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MLOMP, Senegal — It's almost dusk, and the West African heat is finally faltering. In Mlomp, a village in southern Senegal, dozens of teenagers in colorful jerseys are throwing each other to the ground to the rhythm of Afrobeats against a backdrop of palm trees.  It's a common sight across Senegal, where wrestling is a national sport and wrestlers are celebrated like rock stars. The local variation of wrestling, called laamb in Wolof, one of the national languages, has been part of village life for centuries. Senegalese wrestle for entertainment and to celebrate special occasions. The professional version of the sport draws thousands to stadiums and can be a catapult to international stardom.  But in most of the country, wrestling remains off-limits for women.  There is one exception. In the Casamance region, home to the Jola ethnic group, women traditionally wrestle alongside men. At a recent training session in Mlomp, most teenagers on the sandy ground were girls.  "It's in our blood," said coach Isabelle Sambou, 43, a two-time Olympian and nine-time African wrestling champion. "In our village, girls wrestle. My mum was a wrestler, my aunts were wrestlers."  But once Jola women marry, they are expected to stop practicing and devote themselves to family life, considered the main duty of Senegalese women regardless of ethnicity or religion.  Sambou's aunt, Awa Sy, now in her 80s, was the village champion in her youth, and said she would even take down some men.  "I liked wrestling because it made me feel strong," she said, standing outside her house nestled between rice fields and mangroves. "I stopped when I got married." She didn't question it at the time.  That hasn't been the case for her niece, who, despite her humble demeanor and small size, exudes strength and determination. She defied many barriers to become a professional athlete.  As a teenager, Sambou was noticed by a professional wrestling coach at a competition during the annual Festival of the King of Oussouye, one of the few events accessible to women. The coach suggested that she try Olympic wrestling, which has a female national team. But she only agreed after her older brother convinced her to do it.  Wrestling brought Sambou, who did not finish primary school, to the Olympic Games in London and Rio de Janeiro, where she placed outside the medal contenders. But being a successful professional female athlete in a conservative society comes with a price.  "If you are a female wrestler, people are going to make fun of you," Sambou said, recalling her experiences in parts of Senegal beyond her home region. "When I walked around in shorts, people were saying: 'Look, is it a woman or is it a boy?'"  Others claimed that her body would change and she would no longer look like a woman.  Such things can "get to your head," Sambou said. "But I tell myself: They don't know what they are talking about. It's in my blood, and it brought me where I am today."  In 2016, facing her mid-30s, she decided to retire from professional sport and move back to her village.  "I thought it was the time to stop and think of something else, maybe find a job, start a family," she said. "But that hasn't happened so far."  Instead, she focused on finding "future Isabelles." After not fulfilling her dream of winning an Olympic medal, she hopes a girl she coaches can achieve that.  That mission has been complicated by the lack of resources. Female sport is often underfunded, especially in sub-Saharan Africa.  Around Sambou's village, there are no gyms where girls can do strength training. They don't have the special shoes used in Olympic wrestling, and instead train barefoot. They don't have mats, so they make do with sandy grounds.  And yet, at Africa's youth championship in wrestling held in June in Senegal's capital, Dakar, Sambou's students won 10 medals, including six golds.  "Despite everything, they did magnificent work," she said.  She has received little in return. Senegal has no pension system for retired professional athletes. Her lack of formal education complicates her career as a coach. She helps to coach the national wrestling team, both men and women, but on a voluntary basis. To get by, she works in a small shop and cleans people's houses.  "I gave everything to wrestling, to my country," she said. "Now I don't have anything. I don't even have my own house. It hurts a bit."  She listed the countries she has visited, including the United States and Switzerland, while sitting outside the home she shares with relatives. Her bedroom is decorated with a picture of Virgin Mary and posters celebrating her participation in championships — the only sign of her glorious past.  "It's difficult to be a professional athlete. You have to leave everything behind," she said. "And then you stop, and you come back here and you sit, without anything to do."  But times are changing, and so is the perception of women in Senegalese society. These days, parents seek out Sambou and ask her to coach their children, regardless of their gender, even if it's still for free.  Sambou's 17-year-old niece, Mame Marie Sambou, recently won a gold medal at the youth championship in Dakar. Her dream is to become a professional wrestler and compete internationally. The big test will come in two years when Senegal hosts the Youth Olympic Games, the first Olympic event ever organized on African soil.  "It's my aunt who encouraged me to start wrestling," she said. "When I started, many people were saying they have never seen a girl wrestle. But I never listened to them. I want to be like her." 

MEDFORD, Mass. — Flerentin "Flex" Jean-Baptiste missed so much school he had to repeat his freshman year at Medford High outside Boston. At school, "you do the same thing every day," said Jean-Baptiste, who was absent 30 days his first year. "That gets very frustrating." Then his principal did something nearly unheard of: She let students play organized sports during lunch — if they attended all their classes. In other words, she offered high schoolers recess. "It gave me something to look forward to," said Jean-Baptiste, 16. The following year, he cut his absences in half. Schoolwide, the share of chronically absent students declined from 35% in March 2023 to 23% in March 2024 — one of the steepest declines among Massachusetts high schools. Years after COVID-19 upended American schooling, nearly every state is still struggling with attendance, according to data collected by The Associated Press and Stanford University educational economist Thomas Dee. Roughly one in four students in the 2022-23 school year remained chronically absent, meaning they missed at least 10% of the school year. That represents about 12 million children in the 42 states and Washington, D.C., where data is available. Before the pandemic, only 15% of students missed that much school. Society may have largely moved on from COVID, but schools say they're still battling the effects of pandemic school closures. After as much as a year at home, school for many kids has felt overwhelming, boring or socially stressful. More than ever, kids and parents are deciding it's OK to stay home, which makes catching up even harder. In all but one state, Arkansas, absence rates remain higher than pre-pandemic. Still, the problem appears to have passed its peak; almost every state saw absenteeism improve at least slightly from 2021-22 to 2022-23. Schools are working to identify students with slipping attendance, then providing help. They're working to close communication gaps with parents, who often aren't aware their child is missing so much school or why it's problematic. So far, the solutions that appear to be helping are simple — like postcards to parents that compare a child's attendance with peers. But to make more progress, experts say, schools must get creative to address their students' needs. Caring adults — and incentives In Oakland, California, chronic absenteeism skyrocketed from 29% pre-pandemic to 53% in 2022-23 across district and charter schools. Officials asked students what would convince them to come to class. Money, they replied, and a mentor. A grant-funded program launched in spring 2023 paid 45 students $50 weekly for perfect attendance. Students also checked in daily with an assigned adult and completed weekly mental health assessments. Paying students isn't a permanent or sustainable fix, said Zaia Vera, the district's head of social-emotional learning. But many absent students lacked stable housing or were helping to support their families. "The money is the hook that got them in the door," Vera said. More than 60% improved their attendance after taking part, Vera said. The program is expected to continue, along with district-wide efforts aimed at creating a sense of belonging. Oakland's African American Male Achievement project, for example, pairs Black students with Black teachers who offer support. Kids who identify with their educators are more likely to attend school, said Michael Gottfried, a University of Pennsylvania professor. According to one study led by Gottfried, California students felt "it's important for me to see someone who's like me early on, first thing in the day," he said. A caring teacher made a difference for Golden Tachiquin, 18, who graduated from Oakland's Skyline High School this spring. When she started 10th grade after a remote freshman year, she felt lost and anxious. She later realized these feelings caused the nausea and dizziness that kept her home sick. She was absent at least 25 days that year. But she bonded with an Afro-Latina teacher who understood her culturally and made Tachiquin, a straight-A student, feel her poor attendance didn't define her. "I didn't dread going to her class," Tachiquin said. Another teacher had the opposite effect. "She would say, 'Wow, guess who decided to come today?' " Tachiquin recalled. "I started skipping her class even more." In Massachusetts, Medford High School requires administrators to greet and talk with students each morning, especially those with a history of missing school. But the lunchtime gym sessions have been the biggest driver of improved attendance, Principal Marta Cabral said. High schoolers need freedom and an opportunity to move their bodies, she said. "They're here for seven hours a day. They should have a little fun." Stubborn circumstances Chronically absent students are at higher risk of illiteracy and eventually dropping out. They also miss the meals, counseling and socialization provided at school. Many of the reasons kids missed school early in the pandemic are still firmly in place: financial hardship, transportation problems, mild illness and mental health struggles. In Alaska, 45% of students missed significant school last year. In Amy Lloyd's high school classes in Juneau, some families now treat attendance as optional. Last term, several of her English students missed school for vacations. "I don't really know how to reset the expectation that was crushed when we sat in front of the computer for that year," Lloyd said. Emotional and behavioral problems also have kept kids home from school. Research shared exclusively with AP found absenteeism and poor mental health are "interconnected," said University of Southern California professor Morgan Polikoff. For example, in the USC study, almost a quarter of chronically absent kids had high levels of emotional or behavioral problems, according to a parent questionnaire, compared with just 7% of kids with good attendance. Emotional symptoms among teen girls were especially linked with missing school. How sick is too sick? When chronic absence surged to around 50% in Fresno, California, officials realized they had to remedy pandemic-era mindsets about keeping kids home sick. "Unless your student has a fever or threw up in the last 24 hours, you are coming to school. That's what we want," said Abigail Arii, director of student support services. Often, said Noreida Perez, who oversees attendance, parents aren't aware physical symptoms can point to mental health struggles — such as when a child doesn't feel up to leaving their bedroom. More than a dozen states now let students take mental health days as excused absences. But staying home can become a vicious cycle, said Hedy Chang, of Attendance Works, which works with schools on absenteeism. "If you continue to stay home from school, you feel more disengaged," she said. "You get farther behind." Changing the culture around sick days is only part of the problem. At Fresno's Fort Miller Middle School, where half the students were chronically absent, two reasons kept coming up: dirty laundry and no transportation. The school bought a washer and dryer for families' use, along with a Chevy Suburban to pick up students who missed the bus. Overall, Fresno's chronic absenteeism improved to 35% in 2022-23. Melinda Gonzalez, 14, missed the school bus about once a week and would call for rides in the Suburban. "I don't have a car; my parents couldn't drive me to school," Gonzalez said. "Getting that ride made a big difference."

LIMA, Peru — President Nicolás Maduro's contested claim of victory in last month's election not only threw Venezuela into uncertainty but also spread anxiety from neighboring Colombia to faraway Chile as the region braced for a new migration surge. Over the past decade since Maduro became president, the United Nations estimates that a staggering 7.7 million Venezuelans have fled as the economy collapsed, sneaking across porous borders and crowding into nearby countries that increasingly fear they cannot accommodate another mass exodus. Now, as the crisis over Maduro's widely disputed reelection raises the specter of deeper global isolation in Caracas, pollsters, politicians and members of the diaspora warn that more Venezuelans are packing their bags. "There were millions of Venezuelans who expected a political change in the country and who are now frustrated," said Jesus Seguias, who leads regional pollster Datincorp. "They're now caught in uncertainty, deciding whether to leave their country and join relatives who have already left." Along with the millions of Venezuelans who warily watched Maduro's loyalists in the electoral council declare his victory were throngs of listless workers in the biggest open-air apparel market in Peru, which trails Colombia as the main destination for Venezuelan migrants. "Everyone is worried because migrants are going to increase," said 38-year-old seamstress Diana Yaranga, grumbling as another morning passed in a blur of plunging sales. She blamed her lack of customers on the arrival of Venezuelans, who account for more than 20% of the 100,000 vendors in the market, according to the local union. "There will be a fight for jobs," she said.  Hand-wringing among street vendors has extended to the highest rungs of government in Peru, Chile and Brazil, where authorities in recent days have increased border security to steel against newcomers as violent protests engulf Caracas. "It's not that a migratory flow will start now. What can happen is that it may increase and reach a larger scale," said Interior Minister Carolina Tohá in Chile, which has strained to accept hundreds of thousands of Venezuelans in the last five years. "We must prepare." Chile's interior ministry recently announced the acquisition of thermal cameras to track illegal migrant crossings. Last year the government dispatched armed forces to its border with Bolivia and Peru to curb migration through a perilous Andean pass frequented and is now considering sending reinforcements. Backlash toward migrants has intensified in Chile, where in 2021 angry mobs torched a Venezuelan tent encampment in the country's north, as well as in Peru and Ecuador, which have similarly tightened requirements for issuing tourist visas to Venezuelans. Authorities in those countries now oblige most Venezuelans to present a passport and a clean criminal record, along with other hard-to-obtain paperwork. But attempts to curb legal migration have done little more than encourage illegal migration, experts say. "The immigrants are coming regardless," said Cristián Doña-Reveco, a Chilean sociologist and immigration expert at the University of Nebraska. "When you're trying to deter immigration by closing borders and by not providing safe ways for immigrants to apply for asylum, you're increasing vulnerability, trafficking, dangers and migrant death." That's the case farther north as well, where a growing number of Venezuelan migrants have trekked through the dangerous Darién jungle, which connects Colombia and Panama, to reach the United States. "It's a humanitarian alert, with all the drama that this implies," said Colombian senator Angélica Lozano from the Green Party. Organized criminal groups — such as Venezuela's largest gang, the Tren de Aragua — have increasingly taken advantage of the migration surge, preying on the desperation of Venezuelan migrants across Latin America, half of whom cannot afford three meals a day, according to the U.N. refugee agency. The notorious Tren de Aragua's push into Chile, one of the region's richest and safest countries, has transformed crime in the country and made security a top concern for Chileans. The nation's homicide rate nearly doubled in 2022 from the year before, shocking the country and prompting leftist President Gabriel Boric to boost security spending and take a harder line on immigration. "The public perception of Venezuelan migration here has really worsened in the last years, especially as we have seen an increase of violent crime," said Juan Pablo Ramaciotti, executive director of the Migration Policy Center, a Santiago-based think tank. "The most recent arrivals from Venezuela are not integrated into society." The share of Chileans who say immigration is bad surged to 77% in April 2023, according to Cadem, a pollster, from 31% five years earlier. A Cadem survey published after Venezuela's elections, on August 4, showed that 61% of Chilean respondents opposed the prospect of Venezuelans seeking asylum in their country. "Chile used to be a very peaceful country and crimes were very minor, not so bloody," said 73-year-old José Parra, a retired Chilean lamenting the unprecedented occurrence of hit jobs, extortion and kidnappings in recent years. "That's why people have become so xenophobic." With migration a hot issue as Chile's presidential election approaches next year, officials have proposed far-flung solutions like a system of mandatory quotas to share the burden and spread asylum-seekers across Latin America — similar to the European Union's controversial scheme during its 2015 migration crisis. Chile's lawmakers have floated another idea, bringing a bill to the floor of Parliament last month that seeks to penalize illegal migrant entries with prison sentences of up to 541 days. A heated debate ensued. "There are families who are going to escape from Venezuela. Will we put them in jail?" asked Manuel Monsalve Benavides, the undersecretary of the interior. Colombia, a common jumping-off point for Venezuelan migrants, has long been more generous than its neighbors, granting roughly 2 million Venezuelans temporary protected status that allows them to attend school, take formal jobs and receive emergency medical treatment for 10 years. But that could change in the coming months as authorities struggle to muster the political will to extend the internationally lauded permit program. The visa applies only to Venezuelans who entered the country before November 2023. "We don't have the regional resources to handle the migration from Venezuela," said Ronal Rodríguez, a researcher at the Migration Observatory, part of Rosario University in Bogotá, Colombia. "The national government no longer prioritizes migration issues." Rodríguez said he expects the most immediate Venezuelan exodus to include the parents and grandparents of young engineers, accountants and doctors who have already left for cities like Bogotá, Santiago or Lima. Venezuela's opposition had hoped an electoral victory would draw that young generation back home and reunite the families torn apart by their country's crises. But as Maduro clings to power, the reverse may be happening. "People are already bringing over their older relatives to spend the next few months together until the presidential inauguration," Rodríguez said. "But if the situation does not improve, it could become a permanent flow."

ULAANBAATAR, Mongolia — With its reindeer sleigh rides, camel racing and stunning landscapes with room to roam, Mongolia is hoping to woo visitors who are truly looking to get away from it all. Like most countries, its tourism industry was devastated by the COVID-19 pandemic, and it has launched a "Welcome to MonGOlia" campaign to win people back. The government has added flights and streamlined the visa process, offering visa-free visits for many countries. At least 437,000 foreign tourists visited in the first seven months of this year, up 25% over the same period last year, including increasing numbers from Europe, the U.S. and Japan. Visitors from South Korea nearly doubled, thanks in part to the under-four-hour flight. Despite the gains, Mongolia's government is still short of its goal of 1 million visitors per year from 2023-25 to the land of Genghis Khan, which encompassed much of Eurasia in its 13th-century heyday and is now a landlocked nation located between Russia and China. With a population of 3.3 million people, about half of them living in the capital, Ulaanbaatar, there's plenty of open space for the adventure tourist to explore, said Egjimaa Battsooj, who works for a tour company. Its customized itineraries include horseback trips and camping excursions with the possibility of staying in gers, the felt-covered dwellings still used by Mongolia's herders. There's little chance of running across private property, so few places are off-limits, she said. "You don't need to open a gate, you don't need to have permission from anyone," she said, sitting in front of a map of Mongolia with routes marked out with pins and strands of yarn. "We are kind of like the last truly nomad culture on the whole planet," she added. Lonely Planet named Mongolia its top destination in its Best in Travel 2024 report. The pope's visit to Mongolia last year also helped focus attention on the country. Its breakdancers became stars at last year's Asian Games. And some local bands have developed a global following, like The Hu, a folk-metal band that incorporates traditional Mongolian instruments and throat singing with modern rock. Still, many people know little about Mongolia. American tourist Michael John said he knew some of the history about Genghis Khan and had seen a documentary on eagles used by hunters before deciding to stop in Ulaanbaatar as part of a longer vacation. "It was a great opportunity to learn more," the 40-year-old said. Tourism accounted for 7.2% of Mongolia's gross domestic product and 7.6% of its employment in 2019 before collapsing due to the COVID-19 pandemic, according to the World Bank. But the organization noted "substantial growth potential" for Mongolia to exploit, with "diverse nature and stunning sceneries" and sports and adventure tourism possibilities. Mongolia tourism ads focus on those themes, with beautiful views of frozen lakes in winter for skating and fishing, the Northern Lights and events like reindeer sledding and riding, camel racing and hiking. Munkhjargal Dayan offers rides on two-humped Bactrian camels, traditional archery and the opportunity to have eagles trained for hunting perch on a visitor's arm. "We want to show tourists coming from other countries that we have such a way of life in Mongolia," he said, waiting for customers by a giant statue of Genghis Kahn on the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar. Outside the lively capital, getting around can be difficult in summer as the steppes become waterlogged, and there is limited infrastructure, a shortage of accommodation and a deficit of skilled labor in tourism destinations. It is also easy for foreigners to get lost, with few signs in English, said Dutch tourist Jasper Koning. Nevertheless, he said he was thoroughly enjoying his trip. "The weather is super, the scenery is more than super, it's clean, the people are friendly," he said.

ASUNCIÓN, Paraguay — It was one of the first actions taken by Paraguayans in public defiance of their overthrown dictator, a military strongman who unleashed a 35-year reign of terror, killing hundreds of people and imprisoning thousands more. In a howl of dissent, crowds massed around the newly elected socialist mayor of Asunción, Paraguay's capital, to tear down a bronze statue honoring Latin America's longest-ruling dictator, Gen. Alfredo Stroessner, two years after his 1989 ouster. When the hulking metal finally came crashing down to a salvo of cheers, Stroessner's large brass feet stayed planted on the plinth. Residents joke it remains an unwitting symbol of his entrenched presence in Asunción — 70 years ago to the day on Thursday that he seized power in 1954 coup and secured the virtually uninterrupted dominance of his conservative Colorado party. "Stroessner planted a seed, and that seed has germinated," said Emilio Barreto, an 84-year-old unionist's son who was among nearly 20,000 Paraguayans estimated to have been tortured and imprisoned without charge during Stroessner's rule. "Today we've been through 35 years of dictatorship and 35 years of so-called democracy." Those who pushed the process of democratization after Stroessner's downfall said they had wanted to believe their country was on the upswing, that its civic institutions were getting stronger. But now activists say they've increasingly seen a trend in the opposite direction. In a rare eruption of public outrage on Thursday, hundreds of protesters streamed through downtown Asunción, raising their fists and chanting, "Never again, dictatorship." "We're witnessing a curtailing of civil liberties," said Hugo Valiente from Amnesty International in Paraguay, citing a series of recent government moves that he said "have the clear purpose of discouraging people from exercising freedom of association." A government spokesperson and Colorado party members did not respond to questions from The Associated Press. Anxieties about democratic backsliding added urgency to the 70th anniversary — which also marks one year since President Santiago Peña's inauguration. Leading Thursday's protest was Paraguay's small but passionate opposition — including Kattya González, a center-left senator and vocal government critic who was summarily booted from the Senate last February. She had garnered the third-most votes in last year's legislative elections. But in a vote that rights groups said violated due process, she was ejected by allies of former President Horacio Cartes, a powerful cigarette tycoon sanctioned by the Biden administration for corruption who remains president of the Colorado party. "We don't see the popular will being reflected in our representative bodies," González said. "That's why we're demonstrating today." The government has chalked her expulsion up to the will of Congress, where the Colorado party has a majority. In June, the party removed a lawmaker from its ranks who had similarly spoken out against Cartes' alleged corruption. Last week, Paraguay even demanded that the United States accelerate the departure of its ambassador after the White House imposed sanctions on a tobacco company that it alleged had paid millions of dollars to Cartes. Cartes denies the allegations. When Paraguay's senate last month rushed through a contentious bill that expands government powers to audit nonprofits, the former mayor of Asunción raised alarm, recalling the symbolic triumph of 1991. "Let's remember the moment we knocked down the statue," Carlos Filizzola said, "for its symbolism against what the dictatorship was." The government said the bill aims to boost scrutiny of NGO finances to counter money laundering. Critics said it mimics so-called nonprofit transparency measures in place from Russia to Venezuela that send a chill through civil society. The United Nations appealed to Paraguay's lower house to reject it. Experts argue that the past is still present in Paraguay because the government hasn't reckoned with the legacy of Stroessner, who entrenched the small South American country's highly unequal distribution of land ownership and turned Paraguay into a smuggling hub. His enduring influence was never more obvious than in 2018, when Paraguay elected then-President Mario Abdo Benítez, the son of Stroessner's personal secretary who had served as a pallbearer at the dictator's 2006 funeral. "The totalitarian control of Stroessner created a real identification between political party and the state," said historian Milda Rivarola. "That's what made the Paraguayan political regime so special, the only country on the continent that never really had a progressive government." Paraguay's left-wing opposition party held power just once — from 2008-12 — before its president's impeachment. "In our country, this history of the dictatorship is hidden, there's no policy of memory," said Rogelio Goiburú, who oversees efforts to recover victims' remains for the Justice Ministry and whose father was disappeared by the dictatorship. Efforts to bring justice to those responsible for crimes against humanity have been far more extensive in neighboring Argentina, where courts have convicted hundreds of military officers of dictatorship-era crimes and forensic teams have identified 800 victims. But in Paraguay, there have been no blockbuster trials of junta leaders. Public schools — many still decorated with plaques paying tribute to Stroessner — avoid mention of the 20th-century dictatorship in national history lessons. The remains of just four victims have been identified with the help of Argentine researchers. Goiburú said the Justice Ministry commission has no budget or state support. "I'm still putting up with everything because of that motto, 'Never Again.' We do this so we don't lose our memory, so this doesn't happen again," he said from a riverside park in dilapidated downtown Asunción. In 1991, Filizzola, the former mayor, named it Plaza of the Disappeared. "That's why we have to continue," he said.

BENTIU, South Sudan — Elizabeth Nyachiew was 16 when she watched her neighbor bleed to death during childbirth. She vowed to become a midwife to spare others from the same fate in South Sudan, a country with one of the world's highest maternal mortality rates.  "If I saw people dying, I wanted to know why," she said. "I kept thinking if I was educated, I'd know the cause and I could help."  Now 36, in her office at a hospital run by the aid group Doctors Without Borders in the city of Bentiu, Nyachiew said she has weathered civil war, hunger and displacement to make it this far.  She is one of some 3,000 midwives in South Sudan. The country's health ministry says that number is insufficient to serve the population of 11 million people.  And yet Nyachiew's journey shows the extraordinary effort needed to get here.  As a girl in Leer in northern Unity State, Nyachiew faced pressure from her family, who didn't think girls should attend school. She stayed home until age 9 helping cultivate beans, pumpkin and maize on their farm.  When she finally persuaded her father to let her study, more fighting had begun in the long conflict that eventually ended with South Sudan's independence from Sudan in 2011.  Her family fled into the bush. Women were raped and relatives were killed, including her pregnant sister-in-law. As fighting ebbed and flowed, Nyachiew did what she could to study, even traveling to Khartoum and learning Arabic.  At 18, Nyachiew was admitted to a midwifery course sponsored by aid groups and based in Leer. She struggled to understand medical terms and thought she'd never pass. During the second year, she became pregnant. The school had a policy of not allowing pregnant women to participate, worried they might be distracted.  But Nyachiew wouldn't drop out. She threatened suicide and begged her brother to intervene. The administration let her stay.  Nyachiew named her daughter Jephaenia Chigoa, reflecting the term for "something good" in the Nuer language.  Even after she became a midwife, Nyachiew lived the dangers that many pregnant women in South Sudan face.  Much of the country has no road network, meaning that pregnant women often walk for hours or days to the nearest clinic. Some are carried in wheelbarrows or stretchers with the help of relatives and friends.  Nyachiew made that journey herself. During one miscarriage, she walked for two hours to the closest clinic in Leer while screaming in pain as blood streamed down her legs.  It was 2011, the year of South Sudan's independence. A civil war began two years later, killing nearly 400,000 people and ending in 2018.  When the fighting began, Nyachiew was studying in the capital, Juba. She returned to Leer, and her family again hid in the bush for months as people — including four brothers-in-law — were killed around them. Soldiers beat her, seeking money.  But the most difficult part was still being unable to help pregnant women, watching them die for lack of proper equipment and care.  South Sudan has made a fragile recovery from civil war. Violence between some communities remains deadly, and the United Nations says 9 million people — 75% of the population — rely on humanitarian aid.  Nyachiew lives in a displacement camp along with 100,000 others, including 17 relatives who rely on her as their sole breadwinner. Like others in the camp, she is scared to move out, worried that conflict could resume.  South Sudan's health system continues to suffer. The government allocates less than 2% of the national budget to the health ministry, whose system is propped up by aid groups and the international community. Many health centers outside the capital still have a desperate, wartime feel.  "The changes have been slow and uneven," said Janet Michael, director general for nursing and midwifery at the health ministry.  Data collection is so poor that no one knows for sure how many women are dying in childbirth. The U.N. has estimated that 1,200 women die per 100,000 live births.  Some women who survive still lose their babies.  In June, Nyalith Mauit lost one of her twins while giving birth. Health workers at a clinic struggled to deliver the first twin, who came out feet first. She was transferred to the Doctors Without Borders-run hospital, where Nyachiew leads more than a dozen midwives. But they were unable to deliver the second twin in time.  Mauit cradled her surviving day-old son.  "I am grateful there is a hospital here. If there wasn't, yesterday might have been the end of my life," she said.  Nyachiew, slender and serious, holding a walkie-talkie as she did her hospital rounds, hopes to see more midwives emerge to help.  The United Nations Population Fund is working with South Sudan's health ministry to train them and create mobile clinics to reach remote areas. But schools lack textbooks and trained tutors, and there is never enough funding, the health ministry said.  Nyachiew, who was expecting her sixth child while speaking to The Associated Press, hopes such issues can be addressed by the next generation.  "My message to little girls is to tell that they have to go to school because school it is very important, because if you go to school, you should become a doctor, you should become a nurse, you should become a midwife," she said. "So that you can help the entire community." 

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