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Located in the heart of Korogocho Slums, our Arts Centre is dedicated to preserving and promoting our rich African musical heritage.

Our goals extend beyond artistic endeavors. We seek to encourage social responsibility, tackling pressing issues such as teenage pregnancy, early marriages, harmful cultural practices like female genital mutilation, and preventing crime and drug addiction among our youth.

Founded with a passion for empowering communities through the arts, our centre serves as a beacon of hope, providing a platform for local talent to flourish and express their creativity. Through music, dance, drama, and various artistic endeavors, we strive to uplift spirits, foster unity, and inspire positive change within our community.

Join us on this journey as we harness the transformative power of the arts to create a brighter future for the residents of Korogocho Slums and beyond.

For further information or to lend support, contact Project Patron Anthony Gafouga at or via WhatsApp at +254 725 683 679

See local creative artist Kake Wakake at the opening ceremony for the centre.

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Photographer Jackie Hopfinger has exhibited her work widely, including in the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. She lives in north London. Jackie's photographs capture moments and tell stories about places all over the world. We featured some of her work in earlier postings. This latest series is from a trip made to Nepal in December 2023.

You can find more of Jackie's work at

Pashupatinath Temple – a Hindu temple located in Kathmandu on the Bagmati River.  The current temple was constructed in 1692 and is the oldest Hindu temple in Kathmandu and is a World Heritage site. Numerous Hindu cremations take place each day generally just hours after death; Hindu belief is reincarnation.

Shops around Boudhanath Stupor, Kathmandu.

View of the Himalayas from Bindhyabasini temple in Pokhara.

A tree by Fewa Lake, Pokhara full of birds (left). Fishing nets on Fewa Lake (right).

A typical local shop near the temple.

The stairway down to Gupteshwor Cave.

Carrying crops on the hillside at Sarangkot.

Early morning misty sunrise in Chitwan, the jungle area of Nepal. We watched the elephants crossing the small river near our hotel and then walked a while with them. These were rescued elephants, rescued from years of transporting tourists on their backs. It is now widely recognised that riding elephants is unethical and exploitative though it still is common.

An elephant throwing dusty mud onto it’s back. They do this to get rid of flies, protect themselves from the sun and help regulate body temperature. 

Monkeys in the jungle in Chitwan National Park.

Local village life in Chitwan National Park.

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(from a 19th century nursery rhyme Ring Around a Rosie)

Jew woman that I am, the war on Gaza grinds itself into my being, not letting go. The initial reports--hard to believe it’s now 6 months since the start--are losing their power to whip me into a frenzy. I’m more numb now. Seeing photos of dead Palestinian children no longer shocks me. But if we had a wall chart measuring years on earth, my line would reach the ceiling. Theirs would not reach my toes. I, an old Jewish woman, breathe this world’s air. They, a fraction of my eighty plus years, do not. How many more lives have I had than these dead young ones? 

I, an old Jewish woman, breathe this world’s air. They, a fraction of my eighty plus years, do not. How many more lives have I had than these dead young ones? 

The war in Gaza is now over 160 days old. Over 30,000 Gazans are dead. A shortage of food, water, medicine and housing will kill many more. A constant state of terror imperils life and sanity. Hostages taken by Hamas remain in captivity, save for those released or dead. There is talk of a ceasefire, but Netanyahu and his right wing government do little to move towards peace. It is an ongoing horror. And it cannot stop soon enough, leaving broken husks of human lives to somehow be pasted back together.

Shards of what I once held dear lie all around me. These were once solid vessels holding my Jewish identity. The idea of a Jewish god vanished some time ago, as did my observance of most Jewish customs. But I never questioned that I was a Jew. I still do not. When people in my London neighbourhood ask, ‘where are you from’, I answer ‘I’m a New York Jew’ (despite having lived in northern California for over thirty years). Being a Jew is wired into my DNA. It’s like saying ‘I’m a Scot’ or ‘I’m an Afghani.’ My Polish and Ukrainian grandparents reside within me, their Yiddish voices still not silenced by the passage of years.

My gaze, the way I interpret the world, is through the eyes of an urban, smart assed, educated, East coast Jewish woman with street smarts. But secularist though I am, hearing a Hebrew tune stirs me. I’ll hum along; sometimes I’ll even sing the tune. Because I know it. It’s like reciting a child’s nursery rhyme. The joy of the familiar, the pleasure of the knowingness, the links to treasured memories. Rituals around sabbath meals stir me, linkages to my ancestors and to others I hold dear. Jewish rituals, human-made ceremonies to help deal with finitude, touch me. Lighting sabbath candles takes me into a sacred space, even though it is I who ‘sanctify’ this space. I light two candles and chant a short Hebrew prayer. My sense of time is transformed for a blessed few hours.

Jew though I am, I’m not an Israeli. I don’t want an association with this country, daily committing barbarous acts. But the truth is, I can’t completely disassociate myself. I was never an ardent Zionist, but modern day Israel has been part of my Jewish consciousness forever. Like many in my generation, I gave Israel a free pass when it came to its initial seizure of lands belonging to others. Over the years, I knew the ongoing Occupation was wrong, but that knowledge resided in the back of my mind. The forefront was taken up by an unquestioned belief that a Jewish homeland was worth any price. 

Over the years, I knew the ongoing Occupation was wrong, but that knowledge resided in the back of my mind. The forefront was taken up by an unquestioned belief that a Jewish homeland was worth any price. 

I no longer believe in paying that price nor in the notion that a Jewish state is fundamentally different from any other religious-nationalist entity. The war on Gaza has destroyed any remaining sense I held that Israel, and its mainly Jewish citizens, are morally superior, incapable of the kinds of terrible acts other countries perpetrate. Israel is a modern nation-state, and it now joins the company of other nations that do terrible things in the name of preserving national identity.

When this cursed, horrible war ends, how many years of t'shuvah (repentance) will we Jews have to make? Twenty five? Fifty? One hundred? More? How long will it take to atone for those we have slaughtered? If you respond, ‘we owe no apologies to anyone. Hamas’ unspeakably vile acts free us of any obligation,’ consider the emptiness of revenge, the moral destruction when all-consuming rage swallows mercy. Vengeance is up to the Jewish god, not to their human creations.

How do I pick up the pieces, re-glue broken vessels which hold parts of my own personal identity? How do I Jew now? I don’t know and may not find out. But one of the best parts of being a Jew is living with searing ambiguities. I have no choice but to do that.

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