The compound were I reside is secure--at least it feels secure--with walls over a foot thick and almost 10 feet high. On top of the front wall are broken bottles, secured in cement, their jagged edges sticking up in the sky, Coke and Pepsi side-by-side forming a protective barrier. Atop the side walls, razor wire, loop upon loop of nastiness--think Sing Sing, Bedford Women's, or any penitentiary movie you've ever seen.
However, I do not feel caged in. I know this is meant to provide us with an increase in security. I know this because the same wire circles elementary shools, hospitals, orphanages and, yes, even some churches--grim reminder of the nature of the LRA and the danger they posed.
We also have a guard house in the compound. There, just in front on a folding chair, or walking the compound is a guard armed with a sawed-off shotgun. During the 4th of July celebration, there were two walking about. No offense to the guards, but these men do little to make me feel more secure. While they bring with them no feeling of malevelance, I am not comforted.
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