To leave when Afghanistan needs more help than ever would have been a real betrayal. If I had also left, who would stay?
Asia
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.
I was a refugee, a slave in my own country. I came to India to escape decades of statelessness, violence, ethnic cleansing, and genocide. Now, I am called an illegal immigrant.
Deep in the jungle of Negros Island, Philippines, a Communist insurgency marches on, 52 years into the guerilla war.
I want my son to know that his mother was a brave woman. I want him to grow up and know that even when she was in pain, she wanted to caution everyone against the infection.
The cops look at me pryingly, point fingers at my character, and don't view me as a credible enough victim.
Omar Bekali, 45, is considered the first person to speak publicly about being detained in China’s concentration camps for Uyghurs.
I had little bandwidth to deliberate on my loss and what it meant. But I could feel abandoned, lonely and anxious.
All I want is to go back home; they can take away all the money they owe me. I just want to be free back in Kenya.
I decided to help clean up nature, rid the Earth of waste, and reduce the impact of staggering amounts of plastics in the Kaziranga National Park.
The second wave of COVID-19 had devastated the country. It seemed to kill almost everyone who caught the virus. I was frightened and feared the worst.
I became a Sherpa, leading climbs on the mountain because we were poor, and I had to provide. Climbing Mount Everest is how I support my family.
I wanted to make a difference, so no one else dies from a lack of oxygen, lack of empathy, or lack of timely healthcare.