Mohammad Ali: This is my Family Registration Card which the Myanmar Immigration and Population Department issued. Description about the Registration
Rudwan Dawod: These are prayer beads (Misbaha). They are very common in my native country of Sudan, particularly among Sufi Muslims.
Sivheng Ung: Picture of me and my siblings, 1973. Bettambang. It’s a very rare survival picture of us, taken during my senior year.
Imam Abdulah Polovina: In this photo you can see an old traditional handmade coffee bean grinder and the traditional coffee called “dzezva” for making Bosnian
Emmanuel Turaturanye: My family my Pride Daddy was killed on 9 April 1994 I carry this picture because it keeps his memory and spirit alive in me.
Saron Khut: In 1980 my mother, my sister and I escaped Cambodia carrying only a few things, as we walked to the Lumpook refugee camp in Thailand.
Rudwan Dawon: More than 11 years ago, when I was leaving my beloved country of Sudan, my colleagues from Juba University gave me this tiny cup for coffee.
Rama Youssef: When I was 12 years old and getting ready to move to America, I made sure to bring this jumper with me. All my older sisters wore it […]
Imam Abdulah Polovina: This is the opening part of the holy Qur’an that I brought with me from Bosnia and Herzegovina where it shows my birth
Imam Abdulah Polovina: This is the photo of an old collection of Mawlid poems and recitations. The term Mawlid is part of the daily vocabulary of the Muslim population
Sivheng Ung: My mother’s silver ceremony bowl. This kind of silver bowl, my mom used it to collect blessing water or for special occasions such as weddings
Education is a prized commodity for Makka Djibrine Khatir. But it hasn’t always been this way. Indeed, for most of her early life, education was the same as suffering.
His left arm lay dangling from his body. The angle was alarming–entirely unnatural. His midsection was in shreds, ripped apart by Serbian shrapnel that had punctured
Samir was a teenager in love, his days full of farm chores, school and walking his girlfriend home. When war came to his corner of northeastern Bosnia,
Saron Khut was only ten years old when he and his family fled the Khmer Rouge-led genocide in Cambodia. His mother’s strength and a key decision one scary