Isabelle Jacobs

I know I befriended a boy who fell from the realms of darkness.

I know I love him as if we were sprouted as a whole, not two.

I know he is haunted by the shadows of his past, while I’m guided by the light.

I know he is my brother born from the same creator yet punished by his own brothers.

I now know my ancestors forced his family down a never ending pit of oppression.

I now know that even crawling out of the pit, he lives in the veil of racism.

I now know I’m the reason he’s poisoned with such injustice.

I now know why blind eyes become wide in the eyes of different.  

I do not know why we are not friends anymore.

I do not know why my only friends are white and his are black.

I do not know why the world is so separated.

Poetry

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Isabelle Jacobs explores the destructive legacy of racism, oppression, hatred, and division.

Because I Know

Zainab Umar

My city, Lahore, has not always been called the City of Gardens. In fact, a few hundred years ago, such a title would have been ridiculed by the locals, because Lahore was once a barren desert as far as the eye could see. 

It was the rulers of the Mughal Era who made the first steps towards irrigation, transforming an arid wasteland into a botanical and cultural paradise. Today, when we visit the beautiful inner city of Lahore with its historical and architectural splendours, it’s almost impossible to envision that there was a time before the looming white Minar-e-Pakistan existed. It seems hard to believe that the breathtaking Shahi Mosque was once little more than a sandy conglomerate of dunes. That human beings, our ancestors, were able to fashion such beauty out of the earth shows the incredible potential of human creation and innovation.

And then, another picture surfaces: that of the infamous Lahore Mall Road. A few decades ago, Mall Road was called “Thandi Sarrak,” or “Cold Road,” because of the relief from the relentless sunlight provided by the mighty, wizened trees along the road. Now, fewer and fewer people refer to it by this name. Heavy deforestation has destroyed much of the natural landscape; Lahore becomes less green every day.

Do I, then, live in a city of paradoxes? Perhaps all of us do. It almost seems as if, in the scale balance of human existence, every ounce of creation is balanced with an ounce of destruction. After all, the conversion of a desert into a city of gardens involves the destruction of the natural state of the land. Similarly, the destruction of trees is a prelude to the creation of new human settlements. But surely there should be some way of tilting this balance, so that every positive action doesn’t have a negative consequence. If human beings possess such a remarkable capacity to build up and break down, our next goal should be to find ways to grow while minimizing our destruction.

Cities aren’t the only things subject to constant reform and decay. Creation and destruction have their roots in the very essence of human existence. After all, every day the average adult human body creates over 200 billion cells, and an even larger number of cells die. It almost seems as if human behavior is coded for by our internal biology. But does that give us an excuse to exercise our creative and destructive tendencies on the environment around us?

Humans have been around for less than 1% of life on earth, but despite this brief time, we have impacted every corner of our planet and all the other life forms that share it with us. There are over 8 million other species inhabiting earth, and yet it is human beings who are constantly making space for their growing numbers, driving out other species from their natural habitats. We create living space for ourselves, and we destroy living spaces for other animals.

However, human creation and destruction are certainly not limited to the battle between urban construction and nature’s preset conditions. We’re capable of creating things far less temporal, and yet so significant. Poems and plays, songs and music, books and ideas — aren’t all of these a testament to our innate urge to create? There are signs of this splattered across history; a glimpse at the Hieroglyphics inscribed into pyramids, the pottery vases and utensils of ancient Mesopotamia, even ancient African tribal dances, all lead to the same conclusion: we were born to create.

On the other hand, destruction seems to come to us naturally, too. It cannot be said that our ancestors knew nothing of destruction; with every pottery vase discovered in archaeological excavations, some crude weaponry forms was found alongside it. Even the most primitive humans created civilisations out of animal habitats. 

However, if “destruction” were to be quantified and compared between the ages, it would certainly be found that humans are becoming more and more destructive. Since the industrial revolution, we have been the main contributors to climate change, the extinction of species, the depletion of natural resources, and a variety of other issues discussed in debate rooms worldwide.  

So if creation and destruction are a part of what makes us human, is it possible to control how much we create, and how much we destroy? Can one occur in the absence of the other? 

We can answer these questions by taking a more introspective look at our own experiences. My own life has taught me the impact that one person can have on another, and that the choice to be creative or destructive lies entirely with us. Bullying and harassment are just some of the examples of how destructive human beings can be towards each other. Every day, there are hundreds of cases worldwide of bullying that is so catastrophic it drives the victim to depression, or even suicide. Alternatively, a simple smile or an act of kindness can have a profound effect.  Donations and social work can literally save human lives. A friendly word to an absolute stranger can culminate in the creation of relationships.

Human creation and destruction may be part of what makes us human, but the choice to be one, or both, lies within us, as well. A fatalistic approach, accepting our destructive qualities as innate and indelible, will only lead to continuing destruction, violence and ruin. Alternatively,  if every individual, every company, and every government processes their decisions in a way that is sensitive to consequences yet eager for progression, we can bypass the imminent consequences of our activities. If such a model is adopted, perhaps wars and conflict won't exist in the world. Perhaps we can find a way of helping ourselves without hurting our surroundings. Perhaps we can retain what it means to be human, and yet remember what it means to be humane.

In a KidSpirit Big Question article, teen writer Zainab Umar reflects on how both creation and destruction may be an essential piece of being human.

Are Creation and Destruction Part of What Makes Us Human?

Olivia Bailey

You probably stared at that sentence for a minute, didn’t you? What a way to begin an article. So morbid. So terrible and cruel.

But what, what on earth is honesty if not cruel?

Someday, everyone you love will die. So will you. So will every single person who is living on this earth right now, and who will ever live on this earth. Nearly two people die each second. Two people with families and friends, two people who have had someone who loved them at some point in their life. Because no one can coast through this life without having at least one person love them. If we did, then this would all be so much easier. If we were able to go through life, never loving, never being loved, then we could die and no one would much notice. We would be replaced, and our life would pass without incident. It would be so, so, so much easier for everyone. We would all just . . . continue. No harm done. 

But that’s not how it works. It hurts when we lose someone we love. Regardless, death is inevitable. It is the last grain of sand draining from the top of the hourglass. The question, really, isn’t “What if we didn’t feel the pain of death?” because we always will, but more “What if we don’t really die?”  Every religion in the history of humanity poses some variation of that question, because, in the end, death is the biggest mystery, the biggest fear, the biggest imposing future event. The idea that we will all be destroyed is the hardest idea for us to accept. And the idea that everyone and anyone we love can just . . . die, well, that’s a close second.

Judaism. Christianity. Islam. Hinduism. Buddhism. They all have some idea of the afterlife. In Judaism, Islam, and Christianity we find variations of heaven and hell: the idea that when someone dies (or, in the case of Islam, when we reach the Day of Judgement), they will be brought to judgement based upon what they have done with their lives, and will either be placed in an eternal paradise (heaven) for good deeds, or in eternal punishment (hell) for bad deeds. Many Buddhists and Hindus believe in reincarnation: that the soul will be reborn again and again into new bodies until they get to a point where they are allowed to be freed from the terrible loop of reincarnation. Though these two types of beliefs are very, very different, they both pose the same challenge to the idea of death. 

The idea that those we love will die, that they will never be again, even as we continue through our lives, is perhaps too hard for us to accept. Because we would rather never see the people we love again whilst knowing they’re still alive then watch them die, never to smile or cry or speak again. If their soul continues beyond them, then who is to say that we’ve truly lost them? Who’s to say that they’re not out there somewhere, existing? That is the idea behind heaven and hell and reincarnation — that people will continue, even as their bodies, their flesh and bones and blood, expire. 

Everyone’s beliefs are different. Some people are devout Catholics, others attend a Reform synagogue every Sabbath, some are firmly atheist and don’t believe in any kind of god at all. But in the end, we don’t have a way of truly knowing exactly what comes next. We could only know for sure if we were to communicate with the dead. Recent studies have begun to delve into what happens when we die, through asking 140 survivors of cardiac arrest what they experienced when they were flatlining. About 40% said they felt some kind of awareness during the time that they were “dead.” They all described different things happening. Some of them saw a light. Others felt like they were drowning. A good deal of them felt like they had been separated from their bodies. But a mere five minutes of death doesn’t seem to even scratch the surface of the eternity of death, and, though they are credible, these studies don’t seem to prove much at all. They are simply the product of our unquenchable thirst to know. 

But when you get down to it, the truth is that we don’t know. We don't know if death means reincarnation or judgement or oblivion. It could be eternal TV static and we wouldn’t have any way of telling. 

That is the cold, hard truth of the matter. But we’re not about to stop loving people just because they are going to die. We are not going to stop loving people just because we know that someday they — and we — are going to become one of those nearly-two-people. Destruction is inevitable. People die. Temples crumble to dust. Civilizations fall to pieces. Someday it will not only be everyone you love but everyone anyone has ever loved, ever. Someday, we will all be dead, and our civilizations will be in ruins, and our temples and books and ideas and languages will be gone, wiped from this planet just as we are. 

But that’s never discouraged us. Because we are human beings, and we cannot live our lives without creating something to balance out our ultimate destruction. We will live, even with that imposing knowledge of death hanging over our heads, ticking on and on and on and on. We will pass, someday. For a moment, we will be one of the people to leave this earth. And maybe there is something next. Maybe there is life after this, be it through reincarnation or another otherworldly plateau. But we cannot live around that. We cannot center our entire lives around something we do not know will happen. Sure, we know that someday, we will die, but we also know that that is no more than the very end. It is the last grain of sand in the thousands inside the hourglass that is life. And maybe, just maybe, if you get out there and stop thinking so hard about what will happen next, you might just manage to create something that will outlast you.

"The World Factbook." Central Intelligence Agency. Central Intelligence Agency, n.d. Web. 19 Oct. 2017.

Knapton, Sarah. "First Hint of 'life after Death' in Biggest Ever Scientific Study." The Telegraph. Telegraph Media Group, 12 Mar. 2016. Web. 19 Oct. 2017.

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Olivia Bailey contemplates the mystery of death, the afterlife, and yearning for immortality.

Nearly Two People

Aditya Naik

Can something be both creative and destructive? 

You may never have thought about that question. Your spontaneous answer might be “of course not.” But I believe that anything can be both creative and destructive depending on the situation and how we look at it.

I am an Indian, and so I am blessed to have been born in a country of rich tradition and culture.  We are taught about morals and values from childhood, both at school and at home.  However, discussions around creation and destruction are often peripheral. Personally I was quite oblivious to the idea of creation and destruction until I was about seven years old.  At that time we lived inland; nevertheless, I had an innate attraction to the sea.  

When the opportunity to visit a beach finally came, I went to none other than Mumbai’s famous Juhu Beach with my parents.  I felt euphoric and immediately got my hands dirty in building a sand mountain.  I, of course, was in awe of sand mountains from the numerous cartoon films I had watched, glued to the screen. Many times in the cartoons the sand mountains built by the protagonists crumbled because of the waves, but I had never dwelled on that. At that moment my only purpose in life was to build the highest sand mountain ever! 

I couldn’t believe my eyes when a sea wave came and in a fraction of a second swept away my mountain. I was so deeply disappointed! Why my mountain? I thought, "How can something or someone destroy a creation in which I had invested so much of my time and labour?” Tears rolled down my cheeks.  Seeing me disturbed,  my parents got visibly worried. On listening to my question, they consoled me that the sea had not destroyed my mountain with any malicious intentions, it was a play of creation and destruction by the sea.  I peeped out from behind my mom and was surprised to see that the wave had actually leveled the sand so that it again looked uniform and beautiful. I asked my mom, “ Can I make a mountain again?” She smiled and said, “As many times as you like! Try a new contour to your mountain this time.”  This was an revelatory moment for me — anything can be both creative and destructive in life!

Another incident that has since made my conviction stronger is the experience of watching forest fires. In the months of summer, the temperature in my area of India is very high, near 45 degrees Celsius. In these days, the forests in the country often suffer through forest fires ignited by natural causes, such as high temperatures, friction from rolling stones, dryness or lightening. In such a condition, the dry grasses in the forest, as well as some vulnerable trees, are burnt. Some fires are so disastrous that they burn down whole forests, turning them completely into ash. 

Burning the trees and grass seems an act of destruction. Deforestation is nothing but destruction of natural vegetation. Nobody ever thinks that its purpose is to maintain the forest. But in this case, and also in cases when farmers burn the vegetation in their fields, the fires are actually saving the forest from being completely destroyed by weeds and harmful infections. It’s like nature presents a clean state for the forest to re-write its story. So, destruction here is an act of creation. 

Over the years, my belief in the conflation of these apparently contradictory ideas has only grown stronger. One humbling incident was a huge eye-opener for me. Once, while my family and I  were traveling, there was a lot of traffic on the road. Everybody was moving at a snail’s pace and it was evident to everyone that the traffic bottleneck would take a while to clear. But there was one driver who was continuously blowing his horn. I thought, “Why is he honking even though he knows that there is traffic on the road?” Finally, after the road cleared a bit, my dad yielded to the car. While the car passed by I noticed that there was a patient in it. At first, I had judged the car’s driver as reckless and rude. He was speeding, too. His intentions seemed to be destructive. He was trying to disturb the peace and harmony of the surrounding area. But later I understood that this act was a noble deed. He was trying to save the patient in the vehicle. 

Finally, take the example of nuclear power. On one hand, some want to use nuclear weapons for destruction. On the other hand, some countries use nuclear fuel to generate energy. The Indian prime minister assures 24/7 power to all Indians, even in remote places. Anything may be creative or destructive depending upon our intention.

We should try to  be optimistic and find something creative in everything. Being creative helps us to work for the betterment of self and the world too. Thinking positively not only generates positivity around us, it also helps to reach our goals. I personally try to be mindful about this in most of the activities I do. Whenever I am scolded by anybody, I consider it a motivation to do better and not commit the mistake I have made again. Many of my friends consider reprimands an insult and feel regretful, but instead we should try to find the good and creative in everything.  Like Billee Howard, the famous media professional says, “We can build a better world out of the ashes of creative destruction.”

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections article, teen writer Aditya Naik explores the creative power of destruction.

A Matter of Perspective

Oscar Luckett

What I remember from that day is not the physical specificities, but the overall  ambiance of a larger-than-life feel. 

The Ikea emporium was like something made of toys where inside there were only more toys. We had planned our day ahead of time, determining beforehand exactly what we needed to get, so as to not stereotypically get lost among the aisles or start arguing about which furniture was right. The target was a white cabinet with two symmetrical doors. As the name fails me, I will presume it was something equivalent to “The Blörg.” A modest box with a modest function. 

The process of finding the cabinet was luckily as straightforward as we had hoped. Once we got home, it was time to open the box and start piecing it together. Knowing that this sort of thing fascinated me, I requested to build it myself. 

The capabilities needed to assemble a mid-sized cabinet seemed within the wheelhouse of a younger child, so I began the process on my own. The ever emotive yet minimalistic man on the instruction card became my companion along the way, guiding me through pictures that seemed to tell a story, and in a bizarre way felt like a colorless Lego kit for adults. I think that concept is what drew me in — the importance and responsibility of having to make something that would be used often, with a process that was enjoyable and light. 

After completely putting together everything that came in the box, the finished result was almost exactly as promised. A synthetic wood chest, about my height at the time, with even corners and sides, all coated in white. It could be said that if this Blörg was a flavor of ice cream, it would be water. 

The defining quirk of this seemingly bland cabinet was the door. According to my family, the right door was missing a top screw, resulting in an off-center axis. Reports from multiple witnesses in my household suggest that after searching around the entire house, the one screw that would hold the door in place was nowhere to be found. 

The unaligned door did not cause any problems with the cabinet’s functionality, but it did show that the straight-lined Blörg, as well as  my previous ideal of precision, came with a rough edge. 

At this point, I would like to take the time to both file a minor complaint with Ikea and convey why I felt that a broken piece of Ikea furniture was important enough for me to write about. I have to stress that the uneven Blörg did not heavily impact my life in any meaningful way. To an outsider, it may seem foolish to have fixated on such an inconsequential object. However, it stood as a reminder. A reminder, every time I opened the door, that imperfection exists in things I have made and cannot be avoided. It stood in the corner of my room, defiantly facing me everyday, almost as to say “you will never get the satisfaction.” 

At first I took the missing screw as a overwhelming defeat, an indication that perfection does not exist. And if perfection does not exist, why even try getting near it? But then, after some time, I registered that I could do well despite the knowledge that the door would never be straight. Surmounting unachievable perfection was an objective that I could strive for. The Blörg altered my previous conception of an unalterable ideal: taking an object I pieced together, which was, prior to the notice of an imperfection, the highest image of flawlessness, varying only slightly from that image, and then seeing it day after day with a miniscule fault, built in me a tolerance for imperfection while maintaining quality from afar.

I don’t remember keeping that piece of furniture for very long. I considerably doubt that it made any physical effect on anyone's life but my own. I still face imperfection today, from my academic career to my social life. In some aspects of life, perfection is simply not achievable by anyone, and that is something we will all have to live with. But Blörg be darned if I won’t attempt to overcome it.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Oscar Luckett reflects on creativity and the ideal of perfection.

The Lion, The Witch, and The Imperfect Blörg

Nathan Zhang

Arrival is not your ordinary sci-fi movie. 

Before I watched it, I thought it would be a story like Alien or Independence Day, where an alien threat emerges and the humans work together to destroy it once and for all.  Instead, what I saw on the screen was a slow-paced, introspective film about linguistics, science, and the nature of time. Taking a completely different direction than the traditional sci-fi mold, the director Denis Villeneuve tells us in Arrival a smart, compelling, and interesting story that raises many interesting philosophical questions on language, communication, and the nature of time.  

The plot of Arrival begins with 12 giant alien spaceships landing on 12 different locations across the globe. As a result, mass hysteria breaks out all over the planet. Dr. Louise Banks, a famed linguist, is secretly contacted by the United States Military to help them decipher the alien language and figure out why the aliens, which she names heptapods for their seven legs, have arrived on earth.  At the alien landing site in Montana, she meets Ian Donnelley, a famous astrophysicist, and together they work to decode the cryptic alien language. However, they are suddenly racing against the clock when China and four other nations, also having alien landings in their respective territories, decide that they will use military force against the heptapods if they do not leave earth in a certain amount of time. 

The first thing about Arrival that impressed me was its cinematography. Like a skilled seamstress, the movie weaves together scenes that capture and highlight the feeling and emotion of the moment. Take for example one of my favorite scenes in the movie, when Louise, Ian, and the rest of their team enter the alien spaceship for the first time. This scene starts with a wide panning shot of the giant, glossy black, half oval-shaped alien spaceship, as if to emphasize how massive it is compared to the rolling hills it towers above in the background. The camera then zooms in on Louise, Ian and others stationed under the ship. As they stumble onto a portable elevator in a brightly colored hazmat suits, the doors to the alien spaceship slowly creak open, revealing a long, elevator-shaft like tunnel that extends upwards to a destination we cannot see. The way the camera is used in this scene — how it shows every facial expression in detail, and how it zooms in on minute details on the alien ship — left me feeling intensely alienated and unsettled.  The sound track in this scene is also excellent, with music low in pitch, and sounding extremely foreboding and alien. The heavy breathing of Dr. Banks and the mechanical whirrs of the machinery on the ground that are heard in the background add a palpable feeling of tension and anxiety. 

In tandem with the excellent cinematography, the acting in Arrival is also superb. Forest Whitaker does a great job as Colonel Weber, who is seen as hard and tough. Jeremy Renner also performs very well as astrophysicist Ian Donnelley, Louise’s witty, considerate and protective partner. Tzi Ma’s acting is very impressive as well; he plays General Shang, the somewhat cold and seemingly unapproachable Chinese general. However, the real star of this film is Amy Adams, in her amazing  portrayal of Dr. Louise Banks. Her acting is incredibly emotive and meditative, and when her character feels distraught or fearful, like in the scene where she first meets the aliens, I was in turn left feeling that way all the more.  

**Spoilers ahead! Read at your own risk.**  Dr. Banks is no doubt the central figure in the movie.  She is not only the leading linguist who ends up successfully decoding some of the alien language, but she also represents a critical element in communication with the aliens—overcoming the defensive attitude of the humans and being open-minded towards them.  Each moment of her journey to successfully communicate with the aliens requires Dr. Banks to have all the more courage and determination to open herself up to them.

Related to the general theme of communication between the humans and aliens in Arrival is the more specific and yet all the more interesting topic and visual images of linguistics—especially the striking difference in language between the humans and the heptapods. The movie describes the heptapod language as “free of time” and having no “forwards or backwards.” As a product of this nonlinear language, heptapod is written in circles, each with lines that branch off the main body — very different from the linear left-to-right writings of most human languages.  It is interesting to note that the aliens “write” by using their pods to first spurt out a darkish, ink-like liquid and then let the liquid form beautiful circles of different size and shape in the air.  After supposedly being read or seen, these beautiful circles vanish.  The way the heptapods write reminds me of an intricate calligraphy, something from the early dynasties of China.  The American Chinese author Ted Chiang, whose novel “Story of Your Life” the movie is based upon, may well be familiar with this ancient Chinese art of writing.

The language of the aliens is a reflection of their experience and perception of time, which is the film’s other main theme.  The story of Arrival is told in a very unique way, similar to how the story of Billy Pilgrim is told in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slaughterhouse Five, where Billy Pilgrim has become “unstuck in time” and experiences the past, present, and future in a completely nonlinear order.  Periodically throughout the movie, while learning to decipher the heptapod language, Dr. Louise Banks has visions of herself and a young girl who becomes terminally ill. Eventually it is revealed that because she has learned the heptapod language, she can now perceive time as the heptapods do. In her visions, time is unconstrained by the linear model of human time, and she is able to see the past, present and future all at once. 

Because of this new perception of time, Dr. Banks realizes that the visions she has been having is just her “remembering” the future, and that the weapon the heptapods have been offering to the humans is their language. The seemingly unthinkable experience and perception of time and the twisted story line are reinforced in Arrival by the unique design of the aliens and their spaceships. The heptapods in the movie are unlike any other alien I’ve seen. Most aliens in modern media usually fall into two categories, either looking humanoid (Gungans from Star Wars, E.T. from E.T.) or bug like (Buggers from Enders Game, Zerg from Starcraft). However, the aliens in this movie are shaped almost like hands, with seven long spindly legs as the “fingers.” The alien spaceship also has an extremely unique design. Although the shape of the spaceship is a simple half oval, its surface is glossy black and has little texture. The lack of visible texture makes the alien spaceship look unnaturally smooth, to the point that I physically felt uncomfortable while looking at it juxtaposed against the Montana hills in the background.  Finally, the film is shot with an extremely dark color palate, with the greys and blacks being extremely pronounced, while the originally vibrant greens and blues look extremely dull and faded in the background, making the entirety of the film seem hazy and not of this world, and making the aliens even more unfamiliar and mysterious. 

I give Arrival a 4.5/5 due to its brilliant storytelling, cinematography, and directing. I recommend this movie to people whose age is 13 and up, because it has a lot of deep and complex themes, and younger viewers may feel bored or confused.

In this film, moments of the twisted mixture of past, present, and future challenges my belief that time is a linear straight line, and gives me endless food for thought. If Dr. Banks has knowledge of the future, does that mean the universe is deterministic, since the future cannot be changed? And how does language change how you think about certain things? And if you knew what the future holds, would you attempt to change it?  Arrival only attempts to answer the last question.  As Dr. Banks says in the movie, “Despite knowing the journey, and where it leads, I embrace it, and I welcome every moment of it.” Even though she knows what is going to happen in her life, instead of becoming nihilistic or depressed, she focuses on the good moments that come with it. And with this, Arrival ends, leaving us with many more questions than answers, and with a completely unique movie going experience unlike any sci-fi movie I have seen before. 

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Nathan Zhang gives his take on the sci-fi movie Arrival and explores its messages about creation, destruction, language, and time.

A Review of Arrival

Rand Ang Siong Lin

A certain time ago, a mother gave birth to a boy, to her wonder.

A certain time in the future, that boy’s mother will be six feet under.

Empires from East and West, monopolising land and populace,

Empires in a bloody mess, falling apart with no grace.

Quarter of a century ago, we came onto this Earth,

Quarter of a century later will be the day of the last human’s birth.

What comes must go, and what is born must die,

What is created will be destroyed, no matter how hard you try.

For only when what exists disappears in all of space,

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Rand Ang Siong Lin explores the nature of birth and death, creation and destruction, past and future.

A Certain Time Ago

Jocelyn Ruffner

The thing that most people
choose to ignore is the fact
that we are both

A flower in the never ending
fields and hills of time
Pulled up by the roots
In just one tug

We are also history.
We can change our lives
We can change others’
We have the power to shape the destiny
Of the world as we know it.

We are created for a purpose
For what purpose?
For no purpose?

Maybe no one knows;
and the truth will forever be hidden

It is an endless loop
Of creation
And destruction.

The ever expanding vastness
Where you can be anything
And anyone

You can be famous
And have books
and movies and
memoirs about
you you you

And still be nothing to anyone
or anything
Just a couple thousand years later

To be the victim,
Along with everyone else,

Of the expanding vastness
Of the never-ending loop
Of the anyone and anything

I am a grain in the desert of time
Swept away with the first breeze,
Into the symphony and chaos
Of the sands

I am the cosmos
I am never stoppable,
Never ending

I am walking, walking in the darkness
With no path to follow,
No light to guide me,
And only hope to lead the way

I am the Once upon a time and
the The End
in the story of everything

I’m also just a rose on a bush
that is barely mentioned
except to be picked

I am not sure i am not sure i am not sure someone tell me what this what is

There is no answer to that. There is no answer to life.

The thing that most people
choose to ignore is that
there is one truth that we must acknowledge

            We are today we are tomorrow we are never and forever we are always and burned from history and and and

                            And we are creation

                  And we are also destruction

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Jocelyn Ruffner explores the nature of creation, destruction, life, humanity, and destiny.

Yugen

Becky Wolfson


c a l m c o n t i n u e d mmmuuurrrmmmuuurrr

I miss the single! stream! s l o w n e s s!

that began to O V E R F L O W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W W

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Becky Wolfson brings to life the calm clarity of a simple winter morning spent hiking in nature.

What I Miss

Ameena Naqvi

The universe is comprised of the two fundamental ideas of creation and destruction. They are the essence of all societies, and while many think they are polar opposites and completely detached from each other, I strongly believe that they can be seen as two sides of the same coin.

In truth, every creation is preceded by a state of destruction, and every destruction is preceded by some order of creation. Cultural shifts throughout the world clearly show that during periods of oppression and destruction within societies, ingenuity and creation begin to emerge and eventually provide a richer, more prosperous culture.

My own South Asian community is a prominent example of the correlation between these two ideas and how the eras of ruin and hardship result in more unified and culturally active countries. For instance, when thinking about these different ideas, I am first drawn to the various accounts I have heard from my elders about their perilous journeys during the partition of India and Pakistan.

Tragic stories of migration, separation, and displacement are quite well known to my entire family. As a Canadian Muslim, I am often given multiple accounts from family members about the sudden departure, loss of homes, and oppression that erupted as a result of the partition of India and Pakistan. My grandparents would recount grim memories of being separated from their friends and families as entire communities around them began to disintegrate. Their journeys began on August 14th, 1947, after a nationalist struggle in the Indo-Pak region that lasted nearly three decades, which resulted in the creation of two different states: Pakistan and India. This was a very critical point in history that marked the end of European empires and the start of the postcolonial era. Cultural and religious tensions between the Hindus and Muslims erupted and led to one of the largest mass migrations in history, riots, a harsh division between communities, and the death of many civilians.

It wasn’t until I grew older that I slowly began to recognize and understand the gravity of these events and the level of suffering and oppression that the two nations had gone through. When I was 14 years old, I was able to grasp the interconnection between periods of destruction and freedom of expression and creativity when I attended an art exhibit in Pakistan. There I discovered an artist named Sardari Lal Parasher who examined the correlations of power and national identity arising from the historical event of the partition.

At the age of 43, Parasher was forced out of his home and into the newly created territory of Pakistan. During this period, he made several sketches of the refugee camps surrounding him. When examining Parasher's paintings, I was extremely shocked and appalled by the gripping quality of the emotions of grief and despair that he had depicted amongst the refugees.

The painting, “Strokes of Anguish,” shows the sadness of a young refugee sitting in a corner with his head facing towards the ground and his arms wrapped tightly around his body as he reflects on the loss and sorrow he has experienced. Through his artwork, Parasher was able to visually document the agony and horror as a result of the partition.

By attending this exhibit I gained more insight into the clear connections between creativity and division within all societies and cultures. I began to realize that after periods of oppression and suffering, individuals display resilience through artistic expression.

I was also exposed to these same ideas in relation to current global issues at the Penticton Art Gallery in British Columbia. There I saw “Behind the Lines,” a collection of works portraying the reality of living amongst the destruction and devastation in Syria.

The Syrian artists were able to channel their emotions and feelings towards oppression, and affirm the incredible capacity of the human spirit to not only survive the most unimaginable circumstances but express itself through meaningful forms. This display of various styles of artwork provided insights into global images of suffering. For example, the “Cultural Beheading” series, by Rami Kakhos and Humam Alsalim, featured recreations of different statues from the ruins of the religious site Palmyra in Syria, which had been destroyed by radical groups. These attacks had deprived the country of its identity, knowledge, and history, and the artists used bright crimson paint to symbolize the systematic massacre and subsequent loss of Syrian cultural diversity. However, the exhibit clearly showed that despite any obstacles the nation faced, Syrians were able to band together to show that no one can silence their history or culture. Artists were able to use the ruins of Palmyra scattered throughout the ancient world to create a project that raised awareness about the country’s struggles.

Collectively, these experiences taught me that there is a clear relation between all forms of creation and destruction. During periods of complete devastation and persecution, art provides a powerful medium of expression and rebellion against authorities.

As Charles Bukowski once stated, “The way to create art is to burn and destroy ordinary concepts and to substitute them with new truths that run down from the top of the head and out of the heart.” This clearly illustrates the universal link between these two elements and shows the artistic ability to renew society after periods of chaos and havoc. I strongly believe that creation presupposes destruction and destruction foreshadows creation, and the rift between them forges new artistic expression.

In this KidSpirit Interfaith Connections piece, teen writer Ameena Naqvi explores the ability of art, creativity, and self-expression to flourish in periods of adversity, destruction, conflict, and hardship.

Creation in the Face of Adversity

Lasya Panchagnula

What once was bare earth,
The sand beneath our feet
The grass beneath our feet
The rocks beneath our feet

What once was bare earth,
Turned into huts of sticks
Turned into buildings of stone
Turned into fields of sweet hay

What once was bare earth,
Turned into skyscrapers
Turned into large statues
Turned into roller coasters

What once was bare earth,
Will go back to the way it was
Littered with rubble and screams
As bombs explode along with our unity

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Lasya Panchagnula reflects on the creation of our modern world - and its eventual destruction.

What Was Once Bare Earth

Daniel Goetz

The movie begins. The screen is dark. A child narrates a warning: “If you must blink, do it now.” 

Then, a full moon appears against a stormy night sky. Eerie music plays. Gigantic waves almost touch the sky. A woman is seen in a dugout canoe rolling down a wave with a shamisen, a guitar-like instrument, in her hands. The narrator continues: “Pay careful attention to everything you see and hear, no matter how unusual it may seem.” Suddenly, a menacing wave towers over the woman, about to break. It seems she will surely drown, but then she strums her shamisen and the wave parts. “And please be warned, if you fidget, if you look away, if you forget any part of what I tell you, even for an instant, then our hero will surely perish.” Within seconds I was on the edge of my seat.

When I first heard about Kubo and the Two Strings I knew that I had to see this movie. Initially I thought that this animated film would be a typical lighthearted movie for young children, but I discovered that it is an action film full of terrifying monsters, spirits, and magic, with underlying themes about serious human issues such as death and destruction.

This film centers around a smart, imaginative boy named Kubo (voiced by Art Parkinson), who takes a hero’s journey to find a great warrior’s armor — his only hope to defeat his enemy. Soon after the opening scene, it is revealed that Kubo has magical powers. Like his mother, he can also play the shamisen, which makes his origami creations come to life, acting out the story he narrates. Kubo entertains and delights the villagers with his strumming. Kubo tells a story about a warrior, which, in fact, is similar to the journey he takes. As Kubo travels he is met with tests of courage, which can be terrifying to watch but is ultimately what makes this film fantastic. Kubo’s appearance is a constant reminder of the theme of loss, but I won’t spoil the plot by revealing why. It is obvious that Kubo’s two strings represent creation and destruction, mother and father, and good and evil.

Whenever there is a sad or intense moment, the director inserts a humorous interaction between Kubo and his companions, Monkey (Charlize Theron) and Beetle (Matthew McConaughey) to cut the tension. These are the most endearing parts of the movie. Monkey has a commanding voice but can be tender, and Beetle is a complex character with a personality that is both goofy and strong. 

My father had read that the animators used a 3D printer in the production of this animated movie. This intrigued me because I have some experience with 3D printing and was curious to see this technology used in a film. After I saw the movie, I watched a clip about the making of Kubo and discovered that Laika, the animation studio that produced this film (along with Coraline, The Boxtrolls, and ParaNorman), used a technique called stop motion. Stop motion is an old animation technique and is very time-consuming. Each puppet is moved into position for one still shot. This is done over and over by moving the objects slightly each time. All these still photos are then put together to make the film, so that when you watch the movie there is the illusion of movement. 

Laika chose to use this antiquated animation technique in order to make a beautifully detailed film. Their dedication is evident in the film. The humans, monsters, and scenery all have infinite details. I watched Kubo and the Two Strings a second and third time and I discovered details that I hadn’t seen before! The illusion of the water, Kubo’s hair, and Monkey’s fur pushes the limits of this animation technique. For example, the puppets used in Kubo’s story about the warrior are children, adults, and elders all unique, dressed in colorfully detailed and patterned kimonos. It is hard to imagine how much work this scene required because there are so many elements to move for each still shot. I am amazed that each member of the crowd moves independently clapping, smiling, or interacting with the show. The origami warrior and humorous paper monsters he fights, for example a huge yellow chicken, move to the tempo of the music making this scene exciting to watch. The cinematography is even more amazing because we, the audience, view this performance from the perspective of a bystander peering through the crowd of villagers. Sometimes this scene is shot from above. But the most exciting camera position is close to the action of the origami fight. This scene is so meticulously crafted you can even tell by the shadows cast from the characters and buildings that it is set in the afternoon!

Kubo and The Two Strings is like a piece of art rather than a film made for entertainment. I rate this dark but magical movie 4.5 out of 5.  It explores how destructive and loving family members can be, and the comfort of honoring the spirit of our ancestors. Throughout the adventure, Kubo learns to harness his powers, and to use them to fulfill his destiny, and to honor his parents’ love. It is a great movie and I recommend watching it. 

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Daniel Goetz shares his thoughts on the unique, animated film Kubo and the Two Strings directed by Travis Knight.

Kubo and the Two Strings: Destruction and Creation

Roshi Joan Halifax, PhD

An excerpt from Standing at the Edge: Finding Freedom Where Fear and Courage Meet, to be published in May 2018

Every time I’ve traveled to Mount Kailash in Western Tibet, I have climbed up to the Dakini Charnel Ground, a barren, rocky plateau above the trail on the Western side of the mountain. 

This is the place where dead bodies are offered in a practice known as sky burial — or in Tibetan, jhator, “scattering to the birds.”

There I have practiced walking meditation among piles of bones and pools of blood, fat, and feces. The stench is rancid, even in the cold wind, and I could hear the flap of vulture wings and howls of jackals close by.

The first time I visited the charnel ground, I came upon two faces shorn of their skulls, their bloody hair in a tangled mess. Shaken, I barely managed to stay on my feet as I avoided stepping on these bloody masks of death. A man dressed in a ragged military coat approached me and motioned for me to lie among the fresh remains. Glancing around, I saw that Tibetans were sitting here and there among the body parts; a woman was pricking her tongue and others were pricking their fingers, drawing blood, symbolic of death and rebirth.

The man in the military coat glared at me and again gestured toward the cold, slippery earth. I slowly lowered my body and laid back onto the messy, rocky ground. The man then drew a long, rusty knife from a sheath beneath his coat and began to mime chopping up my body. A wave of fear and disgust passed through me. But then I let go into the realization that I too am blood and bone. The aversion left me as I gazed at the snow-capped Mount Kailash, remembering that sooner or later, I too will be dead. And the thought crossed my mind: Why not live fully now? Why not live to end the suffering of others? What else would I want to do with my life?

In a way, this strange experience is not so foreign. We are made of blood, bone, and guts, as any trip to the ER will remind us. Yet Kailash is a sacred place, and the ritual of symbolic dismemberment, representing death and rebirth, is a rite of passage that opens one to the reality of one’s own death and immortal life. For me, this experience was very intense, but not traumatizing. In fact, it was liberating — because it’s harder to fear what one more clearly sees. Isn’t this what we learn about compassion from contemplative practice, from serving those who are most vulnerable? When we see compassion more clearly, we might stop fearing the vulnerability that it opens within us.

We don’t have to go to Tibet or into a war zone to practice in a charnel ground. The charnel ground is a metaphor for any environment where suffering is present — a Japanese hospital, a school room, a violent home, a mental institution, a homeless shelter, a refugee camp. Even a space of privilege, like the corporate boardroom or Wall Street trading floor, can be a charnel ground. Really, any place that is tainted by fear, depression, anger, despair, disrespect, or deceit is a charnel ground — including our own mind.

Whatever our profession or calling, charnel ground practice is available; we are always sitting in the midst of subtle or obvious suffering. The mire we fall into when we go over the edge — this also is a charnel ground. It’s a place where we have to face our own struggles, and where our compassion for others who are struggling in the depths can grow strong.

When we suffer within our own internal charnel ground, we are vulnerable to pathological altruism, empathic distress, moral suffering, disrespect, and burnout. But when we take a wider and deeper view, we see that a charnel ground is not only a place of desolation but also a place of boundless possibility. My colleague Fleet Maull, who was incarcerated for 14 years on charges of drug trafficking, compares his experience of practicing meditation in prison to practicing in a charnel ground. The prison is a tough practice environment, one where greed, hatred, and delusion are the order of the day. Yet this charnel ground proved something to him. In his book Dharma in Hell, Fleet Maull writes, “I’m thoroughly convinced after spending fourteen years in prison with murderers, rapists, bank robbers, child molesters, tax dodgers, drug dealers and every sort of criminal imaginable, that the fundamental nature of all human beings is good. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind.” Like Fleet, I believe that redemption is possible, and every situation has within it something that can teach us, something that can lead us to our natural wisdom.

In many Tibetan mandalas, the outer protective circle depicts eight cemeteries filled with corpses, scavenging animals, bones, and blood. There is no better place to contemplate the impermanent nature of our lives than a cemetery. This circle serves as a barrier of entry to the fearful and unprepared; it is also a zone in which our meditation practice can flourish. If we find equanimity in the midst of death and decay, then we may become the Buddha at the center of the mandala.

Standing at the Edge: Finding Freedom Where Fear and Courage Meet will be released in May 2018. To preorder your copy, please click here. 

Maull, Fleet. Dharma in Hell: The Prison Writings of Fleet Maull. Providence: Prison Dharma Network, 2005.

In a KidSpirit PerSpectives piece, Roshi Joan Halifax shares her wisdom on facing our fear of death, destruction, and suffering. 

In the Charnel Ground

Caroline Hochman

When we think of music, we automatically associate it with creation. We imagine that music is born out of beauty and therefore, in our minds, the concepts of music and a beautiful, glorious creation are deeply connected. 

From the beginning, our conception of destruction is diametrically opposed to our ideal of music. However, the power of music, in fact, lies in its connection to destruction. The most meaningful music stems from destruction, or destroys the status quo that preceded it.

Destruction gives music a purpose. Music flourishes during times of strife and oppression because it can act as a tool to unite people through emotion and bring them towards a common goal. In this way music can reveal injustice, demonstrate the artist’s opinion, and, most importantly, show us that we are not alone. 

The power of destruction to inspire the creation of music is exemplified by the Polish national anthem. The piece was written after the Third Partition of Poland (1795), in which the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was once again divided among Prussia, Russia, and Austria, and Poland ceased to exist as a country. The work — entitled "Poland Is Not Yet Lost" — is a powerful example of the Polish spirit that remained despite Poland’s nonexistence, and its popularity demonstrates the significant part that oppression played in unifying the Polish people. The opening verse states: “Poland has not yet died,/ So long as we still live./ What the alien power has seized from us,/ We shall recapture with a sabre.” This message of Polish nationalism inspired bravery in the oppressed Poles who had previously been silenced and showed them that their views and feelings were shared. Born from the destruction of their homeland, the anthem unified the Poles and connected them based on feelings of a shared national identity. 

The protest songs of the Industrial Workers of the World are a further illustration of art stemming from destruction. Throughout the early 1900s, the Industrial Workers of the World, or IWW, fought for workers rights. They battled laws and companies that forced industrial workers to labor in awful conditions under laws that were exploitative. In his famous folk anthem "There Is A Power In A Union," the famous IWW, or “wobblies,” union member Joseph Hillstrom called on his fellow workers, saying: “Come, all ye workers, from every land /Come, join in the grand industrial band; … ” Like the Poles a hundred years earlier, Hillstrom fought against the power structure, connecting people through a mutual sense of inequality and injustice. 

When music breaks outside of traditional bounds, it conveys its message much more powerfully. This destruction of the status quo shocks the system, but ultimately draws more attention to the music, and allows the artist to illuminate difficult — and sometimes previously undiscussed — topics and taboos. Examples of this are embedded in history, as these pieces of music are the moments that make history. One example is the famous Russian composer, Dmitri Shostakovich, and the opposition he faced throughout his career. Shostakovich's music was so bombastic and glaring that during a time in his life called The Great Terror (1936), Stalin ordered Shostakovich’s close friends and family imprisoned or executed in an attempt to force Shostakovich to stop composing. Despite this, Shostakovich refused to change or stop writing his music and is now lauded as one of the great Russian composers and considered one of the most influential Russian artists ever. 

Another famous example is Leonard Bernstein's musical West Side Story. West Side Story took the classic tale of Romeo and Juliet and applied it to New York City in the 1960s. It displayed the feud between the Montagues and the Capulets as a racial dispute between two gangs, a controversial move which highlighted a struggle that many upper class theater goers of the time had previously ignored. Additionally, West Side Story was the first Broadway musical to depict murder and suicide onstage. Despite these risky artistic choices the musical was a huge success, and Tony and Maria’s (the tragic fated couple) story resonated with many shocked Americans. Bernstein and Shostakovich's work changed the face of music because it challenged the status quo.  

These relationships to destruction demonstrate its important and perhaps even necessary role in the creation of music. A happy ending in a novel or movie bears no weight without the contrast of previous hardship. Just as the turmoil of a deep, red sunset is often more beautiful than your average sunny day, beauty cannot exist without suffering and pain.

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Caroline Hochman challenges ideals of creativity and beauty to explore the role of destruction and chaos in art and music.

Destruction: The Key to Art?

Pie Rasor

Though they seem very different on the surface, the two protagonists of Laini Taylor’s young adult fantasy novel Strange the Dreamer are united in their yearnings for love, adventure, and a better world.

One is Lazlo Strange, an orphaned librarian who has been fascinated since childhood with stories of a supposedly mythical city called Weep. The other is Sarai, blue-skinned daughter of a goddess. By night, Sarai uses her strange magical powers to walk in dreams. By day, she lives in the ruins of a once-great palace alongside four other godspawn, fearing the day that the people of Weep discover that they survived the revolution that killed their parents and other siblings. Sarai and Lazlo’s paths cross when Lazlo meets an expedition from Weep led by a man called Eril-Fane the Godslayer, who is looking for brilliant minds to help him solve a mysterious problem plaguing his city. Lazlo, however, has no idea of the scale of the problem they are facing, or just how much the city he has dreamed of for years has changed.

Weep is no mythical utopia filled with joy and beautiful magic. Instead, it’s a broken city struggling to recover from two centuries of oppression under the rule of six terrifying gods, who forced the people of Weep to serve them and bear their offspring. Even 15 years after Eril-Fane concocted a daring plan to liberate his people by killing the gods and — supposedly — all of their children, there are ever-present reminders of their rule. The people of Weep are desperate to get rid of these reminders in order to truly be free.

The city of Weep’s ongoing struggle to recover from the monstrous gods that once ruled them is easily the best part of the book. Taylor’s descriptions of the history and people of Weep are beautiful and elaborate, but never become overwrought or melodramatic when it comes to exploring their trauma. Certain passages lingered in my mind even after I was done reading. Although Taylor spends a large portion of the novel developing a romance between Lazlo and Sarai, it was rushed and uncompelling, with declarations of love after the characters have known each other about a week. The strongest and most emotional sections of this book were instead the impact of the cruel reign of the gods, and the conflict between the surviving godspawn and the people of Weep. Those parts were sometimes disturbing, but far more interesting.

Although Strange the Dreamer has whimsical dream sequences and light moments of humor, it’s still a dark novel. It touches on many topics such as rape, grief, PTSD, and infanticide. Taylor doesn’t shy away from showing the lasting impact of Weep’s oppression and the fear residents still have of the gods. Even Eril-Fane, the legendary Godslayer, isn’t immune: he might have saved his people, but he’s haunted by the deaths he caused during the uprising.

The remaining godspawn can’t help but hate the people of Weep for the murder of their siblings, just as the people of Weep hate the godspawn for the horrors their parents inflicted. Both sides are so blinded by everything they’ve lost that they can’t see the path to recovery is peace, not vengeance. Lazlo and Sarai are the only ones who see clearly enough to know that there needs to be peace rather than more death. The budding romance between the two makes them even more desperate to convince others that vengeance will only lead the city into another cycle of death and destruction.

Like it or not, the godspawn and the humans must work together if they want to rebuild and overcome the legacy of horror left by the gods. Somehow, the two groups must learn to forgive each other and move past their history. They need to create something new instead of going to war and destroying Weep — but it’s nearly impossible to make so many people let go of two centuries of anger and suffering, and Lazlo and Sarai might not be strong enough to do it.

There’s no denying that Strange the Dreamer is a beautifully written novel with worldbuilding that leaves many tantalizing questions about the history and fate of Weep for the sequel to explore. Still, it’s not a flawless novel. Besides the unconvincing romance, a major problem that I had was that the plot became extremely slow, almost nonexistent, once the expedition arrived in Weep. As unique and interesting as the world and characters were, it felt like the book didn’t quite live up to its potential. It was difficult for me to ignore that only a handful of important events happened before the end of the novel. I didn’t enjoy the climax as much as I’d hoped, either: a somewhat random plot twist and several pivotal choices made by the characters left me frustrated and unsatisfied. The side characters also remained thin sketches, relegated to the background and with only one or two defining traits — the clever thief, the arrogant nobleman, the fierce warrior — but hopefully they’ll have more development in the next book.

Overall, Strange the Dreamer is a gorgeously written novel about what happens when gods behave more like monsters, but is somewhat lacking when it comes to romance and plotting. I give it a solid 3.5 stars out of 5. Despite my problems with it, the cliffhanger is nail-biting enough that I’ll definitely be picking up the sequel when it’s released.

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Pie Rasor shares her thoughts on Laini Taylor's young adult fantasy novel Strange the Dreamer.

Gods and Other Monsters

Sarah Almeida

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Sarah Almeida shares the confusion, anger, and sadness of loss and separation.

He Is Not Here

In this issue, KidSpirit writers and artists dive into the fundamental nature of life and loss. Journey with them from the beginnings of the universe to the demise of all we know, as they explore the infinite meanings of birth and death in our world and beyond.

Because I Know

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