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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

How dare I try to undo the lopsided distribution of benefits to fairly benefit all members? How dare I not just hand over the money for them to dispense at will? “How dare I,” seems to be the murmurs that follow me as more requests, demands actually, are made of me.

With all of this, and so much more, escalating daily, I was ready to withdrawal. Simply say, “Farewell, sorry I couldn’t do more, goodbye.” One voice pleaded with me to be strong. Have courage. Another voice pleaded, “Think of the children.” I walked through the Quarter, resigned to the fact that I could no longer help, that my presece seemed to cause problems, too many problems. I should leave. As I walked, I was stopped by Kibwota Wilfred. While I’m in Uganda, he always seems to be lurking somewhere, partially hidden, watching me. One day earlier in this trip, we spent over an hour together playing toss and monkey in the middle with a red balloon until it finally burst into too many tiny pieces that the game ended abruptly.

On this day, Kibwota Wilfred greeted me and took me by the hand to show me the nursery garden he was helping his aunt to care for. One of the nursery gardens we had just built. He smiled with pride. This boy, this sweet boy who had been abducted by rebels at age 9, orphaned, and finally escaped his captors, is now in the care of his aunt. This boy stood by my side, smiling, holding my hand. How could I abandon him? How could I abandon all the other helpless innocents in the Quarter? How could I let a few people with bad hearts and evil words take away the little I had to offer? I couldn’t bear to simply say goodbye. I may only have little to offer, but that little is at least appreciated by some. By Wilfred, who held my hand.

We spoke about the many new improvements he’s made to the school and about his philosophy on education and on life. Alex is truly an amazing and inspiring individual. If there were more “Alex’s” Uganda’s entire populace would be educated. He is gifted, steadfast and truly concerned about giving children the opportunities he did not receive. As he passionately spoke, I wanted to take out my recorder and record every word he said. I resisted. Instead, I tried hard to remember each powerful remark uttered.

I told him of my plan to hire a teacher and start educating a group of the women from Project Have Hope who had never stepped inside a classroom. I told him how I was looking for a teacher who could speak Acholi and teach them to write their names so they’d no longer need to sign my using their thumb print, teach them to add, so they could properly count money. Alex offered lots of practical advice and once again, demonstrating his true zeal for universal education, offered to find me a teacher, determine the educational tools needed, and help to initiate the program. He told me to come by Monday morning and he would have things prepared. Before I leave on the 19th, he anticipates classes will have started. That’s extraordinary! That would be a feat anywhere, but in Uganda where everything runs on African time and the unexpected is simply expected, it would be unimaginable to start a program so quickly! I left the school with a smile on my face and a bounce to my step as I ascended the steep climb into the Quarter.

As I climbed, I saw a group of our members gathered outside of the PHH building. A sense of dread overwhelmed me. What was the crisis? What was wrong? I quickened my step. As I got closer, I saw a man talking to the group. I breathed in relief. That must be Gerard, Grace’s son, who was going to come to the Quarter today to discuss building nursery gardens for our new program aimed at building balcony gardens. I approached the group just as Gerard was finishing his outdoor talk and was leading them into the building to continue his lecture.

The women sat listening, eager to learn. Responding with questions. Nodding and replying with understanding. After the last few days of frustration, tears filled the corner of my eyes. I’ve never felt so happy. For the first moment, perhaps in my life, I really felt like I could make a difference … that I was making a difference.

This is empowerment. This is working together. This is the key to impacting the future. Educating a child is important, but sometimes I wonder how effective it is. Will I be able to continue the childrens’ education long enough to really help them? If I’m able to do that, will there be jobs for them in this country of wide-scale unemployment? I have to hope, but in 20 years, will I have accomplished anything beyond creating an educated slum? Truly, I don’t know. But this today, this is real. This can make a difference.

As Grace’s son lectures, confidently, poised, clearly in his element, I wonder what Grace thinks when she looks at her eldest child. Does she see the face of her husband, just one more victim to the violence and countless killings during Uganda’s civil war? Does she see the future of all her children in her son’s success? Does she see the potential for a better future for her people, the Acholi? I look to him and see the best of what Uganda has to offer - amazing and extraordinary people.

After he finishes his presentation, I introduce myself and we sit down to discuss some of the pragmatics of this agricultural initiative. In order for this project to be successful we greatly need a person trained in agriculture. I don’t want him to feel that I simply expect him to donate his time and talents, so I offer that we could hire him as a short-term consultant to get the project underway. He shakes his head, smiling, as if he’s talking to a small child. “I hope you’re not going to talk about money now.” He pauses and resumes, “I think in the Western world that is how it is. But here, it makes you happy just to help your neighbors.”

So today I slept in and gave myself the day off - time to catch up on emails and go to the local book store to find a good read to distract me. By 10:30, as I typed away at an internet cafe, that all changed. After ignoring repeated phone calls, I finally picked up to hear Ayoo Jennifer’s distressed voice. “I’m in the clinic. I’m hurt. I sat on glass. Come quickly.”

I jumped on the first boda boda and sped off to the Quarter. I found Ayoo in the clinic laying awkwardly on a bare and stained vinyl mattress, wrapped from the waist in an equally stained and dingy fabric. Her eyes red from the tears that still flowed.

She had sat on a large piece of glass and had a cut that stretched across her left thigh and butt about 4 inches long and seem to be quite deep. The first nurse to come to her aid had been too frightened by the depth of the laceration splintered with pieces of glass to do anything. So they had waited for a second nurse to clean the wound and stitch it up.

Ayoo lay there so weak that she could barely speak or prop herself up. She had lost a lot of blood and had had nothing to eat or drink since the night before. I gave her one of my ever-present energy bars and gave someone money to buy some juice. That’s about the extent of my medical know-how!

After Ayoo regained her strength, a trio of us propped her up and plodded her through the narrow passageways to her home, where she immediately sunk into the couch. Her son, Bogoza, 13, sat silently watching, his eyes staring at his mother, unwilling to let her out of his focus. Tears slowly streaked his cheeks. His father already dead for many years, he knew all too well how quickly life could be snuffed out of a parent. And he was clearly afraid. Seeing his distress, Ayoo called him to her to comfort him. He tried to brave away the tears, but failed.

Later that day, Ayoo would tell me how she watched the people gather around her after she’d been carried to the clinic. She imagined that’s what her death bed would look like and she was so afraid that she would die before her children grew old enough to take care of themselves. “I’m both the mother and father,” she sadly proclaimed. I’m sure that must be a constant fear of parents everywhere, that they will die when their children are young. But there’s something more intense about that fear here in the Quarter. Death is a constant. A collapse in the stone quarry, a child struck with malaria, a mother succumbs to AIDS. In an instant, a 13 year old child becomes the head of household left to care for 2 younger siblings. That’s just life in the Quarter.

Esther then scurried into the side room to retrieve a tube of antibiotic cream I had given her 2 days ago. She looked at me, imploring me to do something. I went to my camera bag and fetched my last disinfectant moist wipe. I handed it to Esther both showing and telling her to use it to clean Winnie’s cut. Esther struggled to open the packaging. Winnie continued to wail. Blood dripped on the floor. I reclaimed the wipe, opened it and started cleaning Winnie’s hand and then wrapped the wipe around the cut (a laceration an inch long and fairly deep that really required stitches) and held it tight to stop the bleeding.

I asked Esther for a bandaid and she sent an older daughter to buy one. I took the antibiotic cream and squeezed some onto the cut. I was hoping to get by without rubbing it in, but it just started to slide off. All the while I’m thinking about my hands colored by Winnie’s blood. I could only be thankful that the cuts on my hands from the cold days in Boston had healed quickly in this African heat.

After I had bandaged Winnie’s cut, Esther fetched some water for me to wash my hands. It was a wonderful gesture, but all I could think was, “Water alone will do nothing to kill any germs.” I wished I had another moist wipe with me.