March 8 is International Women’s Day — a date picked in honor of a remarkable Russian protest.

During World War I, women in Russia went on strike. They demanded “bread and peace.” Among the results of their four-day protest: the Czar abdicated and women gained the right to vote.

This bold strike began on Feb. 23, 1917, according to the Julian calendar then used in Russia. That date translated to March 8 in the Gregorian calendar that much of the world uses. So that’s the day chosen for this celebratory event.

True to the spirit of those Russian women, the world pauses on this day to celebrate the achievements of women. This year to mark International Women’s Day, the United Nations is calling for “Rights. Justice. Action. For all women and girls.”

Sometimes, the true achievements are the ones that we barely see. The photographers at The Everyday Projects, a global photography and storytelling network, have shared portraits of women who in ways large and small are determined, like those Russian women over 100 years ago, to improve the lives of women and to build a better world.

Singing with strength

Kuala Lumpur-based photographer Annice Lyn likes to highlight the strength, resilience and the stories of women who are often overlooked.

That’s the inspiration for her portrait of Jean, 72, as she prepares for a performance of Chinese opera at Kwai Chai Hong, a restored heritage alley in Kuala Lumpur’s Chinatown in August 2024.

Such performances, typically staged during festivals and temple celebrations, combine singing, acting, martial arts, elaborate costumes and symbolic makeup to tell classical stories from Chinese folklore, history, and literature.

“Performers like Jean often dedicate decades of their lives to mastering this art form, preserving techniques and stories that are centuries old,” says Lyn. They told her that they may encounter negative reactions — questions like “are you wasting your time” or simply indifference.

“Sustaining a centuries-old practice in a modern urban setting requires both resilience and passion,” says Lyn, who made this picture minutes before the performance. “I wanted to give Jean the dignity she deserves through this portrait, a strong, intimate image that acknowledges her beauty, her discipline and the life she has dedicated to Chinese opera. I hoped to make her feel seen and heard, capturing not just a performance but a living cultural legacy.”

Dreaming of a toilet

Nkgono Selina Mosima, a resident of Thaba Nchu, Free State, South Africa, has hoped for years that she could afford to dig a pit toilet in her yard.

Tshepiso Mabula/The Everyday Projects

hide caption

Advertisement

toggle caption

Tshepiso Mabula/The Everyday Projects

The subject is Nkgono Selina Mosima, a resident of Thaba Nchu, Free State, South Africa, a region where poverty is rampant, Mosima is one of many residents who lack proper sanitation, says Tshepiso Mabula, a photographer and writer based in Johannesburg. Her wish was to hire someone to dig a pit toilet in her yard – in which human waste is collected in a pit and allowed to break down naturally over time – but she couldn’t afford the cost. The alternative is open defecation – finding a secluded place despite the personal risks and the potential health consequences of untreated human excrement.

“I was drawn to Nkgono by her unrelenting faith and positive outlook; despite her difficult circumstances, she constantly reiterated her hope that things would improve,” says Mabula. “This inspired the framing of the portrait: the bright colors, her headscarf and the belt around her waist all serve to highlight her strength, optimism and faith.”

The picture was taken in 2020. Today, Mabula says, many women still lack safe and effective sanitation options. Nkgono was a powerful voice for action and change as she eventually could afford to dig a pit toilet on her property.

Russian footballers

These women from Voronezh, Russia, participated in the country’s short-lived but intense American-style football league. They’re hanging out in the locker room.

Kristina Brazhnikova/Everyday Russia

hide caption

toggle caption

Advertisement

Kristina Brazhnikova/Everyday Russia

It seems improbable — starting an American football league for women in Russia. Not soccer but football. That’s what Portugal-based photographer Kristina Brazhnikova is documenting in her project “Mighty Girls,” which she shot between 2018 and 2021.

Any Russian woman could join, regardless of age, body type or level of training, she says. Coaches from the U.S. women’s national football team participated.

In the photo, the girls from the Voronezh team “Mighty Ducks” (Gabi, Katya, and Olesia) are in the locker room of a training camp preparing for practice. Team members came up with the name, she says.

“Everything was built on enthusiasm, so the players had to study the rules and playbooks on their own. Some women were invited by friends, others were drawn to the unusual nature of the sport, and some simply wanted to improve their physical fitness,” says Brazhnikova, who is Russian herself.

After the first practice, many women decided the game wasn’t for them, she says. It requires not only strength and endurance but the ability to memorize complex plays. Players had to buy their own protective gear, pay for field rentals and cover their travel expenses to competitions in other cities.

“Those who stayed, however, found a new family,” says Brazhnikova — and a new form of expressing emotions, including aggression. The women told her that playing American football made them braver and more decisive. They allowed themselves to step outside their comfort zones and push beyond the limits of their usual lives. They changed jobs and left relationships that had run their course. And the sound of pads colliding on the field became their favorite,” she says.

The league ceased to operate in 2022.

Hunting for missing loved ones

Hilaria Arzaba Medran of Mexico stands with tools she’ll use as she searches a clandestine burial site for the grave of her son, Oscar Contreras Arzaba, who disappeared in 2011 at age 19.

James Rodríguez/Everyday Latin America

Advertisement

hide caption

toggle caption

James Rodríguez/Everyday Latin America

Advertisement

Hilaria Arzaba Medran, 57, is no stranger to loss. Her son Oscar Contreras Arzaba disappeared on May 22, 2011, at the age of 19. A resident of the Mexican state of Veracruz, she’s a member of Solecito, an organization whose 250 members go out and look for their missing relatives on a regular basis. Holding tools in this photograph taken in Feb. 20, 2018, she searches for her missing son and other victims in a location known to have served as a clandestine grave.

“This collective is primarily led by women, and I was awe-struck by their determination to find their loved ones despite horrific violence and real-life threat to their own well-being,” says photographer James Rodríguez.

On this occasion in 2018, Rodriguez and others in the group had received an anonymous tip of a possible clandestine cemetery on the outskirts of Cordoba. She went searching with several other collective members, digging tools in hand. “We went into an isolated rural field that felt macabre in itself and [we] had no sort of security personnel with us. I was truly astounded by their conviction and courage,” he says.

A demand for housing

Janaina Xavier, a community leader, holds her son in a building in São Paulo, Brazil, that was occupied by people without housing in 2024.

Luca Meola/Everyday Brasil

hide caption

Advertisement

toggle caption

Luca Meola/Everyday Brasil

Janaina Xavier, a community leader, holds her son while looking out the window of the building where she lives with six of her 10 children near the Cracolândia district in São Paulo, Brazil, on April 23, 2024.

She currently serves as a council member for the Coordination of Policies for the Homeless Population and advocates for the rights of people living in and around Cracolândia.

“I’ve known Janaina Xavier for many years, since I began my long-term work documenting Cracolândia in São Paulo. She has long been involved in struggles for housing rights for people living in this highly stigmatized region of the city,” says photographer Luca Meola.

This photograph was taken inside a building being illegally occupied by Xavier and dozens of other families – a way for them to secure housing in the city center.

“For many low-income families, occupying empty buildings is one of the only ways to remain in the central area and access essential services and work opportunities,” Meola says.

In 2025, the city evicted Xavier, her family and the other residents.

The mother leaders of Madagascar take charge

In the Grand South of Madagascar, women known as “reny mahomby,” or mother leaders, perform a welcoming dance before starting a session to teach women in the community how to improve their lives.

Aina Zo Raberanto/The Everyday Projects

hide caption

toggle caption

Aina Zo Raberanto/The Everyday Projects

Advertisement

In this photo from the Grand South of Madagascar, in Amboasary Sud, women known as “Reny Mahomby,” or “mother leaders” perform a welcoming dance.

The “mother leaders” inspire other mothers in the community to make changes in their lives – to improve hygiene, to educate their children, to start small businesses, says photojournalist Aina Zo Raberanto, who lives in this African island nation but had never before visited the Grand South.

The dance took place at the start of a training session, says Raberanto. In this photo from November 2021, she says. “These mother leaders welcome us with a traditional dance from the region. I was deeply moved by their commitment to their community.”

The mothers of Madagascar “are the pillars of the household while sometimes facing difficult realities such as violence or early marriage,” she says. “I took this photograph to show both their strength, their dignity, their joy for life and the warmth of their welcome despite the hardships. Behind their smiles and movements lies a great determination to continue supporting their families and to build a better future for their children.”

Marching for their rights

Members of Puta Davida, a feminist collective advocating for the labor and human rights of sex workers, take part in a march during Carnival in downtown Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on Feb. 14, 2026.

Luca Meola
/Everyday Brasil

hide caption

toggle caption

Luca Meola
/Everyday Brasil

Advertisement

This photograph was taken during Carnival in Rio de Janeiro this February.

“I have been accompanying the collective Puta Davida for about three years. [It] works to create public debate around sex work, advocating for the recognition of sex work as legitimate labor and for the protection of sex workers’ human and labor rights,” says photographer Luca Meola.

The Puta Davida is a feminist collective from Rio de Janeiro created in the early 1990s by the sex worker and activist Gabriela Leite, a historic figure in Brazil’s movement for sex workers’ rights.

“I have been accompanying the collective for about three years. [It] works to create public debate around sex work, advocating for the recognition of sex work as legitimate labor and for the protection of sex workers’ human and labor rights,” says photographer Luca Meola.

In 2026, one of the community organizations that prepares music, dance, and large performances for Carnival parades chose to dedicate its parade to sex workers

Meola, who photographed the members of this group as they marched, says: “For me, what is powerful about this moment is how these women reclaim visibility in public space. Through political organization, performance and collective presence, they challenge stigma and assert their rights — which I believe strongly resonates with this year’s theme [for International Women’s Day] of justice and action,” says Meola.

Kamala Thiagarajan is a freelance journalist based in Madurai, Southern India. She reports on global health, science and development and has been published in The New York Times, The British Medical Journal, the BBC, The Guardian and other outlets. You can find her on X @kamal_t

Sunday nights: an apartment overlooking the Pacific, Manchego and hummus, then down to the rec room for ping-pong. That was our ritual — sometimes four of us, sometimes six or seven, paddles rotating. I’d insisted on one rule: no politics.

Meredith lived just up the street. In Los Angeles, where friendships often hinge on traffic patterns, that proximity mattered. She collected people like her dog collected burrs — random encounters in the park that somehow stuck. We were her strays, but for those hours each week, we became a small tribe bound by the sound of a ball against wood.

This past March, we held a celebration of life for Peanut, Meredith’s ancient mutt who’d been our Sunday mascot. My boyfriend José came with me. Cara found us in a big armchair at the edge of the party — José and I snug together while 30-some people mingled, drinks in hand.

“You two look so beautiful together,” she said, pulling out her phone. “It’s all about love, guys. I did ayahuasca once, and that’s what I learned. It’s all about love.”

José smiled his careful smile, the one he uses when white people need him to validate their enlightenment.

We stayed for the slideshow: Peanut as a puppy, Peanut at the beach, Peanut gray-muzzled and dignified. Many of the photos were mine — Meredith and Peanut together on the couch, at the park. One she’d taken of Peanut flopped in my arms. When Meredith wept, I rose to hold her. José and I walked home together, the ocean wind sharp against our faces.

Sunday evening, our regular game. José had headed back to his place. Between matches, while the others went upstairs for more wine, Cara sat beside me.

We were alone, still breathing hard.

“How are things with you and José?”

ICE was grabbing Latinos off the street. No one was asking for papers.

That’s when I told her about his status. How he’d been brought here at 11. How I worried about him having Indigenous Mexican features, how I asked him to carry his DACA work permit — always. How we’d added each other on Find My on our iPhones.

We were seated close, knee-to-knee. She nodded like she understood.

“I’m sorry, but people like José need to be deported.”

She swiped her paddle — emphatic, like swatting away not a ball but a body.

“It’s the only way we’ll fix the immigration system. Do it right.”

I had no words. The ball had rolled under the couch. I could see its white curve in the shadow.

I wrote to Cara the next morning. Months earlier, she’d hosted me at her home for Thanksgiving — her gay son and his husband at the table, her granddaughter pulling me into a game. When I left, Cara pressed a plate of leftovers into my hands at the door.

I wrote: “If someone told you your son’s marriage should be annulled to restore the sanctity of marriage, that wouldn’t be political — it would be personal. That’s how I feel about José.”

Her reply arrived before I’d finished my coffee. Links, statistics, a YouTube video about the menace at the border, arguments untethered from José or the immigrants who make up the fabric of life in Los Angeles.

Meredith never replied to my texts. Conflict overwhelmed her. I’d asked her to understand, not take sides.

When I told José what Cara said, his fury was immediate: “Never tell anyone!”

He was right. I’d made him feel vulnerable, handed her the ammunition.

I never went back.

What haunts me are those nights when the ball flew between us. The satisfying pock of paddle on ball, battling through long rallies, and breaking into dance moves with Chrissy after a perfect slam. Most of us hadn’t played since we were teens; the giddiness felt like freedom — competition without consequence.

Sometimes we’d play until nearly midnight — just one more game, nobody wanting to yield. We could vanquish each other over the net, but not dare threaten each other’s tightly held politics.

I took a certain pride in maintaining this friendship across the divide. “We just keep it about ping-pong,” I’d tell José, as if I’d discovered some secret to coexistence. I loved ping-pong too much to jeopardize it. Keith and I were the token liberals, José and I the token gay couple. The former journalist in the group, I’d insisted on no politics, and I’d kept insisting. If someone started to say something, I’d shut it down: “Don’t ruin this.”

When Chrissy played — just new to ping-pong — we slowed the game, made allowances. But politics? I knew we couldn’t go there.

Months later, after I’d stopped going, I ran into Keith at Trader Joe’s. He’d stopped going too. “I couldn’t stomach their politics anymore,” he said.

Ping-pong had been Switzerland.

Thanksgiving Day, eight months later. I was walking on the Santa Monica Pier, having called off my dinner plans because of a cold. Around me: Jamaican steel drums, an electrified sitar, Mexican women selling churros, Chinese immigrants painting tourists’ names in calligraphy. Meredith’s childhood friend called from their dinner table. “Everyone misses you,” he said. I could hear laughter in the background, the clink of glasses. As if I’d simply stopped showing up.

The ping-pong table was never neutral territory. We could be intimate about everything — sex, drugs, the messy details of our lives — everything except the beliefs that would actually tear us apart. All those Sunday nights, we’d been speaking in serves and returns while our politics waited under our tongues.

When the ball stopped bouncing, we had no other language.

I walk past Meredith’s building on the bluff a few times a week. My Stiga paddle sits in a drawer. Sometimes I imagine the table, the net taut as a border fence. Evidence of civility’s limit. The no-man’s-land I knew not to cross.

The last rally Meredith and I played went on for minutes. Back and forth, neither of us missing, the ball blurring between us in that hypnotic rhythm that makes everything else disappear. When it finally ended — I can’t remember who won — we just stood there, paddles lowered, breathing hard.

The ball rolled toward the corner, that familiar sound growing quieter as it slowed. Neither of us moved to retrieve it.

I still track José’s blue dot moving through the city. Not for safety — for love.

The author is a ghostwriter, writing coach and former Times contributor. He teaches creative writing at Mighty Words Studio.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

Editor’s note: On April 3, L.A. Affairs Live, our new storytelling competition show, will feature real dating stories from people living in the Greater Los Angeles area. Tickets for our first event are on sale now via the Next Fun Thing.

Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me!

Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me!

This week’s show was recorded in Chicago with host Peter Sagal, judge and scorekeeper Bill Kurtis, Not My Job guest Jason Benetti and panelists Luke Burbank, Negin Farsad, and Hari Kondabolu. Click the audio link above to hear the whole show.

Who’s Bill This Time

A Going Away Party; Looksmaxxing; The Pope Vs The Robots

Panel Questions

Press 2 For Span-ish

Bluff The Listener

Our panelists tell three stories about a time out in the news, only one of which is true.

Not My Job: Sunday Night Baseball’s Jason Benetti answers our questions about confetti

The new voice of Sunday Night Baseball on NBC, Jason Benetti, plays our game called, “Jason Benetti, have some confetti.” Three questions about confetti.

Panel Questions

Parental Insecurity; Introducing the Big Arch

Limericks

Bill Kurtis reads three news-related limericks: A Milkshake To Savor; New Age Chimps; Porky Problems

Lightning Fill In The Blank

All the news we couldn’t fit anywhere else

Predictions

Our panelists predict, after looksmaxxing, what will be next big internet beauty trend.