Fighting With Words

by Karthik


"No bread for another day if you don't finish those chores", the white man yelled at Ma and me. He whipped me with a belt and kicked us back into work.
We were slaves. Many slaves were sick of being treated this way and planned to attack their Masters. Over the fence was an example of slaves that were driven to the brink of killing. I watched them every day, planning. I felt sorry for them. They were risking their lives for us and they were probably going to die. They were over-confident and didn't think twice. I overheard them that they were going to attack tonight. They were going to first kill their master then band with the other slaves and kill lots of people. Well, that's all I understood. When I was thinking, I forgot about planting the seeds and I heard my master yelling again. Ma quickly hurried me into doing his chores. At around nine o'clock when we had finished the chores, I forgot about the revolt and drifted to sleep.
I woke up to the sound of Ma's voice. I sat up. Ma looked worried and handed me a newspaper. I read it and was stunned. It said that at 10:00 PM yesterday, five slaves killed their master and provoked an angry mob of blacks. Local police were ordered to shoot against the riot and the thirty slaves were dead. All slave owners were asked to keep constant watch on their slaves. I had a mixture of anger and sadness inside me. I was angry at the whites who shot my friends and had sympathy for the slaves. That night I realized that if this would keep going on. slaves would keep revolting and dying until there would be none left unless somebody did something.
I thought of an idea of stealing bombs and stuff and just blow up the city, but once I thought that one through it seemed stupid. The only way to earn freedom is with a non-violent approach. I have seen pictures of Gandhi and heard about non-violence. Then I got a new idea. I got up and snuck into my master’s house. I stole his children’s English books and began to read. All Africans can read English, just not write. I hid under a hay stack and read the book every day. I read faster when more and more people died. I finally was fluent in the art of writing English. I had practiced in the dirt with a stick and felt pretty good. That night I returned the children’s English books and stole a couple of pieces of paper. I went back to the hay stack and went to sleep. The next day I woke up an hour before I was supposed to and started to write with a piece of charcoal. I was going to secretly send this to the mayor and hope for the best.
I wrote,

Dear mayor,
I think slavery is wrong; you should not make someone a slave just because their skin is a different color. You may think that you are better and we are barbaric animals that should be treated like mud. But you are wrong. We have the same blood, heart and brain like you. I speak for a lot of slaves when I say that we deserve the same amount of respect as a regular white man.

I drew a picture of a white man whipping a black man. Then I drew the same picture and scribbled over the white man so his skin was black.

See what difference it makes if your face is covered in charcoal.
From,
A Desperate and Hopeful Slave

Then I wrapped this sheet of paper in the other sheets of paper and wrote "TO THE MAYOR" on it. Then I dashed to the post office and when I was about to drop it in the mail box, a man stopped me and said, "What do you think you are doing, dirt scum?”
I thought fast and said, "Master told me to mail this letter." and acted as stupid as I could. He kicked me out and slapped me, but let me mail my letter. I dashed back to my master's farm and started working on the crops. Ma asked me where I was and told me that I was four minutes late. I mumbled that I was getting freedom. She looked concerned, but didn't say anything. At ten o'clock a wave of excitement rushed over me as I thought about freedom, but then it disappeared as I thought about what would happen if it didn't work. I couldn't sleep until late.
The next day Ma woke me up by shaking me violently and handed me a crumpled newspaper. It read that the mayor is trying to pass a law against slavery after he received a strongly worded letter from a slave. No one knows who sent it, and how he learned to write, but he is very persuasive. It showed a picture of my letter. I told Ma that I wrote that letter with charcoal and explained to her how I learned to write and such. She looked proud of me. I was happy that I had just sent a message to the slaves that a pen is mightier than a sword. Now I hope that the fight for freedom can be won.


Relateds:
- ترجمه اين داستان به دري
- PubKid (more pieces by kids)

Vive La France

I started for school very late that morning and was in great dread of a scolding, especially because M. Hamel had said that he would question us on participles, and I did not know the first word about them. For a moment I thought of running away and spending the day out of doors. It was so warm, so bright! The birds were chirping at the edge of the woods; and in the open field back of the sawmill the Prussian soldiers were drilling. It was all much more tempting than the rule for participles, but I had the strength to resist, and hurried off to school.
When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front of the bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news had come from there—the lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer—and I thought to myself, without stopping:
“What can be the matter now?”
Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the blacksmith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, reading the bulletin, called after me:
“Don’t go so fast, bub; you’ll get to your school in plenty of time!”
I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel’s little garden all out of breath.
Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to understand better, and the teacher’s great ruler rapping on the table. But now it was all so still! I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning. Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and go in before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was.
But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly:
“Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning without you.”
I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt, and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides, the whole school seemed so strange and solemn. But the thing that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly like ourselves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides. Everybody looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages.
While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said:
“My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you. The order has come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new master comes to-morrow. This is your last French lesson. I want you to be very attentive.”
What a thunderclap these words were to me!
Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the town-hall!
My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how to write! I should never learn any more! I must stop there, then! Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for seeking birds’ eggs, or going sliding on the Saar! My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old friends now that I couldn’t give up. And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his ruler and how cranky he was.
Poor man! It was in honor of this last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood why the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of the room. It was because they were sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more. It was their way of thanking our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no more.
While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say that dreadful rule for the participle all through, very loud and clear, and without one mistake? But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there, holding on to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me:
“I won’t scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad enough. See how it is! Every day we have said to ourselves: ‘Bah! I’ve plenty of time. I’ll learn it to-morrow.’ And now you see where we’ve come out. Ah, that’s the great trouble with Alsace; she puts off learning till to-morrow. Now those fellows out there will have the right to say to you: ‘How is it; you pretend to be Frenchmen, and yet you can neither speak nor write your own language?’ But you are not the worst, poor little Franz. We’ve all a great deal to reproach ourselves with.
“Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn. They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills, so as to have a little more money. And I? I’ve been to blame also. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to go fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?”
Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to talk of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world—the clearest, the most logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget it, because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison. Then he opened a grammar and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he said seemed so easy, so easy! I think, too, that I had never listened so carefully, and that he had never explained everything with so much patience. It seemed almost as if the poor man wanted to give us all he knew before going away, and to put it all into our heads at one stroke.
After the grammar, we had a lesson in writing. That day M. Hamel had new copies for us, written in a beautiful round hand: France, Alsace, France, Alsace. They looked like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room, hung from the rod at the top of our desks. You ought to have seen how every one set to work, and how quiet it was! The only sound was the scratching of the pens over the paper. Once some beetles flew in; but nobody paid any attention to them, not even the littlest ones, who worked right on tracing their fish-hooks, as if that was French, too. On the roof the pigeons cooed very low, and I thought to myself:
“Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?”
Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing, then at another, as if he wanted to fix in his mind just how everything looked in that little school-room. Fancy! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with his garden outside the window and his class in front of him, just like that. Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth; the walnut-trees in the garden were taller, and the hop-vine that he had planted himself twined about the windows to the roof. How it must have broken his heart to leave it all, poor man; to hear his sister moving about in the room above, packing their trunks! For they must leave the country next day.
But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last. After the writing, we had a lesson in history, and then the babies chanted their ba, be bi, bo, bu. Down there at the back of the room old Hauser had put on his spectacles and, holding his primer in both hands, spelled the letters with them. You could see that he, too, was crying; his voice trembled with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and cry. Ah, how well I remember it, that last lesson!
All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then the Angelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, in his chair. I never saw him look so tall.
“My friends,” said he, “I—I—” But something choked him. He could not go on.
Then he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, bearing on with all his might, he wrote as large as he could:
“Vive La France!”
Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall, and, without a word, he made a gesture to us with his hand:
“School is dismissed—you may go.”


Relateds:
- ترجمه اين داستان به دري
- More from World English

Small changes count

His beautiful eyes take to a combination of hope and fear. Dread of a subtle fate lurking at each corner, that presses his childish heart. I look deep into his eyes , and gently tap on his hands – they are cracked and battered.

It was about two months ago, I saw him in the downtown on a wildly hot summer day. A heavy box of cigarettes draped on his shoulder and his footprints could be traced on the dusty roads of Kabul.

His look was filled with pressure of responsibility. His look, for a moment, took me to my own childhood…. To our childhood… Now I feel away, and close too!

I wanted to began overtures…. His look wanted me to keep away!

Few moments later….. he smiles…. Shares few words with me… says he is six years old… I wouldn’t get all he said, he couldn’t enunciate well yet.

I feel a fire stinging on my heart, watching his childhood on the edge of devastation. I wish I could own some of his pains…. Not to let them lie in his beautiful eyes and trample over his dreams – a dreadful, tough, alien and backbreaking pain.

Two Months later:

My sweet Pari,

I would like to thank you for being with me in doing this.

Pari and I (or Aawaa) have decided to open a bank account (please find details below) and invite you all to contribute to bringing smiles to the lips of the Afghan street children, ambiguity of whose future is overshadowing their lives. Let us add to their hopes for future and wash the pains away from their tiny hearts.

Your generous donations will be used for providing immediate needs of children sans shelter in Afghanistan and, of course, the details of process will be published here, and the pictures on Zubaida's photo blog.

Aawaa aims to deliver your considerations to the children before upcoming cruel winter. If you wish to streamline your donations through any children charity in Afghanistan, please do let us know. However, we would prefer to direct delivery of donations, being it cash or items, to children or their families rather than using a third channel. Our focus mainly lies on children of repatriates, tent-dwellers and children doing tough labours in market. Any suggestion you make in this respect would be most welcome.

Ali and Pari

Bank Account details:

Account No: 1001201053315

SWIFT Code: KABUAFKA

Relateds:
- اين متن به دري

Loneliness

by Kavalnain
in New York

Loneliness is a darkness
That sinks into your skin
A terrible feeling
That is felt within

Every morning
A child awakes
To either face this loneliness
Or make it go away

A child myself
I couldn't run
Away from this loneliness
Before it begun

It haunted my mornings
And hung in the shadowy nights
It bodied my windows and closed my curtains
And threatened my life

Quiet as it came
Quiet as it hid
Against the walls
And under my bed

I tried to hide
Within the light
But everywhere I went
It followed right behind

Still I am lost
Still I am afraid
Of this frightening shadow
Of loneliness.


Relateds:
- About the Poet
- ترجمه شعر

Miss me

by Kavalnain
A teenager from New York


I was sent on a voyage,
Across the depths of the seas,
Though lately I've been wondering,
If you missed me.

I stare across the ocean,
Day and night,
Only one thought that is stirring in my mind.

The sun only glares,
while the world only stares.
Nobody answering.
I cannot admit,
I'd be acting too foolish.
Too young for my age,
I do wish to act,
I'd be classified as a brat.

Though, as I look across the seas,
The waves answer,
and I know you miss me.


Relateds:
- About the Poet
- آوا به دري

Little Sister

by Kavalnain (A teenager)
in New York

My little sister isn't average,
We all know that she is much more,
Though I have more than one sibling,
She is the silliest out of the four.

I only get one chance to play,
Before I'm piled with work,
Though, day by day,
She always has time to call me a "jerk"!

And, when tears flow down my face,
When nobody knows how I feel,
That's when my little sister is there,
That's when our love proves to be real.

When I am happy,
She's there to share the joy,
Though, everything to her is just a game and a toy.

When I am bored,
And I am lying down in my bed,
She gets up in the middle of the night,
And jumps on my head.

When nightmares surround me,
And I shiver with fear,
My sister is always there to hug,
She's always so near.

My sister isn't average,
We all know that she is much more,
Though when it's time to kiss her,
You get a nice one back from my little sister.


Relateds:
- About the Poet
- آوا به دري

Opening words

Hello Friends,
On Aawaa you could go through writings and translations by Zubaida Akbar and Ali Kazemi. To state the obvious, this page is new and the writers of it hope it will fall useful and interesting to the respectable viewers.

The content of this page evolve around Dari translation of poems and short stories specifically addressed to the children. A question could be raised in your mind as to why targeting the children?! Perhaps the complication of adults’ world could be considered one reason. Or that the children of Afghanistan have not gained the due attention they deserve. These are the grounds that prove the task of translation easy for those new in the field. Children’s realm is simple, austere and Spartan. Wishes and wants of children, being she a 10-year-old Uzbek girl in the dusty avenues of Sheberghan (North of Afghanistan) rollicking around, or a dark-skinned girl stepping in mud in Africa, or being he a blonde blue-eyed boy that is practicing becoming a “David Bekham” in Northampton, if not very same, they are similar or at least understandable! Perhaps there are many lessons we have to learn from them. Anyways….

To you (Viewers) from us: We (Ali Kazemi and Zubaida Akbar) welcome you to this page and are grateful to your kind comments sand criticisms.
On this page, our focus lies on the shortcomings and deficiencies at children’s literature in Afghanistan, which has missed to gain enough attention so far, and in fulfilling this task, we do need you adults’ contribution through sharing views and opinions and even if possible those of children’s themselves, as both of us experience our first shots in this field. With respectful thanks!

And at the end, who are we?
Ali Kazemi and Zubaida Akbar have shared a long while of knowing each other. Loitering through the dusty avenues of Kabul, chatting with begging kids in Shahr Naw, now they feel they have gone through different stages of life together. As a means of further strengthening this relationship, Ali and Zubaida have initiated this joint translation project and wish their joint venture brings a news source of discoveries for children’s literature and even more.

Relateds:
- همين متن به دري
- آوا به دري