World Vision Report

Remembering the boom times in a busted coal town

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

On a September afternoon in the old brick restaurant on Whitesville, West Virginia's main drag, Elizabeth "Punky" Casto tossed a boa over her shoulder, hiked up her lacy red dress, and pointed her finger at the gathering crowd.

It's her Betty Boop routine â an impersonation of the demure, 1930s cartoon character. Once, Punky performed the routine for me in her quiet living room, voice frayed and movements stiff from 84 years of age. But this time she had an audience â a few dozen friends gathered for the grand opening of the Boone-Raleigh Community Center.

Carrie Lou Jarrell and Elizabeth 'Punky' Casto dress up for their performance at the opening of the Boone-Raleigh Community Center in Whitesville, West Virginia. Photo/Lorelei Scarbro

I had visited Punky a few months before to gather tape for my radio story about Whitesville's line dancers. At the time, the old brick restaurant where they practiced had recently closed. It had been years, in fact, since the building had kept a thriving business, cursed by boom-and-bust cycles in a town that many say was never meant to exist without coal.

If you ask Carrie Lou Jarrell, one of the dancers, about Whitesville's past, she'll throw back her head, roll her wide eyes, and exclaim, "Oh gosh." Then she'll tell you about the way things were.

Anything you could get in New York City was in Whitesville. They had theaters and a pool. You'd never find a parking spot on a Friday night, and you'd get knocked over walking to the football games.

But before the coal industry busted in the 1980s, life around Whitesville wasn't always as easy as Carrie Lou remembers. When she was growing up in the coal camps, Punky says she never knew that she was poor, because being poor was all that she knew.

When I interviewed Punky and Carrie Lou, both told me that Whitesville could never be revivedâcoal had worn down the community just as much as it had built it up, and now that the industry was declining, there was no other to replace coal. But the more they spoke about the past, I realized that it wasn't the industry they wished to revive. Instead, they were nostalgic for that feeling of youthfulness they associated with the boom times â that same lightness of spirit they feel when they go dancing in the old restaurant.

This past year, Carrie Lou and the other line dancers decided it was time to do something with the old restaurant that didn't rely on the coal industry's business. So with a group of local residents, they turned the building into a community center and marked its opening last September with a lively performance of "Old Time Rock'n Roll." It was the largest audience the line dancers had seen in a long time, and needless to say, they loved it.

What do you think are our best hopes for revitalizing Appalachia's defunct coal communities?

Listen to Sierra's story on the line dancers.

Disabled chef in the Philippines has high ambitions

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

Maricel Apatan has hands. You just canât see them.

This thought pops into my head when I glimpse Apatan walking up the incline to the front of the church where she goes to mass every Sunday. I wanted to meet Apatan in church because I learned that she has a very deep faith. This and her parent's constant love and support have carried her through the last decade.

As she walks alongside her sister, the first gesture I notice is her reaching her arm out to put the stump of her left hand into her sister's hand. There's an ethereal quality about her. She moves with dignity and confidence, not at all conscious of the fact that where her hands should have been were two stumps of smooth, pale skin.

Maricel Apatan uses sharp knives from her own set of professional blades to fillet a 'Lapu lapu' in the kitchen of the five-star hotel in Manila where she serves as cook. Simone Orendain/World Vision Report

Apatan nods a hello at the entrance and immediately rubs the stump of her right arm on my forearm, in a handless handshake. Her smile lights up the crowded church entrance and she bends down and pats a tiny boy's head so he could step aside for her and her sister to pass. For a person with no hands she's very tactile.

We're inside a space where she clearly has found a sanctuary. Kneeling and deep in prayer she closes her eyes, putting the stumps of her arms together â if she had hands they would be clasped tightly together. She says prayer and her faith in God have kept her going in the past 10 years since she was attacked with machetes and left for dead near her home in a town in the Philippines' rural south. That's how she lost her hands.

In church, Apatan also sings in prayer. She's a soprano and feels bad that she can no longer reach high notes because the cuts to her neck were so deep they affected her vocal cords.

In the Shangri-la pastry kitchen, Apatan has a disabled colleague named Jasper who is hearing impaired. The Hong Kong-based luxury hotel hired them both through its program, which offers internships and work to people with disabilities.

Apatan does a couple of demos during my visit to Shangri-la's kitchens. She covers a cheesecake with sliced strawberry, white chocolate and blueberry icing to form a pretty flower pattern. She fillets a fish quickly, breads and fries it and creates a sweet and sour, carrot and bell-pepper garnished dish. I see the smile on her face as she moves briskly around the kitchen, her stumps for hands cutting fish, vegetables, fruit with a sharp knife tucked tightly at her side.

Her various trainers have said that she can do a lot but is limited by her lack of hands. Still, she's a good learner and her determination to succeed will take her far in the culinary world.

Apatan has ambitions of working as a chef overseas where the pay is better and she would possibly be able to afford movable prosthetics. These would be a far cry from the cosmetic hands she was offered that she says "look like mannequin hands." What in the world would she do with those?! She dreams of owning her own restaurant. And all this, added to every success that she has already achieved is being used to further her life's goal: to take her family out of poverty.

These are very high ambitions. Already it's quite remarkable that this amputee with no hands is creating dishes in a five-star hotel. But I know for Apatan this isn't enough. It's only the beginning of what she expects to be a long career in cooking.

Do you know someone with a disability who has used his or her shortcoming to make a better life?

Listen to the story which accompanies this blog.

A Middle East resource race that could add fuel to an already raging fire

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

An oil and gas rush is on in the eastern Mediterranean, and while resource-poor Lebanon may be late to the race, government officials are working feverishly to make sure this country wastes no more time

in starting drilling.

Egypt was the first eastern Mediterranean country in the region to begin extraction, back in 1910, when it was under British rule. More recently, in 2000, Palestinians found a gas field off the coast of Gaza, but are prevented from bringing the resources ashore by Israel, which itself has made some of the biggest finds recently. In 2009, it found the Tamer gas field, 60 miles offshore from Haifa and containing some 8.4 trillion cubic feet of gas.

The game heated up in October 2010 when Israel began drilling in the Leviathan natural gas field, 135 kilometers offshore and estimated to be of considerable size â even bigger than the Tamar field. Israel says it could contain up to 16 trillion cubic feet of natural gas, enough to secure its hydrocarbon supply for a century.

All this activity has not gone unnoticed in Lebanon. On the back of seismic studies carried out over the past few years, Lebanon is pretty confident it has gas, and perhaps oil, off its coast. It began moves to initiate resource exploration in its waters in 2000, but the project was delayed by political paralysis and domestic and regional conflicts. However, recent hydrocarbon discoveries south of its border in Israel has reinvigorated energy lobbies in the country.

Besides the business interests that drive the push to drill, Lebanon has some other very compelling reasons to kick-start exploration â it still struggles to provide for the basic energy needs of its people. The country's aging power generation infrastructure is unable to match its growing demand for energy. Right now, the government provides just 60% of the public's electricity needs. As a result, Beirut typically sees three to six hours of outages of government-supplied electricity a day. And up in mountain villages like Aley, 10 to 12 hours of power outage is the norm. These days, village residents look elsewhere than to the government for power.

The conviction is rapidly growing in government circles that the solution â the silver bullet for Lebanon's energy woes â lies off its coast. Lebanon's power plants run on diesel and oil. Running them on natural gas would stand to benefit this cash-strapped country.

Lebanon currently imports natural gas from Egypt to power half of one of its power plants, and Minister for Energy and Water Gebran Bassil says it is saving the country substantial money. "If it's a full power plant, we're talking about $250 million." If the supply were domestic, the saving would be even greater.

Analysts say that if Lebanon finds gas fields even close in size to those being found by Israel, it could do much more than solve the country's energy shortage. Exportation could greatly reduce the country's suffocating public debt, currently at $50 billion.

The prospects being painted are indeed rosy, but the realization of these plans â the actual practice of drilling in such geopolitically sensitive territory â is less than promising. Lebanon and Israel are enemy states, technically at war. Their maritime borders are not bilaterally defined and many of the hydrocarbon resources are thought to lie in and around waters that may be disputed in the future.

Already, Lebanese politicians and advisors have lashed out at Israel, warning it and its contracted energy companies not to drill close to Lebanese waters, or engage in practices, like horizontal drilling, that would amount to resource theft.

Sabre-rattling aside, Minister Bassil and the government finally passed a law this year to enable drilling. It says it will start auctioning off drilling licenses in early 2012, not a minute too soon for energy-starved Lebanese.

What do you think? Will the resource race add fuel to the fire in this already volatile region? Is resource extraction feasible in such an environment, and should countries depend on such resources when extraction can be so easily disturbed by geopolitics or violence?

Listen to Don Duncan's story "Keeping the Lights on," about the race for power off Lebanon's coast.

Flying Kites in Afghanistan

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

On a recent afternoon, 13-year-old Ahmad Hassani traipsed around Kabul's busy market street, Strand Bazaar. He had the equivalent of 25 US cents in his pocket for the best kite his money can buy.

He had to settle for one of the smaller sizes, and with his kite-flying sidekick Zabi Rahime, 15, he headed to a rubbish and rubble-strewn wasteland adjacent to the market to fly it.

Afghan teenagers Ahmad Hassani and Zabi Rahime fly their newly purchased kite. Courtesy/Emily Johnson/World Vision Report

"When I see my kite climb into the sky, I feel happy," said Hassani. "I enjoy it."

The classic kite flying formation is as a pair. One pilots the kite and the other feeds or reigns in the string. Kites soar high, sometimes well over a kilometer over the city. The wind and air currents up there lend themselves to dynamic, dramatic maneuvering.

Using paper is crucial to flying successfully at such altitude, says historian and writer Abdul Rahman Oman Niazi, 40. "It enables you to fly the kite up high but also paper allows you to make kites large enough that can still be seen from the ground. You can't do this with plastic."

It is small enclosures like the one Hassani and Rahime fly their kite in, as well as on the private rooftops of Kabul houses, where young Afghans cut their teeth at kite flying, before venturing to the heavily trafficked hilltops of Kabul. These discreet spaces are also where kite flying typically retreats to, during periods of heavy conflict, when leaving home is perilous.

Sometimes the kites have disappeared altogether. In 1996, when the Taliban seized power in Kabul, it banned kite flying as an un-Islamic activity â saying it represented time stolen from prayer. By the time kites began to creep back into the Kabul skies, after the Taliban was toppled in 2001, some things had changed.

"The color is more beautiful, more vibrant than before," says Tamim, 35, who goes by only one name, commonplace in Afghanistan, and who has been selling kites for 20 years in Strand Bazaar. He is referring to new, brighter inks that came on the market during Afghanistan's kite curfew and made the kites' comeback an acidic-bright one.

The string was also improved, replacing traditional fibers with tougher nylon, imported from Pakistan. Tamin brings these innovations together now when he makes kites. He thumbs a brown lumpy glue in a bowl and spreads it along the perimeter of the paper, quickly bending and fixing in the bamboo frame. Finally he runs thread along the perimeter of the kite and turns a hem on it with glue. This reinforces the kite from attack, he says.

What from the ground looks like a graceful aerial ballet of color, is in fact the fiercest of kite-on-kite carnage, hundreds of hundreds of feet up. Kite flying in Afghanistan is, more often than not, kite fighting, and the key is in the kinds of string used â strong acrylic fibers laced with crushed glass which tear into the kites, snap kite string and often leave bloody tracks on the fingers of the impassioned kite pilots down below.

Much is made of the metaphorical quality of the kites. Khaled Hosseini's 2003 novel The Kite Runner was a bestseller and its central image and metaphor was kite flying and fighting as a reflection of Afghanistan's fortunes. But the real-life Kite Runners are oblivious to all this. They are just having fun.

What do you think? What role does flying (or fighting) kites play in your life?

Listen to Don's story on flying kites in Afghanistan here.

AÃ§aÃ: An Irreplaceable Dietary Staple

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

Before I went to see the much-touted aÃ§aÃ berry growing in the Amazonian rainforest I did a little research stateside to prepare.

The so-called superfruit â full of antioxidants and calories â has hit American health food stores and juice bars. Many of the aÃ§aÃ juice bottles sold in the U.S. have pictures of what look to be "natives" in traditional garb. The claims about the berry include promises of weight loss, cancer cures, more energy and better skin.

Reporter Kelley Weiss visits an aÃ§aÃ farm in Brazil. Courtesy/Kelley Weiss/World Vision Report

After roaming the aisles of one natural foods grocer I had a picture of aÃ§aÃ: exotic, mystical and diversely manufactured.

But when I met the berry in the Brazilian Amazon, near the city of MacapÃ¡, it was raw and wild. A local grower, JosÃ© Maria, showed me how it's harvested. He positioned a burlap piece between his bare feet and inched up the skinny trunk of a 40 foot aÃ§aÃ palm. Then he pulled a shiny machete out from his waist and chopped off a frond. When JosÃ© Maria shimmied down and proudly held out the weighty bundle of aÃ§aÃ, he smiled.

Then I noticed that his cheeks were slightly sunken in, the whites of his eyes were a bit cloudy and tiny black spots covered his teeth. And it occurred to me: if aÃ§aÃ is such a wonder fruit, how is it that JosÃ© Maria, and so many other people here, look like this?

In the Amazon locals have been eating aÃ§aÃ for a long time. And it's not in fancy juice bottles or weight loss pills. Instead it's more common for growers to have rudimentary wooden mills that grind the pulp away from the seed into a thick purple goop. Then they'll mix the pulp with starchy manioc flour and serve it with whatever meat might be on hand.

An aÃ§aÃ grower on a farm in Brazil holds a freshly harvested bunch of berries. Kelley Weiss/World Vision Report

I quickly found out that in the Amazon aÃ§aÃ isn't seen as a tasty treat or snack as it often is in America or larger Brazilian cities like Rio de Janeiro or SÃ£o Paulo. For many people it's much more â an irreplaceable dietary staple.

When I was flying out of the Amazon and looking down on the huge green blanket of rainforest, I saw things differently than when I had flown in. Of course the grandeur of the jungle, and its thousands of aÃ§aÃ trees, left me dumbstruck. But, I also found that a crippling poverty and isolation for the people along the river system surrounded the purple berry. I kept picturing JosÃ© Maria scrambling up that palm tree. In the middle of the jungle he was showing me where aÃ§aÃ comes from, and how far removed it is from the global market. While the export of this berry is creating jobs and raising wages for the locals, at the same time some of the growers live in shacks along the river without electricity.

Intellectually, at least, I knew about the complexities of globalization before I went to this impoverished corner of a fast-developing country. It was my first international reporting trip and I knew it wouldn't be like my previous trips to third world countries on vacation. And I knew that one berry couldn't possibly turn an entire economy around ... although it is indeed helping ... but I guess I expected more after seeing aÃ§aÃ in the gleaming grocery store aisles of America.

Listen to Kelley's story here, or watch her photo slideshow on the harvesting of the aÃ§aÃ berry.

Womenâs safety is no laughing matter ...

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

Somehow, the idea of grannies kicking butt seems to be universally funny. What appears a natural response reveals a lot about how we view women, and particularly older women.

In Kenya's capital of Nairobi, a group of grandmothers are learning to fight for themselves. From left to right, Beatrice Nyariara, Rael Wairimu, Mary Njoke and Esther Njeri. Emily Wong/World Vision Report

People tend to associate grandmothers with stereotypically benign activities, like knitting and tea drinking, as opposed to karate chopping or groin kicking, demonstrations of which I recently witnessed. It took place in a self-defense class for women over the age of 60, in a slum in Kenya's capital, Nairobi.

Our amusement at seeing such activities is not necessarily ill-intentioned. I was, in equal measures, amazed and delighted to see Mary Njoke, a 90-year-old Kenyan woman, throwing off a pretend-attacker with surprising strength and agility.

As I watched her, a huge smile swept across my face, despite thinking that no woman â and especially no woman of her age â should ever have to use such moves, or to shout like she's ready to kill.

But Njoke lives in Korogocho, an informal settlement in Nairobi where locals frequently hear of women and girls of all ages being raped. In light of well-documented police failures and corruption in Kenya, it's not surprising that women like Mary feel they need to learn to fight, particularly in slums and informal settlements, where crime is often highest and yet policing the poorest.

In July an independent report by Transparency International, the 2010 East Africa Bribery Index (PDF), ranked the Kenya Police as the most corrupt institution in Kenya, and the second most corrupt in the region.

What is surprising is that some of the grandmothers I interviewed still want to work with police to make their communities safer. Others would rather rely on vigilante groups to perform "mob justice" on alleged rape perpetrators, sometimes resulting in the murder or disappearance of suspects.

Sixty-six-year-old Rael Wairimu, one of the other women in Njoke's self-defense class, refuses to condone such violence. "The police are good. It's only that there are not enough of them," she said.

According to Wairimu, community members end up in a cycle of violence by failing to cooperate with police during investigations, turning instead to gangs for protection. And yet the same gangs are often accused of terrorizing the community with violence, theft and sometimes rape, too.

The grandmothers shared a lot of ideas for improving safety in their communities. They want policing at night. They want the government to invest in more officers and better training on gender-based violence. They want fewer guns in their neighborhoods. They want men to stop all forms of violence against women, and they want other women to know they have a right to be safe.

I couldn't help but to be moved by their optimism and determination to make their communities safer. In Korogocho, the grandmotherâs group is now well known among community members, police and local government officials. Although the pace of change may be slow, the grandmothers have definitely captured their attention.

On one hand, the grandmothers are challenging stereotypes about the ability of women to fight. On the other hand, they're using their status as elders to make people listen about women's rights to safety.

Listen to Emily's story on Kenya's kung fu grannies.

Life in the Food Chain Fast Lane

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

I'll admit that I donât eat a lot of frozen seafood, but the chance toÂ climb aboard a ship laden with tons of cod, shrimp and even octopus had aÂ certain appeal.

Beyond that simple motivation, I hadn't the slightestÂ idea what kind of story might lurk on the 416-foot Icelandic vessel.

The hands of ship's cook Ronaldo Salcedo move with a blur of speed as he prepares another meal aboard the container ship Reykjafoss. Chris Burrell/World Vision Report

But Ronaldo Salcedo turned out to be the man with a story to tell. LikeÂ so many other merchant marines who sign on for contracts lasting eight,Â 10 or 12 months, Salcedo feels deep pangs of homesickness. He even toldÂ me that some days he can't bear even to look at photographs of his wifeÂ and two boys because it awakens such unbearable sadness inside him.

As I watched him prepare two lunch meals, I began to think about food andÂ what an intricate system has evolved to feed people. Wasn't it just a bitÂ ironic that this cook fed the crew of a ship that was itself solelyÂ engaged in the business of bringing foods to others? To us? And this shipÂ and this cook was just one link in a vast chain that began with aÂ fisherman somewhere in the Baltic or the Mediterranean, hauling a netÂ from the sea.

The last link of course is the moment you dip that shrimp into a bowl ofÂ cocktail sauce and take a bite.

So Ronaldo Salcedo's sacrifice â his years away from family in Manila â is an integral part of the chain. He's weary from the work, but he findsÂ strength in the responsibility to improve his family's life back in theÂ Philippines.Â I am very glad that I met him. I only wish I had stuckÂ around to taste the fish he cooked up for the crewmen's lunch.

Ronaldo Salcedo's menu shows a full plate for all hands. Chris Burrell/World Vision Report

Can you imagine cooking for 15 people a day and having to shoulder everyÂ bit of the work solo? And doing it in the midst of an ocean storm thatÂ sent hot oil splashing around you? Talk about unsung heroes.

What's the hardest job you've ever done? How did it change you and yourÂ outlook on others who toil in such physically demanding jobs?

Listen to Ship's Cook, Chris' story that accompanies this blog.

How to best make a difference in educating students?

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

A dusty road outside a steel factory may not seem like a ripe spot to set up a school, but Kamal Parmar worked with what he had.

Ten years ago Parmar, who runs Chirag Steel Works in the Bhudarpura neighborhood of Ahmedabad, said he realized that children in his neighborhood were not learning basic skills in the city's public schools, and so â armed with a few benches, an elementary level education, andÂ freeÂ time â he started tutoring students forÂ free.

Most students at what's referred to as "the Footpath School" are the children of plumbers, housemaids or laborers â a background Parmar can identify with, since his parents were migrant workers who had moved to the city of Ahmedabad from a village. Parmar says he wasn't able to focus on education as a kid and had to drop out of school around 7th grade to make money to help his family.

Parmar's school is addressing a significant educational divide in India. Wealthier families send their children to private schools, which are more rigorous, and teach English and Hindi, while poor children are stuck attending overcrowded, poorly-staffed public schools. Parmar tries to give students more individual attention â older studentsÂ tutorÂ younger students in groups of 5-10, and Parmar teaches lessons in larger groups. He also appeared to know each kid individually, and quizzes kids between lessons on their multiplication tables or on literature. However, he is only able to teach a few dozen students each night.

I asked him if he thought he couldn't make a bigger difference by joining, and helping to reform,Â the public school system, either as an administrator, or a teacher. His eyes sparked, and his voice quickened as he explained that he could never become a teacher there because of his lack of formal education and his background. He instead wants to continue teaching at the Footpath School, and eventually get more space to expand the school.

Do you think Parmar is having the full effect that he could? Is his free freeÂ school sustainable or will it eventually become another private school among the many in Ahmedabad? Please share your comments below!

Listen to Jill's story about providing free tutoring in India.

Child Slavery ... in the Army

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

I had served in the U.S. military for five years, working as a journalist.

Most of my time was spent writing stories, taking photos, shooting video, recording audio, and, every so often, standing guard, on-loading supplies, and other such work. (I had it lucky compared to most.)

Half way around the world, it turns out children half my age were doing more physical labor than I was.

Two demobilized child soldiers reporter Zack Baddorf interviewed in Sudan. Zack Baddorf/World Vision Report

I interviewed several child soldiers and asked them both, "What was your best day in the military?" They both told a story about how one day they didn't have to work. Day after day, year after year, these children slaved away carrying other soldiers' bags, collecting firewood, cooking meals, bringing water, and similar tasks.

This isn't something in the far-distant past. These children were forced into the military in 2004 and they're only this year being released. This is the 21st century, and yet children aged 9 are being forced into the military and into combat. It's disturbing. Some 900 children are still in southern Sudan's armed forces today.

Some children do go to the barracks on their own. I met another child whose father killed someone. To escape a revenge killing, he joined the military. Other children join because they are orphans or their parents can't provide for them. Social services in southern Sudan are limited, with the vast amount of the government's budget going toward security in the run-up to the region's independence referendum this January.

So it's not surprising that children turn to the military where they know they can get meals on a regular basis. But UNICEF asserts that the government of southern Sudan can do more, and I agree. UNICEF's Bismarck Swangin says that in some way, all children in the military are hostages, even those who joined voluntarily, because they can't make an informed decision at their age.

Spending time with the ex-combatants over a weekend, I have to agree. These children have a right to education and a right to a life with food and shelter outside of the military. There are many people in Sudan (in the government and out of it) working to ensure they have those rights.

I hope to hear soon that the last child soldier has been demobilized from the south's army.

Please use the comment mechanism on this page to share your own thoughts about the problem of child soldiers that is still so prevalent throughout the world.

Listen to Zack's story about the demobilized child soldiers of southern Sudan.

No photos allowed, deep in the heart of Mafia territory!

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:35:23 PDT

I walk through the town of San Giuseppe Jato and notice that everyone is staring at me.

I'm in heart of Mafia territory, reporting on a hotel and restaurant that is fighting back against the organized criminals.

But I refuse to allow paranoia fueled by silly mob films to influence my perspective. I tell myself that this is like every other dead-end town that no one visits. Locals wonder why you didn't keep going to better place.

Police hauled in the reporter for taking photographs of these signs located in a Silician town where the Mafia rules. Nancy Greenleese/World Vision Report

I approach an intersection where a half-dozen signs point to other towns. One is Corleone. As in Michael Corleone, The Godfather. American listeners know this name but few realize itâs the name of a town, another one where the Mafia rules.

I snap a picture.

"Signora! Signora!" calls out a young police officer. I freeze.

"Why are you taking a picture of people leaving the police station?" he asks, even though we are the only two people on the street.

I respond in Italian, botching up the noun and verb agreements. I'm flustered. Cops make me nervous, even ones that I could've babysat once upon a time.

I tell him that I'm taking a photo of the signs. He demands my documents and escorts me to the police station.

He tells me to make myself comfortable. What is comfortable about being pulled into a police station and having your documents taken from you for taking a picture?

He asks me what I'm doing in Italy. I tell him I'm a reporter. Then I lie and say I'm here on vacation. I'm sure he doesn't believe me. Yet I resist telling him I'm here to do a story about anti-Mafia efforts. In other countries, less corrupt countries, he might thank me and give me a firm hand shake. This is Italy. This is Sicily. While there are many brave and honest police officers, the authorities and the Mafia are often entangled. One palm greases the other.

His assistant writes down my passport number while I show the officer my pictures.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry," he says. He becomes super sweet, like one cannoli too many. I feel slightly sick. He's done what he set out to do: scare me. I'm not welcome.

Have you ever been stopped by the police while traveling in a foreign country? Tell us about your experience below.

Listen to Nancy's stories about anti-Mafia groups fighting back and a grandmother who teaches the Mafia a lesson in Sicily.

World Vision Report

Remembering the boom times in a busted coal town

Disabled chef in the Philippines has high ambitions

A Middle East resource race that could add fuel to an already raging fire

Flying Kites in Afghanistan

AÃ§aÃ­: An Irreplaceable Dietary Staple

Womenâs safety is no laughing matter ...

Life in the Food Chain Fast Lane

How to best make a difference in educating students?

Child Slavery ... in the Army

No photos allowed, deep in the heart of Mafia territory!

AÃ§aÃ: An Irreplaceable Dietary Staple

Womenâs safety is no laughing matter ...