Ik community in Karamoja Climb Trees to search for Network.

IK county member of parliament, Hilary Lokwang during the meeting

By Richard Onapatum Kaabong, Uganda – In the shadow of Mount Morungole, where the wind carries silence more often than signal, a teenage boy climbs a tree with one hand clutching a Nokia phone and the other gripping a branch. His name is Lojore. His destination is not adventure—it’s connectivity.

Every day, young people in Uganda’s most remote district ascend trees, scale boulders, or hike ridgelines in search of something most Ugandans take for granted: a mobile network.

Welcome to Ik County, a stunningly beautiful yet digitally invisible corner of northeastern Uganda. Here, life moves to rhythms of survival, not notification tones. There is no mobile network, no telecom mast, no internet, no mobile money infrastructure—nothing but air between this indigenous community and the rest of the nation.

“We live like ghosts in our own country,” says Hon. Hillary Lokwang, Member of Parliament for Ik County. “No voice, no visibility, no help. It’s not just a matter of convenience—it’s life or death.”

When Signal Is a Lifeline

The Ik, one of Uganda’s smallest and most marginalized ethnic groups, number fewer than 10,000. They occupy the mountainous corridor bordering Kenya and South Sudan, where access to healthcare, education, and markets has always been a challenge. But in the digital age, their total lack of network access has turned geographic isolation into existential vulnerability.

“A woman can bleed to death during childbirth and we cannot call for help,” says Angela Akol, a youth leader from Kamion Sub-county. “Children get sick, and we walk hours for help that may never come. This isn’t just a technology issue—it’s a humanitarian crisis.”

In a region plagued by insecurity—from cross-border cattle raids to sudden health emergencies—the inability to make a single phone call can be the difference between safety and tragedy.

A Generation in the Trees

At Ik Seed Secondary School, education meets a daily obstacle. Teachers hike with smartphones and modems, holding them skyward like digital dowsing rods. Students climb trees to upload coursework to the Uganda National Examinations Board (UNEB) portals. It’s not a metaphor—it’s a routine.

“We call it ‘network hunting,’” says Samuel Lokwang, a teacher. “You climb, you wait. Sometimes it takes hours just to submit a form. Other times, the signal never comes.”

For a government that touts e-learning and online exams as the future, the Ik are being left far behind. While urban schools embrace digital classrooms, Ik learners scratch notes on blackboards and miss scholarship deadlines they never knew existed.

Economically Trapped

The absence of network infrastructure also severs Ik County from Uganda’s mobile money economy. Across the country, boda riders, market vendors, and farmers transact with ease through their phones. But in Kamion or Lokwakaramoe, cash is king—and even that is .

“Women here cannot access mobile banking, cannot report domestic violence, cannot apply for small business grants,” says Jessca Ruth Ataa, Executive Director of Nakere Rural Women Activists (NARWOA). “Digital exclusion is deepening gender inequality.”

Smallholder farmers cannot receive payments. Local traders are confined to barter or long-distance cash transactions. Development programs that rely on mobile platforms skip Ik altogether. For a community trying to climb out of poverty, the network void is a trapdoor.

Security in the Silence

Ik County’s geopolitical location—nestled between the restive borders of South Sudan and Kenya—makes it a frontline in Uganda’s fight against cross-border cattle rustling. Yet without communication tools, the community remains defenseless.

“By the time word of a raid reaches security forces, it’s too late,” says Lokiru Lomilo, a local elder. “The livestock is gone. The homes are burned. And we are left to pick up the pieces.”

Security teams stationed in the region still use outdated radio systems and foot messengers. During emergencies, help may arrive days later—if at all.

A Leader’s Loneliness

Since his election in 2016, MP Hillary Lokwang has made connectivity his rallying cry. He has knocked on ministry doors, lobbied telecom giants, and presented formal requests in Parliament.

“I’ve done everything within my power—Cabinet petitions, site visits, feasibility reports,” he says. “But every time, it ends the same: ‘We’ll look into it.’ No mast. No timeline. Just hope.”

Lokwang has watched as mast after mast is installed in better-connected regions while the Ik remain invisible on telecom maps. Yet he remains hopeful, even if the path forward is unclear.

“One mast. Just one,” he says, pausing. “That’s all we’re asking for.”

The Meeting That Echoed

Recently, a multi-stakeholder meeting at Ik Seed Secondary School brought together leaders, elders, civil society groups, and government officials. What began as a technical forum quickly became a plea from a forgotten people.

Proposals emerged:

A solar-powered telecom mast in a central location

Satellite internet hotspots at schools and health centers

Digital literacy programs for youth

Partnerships with MTN, Airtel, and UTL to extend rural reach

But for now, they remain just that—proposals. There is no confirmed rollout, no funding commitment, and no official roadmap.

A Question of Rights

The Ugandan government’s Digital Uganda Vision aims to transform the nation through technology. Yet this vision falters in places like Ik County, where the idea of e-governance, e-health, and online education is not futuristic—it’s fictional.

“Access to information is a constitutional right,” Lokwang says. “Without a network, we are cut off from services, opportunity, even justice. How can we talk of national unity when some citizens live in a digital dark age?”

For the Ik, digital access is not a luxury—it is dignity.

Searching the Sky

As twilight descends on Kamion, a group of teenagers clamber up a ridge. Phones raised like lanterns, they chase a flicker of signal on the wind. They are not looking for social media—they are searching for connection, for inclusion, for a country that remembers they exist.

One bar of signal can bring a voice from miles away. It can deliver exam results. It can call an ambulance. It can save a life.

And for the Ik, that single bar would mean everything.