Halfway through Angela Hsu’s Austria trip in early March, the coronavirus outbreak in Europe began to intensify and the cities on her itinerary started shutting down. During her first few days in Austria, locals seemed unfazed by the novel coronavirus. But by the time she, her dad, and two family friends left on March 16, the country had more than a thousand cases and was enacting emergency policies. Their flight back to her home in Taiwan was canceled, but they were able to book seats on a nearly empty China Airlines flight the same day.

The last time Susanna Koh saw her husband, Pastor Raymond Koh, was on the morning of Feb. 13, 2017. 

She was babysitting for a friend when he dropped by to pick up a packet of shrimp paste to give to another friend. 

Then as he drove down a leafy residential street in Petaling Jaya, a city west of Kuala Lumpur, three black SUVs surrounded his car. Several men wearing ski masks and black clothing forced Koh out of his Honda Accord and into their vehicle. Then they took off with his car. The whole abduction took less than a minute.

With heavy snowfall in the winter, Japan’s northernmost island, Hokkaido, is a popular tourist destination with ski resorts, festivals featuring snow and ice sculptures, and the famous Hokkaido ice cream. But lately Hokkaido has another claim to fame: the prefecture with the highest number of coronavirus infections in the country with 111 cases. 

At Nanmen Elementary School in Taipei, young and old lined up Saturday to cast their ballots inside classrooms with ID cards and personalized chops (or stamps) in hand. Outside in the schoolyard, 62-year-old Chiu Yueh-fang and her two daughters sat on a bench waiting for her husband to finish voting. They voted for incumbent President Tsai Ing-wen because they believed she would protect Taiwan from China’s encroachment. 

As a child growing up in the Smangus tribe 5,000 feet high in the verdant mountains of northern Taiwan, Yuraw Icyang remembers life being extremely difficult, yet filled with evidences of God’s grace. Lacking electricity, phone lines, or a road, the Smangus tribespeople during the 1970s lived a simple agrarian life growing mushrooms, millet, and sweet potatoes.

Second in a series on changing cities

Walking along the long narrow stretch of Ochheuteal Beach on the Cambodian coast of Sihanoukville is like walking between two worlds. On one side, a small boy runs gleefully into the waves as the golden sun dips down to the ocean, the sky awash in purples and pinks. On the other, trash piles up on construction sites as the skeletons of buildings and tower cranes stretch to the sky.

On a Sunday morning in Phnom Penh, motorcycles, SUVs, and colorful tuk-tuks (motorcycle-pulled rickshaws) try to squeeze past each other on a busy road. Off the main drag and next to a multistoried mall stands New Life Fellowship, its open doors facing an indoor shoe market. Inside, past the megachurch’s coffee shop, greeters hold open doors to a dark, air-conditioned sanctuary where hundreds of young Cambodians have gathered for worship. Colored lights flash as rock-concert-style worship music booms loud enough for shoppers next door to hear.