Trust is rare. In places shaped by scarcity, danger, and constant pressure, believing in someone else is almost a choice you cannot afford. Every word, every gesture, every small favor is measured. Children learn it early: that hope carries cost, that leaning on someone can hurt more than falling alone. Every day is a calculation of whom to watch, whom to follow, whom to ignore. The world outside calls it survival, but inside it is a rhythm taught by betrayal, by absence, by experience.

Even NGOs and well-meaning outsiders encounter the same problem. They arrive with programs, workshops, lessons, wanting to help, to guide, to teach. But trust cannot be summoned; it must be earned, and it cannot ignore history. When people have been promised help before, only to see it fail, misused, or manipulated, their skepticism is not cynicism—it is reality. Every aid program, every intervention is filtered through that lens: can this be trusted, or will it vanish or cause harm?

Hope itself becomes dangerous. Every step forward can feel like a fist in the face, every opportunity a test. You allow yourself to rely on someone, to believe in a system, and too often, the result is disappointment. Weakness is a luxury; vulnerability can cost more than pride. People adapt, and over time, the constant vigilance wears down even the strongest. Some give in to the patterns of corruption, not because they desire them, but because in a world where life is measured in surviving rather than living, participation is sometimes the only path forward.

Trust is not just about people—it is about systems, about promises, about knowing that your actions and reliance on others will not destroy you. And it is a fragile, expensive thing. In places where trust has been abused repeatedly, every step must be measured, every connection considered, and even then, caution guides most decisions. Yet, ironically, without trust, survival becomes a lonely, exhausting task; with it, danger lurks. It is both weapon and shield, impossible to wield without risk, impossible to survive without understanding its cost.

For those who come to help from outside, the first lesson is humility: no program, no lecture, no good intention can replace the knowledge of how trust has been shaped in these spaces. Understanding the rules, the betrayals, the unspoken economy is not optional—it is essential. Only after observing, listening, and experiencing the rhythms of survival can assistance even begin to align with reality. Only then can trust be approached in a way that is meaningful, that respects the lived experiences of people who have learned, every day, that believing in someone else is a luxury few can afford.