The following are two reflections from the engaged spring break experience of the half-credit CEL course “Food, Faith, and Justice”. The course explores the following questions: why are people food insecure in Baltimore in 2025? How is the community responding (through direct service, grassroots organizing, policy, research, and advocacy)? How do we fit in? And how do we build hopeful, resilient. thoughtful communities of response?
To read reflections from more students, please click here.
A Journey Toward Belonging
Shaheryar Asghar ’28, participant
Yesterday felt different; it was a day where coming to Baltimore no longer felt like an adjustment — it had settled in. The drive to Our Daily Bread wasn’t filled with curiosity or uncertainty anymore; instead, it was a quiet reflection on how this place, and the people who have made it meaningful, had started to feel like a system — familiar and personal. The idea of how change becomes comfort weighed on my mind throughout the journey. I kept wondering: how does a new setting, initially foreign, become home? How do the people we encounter transform an experience from obligation to belonging?
In these few days, a quiet bond had emerged — no longer the cautious dynamic of people thrown together by circumstance, but something deeper. It felt like we were no longer just participants in a shared project; we were part of a shared story. Yesterday, I found myself questioning why I was on this trip — not just the purpose of the work itself, but why I was here with these particular people. And somewhere in that question lay the answer.
As we approached Our Daily Bread, Jaiden’s smile stood out to me. His eagerness to be there wasn’t fueled by obligation but by a quiet, internal motivation. That genuine drive reminded me why we were all there — not because we had to be, but because we wanted to be. Inside, Dora’s excitement was equally infectious. The warmth in her voice as she recounted her previous experiences inspired all of us. It was as if she carried a quiet light, guiding the rest of us forward.
Our first task was simple — tying tea bags in bundles of ten. I found myself next to Rose, working in shared silence. But that silence wasn’t empty; it was heavy with meaning. Her quiet focus and care for such a small task reminded me that inspiration isn’t something external — it’s carried within us.
Before the doors opened, we were assigned our roles. Each task — serving, cleaning, assisting — carried its own quiet beauty. It wasn’t just about the job itself but the shared process of doing it together. For a moment, I stepped back and wondered why it was us — these specific thirteen people — standing together in that room. It felt intentional, as though we had been woven into the same story for a reason.
We had some time before the service began, and I took a quiet moment to reflect. Around me, the staff members smiled at us without saying a word. Their silent acknowledgment held so much weight — a simple gesture that reminded me we were seen, that our presence mattered. There was comfort in that unspoken connection.
When I walked into the back room for dish duty, I saw Jevin standing at the sink, receiving plate after plate with quiet consistency. He wasn’t talking to anyone, yet his focus never wavered. His silent commitment — the way he kept going without hesitation — reflected a kind of internal strength I deeply admired. In that small, repetitive task, I saw something larger: a quiet understanding that we were all relying on each other, that the process worked because we carried each other through it.
Virginia stood out too — not only for how she served the guests but for how she cared for us. She moved between roles with ease, making sure everyone was okay, her presence grounding and steady. Oluwasefunmi’s smile was a quiet force of its own. Her warmth wasn’t just in her words but in the way she made every moment feel lighter. Even in the smallest exchanges, she made the work feel less like work and more like a shared experience.
My partner in dish duty was Kurt, and what began as a task soon became something more. We found a rhythm together, the repetitive action of washing and drying plates evolving into something meaningful. In between the work, we talked about life, about why we were here, about the quiet goals that shaped us. Kurt’s presence made me realize how connection often happens in the spaces between the task itself — in the shared silence, the steady work, the understanding that you’re not doing it alone. Later, when it was time to head to the Islamic Society of Greater Baltimore for prayer, Kurt rushed through his meal so that we could leave early and I wouldn’t miss the prayer. That quiet act of care — the unspoken consideration — stayed with me.
As I left, I carried with me a quiet sense of peace and gratitude. Beyond simply being part of the process, what truly mattered was experiencing something that the team at Our Daily Bread lives through every day. Keith, who was guiding us at the back, stood out in particular. His gratitude toward us—despite the fact that we weren’t doing anything extraordinary—was humbling. It reminded me of how deeply interwoven our lives are, how the smallest acts of service and presence can reflect a quiet but profound connection. His calm and thankful presence was a quiet lesson in how interconnected we all are, even when we fail to notice it.
As we headed for the car, I was struck by how both Jazmin and Kekoa had also left early for the same reason—to make sure I could attend prayers. Their willingness to adjust their plans so that I could meet a spiritual need made me feel so deeply blessed to have them as friends. Jazmin and Kekoa have both been a quiet but constant source of support throughout this trip, and their thoughtfulness in that moment was a reflection of how much they genuinely care. Jazmin carries this lightness about her—a sense of ease and warmth that makes you feel special. Her presence feels effortless, as though her kindness flows naturally, making the weight of the day’s work feel lighter just by being around her. Kekoa’s effort to understand my religion, his quiet curiosity and openness, meant more to me than words could express. There’s something profoundly moving about being seen and understood, about someone making the effort to engage with a part of you that’s so deeply personal. That feeling of acceptance and care was a gift I will carry with me long after this trip ends.
At the mosque, the feeling was both familiar and new. The process of wudu (ablution), the quiet order of the prayer — it was grounding in a way I hadn’t felt in months. But the funeral prayer left a particular mark on me. In Islam, when a child is born, the first thing whispered in their ear is the Azaan (the call to prayer). Yet during a funeral prayer, there is no Azaan — a quiet reminder of life’s temporary nature, of the way we come full circle. That realization settled in me with a quiet weight.
After the prayer, we stayed to hear from Imam Yaseen. His words were comforting, a reminder of faith and belonging. For the first time in months, it felt like home — not in the physical sense, but in the quiet recognition of shared faith and community.
On the way back, I sat with Rabbi Goldberg and we spoke about religion — the nuances, the differences, the shared humanity beneath them all. Her openness and willingness to engage in that conversation felt motherly in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. Being so far from home often creates an ache for guidance, for the steady presence of someone who listens and understands. That conversation left me feeling deeply cared for.
Throughout the day, Julia was a quiet source of comfort. We shared conversations, moments of understanding. Her quiet kindness —letting me get ahead in line for dinner,walking alongside me without needing to fill the silence — reminded me how much friendship is built not just in grand gestures but in the quiet acts of showing up.
And then there was Keeler. Something about him radiates quiet positivity. He carries it effortlessly, not just in conversation but in the way it spreads through everyone around him. Throughout the day, his presence was steady and reassuring — whether it was helping with the serving, quietly taking care of the trash, or simply being there when someone needed an extra hand. At the mosque, his presence felt even more grounding. His gentle comments, subtle but intentional, made me feel comfortable in a setting that was deeply personal to me. It wasn’t loud reassurance — just the kind of quiet understanding that makes you feel seen without needing to explain yourself. And then at night, before falling asleep, we talked about deeper questions — philosophical ideas, the frameworks that shape how we see the world. What I cherish most about that conversation isn’t just the ideas we exchanged but the comfort I felt while having it. Peace is often seen as something you cultivate alone, through quiet introspection — but feeling that peace in someone else’s presence, knowing you are fully understood, is a rare kind of gift.
As the day ended, I was left asking myself what I was truly gaining from this trip. The practical lessons on food insecurity and service were clear, but beneath that was something deeper — the quiet realization that this experience was not about the place, but about the people. This was not my story; I was not the main character. It was a collective narrative, shaped by these twelve incredible people, each with their own quiet presence, their own significance. Even if given the chance, I would choose to remain a background character in their stories rather than the protagonist of my own.
With four days left, I know now that this experience will stay with me. Beyond the lessons on service, I am learning about humanity — about the quiet strength found in connection, in showing up for each other, in the steady rhythm of collective purpose. And that, I think, will be the takeaway that lasts.
Optimism as Resistance
Dora Kreitzer ’25, TA
This course has 3.5 core questions: Why are people food insecure in 2025? How are communities responding? Where do we fit? And our half question: what gives you hope? The reason it’s a half, as Kurt explained in one of our early sessions, is that we’re not sure hope is the right word or feeling to be focusing on in this landscape. But then this week, hope was a big point of discussion with many of our partners, especially in terms of how they are feeling about this political moment.
It started with Reverend Heber Brown, who shared that despite the chaos coming from Washington D.C., he feels optimistic. He has studied historical movements, knows that communities have responded and come together to surmount oppressive challenges in the past, and sees that network and his role in it today. Dr. Brown also talked about one of the goals of this current administration being to make people feel discouraged and despair; whether or not policies are actually imposed doesn’t seem to matter as just making headlines that make people feel the situation is hopeless. Optimism, therefore, is an act of resistance. Dr. Brown isn’t ignorantly hopeful, sticking his head in the sand and hoping that when he lifts it back up things will be okay. To face contemporary challenges head on, to build community, to see new networks growing and food distribution systems changing, and to see patterns and cycles of history showing how people push back all give him reason to be hopeful. Dr. Brown proved to me that one can engage with all of the political volatility of this moment, and still be optimistic about our country and about the future, because he is finding community and taking action which shows that efforts are still worth it.
Then, Terris King said he was actually excited about how his work could grow because of changes at the federal level, including the possibility of eliminating the Department of Education. For the last three years, King has been developing Temple X schools, which is creating a forest school model for Baltimore city, and has recently expanded to seven states. With the entire landscape of education changing, King sees an opportunity for more people to opt in to models that actually suit children better, such as Temple X, which gets kids connected with nature and gives them opportunity to play. Once again, King’s optimism did not come from hiding, but from recognizing positive potentials in all that is up in the air to transform. If things are changing radically, there is room for them to change for the better. Not only that, but King noted that he already didn’t like the system of White supremacy before, and the current administration’s version is just a more visible level of it. If it’s calling more people into action, that could be a good thing.
Optimism was a matter of discussion again with Andrea Faiano from Bread for the World. Working on the organizing team for Bread, Faiano already spent a lot of her time thinking about national politics, and that has become all the more challenging because of the current political climate. Having worked in Congress for more than 50 years, Bread for the World knows the political process, and is used to working slowly and as a bipartisan organization. But, the speed at which the current administration is working and the way some senators and representatives are hiding has made their work more complicated. Despite that, Faiano continues to do this work because she is hopeful ultimately that she can make a difference. Faiano is dedicated to the Modern WIC Act, and believes that if she focuses her energy there, there can be real movement on keeping WIC processes online and accessible. Focusing on what is in her control, with a specific goal, has helped to keep Faiano hopeful about the role that she and Bread for the World can have in reducing hunger in the United States.
As for me, I came into this week hopeful about our work certainly, but discouraged by national politics, and unsure of where, how, and if I fit into resistance. But, this week made me optimistic. Hearing from so many people feeling hope right now, it was impossible for none of it to be contagious. Not only that, but watching our cohort of 13 get engaged, find methods of response that resonate with us, build a supportive community that we all know we can fall back on, and deeply discuss how we plan to move forward gave me reason to be optimistic. We are only 13 people, but there is so much each of us can do. Like Brown, King, and Faiano, my hope comes from seeing people do the work, and now seeing that there is more of it I can be doing, too. I can’t change who is in office, but I can build protective communities, advocate for and create change at the local level, and after our DC day, maybe even feel confident enough to call my own elected officials about protections I feel passionate about. Optimism is resistance, and after this week, it is the path forward that I hope I can continue to channel. That is because of our amazing, example-setting community partners and all of the inspirational people I get to call classmates and friends as a result of this experience.