In Place of Weapons

Hanna Khosravi

Tompkins

World Literature Honors 2

24 April 2015

In Place of Weapons

The stubble of my beard is whiter than I remember it to be and fervently more coarse than I had expected. The light from the small window beams into the mirror, casting a reflective light onto my relatively pale skin. I grab at my chin, feeling the grayish pecks of stubble poking out of my dry complexion. I think I look good enough for the day, the best that I can be.

I can feel the energy of the new morning pulsating through my veins. I have always followed the idea that each new morning brings me one step closer to my personal liberation. In the vast world of experience around me, I cannot expect everyone to face the day with positivity as I do, because in certain situations, nobody wants to look to brightness.

Brightness can be shockingly blinding when your head is constantly clobbered with the dark.

I leap out of my bed and run my hands through my dry, black hair repeatedly, which sits in a mop of tangled blank ringlets atop my head. I am trying to make it stand normally as the mirror, still using the shimmering light from the window, bestows upon me my reflected image. I have to look respectable, responsible, and like I have integrity for my morning meeting.

Today, after work, I will head to the library. We are very lucky to have such a bountiful library here, where I enjoy studying the texts of French Revolution writers. I’m quite enchanted by what went on in the streets of Paris, and have made it my goal to master the French language.

Peering out to the world behind the window, my planning halts as my mind starts to wander to my excitement for today.

“The day can be beautiful, no matter the circumstance,” I think to myself, much too excited for today’s plans. Today will be good. I will make today good.

A little red bird nestles on the window’s outward platform and sings a hymn of freedom and reverence. I try to duplicate it’s salute with my own hummings, but I quickly hush myself in remembering that in the next room, everyone is still asleep.

“Oh, to be a bird,” I mutter to myself in an imperceptible tone. “Oh to be a bird and to fly high with no fears, qualms, or sorrows.”

I’d like to think I am a bird.

I’d like to think I embody that beautiful spirit of hope.

Hope! I remember it with a joyous grin. The book I finished in the library

last night regarded hope during times of revolution, kindling within me a much-needed spark. Everyone needs a pick-me-up every now and then.

My knees, and spirits, are slightly bruised from the incident last week, but that should not be a problem. My joints are aching a bit, but as for the state of my soul, today will fix everything, like bandages to a wound.

The incident is not one of which I am proud. Those men were in uniform, and I should not have disobeyed them, but as the book taught, “Hope is bravery. We must use our hope in place of weapons to stand against injustice.”

No matter what, I have made it my personal emblem and mission to maintain my dignity, but to respond to injustice with valor and pride.

I was not being violent, but my emotional and spiritual defiance led to their inability to cope with me in any other way but with fists.

And batons.

“Get the hell out of your cell, Perky.”

They call me Perky here. That’s not my real name, but it caught on after they saw that they could not break me. They’ll never break me, no matter how hard they may try.

Guard Harrison keys and pulls at the cell door with a bored expression on his face, eyeing me as I tease my hair and staring with a certain degree of attention at the shard of mirror that I usually hide in my pocket. I’m technically not supposed to have it, but Harrison is all bark and no bite. I smile at him with beaming pride, as it always bothers the guards to see me so genuinely happy. He makes a disconcerted expression, then looks to the mirror, but when I slip it back into my sleeve sneakily, he slowly nods and pushes at the end of the immensely squeaky, iron-rusted cell door.

I walk towards the open entryway of the cell and he pushes my hands behind my back, crossing them over one another brutally and taking hold of my overlapped wrists. Although it hurts, I fake a smile.

“Excited to see your son, Perks?”

“Very much so,” I nod. “It’ll be the first time this year.”

As I start to walk too quickly, Harrison juts at my wrists. I hear a snap as a fatigued muscle cracks, and he pushes me back with his heavy body weight.

“Knees still weak, Perky?” he asks, a taunting tone in his voice.

“No, Harrison. Were they ever?”

I cannot see his face, but I can sense the expression of dismay. Any other guard would have lashed out immediately.

When we reach the corridor to the visiting quarters through the hallway, I abruptly feel the cruel, cold, biting clasp of Harrison’s silver handcuffs clasping at my wrists. My back straightens as I see my son waiting at the table.

“Can’t you just let me hug him?” I plead, moving my cuffed hands up and down. Harrison looks to the floor as if trying not to acknowledge what he is about to do.

“Is that your son?” he asks. “Over there in the green shirt?”

I nod, as does Harrison in confirmation. Stern but nonchalant, he looks at the ceiling while he undoes the cuffs and walks away.

“30 minutes, Perks,” hollers Harrison. I can’t hear him. All I see is that little boy.

Not little anymore.

He looks so grown up.

He is starting to look like me.

An Epidemic of "Femicide": Sexual Warfare in the Democratic Republic of Congo

Hanna Khosravi

World Literature Honors 2

Tompkins

13 March 2015

              An Epidemic of “Femicide”: Sexual Warfare in the Democratic Republic of Congo

She is obviously only a child, and far too ashamed of what has happened to her to speak of it without severe apprehension. She remains unnamed to the outside world, but she lives in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and similar to many other young women around her, at the age of nine, she was brutally gang-raped on her way to school. She is simply too young to understand what has really happened to her or know what words to use to describe it. According to Sherrlyn Borkgen, a photographer who ventured to the Democratic Republic of Congo, or the DRC, to study the effect of systematic rape on the Congolese women, all this young girl knew was that she was truly traumatized (Drash). This epidemic of rape is a diurnal facet of life for Congolese citizens who are constantly exposed to it, as it is aggressively enforced upon them by the brutish militia forces. The present reign of darkness residing over the nation is a result of a war that began in 1996, when the destruction of much of the African continent was prescribed by the spillover of the vicious Rwandan Genocide and the brutal reign of infamously authoritarian leaders like Idi Amin of Uganda. The Congolese Civil War, a product of long-lasting nation-wide oppression from the corrupt rule of dictator Mobutu Sese Seko, tore the nation apart and resulted in 5 million deaths. The war, in fact, has been named the deadliest conflict since World War II, as published by the Christian Science Monitor (the Monitor’s Editorial Board). The war ousted Seko, but what rose out of the death and destruction was an unstable government in which rebel forces overtook power and have since only grown in fraudulence. The vastest issue plaguing currently the Congolese people are extremely violent rapes at the hand of the rebel militia forces. According to Globe & Mail magazine, Congo has been dubbed the “rape capital of the world” and the horrific consequences have left the lives of many women in the DRC in shambles (Canada).  

What has developed in the country is the actuality that nobody is completely immune to the torture being inflicted upon the population. The effect of the ceaseless attacks lead to physical and emotional trauma, as well as medical risk, especially in a country where HIV spreads like wildfire. Without reform, the DRC will continue to be crippled by the effects of routine rape and its power to paralyze the country.

Rape is consistently used as a “weapon of war” in the DRC (Canada). The UN has reported that in the last 12 years, there have been more than 200,000 rapes in the country and Daily News Egypt wrote that along with the women, “girls as young as three years have been raped” by the the savage forces (Drash, Chelala).  Women and girls are often times assaulted in front of their families and their villages as a means to show the dominance of the militia forces and the powerlessness of the people, resulting in public shame and humiliation for the victims, who will have to cope with that burden in a society that is still extremely traditional. According to The Economist, “For every rape that is reported, as many as ten or 20 cases may go unreported”, because when it is the police and soldiers who are committing the crimes, there are no people to turn to for protection (Everything). The militia, viciously painting themselves as an all-powerful entity, continue to, as said Margot Wallstrom of the United Nations, “dehumanize villages” without even understanding the repercussions of their actions (Canada).

The after-math of the all too frequent rapes are harsh and  painful, both psychologically and physically for women. Many of the attacked females are killed after their assaults, or left for dead because the brutality of their attack has left them unable to control their bodily functions. Those who do survive are left with debilitating medical conditions that impair their capabilities throughout the continuation of their lives, and a high number of the survivors are captured into sexual slavery and destined to live out their existences under the commanding rule of abusive militia men.  The women and girls who are let go, often mercilessly impregnated, are rejected by their families as it is humiliating for husbands in the customary Congolese culture to be seen with wives who have been violated in such a way (Chelala). Sick, traumatized, and under many circumstances, with child, women are left homeless and impoverished. Another aspect of life after being assaulted, and perhaps one of the most dire effects of the rape epidemic, is the fact that HIV and AIDS are handily infecting the nation and this chain of sexual abuse is seen as one of the primary reasons. In the DRC, an estimated 60% of male militia have HIV, so the disease is being rapidly transmitted across the nation (Chelala). “Rape is an engine of HIV infection,” said Anne-Christine d’Adesky, the executive director of Women’s Equity in Access to Care and Treatment (Chelala). While numerous efforts are being made on behalf of politicians like Hillary Clinton, award-winning medics, the United Nations, and Amnesty International to rid the DRC of this horrific crime, improvement has been slow to come. According to the Saudi Press Agency, in fact, in a 2014 trial, only two of 39 convicted rapists were charged with the crime (United).

           The DRC has found difficulty in establishing a well-rounded nation. The central government is corrupt, and their influence is minimal in comparison to the bludgeoning militia forces. If even given the opportunity to recover from their barbaric attacks, women are left unwanted and alone, with lives that have been torn apart. Other nations may persist in their effort to better the DRC’s conditions, but until then, the women continue to endure the lack of progress, which is clearly stalling the nation’s advancement. The prescription written for the people of the DRC  lives on relentlessly. “It’s 'femicide’,” feminist activist Eve Ensler told CNN of the Congolese rape epidemic. “It's the systematic destruction of women. It's an economic war fought on the bodies of women. It's the destruction of the Congolese people and life itself"(Blake).  

Works Cited

Blake, John. "Woman: 'They Wanted to Destroy My Body and Spirit'" CNN. Cable News Network, 23 Oct. 2008. Web. 12 Mar. 2015.

Canada's. "Separating Sex and War." Globe & Mail [Canada] 14 May 2010: n. pag. Global Issues in Context. Web. 8 Mar. 2015.

Chelala, Cesar. "Rape in Congo Can Be a Death Sentence to Women." Daily News Egypt 14 June 2014: n. pag. Global Issues in Context. Web. 6 Mar. 2015.

Drash, Wayne. "Girl, 9, Details Rape in Congo to Photographer." CNN. Cable News Network, 11 Aug. 2009. Web. 12 Mar. 2015.

Everything. "Atrocities Beyond Words; Congo.(A Campaign of Rape in Eastern Congo)." N.p., 8 May 2008. Web. 8 Mar. 2015.

The Monitor's Editorial Board. "'We Must Do Better' In Combating Mass Rape in Congo." Christian Science Monitor 8 Sept. 2010: n. pag. 8 Sept. 2010. Web. 6 Mar. 2015.

United. "U.N. Envoy: DR Congo Mass Rape Verdict Fails to Deliver Justice." Saudi Press Agency 9 

May 2014: n. pag. Global Issues in Context. Web. 8 Mar. 2015.

John Kumalo

John Kumalo (A Blogged Analysis)

John Kumalo, in contrast to Stephen's innocence and loyalty, shows an acute sense of anger and also his loss of faith, two characteristics that he has gained through his experiences with racism in Johannesburg.

"I do not say we are free here. I do not say we are free as men should be. But at least I am free of the chief. At least I am free of an old and ignorant man, who is nothing but a white man's dog"(35).

"His voice grew louder, and he was again addressing people who were not there"(36).

"'That is my experience,' he said. 'That is why I no longer go to the church.' 'And that is why you did not right anymore.' 'Well, well, it could be the reason.' 'That, and your wife Esther?' 'Yes, yes, both perhaps. It is hard to explain in a letter. Our customs are different here'"(37).

The Clucking Clock and The Suitcase of Life

The Clucking Clock

“After that historic morning we got into the habit of re-adjusting the time on the alarm clock.  It all depended on how we were feeling, physically and mentally.  Sometimes, instead of turning the clock back, we would put it forward by an hour or two, so as to finish the day’s work early.  In the end we had changed the position of the hands so many times that we had no idea what the time really was”(15).
Dai Sijie utilizes the clock to show the mundanity of life at the re-education village, as the boys repeat the same mindless rituals, while they are trying to understand themselves and their situation, they feel without purpose because of the pointless, work, and lack of an intellectual anchor, and as they grow older, they are in an even greater need for something to hold onto.






The Suitcase of Life

"After a few moments’ silence I reopened the suitcase: ‘What if we just take a few? He won’t notice.’ ‘But I want to read all of them,’ Luo said resolutely.  He shut the suitcase again and resting, on the lid like a Christian taking a solemn oath, he declared: ‘With these books I shall transform the Little Seamstress.  She’ll never be a simple mountain girl again’”(100).

The suitcase symbolizes an anchor in Luo and the narrator’s life. While they push through the hardships of their re-education, the suitcase is a beacon of hope that could potentially grant them happiness and self-fulfillment in their lives that the village.

A Life Well Lived

A Life Well Lived
By: Hanna Khosravi

Starting as innocent and unknown as ever, we enter the world with fresh flesh and blood,

ending our lives, age taken over, we know that we have seen plenty too much.

A fever takes place, heat rushing quickly, as we try to make the shot, get the goal,

do it right.

You touch the bare air, grasping at nothing, panting, tired, a cloud of smoke that withers away before you get there.

It could have been perfect, but you hurried right through it, 

it’s not about winning, it’s about the way you go.

As the journey weaves through life and time, like a road paved through space,

you miss the beauty of the fragile world, if you worry too much how it ends.

You lose out on the creation, the strength, and the bravery, 

and all you see is the will to finish.

Your goals are an endpoint to reach, and that they should be,

but the journey itself, the walk of life that you take, the time that you spend, the mistakes that you make,

those are the things that build you a mind, a soul, a life well lived.

Successes and failures, no matter their quantity, are the reason we live and the reason we smile.

Provocative, evocative, broken down, built back up, let it all happen, if it has to. 

At the end of a life lived only for destinations, no memories are made, no happiness is collected.

Let life happen, but work hard along the way.

Let life happen, it is not about the place you may be going, but about the road you may take.  

Perspective and Memory: Trust No One

http://www.foxnews.com/health/2014/08/12/twins-separated-at-birth-reveal-staggering-influence-genetics/

http://www.realhd-audio.com/?p=1329

http://quoteko.com/world-view.html

http://womeninastronomy.blogspot.com/2013/08/unconscious-bias-schemas.html