I first set foot in Gulu town in northern Uganda on a chilly March evening in the year 2000. It felt strange to be coming, for the first time in my life, to a region that was my fatherland. Indeed, I had spent all the years of my life in central and southern Uganda, where my father had moved with his family because of the conflict.1 All I had heard of northern Uganda involved conflict, war, rebels, child abduction and a host of other horrifying tales. The atmosphere in Gulu town at the height of the conflict was so tense that no one dared to venture from the centre of town after dusk. The streets were deserted early in the evening as many people strived to respect the curfew that had been imposed by the Ugandan army. Gulu was congested to such an extent that up to five families were sharing a single apartment meant for a family of four. In order to avoid abduction, children — and even some adults — flocked to the town from outlying areas every night to sleep in public places such as hospital compounds, schools, municipal offices or even on the verandas of closed shops. In rural areas, the army forced the civilian population into internally displaced persons (IDP) camps. This was an attempt by the Ugandan government to cut off support to rebel soldiers.2