The Teeth May Smile But the Heart Does Not Forget: Murder and Memory in Uganda

by Andrew Rice

Book Overview

From a new star of American journalism, a riveting murder mystery that reveals the forces roiling today's Africa From Rwanda to Sierra Leone, African countries recovering from tyranny and war are facing an impossible dilemma: to overlook past atrocities for the sake of peace or to seek catharsis through tribunals and truth commissions. Uganda chose the path of forgetting: after Idi Amin's reign was overthrown, the new government opted for amnesty...

• Format: Paperback
• Language: English
• ISBN: 0312429738
• ISBN13: 9780312429737
• Release Date: June 2010
• Publisher: St. Martins Press-3PL
• Length: 384 Pages
• Weight: 0.98 lbs.
• Dimensions: 1.0" x 5.4" x 8.4"

Customer Reviews

Remembering the slaughter in Uganda

Uganda featured prominently in the international news in the 1970s, during Idi Amin's reign of terror. Instability and civil war continued in the 1980s, and then for the ensuing 20 years rebels remained active in the north of the country. The story of one man's quest to bring the murderers of his father to justice is told this book. A Commission of Inquiry Into Violations of Human Rights was set up to create a record of past atrocities and recommend prosecutions, but the government ran out of enthusiasm before the Commission's task was complete, and the Commission's findings simply sit on shelves gathering dust. However, through his own investigations Duncan Laki discovered the truth behind the disappearance of his father Eliphaz Laki, and he attempted to bring to justice Idi Amin's henchmen who had murdered him. The book provides an extremely interesting and readable account of Eliphaz Laki's activities, Duncan's investigations, and the trial. Should people who have committed atrocities in the past be brought to justice, or should sleeping dogs be allowed to lie? Most Ugandans would prefer to forgive and move on, but violent offenders seem to take advantage of that attitude to commit atrocities with impunity.

Utterly Africa and Yet Too Close to Home

I picked up this book assuming it an escapist murder mystery set half a world away, but the story haunts a failed memory that resides unnervingly close to home. A beautiful country with decent people is emerging from a seven-year-fog during which its rulers claimed a mandate from God, wiretapped neighbors, tortured perceived enemies, suspended civil liberties, and invaded a non-threatening state. Later, reports sink in of how civilians and soldiers were killed on our behalf, but for reasons that remain obscure to this day. Some demand deposed leaders face justice. Others say accountability endangers the foundation of national security. Hmmm...Stop if this sounds familiar. The Teeth May Smile is set in Uganda's past, a place and time few of us knew, much less forgot. It is palpably Africa, with its Maribou Storks perched on courthouses. Yet within that era and place Rice reconstructs an all-too-familiar state of fear and anxiety, revealing how easy and tempting it is for someone to let our voice go silent, point our finger at others, shrug at wrongdoing, or nod when instructed by opinion leaders that "you know, sometimes it's better to just keep walking." Duncan Laki refused to keep walking. The story's protagonist stood fast in his quest for the truth and justice, however painful or destabilizing those words might prove. And Mr. Rice had the savvy journalistic instincts to stand behind him - never judging, but incessantly taking notes -- over seven years, from courtroom to banana farm to graveside. It would be comforting to describe Rice as merely "a superb Africa-based foreign correspondent," or label this book as "casting a fascinating light on Uganda." He is, and it does. But both go deeper. Rice serves a gripping narrative nonfiction story that manages effortlessly to strip away the superficial gauze of tribe, race, party, nationality, and geography. The Teeth May Smile holds a mirror up to the fragility of human nature, leaving the quiet courage of men like Laki, both son and father, to remind us where we might have buried our moral compass during our own national period of uncertainty, and what layers we might have to dig through to one day get it back.