My name is Alum Margaret, and I am a mother, a survivor, and a woman who plants trees for a living. Each morning, I step into the nursery I’ve built with my own hands, tenderly caring for seedlings, watching them stretch toward the light. I water them, I weed, and sometimes I speak to them, like I would to a child finding its way in the world.

And there are moments when I pause and look at those trees, small, fragile, full of promise and I wonder: ‘Do they hate themselves that much and still create a forest?’

That question has lived inside me longer than I can explain. Because for a long time, I felt like one of those trees, damaged, doubted, and deeply alone.

I was only nine years old when I was abducted into a life of violence and captivity by the Lord’s Resistance Army. I gave birth to three of my children in the bush. And when I finally returned home, I thought freedom had come.

But the pain didn’t end. It simply changed its shape.

I was met with rejection, not welcome. Even the families of my children’s fathers turned their backs on me. I had no home, only a small reintegration package that allowed me to rent a single room. I had to find my way and did whatever work I could: digging, selling vegetables, raising poultry. But nothing seemed to last. The stigma followed me like a shadow. Sometimes, the judgment I faced in the community cut deeper than the years I spent in captivity. At least in the bush, no one looked at me like I was unworthy.

And yet, somehow, I kept growing.

Joining Haven for Humanity Uganda was the day my soil changed. Through counseling and mentorship, I began to see myself not as broken, but as becoming. I started to speak. To heal. To rebuild. The community dialogues helped others see me too, not with pity, but with understanding. Slowly, the walls began to fall.

With the support I received, I started a tree nursery, a small act of restoration, both for the land and for myself.

Today, that nursery is a business. It feeds my family, restores the environment, and brings life to my community. I also farm and supply seedlings to forestry programs and my neighbors. And with the income I’ve earned, I was able to buy land and build three huts. We finally have a home. A future.

I am now married to a loving, supportive husband, and together we raise our children in a place rooted in peace, not fear.

When I look at everything, the trees, the children, the life we’ve built, I come back to that question: ‘Do the trees hate themselves that much and still create a forest?’

Maybe trees don’t hate themselves at all, maybe they know that being broken doesn’t stop you from growing, that even when the world tries to cut you down, you can still take root.

Still rise, Still give, still become hope for others, and maybe I, too, have become a forest.