As we board our rental van outside our Mae Sot hotel in Thailand, our group leader, Pauline, spots a stray dog wandering the street. While stray dogs are common here, this one looks particularly scruffy. “Oh, that poor dog!” Pauline exclaims. “When we return, I’ll see if I can get him some food.”

This reaction encapsulates Pauline Tee perfectly: deeply compassionate and immediately considerate. Although a mutual friend had described her as “a sweetheart,” it felt like an understatement. Pauline dedicates her energy, time, and resources to causes she cares about, demonstrating a genuine generosity that restores faith in humanity.

As we prepare to visit one of the three Burmese schools on our agenda for the week, Pauline reviews our plans and introduces us to the people we will meet. Mae Sot is on the Thai border with Burma (now Myanmar). Many refugees escaped their homeland due to decades of conflict and unrest. Others belong to ethnic groups persecuted in Myanmar or are migrant workers who either legally or illegally contribute to Thailand’s labor force.

Among them are thousands of displaced children—some orphaned, some stateless—whose well-being depends on the kindness of others and whose future hinges on receiving an education.

Being stateless is a challenging status to endure. It essentially means lacking an official nationality or any documentation that proves one’s country of origin. Accessing resources, qualifying for aid, or receiving support from official entities becomes extremely difficult without such identification. Statelessness creates a dire humanitarian predicament, leaving individuals with few options and exposing children to risks like trafficking, exploitation, and abuse.

In Mae Sot, Burmese migrant schools offer displaced and stateless children a safe learning space. However, these schools face significant challenges due to the pervasive poverty and instability affecting their students. Pauline, originally from Malaysia and currently employed by an international bank in Singapore, connected with these schools nearly a decade ago during a volunteer trip with colleagues. Since then, she has made at least biannual trips to Mae Sot, establishing several programs to aid the children.

One morning, we visit the Thai/Burmese border, where a vibrant marketplace and duty-free shops are located. Pauline points to an area beyond the shops called “No Man’s Land”—a section of land that neither country effectively controls. Here, hundreds of stateless Burmese individuals, including children, live in makeshift shelters of plastic tarps and wood. Despite loose monitoring by Thai soldiers during the day, this area remains rife with lawlessness, drug trafficking, and child exploitation.

“I can’t just walk away from these children after seeing their living conditions,” Pauline says. “It’s like seeing someone injured on the road—you can’t ignore them. That’s what keeps me coming back to Mae Sot repeatedly.”

With support from her partner Fun, Pauline has dedicated the past decade to supporting these children. She established several schools’ Lunch Everyday programs to ensure students receive a nutritious meal on weekdays. She also sponsors Burmese children to attend Thai schools, covering fees and transportation to enhance their educational opportunities. Additionally, Pauline organizes large birthday parties with cakes, presents, games, and music to celebrate these children’s lives, many of whom lack knowledge of their birthdays.

Pauline invites friends and acquaintances to Mae Sot twice yearly to help with these events. Our team of birthday volunteers comes from Singapore, Hong Kong, Indonesia, and the U.S. and includes a 19-year-old college student named Jo Jo now helps Pauline with the birthday parties. Our role is to manage logistics, assist with games and activities, light candles on cupcakes, distribute goody bags and t-shirts, and generally make the day unique for the kids.

During our first visit to the largest school, which serves 230 children, Jo Jo brought a group of Burmese teenagers to help with translation and game organization. It’s evident from the start that Jo Jo is an exceptional young leader. Pauline first met him when he was ten and was impressed by his confidence. (He was one of the first to address her as “Pauline” rather than “Teacher.”) Jo Jo now studies International Relations at a university in Myanmar, having received a scholarship from an Australian NGO.

Jo Jo loves returning to help with the birthday events. “The annual birthday party is a wonderful event for refugee children,” he says in English. “It helps them feel valued and important.” He has even started a similar program at an orphanage in Myanmar.

Pauline is committed to returning to the same schools yearly for these birthday events. She only considers adding a new school if she can ensure ongoing support, and this long-term dedication has been fruitful. The nearly 600 children at the five schools she supports anticipate Pauline’s birthday parties with the same excitement as children everywhere look forward to their birthdays.

“People often call us ‘The Happy Group,’” Pauline says. “I used to call us the ‘Independent Volunteers’ because we’re not part of any NGO. We’re just a group of volunteers trying to bring joy to these kids and make their lives a little better.”

Pauline emphasizes that birthday parties are more than just fun events. “Celebrating a birthday is a celebration of existence,” she explains. “For these kids, our birthday program represents more than just fun and games; it acknowledges their value and existence.” It’s a way of showing them they are noticed and valued.

Over three days, we host birthday celebrations for around 430 kids from preschool to high school. Most children wear school uniforms, though some dress up for the occasion. Many apply thanakha, a traditional Burmese skincare paste, to their faces, a common practice among Burmese people of all ages.

As an experienced teacher, I’ve observed many children and can quickly spot typical traits—teacher’s pets, class clowns, shy but warming up with time. I see the usual mix of silliness, teasing, and camaraderie among the kids. However, what I can’t see are the hardships some of them face—hunger, orphanhood, or abuse. While we cannot change their situations, Pauline’s efforts help remind them that they are not forgotten.

Pauline reflects on her first encounter with the harsh realities faced by stateless and displaced children. “Seeing their vulnerability and knowing they are children who can’t protect themselves drives me,” she says. “They are entirely at the mercy of their circumstances, which motivates me to keep going.”

Though Pauline knows that many children worldwide are in need, she focuses on Mae Sot and its children to make a tangible impact. “There are vulnerable children everywhere,” she acknowledges. “I just happened to meet these kids first. If I had gone elsewhere, I might have done the same. But I chose to concentrate my efforts here. The needs are immense, and focusing on one place allows for a more sustainable impact rather than spreading myself too thin.”

Fun supports Pauline’s work, adding a social and emotional component through his role as a stress management coach. He introduced a self-mastery program and hired a local teacher to implement it. He also maintains monthly Skype sessions with the students, who report gaining strength, self-awareness, and coping skills from the program.

When asked if she has considered formalizing her efforts into an NGO, Pauline explains that the stateless status of some individuals complicates funding and logistical support. She worries that managing an official organization might detract from her direct work with the children. Instead, she keeps her fundraising personal, covers most expenses herself, and oversees her programs directly. “I know what drains me, so I stick to what works,” she says. Her successful banking career now serves to fund her work with displaced children in Mae Sot, which she views as her true calling.

Pauline describes her work as a passion rather than just a job. “My career funds my work with children,” she says. “It’s a calling I’ve found.”

Observing Pauline’s dedication, I am reminded of the many unsung heroes working at the grassroots level, helping specific communities without seeking recognition. Pauline’s generosity is both humbling and inspiring, and the world would benefit from more individuals like her.

 

Coming out as transgender is a deeply personal and often challenging experience. For many trans individuals, the support of friends and loved ones can play a vital role in their journey toward living authentically. As a friend, you play a pivotal role in creating a supportive environment.

Here are some practical ways to help your trans friends feel safe and supported when they come out.

1. Listen Without Judgment

One of the most important things you can do is simply listen. Let your friend share their feelings, experiences, and thoughts without interrupting or offering unsolicited advice. Your role is to be a compassionate ear, acknowledging their courage and validating their experiences. Avoid making assumptions or judgments about their transition or identity.

2. Respect Their Privacy

Coming out is a personal decision, and respecting your friend’s boundaries regarding their privacy is essential. Do not disclose their identity to others without their explicit permission. Understand that they may choose to come out to different people at different times, and it is their right to control the flow of this information.

3. Use Correct Pronouns and Name

Try to use the correct pronouns and names that your friend has chosen. Missteps can happen, so if you make a mistake, simply correct yourself and move on. Your friend will appreciate your effort to respect their identity, even if it takes some practice to get it right.

4. Educate Yourself

Educate yourself about transgender issues, terminology, and experiences. This knowledge will help you better understand your friend’s perspective and avoid inadvertently making insensitive remarks. Resources are available online, in books, and through organizations dedicated to LGBTQ+ advocacy.

5. Offer Practical Support

Support can extend beyond emotional encouragement. Offer practical help, such as accompanying your friend to appointments, assisting with name or gender marker changes on documents, or simply being there for them during stressful times. Small gestures of support can mean a lot.

6. Be an Ally

Advocate for your friend in broader contexts, such as social settings or work. Challenge transphobic comments or behaviors and use your voice to support inclusive practices and policies. Your active allyship can create a safer and more supportive environment for your friend and others in the trans community.

7. Be Patient and Understanding

Remember that coming out is a process, and your friend may face various challenges. Be patient and understanding as they navigate their journey. They may need time to adjust to their new identity and face obstacles requiring ongoing support.

8. Celebrate Their Identity

Celebrate your friend’s identity and milestones. Whether it’s their transition, new name, or bravery in coming out, acknowledge and celebrate these moments. Your support in celebrating their identity can reinforce their sense of self-worth and confidence.

9. Create a Safe Space

Ensure that your interactions and environment are welcoming and safe. Avoid jokes or comments that might be harmful or dismissive of their identity. Creating a supportive space involves being mindful of the language you use and the attitudes you express.

10. Seek Support for Yourself

Supporting a trans friend can sometimes be emotionally taxing. Make sure you also take care of your own mental and emotional well-being. Seek support from allies, friends, or counselors to navigate your feelings and responses.

Conclusion

Supporting a trans friend through their coming out process requires empathy, respect, and active engagement. By listening, using correct pronouns, educating yourself, and advocating for them, you contribute to a more supportive and affirming environment. Your role as a friend is invaluable in helping them feel safe and accepted. Through your actions, you support their journey and foster a more inclusive and understanding community.

 

The number of drug overdose fatalities in the U.S. is alarmingly high. In 2017, there were 70,237 overdose deaths, with 47,600 of these attributed to opioids. According to the CDC, this figure has risen more than fivefold since 1999. Particularly concerning is the rise in opioid deaths linked to fentanyl, a potent synthetic opioid, since 2011.

Each overdose death leaves behind grieving friends and family, who often struggle to process their loss due to the stigma surrounding drug addiction. Individuals with substance abuse issues are frequently labeled negatively, and their families can face judgment as “enablers” or “coddlers.”

While many view addiction as a moral failure, the recovery community and medical professionals consider it a disease. Parents who lose a child to drug addiction often encounter silence from those around them, unsure of how to support someone grieving an overdose death.

MaryBeth Moore Zocco, 54, experienced this pain firsthand when her son, Ryan Moore, passed away from a heroin overdose in December 2018. Unbeknownst to him, the heroin was laced with fentanyl.

During Ryan’s life, MaryBeth would send him care packages, including warm blankets and hot cocoa. After his death, she continued this tradition but redirected her efforts toward comforting other parents who had lost children to drug overdoses. She writes to them about her son and reassures them that they should focus on the lives their children lived rather than how they died.

“I wanted to do something to support other grieving parents and let them know they aren’t alone,” MaryBeth told The Washington Post.

Each card she sends briefly describes Ryan’s life—his career aspirations, interests, and hobbies. She encourages recipients to remember their children as individuals rather than focusing solely on their addiction.

“At 25, Ryan embraced life with enthusiasm,” she writes. “He loved music, playing the drums, and attending concerts, especially those with mosh pits.”

Since starting her initiative in April, MaryBeth has sent over 700 cards to bereaved parents, whom she connects with through grieving websites and support groups. Among those, she has reached out to are three mothers who have lost a total of four children to overdoses.

“I can’t imagine how they manage to keep going,” she remarked to The Washington Post.

Jennifer Slater, who lost her son to an overdose, found solace in Mary’s card. “The card inspired me to keep pushing forward,” Slater said. “It gave me a renewed drive to make a difference.”

MaryBeth has named her letter-writing effort the FRoM Project, which stands for Forever Ryan’s Mom. She aims to trademark the name and continue sending comforting messages.

“I’ve never been more certain about what I’m doing,” she said.

I’m sitting in a bustling outdoor café in Jakarta, feeling the sun’s heat on my sundress as sweat beads down my back. Opposite me, a young Muslim woman in a black hijab and long sleeves sits seemingly unperturbed by the oppressive humidity. The stark difference in our attire feels symbolic, highlighting the divide between us. I am a middle-class American on a work trip, while she is an Afghan refugee navigating life in a foreign land that seems to offer no refuge.

The contrast between our situations is striking, and we have yet to choose our circumstances. It’s a matter of birth and fate. The privilege I carry is palpable, though it remains unspoken.

As we start our conversation, a few things quickly become evident. Her voice is soft but carries an undercurrent of strength and resolve. Her English skills impressed me, especially since she only began studying the language in 2017. Warm, candid, and exceptionally intelligent, she reveals her past ambition to become a lawyer—an aspiration that aligns with her evident potential. Her current plight makes her story all the more poignant.

I’ll refer to her as Roya, a pseudonym she prefers to protect her privacy. Roya is here to discuss The Sisterhood, a community initiative she helped establish to support refugee women in Jakarta.

Understanding the refugee situation in Indonesia is crucial to grasping the importance of The Sisterhood. Traditionally, the country has been a transit point for refugees heading to more permanent resettlement destinations. However, this has shifted recently.

Globally, 70 million people are displaced due to conflict, which has more than doubled in the last two decades. Indonesia has become a bottleneck, with countries like the U.S. and Australia reducing their refugee intake. Refugees arrive in droves but leave at a trickle.

In 2017, the UNHCR informed the 14,000 refugees in Indonesia that their chances for resettlement were virtually nonexistent, suggesting they prepare to stay indefinitely. While refugees won’t be deported, they lack legal status, hindering their ability to work, open bank accounts, or access education.

In this limbo, refugees rely on charity, clinging to hope for an increasingly elusive future. Limited government and NGO support, alongside overcrowded immigration detention centers, leave many in dire situations, relying on local charities for basic needs.

Roya’s situation, and that of others like her, is grim. Having been in Indonesia for five years, her options seem limited. It’s hard to imagine how refugees maintain hope amid such uncertainty.

Enter The Sisterhood.

Recognizing the unique challenges faced by refugee women—personal safety, trauma, discrimination, and family responsibilities—a group of refugee women, including Roya, founded The Sisterhood in 2018. Although external partners support logistics, the initiative is led by refugee women.

A generous local donor provided a former orphanage building rent-free for three years, so The Sisterhood now operates from a well-equipped facility. The center offers free classes, such as tailoring, Indonesian cooking, self-defense, and a playroom for mothers’ children. It also serves as a space for socializing, wellness programs, and essential services.

The organization is attuned to its members’ evolving needs. For example, after feedback, the self-defense class was replaced with yoga and mindfulness. The center now also offers computer skills, beauty, and basic English literacy courses, along with occasional health and dental checkups and hygiene product distribution.

The Sisterhood provides survival resources and opportunities for learning and emotional support, crucial for maintaining mental well-being. For many refugee women, it’s a place of safety and equality. Roya notes that refugees often feel unsafe even within their community, and The Sisterhood offers a rare haven of security.

Regarding mental health services, Roya explains that traditional therapy might not be suitable in their current precarious state. Instead, focusing on skill-building and present-day activities helps maintain a sense of purpose and hope. Despite the uncertainty, this preparation allows them to be ready if a resettlement opportunity arises.

Roya’s frustration with the UNHCR’s assessment of their resettlement prospects is palpable. She believes that such “honesty” can be demoralizing. To keep hope alive, she sometimes tells her friends that resettlement might be just around the corner, even if it’s not true. This “sweet lie” provides a crucial psychological boost.

Refugees must find ways to stay productive and contribute meaningfully without the hope of resettlement. It’s a testament to their resilience that they organize grassroots support systems like The Sisterhood to fill gaps left by inadequate institutional support.

Roya’s insights reveal that projects like The Sisterhood are commendable but don’t change the harsh reality of refugee life. Resilience and strength in these circumstances are survival mechanisms, not personal choices.

Refugees possess extraordinary strength, demonstrated by their ability to survive and adapt in unfamiliar and often hostile environments. Roya and her fellow refugee women embody this strength, using their experiences to serve their community despite severe limitations.

Reflecting on the U.S. government’s current low refugee resettlement numbers, I’m struck by the irony. The refugees I’ve met, including Roya, embody qualities that would enrich society. It’s tragic that their talents and potential are not widely recognized and utilized.

Roya’s dedication to The Sisterhood encapsulates her commitment to instilling hope and dignity in refugee lives. Her message is perseverance and optimism, inspired by Stephen Hawking’s words: “While there is life, there is hope.”

As our conversation concludes, I thank Roya for sharing her story and the mission of The Sisterhood. I leave with a deep sense of the disparity between our lives and a renewed awareness of the power of hope and resilience.