Ricci Davis
July, 2008

On KFM Radio during April there was a huge campaign promoting AIDS. In March the AIC (AIDS Information Centre) announced via the media that door to door “HIV testing” would begin. I imagine this is what could have prompted Joint Clinical Research Council (JCRC) to compete by investing its USAID, PEPFAR (Presidential Emergency Foundation for AIDS Research) etc. funds into a similar theme.

The usual mixed messages were repeated: Testing positive is a death sentence and know your sero status. At the JCRC series of events held at a new location each week, its campaign specifically targeted children, especially children with generalised sickness. not so surprisingly the organisers sold the event on the basis that on–site testing of both children and their parents would be done free of charge. Moreover those found to be “infected” would be referred to the health clinic for free counselling and free treatment. All locations were deliberatly in slum areas.

Posters and banners on this day were attached to just about any fixed object, changing the atmosphere for the day. In general AIDS promoters openly refer to the poor as “ignorant”; inferring that they must be ignorant because they are poor. Today was no exception. The propaganda would have the near-destitute people believe that they could be “a tower of strength to their community”, simply by bringing their children to be tested. In the centre of the field a stage would be set up and prepared for activists to drive their mantras home to the audience of children. Of course all the children in the area made a bee-line to the source of the noise out of curiosity, not usually being considered worthy of entertaining. No children would be tested without a guardian’s consent, I was told.

Even so, with such a huge initiative, paid for by the American taxpayers, coming almost to the doorsteps of the poorest and most vulnerable; who among the adults would suspect that the free services offered might just be another Trojan Horse! Of the many activists I spoke to there that day proudly wearing their organisation’s T shirt with a printed caption on, none seemed to have any medical background and all were convinced that services they were promoting must be good; because they were “free”. The recorded interviews I made bore witness to who the ignorant folk really are. The question, do the tests really work? would be answered thus: “Yes, when a drop of blood is placed on the strip and the client is HIV positive you can see a colour change”. To the question, do you know the names of the brands of tests being used might be answered thus: “No, but they do use three types of tests.”

Apart from orthodox AIDS researchers agreeing that rapid tests are all unreliable it seems plainly obvious to me that if there was even one reliable “HIV test” then that one would be the one used. Globally. Except that “false–positive results can be expected with any test kit” as according to the Abbott Laboratories test kit insert. The fact of the matter still is that there is no way of distinguishing between cross reactions and real reactions on non–specific antibody tests.

One activist I interviewed, ten minutes into the conversation on the subject of reliability of tests, readily described how he, as a child, happened to test positive and his councillor at the time told him not to worry about the result. Would that be the advice given today after the climate of fear has intensified? Years later he tested again and the result was negative. I asked him how they could promote something that he knew didn’t work correctly? He minimised his own experience.

In the middle of the afternoon the HIV worshippers used their drama skills to attract several hundred attentive children of all ages to listen to the life/death mantras. Some lucky young kids were invited on stage to sport JCRC T-shirts with a mantra printed on, while mimicking the dance of the leaders imagining themselves to be stars of the day.

Asked if the free anti–HIV drugs had proved to be a success with previous treated children, the young excited activist unwittingly answered that it was not known since the program to test and treat children was still relatively new. In a moment of glee, asked if he wanted everybody in Uganda to take anti–HIV drugs he replied, “yes”. He must not have known then that the main cause of death for American AIDS patients is liver failure according to the scientific research available. Of all those interviewed none had read any of the disclaimers printed on the inserts by the manufacturers of either the tests or the drugs being promoted.

My questioning created negative attention among some employees and they became suspicious. I was then ordered by security to move away from the area where people were being tested in order to maintain patient confidentiality. Yet actual testing was conducted in the open in the middle of a public field! I did as I was told and left as the atmosphere was becoming tense.

Two Weeks Later…

I arrived with my friend Mustafa at another location primarily to film the action on the stage and to have what was addressed to the 200 strong audience of minors translated and subtitles added. There would also be time to interview activists, members of the public and even lab folk and doctors if the opportunity arose. As we arrived by bus we soon realised that the event had not yet begun because employees were still setting up the stage and tents in the field just off the main road in Natete, near Kampala. My arrival was noticed by one or two members of staff who seemed to be smiling in my direction. I ignored them and suggested to Mustafa that we head for the restaurant across the road.

We had barely sat down when two men entered, announced that they were policemen and that we were under arrest. Something about filming without permission. There was no opportunity to protest and show them that the cameras remained inside the zipped bag or that there had been nothing to film since the event had not yet begun. We were directed back across the road to the police station next to the field. We were ordered inside an office and asked to sit ourselves down. Our property was taken from us. There were other people who were not policemen inside the room too. After some minutes curious and resentful looking JCRC members closed in to assure themselves that I was indeed out of arms reach and would remain so for the duration of their “compassionate” efforts to be delivered for the day. We were informally asked basic questions about ourselves. Soon a man I suspected to be posing as a policeman sat himself down, and while ready to write, began posing a series of questions: My names, age, profession, where I had travelled in Uganda and the motive etc. After a couple of minutes I insisted on being told what I was being charged with. As I got no reply I stopped answering questions. This man gave up, left the room and I didn’t see him again.

Being denied any explanation, the hours seemed to be passing us by and I became concerned, despite reminding myself that I had done nothing illegal, my visa was still valid. Worried perhaps because of the atmosphere of concern from the JCRC employees who seemed to have more of a military aura about them than a medical one. What unnerved them all the more was my making a call from my phone to get a message to journalist Andrew Mwenda. I managed to speak to a friend of Mwenda and was told that Mwenda was interested in dropping by to investigate my misfortune.

Central Police Station

After about two hours and without warning we were taken out of the office and into a waiting police car accompanied by two CID officers and two uniformed policemen in the open back. It took us to CPS (Central Police Station) where we were taken up to the first floor and told to sit down in an office, occupied by a detective who hadn’t much to say and continued working. Mustafa and I were allowed to communicate freely. After about half an hour the door opened and a policeman ordered Mustafa to follow him. After about one hour he returned distraught pleading to both the uninterested detective and I that it be noted that he had been slapped and abused. That he had not committed a crime did not matter, because he is African and has no rights.

Next it was my turn, I knew. The door opened, a policeman ordered me to follow, we went up a floor and I entered a huge room where almost three rows of chairs were taken up by policemen of various ranks. At the far end of the room was a row of desks and behind one sat what would be the interrogator. I was seated on a bench alongside the window and between the interrogator and the audience of policemen. I was asked the same basic questions as before and although it did seem as though this might be a deliberate attempt to intimidate me I decided to conform, but as the questions continued to delve into my professional and economical history I regrettably began to sound impatient and such apparent lack of respect must only have humiliated the detective all the more. Since I knew that the questioning was going to lead them nowhere and that none of my answers would be considered acceptable it became uncomfortably clear to me that this process was going to last for some time to come. If only I had been in possession of my passport there would have been no problem, I kept being told. I was reluctant to disclose the whereabouts of it because it was at Mustafa’s home and I didn’t want to bring trouble and embarrassment to the home.

The ‘Safe’ House

Eventually it became evident that I had no choice. Maybe it would end the palaver, now that I seemed to be treated as a spy. At around 7pm, 8 hours after the initial arrest, we were taken out of the big building to a parked unmarked police car. It was twilight and what was to come next I dared not speculate. After a moment the rear door was opened and I was ordered to get in, lie down and keep my head down. A garment was thrown over my head and I was ordered not to remove it. Mustafa was put into the back of another car where he told me later he was lying on the floor with policemen’s feet kept firmly against his head and body throughout the journey to the next place. After a fifteen minute journey, once the car I was in had stopped, I was able to look up and observe that we were inside a walled compound there were black painted vehicles with no markings on and soldiers patrolling around what seemed to be a normal house. As Mustafa left his vehicle he was clearly disorientated by his head being covered by the T shirt he was still wearing only it had been pulled up and tied at the top to prevent him from seeing anything. We were kept separated and directed by different military styled personnel to different parts of the house. I lost sight of Mustafa almost immediately and realised once again that he had more to fear than I simply for being Ugandan. I was led to a detention room that was bare and the door was then locked from the outside. Nothing was said, the fact that not even a reference to being charged was now far from my mind. I was apprehensive to say the least. I could be in here a long time and nobody would know where I was, I thought. Only Mustafa knew my whereabouts. Solitary confinement ended after only ten minutes and I was taken upstairs and entered a room where there was a frightful number of soldiers and policemen. About eight in all. All standing and all looking prepared for something exciting to come. Mustafa was also there. Not appearing to be distraught but he was. This became clear as he kept repeating the words, “tell them the truth, just tell them, tell them whatever they want to know… “ I realised that what he was saying made sense and should not be questioned. The great admission had to be revealed before the squad.

“Where do you stay?”, an authoritarian voice demanded to know. I replied that I lived in Zana in Mustafa’s house and that that was where my passport was kept. among two of these standing nearby it appeared that they harboured violent tendencies and one had to be hindered from proceeding towards me. I dare not think what might have occurred had I been uncooperative. I was asked if together we could go to the home where I stayed and peruse my passport. I agreed. As if I had a choice anyway.

To Mustafa’s House

Forms had to be signed by members of the household for possessions retained by the police. After which we returned to the cars and Mustafa was taken to the safe house in Kololo and I was taken to CPS and told that I would be spending the night in jail along with strangers, suspects of whom may also have committed no crimes.

A Night in Jail

Back to the Safe House

Ricci Released, Mustafa Still Imprisoned

First he took a detailed account of what had happened from me and wrote as much down as possible and then said that the embassy would be particularly concerned about my passport being returned, but Mustafa and my property would not be their concern. I then travelled to Kibuye Police Station and reported to CID officer Tweheyo Jackson with a view of having my property and passport returned. Little did I know but this would not happen for about three weeks and was going to be like being kept on the end of a piece of string. I was told to come back the following day.

Mustafa Released

The Danish Ambassador and the Safe House

We arrived at the gate and she called him from her mobile phone to let him know that a visitor was here to see him. I was soon escorted through security and up to the ambassador’s office, where he was waiting to see me. He confirmed interest in advocating human rights, yet the slogan and “2015” logo on his T shirt, as well as the two meter high banners in the lobby,suggested otherwise, an international effort to reduce poverty, improve health and promote empowerment of women in Africa. 2015 is a Population Council sponsored ideology, known for its clandestine depopulation programs and always working closely with the Rockefeller Foundation. He told me he was known by government officials for his work on human rights and his deploring the use of “safe houses” in Uganda. He went on to say that, unlike me, he didn’t fear his correspondences and phone calls being monitored, (as my phone calls were being) that he always expressed himself openly and therefore felt no reason to be secretive. I don’t know if the one hour chat helped either of us in our different means to advocate human rights, but one thing will always stick in my mind. Since I wanted to get confirmation that the house next door was indeed being used as a “safe house” he drew a map using a page of a notepad and pen, which basically consisted of just a few lines. The name of the utility: Anti–Terrorism Task Force. I wrote this down on the same paper. I had told him that I wanted to take a photo of the entrance and he had advised me against it. Some moments later, as I was preparing to leave, I began to lean forward to reach for the paper and as I did so he reached forward to beat me to the piece of paper first, excusing that, just to be on the safe side, he would rather I didn’t take it (the evidence, but evidence of what?)

Leaving Uganda

In Summary