Central Police Station

Because I’d been here before and had done such extensive research on Northern Uganda in the course of the last 2 years, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I would learn during this research stint. Don’t get me wrong, I knew that living here for 4 months would open my eyes to a deeper understanding of the circumstances that led and forced nearly 2 million people into 20+ years of oppression, yet I can’t believe how much this trip has enriched my knowledge of the country and the dynamics that make Uganda how it is. I feel that living in Kampala has forced me to look at the conflict in the North in the context of Uganda as a whole. And while I can’t wait to move to Gulu and get in the field, the entirety of Uganda is need of healing, restoration, and reconciliation. And traveling to places other than the North has allowed me to sympathize with the different wounds from which all corners of the country are suffering.

YOU’RE MESSING WITH THE WRONG MZUNGUS
Unfortunately, Holly’s ipod was stolen in the Old City taxi park on Monday night while we waited for a taxi to take us back to Kisaasi. Tuesday afternoon, after a morning meeting with the Pincer Group and committee meetings at Parliament, we went to the Central Police Station (CPS) in Kampala to file a police report. In order for insurance to kick in and cover the theft, Holly needed a written statement from the authorities saying she’d reported the crime.

Holly and I (Ben was with Vincent) walked into the building and a woman at the enquiry desk directed us across the room to speak with someone. We found a woman, not in uniform, sitting with a couple at a picnic table. We thought it was a waiting room, and after motioning to the enquiry desk woman that no one was there, the woman not in uniform asked us what we needed.

Apparently, this was who we were to file the report with. It took her, no exaggeration, about 5 minutes of sllooooowly shuffling through disorganized papers to find a blank sheet of ruled notebook paper in which to document our crime. We tried explaining that we needed something official for our insurance, but she didn’t seem to understand.

After some time of her asking irrelevant questions, she handed Holly a piece of paper telling her that she needed to take it across the street to make copies if she wanted something to take with her for insurance. Holly and I looked at each other in disbelief and Holly asked for clarification. The woman repeated that Holly needed to go make 2 copies of the form, one for us and one for the police station, if we wanted a report made. At this point, I decided that I had had enough and was not about to get taken advantage of even at the police station. So I did the first thing I thought of, I asked to speak to her supervisor.

Most (everyone I have seen) in the Uganda military or police force do not wear name badges or forms of identification, so it is impossible to know who the person is unless someone will tell you. This woman wouldn’t give us her name or the name of her supervisor. At about that time in the struggle, an officer in uniform walked in with two young guys who had had a phone stolen. The woman tried to get Holly to return the form so that the men could go make copies. When we refused to give her back the form until she would take us to her supervisor, the officer started to question her in Lugandan about what was going on. He reached into his pocket and gave her 500 shillings and told her to go across the street and make copies for us. He calmed us down momentarily because he said the supervisor was on his way to meet us. (He never came.)

Before the woman came back with the copies, I had already whipped out my notebook and started writing down everything that had happened. We finally got a letterhead report of the incident and got the name of the woman. She sent us upstairs to the Human Resource office when we still asked to speak to the supervisor. In an attempt to find his office, we saw a prisoner lying on the floor moaning as if he had just been beaten. A man ordered us to go upstairs.

The human resource officer quickly took us downstairs to the DPC (District Police Chief?) once he saw how upset we were. The DPC was extremely rude and wouldn’t stop interrupting us. At one point I asked him, “Can we please talk because you keep interrupting us.” He looked like he wanted to shoot me. There was a fire that he rushed out for and when we asked for his name, he wouldn’t give it to us. He said to come back tomorrow to continue talking. I got his name from a woman at the enquiry desk. She was the only helpful one in the whole building.

During the course of the altercation, Holly and I told people that we were interns at Parliament and we would make sure that they knew of our experiences. In fact, I’m on the Committee on Defence and Internal Affairs that handles the Ugandan police force. It was shocking that the central police station for all of Kampala, the capital of the country, did not have the paperwork to document crimes. I kept asking people, “What if we were raped? Or what if we had been physically assaulted? You mean to tell me that in order to report my crime I would first have to walk across the street and make copies of your blank form?” And every time, they said yes. Whether it’s a matter of underfunding or corruption of finances, I find that inexcusable. Especially when there were signs posted all over the building saying explicitly that no person should pay for ANY police service and to report corruption immediately. How do you report corruption when no one will tell you their name or take you to a supervisor?


Experiences such as the one above give me insight into what Ugandans have to go through in order to achieve justice. And while it’s not an attack by a rebel army, or a violent act on one’s person, even going to report a theft is inefficient and frustrating for the people of Uganda. Forget receiving a successful investigation to solve a crime, just telling the police force that a crime has happened is a dead end.