The book fair became a playground for kids and fans where they see awesome characters from history to sci-fi movies. It also serves as a place for children to be amazed with new ways of learning
In my lab at the Central University of Odisha, over three years, I collected and studied more than 130 essential genetic resources for rice from tribal pockets. I continue to discover new types with high tolerance to drought. With my research now revealed, we must take action to protect these priceless resources in their natural environment.
The blast injured one of my sangat members. No one would allow us to approach him. He needed urgent care and people stood by, unable to do anything.
The plaques of these historical sites don’t get enough protection. Besides being prone to vandalism and wear and tear, some were removed for urban development, or even stolen.
(Warning: Some images are disturbing) Every day, these Filipino photojournalists walk into protests, disaster areas, and uncharted grounds to deliver powerful images to the public. Yet, most of them lack compensation for their jobs.
The brothers take turns and dive into the deep waters of the toxic foam-covered Yamuna to find coins that people throw from the bridge, in the hope that their prayers will be answered.
An amazing opportunity came to me to travel Marawi. I was sent to share my experience in art with the children there, after a battle took place in the region. In their eyes, I saw the fear of war. With a little bit of knowledge, I came in and swept away that fear.
I played violin professionally with the prestigious Manila Symphony Orchestra, one of the oldest orchestras in Asia. However, there came a point when I needed change. Yearning for something different, I quit the orchestra and began exploring the world of fighting sports.
We – the women judges of Afghanistan – fought hard for justice, and now we have no justice. We have been reduced to nothing. Our husbands live in fear of going out to work. We move to different houses and our children live an imprisoned life. We need help; we want to be happy.
Thousands of Filipinos including laborers, medical frontliners, educators, artists, freedom advocates, and citizens, marched in protest at State of the Nation address.
At 7:00 p.m., I readied to leave for the summit. We began walking but my sherpa fell ill. Surrounded by difficulty and danger, I felt extremely stressed. This is the place where people die. I had to keep going so I left without my guide.
To leave when Afghanistan needs more help than ever would have been a real betrayal. If I had also left, who would stay?
My husband, 10 years my senior, shouted at me for no reason. He would often beat me with his belt and throw me out of the house. Other times, he would grab me by the hair, throw me on the floor, get on top of me and choke me.
I see human waste floating like dead fish around me. A skin-crawling mix of insects, drain flies, and spiders stick to the pipes and walls and swarm around me. I risk my life with each breath.
In the past two decades, we could dream. We could become doctors, college instructors, business owners. We could drive, compete in sports, represent our country in parliament. Now, that is all gone.
Standing on top of the podium with the gold medal around my neck and the national flag of India raised above me, goosebumps covered my arms and tears stood in my eyes.
When the bomb exploded, I went numb and lost consciousness. Grievously injured, I suffered heavy blood loss and cardiac arrest during transport. Doctors declared me dead on arrival, but I survived.
The guards mentally and physically tortured me. They called me a terrorist, rioter, traitor, jihadi. I wasn’t allowed to brush my teeth or read books, and I could barely sleep in my tiny, filthy, isolated cell.
Batons, sticks, electrical cables, and whips pummeled my thighs, back, shoulder, and face. The blows broke my right hand. My mouth oozed blood, and bruises covered my body. When I begged for my release, they just beat me harder.
I ask, “Why am I alive,” when I cannot study, work, or even move about. For 20 years, I have dreamed. Every single second—every moment of my life—I was proud to be a woman in Afghanistan. Now, we are left with nothing but a grim life and dread of the future.
If Afghan citizens cooperated with us, the enemy killed or intimidated them. During the day, to our faces, they loved us. But at night, when we could no longer protect them, they loved the Taliban.
I witnessed fellow climbers perish. I heard many screaming for help at the top of their lungs. Sometimes, I stopped dead in my tracks.
The cops stripped me naked and beat me with sticks and belts. I'd cry, scream, beg — urinating was severely painful. They didn't give me water and food for five days. I had to chew my clothes. I was in so much pain I could have eaten grass.
I was teased, scorned, and labeled. I was bullied and humiliated in public. My 'friends' reacted in the only way they were taught to: with disgust.