trigger warning: domestic violence, weapons

There is a knife on the table and then in his hand and I’m 7,480 miles from home.

I look at the bedroom door. If I’m quick, I can be 7,480 miles minus three steps from home. The knife in his hand would be on the other side of the door. I look back at the knife, and estimate that it is the length of my forearm. I do not feel anything but tired. I think my lungs are full of water.

An hour ago, I learned he loved another girl the night before I arrived here. He is sad that he made me sad, he says. I want to go home, but I am the farthest away from home that I have ever been. I don’t have any money to change my flight. I just got here, after all.

Anyway, he is sitting on the bed and holding the knife and I am not quick, so I sit down next to him. He is crying and muttering about plunging the knife into himself. Instead, the knife meets the wall. It is loud and I flinch. I wonder if his parents will wake up. Or his younger sister. He is still crying and then I am yelling because this is not about you, not now. Then I stop, because he is not interested in my pain, and it is hard to yell when your lungs are running over with salt water.

I quietly pull the knife out of the wall and walk out of the room. I wipe it off and put it back in the kitchen. I feel guilty and go to bed. I don’t remember if I locked the door or not. I think I should have.

I do not tell anyone about the other girl or the knife. I already know what they will say, and I already know that I won’t listen. And so I stay.

It has been a long time since that scorching summer in the gulf — a place with air so steamy your lungs are always filling up with water. It has been so long that some of the details are foggy. I don’t know if I can’t remember, or if I forgot on purpose. I don’t know if it matters.

In this place, the desert cannot provide enough water for all the people who have built upon the sand. Instead, water is sucked out of the ocean and filtered until there’s not one grain of salt left. The ocean is vast, so perhaps she doesn’t mind, but if we don’t stop building where we don’t belong, the ocean will soon run dry.

That night with the knife drained the last of my ocean. All of my salt was gone.

If I had known then what I know now, I would have called my mother and left. Because what I know now is this: Men who stab walls will someday stab a woman, and it will probably be the woman sitting next to him.

Not long after that summer in the desert, our shared story came to a close. The end felt like a tsunami: all my ocean coming back at once.

Even now, the tide kisses the shore as if to remind me, “I am not going anywhere. I will not leave you again.”

Last year, I flew through Dubai four times. The first time, in May, was the first time I’d returned since that summer of bad things. I never had any intention of returning — in fact, I had plans to avoid it entirely — but here I was. I had a 13-hour layover on the way to India.

As the plane descended over the gulf, my head spun. I did not want to be here. I started the countdown as soon as we landed: In 13 hours, I would be gone again.

Exiting the plane and walking through arrivals, I found it hard to breathe. I was walking on part of the earth I had hoped to never feel under my feet again. I sat on a bench and watched all my fellow passengers walk by. Do they love this place? This could be their favorite city in the world. Maybe someone they love lives here. Has something terrible happened to them in this place, too?

I had iftar plans with a friend at the mall, so I didn’t have time for a panic attack. I walked through the terminal and felt my lungs filling up with water, again — a feeling I had nearly forgotten. The passport control officer didn’t even look at me as she stamped my passport, and I took a taxi to the mall.

Everything was just as I’d left it, it seemed — Sheikh Zayed road clogged with BMWs and Audis, the steamy air melting my makeup off, a service worker at every threshold to open the door for me — salamat po. I choked on the Tagalog words I learned the first time I was here. Even the mall was the same — how many times had I sat in that same star-speckled atrium? I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder, thinking he might be behind me, so I waited for my friend backed against a wall.

She and I had a beautiful iftar, then we watched Arab soap operas at her house before she drove me back to the airport. It really was a nice afternoon, and I’m glad I have a new memory in a place that made me feel like I was drowning. I walked through the departures hall for the second time in my life. The first time, I was sobbing. Now, my head still wasn’t clear, but my eyes were, and I knew my next stop, Bangalore, was full of new adventures and friendships to forge.

Since then, my layovers in Dubai have been short. Once, I stood up on the plane upon arriving and almost doubled over, thinking, at first glance, the man in the row behind me was him. It wasn’t.

I don’t know how to end this story besides to say this is my least favorite thing to talk about and I have been writing these words for more than a year. I can never get my words quite right when talking about domestic violence, but I’m no longer paralyzed by this fear of drowning in the desert. And I figure if I can manage to get the words out of my mouth, then I should.

I recently heard a kind and wise woman say, “The only way to make space for others is to make yourself bigger.” This story has made me feel small for too long, and so I’m setting these words free to make space for you. If you need to let go of a story that makes you feel small, you can tell me. Your secrets are safe here.

In just a few months, I’m flying through Dubai again. I will not pretend like the thought of it doesn’t make me want to throw up. If I close my eyes, I can see the skyscrapers cutting through the clouds, not unlike that knife, cutting through the wall.

It’s a funny thing, being pulled back to a city you can’t stand, again and again, knowing your connecting flight will bring you somewhere full of love and adventure. Every time I try and leave Dubai behind, it’s on the way to wherever I’m going next. And we’re all just on our way, aren’t we? I know I am.

I considered sharing some statistics and nonprofits to support and giving a presentation at work. I considered talking about how I became someone who people turn to with their secrets. I considered sharing anecdotes that hint at what happened, or the sad words I wrote when things were at their worst. I even considered sharing the entire story, start to finish, finally.

But I just couldn’t bring myself to do any of those things, so here we are.

I think about domestic violence and how we know each other every single day — how we met, why I stayed, and all the times in between that I forgot on purpose. It’s not a thought that wanders far. Sometimes it walks around the block for a few hours, but it always comes back.

DV and I were intimate — we got to know each other well. DV has the sweetest words, the softest skin, and eyes you can’t look away from. DV knows how to wrap itself around your shoulders and not let go.

At night, DV comes home so quietly you don’t even notice, locking the door on the way in. Quiet words and slamming doors and throwing things across the room. DV is crying from exhaustion and seeing a knife on the table and being on the other side of the world and not knowing what will happen next.

It is flowers the next day and weeping and echoes of bruises. DV whispers, “If you leave, I’ll kill myself.” So you stay. Of course you stay.

DV is all the times you said no and it didn’t matter. And the times you wanted to say no, but couldn’t.

DV is all the weight that dissipates from your shoulders when you finally do leave. Or, when it ends. It will end.

I’m sorry it took so long.

For so long after DV and I parted ways, I didn’t even know we met. I never expected us to—and I never expected it to look like it did. I didn’t know that DV isn’t all black eyes and broken arms. Often, manipulation and abuse are so much more coy than that.

It’s been awhile since I’ve seen DV face-to-face, but its ghost will come for visits. If I’m with someone new and kind and good, DV is the tension knotting in my chest and the flinch when he touches my hair. The eyes on the door, just in case. DV is every breath of hesitation when things seem good.

Manipulation and abuse disguised as love were never once beautiful. They were never warm or poetic. Every moment was just about control, and genuine love will never seek control.

Anyway, happy Valentine’s day. I hope you feel free today.

Seventeen-year-old Tausi, who lives in Tanzania, left her home to live with her boyfriend last year. A short while later, she became pregnant but didn’t get the reaction she was hoping for from her boyfriend.

“When I knew I was pregnant, I told my boyfriend. I thought he would be happy, but instead he refused to acknowledge that the baby I was carrying was his. When I was a few months into the pregnancy, he abandoned me.”

Tausi had to manage her pregnancy alone. She said: “It was a very hard situation — I had depended on my boyfriend financially. I didn’t go to the clinic because I had no money, and I was ashamed.”

On the day she felt labor pains, she went to her grandmother’s home. Her family called her boyfriend, asking him to come as Tausi was in serious pain, but he continued to deny the pregnancy and refused to help. Her grandmother took her to a local doctor, who tried to pull the baby out, but it was stuck and nothing could be done, so they had to return home.

“I felt so much pain, I cried a lot — even my legs hurt. I was so sad the doctor couldn’t help”, recalled Tausi.

Another night of labor pains went by, the baby did not come. The following day, Tausi’s grandmother took her to a health center in another village. They told her that Tausi was weak and in a critical condition, beyond their capacity to help.

“By then I was so weak and tired that my grandmother had to take me to a hospital in another village. The doctors made a surgical cut to help me deliver, and pulled the baby out.”

Tausi’s baby was stillborn.

After the surgery, Tausi realized she could not control her urine and feces. Fortunately, the doctors at the hospital recognized the condition and told her it was fistula. [Learn more about this obstetric fistula.]

“I didn’t know what fistula was, and neither did my grandmother. I was so worried. I stayed at the hospital for more than a week, and was discharged”, Tausi remembered.

Soon after, a former fistula patient living near Tausi’s village heard about her and connected her to CCBRT, a medical center in Tanzania supported by the Kupona Foundation. “I was full of joy to hear that this condition was treatable for free at CCBRT!” said Tausi. CCBRT sent money via M-PESA to the former fistula patient ambassador who had connected Tausi to CCBRT to cover her transport to Dar es Salaam.

Upon arrival, Tausi was diagnosed with both vaginal and rectal fistula and has since undergone surgery to repair the tears. She is recovering, and her hope and happiness is growing every day for life post-fistula: “In the future I want to become a businesswoman and sell clothes,” she said proudly.

Support the recovery of young women and girls like Tausi by donating to the Kupona Foundation.

Tausi’s story was originally published on Kupona Foundation’s website.

This is a story from GlobalGiving’s Voices from the Crowd series.

Tausi was originally published in GlobalGoodness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Rawan lives in Nablus, a large city in the northern Palestinian West Bank. Nablus, known for its knafeh and olive oil soap, is nestled in a valley between two mountains. Near the top of one of the mountains, Rawan works with Tomorrow’s Youth Organization to foster women’s entrepreneurial spirit.

“I was raised to always give back to the society, even if it was something as small as a smile. Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I wanted to help and work with others. I would volunteer whenever I had the chance. As I grew up and continued to volunteer, I realized how impactful humanitarian work is, not just on the beneficiaries, but on me. I became confident that this was the route I wanted to take on a professional level. I could not have been happier when I started working with Tomorrow’s Youth Organization (TYO),” Rawan said.

“I am happy to say that I am now supporting others on a full time basis. TYO enables children, youth, and parents to realize their potential as healthy, active, and responsible family and community members. We believe that, through informal education, knowledge, and healthy psychological and emotional well-being, we can contribute to building a stronger society. The passionate, selfless and warm-hearted individuals that I have met and worked with at TYO inspire me every day and make me want to give more and more. At TYO, I have learned that seeing others realize their ambitions is as meaningful as achieving one of your own!”

Palestine is not an easy place to work, but Rawan fiercely believes in the spirit of Palestinian people.

“Palestine is a beautiful and welcoming country. We are kind, generous, and strong people. Palestinians have goals, aspirations, and dreams just like everyone else out there, but sometimes they are harder to actualize here. That doesn’t mean we give up; on the contrary, we strive harder to reach them. We recognize that, as Palestinians, we have to put in extra effort to achieve our ambitions.”

“I am extremely grateful that in some way or another, even if it’s small, I am helping my society.”

Support Rawan’s work by donating to Tomorrow’s Youth Organization.

This is a story from GlobalGiving’s Voices From The Crowd series.

Rawan was originally published in GlobalGoodness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Ofer military court and prison is a series of cages.

I stood a few inches from the steel bars, and felt very small. From sky-high fences topped with barbed wire to the tunnel-like military checkpoint at the entrance, every part of Ofer felt designed to convince those inside that they are less than human. Past the aggressive security checks and strip searches, through the turnstile from the open-air waiting area where people bake in the sun, there is a row of metal trailers serving as courts. One of them, near the end of the row, is reserved for children.

I’m here with Defense for Children International Palestine (DCIP), a nonprofit that provides legal aid to Palestinian children being prosecuted by the Israeli military.

Ofer straddles the West Bank-Israel border outside Ramallah, a small city 10 miles north of Jerusalem that serves as the de facto administrative capital of the Palestinian National Authority. The Qalandiya checkpoint — infamous for its long waits and traffic congestion — separates Ramallah and the rest of the West Bank from Jerusalem.

Inside, a hulking guard pulls a 16-year-old boy named Salem* into the room for a reading of his charges. He is wearing black and orange Nike high tops, and his ankles are chained together. His cheeks are ruddy, yet to grow facial hair, and he is clothed in a dark brown jumpsuit signifying he is in administrative detention. People in administrative detention are held without trial without committing a crime, under the assumption that they will break the law in the future.

Salem’s parents lurch to the edge of their plastic chairs when he enters the room, and he flashes them a smile. He doesn’t look worried, but his parents do.

His charge? Throwing stones at Israeli soldiers. It carries a maximum sentence of 10 to 20 years, depending on the age of the accused.

Israel is the only country in the world that automatically prosecutes children in military court. Since the West Bank is under Israeli military occupation, its Palestinian residents are subject to the military justice system. Israelis, even settlers illegally residing in the West Bank, are tried in the civil court system.

That means Palestinian children as young as 12 can be charged with crimes and jailed in military prison. Israeli newspaper Haaretz obtained the Israeli Defense Forces’ annual report and learned that in 2010, the military courts went through 9,542 cases. Only 25 were full acquittals. That’s a conviction rate of 99.74%.

A small handful of guards, soldiers, and lawyers comprise the court for Salem’s hearing, all sitting under an emblem of a menorah. The judge speaks loudly and quickly in Hebrew. I don’t understand what he’s saying — neither do Salem and his parents. The boy and his parents speak only Arabic, so their lawyer acts as an interpreter as quickly as she can. The military courts are conducted entirely in Hebrew, and using a language that most Palestinians cannot understand is commonly cited as a tactic to make Palestinians feel like they have no control over their lives.

Five minutes later, Salem’s hearing is finished before it starts. Farah Bayadsi, the DCIP lawyer I am with, explains the hearing is postponed, since the Israelis do not have time to finish before lunch.

His parents stand in outrage as he is yanked out of the court, and he blows them a kiss before disappearing from sight.

I’m whisked away before I can speak to Salem’s parents — though, to be honest, I wasn’t sure what to say. Images from his brief encounter with the judge replay in my mind. His bright sneakers contrasting starkly with the heavy chains around his ankles. I think of the same shoes sitting in the closet of my 15-year-old brother.

While Salem’s fate is yet to be decided, he, and many others like him, will likely serve at least several months in Ofer prison as part of a plea deal. With a 99% conviction rate, pleading guilty and serving six months is the quickest way to get out of detention. Challenging the charge is a drawn-out, risky process that could result in a 10-year sentence. The system so rarely grants bail that a plea deal is the quickest way out for children ensnared in the military court system.

“The dual justice system is discrimination,” said Ayed Abu Eqtaish, director of DCIP’s accountability program, in reference to Israel’s two justice systems: one for Palestinians and one for Israelis. While Israeli youths are offered rehabilitative programs in the civil justice system, Palestinian children are imprisoned in a punitive system with no course of rehab.

Adil, a 16-year-old Palestinian teenager not so different from Salem, is on the other side of his experience with Ofer. He was arrested last September in his hometown of Biddu, a small town of 6,000 in the West Bank outside Jerusalem, and beaten by Israeli soldiers in plainclothes after being accused of taking part in a protest.

Adil told me about his arrest with a notable precision. He was walking around town with some friends when he realized they had stumbled upon a demonstration of Palestinian protesters. They were turning to leave when Israeli soldiers dressed in civilian clothes approached him, asking if they were demonstrators. Before given a chance to answer, one of the soldiers hit Adil over the head. He fell to the ground, where the soldier stepped on his neck. He beat him until he was nearly unconscious, then pulled his shirt over his face so villagers could not see who he was. Adil and his friends were pulled into a truck where they were brought to Ofer court.

“When I was younger, I thought going to prison was a rite of passage since so many of the men in my town had gone. Now, I never want to go back,” Adil said. During his detention, Adil studied Hebrew with an older Palestinian prisoner. He slept in a small room, stuffed with five sets of bunk beds, with nine other boys. Between the hours of 4:30 p.m. and 6:00 a.m., the room was locked and the boys could not leave. Five times a day, the boys prayed together.

Adil’s mother was nine months pregnant when he was arrested, giving birth just five days later.

“When he was arrested, I didn’t know it was him. I heard that some youth had been arrested in the town center, but I never thought it could be my son. I went to the area where the demonstrations were, and saw a boy with his shirt pulled over his face. I recognized his pants, and knew it was him. Then I started screaming,” she said.

DCIP connected Adil with the pro bono lawyer I met at Ofer, Farah, who guided his family through the entire process. She speaks fluent Hebrew, Arabic, and English, and says her job is not only that of a lawyer, but one of a translator, therapist, mother, and friend. She is a Palestinian citizen of Israel.

Adil’s mother attended all 11 of his hearings over the months that followed. Eventually, he took a plea deal and served a total of six months in Ofer.

“Throughout all this time I was filled with depression and frustration, every day, yom, yom,” said his mother.

Yom, yom. It means “day after day” in Arabic. I can hear the resignation in her voice.

When asked how he is doing today, Adil and his mother smile.

“I am grateful for the life that I have,” Adil said. During his sentence, he managed to keep up with school and finished his grade on time.

Ayed, who had dedicated his life to serving children like Adil and Salem through DCIP, warns that this forward-facing attitude is common, but dangerous.

“Often you will hear from the child, ‘I am okay, ‘adi,’ while his parents say, ‘This child is different than the child before,’” he said.

‘Adi, a Palestinian Arabic word pronounced from the very back of your throat, means more than just “okay.” Often said with a shrug, ‘adi means “no big deal” — normal.

But the military court system’s treatment of Palestinian children is anything but normal. Adil’s brutal arrest is not a unique story, and many children report abusive treatment throughout their arrest, interrogation, and detention. A detained child is at high risk of PTSD, depression, anxiety, and even suicide.

However, due to cultural stigma associated with mental health problems and lack of long-term services, children rarely seek the psychological help they need, Ayed explained.

After a child’s sentence is complete, DCIP does an initial psychological evaluation and refers kids as needed to partner organizations in the West Bank such as the Palestine Counseling Center and the YMCA Rehabilitation Program.

I am thinking again of Salem’s shoes. Of this Palestinian child’s feet wrapped in chains, choking his movement. His parents, and others who travel to Ofer, take winding paths to the prison because of their own movement restrictions.

But they move anyway, bit by bit. Salem can’t stretch his legs, so he takes short steps. His parents travel through military checkpoints, so they drive slowly and carefully. Day after day, Ayed from DCIP advocates for Palestinian children caught in the military court system — even though he lost hope long ago that the system will stop its mistreatment of children as long as occupation continues. So, Ayed focuses on small wins — a plea deal for Adil, one for Salem, too, and the next child and the next and the next.

Ofer’s fences and chains keep Palestinian children caged, for now. But someday — whether it is at the end of a six-month sentence or the end of the occupation — Palestine’s children will run free.

Support the defense of Palestinian children in Israeli military courts by donating to Defense for Children International Palestine.

*Salem and Adil’s names have been changed for privacy and safety. In Arabic, “Salem” means safe and protected. “Adil” means just and fair.

On August 3, 2014, Pari Ibrahim’s life changed forever. That was the day ISIS arrived in Sinjar and began to commit genocide in the northern Iraqi province. Their target: the Yezidi people, a Kurdish religious minority that has long been persecuted.

It was also the day Pari, a Yezidi herself, quit law school.

The events that followed were harrowing. “In the towns of Sinjar, [ISIS] started to kill the men and killed the women who were too old to take as sex slaves,” Pari explained. “Then, they took the women and girls and sold them as sex slaves in markets in Syria and Iraq. Young boys were taken to be brainwashed and taught how to become suicide bombers and how to behead people.” She paused. “Girls as young as eight years old were taken as sex slaves. We can’t believe that this has happened.”

“At that moment, I couldn’t do anything else but do something for my people,” Pari said.

Pari, who grew up in the Netherlands after her family fled Iraq when she was three years old, has lost 40 members of her extended family to ISIS. After quitting law school, Pari founded the Free Yezidi Foundation (FYF) to provide psychological support and education to Yezidi women and children in Iraqi refugee camps.

Pari originally envisioned opening a trauma center but decided against it since she feared women would not come forward for fear of stigma. Instead, FYF opened a women’s center to provide psychological support, women’s rights education, computer and art classes, and bilingual education in Arabic and English. In their own time, women have come forward and spoken to FYF’s psychologists about their trauma.

“A new cohort started recently, and more than 90 women have already requested individual sessions with the psychologists,” Pari said. “I’m very proud that Free Yezidi Foundation is led by Yezidi women. We hear it from the women and girls in our community: Because I am a woman, they will tell me anything.” Pari said that FYF is the only Yezidi woman-led nonprofit working in the refugee camps.

FYF also offers sewing and knitting training for women, “in hopes that they can learn something new and earn a living,” Pari explained. Since so many Yezidi men have been killed, women are finding themselves as their families’ sole source of income.

Literacy is key to their newfound independence. “A few months ago, we heard from a woman that was so happy that she followed the training and is so happy that she can go to her own appointments, see what room the doctor is in, and things like that,” said Pari.

While this ongoing genocide is particularly brutal, it isn’t the first time the Yezidi people have faced oppression at home.

“The Yezidis have been persecuted for so many years. We call this the 74th genocide,” Pari said. “The Yezidi religion has always been misunderstood by the community surrounding them. They see us as devil worshippers. One of our angels, called Tous Malik, head of all the angels, came from God down to earth, but without putting his feet on the earth, and went back to God. Other communities surrounding us see that as the fallen angel, or the devil.”

Distrust runs deep in the Yezidi community: Both neighbors and outsiders have betrayed them.

“Don’t talk about putting Yezidis back into their homeland because they’re surrounded by people who might have joined ISIS or told ISIS that they were Yezidi and they should be taken,” said Pari. “Perpetrators are walking around in Iraq like nothing happened.”

Pari, who returned to law school to finish her degree shortly after founding FYF, is also working with local authorities to get justice for the Yezidi women and children. “You cannot tell a victim she got justice if you only go after a terrorism sentencing,” she said. “The international community was too late to stop ISIS. If you let these crimes go, tomorrow it will happen in your own country.”

“Most Yezidis do not see a future in Iraq,” she added. “They want to be resettled elsewhere. The young generation is moving. When we left, my father did not see any future in Iraq or Kurdistan for Yezidis. A lot of the Yezidis are thinking the same way now, even after so many years.”

Addressing the trauma stemming from sex slavery, witnessing genocide, and centuries of persecution is no small task, so Pari is very careful. Especially because so many have not been.

“We have seen a lot of bad journalism in the last couple of years. Some journalists literally came into the camp and said, ‘Okay, who has been raped?’ We had to turn journalists away because they had disgusting questions, for the protection of the women and girls we serve,” Pari said.

“Constantly asking a woman how she was raped is the worst thing you can do to one of these women. Our psychologists say it is retraumatizing,” she explained. “What bothers me the most is that girls are pictured as just sex slaves. Look beyond that. We’re trying to make sure these girls have a future and change the image that people see of the Yezidi girls. When I see these women and girls, I treat them like my sisters.”

While many Yezidis have escaped ISIS, more than 3,000 remain missing. Pari hasn’t given up hope.

“I see that the Yezidi community has become much stronger. We are trying to get justice for these women and girls,” she said. “This is an opportunity to show the world what the Yezidis truly are: a peaceful community trying to live on their own land.”

Take action to support Yezidi women and children recovering from sex slavery by donating to the Free Yezidi Foundation.

This Yezidi Leader Is Pursuing Justice For Genocide Survivors was originally published in GlobalGoodness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Juana and Ever are a young couple in Guatemala with two sons, a 2-year-old and a 4-month-old. They don’t have enough money to support more children, so they turned to a clinic run by WINGS, a GlobalGiving partner, to look into family planning options. Juana decided on a hormonal contraceptive implant that will last for up to four years.

“At times, I feel helpless with our economic situation because I have to take care of the kids and cannot go out and find a job, but this is a way I can take responsibility to help us both feel less stress,” said Juana.

Ever, a low-income laborer, agrees. Being a good father means being able to provide for his children, he says.

Juana and Ever are a great example of a couple who decided together that long-lasting contraception was their best option for a successful future. Their whole family went to the clinic together because Ever wanted to comfort Juana after the procedure.

Learn about WINGS’ work to spread family planning education in Guatemala.

This is a story from GlobalGiving’s “Voices from the Crowd” series.

Juana and Ever was originally published in GlobalGoodness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In Cox’s Bazar, there is a “before” and “after.” Before 693,000 Rohingya refugees fled persecution in Myanmar for Bangladesh, and after. Dr. Iftikher Mahmood is living in the after.

Dr. Mahmood, a Bangladeshi-American pediatrician, founded HOPE Foundation for Women & Children of Bangladesh in 1999 to meet the maternal healthcare needs of his home community. He was born and raised in Cox’s Bazar, a seaside area in the southeast corner of Bangladesh, bordering Myanmar. Now, he lives in Miami, Florida, but his commitment to his childhood home has never wavered.

Since he moved to the United States 27 years ago, Dr. Mahmood has traveled back to Bangladesh often. But his most recent trip, in November 2017, was different.

“It was shocking to see the conditions people are living in,” he said of the Rohingya refugee camps sprawling across his home. “And the kind of suffering they endured. They came with a lot of stress and pain.”

HOPE Foundation operates a hospital, health centers, and a small fleet of ambulances in Cox’s Bazar, and plans to open a maternity hospital in the next two years. While the organization focuses on maternal health — an estimated 70,000 Rohingya refugee women are pregnant — its doctors, nurses, and midwives are also trained in emergency and primary care. Since Aug. 25, when refugees began to flee to Bangladesh to escape ethnic cleansing, Dr. Mahmood estimates his clinics and hospital have served nearly 100,000 patients. That’s more than 1,500 a day.

Before, in Bangladesh, there were more than 300,000 Rohingya refugees. Now, there are approximately 860,000 in Cox’s Bazar alone. They fled an outbreak of mass atrocities in Myanmar that broke out when a small group of Rohingya militants attacked police posts, triggering a brutal military counter-offensive. Rohingya refugees reported rape, the slaughtering of children, and other violent crimes that likely constitute crimes against humanity or genocide, which are punishable under international law. The Rohingya have lived in Myanmar for generations, but the Myanmar government insists that all Rohingya are illegal immigrants from Bangladesh. The state does not recognize them as citizens and describes many as terrorists, effectively rendering the majority of them stateless.

“I don’t think anyone expected this,” said Dr. Mahmood of the staggering escalation of the crisis. “It took us a little time to adjust to the crisis. But we have been there for a long time, and have a solid team of dedicated, passionate people who moved very quickly. We know the community, the local people, and the language.”

Since Dr. Mahmood speaks Chittagonian, which is mutually intelligible with the Rohingya language, he heard stories from refugees firsthand.

“The story is the same everywhere,” said Dr. Mahmood. “What you are hearing in the news is real.”

He told me the story of a woman he met in one of HOPE Foundation’s clinics.

“One family I met was a mother with three children. Before, they had twelve family members. Seven had been killed and five were able to come from Myanmar,” he said quietly. “They walked for five days. They passed three villages that were totally empty. Either the people were killed or ran away.”

Despite the immense challenges to living a normal life, the mother is hopeful.

“She told me her family is now able to live without fear of being killed or tortured,” Dr. Mahmood said. “She told me she feels happy coming to Bangladesh because she’s not afraid anymore. She has a place to live and the government of Bangladesh and aid organizations are giving her food and taking care of her.”

Much goes unsaid when talking about the before and after — most obviously, the “during.” Dr. Mahmood explained he purposefully left out details of this mother’s story, out of respect for her. What an enormous weight to carry: stories entrusted to you that are unspeakable. And so, you move forward. To the after.

Dr. Mahmood is proud of how Bangladesh has taken in the refugees, and he plans to continue serving the Rohingya refugee population for as long as needed. “No one else is doing what we’re doing — maternal health, building a maternity hospital, training midwives — we have a huge responsibility to stay engaged.”

International Migrants Day is held every year on Dec. 18. This year, support Rohingya mothers and children by donating to HOPE Foundation for Women & Children of Bangladesh.

Living In The After was originally published in GlobalGoodness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Vianca is an ambitious teenager who participated in 12 PLUS’s Project: FLIGHT program to provide individualized support for high schoolers in underserved communities. As an artist, poet, and leader, Vianca knows exactly where she sees herself in the future.

“I know what my goals are, but I’m experiencing one of my goals now. I never thought I would make it this far. I had some very eye opening experiences but I’m glad to be where I am now. Long term goals? College, of course. I’m going to be a writer!”

Learn more about 12 PLUS.

This story is part of GlobalGiving’s “Voices from the Crowd” series.

Vianca was originally published in GlobalGoodness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.