The Moth - Live from New York: The Audacity! Global Stories of Daring: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: February 10, 2026

In this hour, a special live show from New York City, featuring storytellers from around the globe. Tales of bold moves, facing fears, and risky decisions. This episode is hosted by Moth Executive Producer, Sarah Austin Jenness, with additional live hosting by Nolo Mokoena. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: Semiye Michael breaks with tradition to help his mother. Nolo Mokoena practices radical truth-telling on a date. Korto Momolu longs to become a fashion designer, while growing up in Liberia.  Gracia Violeta Ross grows up in her sister's shadow, until the roles are reversed.  Podcast # 964 To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Let's talk groceries, specifically your groceries, with Instacart. You want your groceries just the way you like them, right? Well, the Instacart app lets you do just that. They have a new preference picker that lets you pick how ripe or unripe you want your bananas. Shoppers can see your preferences up front, helping guide their choices. Instacart, get groceries just how you like. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Sarah Austin Janice.

This episode was recorded. live at our Moth main stage at Symphony Space in New York City. What you're hearing is the Honk family band, a community band based in New York. They have a brassy New Orleans feel, and they play world music, and 30 members of the band opened this show by walking down the aisles of the theater playing this song. The host for this event is a writer, entrepreneur, and activist who flew in from Johannesburg to MC for us. Here's Nolo Mokwana, live at the Moth.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Moth. I'm your cousin from the Moth family all the way in South Africa. I know there's another South Africa. I heard it here. Today's theme is actually fantastic. It's called the audacity. Global stories of being daring.

Think about the world we live in today where doing the most ordinary human things we've fought to do can be seen as daring. listening to someone with a different political opinion is daring loving your neighbor is daring allowing people to be is daring and it seems in some parts of the world protecting the very freedoms we fought for is the most daring

before the storytellers come up I asked them one question and the question we asked them today was actually what's your go-to method to psych yourself up for a challenge this next guy is absolutely amazing When I asked him the question as you go, what is your go-to method to side yourself up? For a challenge, he says he spends time with people who have overcome great challenges themselves. And I thought to myself, here's a guy who knows what it's about. Ladies and gentlemen, help me welcome up. Mr. Sima and Michael, as it comes up.

So I had this very special bond with my mother. I was her only boy child and she had waited for so long to have a boy. We shared very dear relationship. You know, in Nigeria, a boy child is like a king and I enjoy being treated like one. But then it also made me have a feeling of responsibility. I had plans. I was going to be there for my mother and I was going to grow up to be a shoulder she would be able to rest on.

But if I would accomplish that, I was also going to work hard. So I had to move to the city to be a grown-up man, be a rich boy that would be able to help my mother. I remember in 2014, I was a little bit of a little bit of a little bit. I was at home and I got a WhatsApp message from my nephew and it was a picture of a margot. I was shocked. I called him. What is this? Is that a mistake? And he said, oh no, the picture, that is a magot that came out of my mother's leg.

Okay. Just a few months ago, she was. ago she had complained of sensations in her right leg. I thought I had you to, you know, keep a tap on it. What changed? I quickly drove and went to the village. When I go to the village, the site I saw was horrible. They've robbed different traditional ointments and medicine on that leg.

I immediately said, you know what, we're going to the hospital. But then my mother said, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Seymia, this is not an hospital matter. This is a spiritual attack. Don't worry. Oh, they contacted some traditional healers. Oh, the pastors are praying. I'm like, what?

With this situation? My nephew stood with my mother. the other elderly woman, they stood with her, I was alone. I had to go back to the city, hoping things will improve. I would call, and then they said, oh, things are getting better. But two months down the line, I received another WhatsApp message. The leg has gotten worse. So I place a call to my sister who lives in another.

community and then we drove to the village. This time I made up my mind. Nobody would dare stop me from taking my mother to the hospital. And with the face they saw on me when I go to the village, nobody dared stop me. In the village, everything was traced to one spiritual issue or the other, and they rather choose to use traditional medicine rather than trying, alternative healing processes. And so many people have lost their life in this process. But I made up my mind my mother was not going to be one of them. So I go to this village, put my mother in the vehicle,

and we headed to Ebe. A Beah town is a five-hour drive. That is the community where we can find. An hospital that can attend to the situation we find ourselves. that five hours was one of the longest drive I had had in my life not because of the time but watching my mother lying at that backseat groaning in pain I almost felt she was not going to make it to that hospital

but then we made her way to the emergency session of the hospital they put my mother on the stretcher and I saw people looking at her and her leg, I could see it written on their faces, how they were condemning us. They would be like, wow, these are bad children. How would they have allowed this woman's leg to be this? I felt guilty. I felt I have failed my mother with all the love she showed to me when I was young. But then the doctor came, received my mother and quickly ran some checks.

The doctor said, your mother's leg has cancer. Cancer. How? When? And then he said that is not all. You have a decision to make immediately. Either to amputate a leg or just watch her die in the next two weeks. She barely has two weeks to leave.

I was lost in mind. I couldn't even think. As a boy child who had enjoyed a childhood of a king, Now the responsibility of a boy child is killing me. I now have the responsibility to decide whether my mother would live or die. The doctor said again, what is your decision? And then I said, I would rather amputate. I knew it was not going to be easy convincing my mother to amputate her leg.

But then I called my uncle. my sister and the elder, we went to her, and then we talked to her. This is the situation. We have to amputate the leg. Before we land, my mother said, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. I would rather die with my two legs

than live with one leg. What would people say? They would say, oh, that woman with one leg? It was difficult. But she slept over it, and the next morning she agreed. She said, you know what, Sima, if you said it is okay, it is okay. I told her, don't worry, Mama, we will provide you with prosthetic leg. It would feel like you didn't miss anything.

And then it was going to be a night-long operation. When it was night, they were taking her to the theater, and the doctor came back again and said, just for you to know, with the age of your mother, she was 74 at this time, and the weakness, this sickness had imposed on her for the past few months, the chances of her surviving the operation is 50-50. So whatever happens, just for you to know that she might survive or she might die during the operation. They were not going to provide us feedback throughout the night until the night,

until the next morning when they were done. So I walked through the corridor of that theater hall. All the night, it was a long night. Hoping

one person or a doctor or a nurse will come out and just whisper something to console me. But all through the night, nobody came. The night ended. and finally the doctor came out of the theater door

but you see he was coming disappointed you could see it written on his face frustrated you know the look doctors make when they don't want to say what has happened that was what was on his face so I condemned myself

I had killed my mother I was given an opportunity to choose what to do and I had choosing a decision that has killed my mother. But we have to hear what he would say. And he came and said, your mother's operation was successful. What? This is a bad doctor.

Why bring such a good news in a bad container? That was when I was. I realized when responsibility whispers, you must dear loudly. I heard fear in one hand and in the other

I heard my mother's life. I did. And my mother had ten more years to live. So my mother passed away last year 2024. On the day she died, she had caught me

In the morning, we made jest, we loved, just as usual. And three hours later, my nephew called me that Mama has passed away. But I felt fulfilled. Thank you. That was Semayééééé, Michael. Semaye lives in Nigeria with his family, and we met him in a Moth Global Storytelling Workshop in partnership with the Gates Foundation. Semayet is a social justice activist and the founder of

the Dean Initiative, which mobilizes youth to take action on everything from climate change to democracy. To see photos of Semillet and his beautiful mother dressed to the nines, go to the moth.org. In a moment, our host shares a story of his own, of a daring first date. And a young Liberian woman dreams of becoming a fashion star. When the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginnis. And this episode was recorded live in New York City with stories of audacity and daring from storytellers around the world. The host of this live event is Nolo Mokoeena, a co-founder of innovative startups and a champion of raising up the voices of

young people in South Africa. Here's NOLO live at Symphony Space. As I described to you, I'm from Johannesburg, a wonderful city, much like New York, we also have a reputation, right? So I mean, I love New Yorkers, New Yorkers for a number of things. Yellow cabs, obviously, sex in the city, huge export, and number three is notoriously bad coffee. So that's, by the way, that's not me, that's TripAdvisor.

TripAdvisor! But Johannesburg also, we have a reputation for a number of things. One, obviously, you know, South Africa Nelson Mandela, yeah, you know, basic stuff. There we go, there you go. Number two, Trevor Noah, of course, he lived here as well. But the third thing we have reputation for is something we call Dirty December or we will all go home in December. Now December's a big deal at home because we all go home for Christmas.

And so I love going home for Christmas because, oh, our friends come back from all over the place even cities in South Africa. And when I go home, I love it because I'm the cool uncle at home. Or my nephews would call me unc, you know, not even uncle, just unc. And it's like, I'm going to pull up in my car and they're going to be like, Uncle Z, all in unison. And I want to come out and they want to be like, wow, look at this guy. He's so cool. He's my hero.

I'm basically like the salmon wearing black panther when I get there. It's like, it's absolutely amazing. But I know, you know, family being family, while I'm basking in my glory at the peak of my moment, I'm going to hear a voice in the back say, in our native language, Situana, Mossari Okai. So what that means, someone's laughing already.

What that basically means is, did you bring a wife for us this time? Now, now, I don't know about you guys here, but being over 30, stable, and economically viable and single is one of the biggest sins you can commit back home. And so after years of torture, about two years ago, I thought to myself, you know what? That's enough. I've had it with a disrespect from my aunts.

I want to take this into my own hands. I'm going to do something about it. And so when I got home back in Johannesburg, I thought to myself, right, next two weeks, one focus, find a wife. you've got 11 months to bring someone home. And so lo and behold, I set the strategy. The strategy was in motion, and I organized the date. The date was organized at this wonderful restaurant called Marble.

It's got fantastic skyline view of the savannah. So when the sun drops, it literally looks like the first scene in the Lion King. So I'm sitting there. I'm looking at the sunset. I'm drinking my old-fashioned. I'm thinking, yep, this is it. You're about to transform your whole family, brother. And there she is, she walks in.

She's lovely. She's absolutely stunning. She looks exactly like the superhero who can defeat my aunt, right? So she comes in, I'm like, ma'am, how are you? She sits down. We start talking and...

I don't know about you guys, but dating today is not how it was back in the day, right? Like, back in the day, used to date, used to talk about art, fashion, the news, family, history. Now it's just TikTok attachment style. Apparently, if I put my right shoe on before my left, it shows I have daddy issues and stuff. Like, it's just too much going on.

So I'm already nervous at this point. But needless to say, she sits, and the date is lovely. And as it's going, I'm thinking to myself, yeah, it's probably going to go left at this point. And for me, it always goes left with this dreaded question. I don't know about you guys, but I hate that question. And the question is simply, so what do you do? So she asked the question, and I'm like, oh,

Here we go again. I think to myself, well, do I tell her the truth or not. But I think, ah, let's just tell her the truth. So I look in the eye, dead in the eye, and I say, ma'am, I do my best. She says, what? She says what? I said, sister, I wake up every day and I do my best.

At that point, she kind of giggles. But we can both tell, yep, this shit shows. over and it'll probably be our bond voyage but the truth is I do do my best you see I specifically do my best to be daring at things I'm not allowed to do I actually stutter anyone who knows me personally will tell you I stutter quite severely so in some ways I'm I'm actually not even allowed to be doing this year tonight you know I'll never forget this day June 16 the year 2000 I was kind of almost 10 years old and 2000 was a great time to be 10. I had my little Walkman with my M&MCD in there,

blasting it out. And it was sort of the Y2K craze. I don't know if anyone remembers Y2K. And so we convinced my mom, who's a single mom, that the world's ending and like we got in all these prayers. I had a Sega. Like, it was just amazing. But I remember that day because we went to the hospital and June 16 in South Africa is actually a public holiday. So that's why I distinctions. I think you remember this memory, but we went to the hospital, which I was familiar with, because I was going for speech therapy classes. And we walked in, as usual, to speak to my speech therapist. My mom sat down.

I was sort of minding my own business, and I could see my mother have a conversation with a therapist. And as they speak, and I could see her body language kind of, you know, get a bit tight, and I could see her face change. And during that time, I thought, well, this is, I should probably pay attention. here. And all I remember is hearing the words from the therapist going, Mrs. McWena, your son likely won't be able to speak like other children, and he won't be required to do prepared speech assessments at school, because he's status so severe.

And I remember leaving and thinking to my, I mean, most 10-year-olds would be like, yeah, I don't have to do schoolwork, but for me, it was kind of tragic because, you know, if you're from the family I come from, your voice is actually an instrument of belonging. So I come from a family of very strong social advocates and politicians and so forth and kind of if you don't speak up, you don't have space. And so voice is not just expression, voice is actually belonging. And even growing up being a teenager, you know, I always have bad dates. But anyway, I was 12 years old and Valentine's Day was coming up and I saved up money to buy gift for this.

I won't mention her name. She's still not my favorite. But anyway, I saved up money to kind of buy this gift. And I'd rehearse the speech that I was going to give it to and say, you know, hi, I like you. And this gift is for you. Would you be my Valentine? After saving up, washing dishes, making a lot of cup of teas for aunties who pay very poorly,

I gathered up my sense, bought the presents. And when I went to sea, I was like, hi, I, I. I, I, I. And so for me, being daring is actually speaking every single day. Thank you so much, and I'll be accepting sympathy drinks later at the back. We're ready for more stories. We've got two more stories coming up. In fact, the next two speakers actually graduates of the Moth Global Community Workshops

Program that we've had, and we're very excited to actually have them here. Actually, something was highlighted, which is really great. Most of the speakers today come from different parts of the world. And it's so crazy as the stories are going to realize different places, same stories. We're all kind of connected in some way. And that's really amazing. Absolutely. Absolutely. I think the next storyteller is going to be absolutely great.

When I asked, what is your go-to method to psych yourself up for a challenge? And her answer was, I listened to Glorilla and some good trap music. She's a huh, huh. Ladies and gentlemen, help me welcome up the great Khatou Mamaloo as she comes in chase. Her story. One of the fondest memories of my childhood is a family gathering we had, and my father asked my older sister and I,

what were going to be when we grew up. So my sister went first, and she said she was going to go into business. And everybody started screaming, and there was so much pride and joy in the room. And then my father looked at me and said, what are you going to be? So I got a proudly, and I said, I'm going to be an artist. Yeah, it was just as quiet as this room right now. Crickets, no joy, no excitement.

I think the room went dark real quick, and my father broke the silence, and he was like, yeah, no, uh-uh. I'm not paying for you to go draw all day, so literally go back to the drawing board and figure something else out. So that was the day I realized that being African and being an artist,

just then go together. You know, education was always key in my family. A lot of people don't know this, but in Liberia, if you don't have any money, you can go to private school or public school. It didn't matter if you didn't have the money, you just couldn't go. So my father being the eldest of 16 kids was the chosen one. He got to go to school, and he would come home and he would teach his other siblings what he learned at school. And my grandfather was able to take him all the way up until he got into high school and couldn't afford it. So a family friend took my father in and put him through the rest of the way.

So upon graduation, my dad wanted to honor this man, but he didn't have any money. He hadn't worked yet. And the only thing he could think of was to take on his last name. So that's how I got my last name, Mamaloo. That was the best way to honor him, because what does a father do? He gives you education. So he started to work in the ranks of government in Liberia with its political career, and he got to about 30 in government.

And we had a good life. You know, we had a big house. We went to the best private school with the president's kids, and we didn't want or need for anything. And then in my seventh grade year, the teachers in Liberia went on strike, and we were out of school for like three or four months, and my parents were starting to get antsy and felt that we were falling behind. So they started to look for other schools abroad. And my father had a good relationship with the ambassador from Liberia to Canada, and they found a boarding school there. And just like that overnight, my sister and I were shipped across the waters to this place.

boarding school. We got there. It was bittersweet because I knew the sacrifices that they had made, and other kids in my class were still out of school, so I had to kind of suck it up as always. But there was this art class that I loved in the school. I really took a liking to it, and the teacher saw something in me that honestly didn't see in myself, and she nurtured me. She helped me build a portfolio up and actually get to where I wanted to go and apply to one of the top fashion schools in the country. So yeah, even though he said he wasn't going to pay for it, I kind of wanted to see if I still had it anyways. The next day I went to biology class, and my biology teacher was like, aren't you from Liberia?

I heard there's like a coup or something going on there. And immediately my heart just dropped because I knew what that meant. A coup in my country meant that if you're in government, immediately it was execution by firing squad. I knew my mom and my siblings would be taken into captivity and my family would be probably murdered. So I ran to the first pay phone I could get to and call my guardian, and he said that the phone lines Liberia have been cut and there was no way to reach anybody, but to calm down and go back to class and everything should be okay. So about a week later, my mom and dad called.

My sister got on the phone first and it was quiet at first and then she started whimpering and it turned into screaming and shouting and she dropped the phone and ran and then I picked the phone up and I believe they were telling me exactly what they told her that, you know, things were not good in Liberia and they didn't know they were going to be able to get out of the country and that because me and her were the oldest we had to now be in charge of the family and really get together and be strong. And then they said they loved me. And for most people that's normal but for an African child, an African parent doesn't tell

you they love you, they show you they love you. So here I am on the day where two of them say, I love you and I was like, man, this is really serious. They really think they're going to die. So I go to my room the same way and I'm crying and I got in my name. easy and I started to pray. I was like, God, please save my family and make sure we get back together, make sure we reunite it. Don't kill my parents in this. About a week later, we got a call that my mom was able to get on the very last flight out of Liberia with basically the clothes on her

back. And a week later, my dad was able to escape to a neighboring country, Guinea, to a refugee camp there that a lot of my family members that started to gather. It was in that refugee camp that a newspaper article came out that the rebel leader, Charles Taylor, wanted my refugee camp. my father to be captured by anyone and if they did, to bring him directly to him because he wanted to be the one to personally kill my father. He was able to take that newspaper article and take it to the U.S. Embassy and with that he was able to get political asylum. So soon enough, we were all reunited back in Canada, but it wasn't joy and it wasn't happiness because every day the phone kept ringing. Somebody was getting murdered. Somebody was missing. There was always doom. But it was during

this time that I really dug into my artwork. My sketchbook was like my savior. Like I would just sketch and draw all day and just try to escape all the negativity and that was like my piece. And then one day, Joy called. I answered the phone and it was that school that I secretly applied to. They decided to not send me a letter but call me directly home and tell me I got in. Yeah. But it was short-lived because after I started screaming around the house, I got in, I got in, Yay, all the things. My parents waited until I calmed down and called me into their room. And I remember going in there, my mom was looking at the floor,

my dad was looking out the window, and I was like, oh, God, somebody died. And soon enough, my father said, congratulations for getting into that school, but we can't afford it. We're refugees. We don't have any money. You know, we have to get on welfare and kind of wait for the immigration process. So for now, we have to put that dream on hold. And I remember trying to keep it together, because I imagine,

And what I was feeling was way less than what he was feeling because he worked so hard to make sure his fate wasn't the same as mine. And I went to my room and I just bawled. And I was like, man, God, I prayed for my family to be okay, but I never prayed for my dreams to be okay, for me to still have my dreams fulfilled. But I couldn't even fix my mouth to even pray another prayer because God had done so much for me so far. So I just dug deeper into my art.

Like that sketchbook was my everything. I would draw and sketch and do anything I could do just to escape all the things that was happening around us. And one day my mom found my sketchbook, and she was like, I didn't know you were this talented. And in my sarcastic 16-year-old head, I was like, well, I tried to tell you, but nobody would listen. But it didn't matter because we didn't have any money,

and it wasn't going to matter anyway. So who cared, right? And she would say, God will find a way, God's going to make it. away. And she would take my sketchbook to anybody that would listen and anyone that would look at it, everywhere she volunteered. And one day she took it to our church and there was a lady that just joined the church from Montreal who happened to be in the fashion industry. And she saw my sketchbook and told my mom, I think your daughter needs to go to fashion design school. You should try to get her in. And she said, well, she actually got accepted

to the number one fashion school in the country. But we can't afford it because we don't have any money because of the war in Liberia. And this woman, a stranger, looked at my mother and said, if you will allow me to, I would love to pay for your daughter to go to fashion design school. And she did. She paid for me to go to school. She took me to fabric stores to make sure I would have everything I needed. So when I started school, I'd be on the same playing field as everybody, and no one would know my situation. And I excelled.

I graduated top three, my class, and after continued in the design world to see where I would lay in my foot. And eventually this reality show came around called Project Runway. And when I saw the first episode, I knew, I was like, I got to get on here. And I did. Season 5, audition, I got on, got all the way to the end and finished second. Although it was bittersweet because I didn't win, when I got home, it was the emails and the letters that I got from all over the world. But it was especially the ones from Rwanda, from Somalia, and especially from Liberia, of Little girls that said, I watched Project Groundway with my mom and dad, and because you made it, now I can go to

fashion design school. I can be an artist because you did it. But it was this one letter that came from this young lady, and we had the same story, except her prayers didn't come true, and her parents didn't make it out of the war. And something just had it in me to just stay with her and mentor her through high school. She got into fashion design school, and eventually after school, she opened her own business and she called me up and said she was showing at Fashion Week and I just knew I had to be there. So I'm sitting in the front row and as she walks down, I just kept thinking of all the random acts of kindness that affected my life for my father to me. But it was the ripple effect of how it affected so many other lives. And it was that one random act of kindness that

really truly was the difference between me growing up and saying I would have been a great artist, I could have been the best fashion designer. Then this woman, in that stands right before you today who's living her dream out loud literally one random act of kindness at a time. Thank you. That was Cuttoe Momolu.

Cutto lives in Little Rock, Arkansas with her two children. She's a visiting professor, and she loves empowering young artists and fostering creativity. Cuttoe is renowned for her striking prince, an Afro-Bohemian approach to women's fashion, and she says

each of her pieces tells a story. that reflects the individuality and confidence of its wearer. To see photos of cuttoe behind the scenes of Project Runway and with her beloved family, go to the moth.org. In a moment, our last story, a woman stands in her daring sister's shadow until the table's turn. When the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin-Goness, and this is an episode that was recorded live at a Moth mainstage event in New York City with global stories of daring. Here's Nolo Mokowena, the MC of the night, to introduce our final storyteller. The next storyteller, when I asked, what is your go-to method to psych yourself? up for a challenge. Her response was, I reflect on my family's love, and more importantly, the love for myself, for the strength that I need. Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome up. Gracia, Violetto Ross. Growing in a rural community in Bolivia, one person was my hero. She was beautiful. She was intelligent, courageous, brave. This was my older sister, Dorcas.

Often my parents gave her the responsibility of taking care of me, and I needed that. I was shy, small, very quiet. I could not defend myself. Since we are daughters of an evangelical pastor, often we were compared, and people used to ask me, are you the sister of Dorcas? And I was, yes, I am the little sister of Dorcas. This seemed to be the only way in which they could remember my name. When you grow in the church, they tell you to marry someone from the church.

So when we reached the teenagers years, I started looking who could possibly become my husband, and there was this young man. He was in the university. He looked very charming. I managed to make him notice that I was attracted to him. He was not very enthusiastic about this. Not only that, but he started dating my sister. Yes, this very same sister.

And they spoke about getting married. I was shocked. I took it as a betrayal from her. How could she do this to me? She started dating him, knowing that I like him. This is the moment that I said, no, I don't love her anymore. I hate my sister.

And I don't want to have anything to see with these people from the church. So I thought I need new friends. And I started looking these friends became available in the neighborhood. But these friends were different. They didn't care about the church or the university. They just cared about drinking alcohol, smoking marijuana,

and what else? I knew this was not ideal. It didn't matter to me at that time because these were my own friends and they didn't know my sister. One night I was with them, they were drinking. It was getting very late in the night. I needed to go back to my home because I escaped.

There was this methodology that we had. One sister would escape and the other one would open the door. This is a system my sister invented and she kind of forced me to be on it. At the end, I accepted and enjoyed it. That night was my night out. I left a note for her in the bed. I will be back at 3 a.m. But when I was there, the door was locked and I realized she didn't see my note.

And there I was out at 3 a.m. without a way of entering my house. I remember once she told me if you ever need to get in, you can climb the balcony, you can break the glass and you can enter. Yes, but that moment this balcony seemed very, very high. and I was drunk so I said no let me find my sister I knew she used to go frequently to a path and I said let me go and find her

I walked two blocks from my house and I don't know from where two men appeared one on the front and one on the back they grabbed me by the hair they beat me they hit me they put a knife in my neck they took me to a knife to an alley and they both rape me. They robbed me and they left.

And there I was at 3 a.m. re-evaluating this plan of looking for her in this path. This was no longer possible because this man could still be around. They could attack me again and maybe kill me. Out of the desperation of living, I found the courage to go back to my house and climb the balcony and be in the house.

Next day, she came in the morning. She saw my red eyes and this bruising my face and she said, what happened? I said, I blame you. Because you didn't open the door to me. Now see what happened. I have been raped. I told her everything. She started crying. She wanted us to go to a hospital, but I was so traumatized. I didn't want anybody to touch me. I was thinking, if I only get enough showers, I will get rid of this stain that I am feeling now. This seemed to work until two years. years after the attack in 2000, when I started feeling sick, like getting this nose bleeding

and very weak. And I had an injury in this hand when I was working in the tropical area in Bolivia. I had one insect biting me and this injury would not heal. And so I thought, maybe I have a tropical disease. And I went to request this test. But my sister, who was the only She said, why don't you also take an HIV AIDS test? I was thinking, what? I don't think I am one of those persons that get HIV AIDS. But I went to collect the tests and all of them were negative. They were like six tests, but this HIV AIDS test was positive.

I was thinking, what else is life going to throw at me? Life was there in me. Death seemed also to dare me at that moment. You know, in 2000, HAB was a death sentence. There was no medications. There was stigma discrimination. There was a lot of rejection. And the prognosis that we received was probably that I could live maybe six months, one year.

They didn't know. But there was nothing like a life with HIV. I consider the possibility of accelerating this death, because what was the purpose of living with a deadly virus? And telling this news to my family was another challenge. I didn't want to do it. I never wanted them to know about this. My sister said, you must try to live this time that you will live.

We don't know how much in the best way possible, but also you must tell our parents your story, your version of the story. because what happens if you really die in six months and the doctors will tell them whatever they think? I couldn't find the courage to tell them everything that happened to their face. I didn't want to see the pain that I could cause, but also I didn't want to see the possible rejection that I was going to have. So I wrote a letter to them telling them everything,

the escaping from the house, the rape and HIV, the HIV test, and my sister delivered the letter. Meanwhile, I was in the house of my friend two days waiting for them to kind of give me a response. These two nights that I spent in the house of my friend were very long. I was thinking, what if they really asked me to leave the house? Because I didn't do whatever they told me to do in the church,

because my father was the pastor, what if he could lose his role in the church because of myself? when I went back to my house, there was the living room, the family reunion. My father spoke on behalf of everyone, and he told me, we don't need to know how you got HIV. We just want you to know the most important thing. We love you, and we are going to be with you two years, six months, ten years,

whatever life you have, we will be with you. When he said these words, I felt this life that escaped from me. when I was raped and also when I received this test came back to me and in this moment I said I will live now living with HAB in 2000 was not something easy

maybe you remember the first years of the epidemic there was really the cease there was death there was the stigma discrimination there was a lot of bad things I managed to connect with a group of people living with HAB

and we used to meet every Saturday in order to just check on each other because nobody was thinking of a life, but the group was becoming smaller every Saturday. One day we said, what are we going to do? Just wait here for our deaths to come, or are we going to do something? So we decided to put a petition in a human rights court, international human rights court, demanding from the Bolivian government medications. We won the case.

52 people signed this petition, but when we won the case, only 24 were alive, and today only six are alive, and I am one of those. In all these fights, my sister was with me. She helped me getting ready for the meetings, drafting the projects, reviewing the brochures, designing the brochures, and she was with me in every funeral that I had to go because I had so many new friends,

were dying young, the access to the medications was not immediate, but in every little of these victories, I managed to collect some power, some hope, some of this courage, and little by little I started becoming a different person, a very different person from this small, shy girl who could not live out of the shadow of the sister. After we secured the medications, then came the battle for the legal framework. and then the funding to sustain these gains. In all these processes, my sister was with me, and I became the leader of the group because I had hair,

and I had my family love and support. One day, in, I think it was 2010, I received a call from the French Embassy. The person told me that I had been given a big award, the Franco-German Award on Human Rights and the Rule of Law, and they invited me to the award ceremony. There was my sister, of course, there was my family. There were many journalists, also the ambassadors,

and I was not paying too much attention to the questions they were asking me. I saw when one of the journalists approached my sister, and he asked her, who are you? Are you the sister of Violetta? And she looked at me, and we smiled at each other, and I felt poetic justice has been made to me, Because we reflected about this, we realized that we ended up living the life the other one wanted. When we were kids, I used to say, I only want to be a mother.

And she's the one who used to say she wanted to travel the world and be in stages like this. We ended up living the life of the others so that we could grow stronger together, so that we become braver together. I used to think that Deryn was to be seen and loud, now I know that Daring is also refusing to disappear, is finding your own light, and is stepping out of the shadow, which is what I did. Thank you. Gracia Violetta Ross lives in Geneva, Switzerland, where she leads the HIV, reproductive health and pandemics program in the World Council of Churches.

Gracia Violetta is also a graduate of our Moth Global Storytelling Workshops. She sees her family and especially her sister twice a year when she visits them in Bolivia. They love and miss each other dearly. Here's Nolo Mokohena one more time to close us out along with the Honk family band. What a way to end the night. This brings us to an end.

Absolutely incredible. Different shades of being daring. Hopefully you saw yourself somewhere in tonight's stories. So thank you again for being here with us. I want to encourage you again. If you want any information, please go to themouth.org. We find out about our podcasts, other stories such as this, ways to donate, ways to participate, to collaborate,

and any other information you need around schedules and other shows that will be happening, that hopefully I'll be happening. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. You've been absolutely incredible. What a night. Thanks to our host, No, Lolo. Mocoena, to Symphony Space, to the Honk family band, to all of our global storytellers,

and to you for daring to listen. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Sarah Austin Janice, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show, along with Meg Bowles. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch. This live event was produced by Jody Doe and Chloe Munoz. The Moss leadership team includes Christina Norman, Marina Clucay, Jennifer Hickson, Jordan Cardinale, Caledonia Cairns, Kate Tellers, Suzanne Russ, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Ureña.

Special thanks to the Gates Foundation for their support of the Moth Global Community Program. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift, Other music in this hour from The Honk, family band with Frank London, Nata Sedana and Kevin Courtney, and Caroco. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and to learn all about the moth, go to our website the moth.org. Ever listen to The moth and thought, I have a story to tell her.

We'd love to hear it. The Moth pitch line is your chance to share a two-minute pitch of your true personal story. Record it right on our site at the Moth.org or call 877-799 Moth. That's 877-799-6684. Here's the thing. We listen to every single pitch. Your story could end up on our podcast, our stage, or inspiring someone who needs to hear it. Share your story at the Moth.org or call 877-799.

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