Where do I begin to tell the stories of so many people whose lives were marked by war, disease, and prejudice? How does one prioritize the stories if they all break your heart under their weight? I kept asking myself these questions for the past week. I haven't come up with any answers yet. I simply immersed myself in the stories. Here is a short one: A young man had a Liberian father and a mother from Sierra Leone. Because of the long wars woven into the history of the two countries, he traveled back and forth with his family. He saw his house burned, but I suppose this would be the least of his worries. He saw how his sister was raped and killed, and he was forced to sing over her body. His mom and his brothers were spared only because a fighter jet was flying over their house and the soldiers scattered, scared of being killed themselves. The man had enough sight to be the witness of the horror. He did not have enough sight, however, to be accepted to the university in Sierra Leone. He was told that the institution would be like a prostitute if it lowered its standards so much as to admit a blind student. Having been denied the opportunity to study law, he decided to devote his life to help others. After graduating from the International Institute of Social Entrepreneurship (IISE), he wants to establish computer centers to help disabled as well as sighted people, so they can get better jobs, a chance to shape their lives according to their dreams.