Discovery – by Shannon Kenny The joy of travel, for me, resides in almost equal parts in the planning - when to go, how to get there; the act of going, embarking on an adventure; the delight of completing the must-see and must-do list; the heartbreak of relegating activities or places to the ‘interesting-but-not-essential-to-a-fulfilling-experience' list; the thrill of the unknown, and the wonder of discovery. Now, because I'm curious and can't resist a peak around a corner, down a side street with no name, there's always the very real prospect of getting lost in unfamiliar places. There've been times that I've arrived, but not to where I thought I'd be going. On a pre-GPS solo walking trip around a Greek island, an old widow in a tiny village briefly took me under her wing. Neither of us understood a word the other had to say, but her compassion for this obviously lost young woman transcended words. She tucked her arm into mine, showed me about the local market, shared snacks with me, and eventually found someone I could communicate with verbally. Soon she commandeered the services of a taxi-driver to ferry me to where I needed to be. In a Parisian hostel, after we'd written off the idea of a guided tour because of its prohibitive cost, Stephane approached us. He offered us a free, guided tour of the old city in return for our honest critique of his venture, Froggy Tours. The tour was exceptional. Stephane wouldn't accept an honorarium, insisting that our critique and appreciation were payment enough. My husband and I arrived for the first time in Cairo at Tahrir Square. Six lanes of non-stop traffic, for which no travel guide could prepare us, swarmed between our racing hearts and our accommodation. A little girl of about ten and her older sister noticed our panic. “Follow me,” she said as she grabbed our hands and escorted us safely to the other side. The sisters bade us farewell and disappeared back into the traffic! On a rainy evening in Varna, Bulgaria, my husband and I stared forlornly – completely illiterate - at the Cyrillic script on a bus timetable. A wizened old man a few feet away introduced himself as Hovig, and explained exactly which bus to take and where to disembark. A few days later we met Hovig again at Sofia airport and he revealed to us one of the city's best kept secrets: the airport staff canteen! Our family says: “Next stop, Lebanon,” when we think we've gone too far out of our way. It comes from the time we thought we were on a train to Jerusalem from Tel Aviv, but instead found ourselves at the end of the rail line in Haifa, near the Israel-Lebanon border. A young man, Saar, enlisted the help of the station master to ensure we got back on the returning train and changed transport at the correct place. He gave us his telephone number and insisted we stay in touch till we were safely in Jerusalem. While the prospect of getting lost, and sometimes being at a loss for what to do, may not be the most appealing value proposition, I have come to embrace it as an essential element of any adventure. Strangers have shown up as if by divine appointment, and blessed me with their kindness and compassion, generosity and protection, direction and humour. It is in being lost, and frankly a little vulnerable, in just about every place I have ever been that I have made the most wonderful of discoveries - the beauty of the human heart.

Sergey had arrived in the capital just a few months ago. Five years of study at the coveted music conservatory awaited him. Since childhood, Sergey had harbored a passion for the violin. Growing up, his love for music only grew stronger with each passing year. One seemingly ordinary morning, Sergey emerged from the entrance of his multi-story apartment, violin case in hand. He lived with his uncle. As usual, Sergey was running late that morning; he lived on the other side of town from the conservatory, so the commute was long. Suddenly, turning the last corner, with only a few feet to go before the stop, he saw a bus turning—his bus. He ran as fast as he could to the stop; if he didn't make it, he'd have to wait half an hour for the next bus. Suddenly, Sergey felt his foot hit something, looked down at the sidewalk, and saw a cane, an ordinary cane, the kind used by elderly people. He turned his head, wondering who could have lost his cane, and saw an old man on the floor. An ordinary-looking old man, he wore a white summer shirt and olive trousers, a newspaper lying next to his hand, and was leaning against a small bench, a small shop that had existed since the Soviet era. Sergei picked up his cane from the sidewalk and wanted to quickly return it so he could catch the bus, but he saw that the old man was sitting on the floor for a reason. The old man had a large, bloody wound on his bald head, and dried blood was on his face and neck. The bus had already pulled up to the stop, but Sergei only turned and hesitated for a moment, then walked closer to the old man and crouched down, holding out his cane. "Are you all right, Grandpa?" Sergei asked, looking at the old man's broken head. "I was walking to the store, tripped, and fell," the old man replied weakly, taking the cane. Sergei's heart sank when he saw the elderly man in such a state. "Does something hurt?" Sergei asked worriedly, taking his phone out of his pocket and dialing an ambulance. "My head is spinning, I can't get up." "Don't worry, Grandpa, I called an ambulance. Drink this, it's hot outside," Sergei said, pulling a bottle of water and handing it to the old man. The elderly man accepted the bottle of water, and Sergei quickly ran to the nearest pharmacy. He bought cotton wool and hydrogen peroxide with his stipend. He returned to the old man's seat and, soaking the cotton wool with hydrogen peroxide, began wiping the dried blood from the old man's face and neck. "Thank you, I've been sitting here for an hour, and no one else has come up to me. What's your name?" the old man asked. "Sergey," Sergei replied, continuing to clean the blood off the man's face. "And I'm Volodya, I served during the war," Uncle Volodya began to tell his story. Sergey, having cleaned up the old man's skin, listened with interest to his story until the ambulance arrived. When the ambulance arrived, Sergei took off his net cape and gave it to Uncle Volodya. "Seryozha, at least give me your number, good man," the old man asked Sergei gladly gave it to him, waited for the ambulance to leave, and then headed to the bus stop. Uncle Volodya called Sergei the next day. He'd stopped at the supermarket and bought a bag of groceries, even though his scholarship was running out. "Sergey, thank you very much," the old man thanked him. Uncle Volodya lived modestly, but never complained. He tried to return Sergei's net cape, but Sergei refused. It turned out Uncle Volodya had no family, not a single one. They drank tea, with an inexplicable warmth in his heart. When Sergei left Uncle Volodya's building, he silently promised himself to visit him more often. But the end of the semester was approaching, difficult exams lay ahead, and he still couldn't find a free moment. It was already December, five minutes before the New Year, exams were over, and wonderful holidays lay ahead. Sergei stood in front of Uncle Volodya's house, holding fresh gingerbread cookies. He rang the doorbell for a long time, but no one answered. A neighbor across the street heard the noise. "Looking for Volodya?" she asked. Sergei nodded. "Volodya died three days ago. They say his heart stopped," the woman said, but seeing how pale Sergei had become, she continued, "Are you by any chance Seryozha?" Sergei nodded again, his legs buckling, and his face deathly pale. "He left you some kind of cape and a note," the neighbor said and entered the apartment. She returned with the same mesh cape and a scrap of paper. Sergey took the things from the woman, quietly thanked her, and went outside. The snow was thick, and the sky was darkening. With cold fingers, Sergey unfolded the note with the next, single sentence. "To the only kind person in my life." The gingerbread cookies fell from his trembling hands. Sergey put the note in his pocket and, clutching the cape tightly to his chest, fell into the snow, real tears of pain, sorrow, and loss streaming from his young eyes.

For three years, an empty chair sat at the end of the dinner table. Nobody moved it. Nobody sat in it. Nobody spoke about it. Yet everyone knew why it was there. Each holiday, Leila's father placed a plate beside that chair before remembering she would not come home. Then he quietly removed it. Her mother still folded an extra blanket whenever she did laundry. Her younger brother still saved funny videos on his phone, telling himself he would send them to her someday. Three years had passed since Leila disappeared. The police had stopped searching. Neighbors had stopped asking. Friends had moved on. But families never stop searching for someone they love. Not really. Every night, Leila's mother stood by the window and whispered the same prayer: “Wherever she is, let her be safe.” She no longer prayed for her daughter to return. She only prayed for her daughter to be happy. Leila never knew this. Living in a small coastal village far away, she believed her family hated her. She believed choosing her own path had cost her everything. Three years earlier, Leila had left Morocco to study environmental engineering in the United States. She was the first in her family to study abroad, and her parents were proud of her. Then, during the summer after her third year, she met Noah. He was a graduate student researching marine ecosystems. At first, they were friends. Friendship became long conversations. Long conversations became trust. Trust became love. Noah came from a different culture, a different background, and a different faith. Leila knew her family would struggle to understand. For months, she tried to ignore her heart. She tried to convince herself love could be switched off like a light. It could not. When she finally told her parents, the conversation ended in tears. Nobody wanted to hurt anyone. Her parents feared losing their daughter. Leila feared losing herself. Words were spoken that nobody truly meant. Pride replaced understanding. Fear replaced trust. And one day, overwhelmed by heartbreak, Leila walked away. Not because she stopped loving her family, but because she loved them too much to keep fighting. The first year was the hardest. Every holiday reminded her of home. Every success felt incomplete because she had no one to share it with. Back home, her father carried her childhood photograph in his wallet. Her mother kept Leila's bedroom exactly the same. The books stayed on the shelf. The photographs stayed on the wall. The bed stayed neatly made. Changing the room would have felt like giving up hope. Years passed. The anger faded. The love never did. One autumn afternoon, Noah arrived in the village where Leila lived. He had spent years searching, quietly and faithfully, never letting go of hope. When he saw her working in a garden near the sea, he almost did not recognize her. She looked older, stronger, wiser. But her smile was the same. Leila looked up and froze. The watering can slipped from her hands. For a moment, neither moved. Then Noah whispered her name. And Leila began to cry. “I looked everywhere,” he said. “I never stopped hoping.” “Why?” she asked through tears. Noah smiled softly. “Because some people are worth searching for.” Months later, Noah convinced her to contact her family. Leila was terrified. What if nothing had changed? What if they still rejected her? But love, even wounded love, sometimes asks for courage. When Leila arrived at her childhood home, she stood outside the door unable to move. Then the door opened. Her father stepped outside. For years, he had imagined this moment. He had rehearsed apologies, explanations, and promises. But when he saw his daughter standing there, all the words disappeared. His hair was grayer. His shoulders were slightly bent. Yet his eyes were the same. Neither spoke. Then her father opened his arms. That was all it took. Leila ran to him, and they both began to cry. Her mother rushed outside and held them both. Her younger brother, now taller than she remembered, wiped tears from his face. Nobody cared who had been right. Nobody cared who had been wrong. They only cared that she was home. That evening, for the first time in three years, the family sat down for dinner. And for the first time in three years, someone sat in the empty chair. Years later, when people asked Leila what brought her family back together, she always gave the same answer. It was love. Quiet, stubborn, patient love. The kind that survives misunderstanding. The kind that waits. The kind that never truly leaves. Because no matter how far life carries us, love always leaves a path home. And sometimes, all it takes is the courage to follow it.

Uncle Joe was known for his bad temper. Neighbors avoided his house, fearing his gloom was infectious. Joe didn't mind; he preferred the silence to their judging eyes. Not that he minded. He did not enjoy seeing the folk's judging faces as well, so he supposed the feeling was mutual. He had never had a wife, friends, nor children. His parents were long since dead. It should have hurt him, drowned him in despair. But uncle Joe was used to loneliness, even favored the lingering feeling of emptiness in his chest that stayed as if it was a stubborn mule. This morning was unlike any other. Following the routine, he grudgingly woke up to the alarm's buzz, took a pricking, ice-cold shower, and got in his same, dull gray clothing he wore every single day. “Why bother dressing up for nobody?” he muttered, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke at his reflection. Wrinkles were his only companions. There were some on his forehead, under his eyes and yet there were no crinkles on the cornerns of his eyes, nor did he have prominent smile lines, as if happiness itself has stripped itself away from him. His deep blue eyes, which were supposed to look like a beautiful ocean, instead looked cold as an iceberg, unnerving to the gaze. People might have wondered why he was like this, why it was as if he had a constant rain cloud over his head. The truth is, he was not like this all the time. Decades ago, Suzanne had been his light. But cancer took her when they were just high school sweethearts, leaving him in a world that had stayed dark ever since. He sniffed as he remembered her dear face and opened a beer can, taking a huge swig. He sighed. Today was Sunday, so no work was expected from him. Good, he thought. Now I might as well have time to watch sweet ol' soccer. Like usual, he prepared himself a plain sandwich while taking bitter swigs of beer and finally sat down on the plush sofa with a grunt. Apart from wrinkles, sofa was the one thing that has always welcomed him with a soft embrace. Just as he settled in to find a TV program, a loud thud, scratching, and whiny meows interrupted him. He groaned in annoyance, "I swear if som'body pranking me with that cat I ain't gonna control my so-called temper this time!" He set down his beer can and stood up, lazily stepping outside to check for the noise. He squinted at the bright sunlight, and walked a circle around the house trying to find the source. When he reached the rain gutter, the noise got louder. He tutted, "You stupid cat! How did you even get in there?" He grabbed gloves and a flashlight from the garage. Inside the open gutter, a small, terrified figure meowed up at him. He sighed and shook his head, speaking softly, "It's okay, lil' one. I'm gettin' ya out." He gently got the kitten in his hands, careful so that the kitten would not scratch him. When he looked down in the kitten in his arms, a small tingling feeling of hope evolved in his chest, which was dwindled down by the feeling of doubt. What if the same will happen to this kitten as it did to Suzanne? "I'm goin' to wash ya now," he muttered, gently scrubbing the grime away until the kitten was warm and comfy. As he was filling a bowl with milk, he grunted as he saw the brightness in the kitten's eyes as it meowed, "Don't get used to it, buddy. I'm still goin' to sumbit ya to the animal shelter, other way or not." But as the kitten started drinking from the bowl, now his doubt changed into the one whether if he actually had to get rid of the kitten. He snapped out of it. Remember, happiness always got out of your life as soon as you grasped it. Why would this time be any different? And yet, he wanted it to be different. He was too tired to live a life filled with anger and sadness. He needed a break from this. He muttered, "I have to think." He got the can he left on the table and turned on the soccer program again, thoughts about the kitten forming a tangled mess in his poor old head. He was so engrossed in his own mind, that he did not even notice that the kitten jumped and settled in his lap, meowing as if sensing the war that his thoughts brought. He chuckled and stroked the kitten's head, "You dear thing..." The kitten closed its eyes and purred loudly, making Joe laugh, "You look just like Suzanne, don't you?" A detail he noticed just at that moment. Suzanne had bright red hair and green eyes which seemed to sparkle anytime she was excited. Her eyes remained the same even if she was slowly suffocating inside, even if her hair has slowly lost its color. And the kitten, it seemed, had pretty similar features. A smile crept up his face, "Oh, dear Suzanne. I knew you would come back." Another meow from the kitten brought pure delight to his heart, and the gray walls of the house seemed brighter than they were, as if the house itself was happy . And he knew, that he would let the kitten stay. His happiness was finally back, and this moment made him understand -- life is not over.

I had to admit something. That my world, somewhere along the line, had lost its color. It wasn't a sudden thing. More like a slow fade, the kind you don't notice until you wake up one day and realize you're living in a black-and-white movie from the 1940s. My apartment, 4B, was the entire set of that movie. The window looked out onto a city that was just… gray. Gray buildings, gray sidewalks, gray cars filled with gray people. The sounds were gray, too. A dull, constant hum that was the background track of my life, which mostly consisted of coding for a company that probably thought I was a bot, and getting everything from groceries to toothpaste delivered to my door. The door was the edge of my world. Then came the knock. It wasn't the usual tap-and-run of a delivery. This was a frantic, messy rhythm. A 'human' knock. My heart did a kickflip against my ribs. I tried to ignore the sound. But It came again, louder this time, punctuated by a shaky voice. "Hello? Please? Anyone's here?" I cracked the door, my body hidden behind it, leaving a gap just wide enough for one of my eyes. It was Mrs. Henderson from 4A, a woman I'd only ever seen as a blur of floral print and white hairs. Now, her face was crumpled with panic, her eyes wide and wet, looking pitiful. "It's Jasper," she said, her voice thin and choked. "My cat. He must have slipped out. I can't find him anywhere." My brain, my very logical and anxious brain, had a simple response: 'Not your problem. Close the door.' But Mrs. Henderson had come even at my almost always closed door for her cat. And now her wrinkled eyes were looking at me. And her panic, it was so… colorful. Yes. A vibrant, terrifying red in my muted gray world. "I'll… keep an eye out," I mumbled, which was a lie ofcourse as my logical brain had won. "Could you just help me check the stairwell?" she pleaded. "My knees aren't what they used to be, dear." The stairwell. The concrete monster in which I hadn't set foot for six months. 'No, I can't do that.' I thought. But the look on her face….was really something. I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was her panic. Or maybe I was just tired of the gray. I nodded. The hallway felt like a mile-long tunnel. Every creak of the floorboards was a cannon blast. But Mrs. Henderson was there, shuffling beside me, her face filled with worry was somehow affecting me. We checked the stairwell. Top to bottom. No Jasper. I felt a genuine pang of disappointment. And something else, too. A weird, shaky sense of pride. I had left my apartment. I had faced my monster. Back in 4B, the gray seemed… less gray. But I still couldn't settle. I kept picturing that little ginger cat, lost and scared. Then I found myself at the window, but I wasn't just staring at the city. I was scanning. Searching for a tiny patch of orange. Mrs. Henderson had mentioned he loved sunning himself by the big green dumpster in the alley. The alley. That meant the lobby. The main entrance. 'Outside'. My hands started to tremble. It was one thing to face the stairwell with a guide. It was another to walk out into the whole world. Alone. But the image of Mrs. Henderson's face wouldn't leave me. So, I put on my shoes. The journey to the front door was an epic saga. My heart hammered out a frantic drum solo. But I did it. I pushed the heavy glass door open. And the sound hit me. It wasn't the gray hum I had expected. It was… everything. A car horn blared, sharp and yellow. A kid shrieked with laughter, a splash of pink. A bus hissed its brakes, a deep, rumbling blue. I'd forgotten the world had so many different noises. And there, behind the dumpster, was a flash of orange. Jasper. He was tangled in some old kite string, looking very sorry for himself. Carrying him back, I felt like a soldier returning after victory. Mrs. Henderson's sob of relief when she saw him was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. She hugged me, a real, solid hug that smelled like cinnamon and tea. It was the first time someone had touched me in almost a year. "You have to come in," she insisted. "I've just made tea." The old me, the gray me, would have made an excuse. But the me standing in the colorful, noisy hallway, with cat hair on his shirt? She said yes. Sitting in her cluttered, cozy apartment, with a purring cat on my lap and a warm mug in my hands, I looked out her window. It was the same view as mine. But from here, the city wasn't gray at all. It was a thousand different colors, all shimmering under the afternoon sun. I knew my apartment was still there, waiting for me. But for the first time in a long while, I truly felt at home.

The bazaar was a mess of voices, feathers, dust, and sun-bleached tarpaulin flapping like broken sails. Here, amidst pigeons and the metallic clink of old coins, Sergey's stall stood at the edge of it all: a stubborn table of crooked legs and flaking paint, crowned with red and gold onions piled into slouching pyramids. He sat atop an upturned crate, squinting beneath the visor of a cap that had once belonged to his father, bracing for the next haggler to insult both his prices and his parentage. She came at the hour when the shadows began to shift: a woman in black, her habit catching the light like oilskin. A nun, unusual, but not unheard of. She approached his stall with quiet purpose, eyes scanning his products. “These are bruised,” she said, selecting one and turning it over. “They're onions,” Sergey replied, arms crossed. “You want silk, try the rug seller.” “They're soft,” she continued, ignoring his tone. “Not a single one firm.” She prodded another, then another. “I'll take three,” she said at last, withdrawing a purse from the folds of her coat. “But I'll pay seven.” “They're ten.” She met his gaze squarely. “They're seven.” He sighed, muttering curses under his breath, and began packing three of the least disfigured into a paper bag. At that moment, a boy approached, no older than nine, in a shirt too thin for spring and shoes that no longer deserved the name. He hovered near the edge of the stall, silent as a shadow, his eyes wide and dark. He didn't speak. Just looked; not at them, but at the onions. Sergey noticed him and barked, “Go on, move along. This isn't a museum.” The boy didn't move. His hands stayed in his pockets, but his gaze remained fixed on the lowest row of bulbs, as though memorising their shapes. The nun turned slightly, catching sight of him. “He's not harming anything,” she said mildly. “He's not buying anything either.” “Not everyone who comes to a market has coins.” “Then they shouldn't come.” The nun said nothing at first. Instead, she knelt — slowly, gracefully — and drew a small cloth sack from the sleeve of her coat. “How much for one more?” she asked. He raised a brow. “He's not yours.” “No,” she said. “But someone ought to feed him.” Sergey hesitated. He'd heard this tone before: soft, saintly, the kind that always expected an exception. “One more's another three.” She clicked her tongue in mock indignation. “Even bruised?” “Especially bruised.” She shook her head and counted out the coins anyway, pressing them into his palm with a smirk. While he wrapped the final onion, she turned to the boy and offered the paper bag. “There,” she said. “Don't drop them. They're expensive, apparently.” He reached out with trembling hands, clutching the parcel like it might vanish. He looked once at Sergey, once at her, and gave a barely audible “thank you.” But something else had happened, something Sergey didn't notice until they were both gone. The nun had lingered just long enough to distract him, asking about his stall, complimenting his scales, inquiring about the weather. Only when he sat back down did he realize what had happened. One of the bags near the edge was lighter — the one that hadn't yet sold — he counted the onions inside. Plenty missing. He stared for a long moment at the empty air where she'd stood. The boy was already gone. The bag of onions in his hand felt heavier now. He could report her. But to whom? And for what? Theft of a bulb? He scratched his chin. “Trickster nun,” he muttered, not without admiration. He reached into the crate and pulled out the best-looking onion of the lot. He set it aside on a clean napkin, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the pigeons above, to the coins clinking down the stalls, and to the faint echo of her voice saying, “They're seven.” He didn't know if she'd return. But the onion on the napkin stayed untouched until dusk — a small, firm hope beneath the pigeons and dust.

If you can fill your heart with compassion for friend, foe and stranger alike; if you can out of your soul hatred strike and instead resolve kindness to fashion… If you can embrace with every fibre of your being empathy for each suffering living thing; if your soul can of love and tolerance sing and vow to only the good in all be seeing… If you can sincerely forgive and forget every slight and slur hurled like words of stone darts; if you succeed in mending broken hearts and offer solace to those running in fright… Then have you conquered your nature cynical, Raised your mere humanity to heaven's pinnacle.

It was sunny and hot. Not just hot, it was extremely hot. Sun was literally roasting me and everything and everyone around me. Well, what else could I expect from Africa? My team and I drove by car, taking our time. We were driving through a local village. Everyone stared at us as if we were aliens. Especially children. I took a pictures of old cracked houses, half-naked toddlers and older kids, which smiled and played despite their suffering. It was so hurting and at the same time fabulous… After a few shots, we stopped. I got the things we brought to the citizens of here out of the trunk. The children started sprinting towards us. I laughed, and gave them toys and candies. Not much later their parents came, and we provided them with fresh water, flour, sugar, milk, first aid-kits and other necessary things. They thanked us, they were delighted, and I took pictures again. Someone even began crying. We were sobbing too. Afterwards, the guys from my team played football with the children. I preferred to take a walk and make some shots. I wandered and wandered until I met a boy, sitting lonely and somehow sad, like the only flower on the field. He was about 5 years old. «Hey, little kid» I said. Fortunately, I was one of those in my team who knew their language. He did not answer. Instead, he looked at me with his big intense eyes, full of pain and simultaneously love. «Do you… do you understand me?» I asked. He nodded. «Why are you not playing with other kids? And… Where are your toys or… candies?.. Wait, did you even get some?». «No» he said quietly. His voice was gentle as little cockle bells. «Where can I get them here?». «Me and my friends made a gift for your people. You didn't know? I thought all people who knew said to entire village». «No. I was here. But I saw that auntie Uzuri, our neighbor, ran in that way. Is it why she ran away?». «I guess». «I see» he said, then he looked far away. «Aren't you sad?». «Should I be sad?» he smiled weakly. «If I were you, I would be». «I am not». «That's good» I was glad. «Weren't you curious why that aunt ran? You did not ask?». «No» he answered sadly. He was silent for a while, then whispered: «My sister is very sick. Now she is sleeping, that is why I decided to go outside and breathe some air». «Pity…». How terrible it was! What was worse, we had nothing to gift them with. I should ask some stuff from my team. Later. Then I recalled something. I had lollipops in my pocket! My little niece gave me them before our fly. Thank you, niece. «Here, take it. It is not much but…» I got out two candies. At that moment, his smile was almost ear-to-ear. He took them with his thin little hands, and said «Thank you!..» He took both candies, and opened them. Then he offered me one. «Take it» he said. «What is it for?» I giggled. «For your kindness». These words melted my heart. He continued holding candy, and I took the picture of this ineffable moment. «Keep it» I said then. «Give it to your sister». I cuddled the most softhearted person I ever met and left him with words «I'll be back soon!» Tomorrow other volunteers came. We… well, I called them because of that one boy. I ran up to his house and said to him «Come on, there are medicines for your sis, water and food». He was over the moon and was jumping for joy. After few days, we travelled to another village and continued volunteering. I still ponder about that boy and his action a lot. As a photographer, I saw a million of things which wondered me, however this time it was something more than just «amazing». Indescribable. He lives in situation not suitable for humans, but did not lost his humanity.

“Thanks. I'll definitely include a tip,” the passenger promised as he stepped out of the car and set off for the shopping mall. Khalid merely smiled, knowing that more than half of his clients usually forgot to keep their promise as soon as they had stepped out of his hired car. He didn't hold it against any of them; he knew what a fast-paced world we lived in. His phone pinged. It was another Uber passenger, this one a mere three minutes away from his current location. He quickly accepted the booking; at this time of the year, competition was brutal. Fortunately, he hadn't been doing too badly this month, but he was still behind with his rent. “Listen, raghead,” his landlord had told him that morning, using the derogatory label he often flung at Khalid, a refugee from Sudan. “If tonight you don't pay the full rent you owe me, expect to find your crap on the street tomorrow morning. I give you till ten tonight, you hear?” Khalid had remained silent, knowing that it would be useless to appeal to the man's sympathy, as he had none for “filthy job-stealing foreigners”. Khalid had resolved to get as many fares as he could today to make the payment. The client was a waif-like lady waiting outside Woolworths; she had a number of shopping bags surrounding her. Khalid hurriedly exited the car to load the bags into the back. “Thank you,” the woman beamed, clearly relieved for the help. “Every year I tell myself I won't leave things to the last minute,” she continued as she got into the passenger seat, “but inevitably, I end up doing exactly that.” “It's normal, isn't it?” Khalid said, instantly liking the woman's friendly nature. Laughing merrily, the woman said, “I doubt it's normal, but I suppose it's usual at this time of the year.” “True,” Khalid agreed. “It never ceases to surprise me how frantic people become at a time when they should have peace in their hearts.” “Absolutely true! We are so caught up in consumerism that we lose total sight of the real significance of this season. You don't celebrate this event, do you?” “No, I'm a Muslim, but we love and respect Jesus. He's a prophet in my religion, too.” “That's wonderful to know that you also love Him.” The woman kept up a light conversation with Khalid until they reached her destination. Before leaving, she added a tip on the phone app. “Thank you very much, ma'am,” Khalid said in genuine gratitude. The woman waved away his thanks. Khalid helped carry her bags to the front door, bid her a good night and got back into his car. He had hardly gone a few meters from her home when he noticed the small brown envelope on the passenger seat. “Oh, no. She's dropped something,” Khalid said before turning his car around to go back to the woman's house. She opened the door after his first knock, as if she had been expecting somebody. When she saw Khalid, she exclaimed, “You've found it then?” Khalid extended the envelope to her. “Yes, I knew it must be yours. I didn't open it,” he hastened to add. “But it's not mine,” the woman said, confusing Khalid. “It's yours.” “No, ma'am. It's definitely not mine,” Khalid stammered. “It is, young man. It's an annual tradition of mine, to gift somebody worthy on this holy night with such a gift. And I have a feeling there's none worthier right now than you. Please, keep it.” Khalid was flummoxed. “But why me? I'm nobody special.” “Oh, but you are. We are all special in our own way, and tonight I'm blessing you with this gift. I'm not taking it back; if you don't want to accept it, pass it on to somebody else.” “But I'm not a Christian, ma'am.” “So what? What kind of Christian would I be if I extended charity only to those of my own faith?” “God bless you,” Khalid managed to say over the lump in his throat. “God has blessed me, and that's exactly why I share this blessing each year at this time with some deserving stranger. Good night,” she said and closed the door of her brightly lit home from which peaceful sounds of a hymn flowed. Khalid walked back to the car like one dazed, expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment. He couldn't fathom why he had been chosen for such an unexpected gift, but then he said, “Dear God, thank You for Your favors.” He still had no sure idea what the envelope contained, but he could feel it might be money. Khalid arrived at his flat at nine thirty. He nearly returned to the woman's house once he finally opened the envelope and saw how much cash it contained. It was enough to cover two months' rent. With tear-filled eyes, Khalid looked at the star-studded night sky, wonder bubbling up in his chest like the sweetest spring from which he had ever drunk. “You are a miracle in and of Yourself, and only You can orchestrate the best, most miraculous plans for Your worshippers.” With a far less burdened heart and soul, he went to see the landlord. Bliss spread across his joyous heart in continuous waves of wondrous rapture.

Wayne started beating me five months into our marriage. Initially, it was simply an unexpected slap or a punch to the kidney. It was so unpredictable and out of character that I deemed it my fault. I reasoned that I must have brought it on myself, and that I deserved it. That naïve perspective changed when the abuse became far more regular and intense. After two further months of humiliating, soul-wrecking beatings, I finally walked out. I left with only the clothes on my back and firm resolve burning in my heart. I moved in with a friend, but I knew I needed help. “Speak to Mr. Eden,” Sinead advised me. “You know he's always been kind-hearted to us and helps everybody without hesitation,” she added persuasively. And that's how I ended up outside his office the next morning, clutching my college bag and courage firmly to my breast. Mr. Eden was the College Counselor, and one of the most unselfish men I had ever met. Not a single student had ever been turned away by this gentle, unassuming man. And I was about to ask him to not just go the extra mile, but to also go out on a limb for me. How classically clichéd. “Marina, come inside,” Mr. Eden invited me the minute he saw me. “Have a seat. How's life been treating you?” he asked innocently, but his tone and the innocuous question triggered a flood of sobs. I was embarrassed; I chastised myself for making such a spectacle of myself. Mr. Eden instantly took charge, soothing me with encouraging words and a soft tone. He offered me a bottle of water, which I gratefully accepted. I confided completely in him. I was surprised by the first words he said, but I shouldn't have been. “We need to get you into a women's shelter today. I know a place near the college. I will take you there after I've called them to give them a heads up, all right?” As if that wasn't enough, this amazing man then spread the word – with my permission – on the college WhatsApp group that a student needed donations of clothes, toiletries, food; the works. The response was overwhelming! Mr. Eden took me to the Saartje Baartman Women's Shelter, and they agreed to house me as well as try to resolve the problems Wayne and I were having by giving us marriage counselling. All absolutely free of charge! I received so many donations of barely-worn clothes, brand new underwear, toiletries and even money that I could give some of the things to Sinead to thank her for having granted me a safe haven when I had needed it. And the best thing of all? Wayne is a changed man. The couples therapy had opened his eyes, even bringing him to the point where he apologized tearfully to me for ever having lifted a hand to me. “You are a treasure, Marina,” Wayne said to me on the first night I returned home. He was holding me gently in his arms while he spoke in a voice shaking with emotion. “I nearly lost the most precious gift I had ever received, but I will never again be this careless.” “If not for Mr. Eden, both of us would have lost each other,” I said and smiled, feeling the heavy burdens lift off my shoulders like fog burned off by the warmth of a rising sun.

Ding-Dong! “Stand clear of the closing doors, please” blasted the announcer's voice across the station. Jonah had heard this everyday since he could remember. “3 stops till Kingston” he thought, carrying a backpack full of books that he dreaded carrying for hours on the commute to and back from school. Jonah kicked his feet back and forth, his feet grazing the ground just slightly. He stared at the creases on his shoes who's brand he couldn't recall. They were some off brands anyways, no reason to remember which ones. The subway screeched to a halt, the faces outside the car that were once blurred stare back at Jonah. People start to push and shove the minute the doors open. Running up the stairs to leave the station, a mirage of conversations, mumblings and people talking flood Jonah's senses. He can't really make out what they're saying, he doesn't really try. “Jonah! How was school?” Jonah's finally made it to his destination. A small deli run by an older Korean man and his daughter. The sign outside reads “Ray's Delicatessen” but most people here call it “Ray's”, “Mr. Park's”, “the Park/Park” or “the Deli”. For Jonah, he calls it “home”. “Fine Mr. Park! Same as always!” replied Jonah Mr. Park shook his head and chuckled as he continued to tend to other customers, “As long as you're not getting into trouble” It's become a routine, Mr. Park asks how he is and Jonah replies with fine no matter what. Jonah tries to not stress him out, he always hears Hannah, Mr. Park's daughter, complain about her forehead wrinkles, crows feet and smile lines. Jonah doesn't see a problem but still tries to avoid making them worse Jonah slips behind the checkout counter, he sits on the blue crate right under the cash register and starts his homework on his knees like usual. History, English, then Science and Math, hardest to easiest. Jonah loves closing up shop and definitely not just because he gets to eat some of the unsold bagels and sausages. “Ai *tsk* Jonah, you know you mustn't sit here” exclames Mr. Park. Jonah doesn't move, Mr. Park doesn't really care. Time passes, business has been slow these days but it only means more time for Mr. Park and Jonah to talk. The deli was not just a place to get a quick eat for Jonah after school, it was his place of refuge, one of love and community. He had somewhere to be and all Mr. Park asked for in return were English lessons and to use some of Jonah's beginner-level novels to practice his reading skills. Jonah knew Mr. Park stopped needing those lessons a long time ago and for those textbooks, Mr. Park still reads them. Even though he completed all of them, cover to cover, hundreds of times, it still gives those literary works a second life. And Jonah would never mind when Mr. Park read them outloud to him either, even when he pretended to hate it. Bed-time stories were for ‘babies' and not 8 and a half year-olds. Still, “Maybe these books aren't so bad” thought Jonah. For without them, their friendship would be lost in translation.

Joanne considered her options for supper: chicken soup with garlic bread, beef vegetable casserole with fluffy white rice, or some crumbed chicken fillet filled with pepper sauce? The thirty-two-year old college lecturer rolled her eyes heavenward, struggling to decide what to eat. “Nick!” she called to her nine-year-old son watching Jurassic World: Dominion on Netflix in the bedroom they shared. “What would you like for dinner tonight, buddy?” “What are the choices, Mom?” Nick asked as he walked into their tiny but neat kitchen. Joanne and Nick were living in a one-bedroom separate entrance since her divorce three years ago. Kevin, her ex-husband, had run up such huge debts that they couldn't continue staying in the house they had been renting. Once Kevin had lost his job, his behavior had changed. He became frustrated, started drinking too much, and developed a truly tempestuous temper. It was crystal clear to Joanne that their marriage was doomed. Divorce seemed the best route for her and Nick. Kevin had disappeared out of their lives after the divorce had been finalized as if he had only been a figment of their imagination. Nick had long ago stopped to ask after his father. “Well,” Joanne said, “we've got three leftover choices,” she said, listing the three dishes. During the Christmas season, Joanne tended to cook a number of dishes which she could warm up, saving her from having to cook every night. They often had a surplus of food though, forcing Joanne to either give away whatever they hadn't eaten to street beggars, or discarding the food. “Hmm, those are really hard choices, Mom,” Nick complained. “I know, honey, but choose one, please.” “Actually, I'm not all that hungry tonight. Can't I just have some milk and cookies, please?” Nick asked pleadingly. Before Joanne could answer him though, her cell phone rang. She was surprised to see that the caller was Simon, one of the senior students she was mentoring. He was a polite nineteen-year-old of whom Joanne was quite fond. “Simon, what a nice surprise to hear from you,” Joanne said, simultaneously nodding at Nick to let him know he could have his milk and cookies. “I'm really sorry to bother you this late, Miss Harper, but I wanted to ask you for something,” Simon apologized. “Nonsense. It hasn't even gone eight yet. What can I do for you?” Joanne asked. She intuited that Simon was embarrassed about whatever it was he needed, so she waited patiently for him to formulate his request. Clearing his throat a few times, Simon finally said, “I'm in a bit of a fix tonight, Miss. I feel truly bad to turn to you for help, but I didn't know who else to ask.” Joanne remembered that Simon lived on his own in a rented room in a house shared by other students. She was also keenly aware of his financial difficulties, thus she expected him to ask her for some money or a loan. What he asked for brought her nearly to tears. “Miss, do you have some food for me, please? I'm really hungry tonight. The only thing I've had all day was a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea this morning. If you don't have anything, it's fine. I'm very sorry to bother you, Miss.” Unbidden, an image of her stocked fridge and the dinner options she and Nick were deciding on swam into her consciousness. A well of deep shame opened up in the kind woman's heart; her motherly instinct to nurture set her soul ablaze with contrition for having taken for granted that others had three meals a day as she did. “Say no more, Simon. Please, come over right now. I have more than enough food. Have supper with me and my son and I'll pack some leftovers for you to take home as well,” she immediately said. There was a long silence on the other end of the line, making Joanne wonder if Simon had ended the call. “Simon, are you still there?” she asked just as she heard soft sobs coming over the line. Her heart broke anew; she realized that Simon was weeping. “Miss, you have no idea how much this means to me. I can't thank you enough, Mom,” Simon said, not realizing he had referred to Joanne as ‘Mom'. Simon's slip of the tongue stunned Joanne. Heroically, she collected her scattered thoughts, stilling her heaving heart. “I should be the one thanking you, Simon,” she said, her soul drenched in pure gratitude. Image: Marcos Paulo Prado (www.unsplash.com)

As usual with days preciding the coming of the rain, the weather was cold and for lack of a better word, damp. I've always been a fan of the raining season, but this time, I wasn't. Not only because it seemed to interfere whenever I had something important to do; typical, but because it brought with it symptoms of my mortal enemy - malaria. I consider myself a healthy and strong girl and on a normal day, would be happy to brag to anyone of my prowess and ability to remain so all year round. Except when visited by this dreaded sickness which has proven to be the only one to bring me to my knees and seek my mothers breast at my middle 20's. It starts with an inability to get out of bed and general body weakness but like I said, I'm strong! So I force myself out of bed. Within the day or the next morning, I'm hit with an intense neck pain , sometimes, the painful clogging of my throat which advances to a raging cough and catarrh then finishes off with a loss of appetite. The same way malaria comes knocking at my health, is the same way it leaves. Closing the door with an even more furious cough and catarrh. Usually, everyone is sympathetic during this period and even quicker to offer home remedies but this time was different and I learnt the hard way. You see, during that period, an even more dreaded disease; corona virus was on the rampage and while many Nigerians where adamant it doesn't exist and was a ruse created by the 'powers that be,' many of them where as scared as chicks without their mother hen. I initially was among the former but I wasn't scared, remember, I am strong! And even better, my father who we fondly call baba lawo because of his tinkering with natural herbs was out to the rescue. Right from the moment we got whisp of the pandemic, he made a concoction of ginger, lemon, garlic and honey long before the rumor of its preventive capabilities. We were also armed with our nose guards and the home made hand sanitizer my father was kind to make. I got to the office where I was an intern and while educating different skeptics on the danger and symptoms of the virus, malaria which had just begun closing its door decided to raise it ugly head and I began coughing profusely. Mind you, many had heard coughing was a symptom and forgetting my condition, I had been too eager to share this. My embarrassment knew no bound when some of the ladies subtly moved away from me and the manager asked me in not too many words " to go home as many of them still had kids and weren't ready to die yet." My mouth dropped, I was offended. I couldn't believe these people thought the virus capable of imprisoning a gallant lass like me, how naive I was. I stood my ground and refused to return home. Not only because I was embarrassed and everyone was waiting for my response but also because I knew I was just recovering from malaria and wasn't a danger. If you know anything about cough, you'd know it could be quite vindictive and annoying. Many days later, when I thought to be done with anything related to those symptoms, I attended a church program. A few days shy to the lockdown in Abuja, Nigeria and sat beside a handsome young man. Eager to learn, the hall quieted down and everyone was paying rapt attention. Then started this low, persistent tingle in my throat. I tried to push it down, I really did. Clenching my teeth and even holding my breathe but nothing helped and before I realized, I was coughing up a storm. My throat aching and chest heaving. I felt like transforming into an ant and crawling away. I coughed through out the meeting and though I wanted to step out, I sat in the middle of my row and was too embarrassed to stand, settling for melting into my seat. Not only because I was obviously disturbing the meeting, but because the young handsome man was so scared, he might have soiled his pants. He couldn't inch way from me faster and if he had the ability, would have disappeared. Not that I blame him, life is precious. We silently had to deal with seating awkwardly beside each other till the meeting ended and he jumped up faster than a kangaroo without so much as a "bless you." That day, I learnt a big lesson. Something that we've all heard but never paid attention to. Discrimination kills faster than any disease. I knew I wasn't hosting the virus but I never felt so uncomfortable and unclean like that evening in the church. Of course, there is an inherent need to protect ourselves and our families from this pandemic but we need to also remember to be kind even to those who may have lost the battle. Love and kindness are truly the greatest cure to everything on earth.

I believe that performing acts of kindness will improve our overall health and happiness. Currently, our overall health and happiness is in jeopardy. Technology and the way we communicate with others is making us lonely and putting stress on our hearts. In an issue of Time Magazine, an article explains that technology that involves some form of written communication has made it more convenient to avoid the strenuous work it takes to form precious "substantive" relationships in the flesh and blood ("Debate"). When we are putting less work into a relationship, the result is cheap. Technology has also made it more convenient to cyberbully, since the screen is in between the victim and the cyberbully. Cyberbullying often leads to lower self- esteem, depressive thoughts, and anxiety. This makes victims feels isolated and targeted ("Cyberbullying"). When a victim feels isolated, this leads to loneliness. Loneliness is associated with a twenty nine percent increase in risk of heart disease and a thirty two percent increase in stroke ("Loneliness"). When I spend time texting or scrolling through social media and I come across something funny, I don't laugh out loud the way I would if someone were to make me laugh in person. This has always bothered me, as if technology allows me to ignore my emotions and natural instincts. When someone says something hurtful to me over social media, I look at it over and over. It is so much easier to say whatever I want and be whoever I want when it's over social media or text. These sensations often make me feel lonely, disconnected from my own feelings, and others. I even feel an empty pain in my chest. Once I had set my phone down, I walked down to my room to see my little sister sitting on her bed in our room. She asks about my day and shows genuine interest. I look over at my neatly made bed, which I didn't have time to make this morning. On my made bed, there is a sweet note placed next to the pillows. The note is from my mom. She made my bed and wrote a "thinking of you" note. A smile comes across my face as I read the note and crawl into my bed. I began to do a body scan, and I noticed the pain in my chest went away and my whole body felt light, fluffy, warm, and regulated. These small acts of kindness helped relieve and fulfill me, as they have time and time again. The next morning when I woke up, I began writing a few generic, kind notes to give to random people at school. After reflecting on these mini personal experiences and researching what I was feeling, I believe that kindness is the first step to fulfilling the hole in our hearts. You can perform acts of kindness in so many ways. Make it a goal to share something or say something kind at least once a day. When the going gets tough, and you don't feel like doing anything for these inconsiderate people, ask yourself why you don't feel like doing anything, why are they inconsiderate, how will this affect your health, and how will this affect other's health. This will remind you why it's important to perform acts of kindness. If you are looking for ways to be kind, there are plenty of acts of kindness listed on the Random Acts of Kindness website. Some acts of kindness I have performed myself include baking cookies for others, big giant bear hugs with consent, babysit without accepting money in return, reminding others you love them and why randomly, nominate teacher for the Buffet Award, give positive observations, offer to shovel a neighbor's driveway, stand up for someone, share advice when it is desired, smile at strangers, write a thoughtful note to a teacher or friend, and volunteer at the Food Bank. Although some may argue that being kind to others is not important, and that taking care of yourself is more important, I disagree. When you care for others, you will begin to appreciate yourself even more than you did originally! People that only take care of themselves are less happy. Being kind to others will make taking care of themselves easier, simply because they are happier. A 2010 Harvard Business School survey studied happiness in one hundred thirty-six countries and found that people who contribute to charitable donations or serve others are happiest. When we see a kind act being done and we are around kindness regularly, a love hormone called oxytocin is produced. Oxytocin works to lower blood pressure and maintain a healthier heart. This hormone also increases our self-esteem, optimism, and makes us less anxious in a social situation ("The"). Kindness positively reversed these negative health and happiness facts. Since we cannot change loneliness overnight, kindness has proved to be a positive way to start fixing this problem. Compassion is a muscle. Just like in weight training, you build your compassion muscle by reaching out to other's regularly ("The"). If everyone took the time to observe and be kind, I believe it'd have a big impacts on our health and view of others.

You never know just who or what You'll cross with throughout most days. Yet there always seems to be moments in time that leave us lost for words or full of thoughts. Though I don't fully known where my encounter may lie, I know for certain that it carries a heavy truth. And with any truth to be told, it can be applied within life and it's delights. All in mind towards a genuine honesty of life that may hopefully follow, not too far behind. The other day I was at the gym and I was at the pool so my arm was showing. Someone had noticed and asked, “oh man, what happened there?” And pointed at it. Now before that, no one had been so direct towards me about it. Usually they'd notice it and my guess, get uncomfortable or awkward and try not to notice or cause attention to it. I know what it is, but I also know what it can be seen as, perceived from the outside looking in. I know what it must do to others. But here was someone who asked, not to be devious, but out of genuine concern or harmless curiosity, not instinctively thinking that I'd possibly do it to myself, thinking it had to have been something like an attack or accident. I just appreciated that lack of assumption, she didn't jump to unfair judgement, she gave me that benefit of the doubt, and with that, I was grateful and glad to answer her question. “What happened there?” And with some thought, I told her. “I was tryin- I was looking for some answers. I didn't find them. I'm still figuring them out though. Closer everyday.” And it was then, it was as if all the obvious just hit her square in the face, she kinda tried to close her mouth, not to be so obvious with her own reaction, but it was far too late for either of us to be subtle. She wasn't put off though, she didn't suddenly shame me or become disgusted; she was just hit with a heavier unexpected answer. But then I saw a sadness, not pity, but a sadness for my wellbeing, a concern. It was warmth, no doubt in my mind, cause I felt it churning in her eyes. Like intertwined gears that wind the clock. After some ticks and tocks, she absorbed the time needed to process the situation for what it was, she spoke in a tone that she had shifted from the soul. She reached out to me and connected, “Well I'm really glad you didn't find it -there-. There's reason for why we don't always get what we want, there's moments in time when what we want most, is actually what will cause our demise. So life throws us a bone, and denies that hidden demise. Saving us, while we cry.” The hair on my arms started to raise, it's like she peaked in, and saw it for what it for was it was, and put it into words for me. I wanted to tear my wall, to show her that she had got through to me, but all I could muster was a big teethe smile, I never do so cause my teeth are a mess, but my joy wouldn't stand for anything less as it's expression. Then I looked to her with an uttermost heartfelt gleam smeared across my once broken face, and thanked her for being a wonderful human being. It was a powerful moment, and it was all within 3 or 4 minutes of small talk. She went on to finish her workout and I stayed there listening to the echo acoustics of the indoor pool. Processing the situation for myself. For what it was..