We didn’t wait for change. We became the change.

By Gaima Sara 

Growing up in Luuka District, a rural part of eastern Uganda, I’ve always known what it means to go without. Without clinics. Without safe roads. Without reliable electricity. But more than anything, we’ve often lived without the feeling that someone is listening and that we matter. 

Over time, I realized something: if we keep waiting for change to come from the top, we’ll be waiting forever. So I stopped waiting. And I started doing it. 

It began with small things. I joined a local youth group, Luuka Youth with a Mission, that organized weekend cleanups and school outreach programs. Later, I helped run awareness campaigns about reproductive health in underserved villages. I began listening more closely to people’s everyday struggles: young girls skipping school due to a lack of sanitary products, mothers walking miles for basic medication, and youth who had given up because they believed opportunity only existed in the city. 

The turning point came when I visited a nearby village called Bukooma, where I found an old, decommissioned bus that had been abandoned as a leftover from a failed transport project. Seeing the bus immediately took me back to another moment: the Aviation Waste Design and Innovation Challenge, where my team placed third and received prize money for proposing a way to turn retired Airbus A320 fuselages into off-grid, solar-powered medical clinics. Each 120 m² unit would have consultation rooms, a treatment bay, and a pharmacy; run on solar energy; harvest rainwater; and be rapidly deployable, culturally adaptable, and scalable in rural African regions. Inspired by the UPS Foundation’s container clinics and the Orbis Flying Eye Hospital, our design aimed for permanence, sustainability, and access for underserved communities. 

The challenge taught me to see opportunity in what others considered waste. It changed the way I viewed abandoned structures, buses, containers, aircraft, and even old classrooms. What if they could all be reimagined as mobile, solar-powered community hubs offering health services, digital literacy, and mental health support? 

I began sketching out a more localized version of that idea. With support from a local NGO, loans, and the prize money, my team and I converted the bus into a mobile unit we called Sarahz Safe Stop. 

Although it’s not yet legally registered due to limited funding, Sarahz Safe Stop has now been operating for three months, offering hope where there once was none. From the outside, it still looks like a modest trailer with faded white paint, rust along the corners, and a low metallic hum from its moving parts. But inside, it’s an entirely different story. Solar-powered fans keep the air cool. Shelves are lined with basic first-aid supplies, reusable menstrual kits, painkillers, antiseptics, and health pamphlets written in local languages. A fold-out wooden table becomes a space for health talks or one-on-one counselling. It smells of Dettol and fresh wood polish. It’s not luxurious, but it’s safe, warm, and full of purpose. 

Sarahz Safe Stop currently serves three rural villages: Misita, Bukooma, and Namulanda. It visits each community monthly on a rotating schedule. Staffed by local nurses, trained youth volunteers, and peer educators, the Safe Stop provides basic health and hygiene services, education, and referrals. On the days it arrives, the atmosphere is electric. Children peek inside with curiosity. Mothers gather early. Elders come for blood pressure checks, medication, or simply to feel seen and heard. 

One story that has stayed with me is that of Amina, a 15-year-old girl who had dropped out of school after her first period because she didn’t have access to menstrual products. She came to Sarahz Safe Stop, hesitant and quiet. After speaking with one of our female volunteers, she left with a reusable kit and a renewed sense of confidence. Two months later, a teacher passed along a message from her: 

“Tell the bus people I’m back in class again.” 

That’s what Sarahz Safe Stop is about. It’s not just a mobile unit. It’s dignity on wheels. A spark of hope. A reminder that no one is too far away to be cared for. 

I used to think leadership was about having a microphone. Now I know it’s about stepping forward even when you’re scared, lifting others as you climb, and seeing every problem as a possibility. 

There is still so much to do. One trailer can’t fix the gaps in our health system. But it can clean a wound. Restore a girl’s dignity. Remind a village that they are not forgotten. 

That’s why I do this. That’s why I write this for the young people who feel small, unseen, or like they need permission to lead. 

You don’t. 

You just must begin.