Two days in a row I have sat next to older women and thanked them for their strength that they didn’t see within themselves. It was humbling to say the least and has frayed the edges of my personal security blanket to a state of vulnerability I have yet to share with anyone except perhaps these women I may never see again. These women who sit in front of me with the only outfit they own, worn from hard labor in the garden and stained with the pee from a young child they have taken responsibility for. They share the smallest portion of a story that consumes all of their being, and without shedding a tear they appear broken down and helpless in that single moment.
A woman of 49, though her appearances would suggest otherwise. Her face reads exhaustion, pain and suffering but her eyes light up when she smiles at me. I talk to her about her home, about the things she owns and does not own. I ask her questions about her children and those whom she has taken in as orphans. She responds willingly but eventually I feel her struggling to answer as she moves her hand towards her face to cover up what she feels is a weakness in her. She understands she does not have much and is being reminded of that simple fact. I stop asking questions, a pang of guilt overcoming me, and simply assure her of her strength as a woman of Uganda and how in awe I am of her for what she has sacrificed and what she strives to accomplish in a community where widowed women are constantly downcast.
And then a woman, a grandmother, caring for her grandchildren alone. She recounts willingly the hardships of the war. She retells an abduction and her voice trembles faintly. With her cane lying by her side and children pushing and bustling around her on a mat under the mango tree she asks for help. She looks at me, knowing I understand very little of the Acholi she is handing out, and explains her state of dependency and her need for help in the education of her children. I sit in a chair, dozens of kids staring and smiling at my saddened face while I tell the woman I am not in a place to help her but that I am simply here, in this very place, under a mango tree, wanting to know her. I poured out other words that to me sounded supportive and heart warming but I received not even a faint smile when I was finished, only a subtle nod of her head in recognition and understanding.
I take a close look at the hardships of the women around me and almost envy them for being able to struggle, to fight, to endure the pain and then to come out stronger than they had ever been before. It amazes me and hurts my soul to know that these women, who have suffered and have lost so much are still able to open their hearts and to find strength in the core of their being, while I, who have lost nothing, cannot. Perhaps the most important thing about all of this is not what I can do to comfort these women. Perhaps the most important thing here is the fact that, as my elders, they are able to open themselves and their lives to me so that I may learn to find my inner strength as I live my life.
A note about work and the organization:
The Dwan Madiki Partnership has found a comfortable place for once. In a place where a war has ravaged the fragile components of community, many are used to being handed things. I sometimes struggle to remind them all that I am simply here to share my stories, to hear their stories, to be a voice for them back home, and to know them the best way I can. It must be the job of the community to assess the most fundamental and dire needs, to address them, and then to fix them. With the help of the community surrounding the Dwan Madiki Partnership, I am confident they can learn to help themselves and facilitate projects, programs and income generating activities that will sustain their lives and the lives of their children for generations to come.
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