The Nakivale refugee settlement, in southwestern Uganda, has officially existed since 1960. Many of its residents fled the violence of surrounding regimes, including political repression in Eritrea and Burundi; some arrived during the Rwandan Genocide; Somalis fled civil war and the threats posed by Al-Shabaab. Victims of armed groups in eastern Congo number in the thousands. Over the past few weeks, in this month of April 2026, numerous convoys have arrived from transit camps. Michel is among these new arrivals. He explains how he fled the city of Beni, North Kivu, with his children after witnessing ADF massacres and fearing for their lives.

In Nakivale, a difficult labor of memory is at work. On the one hand, people struggle against images of atrocity, sounds, and pains that haunt them, threatening to overwhelm the mind. It is a constant effort of containment, preventing these memories from becoming all-consuming and keep “moving forward”. At the same time, there is an effort to remember: the faces of those who disappeared, the places once loved in the hometown, the house or business that took years to build and of which no material trace remains, not even a photograph, existing only in memory. Yes, this is an exercise in balance between spillover and retention. A struggle both to contain the flood of unbearable images and to hold onto, as best as one can, the fragile images that define a person beyond the label of a UNHCR refugee: intimate, identity-forming images that risk disappearing unless they are somehow set down, archived, preserved.

While the immediate threat of violence from armed actors may no longer be present, many people in Nakivale continue to live under conditions of survival. The situation remains extremely difficult, particularly in light of drastic funding cuts. Securing food, finding a way to pay for medical treatment or school fees… All of this is negotiated day by day. Thus, even where a degree of relative physical safety exists – in the sense of an immediate absence of armed violence –  human security, understood as a certain degree of economic and social stability, remains deeply precarious here.

Hope for resettlement to what is referred to here as the “third country” is omnipresent. Yet when one encounters people who have been here for fifteen years, that hope fades. Life in Nakivale often becomes a form of wearing exhaustion, a durative mode of living-through.¹Elizabeth A. Povinelli, Economies of Abandonment: Social Belonging and Endurance in Late Liberalism (Duke University Press, 2011). Alcohol seeps in to numb the pain. Numerous suicides take place. At the same time, churches remain packed, filled with prayers for improvement. While some attempt their chances in Uganda’s larger cities, others even return to their countries of origin with the prospect of joining an armed group.

Poetry offers a way of working with the violent materialities at the heart of the HUD project. Together with Trote Martins²Marcelle Trote Martins, « Poetic Imageries: Remembering through Poetry in Timor-Leste », International Political Sociology 20, n^o 2 (2026): olag002, https://doi.org/10.1093/ips/olag002., we argue that poetic imageries can intervene in contested regimes of witnessing, justice, and remembrance by reconfiguring perception of what is otherwise silenced, generating new associations, and resisting closure.

Let’s meet in Sudan. Not the country, but the neighborhood. To find your way in Nakivale, you have to set aside conventional international geography and attune yourself to the settlement’s internal map. Neighborhoods are named after distant homelands: New Bujumbura, New Congo, Kigali, Somali, New Goma, Sudan… arranged according to the camp’s history and its successive moments of arrival.

So, the Bottle House is in Sudan.

The Bottle House is built out of plastic bottles used as bricks, with green plaster covering the walls. What was once waste is reimagined into a structure that hosts artistic events. In a context shaped by uncertainty, it offers a place of retreat and imagination. People can pause, breathe, and develop mutual care. It is here that the poetry workshop “Time and Everyday Life: Waiting, Anticipation, Imagining” took place, co-organized by Nora Doukkali (member of the HUD project), Peter Kagayi and Mitch Isabirye (Kitara Nation), and Albert Mesi (Opportunigee). The workshop was an invitation to enter time differently: to feel it, stretch it, and listen to how it shapes everyday life, especially in conditions defined by waiting.

The sun is not even ready, but we are already in line,
Standing like tired prayers, hoping today we shine.
In this queue, long like a dream that grew,
Someone whispers soft: Je, is it true tutapata chakula?

Dust on our feet, but fire in our view,
Empty stomachs speaking louder than the morning dew.
We move one step… then everybody moves too,
Like survival has a rhythm only the hungry knew.
Usinisukume bana, be calm, be cool,
Because even in hunger, we still follow a rule.

Time stretches slow like something hard to chew,
Minutes feel heavy… like the weight we push through.
A man scratches his head, “Why am I here, what’s the clue?”
A voice behind cuts through: Ulikuja kuona watu, not food for you.
And laughter breaks tension, even if just for a while,
Pain steps aside… replaced by a fragile smile.

Unatoka wapi? – Where you from, what’s your view?
Home is Nakivale now… maisha ndiyo issue.
Borders were crossed, not by choice but by force,
Life drew a line… and we followed its course.
Two strangers connect like skies turning blue,
In a place with no network… but hearts breaking through.

Simu haina signal, but souls still link,
Tuko connected bro, more than you think.
No data, no bundles, but stories are true,
Every face in this line holds something it went through.
This line feels like a group of pressure and strain,
Yet hope keeps typing… again and again.

A child starts singing, Njaa toka, hatukutaki you!
Mama atakuja soon, with unga to renew.
Tiny feet dancing on a ground cracked and dry,
Still laughing at hunger… still asking it why.
The line becomes rhythm, every stomach joins too,
A choir of survival… raw but true.

Excerpt from Juru Finger Line
By Van-vick Vanido

After collectively drafting a “constitution” a set of guiding principles for the eight-day journey a group of fifteen poets began a shared exploration of language and experience. Through exercises such as responding to “What are you waiting for?” walking through the settlement to observe moments of suspension, and writing collectively, poetry emerged not as an individual act, but as a shared rhythm of attention.

By the end, around eighty poems had been written. They revolved around rhythm, time, and the (de)synchronizations that shape life in Nakivale. In one exercise, participants brought objects that represented waiting. One participant held up a flashlight and said: “With the lack of electricity, I have been living in the dark for years, so the waiting for light is central.” In that moment, the object became a condensed life: a history of darkness, and a hope for light that has not yet arrived.

Other poems moved through the long lines of distribution points, where time behaves unpredictably. There is tension, sometimes the feeling of being too early or too late, but never aligned. Time stretches, breaks, and refuses to stay still. It is no longer measured; it is endured.

Some of the most intimate poems turned toward separation. In displacement, waiting often becomes waiting for loved ones. One participant wrote to a child yet to be born, as his pregnant wife has been resettled in Canada.

After the workshop, over a glass of sweet milk, one poet, Asaph, shared his story. He arrived in Nakivale at the age of eleven with his older brother, after witnessing the killing of his family in Congo. Eventually, he found himself alone, had to find ways to survive. Spoken word poetry became central to him, voice could return to the body. Poetry enabled to create a sense of belonging, in a place where relationships are the first safety net.

As many participants reflected, poetry carries a healing force. But healing is never simple. To write and perform is to expose one to bring what is hidden into language. This can be painful, but it can also open space for understanding, release, and transformation. For this reason, the workshop also included access to a psychologist for anyone who needed support. This decision acknowledged something essential: that artistic creation and emotional care must exist together, especially where personal histories carry deep trauma.

One of the most transformative skills cultivated during the workshop was the art of revision: learning how to refine one’s own poems, as well as those of others, through collective dialogue. What emerged clearly is that writing does not end with inspiration; it deepens through attention. A powerful poem is rarely born in a single moment. It is patiently shaped and reshaped.

As Peter Kagayi expressed:
“Language is your clay as a writer. You have to use it to your advantage to mold the structures of thought.”

This understanding reframed writing as a process. Words are not fixed, they can be stretched, removed, softened, sharpened until they carry meaning with greater precision and resonance. To approach this process, we explored three key phases of revision. The first, diction, focused on the careful choice of words. Participants experimented with removing or replacing a single word and observing how the meaning of a poem could shift sometimes subtly, sometimes entirely. The second phase engaged with sound: rhyme, choice of syllables. The third phase centered on rhythm: the pace and movement of a poem as it unfolds.

These dimensions became particularly significant in poems dealing with time, waiting, and anticipation. In such themes, meaning often lies as much in silence, pauses, and repetition as in words themselves. A poem about waiting, for instance, must sometimes feel like waiting slow, suspended, unresolved.

Editing is an ethical and political practice. While it is a profession with its own expertise, it remains crucial that writers do not relinquish full control of their work. To understand the language of editing, to engage in dialogue with editors, to negotiate changes and, importantly, to refuse certain interventions is to assert ownership over one’s voice.

This became especially visible in discussions around what is often labeled “broken English.” For some participants, this label carries a weight that can diminish confidence. It suggests inadequacy, a failure to meet a standard. And yet, within the workshop, a different perspective emerged.

What if “broken English” is not a weakness, but a form of truth?

Several participants began to explore writing deliberately in this mode not as limitation, but as expression. The so-called “brokenness” of language can reflect fractured journeys, interrupted education, migration, and layered identities. It carries rhythm, texture, and authenticity that standardized language sometimes erases. In this sense, language does not need to be perfect to be powerful. It needs to be honest.

Choosing how to write and in which form becomes an act of self-definition. It is about learning how to stand inside one’s language to protect it, to transform it, and to let it speak on its own terms.

These reflections are now being put into practice as we move into the editing phase of the poetry collection. This stage is marked by ongoing exchanges between Kampala and Nakivale, where poems travel back and forth, evolving through conversation. Structure, layout, and sequencing are being carefully shaped not only to organize the book, but to create a collective narrative that holds multiple voices together without flattening their differences.

The book, whose publication is planned for September 2026, is a pedagogical tool through which participants will explore how their work can circulate, reach audiences, and generate value.

The workshop also aimed to develop literary entrepreneurship. While poets are often imagined as distant from practical realities, the situation in Nakivale reveals the opposite. Across the settlement, writing collectives have emerged. Groups such as Tiba Ink, along with other refugee-led initiatives sustain artistic practices despite extremely limited resources. Within Tiba Ink, led by Kevin (aka IKKAD5) and Asaph (Gwaljos the Poet), members regularly organize writers’ picnics gatherings that take them into the surrounding hills, away from the density of the settlement. One member described the simple yet profound pleasure of gaining altitude of looking down and seeing the settlement shrink beneath them. From that distance, even briefly, space opens up. Perspective shifts and they plan for their next activities. In Nakivale, sustaining poetry requires ingenuity, pragmatism, and a constant negotiation with material realities. When survival itself is an everyday concern, making space for art becomes an act of resistance.

The workshop, therefore, was not about introducing something entirely new. It was about recognizing and building upon what already exists: the literary entrepreneurship practices and networks that poets in Nakivale have already developed. From there, dedicated sessions during the workshop sought to explore ways through which poetry might also become a source of livelihood.

Throughout the sessions, participants engaged with practical and critical questions: How can one archive their poetry in contexts where material resources are scarce? How can authors assert ownership over their work? Which platforms can be used strategically to reach wider audiences without losing control over one’s voice?

These questions are deeply political. To archive is to refuse disappearance. To claim copyright is to assert authorship in a world that often overlooks or appropriates marginalized voices. To build an audience is not only to seek recognition, but to create a space where one’s words can circulate, resonate, and matter.

This is also why the question of compensation could not be ignored and was part of the design of the workshop from the beginning. If we take both ethics and literary entrepreneurship seriously, then participants’ time, knowledge, and creative labor must be recognized as valuable. Too often, workshops, especially in humanitarian contexts,  rely on the unpaid contributions of those whose lived experiences are treated as raw material.

To pay participants is to acknowledges that poetry is work. It affirms that creativity, even when born out of hardship, should not be expected to exist outside of economic recognition. More importantly, it disrupts a long-standing dynamic in which those closest to the realities being explored are the least compensated for articulating them.

Fair compensation, then, becomes part of the ecosystem of literary entrepreneurship. It allows poets not only to survive, but to continue creating with dignity.

Umh eeh mazima, Umh eeh mazima!
My head, my head has become a hardware shop
With coinky pointy hair like nails builders buy
them as nails
My hands, my hands have became rubbish pit
kasasiro
Because they pick only polythenes
Until I labeled a notice on my arm saying
Throw kasasiro on me and the fine is 200 matoke
and 100 beans

That means,
Only my belly can explain the weight of my hunger
Am an old man but people call me younger
People sitting next to me say I smell like a boiled salamander
Am not a Jamaican Jerk coz I don’t smoke Juju, I smoke Jacaranda

Hey before you call me a fool, make me full
I mean before you say am mad, buy me food
Am not a mad man, instead am a man made from mud

I played a match with life until it gave me yellow cards
But am glad, am alive it hasn’t yet given me a red card
Do you know where I come from, do you know?
I come from a village of witches and warlocks

Who bought watches and clocks
Coz they respect time for their jobs
When they say you die today
Ablackdabrah, you can’t die tomorrow.

Excerpt from Wise Fool
by IKKAD5

Power is Back, Come to the Studio

Some of the poems written and performed during the workshop are now being recorded. We chose to record in one of Nakivale’s studios. Recording is an exercise in patience and adaptation to the rhythms of infrastructure.

We wait for a message from Eric, the studio manager, telling us whether we can go. Electricity has returned to his home. Power arrives unpredictably, like a brief opening. Tonight, the signal comes: the current is stable.

We gather at dusk near the Anglican church, a familiar landmark. From there, Eric leads the way through narrow paths, winding between houses. At some point, he gestures toward what seems like an uninhabited house. We step inside, uncertain at first, and move through several rooms swallowed in darkness, our feet carefully navigating scattered wood and uneven ground.

Then, we arrive. The studio is hidden within still-damp earthen walls; it is the rainy season. It is simple, almost fragile, yet entirely alive. Two small rooms define the space: one holds a sofa, two guitars, a keyboard, and recording equipment; the other, separated by a glass window, contains an upright microphone.

There is no acoustic foam, no polished insulation, but curtains and mattresses pressed against the walls. And yet, nothing feels missing. The space absorbs sound differently, more softly, as if the walls themselves are listening. The studio, like the Bottle House, is a place of transformation. From mud bricks and equipment brought here “slowly slowly” emerges a trace that will travel beyond the settlement.

The recordings made here will become part of a short film, extending these voices into a visual narrative. They will also be featured in an upcoming temporary exhibition at the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Museum in Geneva.

Yet what matters most is not only where these voices will go, but how they were made.

In the waiting for electricity, in the walk through darkness, in the presence of others just beyond the glass, the poems are shaped once again. Not only by the poets who wrote them, but by the conditions that hold them.