TheDueTime explores why stillbirth continues to receive so little attention in American healthcare conversations, despite advances in prenatal care and medical technology. Through interviews with families, advocates, and healthcare professionals in the United States and abroad, the film brings forward stories that are too often unheard. It challenges the idea that stillbirth is unavoidable and asks why proven prevention strategies are not more widely used.

A defining strength of the documentary is its global perspective. The film looks to other countries that have successfully reduced stillbirth rates and highlights practical, evidence-based approaches that could be adopted in the U.S. These include improved placental monitoring, clearer patient-provider communication, and stronger system-level accountability. By showing what has worked elsewhere, TheDueTime offers both clarity and hope.

This project closely aligns with the Foundation’s mission to support awareness, advocacy, and research that lead to meaningful and preventive change. Stillbirth is not inevitable. Families deserve access to information and care that could save lives, and honest conversations are a critical part of that effort.

The trailer’s release marks an important step in bringing this film to a wider audience. Supporters can help by sharing the trailer on social media using #TheDueTime, #EndPreventableStillbirth, and #BreakTheSilence, by contributing to the film’s production through tax-deductible donations, or by sharing personal experiences with stillbirth to help inform and strengthen the project.

The Zain Jaffer Foundation is honored to support TheDueTime and to partner with Helen Raleigh in advancing this important work. We invite you to watch the trailer and join us in pushing for a future where preventable stillbirth is no longer ignored.

The post Breaking the Silence on Stillbirth: The Due Time Trailer Is Here appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

It began with a stillness I will never forget. That morning, I had been vacuuming every corner of the house, nesting in anticipation of my baby’s arrival. Everything felt normal — even joyful — until I sat down for lunch and realized I hadn’t felt my baby move for several hours.

My heart sank, though I tried to quiet the panic rising inside me. I called my husband, asking him to take me to the hospital, but insisted it wasn’t an emergency and told him to take his time. When we arrived, the intake nurse smiled reassuringly: “This happens… you’re probably just in labor!” She directed us to the Labor and Delivery unit.

The nurse who greeted us there was the first to show a sense of urgency. She quickly led me into an exam room and placed the non-stress test discs across my belly. After a few tense moments, she said she couldn’t find the baby’s heartbeat and left to get an ultrasound machine and a doctor. I clung to the thought that it must just be a problem with the machine. But when the doctor arrived, he quietly told us there was no heartbeat. A radiologist would need to confirm the findings, he explained, and then we would discuss delivery options.

My husband’s screams filled the room. I begged him to stop so I could understand what was happening — the way I instinctively turn down the radio while driving when I need to focus on finding my next turn. Only moments passed, though they felt like hours, before the radiologist arrived and confirmed what we already feared: our beloved baby had died.

Driving home in silence, I stared at the empty car seat we had installed just days earlier with such full hearts. I couldn’t comprehend that he would never come home in it.

I couldn’t believe it was real. My two best friends were pregnant — how could I tell them? How could I tell my job that I needed to start my maternity leave three weeks early, yet wouldn’t need the planned four months off because my baby was gone? I thought stillbirth was something that only happened in the 1800s — or to animals. My provider never mentioned that our baby could die this late in pregnancy. How could I possibly explain this to anyone when I didn’t understand what was happening at all?

We had been so hopeful. My husband and I were married in August 2022. Just six weeks before our wedding, we learned we were expecting — a huge, but welcome, surprise. My pregnancy was mostly uneventful until our 20-week anatomy scan, when we learned that Baby Rogalski and I shared a two-vessel umbilical cord instead of the typical three-vessel cord. We were referred to maternal-fetal medicine, but after one visit, they reassured us that everything else looked great, so we continued care with my midwife.

Around 34 weeks, we had another scare when I was told my amniotic fluid was low, though still within the normal range. We scheduled extra ultrasounds to monitor the baby’s growth, and everything remained relatively normal over the next few weeks. At 37 weeks, the fluid was still in the low-normal range, and we scheduled a follow-up for the next week. Tragically, we never made it to that 38-week ultrasound.

Instead of going in for that appointment, we met with our midwife to discuss delivering our baby who had died. All of my previous visits had been at 8 AM, but this one was at 11 AM. It was as if some higher force knew we’d need the extra time. Our provider spent well over an hour with us, even through her lunch break, and we returned to the hospital at 7 PM on Tuesday, April 4, for a scheduled induction.

Baby Rogalski was born at 7:41 AM, after just 12 hours in the hospital. Despite the heartbreak, I’m deeply grateful that his delivery was peaceful. We spent the next 11 hours in a large postpartum room, and though the hospital had a strict no-visitor policy, our closest family and friends were allowed to meet him before we said goodbye.

Two moments from those 11 hours vividly stand out in my memory:

• During the short time when it was just me, my husband, and our son together, we had “dinner” as a family — for the first and only time, it was just the three of us.
• Watching him be wheeled out of our room in a precious white cot instead of going home with us. Our midwife pushed him to the right, toward the morgue, while we turned left to walk down the longest, coldest hospital hallway to our car.
  

Talking about these memories isn’t easy, but they aren’t filled with the gut-wrenching sadness people might expect. Though hard to imagine for someone who hasn’t experienced this loss, our baby’s short life had a lasting impact, and we are thankful for that. We talk about him every day.

But this isn’t just our story. Every year, thousands of families across the U.S. experience the devastation of stillbirth. In Massachusetts, over 300 babies are stillborn annually, and across the country, more than 21,000 families face this heartbreak.

In the two years since Baby Rogalski’s passing, I’ve spoken with hundreds of other parents who have experienced stillbirth, and all too often I hear the same words I said in my shock: “I didn’t know this could happen.” Informative posters highlighting the signs and symptoms to watch for during pregnancy — including fetal movement monitoring — do exist, yet during my pregnancy I never saw one. I can’t help but wonder why this information isn’t posted on every door of every OB office bathroom, so that every parent, regardless of where they receive care, who their provider is, or their socioeconomic background, would have access to this potentially life-saving guidance. 

Stillbirth is not always preventable, but it is always a tragedy. Its impact reaches far beyond the parents, touching grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, employers, friends, and colleagues — anyone who loves and supports the family. Data collection on stillbirths remains severely limited, and medical advancements that could help monitor a baby’s health in utero are urgently needed. Every parent deserves to be educated with the information that can make the difference between life and death.

I left the hospital with empty arms, and I now carry the knowledge of grief, a voice for advocacy, and a deep, enduring love for Baby Rogalski.

In loving memory of Baby Rogalski 

April 5, 2023 6lb. 12oz. 20in.

Stillborn, and still so very loved.

The post I Did Everything Right in My Pregnancy. My Baby Still Died at 38 Weeks appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

My daughter Freya Grace was perfect. Five pounds, fourteen ounces, twenty inches long. Her eyelashes, her tiny fingers and toes, the peach fuzz on her back… I’ve memorized every detail. We went into the hospital at 39 weeks, bags packed, ready to bring home our healthy baby girl. Instead, we left with empty arms and a broken future.

When the nurse couldn’t find her heartbeat, I was naïve enough to show her where Freya’s feet were, where her little tushy always pressed against my belly. I thought surely they just needed a better machine.

In that hospital room, as reality set in, the doctors and nurses were also shocked. I could see the heartbreak on their faces. They had followed the guidelines they were given, caring for us with kindness and attention. But those guidelines hadn’t been enough.

At 36 weeks, Freya’s growth was slowing down, but they told us she’d stay above the 10th percentile, the cutoff where they start to worry about stillbirth. No one explained what that meant for her survival or prepared us for any danger ahead. The word stillbirth never entered the conversation.

After she was gone, we learned her placenta was “small and old.” Our past ultrasounds and growth scans had measured Freya’s size and the placenta’s location, but not the placenta’s size or function. The pathology report showed her placenta percentile was .060%. Freya was trying to survive on a failing organ, and we had no idea.

Half of stillbirths are linked to placental issues. Yet we don’t routinely monitor the placenta’s size or health in this country. There are tools, like Estimated Placental Volume scans, that could save babies like Freya. But they aren’t standard practice.

It’s devastating that I have to say this: my daughter’s death was preventable.

Freya’s stillbirth wasn’t the result of one failure. It was the result of two preventable gaps in care: the lack of tools to detect when a placenta is beginning to fail and the outdated way we’re taught to monitor fetal movement.

I thought I was doing everything right. I thought I had the correct information. I thought our extra monthly growth scans would alert us to issues. I thought feeling any movement at all meant she was okay. But what I didn’t know is that changes in movement matter just as much as movement itself.

I look back and wonder, was she trying to tell me something before she died? The day before we went in, she had a series of sudden, jarring movements. Sharp, strong, unlike anything I’d felt from her before. I told myself it was a good sign. I had heard babies move less before labor. I had been told she was probably just “running out of room” or “getting ready to deliver.”

But now I know: that wasn’t true.

If I had known to watch for what was normal for her, if I had known that sudden, intense movement can be a sign of distress, I would have gone in right away. I wouldn’t have waited 18 hours for our scheduled induction.

Instead, I trusted the reassurance I was given. I silenced the little voice inside me that said something didn’t feel right. I didn’t know she was trying to speak to me with her body, in the only way she could.

Stillbirth is a hidden crisis claiming over 21,000 U.S. babies each year, 15 times more than SIDS. In Nebraska, an estimated 112 babies are lost annually, though poor data hides the full toll. At least 25% of stillbirths are preventable, yet Nebraska’s latest health needs assessment ignored stillbirth prevention entirely. The U.S. ranks among the worst of wealthy nations for stillbirth rates and among the slowest to improve.

This is not just about statistics. This is about babies who should be alive. About mothers who should be kissing soft cheeks instead of visiting gravestones. About siblings who should be sharing giggles and secrets, not grieving the sister they’ll never know.

I share Freya’s story because this grief, this emptiness, will be with me forever. But if speaking out can save even one baby, it’s worth my pain.

As a mother and a stillbirth survivor, I’m begging our medical community: please start monitoring placental health routinely. Teach parents about fetal movement monitoring. Talk honestly about stillbirth risk.

No family should leave the hospital without their baby when tragedy could have been prevented. 

Freya should be here. And I will keep saying her name, and fighting for change, so other babies get the chance to live.

The post The Hidden Crisis No Parent Should Face appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

I want to tell you about Hugo.

Recently, I watched a television show representing a true story about a woman who died of breast cancer. When she died, I cried. I cried for her, of course, for her friends and family, for the thought of losing loved ones and for the loved ones I have personally lost to cancer. But, above all, which might seem strange, I cried for Hugo. 

Hugo is my son whom I never got to meet alive. My son who died inside my body and whose body I gave birth to at 39 weeks–one week before his due date. I thought about how, even if he were to get cancer as an adult like this woman did, at least I would have seen him live. I wanted to see him live. I wanted to be part of that life. Instead, what I got were nine months of feeling his abstract, insistent movements inside my uterus. I got to love him from afar, even though he was right there the whole time. And what some may never realize because they just don’t understand the impact of stillbirth: I will love him every day of my life. I don’t know what I believe about the afterlife, but I do hope he’s in mine. I just want to have a cup of coffee with him. I want to see him get married or even go through a break-up. I want to see him do anything but die. Missing him hurts my entire body. This is the kind of pain that stillbirth causes. This is the kind of pain that so often goes unnoticed or silenced. Please don’t shy away from my pain, and please help me prevent others from going through it, too.

Because Hugo’s death was preventable. Throughout my “low-risk” pregnancy, I had a feeling something was wrong, even though I had no evidence to support my fears. I was sad and scared, even through the giddiness of looking forward to meeting my first baby. I did find out he was breech near the end of my pregnancy, and I thought that was the thing that might break me, as I worried about having an unwanted surgery. But the thing that broke us both was that he had a small placenta, which went undetected because measuring estimated placental volume is not part of standard prenatal care in the United States. Finding this out has been a journey, and I had to do the vast majority of research myself, while in the throes of my deepest grief.  

After my husband and I received Hugo’s autopsy report from the hospital, the obstetrician who helped deliver Hugo told me there was “nothing exciting” on the report and that Hugo was a “healthy baby.” He said this would likely never happen again. Not only did this seem like an insensitive choice of words and strange considering Hugo had died, but my intuition also told me something went wrong that could happen again. So, after learning about the organization PUSH for Empowered Pregnancy from a fellow loss mom, I sought answers from Dr. Harvey Kliman, a research scientist at Yale Medicine specializing in infertility and pregnancy complications, including pregnancy loss. Though my insurance would not cover his analysis–another conversation for another time–I had Hugo’s placental slides sent to Dr. Kliman, and he told me Hugo’s placenta was too small to sustain him at the end of my pregnancy. The baby’s placenta acts like the roots of a tree and provides the baby with the nutrients and life-force they need to survive until birth. While Hugo’s body was in the 30th percentile, his placenta was in the .99th percentile. I learned babies’ bodies should have a 6:1 ratio with their placentas, while Hugo was trying to survive with a 30:1 ratio. Dr. Kliman explains a death like this as akin to the gas running out of a car: it’s sudden, and the only way to prevent it is to detect that something is wrong beforehand. I had been to the OB the day before Hugo died, and everything seemed fine, so the only way I could have known he was struggling was to have an ultrasound tech perform a quick measurement to determine Hugo’s EPV, or estimated placental volume. 

To so many medical professionals, stillborn babies are a statistic, one they can gamble with knowing they might only encounter a horrible loss like this once every few years. It’s not that I blame them, and I’m sure they don’t see it the way I do: I understand they have to do their jobs to the best of their ability with the knowledge they have. Caring for pregnant people and fetuses must be full of terrifying possibilities. No one wants to get sued. But, if we know placentas keep babies alive in utero, why are we not doing everything we can to measure them and keep them healthy?

I want you to know something else. I didn’t just lose my baby; I lost myself. Once a vibrant, perhaps overly productive young woman–I yearned to lift the spirits of everyone I met–I am now flattened by the death of my enigmatic first baby. He’s as much a mystery to me as he is to most, though I’m the only one who truly felt him while he was alive. Maybe someone will read this and feel bad for me, feel bad for the roughly 65 sets of other parents in the U.S. who gave birth to stillborn babies on October 21, 2021 and the over 20,000 babies stillborn every year in the U.S., but my fear is that no one who can make a difference will feel bad enough to take action (CDC). 

Perhaps because I searched for and found answers about Hugo’s death, I have since given birth to two beautiful living sons. I am so grateful, but throughout my rainbow pregnancies, or pregnancies after loss, there were medical professionals who dismissed Hugo’s death, my anxieties, and my insistence that they measure my babies’ placentas. An OB who would have cared for me had my midwife been unable to when I gave birth to my first living son even told me I’d had “a bad spin on the roulette wheel” when Hugo died and that, odds were, my second son would live. My first son is not a spin on a roulette wheel, and as much as I adore my living sons, having them does not negate the constant missing Hugo and the inability to ever make the memories I so vividly imagined while pregnant with him. I also now know that, according to the NICHD, parents who have had one stillborn baby are more likely to experience the same traumatic loss again.

To help prevent stillbirth, we need more research to support changes in prenatal care, like measuring babies’ placentas. We need providers to bravely adopt these changes, even though they might incur additional risk in doing so. We need everyone involved in prenatal care in the United States to join other high-income nations in their efforts to reduce stillbirth. According to PUSH for Empowered Pregnancy, 75% of stillbirths could be avoided if the United States matched the work of the most successful nations. In Georgia alone, about 8 of every 1,000 live births end in stillbirth. And non-Hispanic Black mothers experience stillbirth at double the rate of their white counterparts. None of this okay. None of this should be acceptable. But the decline in stillbirth rates in the United States has remained the same in recent years, despite constant medical advances. We need to do better.

Most mothers and fathers fear the death of their children and look for every possible danger. But the truly unlucky ones know what it actually feels like when it happens. And then there are those of us who not only held our dead children but also birthed their bodies first, going through the pain of childbirth to endure a much worse pain immediately after as we look into the beautiful face of a child whose eyes and smile we will never see. I know there are some stillbirths that, devastatingly, cannot be prevented. But Hugo’s death and the death of 1 in 4 of stillbirths in the U.S. every year can be (PUSH for Empowered Pregnancy). Please stand with me to prevent these deaths. Stand with me to help other families avoid the lifetime of pain mine and so many others face.

The post My first son’s death was preventable. We can spare others the lifelong pain of stillbirth.  appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

“There’s nothing quieter in the world than the sound of a stillbirth,” Emily told me during an interview for “The Due Time,” a documentary on stillbirth. Emily lost her son, Tadhg, in 2019 when she was 39 weeks pregnant. Tadhg was stillborn.

Her words struck a deep chord. My husband, Mike, faced a similar haunting moment seven years ago. When our son Lucas was born, a nurse, unaware that Lucas was stillborn, hurried out of the surgical room to congratulate Mike on fatherhood. Initially, Mike felt a rush of joy; however, an unsettling realization soon washed over him—there was no sound of a baby’s cry. That profound silence left him gripped by anxiety.

The word “silence” appeared in nearly every conversation I had with families discussing their experiences of stillbirth. For those of us in the stillbirth community, this silence began the moment we became pregnant with our cherished children.

During our visits to healthcare facilities, be it with doctors, nurses, or ultrasound technicians, the risks of stillbirth were seldom mentioned to expecting mothers. While they may have avoided the topic out of concern for upsetting us, their silence did not safeguard against the reality of stillbirth. Each year, around 21,000 babies are stillborn in the U.S., and about 25% of these heartbreaking losses are preventable.

The silence from healthcare providers during prenatal visits for expectant mothers carries unintended consequences. When stillbirth risks are not communicated, critical warning signs can be overlooked, leaving mothers ill-equipped to advocate for both themselves and their unborn children. Vital practices that could prevent stillbirths, like monitoring the baby’s movements, often go undiscussed and unimplemented.

The lack of education and open conversation doesn’t just end with parents. It also affects healthcare workers, some of whom are unprepared for stillbirths. Shay, a Black mother who lost her son Adam, shared how doctors couldn’t find his heartbeat and instructed her to deliver him naturally, even though her previous two births had been C-sections. No one explained what would happen or how to prepare. “I believe they’re only trained on how to deliver a live birth,” Shay said quietly. Her story reflects the urgent need for better training and communication in prenatal care—especially for women of color.

Silence often envelops families after they experience the loss of a baby. In American culture, there remains a persistent stigma surrounding the discussion of pregnancy loss and the death of an infant. Many individuals who have not gone through this experience tend to stay silent, unsure of what to say to the families affected by such tragedies.

Jenny shared that her address book changed dramatically after her daughter, Isabella, was stillborn. Friends who never reached out or who could not bring themselves to acknowledge Isabella’s brief but meaningful existence quietly faded from her life.

Emily told me she has two answers ready for the question, “How many children do you have?” She adjusts her response depending on who is asking, trying to avoid making others uncomfortable by mentioning her stillborn son. I understand that completely. Like Emily, I still pause when someone asks, “Do you have any children?” My answer depends on whether I sense empathy or the discomfort that so often leads people to turn away. And yes, that has happened more times than I can count.

The silence surrounding stillbirth creates an intense feeling of isolation for many families navigating their grief. This loneliness can be particularly overwhelming for those who lack a strong support system. Without that crucial support, stillbirth can become the beginning of a series of tragic events, such as long-term depression for couples or possibly even divorce.

My own experiences with stillbirth, along with those of other families, inspired me to start a documentary film project on this important topic. Thanks to the generous support of the Zain Jaffer Foundation, the project has had a strong start. However, we still face challenges, and any additional support would be greatly appreciated.

I chose the title “The Due Time” because it is long overdue for America to break the silence surrounding stillbirth. Raising public awareness is the first step toward preventing stillbirths; we cannot prevent what we do not acknowledge. We must raise awareness so that future parents can be informed and better equipped to potentially prevent these heartbreaking losses.

Although the film is still in production, the time to speak out about stillbirth is now. October is designated as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, a recognition established by President Ronald Reagan in 1988. October 15 marks International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I urge every family who has faced the heartache of stillbirth to come forward, share their story, and help raise awareness.

If you haven’t experienced stillbirth but know someone who has, please take the initiative to reach out. If you’re unsure how to support them, consider asking friends or family members who have gone through this; they’ll be grateful for your effort to connect. It truly matters to them that you acknowledge their loss instead of remaining silent.

By speaking openly about stillbirth, we can transform silence into awareness, and awareness into prevention. It’s time for change. It’s The Due Time.

The post The Sound of Silence appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

Photo from Emma Wambeke. Edited by NILMDTS.org.

My pregnancy with our son Owen was generally normal and healthy until, at full term, Owen’s heartbeat couldn’t be found, then he died before he got the chance to live. My pregnancy was classified as low risk, but my baby died at 38 weeks. It turns out, low risk just means not yet diagnosed as high risk.

Looking back, there were moments I was reassured everything was okay, but in hindsight, there were red flags. Very early on, I was diagnosed with low progesterone, which could indicate miscarriage, but supplements might help prevent it.  I started them right away. That helped. One week later, at the first ultrasound, my son had a strong, healthy heartbeat. I felt like we beat the odds. 

The rest of the weeks passed like a healthy pregnancy. My son’s NIPT genetic test was low risk. I was told I had an A+ on the anatomy scan. I easily passed the gestational diabetes test, my blood pressure was optimal, and my Group B Strep test was negative. 

At 37 weeks, I noticed Owen was moving less. I couldn’t explain it, but something felt off. I reported it at my next appointment. I was reassured after my provider checked Owen’s heartbeat with a Doppler that he was okay, and babies run out of room towards the end of pregnancy. It didn’t sit right with me. I felt dismissed, but I left, thinking I should trust my doctor.  What did I know? This was my first pregnancy, and these people were “experts”. 

Photo from Emma Wambeke. Edited by NILMDTS.org.

That night, I woke up to my first and only panic attack. I called the hospital, hoping to be seen immediately, but was asked to calm down at home and come in the morning. Once I did, I started feeling Owen kick again. At the appointment, I passed with a “textbook perfect” NST. I was told to work on reducing my stress, “perhaps try acupuncture”. Less than a week later, still feeling him move less, we found out our son did not have a heartbeat. Owen had died. 

During and following delivery, my medical team tested me for every known cause of stillbirth, including a pathology report of Owen’s placenta. Everything came back normal—except one key finding. Owen’s placenta measured at the 0.005 percentile, the size expected at 28, not 38 weeks.  Both the hospital and Dr. Kliman confirmed that Owen’s placenta was too small to sustain him. 

Looking back, other signs were missed. At my 36-week appointment, our provider noticed that my fundal height was measuring behind. The next week, my fundal height measured low again, but was immediately re-measured slightly longer, and my chart was corrected rather than followed up with additional testing. In hindsight, I desperately wish these warning signs had been investigated with more thorough testing.

It turns out there were other things that could have been done differently that I learned only after Owen died. I was given outdated information about how to count Owen’s kicks: 10 kicks every 2 hours. However,  I could have been using an app called “Count the Kicks” that helps you get to know your baby’s normal movement patterns and empowers you to get seen if your baby’s movements ever change. 

I learned there’s a gap between research on placental health and what medical teams practice.  Multiple doctors told me that there’s no way to measure the size of the baby’s placenta during pregnancy beyond using fetal growth as a proxy, but then I learned about Estimated Placental Volume (EPV) through Instagram.  

Systemic failures shaped my pregnancy with Owen. I was labeled ‘low risk’ based on checkboxes, not a full picture. Ignoring crucial data on my placenta’s health could’ve changed everything. Without it, I was falsely reassured, dismissed as just another anxious mom, even when my gut said something was wrong. 

It breaks my heart knowing that Owen’s death was preventable. The warning signs were there, but the standard of care does not currently utilize tests that could have changed this outcome. This gap in placental health monitoring does not need to continue. There’s a simple 30-second ultrasound measurement called EPV. If it were routine in all pregnancies, Owen’s growth issues might’ve been caught, and my concerns about his movement taken seriously.  

Just weeks before his death, Owen was healthy. Now, instead of raising him, I share his story to spare others this heartbreak. Sadly, stillbirth can happen in low-risk pregnancies. Families and our children deserve better care. EPV measurements should be a part of the standard of care for all pregnancies.

The post When “Low‑Risk” Isn’t Risky Enough: Why My Son Owen Died at 38 Weeks appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

For centuries, nomadic camel-herding communities like the one led by Ahmed and Sakina have lived in a deep relationship with the land. moving with the seasons, raising their families under stars, and passing down knowledge not found in textbooks but in footsteps, firewood, and sky. 

Today, that rhythm is being interrupted.  As India industrializes and the global climate crisis intensifies, ancient practices are giving way to modern demands. In Under the Open Sky, a documentary supported by the Zain Jaffer Foundation, we witness this unraveling not through abstraction or policy, but through one family’s deeply human story.

UNDER THE OPEN SKY. Photo from documentary.

A Life Between Worlds

Spanning over five years, Under the Open Sky follows the transition of Ahmed, Sakina, and their five children from nomadic camel-herders to daily-wage laborers. What once was a life marked by freedom and intimate connection with nature has become a life tethered to survival—loading carts of sand in exchange for a few hundred rupees, trading starry skies for dust-filled settlements. This shift is not just economic, it is also cultural and existential.

The documentary captures this slow transformation with sensitivity and urgency. It doesn’t frame the family as victims or idealize their past. Instead, it shows the quiet strength of adaptation and the unspoken grief of letting go.

Globalization at the Margins

Globalization promises opportunity, but it also demands conformity. For communities like those in Kutch, that often means giving up traditional livelihoods that are deemed “unproductive” or “inefficient” in today’s economic terms.

Pastoralism, with its seasonal migrations and spiritual closeness to animals, doesn’t fit neatly into modern development frameworks. As sand mining, road-building, and industrial projects creep further into remote areas, families are pushed into cities or extractive labor. Their knowledge systems are dismissed, their contributions unseen.

Under the Open Sky asks us to look again. Through this lens, the foundation isn’t just funding a story—it’s preserving a memory, a voice, a place that still holds wisdom despite modern pressures to erase it.

When we talk about globalization, we often focus on what’s gained, but we rarely account for what is lost. The story of Under the Open Sky reminds us that these “losses” are not abstract but rather personal, spiritual, and irreversible.

UNDER THE OPEN SKY. Photo of the crew behind the project.

A Call to Witness

Documentaries like Under the Open Sky serve a deeper purpose. They don’t just inform. They also invite us to sit with complexity. To see modernization not as inherently good or bad, but as a force that requires accountability, equity, and care.

By supporting this film, the Zain Jaffer Foundation continues its commitment to amplifying underrepresented voices, especially those navigating the pressures of change without the power to shape it.
Under the Open Sky is not just about one family. It is about the quiet disappearance of worlds that once flourished, and the urgent need to ask: progress for whom? And at what cost? Because if the sky is no longer open, if tradition no longer has space to breathe, what kind of future are we really building?

The post Globalization is displacing ancient practices and ways of life in India appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

Jennica & Baby Hugo

Every 16 seconds, a baby is stillborn. That adds up to nearly two million deaths each year. Behind every one is a family, a future, and a story that rarely makes it into public view.

Stillbirth remains one of the most under-recognized public health issues. It is missing from global development agendas, overlooked in policy, and undercounted in medical systems. Even in places with advanced healthcare, the issue receives little attention. Data is sparse. Prevention efforts are inconsistent. Families are often left without answers.

While not all stillbirths are preventable, far too many are — heartbreakingly so. Medical records show that warning signs are often missed and placental issues go undetected. In some cases, parents raised concerns that were dismissed. Before a Breath, a documentary by ProPublica, shows this clearly. It follows families who knew something was wrong, tried to get help, and were failed by the system. The stories are painful, and tragically, they are not rare.

In the U.S., groups like Measure the Placenta are pushing for the adoption of Estimated Placental Volume (EPV) screening, a non-invasive way to assess placental health. Others, like Count the Kicks, encourage daily monitoring of fetal movement. These are simple tools that can help surface problems earlier, giving providers more time to intervene. Yet most people still don’t know they exist.

The grief that follows stillbirth is heavy. What makes it harder is how often it’s met with silence. There is pressure to keep it private, to recover quickly, to move on. But grief doesn’t work that way. And silence leaves the next family just as vulnerable.

Change starts by speaking up. Stillbirth must be part of the broader conversation on maternal health. Families deserve better care, better information, and better support. Systems need better data and stronger protocols. Providers need training to listen, respond, and follow up.

At the Zain Jaffer Foundation, we are working with advocates, researchers, and families to help bring attention to stillbirth as a public concern. These are not isolated losses. They are signs that something in the system needs to be addressed.

We can’t undo what has already happened. But we can decide what happens next. And we believe fewer families should have to live through what so many already have.

The post When Silence Fails Families: The Case for Stillbirth Awareness appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

WAVES FOR WATER PH. Providing filters for Brgy. Laiban, Rizal.

In a remote village in the Philippines, the daily struggle for clean water has long shaped the rhythm of life.

Barangay Mabuhay is a rural community in Marabut, a coastal town on the island of Samar in Eastern Visayas. Like many communities across the region, it has relied on a natural spring tucked deep in the mountains as its primary water source. That water is channeled to a series of communal taps, where residents fill up buckets and containers for drinking, cooking, and washing.

During dry spells or after powerful typhoons, access becomes limited. And when heavy rains hit, the water often turns yellow and cloudy. Though government testing shows the source is safe to drink, many residents remain unsure.

In September 2024, that uncertainty started to shift.

With support from the Zain Jaffer Foundation and its local partner Waves for Water Philippines, over 1,000 residents in Barangay Mabuhay gained reliable access to clean water.

Fifty-eight gravity-fed filters were distributed to 350 households, with each filter shared among six families. These filters require no electricity, can purify over a million gallons of water, and are designed to last for years. Just as important, local leaders were trained in how to assemble, clean, and maintain the filters themselves. This training ensures that the system is sustainable and community-led.

Handwashing stations were also installed at Mabuhay Elementary School to help improve hygiene and reduce illness among students.

Addressing a Basic Need

For community members like Barangay Councilor Shirley Daga, the project meets an urgent need.

“Most of our residents fetch water from the communal taps. Many families cannot afford to buy bottled mineral water every month, so this is their main drinking source,” she explained.

In the past year alone, the barangay recorded several cases of diarrhea, a reminder of the health risks that come with unsafe water. The filters offer a simple but effective way to protect families, especially children, from harmful bacteria.

But the impact of clean water goes beyond health. What was once a time-consuming daily chore has now become easier. Residents are spending less time hauling water and more time on their livelihoods, education, and rest.

Strengthening Community Ownership

This initiative is part of the Zain Jaffer Foundation’s broader commitment to improving lives through grassroots, community-led solutions. It follows an earlier pilot project in Barangay Laiban, Rizal, where more than 200 families received similar support.

Rather than approaching water access as a one-time donation, the Foundation’s strategy focuses on equipping communities with tools they can manage themselves. From hands-on training to sustainable systems, each project aims to foster long-term self-reliance.

“Seeing communities take ownership of their health and well-being through simple, sustainable solutions like these filters is incredibly rewarding,” said Zain Jaffer, founder of the Zain Jaffer Foundation. “Our hope is that this access to clean water brings greater peace of mind and improved health to the families of Barangay Mabuhay, and we look forward to supporting more communities in the future.”

WAVES FOR WATER PH. Providing filters for Brgy. Mabuhay, Samar

Creating a Foundation for the Future

In Barangay Mabuhay, the change may be quiet, but it is deeply felt. A mother boiling water less often. A student washing their hands before class. A family feeling confident that the water they drink is safe.

Clean water does not just meet today’s needs. It builds the foundation for a healthier, more resilient future.

At the Zain Jaffer Foundation, we believe that access to clean water is a basic right, and when that right is met, lives begin to transform. In communities like Mabuhay, we are seeing what is possible when the tools for change are placed directly into the hands of those who need them most.

The post What Happens When a Community Finally Gets Clean Water? appeared first on The Zain Jaffer Foundation.

In India, this struggle is already playing out in low-income neighborhoods, farming communities, and coastal villages. 

FORCED TO ADAPT. Photo from documentary.

Forced to Adapt, a three-part mini-documentary series, offers a window into this reality through the lives of people who are meeting the crisis head-on with ingenuity, care, and resolve.

The series centers around three individuals (Anjana, Sreejith, and Dipika), each living in different parts of India. Beyond their common exposure to the harsh realities of a warming planet, a more hopeful connection between the three is their commitment to building low-cost, low-tech, deeply human solutions. Their actions may be small in scale, but their impact is far-reaching.

In a world where climate discourse is often dominated by high-tech innovation or global-scale funding, Forced to Adapt brings attention to something often overlooked: that some of the most effective forms of adaptation are local, affordable, and community-led. These solutions are built from the ground up, shaped by necessity and guided by lived experience.

The series also puts an emphasis on agency. These are not stories of helplessness or despair. They are stories of people stepping into leadership roles by sharing knowledge, reviving traditional practices, or offering support to neighbors. The challenges they face are immense, and the odds are not always in their favor, but they keep going, adapting to the circumstances.

FORCED TO ADAPT. Photo from Kochi Biennale Premier.

In documenting the work of everyday climate leaders, the series not only highlights the cost of inaction but also the promise of grassroots solutions. It asks us to look beyond innovation as something external and elite, and instead see it in the creativity and courage of those who have no choice but to adapt.

In a time when so much of the climate conversation feels abstract or overwhelming, Forced to Adapt offers something different: clarity, groundedness, and hope shaped by the people living closest to the edge. The Zain Jaffer Foundation believes that documentaries like that of Forced to Adapt doesn’t just amplify the voices of their partner communities, but also educate audiences far from their realities. More than providing a platform for them to be heard, the Foundation increases awareness and inspires others to listen deeply, act responsibly, and recognize their shared role in building a more resilient and just future.

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