already	implicated	in	it,	do	they	not	still	have	a	responsibility	to	engage	with,	think	through,	and	speak	out	(or	write	out)	against	injustice?	(Scheper-Hughes	1992).	While	I	do	not	have	definitive	answers	to	these	questions,	I	forefront	here	my	responsibilities	and	“obligation”	to	Pabwoc	to	actively	reflect	on	my	research	practice	and	methodologies,	and	to	recognize,	call	out,	and	question	the	intellectual	practice	of	what	Paulette	Regan	calls	“the	colonizer	who	lurks	within”	(2010:11).			I	try	to	begin	this	process	here	by	acknowledging	that	I	have	a	particular	set	of	life	circumstances,	experiences,	and	relationships–like	the	people	whose	histories	and	  74 experiences	I	recount	here–that	led	me	to	study	social	repair	in	rural	Northern	Uganda.	I	believe	that	discussing	these	particularities	are	important,	in	identifying	biases,	acknowledging	interests,	and	in	thinking	through	the	very	personal	and	political	questions	of	research	ethics	and	methodologies.			I	will	begin	by	considering	my	identity–both	my	Jewish	familial	histories	of	violence	and	displacement,	and	my	own	history	as	a	white	Anthropologist.	I	then	turn	to	scholarship	on	indigenous	research	paradigms	and	methodologies	that	nurtures	“generative	doubt”,29	and	that	highlights	the	unequal	structures	of	power	and	privilege	that	allows,	conceptualizes,	and	facilitates	research	amongst	peoples	who	suffer	as	a	result	of	those	same	networks	of	power	and	privilege.	I	then	think	through	my	experiences	in	Northern	Uganda	until	the	present,	and	engage	with	these	considerations	by	foregrounding	my	relationships	with	various	people	in	the	area	over	time.	I	contemplate	how	my	relationships,	and	perceived	responsibilities	through	those	relationships,	have	led	me	to	ask	certain	questions,	including	the	research	questions	outlined	in	the	introduction.	I	then	discuss	the	various	research	methodologies	that	were	specifically	used	in	this	study–as	a	result	of	my	relationships,	as	well	as	in	consideration	of	my	positionality.	Exploring	research	as	relationship,	I	emphasize	how	relational	indigenous	Acoli	modes	of	knowing	and	learning,	of	what	Ocitti	(1973)	calls	an	“Acoli	indigenous	education”,	particularly	through	my	engagement	with	relational	                                                29	Locke	et	al.	(2008)	discuss	the	idea	of	doubt	in	the	research	process	and	its	underappreciated	significance	for	the	theorizing	process,	but	I	engage	with	the	idea	in	terms	of	the	reflexivity	that	it	provokes.		  75 responsibilities	and	“obligation”,	are	essential	to	both	my	methodologies	and	theoretical	understandings	of	social	repair	in	rural	Acoliland	today.		2.2 Being Me in Acoliland My	own	familial	history	with	war,30	and	my	Jewish	heritage	has	proven	to	be	a	fascinating	and	recurring	topic	of	conversation	in	Acoliland	in	regard	to	people’s	experiences	of	Colonialism,	Christian	conversion,	and	war.	From	queries	concerning	how	“my”	people	rebuilt	and	became	strong	after	the	holocaust	(personal	conversation	with	Paramount	Chief	Rwot	Acana	2005),	to	comments	on	the	“stubbornness”	of	my	people	to	repeatedly	not	accept	Christianity	(personal	conversation	with	Father	David	2007),	to	an	observation	that	my	people	have	managed	better	than	the	Acoli	to	“not	convert”,	and	keep	our	“religion	and	culture	one”	(personal	conversation	with	elder	2012),	engagement	about	my	own	history	and	culture	with	friends	and	acquaintances	in	Northern	Uganda	have	over	the	years	progressively	served	as	a	critical	tool	for	self-awareness	and	introspection.	What	has	been	less	obvious,	and	also	less	discussed	in	Acoliland	however,	has	been	my	history	as	a	middle-class	white	Canadian,	entangled	in	the	representational	politics	and	power	of	media	productions	(film	and	photography)	and	academic	institutions.		There	is	a	passage	from	Chinua	Achebe’s	novel	“Things	Fall	Apart”	that	I	continuously	return	to	because	of	the	generative	doubt	it	evokes.	It	is	at	the	very	end	of	the	book,	the	last	paragraph,	when	the	Colonial	official	sees	Okwonko	dead	from	suicide,	swinging	from	the	                                                30	My	maternal	grandmother	and	grandfather	were	World	War	II	holocaust	survivors.	  76 tree.	He	had	come	to	arrest	Okonkwo	for	slaying	one	of	his	messengers,	who	had	come	to	disperse	a	clan	meeting	to	discuss	possible	solidarity	and	resistance	to	Colonial	rule.		As	he	walked	back	to	the	court	he	(the	Colonial	official)	thought	about	his	book.	Every	day	brought	him	some	new	material.	The	story	of	this	man	who	had	killed	a	messenger	and	hanged	himself	would	make	interesting	reading.	One	could	perhaps	write	a	whole	chapter	on	him.	Perhaps	not	a	whole	chapter	but	a	reasonable	paragraph,	at	any	rate.	There	was	so	much	else	to	include,	and	one	must	be	firm	in	cutting	out	details.	He	had	already	chosen	the	title	of	his	book,	after	much	thought	The	Pacification	of	the	Primitive	Tribes	of	the	Lower	Niger.	(1959:191)		This	paragraph,	conjuring	extreme	doubt,	serves	as	a	kind	of	warning	and	touchstone	for	my	research	work.	It	at	once	sums	up	the	dangers	and	hubris	of	the	researcher,	while	calling	into	question	the	fundamental	political	impetus	behind	someone’s	involvement	in	a	culture,	community,	and	society	that	is	not	their	own.	It	also	explicitly	calls	out	the	detachment,	or	dis-engagement,	from	people’s	life	worlds	and	knowledge,	from	the	details,	and	condemns	research	work	and	academic	writing	as	a	dangerous	sham,	and	even	as	a	kind	of	“cover”	for	violent	political	and	economic	relations.	Similar	to	Spivak	(1998),	Harding	(1991)	and	many	others’	assertions,	Achebe	asserts	here	that	research	and	representation	are	never	value-free	and	are	irrevocably	entangled	with	politics	and	power.31		                                                31	I	first	read	Achebe’s	book	in	1991,	long	before	I	ever	visited	Northern	Uganda,	but	re-read	it	again	for	my	comprehensive	exams	in	2011,	before	the	major	fieldwork	for	this	research	project.	Since	that	time,	I	have	tried	to	nurture	the	doubt–to	carry	it	with	me	and	to	make	it	generative–and	have	  77 	Another	strong	voice	of	cultivating	doubt	in	this	regard	has	been	from	Acoli	writer	and	scholar	Okot	p’Bitek.	Writing	at	the	end	of	British	Colonial	rule	in	Uganda,	p’Bitek	attended	Oxford’s	Anthropology	Department,	and	was	disgusted	by	the	terms	used.	He	charged	that	“barbarian”,	“savage”,	“primitive”,	“tribe”,	“non-literate”,	and	“developing”,	as	examples,	powerfully,	even	if	subconsciously,	posit	the	society	and	culture	of	the	researcher	(or	missionary,	or	Colonial	official,	etc.)	as	better;	condoning	imperialist,	colonialist,	and	post-colonialist	subjugation	of	whole	swathes	of	the	global	population	(2011).	He	especially	critiques	the	discipline	of	Anthropology	itself,	saying:		Social	anthropology	has	been	the	study	of	non-Western	societies	by	Western	scholars	to	serve	Western	interests.	Social	anthropology	has	not	only	been	the	handmaiden	of	colonialism	in	that	it	has	analyzed	and	provided	important	information	about	the	social	institutions	of	colonized	peoples	to	ensure	efficient	and	effective	control	and	exploitation,	it	has	also	furnished	and	elaborated	the	myth	of	the	“primitive”	which	justified	the	colonial	enterprise.	(2011:1,	1st	edition	1971)			Although	the	issue	of	whether	Anthropology	was	a	handmaiden	of	colonialism,	and	the	ways	that	colonial	categories	of	knowledge	“constituted	colonized	peoples	as	an	object	of	study	and	control	in	the	service	of	state	power”	(Cole	2001:18)	has	been	specifically	debated	within	the	discipline	since	p’Bitek’s	very	warranted	attack	in	1971	(see	Asad	1973	                                                                                                                                                       tried	to	critically	work	with	this	doubt	to	guide	my	methodological,	theoretical,	and	personal	engagements.		  78 and	Lewis	2014	as	examples),	I	take	his	charge	seriously.	Considering	what	Sherry	Ortner	(1999:987)	has	described	as	“anthropology's	complicity	in	projects	of	power”,	I	try	to	nurture	this	doubt,	and	carry	it	with	me,	as	I	think	about	and	practice	my	research	work.				I	continue	to	think	through	how	my	work	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties	might	be,	despite	my	efforts,	horrificly	conforming	to	an	ultimately	neo-colonial	model.	I	worry	if	my	urge	to	learn,	and	to	then	disseminate	the	findings	of	that	learning,	to	“tell	a	different	story”	of	repair,	however	much	backed	by	responsibilities	and	obligations	to	the	community,	about	how	some	people	recover	from	war	and	the	protection	of	land	rights,	might	ultimately	lead	to	someone	else’s	capacity	to	exert	greater	control	and	subjugation	over	the	individuals	and	communities	I	engaged	with.	I	am	concerned	that	I,	like	some	of	those	who	undoubtedly	used	the	terms	“primitive”	and	“savage”,	am	subconsciously	and	unwittingly	strengthening	and	reproducing	the	very	structures	of	oppression	that	I	seek	to	write	against.	 	I	struggle	with	these	questions,	with	this	doubt.	One	day	in	2014	when	attending	a	conference	in	Osoyoos,	British	Columbia,	entitled	Truth(s),	Indigenous	Peoples	and	Public	Policy,	I	was	discussing	the	idea	of	social	repair	with	a	small	group	of	interested	scholars,	lawyers,	and	community	leaders.	Particularly,	I	engaged	a	man,	a	First	Nation’s	elder	and	leader,	with	the	issue	of	whether	documenting	community	indigenous	knowledge	and	practice,	and	then	writing	to	and	detailing	those	practices,	was	a	potentially	dangerous	activity	considering	the	enduring	power	relations	inherent	in	the	academic	research	  79 endeavour.	He	looked	at	me	thoughtfully,	and	finally	said	that	to	him,	it	was	very	important	that	I	should	write	these	things,	as	it	is	important	to	have	a	record	that	shows	that,	in	opposition	to	what	has	been	written	throughout	the	history	of	research,	communities	themselves	have	the	knowledge	and	capacity	to	organize,	manage,	and	deal	with	their	own	life-worlds.	And	that	respect	should	be	given	to	that	knowledge	and	that	capacity.		I	take	what	this	elder	said	that	day	seriously,	but	I	also	listen	to	the	constant	whispers	of	Achebe	and	p’Bitek.32	While	I	would	love	to	fully	embrace	my	work	as	possibly	“corrective”	to	some	of	the	more	oppressive	historical	and	continuing	grand-narratives,	I	also	carry	doubt–doubt	that	has	been	fruitfully	nurtured	by	contemporary	Indigenous	scholarship	that	elaborates	on	the	political	and	representational	power	of	the	research	endeavour	itself.			Many	indigenous	scholars	in	critique	of–yet	continued	engagement	with–Western	academic	practices	attempt	to	outline	the	possibilities	of	a	fairer,	more	transparent,	and	more	accountable	Indigenous	research	paradigm	(Smith	1999,	Wilson	2008,	Kovach	2009).		Like	Achebe’s	novel	and	p’Bitek’s	writing,	Linda	Tuhiwai	Smith	clearly	states	that	Western	academic	practices	“…regulate	and	realize	an	underlying	code	of	imperialism	and	colonialism”	(1999:7).	Emphasizing	that	“research	is	not	an	innocent	or	distant	academic	                                                32	Ngũgĩ	wa	Thiong’o	is	also	influential,	especially	in	acknowledging	how	Colonialism’s	effects	are	long-term,	profound,	and	affects	all	aspects	of	the	person,	particularly	how	the	imposition	of	a	foreign	language	itself	“colonizes	the	mind”	(1986).	As	is	Kwasi	Wiredu,	who	writes	about	the	need	for	conceptual	decolonization,	for	“disentangling	African	frameworks	of	thought	from	colonial	impositions…”	(2011:xxxvii).		  80 exercise	but	an	activity	that	has	something	at	stake	and	that	occurs	in	a	set	of	political	and	social	conditions”	(Smith	1999:5),	contemporary	critical	indigenous	scholarship	calls	for	self-reflexivity	and	self-evaluation	when	engaging	in	the	practice	of	research.			For	many,	including	Bagele	Chilisa	(who	writes	specifically	about	African	Indigenous	Research	Methodologies),	it	is	about	active	de-colonization	of	the	research	process	itself.	She	says	that	this	can	primarily	be	done	by	acknowledging	and	valorizing	other	forms	of	knowledge	and	knowing	that	can	challenge	western	academic	hegemony,	and	thus	western	power.	She	urges	us	to	remember	that	“social	science	research	needs	to	improve	spirituality	in	research,	respecting	communal	forms	of	living	that	are	not	Western	and	creating	space	for	inquiries	based	on	relational	realities	and	forms	of	knowing	that	are	predominant	among	the	non-Western	Other/s	still	being	colonized”	(2012:3).			Eva	Marie	Garroutte’s	own	ideas	of	de-colonization,	of	a	formulation	of	a	radical	Indigenism	(2003),	argues	for	the	reassertion	and	rebuilding	of	traditional	knowledge	from	its	roots	as	a	way	to	assert	an	American	Indian	scholarship.	Beginning	from	indigenous	philosophies	of	knowledge	requires	that	the	researcher	work	within	the	assumptions	drawn	from	indigenous	philosophies,	and	not	from	Western	academic	theories.	These	kinds	of	assertions	and	visions	resonate	quite	clearly	back	to	Okot	p’Bitek	again–to	his	calls	for	“post-colonial”	Africa	to	be	re-built	from	African	traditions.	Not	urging	a	simplistic	“return”	to	traditions,	he	urges	instead	for	cultivating	the	values	and	teachings–the	knowledge	of	  81 African	peoples	themselves–rather	than	the	cultures	and	philosophies	of	the	colonizers	(p’Bitek	1973).			As	elaborated	in	the	introduction,	I	have	learnt	from,	and	employ	Okot	p’Bitek’s	thinkings	as	the	foundation	of	my	theoretical	framework,	and	attempt	to	ground	the	various	facets	of	the	current	study	(research	questions,	methodologies,	analysis)	firmly	within	Acoli	indigenous	knowledge.33	And,	as	explored	in	the	introduction,	I	use	Janet	Carsten’s	notion	of	relatedness,	of	understanding	indigenous	concepts	of	what	being	related	does,	to	precisely	acknowledge	and	respect	“other”	ways	of	being	and	acting,	and	of	knowing,	in	the	world.	My	urge	to	study	the	inter-generational	angst	around	Acoli	tekwaro	itself	indicates	my	concern	with	the	gravity	with	which	these	“non-dominant”	kinds	of	knowledge,	relationality,	and	actions	are	conceptualized	and	approached	by	the	community	itself.		In	addition	to	acknowledging	the	impact	of	my	Jewishness	on	the	research,	and	how	my	“Whiteness”	and	the	resulting	generative	doubt	has	led	me	to	a	more	conscious	and	continuous	centering	of	Acoli	indigenous	scholarship,	knowledge,	and	learning,	I	also	seek	to	support	a	general	Afrocentric	approach	(Asante	2003,	Dei	1994,	Mkabela	2005).34	An	Afrocentric	approach,	or	paradigm	(Mazama	2001)	centers	Africans’	own	concerns,	initiatives,	and	knowledge	to	secure	and	advance	their	social,	cultural,	economic,	and	                                                33	Please	see	Rosenoff	Gauvin	(2013)	for	an	article	in	which	I	detailed	Okot	p’Bitek’s	substantial,	yet	overlooked,	contributions	to	the	study	of	oral	tradition.	34	Molefi	Kete	Asante	was	the	first	to	develop	the	term	Afrocentricity	into	a	philosophical	concept,	in	his	work	that	sought	to	re-center	the	place	of	African	knowledge	and	experience	in	Africans’	lives	(2003,	originally	published	in	1988).	Along	with	Ama	Mazama,	who	wrote	extensively	on	the	paradigm,	they	are	known	as	the	“Temple	School.”		  82 political	rights.	As	Asante	himself	explains,	“one	of	the	key	assumptions	of	the	Afrocentrist	is	that	all	relationships	are	based	on	centers	and	margins	and	the	distances	from	either	the	center	or	the	margin.	When	black	people	view	themselves	as	centered	and	central	in	their	own	history	then	they	see	themselves	as	agents,	actors,	and	participants	rather	than	as	marginals	on	the	periphery	of	political	or	economic	experience”	(Asante	2009).	This	at	once	corresponds	to	my	responsibilities	to	Pabwoc,	and	highlights	their	own	capacities	and	practices,	and	needs	for	secure	land	rights	recognitions,	to	“move	on”	after	the	recent	war	and	displacement.	Although	their	own	capacities	and	practices	may,	at	some	point,	involve	utilizing	national	or	international	justice	or	development	frameworks	for	achieving	their	goals,	these	are	framed	from	the	perspectives,	needs,	and	aspirations	that	emerge	from	the	communities’	themselves.	As	George	Sefa	Dei	explains:	The	notion	of	Afrocentricity…asserts	both	that	African	indigenous	cultural	values,	traditions,	mythology,	and	history	may	be	understood	as	a	body	of	knowledge	dealing	with	the	social	world,	and	that	Afrocentricity	is	an	alternative,	nonexclusionary,	and	nonhegemonic	system	of	knowledge	informed	by	African	peoples'	histories	and	experiences.	Afrocentricity	is	about	the	investigation	and	understanding	of	phenomena	from	a	perspective	grounded	in	African-centered	values.	It	is	about	the	validation	of	African	experiences	and	histories,	as	well	as	a	critique	of	the	continued	exclusion	and	marginalization	of	African	knowledge	systems	from	educational	texts,	mainstream	academic	knowledge,	and	scholarship.	(1994:4-5)		  83 Despite	learning	from	the	teachings	of	these	scholars,	and	despite	my	consequent	efforts,	desires,	ethics,	and	epistemological	stances,	the	results	of	my	learning	(and	the	circumstances	of	it),	and	the	forms	in	which	I	am	obliged	to	express	it	here,	still	implicates	me	in	powerful	hierarchies	of	knowledge	that	continue	to	acknowledge	some	forms	of	knowing	and	deny	and	silence	others.35	I	have,	however,	tried	to	the	best	of	my	ability	at	this	point	in	time	to	mitigate	and	disrupt	these	kinds	of	violences,	as	I	will	review	in	the	rest	of	the	chapter,	and	as	I	hope	is	manifest	in	the	dissertation	document	itself.	The	ethos	that	has	come	to	frame	my	efforts	in	these	regards,	and	that	has	come	to	frame	my	research	practice,	is	to	acknowledge	the	people	of	Pabwoc	and	Padibe	as	my	great	teachers,	lapwonye	madongo,	to	be	accountable	to	the	community	of	Pabwoc,	to	be	responsible	to	them,	and	to	be	“obligated”	to	them,	in	my	theory,	methods,	and	practice,	as	much	as	I	am	able.			So	how	did	a	white,	Jewish	Ashkenazi,	female	Anthropologist	end	up	changing	her	shoes	to	better	conform	to	her	“obligation”	to	Pabwoc	sub-clan	and	village	one	hot,	dusty	March	morning?	And	how	is	the	changing	of	my	shoes	demonstrative	of	my	engagement	with	difficult	questions,	and	the	generative	doubt	concerning	an	ethical	and	respectful	research	practice?	The	next	section	will	further	explore	my	own	position	and	relation	within	the	political	and	social	conditions	of	the	work	by	briefly	recounting	my	involvement	in	Northern	Uganda	over	the	past	decade.	Recounting	my	experiences	over	the	years,	I	trace	how	I	have	come	to	think	of	my	research	practice	as	relationship,	and	why	responsibilities	                                                35I	owe	much	of	my	attempt	to	tackle	these	issues	to	Pilar	Riaño-Alcalá.	  84 and	obligation	are	key	to	understanding	the	ethos	of	this	study.	A	description	of	specific	methodologies	that	were	used	follows,	and	I	explore	how	my	growing	responsibilities	towards	my	interlocutors,	and	the	various	relationships	initiated	and	maintained	in	Acoliland	over	the	years,	have	led	to	the	co-creation	of	the	knowledge	expressed	here.	I	conclude	by	discussing	research	as	relationship.		2.2.1 2004: When the sun sets… I	arrived	in	Northern	Uganda	for	the	first	time	in	September	2004,	when	I	was	invited	by	Mindset	Media	to	be	part	of	a	Canadian	production	team	to	make	a	film	about	the	war	(McKormack	2006).	I	was	a	documentary	photographer	at	the	time,	and	also	worked	as	an	assistant	location	manager	in	the	fiction	film	industry	in	Montreal.	The	position	was	voluntary,	but	expenses,	including	film	for	photography	were	paid.	The	field	team	included	a	fixer	(Mike	Otim),	one	researcher	(Dr.	Erin	Baines),	a	producer	(Tim	Hardy),	two	cameramen	(Vince	Arvidson	and	Chris	Wayatt),	and	myself.	Upon	receiving	the	invitation	to	participate	by	telephone,	my	first	response	was	to	say	yes,	of	course,	but	as	I	hung	up	the	phone,	I	thought	“f%#@-	what	war	in	Northern	Uganda?”	I	began	research,	and	first	came	across	an	IRIN	report	called	“When	the	Sun	Sets,	We	Start	to	Worry…”	(2003).	I	read	the	descriptions	of	the	brutal	abductions	and	forced	fighting	of	young	people,	the	intense	poverty	and	disease	as	a	result	of	internal	displacement,	as	well	as	stories	about	escape	and	of	youth	night-commuting	to	city	centers	every	night	to	protect	themselves.	These	stories	reminded	me	of	my	grandmother’s	stories	from	World	War	II’s	holocaust–the	suffering	was	enormous.	I	was	ashamed	that	I	did	not	know	about	this	war.	  85 	When	I	was	growing	up,	people	said	that	the	world	did	not	know	about	the	horrors	of	the	holocaust	and	that	millions,	including	my	forefathers	and	foremothers,	were	being	exterminated.	I	believed	this	at	that	time	and	thought	incredulously	that	if	people	had	known,	the	slaughter	might	have	been	stopped	sooner.	This	is	partially	why	I	chose	to	do	a	BA	in	communication	studies,	and	believed	in	the	rational	witnessing	public	and	media’s	potential	for	social	change.	Although	my	thinking	has	since	evolved	regarding	documentary	and	social	change	(Rosenoff	2010),	at	that	time	I	felt	that	I	had	to	be	a	part	of	telling	more	people	about	this	war–there	was	not	much	doubt.			The	film	crew	and	I	arrived	in	Northern	Uganda	at	a	tense	time–when	Joseph	Kony,	leader	of	the	LRA,	was	“back”	in	Uganda	from	South	Sudan.	We	worked	with	Gulu	NGO	Forum	director	Mike	Otim,	and	convened	an	Acoli	advisory	board	of	community	based	organizations	(CBOs)	and	non-governmental	organizations	(NGOs)	to	suggest	topics	that	they	wanted	to	communicate	about	the	war	that	they	were	experiencing	(this	advisory	board	eased	the	limit	of	my	“doubt”	at	that	time).	We	also	had	a	media	permit,	and	were	able	to	travel	with	WFP’s	food	aid	convoys	to	the	displacement	camps	outside	of	Gulu	town.	It	was	unsafe	to	drive	to	Kitgum	or	Pader	districts,36	but	we	flew	to	Kitgum	for	a	week	where	we	negotiated	safe	travel	on	military	convoy	through	the	Resident	District	Commissioner	(RDC),	Lapolo,	at	that	time.	There	was	a	lot	of	fighting	on	the	outskirts	of	                                                36	The	two	other	districts	that	along	with	Gulu,	made	up	Acoliland	at	that	time.	Since	the	end	of	the	war	in	late	2006,	Government	has	created	four	more	districts,	which	encompass	Acoliland,	or	the	“Acholi	Sub-region.”		  86 Kitgum	town,	across	the	Pager	River	to	the	north	of	town,	and	we	heard	gunshots	from	the	hotel	at	night.	We	witnessed	thousands	of	children	night	commuting	into	Gulu	and	Kitgum	town	centers	for	protection.	Ambushes	on	the	roads	in	broad	daylight	were	frequent,	and	we	came	across	one	right	near	Padibe	on	our	way	to	Lukung	with	the	RDC’s	convoy	one	day.	We	attended	the	funeral	of	the	man	we	found	killed	on	the	roadside	that	day.	We	also	visited	many	IDP	camps	where	residents	both	showed	and	told	us	about	the	oppressive	overcrowding,	hunger,	disease,	and	the	lack	of	water	and	sanitation	facilities.	We	met	women	in	hot	dark	huts	who	had	been	beaten	and	raped	by	both	the	Government’s	military	and	the	LRA.	We	met	adults	and	children	who	had	been	burned	inside	their	huts	by	the	LRA.	We	met	community	groups	and	mothers	who	were	desperately	trying	to	help	youth	who	had	been	abducted	and	managed	to	escape.	We	visited	Mega	FM	radio	station	in	Gulu,	and	watched	as	former	abductees	were	called	upon	to	try	to	convince	“rebels”	in	the	bush	to	come	home.	We	played	with,	sang,	and	danced	the	Macarena	with	hundreds	of	children	we	encountered	on	our	camp	visits.	We	did	and	saw	a	lot	on	that	first	trip,	and	I	took	photos,	with	permission,	of	all	I	witnessed.			Conversations,	in	addition	to	images	of	violence	from	that	first	visit,	continued	to	haunt	me	and	provoke	doubt.	Particularly	one	from	a	rainy	day	up	in	Palaro	IDP	camp.	I	met	Samuel,	a	45	year-old	man,	while	he	was	waiting	for	food	aid.	It	was	pouring	rain,	and	I	was	trying	to	take	pictures	of	the	long	lines	of	people	waiting.	He	started	talking	to	me,	in	perfect	English,	and	exclaimed	that	it	was	unbelievable	that	with	so	much	fertile	land,	his	people	were	forced	into	the	humiliating	act	of	begging	for	food.	A	conversation	ensued	about	life	  87 before	the	war	and	camps,	about	Acoli	self-reliance,	and	he	commented	that	Acoli	even	used	to	get	the	best	secondary	school	scores	in	the	country.	Thinking	about	my	taking	pictures,	he	wondered	aloud	why	“when	someone	is	killed	in	Palestine	or	Israel,	it	is	all	over	the	news,	yet	here,	where	hundreds	and	thousands	are	dying,	we	are	never	mentioned?	Do	we	not	count?“	(personal	communication	2004).		Remembering	conversations	like	these	helped	me	to	finally	develop	my	slide	film,	despite	the	doubt,	and	I	set	about	editing	the	images.37	Finding	a	sense	of	purpose,	I	scanned,	dusted,	and	printed	images	in	preparation	for	a	photo	exhibit,	titled	“Who’s	Counting?”	a	few	months	later	(Rosenoff	2005).	I	found	a	gallery	to	show	the	work,	was	present	in	the	gallery	throughout	the	weeks	of	exhibition	for	interactions,	and	conducted	many	television	and	print	media	interviews	on	the	subject.	Although	I	questioned	my	qualifications	to	discuss	the	complex	conflict,	I	tried	to	the	best	of	my	ability.38			At	the	exhibit’s	opening,	an	old	photography	professor	of	mine	excitedly	asked	me	“which	war	are	you	going	to	go	to	next”?	But	I	was	speechless,	my	face	flushed	and	I	could	not	answer.	I	could	not	conceive	of	moving	on	to	a	“next”	war.	While	I	did	not	imagine	myself	as	a	war	photographer,	I	still	did	not	know	what	I	was,	in	relation	to	the	Northern	Ugandan	war,	and	in	relation	to	the	people	I	had	met	there.			                                                37	The	actual	film	was	being	edited	in	Vancouver	at	this	time.	38	I	was	in	contact	with	an	Acoli	woman	studying	at	McGill	University	at	that	time,	however,	when	I	asked	her	if	she	could	speak	about	the	war	with,	or	instead	of	me	to	the	media,	she	declined	saying	that	she	feared	the	Ugandan	Government.	  88 I	used	the	rest	of	my	savings	and	bought	a	ticket	to	return	to	Northern	Uganda	in	February	2005.		 2.2.2 2005: “Roco Wat i Acoli” (Restoring relations in Acoli) I	needed	a	military	permit	to	travel	around	Northern	Uganda	this	time,	and	visited	Major	Shaban	Bantariza,	the	Military	Public	Relations	Officer	in	Bomba,	with	Erin	Baines	and	Mike	Otim	to	obtain	our	passes.	I	soon	traveled	with	Erin	up	to	Gulu	town,	and	tagged	along	and	took	photos	while	she	and	the	rest	of	her	research	team	carried	out	interviews	and	visits	for	a	study	that	was	summarized	in	the	report	“Roco	Wat	I	Acoli	-	Restoring	Relationships	in	Acholi-land:	Traditional	Approaches	to	Justice	and	Reintegration”	(JRP	et	al.	2005).	39			I	traveled	with	the	team	to	camps	in	Gulu	District,	where	the	displaced	residents	showed	me	around	the	camps	while	the	team	conducted	focus	group	interviews.	I	also	traveled	with	the	research	team	to	Kitgum	district,	by	road	this	time,	and	attended	group	cleansing	ceremonies	presided	over	by	Rwot	David	Onen	Acana	II,	Rwot	of	Payira	clan	who	was	also	installed	as	Acoli	Paramount	Chief	in	January	2005.	I	also	attended	one	young	woman’s	“traditional”	cleansing	ceremony	in	Lacor,	near	Gulu	town,	which	was	organized	by	a	formerly	abducted	young	woman’s	family.	My	understandings	of	Acoli	community	and	capacity	grew,	and	I	could	not	help	acknowledging	that	the	theoretical	and	moral	frames	                                                39	At	its	inception	in	2005,	JRP–the	Justice	and	Reconciliation	Project–was	a	partnership	between	the	Gulu	District	NGO	Forum	and	the	Liu	Institute	for	Global	Issues	at	the	University	of	British	Columbia	in	Vancouver,	Canada.	In	January	2010,	JRP	became	an	independent	non-governmental	organization	(NGO)	under	Ugandan	registration,	with	support	from	the	Royal	Norwegian	Embassy,	Kampala.	  89 with	which	I	understood	violence	and	reconciliation	and	justice	(trauma,	holding	perpetrators	responsible	for	violence,	Western	judicial	mechanisms),	especially	in	relation	to	my	own	family’s	histories	thereof,	were	woefully	inadequate	to	the	communities	I	had	visited.40			2.2.3 2006-2008: After the cease-fire I	had	again	saved	enough	money	working	a	contract	as	an	assistant	location	manger	to	return	to	Northern	Uganda	in	late	2006.	There	had	been	a	cease-fire	in	September	of	that	year,	and	I	was	able	to	arrange,	with	the	help	of	the	Justice	and	Reconciliation	Project	and	Caritas,41	to	stay	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	in	what	was	then	Kitgum	District.42	I	was	particularly	struck	with	how	much	NGO	activity	was	based	in	and	around	Gulu	town	compared	with	other	places	I	had	visited,	namely	the	northern	part	of	Kitgum	district	(where	Padibe	is,	in	what	is	now	Lamwo	District),	and	wondered	how	people’s	experiences	of	war	and	displacement	differed	in	outlying	areas.			I	wanted	to	begin	a	new	documentary	photo	project	about	everyday	life	in	the	IDP	camps,	and	I	also	wanted	to	understand	what	the	cease-fire	really	meant	for	over	a	million	displaced	people.	                                                40	Despite	this	uncertainty,	when	I	returned	home	I	put	together	a	website	with	the	entire	photo	essay,	and	voluntarily	took	part	in	an	advocacy	campaign	planned	by	the	film’s	producer	(Act	For	Stolen	Children),	which	included	showing	the	photographs	at	a	meeting	in	New	York	City	that	gathered	NGOs,	politician,	and	academics	working	on	Northern	Uganda,	and	participating	in	a	news	conference	at	the	United	Nations.	I	also	put	all	the	images	on	DVDs	and	sent	them	to	local	civil	society	organizations	(CSOs)	and	NGOs	in	Gulu	town	(through	Mike	Otim)	for	their	own	use.	41	A	friend	had	contacts	with	Caritas,	and	they	had	contacted	the	priest	at	Padibe	Mission.	42	I	also	received	permission	from	the	RDC	of	Kitgum	to	stay	in	the	camp	at	that	time.	  90 	I	stayed	in	the	Roman	Catholic	priests’	(Acoli	priests)	house	at	Padibe	Mission	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	for	the	end	of	2006,	and	the	first	two	and	a	half	weeks	of	January	2007.	Padibe	IDP	camp	at	that	time	(2006-7)	was	still	full	with	a	population	of	35	000	(UNOCHA	2006),	as	people	did	not	yet	trust	the	cease-fire	of	four	months	before.			An	employee	of	JRP	in	Padibe	named	Christopher43	first	introduced	me	to	Aceng	Beatrice	(hereafter	Beatrice),	a	young	woman	of	15.	Although	I	met	other	young	women	in	the	camp,	I	decided	to	learn	from	and	document	Beatrice’s	everyday	life	that	January	2007.	Beatrice,	whose	father	had	been	killed	by	cattle	raiders	and	whose	mother	died	of	AIDS,	was	taking	care	of	her	three	brothers,	and	spent	her	days	fetching	firewood,	carrying	jerry	cans	of	water,	washing	clothes	and	dishes,	and	cooking.	I	kept	her	company	and	helped	her	get	mud	to	re-smear	her	hut,	washed	dishes,	and	picked	otigo	leaves	off	the	stems.	I	will	not	describe	too	much	from	that	time	as	I	have	already	written	and	presented	art	about	her	experiences	of	abduction,	escape,	and	survival	in	the	camp	(Rosenoff	2009,	Rosenoff	2010,	Rosenoff	2010a).	However,	what	is	vital	to	the	current	study	is	that	my	experiences	with	Beatrice	first	introduced	me	to	the	rhythms	of	everyday	life	and	relationality	in	the	camps.	What	survival	itself	entails	in	the	everyday,	and	the	extensive	networks	of	social	relations	that	makes	survival	possible,	looked	very	different	than	the	dominant	narratives	told	of	the	war.	The	sharing	of	heirloom	seeds	between	camp	kinsmen	and	neighbours,	for	example,	                                                43	Whom	I	eventually	found	out	in	2012,	was	a	resident	of	Pabwoc.	  91 demonstrates	a	very	different	view	of	survivor	agency	than	only	waiting	in	long	lines	for	food	aid.	Figure 12-	Aceng	Beatrice shares seeds with her camp neighbours. Padibe IDP Camp, 2007.  Figure 13- Aceng Beatrice waits in line with her brother to collect food rations from the WFP. Padibe IDP Camp, 2007.   Also,	I	first	met	Augustine,	who	acted	as	research	assistant	for	the	current	project,	at	this	time.	He	was	a	high	school	seminary	student,	home	in	Padibe	during	the	holiday	break,	  92 staying	within	the	Mission	area.	He	offered	me	his	friendship	and	eventually	introduced	me	to	his	family	that	lived	in	the	camp.			 Figure 14- Nyero Augustine Caesar, Padibe Boys School. Padibe IDP Camp, 2008.			He	had	so	many	brothers	and	sisters,	and	aunties,	and	father’s	brothers,	and	people	who	were	“like	a	father”	or	“like	a	sister”	that	I	could	not	keep	up.	Little	did	I	know	how	much	a	part	of	my	life	they	would	eventually	become.			After	that	first	chunk	of	time	with	Beatrice,	and	Augustine,	I	began	to	wonder	more	about	documentary	photography’s	(and	my	own)	role	in	politics,	and	in	advocacy,	and	in	social	change	more	generally.	I	began	to	think	more	about	how	events	like	“war	on	the	African	continent”	are	framed,	how	they	are	narrated,	and	by	whom	they	are	narrated,	and	I	decided	to	apply	to	a	new	MFA	program	at	Ryerson	University	in	Documentary	Media	so	that	I	could	more	seriously	think	through	these	issues.		  93 	While	academics	had	begun	to	write	about	social	repair	and	emphasized	the	agentic,	relational,	and	generative	aspects	of	lives	in	and	after	war	(see	introduction	section	1.4),	contemporary	media	and	art	representations,	as	they	were	critiqued,	too	often	participated	in	the	commodification	of	suffering	(Strauss	1998),	of	condoning	and	generating	complacency	(Sontag	2003,	Moeller	1999),	of	aestheticizing	suffering	(Reinhardt	et	al.	2007,	Solomon-Godeau	1991),	and	of	“othering”–participating	in	neo-colonial,	imperial	discourse	and	policy	that	encouraged	the	representation	of	Africans,	or	non-white	peoples,	in	need	of	saving	by	white	Westerners.44	I	re-examined	the	photo	essay	I	had	created	in	2004-2005,	and	critically	saw	how	my	naïve	necessity	to	“tell	people	about	the	war”,	even	though	I	heeded	local	peoples’	choices	of	what	to	tell	(through	the	advisory	committee),	still	contributed	to	stereotypical	images	of	African	suffering	in	need	of	foreign	alleviation.	The	details	and	complexity	of	the	war,	including	its	Colonial	roots	(Baines	2015a,	Branch	2011,	Finnström	2008),	the	military	involvement	of	multiple	African	and	Western	nations	which	fueled	the	war,	and	NGOs’	complicity	in	disseminating	a	one-sided	pro-Government	narrative	of	the	war	(Finnström	2008,	Dolan	2009,	Porter	2013)	all	contributed	to	my	growing	doubt,	and	“unsettling”	(Regan	2010)	of	my	role	as	a	can-do-good	messenger	demanding	more	outside	action	to	alleviate	suffering.		                                                44	Teju	Cole	particularly	explores	the	“White	Saviour	Industrial	Complex”	later	in	2012,	in	response	to	Invisible	Children’s	Kony	2012	viral	video.	  94 The	unsettling,	however,	could	not	be	contended	with	by	not	engaging	in	these	difficult	questions.	The	people	I’ve	met,	the	stories	shared,	and	my	experiences	during	and	concerning	my	time	in	Northern	Uganda	fundamentally	changed	who	I	am,	and	how	I	see	the	world.	And	it	is	from	these	questions	of	representation–of	narration	of	war	and	survival	itself–and	my	role	within	the	global	system	that	creates	and	perpetuates	war,	that	I	began	to	engage.	Swedenburg	describes	how	when	he	tells	people	about	the	work	he	does	with	Palestinian	youth,	“most	people	respond	with	looks	of	shocked	disbelief	and	exaggerated	compassion	(both	for	him	and	the	Palestinians)	but	rarely	with	the	realization	that	the	“state	of	emergency”	connects	to	their	own	lives”	(1995:34).	I	thought	that	if	academics,	like	Swedenburg,	sought	ways	to	respectfully	represent	lives	in	war–or	at	least	engage	in	the	issues	to	advance	understanding–and	engage	with	his	own	involvement	therein,	I	could	also	seek	ways	in	which	to	bring	respect	and	acknowledgement	to	peoples’	everyday	acts	of	survival	and	resistance	through	critical	and	self-reflexive	documentary	practice.			Three	months	after	I	began	the	MFA	program,	I	went	back	to	Padibe.	I	contacted	one	of	the	priests	from	Padibe	when	I	got	up	to	Gulu,	and	received	permission	to	visit	once	again.	When	I	arrived	at	the	mission	in	Padibe	IDP	camp,	the	same	three	local	priests	were	there,	and	Augustine	was	around	too.	Augustine	had	left	seminary	school	at	this	point,	but	he	stayed	around	the	mission,	involved	in	the	church	choir,	and	having	set	up	a	chicken	business	near	the	Fathers’	house.	He	was	trying	to	raise	extra	funds	to	be	able	to	attend	Gulu	University.			  95 My	first	morning	there,	I	set	out	to	find	Beatrice.	The	camp	was	a	little	less	crowded,	but	was	still	very	full.	Augustine	helped	me	find	my	way	to	Beatrice’s	old	hut.	Although	it	is	a	long	story,	Beatrice	had	a	falling	out	with	her	brother	and	moved	in	with	a	more	distant	relative	on	the	other	side	of	the	camp.	She	recounted	the	story	to	me	full	of	tears,	and	speaking	softly,	whispered	that	she	really	missed	her	brothers.			The	next	day,	she	asked	me	to	join	her	in	harvesting	peas	about	a	40	minute	walk	from	the	camp.	After	harvesting,	we	visited	some	of	her	maternal	relatives,	back	in	their	“home”	(another	30	minute	walk),	a	small	clearing	with	two	houses	in	a	large	sea	of	tall	grass.	She	gave	them	two	large	sacks	of	peas,	while	they	questioned	me	about	home,	my	parents,	and	my	life	loko	nam	(across	the	sea).			Figure 15- Aceng Beatrice’s extended maternal family’s homestead. Panyinga, December 2007.  They had recently returned to their ancestral lands.   	  96 A	few	days	later,	Beatrice,	quite	hesitantly,	told	me	that	she	was	pregnant.	The	father	was	in	jail,	but	she	was	confident	that	when	he	got	out	they	would	live	together	on	his	land.	I	asked	why	she	did	not	go	live	with	the	relatives	I	had	met	in	the	bush,	but	she	explained	to	me	that	in	Acoli,	a	woman	lives	together	with	her	husband	on	his	land	(patrilocal).	So	she	would	wait.			Soon	after,	she	explained	that	she	had	to	leave	Padibe	for	a	day.	I	was	worried	that	I	had	done	something	to	offend	her,	but	she	said	that	her	uncles	had	asked	her	to	help	cook	at	a	sub-clan	meeting.	I	asked	what	the	meeting	was	about,	and	she	said	that	she	thinks	it	is	about	returning	to	the	ancestral	land	(dwog	ngom	kwaro),	but	that	she	wasn’t	so	sure.		While	my	relationships	until	now	had	mostly	been	with	seemingly	unrelated	individuals	(Beatrice,	Augustine,	people	I	had	met	in	2004	and	2005	etc.),45	I	began	to	learn	more	about	the	multiple	affiliations	and	attending	responsibilities,	based	on	lineage,	sub-clan,	and	clan	that	existed	in	Padibe.	It	is	as	if	webs	of	relations	that	I	almost	grasped	over	the	years	were	coming	into	focus.	Being	introduced	to	people	over	the	years	that	were	“like	a	father”	or	“like	a	sister”	finally	began	to	make	its	way	into	my	thick	head.46			                                                45	Later,	I	even	learned	that	Beatrice’s	mother	was	from	the	same	clan	as	Augustine’s	mother.	46	They	used	classificatory	kinship	terms	whereby,	for	example,	all	of	your	father’s	brothers	are	fathers,	and	all	of	your	father’s	brother’s	children	are	your	brothers	and	sisters.	Classificatory	kinship	terms	in	Acoli	are	best	understood	in	terms	of	the	obligations	and	responsibilities	of	“amity”	(Fortes	1969)	implied	in	the	relationship	designated	by	the	term	in	question.	This	will	be	more	fully	explored	in	Chapter	5.	  97 I	left	to	finish	my	MFA	course	work	in	Toronto,	and	then	returned	to	Padibe	IDP	camp	five	months	later	in	late	June	with	Andrea	McKinlay.47	Andrea	and	I	lived	next	door	to	Augustine’s	family	in	the	camp	this	time,	and	his	mother	looked	out	for	us	and	taught	us	how	to	live.	Acan	Almarina	(Mama)	showed	us	how	to	start	a	fire,	prepare	Acoli	greens,	cook	on	the	firewood,	collect	water,	sweep	the	house	etc.			Figure 16- Acan Almarina (Mama) shows us how to light the cooking fire. Padibe IDP camp, 2008.                                                  47	My	plane	ticket	was	sponsored	by	Guluwalk	this	time,	a	Canadian	non-profit.	Along	with	one	of	their	employees,	Andrea	McKinlay,	I	was	to	write	a	blog	about	living	in	Padibe	IDP	camp.	The	purpose	was	to	bring	attention	to	the	plight	of	those	still	remaining	in	the	camp,	and	to	garner	support	for	much	needed	reconstruction	aid	and	development	to	the	war-torn	area	(Rosenoff	and	McKinlay	2008).	We	hired	Augustine	as	a	fixer,	and	asked	him	to	find	us	a	place	to	live	within	the	camp	and	to	help	us	secure	permissions	from	the	camp	and	local	governments.	We	also	received	permission	from	the	RDC	of	Kitgum	District,	and	requested	that	Ojibu,	a	JRP	employee,	and	Augustine,	upload	our	entries	from	Kitgum	town.	There	were	still	no	“internet	sticks”	or	electricity	in	Padibe	at	that	time.	Every	two	days,	Andrea	and	I	would	walk	to	the	father’s	house,	about	20	minutes	from	the	grass	thatched	roof	house	we	rented	in	the	camp	center.	We	kept	a	laptop	there	(there	was	solar	power)	that	we	used	to	type	the	blog	entry	and	we	transferred	it	onto	a	usb	key.	Augustine	or	Ojibu	would	then	travel	by	motorcycle	to	an	Internet	café	in	Kitgum	to	try	to	upload	the	post.			  98 I	also	visited	Beatrice	a	lot.	She	now	lived	with	her	baby’s	father,	Kilama	Amos,	and	her	son,	Vita	Kissumu,	about	ten	minutes	from	the	hut	rented	by	Andrea	and	I.	Beatrice	and	Kilama	were	still	living	in	the	camp,	but	they	were	building	a	house	on	Kilama’s	family’s	land	about	another	15-minute	walk	away.	Although	Kilama	believed	that	it	was	his	land	to	build	on	and	cultivate,	he	told	me	that	that	they	were	having	problems	because	his	father	had	died,	and	now	others	in	the	sub-clan	disagreed	with	his	claims.			There	was	more	space	in	the	camp	as	people	were	progressively	returning	home.	Many	of	the	stories	people	shared	that	summer	were	about	the	difficulties	of	return.	Beatrice’s	two	brothers	had	already	left,	and	Augustine’s	family	had	begun	to	cultivate	their	fields,	and	planned	to	permanently	return	home	at	the	end	of	the	year	after	they	could	build	more	houses.		The	priests’	cook,	a	young	woman	I	had	met	the	year	before,	was	having	other	kinds	of	problems	associated	with	return.	She	explained	that	her	family	was	making	her	move	back	home	with	them,	despite	the	fact	that	the	father	of	her	baby	was	remaining	in	the	center.	She	wanted	to	stay	with	him,	but	they	were	forcing	her	to	return	home	with	them	because	he	refused	to	pay	balo	kwan	“spoiled	studies”	(balo	kwan	is	kind	of	a	luk,	a	payment	for	a	child	born	in	the	absence	of	“traditional”	courtship	or	marriage–more	in	Chapter	4).		A	camp	neighbor	also	spoke	at	length	about	her	children’s	hatred	of	farming.	She	said	that	the	youth	that	grew	up	in	the	camp	knew	nothing	of	village	life,	and	rather	learned	to	  99 “despise”	it	because	of	their	exposure	to	munu	(foreign,	white)	culture	in	the	camps.	She	worried	for	these	youth,	and	for	the	future	of	her	family	that	relied	on	the	communal	labour	necessary	in	subsistence	farming.			Another	neighbor	was	a	widow	raising	three	children.	She	did	not	leave	the	camp	yet	because	she	had	not	built	a	house	back	on	her	deceased	husband’s	family	land.	She	did	not	have	funds	to	hire	someone,	building	was	men’s	work,	and	her	husband’s	family	was	having	enough	challenges	trying	to	build	their	own	houses	still.			Some	teenage	youth	we	encountered	at	the	video	hall	and	bookshop	spoke	about	how	they	did	not	want	to	return	to	the	village.	They	did	not	see	the	value	of	Acoli	culture	for	themselves,	and	that	it	was	“only	good	for	the	elders.”	Besides,	they	did	not	want	to	be	“backward	farmers”	(personal	communications	2008).		Many	other	things	were	revealed	that	July	while	living	in	the	camp,	including	persistent	and	widespread	alcohol	abuse,	and	domestic	violence,	however	a	growing	worry,	from	youth,	adults	and	elders	alike,	was	about	youth	who	had	grown	up	in	the	camps	and	didn’t	“know”	or	didn’t	want	to	“know”	village	life,	was	palpable.		I	also	visited	Beatrice	daily.	I	played	with	Vita,	did	the	dishes,	and	helped	her	plant	beans	and	sunflowers.	We	also	went	over	the	pictures	we	had	created	together	over	the	past	years	and	discussed	them.	When	I	asked	her	if	she	wanted	me	to	create	an	exhibit	in	Padibe	  100 or	Uganda,	she	laughed,	embarrassed.	She	said	that	she	did	not	have	anything	to	say	to	people	here,	just	that	she	should	like	to	learn	from	her	people	instead	(described	in	the	Introduction).		When	I	heard	the	expressions,	and	even	read	about	how	youth	were	“out	of	culture”	(Finnström	2008:222),	I	began	to	think	about	Beatrice,	and	what	she	perceived	that	she	missed	during	the	war	and	displacement	years.	I	also	thought	about	the	teenagers	who	didn’t	want	anything	to	do	with	tekwaro.	I	then	thought	of	the	issues	I	encountered	that	summer,	and	began	to	see	many	of	them	as	a	result	of	the	war’s	impact	on	inter-generational	social	relations	and	a	resulting	“gap”	in	knowledge	transmissions.			I	began	to	wonder	about	what	this	inter-generational	“gap”	meant	to	post-conflict	and	post-conflict	social	organization	and	justice.	So	much	of	what	the	International	community	and	scholars	were	debating	at	that	time	were	the	forms	of	justice	necessary	for	the	population	to	“move	on”	(i.e.	“traditional”	versus	“international”	mechanisms).	But	in	people’s	quotidian	lives,	most	pressing	concerns	addressed	inter-generational	relations	of	extended	kin	networks,	the	rights	and	responsibilities,	and	morality	implied	therein,	and	their	relationships	to	the	land.			After	that	July	in	Padibe	IDP	camp,	I	began	to	wonder	how	people	were	organizing	back	in	their	village	homes,	and	how	did	they	organize	to	get	there?	Through	which	institutions	and	processes	was	land	accessed?	Who	decided	these	things?	And	how?	How	were	  101 children,	women,	and	men	recognized	and	given	rights?	How	were	kin	relations	and	cultural	protocols	continuing	to	affect	the	lives	of	so	many	people	I	spoke	with?	And,	how	did	inter-generational	gaps	in	knowledge	transmissions	affect	all	these	things?			Over	the	years,	and	with	help	from	cultivating	the	doubt	that	I	explored	in	the	previous	section,	these	questions	eventually	turned	into	ones	that	ultimately	valorize	indigenous	knowledge	and	ways	of	knowing,	and	how	communities	themselves,	through	participatory	kin-based	inter-generational	activities,	teach	and	live	that	knowledge–and	how	engagement	with	tekwaro	itself	is	a	form	of	social	repair	because	of	how	it	elaborates	and	re-elaborates	relatedness.		At	that	time	however,	I	had	just	decided	to	continue	my	studies	in	Anthropology,	a	discipline	that	I	thought	was	appropriate	to	understanding	lived	realities	of	post-conflict	return.	I	also	thought	that	it	was	a	discipline	that	more	directly	grappled	with	its	role	as	“a	child	of	imperialism”	(Gough	1993),	and	would	thus	be	a	more	generative	place	from	which	to	continue	thinking	through	my	own	role	within	global	processes	of	inequality.	I	began	my	PhD	in	2009	in	the	Department	of	Anthropology	at	the	University	of	British	Columbia.		After	my	first	year	of	course-work	in	2010,	I	returned	to	Padibe.48	I	stayed	with	the	Sisters	at	the	Mission	this	time,	as	the	trip	was	brief.	I	visited	Beatrice	and	found	her	well	and	busy	                                                48	I	had	received	funding	from	the	Liu	Institute	to	conduct	theatre	workshops	with	Laura	Lee	in	Rwanda	and	Uganda.	The	workshop	in	Uganda	took	place	in	Lacor,	near	Gulu	town,	and	I	went	to	Padibe	afterwards.	  102 in	the	gardens	at	their	new	homestead	on	Kilama’s	land.	I	talked	with	Augustine	about	some	of	my	questions,	and	he	said	that	I	should	speak	to	his	family	about	them.	I	was	invited	for	lunch,	and	we	biked	to	his	village	to	meet	his	extended	family	in	their	“traditional”	home,	on	their	ancestral	land.	This	meeting	encouraged	me	to	pursue	the	research	questions	detailed	in	the	introduction.	If	youth	did	not	know,	or	in	many	instances,	did	not	want	to	know	tekwaro,	the	indigenous	knowledge,	ways	of	knowing,	and	the	ways	of	life	that	ensured	not	only	survival	(subsistence),	but	engagement	in	their	moral,	political,	and	legal	communities,	what	were	the	multiple	generations	doing	about	it?	How	were	communities	actually	rebuilding?	What	authority	functioned	in	the	villages?	What	did	tekwaro,	and	the	inter-generational	knowledge	and	relationships	implied	therein,	mean	to	social	repair?			I	also	decided	after	that	visit	to	stay	with	Augustine’s	family	in	their	village	of	Pabwoc	East	for	the	new	period	of	fieldwork.	Although	I	considered	staying	with	Beatrice,	I	knew	that	she	was	a	young	woman	and	mother	living	in	her	husband’s	sub-clan,	and	her	husband’s	father	had	died	a	few	years	before.	Although	their	experiences	would	certainly	be	significant	to	understanding	social	repair,	I	had	learnt	enough	about	Acoli	social	organization	to	know	that	I	would	have	more	experiential	access	to	various	aspects	of	village	life,	including	the	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations,	in	a	multi-generational	homestead,	accessed	through	the	eldest	son,	with	a	living	father	and	mother.	Augustine	was	that	son,	Omon	Justo	and	Acan	Almarina	are	his	parents,	and	that	is	how	his	family,	sub-clan,	and	village	of	Pabwoc	became	my	home	for	seven	months	in	2012.	  103 	I	think	it	has	been	necessary	to	consider	how	my	histories	and	relations	informs	the	present	study;	the	relationships	it	is	built	on,	the	questions	being	asked	and	how	they	are	asked.	I	heed	Johannes	Fabian’s	assertion	that	anthropological	knowledge	results	from	a	coevalness	between	the	researcher	and	her	interlocutors	(2002),	and	have	tried	to	explore,	rather	than	deny,	my	own	histories	of	engagement	with	individuals	and	communities	in	Acoliland	towards	that	end.	Tacking	back	to	my	discussion	of	how	people	learn	through	practice	(particularly	referencing	“Acoli	indigenous	education”	as	per	Ocitti)	and	through	interactions	in	the	introduction	(section	1.4.3),	I	hope	that	this	narration,	as	well	as	the	recounting	of	personal	lessons	that	open	Chapters	3	to	5,	remind	the	readers	of	the	co-created	nature	of	knowledge.			In	the	first	section	I	discussed	my	own	history	and	heritage	that	influenced	my	engagement	in	Northern	Uganda	over	the	years.	Acknowledgment	of	these	histories	at	the	same	time	questioned	my	involvement	in	Northern	Uganda,	in	terms	of	potentially	perpetuating	inequality	and	violence,	and	caused	me	to	more	consciously,	and	theoretically,	center	peoples’	and	communities’	knowledge	and	capacities.	My	relationship	with	Beatrice	then	introduced	me	to	how	Acoli	indigenous	knowledge,	tekwaro,	and	the	responsibilities	and	rights	of	relations–relatedness–affects	everyday	life.	My	friendship	with	Augustine	throughout	those	years	exposed	me	to	his	multi-generational	family,	and	enabled	further	discussion	of	the	inter-generational	issues	first	brought	up	by	Beatrice	and	others	as	people	were	set	to	return	home.	Overall,	I	have	tried	to	pinpoint	how	my	  104 experiences,	of	engagement	but	also	of	doubt,	and	the	relationships	created	and	maintained	led	me	to	examine	inter-generational	relations,	indigenous	knowledge,	and	social	repair	in	one	specific	rural	village.			The	following	section	discusses	my	involvement	with	Pabwoc	sub-clan	and	village.	I	then	provide	an	overview	of	the	methodologies	used	in	this	study,	and	emphasizing	that	research	is	relationship,	summarize	the	“obligation”	ethos	of	the	study.		2.3 Pabwoc Sub-Clan and Villages Augustine’s	family’s	interest	in	repairing	inter-generational	relations,	or	bringing	“youth	into	culture”	(see	introduction),	led	them	to	be	generally	interested	in	my	research	project	and	to	extend	me	an	invitation	to	live	with	them.	Additionally	though,	hospitality	is	revered	in	Acoli,	and	guests	of	any	kind	are	never	turned	away	(Girling	1960,	Oloya	2015).	Because	I	had	known	them	for	some	years,	and	we	had	close	relations	when	I	lived	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	as	their	neighbour	in	July	2008,	it	was	quite	natural	to	continue	our	relationship.	My	host	family’s	matriarch,	Mama,	said	that	she	was	happy	that	she	would	get	to	show	me	how	to	live	back	in	the	village,	rather	than	just	in	the	camp,	and	other	extended	family	members	were	also	proud	to	show	me	the	results	of	their	ongoing	rebuilding	efforts:	manicured	homesteads,	new	fruit	saplings,	new	houses,	pit	latrines,	increasing	livestock,	and	the	producing	gardens	of	their	ancestral	homes.	After	a	decade	of	displacement	in	the	squalid	camp,	there	was	great	relief	and	pride,	despite	the	many	hardships,	of	living	back	home.		    105 Figure 17- Approaching a homestead in Pabwoc, 2012.  	More	so	than	my	Jewishness,	my	munu-ness,	my	foreigner-ness,	my	white-ness,	was	always	an	important	part	of	my	interactions	in	Pabwoc	and	Padibe.	Most	people	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties	have	only	encountered	“whites”	that	work	with	churches,	non-governmental	agencies,	or	for	very	few,	the	British	Colonial	government.	Although	the	people	of	Pabwoc	did	not,	historically,	have	violent	encounters	with	white	Colonial	officials	or	policies	during	Colonial	occupation	(as	will	be	described	in	Chapter	3),	the	violent	regime	changes	of	the	post-colonial	Ugandan	state,	and	its	offshoot	in	the	form	of	the	Government-LRA	war,	manifest	just	some	of	the	pernicious	effects	of	Colonialism.	Generally	though,	people’s	  106 direct	experiences	with	“whites”	have	been	confined	to	encountering	white	priests	and	sisters	50	years	before	(Padibe	Mission	was	built	by	Comboni	Missionaries	in	1960s),	and	most	recently	(and	predominantly)	from	the	war,	many	white	humanitarian	and	NGO	workers,	as	well	as	a	few	born-again	missionaries.			Many	rural	Acoli	people’s	ideas	of	who	I	am	based	on	my	skin	colour,	and	their	own	histories	of	dealing	with	people	of	my	skin	colour,	mainly	through	churches	and	NGOs,	has	made	me	contend	with	the	legacy	of	“whites”	trying	to	intervene	and/or	convert	peoples	to	their	own	ways	of	being,	acting,	and	knowing	in	the	world.	One	elder	from	Oriya,	Padibe	West,	asked	one	of	Pabwoc’s	elders	if	I	had	fallen	out	of	an	airplane	on	the	way	to	Sudan–such	expression	belies	the	incredulity	that	a	munu	would	actually	choose	to	live,	eat,	sleep,	and	learn	from	living	in	a	local	village.			Taking	seriously	my	responsibilities	as	a	hosted	daughter	of	Bwoc	is	one	way	I	have	found	to	respect	my	relationships	of	engagement,	conforming	to	some	important	social	norms	on	local	terms,	but	also	in	response	to	the	doubt	I	carry	concerning	the	entire	research	endeavour.	Prioritizing	felt	“obligation”	to	the	relationships	cultivated	through	my	research–to	Beatrice	and	Augustine,	but	now	through	to	Augustine’s	extended	family,	to	Pabwoc–is	a	way	to	conceptualize	the	sometimes	conflicting	methodological	choices	I	have	made.		  107 When	people	in	Padibe	camp	began	returning	home	to	their	ancestral	lands	and	livelihoods	after	a	decade	of	displacement	and	two	decades	of	war,	the	people	I	had	relationships	with	shared	with	me	their	anxieties	and	concerns,	as	well	as	their	joys.	Beatrice	worried	about	being	disconnected	from	Acoli	“culture”	and	knowing	how	to	live	well	as	an	Acoli;	Augustine’s	family	and	extended	family	were	worried	about	youth’s	disconnection	from	kit	me	kwo	(ways	of	life)	Acoli.	Both	echoed	concerns	I’d	heard	elsewhere	in	Padibe	about	land	rights,	unsanctioned	unions,	and	ways	of	life	of	the	sub-clan.	I	thought	that	heeding	their	concerns	would	be	important,	and	I	sought	to	learn	from	them	how	people	were	actually	social	repairing–how	they	were	working	in	the	everyday	to	“move	on”	in	post-conflict	and	post-displacement	contexts.			The	next	section	details	how	exactly	I	went	about	learning	these	things,	or	the	main	research	methodologies	used	in	this	study.			2.4 Methodologies My	main	methodologies	in	2012,	when	I	lived	in	the	village	of	Pabwoc	East,	included	homestead	surveys	within	the	whole	village,	interviews	and	historical	song	recordings	with	elders	from	Pabwoc	sub-clan,	and	participation	in	a	youth	group’s	“cultural	revival”	programming	that	included	documentation	of	village	debates,	focus	group	interviews,	and	village-wide	fireside	chats.	As	will	be	explored,	to	understand	what	social	repairing	consists	of	in	rural	post-conflict	contexts,	I	thought	it	imperative	to	live	within	a	rural	village	and	to	take	part	(as	much	as	I	was	able)	in	everyday	village	life.	The	homestead	  108 survey	within	the	same	village	meant	to	provide	in-depth	familial	histories	(including	those	of	the	recent	war	and	displacement),	general	statistics	relating	to	village	residents	(household	compositions,	lineage	affiliations),	and	a	forum	for	discussing	tekwaro	and	residents’	recent	experiences	of	war	and	dispalcement.	As	I	will	explain,	involvement	with	the	youth	group	was	requested	of	me,	and	the	group’s	programming	was	a	vitally	rich	source	of	public	dialogue	and	practices	regarding	the	effects	of	war	and	displacement	on	tekwaro	and	relatedness,	beyond	the	boundaries	of	Pabwoc	in	the	greater	rural	Padibe	sub-counties.		Additionally,	one	of	my	final	activities,	the	requested	creation	of	the	workbook	“Tekwaro	Pabwoc”	for	village	residents	in	2015,	drew	upon	elders’	interviews	and	song	documentation,	and	the	writing	and	co-editing	with	Pabwoc	members	Nyero	Augustine	Caesar	and	Binayo	Okongo,	along	with	input	from	Lanek	Morrish,	and	Yoze	Ogwok,	enriched	my	understandings	of	tekwaro	generally,	and	the	Pabwoc	community’s	understandings	of	tekwaro	specifically.		As	I	will	explore	in	the	coming	sub-sections,	this	range	of	methodologies	afforded	by	my	funding	and	my	own	history	and	relationships	in	the	area	(as	previously	explored),	allowed	me	to	correlate	personal	lessons	regarding	social	relatedness	in	Pabwoc	with	everyday	village	life,	as	well	as	individual	households’	histories	during	wartime	and	return	with	more	public	debate	and	discussion	regarding	the	effects	of	war	on	community,	households,	and	tekwaro.	The	methodologies	employed	both	emerged	from	and	served	to	elaborate	my	practice	of	research	as	relationship,     109  2.4.1 Pabwoc East village The	key	element	of	my	research	methodology	was	living	in	my	host	family’s	(Acan	Almarina	and	Omono	Justo	Langoya’s)	homestead	in	the	village	of	Pabwoc	East	for	seven	months	in	2012.	A	second	key	element	was	the	undertaking	of	a	complete	village	survey	of	Pabwoc	East	in	the	last	two	months	of	that	fieldwork.		Figure 18- Acan Almarina looking at a rainbow in her homestead. Pabwoc, 2012.  	In	terms	of	living	with	Mama	and	Baba	and	their	extended	family,	I	wanted	to	be	with	them	in	their	home	to	share	and	learn	from	them	after	living	next	door	to	them	in	Padibe	IDP	camp.	Intellectually,	after	having	been	in	the	camps	and	glimpsing	how	people	survived	there,	I	wanted	to	experience	village	life	in	order	to	see	how	differences	of	place	affected	quotidian	relations.	Methodologically,	I	felt	that	I	could	not	understand	people’s	anxieties	  110 about	inter-generational	relations	or	conceptualize	indigenous	social	repair	if	I	could	not	experience	the	day-to-day	activities	of	quotidian	survival	in	rural	village	life.			After	an	invitation	at	a	lunch	in	Pabwoc	in	2010,49	I	began	making	plans	via	email	with	Augustine	(he	had	access	to	internet	while	Baba	and	Mama	did	not).	Like	many	other	young	men,	Augustine	lives	part-time	in	the	village,	and	part-time	in	Padibe	center.	He	rents	a	room	in	the	center,	and	spends	about	75%	of	his	nights	there.			Figure 19- One of three main roads in "the center". Padibe Town Council, 2012.  	I	began	discussions	then	about	proper	relations	in	Pabwoc.	As	Augustine’s	family	was	still	rebuilding	after	the	camp,	he	suggested	that	I	build	a	new	house	(mud	and	grass	thatched),	pit	latrine,	and	shower	stall	for	my	use.	Then,	when	I	leave,	the	family	would	benefit	from	the	new	infrastructure.	I	sent	the	funds	in	the	fall	of	2011.		                                                49	As	described	in	the	introduction	and	as	indicated	in	the	timeline	attached	as	Appendix	C.	  111 At	the	same	time,	I	became	a	research	affiliate	with	the	Makerere	Institute	for	Social	Research	(MISR)	and	The	Refugee	Law	Project	(RLP)	in	Uganda.	Although	I	did	not	participate	in	many	events	during	my	fieldwork	because	of	the	distance	of	Padibe	from	their	centers	(MISR	and	RLP’s	main	offices	in	Kampala),	I	did	review	my	research	proposal	with	Professor	Okello	Ogwang	from	MISR	and	Stephen	Oola	from	RLP.	Additionally,	RLP	facilitated	the	obtainment	of	my	Ugandan	research	permit	from	UNCST,	and	I	met	with	Prof.	Okello-Ogwang	whenever	I	was	in	Kampala,	on	my	way	to	and	from	Padibe	(four	times	in	2012).		In	that	preparatory	stage,	I	also	asked	Augustine	to	converse	with	the	necessary	authorities	to	see	if	and	how	my	presence	could	directly	contribute	to	collective	village	efforts	(I	did	not	know	at	the	time	that	the	village	corresponded	to	Kaka	Pabwoc	sub-clan,	and	that	there	is	a	sub-clan	leader	and	various	active	councils	and	committees	that	I	refer	to	throughout	this	thesis	as	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations).	Augustine	came	back	to	me,	and	said	that	the	elders	requested	that	I	write	down	their	“history”	for	them.	Towards	that	goal,	I	conducted	three	group	interviews,	and	a	minimum	of	six	individual	interviews	with	elders	of	Pabwoc.	I	also	recorded	and	transcribed	ten	historical	songs	that	were	performed	at	an	event	organized	by	an	elder	for	this	purpose.	The	resulting	65-page	colour	workbook	was	produced	for	village	children	and	youth,	and	entitled	“Tekwaro	Pabwoc.”	175	copies	were	distributed	to	all	of	Pabwoc	(Pabwoc	East	and	West	villages)	in	July	2015	(I	have	attached	a	copy	of	the	workbook	as	Annex	A).	In	addition	to	fulfilling	this	request	or	responsibility,	the	interviews	that	elucidated	kin-based	relations	ended	up	providing	  112 invaluable	background	to	social	organization	in	Pabwoc,	the	Padibe	sub-counties,	and	Acoliland	generally	(more	in	Chapters	3,	4,	and	5).	A	version	of	this	history	appears	in	Chapter	3.			However,	my	insights	about	social	relations	and	relatedness	in	rural	Acoli	life	would	not	have	been	possible	without	the	daily	activities	and	instruction	from	Mama	and	the	aunties,	my	interactions	with	other	Pabwoc	residents	as	they	moved	to	and	from	the	gardens	and	borehole,	and	the	nightly	fireside	chats	(wang	oo)	with	all	homestead	residents	(Augustine’s	family)	and	occasional	guests	(neighbours,	uncles,	friends	etc.).	My	living	and	learning	arrangements,	my	“participant-learning”	of	Acoli	indigenous	knowledge	or	my	traditional	Acoli	education,	whereby	education	is	meant	to	reinforce	reciprocal	kin-relationships	(Ocitti	1973)	by	members	of	Pabwoc,	also	led	to	ever	deepening,	and	widening,	and	more	complicated	relationships.	As	described	in	the	introduction	to	this	chapter,	I	was	often	reminded	that	I	now	had	relationship,	and	thus	“obligation”	to	all	of	Pabwoc.	Certainly,	this	relationship,	and	my	learning	of	the	responsibilities	associated	with	it,	informs	much	of	this	dissertation’s	exploration	of	local	idioms	of	relatedness	and	indigenous	modes	of	knowing	and	knowledge.	Like	Carsten’s	research	on	the	island	of	Langwaki,	processes	involved	in	her	own	incorporation	in	community	informed	much	of	her	study	on	the	substances	of	kinship	(1997).50	This	kind	of	“participant-learning”,	in	                                                50	There	is	a	difference	of	note	however,	as	the	residents	of	Langwaki	did	not	at	all	claim	common	decent.	In	that	situation,	processes	of	incorporation	were	precisely	the	main	practices	that	created	relatedness.	In	Pabwoc	however,	the	processes	of	incorporation	that	I	experienced	provided	insight	into	the	ways	and	practices	in	which	one	engages	with	tekwaro	and	creates	relatedness,	which	also	  113 being	taught	how	to	live	by	Mama	and	the	Aunties,	and	in	learning	the	Acoli	ways	of	life	(kit	me	kwo),	comprised	many	embodied	lessons	of	learning	responsibilities,	or	of	“obligation.”	My	willingness	to	be	a	student	of	tekwaro	pa	Acoli	coupled	with	my	vulnerability	and	lack	of	knowledge	regarding	how	to	survive	in	the	village,	allowed	me	to	learn	through	participation	my	interdependence	on	others	for	survival,	the	very	embodied	importance	of	the	land,	as	well	as	respect,	and	kaka,	to	notions	of	relatedness	and	responsibilities	that	I	explore	in	the	proceeding	chapters.			Jennifer	Cole’s	remarks	about	her	own	“redefinition”	by	Betsimisaraka	where	she	conducts	research	in	Madagascar,	because	of	her	dependency,	shows	how	people	she	encountered	redefined	her	in	their	own	terms	and	co-created	the	grounds	for	their	shared	interaction:	I	was	an	outsider,	privileged	in	terms	of	race	and	class	inscribed	willy-nilly	in	the	wider	history	of	colonial	contact,	and	these	associations	could	never	be	totally	forgotten.	Yet	in	the	context	of	daily	village	life,	which	assumed	intimate	knowledge	of	the	local	scene,	ways	of	making	a	living,	and	particular	human	relations,	I	was	an	incompetent	child,	as	yet	unversed	in	local	ways	and	entirely	dependent.	(2001:33)		In	addition	to	living	in	Pabwoc,	learning	kit	me	kwo	Acoli,	and	specifically	compiling	Pabwoc’s	“history”,	in	those	first	few	weeks	I	would	often	invite	women	villagers	passing	by–after	the	requisite	exchange	of	greetings–for	tea,	coffee,	or	cocoa.	While	not	specifically	                                                                                                                                                       partially	relied	on	an	underlying	framework	of	descent.	As	will	be	explored	however,	descent	in	itself–without	participation–	was	not	enough.	Whereby	participation,	without	descent,	often	was.		  114 a	methodology,	this	coffee	house	hospitality	allowed	me	to	get	to	know	village	members	informally,	and	mostly	created	a	space	for	people	to	ask	me	questions	that	they	were	curious	about.	Although	I	got	to	know	many	residents	of	Pabwoc	in	this	way,	and	they	me,	I	could	only	imagine	the	village	as	a	whole,	spatially	or	in	terms	of	the	population	composition	when	I	undertook	the	task	of	homestead	surveys.	I	waited	until	the	final	two	months	of	my	fieldwork	to	conduct	these	surveys	so	that	months	of	relationship	building	and	experience,	in	addition	to	the	outlined	questions,	would	inform	the	survey	conversations.	 Figure 20- Augustine and author conducting the village survey. Pabwoc, 2012. Photo by Oguti Yolanda, reproduced here with her permission.  	I	reviewed	the	two-page	questionnaire,	and	aimed	at	generally	recording	homesteads’	and	households’	recent	histories	of	displacement,	their	composition,	and	people’s	thoughts	on	  115 tekwaro	pa	Acoli.51	The	survey	questionnaire	ended	up	serving	as	the	basis	for	conversations	with	a	representative	of	each	of	the	48	extended	homesteads	in	the	village	at	that	time.	They	lasted	anywhere	from	45	minutes	to	two	hours.	These	conversations	usually	took	place	in	the	late	afternoon,	after	people	had	returned	from	the	gardens.	There	are	sometimes	several	households	in	a	homesteads	(like	ours)	that	are	intimately	related,	and	because	of	the	close	relationship,	I	decided	to	conduct	the	interview	at	the	homestead	level.	People’s	relations	in	a	homestead,	and	not	solely	within	a	household	(house	with	cooking	fire)	were	important	to	understanding	inter-generational	relations	as	well,	and	the	“survey”	was	very	useful	in	identifying	patterns	of	residence.	I	also	asked	each	representative	their	dog-ot	(lineage)	affiliation,	and	learned	that	every	single	person	within	Pabwoc	were	Bwoc’s	direct	descendants	or	had	married	one	of	them,	mostly	through	patrilineal	affiliation,	but	sometimes	through	the	maternal	line	as	well	(this	will	be	further	discussed	in	Chapter	3	through	5).	In	addition	to	the	useful	information	regarding	histories	of	displacement,	residence,	and	kinship,	the	surveys	gave	me	the	excuse	(and	discipline	needed)	to	travel	to	and	visit	with	each	and	every	person’s	home	within	the	village.	This	was	important	for	several	reasons,	including	seeing	who	lived	with	whom	and	the	range	of	standard	of	living	within	the	village,	but	primarily,	sitting	and	spending	time	with	people	in	their	homes	is	an	effective	way	to	communicate	respect.			Before	I	had	arrived	in	2012,	Augustine	had	also	pre-arranged	my	intensive	language	classes.	I	had	picked	up	a	fair	amount	of	Acoli	on	my	previous	visits	and	had	taken	private	                                                51	The	original	is	included	here	as	Appendix	B.	  116 lessons	in	Vancouver	in	2011,	but	I	wanted	to	be	conversant.	Most	women	in	Pabwoc	did	not	speak	English,	and	I	also	knew	that	being	able	to	understand	people	directly	would	greatly	aid	my	work	(and	relationships).	I	wanted	to	learn	while	in	Pabwoc,	and	Augustine	arranged	for	a	teacher	from	Kitgum	to	travel	the	30	minutes	by	motorcycle.	My	teacher	Ojera	John	Okello	was	a	high	school	teacher,	who	also	recorded	two	radio-shows	per	week	about	the	Acoli	language	and	Acoli	traditions.	The	lessons	were	five	days	a	week	over	five	weeks,	and	although	I	could	communicate	quite	well	by	the	end,	I	still	continued	to	conduct	the	formal	individual	and	group	interviews	with	Augustine.			Although	Augustine	was	not	trained	as	a	translator	or	transcriber,	and	had	no	previous	experience	as	a	research	assistant,	I	thought	it	was	important	that	a	“son	of	Bwoc”	be	present	at	all	the	more	formal	interviews.	I	felt	that	whatever	the	outcomes	of	this	research	project,	whether	in	a	cultural	workbook	for	popular	distribution	or	as	academic	papers	or	a	dissertation,	possibly	the	most	important	part	was	having	a	youth	of	Pabwoc	present	to	share	in	the	reception	of	the	requested	indigenous	sub-clan-based	knowledge.52			In	addition	to	participating	in	whatever	parts	of	rural	daily	life	I	could	join	in	(attending	funerals	and	sub-clan	gatherings	in	addition	to	everyday	survival),	group	and	individual	interviews	with	elders	about	tekwaro	Pabwoc,	and	the	homestead	survey	conversations,	other	miscellaneous	activities	I	engaged	in	in	Pabwoc	included	a	focus	group	interview	                                                52	Similarly,	I	engaged	Augustine’s	brother,	Oyo,	to	record	genealogies	of	the	three	lineages	of	Pabwoc.		  117 with	10	male	youth	(I	had	invited	all	the	surrounding	male	youth,	about	15)	and	the	recording	of	the	three	lineage	genealogies,	what	people	described	as	yenyo	kwaro	“looking	for	the	grandfathers/ancestors”	(there	were	three	lineages–Abonga,	Otuna,	and	Ocuga–within	Pabwoc).		Most	interviews	were	digitally	recorded,	and	interview	notes,	as	well	as	journal	entries	were	handwritten	in	journals.	Augustine	transcribed	most	of	the	interviews	and	historical	songs	that	were	used	in	Chapter	3.	I	typed	up	the	five	journals	used	to	record	these	many	elements	of	fieldwork	when	I	returned	to	the	University	of	British	Columbia	throughout	2013.53			Outside	of	Pabwoc,	I	interviewed	Rwot	Odoki	of	Padibe,	the	Kitgum	Land	officer,	the	Padibe	IDP	camp	commander,	Enoji	(the	oldest	man	in	Padibe),	and	Pacoto	(Augustine’s	uncle	from	Pamot	sub-clan,	a	frequent	visitor).	I	also	enlisted	Francis	Oyil	to	create	a	rough	map	showing	all	the	villages	and	kaka	(clans,	sub-clans,	lineages)	in	Padibe	sub-counties,	to	inquire	from	Kal	Kwaro	Padibe	about	abila	and	ayweya	(ancestral	and	spirit	shrines)	that	had	been	“raised”	in	the	villages	since	return	throughout	Padibe,	and	to	collect	and	translate	songs	composed	about	the	war	and	camp	years.	Many	casual	conversations,	including	with	Beatrice	and	Kilama,	as	well	as	the	Sisters,	complemented	what	I	learned	through	my	relations	with	members	of	Pabwoc.	                                                53	I	did	not	have	access	to	electricity	while	in	Pabwoc;	though	Padibe	Town	Center	had	newly-installed	power	for	the	first	two	weeks	of	my	stay.	The	power	was	then	taken	out	by	a	storm	mid-March	2012,	and	only	returned	in	late	October.	Generators	were	ubiquitous	in	the	Town	Center,	though	were	rarely	seen	in	the	village,	except	on	occasions	such	as	weddings	or	funerals.	  118 	The	other	major	activity	that	I	engaged	in	outside	of	Pabwoc	was	participation	in,	and	support	for,	a	youth	group’s	“cultural	revival”	programming.	 2.4.2 The youth group When	I	received	a	Social	Sciences	and	Humanities	Research	Council	scholarship,	and	later	a	Trudeau	scholarship	to	support	my	PhD	studies	in	2011,	I	felt	that	I	also	wanted	to	help	Augustine	in	his	own	endeavours.	Since	I	had	received	scholarships	for	my	work	that	supported	me	in	pursuing	the	current	project,	I	felt	it	only	fair	that	he	should	also	reap	the	rewards	from	work	I	could	not	have	done	without	his	help.54			Over	the	years,	Augustine	had	introduced	me	to	a	youth	group	he	was	a	part	of	that	formed	while	they	were	in	Padibe	IDP	camp.	They	used	traditional	music,	dance	and	drama	(MDD)	to	bring	youth	together	in	the	camp.	He	wanted	to	reactivate	the	group	now	that	people	had	returned	home	and	sought	funding	to	create	a	program	in	Padibe	West	and	East	sub-counties	on	cultural	revival	using	MDD.55			I	was	unsure	if	I	should	help	fund	the	project.	On	the	one	hand,	formal	employment	for	a	university	graduate	in	Northern	Uganda	is	very	low,	especially	in	rural	areas,	with	most	job	                                                54	I	felt	the	same	about	Beatrice,	and	she	and	Kilama	had	asked	for,	and	received,	support	in	opening	a	small	store	in	Padibe	center.	These	contributions	came	from	my	stipend	and	not	my	research	expenses.	55	I	imagine	that	my	own	interest	in	tekwaro,	contributed	to	Augustine’s	proposal.	And	in	retrospect,	his	interest	in	tekwaro	likewise	peaked	my	own.	It	is	hard	to	say	which	was	the	chicken	and	which	was	the	egg.	  119 prospects	coming	from	NGOs.	Pursuing	this	program	would	help	Augustine	gain	valuable	experience	in	his	desired	line	of	work.	Also,	I	was	admittedly	interested	in	how	a	youth	group	would	go	about	“reviving”	culture,	and	how	they	would	reconcile	the	apparent	contradiction	between	valorizing	indigenous	cultural	knowledge	and	using	non-indigenous	teaching	(though	not	necessarily	knowing)	means	to	do	so.			On	the	other	hand,	I	had	wanted	to	distinguish	myself	from	other	munus	that	residents	had	met	in	the	past,	who	were	mainly	associated	with	churches	and	NGOs,	that	wanted	to	“teach”	the	community	something.	A	deep	epistemological	concern	about	how	knowledge	can	be	known,	and	whose	knowledge	is	valued	is	what	anchors	much	of	my	practice.	Responding	to	the	violent	histories	of	research	discussed	above,	centering	community	knowledge	and	capacity–rather	than	trying	to	change	it–is	an	important	impetus,	and	ethos,	to	the	project	itself.56	Yet	here	was	an	initiative	by	a	community	member,	a	youth	community	member,	which	was	about	intervention	and	change.			I	was,	and	still	am,	deeply	conflicted	about	my	involvement	with	the	youth	group.	Theoretical	ideals	and	real	life	relationships	and	responsibilities	are	not	always	easy	to	reconcile.	Time	and	experience	has	only	textured	that	experience,	not	effaced	it.	I	was	conflicted	about	being	a	“funder”	because	of	the	unequal	power	relations	that	that	would	entail,	but	I	also	felt	that	our	differential	access	to	resources	existed	in	any	case	(whether	I	                                                56	I	acknowledge	however	that	I	am	overgeneralizing	NGOs,	and	that	there	are	many	different	kinds	of	NGOs	that	both	challenge	and	reinforce	these	violences	(Choudry	2013).	  120 funded	the	project	or	not),	and	not	honouring	Augustine’s	request	would	definitely	not	change	that.	There	was	also	a	part	of	me	that	believed	that	contributing	to	a	youth-led	cultural	program	might	truly	benefit	various	communities	by	itself	instigating	inter-generational	interactions.	And	because	it	was	a	youth-led	participatory	initiative	by	a	founding	member	of	the	group,	who	was	I	to	condemn	it?	But	for	that	matter,	who	was	I	to	condone	it	through	funding	either?			There	are	more	pros	and	cons,	and	even	today	I	can	argue	both	sides	until	my	head	spins.	Ultimately,	I	decided	to	fund	the	project,	partially	from	my	subsistence	scholarship	and	partially	from	my	research	expenses,	where	they	could	be	applicable.	Would	I	make	the	same	decision	on	a	new	project	today?	No.	But	being	able	to	say	this	has	only	come	with	learning	much	about	local	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations,	and	the	local	politics	and	power-plays	of	employees	of	NGOs,	as	well	as	my	newer,	expanded	relationships	to	Pabwoc	village.			But	I	explicitly	write	about	this	dilemma	here,	with	no	resolution,	because	it	crystallizes	some	of	my	enduring	doubt	about	the	research	process	itself.	What	does	it	mean	to	your	engagement,	and	to	your	relationships,	to	come	to	a	particular	place	and	community	with	institutional	backing	and	support?	What	networks	of	prestige	and	power	do	you	carry,	and	how	do	they	affect	the	people	that	you	encounter	and	befriend?	How	are	responsibilities,	accountabilities,	and	“obligation”	more	generally	interpreted,	and	what	does	it	mean,	both	personally	and	professionally,	in	these	contexts?	  121 	The	group,	it	turns	out	had	a	board	of	directors	in	Kitgum	town,	and	the	revival	program,	as	designed,	employed	six	local	youth	between	the	ages	of	20	and	33.	The	youth	group	rented	an	office	room	in	Padibe	Town	Center,	the	center.	The	proposal	included	identifying	“cultural”	groups	in	the	villages	within	Padibe	sub-counties,	and	to	choose	4-6	to	work	with	for	six	months.	A	cultural	competition	in	the	center,	sensitization	for	religious	leaders	and	traditional	leaders,	and	trainings	for	the	cultural	groups	were	all	planned	and	budgeted.			Although	I	mostly	stayed	within	Pabwoc,	pursuing	language	courses	and	learning	how	to	be	kweri	(culturally	knowledgeable,	as	Mama	and	the	Aunties	told	me),	I	participated	in	youth	group	activities	about	once	a	week.	Participating	and	observing	two	meetings	with	Rwodi	(traditional	chiefs)	and	their	executive	councils,	one	training	session	on	“traditional	culture”	by	a	man	from	Kitgum	town,	a	“sensitization”	meeting	to	bring	together	traditional	and	religious	leaders,57	four	village	debates,	three	village-wide	fireside	chats,	and	a	cultural	competition	over	the	seven	months,	all	informed	me	of	community	members’	(both	staff	and	participants)	thoughts	and	beliefs	about	tekwaro	pa	Acoli,	the	fissures	and	struggles	that	have	resulted	from	the	war,	and	further	back	from	Colonial	encounters	(mostly	talked	about	through	Christianity	and	English	education),	and	about	the	generational	knowledge	and	participation	in	these	processes	of	change.			                                                57	The	group	hired	a	local	Acoli	high	school	teacher	who	had	a	MA	in	religious	studies	to	facilitate	a	daylong	workshop	between	religious	leaders	(Catholic,	Protestant,	Muslim,	Pentecostal)	and	cultural	leaders	(some	representatives	of	the	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations–mostly	from	Kal	Kwaro	Padibe,	the	chiefdom	level	one).	  122 The	dilemmas	that	funding	the	youth	group	brought	to	the	fore	have	been	very	important	in	thinking	through	my	research	practice,	and	some	of	the	consequences	of	my	responsibilities	to	the	relationships	(in	this	case	Augustine)	that	I	have	made	over	the	past	12	years.	And	although	my	relationships	with	people	in	Padibe	are	the	source	of	an	enduring	respect	and	obligation	ethos,	what	Tillmann-Healy	calls	“friendship	as	method”	(2003),	this	at	the	same	time	gathers	the	paradoxical	dilemma	of	accountability	and	power	inherent	in	the	research	process	itself.	Thinking	through	my	research	practice	as	relationship	allows	for	consideration	of	the	messy	histories	and	entanglements	that	are	always	present	in	the	scholarly	co-creation	of	new	knowledge,	and	of	the	anthropologist’s	coeval	existence	with	a	group	of	individuals	in	space	and	time.			2.5 Analysis Participant-learning	in	the	village	of	Pabwoc	East,	a	homestead	survey	within	the	same	village,	the	creation	of	the	workbook	Tekwaro	Pabwoc,	and	participation	in	some	of	the	youth	group’s	“cultural	revival”	programming	served	as	my	main	research	methodologies.	Upon	return	to	Vancouver,	I	typed	up	my	five	journals	that	contained	all	my	handwritten	field	notes	and	interviews,	as	well	as	the	village	survey	results.	The	village	survey	results	were	calculated	by	hand,	and	facts	per	extended	homestead	were	compiled,	such	as:	1)	kinds	of	marriage	(polygamous	or	monogamous),	2)	homestead	composition	(multi-generational?	Daughters	or	sons	of	Bwoc?	etc.),	3)	times	and	details	of	displacements	from	the	war,	4)	procedures	enacted	to	return	after	displacement,	5)	practice	of	wang	oo,	6)	  123 ideas	about	tekwaro.	I	also	reviewed	the	interview	transcriptions	and	organized	the	data	into	a	timeline	of	my	experiences	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties.			Consulting	these	various	forms	of	documented	knowledge,	I	cross-referenced	the	sources	to	understand	how	general	trends	in	peoples’	understandings	of	tekwaro,	daily	practices	in	village	life,	survey	results,	and	public	dialogue	and	debate	regarding	the	effects	of	war	converged	around	certain	key	issues.	I	mostly	identified	these	issues	or	themes	by	their	frequency–and	the	time	given	to	their	explanation	and	practice–in	conversation,	interviews,	debates	and	everyday	life.	For	example,	the	subject	of	Chapter	4,	cuna	(courtship)	was	much	discussed	within	the	village	survey,	amongst	focus	group	interviews,	in	the	youth	group’s	debate	programs,	and	also	deeply	affected	the	everyday	lives	of	four	youth	within	my	host	family’s	compound,	not	to	mention	most	youth	over	the	age	of	16	that	I	encountered.	This	recurrence	and	prevalence	of	cuna–in	conversation,	interviews,	surveys,	debates,	and	in	daily	village	life–identified	it	as	a	key	site	of	interest	to	a	large	majority	of	people	in	post-conflict	Padibe.	Tic	Acoli	(“village	work”)	and	Kaka	(“the	clan”),	the	subjects	of	the	other	substantive	chapters	of	this	thesis,	emerged	in	the	same	way–through	a	cross	referencing	of	the	various	sources	of	knowledge	that	I	engaged	in	as	my	main	research	methodologies.		Throughout	my	writing	process,	I	have	been	in	touch	with	Nyero	Augustine	Caesar	by	email	and	have	discussed	these	emergent	themes	and	practices.	Additionally,	as	previously	indicated,	I	traveled	to	Pabwoc	in	April	2015	to	discuss	these	themes	and	practices,	what	I	  124 have	identified	as	frameworks	for	inter-generational	engagement	with	tekwaro	that	serves	to	elaborate	relatedness	(performing	social	repair)	with	the	community	at	large.	At	a	party	gathering,	I	discussed	what	I	had	begun	to	write	about,	and	asked	for	input	and	guidance	in	these	matters.		 2.6 Conclusion: Research As Relationship As	explored	in	the	preceding	sections,	my	methodologies	and	analysis	were	informed	by	my	own	histories,	positioning,	and	relations,	from	the	relationships	I	subsequently	sought	in	Northern	Uganda,	from	the	questions	that	emerged	from	those	relationships,	and	from	my	attempts	to	create,	sustain,	and	reflect	on	the	ideals	of	reciprocity,	trust,	and	respect	in	those	relationships.			Privileging	the	importance	of	relationships,	as	part	of	methodology,	theory	and	analysis,	also	resonates	with	some	aspects	of	what	are	described	as	Indigenous	research	paradigms	(Chilisa	2012,	Kovach	2009,	Smith	1999,	Wilson	2008).	Although	I	do	not	wish	to	appropriate	Indigenous	scholar’s	insights,	I	use	them	as	guides	in	grappling	with	my	own	engagement	in	research	processes.	Margaret	Kovach’s	exploration	of	responsibilities	and	commitment	to	the	collective,	or	to	the	peoples	with	whom	you	are	researching,	is	fundamental,	as	is	Shawn	Wilson’s	expression	of	“relational	accountability”	that,	similarly,	requires	you	to	be	accountable,	or	responsible,	to	the	people	and	the	whole	environment	that	you	are	engaging	in	your	research	process.	These	requisite	responsibilities	mirror	what	I	learned	about	being	a	hosted	daughter	of	Bwoc–through	my	continuing	  125 participating	in	my	host	family’s	endeavours,	my	participation	in	ribbe	kaka	(clan	unity)	through	the	production	of	the	workbook,	my	commitment	to	participation	in	matters	that	concern	Kaka	Pabwoc,	including	land	rights–and	of	what	I	learned	about	local	ideas	of	relatedness	in	general.	It	is	from	my	sense	of	responsibilities	to	the	collective,	to	the	people	and	environment	in	Pabwoc	and	Padibe,	to	my	sense	of	responsibilities	and	“obligation”,	that	I	write	up	the	current	study.		I	have	tried	my	best	to	present	the	nature	of	my	research	relationships	and	how	they	emerged	in	this	chapter.	How	I	came	to	be	“obligated”	to	Kaka	Pabwoc	not	only	speaks	to	these	relationships	and	the	research	methodologies	they	created,	but	it	also	provided	the	experiential	basis	for	me	to	understand	contemporary	notions	of	relatedness	in	rural	Acoliland,	indigenous	knowledge	and	ways	of	knowing,	and	thus	localized	processes	of	social	repair.	My	responsibilities	as	a	hosted	daughter	of	Bwoc	extends	to	the	writing	of	this	dissertation	itself,	and	it	is	partially	because	of	this	relationship	that	I	unabashedly	privilege	local	processes	of	kin-based	inter-generational	engagement	and	participation	in	sub-clan	“ways”,	and	through	it	tekwaro,	in	various	forms.	Perhaps	it	is	also	the	impetus	behind	my	assertion	about	the	importance	of	the	land,	and	of	the	vital	promotion	of	the	protection	of	communal	rights	to	the	land.		Finally,	conceptualizing	and	performing	research	as	relationship	allows	for	a	reflexive	approach,	which	utilizes	generative	doubt	concerning	the	appropriation	of	people’s	experiences	and	life-worlds	in	research	endeavours,	and	prioritizes	“obligation”	to	  126 research	relationships	and	the	privileging	of	local	forms	of	knowing,	teaching,	and	learning.	It	also	acknowledges	that	social	science	research,	and	learning	and	knowledge	production	in	general,	is	always	the	result	of	some	kinds	of	relationships	and	interactions,	as	explored	in	the	introduction,	and	that	conscious	attention,	and	disclosure,	should	be	paid	to	the	sources	of	the	newly	created	knowledge.			I’ll	conclude	by	turning	again	to	the	last	paragraph	of	Things	Fall	Apart	to	reflect	on	the	alienating	act	of	writing	itself.	The	stories	told	and	the	analysis	employed	in	this	dissertation	is	just	one	aspect	of	multi-dimensional,	enduring,	and	transformative	relationships	I	valorize.	The	responsibilities	I	carry	to	the	academic	world,	to	my	committee	members,	to	the	University,	and	to	my	funders	(in	the	paragraphs	and	chapters	here)	is	indeed	one	aspect	of	these	relationships,	but	it	is	just	one	aspect.	My	humanity,	or	what	my	own	historied	sense	of	humanity	means	in	encountering	intimate	war	and	now	post-war	experiences	through	relationships,	and	my	responsibilities	to	those	relationships,	has	been	and	will	continue	to	be,	far	more	pressing.			It	is	precisely	in	moments	like	the	changing	of	my	shoes	to	“honour”	Pabwoc	that	I	try	to	consciously	practice	research	that	valorizes	relationship,	responsibilities,	and	“obligation”,	and	that	thus	centers	and	valorizes	tekwaro,	indigenous	knowledge	and	ways	of	knowing.	  127 Chapter 3: Ngom Kwaro (Ancestral Land): “We Are Sons and Daughters of Bwoc” 3.1 Introduction–Home Fires Finally Burning Again It	was	June	of	2010.	I	was	traveling	to	Padibe	late	at	night,	when	it	was	already	dark	and	chilly.	Friends	at	JRP	in	Gulu	were	traveling	to	Kitgum	for	work,	and	graciously	offered	to	take	me	with	them,	and	then	drive	me	the	extra	hour	up	to	Padibe.	I	had	never	traveled	the	roads	at	night	before,	but	security	had	been	increasing	ever	since	a	ceasefire	in	late	2006,	and	curfews	on	road	travel	during	the	dark	hours	were	slowly	lifted.	I	also	heard	that	most	people	had	left	the	camp	and	returned	to	their	home	villages.			The	night	was	thick,	not	uncommon	in	the	wet	season,	and	the	moon	and	stars	were	hiding	behind	the	clouds.	The	air	smelled	of	roasted	groundnuts	and	damp	grass.	I	was	a	little	scared	because	of	my	memories	of	traveling	on	this	same	road	in	2004.	At	that	time,	in	broad	daylight,	I	was	traveling	with	a	government	military	convoy	that	came	upon	an	ambush	by	a	small	group	of	Lord’s	Resistance	Army	(LRA)	rebels	that	left	one	man	dead	and	one	seriously	injured.			But	that	was	six	years	previous	to	this	memory,	and	a	lot	had	changed	in	that	time.	Home	was	dead	then.		As	I	squeezed	those	memories	back	in	place,	I	noticed	little	specks	of	red-orange	fire	all	over	the	darkened	countryside.	My	voice	wavering	a	little,	I	asked	the	driver,	what	that	  128 was,	he	replied–“Oh,	do	not	worry	Lara,	there	is	peace	here	now”,	and	he	went	on	to	explain	that	it	was	people’s	home	fires,	“back	in	the	village”,	and	that	as	some	of	the	fire	specks	were	moving,	people	must	also	be	out	collecting	ngwen	(white	ants,	a	delicacy)	with	fire	torches.			This	struck	me	as	so	very	strange,	and	then	I	realized	that	I	had	never	seen	signs	of	life	in	the	countryside/bush	before.	As	recounted,	I	had	previously	visited	Padibe	Internally	Displaced	Person’s	Camp	in	2004	and	2005	(as	a	photographer),	and	then	began	staying	for	longer	periods	after	the	ceasefire	(3-6	weeks	depending),	in	2006,	2007,	and	2008	(as	a	photographer/researcher	during	my	MFA).	During	all	those	previous	times,	the	countryside	and	roadsides	were	empty,	with	no	signs	of	life	other	than	the	occasional	military	checkpoint.	In	fact,	the	drive	up	from	Kitgum	town	felt	like	you	were	driving	through	a	no-man’s-land	(and	you	technically	were,	as	the	entire	rural	population	was	finally	displaced	to	the	camps	in	2003	and	only	began	to	leave	in	late	2007;	it	thus	served	as	a	no-man’s-land,	a	militarized,	“empty”	space	between	two	opponents)	until	you	happened	upon	the	overcrowded	camp	that	at	its	peak	housed	about	42	000	people	(camp	commander	interview	2012).			But	that	was	then.	Now,	people	had	mostly	left	the	camp	for	their	home	villages,	and	those	that	remained	in	what	was	previously	the	camp,	lived	in	what	residents	call	the	center.58		                                                58	The	center	actually	refers	to	the	trading	center	in	Padibe,	which	the	camp	was	organized	around	in	1997.	Padibe	officially	became	a	“town	council”	in	2012.	For	more	on	the	urbanization	of	former	IDP	camp	sites,	please	see	Whyte	et	al.	(2014).	  129 Now	I	had	returned	to	visit	with	my	host	family	and	finally	visit	them	back	in	their	home	village	of	Pabwoc	East!	It	was	a	dream	to	be	able	to	visit	them	at	home	after	only	knowing	their	life	in	the	IDP	camp,	circumstances	that	claimed	more	lives	than	the	direct	violence	from	the	LRA	or	UPDF	violence	(Finnström	2008:133).			The	fires	in	the	countryside	that	night	filled	me	with	great	warmth	and	wonder.	As	I	sat	in	the	dark	car	smiling	rather	stupidly,	I	felt	the	profound	change–yet	didn’t	fully	comprehend	it–the	people	I	had	met	in	Padib	IDP	camp,	including	my	host	family	and	Beatrice’s	family,	were	finally…really…home.			There	is	a	large	body	of	literature	spanning	decades	that	addresses	the	effects	of	displacement	from	“traditional”	homes	(and/or	changes	in	land	tenure)	on	identity	and	social	organization	(for	example	Colson	1971,	Galaty	1980,	Gulliver	1958,	Holtzman	2000,	Malkki	1995,	Thiranagama	2007).	The	case	in	rural	Northern	Uganda,	however,	is	quite	unique	because	after	the	decade	(or	so59)	of	forced	displacement,	the	majority	of	those	displaced	(which	was	90%	of	the	population,	and	100%	of	the	rural	population	at	the	height	of	the	war)	returned	to	their	ancestral	villages	or	previously	occupied	lands	by	2009.	While	many	of	these	studies	address	how	individual	and	communal	identity	and	relationships	have	been	transformed	by	displacement,	or	changes	in	land	tenure,	very	few	address	what	transformations	occur	as	a	return	to	people’s	“original”	ancestral	homes,	and	                                                59	Depending	on	the	location	in	Acoliland,	some	areas	were	displaced	at	different	times	see	Branch’s	reference	to	displacement	by	the	Government	as	early	as	1988	(2011:69).	  130 system	of	land	tenure,	proceeds.	It	is	important	to	note	that	I	use	the	term	“original”	home	cautiously	here	to	reference	predominant	pre-displacement	residence	patterns.	For	many	people,	women	“married”	in	the	camps,	children	born	in	the	camps,	those	that	were	denied	residence	upon	return	for	various	reasons,60	as	well	as	those	that	chose	to	live	elsewhere	(migrated	to	urban	centers,	emigrated	etc.),	a	return	to	their	“original”	pre-displacement	homes	was	either	not	possible	or	not	desirable.	This	“return”	of	the	majority	of	the	population	however,	presents	opportunity	for	elaborating	the	importance	of	the	land	to	Acoli	social,	political,	and	moral	community,	to	relatedness	itself.		It	is	thus	the	connections	between	the	land	and	Acoli	relatedness	that	I	wish	to	center	in	this	Chapter.	As	Jomo	Kenyatta	asserted	in	Facing	Mount	Kenya,	when	a	European	robs	people	of	their	land,	he	is	taking	away	not	only	their	livelihood,	but	also	the	material	symbol	that	holds	family	and	tribe	together	(1938:317).	Examining	what	happens	when	the	material	symbol	is	returned,	or	when	people	return	to	it,	is	the	focus	of	this	chapter	and	lays	the	foundation	for	practices	relating	to	the	regulation	of	social	unions	and	kin-based	communal	governance	that	I	explore	in	the	next	two	chapters.	Understanding	the	centrality	of	land	to	Acoli	relatedness,	or	as	the	idiom	of	relatedness,	utilizes	Carsten’s	insights	about	transcending	western	constructs	of	the	social/biological	binary	to	examine	how	human	relations,	and	human	engagements	and	relations	to	and	with	the	land	create	relatedness.	Thinking	about	the	land,	and	land-human	relations	in	this	way	establishes	how	practices	                                                60	Some	of	these	denials	hinged	upon	increasingly	strict	rules	regarding	kin	access	to	land	whereas	guests	are	no	longer	welcome	and	“missing	links”	as	described	by	Whyte	et	al.	(2012)	whereby	a	woman’s	husband	was	killed,	divorcees	etc.	Accessing	and	denying	access	to	land	will	be	more	fully	explored	throughout	Chapters	3	to	5.	  131 activated	by	a	return	to	the	land,	to	“home”,	work	at	re-elaborating	relatedness,	at	making	home	living	again,	or	re-engaging	with	indigenous	knowledge	that	creates	social,	political,	and	moral	communities.	I	recognize	these	re-elaborations,	life	creations,	and	re-engagements	as	social	repair	in	contemporary	contexts,	and	thus	explore	here	the	importance	of	land	to	rural	Acoli,	not	only	as	essential	livelihood	in	subsistence	farming	communities,	but	in	terms	of	a	“material	symbol”	that	indeed	holds	family	and	community	together,	as	the	idiom	of	Acoli	relatedness	itself.			As	briefly	referred	to	in	the	introduction,	there	is	the	Acoli	saying,	“ngom	pito	dano”,	the	land	grows,	and	feeds,	and	plants,	people.	The	word	ngom	translates	to	English	as	earth	or	soil,	but	in	Acoli	it	refers	to	more	than	the	materiality	of	the	land.	According	to	Oloya,	ngom	refers	to	the	soil,	but	also	to	settlements,	tenure	regimes,	and	social	relations	and	organization	of	the	Acoli:		Ngom	descriptively,	was	more	about	practices	and	uses	of	the	soil.	As	such,	it	delineated	a	tenure	regime	–	a	social	relation	that	proclaimed	“original”	link	between	the	individuals,	territory	and	the	agnates	–	which	were	seen	as	self-evident,	primordial	and/or	natural.	(2015:233)		Although	the	people	now	known	as	Acoli	mostly	moved	onto	the	specific	territories	associated	with	contemporary	villages	in	Northern	Uganda	within	the	last	300-100	years,	as	will	be	recounted	in	the	next	section,	their	migrations	were	confined	to	the	area	of	South	Sudan	and	Northern	Uganda.	Although	speaking	of	primordial	relations	between	people	  132 and	more	recently	settled	land,	as	particular	physical	sites,	may	seem	questionable,	it	is	the	general	human-land	relations	within	that	region	that	Oloya	refers	to	as	primordial.	Residents’	relationships	with	the	land	for	their	ways	of	life,	foodstuffs,	subsistence	etc.	remain	important	even	though	the	exact	territories	in	which	they	live	(within	an	approximate	600	kilometer	distance	from	the	first	migration	detailed	in	their	oral	histories),	and	local	and	global	realities,	have	changed.	As	discussed	in	the	introduction,	many	of	the	current	peoples	who	made	up	Acoliland	are	descendants	of	groups	who	were	known	as	Luo	Gangi-	Luo	of	the	home	or	village,	because	of	their	more	sedentary,	subsistence	agricultural	lifestyle.	Therefore,	their	tekwaro,	or	indigenous	knowledge	associated	with	ways	of	life	(kit	me	kwo),	as	well	as	the	organization	of	social	relations,	will	remain	“primordial”	or	“natural”	because	of	its	rootedness	to	the	land,	to	village	life,	and	to	an	essentially	subsistence	farming	lifestyle.	The	ordering	of	social	relations,	or	social	institutions	as	p’Bitek	asserts,	is	based	on	engagement	with	the	indigenous	knowledge	that	is	both	shaped	by	and	shapes	the	land.	Ngom	in	Acoli	then,	is	articulated	conceptually	in	language	as	a	material	symbol,	or	idiom	of	relatedness	itself.			Attending	to	the	land	as	an	idiom	of	relatedness	also	acknowledges	that	land	in	Acoli	is	also	not,	or	not	ever,	only	about	common	ground	and	social	relations	in	the	present.	Land	anchors	the	present	to	the	past	through	the	ancestors,	and	connects	contemporary	circumstance	and	relations	to	the	future	through	the	children.	The	land	officer	in	Kitgum	district,	Matthew	Otto,	once	told	me:	“…for	Acoli,	the	ancestors	actually	own	the	land.	We	occupy	it	in	the	present,	but	it	is	really	for	future	generations”	(personal	interview,	July	9th,	  133 2012).	Oloya	(2015:234	fn1013)	also	emphasizes	that	in	Acoli,	land	is	entrusted	by	the	dead	to	the	living,	and	that	the	living	must	safeguard	the	land	for	the	unborn.		Ngom	Pito	Dano,	as	Acoli	acknowledgement	of	vital	human-land	relations,	specifically	those	of	the	home	and	village,	can	also	be	understood	as	an	expression	of	an	indigenous	legal	order.	Cree	legal	scholar	Val	Napoleon	uses	the	term	indigenous	legal	orders	to	refer	to	knowledge	that	is	simultaneously	legal,	religious,	philosophical,	social,	and	scientific	(2007).	Zoe	Todd,	a	Red-River	Metis	scholar	working	in	Paulutuuq,	Arctic	Canada,	utilizes	these	insights	to	explore	human-fish	relations,	and	the	ways	in	which	they	“share	complex	and	nuanced	political	and	social	landscapes	that	shape	life	in	the	community”	(2014:218).	Julie	Cruikshank	explores	glaciers	in	the	Yukon	territory	as	sentient	and	knowing	landscapes	(2005)	that	assert	mutual	relationships	of	entanglements	of	“nature”	and	“culture”,	as	she	terms	it.	Vanessa	Watts,	an	Anishnaabe	and	Haudenosaunee	scholar	,	emphasizes	as	she	details	an	indigenous	conception	of	Place-Thought,	“as	Indigenous	peoples,	we	are	extensions	of	the	very	land	we	walk	upon”	(2013:23).		Similarly,	what	has	been	called	the	post-humanist	or	ontological	turn	in	the	social	sciences	and	anthropology	utilizes	these	indigenous	knowledge	insights,	sometimes	disturbingly	unacknowledged	as	such	(as	pointed	out	by	Todd	2016,	Watts	2013).	Eduardo	Kohn	(2013),	Donna	Haraway	(1989),	and	Eduardo	Viveiros	De	Castro	(2004)	as	a	few	examples,	all	advocate	for	scholarship	that	moves	beyond	strictly	human	relations,	and	that	acknowledges	a	western	academic	bias	or	limitation	by	centering	human-human	relations	  134 (Todd	2016).	Importantly,	the	primacy	of	the	“human”	or	“culture”	or	“social”	supported	human	mastery	and	subjugation	of	that	which	was	deemed	non-human,	biological	or	natural,	as	seen	in	the	histories	of	centuries	of	violent	Colonial	and	Imperial	interventions	in	indigenous	cultures	(racialized	as	“primitive”	and	therefore	closer	to	nature)	and	their	environments	(Watts	2013).	Learning	about	the	land	in	Acoli	as	the	main	idiom	of	relatedness,	as	the	material	symbol,	yet	also	more	than	just	the	symbol,	corroborates	and	supports	the	ideas	recounted	above	that	have	been	expressed	in	the	indigenous	knowledge	systems	of	many	peoples	throughout	the	world	since	long	ago.			The	land	in	Acoli,	both	philosophically	and	practically,	is	therefore	an	important	material	symbol,	anchor,	and	participant	that	guides	and	creates	normative	and	ethical	multi-temporal	interpersonal,	human-land,	and	inter-generational	relations	and	processes.	Due	to	its	enduring	necessity	to	survival,	and	the	customary	communal	tenure	system	in	place,	it	also	has	the	capacity	to	re-gather	community	together	and	work	towards	re-elaborating	relatedness,	grounded	in	the	land.	If	village	ancestral	lands	are	an	essential	part	of	an	Acoli	legal	order,	and	act	as	a	material	anchor	and	metaphor	for	relatedness,	for	sociality	itself	and	social	practices,	considering	social	repair	and	how	people	“move	on”	and	re-organize	after	war	must	also	look	to	that	same	“symbol”	for	practices	that	re-make	relatedness.			The	ways	of	life	in	the	IDP	camps,	the	practices	and	habitus,	the	human-land	relations,	and	the	taskscape	(Ingold	2000)	differed	greatly	from	life	in	the	villages.	At	home,	children	learned	the	daily	and	annual	cycle	of	work	connected	to	the	land.	They	learned	how	to	  135 farm,	collect	firewood,	rear	animals	etc.,	all	the	while	receiving	important	inter-generational	instruction,	provoked	by	the	landscape.	At	home	they	also	visibly	and	spatially	learned	about	their	extended	families	as	they	corresponded	to	land	boundaries	(villages),	and	how	the	extended	lineage	and	sub-clan	functions	as	a	unit	through	communal	labour	practices,	land	allocation,	ritual,	dispute	resolution	mechanisms,	and	respectful	prohibitions	of	non-human	elements	(kwer).	In	contrast,	within	the	camp,	there	was	a	stark	disconnection	from	the	land.	Reliance	on	others	for	food	(from	the	World	Food	Program)	distributed	to	individual	households	produced	a	general	level	of	societal	dependency	never	experienced	before.	According	to	many	residents,	this	dependency	promoted,	and	its	legacy	continues	to	promote,	individualism	(ki	langat	acel-acel),	a	most	undesirable	trait	in	Acoli	subsistence	village	life	reliant	on	interdependence.	Curfews	and	scarce	firewood	abolished	the	practice	of	wang	oo	(nightly	fireside	chats),	while	overcrowding,	and	a	kind	of	forced	urbanization	seen	in	increased	access	to	discos,	videos,	and	gambling	halls	in	the	camp	added	to	a	general	decrease	in	parental	and	elder	interactions	with	youth,	and	decreased	authority,	that	the	move	away	from	the	spatial	structure	of	the	village	already	engendered.			This	chapter	considers	these	profound	differences	between	camp	and	village	life,	and	thus	explores	Acoli	relatedness	as	grounded	in	home	(gang,	paco)	and	ngom	kwaro,	people’s	“ancestral”	or	“traditional”	lands	(literally,	land	of	the	grandfathers/ancestors).	Learning	from	one	village/sub-clan,	that	of	Pabwoc	in	Padibe	West	sub-county,	Lagwel	parish,	Lamwo	district,	I	will	first	recount	a	history	of	Kaka	Pabwoc	(sub-clan).	This	narrated	history	of	Pabwoc	will	situate	individuals	within	the	village	to	each	other,	to	the	landscape,	  136 and	will	further	situate	the	village	of	Pabwoc	within	the	Padibe	sub-counties	and	the	rest	of	Acoliland	by	discussing	the	clan	origins	of	the	current	villages,	and	the	historical	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	present	in	the	area.	I	will	then	discuss	the	village’s	recent	history	during	the	LRA-Government	war,	tracking	the	war’s	effects	on	one	village’s	residents,	and	one	family	(my	host	family)	in	particular.	Turning	to	a	description	of	Pabwoc	East	village	as	it	was	in	2012	(during	my	main	period	of	fieldwork,	2-3	years	after	return	from	Padibe	IDP	camp)	and	detailing	quotidian	activities	and	relations	on	one	homestead	will	consider	how	a	return	to	traditional	or	ancestral	land	itself	works	to	roco	wat	(restore	relations),	to	literally	repair,	re-create,	and	learn	through	everyday	practices	and	relationships	with	the	land.	Emphasizing	tic	Acoli,	or	Acoli	work	relating	to	subsistence,	as	key	organizing	and	relationship	building	practices,	I	show	how	survival	and	the	ways	of	life	in	the	village	engenders	a	re-engagement	with	tekwaro	pa	Acoli,	and	thus	a	re-elaboration	of	relatedness.	Acoli	work	is	therefore	recognized	as	a	boundary	process	(objects;	Star	2010,	Star	and	Griesemer	1989,	process;	McKellin	2016)	that	can	re-gather	community	members	to	re-elaborate	relatedness,	and	as	such	is	a	key	site	of	social	repairing	in	post-conflict	and	post-displacement	rural	Padibe	sub-counties.		 3.2 History of Pabwoc (Tekwaro Pabwoc) 3.2.1 Looking for the ancestors As	detailed	in	Chapter	2,	I	came	to	Pabwoc	through	my	friendship	with	“a	son	of	Bwoc”,	Nyero	Augustine	Caesar	(Augustine),	and	my	relationship	with	his	parents	whom	I	lived	  137 near	during	my	stay	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	in	2008.61	Augustine	is	the	eldest	son	of	Omono	Justo	Langoya	(Baba)	and	Alamarina	Acan	(Mama).	They	have	nine	children	in	total,	although	their	eldest	daughter	died	in	2013.	Omono	Justo	Langoya	is	son	to	Oyo	Batholomeo,	who	was	son	to	Gabriel	Omal,	who	was	son	to	Ocitti,	who	was	son	to	Ocuga,	who	was	son	to	Bwoc,	who	was	the	first-born	son	of	Bobi.	Augustine’s	kaka	(clan)	name	is	Bobi,	after	this	apical	ancestor.	Their	dog-gang’s	(mostly	referred	to	as	clan	as	well,	but	I	have	used	the	term	sub-clan	throughout	to	acknowledge	Bobi	as	the	father	and	apical	ancestor)	name	is	Pabwoc	(pa-Bwoc,	literally,	of	Bwoc),62	after	his	son.	Their	dog-ot	(mostly	referred	to	as	sub-clan,	but	I	use	the	term	lineage	throughout	to	acknowledge	Bwoc	and	Bobi	levels	of	kin-based	communal	governance)	name	is	Ocuga,	after	his	son.63	The	Kaka	Pabwoc	also	corresponds	to	the	physical	village	of	Pabwoc,	although	the	village	was	administratively	divided	into	Pabwoc	East	and	West	in	2002	during	the	camp	years,	partially	to	facilitate	ease	and	increased	access	to	aid	resources	while	displaced	to	Padibe	IDP	camp.64	Although	Bwoc	had	two	sons,	Ocuga	and	Otuna,	there	are	three	dog	ot	(so-                                                61	The	history	presented	here	is	an	androcentric	one,	and	represents	a	male	perspective.	While	fluid,	the	organization	of	Acoli	social	relations	has	been	predominantly	patriarchal–both	patrilineal	and	patrilocal.	It	was	recounted	to	me	in	various	parts,	by	four	male	elders,	two	male	adults,	and	two	female	adults	(who	were	born	in,	not	married	into,	Pabwoc).		62	The	Pabwoc	lineage	mentioned	in	Girling	(1960:78)	and	cited	in	Dolan	(2009:104	fn34)	does	not	seem	to	be	the	same	as	the	one	who	hosted	me.	The	difference	in	kwer	(a	non-human	entity	that	has	prohibitions	attached	to	it	(stone,	frog	etc.)	between	the	one	cited	and	my	host	village	indicates	that	any	common	kin	or	descent	affiliation	between	the	two	is	highly	unlikely.	See	p’Bitek	(1971:89)	for	how	clans	that	had	split	recognize	their	common	origins	by	common	kwer.	63	Translated	terminologies	are	difficult	here.	Oloya	(2015)	gives	a	different	description	of	Acoli	governance	units	than	cited	here.	As	previously	indicated,	I	relied	on	how	the	community	itself	expressed	its	own	components	and	the	best	way	to	indicate	relationship	between	Bobi,	Pabwoc,	and	Ocuga,	Otuna,	Abonga.		64	According	to	the	LC1	of	Pabwoc	East	in	2012	(Kitara	Kramer),	as	the	village	population	grows	it	is	necessary	to	split	to	be	able	to	organize	effectively.	For	example,	at	the	end	of	2012,	there	became	a	Pabwoc	Central,	and	today	in	2016,	there	is	a	Pabwoc	North	as	well.	In	the	long	term,	these	will	  138 called	lineages)	in	Pabwoc	today	because	Ocuga	split,	producing	a	third	named	Abonga,	around	the	1940s.	Each	and	every	resident	of	Pabwoc	East	and	West	villages	in	2012	could	trace	themselves	through	birth	or	marriage	to	Ocuga,	Otuna,	or	Abonga	lineages.65			Their	apical	ancestor,	Bobi,	had	three	sons-	Bwoc,	Dera	and	Oyo	(laite	pe).	Their	Rwot	(leader–hereditary	“chief”66)	came	from	the	youngest	son’s	line	(Kaka	Oyo	sub-clan).	At	some	point,	two	more	kaka	came	in	and	joined	Bobi:	Bobi	Agoro67	and	Bobi	Pawor.	It	was	recalled	that	these	five	sub-clans	of	Bobi–Bwoc,	Dera,	Oyo,	Bobi	Agoro	and	Bobi	Pawor–joined	the	Padibe	Chiefdom	around	the	time	of	Rwot	Ogwok’s	rule	towards	the	end	of	the	1800s.	Rwot	Ogwok	of	Kaka	Padibe	came	from	Pamot	Kal	sub-clan.68		                                                                                                                                                            affect	the	“promotion”	of	Pabwoc	villages	as	a	Parish	(requiring	7	villages),	and	possibly	eventually	as	its	own	sub-county.	It	may	not	affect	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	however	(lineages,	sub-clan,	clan).	65	The	nature	of	village	membership	and	of	rights	to	land	in	the	village	have	changed	over	the	years,	to	include	or	exclude	non-kin	members.	A	full	explanation	will	follow.	66	Sometimes	called	Rwot	moo,	“chief	from	oil”,	referring	to	anointed	traditional	leader	as	opposed	to	rwot	kalam,	“chief	from	pen”–those	assigned	by	the	British	in	colonization	efforts	(Oloya	2015:138).	67	It	is	said	that	Bobi	Agoro	joined	because	the	man	(who	became	head	of	Bobi	Agoro)	had	a	falling	out	with	the	Rwot	of	where	he	had	lived	over	the	illegal	harvest	of	the	Rwot’s	beehives.	He	was	shunned	and	lived	in	the	bush	until	one	day	Otuna	(a	son	of	Bwoc)	came	upon	this	man	as	he	went	to	draw	water.	Agoro	moved	with	Otuna	back	home,	and	after	a	private	conversation,	told	him	of	his	troubles.	Otuna	agreed	to	look	after	Agoro,	and	he,	and	his	descendants,	joined	the	kaka	thereafter.	Evidencing	the	kin-like	relationship	is	contemporary	practice	that	prohibits	marriages	between	Bobi	Pabwoc	(because	Otuna	was	a	son	of	Bwoc)	and	Bobi	Agoro.	68	Augustine’s	grandmother,	and	his	eldest	living	uncles	(his	grandmother’s	brothers)	are	of	Pamot.	  139 Figure 21- Diagram of Kaka Bobi Clan.  Available	texts	do	not	exactly	corroborate	the	preceding	details,	nor	do	they	account	for	the	nature	of	relations	of	the	clans	and	sub-clans	that	made/make	up	Kaka	Padibe.	According	to	Owot	(1976:190),	Bobi	technically	joined	“Padibe”	when	they	joined	Pamot	(Rwot	Ogwok’s	sub-clan)	at	Atango,	sometime	between	1769-1796.	As	Atkinson	writes	regarding	Kaka	Padibe	and	its	composite	“lineages”,	“conflicting	views	on	the	relationship	among	these	lineages	abound”	(2010:249	fn47).69	Although	Atkinson	attempts	to	synthesize	information	about	the	Padibe	Chiefdom,	he	mostly	focuses	on	the	transfer	of	Rwotship	from	Potini	to	Pamot	(1994:248-250).70			John	Jaramogi	Oloya’s	(2015)	excellent	thesis	on	Acoli	communal	government,	however,	better	describes	these	“chiefdom”	affiliations,	that	correspond	to	both	Bobi	and	Padibe’s	histories.	Refuting	the	term	chiefdom,	Oloya	uses	the	term	kaka.	A	kaka,	according	to	him,	                                                69	Atkinson	uses	lineage	in	the	classic	anthropological	sense,	to	denote	shared	descent	in	a	group,	as	opposed	to	fictive	kin	ties	in	associations	such	as	clans	and	chiefdoms.	70	The	transfer	itself	is	still	quite	controversial,	as	contemporary	Rwot	of	Potini	claims	that	Pamot	claimed	Rwotship	unlawfully	from	them.	Potini	had	petitioned	Ker	Kal	Kwaro	to	get	re-instated	but	was	formally	denied	in	2012.	Potini	has	been	trying	for	three	generations	to	be	re-instated.	As	was	explained	to	me	by	Rwot	Potini	himself,	their	royal	regalia	were	stolen	as	they	fled	southwards	from	Sudan.	He	proceeded	to	show	me	the	special	white	rain	stones	that	they	still	did	have.	As	part	of	contemporary	Kal	Kwaro	Padibe,	Potini	is	still	responsible	for	rain	rituals,	historically	the	most	important	rituals	conducted	by	the	Rwot	(Atkinson	2010).		  140 was/is	an	association	of	agnates,	or	clans	or	sub-clans	or	lineages	(which	he	notes	are	also	called	kaka),	based	on	facultative	mutualism,	a	relationship	he	describes	as	“empowering,	but	not	compelling”	(2015:204).	Facultative	mutualism	is	a	biological	term	for	organisms	who	interact	and	derive	benefit	from	each	other,	but	whom	are	not	fully	dependent	on	each	other	for	survival	(Biology-Online	N.d.).		Oloya	asserts	that	kaka	was	therefore	more	of	a	brotherhood,	a	collection	of	possibly	unrelated	different	agnates	that	came	together	for	mutual	interest.71			Kaka	as	a	relationship	of	facultative	mutualism	is	very	useful	as	it	explains	both	the	incorporation	of	two	non-kin	agnatic	groups	into	Bobi,	and	Kaka	Bobi’s	later,	and	enduring	affiliation	with	Kaka	Padibe.72	As	Branch	corroborates,	many	of	the	so-called	chiefdoms	incorporated	other	chiefdoms,	each	with	their	own,	still-functioning	chief	and	attending	councils	(2011:47).	Pabwoc	elders	also	emphasized	this	facultative	mutualism,	or	non-hierarchical	sense	of	brotherhood	as	they	described	why	the	united	Kaka	Bobi	(the	three	original	kin	sub-clans	plus	the	two	incorporated	others)	eventually	joined	Kaka	Padibe.	They	spoke	of	how	Kaka	Padibe	was	very	powerful	at	that	time	due	to	trade	networks,	and	                                                71	Pabwoc	community	members	themselves	use	the	word	kaka	generally	as	well	to	refer	to	various	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations.	When	asked	to	clarify	however,	they	used	the	following	terms:	Dog	Ot	(lineage,	e.g.	Ocuga),	Dog	Gang	(sub-clan,	e.g.	Pabwoc),	Kaka	(clan,	e.g.	Bobi).	As	stated	earlier,	I	use	kaka	to	generally	refer	to	these	organizations,	and	sub-clan	for	Pabwoc,	throughout	this	work.		72	Before	reading	Oloya’s	work,	I	was	always	quite	confused	by	scholars’	descriptions	of	Acoli	chiefdoms	that	did	not	seem	to	explain	or	account	for	the	associations	that	community	members	described.	  141 that	Rwot	Padibe	offered	Kaka	Bobi	the	most	security.73	They	particularly	recounted	how	their	own	Rwot	of	Bobi	at	that	time,	Rwot	Okello	Mwaka,	was	a	contemporary	of	Rwot	Ogwok,	not	a	subordinate,	and	as	proof,	offered	stories	about	how	they	learned	Arabic	and	climbed	Mount	Kilimanjaro	together.74			In	addition	to	the	importance	of	understanding	the	nature	of	both	Bobi	and	Padibe	affiliations,	the	brotherhood	character	of	Kaka,	as	Oloya	writes,	is	important	in	understanding	the	general	growth	of	Acoli	agnatic	identity	(2015:18).	Both	Atkinson	(2010)	and	Oloya	(2015)	insist	that	the	formation	of	Acoli	identity	was	not	only	a	Colonial	invention	imposed	from	above	(as	asserted	by	some	scholars,	see	for	example	Behrend	1999:14,	who	asserted	that	“the	Acholi	did	not	exist	in	pre-colonial	times”),75	and	they	meticulously	describe	the	gradual	process	of	alliances,	fusion,	and	fission,	as	well	as	the	natural	disasters	that	spurred	and	led	to	gradual	formation	of	Acoli	identity.			                                                73	Security	was	spoken	about	in	terms	of	both	food	security	and	physical	security	for	livestock	and	people.	74	I	have	found	references	that	say	that	i)	Okello	Mwaka	was	a	translator	for	Major	Delme	Radcliffe	(Bere	1947:6),	and	that	ii)	he	eventually	played	the	role	of	chief	executive	Prime	Minister	of	Puranga	chiefdom	(Acholi	Times	2014),	which	indicates	the	further	“scattering”	of	Bobi	beyond	Padibe	after	the	early	1920s,	a	“scattering”	referenced	by	the	elders	recounted	in	this	narrative.		75	Most	of	the	scholars	that	take	this	perspective	explore	how	colonial	categories	of	ethnic	identifications	reified	more	nuanced	and	complex	alliances	into	a	more	identifiable	subject	of	governance	in	relation	to	the	Colonial	Protectorate	of	Uganda.	Importantly,	as	p’Bitek	notes,	at	the	turn	of	the	20th	century,	Acoliland	was	made	up	of	30	independent	political	units,	of	which	Kaka	Padibe	Chiefdom	was	one	(1971:12).	Essentially,	both	camps	are	right,	however	as	Oloya	(2015)	explains,	it	is	important	to	recognize	the	nature	of	the	kaka,	which	was	common	to	the	independent	political	units,	and	the	alliances	therein	to	better	understand	these	units’	histories,	relations	to	each	other,	as	well	as	their	relations	to	British	Colonial	Government	and	the	contemporary	Ugandan	Sate.	  142 Atkinson	(1994)	concludes	that	the	Acoli	are	a	combination	of	what	he	terms	Luo,	Central	Sudanic,	and	Eastern	Nilotic	acephalous	lineages,	sub-clans,	and	clans,	that	due	to	drought,	and	political	influence	from	Bunyoro-Kitara	to	the	south,	and	through	the	mediation	of	Luo	speaking	Palwo	in	the	borderlands,	became	Acoli	by	the	eighteenth	century.	Oloya	corroborates	this	idea,	and	specifically	highlight	the	droughts	as	change	agents,	stating,	“the	formation	of	kaka	as	governing	organizations	became	a	grand	attempt	to	form	collective	efforts	to	address	these	forms	of	extremities”	(2015:146-7).		Members	of	Pabwoc,	elders	and	youth	alike,	believe	that	they	are	descendants	of	Shilluk,	a	Luo	people,	who	originated	in	Rumbek,	Sudan.76	The	Luo	are	a	group	of	linguistically	linked	peoples	(what	is	called	by	some	the	Nilotic	language	group)	who	now	live	in	Southern	Sudan,	Ethiopia,	Eastern	Democratic	Republic	of	Congo,	Northern	Uganda,	the	Mara	region	of	Tanzania,	and	Western	Kenya.77	As	Sverker	Finnström	wrote,	most	Acoli	people	today	identify	as	Luo	(2008:36).78	The	“Shilluk	migration”	(Girling	1960),	which	probably	brought	Pabwoc’s	ancestors	closer	to	present	day	Uganda,	began	around	1700,	and	as	                                                76	Paul	M.L.	Owot	supports	this	assertion,	saying	that	Bobi	joined	the	Pamot	dynasty	at	Atango,	and	that	the	Bobi	came	from	Shilluk,	and	were	part	of	the	Luo	groups	of	the	Padibe	(1976:190).	Pelligrini	agrees	(1963:9).	Other	historical	textual	references,	however,	are	unclear	and	contradictory	on	this	matter.	Atkinson	refers	to	a	Pabwoc	lineage	who	was	Central	Sudanic	(Madi)	speaking,	possibly	joining	Pabo	Chiefdom	(2010	215	fn42).	Crazzolara	describes	Luo	origins	of	Bobi	as	“additional	modern	fabrications”	(1954:500),	and	like	Atkinson,	concludes	probable	Central	Sudanic	(Madi)	origins	for	Bobi.		77	See	Cooper	2011	for	a	detailed	description	of	Luo	historiography,	particularly	in	reference	to	Luoland	in	Western	Kenya.		78	This	may	be	in	part	attributed	to	primary	school	teachings	that	recount	that	the	Acoli	are	a	Luo	Nilotic	group	that	originated	in	Rumbek,	Bar-El-Ghazel.	They	are	also	taught	in	school	that	they	split	into	two	groups,	the	Acoli	and	Alur,	through	the	story	of	Labongo	and	Gipir.	The	famed	story	of	Labongo	and	Gipir,	though	known	to	residents	of	Pabwoc,	was	learned	in	Primary	school,	and	not	from	within	their	own	families.	  143 explored	by	Martiniello	(2015)	was	possibly	exacerbated	by	profound	changes	in	the	systems	of	land	tenure	in	Sudan	at	that	time.			Pabwoc	elders	recount	that	Bobi	first	left	his	original	area	and	settled	at	Kiyugi	at	Mount	Okol,	which	is	in	Wanglengo.79	Generally,	his	descendants	moved	to	the	mountain	of	Lamwo,	from	Lamwo	they	moved	to	Ogul,	and	from	Ogul	they	moved	to	Lalak	Hill	in	a	place	called	Piringali.	They	then	moved	to	Lacic	hill,	and	then	settled	around	Lacic	at	Lujaro.			According	to	Atkinson’s	work,	from	the	time	that	Bobi	reached	the	mountain	of	Lamwo,	his	descendants	would	have	encountered	and	had	alliances	with	either	Kaka	Pocu–which	demised	in	the	mid-eighteenth	century,	and	Kaka	Paloga,	which	gained	prominence	thereafter	(Atkinson	1994:247).	These	kaka	were	never	mentioned	in	the	oral	histories	however,	which	might	support	Owot’s	report	that	Bobi	actually	joined	Padibe	in	the	middle	of	the	1700s,	much	earlier	than	Ogwok’s	time.	Despite	these	discrepancies	of	the	timeline,	the	affiliation	that	is	recounted	and	that	bears	upon	contemporary	dispute	resolution	and	social	organization	(see	Chapter	5),	is	Bobi’s	alliance	with	Kaka	Padibe,	said	by	the	elders	to	have	happened	under	Rwot	Ogwok	(but	as	already	stated	may	have	occurred	much	earlier),	whose	settlements	at	the	end	of	the	nineteenth	century	were	known	to	be	at	Lalak	and	Lacic.80		                                                79	The	only	reference	I	have	found	is	to	a	stream	named	Wanglengo	in	Sudan	almost	at	the	border	with	Uganda	(Google	Earth	Pro).	80	Although	not	mentioned	by	Pabwoc	elders	when	speaking	of	this	history,	it	was	also	in	Rwot	Ogwok’s	reign,	around	1898,	that	Major	MacDonald	of	the	Imperial	British	Corporation	signed	“treaties”	with	a	number	of	Rwodi,	including	Rwot	Ogwok	of	Padibe	(Oloya	2015:11).	  144 	3.2.2 The scattering of Bobi The	elders	of	Pabwoc	agree	that	it	was	in	Lujaro	near	Lacic	hill,	under	Rwot	Ogwok,	that	the	biggest	scattering	of	Bobi	finally	occurred.81	Some	recall	an	argument	whereby	a	member	of	Pabwoc	(Bobi	clan)	was	arrested	by	a	member	of	Oyo	(also	of	the	Bobi	clan).82	I	also	encountered	memories	of	a	measles	and	smallpox	outbreak	at	that	time	which	generally	dispersed	the	united	clans	of	Kaka	Padibe	from	the	hilly	area.	The	People	of	Bwoc	started	moving	away	from	Lujaro	and	they	came	to	Ngom	Otyer.	From	Ngom	Otyer	they	moved	to	Te	Poyo		(a	big	tree)	and	settled	briefly	at	Lapyang,	the	site	of	a	borehole	in	neigbouring	Lumura	Village.	After	that	brief	moment	they	finally	moved	to	Agolo,	present	day	Pabwoc.	They	were	led	by	Lodwaramoi,	who	received	permission	to	move	to	these	lands	from	Rwot	Madikiloc,	but	who	also	warned	of	possible	old	shrines	of	a	Lamwo	clan	in	the	area.	Present	day	Pabwoc	was	part	of	a	vast	hunting	ground,	under	the	authority	of	Rwot	Madikiloc	before	settlement	in	the	1900s.		Around	the	time	of	the	arrest	incident	at	Lujaro,	Bobi’s	sub-clans	began	to	scatter	over	Acoliland,	and	today,	Bobi’s	five	kaka/sub-clans	and	their	descendants	are	found	in	various	areas	around	Acoliland	and	beyond,	including	Lamola/Akwang,	Lamit,	Akwang,	Kitgum	                                                81	Owot	recounts	that	Bobi	first	split	up	quite	a	bit	earlier	when	some	first	joined	Pamot,	while	others	continue	moving	southwards	(1976:190).	82	But	as	assured	by	elders,	and	by	texts	alike,	it	was	quite	normal	for	clans	to	split	into	sub-clans,	and	sub-clans	into	lineages.	It	was	also	normal	that	as	a	result	of,	and	to	avoid	conflict,	groups	separated	and	“scattered”	to	different	areas	(Oloya	2015:164).	This	idea	of	“fission”	is	also	discussed	in	classic	ethnographic	accounts	such	as	Evans-Pritchard’s	Nuer	(1965)	and	in	Girling	(1960:56).		  145 Matidi,	Tegot	Akara,	Ataga/Lacek-ocot,	Puranga,	Awac,	Pabo,	Awere,	Omoro	and	Pajok	(South	Sudan)	(Bobi-Pabwoc	Foundation	2014,	O’Byrne	2015).	As	I	will	explore	in	Chapter	5,	strong	identification	with	Kaka	Bobi	continues	to	have	significant	impact	on	contemporary	social	organization	in	Pabwoc.		Aside	from	historical	connections	between	various	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations,	and	the	nature	of	political	affiliation	in	Acoliland,	it	is	most	important	to	note	that	since	the	“scattering”,	estimated	to	have	occurred	gradually	throughout	the	late	1910s	and	early	1920s,83	and	the	subsequent	settlement	at	Agolo	(present	day	Pabwoc),	the	people	of	Pabwoc	have	remained,	notably	through	Colonial	rule	and	subsequent	post-colonial	governmental	violences	and	upheaval,	on	the	same	land.			Although	there	are	references	to	earlier	historical	displacement	of	the	general	Acoli	population	by	Arab	slave	traders	between	1823	and	1899	(Oloya	2015:133),	and	by	British	Colonial	authorities	between	1894	and	1962,	specifically	in	Western	Acoliland	(Branch	2011:48,	Girling	1960:175),	this	was	not	the	case	in	Pabwoc,	part	of	Padibe.	Partially,	this	can	be	attributed	to	the	Kaka	Padibe,	under	Rwot	Ogwok,	allying	itself	early	on	for	survival	(he	was	outmatched	by	their	guns)	with	the	kuturia,	the	trading,	including	slave-trading	Arabs,	as	they	were	called	(see	Baker	1886	for	an	early	written	mention).	As	p’Bitek	and	Bere	both	write	however,	the	Arabs	exploited	existing	animosity	between	the	kaka	(p’Bitek	                                                83	I	was	able	to	estimate	the	date	because	Enoji,	the	oldest	man	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties,	was	born	in	1917	at	Lujaro,	and	Owot	(1976:207)	speaks	of	how	Ogwok	and	“Padibe”	moved	to	their	present	day	location	around	1917.	This	would	indicate	earliest	movement	beginning	after	Enoji’s	birth,	in	the	latter	part	of	1917.		  146 1971:135),	and	developed	kaka	antagonisms	where	none	existed	before	(Bere	1947:6).84	The	British	had	similar	tactics,	as	Owot	notes,	and	now	that	Padibe	was	surrounded	by	enemies,	“Ogwok	was	anxious	to	ally	with	the	Europeans	before	his	enemies	did	so”	(1976:207).	These	alliances	also	explain	the	growth	and	power	of	Ogwok’s	Kaka	Padibe,	as	many	of	the	surrounding	clans	and	sub-clans	sought	the	protection	that	the	Kaka	Padibe’s	alliances	(first	with	the	Arabs,	then	with	the	British)	offered.			The	very	low	population	density	in	Padibe,	its	extreme	hot	and	dry	climate	compared	with	Western	and	Southern	Uganda,	and	its	distance	from	the	Colonial	capital,	also	likely	played	into	its	continuing	relative	autonomy.	Girling	attributes	the	limited	impact	of	Colonial	“measures”	(hut	tax,	implementations	of	cash	crops,	missions,	and	Acoli	councils)	on	social	and	economic	change	in	Acoliland	due	to	the	low	population	density	(1960:183).	All	to	emphasize	that,	unlike	the	effects	of	the	Arabs,	British	Colonialism,	and	post-independence	violences	of	the	past	century–which	were	profound	in	different	ways85–the	displacement	of	Pabwoc’s	people	into	IDP	camps	from	the	most	recent	LRA-Government	war	deeply	                                                84	According	to	the	Rwot	of	Padibe	in	2012,	John	Odoki,	Rwot	Ogwok	(his	great	grandfather)	and	the	people	of	Padibe	soon	saw	that	the	Arabs	treated	people	very	badly,	through	the	slave	trade.	Yet	they	were	already	bound	to	the	traders.	85	The	effects	of	armament	from	the	slave	traders,	Western	English	education	and	the	church	from	Colonial	intervention,	as	well	as	diseases	(measles	and	smallpox),	indeed	had	significant	immediate	and	long-term	consequences	to	the	people	of	Pabwoc	and	Padibe	generally.	Most	people	in	Pabwoc	that	did	speak	of	these	consequences	(during	the	village	survey	or	at	the	village	debates)	noted	that	the	effects	of	early	church	practices,	though	powerful,	did	not	completely	interfere	with	indigenous	social	organization	and	indigenous	knowledge	that	could	be	considered	“religious.”	However,	the	church’s	schooling	in	English,	education	of	their	children	by	others,	and	having	children	occupied	throughout	the	days	away	from	the	homesteads	was	still	generally	reflected	upon	as	more	detrimental	to	an	Acoli	way	of	life.		More	commonly,	some	elders	trace	what	they	refer	to	in	a	proverb	as	“copying	brought	death	to	the	hare”	(apora	bot	oneko	apwoyo)–the	phenomena	of	copying	other	ways	of	life	and	how	it	brings	misery,	what	p’Bitek	calls	“aping”	(2011)	to	these	interventions	of	the	church	and	the	church’s	bringing	of	“foreign”	education.	  147 affected	sociality	and	social	organization	rooted	in	the	ways	of	life	specifically	connected	with	the	land	in	primarily	subsistence	farming-based	communities.		3.2.3 Pabwoc in contemporary times The	first	forced	displacement	of	sons	and	daughters	of	Bwoc	from	their	“ngom	kwaro”	or	ancestral	land	began	after	LRA	massacres	in	the	area	killed	an	estimated	450	people	in	early	1997	(JRP	2012,	camp	commander	interview	2012).	People	mostly	fled	to	Kitgum	town,	about	26	kilometres	to	the	south.	Although	some	residents	returned	to	Pabwoc	village	in	1999,	by	2003,	all	were	forced	by	the	UPDF	into	Padibe	IDP	camp,	built	around	Padibe	trading	center,	about	eight	kilometres	north	of	Pabwoc.	Although	a	more	detailed	history	of	Pabwoc’s	experiences	during	the	LRA-UPDF	war	will	follow,	I	emphasize	here	Pabwoc	residents’	uninterrupted	settlement	in	their	current	location	over	roughly	the	past	century.	Despite	the	turmoil	of	Colonial	rule	which	introduced	new	land	holding	systems,	The	Land	Act	of	1962	which	gave	government	the	right	to	alienate	land,	and	the	outlaw	of	customary	tenure	during	Idi	Amin’s	reign,	Pabwoc	residents	have	continued	to	live	on,	and	from,	the	land	around	the	original	settlement	of	Agolo	since	the	1920s.	This	continuous	settlement,	despite	the	many	changes	to	national	landholding	laws,	and	the	many	violences	associated	with	regime	changes,86	is	significant	to	the	functioning	and	relevance	of	aspects	of	relatedness	and	tekwaro	through	these	major	historical	and	political-economic	changes.		                                                86	The	only	violence	spontaneously	discussed	from	post-colonial	Governments	(other	than	the	recent	war)	that	affected	Pabwoc	was	that	Idi	Amin	forced	adult	males	to	perform	“voluntary”	labour.	This	does	not	necessarily	mean,	however,	that	the	population	did	not	suffer.	  148 Pabwoc	village	(East	and	West)	is	bordered,	approximately,87	on	the	northwest	by	the	Nyuka	Tobi	River,	on	the	northeast	by	the	Lagwel	River,	and	extending	beyond	the	Okwelle	and	Ayago	rivers	to	the	south	west	and	east	respectively.	The	size	of	Pabwoc	is	an	estimated	eight	square	kilometers.88	The	northern	part	of	the	village,	especially	the	area	closest	to	the	Lagwel	River	is	generally	used	for	olet,	communal	cattle	grazing.	Homesteads	and	small	gardens	comprise	the	center	of	the	village,	and	large	tracts	of	farmlands,	the	gardens,	lie	to	the	south.89	Historically,	and	in	present	day,	Kaka	Bobi	and	other	peoples	in	the	area	were	agriculturalists,	relying	mostly	on	farming	for	subsistence.	In	addition,	livestock,	mostly	goats	and	sheep	but	also	cattle,	were	kept.	Cattle	became	more	important	during	Rwot	Ogwok’s	time	due	to	trade	and	alliances	with	the	Arabs	(mid-late	1800’s),	although	their	retreat,	disease,	occasional	raids	from	Karamoja	to	the	east,	and	the	recent	war	has	periodically	wiped	out	the	cattle	population	(Finnström	2008:192,	Owot	1976:213).	People	of	Pabwoc,	and	of	the	Padibe	sub-counties,	live	year	round,	through	both	the	dry	and	wet	seasons,	within	their	villages.		                                                87	I	hesitate	to	determine	the	exact	boundaries	here	for	many	reasons.	First,	the	rivers	to	the	north	are	not	exact	boundaries.	For	example,	there	is	a	homestead	that	comprises	over	five	households	on	the	other	side	of	the	Lagwel	River,	and	there	are	gravestones	of	Pabwoc	members	beyond	the	Nyuka	Tobi.	To	the	south,	landmarks	marking	the	boundaries	include	rocky	outcroppings	and	swamps.	As	will	be	discussed	later,	the	Rwot	Kweri	is	responsible	for	knowledge	about	land	boundaries,	and	in	2013,	the	entire	community	was	invited	to	walk	the	village	limits	so	that	the	knowledge	could	be	passed	down.	88	I	calculated	this	for	descriptive	purposes	only	by	using	the	boundaries	described	to	me	(by	Morish	Lanek,	who	was	shown	by	Rwot	Kweri)	on	Goggle	Earth	Pro.		89	There	are	three	different	communal	gardens	on	the	south	side	of	Pabwoc:	lugoyo,	turwenya	and	otwoo	(sometimes	called	ludongo	otum).	  149 Today,	Pabwoc	East	and	West	villages	are	part	of	Lagwel	parish,	in	Padibe	West	sub-county,	Lamwo	District,	Northern	Region	of	Uganda.	They	are	also	practically	part	of	Kaka	Bobi,	Kal	Kwaro	Padibe,	the	Bobi-Pabwoc	Foundation	(more	in	Chapter	5),	and	Ker	Kal	Kwaro	Acholi.	Each	of	these	levels	of	governance	comprises	institutions,	councils,	committees,	leaders,	and	procedures,	with	overlapping	jurisdictions	(which	will	explored	in	terms	of	land	rights	and	conflict	resolution	specifically	in	this	dissertation).		In	addition,	Pabwoc	and	Padibe	are	in	what	many	consider	eastern	Acoli,	or	Acoli	lumalo90	(Oloya	2015:369,	Finnström	2008:33).	As	Finnström	explores,	compared	to	western	Acoli	(Acoli	lupiny),	many	Acoli	popularly	believe	that	Acoli	lumalo	are	“more	traditional.”	Oloya	traces	these	attitudes	to	the	fact	that	the	British	Colonial	administrative	center	was	established	at	Gulu,	in	Western	Acoli.	More	development	projects	were	pursued,	as	well	as	more	control	exerted	in	the	form	of	tax	collection	and	work	programs	with	the	nearer	population	in	Western	Acholi.	Acoli	lumalo	(west)	and	lupiny	(east)	also	reference	internal	differentiations	that	have	historically	caused	conflict	in	Acoli,	specifically	the	rivalry	between	the	Payira	and	Padibe	Chiefdoms	(Oloya	2015:336,	Owot	1976).			These	differentiations	between	lumalo	and	lupiny	may	or	may	not	hint	at	why	I	found	kin-based	communal	governance	still	very	much	alive	in	Pabwoc,	despite	how	British	Colonialism,	successive	post-Colonial	governments,	and	the	LRA	war	has	transformed	traditional	kin-based	community	governance		(Branch	2010,	Dolan	2009,	Oloya	2015).	                                                90	Acoli	lumalo	and	lupiny	are	split	by	the	Acuwa	river	(see	Figure	8,	pp.12).	  150 Lumalo	has	historically	been	more	distant	to	both	British	and	post-colonial	Governments,	and	is	therefore	arguably	less	affected	by	their	various	interventions	described	above.		In	regards	kin-based	communal	governance	organizations	during	the	LRA-Gov’t	war,	Pabwoc	elders,	as	well	as	Rwot	Padibe,	recounted	that	within	the	camps	several	levels	of	kin	based	communal	governance	were	called	upon	to	address	various	kiir	(the	intentional	and	unintentional	breaking	of	social	norms),	as	much	as	they	were	constrained	by	the	confines	of	camp	life.	However,	practices	that	fostered	sub-clan	unity,	like	the	practices	associated	with	abila	(ancestral	shrines)	and	ayweya	(sub-clans’	“spirits”),	were	mostly	impossible	within	the	camp	(depending	on	their	location	relative	to	the	camp	perimeter).	Additionally,	the	spatial	dimensions	of	IDP	camp	life	hindered	recognition	of	the	sub-clan	as	a	unit,	distinctly	manifest	and	prominent	in	the	spatial	dimensions	of	the	village	(this	will	be	further	explored	in	Chapter	4).	Yet,	although	contemporary	kin-based	communal	governance	has	undoubtedly	been	transformed	over	the	years	due	to	historical	events	and	calamities,	including	the	recent	war,	as	all	living	cultural	practices	are	transformed	through	time,	I	learned	much	about	its	persistent	relevance	to	everyday	life,	social	organization,	and	relatedness	as	a	whole	(particularly	regarding	land	rights,	conflict	resolution,	marriage	practices,	and	personhood)	despite	these	transformations.	I	include	this	discussion	of	the	historical	differences	between	lumalo	and	lupiny	to	draw	further	attention	to	the	specifics	of	locality	explored	in	this	study.		The	next	section	narrates	the	experiences	of	Pabwoc	sub-clan/village,	and	my	host	family,	through	the	recent	LRA-Government	war.	A	description	of	daily	life	in	2012,	two	to	three	  151 years	after	return	from	displacement	follows.	Exploring	the	inseparability	of	land	from	Acoli	notions	of	relatedness,	I	consider	how	work	on	the	land,	specifically	inter-generational	participation	and	engagement	in	the	work,	imagines,	forges,	regulates,	and	I	assert,	also	repairs	relations	in	contemporary	post-conflict	and	post-displacement	contexts.			3.3 “Moving Up and Down Unsettles the Mind” I	was	often	told	that	the	land	is	pire	tek	(very	important)	to	all	aspects	of	tekwaro	pa	Acoli,	and	learned	how	this	ideal	is	both	realized	spatially	and	is	practiced	in	daily	life	through	Acoli	kit	me	kwo	(ways	of	life)	and	tic	Acoli	(Acoli	work)	connected	to	the	land.	As	explored	further	in	Chapter	4,	displacement	to	the	camps	fundamentally	undermined	parental	and	elder	authority	and	strengthened	NGO	and	Government	influence	and	power	(Branch	2011,	Dolan	2009,	Oloya	2015).	But	displacement	from	the	land,	from	the	village,	and	from	Acoli	kit	me	kwo	and	tic	Acoli,	from	the	subsistence	farming	way	of	life,	had	other	more	subtle,	and	devastating	consequences	connected	with	how	a	loss	of	land	destabilizes	social	philosophy	or	indigenous	legal	orders	(Turner	2014,	Niezen	2009).	This	section	describes	Pabwoc	residents’	displacements,	and	their	move	to	Padibe	IDP	camp.			 We	went	to	the	camp	in	Kitgum,	then	came	home,	then	soon	went	to	the	camp	in	the	center.	It	has	made	people’s	minds	to	be	up	and	down.	And	moving	up	and	down	unsettles	the	mind.	It	has	been	difficult	to	learn	tekwaro,	and	it	has	changed	us	all.	It	was	difficult	because	the	time	where	we	should	be	learning	tekwaro,	there	was	just	no	time.	Because	the	LRA	were	disturbing.	We	were	moving	all	the	time,	and	even	  152 sleeping	in	the	bush.	We	would	come	back	home	for	just	a	minute,	but	then	we	would	have	to	leave	and	take	refuge	again.	We	did	not	know	what	home	was	anymore.	(Reagan,	a	son	of	Bwoc.	18	years	old)		As	introduced	in	the	previous	section,	in	early	1997,	after	a	series	of	massacres	in	Lamwo	county	(Lamwo	District	today)	claimed	450	lives,91	about	95%	of	the	residents	of	Pabwoc	East	first	fled	their	village	lands.92	Of	that	total,	about	60%	fled	to	Kitgum	town	20	kilometers	to	the	south,	and	mostly	sought	refuge	in	Public	Primary	school	there	(it	was	offered	by	Government	as	a	place	of	refuge).	30%	sought	refuge	in	nearby	(8	km	away)	Padibe	trading	center.	My	host	family	had	the	means	to	rent	a	room	in	Kitgum	town	(Baba	is	a	teacher),	and	did	not	stay	in	Public	Primary	School.			Villages	in	Padibe	sub-county	that	were	closer	to	Padibe	trading	center	mostly	sought	refuge	at	the	two	primary	schools	there,	and	according	to	Nokrac	Fidensio	(the	Padibe	IDP	camp	commander	from	1997	through	to	its	closing	in	2008),	Padibe	IDP	camp	started	on	January	25th,	1997.93		As	more	people	throughout	Lamwo	County	(including	the	sub-counties	of	Padibe,	Palabek,	Lokung,	Agaro,	Madi-opei,	and	Paluga)	and	elsewhere	in	the	district	sought	refuge	in	Kitgum	town,	the	government	transferred	the	ever-growing	                                                91	According	to	a	JRP	report	(2012)	on	the	massacre	in	Palabek,	part	of	Lamwo	County,	the	LRA	were	killing	people	in	the	area	as	revenge	for	hunters’	collaboration	with	the	UPDF.	The	hunters	looked	into	caves	for	LRA	activity,	and	reported	any	ammunition	or	activity	seen.	Although	no	one	from	Pabwoc	was	killed,	residents	of	the	whole	area	fled	in	fear	of	the	increased	activity.	92	Of	the	two	homesteads	that	remained	in	Pabwoc	East,	one	lived	on	the	other	side	of	the	river,	by	the	military	detach	and	felt	secure	enough	to	remain.	The	other	said	that	he	alone	from	his	homestead	remained	back	to	take	care	of	the	livestock.		93	I	interviewed	Nokrac	Fidensio,	IDP	camp	commander,	on	Sept.13th,	2012.	  153 displaced	population,	including	most	sons	and	daughters	of	Bwoc,	to	gang	dyang	(literally,	house	of	the	cows,	still	in	Kitgum	town),	where	tents	were	provided	by	UNHCR.			According	to	the	village	survey	conversations,	as	many	as	six	households	lived	together	in	one	large	tent	at	Gang	Dyang	in	early	1997,	and	due	to	the	severe	overcrowding	and	insufficient	hygienic	facilities,	cholera	soon	broke	out.	No	one	from	Pabwoc,	however,	died	from	cholera.	The	government	then	instituted	the	policy	that	“protected	villages”	(internally	displaced	people’s	(IDP)	camps)	would	be	set-up	outside	of	the	main	towns,	closer	to	the	countryside,	and	Padibe	IDP	camp	was	fully	established	in	1998.94	Most	residents	of	Pabwoc	moved	directly	to	Padibe	IDP	camp	at	that	time,	while	some	remained	in	Kitgum	town.	There	was	a	lull	in	LRA	activity	in	the	area	from	1999	to	2002,	and	about	30%	of	the	Pabwoc	population	returned	to	their	village	at	this	time	before	a	second,	more	prolonged	displacement.	My	host	family	also	moved	back	to	Pabwoc	at	this	time,	before	the	longer	move	to	Padibe	IDP	camp,	3	years	later.	Many	people	in	Pabwoc	recounted	that	life	was	very	difficult	as	the	fields	had	been	left	for	a	few	years	while	away,	animals	had	been	looted,	and	houses	needed	to	be	repaired	and	rebuilt.	However,	they	say	that	in	retrospect	rebuilding	after	that	first	displacement	was	relatively	easy	compared	to	returning	after	the	second,	more	prolonged	absence	from	2003	to	2008-9	(depending	on	individual	families’	circumstances).95		                                                94	At	that	time,	there	was	only	one	other	camp	in	Lamwo	County–in	Palabek.	Lukung	IDP	camp	was	later	established	in	1999,	and	Paluga	in	2004,	and	there	were	subsequent	reductions	in	the	camp	population	at	Padibe.	95	These	displacements	are	noted	in	the	timeline,	attached	as	Appendix	C.	  154 LRA	activity	in	Padibe	sub-county,	especially	abductions	and	killings,	increased	in	2002-3,	and	according	to	the	village	survey,	over	1/3	of	Pabwoc	households’	experienced	abductions	of	one	or	more	members	at	this	time.96	One	of	Baba’s	sisters	was	also	killed	in	an	LRA	attack	at	that	time.	After	a	particularly	close	call	in	2003	during	heavy	rains	that	had	my	host	family	on	the	run	from	an	LRA	attack,	on	the	dangerously	full	and	raging	Lagwel	river–Mama	with	a	baby	on	her	back	and	Baba	with	children	in	his	arms–they	finally	moved	to	Padibe	IDP	camp.	For	this	second	displacement,	Baba	still	remained	at	home	with	a	few	animals,	however	a	couple	of	months	later,	the	government–through	the	military–declared	that	everyone	found	outside	the	camp	would	be	considered	a	rebel	or	a	rebel	collaborator.97	At	this	point,	everyone	who	had	remained	or	resettled	in	Pabwoc	after	the	first	displacement,	Baba	included,	and	from	everywhere	in	the	countryside,	was	forced	to	move	to	the	camp.	Any	food	stores	and	animals	that	hadn’t	been	looted	by	the	UPDF	or	                                                96	It	was	impossible	for	me	to	ascertain	exactly	how	many	people	from	Pabwoc	East	were	abducted	or	killed	without	asking	for	their	names	because	of	the	close	relations	of	everyone	in	the	village	(people	say	their	sister	or	brother,	which	refers	to	cousins	as	well).	Meaning,	everyone	had	a	family	member	who	had	been	abducted	or	killed	because	everyone	within	Pabwoc	is	“family.”	Apparently	The	International	Committee	of	the	Red	Cross	had	some	information	from	a	survey	while	they	were	still	displaced	in	Padibe	IDP	camp,	but	the	village	itself	had	not	undertaken	such	an	endeavour.	I,	personally,	did	not	want	to	make	this	“list”,	if	it	had	not	been	initiated	by	Pabwoc	residents’	themselves.	I	am	wary	of	the	possible	conflicts	that	can	result	from	lists,	as	well	as	from	precise	maps	for	example.	Additionally,	I	am	sensitive	to	the	possibilities	that	specifically	asking	people	to	recount	experiences	of	violence	may	cause	further	violence.	Neither	the	village	survey,	nor	my	personal	conversations	ever	asked	about	the	specific	forms	of	violence	that	people	individually	experienced,	particularly	to	avoid	potentially	reproducing	effects	of	the	violence	experienced	through	testimonial	types	of	narration	(as	explored	extensively	by	Krog	et	al.	2009,	Ross	2010,	and	Shaw	2007,	as	examples).		97	Branch	and	others	point	to	displacement	as	a	military	strategy	by	the	Government	to	quell	popular	LRA	support	(Branch	2011,	Dolan	2009).	  155 LRA	were	brought,	but	were	soon	used	up	or	raided.98	And	although	Padibe	camp	was	originally	planned	in	1997	with	living	space	allocated	by	parish	and	village	in	the	sub-county,	people	from	neighbouring	sub-counties	also	moved	in.	A	severe	lack	of	space	at	this	point	had	people	squeezing	within	the	camp	perimeter	wherever	they	could.		Figure 22- Aceng Beatrice squeezes between huts in Padibe IDP Camp, 2006. A fire earlier in the year had torn through the camp, burning most residents’ possessions and the straw-thatched roofs of the huts.   	For	long	periods	of	time,	sons	and	daughters	of	Bwoc,	like	other	camp	residents,	were	unable	to	access	their	land	for	any	kind	of	activities.	Pabwoc	was	also	one	of	the	villages	that	were	quite	far,	relatively,	from	the	camp,	and	from	any	main	road	(It	takes	about	1	                                                98	Baba	brought	the	goats	to	the	camp	outskirts,	but	they	were	quickly	looted	by	UPDF.	In	sympathy,	some	people	point	out	that	soldiers	were	paid	next	to	nothing	and	often	suffered	malnutrition	along	with	camp	residents.	  156 hour	to	walk	to	Pabwoc	from	Padibe	IDP	camp,	about	30	minutes	of	it	through	bush).99	In	addition	to	the	existing	security	threat	by	the	LRA,	at	some	times,	if	anyone	was	caught	outside	the	camp	perimeter,	they	would	be	identified	as	a	rebel,	and	would	be	beaten,	or	shot	and	killed	by	Government	forces	(UPDF).	In	other	periods,	the	restrictions	would	be	lessened	by	the	UPDF,	however	the	danger	of	being	abducted,	beaten,	or	killed	by	the	LRA	still	served	to	reduce	people’s	travels	far	from	the	camp,	and	obviously	reduced/extinguished	people’s	work	of	the	land.	As	one	man	I	first	met	in	2004	exclaimed	to	me,	“the	LRA	and	the	UPDF	are	just	squeezing	us	until	we	all	die”	(personal	communication	in	Palaro	IDP	camp	2004).			Security	in	the	camp	was,	according	to	the	Padibe	camp	commander,	“not	all	that	good”,	however,	he	says	that	it	was	much	better	than	having	no	camp	at	all.100	While	most	people	in	Pabwoc	agreed	that	the	camp	was	needed,	they	also	lamented	that	more,	and	better,	security	and	services	were	not	provided.	I	was	told	of	the	laziness	of	the	UPDF	on	many	occasions,	particularly	in	relation	to	a	large	attack	on	the	camp	by	the	LRA	in	2003	with	looting	and	abductions,	which	left	15	dead.	After	that,	people	recounted	that	they	were	encouraged	to	volunteer	for,	or	were	forced	by	UPDF	into,	what	were	called	LDUs	(Local	Defense	Units).	Those	who	joined	(youth,	adults	and	even	the	elderly)	were	given	guns	and	for	some,	a	place	to	stay	in	the	barracks.	Many	people	in	the	Padibe	sub-counties	blame	the	                                                99	The	one	main	road	that	now	cuts	the	village	in	two	was	only	made	large	(larger	than	a	footpath)	and	maintained	starting	in	2011	100	At	the	beginning,	there	was	one	UPDF	detach	in	the	camp,	then	the	Government	opened	four	other	detaches	in	the	sub-county	(at	Abakadyak,	Lumurra,	Katum,	and	Tuluka),	which	he	says	helped	matters.	  157 LDUs	for	the	death	of	a	significant	number	of	civilian	adults	and	elders–as	LC1s101	were	also	required	to	join	(kabake	Katum	2012).	In	Pabwoc,	approximately	15	men	(including	male	youth)	served	in	the	LDUs,	with	two	of	them	eventually	joining	the	UPDF.		The	World	Food	Program	supplied	Padibe	IDP	camp,	and	all	the	camps	in	the	north,	and	other	INGOs	attempted	to	meet	(but	failed	to	meet)	the	burgeoning	clean	water	and	sanitation	needs	of	the	Padibe	camp	population	that	had	swelled	to	42	000	by	2003	(camp	commander	interview).102	The	approximate	size	of	Padibe	IDP	camp	was	.6	square	kilometers103	(a	population	density	of	70	000	people	per	square	km,	contrasted	with	Pabwoc’s	population	density	in	2012	of	150	people	per	square	kilometer).	Although	the	Ugandan	Government	was	technically	responsible	for	the	welfare	of	its	citizens	during	displacement,	it	was	the	international	humanitarian	organizations	that	struggled	to	keep	residents	alive.104	For	these	reasons,	as	described	in	the	introduction,	many	academics	and	policy	makers	call	the	forced	displacement	of	the	entire	rural	population	and	the	resulting	human	rights	abuses	(lack	of	access	to	food,	clean	water,	sanitation,	medical	supplies)	in	Northern	Uganda	a	violation	of	international	humanitarian	law	(Okello	and	Hovil	2007:437),	social	torture	(Dolan	2009),	egregious	harm	(Branch	2011),	and	genocide	(Otunnu	2006)	perpetrated	by	the	Ugandan	State.		                                                101 LC1	refers	to	Local	Councilor	1,	and	is	the	first	point	of	contact	between	Government	and	communities.	Each	village	in	Uganda	has	an	elected	LC1.	In	Pabwoc	East	Village,	the	LC1	is	a	respected	member	of	the	community,	elected	based	on	attributes	of	leadership	and	fairness,	not	unlike	Ladit	Kaka	(the	sub-clan	leader).	The	LC1	in	Pabwoc	East	is	currently	male.	102	A	UN-OCHA	published	map	from	February	2006	puts	the	camp	population	at	35	006.	103	I	estimate	the	size	from	a	2007	satellite	image	obtained	from	Google	Earth	Pro.	104	Dolan	(2009)	claims	that	the	INGOS	were	like	doctors	in	a	torture	situation–keeping	the	tortured	just	alive	enough	to	endure	the	suffering.	  158 	A	young	boy	I	lived	near	in	Padibe	IDP	camp	(in	2008)	once	complained	to	me	that	there	was	no	shade	in	the	IDP	camp.	He	said	it	was	the	worst	part	of	living	there.	I	have	often	thought	about	this,	and	what	shade,	or	the	presence	of	a	tree	to	sit	under,	to	talk	under,	to	work	under,	and	to	learn	under	means.			As	I	will	explore	in	the	next	section,	a	return	to	village	lands	necessitated	the	tic	Acoli	(Acoli	work)	that	could	make	home	a	sustainable	place	once	again.	I	discuss	how	the	organizing	principles	of	(survival	in)	home	life	enact	inter-generational	activities	that	themselves	work	to	re-activate	kin-based	social	relations	and	social	organization,	and	multi-generational	engagement	in	tekwaro.	And	that	this	return	to	the	land	therefore	re-elaborates	relatedness,	and	thus	performs	social	repair.	As	emphasized	by	Bodenhorn	(1990,	2000),	Brightman	(1993),	Nadasdy	2002,	Tanner	(1979),	Todd	(2014),	Turner	and	Turner	(2008),	and	others,	food	production	is	integral	to	both	the	transmission	of	indigenous	knowledge,	and	in	continuously	creating	and	re-creating	social	relations,	organization,	and	community.	The	socio-spatial	configurations	of	the	camp,	including	residents’	dependence	on	the	WFP,	affecting	not	only	daily	survival,	but	also	relatedness,	and	engagements	with	tekwaro	itself.	In	the	same	way,	a	return	to	the	socio-spatial	conditions	of	the	village	lands,	of	home,	had	its	own	effects	on	relatedness	and	engagements	with	tekwaro.		  159 3.4 Gang–Village, Home The	most	recent	peace	talks	began	in	Juba,	South	Sudan	in	July	of	2006	and	broke	off	in	the	first	half	of	2008.	A	ceasefire	was	negotiated	by	September	of	2006,	and	Government	and	the	international	NGOs	that	serviced	the	IDP	camps	began	encouraging	people	to	re-settle	in	their	“original”	or	traditional	villages,	or	as	some	authorities	stated,	“return	to	where	the	war	found	you”	(Whyte	et	al.	2014:605).	When	I	visited	Padibe	IDP	camp	that	December	2006,	everyone	still	lived	in	the	camp.	And	in	my	village	survey	of	Pabwoc	East	in	2012,	I	found	that	no	one	actually	moved	back	to	the	village	permanently	until	late	2008	due	to:	fear,	land	claims,	and	the	hard	work	necessary	to	make	home	sustainable	again.105			Primarily,	people	seriously	doubted	that	the	ceasefire	would	hold.	As	evidenced	by	their	history,	many	had	moved	back	to	Pabwoc	before	during	a	lull	in	the	violence	(around	1999),	only	to	suffer	much	loss,	terror,	abduction,	death,	and	forced	displacement	back	to	the	camp	again	some	few	years	later.	Also,	what	people	found	back	in	their	homes	when	they	were	able	to	visit	contributed	to	the	general	fear.	Land	mines	and	unexploded	ordinances	posed	grave	threats,	and	unburied	bones	left	some	sites	haunted	by	cen,	spirits	of	those	who	had	been	killed	or	died	without	proper	burial.106	These	cen,	as	I	will	further	explore	in	Chapter	5,	haunt	the	person	who	has	killed,	the	killer’s	sub-clan	members	(even	generations	to	come),	as	well	as	anyone	who	may	happen	to	come	upon,	unknowingly	or	                                                105	Many	began	cultivation	or	fetching	firewood,	however,	as	soon	as	they	were	willing	to	risk	it.	Also,	I	detail	later,	some	moved	to	smaller	“satellite”	camps	within	their	parishes,	in	the	case	of	Lagwel	Parish,	near	Lagwel	Primary	school	in	Lumura	village.	106	For	detailed	discussions	of	cen,	please	see	Finnström	2008,	p’Bitek	1971,	Allen	2010,	Harlacher	et	al.	2006,	and	Harlacher	2009.		  160 knowingly,	the	disrespected	body.	One	can	only	be	cleansed	of	cen	by	following	specific	cik	Acoli	(laws	and	rituals),	organized	by	elders	of	the	sub-clan.	Significantly,	when	I	asked	Beatrice	if	she	was	anxious	to	leave	the	camp	with	her	husband	in	the	summer	of	2008	for	example,	she	replied	that	she	actually	feared	leaving,	and	that	she	doubted	that	there	would	really	be	peace,	because	she	had	never	known	it	in	all	her	life.			Second,	many	people’s	rights	to	the	land	were	in	question.	As	will	be	further	discussed	in	Chapter	4,	women’s	and	children	land	rights	were	jeopardized	by	the	disruption	to	traditional	courtship	practices,	and	the	resulting	failure	to	activate	the	network	of	social	relations	which	sanctioned	land	rights,	during	displacement.	Other	people	found	their	rights	to	access	land	cut	off	due	to	“missing	links”	(Whyte	et	al.	2012)	as	a	result	of	the	deaths	of	the	people	through	whom	they	accessed	their	rights	under	customary	land	tenure	(husband,	parent,	etc.).	Also,	youth	who	had	grown	up	during	the	displacement	(in	camps	or	in	towns),	perhaps	without	their	parents,	did	not	know	the	boundaries	of	their	land	or	the	bundle	of	responsibilities	and	obligations	entailed.			In	other	instances,	people	had	lived	and	farmed	on	another	sub-clan’s	land	before	displacement.	Historically,	Acoli	customary	land	tenure	accounted	for	many	“guests”	rights	to	land	(Girling	1960,	Hopwood	2015),	including	friends,	business	partners,	or	maternal	relations.	After	displacement	however,	peoples’	rights	to	access	land	became	stricter	or	narrower.	As	Peters	(2009:1321)	describes	in	general	regarding	land	conflict:	  161 Much	research	has	documented	that	a	key	socio-cultural	dynamic	driving	the	differentiation	over	land	turns	on	a	narrowing	in	the	definition	of	belonging.	Social	conflict	over	land	produces	stricter	definitions	of	those	with	legitimate	claims	to	resources,	i.e.,	group	boundaries	become	more	exclusively	defined.			In	Pabwoc,	there	was	one	case	where	a	man’s	son	wanted	to	access	land	where	his	deceased	father	had	lived	before	the	war.	Although	the	father	(and	son)	was	not	of	Pabwoc	(not	a	descendant	of	Bwoc,	nor	having	married	into	the	sub-clan),	before	the	war	his	family	had	enjoyed	rights	to	live	there.	Upon	return,	however,	he	was	referred	back	to	his	own	sub-clan	to	access	his	“rightful”	land,	by	the	sub-clan	leader	(Ladit	Kaka)	and	executive	council	of	Pabwoc.	The	son	took	the	matter	to	the	LCII	courts	(Parish),	which	settled	in	favour	of	Pabwoc.	In	addition,	I	found	in	the	village	survey	that	about	10%	of	current	Pabwoc	residents	had	actually	lived	outside	of	Pabwoc	before	the	war,	like	this	man.	Since	the	disbandment	of	the	camps	however,	they	moved	back	to	Pabwoc,	where	they	had	“rightful”	access	through	customary	land	tenure	because,	as	one	woman	said,	“these	things	are	more	strict	now–the	people	from	there	told	us	to	go	home.”	This	“narrowing	in	the	definition	of	belonging”	has	several	explanations.	Some	residents	say	that	the	population	increase	while	in	the	camp	contributes	to	these	factors.	However,	Lamwo	district	still	has	one	of	the	lowest	population	density	rates	in	the	country	(Lamwo	30.6/km2	vs.	Uganda	188/km2;	Human	Rights	Focus	2013).	Others	attribute	it	to	peoples’	exposure	to	Western	  162 capitalist	ideals	of	land	ownership	in	the	camps,	and	awareness	of	the	monetary	value	of	land.107			While	monetization	factors	undoubtedly	contribute,	I	believe	it	is	important	to	acknowledge	these	processes	of	“strictness”	as	part	of	the	processes	of	organizing	people	into	groups	with	a	strong	material	symbol	to	ground	re-ordering	or	re-engagement	with	tekwaro,	with	human-land	relations,	with	relatedness	itself.	These	relations	were	severely	damaged	by	the	violences	of	the	war	and	displacement	to	the	IDP	camps,	evident	in	certain	respects	through	the	proliferation	of	land	conflicts	immediately	upon	return.	These	conflicts,	though	some	were	violent,	served	as	sites	for	these	redefinitions,	and	as	concluded	by	Atkinson	and	Hopwood	(2013),	kin-based	communal	governance	has	provided	the	resolutions	to	the	majority	of	them.	The	strictness	then,	works	towards	re-establishing	a	functional,	participatory	morality	of	relatedness,	and	the	attending	systems	of	kin-based	communal	governance,	partially	through	what	James	C.	Scott	describes	as	“legibility”	(1999).	Scott	describes	legibility	as	practices	aimed	at	establishing	social	control	and	authority,	and	I	believe	that	the	“narrowing	definitions	of	belonging”,	or	a	return	to	the	stricter	genealogical	factors	(descent)	of	land	tenure	is	aimed	at	addressing	the	dis-order	from	the	war	and	displacement	years	in	rural	Acoli.	As	such,	they	can	be	viewed	as	practices	aimed	at	re-elaborating	relatedness,	of	making	home	living	again,	and	of	performing	social	repair.	I	will	explore	this	notion	particularly	in	Chapter	5	in	the	                                                107	With	the	extreme	poverty	of	the	displacement	years,	some	desperately	want	to	sell	their	land	claims,