Norval Edwards, Jamaica
Together, these entries reflect the extraordinary talent and vision of their creators. They remind us that storytelling is not merely self-expression but a vital tool for understanding and navigating the world. In a time of uncertainty, the Fertile Ground Writing Competition has given us stories that challenge, inspire, and unite, celebrating the enduring power of art to illuminate the human experience.

MILLAN TARUS, Kenya
FIRST PLACE WINNER
At the house, he told me to boil some tea, then placed my hand over the pot, curious to know the texture of the steam on my skin. I became a bird, breaking down each meal into words and descriptions for him to feed.

Ömer Tevfik Erten, Turkiye
SECOND PLACE WINNER
Every border is a wound, and in that wound lies the beginning of both pain and healing. This year has allowed me to look into these wounds and explore their healing power through my art.

Shoty Ndjoli, Democratic Republic of Congo
THIRD PLACE WINNER
how do we learn to live with our new faces
carrying the scars of thousands
how do we learn to live with our new faces
which are transformed by injuries
how do we learn to live with our new faces
in this new crisis of human identity

Maame Adwoa Prempeh, Ghana
HONOURABLE MENTION
They did not tell me that there would be days when I would question God. Days when I would pour out my heart full of tears to Him asking what I did wrong to have my parents taken from me. Days when I would ask which part of His plans my parents’ death fell into. 

Gloria Kiconco, Uganda, HONOURABLE MENTION
We are the emergency, the wound and the trauma ward nurse stitching us into sense while blinking back sleep on another late-night shift.
My fingers, tendons, biceps are translucent with aches. I keep folding zines, little books, love letters to a disappearing people. A galaxy of stars exploding upon themselves from Kivu to Rafah.

Mariah Reodica, Philippines
HONOURABLE MENTION
My recorder captures this salient stream of the senses, albeit reduced into a handful of channels. The signal chain undulates, distilling spatial information. In exchange, I am now capable of playback. I savor sounds like candy.

Chris Luza, Perú
HONOURABLE MENTION
If a river is scripture,
may Perseus and Olympus remain in their heroic pantheon,
and may the political prisoners of my country soon be released to remember.
If to remake the uncertainty of the present, we need these and more gods,
may the eternal trench of struggle not tear our conviction apart.

Sadiq Al-Harasi, Yemen
HONOURABLE MENTION
Since 2021, the Houthis have been systematically erasing murals and artwork from Sana’a’s streets, replacing them with political and religious slogans, repressive rhetoric, calls for jihad, and messages restricting women’s freedom.

Lady Donli, Nigeria
HONOURABLE MENTION
We live in a world that often feels like it’s losing its way. We see it in the news, in our cities, in our interactions. But no matter how loud the chaos gets, there is something sacred about choosing to hold on to hope. About creating small spaces where we can breathe, where we can connect with each other, where we can find meaning in the madness.

Reza Baastani, Iran
HONOURABLE MENTION
Collective struggles bring hope. I was born during the 1999 student uprising; I went to school during the Green Movement of 2009, and I was a university student in the bloody November 2018 one. When I look at each of them, I see hope, anger and hope in each failure and in each disappointment. Statistics show that the annual number of immigrants from Iran multiplies after each failed uprising. I would like no one to leave. All stay.

Joey Alexis Singh, Philippines
The mistress commanded him to leave. She took a baton and knocked it repeatedly on a nearby table, just loud enough to establish her authority in the house but also gentle enough not to evoke violence. He remained seated and unshaken even as my partner politely asked him “brother, please leave.”

Frank Mugisha, Rwanda
When my children ask me how we got here
In my recitation I will say
In my time climate change was no longer avoidable
The stark evidence no longer escapable
Wild fires ravaged California, Angola, Congo, to name but a few

Brune Comas, Paraguay
An ex-soldier watches as military offices are closed, weapons have run out, and humans have become bakers, healers, and growers. The old borders are an archaic myth; it does not make sense to us that the world is divided by petty interests. Children no longer know what bombs are.

Raiany Sinara, Brazil 
Abstract, formless art calms my mind, nourishes the soul and heart. A new space is created where I can be nothing. Where I can contribute with my silence. The non-existence of the product, a mismatch. Create a breather for my mind. Between inhalation and exhalation.

Nessa Theo, Indonesia
Isn’t that the reality of being born into the middleman minority? People struggle to place you in their narratives. Sometimes, you are the cunning, rice wine-drinking, pork-eating, Chinese economic opportunist who has leeched off the sons of the land. Other times, you are the perpetual outsider, the victim of recurring violence, a diaspora that never fully belongs. This ambivalence seeps into your heart, leaving you in a state of existential angst.

Ali Radmehr, Iran
This year has been so complicated, each day more confusing than the last. It’s impossible to tell who’s telling the truth or who’s in the right. I hope it all ends soon. I feel so lost and confused, and I don’t want to stay this way as I grow up. Mom says that feeling lost and confused is just part of being Iranian and Middle Eastern, but I’m not sure. How could being born in just one piece of land make everything more complicated?

Penboy, Cameroon
This thing called slumber, once a fashion
But now a luxury we can no longer afford
It’s hard to sleep at night
When all our fears are awake