Aziza Azizi, Afghanistan
“I Don’t Want Money, I Want to Be Seen”
At 24 years old, I carry more than just the weight of years—I carry experiences that have aged me far beyond what my passport declares. I come from Balkh, a region rich in history and memory, but my own past is shaded by injustice and survival. My story, like that of many women who rise despite being told to remain silent, is not about wealth or power. It is about being seen.
I earned a law degree because my mother—my first teacher, my fiercest supporter—believed in me. In a country where education for women is often discouraged or blocked altogether, she paid for my schooling and gave me the chance to dream. I pursued driving lessons, a decision that would one day save her life when no one else would. When COVID-19 struck and she was gravely ill, my father refused to take her to the hospital. "She is sick, and therefore she will die," he said, dismissing her existence. But I did not. I took the keys he flung at me and drove. Not just the car, but our future, our survival, our right to live.
My father, the man who was supposed to protect us, betrayed us instead. He punished me for refusing an arranged marriage with violence. He cut my wrist with a blade. He throw us out on cold winter night while he indulged in pleasure with another woman. What do you call a man like that? And how do you continue to live when such betrayal comes from your own blood?
Despite everything, we refused to become invisible. My uncle helped us relocate to Kabul, and later to Istanbul. There, I found moments of peace—I worked, learned a new language, and met kind people. I started to taste freedom and understand happiness. Today, I live in Cyprus, working in a mall and caring for my mother. I dream of reuniting with my brother in Austria. Not for comfort, but for connection. We are a family, and families belong together.
I find joy in simple things: writing in my diary, painting, remembering the laughter of my friends back in Afghanistan. Those memories—of being 18, full of hope—are bittersweet. I miss my homeland, but I also know that home is not a place; it is where we are safe, where we are loved.
So no, I do not want money. I want something much harder to earn: visibility. Recognition. Dignity. To be seen for who I truly am—a woman who survived, who hopes, who creates, who loves. A woman who is not defined by the cruelty she endured, but by the light she still carries.
Peter Buchan, Scotland
The Circle That Keeps Turning
I’ve never quite followed the usual path. Over the years, I’ve lived in Scotland, Holland, France, England (twice), Canada, Italy—and perhaps soon, Japan. Not out of rebellion, but because life seemed to nudge me in unexpected directions. I’ve followed opportunities wherever they led—across countries, disciplines, and emotional terrains few dare to tread.
My profession is cancer research. I began as a student torn between medicine, forestry, chemistry, and geology. Chemistry won, but only briefly. I became the first—and only—pharmacology student in Aberdeen. I worked relentlessly, passed the exams, and completed two years of study. But when I applied for a PhD, I was turned down.
So I’ve found work in industry in Glasgow for two years until a chance correspondence led me to a professor in Edinburgh who had discovered how morphine triggers endorphins in the brain. Coincidentally, he was also in need of a student, which made our paths align. He took me on under his doctoral supervision. That’s how it’s always been for me: people quietly helping each other, not out of obligation, but out of understanding. It’s a circle I try to stay part of.
Our research led us into the hormonal mechanics of breast cancer. We studied rats, induced tumors, and explored how estrogen influenced their growth. We searched for ways to block aromatase inhibitors — the enzyme that converts testosterone into estrogen — because if we could stop that conversion, we could starve the cancer. Back then, it was theory. Decades later, I found myself in Italy, working for a pharmaceutical company that had brought that very theory to market. They knew my professor. They knew Aberdeen. And I worked on a drug that stimulated the immune system so it could fight cancer more effectively, and work alongside the drug I had once studied in its infancy. The circle had turned again.
In Italy, I didn’t just sit at a desk. I visited hospitals, met patients before their treatments, and tried to understand what was happening inside their bodies. Because cancer isn’t just something you study. It’s something you witness. Sometimes, it’s something you live with. I formed a new friendship, knowing their time was limited. Over the years, friends diagnosed with cancer began reaching out for clarity, for comfort. They asked questions they couldn’t ask their doctors. I didn’t always know the answers, but I researched, simplified, and stayed close. Being affected is part of the work.
And then came something I never expected. I saw a newspaper article about a boy who had taken his own life. Seventeen years old. Lost. Through a chance encounter, I met his mother. She was connected to my daughter’s circle. I told her about my own son, who had done the same. But my son had left a letter — a long, thoughtful explanation that helped me survive the grief. Most people don’t leave anything or a short note. He left three pages. I had shared it with others before, and I offered it to her.
I printed it out, walked to her house, and dropped it in the letterbox. Before I got home, ten WhatsApp messages were waiting. She had questions. We met. We talked. Her family was Armenian, educated, and devastated. After the funeral, no one had reached out. They didn’t understand why it had happened. I stayed close. I listened. She told me, “Do you know what the irony is? I work with teenagers in crisis.” She was not yet forty. She was looking for answers. We all are. Grief is different for everyone. But I told her, “I’m here, 27 years later. And I’m still enjoying my life.”
Today, I continue to live with openness and curiosity. I’ve met a Japanese woman named Tomoko. I am in love. It’s another unexpected turn in a life full of them. My journey has been shaped by science, serendipity, sorrow, and compassion. I’ve never followed the conventional path—but I’ve followed one that felt meaningful to me.
Rachana Suryabamshi, Arghakhanchi, Nepal
“The Voice I Followed” — A Love Across Castes
I am Magar—one of the oldest indigenous tribes of Nepal. My roots run deep in the hills of Arghakhanchi, where the wind still carries echoes of ancestral songs. In our world, tradition is strong and unspoken rules even stronger. Yet, love has a way of blooming where it shouldn't and pulling us toward what feels right, not what’s allowed.
I met him online. A Chhetri boy with a voice so beautiful, it felt like music I had always known. I was 18, he was just two years older, but we were certain about each other. In a society where caste can cage the heart, we dared to let ours run wild. We dated in secret, each moment stolen, each meeting a breath held in hope.
One day, while I was at my computer class, he showed up with a question that would change everything: “Run away with me?” And I did. We married in secrecy, not because we were ashamed—but because we knew the storm we were stepping into. Neither family blessed the union. So, with nothing but our love, we moved to Kathmandu. A small rented room, empty pockets, and soon, a baby on the way.
Those days were hard. Love doesn’t feed a child or pay the rent. But slowly, our world softened. My mother-in-law, once a stranger, became my support as I carried and cared for our daughter. Over time, the ice began to melt. Our families, once fractured, began to mend. They began to accept what we had always known—our bond was real, sacred even.
In Nepal, divorce is rare. We grow up believing love is once and forever—and we try to make that belief true. Our relationship is not perfect, but it is respectful, strong, and rooted in something deeper than romance. We share the weight of life and lift each other when it gets heavy.
Now, I live in Cyprus—working to give my daughter the education I never had. My sister watches over her, and every night, I carry the ache of distance like a second skin. But I also carry pride. I chose love. I fought for it. I continue to fight—quietly, fiercely, with every step I take.
Tobore, Nigeria
“Could you just talk to me like a person?”
I was the sixth child in a bustling household, and from as early as I can remember, I knew I wanted to be an artist. While my siblings pursued conventional paths, I found myself sketching in the margins of notebooks, dreaming of canvases and color palettes. My parents, however, had other ideas. They believed in stability, in prestige—medicine, law, engineering. Art, to them, was a hobby, not a future. But I couldn’t silence the voice inside me that whispered, this is who you are.
So I made a choice that felt both terrifying and exhilarating: I moved to Nicosia to study art. It was my declaration of independence, my way of saying, I choose me.
But Nicosia wasn’t the utopia I had imagined. Being Black in a predominantly white space came with a barrage of stereotypes. People often saw me as eccentric or unpredictable, not because of my personality, but because of my skin. Some eyed me with suspicion, while others bent over backward to prove how “tolerant” they were. I often found myself thinking, Could you just talk to me like a person? Not a symbol? Not a statement?
These misconceptions seeped into my personal life too. During my student years, I noticed a disturbing pattern—some women pursued relationships with me not out of genuine interest, but because of fetishized fantasies. I became a novelty, a “fun experience,” rather than someone to truly know and love. It left me feeling hollow, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong picture. I questioned who saw me for who I really was, and who only saw what they wanted me to represent.
Despite the emotional toll, I never abandoned my art. In fact, I leaned into it harder. I poured my confusion, my anger, my longing into every brushstroke. My canvases became mirrors—reflecting not just my own story, but the stories of countless others who felt like outsiders. Through my work, I found connection. I found healing. I found purpose.
Art gave me a voice when the world tried to define me without listening. It reminded me that passion, when pursued with honesty and resilience, can carve out a life that’s not just meaningful—but deeply, unapologetically mine.
Niki, Falmouth, England
“I swapped sheep for ships—same herding instinct, just saltier.”
Drawn by the Sea: A Life Carved by the Tides
I left home when I was sixteen. Falmouth, Cornwall — where I grew up among sheep and salt air — was too small for the restlessness I carried. My parents were sheep farmers, and though the land had its own quiet beauty, I couldn’t stay. When you're young, the countryside can feel like a trap, especially when your heart beats for something wilder. So I left. I stopped a train and went.
London was my escape. I built a good life there, working for a newspaper, surrounded by stories and noise. But over time, the city wore me down. The overcrowded streets, the nightlife, the endless hangouts that led nowhere — I grew tired of it all. I felt a pull, deep and ancient, calling me back to something more elemental.
Then the sea called me.
It was my aunt, a sailor herself, who opened the door. Through her, I stepped aboard my first vessel—not as a passenger, but as a learner. I didn’t study maritime from a desk. I learned it with my hands, my back, my skin against the salt wind. I worked on different ships, each one teaching me something new: how to read the sky, how to listen to the water, how to trust the rhythm of the waves. It was a long path, paved with effort, sacrifice, and solitude. But it never felt foreign. It felt like remembering something I’d always known.
Today, I am a captain and the owner of a century-old sailing boat—a former cargo vessel reborn into a new life. I still hold a cargo license, though now I use the boat for something different: sharing the sea with others. We offer sailing trips, not as passive cruises, but as immersive experiences. Every guest becomes part of the crew. They haul ropes, steer the helm, feel the wind in their bones. There’s no automation here—just wood, canvas, and the raw power of nature.
Sailing this way is not just travel. It’s communion. You begin to understand the forces that shape the world—and yourself. The sea doesn’t lie. It demands presence, humility, and respect. And in return, it offers something rare: clarity. A sense of belonging. A reminder that freedom isn’t found in escape, but in returning to what moves you.
Yonly Leyva, Havana, Cuba
“Why Do You Need to Be Proud, Be Happy Instead”
Happiness is often mistaken for pride, yet the two are not the same. Pride seeks recognition from others, while happiness is a quiet state of being, rooted in authenticity. My life has taught me that happiness is not about conforming to society’s expectations, but about embracing the journey, the contradictions, and the love that shapes us.
I was born in Havana, Cuba, but my childhood quickly became a story of migration. At the age of four, my family left Cuba for Rome. My Cuban father gave me my roots, while my Italian stepfather gave me another home. Later, I moved to London, and now I live in Cyprus. Each place has left its mark on me, shaping my identity into something fluid and layered. I am Cuban, Italian, and European all at once, yet my heart remains tied to the island where I was born—a place I never truly had the chance to live in, but where I hope to end my path.
Society, however, does not always allow such freedom. Everywhere I go, I feel the pressure to conform: to build a family, to have children, to follow patterns that others call “normal.” Enjoyment, spontaneity, and self-discovery are often treated as luxuries, even forbidden. In this race to meet expectations, we forget to ask the essential questions: Why are we here? What is the purpose behind what we do? Overthinking becomes both our companion and our enemy, pulling us away from the simplicity of living.
My answer to these questions has always been travel, art, and discovery. I want to see the world, yet I also want to return to Cuba, to reconcile with the homeland I never truly inhabited. I believe we are moving too fast as a society, chasing more and more without realizing that we already have ourselves. Life is not about accumulation—it is about harmony, about living with the world rather than against it.
Rome taught me this lesson in its own way. I lived in the center, next to the Colosseum, surrounded by beauty that millions dream of seeing. Yet when you encounter the same scenes every day, they lose their magic. Routine dulls appreciation. It is only when you step away, when you change perspective, that you rediscover wonder.
London gave me another lesson: discipline and creativity. There, I built my career as a choreographer and performer. Art became my language, my way of questioning and resisting routine. Now, in Larnaca, Cyprus, I continue as a dancer, teacher, coach, and mentor. My daily work is not only about movement but about helping others open themselves, discover their goals, and invest in their own journeys. Art, I believe, is validated not by applause but by how much of yourself you give to it. The more you invest, the longer it lasts. It is a mirror of human value.
Perhaps I am too much of a humanist, but I believe there is no single model of love, no single way to live. Life is simpler than we make it. It is not about routine or obligation—it is about connection, discovery, and the courage to be happy instead of proud.
Mike Elia, North Cyprus
“I don’t escape from anything anymore”
Candies from the Sky
I was four years old when the sky changed. Planes rumbled overhead and bombs fell like bitter rain—yet my grandfather told me they were dropping candies. That small kindness, that sweet lie, was meant to shield me from terror. I believed him and ran toward the sound, hopeful. That was the beginning of our exile, the unraveling of home, and the forging of a life shaped by resilience.
The 1974 Turkish invasion of Cyprus, which is called “Atila,” stole not only our land but our right to grow up in peace. My cousin died at eighteen, fighting the occupation. My father and uncle were taken, later released—if you could call it release—to fight without weapons. I watched everything disappear in the fire of war: our home, our stability, our innocence.
We fled with only the clothes on our backs. A family begged us to take their daughter—she held me on her lap as we drove away in a red Ford Escort that would later carry me through over twenty years of life. Our exile was not just the loss of place, but the dissolution of comfort. We moved between strangers’ homes. No work, no food security, only survival until settled down in 5 bedroom house. One room per family. At twelve, I joined the ranks of the working—washing dishes, sweeping bars, fixing whatever I could. I worked because I had to, but over time I realized I worked because I wanted to. I found meaning in the grain of wood, in the scent of sawdust, in shaping something real with my hands. Carpentry wasn’t just a job; it was my language, my anchor. War taught me to distrust division—national, religious, ideological. I identify as a Greek speaking internationalist. To me, that means grounded in my culture but open to a borderless humanity. I’ve lived the cost of seeing others as "them" instead of "us." I don’t believe in war. But if there were a threat to those I love, I know I would rise. Still, I hold close the ancient wisdom: “If you seek revenge, dig two graves.” I hope never to become warlike in anyone’s story. I don’t escape anymore. I don't need to. The people I love are here, the Biennale in Larnaca—my artistic child—is here. Everything I’ve built from splinters is here. Through my art, my carpentry, and my community, I found my fulfillment in life. Not the kind signed in treaties, but the quiet kind you carve one day at a time.