[This personal essay is the next chapter of a micro-memoir published by the International Museum of Women.]

We left Nablus’ ancient bathhouse. On the way to eat kanafeh, we somehow ended up at a Palestinian professor’s house. He was hosting a small gathering of international volunteers and a few men from Nablus, including teachers from the nearby school. The house sat perched high in the hills. The backyard balcony offered a sweeping view of the city below. The home itself was built with smooth stones and stretches of white marble with gray swirls. From the balcony, we gazed out at hills speckled with olive trees. The sunset draped the world in a blood orange glow...

...In university, I was taught that journalism is a public service. And I really believed I was helping promote peace by publishing the truth. My reports described how social networks provided new ways for extremists to spread their ideology and recruit prospective militants around the world. I had no idea what website my host’s young son visited, or if he was even guilty of anything at all. I didn’t dare pry with more specific questions...

Read the full short essay at: http://bit.ly/1sGjm7X

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Just as it takes a whole village to raise a child, it will take a united global community to create the kind of world we wish to see.