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"Standing next to a hospital bed covered with colorful African fabric, Julian Atim, M.D., gently puts her hand on the shoulder of a woman curled up in a fetal position, and whispers into her ear. The woman nods without lifting her head, her eyes tightly shut. She is obviously very ill. Looking sad, Julian squeezes her hand and walks away. Across the room, near the door of the Naguru Health Center, a clinic on the outskirts of Kampala, the capital of Uganda, another woman is on all fours in labor, shaking her head back and forth as the contractions tear her up inside. A nurse wearing a white apron and a tiny old-fashioned cap approaches us with terrible, unexpected news. &amp;amp;#8220;The baby is already dead,&amp;amp;#8221; she says, explaining that the mother had taken traditional herbs to accelerate labor, which apparently had killed the fetus. In Africa, life is so fragile&amp;amp;#8212;death can come in an instant, even in this place dedicated to healing. Julian and I step out of the ward into the center&amp;amp;#8217;s courtyard, where about 100 AIDS patients are waiting to see one of just three doctors on duty. The area is crowded yet strangely quiet: Many of the Ugandans almost whisper when they talk, as if what needs to be said could hardly be spoken aloud. Some patients wait as long as 12 hours to be examined, Julian tells me. &amp;amp;#8220;It takes guts to do this,&amp;amp;#8221; she says, pointing to the overworked doctors. It does take guts, but caring for Uganda&amp;amp;#8217;s most vulnerable patients is exactly what Julian, 26, is doing with her life. While many of her educated peers have left this country that&amp;amp;#8217;s been plagued by civil conflict and AIDS for the past 25 years, she has vowed to stay and treat all Ugandans. Whether she&amp;amp;#8217;s working at a clinic in the dangerous, war-torn northern province of Gulu, or volunteering her services at the hospital here in Kampala, my ninth stop on a round-the-world journey for Glamour, Julian&amp;amp;#8217;s mission is the same: &amp;amp;#8220;I want to ensure no life is lost to preventable diseases,&amp;amp;#8221; she says. For Julian, the work is deeply personal. She lost both of her parents to AIDS, which has killed an estimated one million Ugandans and has orphaned more than one million children. Just before Julian&amp;amp;#8217;s mother, Rose, died in 2003, she made her daughter pledge to devote herself to helping others who are less fortunate. &amp;amp;#8220;I was always shy, but my mother told me I had to be strong and face the world so that many people&amp;amp;#8217;s lives could be touched,&amp;amp;#8221; Julian recalls. As a doctor, Julian knows all too well that if her mother had been able to afford antiretroviral drugs (ARVs), which can effectively prolong the lives of HIV positive patients, she would likely be alive today. It&amp;amp;#8217;s that knowledge, and her promise to her mother, that feed her fierce determination. &amp;amp;#8220;Saving others makes me feel better about not being able to help my mother,&amp;amp;#8221; she says. Born in Kampala, Julian is the fifth of nine children. Her father, Oryang, was an accountant for the Ugandan military&amp;amp;#8217;s finance office, and Rose raised the children with the help of two maids. &amp;amp;#8220;We lived very comfortably,&amp;amp;#8221; Julian says. On Sundays, the family would attend church and picnic on the beaches of Lake Victoria, the huge freshwater lake that is the main source of the Nile River. In 1986, when Julian was six, tensions were rising in Uganda between northerners and southerners. Her parents, members of the northern Acholi tribe, moved the family to Gulu, thinking the children would be safer there. But within months, violence broke out and antigovernment rebels attacked the family&amp;amp;#8217;s village. Julian remembers playing with her cousins and hearing gunshots. &amp;amp;#8220;We all panicked,&amp;amp;#8221; Julian says. She hid under a bridge while the rebels marched overhead. &amp;amp;#8220;It was my first encounter with fear,&amp;amp;#8221; she says matter-of-factly. Another day, she says, &amp;amp;#8220;I remember waking up one morning and seeing dead bodies lying on the ground.&amp;amp;#8221; Soon after that, the family fled back to Kampala, but Julian never forgot the tragedy she&amp;amp;#8217;d witnessed. At 13, her life changed once again. One day her father suddenly began complaining of headaches, went to the hospital and never came back. &amp;amp;#8220;I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t realize he died of AIDS until I was already in medical school,&amp;amp;#8221; Julian told me. Rose was left with nine children to raise&amp;amp;#8212;and the gut feeling that she too carried HIV. (Julian says she never knew whether her mother had been tested for HIV&amp;amp;#8212;a testament to the stigma attached to the disease.) The family slowly fell into poverty. Rose started selling cooking oil, milk and sugar, but the family struggled. &amp;amp;#8220;We constantly lacked money for food, tuition and clothing,&amp;amp;#8221; Julian says. &amp;amp;#8220;The 10 of us moved into a small one-bedroom apartment. Once, the landlord threatened to throw us out because my mother was late with the rent&amp;amp;#8212;it was the first time I saw my mom cry.&amp;amp;#8221; About five years after Julian&amp;amp;#8217;s father died, her mother began showing symptoms of AIDS. &amp;amp;#8220;She would give us little lectures and tell us, &amp;amp;#8216;I will soon be leaving you. You have to take care of each other,&amp;amp;#8217;&amp;amp;#8221; Julian recalls. Although ARVs were available, they were too costly for most Ugandans. Julian&amp;amp;#8217;s mother couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t afford them on top of her younger children&amp;amp;#8217;s school fees. In the end, Rose performed an astonishing act of motherly love&amp;amp;#8212;she put her children&amp;amp;#8217;s education ahead of her own life. While her mother slowly declined, Julian was diligently studying on scholarship at Makerere University Medical School in Kampala, where she enrolled right after high school, as is customary here. &amp;amp;#8220;Whenever we studied anything HIV-related, it would make me very sad,&amp;amp;#8221; she says. &amp;amp;#8220;I learned about the medicine my mother needed, and yet I knew she couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t afford it because her children needed the money to survive.&amp;amp;#8221; Rose died in January 2003&amp;amp;#8212;two weeks before Julian&amp;amp;#8217;s end-of-semester exams. Although she was consumed by grief, &amp;amp;#8220;my siblings kept me strong by encouraging me to eat, sleep and prepare for my exams,&amp;amp;#8221; she says. &amp;amp;#8220;I passed them all.&amp;amp;#8221; Since her mother&amp;amp;#8217;s death, Julian has fought to make ARVs more affordable in Uganda. In 2005, while still a medical student, she lobbied the Indian government to maintain its liberal interpretation of drug patent laws, which has made that country the main global source of low-cost generic AIDS drugs. She also trained young doctors to fight for access to ARVs that could save their lives if they were exposed to HIV/AIDS or other diseases. That work led her to create the Students for Equity in Health Care network, which encourages young doctors to stay in Uganda. For her amazing accomplishments, Julian was honored in late 2006 by Physicians for Human Rights, a nonprofit that campaigns for peace and health around the globe. &amp;amp;#8220;Dr. Atim works tirelessly, despite enormous odds,&amp;amp;#8221; said the group&amp;amp;#8217;s statement on Julian. &amp;amp;#8220;Her story is one of incredible hope, promise, dedication, sacrifice and power.&amp;amp;#8221; In her practice, she continues crusading; she counsels her impoverished patients about how to get ARVs. Her next goal, she says, is to help women empower themselves economically. &amp;amp;#8220;I want to treat the patient as a whole,&amp;amp;#8221; she says. &amp;amp;#8220;My mother died not because she had the disease but because of poverty.&amp;amp;#8221; As I drive with Julian through Kampala, I take in the sights outside my window. We pass a little girl with dreadlocks carrying a bucket on her head; behind her is a supermarket called Jesus Cares Food Center. Under the bright sun, a bare-chested man naps while lying on his motorcycle&amp;amp;#8212;I wonder how he doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t fall off. We ride by billboards promoting sexual abstinence. For years, Uganda has been known for its successful anti-HIV campaign called ABC (for &amp;amp;#8220;Abstain, Be Faithful, Use Condoms&amp;amp;#8221;). But Julian says the government&amp;amp;#8217;s recent focus on abstinence and fidelity above condom use feels misguided to her; many faithful women get infected by partners who aren&amp;amp;#8217;t faithful to them, she says. She believes her own dad cheated on her mother and gave her HIV. &amp;amp;#8220;I see so many mothers like my own who would have never dreamed of looking at a man she wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t married to,&amp;amp;#8221; Julian says. She preaches condom use as the best way to prevent HIV, even among married women. Some of the most devastating medical cases Julian sees are in Gulu, where she is one of only a few doctors who will brave the region&amp;amp;#8217;s horrific conditions. Because her family is Acholi, Julian feels a special responsibility to the people there, truly among Uganda&amp;amp;#8217;s most vulnerable. As a result of nearly three decades of war, AIDS and sexual violence are much more prevalent in Gulu than in the rest of the country. Many women and children Julian treats have been beaten, raped and infected with HIV. Because of the many strong mothers she treats in Gulu who are raising children in unimaginable circumstances, Julian has decided to focus her career on aiding women. &amp;amp;#8220;If you save a woman, you know you are saving her children as well,&amp;amp;#8221; she says. Her efforts in Gulu have also made her realize that her own salvation will come through her work. &amp;amp;#8220;I understand now that happiness doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t come from success or money or a man,&amp;amp;#8221; she says. &amp;amp;#8220;Happiness means fulfilling my role in this life.&amp;amp;#8221; As we travel on a busy road west out of Kampala, I look back at the city, green and lush with cozy villas perched on hills&amp;amp;#8212;from afar, the slums and jammed market streets are invisible. We pass refugee camps where people from the north seek shelter from the ongoing civil unrest. In one camp, I see women working at quarries, hitting stones like prisoners. A few yards away, a preacher screams into a microphone while a crowd of shirtless kids plays soccer with a makeshift ball. We are heading to the Aidchild orphanage, which is dedicated to kids living with HIV, located about 40 miles west of Kampala. When we arrive, the children are sitting in class learning their colors. &amp;amp;#8220;Blue is the sky, green is the grass,&amp;amp;#8221; says a little boy. &amp;amp;#8220;And me, what color am I?&amp;amp;#8221; a man asks him. &amp;amp;#8220;Pink,&amp;amp;#8221; says the boy, who looks to be about six years old. &amp;amp;#8220;You are pink!&amp;amp;#8221; The &amp;amp;#8220;pink&amp;amp;#8221; man&amp;amp;#8217;s name is Nathaniel Dunigan. He is the founder of Aidchild; he arrived here from the United States nine years ago. &amp;amp;#8220;All I wanted,&amp;amp;#8221; he says, laughing, &amp;amp;#8220;was a safari.&amp;amp;#8221; Instead, he saw countless children orphaned by AIDS or other deadly diseases living in the streets alone, hungry and scared. When Nathaniel went back home to Arizona, he organized a yard sale, and used the $3,500 he made to build the orphanage that now shelters 70 children&amp;amp;#8212;from ages six months to 15 years&amp;amp;#8212;all HIV positive. The children here look happy and healthy, a welcome contrast to the kids I met in Kampala. In the city there was little Natalia, who suffered heart disease and had the swollen belly often seen in malnourished children, and Simon, who could hardly breathe due to respiratory infection, and many others whose names I never learned but who looked like they had suffered more than their young selves could bear. Julian sits on the beautifully maintained lawn, where she&amp;amp;#8217;s joined by a boy named Peter, who was born with HIV and has suffered every possible abuse, and his friend Marvin, who was found at the gates of the orphanage. &amp;amp;#8220;I know what you feel,&amp;amp;#8221; Julian tells them. &amp;amp;#8220;I am a doctor but I am also an AIDS orphan. That&amp;amp;#8217;s what I came here to tell you.&amp;amp;#8221; Looking at the boys, it&amp;amp;#8217;s obvious that Julian&amp;amp;#8217;s words open a world of possibilities for them&amp;amp;#8212;neither one had ever dreamed about a hopeful future in which he, too, could save people&amp;amp;#8217;s lives. On our trip back to Kampala, tragedy strikes in a matter of seconds: A child who couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t be more than eight years old is hit by a car in front of us. We stop to offer assistance, but the child is already lifeless, his eyes wide open. It&amp;amp;#8217;s a moment of sheer horror. Again, I am reminded of how swiftly and how often life is taken here. Later that night, Julian takes me to the home she shares with her four younger brothers and sisters in Kampala. She cares for her siblings and teaches them about HIV prevention, she says. Julian shows me a small memorial she built for her parents: yellow candles surrounding a photograph of the couple. When I look at the image of Julian&amp;amp;#8217;s mother, I don&amp;amp;#8217;t see a victim; I see an unsung hero&amp;amp;#8212;a brilliant example of what human dignity can achieve. She preferred to die rather than let ignorance stunt the lives of her children. Few people deserve more respect, except maybe the daughter she left behind. Mariane Pearl is a documentary filmmaker and the author of A Mighty Heart: The Brave Life and Death of My Husband, Danny Pearl. She&amp;amp;#8217;s also a contributor to the International Museum of Women: The Motherhood Project (imaginingourselves.imow.org). 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