10 years of "The Facebook"

Today is Facebook's 10th anniversary.

It's been an amazing journey so far, and I'm so grateful to be a part of it. It's rare to be able to touch so many people's lives, and I try to remind myself to make the most of every day and have the biggest impact I can.

People often ask if I always knew that Facebook would become what it is today. No way.

I remember getting pizza with my friends one night in college shortly after opening Facebook. I told them I was excited to help connect our school community, but one day someone needed to connect the whole world.

I always thought this was important -- giving people the power to share and stay connected, empowering people to build their own communities themselves.

When I reflect on the last 10 years, one question I ask myself is: why were we the ones to build this? We were just students. We had way fewer resources than big companies. If they had focused on this problem, they could have done it.

The only answer I can think of is: we just cared more.

While some doubted that connecting the world was actually important, we were building. While others doubted that this would be sustainable, you were forming lasting connections.

We just cared more about connecting the world than anyone else. And we still do today.

That's why I'm even more excited about the next ten years than the last. The first ten years were about bootstrapping this network. Now we have the resources to help people across the world solve even bigger and more important problems.

Today, only one-third of the world's population has access to the internet. In the next decade, we have the opportunity and the responsibility to connect the other two-thirds.

Today, social networks are mostly about sharing moments. In the next decade, they'll also help you answer questions and solve complex problems.

Today, we have only a few ways to share our experiences. In the next decade, technology will enable us to create many more ways to capture and communicate new kinds of experiences.

It's been amazing to see how all of you have used our tools to build a real community. You've shared the happy moments and the painful ones. You've started new families, and kept spread out families connected. You've created new services and built small businesses. You've helped each other in so many ways.

I'm so grateful to be able to help build these tools for you. I feel a deep responsibility to make the most of my time here and serve you the best I can.

Thank you for letting me be a part of this journey.

Mark

Tell Me How, When They are Long gone

AN OBITUARY POEM TO YOU DEAR FRIEND.

 PENINAH KOBUSINGYE...

Tell me how...

Tell me how to turn new page
When my tears touched each of them till the last one?
How to move on
When the strength and hope left me alone?
How to open my eyes tomorrow and look the new dawn
When they are dead?
Tell me how?

How to believe that everything will be alright
When sorrow walks among us, bringing pain with each touch?
How to walk through all this darkness
When my soul is drowned deep into it?

How to look at the others

RIP Kobusinge Penninah
BSc MUK 

When I can’t even look at myself?

Oh, I look… I look at some time
Long gone you are !
Searching for that piece of life I left somewhere in time.
I look at an illusion wishing it was true
Wishing I was here with you.

So many questions
None with an answer
Only silence…
And the silence is killing me
The silence, eternally
Silence filled with screams and words never told
The silence – elegy for the one gone long ago.
We love you Pennie...Rest In peace.

By Solomon S Kaweesa.

The Symbolism of Graduation

It is the first day of another graduation season at Makerere University. Lines of smartly dressed parents/ guardians and their graduating children are proudly streaming into the university through all the gates. Men in kanzus, men in suits and ties, men casually dressed ties, and of course the ladies are wearing all sorts of apparel. Graduation ceremonies remind me about my own first ceremony at this same old hill. Graduation is a rite of passage that marks the successful completion of one phase of life and the entry into formal employment, maturity, adulthood, paying income tax, contributing towards the bills at home, and eventual independence.

But heh as I think about graduation, my eye catches onto something odd, strange, weird... There is something off-beat about a man smartly dressed in a tie, whistling to a young hawker with trays of boiled eggs on his head. I watch this man-in-a-tie asking for the price of one boiled egg. And then he pulls out his old leather wallet. He digs into it for a crumpled note of 1,000/=, pays the boy and then proceeds to carefully choose one hard-boiled egg out of the tray. I think he chooses the biggest egg in the tray. This man-in-a-tie then cracks the hard-boiled egg against the other eggs remaining in the tray, removes the shells and takes a big bite of the egg-white. He reaches for the salt-shaker, sprinkles some salt onto his egg, and takes another bite. Getting his balance from the egg-hawker, the man-in-a-tie walks off as he continues to chew his boiled egg.

There is something enigmatic about a man in a tie buying a hard-boiled egg from a street-hawker on graduation day at the oldest university in Kampala. Surely graduation may still fail to deliver youths out of dependency on parents and guardians who dress smartly to celebrate the completion of university. What does graduation symbolise in Uganda today?

Stella Nyanzi

Start Over

When you've trusted God and walked his way,

When you've felt his hand lead you day by day,

But your steps now take you another way-

Start Over.

When you've made your plans and they've gone awry,

When you've tried your best and there's no more try,

When you've failed yourself and you don't know why-

Start Over.

When you've told your friends what you plan to do,

When you've trusted them and they didn't come through,

And now you are all alone and it's up to you-

Start Over.

When you've failed your kids and they're grown and gone,

When you've done your best but it's turned out wrong,

And now your grandchildren have come along-

Start Over.

When you've prayed to God so you'll know his will,

When you've prayed and prayed and you don't know still,

When you want to stop 'cause you've had your fill-

Start Over.

When you think you're finished and want to quit,

When you've bottomed out in life's deepest pit,

When you've tried and tried to get out of it-

Start Over.

When the year has been long and successes few,

When December comes and you're feling blue,

God gives a January just for you-

Start Over.

Starting Over means "victories won;"

Starting Over means "a race well run."

Starting Over means "God's will be done"-

So don't just sit there,...

Adapted

Hands of Steel

My eight fingers are wounded from hand-washing my children's clothes on Boxing Day. Clusters of tiny skinless wounds are causing me immense pain. Much more than this, I am ashamed that doing laundry can actually wound me. I am thinking of the washing-woman who comes to my house twice a week and does heaps of laundry with such ease. I should increase her wages, now that I understand what she is saving me from.

Most of us in Uganda do not have washing-machines or laundry-driers. We hand-wash our dirty clothes. We also hang them out on metal lines or gauze wires or sisal-strings to dry in the sun. Before hanging them to sun-dry, we wring them with our hands to squeeze out as much water as we can.

I grew up hand-washing my clothes - mostly in boarding school. We all did this over the weekend, often spreading our clothes out in the green lawns to dry under the brilliant equatorial sun. And then I graduated from university and learnt about dobbies who washed clothes for a fee. I also learnt about dry cleaners who cost an arm and a leg to clean one coat or one skirt. And when I went overseas for graduate education, I learnt about washing-machines and driers. I returned home and itinerary washing-men or washing-women were the in thing. I have had a washing-woman do my family's laundry for the last donkey's years. And so my fingers are now too dainty to do the needful. Shame on me and other career-women who use our fingers to type on laptops but not for housework. Kudos for all washing-men and washing-women who save our hands from dirty laundry.

Stella Nyanzi

To all that are struggling with depression,

I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are or where you’re from. I don’t know your background, nor do I know your unique circumstances. I don’t know if your depression is the result of your genetic disposition, or if it is caused by something terrible that happened to you in your past. I don’t know if you’re going through a major change in your life or if you’re struggling to cope with the loss of a loved one.

There are a lot of things about your fight with depression that I simply don’t know.

But let me tell you a few things that I do know.

I know how it feels.

I know how it feels to have no one understand what you’re going through.

I know how it feels to feel alone in a crowded room; to feel like you’re putting on a “happy mask” in public, only to feel like you’re slipping further and further into an unsolvable despair.

I know how it feels to lose interest in things that once brought you joy and happiness; for foods to lose their taste, for nature to lose its beauty, and for the world to lose its color.

I know how it feels to want to be left alone while simultaneously (and desperately) yearn for someone to reach out and help you.

I know how it feels to do everything—absolutely everything—to try to fill the growing emptiness inside of you. I know how it feels to try to self-medicate and mute the pain with anything and everything: excessive sleep, television, foods, pain killers, or other addictions.

I know how it feels to fall to your knees and beg God to free you from the terrible loneliness of the darkness in your mind—only to feel like the ground has opened beneath you, plunging you into an even darker abyss.

I know how it feels because I’ve suffered from depression since I was a kid. In 2006, my depression culminated in a suicide attempt that very nearly claimed my life.

I know how depression feels and I’m intimately aware of the thoughts and feelings that lead to suicide.

But I also know a few other things. And this is why I’m writing to you.

I know there is hope.

Just as night is defeated by the dawn, or as the winter is conquered by the spring, or as the darkness is dominated by any degree of light, I know that you can make it through this.

And what’s more, I know that you can be a better person because of it.

Our lives are a journey on the earth. As we move forward, we will not only figuratively experience the geography of life: the exhilaration of high mountains, the tranquility of calm meadows, the isolation of treacherous canyons, but we also experience the seasons of life: the hope of spring, the abundance of summer, the harvest of autumn, and yes, the darkness and depression of winter.

Just as we continuously experience the change in seasons, we will also experience the contrast between canyons and mountains many times in our lives. Some winters and canyons last longer than others, it is true. But as someone who frequently struggles with depression, I can promise you that the springs do come and that there are paths out of the canyons and into the light.

I said that you are going to be a better person as a result of your depression. I meant it. Having dealt with depression for over twenty years, I can say with confidence that my depression has given me an incomparable appreciation for life.

If you move forward while holding onto the knowledge that the sun will rise in your soul, I assure you that one day, you will stand at the summit of a figurative mountain and look back on your life’s journey. You will see your canyons of depression for what they were and realize that they taught you things you otherwise couldn’t have learned. And, to your utter amazement, you will see how your experiences with depression, dark and painful as they were, only added to the overall beauty of your life.

For aren’t the most beautiful vistas the ones that are filled with mountains, valleys, canyons, and wondrous variety?

To all who are struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts: you are not alone. We are all on this journey together. I promise you that there is hope. Let us reach out to one another and walk together in the sunlight.

- Seth Adam

One More Night

Eve - which is also called 'kiro more', 'esigadde', 'penultimate night', etc etc - has always been my sort of thing. I love that one last full day before departing. I get high on the excitement that closure brings. And today I am in full 'kiro more' mode.

That oldie 'One more night' is playing over and over again through my laptop speakers. My suitcases and bags are spread all over the floor in different stages of packing. The book shelves are getting bare as I return books to different libraries and people. The wardrobe and drawers have been emptied of my what-nots. My last few contents in the shared fridge-freezer are defrosting for that last baking or giving away. My food cabinets were emptied this morning into heaps and bundles to give away. The shredder is working as I destroy written evidence of my presence, that is no longer wanted. End-term shredding reminds me of bonfire night in my primary school when fools burnt up their exercise books to mark the end of an academic year.

In previous years, I would climb up a chair firmly placed on a desk in order to scribble onto a corner of the ceiling 'Stella Nyanzi was here'. Right now I am rethinking this ritual of closure. I feel I am now too old to climb up another chair placed on the desk I have been working at all this while. I look at my children's pictures firmly pasted on the walls around me. These pictures have motivated me to keep working, stay the course, read longer, write more and be productive. I will bring the pictures down after all the other chores. I am looking forward to going back home to my people after three long months away. Tomorrow morning, I will be homebound. The excitement is killing me.

Stella Nyanzi