Cristy S

Voices of the Land A Father’s Fear Fathers committed to changing their daughters’ destinies. I met fathers in Rubuguri who are quietly rebelling against tradition. Men who work the fields but dream of their daughters in classrooms. They’re making small, brave decisions every day: to invest in education instead of dowries, to believe their girls deserve more. Their quiet revolution is reshaping what’s possible for the next generation.           A Father’s Fear: The Gap Year That Could Change Everything I sat with a father in Rubuguri whose worry was etched across his face, not the kind caused by a crisis, but the quiet, persistent kind that keeps you awake at night. His daughter just graduated from high school. She applied to college, a dream that felt both exciting and uncertain. But there’s a gap. She can’t start until next year, and in the meantime, she has to wait to see if she even passed the entrance exam. Months of waiting. Months of uncertainty. I asked, “What is she doing now?” “Farming,” he said. “Digging. All day, every day. That’s all there is for her to do.” His concern wasn’t about the physical work; it was about what happens when bright, ambitious young women are left in limbo without a clear path forward. He looked at me with a kind of honesty that cuts through politeness. “I’m afraid,” he admitted. “I’m afraid she won’t make it to school. I’m afraid she’ll get pregnant before the results even come.” It wasn’t judgment in his voice; it was reality. This is how life is here. Most women get pregnant young, not because they lack dreams, but because when there’s nothing else to do, and marriage and motherhood are the only visible options, the easiest route becomes the most common one. “If she gets pregnant,” he said softly, “that’s it. College won’t happen. Her life will head in a different direction.” He wasn’t angry at her. He was furious at the system, the long wait, the lack of opportunities in between, and the way young women are left vulnerable in the space between ambition and achievement. This father recognizes what’s at stake. He understands his daughter’s potential. He knows how easily it can be lost, not because she doesn’t want it enough, but because the world around her doesn’t support patience. As I left our conversation, I thought about all the young women like his daughter, talented, driven, capable, whose futures depend not just on their abilities but on whether they can bridge the gap. The gap between finishing school and starting the next chapter. The gap between dreaming and doing. For her and many others, that gap isn’t just about time. It’s a test of endurance in a place where few safeguards protect young women from being pulled off track. Her father is fighting to help her survive, and he shouldn’t have to do it alone.  

Voices of the Land The Reformed Poacher One of the most meaningful conversations I had in Uganda was with a man who once lived on the wrong side of the law, a former poacher who now stands among the forest’s defenders. He didn’t shy away from his past. He openly discussed a time before Bwindi was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, when poaching wasn’t yet considered a crime or a threat to conservation. For him and many others, it was never about greed or cruelty; it was about survival.      My family needed food. I needed money,” he explained. “When your children are hungry, you do what you must to feed them. The forest was his lifeline; the only resource he could access in a place where options were limited, and poverty was relentless. Poaching wasn’t driven by malice; it stemmed from desperation. Everything changed when Bwindi gained protected status and anti-poaching laws were rigorously enforced. Suddenly, what was once a matter of survival became illegal. But the story didn’t end there, and that’s what matters most. Instead of just criminalizing poachers, the government and conservation groups began investing in local communities. They created alternative livelihoods, providing training, jobs, and support. They shifted their focus from punishment to partnership, seeing people not as the problem but as the solution. For this man, his shift made all the difference. Today, he no longer takes from the forest; he protects it. He speaks with quiet pride about his role as a conservationist and about making sure the land he once depended on for survival stays intact for future generations. His relationship with Bwindi has shifted from one of necessity to one of responsibility and even reverence. I understand the forest now,” he said. “I know what we could lose if we don’t protect it. Listening to him, I realized a truth often overlooked in conservation talks: people are rarely enemies of nature. Most are just trying to navigate impossible choices without better options. Real, lasting change doesn’t come from enforcement alone; it comes from offering dignity, support, and inclusion. It stems from recognizing that the people who live closest to the land have the most significant stake in its future. And sometimes, the strongest defenders of a place are those who once had no choice but to take from it. His story reminds us that transformation is possible, not only for forests but also for people. And that conservation, at its best, isn’t about keeping people out; it’s about welcoming them in.   A reformed poacher demonstrates the skills he once used to hunt—knowledge he now shares to educate, not exploit.

Visiting the Batwa Community The trek to the Batwa village was challenging, steep, winding, and unforgiving, but the landscape was breathtaking. When we arrived, the village was quiet. Not everyone was there, only those who did not work that day and the younger children. Others were away, earning what they could. We brought posho (starchy porridge) and a box of soap for the Batwa families and distributed drawstring backpacks to the children. We split the posho and soap so that each family received their share. It wasn’t much, but it was something, necessities that would help them get by a little longer. After we finished distributing everything, something surprising occurred. The whole village started to dance. It wasn’t about performance or showing off. It was their way of saying thank you, a gesture rooted in deep cultural tradition, a language of gratitude that went beyond words. They sang, moved, and smiled, and during those moments, joy filled a space usually marked by hardship. Later, I sat with the Batwa leader. He shared stories I will never forget.  He described life in the forest before 1991, how they moved freely, how they knew every trail and tree, and how the forest provided everything they needed. And then he told me about the day they were forced to leave.  There was no warning. Government officials arrived and told them that the forest was now protected and that they had to leave. As they walked out, they were ordered to surrender their traditional clothing and personal belongings. Everything made from the forest and everything that connected them to their identity was left behind. Those items were burned right in front of them as they left their home for the last time. In exchange, they received regular clothes and were told to start over. “We didn’t understand,” he said softly. “The forest was ours. We protected it. We lived with it, not against it. And then, suddenly, we were outsiders.” In his hands (see photo below) are the traditional fire-starting tools that sustained his ancestors for millennia. He demonstrated the technique with muscle memory still intact, sticks rubbing, friction building, and sparks emerging. Then came the matchbox and a bittersweet smile. “Now it’s easy.” Easy, yes. But something was lost in that convenience. He holds the fire-starting stick his ancestors used for generations, then smiles and pulls out a matchbox. “Now it’s easy.” This Batwa couple graciously shared their story with me, recounting their displacement from the forest and the rich life they once knew among the trees. Some of the Batwa showed me their homes. A few had built traditional houses, small structures made from natural materials, constructed the way their ancestors had. They said they couldn’t get comfortable in the concrete houses the government built. Those houses didn’t feel like home. As I left the village that day, I reflected on resilience, not the romanticized kind, but the essential kind for survival. The Batwa didn’t choose displacement. They didn’t choose poverty or marginalization. Yet, they’re still here. Still dancing and still teaching their children their tradition. Still holding onto parts of who they are, even as the world tries to erase them! This story is not about nostalgia. It is not about romantic resilience. The Batwa did not choose displacement. They did not select marginalization. Yet they continue, dancing, teaching, remembering, speaking. Listening to them is not optional. It is essential. The following day, I walked through the forest with a Batwa guide named Daniel during the Batwa Experience. They showed how their ancestors made fire, hunted, gathered medicinal plants, and built shelters. The knowledge was precise, embodied, and intensely alive. But when the tour ended, they left the forest, just like we did. The difference is, they are only allowed to enter it now as guides, not as the people who once belonged to it!