Sometimes it's the quietest voice that speaks the loudest. The quiet voice I heard in 1988 was that of a young woman from Ghana. The morning my wife Rosalynn and I visited the woman's village of Denchira, near the Ghanaian capital of Accra, she sat timidly on a bench amid her neighbors, who had assembled to greet us. She appeared to be in excruciating pain, and it looked as if she were cradling a baby in her right arm. As I approached, I was shocked to see that she was not holding a baby but her grossly swollen right breast. A...
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