Generosity. The less you have, the more you give. Or so it is in Acholi land. Yet again, I’ve been completely overwhelmed by the generosity and good will I’m extended in the Acholi Quarter. Late Wednesday afternoon as I’m saying my farewells, needing to hurry so I don’t miss my flight, the women of Project Have Hope gather to wish me a safe journey. Their dancing lightens my heart. Then they serenade me with their lovely songs. A sadness overwhelms me. Saddened that I’m saying good-bye to many friends who I will not see for months. Their generosity of kindness truly touches the soul. But it does not stop there. A new song begins, and one by one, I am paraded with gifts. A beautiful basket. A wooden plaque depicting an Acholi homestead. Gifts for the twins my cousin recently baptized. Gifts for the sponsors of some of our children. And 2 wooden statues - one to represent me, a fair-skinned woman, and the other a dark-skinned man toting a fishing pole. Perhaps an allusion that I should marry an Acholi. I burst into laughter, but inside I’m filled with such strong emotions. How can people who have so little, give so much? Why do they spend money to shower me with such wonderful gifts when they need more than I’ll ever need? How is it that in this world there are so many who live in poverty, while many of us enjoy luxuries beyond their comprehension? Why can’t I do more for them?

As they begin to sing “Good-bye Karen,” my heart nearly breaks. My mind swirls with the thoughts of all I’d like to do for them: give out more loans, expand the adult literacy program, build more gardens, build them each a home, treat their medical needs … the list does not end, but the money does. And for each tear that wells in my eye and trickles down my cheek, is another hope I have for them.

By now I’m so late, I know I could easily miss my flight. Once again, I’m the American looking at my watch, keeping time, saying, “I’m sorry, but I must leave now.” As I rush to get to the airport, I pause to think about the differences in our worlds.

“Slowly by slowly,” the Acholi phrase that I so often murmur now. A far cry from my initial impatience. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still terribly impatient and want to accomplish three times more in half the time, but I’m learning that that’s not possible in the Acholi Quarter.

This trip’s purpose as been to pause and reflect on our programs. To see what’s working and what needs to be changed.

Now, more than 6 months since we built the first balcony garden, the program is really beginning to thrive. The large group of 50+ members who initially wanted gardens has become a core group of 12 women strong. Although the numbers are fewer, these women are dedicated and are working hard to make it successful. Led by Docas, they now have about 20 flourishing gardens, with spinach growing faster than they can eat it. They’ve also planted nursery gardens of onions, carrots and eggplants. Now that they’ve worked through the initial challenges, finding the best vegetables to grow that would not be eaten by worms or insects, finding adequate soil from which to build the gardens, and building a fence to prevent roaming animals from enjoying the fruits of their labor, they are ready to expand. They presented me with their idea that they’d each like to have 3 gardens, 1 from which to feed their families and 2 to use to sell the produce. Buoyed by their enthusiasm and early success, I’m helping them to fund 12 more gardens.

I spent much time this trip talking with women who have received the “high risk jumbo loans” I distributed in January. One woman, Dorine, who wanted to install a water kiosk, is experiencing man problems due to the lack of water that can be pumped that far into the Quarter. But others are doing better. Paska, who also wanted a water kisk, has a thriving business. And two women who started large-scale charcoal businesses are also doing well.

Adibo Christine, one of the hardest working women I’ve ever met, has been facing challenges with her piggery. Some unidentified animal has been stalking the Quarter at night and mauling her piglets. She needs a fence built, but lacked the funds. I bought some additional beads from her, providing her with the money to install the fence. By Saturday, it should be completed. Hopefully, by taking time to work with the women, branstorm about challenges and ceative solutions, we will help them create sustainable enterprises.

And another significant part of this trip, distributing loans to the 8 women who just graduated from the tailoring program. Together we gathered and thought of different ideas for them to create a market and income from their newly acquired skills. Now we will wait and see. Hopefully, come January, several of them will have started to develop a solid business.

Despite this progress, there is still much to do. Many more people have good business ideas and need large loans. I hope by January we can distribute several more of these jumbo loans - loans that certainly carry a large risk and will take 3 or more years to pay off, but loans that will hopefully transform their lives, at least in part, by giving them a viable way to earn money in their own community, without the dependency of foreign aid.

And the adult literacy program continues to be successful. Also in January, I’d like to be able to expand the program, reaching out to more women who would like to futher their education.

But for now these are just items on our perpetual wish list. The women are used to waiting, and I too, am learning to wait, to be patient. We cannot change things overnight. But slowly by slowly, I believe our progress will be lasting and that’s what really matters.

Many people comment to me, “You must feel so proud,” referring to the work I do in the Acholi Quarter. THat’s not how I ever feel. So long as people I know, friends, go to bed hungry, while I’m well fed, I cannot feel “proud.” However, today, I had a great feeling of “achievement,” I guess that’s the best word to describe it.

This afternoon I walked around the Quarter, giving a tour to a felow American who was visiting. As we walked around, I was welcomed and greeted by so many, many who had nt yet seen me since I returned a couple of days ago. The greetings welcomed me by name, “Kereny” in the Acholi equivalent of Karen. And the children no longer called out “muna,” (white person in Acholi), but chanted my name.

As my American friend and I continued to walk through the maze of homes and the slopes of the stone quarry, I explained the work of Project Have Hope and tried to convey the bit I know about life in the Quarter. As I spoke of the achievements of PHH and the many trials and errors that are a part of everything we do, for the first time, the work started to take shape. They weren’t just words, but something concrete, something measurable.

And as we walked further, the greetings continued. The most uplifting of it all, so many of the greetings and warmth came from people within the community who are not members of Project Have Hope, who do not benefit directly from our programs, yet still they welcome me by name and appreciate the wrk I try to do. That means so much. For that moment, as we walked, I think I felt a bit of pride, a small sense of satisfaction.

Many months have gone by since I’ve posted new entries to the blog. And in those months, much has happened. Since the dreary days of January when I questioned the point of the work I’m doing in Uganda, spring came, and new seeds of hope were planted. And as summer is upon us, so too are the full blooms of our renewed spirit.

After a harrowing winter, my spirit and commitment has been renewed and reinforced. Often it takes those bleak moments to remind us of what is important. To make us stronger. To teach us new and valuable lessons. And to motivate us to continue. Together we grow stronger. And that is how it’s been for us in the Acholi Quarter and with Project Have Hope.

We’ve learned new and better ways to work together with the singular purpose of making a difference boldly imprinted in our minds and our hearts.

Now, 2 and half years into this, I can proudly say that we’ve paid the school fees for 85 children to attend school. But the most profound success for me is the adult literacy program, which started in January, and has flourished to 32 eager students. These are just a couple of our many achievements.

Beyond these successes, are friendships that have been forged. Friendships formed through understanding and respect. Through working together, hand in hand, side by side. Always remembering to take one step forward and not worrying how big that step is.

In May, while I was back in Uganda, Aketch Rebecca, the teacher of the adult literacy class, shared with me the words of one of the students. “Thank you for taking us from nowhere to somewhere.”

Two years into this now and it’s hard for me to assess whether what I’ve done, what I’ve tried to do, counterbalances the problems caused by the work I’m doing.

A group of women that originally numbered 55, but swelled to 100 in my initial absence. Each with extraordinary needs that can never be met. Each with emotional baggage that can never be dismissed. Each living within the larger community that equally needs my help (any help, really). And each who thinks I can solve all of their problems and financial woes.

Children whispering to me that their caregiver (mother, father, aunt, grandfather …) wants to see me - just more requests for help I cannot give. Thrusted into my hands, sealed envelopes with letters:

Dear Karen,
Through this letter am kindly requesting you to assist me. Sponsor the daughter of my late brother who died in the northern insurgency. So did both parents …

More requests for assistance I can’t possibly give. Women ushering me into their homes, pleading with me for the opportunity to join the already impossibly large group of “members” I’m trying to support. Some women simply opening large bags filled with paper beads, begging me to take them with me and bring the money back on my next visit.

So many people, everyday, pulling at me, pleading for my assistance. Some outright angered by my inability to help, my standard line, “There are so many people, too many people, who need help. I am just one person, I can’t help everyone.” Angerly they reply, “But why can’t you help ME? Why can’t you just allow one more member in your group?” One more, two more, 100 more. Do they not hear the pleas that are murmured into my ear even in my sleep.

They see my white skin. They see the money I’ve brought into the community. They do not see the work that goes into raising that money. They are blind to the rising requests of their neighbors. Or perhaps, not blind to it, just pleading their own case, thinking for a multitude of reasons that I should be able to help them, if no one else.

Others are less demanding. They just want the opportunity to talk to me, to tell me their problems. One elderly man, crippled and caring for his orphaned granddaughter explains how he is now the sole provider for her and can’t pay her school fees. He implores me to help. I have no money left. I’m unable to do anything. I tell him so. Then I finish with, “I’m sorry.” How many times a day do I say ‘I’m sorry’ to the pleading faces and soundless voices of the Quarter? The elderly man doesn’t seem to mind. “At least I’ve told you my problems. Now I feel better. I know you will remember and maybe next year you can help.”

I leave his home to be ushered into another home with a similar request. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.”

And in all this, in trying to help, I face the magnitude of difficulties which come from both trying to lead a large, sprawling group and being a mzungu, a foreigner who will never be capable of administering all the polite social intricacies which are vital to them. A mass of people, entrenched in poverty, limited futures and wretched pasts, offer each other, and all outsiders, curtsies with warm, inviting handshakes. Gestures of gentility and politeness that don’t exist in my world. No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to duplicate their polite ways. I will always be the foreigner, the mzungu, that bemuses them, dispensing the lackluster, useless, notion of hope.