(soft music) - Welcome to Stories from the Stage produced by WORLD Channel and GBH Boston in partnership with Tell & Act.

In each episode, multi-cultural people tell stories in front of a live studio audience.

I am Liz Cheng.

- And I am Patricia Alvarado Nunez.

We help create the Stories from the Stage.

We have two stories today, both about having courage in a frightening situation.

So I chose the first storyteller because as women, we all have been in that situation when women are not being respected and we are conflicted about what to do.

That happened to Courtney Pong.

-And I'm from San Francisco, California, originally.

And I have been doing improv comedy for over 18 years.

- These days, Courtney owns and teaches at her own improv company.

Here is her story.

I'm pouring frozen yogurt into a small cardboard bowl.

And the most pressing decision that I need to make tonight is whether or not I want marshmallows or Lucky Charms on top.

This is a pretty standard Friday night for me.

I usually will grab froyo from the business next door, and then I'll head on over to my own business, which is a 49-seat comedy theater in Boston.

I opened this business because I've always really loved the community and the environment that an improv theater creates.

Now tonight I wasn't performing and I wasn't managing.

We had allowed a local booking company to hold a small standup show.

So I wasn't planning to do anything but eat my yogurt and sit in the back and watch, and help the box office if she needed anything.

Because as a small business, our hardships day to day are usually things like running out of paper towels.

But tonight started with a totally different set of hardships.

Because when the host opened the show, he addressed the audience by saying, "What's up, everybody?

Y'all look like you're segregated."

And he asked the black and white audience members to get up and move closer to each other.

And I just cringed, and I rolled my eyes, because I've been in comedy for over 18 years, and it's early, and I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt.

After 20 minutes, though, I became uncomfortable listening to joke after comment after joke aimed at diminishing women.

Jokes where women were the punchline.

Jokes where women were, as one comedian put it, "Passengers he made ride in the trunk of his car."

And I was stunned.

And not because they were doing "edgy" jokes about women, what made me angry was they never even actually used the word "women."

And I got angry.

Because why should I have to listen to this?

And I didn't move here to open up a business in this community to be known for this.

And then, I don't know where this idea came from because I had never seen it or done it, but it occurred to me that I could just... stop the show.

Why not, who else is going to do it?

I was one of two women in a room full of men.

Who are you waiting for?

And when is it going to be okay to say that something is not okay?

And before I could talk myself out of the idea, I found myself standing up from the sound booth from where I was sitting, and I started talking to the room as I walked toward the stage.

And even though it was my voice, I barely recognized it.

"I'm sorry," I said, "we're going to stop this show.

"This is not comedy we want at our theater, "and this is not who we are.

I'll give everybody refunds on the way out."

And the audience just stared at me, and the host just stared at me, and the lights were the loudest I had ever heard.

And I heard a comic off to the side say, "Why?

They're laughing, you're the only one who doesn't like it."

And my heartbeat was in my ears, and I just looked at him and I said, "Yeah, this just isn't for us, please leave."

And I found, as a woman, I have to repeat myself.

Everybody got up and the room started to clear and I grabbed whatever bills were in the cash register, and I just handed them back to some of the patrons, the few that were there, and I locked up, and no comedian said anything to me, and I went home.

Now, as I was driving home, I began to feel different.

I felt alive for standing up.

Because I have sat through so many of these shows before-- slurs, epithets, misogynistic comments, jokes built on dehumanizing others.

But that's the thing, I have sat through them before.

I had never seen anybody stop it or even stopped it myself.

So it was midnight that night, and I was sitting on the edge of my bed and I was wrestling with, "What is the value of saying this out loud, maybe?"

And after about 30 minutes, I picked up my phone and I opened up Twitter and I tapped out what had happened.

And then I threw it into the ether.

And when I woke up the next morning, I had never experienced anything like this.

There was a barrage of tweets, messages, notifications.

Some emails and messages I could expect like, "I'll never go to your theater again," and "I'm going to boycott your company," and I don't... those don't bother me.

But then there are the ones that you can't ignore.

Email after email sent anonymously.

Messages like, "You talentless whore, you need to shut your fat mouth."

And "Ching Chong Ping Pong has no business owning a comedy club."

And every notification and every sound that came in on my computer and my phone made my stomach lurch.

And the bigoted comments were the ones that gutted me the most, like, "Were you even born here?"

And "Go back to your country."

Which is stupid, because California is not a country... (audience laughter) Yet.

(audience laughter) But really there is nothing left to say, because this isn't arguing about a decision that I made for my business.

This was something so much darker.

And for five nights in a row, I laid awake with my heart racing, nervous and dreading all of the hate I knew that was piling up that would meet me the next morning.

And the hate and the attacks came in waves, thousands and thousands of opinions on what I should have done differently from people who were never in the room.

And it was when I was on the train headed downtown that I... started crying into the phone to myself while I read the words on my email, "You should die," while my best friend encouraged me to send the violent voicemails to the police department.

And I was crying, not because the words were mean, I was crying because in that moment, I did not know if I would ever feel safe again.

So while these weeks were happening, my friends and family had stepped up to help me manage the business, to block the hateful emails, and to flag the racist comments and the fake reviews that my business got.

And while they shielded some of the hateful things, they took the time to forward along other messages, messages like, "On behalf of the 200 volunteers, performers, and employees of the Sacramento Comedy Spot, we have your back."

And "I don't know you, but I stand with you."

And "Your actions have made me feel so much more at home in the Boston comedy scene."

And in that moment, for the first time in a week, I felt a little less alone.

So just a month ago, I was going through my email and I was searching for something and I accidentally uncovered the emails that I had sent to the police department of all the voicemails I had never listened to.

And this time, though, my...

I'm not...

I'm breathing fine and my hands are not shaking, so I opened up one of the voicemails and I pressed play.

And it was a man's voice, and it said, "This message is for Courtney.

"She should kill herself.

"And I mean it.

She should get a rope and a chair and make a noose."

And he went on for 90 seconds.

And those words are not easy to listen to.

And I don't know if they ever will be.

But I do know I would stand up again.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) - Courtney Pong remains committed to creating a safer space to laugh and enjoy a sense of community.

- In a moment, you'll hear why I chose our next story about a dangerous encounter and one man's courage to save himself and others.

(soft music) (bright music) SAHAY: My name is Praveen Sahay.

I was born and brought up in a city called Patna, which is in the eastern part of India.

- These days, Praveen lives in the United States.

Yet he learned some of his most valuable life lessons in India and elsewhere.

I'm 14 when I learn to shoot a rifle.

Guns in India are very rare because people are not allowed to buy them.

But I'm part of this National Cadet Corps, which is sort of a junior version of the ROTC, and they have these old heavy rifles from the Second World War, which are nearly as tall as I am at the time.

Nevertheless, I learned to shoot the rifle and I become a fairly good marksman, which then allows me to participate in state competitions and represent my local shooting club.

Rifle shooting, for me, is nothing but a sport at the time in which I'm good at.

I'm also able to convince my parents to buy me an air gun.

So it is not an accident that ten years later, when I finished my masters in nuclear physics, that I decided to become a pistol-carrying assistant commander in the armed police of India.

I lead hundreds of armed troops into areas affected by violence, and we are mostly using our batons rather than guns to deal with the crowds, but nevertheless, the guns have become an important tool of the trade, and I also take pride in the fact that they give me a sense of power as well as a sense of invincibility.

Life takes a more interesting turn when I'm deployed to work with the United Nations peace mission in Mozambique, in Africa.

There are 30 nations or so that have contributed and committed their troops.

And I'm one of the 75 police officers from India to go to Mozambique.

The country has been wrecked by 15 years of militia violence.

The war has killed a million people and caused millions more to flee to the neighboring countries of Zambia, Zimbabwe, and Tanzania.

Outside of the capital city of Maputo, every building has been bombed.

In the early 90s, this land is known as the most heavily mined country in the world.

I'm talking about land mines, not diamond mines.

It is a surprise, therefore, when I reach there that I'm told that, as a peacekeeper, I'm not allowed to carry any weapons.

Given how dangerous the place is, that seems like lunacy.

My role as a national elections coordinator means that I'm not only supporting policy and administration from the headquarters, but I'm also building technology tools and providing training in the field.

So I'm traveling a lot.

I'm even more worried because my adventurous wife has now joined me with our one-year-old son and our apartment has already been burgled twice.

So I seriously consider quitting.

But the stakes are too high.

I truly believe in this mission, which is going to liberate 15 million people from repeated cycles of violence and poverty.

So I start to learn new behaviors so that I can teach myself on how to approach strangers with humility and establish a data connection and ask simple questions such as... (speaking Portuguese) "Hello, how can I help you today?"

A month later, I'm a thousand kilometers north near a town called Barra.

After finishing work, I and my colleague are walking down a dirt street to buy some local food.

It's already getting dark, and as we turn around a corner, we are suddenly face-to-face with about ten people in military gear.

They quickly surround us.

My hands instinctively go to my hip.

But of course there is no gun.

My brain leaps into this alien zone where I feel no emotion, no fear, no anger.

All the senses lock into the present.

I become hyper-aware of every movement.

I can hear every sound and every thought.

And in a voice devoid of any emotion, in a plain tone, I asked the question, "What can I do to help?"

And I repeat that question again and again because they're not responding.

They're simply glaring down at us.

I think about my own mugging two months ago by half a dozen people armed with guns and knives in broad daylight.

I'm also thinking about all of the reports of lootings and abductions of my colleagues.

But I do know that all of the abducted colleagues have come back safely after we have shipped additional foods and supplies.

Maybe this is all they want... some food.

I observe their faces more closely.

Despite their grubby and mercenary appearance, their eyes do not convey any violence or anger.

In the meantime, this human ring has started to move, and we're getting shoved along, and I feel the pressure of hands and bodies against me, and I'm frustrated that I have absolutely no ability to defend myself.

And now they're arguing about something.

They're shouting at each other, the voices are rising, and I'm afraid that any moment guns are going to come out.

And then suddenly, without warning, they stop, they push us back, they turn around and they disappear in the darkness.

My brain takes a moment to unfreeze and come back to reality, and for the first time, I'm aware of the deep terror.

There's shaking in my legs and a deep pumping in my chest.

There is also the sense of relief at being alive and free.

I look at my colleague and without a word, we start walking back.

The next day, we are back.

I'm back at my house and I... boy, I have never been happier to see my wife and my son.

But I do not speak a word about the encounter.

What's the point of scaring her even more?

Our work continues for another six months.

The lootings and the abductions come down because the locals begin to realize that they don't need any violent posturings from us.

If they need any help, they can simply come up and ask.

In the month of October of '94, Mozambique holds its first-ever elections.

An unprecedented 93 percent of the citizens turn out to vote.

The voting actually carries on for three days.

The United Nations declares it a big success.

For us, it has been a gratifying experience and even a majestic one at times.

But it all started by removing guns from the hands of the people and removing guns from my hands.

After that day, I have never picked up a gun, never have felt the need to do so.

Instead, I use my experience with words and compassion to connect with people to do everything I do.

Thank you.

(bright music) - Praveen Sahay is now the founder of a company that finds entrepreneurs, who offer innovative climate change solutions.

Of course, another opportunity to save the world.

When we met Praveen, he seemed like an ordinary person.

Not someone who had risked his life and his family as a peacekeeper in Africa.

- Do you know, I remember we asked Praveen how these happened and he said something poetic.

Floating in the stream of life he has never been afraid to let go to try something new.

Next time on Stories from the Stage is stories of fate or chance.

A daughter tells us about an unexpected lesson she learned after her family hardware store is robbed at gunpoint.

Thanks for listening.

I'm Patricia Alvarado Nunez.

- And I'm Liz Cheng.

You can hear more memorable stories at worldchannel.org.

Share them with people you care about.

(bright music)