This story was written by Patricia Namutebi and originally published by Minority Africa on November 16th, 2024. This revised version is republished below as part of a content-sharing agreement. All names have been changed to protect identities.

Jane Francis never knew her father. At 15, she joined her mother for an exciting day in the city. While there, they encountered one of her mother’s friends, who exclaimed, “She really looks like you!”

“This is my sister,” her mother replied.

“My heart sank,” Francis remembers. “Later, my mom asked me to accept this because she couldn’t explain to people that I was her child.”

This left Francis in shock, but she did not press her mother for answers, as she was her only family member. It wasn’t until she turned 17 that her mother revealed the truth about her conception: She had been raped in her hostel room. Francis’ mother suspected the perpetrator was the man who rented the room next door, but he always denied it. Francis’ mother was 18 at the time.

“My mother hopes that one day she will have him arrested and a DNA test done,” Francis narrates. “She still lives in denial.”

Rape is among the most common crimes in Africa. Recent research by Equality Now highlights several obstacles survivors face in seeking justice, including insufficient legal definitions, weak law enforcement, societal rape myths, and victim-blaming. These issues prevent many cases from reaching court, with even fewer leading to convictions, enabling most perpetrators to avoid punishment. Consequently, survivors are left vulnerable, lacking both justice and the critical support services they need.

Since learning about her conception, Francis has struggled with her identity. “I do not know my father, nor do I know my clan,” she says.

I do not feel a sense of belonging. My mother says that according to our culture, it is shameful to have a child without a clan. I have to always live in disguise as her sister, she added.

She recalls an incident at school when she was asked about her surname, a name that originates from a clan:

Whenever I mention my name, I become a laughing stock as comments rise on how I have no clan. Why can’t I have my own name as I don’t belong to any clan or family?

The need to know one’s origins has never been so important as it is today in the East African country. In many Ugandan cultures, surnames are often patriarchal, reflecting the father’s lineage. They reflect ethnic, clan, and familial identities. Each ethnic group has its own naming traditions, and surnames can signify lineage, ancestry, and social status, which is crucial for social organization and relationships.

Surnames also play a crucial role in legal identification, which is essential for documentation like birth certificates, national IDs, and land ownership.

Francis often dreamed of leaving the country in search of better opportunities, hoping to start anew and create a family of her own.

Years ago, when I tried to apply for a passport at the passport office here in Uganda, my mother was told to go and get the details of my father, even if she confessed that she did not know where he was.

This requirement has changed; now, individuals do not need to provide paternal information if it is unavailable. With the creation of the National Identification and Registration Authority (NIRA) in 2015, a government entity that manages Uganda’s National Identification Register, the system has become more automated and inclusive.

Michael Muganga, the Public Relations Officer at NIRA, explains that children born from rape or unwanted pregnancies are categorized as foundlings. “At NIRA, we recognize foundlings and respect the names they identify with,” he says. The term “foundling” refers to an abandoned child and is used in official documents related to child welfare, adoption, or citizenship when the identity of the parents is unknown or they have relinquished their rights.

Muganga advises applicants to carefully review the identification form. “There is a section that says ‘father unknown.’ Any victim of rape or unwanted pregnancy should tick that box,” he explains.

However, upon examining the application form, it was found that while there is an option to select “father unknown,” allowing the form to be completed, there is no corresponding option for “mother unknown,” leaving orphans or motherless individuals without a path of recourse.

Moreover, individuals who have gone through the in-person interviews at NIRA describe a different experience. When filling out the passport application online, applicants are required to provide extensive parental details, such as clan, the mother’s maiden name, and information about their parents’ place of birth, including the village, county, and sub-county.

To verify Ugandan nationality, when asked to come for a physical interview, which also involves taking a photo and fingerprints, applicants are also asked additional questions, including those related to their mother tongue. If an applicant struggles to speak it fluently or indicates they do not speak it for various reasons, some have reported being told to bring a relative to confirm their identity.

According to Muganga, to make it easier for them to get official documents, organizations working with children of unknown parentage should carry supporting documents, like police reports, when processing identification for foundlings.

Stella Anam, director of War Victims and Children Networking (WVCN) in Northern Uganda, founded her organization to help resettle women and children affected by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) conflict, an ongoing insurgency movement against the Ugandan government that has displaced over a million people and caused over 100,000 deaths, according to United Nations’ estimates. This conflict has displaced hundreds of thousands of children and left many orphans. WVCN assists these children, many of whom cannot trace their paternity, with registration and obtaining identification documents.

One challenge the organization faces is that, despite submitting the necessary paperwork, NIRA officials still ask these children about their fathers’ identities and clans. Anam notes that while a 2023 meeting with some NIRA officials led to some improvements, the issue remains persistent.

Aciro Sandra was four years old when she learned she was born in South Sudan, where her parents were in captivity under the LRA, led by Joseph Kony. Years later, when she applied for a national ID, she hesitated to provide her father’s details.

“I was scared of using his name because of his background,” she says. Her father had gone from prisoner to LRA commander. In 2004, her family was released and settled in Gulu town, a city in Northern Uganda. Today, her documents carry her father’s details, though she lives in a new town where no one knows her father’s past.

Since returning home, victims like Sandra face stigma, gender-based violence, and rejection.

On top of that the victims, especially the children, still suffer trauma, and rejection by their clans leading to a major identity challenge, Anam adds.

One of the beneficiaries of Anam’s initiative shares her experience:

Even if I am a victim, I cannot talk about rape. It is a taboo here, I might even never get married because of that.

Francis still grapples with the trauma of her mother’s experience. She longs for a justice system in Uganda that holds perpetrators accountable and supports victims rather than shaming them.

Sometimes, when women report rape cases, they are instead accused of being promiscuous or somehow enabling the violence, which is far from the truth,” she says, her frustration evident.

Mary Nakiranda, a lawyer with FIDA Uganda, explains that there is no special law for foundlings; they are regarded as any other children. “Since these are a result of rape, families and societies have to accept them the way they are,” she says. She adds, “If victims know the identity of the responsible parties, they should report it to the police or organizations like FIDA Uganda, which can conduct DNA tests to establish parentage. The fathers will not only take responsibility but also be charged for the crime.”

Francis, meanwhile, keeps her distance from men. “I’m still haunted by my mom’s story. I don’t feel safe around men,” she admits. “My biggest fear is having children. I worry about what life would be like for them (in terms of identity).” By Minority Africa