I have a dream.
Afghanistan, Palestine, Burma, Nagorno-Karabakh, Colombia, Venezuela, Chile, Cuba, Iraq, Syria, Iran, Kurdistan, Congo, South Sudan, Yemen, Somalia, Libya, Mali, Nigeria, South Sudan, CAR, Xinjiang, Kashmir, Chile, Ukraine, Chechnya, Georgia, North Korea…
How powerless are we? All we can do is “raise awareness,” sign petitions, donate, protest, boycott.
Where is all the power? Why isn’t it in our hands? Why do we get shadow banned or censored for tagging a country? (I’m shadow banned at the moment.) Why do we have to pay taxes to governments that don’t serve us? Or worse, that are supporting atrocities around the world?
Is this the reality of being a global citizen in a world that seems to care so little for its people? Are we just here to consume, to be entertained, to be distracted, while others suffer unimaginable horrors?
And still, we go on. We speak out, we push back, we refuse to forget. Maybe it’s not about how much power we have—it’s about what we do with the little that we hold. Even if it’s just one voice in a storm of silence, maybe it still matters.
What Does “Safe” Mean to You?
I owe my journey—and my life—to everyone I met in Afghanistan: the Wakhis, Kyrgyzs, Shia Hazaras, Sunnis, Pashtuns, even ex-Taliban members. To those who offered me hospitality without expecting anything in return. To everyone who was kind to me, purely from the heart.
I traveled solo and independently to Afghanistan twice. The first time, I was 21. I spent a month in the Wakhan Corridor, rented a donkey, and trekked for 19 days. The second time, I spent three weeks in Kabul, Bamiyan, and Kandahar, staying with locals almost every night.
I don’t want to romanticize a country that has been at war for decades. And yet, I can’t help but feel deeply emotional whenever I think back to my time there. Does it have to do with my own background? Growing up in Hong Kong, where the people I was supposed to trust the most betrayed me.
In Afghanistan, strangers showed me love and protection.
Isn’t it absurd that, for me, being a foreign woman in Afghanistan felt safer than being a child in my own home?
As a “third gender,” my experience as a foreign woman is unique. But I can’t quite explain why, of all places, Afghanistan is the one I’m drawn to. Maybe it’s because of the connection I felt there, the humanity of people surviving against all odds.
I vividly remember my host in Kandahar asking, almost angrily, “Why do you want to come back again? Go to Africa, Europe, America. You’re young—enjoy your life. Don’t come back here.”
But I will return someday, especially to see old friends.
So, tell me—what does safe mean to you?
There is no excuse for burning children alive.
Photos from a year ago in Palestine.
Image 2: Hathaleen and his daughter in the village of Umm al-Khair, Masafar Yatta. A village facing forced eviction and demolition.
Image 3: The Ibrahim Mosque/ Cave of the Patriarchs in AlKhalil is divided into both a mosque and a synagogue. A child in the Jewish side is peeking into the Musilm side.
Image 4: The child’s view
Image 5: Palestinian Activists and Journalist Basel Adra (right) and Jaber (left) in Khallet Al Dabaa. They are fighting against illegal demolitions and forced evictions of their communities. Thanks to @basilaladraa for providing the politics educational tour of Masafar Yatta.
🎞️ Kentmere 100. No digital edits.
Out of 1,900 open call applicants, 20 of us were invited to join BaseCamp - Locarno Film Festival’s residency and lab for filmmakers and artists.
@festival_basecamp@filmfestlocarno
Every day has felt like a gift. Huge thanks to the organisers and everyone I got to share this with.
Sometimes you don’t realise you’ve been sprinting through life until something stops you cold.
Lately I’ve been learning to move slower. To listen more. To notice the way light shifts on stone.
Not every close call has to be named for it to teach you something. Life’s too short to waste on things that don’t matter. And too short to not fight for what does.
📍Roraima, Venezuela 🇻🇪
After years of chasing the wildest adventures, stepping into places few dare to go, and testing the edges of what I could endure alone, something shifted… extreme travel no longer fed the fire in me.
2.5 years ago, I stood here—at the top of Mount Roraima in Venezuela —gazing at the waterfall from the film Up. Watching the water tumble endlessly into the mist, something stirred inside me. A childhood dream I’d almost forgotten. In that moment, it all clicked: this is what I want to do.
“Manouche” is a tender portrait of Josua Libéré, a Manouche, who reflects on love, loss, and the quiet wisdom of the heart.
The film drifts like a dream, ending with a soulful plea: to give yourself the love you deserve, to listen deeply, and to find wholeness within.
Featuring Josua Libéré
A film by Marsha Jean
Translation: Amel Lamloum
