Ciao Trailblazers,

We came across interesting news about how you are bringing change into the mainstream. We aren’t talking just about the coffee raves or dry nights out. But, more. Seems you are growing in confidence that you can bring purpose into the main stream, along with an interest in nurtring your human skills - great isn’t it when we figured this out with you before the mainstream!

Anyway, coming back to the updates for the last month. We ran with a number of articles highligting our work with you and what the overall ambiton is for A4R Media Hub. The full collection of the 28 articles can be found here. They cover how our approach to human centered design is keeping the users in mind as we create users cases for our marketplace supporting GenZ with NEET issues and communties recovering from at the same time.

Along with the contribution your work has been making over the years. They range from the work the summer interns did with us, to the viber vocational training programme we co designed with them. Curious to see what we have said? Adain the link is here.

Don’t forget to share them.

Beyond that we have also sharing the articles you submitted to Impact Entrepreneur Magazine as well. Out of the 18 posted we submitted over the last quarter. 4 have been posted now. Here is a list with the links -

1. How much is the Dollar right now? Link here.

2. After the Guns fall silent - Link here.

3. Syria’s Return Dilemma - Link here.

4. Shared Threads of Recovery - Link here.

If you want to keep up to date on all the articles posted there you can check in on the A4R Media Hub page on the Impact Entrepreneur Platfrom. Link here.

Our next Guest Post is coming out on Thursday - see keep an eye out for it!

Here is a summary -

There are more posts like this in the pipeline. So, look forward to sharing them once a month with you.

Raw & Real from GenZ - unfiltered updates

Click here to play, listen and learn more about famous refugees from an arty background we all love.

Click here for the podcasts and articles about how communites recovering conflict are coping with their human needs.

Learn more about the exclusive merchandise you can unlock with Bob Marley’s NFT here

Don’t forget to scale our impact we need your support. You can make a direct donation - these are tax deductible only for US tax payers at the moment. Support us here.

It’s great to have you with us along this journey. Till next month — enjoy our vibers work along the way. 😊

With gratitude,

Zufi, Michael & the Vibers.

A4R 🎨 Monthly is a user supported publication. Don’t forget to tell others about us.

It’s never too late to make a difference today. Do good today for the betterment of tomorrow.

Same notification format as everything else competing for your attention this morning. Same bell icon, same rounded card, same green toggle switched on. But the message underneath asks something almost nobody else in your feed is asking — not for your time, your data, or your outrage. Just this: do something good today, and trust that it isn’t wasted.

That’s a bigger claim than it sounds.

Not charity. Not a calculation either.

It’s worth being explicit about what this card is not saying, because both wrong readings are easy to slide into.

This is not charity. Charity asks for sacrifice — give something away, expect nothing in return except the feeling of having done good. That’s a noble model, and it has its place in the world. It is not, however, A4R’s operating logic. A4R is not asking Vibers, or anyone reading this, to be selfless. Altruism can be part of what happens here. It is not who the Media Hub is.

But the opposite reading is just as wrong, and arguably worse. This is not a cynical instrumental calculation — be good purely because it pays off, run the numbers, optimise your kindness for maximum personal yield. Reduce moral behaviour to a spreadsheet and you’ve lost the thing that made it valuable in the first place. A good act performed solely to extract a return isn’t quite a good act anymore. It’s a transaction wearing a good act’s clothes.

So what is it? Somewhere in between — a harder, more honest place to stand than either extreme.

Compound interest for your character.

Here’s the part that is genuinely closer to economics than to ethics, even if it sounds strange to put it that way.

Good actions don’t just produce a single, isolated outcome. They build into habits. Habits build into character. Character compounds — the same way money does in a bank account, except the interest payments aren’t cash, they’re trust, competence, and resilience. In business terms, good actions give a return similar to simple interest accrued to money deposited in a bank — except habits pay out more like compound interest, where the return comes not only on what was put in originally, but on everything that interest has already generated.

That’s a reasonably literal description of how character actually works. The first time you choose integrity over convenience, it’s hard and might cost you something. The hundredth time, it’s just who you are — and trust starts moving toward you because of it, not because you calculated that it would, but because that’s what tends to happen when someone has quietly, consistently, become reliable.

Older than the notification format suggests.

Strip away the bell icon, and the idea underneath this card is one of the oldest humans have. Karma. What goes around comes around. You reap what you sow. Different traditions, different vocabularies — circling the same observation: that good acts don’t simply vanish into the past the moment they’re completed. They leave a residue. They shape what becomes possible later, for you and often for people you’ll never meet.

None of those traditions framed this as a financial calculation either. The people who first articulated karma weren’t running a cost-benefit analysis. They were describing how a life actually works when you watch it unfold over decades rather than days. The compound interest metaphor is useful precisely because it’s intuitive to a generation fluent in financial language — but it’s standing in for something a balance sheet can’t fully hold.

The part a spreadsheet can’t capture.

Here is the metaphysical residue, and it deserves to be named rather than quietly dropped.

Not every good act pays off in a way you’ll ever see or trace. Some of what you put in over a lifetime returns to someone else entirely — a stranger, a future version of a community you’ll never visit, a person three steps removed from you who benefits from a culture of trust you helped build without ever knowing your name was attached to it. If you’re only doing good because you expect a visible, attributable, personal return, you will eventually be disappointed, and you’ll likely stop.

The people who keep going have made peace with that uncertainty. Do good today. Let tomorrow surprise you — or don’t, and do it anyway. That’s the part compound interest can model and karma can only gesture at, but neither one can fully resolve. Some good is just good, with no receipt attached. And the data still suggests, overwhelmingly, that it compounds anyway.

Where you make your first deposit.

This is where the A4R Media Hub becomes relevant — not as a metaphor, but as an actual place where this plays out.

For many of the 480+ Vibers who’ve passed through the programme over the past five years, the hardest part was never understanding that good habits compound. It was finding somewhere to make the first deposit. A4R gives young people — many at the NEET crossroads, many carrying complicated histories of displacement — the time, training, and space to start building something: a skill, a piece of published work, a habit of showing up and doing the work properly, day after day.

That’s not charity either. The Vibers aren’t given something for nothing. They’re given an account to invest in, and the tools to start making deposits — in their own integrity, their own craft, their own creative capability — long before any of it has paid off in a way they can point to. Most won’t know the full return for years. Some, true to the metaphysical residue above, may never see it directly at all.

They’re investing anyway. That’s the whole article, in one sentence.

This is what A4R looks like.

Every Viber who comes through the Media Hub makes something real — and underneath the published article, the recorded story, the card designed to interrupt a feed with something true, there is a quieter accumulation happening. Skill compounding into capability. Integrity compounding into reputation. Good work, done consistently, compounding into a career nobody handed them.

It’s never too late to make that first deposit. Do good today. Let tomorrow surprise you.

Join the conversation

🔗 Read and listen to our latest collaborative drops directly here.

This piece was produced as a guest contribution to the Arts4Refugees Media Hub, in collaboration with the BizGees community and the Gen Z Vibers co-creating it.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Memoricide in Nagorno-Karabakh: the Fading Identity of the Artsakhtsi

They fled Nagorno-Karabakh, buried loved ones, and rebuilt lives from scratch, eventually gaining citizenship, housing, and work. Now a new threat looms for the Artsakh people: the deliberate erasure of their cultural history. Towns are being renamed, sacred sites destroyed, and with those losses the region’s distinct dialect risks vanishing within a generation. This is a memoricide, a killing of Artsakh history, delegitimising the claims of these people to their homeland.

The Nagorno-Karabakh region is an ethnically Armenian enclave located within the internationally recognized borders of Azerbaijan. Its Artsakh population, which uses a local Armenian dialect, has long identified culturally and politically with Armenia rather than Azerbaijan. That divergence between the inhabitants’ identity and the region’s geographic position has been a central source of tension between Armenia and Azerbaijan, contributing to repeated conflicts over control of the area.

Under Soviet rule, Nagorno-Karabakh was placed within the Azerbaijan Soviet Socialist Republic as the Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast. In 1988, the region’s ethnic Armenian population began pressing for transfer of the oblast to Armenian jurisdiction; that demand was opposed by both Azerbaijani authorities and the Soviet government. After the Soviet Union collapsed, Armenia and Azerbaijan fought a full-scale war. In the 1990s, forces from Nagorno-Karabakh and Armenia took control of much of southwestern Azerbaijan, including Nagorno-Karabakh and a land corridor linking it to Armenia. A ceasefire followed, but negotiations produced no lasting settlement; the region’s authorities then declared the Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh, a state that no UN member recognized.

Azerbaijan, supported by Turkey, renewed large-scale fighting in 2020, producing the worst clashes since the early 1990s. Armenian forces suffered heavy losses, and a ceasefire was soon arranged that significantly curtailed Armenian military presence in parts of the disputed area. A further Azerbaijani offensive in 2023 consolidated control: by then more than 100,000 Artsakh people had fled and the self-declared Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh (also known as the Republic of Artsakh) announced its dissolution. No comprehensive peace treaty has been signed; both sides accuse the other of ethnic cleansing, and Azerbaijan says it will not agree to any deal it believes legitimizes Armenian claims to the territory.

The exodus of the Artsakh people from Nagorno-Karabakh is considered one of the most complete displacements in human history. Most found refuge in Armenia, yet further challenges still plagued refugees. Secure, affordable housing is scarce as rents rise under increased demand; legal status and citizenship, essential for stable employment and access to services, are often slow to come. Many have depleted their life’s savings in funding their flight and many report feeling a slight tension with the Armenian population over the added pressure on public services.

Integration with the wider Armenian population is vital if Artsakh refugees wish to re-build their lives; but it comes with a hidden cost. Refugees from Nagorno-Karabakh brought with them a unique dialect, distinct to the Artsakh people. It bears similarities to standard Armenian, but this dialect is now confined to the homes of refugees. While Artsakh people from Nagorno-Karabakh try to keep it alive at home, podcast host Tatevik Khachatryan says that words from the Yerevan (Armenian) dialect are being added to her son’s vocabulary. Education in Armenian schools means that Artsakh children are less able to use their dialect and face the possibility of teasing from other children. As the Artsakh people and the wider Armenian population assimilate, it is likely that the dialect will disappear altogether.

That loss would be more than linguistic. Known as “Mer lyuzun”, our language, by Artsakhtsi, the dialect has ancient roots. It preserves words of classical Armenian missing from the standard tongue, and contains unique sounds and loanwords picked up from neighbouring countries. For people from Nagorno-Karabakh, the Artsakhtsi, this language is a living memory and a source of pride. Losing it would mean losing a piece of identity and those words and expressions which bind their people together.

Language is only one casualty of a wider cultural erasure facing the Artsakhtsi. Their religious sites, monuments and burial grounds, tangible anchors of memory and identity, are being systematically destroyed and replaced. Since Azerbaijani authorities assumed control of the region, satellite imagery has documented the flattening of sacred places: Kanach Zham Church in Shusha lay in ruins, St. Sargis Church in Mokhrenes has been razed and new construction is already emerging. Historic cemeteries in Shusha and the village of Mets Tagher have suffered the same fate; even tombstones have been removed to make room for infrastructure, severing visible links to generations past.

Armenia has a strong Christian identity, claiming to be the first nation in the world to adopt Christianity in 301AD. The reported destruction of historic churches erases their long communal memory. These structures have provided centres for Artsakh communities for generations, holding memories of years and years’ worth of marriages, baptisms, funerals, and festivals. For the displaced people of Artsakh, losing these sites and being having no means to protect them is another step towards cultural identity loss, making the reality of returning increasingly uncertain. If they went back, would they even recognise their homeland?

Beyond the loss of monuments, Artsakh family history is being erased through the removal of tombstones and cemeteries. The heartbreaking reality is that as well as wondering whether their homes still stand; refugees worry that graves of loved ones have been destroyed. Tombstones testify to a family’s continued presence in an area, demonstrating the deep ties to their homeland. The destruction of cemeteries like those in Shusha removes the ability to trace family history or to pay respects to those who have passed away and is just another way in which physical traces of the Artsakh people’s presence in the region of Nagorno-Karabakh are being eradicated.

If Artsakhtsi were to return to Nagorno-Karabakh today, they would find their homeland profoundly altered. Many familiar places have been renamed with Azerbaijani toponyms. Stepanakert, once known for its 19th-century Armenian architecture, has been physically reshaped by new buildings and roads and is now referred to as Khankendi (Azerbaijani: Xankəndi). Stepanakert originally took its name from the Bolshevik revolutionary Stepan Shaumian; removing the name serves to delete erase the history of that place, rendering the past of the Artsakhtsi invisible; it severs the linguistic and historical link between the land and its former inhabitants.

The effects of these changes are profound. Artsakh refugees are finding that the place they considered home can no longer even be found on their documents. Aren Hayrapetyan, a displaced Artsakh, received Armenian citizenship but was horrified when he found that his birthplace was listed as “Azerbaijan”. He says that this is an incorrect reflection of his identity, and he will not swear allegiance to Armenia while his documents label him Azerbaijani. For Aren, seeing ‘Azerbaijan’ on his official documents feels like a state-sanctioned eviction from his homeland, as if the Armenian authorities seek to formalise his displacement.

The home of the Artsakh people no longer exists, it has been systematically renamed, and the places they once knew and loved have been destroyed. Traces of ancestral presence are being wiped out through the destruction of cemeteries, and new infrastructure, part of the ‘smart cities’ project, is replacing it. Nagorno-Karabakh is becoming unrecognisable. Not only is the region which lives in the memory of the Artsakh people is no longer their home on paper, it no longer physically exists. The survival of their cultural history is in jeopardy, further worsened by the inevitable loss of their unique Artsakh dialect, which is already becoming redundant, being supplanted in favour of standard Armenian.

There is hope, however. Several programmes are being developed to salvage cultural memory where possible. TUMO’s Armenian Cultural Heritage Institute, launched in early 2026 uses 3D scans of Artsakh monuments to create virtual reality experiences for refugees and researchers. A similar programme attempts to preserve the “architectural DNA” of the region, to ensure that the proportions of buildings and many of their unique carvings can be preserved and reconstructed in the future. The “We Exist” initiative held a major festival in January of this year to celebrate Artsakh culture, featuring carpet weavers and chefs, to ensure that their “intangible” heritage, like Zhengyalov hats (stuffed flatbread) survives. Furthermore, podcasts and oral-history projects are recording Artsakh dialect before it dies out.

The Artsakh people are fighting their cultural erasure. Their efforts demonstrate their resilience and will to survive. While the physical presence of their homeland may be being altered, digital records form a cultural archive, an indestructible record of cultural history. Likewise, making use of oral records and popular media such as podcasting will continue to make Artsakh dialect accessible to young people. Celebrations of Artsakh culture within Armenia are testament to its living force and ability to reform a broken community. There may be efforts to erase this culture, but the spirit of those who carry it with them are not letting it disappear.

In this episode Harriet discusses the post conflict experience of the Artsakh people of Nagorno-Karabakh. She highligts life after the war there. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

A Gen Z Viber at the Arts4Refugees Media Hub made these cards because she wanted her peer group to see this clearly. Not through a clinical lens. Not through policy language. Just the myth, then the reality, side by side. Simple enough to share. True enough to land.

The myth: only soldiers get PTSD.

The reality: everyone is affected by conflict.Two cards. Eleven words between them. And a gap that contains one of the most under-examined mental health crises of our generation.

The myth didn’t come from nowhere. It came from decades of necessary, hard-won advocacy for military veterans — a population that fought publicly and painfully for their trauma to be recognised, named, and treated. That fight mattered. It still matters. And it gave us something invaluable: a shared cultural understanding that conflict exposure leaves a psychological mark. That coming back isn’t the same as being okay.

But somewhere in that process, PTSD became associated almost exclusively with the military experience. With combat. With a life chosen in deliberate proximity to danger. And that association — however unintentionally — drew a line around who trauma belongs to.Chances are you already accept, on some level, that what they went through left a mark. You have a relationship with that truth. Now take that same understanding — and extend it. Because here is what displacement actually looks like. It is not a clean exit from a conflict zone. It is watching your neighbourhood become one. It is losing your home, your community, your sense of safety — not in a defined tour of duty with a return date and institutional support, but in an open-ended rupture with no debrief, no framework, and no cultural script that says what happened to you was traumatic enough to matter.

The majority of the world’s 123+ million forcibly displaced people are carrying significant psychological trauma. Most of it undiagnosed. Most of it unnamed. Not because it isn’t real — but because the systems we built to identify and treat PTSD were designed around a different template. And displaced civilians don’t fit it, so they fall through the gap.Undiagnosed trauma doesn’t disappear. It shapes how people parent. How communities rebuild. How young people who grew up in post-conflict environments understand themselves and their futures. The mental health crisis inside displacement is one of the least visible and most consequential challenges of our time — and it starts with a myth most of us have never thought to question.

That’s why two cards matter. That’s why a Gen Z Viber, still at university, building her skills through real work at A4R, decided this was the conversation her peers needed to have. Not a lecture. Not a policy brief. Just a myth, a reality, and an invitation to look more carefully at both.

If you’ve ever accepted that a soldier can carry trauma home from conflict — you already have everything you need to understand what 123 million displaced civilians are living with. The only thing missing is the conversation.Start the Conversation

Displacement doesn’t end when the conflict does. Explore the stories, research, and co-created content from the A4R Media Hub community — made by Gen Z, for Gen Z, about the issues that define our time.

🔗 Read and listen to our latest collaborative drops directly here.

This piece was produced as a guest contribution to the Arts4Refugees Media Hub, in collaboration with the BizGees community and the Gen Z Vibers co-creating it.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Click here to Explore Belfast.

Peace Without Prosperity? Child Poverty in Northern Ireland Since the Troubles

The Good Friday Agreement of 1998 is widely credited for bringing about the end of ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland. It granted Northern Ireland a degree of self-determinism and achieved self-governance, while also beginning a process of demilitarisation. While sporadic violence in Northern Ireland is ongoing, the Agreement was a key step towards peace. However, it did not dismantle deep structural inequalities, resulting in entrenched child poverty- defined by UNICEF as the deprivation of basic needs such as nutrition, shelter, education, and healthcare- in communities most affected by the Troubles.

The Good Friday Agreement arose from three decades of armed ethno-nationalist conflict. Known as the Troubles, the conflict was fought between the overwhelmingly Protestant Unionists on one side and the Catholic Nationalists on the other, and had a seismic impact on the structure of Northern Irish society, which became segregated along sectarian lines, something that we will explore using the example of Belfast.

This segregation was often physical. ‘Peace lines’- large walls separating Protestant and Catholic communities -were constructed to reduce violence, many of which still exist today, such as those between Shankill Road and Falls Road. While effective in limiting direct conflict, these barriers reinforced social and economic isolation. As a result, communities became increasingly insular, and areas already affected by violence experienced deepening urban decay and economic decline.

The Troubles’ spatial impact extended beyond neighbourhood division. Belfast city centre was protected by a ‘ring of steel,’ a network of security measures designed to prevent paramilitary attacks. This ensured the city’s economic core remained relatively stable and attractive to investment, while suburban areas - exposed to violence and military presence- saw infrastructure degrade and businesses withdraw. The urban-suburban division was cemented by many factors. Belfast’s secure city centre attracted investment, while conflict-affected suburbs saw disinvestment and decline. With economic infrastructure, human capital, and business premises degraded by conflict, Belfast’s GDP fell by as much as 20% between 1966 and 1998. As a result, the spatial and economic inequalities created during the Troubles were not resolved by peace, but became embedded in Northern Ireland’s post-conflict landscape.

The late 1990s and early 2000s saw efforts to regenerate Belfast by investing in the city centre and waterfront. However, this only perpetuated the divide between the city centre and peripheral working-class areas. Ken Sterrett, a Northern Irish urban planner and designer, describes the approach to Belfast’s development as neoliberal urbanism, a market-first approach that often results in the most wealthy areas becoming increasingly wealthy while underdeveloped areas are left behind. Furthermore, the unique issues faced by Northern Ireland in comparison to the rest of the UK have meant that councils have been forced to spend much more on public order and public housing than in other parts of the country, necessitated by the ongoing need for policing and intelligence and the legacy of colonial housing discrimination.

Relative peace in Northern Ireland, therefore, has not generated the economic revival that may have been anticipated. These spatial and economic divides did not disappear after 1998, and they continue to shape everyday life. For children growing up in Northern Ireland today, this legacy is particularly stark. For one, it means that the social stratification of the Troubles will often dictate their home, social group, and class. As the Belfast Mobility Project explores, Protestant and Catholic communities remain divided not only in residence but also in movement, with many individuals living and socialising within confined geographic areas. This is a form of spatialised inequality, where the geography of conflict continues to determine life chances.

These divisions are also reflected in patterns of deprivation. Nine of the ten most deprived areas in Northern Ireland are predominantly Catholic, highlighting the persistence of historical inequalities. Consequently, many children grow up in environments characterised by limited economic opportunity, inadequate housing, and reduced access to services. In this way, child poverty is not simply a contemporary issue, but the direct legacy of conflict-driven inequality. Joseph McNeill runs the Ardoyne Youth Club in north Belfast and describes how “the infrastructure and the support from the government is definitely not here at the minute,” and how the children he works with “don’t have the same support mechanisms” as children from wealthier parts of the city. Oral testimony corroborates existing statistics. Around a fifth of Northern Irish children live in relative poverty, according to the Northern Ireland Audit Office (NIAO), and this is cemented by some of the worst childcare provision in the UK; Northern Ireland has the lowest level of nursery provision in the United Kingdom, a barrier to workplace entry for parents.

The consequences of poverty are broad and can be lifelong. In regards to education, the NIAO states that “Evidence shows that the gap in attainment between children growing up in poverty and their peers starts early and lasts throughout school. By the time they reach primary school, children from low-income families are already up to a year behind middle-income children in terms of cognitive skills.” Evidence of academic underperformance in Northern Ireland is clear- the percentage of school leavers with five or more GCSEs at grades A* to C is 37% amongst Protestant boys from low-income households and 47% amongst low-income Catholic boys. This attainment gap reproduces the economic divides created during the Troubles, limiting social mobility across generations. Children who grow up impoverished are therefore less likely to achieve academic success, limiting their ability to break out of the cycle of poverty. As one study described, marginalised groups such as BAME students and students from travelling families were also far more likely to be marginalised within the education system, leading to lower attainment and lessening the ability of these students to escape the cycle of poverty.

The impacts of childhood poverty in Northern Ireland stretch further than the classroom, however. As the NIAO describes, “Research has shown that childhood poverty is linked to higher levels of infant mortality and death in early adulthood, as well as poorer mental health, obesity and chronic illness.” Indeed, children living in poverty are up to four times more likely to develop a mental health condition by the age of 11 than their peers. The health consequences of poverty are unsurprising, when it is considered that by 2024, the number of children in Northern Ireland who lived in households experiencing food insecurity had risen to 130,000. As Joseph McNeill describes, around 70% of the children in the Ardoyne area are recipients of free school meals. The systemic roots of poverty, therefore, can have dire consequences for children and young people. They will often grow up lacking economic stability and security, meaning that they can be vulnerable to food insecurity. Similarly, as education and self-development become secondary to survival, they may lack the ability to achieve their full potential.

Has peace in Northern Ireland brought prosperity, therefore? In short, no. While certain areas of the country have had funding poured into them, neoliberal urbanism has meant that other parts of the country have struggled to develop at all. Peace ended violence, but it did not equalise opportunity, and in Northern Ireland, the geography of conflict has become the geography of poverty. For children growing up in its shadow, the legacy of the Troubles is not history: it is a lived reality.

In this episode Camille discusses the post conflict experience of the Children in Belfast following the Good Friday Agreement. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Have you come across Tiffany Chung? She’s a Vietnamese-American artist who maps displacement — not with data visualisations or policy graphics, but with hand-drawn cartographies that feel like memory. Soft shapes. Fractured borders. Small houses scattered across abstracted landscapes like people mid-journey with nowhere clear to land.

One of our Vibers found her work and couldn’t move on. So she didn’t. Instead she started asking a question that sounds simple until you actually try to answer it: how many people in the world right now don’t have a place that claims them?

The number she came back with was 123.2 million. Forcibly displaced, at the end of 2024. And that was before this year’s numbers came in.

Here’s what struck her — and what she brought back to the rest of us. That number isn’t just a humanitarian crisis. It’s a structural one. The nation state, as a system, was not designed to absorb displacement at this scale. Not the largest countries by land mass. Not the wealthiest by GDP. Not the most politically stable. None of them. The architecture we built to manage human movement across borders was designed for a different world — a world where 123 million people needing somewhere to go was simply not a scenario anyone planned for.

And the forces driving that number aren’t slowing down. Climate change is displacing people before conflict even arrives — failed harvests, disappearing coastlines, water scarcity that turns neighbours into competitors. Conflict then does the rest. These aren’t parallel crises. They’re the same crisis at different stages.

We’re not going to solve that here. That’s not the point. The point is that a Gen Z student, still at university, building her CV through real work at the A4R Media Hub, was the one who stopped, looked properly, and then turned to her peers and said — you need to understand this.

That’s what we do at A4R. We’re a co-creation community where Gen Z journalists, researchers, and storytellers apply what they’re learning at university to questions that actually matter. We work with displaced communities directly. We build real skills — editorial, research, digital, production — while we’re still studying, so that by the time we graduate, we already have a body of work that reflects who we are and what we care about.

If you're at university and you've ever looked at a number like 123.2 million and felt the gap between knowing something and actually understanding it — that gap is exactly where we work.

Join the Conversation

Displacement isn’t a distant issue — it’s the defining challenge of our generation. Explore the stories, research, and co-created content changing how young people engage with it.

This piece was produced in collaboration with the BizGees community, amplifying the work of Arts4Refugees Media Hub and the Gen Z Vibers co-creating it.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Measuring Peace Beyond Conflict: Women’s Recovery in Post-War Ethiopia

In a makeshift clinic in Mekelle, a woman waits three hours for care for a wound that never healed during the fighting. The Pretoria Peace Agreement of November 2022 ended formal hostilities, but it did not restore the services, livelihoods, or daily safety that make life livable. For many women in Tigray and neighbouring regions, the ceasefire marked the start of a different fight: regaining access to healthcare, justice, social belonging, and economic stability. The transition from war to peace has therefore been uneven and deeply gendered, revealing how the end of violence does not automatically lead to recovery.

Post-conflict recovery is often framed in political or military terms. Sustainable peace is not. It is measured at the household and community level: can a woman seek medical care without fear, secure legal recognition for abuses she suffered, find work that supports her family, and be welcomed back into community life? These everyday questions capture the lived experience of peace more accurately than diplomatic milestones or ceasefire monitoring reports. For women in northern Ethiopia, the answer remains: not yet. The gap between formal peace and lived security continues to shape daily life, limiting the potential for long-term stability and reconciliation.

Health and bodily integrity

The physical toll of the war is visible and ongoing. Nearly three-quarters of health facilities in Tigray were damaged, looted, or rendered non-functional. As a consequence, many survivors live with untreated injuries, obstetric complications, and heightened risk of sexually transmitted infections. Women who were pregnant or gave birth during the conflict often lacked skilled medical support, increasing long-term maternal and infant health risks. In rural areas, distances to functioning clinics remain significant, and transport costs or insecurity continue to prevent access.

One striking estimate from post-conflict assessments found that roughly three quarters of documented sexual-violence survivors did not receive timely medical support. Those numbers are not abstract; they are wounds that complicate childbirth, make daily work harder, and carry stigma. Untreated injuries and chronic pain also reduce women’s capacity to work, care for children, and participate in community life. Rebuilding health systems is therefore not only a humanitarian priority but a foundation for recovery, economic participation, and dignity.

Mental health and social reintegration

Psychological harm is equally persistent. Clinicians and NGOs report elevated levels of insomnia, panic, intrusive memories, and social withdrawal among survivors. In areas where mental-health services are scarce, trauma becomes a quiet engine of social breakdown: people withdraw from reciprocal networks, caregivers burn out, and children grow up in households without emotional repair. The intergenerational impact of trauma is particularly concerning, as unresolved distress may shape the wellbeing and socialisation of children for years to come.

Addressing mental health is not an optional add-on; it is essential to restoring the capacity to work, parent, and participate in community life. Community-based support, peer counselling, and culturally appropriate healing approaches are especially important in contexts where formal services are limited. Strengthening these systems can rebuild trust and help restore the social fabric damaged during conflict.

Justice, accountability, and trust

Health without justice leaves many survivors exposed to continuing harm. Without transparent investigations, survivor-centred legal processes, and reparations, suspicion and impunity persist. Reports of renewed localised violence in Amhara and Afar have deepened fears that abuses could recur beyond Tigray, eroding confidence in the peace process. Survivors may be reluctant to report violations if they believe that perpetrators will not be held accountable or that doing so may expose them to retaliation.

Practical justice must include medical-legal referral pathways, access to legal aid, protection for witnesses, and support for community dialogues that centre survivors’ rights and choices. Equally important is the recognition that justice processes should prioritise dignity, confidentiality, and agency. When survivors feel heard and protected, trust in institutions can gradually be rebuilt, contributing to reconciliation and long-term peace.

Social belonging and information harms

Recovery is social as much as infrastructural. Survivors frequently face stigma, shaming, or forced silence. These dynamics can isolate women from their families and communities, undermining their ability to rebuild their lives. In some contexts, women may be blamed for violence they experienced or pressured not to speak about abuse in order to preserve community cohesion.

Online disinformation and ethnic polarisation amplify these dynamics: distorted narratives can isolate survivors, expose them to harassment, or block avenues for reconciliation. Social media and digital communication can spread harmful rumours or deepen divisions, especially in fragile post-conflict environments. Rebuilding social belonging therefore requires local, survivor-led reconciliation processes, safe public messaging that counters stigma, and protections that prevent doxxing and online abuse. Community leaders, religious figures, and civil society organisations can play a key role in shaping inclusive narratives and rebuilding trust.

Economic stability and dignity

Economic recovery enables agency. Many households lost assets and breadwinners; women often absorbed new caregiving burdens while trying to find income in a broken local economy. In rural areas, agricultural disruption, displacement, and destroyed infrastructure have reduced livelihood opportunities. Urban areas face unemployment, inflation, and weakened markets, further constraining women’s economic participation.

Simple interventions — targeted cash assistance, labour-intensive public works that prioritise women, and seed grants for women-led businesses — can create space for recovery. But economic programs must be paired with childcare, health access, and legal protections to preserve dignity and long-term gains. Without these complementary measures, women risk being trapped in informal or precarious work. Economic independence not only strengthens households but also enhances women’s decision-making power and resilience in future crises.

Effective recovery for women requires more than promises or isolated programmes. Rebuilding healthcare, creating legal protections, supporting livelihoods, and addressing mental health must happen together to restore dignity and agency. In practice, this means that clinics must reopen, justice mechanisms must be accessible, and economic opportunities must reach women managing households in fragile conditions. When these systems work in concert, women—and communities—can move from surviving to thriving.

Why this matters

The Pretoria truce removed guns from the streets. It did not, by itself, remove the daily threats to safety, health, and dignity that determine whether people can rebuild their lives. Measuring peace by the absence of conflict is necessary but insufficient. If we want peace that lasts, we must centre the lived realities of women whose bodies, livelihoods, and social ties were broken — and design programmes that restore not only services, but agency, justice, and belonging.

Restoring dignity is not sentimental. It is practical: reach women with health, legal, and economic services, and the whole society becomes more resilient to relapse. Evidence from other post-conflict settings shows that when women have access to healthcare, income, and legal protection, communities recover faster and the risk of renewed violence declines. The test of Ethiopia’s peace will be whether women can access care without fear, seek justice without retaliation, rebuild livelihoods with dignity, and re-enter their communities with belonging rather than stigma. Sustainable peace ultimately depends on whether recovery reaches those most affected by conflict.

In this episode Faiza discusses the post conflict experience of Ethiopia and the restoration of dignity for the women. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Writing the draft is the easy part. The real battle for the internet’s soul happens in the edit. If you’ve ever dreamed of running a media platform, building a publication, or changing the world with stories, there’s a new interactive vibe check you need to play right now.

It’s called Ethical Editor, a browser-based micro-game hosted on Rosebud AI. The backstory is just as cool as the gameplay: Cal, a student from DePaul University, spent 8 weeks working with the A4R Media Hub. Instead of spending months grinding away at complex syntax, we trained him to use vibe coding—using natural language to prompt AI into building a fully functional game.

The result? A simulator that drops you straight into the hot seat as a Headline Hero for the A4R Media Hub. Your mission is to review real profiles of refugee entrepreneurs and pick the headline that maximizes your “Change Meter” to foster positive social impact.

Turns out, editing is an absolute psychological tightrope.

Take Amina’s story: she fled her home and built a thriving bakery that employs five other refugee women. If you choose a safe, neutral headline, the game flags a “Dry Choice”—you were factual, but you buried the inspiration, rendering her journey invisible to the algorithm. But try to juice the numbers with a sensationalized title for Elena—a master potter running youth therapy programs—and you get a “Clickbait Choice” penalty. The game calls you out for treating human suffering as a cheap engagement metric.

Cal’s game forces us to confront a brutal reality: ethical journalism isn’t a static set of rules. It’s a live trade-off between visibility and integrity.

When you finish, your Impact Summary grades your ability to empower people. Are you actually an Insightful Editor? Hit the link, take the 5-minute test, and drop your Change Meter score in the comments below. Let’s see who is actually built for the modern newsroom.

Next Step

You’re all set to copy and paste this directly into Substack! Good luck with the post—how does it feel to you now that it’s fully put together?

A4R 🎨 Media is a user supported publication. Don’t forget to subscribe.

Reunification in 1975 brought official unity to Vietnam but left families grappling with "re-education" camps and silenced histories. Without explicit reconciliation or public closure, healing emerged through endurance and practical adaptation. Today, stability exists not through resolved memories, but through the quiet necessity of moving forward together.

Backstory

They Told Vietnam to Forgive. But No One Explained How.

The first rocket attack hitting Saigon struck the town center and set fire to 150 wooden houses. Fourteen died and over 40 people were injured in the attacks. Inhabitants of Saigon woke up to the devastation of war on April 21, 1975. Jacques Pavlovsky

On a humid evening in Ho Chi Minh City, a grandmother folds away a photograph she never displays. In it, her older brother stands in a uniform that no longer exists, the army of South Vietnam. He disappeared in 1976, taken to a re-education camp after the war, and never returned. His grandchildren do not know his name, not because it was forgotten, but because some stories are easier to live with when they remain unspoken.

For many families in Vietnam, the war did not end cleanly in 1975. Officially, reunification marked a moment of closure, a transition into unity and stability. On paper, it was a clear outcome: one country, one people, one future. But beneath that narrative, reality unfolded differently. Families had lived on opposing sides of the conflict, not only geographically, but politically and emotionally. For some, reunification brought a sense of victory. For others, it introduced loss, uncertainty, and a quiet redefinition of identity that could not be openly expressed.

In the years that followed, hundreds of thousands of people connected to the former South were sent to re-education camps. These were not distant or abstract institutions; they were deeply personal disruptions that reshaped families and communities. Men disappeared for months or years, often without clear information about their fate. Those who returned carried experiences that were rarely spoken about, shaped by hardship, surveillance, and a lingering sense of vulnerability. Over time, these experiences were not erased, but absorbed into silence. Stories became fragmented, softened, or withheld entirely, creating gaps that would later define how younger generations understood, or failed to understand the past.

This silence did not emerge by accident. It became a way of navigating a reality where certain histories were difficult to explain and, at times, risky to articulate. Within families, it shaped conversations, defining what could be shared and what remained unspoken. Children grew up sensing the presence of something unresolved, learning indirectly that some questions did not have simple answers. In this way, memory itself became uneven, carried forward not through open dialogue, but through absence, hesitation, and partial understanding.

At the same time, the broader context of post-war Vietnam made emotional reconciliation even more complex. The late 1970s and early 1980s were marked by severe economic hardship, international isolation, and systemic inefficiencies. Daily life was defined by scarcity of food, of resources, of certainty. Under these conditions, survival became the primary concern, and when survival dominates, abstract expectations about forgiveness or reconciliation begin to lose their immediate relevance. People were expected to follow the system, but the system often struggled to meet basic needs. As a result, adaptation became necessary.

Informal markets emerged. Personal networks became essential. Decisions were shaped less by ideology and more by practicality. These were not acts of resistance, but responses to constraint, ways of navigating a system that could not fully support everyday life. In this environment, the idea of forgiveness did not disappear, but it became secondary to more immediate concerns. The question was no longer how to reconcile the past, but how to continue living in the present.

What developed in Vietnam was not a visible process of reconciliation, but a quieter form of coexistence. People lived side by side, worked together, and rebuilt their lives, even when trust was incomplete and memories remained unresolved. Conversations were often shaped by what was left unsaid, and relationships were maintained through a careful balance of acknowledgement and avoidance. This was not the kind of reconciliation that appears in official narratives or international frameworks. It did not rely on public apologies or collective moments of closure. Instead, it relied on endurance, the ability to maintain stability without fully resolving the past.

By the mid-1980s, however, it became clear that adaptation at the individual level was not enough to sustain the country as a whole. The economic system was under increasing strain, and the gap between policy and reality had become impossible to ignore. The introduction of the Đổi Mới reforms in 1986 marked a turning point, opening the economy and allowing forms of market activity that had already been taking place informally. These reforms are often described as a strategic shift, but they can also be understood as a recognition of lived reality. People had already been adapting, already finding ways to survive beyond rigid structures. The reforms did not create change as much as they acknowledged it.

This moment highlights a broader pattern in Vietnam’s post-war recovery. Transformation did not begin with ideological consensus or moral agreement. It began with practical adaptation, with individuals making decisions based on necessity rather than principle. When policy eventually aligned with these practices, change accelerated. Economic growth followed, cities expanded, and Vietnam gradually reconnected with the global economy.

Today, the contrast is striking. Vietnam is often described as dynamic, youthful, and forward-looking. Urban spaces are filled with energy, with students, entrepreneurs, and new forms of creativity. Cafés, businesses, and cultural spaces reflect a society that is increasingly connected to the world. Relationships with former adversaries, including the United States, have evolved into partnerships, shaped by shared interests rather than historical divisions.

And yet, the past remains present, though not always visible. It exists in the spaces between conversations, in the stories that are not told, and in the silences that continue to shape family life. The absence of open confrontation with certain aspects of history does not mean they have been resolved. Instead, they have been integrated into everyday experience, influencing how people relate to one another and how they understand their own histories.

This challenges a common assumption about post-conflict recovery—that healing requires closure, that reconciliation must be explicit, and that forgiveness is a necessary condition for peace. Vietnam suggests a different possibility. It shows that stability can emerge without full resolution, and that coexistence does not always depend on shared narratives or mutual understanding. Rather than eliminating differences, people learn to live with them.

The grandmother still keeps the photograph. It is not displayed, not discussed, but it is not discarded either. It remains as a quiet reminder of a past that cannot be fully explained, a memory that exists without being fully articulated. For younger generations, this creates a different kind of inheritance—not one defined by direct experience, but by partial knowledge and unspoken histories. They grow up in a Vietnam that feels open and full of opportunity, yet shaped in subtle ways by what came before.

What emerges from this is not a story of complete reconciliation, but of continuity. Life continues, even when the past remains unresolved. Families rebuild, relationships form, and societies move forward, not because everything has been healed, but because it becomes necessary to keep going.

This reframes the idea of healing itself. Rather than a clear endpoint marked by forgiveness or closure, healing appears as an ongoing process which is uneven, incomplete, and often invisible. It can take the form of silence, not as denial, but as a way of managing complexity. It can appear as compromise, as the decision to prioritise stability over confrontation. It can exist in the ability to carry unresolved memories without allowing them to dominate the present.

There is an uncomfortable truth in this. The belief that moral clarity leads to action—that if something is right, people will follow it does not always hold. Vietnam reveals the distance between ideals and lived reality, showing that human behaviour is shaped not only by values, but by constraints, pressures, and the need to adapt. Forgiveness may be desirable, but it is not always possible, and it is not always necessary for societies to move forward.

In the end, Vietnam was not rebuilt through a single moment of reconciliation or a collective act of forgiveness. It was rebuilt through countless small decisions, choices to stay, to adapt, to remain silent, and to continue. These choices did not resolve the past, but they made it possible to live with it.

And perhaps that is what healing often looks like. Not closure, not perfect understanding, but endurance. Not the absence of pain, but the ability to carry it. Not a finished story, but one that remains open, and still, somehow, allows life to go on.

In this episode Anh discusses the Vietnamese expereince of rebuolding their country and the kind issues they have been dealing with. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Ciao Trailblazers,

How was the last month for you? Here we decided to take a step back and consolidate. Why? We felt it important to make sure we do not lose our values or dilute our mission as we scale our impact business. So, we decided to dedicate two posts to highlighting our why - why we do what we do. Then, another post what is going on.

We wanted to make the point that you the GenZ are a unique generation - the first digital native generation is to say the least that makes you unique. More imporatntly, we wanted to highlight what this means for the wider social and economic landsacpe. Why dedicated solutions are needed? In case you missed the post here is the link to the Why? post again. The link to the Vibing Lored artilce is here.

Then the next post focused on what’s going on in your world and what the new norm looks like for you. For example, how the tradaitonal job oppurtunies are no longer available to you in the age os AI. But, what is the alternative? In case, you missed the post here is the link. The link to Why A4R Media is the prototype of what’s to come article is here.

Another innovation we have been working on is intro a guest post once a month. These guest posts are blog post written by our eco system partners about the work they do. What they do and how their work is relevant to you. We are hoping they will inspire you to take ownership of your own lives and understand the new oppurtunies you have at your disposal.

The first guest post went out earlier this week. It highlighted the mental health needs of your generation and how to access the best support for your needs. Dr. Patapia Tzotzoli has been a keen supporter of our mission from the very begining. This is a short summary of her post - in case you missed it. Here is a link to the Stop struggling alone article - see here.

There are more posts like this in the pipeline. So, look forward to sharing them once a month with you.

Raw & Real from GenZ - unfiltered updates

Click here to play, listen and learn more about famous refugees from an arty background we all love.

Click here for the podcasts and articles about how communites recovering conflict are coping with their human needs.

Learn more about the exclusive merchandise you can unlock with Kandinsky’s NFT here

Don’t forget to scale our impact we need your support. You can make a direct donation - these are tax deductible only for US tax payers at the moment. Support us here.

It’s great to have you with us along this journey. Till next month — enjoy our vibers work along the way. 😊

With gratitude,

Zufi, Michael & the Vibers.

📌 Summary: This Month’s Highlights

• Mission Focus: We’ve paused to reaffirm our “why” and ensure our values remain at the heart of our mission as we scale. [Read our mission update here.]

• The Gen Z Shift: We analyzed the changing job landscape in the age of AI and why new, dedicated solutions are vital for your generation. [Read the full post here.]

• Interactive Storytelling [Read and Play here] & Post-Conflict Communities [Listen and Read here] : We are doubling down on our work in post-conflict regions, utilizing interactive journalism and gaming mechanics to amplify lived experiences. This includes our ongoing development of NFT-based digital assets to empower creators and sustain social impact [Learn more here.]

• New Guest Series: We’re launching a monthly guest series! Our first feature with Dr. Patapia Tzotzoli explores why personalized, concierge-style mental health support outperforms “off-the-shelf” alternatives for young adults. [Read the summary here.]

• Support Our Mission: We are continuing to build and scale. If you’d like to support our work, you can make a tax-deductible contribution (for US taxpayers). [Support us here.]

A4R 🎨 Monthly is a user supported publication. Don’t forget to tell others about us.

Summary

Gen Z often face unique pressures navigating intergenerational trauma and identity. This post explores why “off-the-shelf” mental health support often fails and explains how a personalized, concierge-style triage process can help young adults find the right professional fit for their specific story.

Gen Z, Refugee Heritage, and Intergenerational Trauma: Finding the Right Mental Health Support

Gen Z and Mental Health

Gen Z has grown up in a world of constant information, online communities, creator culture, global crises, and fast-changing identities. Many young people do not just want to be “spoken to”; they want information that feels conversational, relevant, participatory, and real. The A4R Media piece on Gen Z describes this well: this is a generation shaped by digital participation, peer-to-peer storytelling, gaming culture, social platforms, and co-created narratives rather than one-way information from institutions.

For 18- to 28-year-olds, mental health support often needs to recognise that life is not happening in neat boxes. Stress can come from identity, family expectations, money, work, study, relationships, racism, displacement, climate anxiety, social media, loneliness, trauma, or feeling caught between cultures. UNICEF’s 2025 youth mental health report found that many young people feel overwhelmed by world events, and only around half know where to find mental health resources.

For young people from refugee, migrant, or displaced families, the picture can be even more layered. You may be second or third generation and still feel the emotional impact of histories you did not personally live through: war, persecution, forced migration, racism, poverty, loss, silence, survival, or family separation. This does not mean you are “damaged” or destined to struggle. It means your nervous system, family story, and identity may have developed around pressures that need understanding.

What intergenerational trauma can mean

Research on refugee families shows that trauma can affect more than one generation. Trauma in refugee families can be linked with psychological distress in the next generation, although the pathways are complex and shaped by family, social, cultural, and environmental factors. Furthermore, children of trauma-affected refugee parents can be at increased risk of mental health difficulties, particularly when parental PTSD affects family functioning and emotional communication.

This is sometimes called intergenerational trauma. It does not mean trauma is automatically “passed down” like a fixed inheritance. It means that what happened to previous generations can shape the emotional climate of a family. It may show up through silence, fear, pressure to succeed, difficulty talking about feelings, overprotection, mistrust of services, shame, guilt, or a sense that you must be “strong” because your parents or grandparents survived worse.

How trauma can show up

Trauma symptoms can look different for different people. NICE describes PTSD symptoms as including re-experiencing, avoidance, hyperarousal, emotional numbing, dissociation, and changes in mood and thinking. In everyday language, this might mean nightmares, flashbacks, panic, feeling constantly on edge, avoiding reminders, zoning out, feeling detached, struggling to sleep, becoming irritable, feeling numb, or finding it hard to trust people.

But trauma is not the only common issue for Gen Z. Many young adults also struggle with anxiety, low mood, loneliness, burnout, identity stress, relationship difficulties, body image concerns, self-doubt, neurodivergence-related stress, and uncertainty about the future. Social media can help people find support and language for their experiences, but it can also create comparison, information overload, and confusion about what kind of help is actually right. Digital engagement can feel negative for some young people, while also helping others find connection and mental health support.

What Kind of Mental Health Support Is Available?

This is where getting the right support matters. Not every problem needs the same professional. Some people may benefit from therapy for anxiety or depression. Others may need trauma-focused therapy, such as trauma-focused CBT or EMDR, both of which are included in evidence-based PTSD guidance. Some may need a psychologist, psychotherapist, psychiatrist, family therapist, neurodiversity-informed clinician, or culturally sensitive practitioner. Some may not know what they need yet - only that they are not coping, or that something feels stuck.

That uncertainty is exactly why My Triage Network can help. A good triage process is not about pushing you into the first available appointment. It is about listening carefully, understanding what is going on, and helping you find the right kind of professional for your needs. This can reduce the stress of searching through endless directories, guessing at titles, or messaging people who may not be the right fit.

For young people whose stories involve trauma, culture, migration, family pressure, neurodivergence, or identity, the “right fit” matters even more. You may need someone who understands trauma without pathologising your culture. You may need someone who can work with family patterns without blaming your family. You may need someone who understands that being high-functioning on the outside does not mean you are fine on the inside. Getting the right support is not about proving that your pain is “bad enough.” It is about having someone help you make sense of what you are carrying and what kind of help would actually support you.

You do not have to work it out alone

Gen Z is often described as anxious, overwhelmed, or too online. That is too simplistic. Many young people are trying to process personal, family, and global stress while also building a life in uncertain times. The question is not whether you should “just cope.” The question is: what happened, what are you carrying, and who is the right person to help you carry it differently?

If you feel lost about where to start, the first step is to Get Triaged. You do not need to know the exact diagnosis or therapy model. You only need to know that you would like support that fits your story, your background, and your needs. From there, the right signposting can help you move from confusion to clarity and from coping alone to being properly supported.

———

Key Takeaways

• The Gen Z Context: Traditional mental health resources often lack the conversational, participatory, and culturally sensitive approach required by Gen Z.

• Intergenerational Trauma: Trauma isn’t just “passed down” as a fixed inheritance; it shapes the emotional family climate, requiring practitioners who understand complex cultural and historical contexts.

• The “Right Fit” Matters: For those carrying the weight of migration or identity-based stress, successful therapy depends on finding a practitioner who understands trauma without pathologizing the individual’s background.

• Triage as a Solution: A concierge-style triage process bridges the gap between feeling overwhelmed and accessing evidence-based support by carefully matching individual needs to specific clinical expertise.

• Actionable First Step: You do not have to navigate the search for support alone; a professional triage consultation provides the clarity needed to move from confusion to the right therapeutic care.

Dr. Patapia Tzotzoli AFBPsS, HCPC registered, EuroPsy, BSc (Hons) (UEL), MSc (Oxford), MPhil (Cambridge), DClinPsy (KCL)is a UK-trained, Clinical Psychologist with 20 + years of experience. She is the Director of My Psychology Clinic, where she offers one-to-one online therapy tailored to a select clientele.

She is also the Founder of My Triage Network, where she provides free consultations and personalised introductions to trusted UK-based mental health professionals for anyone seeking assessments or therapy. Looking for support? Start with a free consultation - Get Triaged today.

My Triage Network works closely with A4R Media Hub to inform and educate GenZ about their mental health needs and how best to access the right support for their unique story.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Reading time: Approximately 7 minutes

This Is the What and the How

A previous article in this series asked a simple question: why did Gen Z’s relationship with journalism break down?

The answer was structural. Gen Z did not abandon journalism. Journalism failed to evolve fast enough for a generation raised inside interactive digital culture.

That was the why.

This is the what — and more importantly, the how. Because what is happening now is not simply a shift in media consumption. It is a structural redesign of how storytelling, learning, work, and identity function for a generation entering adulthood inside economic and technological disruption at the same time.

A Generation Entering a Compressed Opportunity Economy

Gen Z is entering the labour market at a moment of significant structural pressure across both the UK and the US — the two core markets where this shift is most acute, alongside other global economies where similar patterns are emerging.

In the UK, youth unemployment has risen to 16.2% — the highest in over a decade, with workers at the beginning of their careers feeling these pressures first and hardest (Indeed Hiring Lab UK, May 2026). Low-wage sectors that traditionally absorb young workers — retail, wholesale, hospitality and restaurants — have collectively lost nearly 130,000 jobs over the past year, with early indications that AI is also replacing entry-level positions in white-collar industries (ONS via Investing.com, 2026).

In the United States, the picture for new graduates is similarly stark. New graduate unemployment has hit 5.7% and is climbing, with 43% of new graduates underemployed — working in roles that do not require the degree they just completed (Metaintro, April 2026).

The result is not just unemployment. It is structural friction at the point of entry into adulthood: more graduates, fewer entry-level roles, higher competition per position, and slower career starts.

The Gig Economy Is No Longer Alternative — It Is Mainstream

At the same time, the nature of work itself is shifting.

Across the UK and US, the gig and freelance economy is no longer a side path. It is becoming a default survival strategy for many young people entering the workforce. With entry-level jobs vanishing, Gen Z graduates are increasingly piecing together careers through entrepreneurship, gig work, and freelancing — choosing less linear paths whose outcomes are, in many cases, actually improving (Fortune, April 2026).

What used to be side income — freelancing, content creation, contract work, short-term projects — is increasingly becoming the primary structure of early-career work.

This matters because it fundamentally reshapes how Gen Z thinks about stability, identity, learning, and career progression. Work is no longer a ladder. It is a network of projects.

AI Is Reshaping the Bottom of the Career Ladder

Layered on top of this is the impact of artificial intelligence — and it is not abstract.

AI is not just changing jobs. It is changing the structure of entry-level work itself. Tasks traditionally assigned to junior workers — research summaries, first drafts, data entry, basic analysis, content production — are increasingly automated or AI-assisted. As a result, companies are hiring fewer entry-level workers while expecting higher productivity from those they do hire.

Bill McDermott, CEO of enterprise software giant ServiceNow, has predicted that Gen Z college graduates could face at least 30% unemployment within the next couple of years as AI takes over, warning that it will be increasingly hard for young workers to differentiate themselves in a corporate environment (Fortune, March 2026).

But there is another side to this shift.

AI is also increasing demand for AI-native skills. Employers are reporting growing shortages in AI literacy, data fluency, digital workflow design, prompt-based reasoning, and hybrid human–AI collaboration. In other words, AI is reducing some entry-level work while increasing the value of people who know how to work alongside it.

This creates a new dividing line for Gen Z: AI-exposed versus AI-resilient.

This Is Not Just a Media Shift — It Is a Survival Shift

This is the context in which Gen Z is forming its relationship with media, learning, and storytelling.

They are not just choosing different platforms. They are adapting to a shrinking entry-level job market, a fragmented gig economy, and a rapidly AI-automated workplace. Which means information is no longer passive consumption. It becomes a skill-building tool, a career survival mechanism, and a way to learn continuously in real time.

And this is where traditional journalism increasingly fails to connect. It still behaves like a broadcast system in a world that now functions like a network.

A4R Media as a Gen Z-Native Response System

A4R Media was not built for Gen Z. It was co-created with Gen Z.

That distinction is critical — because it means the platform is not interpreting Gen Z from the outside. It is reflecting how they already behave inside digital ecosystems.

Instead of a traditional newsroom, A4R Media operates as a creative community lab, where contributors actively participate in storytelling, research, and production. The model blends AI-assisted research and workflow design, collaborative storytelling across contributors, gaming-inspired narrative structures, podcasts and conversational media formats, digital art and visual storytelling, NFTs and creator ownership models, citizen journalism rooted in lived experience, and peer-to-peer vocational learning.

Rather than hierarchical editorial structures, A4R Media functions like a distributed creative system where contributors learn by doing. This is not a media company trying to modernise journalism. It is a participatory system designed around how Gen Z already learns — through interaction, collaboration, experimentation, and feedback loops.

Why Gaming Culture Is the Hidden Architecture

Gaming is not a side influence here. It is structural.

Games are collaborative systems, identity spaces, learning environments, narrative worlds, and real-time social networks. Gen Z did not just play games. They were socialised through them. Which means they already understand interactive systems, shared world-building, progression through participation, and community-driven outcomes.

A4R Media applies that logic directly to journalism. Stories are no longer just consumed. They are explored, shaped, and participated in.

The AI Layer: From Information to Interaction

AI accelerates this shift further.

Search taught people to find information. AI teaches people to interact with it. This changes expectations fundamentally — from static articles to conversational systems, from fixed narratives to adaptive understanding, from reading to participation.

A4R Media integrates AI not as a replacement for human storytelling, but as a research assistant, workflow layer, creative co-pilot, and learning accelerator. This connects directly to a bigger Gen Z need: becoming AI-resilient in a shrinking entry-level job market. The platform is not just producing journalism. It is producing the skills that make young people viable in the economy that is emerging around them.

Web3, Creativity, and Why the Arts Are No Longer for the Few

This is where the A4R Media model becomes genuinely distinctive — and where the convergence of Web3, AI, and participatory storytelling opens something much larger than a media platform.

Financial institutions are migrating onto blockchain infrastructure. Bitcoin is recognised as a mainstream financial asset by governments and central banks across the US, UK, and Europe. Smart contracts are moving from pilot projects into real-world enterprise applications. Digital ownership and creator economies are becoming structurally embedded in how online culture operates.

But here is the question that matters for Gen Z: so what?

The answer is not just about financial systems. It is about who gets to participate in the economy being built on top of them. Web3 is not simply a technology upgrade for banks. It is the infrastructure of a new creator economy — one where ownership, attribution, and value can be distributed to contributors rather than concentrated in institutions.

Through the gaming-inspired digital art that participants create using AI tools on the platform, contributors are producing work that is native to Web3 formats — NFTs, digital collectibles, tokenised storytelling assets. This is not theoretical. It is vocational. Participants are learning by making, and what they are making has real-world relevance in a sector that is growing rapidly.

Think about what the smartphone did to photography. For most of human history, photography required specialist equipment, technical training, and access to darkrooms or professional labs. It was a skill for the few. The smartphone did not just make cameras cheaper — it democratised the creative act itself. Today, billions of people produce visual storytelling as a natural part of daily life.

AI and Web3 are doing the same thing for creativity, innovation, and economic participation. For most of history, creating publishable art, producing professional-quality media, building financial assets, or contributing to a global creative economy required access — to institutions, to capital, to training, to networks. That access was not equally distributed. It followed existing lines of privilege and geography.

AI changes the production layer. Web3 changes the ownership and distribution layer. Together, they do not just make creativity more accessible — they make it economically viable at the individual level, at scale, for people who would previously have had no route in.

The arts are no longer for the few.

Built for Scale — and Already Validated

A4R Media sits at the centre of this shift not accidentally, but by design.

The vocational training co-created with Gen Z is embedded in partnership with the career services of leading universities — including Oxford University Careers Service and King’s College London — and has already engaged over 385 student participants through structured programmes. It is not a niche experiment for a handful of students. It is a scalable model, built to grow globally, that uses AI-assisted storytelling, gaming-inspired digital art, Web3 publishing tools, and citizen journalism frameworks to give young people — including those from refugee backgrounds and post-conflict communities — genuine skills, genuine creative output, and genuine economic participation.

The broader ecosystem has received innovation and excellence recognition in education and media, with nominations tied to gaming journalism and experimental storytelling formats. These signals matter not as badges, but as evidence that the model works — that A4R Media is already functioning as a vocational pipeline, a media innovation lab, and a Gen Z participation ecosystem with the institutional backing to grow.

Journalism Is Becoming Infrastructure

The shift underway is not simply about new media formats. It is about infrastructure.

A4R Media represents one version of that infrastructure — participation-first, AI-native, gaming-informed, vocationally embedded, and co-created with the generation it serves.

Gen Z is not waiting for journalism to evolve. They are already building systems where learning, work, storytelling, and identity are no longer separate domains. They are part of the same ecosystem.

And A4R Media is one of the clearest early prototypes of what that ecosystem looks like in practice.

Key Takeaways -

• UK youth unemployment has reached 16.2% — the highest in over a decade, with entry-level sectors hardest hit (Indeed Hiring Lab UK, May 2026)

• 43% of US new graduates are underemployed; new graduate unemployment is at 5.7% and climbing (Metaintro, April 2026)

• The gig economy is no longer alternative — it is a primary structure of Gen Z early-career work (Fortune, April 2026)

• AI is eliminating some entry-level roles while creating demand for AI-native skills — splitting Gen Z into AI-exposed and AI-resilient (Fortune / ServiceNow, March 2026)

• Web3 and AI together are democratising creative and economic participation the way the smartphone democratised photography

• A4R Media is a participatory response system — journalism platform, vocational pipeline, and AI and Web3 skills environment in one

• With 385+ participants and partnerships at Oxford and King’s College London, it has real-world institutional validation at scale

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Reading time: Approximately 5 minutes

Journalism Didn’t Lose Gen Z. It Failed to Keep Up.

For years, media companies have been asking the wrong question: “How do we get Gen Z interested in the news again?”

The reality is more fundamental than that. Gen Z did not abandon journalism. Journalism failed to evolve fast enough for a generation raised inside interactive digital culture.

This is the first truly digital-native generation in history. They grew up inside ecosystems shaped by gaming, YouTube, livestreams, creator culture, online communities, memes, and social platforms. They learned through participation rather than passive consumption. They are comfortable asking questions, challenging narratives, cross-checking information, and learning collectively in real time.

Traditional media was built around broadcasting. Gen Z grew up around interaction. That mismatch is the real story.

A Generation That Expects More From Information

Today, younger audiences increasingly discover information through creators, podcasts, gaming communities, social platforms, AI tools, and peer-to-peer digital ecosystems — not legacy news institutions. But this shift is not simply about attention or distribution channels. It is about expectation.

Gen Z expects information to be conversational, immersive, collaborative, personalised, and accessible on demand. They do not just consume stories. They engage with them.

Broader culture has already adapted around them. Coffee raves are replacing nightclub culture. Wellness communities are replacing purely transactional social spaces. Online ecosystems are replacing gatekeeping institutions. Identity is increasingly shaped through creativity, collaboration, and digital participation.

They are not asking for media to be simplified. They are asking for media to be native to how they live.

A4R Media: Co-Created, Not Just Targeted

This is where A4R Media becomes more than an experiment.

A4R Media was not built for Gen Z. It was co-created with Gen Z. That distinction is critical, because it changes the entire structure of what the platform represents.

It is not a traditional media organisation trying to reach young people. It is a Gen Z-shaped media ecosystem built with them, inside their behavioural reality. And that is exactly why it works as an example of what comes next.

Through citizen journalism, podcasts, gaming-inspired storytelling, AI-supported workflows, digital art, NFTs, and collaborative media experiences, A4R Media is built around how digital-native creators naturally think, create, and share. It is designed around participation from the start — not retrofitted for it.

What Gaming Taught a Generation About Storytelling

Gaming culture is one of the clearest foundations of this shift.

For Gen Z, gaming was never just entertainment. It was a learning system, a social network, a creative space, and a storytelling environment all at once. It taught collaboration, problem-solving, identity-building, and narrative exploration in ways traditional media never could.

Gaming normalised participation. It taught a generation that stories are not only consumed — they are entered, shaped, and experienced.

A4R Media applies that same logic to journalism and storytelling. Instead of treating audiences as passive readers, it treats them as contributors, collaborators, and co-creators of narrative.

Citizen Journalism and the Stories That Get Left Behind

This is where citizen journalism becomes powerful again — not as a replacement for professional reporting, but as an extension of lived experience, especially in contexts that traditional media struggles to sustain over time.

Conflict may dominate headlines while it is breaking news. But rebuilding, displacement, identity, culture, and long-term resilience often disappear once the cameras leave. A4R Media focuses precisely on those gaps — and does so through the voices of those closest to the experience.

That is where co-creation becomes essential. Because Gen Z is not a passive audience waiting to be informed. They are active participants in how information is produced, shared, validated, and understood.

AI, Web3, and the Infrastructure Gen Z Already Lives Inside

This is also why AI matters in this ecosystem. Search-based behaviour trained people to retrieve information. AI-native behaviour trains people to interact with it. That shift makes journalism more conversational, more adaptive, and more responsive to individual curiosity.

At the same time, Web3 technologies are steadily moving into mainstream systems. Financial institutions are exploring blockchain infrastructure. Bitcoin is globally recognised as a legitimate financial asset. Smart contracts are beginning to be applied in real-world contexts. Digital ownership and creator economies are becoming structurally embedded in online culture.

For Gen Z, none of this feels foreign. They already live inside digital economies — through games, creator platforms, online communities, and collaborative digital spaces.

This Is What Journalism Looks Like When It Evolves

A4R Media sits directly at the intersection of all of these shifts. But what makes it different is not just the tools it uses. It is the way it was built — co-created with the very generation it serves.

That means it is not guessing how Gen Z behaves. It is reflecting how Gen Z already behaves.

It is not a media platform trying to reach Gen Z. It is Gen Z building media itself.

And that changes everything.

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Back Story

From Kabul to California: Khaled Hosseini writes home away from home.

‘One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls’ — a Persian line quoted by Khaled Hosseini in his celebrated novel A Thousand Splendid Suns, to conjure an image of a Kabul he can no longer call home. Writing novels that primarily explore life in Afghanistan through time, Khaled Hosseini shares poetic visions of the country he was born into. The reality of his own experience however, has been one of separation and distance from his home nation. Being forced to seek asylum in the US as a teenager, Khaled Hosseini’s exile led him to pick up the pen and write his way back home. Today, he is an acclaimed author of four novels, raising awareness globally for the experiences of the people of Afghanistan, and displaced communities.

Khaled Hosseini was born on 4th March 1965, in Kabul, Afghanistan. The Afghanistan Hosseini was born into looks strikingly different from the Afghanistan we see in contemporary media today. At this time, Afghanistan was not engaged in any conflict, though this is not to say it was entirely stable. In 1973 the king was overthrown by prime minister and president Mohammad Daoud Khan, and Afghanistan became a non-democratic authoritarian republic. Between the sixties and early seventies, however, Kabul was considered a growing and liberated space. It was a popular destination for travellers, taking a spot on what was known as the ‘hippy trail.’ As a master of words himself, it is perhaps best to use his own to paint a picture of the country in 1965. In an interview with Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Hosseini describes it as ‘a country at peace with itself [...] a growing, cosmopolitan city.’

In 1976, his father’s work at the Afghan Foreign Ministry prompted a relocation to the Afghan Embassy in Paris. At eleven, Hosseini found himself moving away from his home, expecting a temporary stay. Little did he know, a trip that was intended to last only four years, would result in the family never going back.

The Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan closed the door on any quick return. Beginning in December 1979, the Soviet Union took military and political control in Afghanistan, starting with Kabul and other parts of the country. The Soviet Union had become closely allied with the communist government in Afghanistan, and aimed to keep a communist grasp on the country in order to limit the influence of the US in the Middle East. However, the communist government was facing resistance from the largely Muslim anti-communist Mujahideen groups operating in rural regions. Fighting between these two groups produced one of the largest refugee movements of the twentieth century. For Hosseini’s family, it turned a temporary diplomatic posting into a permanent displacement.

The escalating tensions in Afghanistan made it impossible for Hosseini and his family to return home, and they had no choice but to divert their journey. Instead of heading to the Middle East, they swung west — Hosseini and his family sought political asylum in the US. Hosseini expresses in interviews that he believes himself and his family to have been more fortunate than many of the other Afghan refugees who fled the country at this time. Many of these individuals were placed in refugee camps in neighbouring Pakistan or given roles as labourers in Iran. Estimates for the era put total Afghan refugees and displaced persons in the mid-millions (commonly cited figures are roughly 5–6 million displaced overall, with around 2 million into Pakistan and about 1 million into Iran).

Hosseini settled in California, and found himself thrown into adolescence in a country where he couldn’t speak the language, and was forced to pick it up as he went. Moving into adulthood, Hosseini completed a BA in biology at Santa Clara University and later earned an MD from the University of California, San Diego. It was alongside his work as a doctor that he began storytelling. From speaking no English at 15, Hosseini not only picked up the language but mastered it, using it to give a voice to the experiences of people in Afghanistan.

Themes of displacement and diaspora remain central for Hosseini, and these find themselves becoming prominent in his work. His fiction career began with The Kite Runner (2003), followed by A Thousand Splendid Suns (2007) and And the Mountains Echoed (2013). Each of these explores themes of memory, connection, and the private costs of public violence. The Kite Runner focuses on the relationship between a privileged boy from Kabul and his friend against the backdrop of the tumultuous political climate of the country. The equally poignant A Thousand Splendid Suns takes a different perspective on life in Afghanistan: in this novel he turns to the female experience, a shift he later attributed to returning visits to Afghanistan in the early 2000s. His most recent novel about Afghanistan, And the Mountains Echoed, tracks similar themes through generations of an Afghan family. Looking at the entirety of his discography, Hosseini paints a vivid image both of the life he left behind in Afghanistan, and the aftermath of the various conflicts that have prevented him from returning home.

Using his pen to advocate not only for those living in Afghanistan, Hosseini has also engaged with refugee crises globally. In 2018, he published a short story titled Sea Prayer. This was inspired by the tragic death of Alan Kurdi, the three-year-old Syrian refugee who drowned in an attempt to cross the Mediterranean. Subsequently, this story takes the form of a letter from a father to a son, as they prepare to undertake a similar journey. Hosseini discusses the significance of this story with NPR:

“It speaks to the experience of so many refugee children, whether we’re talking about Syria or Afghanistan — an entire generation of children who are being raised amid turmoil and violence and war, and have no personal connection to the beauty and the richness of their country before all the turmoil began.”

With this text, Hosseini’s work has expanded from a sole focus on life in Afghanistan through time, to a wider reflection of the refugee experience. He frames displacement in a direct, accessible form aimed at a wide audience.

Beyond fiction, Khaled Hosseini works to change the lives of refugees through charitable means. Since 2006, he has been a part of the UN refugee agency, acting as a UNHCR Goodwill Ambassador. As part of this work, he has travelled globally to document the experiences of refugees, making field visits to Afghanistan, Lebanon, Italy, Uganda, Jordan, Chad, and Iraq. As well as this, in 2008 he established the Khaled Hosseini Foundation, an organisation dedicated to giving humanitarian aid to vulnerable groups in Afghanistan. Taking a particular focus on the protection of women and children, this foundation works to provide healthcare, education and shelter for families. Khaled Hosseini has both written stories demonstrating the need for global attention both to Afghanistan and the refugee experience more widely, and he continues to make efforts to enact this aid through his various humanitarian commitments. His humanitarian work and his books operate in tandem: the novels humanise large-scale suffering for international readers while his advocacy supports direct aid on the ground.

In this post Leya highlights the arty refugee experience of Khaled Hosseini. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

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The article explores the long-term consequences of the Yazidi genocide after ISIS’s defeat in Iraq. It highlights ongoing displacement, contested identity, and unresolved questions of belonging, especially for women and children born in captivity. Despite legal recognition and rebuilding efforts, Sinjar remains fragile, with justice, trauma, and identity still deeply intertwined.

Where Do You Belong After Genocide? The Story of Yazidi Women and The Fight for their Home

In August 2014, ISIS stormed northern Iraq and launched a coordinated attack on the Yazidi community in Sinjar. Thousands were killed and more than 6,000 women and children were abducted. Entire villages disappeared within days. The United Nations later recognised the assault as genocide. Five years later, in March 2019, ISIS lost its final territorial hold and the self-declared caliphate collapsed. For much of the world, this marked the end of a chapter. Headlines moved on.

For the Yazidis, however, the story did not end there. Nearly a decade later, between 250,000 and 300,000 Yazidis remain in displacement camps across northern Iraq. Sinjar is still politically unstable and economically fragile. The war may have ended militarily, but the struggle over identity, justice, and belonging continues in everyday life.

The fall of ISIS removed the immediate existential threat. Families are no longer fleeing mountaintops and large-scale massacres have not returned. Yet stability in Sinjar remains uncertain. The 2020 Sinjar Agreement between the Iraqi federal government and the Kurdistan Regional Government was designed to unify security control and rebuild governance. In practice, progress has been uneven. Militias remain present, administrative authority is contested, and reconstruction projects move slowly. Electricity and water services function inconsistently in some districts. Many Yazidis hesitate to return without firm guarantees of long-term security and employment. Physical safety has improved, but political and economic stability still feel fragile.

To understand why rebuilding remains so complicated, you need to understand Yazidi identity itself. The Yazidis are an ancient ethno-religious minority with deep historical roots in Sinjar. Yazidism does not allow conversion. One is born into the faith, and belonging is inherited through lineage. Tribal affiliations and hereditary religious castes shape marriage, ritual participation, and community life. For centuries, these boundaries protected the Yazidis during repeated waves of persecution, including forced displacement under Saddam Hussein. Identity was never only cultural. It was a strategy for survival.

The genocide of 2014 fractured that protective structure. When women escaped ISIS captivity and returned home, the community faced a defining moment. In a landmark decision, Yazidi religious leaders publicly welcomed these women back into the faith. In many societies, survivors of sexual violence are blamed or excluded. That did not happen here. The decision signalled that what had been done to these women did not redefine who they were. Recognition, the basic human need to be seen and accepted, was restored in principle.

Yet reintegration also revealed a deeper tension. Some women returned with children born during captivity. Under traditional Yazidi religious law, belonging is determined by inherited lineage, and conversion is not recognised. This created a painful question that remains unresolved: can children fathered by ISIS fighters be considered Yazidi?

For many tribal and religious authorities, the answer remains no.

Supporters of this position frame it as preservation. Before 2014, the global Yazidi population was estimated at around half a million. Thousands were killed and many migrated permanently to Europe. After genocide, fears of demographic extinction intensify. Reinforcing lineage rules can feel like safeguarding survival. However, protection can clash with belonging.

For mothers raising these children, the debate is not abstract. It shapes daily life, from access to education and participation in religious ceremonies to social acceptance and future marriage prospects. Some women remain in displacement camps rather than return to villages where their children’s identity may be questioned. Others have migrated abroad, particularly to Germany, which now hosts the largest Yazidi diaspora outside Iraq. Tens of thousands have resettled there since 2014. Migration offers safety and opportunity, but it also transforms Sinjar’s future. Entire neighbourhoods remain underpopulated, and youth emigration slows economic recovery. Two decades from now, the social structure of Sinjar may look very different from what it once was.

The consequences of genocide are not only demographic. They are psychological. Studies estimate that between 70 and 90 percent of Yazidis suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. More than 90 percent of women who endured captivity experienced multiple forms of violence. Mental health professionals describe widespread depression, chronic anxiety, and survivor’s guilt. Suicide rates have risen in some communities. Trauma continues to shape parenting, relationships, and trust within the community.

At the same time, rebuilding is taking place. Women’s centres in displacement camps now serve as safe spaces for counselling, education, and vocational training. These centres do more than provide therapy. They rebuild confidence and restore connection. Research shows that empowerment through earning income, gaining education, and rebuilding social networks significantly reduces symptoms of PTSD and depression. When women open small businesses, complete literacy programmes, or mentor younger girls, recovery becomes visible. Survival gradually turns into agency, even if the process remains uneven.

Economic rebuilding, however, remains fragile. Agriculture, once central to Sinjar’s economy, was disrupted during ISIS occupation. Fields were destroyed or mined, and investment has been limited. Youth unemployment remains high. Camps originally intended to be temporary have become semi-permanent communities. Children who fled Sinjar in 2014 are now entering adulthood after spending formative years in displacement. Education has resumed in many areas, yet interruptions carry long-term consequences for economic mobility and stability.

Justice has become another crucial dimension of recovery. In 2021, Iraq passed the Yazidi Survivors’ Law, promising financial compensation and formal recognition for survivors of ISIS atrocities. The law represented an important institutional acknowledgment. However, implementation has been slow. Survivors often face bureaucratic obstacles when applying for compensation. Recognition exists legally, but delivery remains inconsistent.

International accountability efforts continue alongside domestic processes. Several European courts have prosecuted ISIS members for genocide and crimes against humanity. In contrast, many Iraqi trials focus primarily on terrorism charges rather than genocide classifications. The distinction is significant. Terrorism charges punish acts. Genocide charges acknowledge the intent to destroy a people. For survivors, naming the crime accurately is part of restoring dignity and affirming identity.

Nadia Murad, Nobel Peace Prize Laureate and Yazidi survivor, has played a central role in this global pursuit of justice. In conversation with the Cambridge Journal of Law, Politics, and Art, Murad emphasised that justice must extend beyond compensation. “We want accountability,” she said. For her, testimony itself is a form of justice, a way to preserve truth and confront denial. She has criticised the gap between international recognition and domestic enforcement, arguing that survivors deserve full legal acknowledgment of genocide. In this sense, justice is not only about punishment. It is about voice and about being heard.

Media coverage often freezes Yazidi women in the moment of violence. Research analysing UK newspapers found that they were frequently portrayed primarily as passive victims. That narrative overlooks the present. Today, Yazidi women are activists, educators, community organisers, and legal advocates. They speak at global forums, negotiate internal debates about identity, and lead grassroots initiatives in Sinjar and abroad. They are not only survivors. They are active participants in rebuilding their community.

Governance challenges continue to complicate progress. Political fragmentation between Baghdad and Kurdish authorities slows reconstruction. Armed groups retain influence in certain districts. Without unified governance, investment remains cautious and infrastructure rebuilding remains incomplete. Electricity, healthcare, and water systems operate inconsistently. Stability exists, but it remains delicate.

The Yazidi community now finds itself between two conflicts. The first was external and violently imposed by ISIS. The second is internal and structural, centred on identity and belonging. Protection seeks to preserve religious continuity that ensured survival for centuries. Adaptation acknowledges the realities shaped by genocide and displacement. Both impulses reflect the same instinct: endurance.

The deeper question facing Sinjar is not whether ISIS will return tomorrow. It is whether the community can rebuild the full spectrum of human needs, including safety, dignity, justice, participation, and belonging. Infrastructure can be reconstructed within years. Debates over identity may last generations.

The war ended in 2019, but the negotiation over belonging continues. Between preservation and change, Yazidi women remain at the centre of that negotiation. They are rebuilding homes, demanding accountability, supporting one another through trauma, and shaping the future of their community. Survival ensured continuity. The next few years will determine what that continuity becomes.

Accessed sources:

Ali, M.H. (2022). The Forced Displacement of Ethnic and Religious Minorities in Disputed Areas in Iraq: A Case Study of the Post-2014 Yazidi Minority. AlMuntaqa, [online] 5(1), pp.76–89. Available at: https://www.jstor.org/stable/48677172.

Hesford, W.S., Licona, A.C. and Teston, C. (2018). Precarious Rhetorics. [online] Ohio State University Press. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv1wsgqjn.

Lobanov-Rostovsky, S. and Kiss, L. (2022). The mental health and well-being of internally displaced female Yazidis in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq: a realist review of psychosocial interventions and the impact of COVID-19. Global Mental Health, 9, pp.508–520. doi:https://doi.org/10.1017/gmh.2022.55.

Nicolaus, P. and Yuce, S. (2017). SexSlavery: One Aspect of the Yezidi Genocide. Iran & the Caucasus, [online] 21(2), pp.196–229. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/44631115.

Nicolaus, P. and Yuce, S. (2019). A Look at the Yezidi Journey to Selfdiscovery and Ethnic Identity. Iran & the Caucasus, [online] 23(1), pp.87–104. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/26626714.

Sarac, B.N. (2020). UK Newspapers’ Portrayal of Yazidi Women’s Experiences of Violence under ISIS on JSTOR. Jstor.org, [online] 13. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/26907413.

van Zoonen, D. and Wirya, K. (2017). Yazidism and its Community in Iraq. [online] JSTOR. Available at: https://www.jstor.org/stable/resrep13635.5.

Women for Women International (2024). A decade of transformation for Yazidi women but the Trauma continues | Women For Women. [online] Women for Women International. Available at: https://womenforwomen.org.uk/blog/yazidi-genocide-tenth-anniversary.

In this episode Diana discusses the post conflict experience of Yazidi Women and their issues with re integrating into society. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Ten-year-old Marjane Satrapi saw Iran transform overnight during the 1979 Revolution. Forced into the veil and eventually exiled to Vienna, she struggled with racism and lost identity. Satrapi reclaimed her story through Persepolis. Her graphic memoir uses stark art and humor to turn personal trauma into a global symbol of resistance.

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Back Story

How Marjane Satrapi Turned Revolution into a Global Story

In 1979, as Iran erupted into revolution, a ten-year-old girl watched her world change overnight. Schools closed. Veils became mandatory. Friends disappeared. The rules of everyday life from what to wear, what to say, even how to think, shifted under the weight of a new regime.

That girl was Marjane Satrapi. Years later, she would transform those memories into Persepolis, a graphic memoir that would become one of the most recognisable accounts of revolution, exile and identity in the modern world.

Today, Satrapi is a globally celebrated artist, filmmaker and writer. At the heart of her work lies her personal experience of displacement- not just from a country, but from a sense of belonging.

Childhood, Rebellion, and the First Loss

Before she became the voice behind Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi was a child standing in a prison visiting room, saying goodbye to her uncle for the last time. He had been imprisoned for his political beliefs and had chosen Satrapi as his final visitor before he was executed. Satrapi was only ten years old.

It’s a moment that lingers in Persepolis- not dramatised, not exaggerated, just quietly devastating. And it marks the point where childhood, for her, begins to fracture.

Satrapi was born in 1969 into a politically engaged, middle-class family in Tehran. Her parents were outspoken critics of authoritarian rule, deeply embedded in political life, and committed to raising a daughter who would question everything. Dinner table conversations were rarely small talk; they were about revolution, justice, and what kind of future Iran could become.

When the Iranian Revolution began, there was hope. Like many families, hers believed it might bring freedom. Instead, it ushered in a regime that quickly tightened its grip on everyday life.

For Satrapi, this shift wasn’t distant or abstract, it showed up at school, on the streets, in what she was allowed to wear. Her bilingual French school was shut down. The veil became mandatory. Rules multiplied overnight.

But if the regime demanded conformity, Satrapi pushed back in the only ways she could.

At school, she developed a reputation for being outspoken, stubborn, and, in her own way, rebellious. She challenged teachers, questioned authority, and refused to quietly accept the version of the world she was being handed.

In Persepolis, she doesn’t present herself as a passive observer of history. She is argumentative, curious, sometimes naive, but always thinking for herself. One moment she’s dreaming of becoming a prophet; the next, she’s debating politics with adults.

That tension, between innocence and defiance, is what makes her story so compelling.

At such a young age, Satrapi was trying to figure out something so complex: where she belonged. In a country that was rapidly changing, in a system that demanded obedience, and in a childhood that was slipping away faster than it should have.

Through her eyes, history doesn’t feel distant. It feels immediate, confusing, and deeply personal.

And that is where Persepolis begins.

Growing Up Under Fire

The situation worsened with the outbreak of the Iran-Iraq War in 1980. Bombings, air raid sirens, and constant fear of death became part of daily life. In Persepolis, Satrapi captures this reality with stark, simple imagery: black skies, crumbling buildings, and silent figures absorbing loss.

One of the most haunting moments in the memoir is the death of her friend’s family in a missile strike, depicted through the shocking image of her friend’s hand wearing a turquoise bracelet in the rubble. It is a reminder of how suddenly life could be erased.

Fearing for her safety and future, Satrapi’s parents made a difficult decision, they sent her to Vienna at the age of 14. It was an act of protection, but also the beginning of exile.

Sent Away at Fourteen

In Austria, Satrapi faced new struggles. Removed from her family, her language, and everything familiar, she found herself caught between worlds. At fourteen, she was expected to rebuild a life from scratch, navigating a culture that didn’t fully understand her and, at times, didn’t want to.

She faced racism, isolation, and the quiet pressure to assimilate. In Persepolis, she recalls hiding her Iranian identity to avoid judgement and then wrestling with the guilt that followed. If she distanced herself from where she came from, who did that make her?

This is where one of the central ideas of her work begins to take shape: identity is not something stable or fixed, but something constantly negotiated, especially in exile.

The reality of her life in Vienna was far from the idea of escape. She moved between unstable housing, experienced periods of homelessness, and struggled with depression. The freedom she had been sent to find often felt like abandonment.

Eventually, she returned to Iran. But home no longer felt like home.

Instead, she found herself in a space many refugees and migrants recognise- where home exists in two places, and yet in neither. Not entirely Iranian anymore, but never fully accepted as European either.

That in-between space- uncomfortable, unresolved, and deeply human- became central to Satrapi’s voice as an artist. It is what gives Persepolis its emotional depth, and what allows it to resonate far beyond her own story.

Persepolis and Humour in the Face of Oppression

Persepolis, first published in 2000, is not just a memoir, it is a political and cultural intervention.

At a time when Western narratives about Iran were dominated by headlines and stereotypes, Satrapi offered something radically different: a human story. Through black-and-white drawings and sharp, often humorous dialogue, she presented Iranians not as distant “others”, but as relatable humans living through extraordinary circumstances.

The visual style of Persepolis is deceptively simple. The bold, high-contrast illustrations strip scenes down to their emotional core. This simplicity makes the story accessible and universal. Readers are not overwhelmed by detail, instead they are drawn into the emotional truth of each moment.

Satrapi has said she chose the graphic novel format deliberately. mages, she believed, could communicate across cultures in ways words alone often could not.

One of the most striking aspects of Persepolis is its use of humour. Even in the darkest moments, Satrapi finds space for irony and wit.

She writes about buying illegal Western music on the black market, arguing with authority figures, and navigating the absurd contradictions of life under strict rule. These moments do not diminish the seriousness of her experiences, instead, they make them more real.

Humour becomes a form of resistance and a way of maintaining individuality in a system that demands conformity.

From Memoir to Global Impact

Persepolis has been translated into dozens of languages and is studied in classrooms around the world.

The success of Persepolis led to a film adaptation in 2007, which Satrapi co-directed. The film was nominated for an Academy Award and brought her story to an even wider audience.

Since then, Satrapi has continued to work across different media, including film and illustration. But Persepolis remains her most influential work, not only because of its artistic merit, but because of its timing and impact.

In a world increasingly shaped by migration and displacement, her story resonates with readers far beyond Iran. It speaks to anyone who has experienced the tension between home and elsewhere, between identity and expectation.

Why Her Story Matters Now

Satrapi’s work feels particularly relevant today. As tensions around Iran continue to surface in global headlines, conversations about the region are often reduced to politics, conflict, and statistics.

Persepolis pushes back against that, quietly, but powerfully, by restoring the human dimension.

In many ways, the world Satrapi writes about does not feel distant. The questions her work raises about freedom, control, belonging, and resistance, are still being lived in real time.

More broadly, global conversations around refugees and migrants continue to flatten lives into labels and numbers. Persepolis pushes back against that flattening of lives into labels, insisting instead on the messy, human reality behind them.

Importantly, Satrapi does not present herself simply as a victim. Her story is not one of passive suffering, but of agency. She questions authority, challenges norms, and ultimately tells her own story on her own terms.

By turning her life into art, Satrapi does something powerful; she reclaims control over how her story, and by extension the story of her country, is told. Instead of being spoken about, she speaks for herself.

That refusal to be simplified, to be reduced to a headline, is what gives Persepolis its lasting power.

Because while the context may evolve, the experience of displacement, of being misunderstood, of searching for home, remains strikingly unchanged.

And in telling that story, Satrapi asks readers not just to observe, but to understand.

References -

Satrapi, M. (2003) Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood. London: Vintage.

Satrapi, M. (2004) Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return. London: Vintage.

Satrapi, M. and Paronnaud, V. (2007) Persepolis [film]. France: Sony Pictures Classics.

NPR (2008) ‘Marjane Satrapi: Persepolis, Politics And Art’, NPR. Available at:

https://www.npr.org

(Accessed: 25 March 2026).

Chute, H. (2010) Graphic Women: Life Narrative and Contemporary Comics. New York: Columbia University Press.

In this UGC post Rebecca highlights the arty refugee experience of Marjane Satrapi. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

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Like most conflicts and wars in the world, what most people see are footages of fallen buildings, collapsed roads, and displaced civilians. However, the lasting chronic impacts of wars often happen once the cameras leave; when societies are left to themselves with broken infrastructure and collapsed systems. Yemen’s story is no different. What began as a civil war in 2015 has now left Yemen with a chronic conflict, broken infrastructure, and a constant fight for survival.

Backstory

Before it’s too late!

When missiles stop firing and political leaders stop making statements about the kinetic conflicts and military strategic objectives, unfortunately, these conflicts stop making news on global headlines. This article tries to look at how Yemen has been surviving the impacts of the conflict which now seldom receives the footage on global news, but still very much struggles to survive.

One country, two economies, both failed.

After the Yemeni Internationally Recognised Government (IGR) relocated its operations from Sana’a to Aden, Yemen is split into two parallel economies. The split in the Central Bank of Yemen and consequent running of two parallel economies has had a strong impact on Yemen’s economy. The World Bank’s 2025 Yemen Economic Monitor reveals that the GDP is projected to decline by 1.5% in the financial year 2025-26 (World Bank Group, 2025). As of June 2025, the price of a basic food basket was 26 percent higher than a year earlier (ibid). As of September 2025, only 19 percent of the USD 2.5 billion required under the UN Humanitarian Response Plan for Yemen had been funded, marking the lowest level in over a decade (ibid). With limited donor support, high food prices, and shrinking job opportunities, more than 60 percent of households in both IRG- and Houthi-controlled areas report inadequate food consumption, with many resorting to negative coping mechanisms such as begging (ibid).

Before the conflict, Yemen imported up to 90% of its food. Commercial banks facilitated transactions for these crucial economic activities. These basic economic activities are no longer done by commercial banks. Informal and unregulated credit chains which not just extract value at every stage of business but also every basic transaction is the unfortunate reality, and evidence to the broken system that Yemen functions in.

Honey trade, which is one of the most pursued occupations in Yemen is severely affected by this. The markets and buyers for the Sidr honey, which is a premium commodity in European markets very much exist, but the structure to support the running of this business does not. The question, therefore, is not whether economic activity exists in Yemen. It is whether that activity is building anything or is it simply the sound of people running to stay in the same place.

What does the honey and the cooperative tell us

Hadhramaut produces between 30 to 40% of Yemen’s total honey output (Live Beekeeping, 2025). The Sidr honey that comes from here is one of the most premium commodities in European as well as Gulf markets.

The beekeepers who produce it have organised themselves into cooperatives. Not because cooperation is an ideology, but because it is a survival strategy. A Hadhramaut beekeeper individually has no negotiating power with a Gulf buyer. Collectively, they can set a floor price. They pool risk, that is, if one member’s supplies fail because of displacement or illness, the group absorbs it. They run informal credit chains between each other because formal credit does not exist. They sell through diaspora networks in Saudi Arabia and the UAE because the formal export infrastructure has collapsed. On the surface, it appears like an impressive success story in the middle of a war. It is rather a survival effort to survive a failed system. This ecosystem is fragile and the prospects of its sustainability are rather bleak.

Labour trauma

The people building Yemen’s economy are the same people who lived through its destruction. Participation in these cooperatives is uneven. Members support each other because everyone is facing displacement, illness care responsibilities and trauma. Economic participation here does not mean recovery; it is a daily fight for survival.

The disappearing floor

A significant portion of Yemen’s economic activity runs on humanitarian aid. This is not real market, and it is shrinking too, as discussed above. These cuts are landing on the communities that were trying to build on these aids.

The generation that is growing in the gap

Nearly half of Yemeni children under five suffer from stunting, a chronic malnutrition disease (UNICEF, 2024). In 2025, 3.7 million children aged 5 to 17 are out of school. Those still attending endure overcrowded classrooms with teachers who are overworked, unsupported, and unpaid since 2016 in the northern areas of Yemen. In addition, 94.7 per cent of 10-year-olds in Yemen are unable to read or understand a simple text, an issue called learning poverty (United Nations Yemen, 2025).

When the A4R talks about what happens 20 years down the road, this is what we are talking about. These children are already on the road.

What resilience looks like

The cooperative model looks like a silver line amidst all of this, to some extent it is, but its sustainability is fragile. Resilience in Yemen is not a triumph story, but an account of daily thrive for survival. The cooperative is trying to compensate for missing banks, missing roads, missing certification and documentation bodies- something that does not come in its ambit. The centuries long knowledge of beekeeping is still being passed on, but with diminished prospects of recovery.

Resilience in Yemen does not look like hope. It looks like a group of traders deciding, again, to show up, because the alternative is not showing up at all.

What comes next?

Tomorrow, the Hadhramaut beekeeper will reopen his stall. He will continue to sell his honey through unofficial routes that shouldn’t be necessary, at prices that should be higher, within a system that ought to function better. He has done this for years, so many, that most people outside Yemen have lost track. The central question this article cannot resolve, the one that underlies everything: how long a survival mechanism can stand in for the infrastructure needed for genuine recovery? How much longer until informal credit collapses? Until diaspora support dwindles? Until the generation who remembers pre-2015 Yemen disappears? Yemen does not need pity from the world; it needs enduring, informed, and honest attention. Not the fleeting concern of crisis headlines, but a sustained commitment to understanding what it means to survive without the systems that true survival demands. The honey remains excellent and the beekeeper knows this already. The real question is whether those responsible for rebuilding the systems around him will recognize this before it’s too late.

References

Live Beekeeping. (2025, October). Why Yemeni honey is expensive, how to choose it, and whether it is worth buying. Live Beekeeping. https://livebeekeeping.com/honey/yemeni-honey/

Pragma. (2020). Economic Recovery and Livelihoods Program (ERLP) – Pragma. Pragmacorp.com. https://pragmacorp.com/erlp/

UNICEF. (2024, March 26). 9 years into the conflict in Yemen, millions of children are malnourished and stunted. Www.unicef.org. https://www.unicef.org/press-releases/9-years-conflict-yemen-millions-children-are-malnourished-and-stunted

United Nations Yemen. (2025). UNICEF Yemen: Providing safe learning space for children in Yemen. Yemen. https://yemen.un.org/en/294567-unicef-yemen-providing-safe-learning-space-children-yemen

Wabar, M. B. (2024, January 8). Yemeni Honey Production: An Ancient Craft Drawing Modern Attention. The Washington Institute. https://www.washingtoninstitute.org/policy-analysis/yemeni-honey-production-ancient-craft-drawing-modern-attention

World Bank Group. (2025, November 18). Economic Hardship Deepens in Yemen. World Bank; World Bank Group. https://www.worldbank.org/en/news/press-release/2025/11/17/economic-hardship-deepens-in-yemen

In this episode Sameeran discusses the expereince of Yemeni expereince of rebuolding their country and their lives. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Ciao Trailblazers,

30 GenZ from War Studies Department at King’s College, London, were accepted on to our vocational training programme this month. Yup, that’s another 30. So far this year that bring the overall numbe to 62. Compared to last 2 years 100 for the full 12 months.

During their time with us they completed a professional journalism course like professional journalists normally would during their careers. Thanks to Thomson Foundation - they can access this training at no cost themselves. To complete their vocational training with us the Vibers then use the learnings to research and write about what happens when the war ends. How the communties are rebulding to themselves. What kind ofgrassroots iniavtivs are evolving to help people take owernship of their own lives.

Some of the feedback from the Vibers -

This time thes Vibers also got to chance to write for Impact Entrepreneur Magazine as well. This allows them the oppurtunity to get their articles published in an industry magazine as well. Well, so did the last team I hear you say? Yup, but now we are out of the test phase of this relationship with Impact Entrepreneur Magazine. 14+ articles were submitted to the magazine. Can’t wait to share them with you once posted. They cover some really interesting topics on how jobs and wealth are being created in these communties.

Here are some of the Vibers -

Your move now:
👇 Read, react, and tell us which story hits hardest
🔥 Best responses get featured
👀 And yes—top contributors get priority access to the next cohort

If you know someone who should be part of this—send this to them.

This isn’t just content.
It’s Gen Z tranforming into Vibers. They are rewriting how the world understands what happens after conflict. So, don’t be shy.

Raw & Real from GenZ - unfiltered updates

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Don’t forget to scale our impact we need your support. You can make a direct donation - these are tax deductible only for US tax payers at the moment. Start here.

It’s great to have you with us along this journey. Till next month — enjoy our vibers work along the way. 😊

With gratitude,

Zufi, Michael & the Vibers.

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The Unhealed Wound: Living Among the Killers in the Shadow of Srebrenica’s Graves

Drive three hours east of Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina, and you’ll come across a small, rather non-descript town nested in the dip of a valley. Its houses are capped with red-tiled roofs, and the bell towers and minarets that crown its shabby skyline appear tiny beneath the watchful mountains. Dusty streets meander past derelict buildings and café terraces where old men sit around rickety tables, sipping Turkish coffee and taking languid draws on cigarettes. A little ways away from the town, rows on rows of white gravestones march up a gentle slope. Beside them, giant slabs of marble rattle off the names of the dead.

This is Srebrenica. In the 1990s, its name became a byword for hatred, horror, death and destruction. In July 1995, Serbian forces cordoned the town off from the rest of the world, massacred some 8,000 Muslim men and dumped the corpses into shallow graves. The Srebrenica massacre is the most famous of many communal killings that took place over the course of the Bosnia War, which pitted Orthodox Serbs against Muslim Bosniaks. The war in Bosnia was one of the many spasms of violence that accompanied the downfall of Yugoslavia, a multi-ethnic, pluriconfessional communist republic in the Balkans that ended up fissuring along ethnic lines. A peace agreement signed in Dayton, Ohio, in 1995 put a lid on the conflict by inventing a new country, Bosnia and Herzegovina, which it divided into two administrative regions: the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, populated mostly by Bosnian Muslims, and the Republika Srpska, populated mostly by Orthodox Serbs.

For thirty years, the peace has held. But Bosnia remains a divided society. The central government is largely ineffectual, and its decisions are subject to the scrutiny of an unelected, foreign-appoined High Commissioner, empowered to strike down laws and fire ministers. Ethnic spats are not uncommon. A more authoritarian, Russia-friendly Serbian government has galvanised separatist movements in Republika Srpska, barring the road to greater integration with Western Europe. For many Bosnians, the wounds of 1995 are still raw. Resurfaced allegations that wealthy clients paid Serbian officials to go on human safaris in Sarajevo has caused an umpteenth re-examination of the ethnic violence many wish to brush aside.

Srebrenica embodies the contradictions of the Bosnian peace and the difficulties of healing a nation in trauma. Thirty years have passed since the slaughter, and in some respects, the town has not changed much since the pre-war days. Orthodox children still pile into church for Sunday mass, and the muezzin’s voice rings out high and clear over the terracotta tiles. But much of what was destroyed in the war has never been rebuilt. Bombed-out apartment blocks slouch along the dusty high street; giant holes in their walls gape where the windows once were. Restitution for property damage has never been paid. Corruption and neglect trap reconstruction efforts in slow molasses.

Other troubles loom. Despite being a majority Muslim Bosniak town, Srebrenica is located deep within Republika Srpska, near the border with Serbia. Its population, thousands-strong before the Bosnian War, has shrivelled to a mere 800. Since the war’s end, ethnic Serbs have peopled the houses abandoned by fleeing Bosniaks, heightening the sense of isolation among the Bosniaks who have remained. Young people have trickled away, enticed by better prospects in Berlin, London and Paris, and left an old, poor population. When the town’s population does swell into the thousands, it is on July 11. That, families gather at the Srebrenica Genocide Memorial, before those interminable rows of obelisk-shaped gravestones. Often, they come together to rebury what remains of their dead loved ones–a bone, a spare leg. Tensions with Serb officials flare around this time, as much of the Serbian leadership and population deny that the killings took place, or glorify it in song. The leader of Republika Srpska, Milorad Dodik, referred to the killings as an “arranged tragedy,” and a hacker renamed the Genocide Memorial to “Ratko Mladić Park” on Google Maps. As head of the Army of Republika Srpska, Ratko Mladić personally oversaw the killings at Srebrenica. He is currently serving a life sentence at The Hague for genocide and crimes against humanity.

Where justice and retribution exist, they are limited and minimal. Many of the leaders of the Republika Srpska forces faced trial and imprisonment, usually by international tribunals. Soldiers who took part in the massacres, however, often got off scott free, or overturned their convictions on appeal. Some 100,000 Bosnian children were born of war rapes, fathered by rampaging Serbian soldiers who seldom faced any punishment for the exactions they took on Bosnian women. Abandoned, some of these children–like Alen Muhic, the subject of a profile in Le Monde–were taken in by other families and cut off from their native communities.

In processing group trauma, memory plays a crucial role. Recovered artefacts, testimonies, photographs and journals firmly ground the atrocities in the realm of fact. Take an obvious example: as his forces liberated Buchenwald concentration camp, U.S. army general Dwight Eisenhower ordered his men to meticulously document the horrors, so that there could be no doubt as to the nature or severity of Nazi crimes. Museums, memorials and exhibitions serve not only to collect and pass down the knowledge of crimes; they also exist as loci of remembrance and healing. For victims and perpetrators, and their relatives and descendants, these memorials offer the opportunity to decant their sorrow, shock, grief, guilt, anger and hatred into a collective memory-building project.

But when one side–the perpetrators–refuses to admit its role in the killings, the healing can only ever be half complete. Serbian leaders’ refusal to own up to their history means that the Muslims of Srebrenica, engulfed by Orthodox Serbs, are forced to live alone with the grief, anger and resentment of having survived the killings, or of having lost family members to them. Some Bosniaks have chosen to return to their old villages, braving encounters with Serbian neighbours who participated in atrocities against their people. Their anger–against their Serb neighbours, of course, but also against the Dutch-led UN troops that stood by as Bosniaks were being massacred–still simmers. But the fraught political situation means that the remaining Bosniaks have to go about commemorating carefully. The Genocide Memorial has been threatened with bombs, and closed on various occasions, on orders of the Republika Srpska government.

That is the situation of the Bosniaks who stayed. Other Bosniaks have gone away for good, leaving Srebrenica and its rows of obelisk-shaped gravestones to the ghosts.

In this episode Baybars discusses the post conflict experience of Srebrenica and the "half-complete" healing process of a nation where the physical scars of war remain visible. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

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Back Story

Brushstrokes of Resilience: Marwan Mousa’s Journey from Refugee to Artist

It is the 15th of March, 2011. The air in Damascus is dry- Syria is undergoing its worst drought in modern history. The dry heat is perfect kindling for the firestorm of dissent that is about to explode in Syria. In protest of Bashar Al-Assad’s government, and despite the regime’s anti-demonstration laws, hundreds of protesters are gathering in Damascus, Aleppo, and other major cities. They are protesting the arrest and torture of a group of teenagers who painted revolutionary slogans on a school wall. Before long, the protests are violently dispersed- state security forces attack and detain men, women and children. A 10-year-old boy is detained alongside his father. The police have opened fire on protesters, and by the end of the day, 3000 people have been detained. Some are known to have been killed, although official figures are hard to come by. The next day, protests erupt again. The protests grow, and the extreme police force only strengthens resolve. By July, the protests are hundreds of thousands strong. These protests are the foundation for what will become the Syrian civil war.

Marwan Mousa was born in 1967 in northeastern Syria. His family is Kurdish, the largest ethnic minority in Syria. In spite of their prevalence, they are routinely subject to discrimination. In 1962, in a highly controversial move, the government stripped 20% of Syria’s Kurdish population of citizenship after claims that Kurds from Turkey were illegally migrating to Syria, although evidence for this is unclear. A process of registration was enforced on the Kurdish population, leading to up to 200,000 ‘stateless’ Kurds denied citizenship. Roughly 500,000 stateless Kurds live in Syria today, with no access to education, limited employment opportunities, and an inability to emigrate due to lack of documentation. By 1973, areas with majority Kurdish populations were being resettled under government plans to ‘Arabise’ Syria, involving the replacement of Kurdish place names with Arabic ones, and the deporting of 140,000 Kurds to a southern desert region.

The erasure of Kurdish culture continued, often through violence. In March 1986, a few thousand Kurds gathered in Damascus, wearing traditional dress, celebrating Newroz, a Kurdish new-year festival. Police fired on the crowd, killing one, and at a similar celebration in Afrin, three Kurds were killed. The government would later ban Newroz festivities. In 2011, against a backdrop of anti-government protest, Kurdish politician and advocate Mashaal Tammo was killed. It is not entirely clear who is responsible for his death, but at his funeral procession, when 50,000 people gathered in Qamishli to mourn, police opened fire on the crowd, killing five.

The Syrian civil war was a vast and complex conflict, with numerous factions and interest groups fighting for their own interests. The historically disenfranchised Kurdish population of Syria participated in this.

The conflict disrupted the life and livelihood of Marwan Mousa, a husband and father of four. He owned a cellphone repair shop in Syria, but the war soon forced him and his family into exile. In 2013, Mousa and his family fled to Iraqi Kurdistan, a majority-Kurd region, where they spent two years in a refugee camp. While they were safe from the Syrian civil war, times were still incredibly challenging. Iraqi Kurdistan faced extreme repression, and the Kurds suffered genocide under Saddam Hussein during the 1988 Anfal and Halabja military campaigns. In late 2012, tensions rose along the autonomous Kurdish border, resulting in skirmishes between state and Kurdish forces. However, beyond the political tensions, times were particularly tough for Mousa and his family. They lived in a tent in the camp for two years, during which time Mousa began to create art. One of his paintings from the period depicts their tent, reflecting the struggles of living in a refugee camp, “especially in the winter, when the conditions are really bad.”

Beyond the difficulties of the camp, the family faced a pressing medical issue. Mousa’s son, Mohammed, was suffering from Thalassemia, a genetic blood disease that leads to a lack of hemoglobin, an enlarged spleen, and brittle bones, making individuals more susceptible to infections and broken bones. Treatment is costly and demanding, requiring regular blood transfusions, chelation therapy (the removal of excess iron from the blood), and sometimes stem cell treatment. Mousa was unable to access his son’s much-needed treatment in their refugee camp in Iraq.

In 2016, Marwan Mousa and his family were resettled in the UK under the Syrian Vulnerable Persons Resettlement Scheme, which was launched in 2014 to bring high-risk people from Syria to the UK. This involved “people requiring urgent medical treatment, survivors of violence and torture, and women and children at risk.” In 2015, the scheme was expanded to resettle 20,000 Syrians in the UK. Mousa and his family were resettled in Belfast, becoming part of the 632 Syrian refugees in Northern Ireland. The journey was crucial for Mohammed, who was able to access treatment.

Mousa began creating art in Iraq. Once in Belfast, however, his artwork became both richer and more joyful. His son was receiving treatment, his family had a home, and the local council supported their integration into Northern Ireland. While the family was being supported by the children’s charity Barnardo’s, Mousa’s work was introduced to Deirdre Mackel, an arts programme manager at a Belfast trust supporting marginalised groups. Through Mackel, Mousa was able to put on his first exhibition in Belfast in 2017. He put on another at St Mary’s University College, Belfast in August of 2017, displaying paintings that reflected the difficulties of life in Syria and the refugee experience. He has continued to paint since then, putting on another exhibition in September of 2019.

He has also contributed to the Belfast community by volunteering with Action Ability, a group supporting disabled people in the city. He attends their art classes, helping young people with painting.

Marwan Mousa’s story is one of resilience. In spite of the difficulties he has faced, he has made a home for him and his family in Belfast, where he indulges his passion for art and passes it onto others.

In this post Camille highlights the arty refugee experience of Marwan Mousa She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

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