When confronted by unbearable stories of brutality, people are simultaneously wrecked and compelled to act.
Over a plate of spicy papaya salad, our sweat and tears intermingled. Sitting in the dark corner of a red-light district
She isn’t wearing a burka. She isn’t on her knees in the middle of the street, waiting for the first stone to strike her tender flesh and carry her into another world. But she has been sent to her death nonetheless.
Walking into the red-light district, I see an untapped army before me. In the cacophony of noise and lust I see Spartans and Vikings…
Lying curled up on broken concrete under an aging spirit house, I wondered, “How on earth did I get here?”