Maps have always been sneaky. They are supposed to tell us where things are, but the truth is every map lies. Not because cartographers are villains twirling mustaches in dark basements, but because lying is baked into the very act of mapping. A map is, at best, a polite cheat. You cannot cram the real world, messy and infinite, onto

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I left the Philippines in 2013. Since then, I’ve lived in the U.S., discovered the joy of functioning public libraries, and gotten spoiled by tap water you can actually drink. But even after more than a decade away, my screen still lights up with poverty maps of the Philippines—every shade of red feels personal. It’s as if the map knows

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