As children are the most vulnerable members of society, it is crucial to ensure their safety and well-being at all times. Unfortunately, there are instances where children find themselves in abusive environments, whether it be at home, school, or within their communities. It is imperative that we as adults take action to help children escape these harmful situations. One of the most important ways to help children escape an abusive environment is to create a safe and supportive space for them to open up about their experiences. It is essential to listen without judgment and provide a compassionate ear for children to share their feelings and fears. This can help build trust and encourage children to seek help when needed. Additionally, it is crucial to educate children about what constitutes abuse and how to recognize the warning signs. By empowering children with knowledge, they can better protect themselves and seek help if they find themselves in an abusive situation. Schools and community organizations can play a significant role in providing education and resources to children on this important topic. Another important step in helping children escape an abusive environment is to provide them with access to resources and support services. This may include counseling, therapy, legal assistance, and shelter options. By connecting children with the appropriate resources, we can help them navigate the complex process of escaping abuse and finding safety. It is also important to involve the authorities and child protective services when necessary. If a child is in immediate danger, it is crucial to report the abuse to the proper authorities so that they can intervene and protect the child. It is our collective responsibility to ensure that children are safe and protected from harm. In conclusion, helping children escape an abusive environment requires a collaborative effort from all members of society. By creating a safe and supportive space for children to open up, educating them about abuse, providing access to resources and support services, and involving the authorities when necessary, we can help children escape the cycle of abuse and find safety and healing. Together, we can make a difference in the lives of children and ensure that they have the opportunity to thrive in a safe and supportive environment.

I am staring at the Van Gogh Picture as the dawn breaks in a sleepy little university town called Shantiniketan. After being holed up for months at home due to the COVID-19 pandemic (and immunocompromised family members), I feel like I can breathe again. I experience a rather unfamiliar sound at midnight- the sound of a barking deer. The house I am staying in has a haunted tale of its own. Many years ago, Maloti, an accomplished dancer and academic, died by suicide here. The neighbours attribute it to a lovers' tiff. Out of curiosity, a fifteen year old me delved into research about this mythical and mysterious Maloti. Maloti was as beautiful as she was sophisticated, with razor- sharp wit. She cared very little for social niceties and turned heads, wherever she went. "She was a true artist", said one of her uncles when I met him. " A true artist misunderstood by the world." Those words left quite an impression on me- a young person chasing their own dreams. Unlike Maloti, I wasn't an accomplished artist- but a young person that harboured those dreams. Even daring to articulate those dreams would be met with ridicule, and sneery value judgements. Wanting to prove myself and ultimately being burdened with the weight of other people's expectations, trying to be true to myself and authentic and being cut short by people in positions of power. Wanting to break away and experience freedoms but knowing that fending for myself would involve taking the already trodden path. I had already experienced the disdain that artists were met with. I read of freedoms in books and watched it in movies, but I wondered if a life like that would be possible for me. Sunflowers fascinate me. The reason they do is because wherever the sun moves, the sunflower turns its head to face the sun. In the biting cold, it is hard to think of sunflower fields. The first time I took comfort in looking at bits of a sunflower was when I chanced upon Ai Wei Wei's Sunflower Seeds at Tate Modern Art Gallery in London. I was then a 21 year old university student, with barely any money, and big dreams. The art installation was a commentary on the mass production of Chinese goods and how they were subsequently sent to western countries. Each sunflower seed was crafted with porcelain and the feeling evoked by witnessing and experiencing that piece of art was understanding that artists could pour their frustrations and political thoughts into their work. That their art indeed was, political. I realised that my writing and my own art could become a tool through which I could shake off my own oppressions- being a woman, being a person of colour, being a young person whose work and words were not taken seriously, an individual who had no wishes to conform but was forced to do so, being reminded again and again through paperwork and through legislation that if I did not toe the line, if I wanted more for myself than was acceptable by my surroundings and my current context, the situation for me would prove to be dire. I sought my own experiences and my own joys from the world. What books could not teach me, I sought to teach myself. I worked in villages in India with no clean drinking water for months. I slept under the stars on a quiet night sky- the sound of lethal mosquitoes buzzing above my head. I worked with asylum seekers and refugees, which was actually one of the redeeming features of my week. Here is an excerpt of a letter I wrote to a friend, describing that time of my life : "Every day, I see ordinary people -people like you and I-wearing tattered clothes, with paint on their faces and pencils tucked behind their ears, sweating it out. There's this boy I see every day, he's about eighteen and if given a choice, he'd probably want to go to college as well. He often stops me on the street and asks me about what I study and I think he's quite a bright spark- and then I think about all the people back home, who should get an education and are not, it makes me very sad. I hope I don't grow into one of those people who shuts everything out and never does anything constructive by way of ensuring that kids are educated and well looked after. And working with children of refugees actually makes one understand how destitute these kids really are, unsheltered, unprotected, not knowing what tomorrow holds for them. Some children have never known their own homes, being carried from one shelter to another; they come from countries like Ghana, Somalia, Sri Lanka, Sudan, The Ivory Coast. Many of their parents have been intellectuals in their own country, they have spoken out against dictatorial regimes, they have condemned massacres, some of them will be executed as soon as they set foot on their home soil again. Most of these people are Asylum Seekers i.e. those who have not even been granted Refugee Status. Some are condemned because of their homosexuality and others, because of their religion." I hope I never stop feeling.

It is a dark night like someone has poured black ink all over it. I am looking outside of the kitchen window adjusting my chin against the window's iron rod after finishing up my everyday household chaos. It has become a routine for me to stare outside of the window every night since she has decided to leave me alone in this earth. I have kind of figured out that in an entire day, emptiness and silence of this moment is what truly belongs to me. The electricity poll in the edge of the street makes a shadow when the deem light from our neighbor's garden reaches. I, just like every day, try or pretend to draw a human-like image around the shadow: an image of a holy spirit from the stories I have heard, an image of a soul wearing human body, an image of HER. I know it sounds silly, but I cannot stop grieving and I have been stuck in all the ‘could have' and ‘would have. I could have asked her how she was feeling when she was here or just silently stay beside her to let her know that she still has not lost everything. I should not have lost her to realize what I should have done. So why wouldn't I look for her? Why would she choose to leave me? Why she never thought necessary to let her daughter know what was killing her deep inside? Is she really in a better place now? Didn't she know that a part of me will die with her? I vividly remember someone said that ghosts, spirit and souls are only in our imagination, they are seen because they are inside of our head; It has been approximately 400 days that she has decided to leave me and I have been imagining and drawing picture of HER every night but the ghost inside of my head never jumped out of my imagination and showed up Infront of me. When a pigeon comes to my terrace seeking for food, I presumed that it is her in the form of a pigeon. But if it is so, when I tried to get close, why it would fly far away like it is going to disappear in the sky and never going to return? Maybe they are right, who leaves this earth never returns. But I have always wished for your return, at least once. I have a lot to ask…. I have a lot to say…. And again, I realize what is the point of asking and saying? what is the point of saying everything I could never say when she was here with me? What is the point of making her feel guilty for leaving me like this? If she tells me why she chose to leave, can I bring her back or can I make it right? Then, what is the point of digging into her suffocation that will do nothing but kill me a little more. And just like every night, when I am done looking for her, I say to myself ‘leave it' while closing the window. And when I am getting out of kitchen, I turn back again to check: Maybe I will see her tonight?

The image of my brother standing limp with his head drooping to his side invades my mind again. It is how I imagine he must have looked when he was lifelessly hanging from a rope. After my other brothers told me they found his body in the garage, I sprinted over in hopes to see his laughing face that revealed it was a hoax. My mom stood outside and ended my run by giving me an aggressive hug - a tight, aching squeeze that only a mother of a dead child can give. Her intention was to prevent me from seeing my brother, Edward, dangling from the ceiling. Even in her most fragile state, the primal instinct of a mother protecting her child remained with her. However, the silhouette of my brother's wilted body was created by my subconscious that night. It permeates my thoughts when I am in a vulnerable frame of mind. When Edward's image enters my head, the same question stands before me: have I learned from his death? Loving someone who has committed suicide can throw you on a desperate hunt for meaning. Mourners want to prevent the suicide of someone else. We have this yearning to be able to stop others from taking their own life since we could not stop the death of our loved one. Beyond this, we grieve differently. For me, guilt dictated my life. My guilt stemmed from my lack of belonging with my family and the belief that Edward would have blended so much better if he were still alive. I have been described to be the most annoying, stubborn, and sensitive family member. Even before starting elementary school, I asked my mom if I was born into the wrong family. Maybe Death was supposed to take someone from my family that fateful day, but He left with the wrong soul. The impact of my guilt was deeper than morbid thoughts. My actions ruined my peace. I became hypercritical of myself during arguments with my family. Even when I had justified reasons for being angry, the same pattern continued. First, I reflect back to the bickering that my 11-year-old self had with my brother before his suicide. Then the image of his slumped body forces itself to the forefront of my mind. This prompts the stage where I ask tortuous questions. How would I feel if my other brothers or sister died while we were in a fight? Is Edward disappointed in me for not getting along with everyone? Have I REALLY learned from his death if I do not maintain peace with my family? The last step begins after my self-loathing overpowers any valid anger I have. This is when I forgive people out of fear of being on bad terms rather than because they feel remorse. I performed this unhealthy routine for nearly two decades. Then a traumatic event happened. Feeling that my siblings did not support me exacerbated my mental health in the aftermath of the trauma. My siblings are people who would prefer to keep negative sentiments out of their conscious mind, whereas I am the type that believes that pain is the inevitable step for resolution. I frustrated them for bringing up the trauma I experienced because it was uncomfortable for them. At the same time, I was exasperated they chose to be oblivious when I was suffering in front of them. After years of ineffective fighting, I wanted to divorce my family. However, the image in my mind did not let me. Then I came up with a healthy idea: family therapy. My family needed to address our unresolved issues. I could not continue ignoring my hurt just to keep relationships. The trauma did not let me. I hoped this would be the method to get my siblings to see the agony that doing nothing can cause someone who needs support. My mother was invested as she longed for her children to get along. No one else was. This shattered my heart. My mom and I still went to therapy, and it taught us so much. For example, the honesty I spewed to my siblings never got through to them because they were too distracted by my cruel words and raised voice. More importantly, it gave me the clarity that I fought against. Instead of uncovering a secret way to be in harmony with my family, I learned that a person cannot force others to be invested in a relationship if they are not willing to be vulnerable. Sometimes, we have to find peace in the fact that there will not be peace. I continued to recognize and work on my faults. My destructive thought pattern was envisioning my brother in a way that added more stress onto me. I realized I forgot what he looked like when he smiled. This painful realization resulted in me rummaging through old photos. I found a picture of my siblings and cousins where Edward looked to the side with a wide grin. I had to be intentional about imagining this laughing face during distressed times. It was unnatural at first. Now, I feel empowered during difficult moments because I see a smiling brother who is proud of his indignant little sister. There are times when the old image is my intrusive thought, but it is now rare, and then it is replaced with the new image in my mind.

Learning to love myself has been one of my longest life challenges. My self esteem has been at battle with a twenty-year old eating disorder. Turning eleven brought a birthday gift of weight gain and put me on a path of restricting, binge eating and over-exercising. It seems like it has taken forever to understand how manipulating my weight and appearance in both healthy and unhealthy ways was a reflection of how I felt on the inside of myself. Bombarded with images in the media of impossible beauty standards and socialized norms of feminine behavior, my eyes looked into the mirror for a sense of self esteem. Instead of empowering female friendships, mine were competitive. Who had a thigh gap? How many boys were drooling after us? Whose closet was larger than life? All that criteria was external and I couldn't win. So I skipped parties, weddings and graduations because I felt unattractive. The "when, then" game ruled my life: I thought 'when I lose twenty pounds, I will have a boyfriend" and "when I lose twenty pounds, I will be happy." I didn't realize that projecting my happiness to the future meant I was missing out on the present moment. I lost a lot of time to this unhealthy obsession. Instead of building personal coping tools like meditation, work-related skills, or even participating in sports, I spent years hiding in therapy and eating disorder programs. I was desperate to find out what was so wrong in my core that I put so much emphasis on looks and weight. One mind-blowing incident started my journey towards self-love. I remember spotting her six years ago while I rode the subway. She was my ideal self: petite, with manicured nails and blond hair. Why couldn't I look like her? For sure she had a boyfriend! I ruminated over this for most of the ride. Finally my ears decided to interrupt my brain and I heard her speaking to her friend. Her voice was sharp and she spent the whole subway ride complaining about her life. She seemed miserable and shallow. I came home and told my mom I would never want to be that pretty if it came with being so negative. My family physician also held the key to a lesson I still think about daily. She sat me down once and asked me to look outside her door. There was a woman in head to toe Michael Kors, dripping diamonds, with highlighted hair. She asked me what I thought of her and I went with "beautiful." Within two breaths my doctor told me that her patient's life was falling apart because of divorce and bankruptcy. "Never assume someone's happy based on what they look like or what they wear," she warned me. That day my doctor really called me out for the way I was looking at the world. It was as disordered and self-destructive as my eating. Working in fashion was also one giant leap towards recovery for me. I am a sales associate, fitting women of all shapes and sizes and working hard to establish our collective self-esteem. When I accompany my clients to their fitting rooms, young women and their mothers regularly share with me their fears regarding the shape of their thighs, booties, and breasts. It was out in the open now and I confronted how ingrained body shaming is across my gender. Answering “does this outfit looks good on me?” or “does this make me look fat?” is my opportunity to reassure women. I let them know that confidence, posture, and inner beauty radiates beyond body shape or size. As they try on the latest in Spring styles. I like to vocalize my appreciation for what sets them apart, be it their freckles, or their life accomplishments, friendships and career achievements. There are too many stresses in young women's lives. The pressures of social media, peers and fierce academic/job competition face girls every day. Dinners are hardly made at home anymore. Routine discussion between family and friends is often interrupted by constant texting. The pressures of exams, lack of sleep and Red Bull, penetrates young lives. I hear about my client's struggles with their bodies, Mara Teigen and Ashley Greene on Instragram, as well as what boys think about them. This the context in which our feelings and thoughts about our bodies are developed. So when will this self-deprecation end? As long as there are to be beauty products and fashion brands to be sold, marketing may continue to rule female self-esteem. I am writing to let others know that there really is a path to becoming self assured in ourselves. When I chose to put the most value on achieving personal goals, and deciding to really interact with the world, there was socializing and activities which built up my self-esteem. I could really list what I liked about myself based on my capabilities and social media has been banned from my life. I am finally doing the activities I always dreamed of despite of how I worried I am or anyone else is about my looks. I cross my fingers and wish that for every girl and women I ever get the opportunity to dress!

Don't blame yourself. No one sees it at first. She's a fifteen-year-old girl on that frozen park bench, sitting on her hands to keep them from getting just as cold as her nose. Your eyes catch sight of the way her hair is dampened and unkempt. Her clothes are torn, hanging off of her body to reveal the story on her skin that she wished no one would ever read. And her face...it's covered in the grime of the city's malice. Did she fall? No one sees it. Her heart is cracked and bloody. The red consequence that pours from it is becoming frozen in these conditions. If she were to tell you that she is growing cold, you would reply you were too. It is, indeed, time for the leaves to take their last leap from the arms of the near-barren trees. Clouds should soon stop crying and instead begin to throw fistfuls of white during their seasonal temper tantrums. But then she'd take you by surprise. She would correct you and say, “No, from the inside. It isn't the outside world causing frost upon my skin. It's my heart, a glacial virus causing my light to fade out into an eternal darkness.” It's all happening so fast in front of everyone's eyes, and still, no one sees it. She didn't fall as once presumed. She was pushed. No one saw it. You didn't either. Not at first. Not until her heart - which had been freezing since he'd first laid a hand on her - cracked. Not until it made a sound so deafening that no one was able to hear another. It was as if lightening struck the ground directly in front of you, and finally, you stopped to pay attention. You were alert. You were looking around for an answer to the question no one has understood: "Why?" And finally, you had the morality to focus on investigating what lay beneath the silence that had followed the explosion of ice from her heart. You realized that she was alone. No mother. No father. No sibling in sight. When you approached her, feet crunching atop the chunks of ice that had flown from her insides like daggers - warnings to stay away - you saw the dirty tears staining her cheeks. You were left to wonder what had happened. Why was she so cold? Maybe she didn't fall. She didn't just stumble because she was clumsy. She was shoved into the calloused, tainted hands of the world. And now you stand in front of her. She sits still on the bench, staring straight ahead with no life left in her eyes. Your chest is level with her face. She doesn't move. You could tell that whoever this girl was is no longer here. A person once known is now a person someone knew. The tears are taking turns rolling down the flushed, red tinted hills named cheeks, but her face is becalmed. A snowflake fallen from the sky lands on her cheek and turns to ice instead of melting away. In a whisper, you ask her what's wrong. She emotionlessly makes eye contact. Your heart clenches and your stomach drops at the visible vacancy inside of her. “I wandered too far,” she replies. “Mother told me the streets weren't safe. She told me not to cross the bridge...I did. I crossed." She looks away again. "I can't go back.” You ask her why. You offer to walk home with her. She could get cleaned up. All better. She'll be fine tomorrow once she gets a new pair of socks and a warm bath. But she rejects you, pushes you away. She says she knows now that strangers are not to be trusted. She can't cross the bridge. For if she does, she will let the wind push her off. She will beg the breeze to be strong enough to cause the ground to disappear from underneath her. She will hit the ground and fall into a pile of beautiful crushed bones and pain. It sounds beautiful to her, anyway. Don't blame yourself. No one sees it at first. Not even you. Maybe you were distracted or just wished to mind your own business. But if you held the candle a little closer, you could see that what she really yearned for was a hand to hold. She was manhandled. Used. Who she used to be was shattered into a thousand pieces and brushed under the rug for no person to ever see again. If they would just look a little closer, they'd see that she is crying out for help. She is not begging to be looked at. She is not begging for the eyes of those around her. She is begging for someone to pull her up from the top before it's too late. She is screaming for someone to toss the rope down before she's stuck in The Pit forever, all alone as she grows colder and colder from the inside out. All alone until she becomes absolutely nothing.