Latest news with #Guinea
South China Morning Post
a day ago
- Business
- South China Morning Post
New railway lines put Guinea and Algeria on track to send iron ore to China
China is poised to begin receiving iron ore shipments from Guinea and Algeria this year, as Chinese firms complete the railway lines and ports needed to overcome logistical bottlenecks. For years, the lack of railway infrastructure connecting mine sites to port facilities had stymied iron ore exports from both nations. These massive projects are strategically important to China as it tries to diversify its supply of iron ore away from Australia and Brazil, which together account for about 80 per cent of seaborne exports. Simandou , in the remote southeast of Guinea, is one example. It is said to have the world's largest undeveloped iron ore deposit, and to get that moving a new railway line stretching up to 650km (400 miles) to the Atlantic coast was needed. Likewise, in Algeria, there is another significant iron ore deposit at the Gara Djebilet mine deep in the southwestern Sahara Desert, near the Mauritanian border. That is about 1,650km away from Mediterranean ports – a distance that will be bridged by a combination of new and upgraded railway lines. In the remote southeast of Guinea, Simandou is said to have the world's largest undeveloped iron ore deposit. Photo: Rio Tinto In Guinea, Simandou is now on track to start shipping iron ore from November, according to Rio Tinto, the Anglo-Australian mining giant jointly developing the project with Chinese companies.
Bloomberg
6 days ago
- Business
- Bloomberg
Iron Ore Tops $100 for First Time Since May on China Sentiment
Iron ore rose above $100 a ton on improving sentiment over Chinese economic growth, and as Rio Tinto Group brought forward its timeline for the first shipment from a massive mine in Guinea. Futures were up more than 1%, heading into triple figures for the first time since May. The steel-making ingredient has recovered over the past few weeks as Chinese officials pledged to tackle excessive competition and outdated capacity, as well as deliver additional property-led policy measures.
Yahoo
7 days ago
- Business
- Yahoo
Rio Tinto releases second quarter 2025 production results
13% CuEq production uplift for Q2 YoY, and 6% for H1, as we execute our strategy MELBOURNE, Australia, July 15, 2025--(BUSINESS WIRE)--Rio Tinto Chief Executive Jakob Stausholm said: "We delivered excellent operational performance from our mine operations with record production from our bauxite business and from Oyu Tolgoi as it ramps up to become the world's fourth largest copper mine before the end of the decade. "We continue to make strong progress in our production and growth projects, achieving our highest Pilbara Q2 production since 2018 and accelerating the first shipment from the Simandou high-grade iron ore project in Guinea. "We will continue to drive progress towards our long-term strategy to deliver profitable growth and build a stronger, more diversified business." Executive Summary We're pleased to have announced Simon Trott as Chief Executive with effect from 25 August 2025. Copper equivalent (CuEq) production rose 13% in Q2 YoY, and 6% YoY for the half year, driven by strong performance in our copper business and the contribution of the Arcadium acquisition. Copper production is now expected at the higher end, and copper unit costs around the lower end, of full year guidance ranges. Pilbara iron ore achieved its highest Q2 production since 2018, recovering well from Q1 extreme weather impacts. Bauxite achieved a second consecutive quarterly production record and is now expected at the higher end of the full year production guidance range. Lithium integration progressing to plan, in line with our strategy to establish a world-class lithium business. Simandou first shipment accelerated to around November 2025, with 0.5 to 1.0 Mt of shipments expected in 2025 (SimFer scope from Blocks 3 & 4). Continued progress with our Iron Ore replacement strategy: Western Range opened on time and on budget, while Hope Downs 2 received all Government approvals in Q2. Production1 Quarter 22025 vs Q22024 vs Q12025 2025 guidance5 Guidance status Pilbara iron ore shipments (100% basis) (Mt) 79.9 -1% +13% 323 to 3386 Unchanged Pilbara iron ore production (100% basis) (Mt) 83.7 +5% +20% NA Unchanged Bauxite (Mt) 15.6 +6% +5% 57 to 59 Unchanged7 (at higher end) Alumina (Mt) 1.8 +8% -6% 7.4 to 7.8 Unchanged Aluminium2 (Mt) 0.84 +2% +2% 3.25 to 3.45 Unchanged Copper (consolidated basis)3 (kt) 229 +15% +9% 780 to 850 Unchanged7 (at higher end) Titanium dioxide slag (Mt) 0.3 +13% +21% 1.0 to 1.2 Unchanged8 (at lower end) IOC4 iron ore pellets and concentrate (Mt) 2.5 +14% +7% 9.7 to 11.4 Unchanged Boric oxide equivalent (Mt) 0.1 +6% +13% ~0.5 Unchanged 1 Rio Tinto share unless otherwise stated. 2 Includes primary aluminium only. 3 From Q1 2025, we report copper production and guidance as one metric, in order to simplify reporting and align with peer practices. For further details see slide 90 of our Investor Seminar 2024 presentation. 4 Iron Ore Company of Canada. 5 See further notes in Section 2, 2025 guidance. 6 As stated at Q1 2025 - at the lower end of guidance. 7 At the higher end of guidance. 8 At the lower end of guidance. The full second quarter production results are available here This announcement is authorised for release to the market by Andy Hodges, Rio Tinto's Group Company Secretary. LEI: 213800YOEO5OQ72G2R82Classification: 3.1 Additional regulated information required to be disclosed under the laws of a Member State View source version on Contacts Please direct all enquiries to Media Relations, United Kingdom Matthew Klar M +44 7796 630 637David Outhwaite M +44 7787 597 493 Media Relations, Australia Matt Chambers M +61 433 525 739Rachel Pupazzoni M +61 438 875 469 Media Relations, Canada Malika Cherry M +1 418 592 7293Vanessa Damha M +1 514 715 2152 Media Relations, US Jesse Riseborough M +1 202 394 9480 Investor Relations, United Kingdom Rachel Arellano M: +44 7584 609 644David Ovington M +44 7920 010 978Laura Brooks M +44 7826 942 797Weiwei Hu M +44 7825 907 230 Investor Relations, Australia Tom Gallop M +61 439 353 948Phoebe Lee M +61 413 557 780 Rio Tinto plc 6 St James's SquareLondon SW1Y 4ADUnited KingdomT +44 20 7781 2000Registered in EnglandNo. 719885 Rio Tinto Limited Level 43, 120 Collins StreetMelbourne 3000AustraliaT +61 3 9283 3333Registered in AustraliaABN 96 004 458 404 Category: General Error in retrieving data Sign in to access your portfolio Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data
CNN
13-07-2025
- Politics
- CNN
It can be scary to be a refugee. New York's famed culinary scene is teaching these newcomers how to thrive
Immigration FacebookTweetLink Alpha Oumar Diallo hunches over a kitchen counter at a library café in Brooklyn, his nose hovering above a plastic container of brownie batter. Eyebrows furrowed, he tries to pinpoint where this batch went wrong. 'I don't know what you did,' chef Ashley Fils-Aime lectures from behind him, both hands on her hips. 'But I can tell you it's shiny and dark and not as solid as the other mixtures.' Diallo and his classmates groan. Can they at least give it a go in the oven, they ask. Fils-Aime shakes her head. 'Throw it away,' she says, 'immediately.' However stern, the rebuff is also gentle. It could never match what this man was facing just three years ago. Back in his native Guinea, Diallo's evenings had been a blend of watching soccer and baking. As he kneaded dough for bread, biscuits or cookies, his shouts of 'Goal! Goal! Goal!' echoed through the kitchen, replaced with disappointed grumbles when his favorite player missed a shot. But as his west African nation's government began to tighten personal and press freedoms, Diallo joined thousands protesting in the capital Conakry. Military personnel brutally beat him, he says, leaving scars. He got arrested, he continues, leading to three months curled up in a tiny prison cell, tortured and starved, the agonized screams of others being electrocuted within earshot. After another arrest for protesting – a two-month ordeal – Diallo's family urged him to leave, he says. So, in August 2022, he set out on a grueling, two-week journey through Senegal, to Turkey, across the ocean to Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala, then an 11-hour nighttime walk through Mexico to the US border in California. With little more than a backpack, Diallo eventually made it to New York with the help of his uncle. He struggled for months to find work before a new friend – aware of his love of baking – told him about a special school tucked inside a Brooklyn Public Library branch near historic Prospect Park that teaches newcomers like him how to cook. In a city long celebrated for gastronomic excellence and diverse international cuisines, nearly 60% of New York restaurant workers are foreign-born, many having brought a wealth of culinary knowledge. Not all arrive, though, with the skills to survive in a professional kitchen. And refugees can face peculiar workplace stresses rooted in the political violence or extreme poverty they fled. For some, the Trump administration's immigration crackdown now exacerbates the strain. Diallo holds up his cell phone to show a photo of his six sisters and mother, still in Guinea, where safety and freedom – especially of girls and women – are not guaranteed. He has requested asylum in the United States and hopes eventually to bring his relatives here, too. He kisses the screen and smiles. Tears begin to fall. 'Anywhere I go, anywhere I am,' he says, 'I'm thinking about them.' Also never far is Diallo's work ethic: 'I learned it from the advice of my father,' he says. 'A man has to work for himself, for his integrity, for his honor. It isn't easy, what we go through to get here or what we have escaped.' Diallo kisses the phone screen again and wipes his cheek with a small towel. Then, he turns to grab a fresh container for the next batch of brownie batter. About 15 minutes away by bus, at this cooking school's other café, a quiet morning slips into a busy afternoon, soft light spilling over every table. In the corner by the windows, two gray-haired friends trade cups of coffee, pausing to contemplate flavors. Eyebrows lifted in approval, they dive back into a passionate exchange of stories. Migrants shape every corner of the place, which like its counterpart at the Brooklyn library is called Emma's Torch to honor the poet whose verses on the Statue of Liberty's pedestal beckon the world's 'tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.' Ani Tsetskhladze, in a black apron and a cap, chops up onions, peppers and mushrooms for an omelet sandwich soon to be served to the table where a couple, immersed in playful banter, sip glasses of red wine. Her apron bears a simple quote: 'In the eyes of the stove, we are all equal.' 'After my first week here, I realized I didn't know many things about myself,' Tsetskhladze says a few minutes later, sitting with her hands in her lap. 'I was always a very quiet person inside. But now I see I am very competitive. You come here and you start learning, and you immediately want to be the best.' The soft-spoken mother of three immigrated from the former Soviet republic of Georgia with her husband – her love since they were 9 years old – and their three children. 'The Georgian government is now pro-Russian, and there is severe discrimination against minority groups,' Tsetskhladze explains. 'Everything went from worse to worse for us. I was on the street demonstrating, and we were tired. For our children, I would like a better life.' Georgia's ruling party recently passed a 'foreign agents' bill likened to Russian laws used to silence dissent. Hundreds of arrestees have alleged beatings, torture and other ill-treatment by law enforcement, while opposition politicians have faced public assaults. In Tbilisi, Tsetskhladze was an actress who quietly dreamt of attending culinary school, an ambition she could not afford. Breaking into New York's competitive theatre scene, especially with a language barrier, proved challenging, so when Tsetskhladze found Emma's Torch, it felt like destiny. Tsetskhladze and other migrants in this kitchen are among over 500 students at this school who are paid to get culinary training, funded by private donors. The non-profit's mission is to empower them and help them gain employment, confidence and financial independence while overcoming the challenges and traumas of forced migration. Culinary careers also can present invaluable opportunities for immigrants, especially in New York, where they can embrace their full identities – including their knowledge of native dishes – in the rich mosaic of ethnic restaurants. The menus at both Emma's Torch cafés – plus one in Washington, DC, and its catering operation – reflect this diversity. Dishes like the black-eyed pea fritter salad and North African shakshuka are inspired by students' cultural identities. The menus are part of the curriculum, so students learn how to master every recipe. 'We also learn about the history of food, especially talking about colonization through food. What does it mean to have certain flavors, like hummus, that originated in some countries now be seen as the norm in others?' says Kira O'Brien, Emma's Torch's chief impact officer. While 60% of the culinary program curriculum is divided into fundamentals, covering skills like knife techniques, kitchen sanitation, food safety and recipe reading, the remainder focuses on equity, employability and empowerment. A 'Know Your Rights' workshop, for instance, helps migrants understand the law and learn self-advocacy. Students also learn to read a paycheck – and protect against wage theft and employer exploitation. Some workshops are led by Natalie Manukian, a program specialist whose lesson on a recent day focuses on how students should research restaurants, using three specific examples. The daughter of Armenian immigrants, Manukian wears an evil eye pendant over her black turtleneck, her hair in an elegant, messy bun. 'This is the country of immigrants,' she says. 'Whether you were born here or your parents were born here, somebody in your lineage immigrated to this country, and no one should have the right to decide who can or can't be here.' Vicheslav Komotopchyk prefers not to dwell on his trauma. He leans back against the wall, his classmates listening as they cook, and recalls the day he fled Ukraine after Russia's 2022 invasion, one of some 10 million Ukrainians now displaced by the war. 'Take your time,' he says he first told his children as they prepared to flee. Fifteen minutes later, a missile flew past their kitchen window, striking a few blocks away and shaking their house, he says. 'After that I told them, 'Never mind, hurry!'' Within minutes that day, Komotopchyk's wife, three children and father-in-law – along with hastily packed backpacks – were crammed into a minibus, he continues. They drove for nearly 28 hours, he recalls, slowed by heavy evacuation traffic until they reached Warsaw, Poland. 'I don't like to think about it,' he says, shrugging. 'We did what we had to do, that's it. I can't keep counting: How many rockets? How many bombs? How many people died?' Almost every student at Emma's Torch has a story like this: fleeing war or violence, driven by the choice to pursue a safe future for their families or lose everything. 'When you're working with folks who have experienced trauma, there are certain things that we try to be really mindful of,' O'Brien says from a table in front of the library café. In New York, where waves of undocumented immigrants and asylum-seekers arriving by bus from Texas have ignited national debate, sudden shifts – in public policy or daily routine – can be devastating. Some 234,000 migrants have come through the city intake system since spring of 2022, with more than 41,000 still relying on shelters, Mayor Eric Adam's office told CNN in April. 'We try to make sure they're feeling psychologically safe,' O'Brien says of Emma's Torch's students. 'But when you have ambiguity about your own physical safety on where you're going to live and things are out of your control, they become really scary, especially for survivors of forced migration.' The cooking school collaborates with other non-profits to make sure each student gets health care, shelter, food and access to immigration lawyers. Meanwhile, instructors teach with a focus on transparency and accountability. 'If I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs?' I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs because they're going to need it later for service?'' O'Brien explains. 'That's very different from the experience a lot of our students have had, where it's been: 'Get in that line.' You don't know why you're in that line, you don't know what's gonna happen to your kids, you don't know anything.' Students also are empowered to make their own decisions, from which marker their teacher will use on the whiteboard to new menu suggestions. The authority, O'Brien says, is deeply meaningful, especially to migrants living in shelters, where they have no say in where they sleep, what they eat or, sometimes, what they wear. 'Think about all the different ways across the migration experience that people lose pieces of their humanity,' O'Brien says. 'Trauma-informed care tries to help add those pieces right back.' In the kitchens of Emma's Torch, migrants run nearly the whole operation. And for his part, Diallo isn't giving up on the brownies. He pours out a fresh round of batter and slides the tray into the oven. After one of his releases from a Guinean prison, his friends and family begged him to stop protesting. 'But I was not fighting for myself,' Diallo says with conviction. 'I was fighting for the future, for the new generation.' Now, he longs for those evenings back home, baking interrupted by soccer chatter and the giggles of his mother and sisters. He yearns to walk the streets of his hometown, to hear his native language, to feel his land beneath his feet again. Above all, he dreams of a homeland where freedom is not just a hope. Diallo also wishes for freedom for himself in the United States, even amid his concerns the asylum process – already long and uncertain – will be more challenging under Trump's governance. 'If you don't have freedom, to me, dying is better,' he says. In this New York kitchen, he can taste it. The oven timer dings. The scent of brownies fill the air. 'And thank God,' he says, 'I am finally free.'
CNN
13-07-2025
- Politics
- CNN
It can be scary to be a refugee. New York's famed culinary scene is teaching these newcomers how to thrive
Alpha Oumar Diallo hunches over a kitchen counter at a library café in Brooklyn, his nose hovering above a plastic container of brownie batter. Eyebrows furrowed, he tries to pinpoint where this batch went wrong. 'I don't know what you did,' chef Ashley Fils-Aime lectures from behind him, both hands on her hips. 'But I can tell you it's shiny and dark and not as solid as the other mixtures.' Diallo and his classmates groan. Can they at least give it a go in the oven, they ask. Fils-Aime shakes her head. 'Throw it away,' she says, 'immediately.' However stern, the rebuff is also gentle. It could never match what this man was facing just three years ago. Back in his native Guinea, Diallo's evenings had been a blend of watching soccer and baking. As he kneaded dough for bread, biscuits or cookies, his shouts of 'Goal! Goal! Goal!' echoed through the kitchen, replaced with disappointed grumbles when his favorite player missed a shot. But as his west African nation's government began to tighten personal and press freedoms, Diallo joined thousands protesting in the capital Conakry. Military personnel brutally beat him, he says, leaving scars. He got arrested, he continues, leading to three months curled up in a tiny prison cell, tortured and starved, the agonized screams of others being electrocuted within earshot. After another arrest for protesting – a two-month ordeal – Diallo's family urged him to leave, he says. So, in August 2022, he set out on a grueling, two-week journey through Senegal, to Turkey, across the ocean to Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala, then an 11-hour nighttime walk through Mexico to the US border in California. With little more than a backpack, Diallo eventually made it to New York with the help of his uncle. He struggled for months to find work before a new friend – aware of his love of baking – told him about a special school tucked inside a Brooklyn Public Library branch near historic Prospect Park that teaches newcomers like him how to cook. In a city long celebrated for gastronomic excellence and diverse international cuisines, nearly 60% of New York restaurant workers are foreign-born, many having brought a wealth of culinary knowledge. Not all arrive, though, with the skills to survive in a professional kitchen. And refugees can face peculiar workplace stresses rooted in the political violence or extreme poverty they fled. For some, the Trump administration's immigration crackdown now exacerbates the strain. Diallo holds up his cell phone to show a photo of his six sisters and mother, still in Guinea, where safety and freedom – especially of girls and women – are not guaranteed. He has requested asylum in the United States and hopes eventually to bring his relatives here, too. He kisses the screen and smiles. Tears begin to fall. 'Anywhere I go, anywhere I am,' he says, 'I'm thinking about them.' Also never far is Diallo's work ethic: 'I learned it from the advice of my father,' he says. 'A man has to work for himself, for his integrity, for his honor. It isn't easy, what we go through to get here or what we have escaped.' Diallo kisses the phone screen again and wipes his cheek with a small towel. Then, he turns to grab a fresh container for the next batch of brownie batter. About 15 minutes away by bus, at this cooking school's other café, a quiet morning slips into a busy afternoon, soft light spilling over every table. In the corner by the windows, two gray-haired friends trade cups of coffee, pausing to contemplate flavors. Eyebrows lifted in approval, they dive back into a passionate exchange of stories. Migrants shape every corner of the place, which like its counterpart at the Brooklyn library is called Emma's Torch to honor the poet whose verses on the Statue of Liberty's pedestal beckon the world's 'tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.' Ani Tsetskhladze, in a black apron and a cap, chops up onions, peppers and mushrooms for an omelet sandwich soon to be served to the table where a couple, immersed in playful banter, sip glasses of red wine. Her apron bears a simple quote: 'In the eyes of the stove, we are all equal.' 'After my first week here, I realized I didn't know many things about myself,' Tsetskhladze says a few minutes later, sitting with her hands in her lap. 'I was always a very quiet person inside. But now I see I am very competitive. You come here and you start learning, and you immediately want to be the best.' The soft-spoken mother of three immigrated from the former Soviet republic of Georgia with her husband – her love since they were 9 years old – and their three children. 'The Georgian government is now pro-Russian, and there is severe discrimination against minority groups,' Tsetskhladze explains. 'Everything went from worse to worse for us. I was on the street demonstrating, and we were tired. For our children, I would like a better life.' Georgia's ruling party recently passed a 'foreign agents' bill likened to Russian laws used to silence dissent. Hundreds of arrestees have alleged beatings, torture and other ill-treatment by law enforcement, while opposition politicians have faced public assaults. In Tbilisi, Tsetskhladze was an actress who quietly dreamt of attending culinary school, an ambition she could not afford. Breaking into New York's competitive theatre scene, especially with a language barrier, proved challenging, so when Tsetskhladze found Emma's Torch, it felt like destiny. Tsetskhladze and other migrants in this kitchen are among over 500 students at this school who are paid to get culinary training, funded by private donors. The non-profit's mission is to empower them and help them gain employment, confidence and financial independence while overcoming the challenges and traumas of forced migration. Culinary careers also can present invaluable opportunities for immigrants, especially in New York, where they can embrace their full identities – including their knowledge of native dishes – in the rich mosaic of ethnic restaurants. The menus at both Emma's Torch cafés – plus one in Washington, DC, and its catering operation – reflect this diversity. Dishes like the black-eyed pea fritter salad and North African shakshuka are inspired by students' cultural identities. The menus are part of the curriculum, so students learn how to master every recipe. 'We also learn about the history of food, especially talking about colonization through food. What does it mean to have certain flavors, like hummus, that originated in some countries now be seen as the norm in others?' says Kira O'Brien, Emma's Torch's chief impact officer. While 60% of the culinary program curriculum is divided into fundamentals, covering skills like knife techniques, kitchen sanitation, food safety and recipe reading, the remainder focuses on equity, employability and empowerment. A 'Know Your Rights' workshop, for instance, helps migrants understand the law and learn self-advocacy. Students also learn to read a paycheck – and protect against wage theft and employer exploitation. Some workshops are led by Natalie Manukian, a program specialist whose lesson on a recent day focuses on how students should research restaurants, using three specific examples. The daughter of Armenian immigrants, Manukian wears an evil eye pendant over her black turtleneck, her hair in an elegant, messy bun. 'This is the country of immigrants,' she says. 'Whether you were born here or your parents were born here, somebody in your lineage immigrated to this country, and no one should have the right to decide who can or can't be here.' Vicheslav Komotopchyk prefers not to dwell on his trauma. He leans back against the wall, his classmates listening as they cook, and recalls the day he fled Ukraine after Russia's 2022 invasion, one of some 10 million Ukrainians now displaced by the war. 'Take your time,' he says he first told his children as they prepared to flee. Fifteen minutes later, a missile flew past their kitchen window, striking a few blocks away and shaking their house, he says. 'After that I told them, 'Never mind, hurry!'' Within minutes that day, Komotopchyk's wife, three children and father-in-law – along with hastily packed backpacks – were crammed into a minibus, he continues. They drove for nearly 28 hours, he recalls, slowed by heavy evacuation traffic until they reached Warsaw, Poland. 'I don't like to think about it,' he says, shrugging. 'We did what we had to do, that's it. I can't keep counting: How many rockets? How many bombs? How many people died?' Almost every student at Emma's Torch has a story like this: fleeing war or violence, driven by the choice to pursue a safe future for their families or lose everything. 'When you're working with folks who have experienced trauma, there are certain things that we try to be really mindful of,' O'Brien says from a table in front of the library café. In New York, where waves of undocumented immigrants and asylum-seekers arriving by bus from Texas have ignited national debate, sudden shifts – in public policy or daily routine – can be devastating. Some 234,000 migrants have come through the city intake system since spring of 2022, with more than 41,000 still relying on shelters, Mayor Eric Adam's office told CNN in April. 'We try to make sure they're feeling psychologically safe,' O'Brien says of Emma's Torch's students. 'But when you have ambiguity about your own physical safety on where you're going to live and things are out of your control, they become really scary, especially for survivors of forced migration.' The cooking school collaborates with other non-profits to make sure each student gets health care, shelter, food and access to immigration lawyers. Meanwhile, instructors teach with a focus on transparency and accountability. 'If I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs?' I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs because they're going to need it later for service?'' O'Brien explains. 'That's very different from the experience a lot of our students have had, where it's been: 'Get in that line.' You don't know why you're in that line, you don't know what's gonna happen to your kids, you don't know anything.' Students also are empowered to make their own decisions, from which marker their teacher will use on the whiteboard to new menu suggestions. The authority, O'Brien says, is deeply meaningful, especially to migrants living in shelters, where they have no say in where they sleep, what they eat or, sometimes, what they wear. 'Think about all the different ways across the migration experience that people lose pieces of their humanity,' O'Brien says. 'Trauma-informed care tries to help add those pieces right back.' In the kitchens of Emma's Torch, migrants run nearly the whole operation. And for his part, Diallo isn't giving up on the brownies. He pours out a fresh round of batter and slides the tray into the oven. After one of his releases from a Guinean prison, his friends and family begged him to stop protesting. 'But I was not fighting for myself,' Diallo says with conviction. 'I was fighting for the future, for the new generation.' Now, he longs for those evenings back home, baking interrupted by soccer chatter and the giggles of his mother and sisters. He yearns to walk the streets of his hometown, to hear his native language, to feel his land beneath his feet again. Above all, he dreams of a homeland where freedom is not just a hope. Diallo also wishes for freedom for himself in the United States, even amid his concerns the asylum process – already long and uncertain – will be more challenging under Trump's governance. 'If you don't have freedom, to me, dying is better,' he says. In this New York kitchen, he can taste it. The oven timer dings. The scent of brownies fill the air. 'And thank God,' he says, 'I am finally free.'
