01/29/2026
A teacher said $70. A six-year-old boy heard a promise he intended to keep.
Kemptville, Ontario, 1998. Ryan Hreljac sat in his first-grade classroom, feet swinging above the floor, when his teacher mentioned something that would change his life—and eventually, over a million others.
She was teaching about Africa. About villages where children walked hours each day for water. Water that made them sick. Water that sometimes killed them.
Ryan's hand shot up. "How much does it cost to give them clean water?"
His teacher mentioned an organization that built wells. Maybe seventy dollars, she thought. It was a guess, meant to illustrate the concept. She had no idea she'd just planted a seed in soil more fertile than she could imagine.
After school, Ryan found his mother in the kitchen.
"Mom, I need seventy dollars."
Susan Hreljac looked at her son, curious. "Seventy dollars? What for?"
"To build a well. Kids in Africa are dying because they don't have clean water."
She could see he wasn't playing pretend. This was real to him. Susan could have written a check. Seventy dollars would have been a stretch, but possible. She could have turned it into a quick lesson about charity and moved on with their day.
Instead, she made a choice that changed everything.
"If you want the money," she told him, "you'll have to earn it yourself."
Ryan nodded. No argument. No complaint. Just acceptance.
He started doing extra chores. Vacuuming. Washing windows. Helping with yard work. Every dollar went into a jar. His brothers teased him. The goal seemed impossibly far away. Four months passed. Winter turned to spring.
Finally, he had it. Seventy dollars.
His mother drove him to the WaterCan office. Ryan, likely clutching coins and crumpled bills, was ready to change the world.
That's when everything shifted.
Seventy dollars, they explained gently, would buy a hand pump. A full well system cost two thousand dollars.
Most stories end here. Most childhood dreams die in moments like this.
Ryan looked at his mother. Then back at the person explaining the cost.
"Okay," he said, voice steady. "I'll just have to do more chores."
Susan thought this was it—the moment reality would set in, and her son would move on to other interests. She'd underestimated him.
Ryan went back to work. But this time, something unexpected happened. His brothers stopped teasing and started helping. Neighbors offered small jobs. Someone at his school heard the story and organized a fundraiser. Word spread about a boy who wouldn't quit.
What began as one child doing chores became a movement.
By the end of 1998, Ryan had raised two thousand dollars.
In January 1999, a well was drilled at Angolo Primary School in northern Uganda. Ryan was seven years old. An entire village had clean water because a child had asked a simple question and refused to accept "impossible" as an answer.
But the story didn't end there.
Ryan started exchanging letters with students at the school. One name appeared again and again: Jimmy Akana, a boy his own age. Jimmy wrote about his life—about waking at midnight to fetch water for his aunt before school, about how everything changed when the well arrived. Children were healthier. School attendance soared. Hours once lost to survival were given back to childhood.
Ryan asked his parents if they could meet Jimmy.
In 2000, the Hreljac family traveled to Uganda. When their vehicle approached the village, Ryan saw something he'd never forget.
People lined both sides of the road. Children, elders, entire families. As he walked through the crowd, they called his name. Ryan Hreljac. The boy who brought them water.
He was eight years old, standing in a celebration he never expected, understanding for the first time the weight of what he'd done.
Many stories would end there. A beautiful moment frozen in time.
Ryan kept going.
In 2001, when he was ten years old, his family helped establish Ryan's Well Foundation. It wasn't symbolic. It was operational, strategic, real.
While other teenagers worried about fitting in, Ryan traveled to project sites, spoke at conferences, and learned about water policy and sustainable development. In university, he studied International Development and Political Science. After graduation, he returned to the foundation—not as a figurehead, but as a project manager, then Executive Director.
Today, Ryan Hreljac is in his thirties and still leads the foundation he started as a child. He visits project sites across continents. He trains local communities to maintain their own water systems. He speaks globally about water, sanitation, and human dignity.
The foundation has completed over 1,767 water projects and 1,322 sanitation projects across 17 countries, bringing clean water to more than 1.5 million people.
The work is intentional and sustainable. Communities are trained to maintain their systems. Local workers are hired. The goal isn't dependency—it's empowerment and lasting change.
Jimmy Akana eventually escaped violence in Uganda and came to Canada, where the Hreljac family adopted him. The two boys who met through a well became brothers in every way that matters. Jimmy became a Canadian citizen in 2007 and graduated from college.
Ryan has received international recognition—he's the youngest person ever awarded the Order of Ontario—but he speaks most often about the people. The children who no longer walk hours for contaminated water. The families with healthier futures. The communities that have reclaimed time to live, learn, and grow.
What makes Ryan's story extraordinary isn't just what he achieved. It's how it began.
A child heard about suffering and didn't assume helplessness. He asked what it would take to help. When the answer changed, he didn't give up. He adapted. He persisted.
Ryan didn't have special powers. He didn't come from wealth or privilege. He had curiosity, determination, and adults who didn't dismiss his dream as too big for a child.
One boy. One question. One well that became 1,767 wells.
Over 1.5 million lives changed because a six-year-old decided that doing nothing wasn't an option.
