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As a longtime local industry struggles under a sea of regulations, two photographers document the families who have lived off the water for generations.
Although they grew up decades apart, both Kuntz and Israel were drawn to a similar subject: the small-scale commercial fishermen who search for seafood in the Long Island Sound, using essentially the same techniques their families have for centuries.
As these fishing families dwindle in the face of environmental regulation and competition from big business, Kuntz and Israel share their memories from many mornings out at sea. Photo by Tara Israel A few miles west of the big commercial fishing docks in Montauk you will find the baymen of East Hampton.
Working in small crews, sometimes even individually, these families have been fishing the waters of their ancestors for nearly years, using the same methods that were passed to the early European settlers by Native Americans. The same few crews, usually comprised of fishermen and a few women who are related to each other, set pound traps out in the bay, while a smaller number haul nets out of the ocean.
Others catch scallops by hanging dredges metal baskets over the side of small boats, then pulling the dredges in by hand and separating the scallops from seaweed and other unwanted items. They will go quiet for a while and point at something with a smile. I will look to where they are pointing, sometimes on the horizon, other times a few feet away. I never see what they are pointing at.
I just smile and nod. I rarely find what they are looking at, but even so I can identify an expression of pure bliss on the face of a fisherman who sees something they consider to be remarkable.
I first met Calvin Lester in when I was eight years old and Calvin was ten. This was the year that began my incredible thirty-six year journey as a commercial fisherman on Eastern Long Island. Although I continued to work with these men on and off for four decades, I was looking for a way out as early as August , when then-Governor Mario Cuomo, prodded primarily by sport fishermen , signed a striped bass bill that aimed to reverse a decline in bass population by increasing the minimum size of fish that could be caught.
Most of us feared the new law would begin to erase centuries of fishing history on Eastern Long Island. By the time this first legislation passed in , Calvin had three children of his own: Danny, ten at the time; a sister Kelly; and younger brother Paul.
However, they are never far off the radar of the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation, whose job it is to enforce the laws that many complain are enforced using outdated and faulty data.
Tara Israel:. There is a spot called Waterfence, located at the end of a long dirt road that snakes and bumps along through the woods. Eventually the woods give way to the long grass of the dunes, which gives way to the winding shoreline of Napeague Harbor. There are still a few men out in the water almost every morning, deftly maneuvering small boats into their traps, hand sorting whatever fish are caught in the nets.
Whatever is in season goes in the boat. Whatever is not to be caught that day is thrown back into the water, still alive. Paul Lester taking a smoke break while opening scallops at home in Amagansett. He lives in a house built by his father and adjacent to other commercial fishermen.
Photo by Tara Israel Compared to the big draggers, overhead is low, as is the environmental impact. The baymen grumble and shrug when the topic of the D. When New York outlawed haul seining a practice of fishing for striped bass in the ocean using a net set from the shore in the Eighties, the local crews simply started using a gill net instead of a seine.
Beyond the introduction of trucks instead of horses, and rubber overalls instead of wool pants dipped in duck grease, the simple, efficient process remains mostly the same. Doug Kuntz:. I first met the Havens family when I was eight years old. They were William, Floyd, Freddie and Lindy.
Billy Havens center, holding striped bass is placed under arrest by an officer of the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation Police during a protest of the newly imposed ban on haul seining in Billy Joel and East Hampton Town officials took part in the protest and were also arrested.
To this day, the catching of striped bass with a haul seine is against the law. Photo by Doug Kuntz They took me in at a time when my home life was less than ideal, and they fed me and treated me as one of their family.
Much time has now gone by, and all but Freddie have passed on. Growing up with them will always be close to my heart. It even trickles down to the guy who works at the gas station near where most of the fishing occurs�the baymen often give him some of their fish to express gratitude for him showing up for work so early in the morning, allowing them to fill up their trucks and boats before setting out for the day.
There may only be a few of these small crews left, but the impact on this community is great. Every few years another photographer will make their way out on the small dories with the fishermen, watching the sun come up over the quiet bay.
The photos show the constant threat of being shut down they have faced for years, but they still set out every morning. The only thing that has really changed is the style of haircut and the color of the dog waiting patiently in the truck. On July 8, , D. The Lesters were not home, and the officers confiscated fish they believed were above the legal limit, including one Kelly had planned to eat for dinner.
Kelly and Paul were also ticketed for selling shellfish illegally from a self-serve cooler. After a trial on October 26, , both charges were dropped. The Lesters continue to make their living on the water, but the highly restrictive quotas that they are forced to abide by make it increasingly difficult, if not impossible, to make a decent living. Love this Narratively story? Sign up for our Newsletter.
Send us a story tip. Follow us. As a filmmaker, I thought I could write the screenplay for my own love life. When I got lost in a hailstorm at 12, feet, searching for my ex, I realized I desperately needed a new ending. He never loved me. No food, no tent, no map. No one to blame but myself. Moonlight traces a craggy ridgeline up around me in a massive arc. The sparse lodgepole pines give way to barren rock, which means 12,foot elevation.
Thin air breeds spartan creatures � mountain lions, king snakes, bighorn sheep. Not soft-fingered writers. My body curls into the fetal position inside the soggy sleeping bag as my teeth chatter with percussive violence. The hard earth refuses to yield an inch to the curve of my hip. Even through my panicked fog, the glory catches me. The sky glitters and winks like a showgirl. The Perseid Meteor Shower should peak tonight.
But nothing falls. My compulsion started around the time my father surprised everyone by dying. I craved control over an uncontrollable world. So I began to write. Nothing can hurt the omniscient narrator.
This is a love story. Sure, emotionally lost, but also get-me-the-fuck-off-this-mountain lost. We tell ourselves stories in order to live, unless they end up killing us. I met Mountain Man at a boarding school in Ojai, California � my first job out of college.
The faculty led mandatory backpacking trips twice per year, often to a camp under Mount Langley in the Sierras. I was eager to create new memories in the wild after my last experience: a college trip in New Hampshire where we went off course. Administrators spent three days searching the White Mountains to tell me that my father had died.
Others might hold a grudge against Nature for this affront, but not me. He beamed when I told him this. Strangers tell me so on sidewalks, at cash registers, and in public bathrooms. I was just bone-crushingly lonely. I was a year-old Harvard-educated virgin with a signed copy of The Elements of Style. Mountain Man arrived my second year at the school � the hirsute love child of Ryan Gosling and Bear Grylls.
His eyes were the blue of alpine lakes, and although only 5-foot he swaggered like an NBA champ. He brewed his own kombucha, caught trout with his bare hands, and had once lived in the Sierras for 40 days and nights alone. How Biblical. I saw him for the first time at an outdoor school assembly. Mountain Man strode in from the Horse Department � sweat-stained in jeans and leather.
Blades of grass leaned toward him, hoping for the crush of his boot. News travels fast at small schools in small towns. Mountain Man introduced himself to the student body and began a tutorial on how to light a fire by rubbing sticks together and blowing on them �. Add a kitten rescue in the rewrite.
I looked across the faces in the crowd � there was a blaze all right. Even the aged school nurse and her hound had heart-eye emojis.
Plus the height difference? My desire was humiliating. Yet still! My storytelling brain sensed an opportunity of Hughesian proportions. Sexiest guy in school falls for intriguing, overlooked assistant admission officer.
I pictured him with a SoCal Lara Croft � half assassin, half sun-bunny. You know, a cool girl. Adorkable overachiever was my brand. Cool was not. My mother once punished me in high school by forbidding me to study on a Friday night. Another time, I accidentally outed my year-old sister, Sarah, for taking the family car on a joyride. Nonetheless, I had minor superpowers.
I understood narrative. I knew how to play a part. C ool Girl made no effort to meet Mountain Man for weeks. I watched from afar in the cafeteria. Mountain Man Juliet The Fishing Boat Long Island Twitter swirls up a vanilla ice cream cone and takes a sensuous bite as Cool Girl Romeo watches below, unseen. B asketball season rolled around in November. As head coach, I mentioned I could use an extra practice player. He offered with a grin. I put on my best game face, but my players, teenage girls fluent in body language, tittered on the sidelines.
As Mountain Man and I drove the team in two passenger vans to an away game one sunny afternoon, my van started to giggle. I turned to look at his, the next lane over on the highway. One of the darlings pressed a handmade sign to the window: Ms.
Both vans shrieked with laughter. I was assigned to chaperone a holiday school dance. However, it was midnight and all of the students had left, with no sign of him. He was probably out birthing a foal or eating a volcano.
A tap on my shoulder � I turned. It was him. His cerulean eyes locked with mine. Cool Girl was ready to rob a bank. I leapt up and back as he flipped all 76 inches of me, degrees, head over heels.
Adrenaline surged through my veins as I stuck the landing. Cheering friends circled around. He flipped me again. The lights came up and the music stopped.
I laid awake in bed. Time was running out. The following week, my basketball team, perennial underdogs, won a big game on a heart-stopping buzzer beater. Mountain Man and I celebrated by playing pool in the back room of a local dive bar. I matched him point for point until his final turn. The darkness enveloped my flush.
We drove to my little house where he strummed his guitar and sang a song by U2. His eyes were closed and his voice was deep. The sex was great, but what really blew my mind was the story. To be desired by the Most Desirable, I must be fucking exceptional.
As our romance progressed, he confided that he was drawn to a solitary life in nature. Again, with those eyes. He liked independent women with their own passions � but so often they changed, lost themselves. Like one college girlfriend who started showing up to watch his lacrosse practices. I doubled down on Cool Girl. I served up the fun, wild parts of myself and kept the wobbly bits hidden.
I drank whiskey without flinching, hustled darts with my opposite hand, and wore low-cut tops with black bras when we played pool. Oh, if the Teen Shakespearians could see me now! I listened for cues to up my game. We caught five mice in our decrepit apartment in the first week. Yet as long as Sarah was there, I was home. Mountain Man sent me handwritten missives and pencil sketches of my face.
He highlighted words in a pocket Spanish dictionary � amante, beso, toque. In between pages, he pressed columbine and Indian paintbrush. He included a little satchel of rocks � limestone, hornfels, mica � tiny treasures from his rambles in the high places.
It was the first time I saw him away from his other woman, the wild. I joked about the local wildlife pigeons, rats in the subway, my asshole mice roommates , but it was plain that he was lost without his true love. I could never compete. Sure, he knew how to survive in the wilderness with nothing but a pen and ball of twine, but I knew how this city worked. He waited, beaming at the agent, wafting manbrosia from 20 feet away.
He slapped a scuba certification ID onto the desk. In it his hair stuck out in all directions, his expression adorable. She laughed and waved him through. Manic Pixie Dream Boy strikes again. He gave me a winning smile and headed toward the gate, back to his mistress. Life got harder in New York. My mother, living alone in Syracuse, was hospitalized with a perforated bowel. I had just worked up my courage on a phone call to tell him how scared I was to lose her, when his surf buddy knocked on his door.
He called once a week from a landline. It sounded pathetic. There but for the grace of God, go I to the lacrosse practice. A year into dating, I visited him in Ojai. So I could either get real quick or break up with him. I chose the latter.
Or I valued the preservation of my fairy tale over the actual relationship. Or I was just damn exhausted. We went on one last backpacking trip in the Sierras. Distance was a perfect excuse. He told me how amazing I was, but I knew the truth. What a fraud. I consoled myself by expanding the story. No girl had broken up with him before! Yet, his claim of wanting to stay friends seemed genuine.
He set up times to talk on the phone during his brief interludes down from the Sierras that summer. Then he flaked every time. The dull ache in my chest tightened into something sharp. Autumn came, still I waited, hating myself for it. I worked insane hours for low wages at an environmental nonprofit run by a sociopath.
One afternoon I got a voicemail from him. But it was a pocket dial. Now he gets a cell phone?! A week later I rode the tide of commuters up from the Union Square subway station, buoyed and beaming. Another pocket dial.
In it I heard Mountain Man coaching his lacrosse team. He sounded so happy and I was so miserable. The final indignity. The dam that had held back my messy self for so long burst. Hell no. The gray-black river of indistinguishable New Yorkers streamed past me on the sidewalk. N ine years passed in New York. I wrote stories for money.
Got rejected. Wrote more. Then improved. Then worsened again. I dated a police officer, a tech entrepreneur, a newspaper man. I had pigeons in an air shaft outside my bedroom and Sarah had a dumpster full of mice outside hers. At least the vermin were outside now. So small, only I could see him. My longing, in a pocket for you. I decided to move to Los Angeles, though leaving Sarah was like leaving behind a limb.
Missing him and missing the mountains felt the same � a tug to abandon acceptable society and get dirty. I considered reaching out to him. I was stronger now � his equal, right? Maybe it could work? A narrator speaks. The lovers reunite in the wilderness.
Only now can they truly �. Mountain Man answered my email with a warmth that made my entire body blush. Their burro train would be easy to spot with Mountain Man at the helm. I let Sarah keep all of our furniture, and she helped me pack my books and wardrobe into Goldmember, my secondhand Subaru. I drove alone from New York to Los Angeles in a daze of possibility.
I was about to start telling stories for a living in the City of Angels. Who knew what might spark between Mountain Man and me under the stars? I wandered through story castles in my mind as miles of Midwestern corn flew past my window. I awoke on a bright August morning in Silver Lake. My friend Adam was letting me crash in his converted garage until I found my new home in L.
Today was the day. Butterflies danced up my thighs but Cool Girl was back and took charge. I debated the merits of cowboy hat versus baseball cap in the bathroom mirror for 20 minutes. Then I painstakingly applied no-makeup makeup: professional grade mascara, concealer, tinted SPF and bronzer � camouflage to the untrained male eye.
I hit the road late. No matter, I could make up the time on the five-hour drive. I climbed the precarious switchbacks, well-known to wilderness junkies and location scouts, into the mighty Sierras, youngest mountain range in the United States. Impossibly young, like me. I shout-sang to the radio until it fuzzed out. My ears popped as I dodged fallen rocks with one hand and called Mountain Man with the other. There were no guardrails and the road narrowed to a blind turn, above a thousand-foot drop-off.
It went to voicemail. I arrived at the sprawling parking area, dotted with dozens of trailheads. Goldmember quickly found the right one. Mountain Man and the alumni had departed. Fresh burro tracks crowded the trail. Fair enough, I was 20 minutes late. The midafternoon sky was hard and bright as a marble. I reapplied no-makeup mascara and started down the trail, recognizing trees and streams as I passed.
Cocky about my sense of direction, I stopped to meditate on a felled trunk, freebasing sunshine and alpine air. H ours later, I climbed a grueling series of switchbacks as sunlight narrowed to a thin ribbon over the saddle.
My mascara had fallen into racoon eyes. I distracted myself from my gnawing hunger by rehearsing my opening line to Mountain Man. Sweat-drenched and huffing, I made it to the saddle and looked out upon the long-shadowed wilderness. No Langley. The trusty burro tracks were still there. I scurried down the opposite slope into the gloaming. Raindrops pinged my bare arms but there was a lake up ahead that I recognized.
Just a little farther. Night ambushed me. Total blackness. I balanced my pack on a rock, hands trembling as I fumbled with an ancient headlamp mummified by duct tape. Was I shaking because of the cold or my nerves? The rain intensified. A mountain lion pounded down the ridgeline behind me, jumped with jaws wide, ready to rip into my flesh � I whipped around, hiking poles braced.
It was only the sound of my own heart, trying to beat its way out of my ears. Nausea washed over me. I knew the hypothermia risk of sleeping out in precipitation. I was at the tree line, 12,foot elevation, which meant near freezing temperatures, even in August. Is this a joke? Donner, party of one? I wandered aimlessly now.
My story mind grew emboldened. Maybe Mountain Man can hear me from here. I released a high-pitched cry into the wild dark. Then I heard it � a faint, deep voice across the lake. Relief, pure and sweet, dropped through me. I was already in that warm cabin, laughing it off�. Should I shout again? Weary, I hunkered down with my wet sleeping bag and used my dirty sneaker as a pillow.
Dankness soaked into my bones. My knee throbbed. I began sit-ups to generate body heat as hail pummeled my face. I closed my eyes for short, drowsy intervals, and opened them mechanically, as if triggered by the slow, audible click of a lever behind my ear.
The view changed a little bit each time. Hazy, no stars. Then a low, drippy moon. Then faint white pinpricks everywhere. I opened my eyes again to find a clear-eyed moon bearing down on me like an interrogation lamp. I threw myself upon its mercy. I confess. I understand the story now. I opened my eyes wide to take in thousands of stars, a dusting of cosmic sugar that extended beyond my periphery, brilliant and twinkling.
Revelation punctured my woozy delight. I shook myself upright and pinched my arm. Snap out of it, Johnson! Deep cleansing breath. I locked my eyes shut. A frantic sparrow was trapped inside my head, flying room to room, bloodying itself against every window � looking for the way out. I t was a long sleepless wait before I dared to open my eyes again. The stars were gone now, and I watched the sky change from black to indigo to pink, like a bruise healing.
I rose, quaking as a colt. Everything hurt. The muscles around my knee spasmed. My lungs worked for every breath in the oxygen-depleted air. On the far side of the lake I spied campers packing for departure. I shuffle-ran toward them, legs screaming, desperate to make it before they left. They were just below me when I realized this must be Serial Mountain Rapist and friends. My survival instincts had turned thespian.
Six grave, bearded mugs turned to face me in unison. They were hiking out today and encouraged me to join them. Their map showed that I was nine miles and 2, feet up in the wrong direction. I toed the back of the line with the eldest father.
We settled into a meditative cadence. The others got farther ahead. Misty-eyed once, when his sister died. But never cry. While Sarah and my older sister, Toby, fell apart next to me at the lectern, and my mom sobbed in her pew, I held steady. My tribute. Be cool. T he day was late back at the trailhead parking lot. Hair ratty, makeup frightful, I was downwind from the public toilets and too spent to move.
Portrait of The Uncool. He sounded pissed � his voice, low and even. The unflappable guy, flapped. He had waited for me at the correct trailhead, five minutes away, until nightfall.
State troopers were looking for me on the highways; park rangers were searching in the mountains; student workers from the camp were scouring the trails � a full-scale search-and-rescue operation.
His backpack held an emergency oxygen tank. My tongue was thick with shame. It was worse than the search for me in the White Mountains, because she knew I was alone. M ountain Man and I walked to the camp from the correct trailhead.
It took 45 minutes. I looked up at Mount Langley � eternal and unchangeable to a small human. All this hard stuff was happening. You were a real shit. Mountain Man neither possessed nor could tolerate weakness. But his real name was Gabe.
He was born in Reno with a clubfoot to parents who got divorced. He was self-conscious about his hairy back. Clean arcs resist messy details. It was a pillar of my story. But then he opened up about his own bone-crushing loneliness after his last breakup. It had been drawn out, ugly, emotional � an altogether human affair.
I felt the hurt radiating off his body. The words sat heavy in my mouth. I ached to say them, to drop the Cool Girl mask for good. Vulnerability is death. Yet lack of vulnerability is also death.
What a rotten trap! I wanted to shout back at the voice in the wilderness that had told me to shut up. I wanted to sob at the lectern. I wanted to be messy and real and loved for it all. L ater that evening, I lay snug in the open meadow under bountiful stars.
Andromeda was about to be eaten by a sea monster. Callisto was transformed into The Bear so Zeus could hide her from his wife. Virgo, daughter of Demeter, was stolen by Hades. Ancient poets and wandering minstrels flung these stories about women upon flaming balls of hydrogen and helium � so they could feel less alone in the dark night. Our toy swords against the dragon.
T he rest of the weekend was full of hikes, hammocks, and music around the campfire. What if neither of us was right? What if both of us were right? What if all the stories were true and untrue? What if we could experience the multitude of competing narratives at once � and enter the Spider-verse like a god, like Jupiter?
And his beard was gross. GABE She came back to see the mountains. W hen the time came for me to return to L. They were bringing homebrew and a yeti costume. All creatures in his gravitational orbit bent toward him. I felt the pull and leaned away. I could hold all of the stories at once, devour them in a mouthful. They swirled together in my magnificent round belly. There was no past and no future here. Nowhere else to be.
I felt my life force expanding in a primordial storm. I was the descendant of supernovas. Is he a lost soul deserving of mercy, or a cold-blooded war criminal who must face justice?
He stared at the edge of the table in front of him, holding his hands in his lap as if he was praying, visibly tense as this small woman with dark blonde hair spoke in a confident, cool, posh English accent. Mezey, a professor of psychiatry in London, was testifying because nothing was more important and more controversial in this trial than the mental state of the accused, a former child soldier.
Ongwen sat between two grim-faced guards. His skin had become lighter after more than three years in prison in Scheveningen, a suburb of The Hague. He had gained weight, but you could still see his handsome high cheekbones, square face, and a deep frown between the eyes that got deeper and deeper the longer Mezey held forth.
Ongwen listened to this psychiatrist, who had never personally met him, talk about his mental state for almost three hours. But he lost his composure shortly after lunch break. He got up. He pressed the button that turned on his microphone, got tangled up in his headphones and ripped them off his head in a quick, fluent motion.
Thank you, madam witness. But were you in the LRA? He raised his voice more and more with every sentence. The guards on his left and right jumped up and grabbed his arms. His lawyers turned around, trying to calm him down. Then the green curtain of the visitor gallery closed.
Muffled screams could be heard through the glass. And then the sound of something heavy being thrown to the floor.
The U. The warrant for his arrest was almost 10 years old. No one had expected him to turn up just like that. In the months before, his relationship with his boss had collapsed. Joseph Kony had thrown him in prison and threatened him with execution. He said that he had wandered around in the wilderness alone, for more than a month, surviving, among other things, an attack by a pack of lions.
He seemed to believe that a higher power had helped him. A cloud, he said, had guided him on his way. He was obviously happy to be alive at all. His body bore the scars of 11 bullet wounds. After eight days, the Americans brought him to a Ugandan army camp, where the officers gave him fresh clothes � a blue shirt, light trousers.
Instead, after 10 days in Obo he was extradited to The Hague. The French-American author Jonathan Littell happened to be filming a movie in Obo on the day that Ongwen was extradited. Ongwen gave him a rare minute interview before he was put on a plane. But Ongwen did reveal something in that short conversation.
This was the only thing in this world. Ten days later, on a cold January day, he appeared for the first time before a judge in The Hague. He had nervous eyes. He was wearing a suit for the first time in his life.
Someone had helped him put in a checkered tie. It is hard to imagine how strange, odd and inscrutable the world must have felt to him during those first days in The Hague: his aseptic cell, his fellow inmates and guards, none of whom spoke his language. He understood neither English nor French, only a few words in Swahili, which one other inmate spoke.
He was as alone as a person can be. I t was a cool morning, sunny, with a light breeze, when I visited Coorom. A few days later, the heat would return with the dry season. Fields would be scorched, streams would disappear, green would turn to yellow and brown.
A small group of huts emerged as we approached in our car, just behind a high field of sorghum only days away from harvest. The compound where Ongwen was born is a quiet place. His uncle and aunt still live there, as does one of his cousins. His relatives were polite and reserved. The compound had been swept just before I arrived.
A tall papaya tree, with big green fruits, stood in the middle. His uncle, Odong Johnson, has the same, somewhat angular face as his nephew. He is missing three teeth in the top row and four in the bottom. At 67, he looked frail, melancholy, his body transformed by a life of hard work, war, displacement and loss. Johnson told me that, when Ongwen surrendered in , they had just started arranging a funeral for him.
They had all thought he was long dead. It had taken them a long time to save enough money for the burial. As a boy, Ongwen had been the best in his school of more than a hundred children, Johnson said.
He had always learned quickly and easily. And he had been eager to please. He never complained about his household chores: fetching water from the river half a mile away, tethering the goats in the evening, lighting the fire for the night. Ongwen often stayed overnight with his grandfather, who lived in a hut surrounded by mango, banana and orange trees a short distance away from the others. In the evenings by the fire, Ongwen told jokes and riddles that his uncle still remembered more than three decades later.
They fought for the losing side. Thousands of defeated Acholi soldiers fled north, trying to hide in their home villages. Ongwen was about 8 years old when the war arrived in his district. Acholi land was enemy territory for the soldiers from the south, and they behaved accordingly. Hundreds were summarily executed. As a reaction to the violence from the government troops, several rebel groups emerged.
Their founder, Joseph Kony, was an ajwaka , a witch doctor. Spirit worship remains widespread in northern Uganda to this day. Witch doctors get in touch with an invisible, transcendent world, which often serves to explain what cannot be explained: illnesses, deaths, bad harvests. The Acholi also believe that spirits haunt those who have killed. They call this phenomenon, which we might describe as post-traumatic stress disorder, cen. Kony, however, invented spiritual beliefs and practices that went far beyond Acholi tradition.
He claimed to be in contact with powerful new spirits. When Kony communicated with these spirits, he went into a trance. His voice changed. The ghosts, he said, ordered him to overthrow the government. They were ghosts for a rebel leader. Kony left his home village, Odek, in spring , with only a handful of followers. The soldiers taught this strange new prophet how to wage a guerrilla war.
The LRA became a hybrid between an army and a religious cult. What the LRA lacked, initially, were soldiers. Too few volunteered. The belief system of the LRA was too foreign, too strange, too radical to attract widespread support. So Kony soon reverted to an old strategy, one that had been used in the civil war in Angola, by other military groups that lacked public support: He started kidnapping children.
Children were more malleable than adults. When I visited his home, the table in his hut had been set with an embroidered white blanket. A Bible lay open on top.
The worn pages and frayed seams suggested that it had been read over and over again. Kakanyero had been reading the Gospel of John, the pages about the first appearance of Jesus Christ.
They had guns. They ordered us to follow them into the bush. Their school uniforms, the white shirt, the dark blue trousers, were torn up by tree branches, bushes and thorns.
In the evening, the rebels smeared shea butter, a creamy, light oil, on their chest and back, he recalled. They had been told the paste was sacred.
In the LRA, many believed that shea butter, mixed with water, protected them from material and metaphysical threats alike �bullets and evil spirits. At some point in the first three days, the rebels caught an abductee who had tried to escape.
Kakanyero remembered the total silence afterward. Three and a half months later, the cousins were separated by the LRA. Kakanyero said that he managed to escape from the rebel group after four years.
The two cousins would only see each other again more than three decades later, in , in a courtroom in The Hague. T he International Criminal Court was established on July 1, , and its very first warrant of arrest, in , was for five LRA commanders.
Of those five, only two are still alive: Kony and Ongwen. Once he was in The Hague, the prosecutors charged him with 70 counts of war crimes and crimes against humanity. The charges included murder, torture, robbery, kidnapping of children and adults to turn them into soldiers, crimes against human dignity, and rape and enslavement of young women and girls.
The list of charges is so long that it took the court clerk more than 26 minutes to read them out at the beginning of the trial. Bad childhood experiences alone, though, no matter how horrific, would not be enough to spare him. He is the only former child abductee who has ever been tried in the International Criminal Court. O n the day that Ongwen was taken, his mother was killed, according to his uncle and aunt.
She had run after the rebels to reclaim her child, they told me. The family tried to hold her back, but she could not be dissuaded. The next morning, the family found her body on the riverbank. She had been beaten to death with bricks. Ongwen found out about their deaths, at the very latest, a year after his abduction when one of his cousins, Lily Atong, who was slightly younger than him, was also kidnapped.
They met and she told him everything. He may have already suspected it, but at this moment it fully dawned on him that he was an orphan, hardly 10 years old, completely abandoned in a cruel, indifferent world that did not seem to care whether he lived or died.
Achellam walks with a limp, the result of an old bullet wound. He is tall, thin, and straight as a stick. He speaks English with a slight lisp, which makes him seem more innocent than he is. Achellam was for a long time the third in command in the LRA, their chief diplomat and organizer.
In he surrendered to the Ugandan army. He has never been indicted by the International Criminal Court. Instead, he received amnesty from the Ugandan government. In recent years, he has been living in a small village just outside of Gulu, the largest city in northern Uganda. Good for Couples.
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