HIGHLIGHTS

“I’d been like part of a choir previously, but because I was undiagnosed at the time, there was like this consistent disconnect,” says saxophonist Jamie. “I wasn’t sure how to voice my needs and I distanced myself from like a lot of musical performance groups.”

If you stop for a moment in Syntagma Square, at the heart of Athens, you’ll see kids skateboarding, commuters rushing for the metro, buskers performing on the street, and tourists taking it all in.

Their cheeks are pinched, their hair is stroked, their backs are patted, and their foreheads are kissed. It’s not always easy for a child to distinguish between appropriate and inappropriate touch by others, to voice concern, or to seek help—even when the stakes can be devastating.

“The fridge started to empty; sometimes at dinner I prepared milk and chocolate for the children, an apple for me,” wrote Lisa, a 27-year-old beautician in Rome.

In December 2020, on top of the punishing effects of the pandemic, residents of the Janja and Mataba sectors in Northern Rwanda’s Gakenke district faced devastating floods and the resulting landslides washed away homes, crops, and livelihoods.

When we think about childhood injuries, we usually think of scratches, a few stitches, maybe even a broken bone. We don’t talk frequently enough about the traumatic stress and other mental health challenges young people experience that can affect them for the rest of their lives.

Among the main lessons of the COVID-19 pandemic for addressing a health crisis have been the importance of coordinated efforts across borders, of trust in public health measures, and of multipronged approaches to manage evolving threats.

It’s the most familiar of items, one that you know well from childhood and one that is likely sitting in your hall closet even now: a ball.

If you’re in Greece, there’s a good chance you’ve got a mosaic in your pocket—or at least a copy of one. You’ve paid with it, gotten it back in change, or tossed it for heads or tails.