From Myanmar to America

While people like Myat spent time in jail, others – like Aung*, a 55-year-old man with grey hair and a missing eye – joined the armed resistance against the regime.
 
Aung joined the All Burma Students’ Democratic Front (ABSDF), an opposition group that operated an armed wing. The ABSDF fought alongside other opposition groups, including the Kachin Independence Army and the Karen National Liberation Army, both armed ethnic groups fighting for independence from the junta. 

“I basically spent all of the 90s fighting in the jungle against the junta along the Thai border. Guerrilla warfare against a much stronger enemy,” Aung explained. “In Karen State, where I was stationed, that was daily life.”

By the late 1990s, however, Aung was displaced to Thailand, where he applied for refugee status. Eventually, he resettled in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Myat followed a similar path after serving thirteen years in prison. He was ultimately released in 2004 and moved to Fort Wayne as well.

In America, both men started from scratch. They worked as machine maintenance technicians,  got married, and raised their children in the U.S.
 
“We didn’t know each other back in Myanmar, but in Fort Wayne, there is a large Burmese community,” said Myat. “We found each other there, became friends, and of course talked a lot about Myanmar.”

But even after everything they had endured, life in the U.S. brought its own hardships.

“In Myanmar, families live closely together, surrounded by warmth and support from neighbors. In the U.S., it’s not like that. I felt I couldn’t belong there,” Myat said.

The hardest part, both men recalled, was learning a new language and living in a country that never truly felt theirs.

“I couldn’t leave my past behind. Our country is still under the regime’s oppression after the price we paid fighting the junta,” said Aung.

‘My country has nothing’

Under pressure from the international community and experiencing immense economic need, Myanmar’s political landscape began to change again in 2011. The military started implementing reforms gradually, and in the 2015 elections, Suu Kyi’s NLD party won. 

Suu Kyi led a civilian government that shared power with the military for several years. Although the truce was uneasy and tensions persisted, many believed it was only a slow start toward democratic reforms in Myanmar.

Nevertheless, after a period under Suu Kyi’s leadership, the military seized power again in 2021. The Lady was imprisoned again. Like in 1988, people flooded the streets in protest.

“This time it was different,” said Aung. “In 1988, only a few groups decided to fight. In 2021, the whole country, almost all armed factions, stood their ground.”

Aung argues that Operation 1027, which took place in October 2023, truly shifted everything. All the resistance groups across Myanmar joined forces in the country’s largest offensive in modern history.

“Nothing like that existed in 1988. Just incredible,” Aung said.

Myat and Aung decided to return home, leaving behind their jobs and families in the U.S. Myat has three daughters in Fort Wayne, aged 18, 17, and 11. 

“My family has everything in America, but my country has nothing,” he said. “That’s why I came back. My family understood.” 

Starlink, mobile phones, and drones

In 2021, the year the military grabbed control of the country once again, the two refugees returned to Myanmar to finish what they had started in 1988. They wanted to assist the new generation with the experience they gained during their years of resistance. Myat brought his political and communication skills. Aung contributed his military expertise.

A seasoned soldier, Aung now commands a branch of the Mon People’s Liberation Army (MPLA), which has joined forces with other groups in the Karen area. His missing right eye is a reminder of a battle fought in 1992, a different kind of war, when only a few groups, outnumbered and under-equipped, took up arms against the regime.
 
Back in Myanmar, both men quickly realized how much both the war and the country had changed. Many of the jungles that once offered shelter have disappeared.

“Where there used to be jungle, now there are roads,” Aung said.

Meanwhile, technology has become one of the biggest game changers on the battlefield. 

“In my time, we only had rifles and a few radios. That was it,” Aung described. “Now we have Starlink, mobile phones, and drones.”

A new generation of fighters has also emerged, tech-savvy and often highly educated.

One example is Htet*, a thirty-year-old former aerospace engineering student from Yangon. Like many other young people, he joined the resistance after the 2021 coup, bringing valuable technical expertise.

“I had some contacts in the Karen region. I asked if they were interested in forming a drone unit, and they immediately said yes,” he said. “Honestly, my background is more academic than practical, but I learned by watching YouTube videos. There’s plenty of material out there.”

In the ongoing conflict, drones have proven their effectiveness on the battlefield. The resistance uses drones for surveillance, reconnaissance, and even attacks on vehicles and military targets. But the challenges go beyond learning how to use them.

“Unlike the regime, we don’t have sophisticated UAVs. Our entire setup costs around $1,000 per drone, while the enemy’s costs about $20,000. We buy parts online – from sites like Alibaba or Lazada – and smuggle them into the country,” Htet explained.

A new generation

Deep in the forest, at their base camp, Htet now trains others in drone flight and navigation. In one case, he’s training an all-female team.

“My parents were very traditional and terrified of the army, so they stayed silent in 1988. I didn’t want to do the same,” said Mya*, a 27-year-old teacher from Yangon who now serves as one of the team’s drone operators.

In her previous life, Mya taught in a primary school. When she heard that the army was shelling schools in rebel-held areas, she decided to join the resistance. She joined with her fiancé, who is also her high school sweetheart.

Women like Mya are not only fighting the junta but also defying deep-rooted gender norms.

Burmese society remains deeply traditional, and women are often expected to limit themselves to housework and childcare. Serving in an all-female combat unit is a revolution in itself.

Despite their different backgrounds, one thing connects the generations of 1988 and 2021: a willingness to sacrifice their lives for their country’s good. 

“I left my family in the U.S., knowing there’s no turning back,” Myat said. “Over there, I have three children, but here, I feel like I have 300 kids. We could never abandon the children here. I came here to win this war or die trying. I’m doing it for them, but also for me.”

Mya said she feels similarly.

“I joined the resistance knowing I couldn’t go back to Yangon and be a teacher again,” she said. “It was a one-way ticket. My boyfriend and I are ready to die to bring freedom to our country.”

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of the individuals interviewed.

Matteo Latorraca is a journalist with experience reporting from multiple crisis areas, including Ukraine, Myanmar, Nigeria, and Tunisia. His work focuses on geopolitics, conflict, and social change.

The post In Myanmar, the Old Guard and New Blood Are Uniting To Fight the Junta first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

A French grape vendor at the market briefly transforms into a language teacher to help his British client pronounce the “u” in “muscat” correctly. It’s a highly ambitious undertaking, given the complexity of the sound for native English speakers.

While the scene may seem absurd at first glance, it’s pretty typical in Eymet, a village that’s received the moniker France’s “most British town.” This region of France is no stranger to the British. Aquitaine, the area where Eymet is located, was ruled by the English Crown for centuries, most notably by the famous Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. However, today, the population of Eymet offers a distinctly modern example of the French-British relationship. 

Eymet is very special

In many respects, eccentricity is what best defines this small French town.

Rural municipalities often experience the decline of their town centers. Eymet, however, bucks this trend. According to Rose Lallemant, a communications officer for the city council, a vibrant hustle and bustle remains “all year around,” regardless of the season. Numerous restaurants offer a diverse range of cuisine from around the globe. It’s unusual for such a small town to have so much culinary diversity. 

However, one of the town’s main peculiarities is its thriving British community.

Among the approximately 2,700 inhabitants of Eymet, around 400 are citizens of the United Kingdom, with the majority being of English descent. That population includes a mix of retirees and younger families. Many more visit regularly, temporarily increasing the number of Brits in the town.

The phenomenon is not unique to this village nestled in the rural département of Dordogne. The latter has many cross-Channel residents, similar to many regions in Southwest France. However, the presence of British citizens is particularly noticeable in Eymet, where British residents operate a significant portion of the local businesses. 

Rose’s English Vintage Tearoom or A Taste of Britain grocery store, where people can find Marmite, baked beans, and all the classic commodities to soothe a craving for home, are just some of the indicators of the town’s thriving British population.

“When I tell people where I live, they respond: ‘You’re in the English village,’” said one French retiree from Eymet. 

According to Terrie Simpson, the co-founder of the Eymet-based real estate agency Agence Eleonor, many people believe there are more British residents than French in Eymet, even though Brits only make up around 15 percent of the population. 

“Everyone says that there are only English folk in Eymet,” said Simpson, who is originally from Manchester, England. 

Listening to people speak on the town’s streets, especially on market day during high tourist season, it’s understandable why people would get the impression that there are only British people living there. Yet, Simpson argues that this is because many of the people out during the day are retirees or vacationers, people who tend to spend their days wandering the city streets. That doesn’t mean there aren’t others. 

An era of “Entente Amicale”

The majority of Eymet residents agree that a happy French-British cohabitation is unfolding in the town, worthy of the historical Entente Cordiale, a series of agreements that France and Britain signed in 1904 to foster closer diplomatic ties and resolve old disputes. 

In July 2025, the governments of both countries upgraded the historical agreements to become the Entente Amicale, ushering in a new period of French-British friendship. 

The strong relationship between the two countries is often on full display in the town. Only sports can rekindle the embers of rivalry. Many residents suggest that tourists visit Eymet’s bars and pubs in February, when the Six Nations Championship, a rugby competition between France, England, Ireland, Italy, Scotland, and Wales, is in full swing. 

Lallemant argues that “there are no notable cases” of xenophobia or intercommunity conflict among residents. Sometimes, however, visitors can make strange remarks about the blend of cultures. Sara Ghazali, who recently opened a bookshop in Eymet called La Mauvaise Herbe, said tourists told her that Eymet is “invaded.” 

“No, we are not,” she laughed. 

Despite the relatively low level of friction, some locals expressed frustration that many British residents don’t speak French.

In response, Lallemant and her colleagues have grown accustomed to bilingual communication. They aim to ensure the town’s foreign residents “do not feel left out.”

Rising prices bolstered by wealthier cross-Channel newcomers are a potential point of contention. Yet, paradoxically, it’s also a consequence of the economic dynamism that such a rural town often lacks. Locals and British residents both frequently argue that the new community saved Eymet. 

In everyday life, the British contribution is undeniable. Brits are consumers, keeping businesses going all year, and investors too. Rue du Temple would be a much less vibrant street without Eymet Le Livre, Café Sara, or A Taste of Britain. Jane Patterson, the latter’s owner, said she believes the influx of foreigners has benefited the French.

Beyond the economic element, the British newcomers also contribute to demographic dynamism. An increasing number of young families with children flock to Eymet. Since countryside schools are closing in droves, “it’s good for such a small town,” Simpson, the owner of Agence Eleanor, pointed out. 

That’s in contrast to the earlier wave of migration, which mainly brought in members of older generations when it started a few decades ago.

A thriving community built on a privileged migration

Pinpointing the exact moment when Eymet began to develop a British character is challenging. The 1970s may mark its inception, when a few affluent individuals purchased holiday homes in these picturesque surroundings. From the outset, that set the tone for a migration rooted in privilege, a very different experience from that of others crossing the Channel. 

From there, the migration unfolded slowly and began to accelerate in the 1980s and 1990s, reaching a crescendo when the United Kingdom eventually left the European Union following the 2016 Brexit referendum. 

Just before Brexit, which became official on February 1st, 2020, following lengthy divorce negotiations between officials in London and Brussels, Simpson sold many homes to cross-Channel newcomers who wanted to settle before it became too administratively complex and costly.

Simpson initially feared that she might lose her British clientele because of Brexit. However, the British continued to flock to Eymet, revealing that their interest in the place transcended any administrative difficulties.

The stars align for Eymet

“When I arrived, it reminded me of Beauty and the Beast,” Simpson said. 

For many, Eymet’s idyllic landscapes alone are a reason to settle. The quality of life doesn’t hurt either. Sun and good wine are often enough of an incentive to buy a house and settle down. 

“We don’t have this in England,” Simpson laughed. 

Terry Boyce, previously a physics teacher at the University of Hong Kong, and his partner, Kinet Leug, have run a bookshop in Eymet for about five years. They arrived from Hong Kong in 2018, having escaped an urban environment that had become hell for them. 

“The French lifestyle is the most attractive thing,” Boyce said. 

The properties are, “of course,” also cheaper than their equivalent in the United Kingdom, Simpson admits. Many Brits can afford to buy property in Eymet without a mortgage. And those houses often cater to the bucolic tastes of British clientele: old stone, land, dovecotes, and proximity to a vibrant town. 

Some come to refurbish old ruins. Chris, who often visits the town’s market via motorcycle, is one of those hobbyists. When not in his native Yorkshire, he uses the 6-month visa that post-Brexit rules provide to British citizens to renovate an old farm he purchased, just a short drive away from Eymet. 

“Amazing architecture!” he gushed, showing pictures of the property he’s purchased. 

Typically, in such a rural location, it can be challenging or time-consuming to reach major cities and airports. Eymet doesn’t have this problem. The Bergerac airport is located approximately 25 kilometers (15 miles) away and offers low-cost flights to the United Kingdom. 

There are numerous flights between Bergerac and Britain, a response to the ongoing demand for travel between the United Kingdom and this region of southern France. In turn, the existence of these flights has also driven more British people to Eymet. Bordeaux, a city of nearly 300,000 inhabitants, is also just a 1-hour and 20-minute drive away. 

If living conditions and infrastructure encourage many to try life in Eymet, the community entices many to stay and settle down. 

Born in Liverpool, England, Sara Martinez has recently taken over a café on rue du Temple, which she now runs alongside her husband. It eventually became a meeting point for both French and cross-Channel clientele. 

“One Brit brought another,” Martinez conceded, referring to the phenomenon of chain migration that often brings groups of people of the same origins to a new location together. 

Little Britain under the spotlight

Slowly but surely, the British population of Eymet grew, transforming the town into a microcosm of Britain. Now, whenever there is a significant event related to the United Kingdom, from a sports event to an election, journalists flock to the town to get a reaction.

From her bookshop, looking directly onto rue du Temple, Ghazali recalls seeing TV crews rushing across the streets to catch interviews after the death of Queen Elizabeth II in September 2022.

“Every [television] channel turns up when there is a France-England game,” Lallemant explained. 

The fact that Eymet is primarily known as a British community can sometimes be frustrating to city authorities. Still, they try to take advantage of the camera crews to promote other aspects of the town. 

“We’d like to be known also for our architectural richness, our heritage, or our activities,” Lallemant said. 

Some British residents are growing tired of being interviewed by so many journalists. One admitted to being cautious around English reporters and wary that they’ll attempt to highlight and exaggerate incidents of intercultural tensions to feed back to Britain’s notorious tabloids. 

To the dismay of problem seekers, most residents of Eymet say they’re happy with their lives and the intercultural atmosphere in the town. Sandra, a French artist who grew up in the town, said the presence of foreigners has opened up Eyment. 

“On every terrace, there is a different gin and tonic recipe,” Ghazali jokes. “And that is nice!”

Paul Mazet is a French freelance journalist based in Berlin, where he reports on the local impact of international developments. He studied history, international relations, and social sciences in Toulouse, Glasgow, Paris, Dublin, and Berlin.

The post The French Countryside Town That Won’t Miss Teatime first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

I had been invited to spend several days at an orphanage in Idlib, a city in northern Syria that had become a stronghold for rebel forces. The “association,” as they called it, was a large, grey compound not far from downtown. Behind tall walls and light security, it felt like any other school: asphalt playgrounds for running and football, metal frames for climbing, and classrooms filled with wooden desks. The floor was littered with scraps of paper and class notes. 

Arriving at the Little Hearts Foundation

Just over two years earlier, I was walking down a road in Adana, in southern Turkey. I had arrived to cover the devastating earthquake that claimed more than 100,000 lives. As I walked,  focused on my phone and following a Google Maps pin I had been sent, the loud growl of a performance engine grew louder. The sound and my path were about to converge. The tinted window of a brilliant white Honda Civic lowered slowly, and a hand emerged. I’d been looking for a translator in Turkey, and someone had given me the contact info of Mahmood al-Rawi, an Iraqi man from Fallujah who spoke almost perfect  English. Mahmood worked with a charity that helped rehouse Syrian refugees and supported their children, many of whom suffered from blood cancer and aggressive tumors and needed urgent medical care. Through our work together, Mahmood and I became friends, and he offered to bring me to Syria to show me his work there.

Fast forward to today, and I’m sitting in the back of a Kia Mohave SUV—favored in Syria for its durability—speeding through the night at a steady 160 kilometers per hour with Mahmood in the passenger seat,  a man named Omar behind the wheel, and a loaded Kalashnikov resting on the floor. 

Omar al-Omar is a tall, stocky man—6’3″—with shoulder-length black hair, a thick beard, and a disarming smile. He frequently cracks sharp jokes with his friends in Arabic. Omar began doing humanitarian work when he arrived in Idlib in 2017. His charisma and online presence attracted many donations. He worked with a French-Syrian NGO for a year before discovering they were misusing funds. After leaving, he founded The Little Hearts Foundation, a school and community center serving nearly a thousand children orphaned by war. They attend the school by day to study and play. Today, this place is a rare sanctuary for many children who have never known peace. However, it took a great deal of work and hardship to build it. 

The road to Idlib

Years ago, on a cold, snowy morning in Deir Muqaran, a mountain village in the Wadi Barada Valley northwest of Damascus, 200 green buses lined the local streets. It was January 29, 2017, and the buses were ready to relocate rebel forces to Idlib, closer to the Turkish border. The rebels, largely from Jabhat al-Nusra (previously the Free Syrian Army), had reached an agreement with Russian and German negotiators, the former representing the Assad regime. Either the fighters would relocate or face full-scale bombardment that could endanger all families in the area. The regime was eager to reclaim the region because of Ein Fajja, a vital water source that supplied over six million people in Damascus.  

The rebels had lived under siege since 2011, defending the valley despite overwhelming odds. Deir Muqaran, nestled among sheer sandstone mountains controlled by the regime, endured relentless barrel bomb attacks. Around 400 fighters were lost over six years. That morning, about 700 soldiers, dressed in winter clothes, boarded the buses with their weapons. Of the 200 buses, only 70 were needed: 40 for the fighters and 30 for their family members. Russian officials were reportedly stunned that so few had held the region so long. 

Al-Omar was 27 then. Driven by rage and a deep longing for a free Syria, he was involved in resistance long before the war officially began. His younger brother, Mustafa, was arrested in 2012  and disappeared inside Assad’s notorious Sednaya prison. His father, Mahmoud al-Omar, was once a soldier in the Syrian military under Hafez al-Assad, Bashar al-Assad’s father, and was accused of aiding rebels. He was dismissed from the military in 1990, arrested in 2006, and routinely extorted by the regime. It was a typical story for Syria. Hafez al-Assad ruled through paranoia and brutality, often punishing entire families for dissent. His son, Bashar, continued that legacy despite initial promises of reform.  

Though he had become a de facto leader of a small rebel faction, Omar didn’t want to leave his village on that frigid January morning. But endangering families wasn’t an option. Armed with machine guns and grenades, the fighters boarded the buses. This was not surrender. It was a tactical shift.  

The trip to Idlib, which usually takes 4 hours, took nearly 24. Assad’s forces rerouted the buses through Alawite strongholds to parade the rebels like trophies, exposing them to jeers and humiliation. What Assad didn’t realize was that concentrating these disparate rebel groups in Idlib would eventually backfire. From 2014 to 2018, the regime implemented similar evacuations across the country, consolidating opposition forces in one location. During those early years, international media flooded screens and newspapers with images of horrific attacks and drone footage of  Aleppo’s destruction. That attention eventually waned, but the conflict only intensified. 

Abdullah’s story

In 2016, a year before Omar arrived in Idlib, Abdullah al-Khalif, another founding member of the orphanage, smuggled his family across the desert, moving from one Kurdish stronghold to another. Born in Deir ez-Zor and raised in Damascus, Abdullah is a tall, gaunt man with a long goatee and somber eyes. He had worked as a policeman and moonlighted as a taxi driver. When the war began, he joined protests by night, but it soon became too dangerous. He fled to Darayya, then under the control of the Free Syrian Army, and joined their ranks.  

Abdullah married just six months before the war began. His wife remained in Damascus for safety. He risked his life to visit her and their newborn. Traveling through Syria was dangerous. In 2013, regime forces massacred 1,800 people in  Darayya in a single day. Hiding on a rooftop, Abdullah watched in horror as a soldier slit a child’s throat and smeared his hand with blood, shouting “Ya Hussein”—a Shia invocation that was burned into his memory after that day.

After escaping to Deir ez-Zor, Abdullah fought alongside the Free Syrian Army for 18 months while supporting his family.  By 2014, Jabhat al-Nusra had established a foothold in the region, and he joined them, citing their discipline and organizational structure. While the U.S.  had labeled them a terrorist group in 2012, the Washington Post reported that they were the most effective rebel force on the ground. ISIS  also grew in power during this time,  threatening to kill or absorb all non-affiliated fighters.  

After his commander was wounded,  Abdullah’s faction moved to Idlib, now a rebel safe zone. He began a quieter life, working in a restaurant and raising three children while enduring frequent airstrikes. Normalcy took on strange dimensions. People would resume their daily routines just an hour after a bombing. In 2017, Abdullah attempted to flee to Turkey nine times in one month but was caught each time. Bilateral relations between Syria and Turkey had long been tense, deteriorating further after a 2011 incident in Jisr ash-Shugur, where thousands fled across the border. 

Turkey’s President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan initially condemned Syria’s brutality but hesitated to call for Assad’s removal.

In 2019, while still working at the restaurant, Abdullah met Omar, who had recently founded his organization and school. Given their shared experience as fighters, they quickly found common ground. Though their focus shifted to humanitarian work, both remained active fighters and were among the first to enter Damascus after Bashar al-Assad’s departure. 

On December 8, 2024, at 6:18 a.m., Bashar al-Assad, members of his family, and some key officials boarded a private jet at Damascus airport. They flew to a Russian airbase in Latakia and then to Moscow, escorted by Russian intelligence. This moment, long in the making, marked the end of a brutal 14-year war. By then, Idlib had become home to an estimated 50,000 rebel troops under Abu Mohammed al-Jolani,  leader of Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), a coalition of Sunni Islamist factions formed in 2017.  

Their surprise offensive began with Aleppo, catching Assad’s weakened forces off guard. In just 11 days, the war ended.  Estimates vary, but monitors and the United Nations suggest the death toll from the 14-year war may exceed one million.

Overnight, fighting halted, and focus shifted to rebuilding  Syria’s shattered economy. In a landmark move, Syria’s interim president, Ahmed al-Sharaa—often known by his nom de guerre, al-Jolani—made his first foreign visit to Saudi Arabia in February, signaling a significant realignment in Middle  East diplomacy. 

Manal’s story

Manal Ibrahim, now 34, also works at the foundation. Even beneath her niqab, her wide grin and bubbly personality are unmistakable. Originally from Saraqib, a strategic town in Idlib province, Manal’s family was once wealthy. Her father, accused of having ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, fled to Saudi Arabia in 1980. Their lands were seized, and the family was blacklisted. 

After Hafez al-Assad died in 2001, the family returned to Syria. But when 11-year-old Manal criticized Bashar al-Assad in class, the secret police came calling. The family fled again.  

Between 2002 and 2011, they smuggled themselves across borders, paying bribes. Manal’s mother was imprisoned twice.

In their village, girls were expected to marry cousins by the age of 16 to preserve family land. Unmarried by the age of 20, a girl was considered spoiled. Manal resisted marriage and rejected the hobbies her father wanted her to pursue, such as sewing and religion. She decided to study dance, painting, and singing instead. These choices were unforgivable to her father.  

Manal began to share her artwork on Snapchat, gaining a significant following and a steady income. By 2016, with Idlib under rebel control, she reclaimed some of her family’s land. Her father had remarried and left the family home by then. Barrel bombs were a regular soundtrack to her nights. Manal and her sister counted them as they whistled to the ground before impact.

Defying tradition, Manal eventually married a kind man from Damascus. Her family beat and tortured her, even tried to provoke her husband into violence, but they failed. The couple married in 2020 and had a child.  

Manal applied for a job five times at The Little Hearts Foundation without mentioning her social media influence. She wanted to be hired based on merit. Eventually, she was accepted and rose to become director.  Despite some initial tension, she and Omar developed a mutual respect for each other. She created a new Snapchat account to raise money for the orphanages. Since then, she has raised over $200,000 for the school, which now employs more than 60 staff and provides thousands of meals during Eid and other festivals. 

“A Syria without Bashar”

The perfumed fragrance of shisha smoke wafted through the air as we entered Mr. Black’s restaurant, a popular hangout that opened four years ago on the outskirts of Idlib. Many in the local military brass frequent it for its generous traditional feasts. In my experience, I have never encountered such hospitality as I have in the Middle East, and Syria is no exception. 

The table must be overflowing—variations of lamb and chicken, grilled vegetables, hummus,  flatbreads, and fattoush. Water or juice is passed around. Cigarettes are lit. Conversation flows.  

I was told many times by civilians and officials: “We received our country below zero. We must  rebuild not just from the bottom, but below the bottom.” The new government faces pressure from many countries, each with its own agenda. U.S. President Donald Trump is now meeting with Al-Sharaa and lifting heavy sanctions, a monumental step. The Syrian public watches with bated breath.  

As I observed those around me, and Mahmood generously translated as much of the dialogue as he could, we watched some people in fatigues, others in civilian clothes, united by a single unifying force: a desire to discuss Syria’s future and how to achieve the best possible outcome. Many Syrians are now making the long journey back home from different countries or refugee camps. The organization that Mahmood works for is shifting its focus to building medical facilities in rural areas that lack access. After the main course, chai is served, followed by baklava or kataifi with sweet cheese.  Then comes Syrian cardamom coffee and the shisha pipe. The conversation continues long into the night.  

The next morning, as I stand in the schoolyard, listening to 500 children chant “Allahu Akbar” in unison, I wonder whether the Syria they inherit will be the inclusive future President al-Sharaa has promised—or something more extreme, as critics fear. When I ask Omar what a free Syria means to  him, he replies without hesitation: “To see a Syria without Bashar is enough.”  

“األب الصالح خير من مائة معلم”

James Forde is an Irish freelance photographer based in London. His work focuses on long-term documentary projects that investigate under-reported socio-political issues. His photography has been featured in numerous publications, including the Washington Post, El País, VICE, and the Irish Times.

The post In Syria, Former Warriors Build a New Home for Orphans first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

Accepting a job in New York City was a difficult decision.

In the summer of 2017, I arrived in the U.S. from Cambodia for a wedding. As soon as my bridesmaid duties were over, I planned to move back to Europe. My loose plan was to settle in Budapest and use that as a base to cover Eastern Europe as a freelance journalist.

Then I received an offer to cover foreign affairs from Newsweek Magazine‘s downtown Manhattan office, and I thought, why not? I’d always been curious about what it would be like to live in New York as an adult.

I was born in Manhattan and spent a lot of time there as a young person. But I’d lived outside of the U.S. almost my entire adult life. My only concept of 21st-century New York came from Sex and the City and friends who had spent time in Brooklyn. They promised New York was about as similar to London as I’d find in the U.S. They described it as an adult playground, albeit more segregated and expensive than most cities I knew.

Most importantly, my mother was only a little over an hour away. After so many years apart, I relished the idea of being close to at least one parent. Perhaps I would come full circle and settle down in the city of my birth. I loved the idea of having a life with a straightforward narrative arc.

Flash forward eight years, and life is slightly different from what I imagined then. I no longer live in Brooklyn or work for Newsweek, but I’m still in the United States. It’s an outcome that I struggle with sometimes. There are a lot of practical reasons to be here. On paper, my life looks pretty great. But I still yearn to report all over the world. I still miss friends and family in Europe. There are so many stories I can’t cover when I’m grounded in the United States. I would much rather not be stuck in one place.

The compromise I’ve come up with is to travel regularly. I try to make two to four transatlantic trips each year. Some of those I pay for myself, while others are reporting trips funded with grants or fellowships. I squeeze in as much time with friends and family as possible on each trip so I don’t lose connection with people I love, even though I sometimes feel isolated on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

People sometimes ask how I can afford to travel now that I live in the U.S. After all, it’s much more expensive to fly from the East Coast of the United States than to cross borders if you live in Europe or Asia. I usually tell them transatlantic travel isn’t as expensive as you think.

Travel is out of reach if you live paycheck to paycheck. I don’t blame anyone for not seeing the world when they’re under financial strain or drowning in student loans like many people in the U.S. But if you’re the kind of young professional who can afford to go to happy hours and order takeout multiple times a month, you can probably afford to travel internationally. You could save 50 to 100 dollars a month by going to fewer bars and restaurants, for example, and you’d be able to travel overseas at least once or twice a year.

Not everyone will want to travel exactly the way I do. These options might not work for people who are disabled or have minimal travel time. But I’ll share my tips for those who are curious. Some of the links included are affiliate links, which means I’ll get a small commission if you use them to purchase something. That said, everything I linked to is something I use regularly and recommend, whether it’s an affiliate or not.

My guide to affordable transatlantic travel:

• Don’t buy your flight directly from an airline.

I have a rule about never paying more than $400 to get across the Ocean. Occasionally, I’ve snagged a round-trip flight from an East Coast city to Europe for around $250 or $300. That usually means you will need flexibility regarding which airport you fly from (more on that below).

The most important thing, however, is to use a flight aggregator. I usually use Skyscanner or Trip.com. You just enter your preferred airport, destination, and dates, and the platform shows you various options from different airlines.

You can also let the platform know if your travel dates are flexible. The more flexible you are, the better your chances of finding a deal.

• Don’t check a bag.

I never check a suitcase for trips that last less than a month. If I plan to spend around ten days away, I often use this bag from the British Amazon. They will ship it to the United States for a small fee. It counts as a personal item, which means you won’t pay the extra fee for carry-on luggage that so many airlines charge now.

Taking so few clothes means you’ll need to do laundry in the middle of the trip (I usually stay with friends or in an Airbnb rather than a hotel. That’s partly so I’ll have laundry access). It also means you’ll need to bring versatile clothes you can wear more than once.

If I’m going to stay longer than ten days, or if I need to bring work clothes and clothes to go out, I will use this suitcase. It has the perfect dimensions for every airline. I’ve fit shoes and weeks’ worth of clothes in it and never been asked to check my bag. It’s perfect.

• Choose your departure airport carefully.

If you’re only willing to fly from one airport, you will have fewer options for cheap flights. You should always check a few of the closest airports to you.

I usually look at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey, Philadelphia International Airport, or Baltimore/Washington Thurgood Marshall Airport.

The latter is often my first choice because it’s close to my home. But I will take a bus to JFK or Newark for a well-priced flight. Sometimes, I’ll use that as an excuse to see friends in New York or New Jersey before I catch my flight.

Taking a bus or train to an airport a few hours away can be time-consuming and tiring, but it’s often worth it from a financial perspective. In my experience, Newark Airport usually has the best international flight options.

• Pick a good transit hub and don’t avoid layovers.

If you can save money by being flexible with your departure location, the same can be said for your destination.

Let’s say, for example, that you want to travel to Barcelona. It might cost $500 or $600 to catch a flight from Newark Airport directly to Spain. But if you’re willing to do a layover in London or Lisbon, you could save a few hundred dollars.

There are often a lot of good deals on flights to big cities with many airports, like London. Then, you can always catch a separate low-cost Ryanair or EasyJet flight to your final destination starting at around $20. If you have the bag I recommended above, you won’t exceed your carry-on limits for those low-cost airlines.

When I fly from BWI Thurgood Marshall Airport, I often fly with the low-cost airline Play. It’s an Icelandic company that started flying from North America to Europe in 2022. They don’t offer meals or in-flight entertainment, so I usually bring a Kindle and pack a lunch.

You’ll have a layover in Iceland on each flight. Reykjavik has a very nice airport with good, healthy food options. The savings on your plane ticket are worth it.

I often recommend a layover in Istanbul if traveling to Asia. Flights to Istanbul usually aren’t too expensive, and there are tons of low-cost flights from Turkey to the rest of the world. You can also spend a few hours wandering around Istanbul between flights, which is always enjoyable.

• Cut down on your accommodation costs.

Staying with family or friends is often my first choice. You save money and spend more time with the people you’re traveling to see. I’ve spent a lot of nights on people’s slightly uncomfortable pullout sofas because I’d rather spend the night in a friend’s living room than splurge on fancy accommodation. But if you don’t know many people in other countries, there are other options.

I’ve stayed with Couch Surfing hosts dozens of times. Some people say creepy men primarily use the website to pick up female travelers. That hasn’t been my experience. I’ve met some of my closest friends over the years through Couch Surfing, and I’ve stayed with lovely people in countries like India and Bulgaria for no cost. You can usually tell a lot about a person based on the references on their profile. That said, I don’t recommend staying with someone who doesn’t have a lot of positive references.

You also have to be willing to socialize. Using Couch Surfing when you have time to bond with your host is usually best practice. The website is primarily meant to facilitate cultural exchanges, so crashing on someone’s sofa when you have a packed travel itinerary and no time to talk can seem rude.

• Use a local SIM card instead of international roaming.

Everyone needs a phone to navigate daily life. That’s even more true if you’re traveling overseas and must look up where you’re going. However, I never recommend splurging on roaming charges to use your Internet data overseas. It’s much more affordable to get a local SIM card.

The U.S. is an outlier because most people purchase a contract with a phone company to get monthly data. That’s not the case in most other countries. When you arrive at the airport, you can usually buy a local SIM card for anywhere between $10 to $20. That will give you enough data to use your phone as often as you want for at least a month (the U.S. telecommunications industry is a ripoff, but that’s a story for another day).

Some phones in the U.S. are locked. That means they won’t work with just any SIM card. Before your trip, go to your local phone shop or wherever you purchased your phone and ask them to unlock it. They’ll do it for free.

I always carry a paper clip to open my phone and switch out the SIM card when I buy a local one. Just make sure you don’t lose your original SIM card. You’ll want to switch back to that when you return to the U.S.

Some companies now offer e-SIM cards that you can purchase before your trip. That might make life even more straightforward because you won’t have to wander the airport looking for a kiosk to buy a SIM card as soon as you arrive. One place to get that is Yesim, a Swiss company that offers digital SIM cards that work worldwide.

• Act like a local

Some people like to splurge on one big fancy vacation a year. If you don’t travel very often, spending money to be as comfortable as possible when you do can make sense. But if you value frequent travel over luxury like I do, the trick is to treat your time on the road like the rest of your life. Go to the local supermarket and cook your host a meal. Rent a bike to get around the city you’re visiting. You’ll get a real sense of where you’re staying without spending more than you would at home.

The post A Guide to Affordable Transatlantic Travel first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

In the Afro-descendant town of Puerto Tejada, in the southern Colombian department of Cauca, a handful of master swordsmen represent one of the last bastions of the traditional martial art called grima, or machete fencing. From its origins in the colonial era to the threats facing this ancestral art form in the present, grima is an integral part of Afro-Colombian cultural heritage.

The House of Cacao

The House of Cacao offers a cool and tranquil refuge from the tropical sun in a region known for its sweltering heat. Yet even in this cultural center, a welcome shelter from the clamorous streets outside, the metallic ring of steel striking steel breaks the quiet repose. Here in the Academia de Esgrima de Machete y Bordón, some of the last masters of an ancestral Afro-Colombian martial art propagate their teachings to younger generations dedicated to the survival of their heritage.

“This is an art that, ever since our African ancestors arrived in this country, we have maintained and preserved through the generations,” explains Maestro Miguellourido, a recognized master with fifty years of experience in the art. “That’s why for us, grima is an art of freedom and resistance. That’s why we can never allow it to die. It’s our heritage and the legacy of our ancestors.”

Yet the future of this heritage is uncertain. The masters dwindle in number as many young Afro-Colombians look to urban Colombia and mestizo culture instead of their own heritage. Grima has no official status in the National Registry of Colombian Cultural Heritage. Like so many others, it’s a tradition that stands at an impasse between a storied past and an uncertain future.

An ancestral artform

In some respects, history has moved slowly here. As in colonial times, sugar is the lifeblood of the region’s economy. In centuries past, the Spanish forced enslaved Africans by the tens of thousands to work these fields. As thousands more were sent to the deadly gold mines of the neighboring Pacific, the lowlands of southwest Colombia took on the distinctive African character that they still retain. 

Today, neocolonial business interests plunder the region for its sugar and gold just as the Spanish did before them. Through the intervening centuries and up to the present, one ubiquitous tool has remained instrumental in the hands of the cane cutters: the machete.

The men skilled in its use in the fields soon learned to handle the machete with equal aptitude as a weapon. Drawing on African martial traditions merged with European styles of swordplay, Afro-Colombians developed grima—a contraction of the Spanish esgrima, meaning fencing—as a practical and distinctive form of self-defense. A machete in one hand and a defensive stick in the other made for a simple yet effective fighting technique.

The same machetes that once cut cane eventually sought the necks of the Spanish enslavers as thousands of Afro-Colombians joined the wars of independence in the name of liberation. The series of hegemonic nineteenth-century regimes that followed independence later broke that promise. In later decades, the sons and grandsons of the rebels put their machetes to equal use during the civil wars that wracked Colombia well into the twentieth century.

For practitioners of the art today, the liberatory history of grima is still fundamental. 

“The legacy of this art is a liberatory one that has given to the Black people of Cauca the generosity of freedom because our people, Black men and women, were principal actors in the fight for freedom throughout Colombia,” explains Alicia Castillo Lasprilla, a local educator, researcher, and grima activist. “In this cultural center, the House of Cacao, a center of Afro-Colombian culture and memory, we are reconstructing every piece of historical memory that links us to the practices and customs of our ancestors.”

For Lasprilla, grima is a core expression of Afro-Colombian culture indelibly linked to many others. 

“This martial art overlaps with our gastronomy, our ancestral cuisine. It’s also linked to traditional medicine, oral tradition, music, popular arts, and artisanry. By safeguarding grima, we safeguard our whole culture.”

In search of recognition

One way grima practitioners and activists seek to guarantee the future of their art form is by campaigning for its recognition at the national and international levels, as an officially inscribed form of intangible heritage.

“We are in the process of safeguarding this tradition by seeking recognition and support at the municipal, departmental, and national level so that we can cultivate this art and pass it on to the next generations. This is an arduous task, and we’re facing an uphill battle for recognition,” says Maestro Porfirio, who studied under the legendary Héctor Elías Sandoval—a researcher, storyteller, filmmaker, and poet, in addition to a master swordsman. “The fact that many people have come from other countries to visit us, seeing something of value in our art, when our own government hasn’t even recognized it—this situation needs to change.”

The grima practitioners campaigning for heritage recognition believe it may represent the best opportunity for valorizing and preserving their art. Perhaps the publicity, state programs, and funding that accompany heritage recognition could provide the boost grima needs to remain a living tradition.

Still, students of heritage regimes know that such lofty ambitions are sometimes misplaced. Sometimes, they have unintentional adverse effects on the communities and traditions they seek to valorize.

Afro-Colombians, in particular, may have reason for concern. Colombian anthropologist Maria Fernanda Escallón documented one example in the village of Palenque. Members of the maroon community, the descendants of escaped African slaves who established free enclaves on the margins of colonial societies like Colombia, inhabit the town. Palenque, located in the Colombian Caribbean, experienced significant socioeconomic and political tensions following a UNESCO heritage declaration in 2005. 

The same is at risk of happening with viche, a traditional Afro-Colombian sugarcane distillate that was once illegal but was legalized and officially recognized as national heritage in 2021. The commercial production that followed now threatens to put artisanal producers out of business.

Yet not all heritage declarations have had such questionable results; others have succeeded in safeguarding threatened traditions and benefiting source communities. Whether attaining official recognition would solidify or jeopardize the future of grima depends on a delicate and unpredictable balance of legal procedures, community leadership, and bureaucratic political factors. For now, that question remains perhaps unanswerable. However, if the activists for recognition have their way, it will have to be answered sooner or later. 

In the meantime, grima masters like Miguellourido and Porfirio continue to preserve and propagate their teachings in spaces like the House of Cacao. For them, grima is heritage, whether official or not, and they see it as their duty to extend it to the next generations as it was to them.

“What fills us with pride is when people come, they see our art, they learn it, and they leave happy in the knowledge that Colombia possesses its own martial art, which is grima with machete and bordón,” says Maestro Porfirio.

As I left the tranquil courtyard of the House of Cacao, the bright ring of steel still sounding from within left me with the resonant impression that, for now, whatever the future may hold, grima remains a vibrant and living tradition.

Rowan Glass is an anthropologist, journalist, writer, and filmmaker based in Colombia. 

The post Grima: The Last Masters of Afro-Colombian Machete Fencing Fight To Save Their Tradition first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

In some ways, the tiny country of Luxembourg looks like a land from a fairytale. Many of its government policies, especially regarding multiculturalism, also sound idyllic. Officially, the country is trilingual. But after living in the country for a year, I realized that the lived reality is a bit more nuanced.

I’m originally from the United States, and in 2021, I moved to Luxembourg to complete a master’s degree in multilingualism. Friends and family back home often asked me, “So, what language do they speak there?” 

Luxembourg’s official languages are French, German, and Luxembourgish. The latter became a separate language in 1984 after being considered a dialect for many years. Luxembourgish is most similar to German and Dutch and uses many French words. According to the language law that the government passed in 1984, residents can contact public authorities and businesses in any of the three official languages.

That level of official multilingualism may appear challenging to people from countries with only one official language. However, Luxembourg promotes fluency through its multilingual school system. That allows kids to begin learning many languages as soon as they are old enough to enter school. 

Primary school is mainly in German. In secondary school, instruction switches to French. That’s usually not a problem because primary school students learn French as a second language. Students also learn other languages, such as English, in school.

Luxembourg’s linguistic reality

Lena Lorché, a Luxembourgish citizen educated in the multilingual school system, says the teaching method works well if you already speak Luxembourgish at home.

Luxembourgish is mutually intelligible with German, and two people can easily have a conversation while speaking the two different languages. Thus, Luxembourgish-speaking children can easily pick up German at school. However, some of Lorché’s peers grew up speaking a different language at home, for example, Portuguese or Italian. They initially struggled more in school than she did because German was so different from their mother tongue. 

According to the most recent statistics from the Ministry of Education, around 98 percent of Luxembourg’s population speaks French. English is the second most common language, spoken by around 80 percent of the population. German follows close behind, with around 78 percent of the population speaking that language. Additionally, English is the most common language among Luxembourg’s ever-growing international population. 

Sabrina Mikes, an American who studied and worked in Luxembourg, said the country’s official trilingualism can be “somewhat misleading.” That’s because Luxembourg is highly multilingual. 

“Many people speak Portuguese and English in addition to the country’s government languages,” Mikes said. 

Monyck De Sa Santos, a Brazilian master’s student who works as a research assistant at a university’s cultural affairs office, said her experiences have further illustrated this point. She speaks English and French at work. Outside the office, she uses French for most interactions unless she’s with another member of the country’s sizeable Portuguese-speaking population.  

Karo Fernandez, a human resources professional at a law firm who is originally from Colombia, speaks French, English, Spanish, and German, often in that order. 

So, while the country is officially trilingual, the lived reality of residents, particularly immigrants, often includes more languages. 

A spike in immigration to Luxembourg

According to recent census data, the number of foreigners living in Luxembourg has increased by around 38 percent over the last decade. Around 47.2 percent of the population is now foreign-born, and around 18 percent of native Luxembourgians hold a second nationality. That percentage will likely increase as the government streamlines the path to citizenship. 

Historically, immigrants to the Grand Duchy have come from nearby countries such as France, Belgium, Germany, Italy, and Portugal. However, in recent years, more have arrived from countries outside of the European Union.

The government wants to increase the international workforce for economic reasons (the country relies on cross-border workers and immigrants for many industries) and to be a global hub.

Pro-immigration policies include charging non-EU nationals very affordable tuition, from 200 to 400 Euros a semester for university. In comparison, most public universities in neighboring France charge non-EU students around 1,500 Euros a semester. Additionally, attractive tax benefits have led many multinational companies, such as Amazon, Paypal, and Rakuten, to set up their EU headquarters in Luxembourg. 

The growing prevalence of English

Luxembourg has also benefited from Brexit, when the United Kingdom left the European Union, by welcoming more English-speaking workers who would have previously gone to the United Kingdom. 

Bianca Pirrelli, a multilingual Italian immigrant, sees Luxembourg as the new London in Europe because there is so much migration.

She said it often differs from other European countries, where you need to know the country’s language before living there to interact with daily life, and English is an “extra asset.” In Luxembourg, immigrants from different countries usually use English as their common language.

Lorché, the Luxembourgian, told me that while multilingualism has always been the norm, the biggest shift in her lifetime is “the increasing importance of English in Luxembourg.”

Speaking Luxembourgish

Luxembourgish is the native language of most Luxembourgers, and a little over 70 percent of the population uses it in everyday life. However, according to the UNESCO Atlas of World Languages, Luxembourgish is still a vulnerable language. 

According to the 2021 census, French and English are the most used languages at work, while Luxembourgish is most common at home. Still, the study only surveyed residents. Cross-border workers, primarily French speakers from Belgium and France, did not participate.

Nevertheless, the prevalence of Luxembourgish is growing, if slowly, for a few reasons. First, people must take a language test when applying for Luxembourgish citizenship. The streamlining of Luxembourg nationality applications for non-EU nationals has increased with the number of foreigners moving to the country. The flexibility of an EU passport is desirable to many, even if it necessitates learning a new language.

Many non-European expats, including De Sa Santos, explained that the language requirement was a big motivation for eventually learning Luxembourgish. She also wants to understand her partner, who is from Luxembourg, and his friends in social situations.

Mikes echoed the need for the language to enter Luxembourgish social circles, and Fernandez noted that knowing the language can open doors in some professional sectors.

Lorché, who works with immigrant children to help welcome them to the country, says that she interacts with children from all over the world, each with a unique linguistic background.

“This has opened my eyes to the sheer diversity of languages spoken in Luxembourg today,” Lorché said. “Far beyond the three official languages and English.”

Sydney Baker is a travel writer from the Pacific Northwest who has lived in Australia, Québec, Luxembourg, and France.

The post Immigration Is Making This Tiny Country Even More Multilingual first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

When I was really young, my father arranged for my older sister—who was 19 at the time—to be engaged to a man who was 50 years old. That man already had a wife and kids.

My sister, in a country like Afghanistan where saying no to your father was unthinkable, stood up for herself. She refused to marry him. And that was the beginning of hell for all of us. Violence became part of our everyday life. Every day. Every night. Screaming, beating, crying. It was like we were being eaten alive from the inside. Slowly fading. Slowly dying.

She fought back for 13 years. My father couldn’t force her to go, but at the same time, we lived in a tribal society where breaking traditions was a crime. Relatives kept pressuring us, talking, judging.

In the end, after 13 years of war inside our own home, we finally got her out of that nightmare. We did that by paying the equivalent of $40,000. A fortune. My father had to sell the land he inherited from his father to make it happen.

On babies and divine punishment

But even after all that, my sister’s suffering didn’t end. In Afghanistan, if a woman is over 20 and unmarried, no one wants her. And if she’s divorced? She might as well give up on the idea of marriage altogether. So, in the end, she had no choice. She married another man. A man old enough to be her father. A man who already had ten grown children.

Now, she has many daughters, all under 12. She kept having babies, hoping, praying, that one of them would be a boy.

In Afghanistan, a woman is only “lucky” if she gives birth to a son. That’s when her husband starts treating her like a human being. But she never had a son. And as if that wasn’t enough, her eldest daughter was born with vitiligo.

In a society like this, where women are already treated like nothing, having a skin condition like that, it’s like a curse. It’s a life sentence.

Yesterday, my sister told me her husband told their 11-year-old daughter that her condition was “God’s punishment.” God’s punishment. On a child. What kind of God punishes a little girl like that? My sister lives like a prisoner. Trapped in a room without a bathroom, without a toilet. And that kills me inside.

The post What Happened When One Woman Tried To Escape Forced Marriage in Afghanistan first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

Natia, a young film critic who recently moved to Germany, attended the protests in Berlin to stand up for freedom and justice back home.

Georgia’s European future is written into the country’s constitution. However, the Russian-aligned ruling Georgian Dream party has recently turned its back on the country’s European path. They’ve done so even though around 80 percent of the population backs EU membership.  

“We just want to defend ourselves,” Natia explains. 

Georgians and their local allies take part in a human chain for Georgia. Photo by Gia Gagoshidze.

An unwelcome shift away from Europe

On November 28, 2024, Georgian Prime Minister Irakli Kobakhidze announced his government was suspending the country’s membership application to join the European Union until at least 2028. Many Georgians, especially young people living in major cities, were horrified. 

Since then, Georgians have taken to the streets across the country. Many believe that the government has no legitimacy and is hanging onto power illegally.

Irregularities mired the elections that took place in October last year. The government also passed a controversial foreign agents’ law in the months leading up to the election. The bill mimics Russian legislation that Moscow has used to silence civil society organizations and independent activists critical of the government. Activists in Georgia say their government passed a similar law to crack down on dissent.

Rigged elections, repressive laws, and the government’s decision to shift the country away from Europe have been enough to mobilize hundreds of thousands of people in Georgia. The last few months have been colored by a near-constant arm-wrestling between Georgia’s pro-European population and its increasingly pro-Russian government. Tensions escalated after the government’s announcement on November 28. Those tensions have also played out in international cities like Berlin and Brussels, where a sizable Georgian diaspora lives. 

An “existential moment” for Georgians everywhere

Fearful for their country’s future, the Georgian diaspora kicked into action to make its voice heard in dozens of countries. Many Georgians living in the European Union are especially committed to their country’s European future. They know the benefits of living in the EU. They also know life would be much more challenging under pro-Russian, authoritarian leadership. 

Aware of the city’s importance for their country’s European future, Georgians in Brussels marched in front of Europe’s most important institutions. Lucas Ablotia, a Georgian journalist and LGBTQ activist exiled in Brussels, said he couldn’t watch the news without acting. 

“Everyone left, right, and center, even communists and capitalists, were together,” Ablotia tells Lazo Magazine. Ablotia noted that everyone felt a sense of unity because they faced an “existential moment” together. 

Many Georgians at home also felt hope when their compatriots protested around the world and brought their demands to Europe’s power centers.

Pointing “the way” to Europe

According to Gaga Gogoladze, a Berlin-based activist from Georgia, the first protests against Georgia’s October elections took place in Germany’s capital. Gogoladze and his friend Giorgi Kakabadze, a PhD researcher based in Berlin since 2021, are two of the co-founders of the pro-European Georgisches Zentrum im Ausland (GZA, the Georgian Centre Abroad), a collective of Europe-based Georgian civil activists. 

When thousands of pro-European Georgians decided to make a human chain in Tbilisi, activists in more than 40 countries followed suit. The GZA activists organized a human chain near the Russian embassy in Berlin.

GZA, which organized protests around the Brandenburg Tor, has become the backbone of pro-European Georgians in the German capital.

The organization’s acronym also means “the way” in Georgian. Kakabadze says it’s supposed to point the way to Europe.

The activists say GZA has served as an alternative embassy in Berlin. Through engaging with German media, politicians, and members of the public, GZA began discussions about Georgia that the official embassy wasn’t willing to have. Gogoladze and Kakabadze say that many people still see Georgia through a post-Soviet lens, with all its accompanying clichés.

“People never updated [their view of Georgia],” explains Gogoladze. 

Russian-led disinformation continues to describe Georgia as a country within the Kremlin’s orbit. That is why, for Kakabadze, one of GZA’s most essential endeavors is the fight against Russian propaganda. 

GZA began approaching German politicians, particularly representatives in the Bundestag. At first, it was sometimes difficult to generate interest in Georgia. Yet, in the wake of the pro-European protests, many of Germany’s four big pro-European political parties expressed renewed interest in the country.

Georgia is “not just food, drinks, and dances,” Kakabadze stresses. “It also has European values and people.”

A fight against apathy

Georgians abroad who try to bring attention to their country’s fight for its European future often face a recurring question: Who cares about a small country in the Caucasus? 

Facing this lack of interest and the persistent stereotypes about the post-Soviet space, many Georgians have lost interest in speaking out. Some have internalized the belief that no one cares about their country.

But Gogoladze and Kakabadze remain determined to do this delicate work. They engage with people directly and try to break through defeatism and apathy. 

“It also matters for Europe,” stress the two GZA co-founders. They are trying to warn people that Russian influence and meddling can impact countries across the continent. 

“It already happened, much faster than we thought,” says Gogoladze, pointing to recent cases of Russian interference in countries like Moldova and Romania. 

Many in the Georgia diaspora believe their commitment to a European and democratic future can revive hope in the European Union. That’s especially important when democracy feels fragile everywhere.

“We are almost the only hope in the world to democratize and renew things,” concludes Ablotia, the Brussels-based activist. “Because we see almost everywhere that democracy deteriorates.”

Paul Mazet is a French freelance journalist based in Berlin, where he reports on the local impacts of international developments. He studied history, international relations, and social sciences in Toulouse, Glasgow, Paris, Dublin, and Berlin.

The post In Berlin and Brussels, Georgians Fight for Their European Future first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

The old man speaking with me had reason to worry. The intensity of violence in his area had subsided in recent years, but the threat was always there. Meanwhile, poverty was always present. The market day saw small sacks of groundnuts traded for a few bundles of wilted kale but not much else.

The good news is that many communities find a way. After dozens of interviews and focus groups with over 700 people in South Sudan, Burundi, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Myanmar, I had pages of notes. They documented how everyday people engage in local peace building and problem-solving in the midst of broader conflicts.

The bad news is that communities struggling with poverty and violence are far more common than we like to acknowledge. They also aren’t confined to remote regions in “other” parts of the world. 

Still, we rarely ask NGOs — or researchers like me — to try to understand why many of our own towns and cities in the United States and elsewhere are also beset by cycles of violence and poverty. Nor do we take time to identify the “pockets of peace” that could provide a foundation for strengthening our communities.

It’s true that conflict, crime, and terrorism constitute different types of violence. But there are more parallels between them than we might assume. Research shows that gangs and extremist groups have similar dynamics. Those include how they recruit (by exploiting vulnerabilities) and justify violence (by activating ideologies). Many armed militias are not that different, mobilizing loyalties around political and ethnic identities.

The commonalities of conflict

Many theories exist about what motivates violence, but three stand out as having particular relevance across these diverse contexts. First is the issue of threat perception. If people feel threatened or become convinced that they should feel threatened, it becomes easy to convince them to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do.

A second motivation, related to the first, is “othering,” or creating an us vs. them dynamic between identity groups based on ethnic, religious, racial, political, class-based, or other differences. Group distinction may reflect a natural human instinct. But it also occurs when elites exploit genuine grievances or vulnerabilities and frame an out-group as the source of threat.

A third motivation involves people turning to (or being recruited by) violent groups if they are convinced that official institutions or authorities cannot or will not protect them. In these situations, even individuals who do not personally join armed groups often feel pressured to rely on them for protection.

These motivations are further facilitated by access to arms. The Small Arms Survey indicates that over one billion arms are currently in circulation worldwide. Only two percent is in the hands of law enforcement. As such, “disarmament” in conflict areas faces similar challenges to gun buyback programs in places like the U.S.. The sheer number of arms in circulation leads to less incentive for individuals or groups to hand in their weapons. People feel they are at risk of being left “defenseless” when others don’t follow suit. In South Sudan, for example, rebel groups were reluctant to disarm because they assumed the state would keep arming its allied militias.

Pockets of peace

During my fieldwork, I heard much about “pockets of peace,” or community-led initiatives to prevent violence and improve living conditions.

In South Sudan, for example, I met with “peace committee” members who aim to resolve local disputes around land, water, and debts before they escalate into violence. In Burundi, I heard from everyday community members who were trained to diffuse interpersonal conflicts and find compromise solutions. While in the DRC, I spoke with young men — some former child soldiers — who had formed a motorbike co-op as a sustainable form of income. I spoke with young female widows who had started a farming collective to build back their lives after conflict.

Initiatives like these are becoming best-practice models in the international development sector. But Americans can learn from them, too. Indeed, many similar “pockets of peace” exist in U.S. cities, offering safe havens or alternatives to violence. 

For example, in Chicago CRED, former gang member Curtis Toler now oversees a team of two dozen gang-violence “interrupters.” In New York, the Save Our Streets (SOS) program in the South Bronx reduced gun victimization by over 60 percent. In Washington, D.C., members of the Guardian Angels serve as night-time conflict de-fusers in metro stations and high-crime areas.

Hyperlocal problem solving

Success from such initiatives is not automatic. From my work in central Africa, it’s clear that interventions were most effective when they were community-led. They often focus on hyper-local problem-solving. The local-level emphasis of community initiatives can be challenging for those (including myself) who seek broader transformational changes, whether in conflict areas or our own cities. But in reality, focusing on resolving interpersonal or local-level disputes can prevent resolvable conflicts from escalating.

At the same time, institutional backstops can help. Those could be local courts in South Sudan, the local police in DRC, or the local administration in Burundi. Similarly, in the U.S., many community-based violence interrupter programs liaise with authorities. For example, Baltimore’s Roca program partners with law enforcement, juvenile justice agencies, and social services. It can be challenging to balance necessary engagement with authorities and legitimizing what may be seen as oppressive actors. Yet individuals or agencies within broader systems often seek to engage with communities on common goals of development and violence prevention.  

It is also clear that such initiatives struggle in contexts where basic needs are unmet, as poverty reduction and violence prevention reinforce each other. As one villager in Burundi commented, “If there is no peace, there is no development,” and the reverse is also likely true. 

Opportunities for livelihoods and a sense of place and purpose can help make individuals, especially youth, less susceptible to recruitment by armed groups, gangs, militias, or extremist organizations, wherever they may be. Having basic needs met — food, water, housing, and healthcare — can prevent individuals and communities from being exploited while facilitating better social and institutional trust.

Community development can be a highly pragmatic form of violence prevention at home or abroad. I went to Africa to identify replicable models to share with NGO partners. But the “pockets of peace” I observed offered ideas and inspiration that extend well beyond the villages I visited, challenging us to apply those same lessons closer to home.

Julie M. Norman is an associate professor of politics and international relations at the University College London.

The post What Working in Remote Conflict Zones Taught Me About America first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

It may have been a mistranslation, but it also felt like a challenge. 

I grew up in a white suburb of Los Angeles, where my peers often called me a “Twinkie,” “banana,” and any other cruelly creative nickname that children could invent. It felt like they were pointing out the obvious. I may appear yellow, but I was white on the inside. 

I am ethnically Filipino, Japanese, and Polish. If you explain that to most people, they’ll look at you like you’re from Mars. Like many Asian Americans, I spent my younger years embracing the urge to assimilate. I mentally reframed the playground taunts as compliments, albeit ones that tied my stomach in knots and made my fists tighten. 

As I focused on fitting in, I suppressed a growing concern that I might be a “bad Asian.” I often felt disconnected from the generations that sacrificed so much for me to be born and raised in the United States. But I also knew that I didn’t fully belong in the sea of white and blonde that I existed in.

Traveling around Asia

Touching down in Asia felt new and familiar at the same time. Unlike past trips to Europe or Australia, my first trip to Asia crackled with an untapped energy. 

When traveling around Indonesia, people asked me why I was Asian around 200 times. Shortly after that, I joined my family on a trip to Japan. My mother speaks fluent Japanese, and we visited the Fukuoka province, where our family is from. Despite my roots, I felt like a palm tree among the sakura. When I put on a yukata for the first time, I wondered if I was just another tourist in a costume. 

Local people would approach me speaking Japanese, and they’d go cold when I didn’t understand what they were saying. Suddenly, I wasn’t one of them. I was a foreigner. I am accustomed to white people seeing me as an outsider. But it felt different with Asian people. It made me wonder if anyone would embrace me as their own. 

As I moved through Asia to Thailand, the Philippines, and Vietnam, I continued to confuse local people. Most people in Asia will greet you with endless warmth and friendliness, no matter who you are or where you are from. The people-pleaser in me wished I was Asian enough to warrant their excitement. However, once again, I felt like an imposter when they asked about my background. I couldn’t give them the straight answers they wanted.

The problem with expats

When I imagined the connections I would experience in Asia, I forgot to account for one crucial fact: travel is white as hell. 

White Americans are the most likely to travel abroad. Similar patterns can be seen in expat communities or other tourist spaces. Most white travelers come from the United Kingdom, Germany, the Netherlands, or Australia.

In digital nomad hubs or other popular tourist spots, I rarely met another person of color. Somehow, even when I traveled all the way to Asia, I was still the only Asian person in a room of white people. 

This is not a problem on its own. It’s great to see people explore more places off the beaten path. The issue is a general attitude of disrespect that grows alongside these more privileged crowds. Sometimes, these bubbles become full-on echo chambers. 

Given how inexpensive many Southeast Asian destinations are, a lot of white travelers walk around with an inflated sense of entitlement and power. Many are quick to look down on Southeast Asian economies and businesses without acknowledging that Western countries play a role in these places. With digital nomads especially, there is often an ignorant mindset. People look at the world as their playground rather than honoring the cultures they visit. 

White travelers sometimes mistook me for their waitress or another local person. People I met would ask me to teach them Thai phrases even though I’m simply not Thai. Worst of all, for some reason, being in Asia seemed to enhance people’s curiosity and lack of boundaries about my race. People loved to tell me that I should speak more Tagalog and that I didn’t seem to know much about Japanese food. 

The power of anger

I felt angry. And strangely, that was one of the most impactful parts of this experience. As a young Asian girl, I have always been taught to be demure and accommodating. I am expected to brush aside the comments that make my blood boil. After years of trying to make everyone else comfortable, the audacity of these random white hippies to be racist to me in the countries of my ancestors unlocked an anger that I didn’t know I had in me. 

My anger reminds me that my feelings are valid. It’s evidence that my emotions make me powerful, not weak. My anger defends me. It stands up and calls out the micro-aggressive behavior that has gone unchecked for generations. It may make people uncomfortable, but it also might make them more thoughtful. We should draw attention to these issues, and we deserve to take up space in the conversation.

Souvenirs from Asia

If I were going to have a quarter-life crisis, I’m grateful that mine sent me on a global scavenger hunt for self-discovery, identity, and connection. Despite everything, I do feel like I found many of these intangible things in unexpected places. 

When sitting in silence on the pristine trains of Tokyo, I felt connected to the small children who had the same awful bowl cuts my parents gave me. In the Philippines, I played guitar and sang with so many lovely local people. I had never realized that my love of music could come from a culture that considers karaoke to be its unofficial national sport. I saw people who looked like me everywhere, and I saw the beauty in that. 

None of this would have been possible without the privilege and joy of travel. Often, it’s exhausting to put myself in uncomfortable situations over and over again. Surrounding myself with strangers or unfamiliar settings teaches me how to approach the world from a place of curiosity and kindness. It teaches me about myself as much as I learn about the world around me. 

However, the reality of being a multi-faceted human in an increasingly complicated world is that we may never get to a point where we can firmly say we understand who we are. What would be the point if we could? We’re constantly changing. And while race is merely a part of our identity, I am done pretending that it is something I can extricate myself from when it’s convenient. 

I may not know why I am Asian, but I’m glad I am.

Acacia Gabriel is a travel writer from Los Angeles, California. She has traveled solo through Europe, Australia, and Asia, and she encourages young women to embark on their own adventures.

The post Why Are You Asian? How a Simple Question Sparked a Search for Identity first appeared on Lazo Magazine.