“The world is before you, and you need not take it or leave it or it was when you came in.”

“The world is before you, and you need not take it or leave it or it was when you came in.” — James Baldwin

I was born and raised in Sierra Leone, a country that, for much of my youth, was overshadowed by civil war. There were many days and months growing up hearing gunfire instead of morning bells. Amidst scarcity, chaos, and uncertainty, I discovered that resilience is built in the act of showing up, believing in possibility, and adding value wherever we can. Some people will never understand the strength it takes to keep going when the world feels heavy—like a barricade mounted against you. But those who have lived through war, displacement, and the long road toward rebuilding know. They know that perseverance isn’t a choice; it’s an act of faith.

During my years at Fourah Bay College in the early 1990s, I had the privilege of studying a broad range of disciplines, including Philosophy, Law, History, International Relations, English, and Literature. Each of these fields shaped my intellectual foundation, but it was in literature that I found the deepest resonance. Literature opened doors to worlds of emotional complexity and human experience that theory alone could not fully illuminate. It was there that I encountered voices that have continued to influence how I see the world.

Among them, Tennessee Williams made a particular impression. His work approaches the human heart as if it were fashioned from delicate glass, beautiful yet agonizingly fragile. In The Glass Menagerie, memory becomes a room from which there is no escape, a private terrain where longing and regret echo without end. In A Streetcar Named Desire, Blanche moves like a moth drawn toward a flame she mistakes for moonlight. In Williams’s world, desire is never tender. It is fierce, devouring, and often destructive. Through his portrayal of the American South, frayed by time and heavy with yearning, he exposes the narrow space between who we wish to become and what life ultimately grants.

Yet it was James Baldwin who illuminated something even more urgent in me. His voice did not simply describe the human condition. It confronted it. His words challenged, unsettled, and called the reader to accountability. They awakened an inner clarity, a sense that one must not merely observe the world but participate in its remaking. I remember reading one of his lines and feeling as though he spoke directly to every dreamer who refuses to inherit the world passively. That single line — “you need not take it or leave it or it was when you came in” — is more than prose; it is a philosophy of transformation. It has guided thinkers, builders, and innovators who dared to step beyond the familiar. From those who forged peace after conflict to those who built companies out of hardship, this belief—that the world is pliable in the hands of those who act with purpose—has always been the spark behind every meaningful revolution.

Years later, as my path led me into activism, education, and technology, Baldwin’s words kept returning — as if echoing across time to remind me that our purpose is not to accept the world as we found it, but to reimagine it. To create. To disrupt the inertia of complacency. For me, it became a call to action during my journey from Sierra Leone’s civil war to global platforms advocating for youth, peace, and technology. It is what drives my belief that innovation is not born from comfort but from conviction — the conviction that even one idea, one act of courage, can tilt the world toward something better. Baldwin’s words remind us that legacy is not about arrival, but about transformation — about what we dare to change before we leave.

It was also during this period that I deepened my engagement with Shakespeare, whose influence endures like bedrock beneath the entire landscape of English literature. Where Williams explores the fragility of longing and Baldwin calls the reader to moral awakening, Shakespeare broadens the scope to include the full architecture of ambition, conscience, love, and responsibility. His plays reveal that human conflict is not only personal, but bound to questions of power and the shape of society.

In Hamlet, I encountered a mind struggling with the burden of action in a fractured world. Hamlet’s reflection, “What a piece of work is a man,” expresses both admiration for human capability and sorrow for how often that capability is squandered. Through him, I learned that hesitation is sometimes the mark of an ethical imagination searching for the right path.

In contrast, Henry V presents a figure who steps into leadership with deliberate conviction. When he says, “All things are ready if our minds be so,” he points to the interior nature of courage. Action begins with belief. Henry does not wait for the world to grant him permission; he shapes his role with intent.

And in Julius Caesar, the reminder resonates with enduring force: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.” The future is not inherited; it is chosen. Shakespeare, like Baldwin generations later, insists that the world is not fixed or finished. It responds to the courage, imagination, and responsibility of those who dare to engage it.

I recalled in 1994 what I wrote to the BBC when we had a flicker of hope. This one was sent to BBC via snail mail and read by Tom Porteous for the ‘Last Word’ segment on Focus On Africa. The rewards and financial compensation of these writing efforts by the BBC were used to tackle the challenges at ‘Mount Aureal’. Captioned - ‘Freedom of Movement Under the New Civilian Government’:

“On a sunny afternoon a couple of days ago, I decided to follow a group of pedestrians walking along the once prohibited route leading to the ‘State House’ here in the heart of Freetown. I felt a great sense of relief when I discovered that this route is now accessible to the general public. But the faces of some of the people I walked along with seem to reflect the recent past, prior to the dawn of democracy when it was an offence for any ‘unauthorized’ persons or vehicles to ply this route. Even my feet felt heavy as if huge bags of sand were tied around my legs. I thought of running away and occasionally, I turned around to check to see if anyone was yelling at me, or trying to shove a gun at me or maybe kick me with heavy boots. But the sentries that used to guard the route with menacing looks are no longer there. As people began to realize the threats of guns have gone with the guns, they began to laugh and speak with chirpy voices. This showed me that, ‘Freedom of Movement’ is here, and this is a good symbol of democracy. But what about freedom movement throughout my entire country? I felt that this will soon be achieved now that the RUF has declared a ceasefire. I want Sierra Leoneans to be able to move freely all over the country in the way pedestrians and I felt when we peacefully strolled along the route, leading to ‘State House’ here in the heart of Freetown.”

Yet even in the ashes of conflict, I saw sparks of possibility and glimmers of hope—young minds yearning to learn, to create, to reclaim their futures and their potential as productive citizens. Years later, that vision became my calling: to rebuild the minds of children and youth affected by war through creativity, technology, and education.

In those early days, we had nothing but conviction. I started with borrowed computers, then donated ones, and an unflinching belief that hope could be coded into opportunity. When power lines failed, we used candles, lamps, and generators to stir up our vision. When our voices were drowned out by chaos, we sang louder—through film, through music, through storytelling. I remember standing with war-affected youth and children who have seen and experienced the war firsthand, as well as other young former child soldiers, as we recorded songs about peace—songs that would later echo across radio stations and classrooms, carrying messages of reconciliation and renewal.

I founded the Sierra Leone chapter of the International Education and Resource Network in the Fall of 1999 and a decade after founded the B-Gifted Foundation. In all my efforts I have connected disadvantaged youth to global opportunities, and created ICT for peace projects, Digital Hope, bringing ICT tools to schools across Sierra Leone and creating global school twinning opportunities. These projects weren’t just programs—they were lifelines, teaching students that their ideas mattered, that their voices could reach beyond borders, and that the world could respond when they dared to act. Through these initiatives, over 5,000 children and young people engaged in collaborative global education programs, engaged in innovative learning, creativity, and leadership for the first time. From those humble beginnings I observed and saw many rising from unimaginable circumstances to imagine a new future.

Here is what I had to say about my organization and project when interviewed by the My Hero Project in 2002:

“I am aware that our project has not come close to reaching its fullest impact. Part of the reason is due to the fact that those of us on the ground, who know all too well the impact of the war on these children, lack the technological and financial resources to carry out the campaign to its fullest potential. As volunteers, we work on a shoestring budget and through personal finances. We are proud of our accomplishments so far, but we remain in dire need of financial support to strengthen our programmatic activities, train our youth, and give them a voice through the power of the Internet.”

William Belsey, Executive Director, iEARN-Canada wrote to My Hero about his collaboration with me (Andrew Greene and the youth of Sierra Leone):

“We have been able to put in place ten computers in a secure, clean room in Freetown. We are working now to raise funds to bring Internet connections to these computers. Any support from you and your contacts will go a LONG way to helping this project create a safe, educational learning environment for the youth of Sierra Leone who have been so deeply affected by the long civil war that has now ended. But the very hard work of establishing a culture of hope through peace and reconciliation remains.”

Charles F. Harper, the Director of Outreach of My Hero Project, amplified that courage of a founder:

“I met Andrew at the iEARN Conference in Moscow, Russia, in the summer of 2002. There were 600 people from 60 countries attending, but you couldn’t miss Andrew. His warm smile, his enthusiasm for the mission of iEARN and childsoldier.com, his love for teaching, and his passion for peace were written all over everything he said and did. Now, if there was ever anyone who had reason to be resentful, despairing, and bitter, it is Andrew. Raised in a country that was divided by the violence of civil war, where brother fought against brother and sister against sister, and children were recruited to do horrific acts of violence for the self-interests of greedy leaders, he watched as an entire international community ignored the pains and struggles of his fellow countrymen as if they were not even a blip on the international radar screen. He could easily have chosen the path of blaming others for the tragic circumstances of his country and the impossibilities of educating himself and the young people around him. He could have wallowed in self-pity, never moving a muscle to rebuild a destitute country. He could have clung to the status quo of survival for survival’s sake. Instead, Andrew chose the road less traveled. When you meet Andrew you get to know someone who is at peace with himself and the world. There is a serenity in his presence. And the serenity comes from Andrew having the courage and the faith to nurture the gifts and talents he has as an educator and to share those talents and gifts with all who come within the universe of his indomitable spirit. That serene smile comes from not believing but knowing that one step, one day at a time, his children’s children will experience the impossible possibility of peace, justice and freedom from the scars of war.”

That journey carried me far beyond the familiar contours of home—from the mountains of Sierra Leone to the halls of international forums like THIMUN in The Hague, McGill University in Montreal, the Great Wall of China, the University of Cape Town, the monasteries of Russia, and even the quiet halls of Saint Francis Xavier University in Nova Scotia, Halifax, Antigonish, Canada. Each place was a classroom in its own right, where the language of policy met the urgency of lived human experience.

In the United States, I encountered a different kind of battlefield—not of bullets or the shadows of war, but of bureaucracy and doubt in the face of my already visible clarity. Here, the struggle was quieter yet profound: to find a place where one could be truly seen, to ensure that one’s voice could resonate, or be heard to demonstrate that innovation born from scarcity is not weakness, but a quiet genius. That activism was a continuation of many years past. In every conversation, every lecture hall, every conference, every nonprofit I volunteered or consulted with, I felt the tender weight of human possibility—the fragile beauty of ideas taking root in a land awash with limitless possibilities yet made difficult by some and made easier by others—that’s the paradox of chasing the American dream. And that’s the responsibility newcomers carry to transform the lives they touch.

Yet each challenge refined my purpose. Every rejection letter, every closed door, became a reminder of why I started. My story was never just about survival—it was about reimagining what’s possible when faith meets action.

Today, as I build my startup, a platform designed to accelerate giving and generosity—I carry the same principles that guided me through war zones and refugee camps. My startup is not just a business venture; it is the continuation of a lifelong pursuit: to connect hearts, empower communities, and remind the world that generosity is the highest form of courage.

We live in a time when compassion often feels drowned by noise, when cynicism masquerades as wisdom. But I’ve seen firsthand that change begins when ordinary people do the extraordinary act of showing up. Whether in the ruins of Freetown or the streets of New York, resilience wears the same face—undaunted and searching. — Or whether standing in the recovering landscapes of ‘The Province of Freedom’ as Freetown was called during post-slavery years, in that city still gathering itself from the ashes of memory and healing its ruins from a decade long civil war or whether in the vibrant mosaic and swirling diversity of New York’s avenues beneath its towering skyline, the human spirit appears in familiar form—undaunted and searching. And in that chaos I found a moment of peace.

And in that chaos I found a moment of peace.

It’s the teacher who still shows up without pay, the dreamer who writes another grant after a dozen rejections, the immigrant who keeps believing even when the system says, “wait.” To those fighting their unseen battles today: I see you. You are not weak for feeling weary; you are strong for standing anyway. Every step forward, no matter how small, is a declaration that you refuse to be defeated by the weight of the world.

When the world feels heavy—keep showing up. If you showed up today—if you fought through the struggle—I’m proud of you. Keep showing up. The world may not always applaud your resilience, but someday, someone will stand in the light of what you built and say, because they didn’t give up, I can begin.

And indeed, this is about discovering who you are meant to be—and leaving a lasting footprint in the world, inspiring others to rise, create, and shine—just as works like Fame have done, showing that one life, one effort, can echo far beyond itself.

By: Andrew Benson Greene

BA International Relations, Civil Law and English 1998.