Swaying wooden swings Whisper to each other The wind blows dry leaves, Scattering messages across the park. The white, lacy blur Of a girl Polished black boots drum along stone paths As the boy calls out her name. “Come back, Margaret! I didn’t mean it! Come back!” Sariel Hana Friedman, 9Pacific Palisades, Californii
March/April 2006
The Fallen Log
Elizabeth and Alexandra stepped across the deep, jungle forest. Palm tree branches tilted slightly in a soft breeze. Palmettos fanned the humid air, and their deep, dark green leaves and sharp stems bent to one side. The lush green vines decorated the branches above. Tangles of weeds cloaked the trees, and every now and then wildflowers scattered the forest floor. Wild citrus trees were here and there, bearing the sweet fruit that sprinkled the trees. The forest was bustling with business up high in the trees, where native Floridian birds cooed, squawked, yakked, and sang above. It was a perfect day for their little exploration in the jungles of central Florida. They were on the Ranch, where cattle and citrus were the produce. The Ranch was large and vast with long, yellow fields and pastures flecked with thousands of cows, the light brown, tan, charcoal black, and murky gray colored cows. They were raised and sold to make beef. There were several forests. There were woods, lines of citrus trees, and long canals that looped around the Ranch. There were even wild hogs that tore up the pastures and some people hog hunted to control the population. Elizabeth and Alexandra were cousins. Elizabeth was nine. She had short brown hair and dark brown eyes. She had freckles, was bigger built, and loved to explore the beautiful forests at the Ranch. Alexandra was thirteen. She had soft blond hair down to the center of her back. She had starry blue eyes and was thin and lithe. She also had the desire to explore. “It’s just a log” Elizabeth assured her “No it’s not,” Alexandra sad “Look!” The cousins ducked beneath a long, silver spider web, which was magnificently spun from one tree to another. A banana spider descended a couple inches, leaving a string of delicate thread behind. Alexandra was not a big fan of spiders but even she was in awe over the beautiful web it had designed. As they stepped through the forest they remained silent so the beauty and sounds of the forest could be fully enjoyed. “Look,” Elizabeth breathed as she pointed and indicated to some animal a ways off. Her face shone with excitement as she tugged on Alexandra’s shirtsleeve. “An armadillo!” Alexandra whispered. She slowly inched closer as the armadillo emerged from a thick cluster of bushes. It was small and almost looked like its middle was made of brass. It had four little legs and a short tail. Its nose was brushing the ground as if it was searching the ground for something to eat. Alexandra slowly advanced. A thrill of excitement shivered down her back. She loved animals. Snap! Alexandra stepped on a twig and it snapped in half, frightening the armadillo so that it scurried away a distance. For a while, the girls pursued it until it was completely hidden somewhere in the deep green plants that cloaked the forest. “Man!” Alexandra said. “Let’s walk over to the canal,” Elizabeth suggested. “I like to stand on the water’s edge.” “As long as we don’t run into any alligators,” Alexandra said. They pulled branches out of their way and made their way through the obstacles that blocked their path. The cousins’ feet sloshed into marshy ground and their sneakers became muddy and soaked. “Ick,” Elizabeth said as they waded across the squishy ground. They pushed through tangles of vines and branches and finally they came out onto the bank of the skinny canal. The bank was made of white sand. The water was black velvet and branches floated on the surface. Where the water was clearer, there were rings of orange, yellow, and red on the bottom. On the other side there was a large, sloping bank, and the trees on the far bank had lines across them, revealing where the water level had been after the last hurricane. The last hurricane had sure swallowed up the area, for the waterlines were at least five feet above the regular waterline on the shore. “Look at all the amazing colors in the water near the shore,” Alexandra observed. “Let’s walk along the canal,” Elizabeth said, taking off her wet sneakers and setting them on the bank. She waded in the shallow canal and let her toes wriggle in the sand. Then she and Alexandra walked along the bank, taking in the nature. The sun seeped through the shade of the forest’s trees. The girls listened to the peaceful rustle of the palm tree leaves. They kicked sand as they strolled down the canal. Suddenly, Alexandra shrieked. “What?” Elizabeth asked, as she immediately froze. “L-l-look!” she stammered. “A-alligat-ttor!” She pointed a shaking finger to a brownish lump on the far bank. “It’s just a log,” Elizabeth assured her. “No it’s not,” Alexandra said. “Look!” There was a long nose with flaring nostrils and a grin of sharp teeth. The overbite was obvious and the dark reptile’s profile was in the shape of a large head with four legs to its side and a long, powerful tail with scales rippling down its back. Elizabeth and Alexandra had seen tons of alligators on their several canoe trips and airboat rides but they had never been this close. The large alligator was about eight feet long and was only a couple yards away. The little eyes seemed to stare blankly at the girls. Of course they knew very well that alligators are frightened of humans and crocodiles are the ones to be aggressive and attack. But Elizabeth and Alexandra took one look at the dinosaur-like creature and ran. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” They did not look back. They ran down the bank, scooped up their soggy sneakers, and tore through the forest. They broke through the branches that scraped their faces, arms, ankles and knees. They screamed and ran across the wet, muddy ground and through several patches of moss. They leapt over fallen logs and sprang over palmettos. The soft whoosh of the wind’s deep breaths that rustled the
Thura’s Diary: My Life in Wartime Iraq
Thura’s Diary: My Life in Wartime Iraq, by Thura al-Windawi; Viking Children’s Books: New York, 2oo4; $15.99 “In the middle of the night we were thrown out of our beds by some massive explosions,” described Thura in her diary. Thura al-Windawi was nineteen years old when the war in Iraq began. That was also the time when she started a diary, which was later published into a book. In the process it was translated into English by Robin Bray. As I read her diary, I was surprised by how similar Thura’s life in Iraq is to my life in America. We both watch television and use the computer, we both are in school, and we both have a passion for writing. At nineteen, Thura is the eldest of three girls. Although I only have one sibling, at thirteen I’m also the oldest child in my family. Our parents are similar in many ways too. Like my parents, Thura’s mother and father are well educated and value education for their children. Although we have commonalities, we have differences, too. When Saddam Hussein ruled Iraq, Thura didn’t have access to a large range of media, while I have an abundance to choose from: television, the Internet, books, magazines, and newspapers. As an American, I am allowed more freedom than Thura was allowed in Iraq. Thura states in her diary that “men are in charge of everything,” whereas in the United States women have much more freedom of choice and movement. A personal difference between Thura and me is that she has experienced war, even though she is not a soldier, whereas I have never stepped on a battlefield, not even as a spectator. Since the start of the war with Iraq, my life has changed in some ways. My parents’ obsession with following wartime events drove, and still drives, me crazy. I could never get away from it, not even during a meal, but since the war, Thura’s life has changed so much more drastically that my disruptions pale in comparison. After the war began, she wasn’t able to go to college. Her father couldn’t work anymore. It was difficult to get food for her and her family and insulin for her diabetic sister, Aula. It even became hard to breathe due to oil fires and smog. The chaos of the war also allowed religious men to force their beliefs on the women of Baghdad, requiring them to wear the headscarf or fear being kidnapped. Under Saddam Hussein’s regime, women could choose to wear a headscarf or not. It was unbelievably tough to live in the wartime conditions. As I read, I wondered how Thura, as an Iraqi teenager, felt about the American invasion. Thura doesn’t care for either side of the war. Like me, she dislikes the fact that the Americans and the Iraqis won’t talk about their problems peacefully. She hates it that men have to go to war and leave their wives and children. She also expresses her distress about men dying in the war and her concern that the women left behind won’t know how to take care of themselves. She does not call Baghdad “liberated,” as President Bush has said time after time. Rather, she calls Baghdad an “American colony.” What I believed to be ironic is that Thura described the Iraqi people’s vision of Saddam as a lion, but in my view Thura has the courage and the heart of a lion for being strong for her family and not hating all Americans for what has happened to her country. Rose Brazeale, 13Auburn, Georgia