I arrived in Addouz Douar thinking integration was something you do.

I later learned it is something you live through.

In the beginning, I went from door to door, introducing myself to women, sitting on thresholds, waiting for permission that was never spoken out loud. I wasn’t met with rejection, but with distance. A quiet distance shaped by years of disappointment and unmet promises.

To them, I looked like help that would come and leave. Aid. Assistance. Another story that wouldn’t last.

I made sure they understood, gently and repeatedly, that this was not why I was there. I didn’t come to bring things. I came to stay, to listen, to work with them, and to build something that would belong to them long after I’m gone.

Trust did not arrive quickly. But it arrived honestly.

Little by little, conversations softened. Women began to speak freely. Men joined the discussions. They told me what mattered most to them, what they knew how to do with their own hands, what they dreamed of but never said out loud. I realized then that this community did not lack ideas or skills, it lacked belief that those skills were enough.

To understand them fully, I listened to their stories about the earthquake.

That was my lowest point.

Their words followed me into the night. Faces. Loss. Fear. Survival. I carried their pain in my body, and for weeks, sleep avoided me. I didn’t know how to release what I had absorbed. I felt alone, overwhelmed, and helpless in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

I wanted to fix everything. I wanted to ease every pain. I wanted to move faster than life allows.

So I tried.

I contacted associations and organizations, believing that if I pushed hard enough, something would break open. Sleepless nights. Cold days. No network. Waiting. Hoping. Praying between attempts.

When an organization promised to support the community, my heart felt light for the first time in weeks. I imagined people learning, growing, standing taller. I imagined hope becoming visible.

Then they disappeared.

Silence replaced promises.

And when the community began asking questions, I felt the weight of responsibility fall heavily on my chest. Not because they blamed me but because I did. I felt I had failed them. I felt I had failed myself.

That moment forced me to stop.

To reflect.

To ask myself why I was really here.

I didn’t come to be successful.

I didn’t come to be admired.

I didn’t come to be remembered.

I came to serve.

And service, I learned, is not always movement. Sometimes it is patience. Sometimes it is sitting in uncertainty and trusting that Allah sees what we cannot.

Time became my teacher.

With time, the community became my comfort. When they saw my anxiety, they reminded me: It’s okay. It’s in Allah’s hands. Their faith steadied me when mine felt tired. I prayed more. I spoke less. I listened deeper.

Now it is winter in Addouz Douar. Life is heavy. Survival is daily work. And instead of rushing change, I am living this season with them, sharing their cold, their waiting, their resilience.

I don’t want applause.

I don’t want recognition.

I want to see people working while staying where they belong.

I want them investing in their land, their skills, their future.

I want sustainability rooted in dignity, not dependency.

If something grows here, I want it to grow from them.

This experience is teaching me that impact is not always visible. Sometimes it is silent. Sometimes it is slow. Sometimes it is simply staying when leaving would be easier.

And maybe that is where Allah places the real work.