Angry. Upset. Ashamed.
That’s all I wrote in my diary that night. A thousand other things were, and still are, whizzing through my head but those three words are still flashing in my mind.
Angry.
I’m angry. I’m angry at myself. I’m angry at myself for my poor decisions. I am angry at myself for being angry.
I am angry at the person who stole my jacket, that caused my initial anger, and led to me making an irrational decision. I’m angry that I didn’t just stay at the club. I’m angry that I didn’t get an Uber, or go home with a friend.
I’m angry at the two thugs who hurt me, stole from me.
I’m angry that I got attacked from behind and that I froze. I’m angry that I didn’t get a chance to just hand over my stuff, or did I?
I’m angry that once they got my bag they didn’t just leave me be.
I’m angry that I passed out, even if it potentially saved me from a far worse agression. I’m angry that I don’t remember everything.
I’m angry that nobody would help me. I’m angry that the one person who did help me, turned out to also be a bad person.
I am angry that I’ve had to convince friends and strangers that I was not raped. I’m angry that when people find out I wasn’t raped they think I’m overreacting.
I am angry at the Ugandan police. I am angry that this case was classed as “Simple robbery” and then ignored. I’m angry that I can picture one of the men, and know where it happened, but nobody cares. I’m angry that I will never get justice or be able to stop it happening to anyone else.
As hard as I am trying not to be, I am angry at Uganda.
Upset.
I’m upset that this has hurt me so much. I’m upset that they got my the polaroid pictures of my family: my sister and parents but also my new African family. I’m upset that they got my grandma’s charm that I kept in my purse. Ironically, I’m upset that they got the Ugandan flag pin that I had pinned on my handbag.
I’m upset that my new home, my happy place, was tainted. “The Pearl of Africa” was tarnished. Upset at how vulnerable I feel. Upset about how weak and useless I feel.
Upset that this is hanging over me, like a little grey cloud that I can’t shake. It’s like a sort of filter behind my eyes or a weird song playing in the back of my head. This constant feeling of bluh. I have no other word to describe it.
I’m upset that this feeling comes after such a high. That I felt happier than I ever had and that this joy was taken away from me.
I had not foreseen coming home and being asked about Uganda to be painful. That instead of talking about the people, the birds, the trees, the organized chaos I loved so much, all that I can think about is the fear, the hurt, the corruption. That is upsets and almost annoys me when people ask me about Uganda. I’m upset that this has hurt my parents so much.
Ashamed.
I’m ashamed that this happened to me. I’m ashamed that I ever passed judgement on anyone who didn’t just hand over there stuff when getting mugged. I’m ashamed that I cried for two days straight. I’m ashamed that I didn’t get the number plates. I’m ashamed that I am blanking my friend’s in Uganda cause they remind me of it. I’m ashamed that this has hurt me so much. I’m ashamed that a month has passed and I’m not over it yet. I’m ashamed that I’m making such a big deal out of this.
I know that anger won’t get me justice, revenge or harm anyone but myself.
Fear is not going to stop it happening to anyone else, or to me, again.
It makes me sad to think that we live in a world where being mugged, being strangled, punched in the face and thrown in a ditch, doesn’t shock people. That close to every person I’ve told has a similar story to tell about themselves or a friend.
I defended the boda (moto-taxi) drivers, enjoyed exchanging with them and hearing their stories. I was so comfortable, happy and at home in Uganda that I let my guard down. I made an error of judgement, a split second decision that ended in a lot pain.
Now the bruises are gone and I naively thought that these feelings would fade with them. Apparently it’s not that easy. I thought I was past it in a couple of days but it crept back up on me. PTSD they call it, I hate that.
I feel sorry for the hundreds thousands, millions? of other people this happens to. I was lucky, really lucky. I feel for the people who are less lucky. I am frustrated for those that this happens to in countries like Uganda where the corrupt police not only do nothing but make the whole experience worse.
This will not stop me travelling alone or encouraging others to travel. Hopefully in the long run I will erase this and get back to only remembering the good. I want to be able to speak of how wonderful Uganda is. I want to go back to being the me I was over there. I want to share what I learnt from my time there, from the people and the culture.
I will get past this. I will return to Uganda. I will ride on bodas.
I will let go of the anger, find happiness and ban the shame.
I will not let them tarnish this pearl.
