Resilience

Two years ago, I was invited to a Kenyan refugee camp in Uganda as a writer, to interview Kenyans who had fled the post-election violence in their own country in the hopes of bringing their stories back to the US. There was no clear plan for how or what we would do with these stories, just an open window in the midst of an overwhelming need, or at least we thought.

We had grand ideas...a book, a documentary, a multimedia website project, presentations in our community and others around the US. Unfortunately, most of those plans didn't come to fruition at least not as we planned them.

I wrote a few blogs, shared pictures and stories with friends, but that trip has haunted me as the mound of video tapes with hours of footage began to accumulate dust in a drawer of my desk. For two years I thought I failed to make a difference on that trip as the potential opportunities never materialized, and I lost contact with the people I met on those two days in Tororo, Uganda.

This morning I read an article about the survivors of the genocide in Rwanda and it reminded me of that trip where I felt so important, so needed only to return with little results to show for my "valiant effort." 

The title of the article contained the word, resilience. That word reminded me of why we went on that trip & why I return again and again to eastern Africa. It reminded me of the infectious joy of being alive that challenges me to make more of each moment of my life, to resist the temptation to feel pity for myself when I'm disappointed.

For days after I returned I watched the videos, logged the footage, and reeled over what could be done with the notes, the footage, the pictures, the stories that could possibly make a difference in the lives of the Kenyans who were suffering. Over and over that word, resilience, came to mind as I watched the footage of the women and children dancing in church, of the men playing volleyball & inviting our group to join them in a game, and most of all of the young widow who had carried her three young children for three days hiding from those who sought to kill them until she reached the camp.

They taught me a new meaning of that word. I only wish you had been there with me to see and hear how beautiful the word resilience can be on the faces of giggling children, in the eyes of a heroic single mother, in the fire of an impassioned pastor, and in the hands of a woman defiantly determined to find her children.

And I realized that I needed to go there more than they needed me to be there.