When I step into the field, I am not holding anything. My hands are empty, must be empty. I am showing up to the full with my empty hands and my beating heart. The bird in my chest, sometimes the butterfly wings in my stomach, the tingling of hands, body alive. I show...

Women are medicine 2022 reflections Undine Whande April 2022   She comes home with the smell of fire in her blanket, A whiff of wild lingering under her skin, A deep laugh that seems to come from afar, A sliver of new moon under her toenails, Some sand in her hair,...

The throne is broken The fancy hat no longer fancy The bone has been taken back into the earth The vulture has cracked A single thread, so finely woven Gleams in the sunlight Do you see? I ask: Where have the frogs gone, during the drought? I walk on, invited by the...

When we forget, we remember
The movement is cyclical, yet evolutionary
Spiralling, spiralling
We are remembering right now who we are
Destiny and contract

SA Lockdown Week 1 – what makes me feel alone at this time is how all around people are succumbing to fear. Calling this a period of social distancing (rather than physical distancing) has been an unfortunate choice of words.

Longing to belong This writing is an example of what we learned from a particular constellations process in 2017 when we explored the theme of “Belonging”: There is a deep longing at the heart of be-longing, which is the longing to be, just to be, but fully. To be...

Thinking about Spirituality, Scepticism and Social Change A reflection by Undine Whande and Rebecca Freeth, 2014 Rebecca I am, at heart, a sceptic.  As the daughter of an Anglican minister, I have long considered it my duty. It used to be quite cool and interesting to...

Stories of the war, we never actually met. He died in 1955. What do I know of you?

Unrelenting Kampala traffic, people, boda bodas, matatus, bicycles with heavy loads, building materials mostly, a heaving and roving sea of bodies around us. Where is the road to Kitgum? Inching our way forward, metal almost touching metal, bare. The open country finds us, finally.

Easy chatter is alive in the bus. Suddenly we hear the call to stop. A police road block: ‘let’s talk’, he says, entering the bus chest out, bright white uniform (why?) and black beret. ‘You, Madam and the driver.’ He points at me. ‘We’re gonna talk about the Queen’s Crown.’ Sideways on my seat, firmly glued, smiles. ‘Sure, let’s talk.’ We look at each other, an interested gaze. Eventually he sighs, steps out, points us to the Alligator Lodge for lunch. Not a day for the Queen today.

Reflections from Practice - Learning, Monitoring, and Evaluation in Transitional Justice Programmes Undine Whande,Transitional Justice Programme, Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation Introduction What makes any social-living-system work is not how...