this is a strange place to begin after returning home from africa. still jet-lagged, dazed and blurred, i am sipping coffee and feeling the most simple, mundane (and embarrassing) concern. i just took a look at my stats. for those of you who don't know, these are the numbers that tell me how many people are reading here. not names, just graphs and digits. and today, mine are in the gutter. like halved and then halved again. when i saw these dwindling numbers, my heart skipped a beat. i spiraled into my own petty little world and this number felt, in an instant, like a grade. a measurement. a condemnation. a prediction.

i have just spent time with women in uganda who have survived a genocide. women who have experienced abduction by rebels, been forced to fight and kill, who have bore children by their captors while living in the bush for more years than can be fathomed–all in the name of god. the women i met have lived in refugee camps, and some are just now returning to their original land and rebuilding, after as much as 20+ years. these women have scars. on their faces, their chests, in their gaze. remarkably, they also have feet that still dance, voices that still sing, and hands that still gather firewood. these women find the moment to tickle their children's bellies, and smile at the laughter, between selling matches and soap, grinding millet with a stone, and balancing two gallons of water upon their heads after walking miles to fill the cracked yellow plastic jug. the sun rises and sets without a moment's rest for the women i have met. for most, the burden of familial survival rests squarely on their shoulders while husbands often drink the night and sleep the day away (if not already killed by rebels or by AIDS).

for the women i was privileged to meet in northern uganda, the stats are not good. the numbers suggesting hardship and risk are high. the numbers reflecting aid coming in are low. school fees are difficult to acquire. death and illness tolls are through the roof. with an average of six children, many caring for more as the conflict orphaned countless, the prospect of feeding, clothing, schooling is what fills the day. these women do not have time to think about the statistics, they are too busy fighting to not become one.

there is something to be said for being driven by survival. there is undoubtedly an experience of the pain and suffering endured, traumas that i can only imagine, but the momentum of living takes precedence. for the women i met, happiness is found in their connection with one another, in the time spent in women's groups, where levity and hope are the focus. collective saving, collaboration on crops, and learning to read are where their luxury time is spent. the future, not the past, is consuming.

do i care about my petty little blog stats? the ones that say today that  i am not popular? i confess that i do. of course i want to be liked. i have the dream of taking this writing and photography stuff farther. of supporting my family with it, of making my little difference in the world. but i know better than to let these numbers define me, dissuade me, or influence me to do anything except work harder, dig deeper, plant more seeds, and widen my network.

we all have statistics somewhere in our history that suggest we are done for. from what i can tell, after spending a week with women in nothern uganda, these numbers have everything to do with creating our character. and nothing to do with what we are made of.

(please, if you haven't already, take a look at CAFWA's site.)