A Long Walk to Water, by Linda Sue Park; Clarion Books: New York, 2010; $16 Have you ever found yourself running as fast as you could but not really sure where you were going? Maybe you were trying to clear your thoughts or simply running for pleasure. Maybe, like eleven-year-old Salva Dut, you were trying to get away from something. Have you ever had to perform a task so terrible and tedious that you can’t wait for it to be over? Nya, also eleven, must do this every day. The year is 1985, and Salva is living in the village Loun-Ariik with his family in southern Sudan. One day, while Salva is at school, he and his classmates hear gunshots. It is not long before they realize that the Sudanese civil war has finally arrived at their village and is being fought just outside the schoolhouse. The students all hurry outside and are instructed by their teacher to hide in a nearby bush. After Salva reaches the bush, he realizes it is important for his survival to get away from the fighting. By himself, he begins to run away from his homeland and the Sudanese war, towards Ethiopia. There Salva remains, separated from his family, until the Ethiopian refugee camps are shut down six years later. Now that the camps are closing, many people begin to lose hope, but not Salva. He remembers that there are refugee camps in Kenya and leads about 12,000 young men and boys, called “the lost boys,” safely to Kenya. In 2008, Nya, also living in southern Sudan, must make the trip from her house to a nearby pond to get water. She carries a large plastic container on her head, and the trip there and back takes her the entire morning. When Nya comes home, her mother gives her boiled sorghum meal for lunch, then she leaves once again, to get more water from the pond. Each day, she walks twice, to the pond and back, to collect the family’s water. One day, two men come to Nya’s village and begin to discuss plans for building a well. At first the process goes very slowly, and the only water that comes to the well is very muddy. Nya wonders if the well will ever be anything more than a dream. Reading this book made me realize how lucky I am. Every day I have enough to eat, enough to drink, and my family is always with me. Here we have two eleven-year-old children, both making long, tireless journeys and getting by on very little. Salva is part of a cultural group called the Dinka, and Nya is part of a group called the Nuer. I found out that the people of Sudan recently voted to split their country into two, in part because of irreconcilable differences between these tribes. Officials hope that it will stop the fighting. Hearing about problems such as this makes me very thankful to be living in America. Salva and Nya’s stories are ones of survival and perseverance, and both tales really inspired me. Salva’s story, in particular, made a lasting impression on me, and I was shocked to find that the book was based on the true story of Salva Dut. The author, Linda Sue Park, had the chance to meet Salva, read his written accounts of the journey and conduct numerous interviews with him. Without giving away too much, I’ll say that Salva was eventually able to use his amazing talent in leadership, his initiative and innovation, as well as his perseverance, to do something even greater for others and make a difference in the lives of many. Also, towards the end of the book, Nya discovers that dreams can come true. A Long Walk to Water is one of the most inspiring books I’ve ever read. Julia Elrod, 13Oberlin, Ohio
January/February 2012
Arachne
Arachne was my sister, but we were as different as night and day. I was tall and lanky, tanned from hours spent on the seashore hunting for the shellfish that Father used in his dye. She was small and pale from hours in front of the loom, doing the weaving that had brought her fame. Ever since she was small, Arachne had been able to take an ordinary piece of cloth and turn it into a blaze of color and beauty that would take your breath away. On her work, figures breathed and flowers blossomed. Her amazing weaving had spread through Greece, and now people came from Crete, Sparta, Macedonia, places we had never heard of, to see the miracle weaver for themselves. On the morning that it happened, the spectators were already thick around our hut. Father was behind it, dying a new batch of yarn. I was looking for my best friend, Cora. We liked to stand behind the crowd and hear their praise and Arachne’s biting remarks. Besides extraordinary weaving skills, my sister also possessed a sharp tongue. Finally, I was about to resort to looking in the pig sty when I heard Cora calling me. “Alethea!” She was standing by the crowd. I joined her with a dirty look. She shrugged and mouthed, I was at the beach, and I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of that. We turned our attention back to the crowd just in time to hear a man joke to his companion, “Now if only my wife could weave like that! I’d be richer than the emperor! How does she do it?” Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come Arachne’s response was quick and sharp. “I certainly did not learn by standing still and gawping like a goat! I used my own two hands, to a much better result than you!” Another woman murmured, “What skill! Surely, dear, you must have been taught by Athena herself !” She made two of the worst mistakes you could make with Arachne. Father once absentmindedly called Arachne dear and she threw a fit and tore one of the tapestries she had woven that day into shreds. Arachne also hated to be compared to anyone. I held my breath and hoped Arachne wouldn’t kill the woman or tear the cloth, because we needed the money. Thankfully, her attack was fully verbal. “How dare you compare me to that goddess! My weaving is far better than hers, but she won’t admit it! I would challenge her to a contest, but of course she wouldn’t come!” In the shocked quiet that followed this outburst, a hunched, ragged old woman near the front suddenly spoke in a quavering yet surprisingly firm voice. “You foolish girl. Nothing good has ever happened to mortals who challenged the gods. Take back what you said at once, and later make an offering to Athena, lest she truly come and unleash her fury on you.” For an inexplicable reason, my blood ran cold when she uttered the final threat, and I glanced at Cora. She was pale under her tan. Gripped by fear, I started to squeeze my way through the crowd, trying desperately to reach Arachne before something happened to her. I also kept an eye on the strange old woman as well as I could. But she was too angry and too proud to notice anything but this old woman that dared to rebuke her. “I will not take back my challenge!” Arachne raged. “What do you, a ragged old beggar, know of me? I am the greatest weaver among both the gods and the mortals, and Athena is welcome to compete against me!” Barely had her words died off when the old woman began to glow. She threw off her ragged cloak and was suddenly dressed in a shining white chiton. She grew taller, and her face was radiant and beautiful, tender yet at the same time stern. I had seen that face before, on statues in temples. Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come. My sister stood silently before her loom, and her face was a thunderstorm of emotion. Anger, astonishment, and was that fear? The crowd was silent with shock, waiting for something more to unfold. Finally, Arachne’s mouth tightened into a thin, determined line, and she motioned Athena towards another loom that was standing in the corner. She removed the cloth she had been working on and, without any further ado, began a new weaving. Athena did too. Someone must have told Father because he came running with two baskets filled with skeins of his yarn, in colors bright as the rainbow and as varied. He silently placed one basket by Arachne and one by Athena, with a bow to her. Then he looked around and came to stand beside me. We watched without a word. Athena wove faster than Arachne. A pattern began to take shape on her loom. I strained to see, and suddenly understood. It was a warning to Arachne. In the center of the pattern, Athena competed with Poseidon for possession of Athens. She stood by her newly created olive tree, and the sea god stood tall by his creation, the horse. The other gods were also there, Zeus in the middle, blazing with glory. It was clear, somehow, that they were all favoring Athena. On the four corners of the cloth, the goddess had woven the terrible fates of mortals who had dared to compete with the gods. It was clear what Arachne’s fate would be if she continued to defy Athena. I turned to see my sister’s weaving, and gasped. Her face was hard and angry, and her pattern was a direct insult to the gods. There was Leda, with Zeus disguised as the swan, and Danae, locked in her tower, visited by Zeus as a golden ray of light. I also recognized Europa and the bull. All the unworthy acts of the gods were displayed on Arachne’s
The M31: Borrowed Bus Stories
Will you ever have a relationship as special as that? Every day, you wake up, eat breakfast, and walk down the five flights of steep, stone-cold stairs. As a cheery neighbor greets you, you put on a fake smile and fast walk out the door. You’ve never been a big “people person,” or a dog person, or even a cat person for that matter. Should you be someone? As you step out into the traffic, you realize your morning is already buzzing by and you haven’t even gotten your coffee. 7:57. A small boy and his dad walk up to the bus stop. The boy can barely reach his father’s hand. They sit and talk, play patty-cake. Will you ever have kids? Or even just a relationship as special as that? A warm feeling fills your stomach. The wind blows. You shiver and watch as the small boy and his father hail a cab. 8:06. The strange old woman comes. She’s the one who feeds the pigeons, who searches through trash for cans and bottles. You wonder if she ever had someone. 8:13. You kick a rock. No buses. 8:28 ticks by, the latest time you can get on the bus and be at work by 9:00. Finally. The M31 creeps down the traffic-covered hill and you step up the black-and-yellow stairs. You choose your favorite seat, near the back, sit down, and watch. You can see the whole bus, everything that goes on. A million little stories, and a million different feelings flood the open space. The York Avenue bus. From 63rd to 91st. You spend about 45 minutes a day on average on that bus. The part that makes it all worthwhile are the people. French kids. Doctors and nurses. Crying babies. You see and hear little bits and pieces of people’s days and sometimes, for the slightest moment, you take off your veil of aloneness and intertwine. Giving someone your seat, loaning someone change, or even just exchanging a glance when the cranky old lady yells at a little kid. You need the confusion, the distraction from the loneliness. When you’re on the bus, you’re an observer. A listener. A looker. You’re not there. A fly on the wall. Bits of conversations fly through your thoughts, you take in. With each breath you inhale the moods of others. You get on the bus and get off, leaving behind the stories for the next day. One day, you stepped up the yellow-and-black steps, ready to absorb. As you sat down, a cute little baby and his mother caught your eye. Buttoned up in his shiny white jacket, he was happy, and observing just like you. Suddenly, BUMP, spit-up on the seats. On the floor. On that little white jacket. “It’s all right,” the mother whispered, “it’s OK.” An old man, lifting his silent vow of isolation, offered the baby’s mother a napkin. You watched. Two friends made that would never see each other again. Ever. Bus stops. Baby and mother get off. And the old man’s eyes were glued to that little baby. You looked out the window and saw a mirror image. Smiling, waving, gleaming blue eyes lit up. But off the bus, continuing with the push and pull of daily life, the man and the baby disappear into oblivion. Forgotten. In the world of borrowed bus stories. Charlotte Merrick, 12New York, New York Athena Gerasoulis, 12Edison, New Jersey
