Plastic packets litter the ground around here. Refuse scattered along the paths and roads is common in the camps, but some things stand out weirdly, an effect of their inorganic nature against a thoroughly natural back drop. One bears the blue insignia of Signature vodka.

Two colors predominate here: green and red. Greens vary from the pale, almost yellow grass which struggles to take root to the deep luscious hues of the tropical trees, but the red sand conquers everything else.

Humanity struggles against this order. A child rides the handle of a pump into the air. His feet flail as a friend holds the yellow jerry can steady under the tap. Half a dozen kids patiently wait their turn.

Green foliage is cleared. In its place rise brown wood stalls, gray walled huts, and bright yellow signs. In no time, the dust reclaims all of this. Even the dark skin of the proud Acholi bears the mark of the unforgiving red earth.

A gentle downward slope extends beyond the right side of the road. Far away stand three peaks. They may be quite small. It is impossible to gauge their distance or size, but their imposing presence on the otherwise unbroken horizon is majestic.

Fish lie on the table drying out in the camp's small market area. Their scales are as black as the flies that relentlessly attack the catch. The sun, as always, beats down while a woman examines the selection.

Two boys play an instrument, something like a wooden xylophone, on the edge of the camp. The happy, tropical tune cuts through the wind as he motorbike flies past.

A meter wide circle of off color bricks stand out. This small scar left by a rocket is the only sign of the toll the war took on the beautiful cathedral. Everyone has stories of the suffering they endured, although usually they are reticent to speak of it. When someone does share an experience, it is inevitably told with the air of a casual observer.

The academic tone always begets surprise when I realize that this is not a chapter from a history book but an individual's memory of personal tragedy. I have heard several of these stories since I have arrived in Gulu. Here are a few that stand out.

Dozens of boys lay sleeping in an attic. The poor ventilation is made worse by their outfits. Each child wears shoes and multiple pairs of pants. The discomfort is worth it; they will be well provisioned if stolen away by rebels before the night is over.

The football stadium is filled with young men, but no team takes to the pitch. The UPDF soldiers pull one into the locker room. They will make sure he is not an LRA sympathizer by whatever means necessary.

A family sits in their home, torn. They need to tend their crops but are gripped by terror. The fear of the unknown is embodied by one evil device, the land mine.

Gunshots ring out as the sun sets, but the girls on the floor of the church sleep well. They have become skilled at gauging the distance of the firefight. They will be safe. The rebels have found someone else to terrorize this night.

These stories come from the lucky ones. They are not among those who were abducted and forced to fight for the rebels or serve as a "wife" to one of their commanders. There is room for hope. For the first time in decades, despite poverty and oppression, children are born in a time of peace.

 If you've seen Blood Diamond, you get the basic picture. Yes, the movie was about diamonds, and the conflict here wasn't. It was set in Sierra Leone, not Uganda, but the part about madmen playing general and indoctrinating boy soldiers to torture other children and execute their own neighbors provides a decent picture of similar atrocities that took place here.