Thursday March 26^th

As I travel back to Uganda, my mind is on little Gerard.  I’ve been hearing mixed reports on his condition and am eager to see him again.   His photo hangs on my refrigerator as a constant reminder of his plight – the plight of thousands of nameless children like him. Back in January, he was thrust onto my radar because his condition was critical.  He was so severely malnourished that I truly wasn’t sure if he could recover.  Yes, Gerard is all I think about as I stare out the window crossing two continents to return to what feels like my second home, Uganda.

Thursday morning I arrived in the Quarter and greeted friends as I walked towards Esther’s home.  Although I was anxious to see Gerard, I knew I’d have to wait til the afternoon when he returned from school.  I got to Esther’s (Mama Oyet’s) and was welcomed by her wide, generous smile.

Hours quickly passed as we talked.  Soon, engaged thoroughly in conversation, I barely noticed little Gerard enter the house.  The sun to his back as he came through the doorway, silhouetted him, but his tiny frame easily revealed his identity.  I jumped up to give him a hug.  His body, still bony thin, but his smile, electric!  Under Esther’s care he has started to thrive.  His hair is still mostly bleached my malnutrition but rich black hair is starting to grow.  Yes, Grace had been right, I had worried too much – Gerard will be just fine.

I opened up a duffel bag, loaded with gifts just for him – an assortment of different sized clothing and shoes, a backpack for school, a pillow, and some toys, including  a bright orange plastic dinosaur.  I pushed one of the buttons on the dinosaur’s back and it roared into life.  Gerard’s eyes wide, he cuddled closer to the wall, creating more distance between him and the battery-operated curiosity.  I pushed another button on the scaly back and the dinosaur extended its massive wing-like arms and then, step by step it moved forward closer to Gerard.  Gerard squeezed his tiny body closer to the wall, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and amazement.  Soon, I coaxed Gerard from the security of the wall and he was pushing the buttons himself, watching the plastic creature abrupt into life.  This toy was certainly a splurge and I know I could have better spent $20, but sometimes, something trivial can offer a pleasant distraction and reprieve from the grind of life in the Quarter.

Friday March 27th

Ducks and hens and the human condition – how can they possibly be related.  But disturbingly, I learned today that they are.

I took my time walking around and stopping to hear the news of the people that are the Acholi Quarter.  I made my way to Akello Jennifer’s and found her outside preparing corn kernels for her popcorn business.  L Jennifer was there too.  They will both be hosts to the volunteers who will soon arrive.  I told them each a bit about the woman they will host.

Then L Jennifer spoke quiet, serious words to me.  She was worried that she could not host a volunteer.  Her husband, like too many men in the Quarter, is a drunk and often takes his anger and desperation out on his wife.

Domestic violence is a very real problem in the Quarter, and over the last 24 hours, three very drastic situations have been brought to my attention. Here, L Jennifer sat lamenting that she might not be able to invite the volunteer to her home because of her abusive husband.  Horrified, I explained to her that the volunteer being able to visit her home was not at all important, we could easily find another host, but what was important was her safety and well-being.  A volunteer is here for only a week, but she must deal with this situation indefinitely.

We talked in depth about the difficulties of separating and divorce in the Acholi culture.  It is not in the Acholi custom to separate from your husband, even an abusive one.  You are his wife, his property, and you are culturally obligated to remain so.  L Jennifer followed the Acholi way, and gathered their parents together to discuss the problem.  For about a month, the husband kept his behavior in check.  But after a month, it was the same.  Drunk, abusive, threatening. 

She sat there, trying so hard to keep the floodgate of tears closed that I thought I’d just start crying on her behalf.  She continued to explain the cultural rules that would make it impossible to separate.  After all, he gave her parents some money, a duck and a hen for her.  If they separated, her parents would have to repay the money, the duck and then hen.  They could not afford to do so.

Farm animals.  Human dignity.  How can those words possibly come together in the same thought?  Here in the Acholi Quarter, there’s no way out … except perhaps death.  There’s no such thing as a safe house.  There’s no one to offer protection.  And there’s no one to repay the ducks and hens that could free a woman.

As I quietly walked away, I realized there’s a whole new situation that desperately needs to be addressed.  One day … maybe.

I found Esther and she took me to visit one of our members who has been sick of TB.  Although she’s been taking medication, she’s been too weak to work in the stone quarry, so she has had no money to buy food.  Without food, the medicine is virtually ineffective.  She is weak.  She is hopeless.

I had hoped to initiate two new programs for the children during this trip, a football (soccer) league and traditional dance classes.  These programs will have to wait. 

Saturday March 28^th

The last Saturday of each month, it’s ninga for Project Have Hope – a huge party funded by Project Have Hope in which two of the members are “brides” and receive gifts from family, and friends and from Project Have Hope.  I’m rarely here the last Saturday of the month, so it’s fun to be here today and enjoy the festivities.

The women dressed in their finest, with their hair styled at the salon, looked beautiful.  Electricity is wired in from the nearby LC’s house kicking in the generator.  The music blared and the women danced.  At 11pm, the party was only in its early stages, but my eyes were beginning to close.  I tried to quietly depart so I wouldn’t disturb the party, but it’s nearly impossible to move without being noticed.  Grace got up and offered to walk me down to the main road and wait for a boda boda.  I declined and told her to enjoy the party.  Besides, at the bottom of the hill, just beyond the Acholi Qarter, there is a boda-boda stand where the drivers all know me.  I wasn’t too worried about getting a ride.

I walked down the hill with a sureness that comes from knowing every step, even in darkness.  As I got to the road, a boda boda pulled up – not one of my guys.  I sent him away and figured I’d walk on and find one of the guys I know.  Although I’ve always felt safe here, there’s no need to be foolish – it’s late, the roads are nearly empty, and I’m wearing a fancy dress given to me by the ladies – spaghetti straps and a slit up the leg – no need to look for trouble.  I keep walking.  No boda bodas in sight.  I keep walking.  I’m reaching the curve in the road after which all  activities usually quiet.  I know it’ll be unlikely to find a ride once I reach that point.  I consider turning back and waiting along a busier section of the road for a boda boda.  I consider just walking to the Red Chili – my accommodations, about 2.5 miles ahead.  Before I can make a decision, a boda boda pulls up.  “Miss Karen, you are back!”  I smile, greet my friend and hop on.  I grin the entire way to the Red Chili.  This is really home.

Monday March 30th

Today was an unexpectedly quiet day.  Several planned appointments got changed, so I took my time checking in with some of my key contacts outside of the Quarter – the people who offer guidance on the “African way.”  One such person is Alex, the director and founder of Creamland School – an amazing man.

We spoke for awhile about many things – life, his school, Project Have Hope.  Like so many Ugandans, he offered advice on the work I try to do.  After he advised me, he spoke seriously and from the heart.  “Thank you for trying your level best to be a good human being.”  The words stuck to me.  What would the world be like if we all tried our level best to be good human beings?

Monday April 13^th

Another eventful trip has ended.  Like always, a fistful of new individual problems emerged –  several severe cases of domestic violence, debilitating sicknesses, the need for critical surgeries – the usual, really.  I spent every last penny budgeted and then through in $600 of my own money. 

It is easy, too easy, to level complaints, to feel that you deserve more.    This is all too common everywhere – in Uganda, in the States, in life.  It is easy to criticize.  It’s not easy to dedicate yourself to helping raise up a community.  It’s not just a one day or a one week commitment.  It is not easy to achieve the amazing success Project Have Hope has achieved in just a little more then three years, with a ridiculously small budget, and an even smaller crew of unpaid dedicated people making it all happen.  It is not easy.  And seldom are people thankful for the daily work that makes it all possible.  Criticism is much easier.

But the smile on Gerard’s face, now well-fed, the handshake from George and thanks for enrolling his daughter in school, the midnight dance party with all the women who have grown dear to me, as sisters, as mothers, as friends - this is what will always keep me going.  I may not be able to do enough to please everyone on either side of the ocean, but I’ll be able to sleep well knowing that there was no life threatening case that we did not try to remedy.  There was no Rose that I walked away from.  There are still many problems, too many problems and too many needs and illnesses that need to be attended to, but I take comfort in Alex’s words.  I know that I’ve done my level best to be a good human being.  I will sleep well tonight.

Friday January 16th

Three little boys playing with a little bird with a broken wing, wounded.  Just like everyone else in the Quarter.

I’ve just come from visiting with little Gerard.  Seeing him makes me sad, but somehow, also gives me hope. Hope that he’s seen and lived the worst of his life already.

Today was a difficult day.  Up until this point, we’ve been making great strides, accomplishing so much and working together like a well-oiled machine.  Then another wounded bird of the Quarter created havoc.

As a muzungo working here in the Quarter, the primary goal is to not cause problems.  The secondary goal is to help.  This is seldom easy.  One child and his mother created a fantasy in their minds that Igor was going to pay for the school requirements for the child.  The child brought the list of requirements to Igor who knew nothing of the plan conjured by mother and son.  Somehow, the list became torn into many pieces.

A torn piece of paper, who could have imagined the havoc that would ensue.  Four hours of arguing, screaming, tears.  The need for the LC (community leader) to intervene.  Threats from the mother to take us to the police for ripping the piece of paper.  As the wounded mother sat there arguing and crying, eyes wild, I could only make out bits of the words she was ranting.  I sat there looking at her, wondering what happened in her life to wound her so badly.  Was she abducted in the North?  Raped?  Beaten?  Broken?  What could she possibly have lived through that has wounded her so badly?

The Quarter seems full of wounded birds.

Saturday January 17th

This trip has highlighted many things for me.  Lessons I’ve learned over the last 3+ years working in the Quarter.

Lesson #1:  You can do nothing to help people if you think you are better than they are – if you think the way you live is superior.  Coming from a country like the U.S. where we have so much, too much, it’s hard to imagine that a poor slum like the Acholi Quarter is richer, but in many ways it is.  Their sense of community is strong and vibrant and carries them together as one.  If one person is hungry, everyone is.  If one person eats, they all eat.  No child is ever truly orphaned.  The extended family, the community, provides. 

Despite the hardships of life, the Acholi have not forgotten how to smile, to laugh, to dance and to sing.  Their ability to possess joy fully gives their lives a richness far beyond my own.

Lesson #2:  You can’t help if you don’t ask the people you want to help what they want and what they need.  It’s the sharing of ideas that we learn from, not the imposing of a pre-determined plan.

Lesson #3:  And this is probably the most important lesson of all – relationship building.  You cannot truly know a community or its people if you do not take the time to listen.  To greet them.  To hear their stories.  To feel their pain and feel their gladness.  It takes a patience, a patience that is lacking in the Western world of immediacy.  You must share in their meal, share beers together, and join their circle of dance.  I know I can never truly be a part of their community.  I know my hips will never move in the same rhythm as theirs when they dance.  But I can try.  I must try if I want to help.

Sunday January 18th

This trip has been a thoughtful one, but also successful.  We will be enrolling 91 children into schools for the start of the 2009 school year.  We’ve seen the graduation of 11 women from the tailoring program who have already been able to make huge strides in gaining a sense of self-sufficiency.  We have 2 more women enrolled.  Another man enrolled in driving school.  Two other women in computer and business programs.  One more woman in beauty school (we already have 3 graduates).  We’ll be distributing 7 new loans to help women initiate their business plans.  We’ve spoken with the children who have not been performing well in school to see what changes we can implement to make their academic programs more successful.  We have bought additional books for them and will be arranging tutorial assistance when the school year begins in February.  Although we continue to move forward, we’ve taken the time to review what we’re doing.  Making the necessary changes, the individual changes, needed so that each person and child can be successful and make the most of the opportunities we strive to provide.  Of this, I am proud.  These accomplishments are not mine, but are the shared accomplishments of Grace and Esther (Mama Oyet) who work diligently every day in the Quarter to ensure the success and cohesion of the group and of the programs.  Their hearts beat as one as they work to give their brothers and sisters a second chance.  And the women of the Acholi Quarter work to make the most of these opportunities.

Monday January 19th

Gerard’s condition worries me so much.  Everyone assures me he will be just fine.  They say it to me as if they’re assuring a small child who knows no better.  After all, they are wiser than me.  They’ve witnessed starvation and much worse.  They’ve lived harder lives than I will ever live.  But I worry.  I know he is only one child, and there are many.  Many who I’ve never met, many who still live in the ravaged north in camps for the internally displaced persons.  There are many starving children.  Gerard is only one.  But I’ve seen him.  I’ve felt his pain just as I’ve felt the bones protruding from his back as I embrace him.  I’ve felt the heat of his fevered body as I kiss his forehead.  He may only be one severely malnourished child in a country of many, but I have seen him.  Have heard his labored breath.  Have seen the vomit spew from his body as it continues to reject anything we try to give him.  And I am so scared that it may be too late.

Yesterday Mama Oyet brought him to her house to eat  with her.  We kept trying to assure him that anytime he was hungry, he could eat.  He did not have to eat everything at once.  We put a bowl of covered food by the far wall after he finished eating so if he was hungry later, he could eat.  We wanted to assure him that his days of not being fed were over.  Besides the physical effects of malnourishment, the emotional and psychological ones need to be addressed too.  At one point, his great aunt sat with us.  I gave her another bag of trail mix so that Gerard might also have that available to him.  As the great aunt prepared to leave, Gerard told her she could leave and could take the trail mix too, but he was staying at Mama Oyet’s.  When Mama Oyet translated this to me, I was as aghast as she was.  We both laughed at the surprising spunk of this little guy.  But inside I could only imagine how terrible the situation must have been, that in less than an hour, he was willing to leave his own family to stay with someone who had given him food and shown him affection.

Sunday went well as Gerard slowly ate the boiled eggs I periodically fetched for him.  I was hopeful when I left that night.  But this morning, Mama Oyet told me he had been sick during the night.

Today was hopeful as he ate breakfast and his eyes started to come alive.  During the afternoon he ran around with friends and had started to take on the role of leader as the other little guys chased behind him.  Occasionally, Gerard would turn to me with a sly smile.  I felt hopeful, confident that my worrying was unfounded.  At one point, Gerard, Mama Oyet and myself sat together to talk.  Mama Oyet translated my words.  “I’ll be going back to America soon, but I will still be thinking about you.  Mama Oyet will take care of you and anything you need she will give you.  We want you to grow strong.”  He giggled as I flexed my puny bicep.  Then he spoke and Mama Oyet translated for me.  “He asked if we will travel to America with you.  He thought we were going together.”  I hugged him, probably too hard, and told him that this was his home.  That Mama Oyet could take better care of him than I could. With tears now rolling freely down my face, I held him and told him that I may not be his mother, but I love him just as much as if he were my son and I made him a promise.  “Anything you ever need I will provide.  You will not be hungry again.  I promise you.”

Later that evening, I brought him another boiled egg.  He ate it and washed it down with some fresh pineapple.  He smiled at me, eyes alive, and gave me a thumbs up, “Ber!” (Good!) he clearly spoke as pineapple juice dribbled onto his chin.

Tuesday January 20th

Tonight I leave, but I don’t really think about leaving.  I know I’ll be back in April.

Gerard still worries me.  Mama Oyet told me he was sick twice again last night.  Hopefully his little body is absorbing some of the nutrients before the puking sessions begin.  She had planned to take him to another hospital today, but all day it has rained.  Fearful that the cold, wet weather will make him more sick, Mama Oyet will wait until tomorrow.  I won’t be able to get an update soon enough.

This afternoon as we gathered in our freshly painted (thanks Igor) community center, the women danced and sang.  It was all wonderful until they sang, waving, their “goodbye” song – the song never fails to bring me to tears.  Project Have Hope may not have all the glitz or man-power or corporate sponsorship of larger non-profits, but we have heart, and a lot of it.  This is what differentiates us from many other groups. The “Have Hope” Project works because we work together.  Because I listen to what they have to say, abide (as much as I can) by the rules their community lives by, and in turn, they welcome me and have accepted me (at least, in part) as part of their community.  The Have Hope Project works because we are one and we all shamelessly believe that hope really can make all the difference.  I’m probably the biggest believer.

Saturday January 3^rd

I sat in the Nairobi airport Saturday night, after having already traveled for over 18 hours, waiting for the final flight to take me to Uganda’s Entebbe airport.  The airport was crowded.  The fluorescent lights dim.  And the air stagnant.  Not a hint of fresh air to breathe.  I sat on the floor in a corner, allowing my pants to absorb the first of many layers of dirt to follow, and plugged my Ugandan cellphone in a nearby outlet.  Electricity can be sporadic in Uganda, so I figured I’d make the most of my wait.

Finally, boarding began.  I picked up my camera bag and headed down the stairs and out the door to breathe some fresh air as I walked toward the plane.  I boarded.  Row 8, seat C, an aisle.  Perfect.  At the front of the plane and I could jump right out once we landed.  The line at Uganda’s Entebbe airport that forms to check passengers’ passports and issue visas grows long quickly with the few workers and slow pace.  I was glad I’d be one of the first off the plane.

After experiencing, perhaps, the single worst landing imaginable, I wobbled off the plane and zipped right to the passport control booth.  Visa issued.  Time, 11:42pm.  I grabbed a trolley to collect my 4 heavy bags that would join me and waited at the baggage carousel.  Shortly after it started up, I grabbed one of my bags – the lightest of the 4 and filled exclusively with gifts for the children from their sponsors.  Then I waited.  And waited.  Passengers filed out, the carousel emptied, but my bags did not come.  An airport worker showed me to the baggage claim “office.”  I waited.  And waited.  Then filled out forms.  At 1 am, I left Entebbe airport with a single bag.

Sunday January 4^th

I awoke and thought how lovely a shower would be.  But without soap, shampoo, conditioner or even a comb, a shower wasn’t much of an option.  I put on the clothes I had worn for the previous 24 hours, popped in my dirty contact lens, and headed to the small restaurant at the guesthouse to grab a decent breakfast.  I eagerly ordered pancakes, already tasting the spongy, crepe-like cakes.  The cook smiled and said, “No.  No power.”  I knew there was no power.  When I arrived the night before, all was dark, but the burners of the kitchen’s stove were blazing and the frying pan sizzling, so I just assumed pancakes were an option.  They weren’t.  So then I asked for grilled cheese – surely a slab of bread holding some cheese could be slapped onto a frying pan.  Not so.  I decided to pass on the eggs and sausage option and sucked down a Diet Coke in a single gulp.

I called the airport and was told my bags were scheduled to arrive on the evening flight from Amsterdam and to come to the airport after 8:30pm to collect them.  Joyful the bags were on their way and a shower and clean clothes were in my near future, I hopped on a boda boda and made my way to the Acholi Quarter.

I spent the day greeting my old friends and catching up on their lives for the past 4 and a half months.  I scarfed down some cassava and enjoyed the company of Mama Oyet (Esther) and Cecilia.  Cecilia, who has never spoken a word of English, smiled and clearly asked, “How’s America?”  Stunned, I asked here where she learned English.  She smiled and said she’d been attending the adult literacy classes…

The afternoon flew by as I greeted everyone and soon it was time to shuffle back to Entebbe airport to retrieve my bags.

I arrived at 8:40 pm.  I was told to come back tomorrow.  After 8pm no one was allowed to collect their bags.  Three hours of pure hell ensued.  I left the airport with the assurance that my bags would be delivered to me by 8:30am the next morning.  I’m familiar with Uganda enough to know that a blizzard was more likely.

Monday January 5^th

9 am – phone call #1 to Entebbe, bags hadn’t left.  10 am – phone call #2, bags would leave soon.  11 am – phone call #3, bags would arrive by noon.  At 12:30 my phone rang, customs had refused to release my bags, I had to go back to Entebbe to “negotiate.”

Once at Entebbe, customs explained to me that I had to pay tax because I had too many pairs of new shoes (black shoes for our children to wear to school).  The fee would be 1 million schillings (nearly $650).  As I stood there trying to convince the customs officers that surely we could come to an agreement, after all, the shoes were for children, they firmly refused.  After all, I was probably just a business man in Uganda to make money selling shoes.  Yes, of course, that’s it.  Instead of earning a living in the States,  why not  come to Uganda and sell shoes – what a brilliant business plan!

Finally, someone brought out my bags and we were to count all the shoes so they could “reassess” the tax.  Finally an opportunity to be one-on-one with a customs officer, a much better opportunity to “come to an understanding” than dealing with a roomful of custom officers who were  more interested in their lunch than anything else.  We began to open the bags and count the shoes.  The customs officer was unyielding, 46 pairs and counting.  I opened the next bag and on top were photos of the children we sponsor.  I pulled them out and showed them to the customs militant.  “Ajok Winnie, Obala Shannon, Ayaa Janet …” I named each face in the photos.  “How many businessmen carry photos of children in their bags?”  The first hint of a smile.   I knew I was set.  Half an hour later and several hundred photos later, I left Entebbe with all 3 bags.  The best part, clean clothes were now in my possession, and soon I’d get a shower (4 days and counting).

That night as I stood in the shower, the cold water spit down at me like a child’s water pistol.  Sporadic and useless.  It felt awesome!

Tuesday January 6th

Finally I have my luggage.  I can shower whenever I want and now it’s time to get to work.  I spent a good portion of today walking around the Quarter, greeting people and checking on programs and evaluating the current situation.

My first stop was to visit Rose, a woman I was introduced to on the last day of my visit in August.  A woman named Caroline brought me to meet Rose on that last day, requesting help.  Rose was sickly and gaunt and lying on a dirt floor.  The house was so small that it wasn’t wide enough for her to lay completely straight out.  Her condition was horrible, but I had no money left to give.  I promised that when I returned, I’d come back and help.  In keeping with my promise, my first visit was to Rose.  I got to the spot where her tiny shack had been, but there was nothing, barely an imprint of where it once stood.  I looked around, thinking I was in the wrong place.  I asked her neighbors where I could find her.  They replied, “She has passed.”  Any help I could offer came too late.  Although Rose may be gone, the memory of her gaunt face and wide eyes will haunt me.

As I’ve said many times I wish I could do more.  I wish in August, my pockets hadn’t been empty and the funds completely depleted.  I wish I could help more people.  Give every sic person food and medical care.  Give every child the opportunity to attend school.  I wish … I wish … I wish upon a star, but to no avail.  Rose has died.  And many more Rose’s will die as I stand helplessly watching.

Thursday January 8th

Today has been one of the most rewarding days of my life.  I wish there was someone here with me I could share it with.  This morning we did several workshops with the children.  While they were gathered, we distributed the new black, leather shoes for the children to wear to school.  One by one they came up and we fitted them with shoes.  One sweet boy, Opala Denis, selected a pair, then looked up at me, smiled, and reached out his hand.  “Thank you,” he firmly proclaimed.  His face beamed.  I wanted to start crying.  Scouring the racks at Payless Shoes in August during the back-to-school promotions made a difference.  At least to Opala Denis.

 Another child Lakica Mercy, stood in line for shoes, but her tiny feet just were too small for the shoes.  Then she spied a pair of used shoes in the back, a pair I brought only because I had a little extra space to fill in my bags.  She eyed the shoes until I brought them to her to try on.  A perfect fit.  Her smile couldn’t have been bigger.  The shoes couldn’t have been smaller.  She was thrilled. In perfect English, tiny, little Mercy thanked me for the shoes. Not once but three times.  A pair of second hand shoes.  Thoroughly worn by someone else.  Mercy couldn’t have been happier.

Friday January 9th

Igor Rocha arrived in Uganda yesterday.  He’s a Portuguese film maker, a sponsor to one of our children, and a great humanitarian.  He came to meet the child he is sponsoring and see how he could help.  While he’s here, he’s helping to put together a video of the Acholi Quarter and the work of Project Have Hope.  So stayed tuned.  Soon it’ll be added to the website.

When Igor arrived, he brought with him 4 huge boxes stuffed with toys for the children.  The children are delighted.  And the best part, Igor thoroughly enjoyed showing the children how the toys work and the games are played.  From dominoes to pick-up-sticks, I don’t think the children have ever had more fun. 

Later this afternoon, I walked by Quentin’s home and saw the door open for the first time since I arrived (door are nearly never closed).  Quentin is an honorary member of Project Have Hope.  He has helped us many times.  He’s built the nursery garden alongside the women and fenced it in, made the tables ad benches for our building, and cut all of the peace tiles the children and women paint.  He’s always willing to lend a hand.  Upon my arrival a few days ago, I learned that he was rushed to the hospital.  He was coughing blood and could barely move or even open his eyes. 

When I saw this door open, I stopped to see how his condition was.  He lay on his bed, unable to prop himself up or move.  Bare-chested, I could see the skin tight across his ribs.  His cheeks sunken in.  He tried to speak and a deep cough overwhelmed him.  A neighbor then filled me in.  He had been sent home from Mulago Hospital because he had no money.  He needed an operation to remove a malignancy in his chest.  I asked how much was needed – 100,000 schilling – a little over $50.  I pulled the bills out of my pocket and handed it to him.  Rose’s pleading and helpless eyes are still strong in my memory.  I might not have been able to help Rose, but surely I can do something to help Quentin.

This is life in the Quarter.  This is the reality.  Dominoes and football are a nice distraction, watching Igor play with the children and hearing their shrieking voices can momentarily transport me to a happier place, but soon enough, the stark reality of life and death sets back in.  And I know that I will not always be there or for that matter, be able, to hand out money that is needed to keep the doors of death closed.

Saturday January 10th

This afternoon as I walked toward the stone quarry to distribute the photos I had taken back in August, I was stopped by one of our members, Ayoo Lillian.  I had been told that she was in the village (Northern Uganda).  She had grown so sickly (she’s been ill since I met her) that her family brought her to the North.  The Acholi prefer to bury their dead in the village from which they come – Gulu, Kitgum, Pader – the heart of Acholiland, so when someone falls very sick and the family fears the person will die, they bring them to the North to die.  It’s cheaper for a living person to travel to the North than to transport their body.  It’s just a practicality.  Hence, Ayoo Lillian had been brought to the North to die.

But here, on my way to the quarry, she stopped me.  I felt like I’d seen a ghost.  She greeted me and I wrapped my arms around her thin body.  It was a joyous moment.  I felt like at least someone in the Quarter had cheated death.

Tuesday January 13th

I lost a piece of my heart today.  For the last few days I’ve been trying to sort out the situation of this very sick, little boy, Gerard.  Once we found clothes for him to borrow, the only ones he had had gaping tears in them, Mama Oyet took him to the hospital.  The verdict, malnutrition.  His dark eyes sunk into his skull, the lids swollen around them.  His ankles, awkwardly formed.  His body, tiny and brittle – to tiny for his age of almost 7.

Although many children, and adults too, suffer of malnutrition in the Quarter, this ne little boy seems to be only a knock away from death’s door.

There were many tragedies that led to Gerard’s crisis.  His father, ill with HIV, died.  His mother, still in the North, is too sick herself to care for him, so his great aunt, who is around 80 (she doesn’t know her age) is caring for him and 3 other great grandsons.  She, herself, is frail with age and with the hardships of the life she has lived, but still works tending a garden to grow greens to earn some money.  Often she has no choice but to leave the children n the care of her granddaughter.  The granddaughter, annoyed by the burden of Gerard, feeds the other children who she is more closely related to, but gives Gerard nothing.

Tonight we spoke to Gerard’s great aunt at great length,  she explained her plight.  We made plans to improve Gerard’s future.  Mama Oyet has agreed to take on the responsibility of feeding him, and we will enroll him in a good day school.  My hope is that next year, he will be strong enough that we can move him into a boarding school. 

As we sat with his great aunt tonight, little Gerard sat closely by her side.  At one point, from my camera bag I took out a stuffed animal, donated by my friend Sue who’s children had grown tired of the toy, and handed it to Gerard.  Evening had come and it was dark.  He could only faintly make out the outline of the animal.  But he held it in his arms, silently, gently stroking the soft fur.  He laid his head upon it.  My heart broke a little more.

I then handed his great aunt three shirts I had bought for him in the market today for 10,000 schillings – less than $6.  She smiled at the cotton gold in her hands.  Gerard smiled too.  Almost instantly he removed the shirt he was wearing to replace it with one of the new ones.  Then I handed him my final gift – a huge bag of trail mix – peanuts, almonds, raisins and M&Ms.  I opened it.  He was confused.  I put my hand to my mouth miming eating.  Hesitantly, he reached his tiny hand into the large bag and put one piece in his mouth.  Then another piece.  And another.  At least maybe tonight he won’t go to bed hungry.

As I said goodnight, Gerard’s great aunt stopped me.  Our eyes met and she said simply, “I am old.  I am dying.  But now you know my problem.”  I nodded.  Her burdens had now been shifted to me to carry the load she has carried for so long.  I stood to leave.  Gerard reached out his tiny, little hand and shook my hand hard.  Harder than I would have imagined he had strength for.  Little Gerard still has some fight left in him.  He’ll certainly need it to survive in his world.

I will carry a little piece of Gerard in my heart wherever I go.

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.