Sometimes images grab you by the throat and you have to know more. What are the people in the photo thinking and feeling? What drew the photographer to capture that person in that moment? Humans of New York is such a project. In a picture and a couple of sentences we get a snapshot of life from the streets of NYC that is both unique to the individual and resonates with everyone. We all experience love, work, joy and sadness.

 The most recent series of photos and stories from Pakistan and currently Iran go further. Many of the stories and situations are familiar but come from countries that are often vilified in the media. Of course there are big issues around freedom and equality in these countries. But this project goes beyond the headlines and politics to people living their lives day to day away from the news spotlight, as most of us do. We are united by many of our experiences, of gratitude for the love of our partners and children and our need to give and receive kindness. And perhaps to take this a step further and make the world a bit better.

In his Humans of Pakistan series Brandon Stanton turns the spotlight onto modern day slavery in Pakistan's brick kilns but also features local activists fighting this horrific practice and bringing change and hope. The outpouring of support on the HONY Facebook page was uplifting.

Images tell stories and we hope that the pictures we share via our Facebook page in our #PhotoFromtheField series provide a small insight into daily life at our projects. Beyond headlines about earthquakes, massacres and killer viruses into shared games, meals, work, classes and chores. Because that's daily life for most of us. Our shared human experience.

Nepal birth

I was born in Nepal fighting for breath, for my life and my mother’s life. I learned how to fight to protect before I learned to walk. Thankfully, my mom stopped using heroin when she was four months pregnant, though seven and a half months in, the placenta severed, after she fell down the stairs during an earthquake. When I was born, I was four pounds, and told it took months for my arms and fists to relax and unfurl away from my body. At the hospital, they placed me in a proxy incubator, a cardboard box, in a room away from my mom. The first people to take care of me were Nepali nurses.

Mom left Nepal when I was still a baby, and took me back to the states. Four years later, she left her boyfriend, after he hit me and then her. She was like Wonder Woman. She was tough. She was from Jersey.  But later she stayed when her next live-in boyfriend, George, hit her.  He was emotionally, physically and sexually abusive to both of us. I vowed I’d never be in a relationship that was abusive.

After Mom broke up with George, her free spirit again had air to breathe, and when I was 16 we went back to Nepal.

Marilyn

I met Marilyn. She was a family friend who took over our restaurant in Nepal when my mom left. Marilyn gave up her American citizenship and become a Nepali citizen. She was an 80lb wisp of a woman. From the minute Marilyn got off her motorbike wearing red high-water corduroy pants, and purple tennis shoe, she delighted me. 

Marilyn led jungle tours and worked at a shelter for battered women and children. With fierce brilliance, she edited books about women’s rights. When she spoke about the mistreatment of women, her voice grew louder, full of sharply annunciated consonants that I imagined built safe houses. She was strength and comfort personified.

When it was time to return to California, I begged my mom to leave me in Nepal. I wanted to stay and work with Marilyn. I wanted more of what she had, whatever it was. Marilyn saw me and appreciated my gift: the part of me that knew how to fight for, protect and nurture others. 

“What if I refuse to get on the plane? You can’t force me.” But, things were finally good between us. I boarded the plane to go back, but left a part of myself there, with a promise I’d go back.

Received

On January 15th this year, I fulfilled my dream.

I am finally in Nepal, at the Bright Horizon’s Children’s Home. There is a view of the Himalayas from the guesthouse we are staying in. I look out at the white-capped mountains surrounded by clouds of pink. Water pours from my eyes. This is my heart opening. 

The teachers give me an incredible gift. They bring me back to basics. I speak in broken English and overly expressive gestures. We hold them in a field of agape, unconditional love, and introduce a hugging culture. 

I am deeply touched by how enthusiastically the Nepali teachers receive us.  The intimacy we create with the teachers progressively breaks down gender taboos. Male teachers test the waters first by hugging us, then each other and the female teachers. Then this spreads to the children. 

One of the experiences that moves me the most, is witnessing how collective healing in community is embodied in their culture. By day three of our training, during a tea break, spontaneous singing and dancing breaks out.  Instead of going back to class we recognize this as a way they inherently know how to resource after the hard conversations about the symptoms and the causes of trauma.  We keep dancing.

I am overwhelmed by the expansive feeling in my heart, and cry from gratitude every day. Layers of old stories that belonged to my family, about being alone, having to fight and work hard to be loved, are shed. Here I am, stepping into a new story of extended family and unconditional love. One that says “being” is more than enough. I leave with my heart full of family, (nane and me) godsons and goddaughters, brothers and sisters. 

Healing

I healed my own trauma over the past 25 years, so I could be of service in a sustainable way. I am here now. To stand for the end to the abuse of children and violence towards women everywhere, because no woman and child should stand alone. To stand for the reclaiming of our bodies as our own so that all women and children can access safety, comfort and joy.  To stand for love and safe physical contact, because it’s what is twisted, misused and withheld in abusive cycles.

This January, with the support of the SETH program, I came full circle, back to my sixteen-year-old intention. I began the work Marilyn inspired me to do. I stayed with her in Swayambhu and took care of her during part of my visit. When I reported how well our training at the school was going, she looked up at me. That familiar toothy grin rose like the moon above the table and shone on me,“That’s great”. 

As an incredible epilogue to this journey, Marilyn died shortly after my visit with her, and passed the torch to me. I will carry on the legacy that she left behind, but will include myself in the circle of care.  Her joyful presence will always be remembered.

By Amy Paulson

Last Tuesday, I returned from Nepal where I spent almost three weeks helping to oversee our trauma healing training, photography, music, and LEGO projects at Bright Horizon Children's Home. My experience was transformational, heart-opening, and deeply meaningful (project update coming soon).

And yet, sitting in my comfortable, heated home in San Francisco for the past week, I've felt a sense of melancholy. I get this way every time I return from field work abroad. I've written about this phenomenon before. I've warned volunteers about it. I commiserated with co-founder Elayne about it on the phone last week. Still, it always surprises me when it happens. Like when I returned from field work in Cambodia a few years ago and drove straight to the French Alps the next day, only to sit in the snow at the top of a ski lift, tears streaming down my face, wondering what in the world all these people were doing gliding on sticks down the mountain.

This time, the feeling hit me like a freight train. 

It's hard to describe it. It starts with overwhelming gratitude as I arrive at home, take a long hot shower, then sleep soundly in my warm, fluffy bed - in contrast to the freezing cold bed where I slept at the children's home, snoozing every night under three layers of heavy blankets, fully clothed in thermals, slippers, scarf, gloves, and beanie (those conditions were quite posh compared to the way most in Nepal live). I couldn't muster the energy to shower every day (or even every other day). The icy water was unbearable when the power was out; the hot water supply was limited. 

Then, it shifts to sadness. As I look around me at all the people innocently going about their daily routine, I feel confused. I want to shout: Do you understand that half the world lives in poverty? Do you know that many of our fellow humans, including little children, are often abandoned, persecuted, left for dead, or even killed because of their gender, faith, or caste? Do you know that you hit the jackpot being born in ________ [insert: any developed country in the world]? 

I wonder, how can the rest of the world continue about their day unknowingly while this terrible injustice of humanity rages on? And, what does it mean that I am also guilty of living mindlessly, coveting material things, not giving thought to others in the world?

At the same time, I feel sorrow that so many people will never see or experience the heart-opening love that I was honored to witness in Nepal. I listened to a student talk about how the oxygen of his breath in deep meditation is like a medicine he gives to his mother. I saw a teacher apologize if he ever unknowingly hurt another person after learning about the definition of abuse. I observed the teachers making human statue examples of what an empowered person looks like, from one teacher standing with palms facing up, saying "thank you, thank you, thank you" to two male teachers courageously demonstrating a loving embrace. And, I danced, sang, and celebrated our aliveness with teachers, staff workers, and children throughout our stay.

By Amy Paulson

It’s almost 11pm in Matatirtha, Nepal. The power was out for 11 hours today. My laptop battery is about to die. My headlamp is secured to my fuzzy earflap hat, blanket wrapped cozily around my lap, scarf wound tightly around my neck. With no central heating, and portable electric heaters that don’t work when the power is out, the little propane heater in our guest apartment at Bright Horizon Children’s Home roars away, warming up the freezing space enough to be live-able… at least for us non-Nepalis. The bottle of whiskey helps, too.

Electricity in Nepal is a rare gift. Blackouts (“load-shedding”) are a reality for people here, especially at this time of year when water otherwise used for hydropower is frozen. Blackouts can last up to 16 hours a day. Generators are only available for those who can afford it. 

For us visitors, it means that the few hours a day when the electricity is on, we furiously scramble to our laptops, send our important emails and post updates on Facebook, letting friends and loved ones know how we are doing. Connectivity is painfully slow. Sometimes it takes one hour to post one photo on Facebook…that is, if you have the patience to wait that long.

For Nepali locals, it means that working via computer is a constant uphill battle. Mobile phones may allow many Nepalis to connect on Facebook or text loved ones - but oftentimes even doing a basic Google search becomes a whole day-long ordeal. Never mind YouTube. Netflix? Uh, no. WebMD, Khan Academy, Wordpress, Wikipedia, or any other educational or practical web-based resource? Forget about it.

And yet, the kids here learn HTML for their national exams. Their teacher, Ajay, explained how difficult it is teach computer class when the electricity and internet are always out. If the power goes back on after the school day ends, Ajay often stays late helping the students learn whatever the day’s lesson should have been. 

At night, sometimes the lights go off, like they did while we were eating dinner last week. When the lights flicker back on, our Nepali friends make a small gesture, moving their hand from their forehead to their heart and back again: a beautiful blessing of thanks for light, for electricity… for a basic necessity that we all take for granted. 

Yet, in the absence of that connection to electrical power, the people here have a connection with each other. They laugh, cry, and share with each other - not through an electronic device, but in real, face-to-face conversations with each other. 

Even tonight, we sat together in the dark, a battery-powered LED light in the corner of the dark kitchen, and we talked about the incredible hospitality, love, and connection among the people of Nepal... the connections we have made with the staff and teachers in the SETH training, the little children who hold our hands, desperate for a feeling of love and safety, the cook who smiles at us with a twinkle of kindness in his eyes, the Tibetan monk who shares stories with us about the hardships not just of Tibetan refugees in Nepal but of the Nepali locals themselves. 

That connection reminds me to be grateful. So, as I sit here in the dark, I move my hand from my forehead to my heart, saying a little blessing for the ease and abundance of electrical power that fuels my connection at home, and for the lessons about love, life, and deeply meaningful connection here in Nepal. 

The drumbeat gets louder. The kids toss and turn. Their bodies contour in different shapes. They use their strength to build human pyramids. The crowd applauds. The performers bow down. The smiles are priceless. It seems like a good show for a circus, but it’s a breakthrough in a children’s home.

Maisha, our children’s home partner in Kenya, cares for twenty-two children who were orphaned mainly by HIV/AIDS, conflict and extreme poverty. They are provided with shelter, food, and education in a semi-rural farm environment outside of Nairobi.  These kids have gone through immense grief and trauma. Aside from basic necessities, they have unique psychosocial needs.

In 2013, Maisha introduced weekly drumming and acrobatic classes taught by local Kenyan professionals. One of the teachers they partnered with was Peter Waithaka, more commonly known as "Doc". Doc was a former member of the Kenya national acrobatic team called African Sakata Acrobats. He is currently a social entrepreneur, working on other projects that address educational and life skill needs among Kenya's underserved youth.

With the help of Doc and local drumming teacher, Robinson Owino, or "Robbie", the project has been a success. The classes not only help the kids learn how to do somersaults and synchronize the beat of the drums, it also helps develop their self-esteem. The kids learn about teamwork and the value of support in a community. These classes are also good for the community because they provide employment to the locals as well as inspiration. "The smiles they give us after learning a new acrobatic stunt or pyramid give us strength to persevere and be there for next class," said Doc. The teachers have become role models for the kids to look up to. And the experience brings joy to the children’s lives by providing a fun and healthy environment for them to heal. 

One of the Maisha girls was homeless, orphaned and exploited by the age of nine.  Five years later, despite making overwhelming progress in adapting to home life at Maisha, she still suffers from deep emotional trauma. She has a difficult time focusing in school and at home. Yet for the first time, her teachers are seeing her blossom in the acrobatic class.

They observe that some of the other youth, who are academically challenged and started school at a later age, are also doing well in these classes. Acquiring new skills and thriving in a new environment has helped them believe in their own potential. Our hope is that these experiences will guide them to make positive choices in the future.

In other parts of the world, Circus therapy is proving to be an effective tool for psychotherapeutic healing. Clowning about has helped boost confidence and encourage camaraderie among Finland’s disaffected youth as well as the elderly. Women in London who are suffering from depression are learning to fly trapeze while building their confidence and strength, and moving them towards employment. Young people at risk have discovered a safe haven to find their balance at Halifax’s Circus Circle.

Life can be a great balancing act and at some point, people find themselves walking on a tightrope. But it’s inspiring to know that there are many ways to help people make it all the way across such as teaching acrobatics to a little girl in Kenya to help her believe in herself. 

By Chiara Cerri

I have always loved writing stories since I was a child. I devoured books, imagined other lives, other houses, and other places where life flowed differently.

I was closed in myself and just traveling with my imagination.

When I discovered photography I found out that there was another way to write and tell stories. It took awhile to figure it out, but after the first trip alone I realized that the world is full of stories. They do not need to be invented. They are all there at our fingertips.

You just need to look out the window, leave home, get on a plane.

In the five months that I spent in Brazil I understood a bit more about myself: you can live with 3 pairs of slippers and one pair of shoes for long time. This is probably banal, but not too much. Very often we do not imagine that we are able to take a break from ourselves.

I was living in this favela, the largest in South America, which since 2011 has been "pacified", like many others in Rio de Janeiro. A pacified favela means that almost every day there are shootouts between police and drug traffickers. Blood flowing along the becos (narrow streets of favelas), shots that set the pace of time.
The first time that I saw armed police wandering the streets, I immediately thought about the kids that are living there and I immersed myself in their eyes: every day I see policemen with guns pass in front of their home and live with the fear that a shooting could begin.

How many sad stories can these kids can tell us? Can you believe that despite this they are full of vitality and joy?

When I found Global Alliance Gratitude I understood that this job can give me the chance to use my time better and to combine my passion for communication and social change.

I believe in gratitude. One day I had a simple example of what is. It was evening, I was walking home when I met one of my students: an adult woman who is always cheerful and kind. She immediately invited me to dine with her, I agreed and so we improvised.

We spent a few quiet hours: eating, laughing, joking about the food that was in late, silences and smiles.
When I got back home after awhile I got a long message on Facebook. It was from her. She thanked me a thousand times, that the time with me had been something special.

She told me that something really bad had happened in her life in the days before and she felt dead inside.
The time she had spent with me made her feel better, even though I didn't know anything about her problems.

She was just grateful for that. I asked myself: what have I done that is so important?

Then I realized that it was the time, I just gave my time to a person.

Time we have can be a valuable tool.

I hate the word “hero”.  

A hero is perfect.  A hero must do the right things at all times.  A hero is infallible. 

Modern humanitarians I’ve admired like Somaly Mam or Greg Mortensen were elevated to superhuman hero status one day, then branded as “fallen heroes” the next, after proving capable of human fallibility (even gross misjudgment); while the work they did to empower vulnerable girls - which is what was truly heroic - was tragically forgotten.

So, I pause before using the word “heroes” when describing Nicolas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn and my brief yet inspiring interaction with them in Berkeley last night. But I’m jumping ahead.  Let me back up.

It was around 2010.  I bought Half the Sky at an airport bookshop. “Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide,” the blue cover said.  Back in those days, I was still working in finance.  My head was full of forecast figures and corporate ambition.  I opted for some lighter David Sedaris humor.  The book sat on my shelf and collected dust.

Fast forward to early 2012.  I had just quit my corporate job the year before, on the back of reconnecting with my biological Korean family, discovering I had been kidnapped at birth to an orphanage, and that my Korean mom was orphaned by the North Korean army who killed her parents when she was six.  I mentioned my story to a friend, how I was planting the seeds of the Global Gratitude Alliance with my co-founders, and how our mission was to empower women and children.  “You have to read Half the Sky,” she insisted. 

By Amy Paulson

My parents and I have a special deal: no more birthday presents or Christmas kitsch. No more stuff we don't need that will clutter up our houses, get sold on eBay, or donated to Goodwill.  Since 2012, we started a new tradition - give love to each other and to the world by making a donation in honor of our love for each other that will also empower dignity and opportunity for vulnerable women and children around the world. 

Do we still celebrate with cards, messages of love and gratitude, and a special meal together (when possible)? Absolutely. Does my mom still buy me a Santa Claus decoration every year, as is our tradition? Yes.

But now every birthday or Christmas holiday is made even more special.  It's the meaning, intention, and love that goes with giving that is most important. The best way that we can express that is to give something meaningful back to the world. And, if we want or need something for ourselves, we just buy it as and when we need it... which is great! No awkward pretending to like something you will just sell or re-gift to someone else. An extra bonus: a smaller carbon footprint.

So, this holiday season, I challenge each of you to give just one gift of love. It can be in honor of your love for a dear friend, favorite aunt, or just you. Whoever it's for, take a moment to feel joy and gratitude while giving it. That's what the holidays are all about.

Here are just a few ideas: http://www.gratitudealliance.org/gifts-of-love.html

Confucius said that if you choose a job you love, you never have to work a day in your life. But as we know, discovering your life’s purpose entails a lot of work. You can do what you love now only to find out that you want to do something different tomorrow. Even with a college degree and “real world” experiences under your belt, you can still have no clue what it is exactly that you want to do. 

Fresh out of college, I was offered a promising job in one of the top multinational companies in my country. I accepted the offer and for almost two years, I was happy with the pay, the people and the plan they had for me. But something was missing; I wasn’t sure about my purpose. 

I applied for an international scholarship on a whim and I was chosen. I was then confronted with the choice: staying with my comfortable career vs. trying out a unique experience that could potentially be a once in a lifetime opportunity. I chose the latter. I quit my job and booked a ticket to study at International People’s College in Denmark, supposed to be the happiest country on earth. 

My choice led me to experience things I never thought I would. I made friends with 60 amazing human beings from 31 countries from the ages of 18 to 69. We were living, partying and learning under one roof. We didn’t have exams or grades but we discovered important things about ourselves, the world and life in general. 

Being at IPC gave me the time and space to rediscover things that I am good at and things that I’m passionate about. I was singing on stage, taking photos of strangers and building my own NGO ideas using scratches of brown paper. It can be argued that some of these lessons were not useful to my resume but I was relearning what makes me happy. And that counts a lot in my book. 

My friend has just been diagnosed with colon cancer. A ‘mass in my ass’ as she calls it or ‘Mima’ for short. She’s been through a raft of tests, scans, enemas, tattoos, and has just started treatment.

This is one of my best friends, who can talk for New Jersey, got the same things wrong as me in German class and made me feel better about my incompetence, taught me how to eat pizza properly, what Stromboli and Pierogi are (Czech ravioli, and yes, I did need to look the name up, again) and made me laugh so much on the tram, our continence was threatened, more than once.

Now she’s back home in the US and we chat with our group of friends via the power of an online messenger service. That’s how I know the latest about ‘Mima’ and get updates about her diagnosis and treatment. And my strong, funny, resourceful friend has taught me about the power of gratitude, even at the worst of times via her posts and liberal use of Emoticons.    
                                                                                                    
Of course, I’m only human. I want to rage, shout at the universe for letting this happen and shake my fist skywards (limply, I’m not much of a fighter). But I’m also grateful.  For our friendship, for the amazing medical staff who are treating this (and laughing at my friend’s jokes), that we live in the 21st century which means treatment is available, and for her humour, which is part of who she is, when things are going well, and during more challenging times. Who knew so many poo and butt jokes were available?

My current mantras? ‘They found Mima; now he can eff off’, and ‘I’m thankful, for friends, laughter and modern technology’. 

This is my friend's story, not mine. I asked for the OK to post this and really appreciate her positive response...

By Andrew Hughes

In 2011, I was traveling in San Jose for meetings at eBay, getting ready for my sabbatical in Africa. However instead of driving to the airport to fly home, I drove myself to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy.  Half a year and several infections later, I rescheduled my sabbatical, uneasy about traveling with a constant pain in my abdomen.

The first weeks of sabbatical were tough. I couldn’t enjoy myself, convinced that I had a life threatening gastroenterological disease, despite the doctors confirming that I was fine. And, then I arrived in Ethiopia. I was there to research projects to support through The Gracias Foundation, the nonprofit that I was about to launch (now called Global Gratitude Alliance). The kids we spent time with there are all HIV positive. Most are also orphans who have watched their mothers and fathers wither away in front of them. For the younger ones, you wouldn’t know about their stories just by looking at them. Like all kids, their laughter is music – they just want someone to share it with. For the older ones, the sadness in their eyes is deep. And, the uncertainty they have about the future is real.