In 2005, we helped build a house for a group of siblings whose oldest caregiver was only 12 years old. Their parents had passed away, and they were trying to survive in a rural settlement where hundreds of families had fled civil war. The land they settled on had no water, no electricity, no roads—just people doing what they could to get by.
When we came to help build the home, the community didn’t know who we were. They were understandably cautious, watching from a distance. We brought water in large, 1,000-liter tanks so we could mix cement. Most days, we left a half-full tank at the site overnight and brought in a fresh one the next morning.
Something started to change in the community as the days passed. As the foundation was laid and the walls began to rise, the atmosphere began to shift. One morning, we pulled up and immediately sensed a difference. Smiles. Laughter. Even dancing.
The gogos (grandmothers) of the community took our team by the hand and led us around the side of the house, where we saw the water tank left there the night before.
The difference? It was completely full.
That night, the community had come together. With jerry cans and wheelbarrows, they walked 10 kilometers round trip—through the night—to fill the tank themselves. They had seen someone come alongside their most vulnerable and decided they wouldn’t just watch—they would join in. They would contribute. They would act.
That day, hope looked like a full water tank. But more than that, it looked like a community empowered to rise up, refusing to give up on its children.
