So I set up a YWCA in my village and slowly, change is happening.
My village is away from the city and there is no apparent destruction there.
When I returned to my village, I found an ally: one of our community leaders, named Abraham.
"If I had a four-wheeler, I would have better marriage prospects in my village, " the young man said.
If I hear my village is at peace, I will drop everything and go home with my children.
In my village, I witnessed lots of wedding parties for underage brides.
Then over the next few days, miners were coming home to my village, Dowlais, in tears - I'd never seen such a sight.
My village is rather well developed, we have gas, electricity, water.
"To know we couldn't go back to see my family, my village -- it was horrible, horrible, " said Siren, who is now able to travel home once or twice a year.
And on that day my village was burned and 21 of my family members killed, two of my sisters raped, and two of my grandparents burned alive, and three of my brothers killed.
My two sworn swords were both on missions, my smithy was upgrading itself, my village center was making some more stone, and I was too short on silver to buy anything else I need.
And I remember -- I think I was about nine or 10 years old -- in my village there came an American missionary lady with boxes and containers full of used clothes that she would come to my village and hand out.
So after a few months, my mother's people sent me and my brother back to this little village in Arkansas to my grandmother, my father's mother who was raising me, and she used to braid my hair.
And obviously -- when I visited Kenya, for example -- just in terms of education -- Michelle and I, we both got tested near the village where my father was born.
And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: Know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.
Or my 96-year-old mom, who lives with my nephew in a Greenwich Village apartment (no water, no heat, no electrons).
In the weeks and months after my departure from the Moken, one image stayed with me above all others, following me from Thailand to India to the US. I often replayed in my mind the burial I witnessed on my first morning in the village.
Last week, I was sent a photograph of the village in Dorset where my family and I spend our summer holiday.
The biggest hits of my brief visit to a Masai village were the Los Angeles postcards and colored pencils bought before boarding the plane at LAX.
My Aunt Juanita, driving through the village, remembers seeing her walking fast down the street.
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder as an elderly gentleman gestured towards my guidebook and a non-signposted village road.
Last night at an East Village bar with two of my journo friends, we talked about our favorite celebrity tweeps.
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Our only overly ambitious parenting decision (read: mistake) was to bike nearly eight miles out to the east end of the island, to the village of Quidnet, where my wife stayed on family trips throughout her childhood.
During my walk through Malawi's tiny Mnjolo village, the little girls kept running up behind us, touching our clothing and giggling.
Above Don Valley lies Grenoside, another village I came to know well during my search for a more interesting place than urban and industrial Sheffield.
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Sitting with my laptop in a coffee shop in the East Village, I clicked and scrolled through Facebook profiles and Twitter feeds for possible New York-based targets.
My next stop was a small hotel in the small village of Tubagua, located about 33km west of Cabarete.
At 3am on Thursday morning my friend and driver Soewarno and I headed to the village.
One day, a rocket fall on the village school, killing nobody but took off my left eye.
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