After I returned to America from my first trip to Bangladesh, I felt more confident.

Human society is a product of migration. The first migration of our ancestors is believed to have been confined to the African continent, almost 100,000 years ago.

Hoping is not just a feeling; it is more about thinking in a certain way.

A bad jury protects the old world from inconvenience. A good jury risks being altered by what enters the room.

The expedition began in Ushuaia, Argentina, widely known as the southernmost city in the world. From there, we boarded an expedition vessel operated by Oceanwide Expeditions, setting sail into the unpredictable waters of the Southern Ocean.

By 11 March, I was one of the few transit guests remaining in the hotel.

The models were not wrong, exactly. The science was sound. But the models were answering questions that nobody in that room had asked. We had travelled eleven hours to show people a mirror, and the mirror was reflecting something they did not recognise as themselves. It was reflecting us, the experts, not them, the locals.

On 28 February, I was woken around 8 am by a strange sound from my cell phone.

Inequality is not hidden; it is right in front of us, every night.

Later visits took me away from Dhaka, into small villages in the southern deltas. Again, into a world I did not know existed.

Among expatriates in Sydney—where the Bangladeshi community has grown steadily over the past two decades, driven largely by international students—there persists a lament about corruption’s corrosive reach.

Casting my first vote felt like pride. It also carried a trace of guilt, the awareness that every choice means rejecting another.

Much of the popular discourse on self-care in recent years has been reduced to commodified routines.

After his firsthand experience of poverty, Orwell turned his attention to the English working class.

Returning forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: belonging is not always singular.

Just as nature does not apologise for winter, our life does not need to justify its slower seasons either.

There’s a grief folded into our victory that no celebration can undo.

Luck— you need a lot of it to stay alive in this city. And also a sense of dark humour.

Society will only see the fact that a woman is a divorcee; nobody will try to look beyond that “label”.

We are not incapable; we are choice-fatigued.