We spent the week with the Watha people of Kenya, traveling from Watamu and Malindi to their ancestral villages. What is most memorable is the quiet dignity of people who, by every Western measure, live in extreme poverty; and yet, they may be among the wealthiest people we’ve ever met. Nevertheless, life is challenging. Families live in mud huts with thatched roofs, without plumbing or electricity. If a child is lucky, they attend a dilapidated school with 50 other students or more packed into one classroom. In one remote primary school, the desks are 25 years old. The blackboards are crumbling. There are two pit latrines and no water in the school of 500 kids. Schoolbooks are castoffs from other institutions, and the only food the children eat are—just a cup of cornmeal porridge in the morning, maybe two if the school can stretch it. Despite this paucity, the children were laughing. They greeted us with song, dancing in threadbare uniforms handed down over generations. One drum was a plastic water jug. When I pulled out a guitar and harmonica, they lit up, cheering and dancing as if I were a world-famous musician. They’d never seen live music before. That moment, taught me more about joy than any concert hall or theater that I ever played in. Our friend Guyo walked 30 kilometers each way—22 miles—as a child just to attend primary school. He’d sleep on a mat for the week at the school, then walk back. No roads, no crossing guards, just wild boars, snakes, and open terrain. His story isn’t exceptional. It’s normal here. To be clear, there is nothing noble about poverty. It crushes opportunity and limits choices. But the narrative we often carry in the West—that material poverty equals misery—doesn’t hold up here. These kids, without toys, tablets, TikTok, and the thousands of distractions that are the bane of contemporary culture are vibrant. Their families are intact. Their community is strong. No one is alone. What struck us was the contrast between our apparent affluence and wealth in the West. In the U.S., we spend nearly $2 trillion a year on the military, but 25% of our elderly live in poverty. Millions go bankrupt over medical bills. Our infant mortality rate is among the highest in the developed world. In urban centers and rural towns alike, children suffer from food insecurity, addiction, depression, and isolation. In Europe, Russia is spending trillions to destroy Ukraine, and Europe is spending trillions to defend it. We are on a planet wide ecological crisis, that will doom humanity, and we waste millions on war.  The US pays hundreds of billions of dollars so that Israel can destroy Palestine and rule supreme, and yet half the world does not have access to clean drinking water. Who are the impoverished people here? The Watha who spend zero dollars on war and military, or the West with their voracious appetite for war? Meanwhile, in Watha villages, people live in what we’d call extreme poverty—but they are wealthy in time, connection, and place. No one smokes or drinks alcohol. There is no fentanyl or drug crisis, or the hundreds of variations of Western neurosis and psychosis. They look healthy and all look strong and fit, and who easily walk a dozen miles a day. No one is obese. Their diet is primarily plant-based.  Most have never tasted Coca-Cola or eaten processed food. Most have never ridden in a car.  Few have traveled more than a few kilometers from home. They rise with the sun, tend the fields by hand, and rest at midday. They are not consumers. They are participants in life. One elder told me, “We don’t have much, but we have enough.” That phrase could rewrite economic theory. Nevertheless, life here is fragile. Climate change has dried up forests and farmland, making crops less predictable. When water is found, it is often contaminated. Guyo’s mother survived a crocodile attack while collecting water. People walk miles, even pregnant, for basic healthcare. A broken solar panel at school means no light, no internet, and no charging for an antique laptop that no longer runs. We are grateful that our organization www.gracecaes.org, with our generous donors were able to assist in providing five wells with pumps that have helped to transform this community Yes, outside assistance matters—but only when it’s driven by listening and respect.  To underscore, as experts on community development, the one essential key is to deeply listen to what people have to say and understand their wisdom.   After emailing our supporters about the plight of a school, one donor quickly gave $500 to replace desks and blackboards. That was all the school principal asked for. We wanted to repaint the classrooms, but that’s my Western sensibility. The children don’t complain. They are grateful simply to be in any kind of school and learning. ADHD is often a Western construct, children here are profoundly grateful to be in school and attentive to the teacher.   The village elders don’t ask for any kind of luxury. They only asked for help to preserve their culture. Their traditions, stories, and songs are their treasures, and they want their children and grandchildren to inherit them. If we can also help with water access, some basic health care, and schools they area overwhelmed with gratitude. Our support and technical assistance to this community is a partnership. They teach us about community and gratitude, and we offer our support in grant writing, technical assistance, and project planning.   We’ve met children in the U.S. with closets full of toys, streaming access to every cartoon, and three kinds of cereal for breakfast—who are far less joyful and content than the barefoot kids we met and danced with in Watha land.   We’ve seen kids in New York, Nairobi, and Europe numb from social media and prescription drugs. We’ve know of elders in Florida who live alone in air-conditioned silence, disconnected from their families. We call this modernity.