Abandoning False Hopes
"Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it." The Talmud
Yesterday, I ran another group. As much as the group ended up hopeful, I was left in profound despair. We spoke about giving, building, and creating spaces for hopeful thinking. I also pushed the group to think about what exactly they are giving, are they giving hope (which I don’t believe people can give hope), nurturing spaces for hope to manifest internally, and/or creating false hopes.
As the conversation energized and turned towards action and more hopefulness, I began to wonder if I was co-creating spaces of false hope. I began to wonder how I fit in all of this and if I was the cause for people’s pain to remember the past, present, and future. If I brought on these stories that people wanted to avoid. I wondered if these stories were like my own that were under lock and key.
It was strange, as the group became what appeared more connected, I grew more disconnected. I grew more scared that offering spaces that questioned the status quo was more of a disruption than a transformation. As the group grew in their own agency and self-determination, I felt an urgency to walk out the room. But instead I sat there and attempted to bear witness to the excitement, the metaphors that were drawn from stories, and the similarities that drew us together more.
One of the most profound comments that came out of the dialogue for me was a gentleman who worked as a service provider for refugees said “The thing that he will take away with is that we need to interrogate this thought of false hope and what our agency is really doing.” It was profound to me because much of my 2.5 months I have been thinking less about hope, how it manifests, and is sustained but rather how false hopes, hollow hopes and hope without action are created, sustained, and what purpose do they serve.
As we ended with our gratitude, I felt lost. In the past 2 hours, we spent hours struggling with this concept of hope and how difficult it is for service providers to sustain, maintain, and offer spaces of hope when resources are limited, when the service providers are doing more than they can handle, and they are receiving no clear answers from their supervisors.
I am aware the dialogue and project is changing people’s perceptions of themselves and the world around them, but what I am not clear about is if I am making any difference. Sitting with these 6 men who are bearing witness to each other, I came to the conclusion that I am not. I don’t want to appear to be self-loathing (which I am an expert in) but I realize that I don’t matter much in the picture.
I asked one of the participant, “What is it like to be listened to?” He replied, “I just want to be really heard, Staci.” I said, “What does that look like?” He replied, “What we are doing, now.” I have come to the understanding in the brief time that I have been in Kenya, people need the space, time, and place to be heard, seen, and valued. What matters is that people have the space to explore an issue that is strength-based, supportive, and ultimately solutions are drawn from the group for they are the experts in their context. What matters is that there is space to empathize and deeply listen to the pain, joy, and struggle. This is what matters.
Everyone has a story to tell regardless if it is shared. Some stories are painful while others are joyful. Stories seem to mold our outlook on life and the future. My motto has always been, “Your story matters and I am ready to give it the time, place, and space to be seen, heard, and valued.” These past weeks that I have been in Nairobi, I have slumped into a recurrent depression. I am uncertain that the sinking feeling will resolve anytime soon, so my ASK for those who are reading this, share a story with me. Share a story with me via this post, email, or when I return over tea. I am listening.
