Greetings,

I hope this finds you swell, thought I’d sit down and write of my life going on here to all you lovely people.

Those close to me know I can talk a lot so allow me to offer the option if you don’t want to read all of this to scroll to the bottom where you will find the asterisks.

The area I live in, Namuwongo, continuously fuels my mind. The residents buzzing around the clock, seeming to be without the need to sleep. The dirt, fumes, and intoxicating air whipping your face with a cancerous touch. Potholes, ditches and humps form a road, that weed out to shops, bars, homes and children dwelling in dirt and rubbish, imaginatively distinguishing this from their dirt and rubbish contraption of toys. Men riding on bicycles forever through the sun enduring the weight placed on the back for a couple of lousy cents, boda drivers keeping a chilled stand on their territory, then revving up their rusty, magically lasting exhausts to fight over the trip you wish to travel. Dingy shops bickering with light, supplied with items and customers only god knows how they make it through with. Markets beaming with colourful local life, congested with ladies beading, bunching fruit together and advertising anything oddly imaginable while in their groups of friends, local food stalls with the risk I know of all too well if I eat from, music blasting from distorted speakers spread out to accommodate you never being without this soul food and children everywhere in between.

This has become my home for the last 5 months while volunteering at Uganda Hands for Hope.

For those that don’t know of this org…..heres the low down on their empowering against all odds work. Hands for Hope works alongside children and families in a slum in Kampala, Uganda called Namuwongo.

The population in this slum is between 8 000 - 10 000 and growing constantly. Each resident a victim to extreme conditions of poverty and forecasted among the slums 90% of deaths which are preventable. Some have been there for a year, some 40 years, some born here. But all are not here by choice but politely put unfortunate circumstances of war, displacement, destruction or poverty.

The smell, horrid but nothing compared to the sight. Homes made of scraps, ironically temperamental and clustered, puzzled together with garbage and disease. The shelter fighting its foundations and stand through the mighty army of raindrops. When it frequently rains, water from the main roads and city soars down to the slum and tears the walls of the shelters down. Most live off less than a dollar a day and due to the desperation of poverty thus rivals crime and violence. Sanitary nonexistent. Opportunity and future realistically, seeming bleak. This is a slum.

The pain, loss and suffering I see is proof that maybe were meant for more, that peoples strength and resistance is supernatural. I’ve come to recognize residents don’t refer to their dwelling or house as home rather ‘the place they stay’. They then offer a guide- ‘near this rubbish hump, swamp or washing area.’ No house numbers, phones, identification or street signs for homes to near to 10 000 people. I’ve sarcastically asked for a map to a coworker after being lost in a maze of shelters. The next day I non coincidently read this

"It is not down in any map; true places never are." ~ Herman Melville

Hands for hope was set up to support children and families living here and offers education and sponsorship to over 140 children, conducts small loan programs, a medical clinic, tailoring project, Saturday reading classes, a holiday program and an afternoon class for the most vulnerable children next on the sponsorship list.

The beginning of my time here was received with slaps in the face by awareness. Tears I wished could be the releasing carriers of the pain that makes my heart beat. Each testimonial story was followed by another even more tragic. My head twisting to grasp in challenges, challenges by my own undiscovered preconceptions of humanity. I realized I had been injected with the kind of sadness that never leaves your bones.

Yes, there will always be poverty and war. Regardless of our worlds trials and errors to have established solutions to this by now. I question if there is endless injustice, corruption and screwed up leaders because as humans this inhumanity is overwhelmingly too much to handle and has gone on forever.

I believe my moment of outrage and sadness was indispensable. Reacting is part of what makes us human. This reaction I believe creates a privileged birth to fighting for advocacy, speaking up and acting on what is known to not be right. We do know we have the resources. I’m not disheartened, I’m not accepting.

I have misunderstood and been blinded by the grief to the characters of the residents here. Poverty is commonly looked down upon and focused on the pain. Yet, there admirable utilization of their hands building lives with the limited resources, along with their enduring heart, soul and strength are to be honored, praised and respected. Very nearly nothing in our lives is similar. And yet, we are the same, same needs, hunger, thirst, relationships, joy and desires I feel every day. They are the heroes, heroes of their own stories each day. It is true that life can be so rich, when you are living so poor.

Ive been spending my days working in their Tailoring Program focusing on finding markets and an income for the ladies involved. Ive been working with the Afternoon Program which is secretly my favourite class, each child is as adorable and as vulnerable as the next. The 30 gems that attended are aged between 6-15years old and each owns a remarkable, fighting life marked with lovable characters as varied and colourful as a rainbow. Showing a child how to hold a pencil right or a 14 year old her basic times tables, explaining why us expats wash our hands after the bathroom, dancing alongside children sharing their moments of happiness and being in there bubble of safety, love and joy for the time they are out of the slum. Comforting a child after a preventable death of their brother trying to hold in my tears while being hit with the whale of the mother, sharing their first pizza or giving them there first new sweater. These children will always be in my heart. They have become my family and the moments I have shared are unforgettable and treasured.

My most precious memory from this class was seeing one of the children whom just received the life changing news of sponsorship in school for his first day. My first day, 6 years old crying and not wanting my mum to leave. His first day, 13 years old, fatherless sitting in an unfamiliar exciting classroom full of hope from the door he has now entered. Wearing a clean shiny uniform and an inexpressible grateful smile.

Donations are given to our NGO to distribute to the community, I have spent endless days going through these and distributing them to the children, adults and local NGO’s. The gratitude I was able to witness from each child given an item was a privilege. Some got on their knees to thank you and I didn’t even donate the clothes.

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I have started up a new tailoring program, the first lesson starts tomorrow. I am delighted to share that this is being done with 10 new women; each was a victim to war and escaped to the slum in search of ‘new life’. These women have witnessed things I cannot ever imagine, there children have the eyes of men and they bear the scars of war. The program will be going for the next 3 or so months till I leave. They are going to be trained in all basics of clothing for children, ladies and men so that at the end they will be able to start their own small businesses with successfully graduating with a new sewing machine. The interviews have seemed to be endless and the decisions and responsibility I have only been able to pray for discernment and strength for. It is hard comparing who is more vulnerable and in need of this opportunity. Each ladies story tragically different, full of loss, war and pain, yet testimonial hope for the future they know they deserve. I cannot wait to see how this will unfold. The excitement and inspiring willingness of two ladies stood out to me. One, a flied widow from Congo with 7 children that is barely scrapping by to feed them, working endlessly for a future for them to not be playing in rubbish humps and receiving the education they crave. The other, the women who showed me love and a light so bright while holding the photos of her teenage daughter that died that week, again preventable.

Finding a teacher that held the keys to the women’s tailoring success somewhat miraculously appeared and holds the characteristics of a saint, peace, love and help radiate from him and more experience than I could have imagined.

As unsettled as I sometimes can feel I am settled and feel bizarrely humorous at home for now. I am accommodating to cold water, charcoal stoves, unreliable electricity and mice that keep trying to move into my home uninvited. I miss my loved ones from home yet receive love from my brothers and sisters here I don’t know how to respond to. I’ve laughed till I cried, cried till I am comforted and overflowing with a mothers love, danced tirelessly to the beats of local music, joyously sang and danced in the sudden down pour and in some areas needed rain, ate local food I didn’t know was food and experienced an adrenaline of unexpected moments of realness in this beautiful world. Grateful.

I want to thank you for your love.