Casey Robins

Venerable oak tree
counts its leaves,
watches them fall.

Poetry

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Casey Robins reflects on the season of Fall.

Old Timer

Valarie Kaur

To the young people of the world: you don’t have to wait until you are older to make a difference. A special kind of magic is dancing within each of you. You just have to believe in your own bravery.

When I was 20 years old, I found myself on the floor of my parents’ bedroom, watching the Twin Towers fall, overwhelmed with shock and grief at the loss of life on September 11, 2001 — then I saw the image of Osama bin Laden in a turban and beard. I wasn’t prepared for the shock of recognition: America’s new enemy looked like my family. One hundred years ago, my father’s father, Kehar Singh, a turbaned Sikh, sailed by steamship from India to San Francisco, and I grew up on the land that he farmed in California’s Central Valley. My family had lived in America for generations, but immediately after 9/11, hate crimes broke out across America against all the people who looked like us — Sikh, Muslim and Arab Americans were chased, beaten up, gunned down.

A man I knew as an uncle, Balbir Singh Sodhi, was the first to be killed in a hate crime on September 15, 2001. His murder in Arizona barely made the evening news. I hid in my room for three days. I turned to my bookshelf for comfort. What sacred book did I pull down? The Bible, the Torah, the Qur’an and the Guru Granth Sahib? No, I started reading Harry Potter! In this world, Harry, Ron, and Hermione battled Death Eaters and Dementors, wielding their own kind of magic when no one else would. Harry wasn’t the smartest or strongest. But he was brave. I stopped reading and looked at the camera on my bed. What would it mean to be brave in this world? I had an idea: what if I started filming the chaos unfolding outside my window and the world beyond?

I was overcome with doubt. I was only 20, a girl with brown skin and no film experience. But my grandfather, my mother’s father, gave me a precious gift. Captain Gurdial Singh was the most fearless person I knew, a soldier on the front lines in World War II, who raised me to believe that the central heart of the Sikh faith was seva, sacred service. He taught me a prayer to protect me: Tati vao na lagi, par brahm sharnai. With this prayer on my lips, I wrote to my professor Linda Hess with my idea. She replied: “You’re in a position to enter this unique moment in history…and catch the life of it. It’s like entering the whirlwind.”

So I did. I was a single breath entering the whirlwind.

I left school, grabbed my camera, and crisscrossed the country, filming hundreds of remarkable stories. When I returned to campus my senior year and the battle drums grew louder and louder, I was terrified that the Iraq War would lead to more hate violence at home. So my friends and I began organizing pockets of protest in the San Francisco Bay Area through the spring of 2003. By the time I graduated, I thought we were actually making a difference.

But the years went by, the wars went on, hate crimes became part of daily life for our communities, and many of my classmates came home in coffins. My high school in Clovis, California lost more soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan than any other school in the country. There were too many stories for my camera to focus: hate crimes, deportations, detentions, surveillance, profiling and torture. And then, while I was filming an anti-war protest in Lower Manhattan as a legal observer, I found myself becoming part of the story. I was wrongfully arrested, my arm badly twisted by a New York City police officer, and detained for 16 hours in a makeshift detention center called “Guantanamo on the Hudson.”

Staring at the bars, nursing my hand, my grandfather’s prayer came to my lips once again: Tati vao na lagi, par brahm sharnai. When I was alone and scared, the prayer made me brave. When I was released, I couldn’t turn a door knob or use a pen, much less hold my camera. I felt powerless, but I did not want anyone to know that I felt that way. I just bit my lip harder and hid my pain away.

My story could have ended there: another burnt-out idealist who hit the real world and gave up. But my mentor Dean Tommy Woon reached out to me and taught me the lesson that changed my life: the way we make change is just as important as the change we make. If we drive ourselves into the ground, cover up our weaknesses and pretend we are perfect, we embody the same dysfunctions we seek to heal in the world. When we allow ourselves to become vulnerable and seek help, the love of other people makes us stronger and helps us face the whirlwinds of life. I decided that I wanted to change the world not with anger but with love and joy.

"The way we make change is just as important as the change we make."

So I started by letting in the love of my friends and family and slowly, my body got better. I teamed up with a young director, Sharat Raju, and together we made our first film DIVIDED WE FALL. That began my career as a lawyer, filmmaker, and activist. Sharat and I fell in love and became life partners. For more than a decade, we’ve made films and led campaigns to fight for justice through the art of storytelling.

Together, we’ve seen the human spirit shine in the darkest places. In the eyes of children who have survived mass shootings, families torn apart by immigration raids, inmates who have endured years of solitary confinement and even soldiers on the military base in the real Guantanamo, we witnessed bravery in the face of death and despair. I saw that courage is most possible in community. So I created Groundswell, a movement of more than 200,000 where young people of all faiths and beliefs are working together online to fight for social change.

Harry Potter taught me that you don’t need to be superhuman or super-smart to stand for what you believe in. You just have to keep alive the desire to do good — and be brave enough to answer when the calling comes.

This is not an easy task. Whether it’s in the face of gunfire in a school, rising sea waters, or the widening gap between rich and poor, your idealism will be tested over and over again. But we have the tools, like never before, to wield our magic together.

I learned this in 2012, when a white supremacist walked into a Sikh house of worship in Oak Creek, Wisconsin and opened fire, killing six people who looked like my family members. I was there to see the blood on the ground of the prayer hall and felt the same despair I had felt after 9/11. I thought that perhaps nothing had changed, that our work made no difference. But then my friends called — they were ready to organize. Together on the open Internet, a groundswell of thousands of people sent prayers and messages of love, signed petitions, and posted on Facebook and Twitter to ask the U.S. government to respond — and it worked. One year later, President Obama changed the way hate crimes are measured and responded to in America. The government now tracks hate crimes against Sikh Americans and other at-risk communities in order to prevent such violence in the future.

When we are brave together, we can change the world.

A few years ago, I watched my grandfather’s body swallowed up by Parkinson’s disease. He still managed to smile at each of us around his deathbed. I was so sad after he died. He left me without passing on the secret to his bravery! The night before his funeral, I recited the prayer he taught me. Tati vao na lagi, par brahm sharnai. I realized I didn’t know exactly what it meant — so I googled it. It means: “The hot winds cannot touch me; I am sheltered by the Divine.”

It’s hard to stand up for what you believe, whether in the classroom, on the school yard, or in a nation in crisis. But the hot winds of the world cannot touch you if you protect that space in your heart that is filled with love — love of God or the universe, your parents or teachers, your grandparents or ancestors, your sisters and brothers or your best friends. Have faith in their love. Have faith in the faith they have in you — and you will be able to be brave even within the hottest winds of life.

Young people of the world: if you think of your life as a great journey, filled with splendors and dangers and chances to make the world a better place — and you hold fast to the people who believe in your magic — then there will be only one thing left to do when the whirlwind comes calling:

This article was adapted for KidSpirit from Valarie Kaur’s Baccalaureate Address to Stanford University’s Class of 2013.

In a KidSpirit PerSpectives article, Sikh activist, lawyer, and filmmaker Valarie Kaur encourages us to be brave together and stand up for what we believe.

Harry Potter and the Magic to Remake the World

Sunwrita Dastidar

The misty mountains on a blue morning
So close yet so distant,
Silent sentinels of a peaceful world —
A world that collapsed.

They watched their lives crumble
As Earth took her revenge —
Their horror-struck eyes a witness to
Eons destroyed in an instant.

The mighty tower cracked and crashed
In a ruined river of broken bricks —
Memories of a thousand years
Lost forever in a flicker of time.

Fissured roads pulled apart
Opening up abysmal chasms;
Trapped in suffocating darkness
Death stepped by the minute.

A mighty quake, an unknown force,
A nation vanquished.
Still the spirit indomitable,
The only thing that would not break.

Brick by brick their world
Devastated into debris —
Brick by brick their world
They restored and revived.

Far away, in a distant world
Life goes on; indifferent spectators
Crowd around the television sets, curiously
Marveling at the strength, the power to survive.

This poem is dedicated to the earthquake survivors of Nepal. Nepal was hit by a massive earthquake in April 2015, which resulted in mass destruction and death.

In a KidSpirit Poem, teen writer Sunwrita Dastidar honors the victims and survivors of earthquakes in Nepal.

The Power to Survive

Maria Christian

Can’t you hear the voices in the wind? That’s what I wondered while we wandered through the streets. Can’t you see their stories, the private ones they try to hide?

And maybe it was an odd thing to think while gazing at tanning beach beauties, all tendon and muscle and dark patches of skin. Or maybe it was the wrong time of day, that time before dinner when the mind turns hungrily towards roasted meats. In any case, they answered with their silence, and I let the subject drop. I turned my back on the beach beauties and watched someone else.

Here in Italy, a man from North Africa pushes a toy on a child. He urges the child to take it; it’s far cheaper than in the shops. The child’s parents sigh: now their baby is throwing a fit. They fork over their money and the child runs off, holding his present high, glittering in the sunlight. This is a country where immigrants push playthings on children, where whimsy replaces danger.

I wonder if this man was thinking of his own babies. Was he thinking that maybe they’d like a toy when they come across the ocean?

He looked dignified and noble as he stood selling ten minutes of peace. I saw his power. There is power in harming none, in making a living as best one can. He stood, calling out quickly in Italian and then slower in English. It was always the same thing.

“Bubble guns!” he said over and over, calling out like he was the only person there.

Without context, it might have seemed crazy — a man well over six feet shouting “Bubble guns!” in English at nervous tourists. And it was a bit crazy. It was delightfully dark and tragically right. He is here and this is his job. He is selling toys to children.

Dinner was approaching, the sun was sinking slowly. We picked up our bags and turned back the way we came.

We did not buy bubble guns, which I regret. It was my very first sign in a very long time that people are willing to do the right thing. Good people are more powerful than any villain or hero. They have strength; the power of being proud, the greatness of being good. These are the people whose voices ring the loudest on the wind.

Maybe I alone can hear them, but I doubt that greatly. There is too much beauty in this world for one person.

Maybe the hunger of 5:30, the danger of a new place, the obsession with bathing beach beauties can drown out stories. Maybe it is too much; we have to ignore some parts of our existence.

But I let myself be seduced by a man’s humanity, I let myself be charmed by his goodness and peace. He had all the power of a king over me. In that moment, more than I wanted to hear his story in pieces on the wind, I wanted to become a part of it, to tell him how good and kind and wonderful he was.

Back in bitter Boston, the cold wind biting, I realized what he meant to me. He had been the first person I had ever met who I could tell was real. He was not trying to be heroic or good, he was only himself. His job was to convince, but he never lied. As he stood in the most public place in the square, he did nothing but be himself. I wished, I longed, to have that kind of strength and power.

But he was as unapproachable as a distant sun.

In the end, he was too far away, too bright and shining and flawed and sad and human. I was too caught up in thoughts of pasta and gelato and being in a new country. We knew nothing of each other except for his story, his voice calling softly in the wind.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Maria Christian's encounter with a man selling toys in Italy leaves her contemplating the fundamental goodness of people.

Nobility

Nathan Zhang

Imagine you’re in the middle of a haircut, when the power goes off. The barber says, “Come back tomorrow.”

This may never happen to us privileged human beings in developed countries, but in Malawi it is a common occurrence.

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind, by William Kamkwamba and Bryan Mealer, is an inspirational autobiography about a young man who uses innovative ideas to bring electricity to his family in Malawi, an underdeveloped country in Africa. The book touches upon themes such as corruption and magic versus science. The authors focus on these social phenomena because, at that time, government corruption was prevalent in Malawi, and many Malawians were bound by magic, believing that witches rode in planes in the sky.

The idea for this book was formed when Bryan Mealer saw William Kamkwamba’s story in the Wall Street Journal. He told his publisher that he needed to write a book on William because it was an inspirational story about Africa, quite contrary to his previous book, All Things Must Fight to Live, which was about war in Congo. He spent the next year at Kamkwamba’s village interviewing him and his family so he could piece together what living in Malawi would be like at that time. Over the course of that year, Mealer and Kamkwamba became good friends.

Kamkwamba was born into a poor family who lived in the Masitala village in Malawi. His father was a penniless farmer and his mother raised his many brothers and sisters. In 2001, there was a terrible famine in Malawi. There was no rain, so crops wouldn’t grow, and many people in his village died of hunger. Others came down with illnesses such as malaria, cholera, and kwashiorkor, a dreadful condition caused by a lack of protein in the diet. At the time, the Malawian president, Bakili Muluzi, was extremely unpopular. He refused to acknowledge there was a famine so as to save him the trouble of dealing with the starving people. As Kamkwamba’s father says, “Some men are blind, but this one chooses not to see.”

Corrupt officials sold most of the country’s grain supply overseas. Consequently, when the famine arrived, there was almost no surplus for the starving people to buy. When the government issued fertilizer coupons to help farmers, corrupt officials gave away most of the coupons away to their friends, family, and others who had bribed them.

Kamkwamba barely survived the famine. After reading some science textbooks at a local library, he took it upon himself to build a windmill. He wanted to rotate a water pump for irrigation, so that his family could have two harvests a year. He also wanted to wire his house with electricity, so that he could stay up all night reading and educate himself, since his family had no money to send him to school. With the windmill he could have electric lighting, instead of kerosene lamps that burned his eyes and left him gasping for breath. Most people in Malawi at that time didn’t believe in science and were steeped in traditional magic. When they saw Kamkwamba trying to build a windmill, they called him amisla (madman) because they thought his idea was crazy. Some viewed his windmill as a magical device, while others used it as a scapegoat for their problems.

This autobiography has a superb narration. I find Kamkwamba’s misadventures and exploits interesting, such as hunting birds with a slingshot-like contraption, eating goatskins on Christmas, and scavenging materials for his windmill in a local junkyard. The writing about the famine is particularly powerful. William describes crowds of people walking around, looking for ganyu (day’s labor) for some gaga (corn husks), which would normally be regarded as animal food in Malawi. But during the famine people in the village had to eat anything that they could.

I am also amazed by how effortlessly the authors weave in a picture of the Malawian government at the time. Using paragraphs scattered throughout the book, Kamkwamba explains official corruption and inner governmental workings in depth. This political narrative works smoothly with the rest of the book. It doesn’t spoil the overall narrative, and it gives readers a “big picture” view of Malawi at that time. However, the language of this book is a bit too complicated for younger readers. Near the end of the book it gets very technical, which is something I dislike. This book has parts that are, in my opinion, boring, but most of it is very interesting.

Kamkwamba is an inspirational role model. His story of building a working electric windmill out of PVC pipe and rusted wires in order to power his home and rotate a water pump is uplifting and motivating to me. He never gave up and he overcame many obstacles, such as famine and lack of supplies. For me, Kamkwamba is a great example for young innovative minds to never give up and follow their passions. I gave his book four out of five stars.

Kamkwamba graduated from Dartmouth College and today he helps improve his home district in Malawi.

“Electric wind!” I shouted. “I told you I wasn’t mad!” One by one the crowd began to cheer. They raised their hands in the air, clapping and shouting, “Wachitabwina! Well done!” “We doubted you, but look at you now!”

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Nathan Zhang reacts to The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind, a memoir and biography by William Kamkwamba and Bryan Mealer.

Electric Wind

Zoe Miller

Imagine two kids in a fight at school. You’ve probably seen something like this before; a pair of fourth or fifth graders who have decided words will not work anymore to settle their differences.

One has said something that has the other totally steamed in front of all their friends. The victim looks around for support from her peers and finds none. She spits an insult in response, and her rival responds by kicking her in the shins. They both kick each other as hard as they can for five minutes. It’s sort of primal. They don’t really have any reason to dislike each other, but they are driven by human nature to compete. Just about everybody, from kids to world leaders, wants to gain power over others.

We all experience power dynamics in our lives, whether we’re aware of it or not. When you speak to someone, go to school, or play a game, you are entering a situation where power dynamics exist. When you are speaking and someone talks over you, they assert power. When someone moves aside for you in the hall, you are being given the power in that interaction. There is no interaction in which power doesn’t play a role; if something involves people, it involves power. The world is driven by people or groups of people seeking to gain dominance. But why?

To understand why people seek power it is necessary to first understand the meaning of the word. Power is the level of control one has over an interaction. The interaction can be of any sort, from a glance across the room to two countries signing a treaty. Power is not a permanent condition; one’s power can change from moment to moment and situation to situation. Someone who has all the power in one situation (a middle schooler intimidating a younger kid) can have none in another (that same middle schooler being yelled at by his mother). Power is like a hill; every time people interact, they move up or down, the powerful moving higher than the people they dominate.

Power can exist in many different contexts, but they’re all interconnected. Usually, in any given exchange or relationship between two people, one person has more power than the other. When you have less, you are not in control of the situation and therefore potentially unsafe and unable to meet your needs. You can be threatened, humiliated, and manipulated. This dynamic isn’t just limited to individuals. Whole countries, or groups of people, can seek power as a unit.

People of color, women, people of different sexual orientation, people in poverty, and other groups are often put in danger by power imbalances within society. Oppressed people seek justice so that they can attain security and power within their lives to have the same freedom as everyone else.

In the 1950s and 1960s, while African Americans had the legitimate right to vote, they were forced to pass difficult and often irrelevant “literacy tests” in order to be allowed to do so, robbing them of a voice within their own government. The right to vote unhindered is a form of power. Without it, and without affording all people equal rights, they become subject to the policies of elected officials they had no power electing. The civil rights marches on Selma and Montgomery, as part of large scale protests for voting and equal rights, were motivated by a search for justice and power — the power and the right to vote and be represented. To be subject to a country’s laws, but not have a voice in their creation, puts people at a huge disadvantage. The present continuation of the civil rights movement is a reaction to this same reality. Being in a minority group within a society, without full representation in the government or legal system, can be dangerous. The search for safety has driven civil rights movements throughout history and continues to drive them today.

Many people who belong to dominant groups can often develop racist, sexist, or otherwise bigoted, views because they fear losing power. Those in control recognize that it can be frightening to lose their power. They understand they often have it much better off in life being in control and will do anything to keep their position. This can lead to greed, corruption and crime, especially hate crimes: cowards fearing that their position of power is slipping away from them. Subconsciously or not, bigotry derives from the fear of losing control.

Countries can demonstrate a similar motivation to pursue power, but on a much bigger scale. A nation may strive to be dominant in war, trade, and diplomacy because it seeks security for its citizens. Different groups of people come together, united by this common pursuit of power and security. For instance, the 13 American colonies joined together to form a unified army and government. They gained both trade and military power over the British and the Native Americans, causing a huge loss of income for the British and a wide-scale loss of property, culture, and life that all but wiped out Native American society in North America. Meanwhile, the United States became one of the richest countries in the world through the land and resources it claimed. People in nations with less power suffer while people in nations with more prosper, so everyone has some stake in the fate of their own country.

Often, power exchange between counties is in the context of war, but it can also occur in trade. For instance, in England in the mid-19th century, there was a high demand for products from China. England was spending money importing Chinese porcelain, feeding its tea addiction, and buying other goods from China. However, China did not need British goods so had no need to import, and had a thriving economy. The term for this is a trade imbalance. Importing goods from one country when your country does not export enough of its own goods is a power disadvantage, and can put a country’s economy and the well-being of its citizens at risk.

In an attempt to regain power, England, through its colonies in India and South Asia, began exporting opium to China. Chinese leaders took issue with this and tried to suppress these exports. A country of opium addicts who were regularly paying British merchants was at a power disadvantage. The Chinese wanted to keep their country productive, unified, safe from outside threats, and economically stable. The conflicts that eventually broke out were known as the Opium Wars, causing China serious social and economic disruption, but benefiting England and its colonies. Tensions over what was originally a simple trade imbalance escalated into war, with neither country willing to yield power. The lives of both countries’ citizens were put at risk. At the end of these conflicts, England acquired Hong Kong, a major loss for China. China also lost much of the power it enjoyed before the wars, and many of its citizens fell into poverty, while England gained land and wealth.

From fights between children to wars between nations, we seek power in an attempt to ensure our own sense of safety. Fear of losing power may be what drives us to seek control over any interaction. We seek power to be safe. We seek power, sometimes, to survive.

Aretha, David. The Story of the Selma Voting Rights Marches in Photographs. New York: Enslow Publishers, 2014.

Ashkenas, Jeremy and Haeyoun Park. “The Race Gap in America’s Police Departments.” The New York Times, April 8, 2015. http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/09/03/us/the-race-gap-in-americas-police-departments.html.

Liptak, Adam. “Racial Bias in Louisiana Jury Selections Spurs Broader Scrutiny.” The Dallas Morning News, August 16, 2015. http://www.dallasnews.com/news/local-news/20150816-racial-bias-in-louisiana-jury-selections-spurs-broader-scrutiny.ece.

Wei, Yuan. Chinese Account of the Opium War. Translated by E.H. Parker. Shanghai: Kelly & Walsh Limited, 1888.

In a KidSpirit Big Question response, teen writer Zoe Miller suggests that we seek power to preserve our own sense of security.

Why Do We Seek Power?

Yardena Gerwin

Three hundred forty-five years ago Roger Williams declared, “forced worship stinks in God’s nostrils.”

Williams was a 17th-century English Protestant theologian and a proponent of religious freedom. He pioneered the separation of church and state, a crucial social innovation in 1640 that now poses a unique challenge to modern parochial schools. Schooling is mandatory for every child in the nation, but prayer is not. Yet parochial schools must somehow coerce students into praying. This would be an achievable goal if every student agreed that prayer is critical and there was a school-wide consensus on how to pray, but that often isn’t the case. Schools are faced with the impossible task of imparting the value of praying, specifically the importance of daily prayer. In this situation schools often fall into a survival mode, using their administrative power to force students and teachers to show up in a room and recite words without facing the question of meaning head on. This allows students to passively disengage and choose powerlessness regarding the shortcomings of their prayer services without getting involved or feeling personally responsible to make a change.

I attend a pluralistic Jewish day school, which nobly tries to engage all students in daily prayer. Though the school is unyielding on prayer being mandatory, they try to make services inclusive by offering multiple options for prayer. I, for example, participate in the “creative expression” service. We only recite the basic prayers, leaving time for less structured activities such as art, music or documentaries. But the truth is that the significant reduction in the number of separate prayers to recite does not seem to encourage creative worship in the majority of the students who attend the service with me.

The girl sitting next to me is one of the few with her prayer book open; it’s carefully angled to conceal that she is texting on her iPhone. Some students across from me are discussing what they did over the weekend, while a few others grasp onto index cards, trying to cram for our next vocab quiz. Certainly none of the students have a sole agenda to sabotage any type of prayer that enters the room; they just don’t see the relevance of the prayer service forced upon them each morning.

Perhaps this disconnect between students and their prayer experience is partially due to the structure of the service itself. When most of the responsibility and direction falls on the teacher, students do not feel responsible for the service they attend. I have found that when students complain about how boring or irrelevant our minyan (prayer service) is, we immediately blame the teacher in charge. It is easier to say that the adult in charge of leading the service is doing a bad job than to acknowledge that we students have the power to take ownership over our prayer experience, yet choose not to.

It is easier to say that we use our phones during daily prayer because the minyan is bad, rather than to admit that a room full of students playing Doodle Jump might be exactly what is making the minyan experience bad in the first place. We would have to recognize that our behavior determines our environment. We would have to look at texts and contemplate our relationship to religion. Some of us would even have to admit that we agree with the way our parents raised us (which, as a teenager, is one of the hardest things to do), while others might surprise ourselves by finding meaning in an entirely new approach.

I have come to believe that all of this would occur if students were permanently in charge of how our services were run. Not for the day or the week, but for the whole school year. Some might protest that this is just too much for high school students, and it is true that most of us can barely look past the essay due next month or the quiz at the end of the week. It is simply easier to give all of the responsibility to the teacher and then blame that teacher for failing to lead a creative service that is relevant to students. In high school prayer services, students often rebel by talking, sleeping, and snapchatting because they understand their behavior is a means of showing the administration and teachers that they disagree with the forced prayer methods.

But that approach has never been proven to work. Instead students should use their collective power to force a conversation with the adult prayer service facilitators in order to change the service model to one that can only function when everyone participates and is engaged. This issue of prayer is especially pressing in pluralistic day schools attended by students from a wide spectrum of observance and spirituality in their respective family lives.

I have been raised in an observant Conservative Jewish household and I frequently wrestle with daily prayer,which is very familiar to me. Therefore, I can readily see how a less observant student, without a regular relationship to a prayer experience outside of school, could find services onerous when thrust upon them in school. Many of my peers also struggle with the idea that in order to contribute to their Jewish community they must believe in God. This notion makes many teenagers, who harbor doubts about God, feel alienated from their own religion and community.

A friend told me that her family member said she should not fast on Yom Kippur if she did not believe in God. I feel fortunate to have a father who strongly identifies as an atheist and yet is more observant than I am. My mom is the polar opposite; she strongly believes in God and even identifies with many of the Jewish superstitions, such as a belief in the ein ha rah (the Evil Eye).

I also feel fortunate that from a young age I have been taught that there is no single “correct belief” in Judaism. It is important for all teenagers, especially those in parochial schools, to know and be taught that absolute belief in God is not necessary for religious observance, spirituality, or communal engagement. It is acceptable to constantly doubt God while appreciating the values and morals provided within Jewish texts or admiring the structure and community that the Jewish religion provides.

"It is important for all teenagers, especially those in parochial schools, to know and be taught that absolute belief in God is not necessary for religious observance, spirituality, or communal engagement."

The prayer experience that I often face at school makes me thankful for my own relationship to prayer.

At my own synagogue everyone who comes each Shabbat (Day of Sabbath) makes a commitment to be there. My family and I attend a smaller, separate service within a larger established synagogue. Our service does not have a hired rabbi (although many members are rabbis), and members take turns leading services, reading from the Torah, or offering brief thoughts on the weekly Torah reading.

I can pray at this service because it is a space where people rethink their own spirituality, and look at their own lives through different lenses and viewpoints. All of this reflection leads to constant tinkering with parts of the regular service, such as how we study together and what we do on holidays. This level of seriousness and intentionality makes me feel that I am in a space where I’m accepted and can safely have my own prayer experience along with a community of people who likewise are questioning and seeking meaning.

I am lucky that I have been raised by people who see religion as a source of joy and knowledge, as something that has to constantly be reexamined. People who, for example, stay up until four in the morning on the Jewish holiday of Shavuot studying texts, and value finding their own personal interpretation of the passage. I have seen the power of community, when dozens of people packed into my house during shiva to help my family mourn my grandmother’s passing. I have seen the power of community when the minyan that I attend every Saturday spent seven hours dancing to celebrate the conclusion of the cyclical reading of the Torah.

Because of these experiences, I have come to see prayer as a gift and not a burden. My relationship to my religion has been molded by all of the adults in my community who have shown me that it is something holy and valuable. My community has ensured that religion will always be some part of my life, but who is making sure that this is being done for other kids, especially day school students who may see religion as something they will shed as soon as they graduate?

In my school, students who are taking a course with a difficult teacher find a way to learn the material outside of the classroom. Students should not treat prayer any differently. My school is in NYC where there are multitudes of prayer experiences and options. If a student did not like her school’s egalitarian option but disagreed with how the creative minyan was run she could spend Friday night at a renewal service or a pop-up minyan in Riverside Park, or try prayer yoga. Students do not need to revel in their victimhood; they have the power to leave their classroom, to worship profoundly and insist on transforming daily prayer.

Rabbi Joel Alter, a family friend and director of admissions at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York City, who has over 16 years of pluralistic day school experience working in schools in Baltimore, Washington DC, and Boston, believes that prayer and religious courses in school are not implemented for short-term effects but the influence they can have on students in the long run.

“Prayer, liturgy, religious community — these are all things that if modeled well with children can leave a positive impression, even if the kids are rejecting it soundly at the time. Adults who have religious commitments know that most of the time those are seeds that are best planted with children and adolescents, and you hope that they will take root later on.”

Rabbi Alter excellently explains the perspective of most adult day school administrators who have their backs pushed against the wall by their students’ passivity. Though uncomfortable, they consign high school students to four years in a spiritual wasteland with an eye towards middle-aged spirituality.

Jewish day schools run the risk of creating alumni who identify as Jews but have not put effort into fully developing that spiritual, communal, and ritual identity. The model for our schools should primarily ensure that young Jews are a generation of students who see their religion as a basis for community, joy, or purpose.

It is unfair of administrators to use their power to avoid discussion of prayer’s meaning with their students. Given this dynamic, students cannot depend on their facilitators to take the first step towards a conversation. They need to use their power to hold prayer leaders accountable. Together we must shift the model to one in which students in parochial school need to constantly engage in a dialogue about the importance of daily prayer and the religious courses that last throughout their high school years. Teenagers need to discuss why they chose to go to a Jewish day school. If it was a decision made by their parents, why is it a family priority?

Teachers should facilitate, support, and empower students in creating and sharing their own ideal prayer experiences, and encourage teenagers to use the many Jewish texts such as the Torah and Talmud to find meaning and guidance in their own lives. If teachers don’t, students must take control of their own prayer experience and force a partnership with their administration.

It is not acceptable for children to go through Jewish day school without encountering something that is applicable to their own immediate lives. Day school communities, composed of teachers and students alike, need to find a way to cater to the students that stand before them, and not the adults they hope to have fostered 10 years from now.

As a student currently navigating this system, I sincerely hope we do.

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Yardena Gerwin calls on students in parochial schools to assert their own ideas about how best to worship.

Parochial Prayer

Ronan Shields

A city once prosperous and peaceful
Its gleaming buildings full of character
And beauty filled the pale blue skies
People filled the streets
Everyone was happy

Before the troubles started
The city was silent
Then when unrest and tensions grew
It was silent no more
People took to the streets
Anarchy took hold of this sovereign city
Clashes with police were common
Great fires filled the air with plumes of smoke
Yelling, screaming, and crying were heard from all directions
The so-called revolutionaries threw anything they could at their oppressors
Mobs of civilians charged their centers
They built catapults with the ruble on the streets
The once-great leader fled the the city
The skies were glowing with the flames of Kiev
The ground was saturated with the blood and tears of civilians

The call for revolution was over
The people took it upon themselves to reinstate
A government that suited them
The sovereign city has fallen silent once more
It has come out of dire times

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Ronan Shields offers a portrait of a city in the midst of revolutionary crisis.

The Quiet City

Mason Labbe

Time controls our actions.
We try to break our chains
But they grow stronger every second.
Freedom from our chains will come at a price.
Some will pay it. Others will live with it.
Break the chains of life.
Break the chains and be free.

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Mason Labbe calls upon us to break the chains of time.

Chains of Time

Melita S. Michael

The shores of wisdom
touched the seas of power
Oh! What a beautiful sight.

I set sail on my boat;
Humility was its name.
My future I knew was bright.

I learned the art of courage
And with it I fished strength.
Everything I felt was delight.

Years and years I sailed
Day by day I grew.
There was no place for fright.

A big merchant I became
And righteousness was what I sold.
Over the horizon I always saw light.

Every port and harbor welcomed me
Confidence remained my best friend
And I fell in love with all that was right.

But everything changed one day
A storm came and I lost my way
I couldn’t put up a fight.

I found myself on the shores of vanity
From the trees of greed, I made my raft
And there began my plight.

The sea of power gave me a lust for control
I worked hard and I worked long with
Nightmares of a never-ending night.

My fishing net always caught dread
Broken and bruised was I.
With me, there was no might.

Anger I had for breakfast
Contempt I had for lunch
Hatred oozed out of every bite

All my friends forsook me
Grief became my companion.
Oh! Where are the days of peace and quiet?

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Melita S. Michael envisions a sailor who finds themselves marooned on the shores of vanity, losing everything.

Power

Eliza Moore

The girl felt the power
Course through her fingertips.
It sent earthquakes
Up and down her spine,
And crashed
In cacophonies of sound
That scorched her ears.
She could do it.
She could change everything.
She watched him make his way
Down the hall,
Colors parting for him,
So that he left a trail
Of greys and blacks and whites,
Turning heads and
Unassuming eyes.
She took a deep breath,
And turned towards him
As he came.
She smiled,
And it lit him up
Like fireflies
And campfires
And suns that open the sky.

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Eliza Moore evokes an encounter between two people — one full of light, the other rendered in monochrome.

She Smiled

Zainab Umar

The television screams the latest headline with urgent tenacity. It feels like my world is crumbling before my eyes.

Surely, all this bloodshed, this hatred, this intolerance, cannot be my religion, my faith, my Islam? Surely this cannot be anything but a gross misinterpretation of a religion of peace and a blatant misuse of power?

My faith in my faith begins to dwindle. Disillusioned, I open my translated copy of the Quran. Instantly my faith is restored. Written there, in soothing black font, are the words: “O mankind! We created you from a single (pair) of a male and a female and made you into nations and tribes that you may know each other (not that you may despise each other). Verily the most honoured of you in the sight of Allah is (he who is) the most righteous of you” (49:13).

I am relieved because I finally understand. That hideous doppelgänger, that horrendous impersonation, was not my Islam. My religion is as different from that inhumanity as the sky is from the fragment of a mirror, even if the latter faces upward and tries to mimic it.

Still, after that initial jolt, I feel as if I have to be wary, constantly suspicious. As if I have to rethink my religion, and somehow determine whether it is the right one.

So what is power in Islam? Perhaps it would be easier to answer this after examining the different features we associate with power. Obviously for there to be power, there must be a power void somewhere else (if everyone had the same level of authority, power would not exist). You could say that a leader, a person or institution that wields control over the “powerless,” is an integral part of the equation. Is a leader a guide, a pioneer, or a dictator?

The answer is in the name of the faith itself. Islam literally means “submission” to God. God, or Allah, is the ultimate sovereign power, and man is his vicegerent or naib (an Arabic word meaning “second in command”), because man is Allah’s best creation. But does that mean we should misuse and exercise our power over other beings?

"But does that mean we should misuse and exercise our power over other beings?"

I remember an incident when I was out for a picnic with my cousins and I picked out a vibrant bouquet of beautiful, satiny roses in one of the recreation parks in Lahore, my city. To my 4-year-old eyes, it was the most beautiful bouquet I had ever seen, and after waving it around to flaunt it as much as I could, I stowed it away in my knapsack to give to my mother later.

When I got home, instead of those gorgeous velvet roses, there was an ashy mass of crushed, forlorn petals and stems. One of my cousins exclaimed, “You killed them for no reason!”

I realized I had plucked those flowers simply because they looked “pretty,” and on top of that, I didn’t even take care of them afterwards. I had misused my power. They were only roses, but the principle remains the same regardless of the scope.

In Islam, the role of a caliph, or leader, is often misunderstood. I always quote the example of Hazrat Umar, the second Caliph of Islam. He said, “If a kid goat would die on the bank of Euphrates, I am answerable to Allah for that.”

It mesmerizes me how a man could take such enormous responsibility and be so selfless in his power over others. During the days of famine, Umar would carry sacks of flour on his back to distribute among the needy. Once, a woman brought a claim against him; Umar appeared in court for trial, and when the Judge rose as a sign of respect, Umar reprimanded him by saying, “This is the first act of injustice you did to this woman!” Such justice is not borne by leaders in this day and age.

Islam does not discriminate between rich and poor, the powerful and the powerless. Color, caste, and creed are not its yardsticks. Instead, the only method of exalting oneself is through piety, justice, and righteousness. In fact, it is the responsibility of those in power — be it physically, economically, or politically — to aid those who are less endowed. This does not just apply to political leaders. Each one of us has power over other things or other people.

We seldom realize it, but a single word can make someone’s life miserable, and this is a misuse of power. Once, when I was in second grade, I was in the school shop trying to push through a queue of girls twice my height to approach the counter. I was shoved here and there by the perpetually swarming mass of white-clad students, and finally I gave up and decided to ask for help. I tapped on a senior’s back and said clearly, “Excuse me, could you please buy me a juice box?”

The girl gave me a nasty smirk. After raising her eyebrows at the money in my outstretched hand, she loudly proclaimed, “No.”

The group of friends around her burst into laughter, and my ears turned red in embarrassment. I vaguely recall crying in the bathroom that day. When I think of it now, I feel angry with my former, stupid self. I should have stood up to them! Instead, that one word became the reason for my sorrow and distress.

Power also applies to both the privileged and underprivileged. Islam propagates the rights of orphans, widows, the poor, and all those in need. It is a duty for those with enough resources to help a brother who faces some hardship. Indeed, zakat, or charity, is one of the five pillars of Islam. When I see the intense poverty around me, the hundreds of children who do not have a single nutritious meal a day, let alone education, my heart goes out to them. Zakat is the Islamic solution to the issue, and when I think about it, the simplicity and practicality of it resonates with me.

"Zakat, or charity, is one of the five pillars of Islam."

“With great power comes great responsibility.”

It used to be on the lips of every Spiderman fan when I was little, but it seems we have all forgotten the principles of justice, equity, and social responsibility. In Kindergarten, I was taught another universal, slightly overused phrase: “sharing is caring.” When I refused to part with a nugget in my lunchbox and the teacher repeated the phrase like a mantra, I grudgingly thrust the nugget at my classmate.

Despite these lessons, each day we see more instances of unspeakable crimes against humanity, corruption, and inhumane persecution. The Army Public School tragedy last year in Peshawar, Pakistan, was one of the most devastating incidents. For a month, Pakistan came to a standstill as we mourned the loss of our beloved children. The terrorists wanted us to stop going to school, to stop fighting them. It worked, but only for a month, because we realized that they were exercising power over us. In the end, they could not break the power of our hearts, of our will, of our country.

I am still discovering myself, my religion, and how both go hand in hand. I know there will be times when I will experience other internal conflicts. But I am willing to make the effort, just like a patriot is willing to defend his country. This is where I belong.

Inside and outside my country there are genocides and violence, misdeeds and wrongs. Man kills man if he disagrees with him about religion, politics — anything under the sun. But this is not what my religion teaches. My religion tells me to discriminate between right and wrong, not black and white, not Hindu and Christian, not landlord and beggar. My religion tells me that power comes with a duty, and if someone misuses it, we need to take a stand.

In the end, we are all equal in the eyes of God. We are neither superior nor inferior to other races, religions, castes, or creeds. This is my faith. This is my Islam.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections article, teen writer Zainab Umer demonstrates Islam's mandate that we use our power only for good.

The Light Within

Marwa Alalawi

Flickering streetlights streamed into my aunt’s bedroom as she hushed my cries with gentle strokes, tucking me into a sea of white linen.

It was my first time sleeping at her house. My aunt, who had no children at that time, wished to spoil me by having me spend the night.

I don’t remember what nightly hour had crept upon us, or how many times I implored my aunt to drive me back home. I remember that under a roof of dangling celestial lanterns, she recounted the story of Prophet Ayoub (Job) to quiet my nagging. As a Muslim girl from Bahrain, a small island in the Middle East, it wasn’t uncommon for me to grow up hearing the tales of prophets, messengers, and religious followers, as bedtime stories.

Since I was only four years old, it took my aunt just a few seconds to grab my attention. She crafted a vivid image of the riches Allah (God) had given the Prophet Ayoub. Vast lands were filled with crops, cattle, and many children whom he loved dearly.

“A paradise on Earth!” I thought to myself.

But isn’t it when man feels most secure with his possessions that misfortune strikes? One calamity after another befell Prophet Ayoub. A great fire turned his riches to ashes, an earthquake swallowed his children and home, and then a severe illness slowly devoured his body, except for his heart, mind, and tongue, which Allah kept safe for worship.

My aunt recounted how Allah sent adversity to the Prophet Ayoub to test his patience. Though the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, encountered misfortune, his faith remained rock solid. For many years, he neither wailed nor complained, but repeated, “What Allah has taken away from me belongs to Him. I was only its trustee for a while. He gives to whom He wills and withholds from whom He wills.”

Once the Almighty heard the Prophet’s prayers, he rewarded his patience with greater riches than before: more land, multiple children, and happiness.

Here, my aunt smiled, and said, “Always remember the patience of Prophet Ayoub.”

Indeed, those words were magic to me. I was amazed at his patience, and embarrassed at myself for wanting my aunt to take me home. The Prophet remained patient throughout illness and poverty, while I was unwilling to spend even one night away from home. From that day on, I did as she told me. Whenever life bombarded me with misfortunes, I remembered the blessed Prophet’s story. His patience gave me the power to carry on, even when the road was long.

"His patience gave me the power to carry on, even when the road was long."

Pencils were down, time was up, and I wasn’t done writing my qualifying exam for the Bahraini International Scholarship — the scholarship that would enable me to study in the United States, fully funded, from boarding school to graduate studies. Bitter, I walked outside the exam hall with my pencil and eraser like a person who had just gone bankrupt.

Since childhood, I always wanted to represent my country abroad, wanted to become a global thinker who could contribute to Bahrain’s development. But after stepping outside that exam hall, I was pretty sure I had lost my chance.

I took a deep breath and said to myself, “Remember the patience of Prophet Ayoub.”

Over and over, I reminded myself of his trials — how I was making a mountain out of a molehill compared with what he had to undergo. Every time I repeated “Patience of Ayoub,” streams of relief flowed into my heart. The power of patience was much stronger than my whispers of distress. I was able to resume a normal rhythm of life, concentrating on the future and worrying less about the past. I accepted whatever fate Allah determined for me, because He had already showered me with countless blessings.

Three weeks after the exam, I came back from school prayers to find my mother in the classroom, having driven all the way to school. The scholarship results were out, and I was among the recipients. I never felt happier in my life, not only because of the scholarship, but because I knew that good things come to those who are patient. I was elated because I stood as strong as a rock, taking my power from Prophet Ayoub’s example.

With the power of patience, I learned strength — and from patience, I gained power. Though it is true that when we feel insecure, misfortune may strike, it is also true that we can hold fast with the power of patience.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections article, teen writer Marwa Alalawi draws strength from the story of the Prophet Ayoub, whose faith was unyielding even in the worst circumstances.

Powerful Patience

Nimai Agarwal

A dozen fridge-sized speakers hung from the ceiling; giant screens magnified the faces of the presenters as more than a thousand people stared expectantly at the stage.

I craned my neck to see the next presenter, when a middle-aged South-African man walked up to the lectern.

The event was stretching into the night, and I wanted nothing more than to listen to the main speaker, Jane Goodall, and go home. It seemed that the organizers were keeping her presentation for last, and I was on the verge of leaving.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Nimai Agarwal feels called to change the world after hearing the stories of Reverend Alan Boesak, an interfaith leader and anti-apartheid activist.

Soldier of Peace

Documentarian and activist Valarie Kaur challenges us: "What would it mean to be brave in this world?" In this issue, young writers and artists draw from an immense range of backgrounds and traditions to bravely confront the topic of power.

Old Timer

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