Genocide Stories

The other day I took a bath and read most of "First they Killed my Father". It was a good thing I was in the bathtub, because I cried a lot. It's so horrible that when I had to close it, my mind would change the story. I'd make up alternate endings and middles; I'd imagine that all the magical things that happen in fairy tales happened to Loung and her family. Sometimes I'd just imagine someone coming and giving them food; a big tin of salt pork and sugar.

But none of this happened, of course, because it is a true story. A girl my own age dies alone, unable to have even her final wish; to be buried near her family, and be with them again. Infants are slaughtered beside their mothers, two months before the end of the war. Loung's arms and legs are like those of a skeleton, but her belly and feet are bloated. She takes her thumb and makes little dents in the ballooning flesh, and watches as they slowly re inflate.


They did everything right. Their father had been a monk, and he used his experience to gain a fair position for a previous city dweller. He could teach them all to farm, and had many other skills. From the beginning, they lied and pretended to be poor peasants. Loung's "Pa" was such a good father to her, letting her sit on his lap while he told her stories or tried to explain the world to her, even until the end. But eventually the Khmer Rouge find out that he had been in the civil service, and they kill him.


I'm reading this not long after watching "Hotel Rwanda", another horrible Genocide story. I'm making up excuses for why I can't tear myself away. I need to read this for school, I tell myself, although there are ten other books I could have chosen. This relates to my IP theme, I tell myself, although the comparatively cheery "Waiting for Snow in Havana" did just as well. I want to make a difference, I tell myself, though I know I can/will do nothing.


With these feeble excuses, I endure these stories. I think about them for weeks. I rewind. I read the worst passages again and again until I have no more tears for them. I think I'm forcing myself to see these things because they make me feel something that deserves to be felt.

Genocide needs to be felt, to be acknowledged. More than that, it needs to be ended. But I can feel it myself.

Pirates are Universal

La Primavera

La primavera ha fiorito come un fiore. È possibile che l'inverno già si è concluso.

The winter broke. You could almost hear it's grip shatter as the the ice cracked, sliding in plates over the wet ground. The snow melted quickly into little rivulets that bled down streets and city sidewalks like rainwater in a heavy storm.

We had to replace the battery on my Ford Contour; it didn't quite survive the winter. We revved it up for the first time and I had to take a long drive up Clayton to get it ready. The sun seemed very bright and the air was warm and still.

The birds were our first hint of the coming spring; chirping weeks ago in the early morning hours. Their songs were almost indistinguishable from the squeaking of the Contour, but I heard them nonetheless. It was dark when I drove to school then; now the sun is shining. Dawn comes not long after I wake up. The sun rises as I put on my shoes and step out into the day. The walk to the pit is well lit, and I know longer need to wear double gloves to retain the slightest feeling in my fingers.

Yes, the spring comes. It has bloomed like a flower. Winter's hold is broken, I know it. The snow has lingered resiliently, but I know it's near death. In the earliest morning there is a heavy frost; the meltwater freezes overnight. But the thin ice it forms has all the strength taken out of it. This ice doesn't mean anything. It doesn't threaten anymore.


The snow melts, with it the memories that linger in the wintertime. Beside the fire, in the warm darkness of the house, underneath the covers, memories linger in the shadows. The heart freezes in the depths of winter, kept from neither affection or love but simply from moving. Hopes and dreams slide to a slow, silent stop.


Once the future didn't scare me at all. Now I am terrified of it. But what can I do? The spring comes. I can only try to face it bravely. Change comes, and quickly. Had I made a prediction for today,

Six months ago... I would have said that this would be a spring without Tidbit, a spring of memories of a little brown dog that frolicked in the spring grass and loved to sleep in sunlight falling through glass.

A year ago... I would have said that this would be another spring of blind joy, an ease in everything, and high hopes for a summer of endless possibility. I would have said that not a day would pass without talking to Stian and to Austin, my heart's best friends...

Two years ago... I would have said that this spring I'd have a thousand more friends, be happy and social, well liked, with great grades and an ever maturing soul. With any luck, I'd be RPing, at least a bit.

Five years ago... I would have said that by now, I'd be a pillar of maturity and perfection. I'd be the admin of a thriving LOTR RPG board, know a ton of Elvish, maybe some other languages if I got bored. By 16, I'd be ACCOMPLISHED, damn it... Capable of anything...



The memoirs of a teenager make a terrible story. We who are young see every day as a beginning or an ending. We will never consent to simply being.

But it may be that we are right after all, that each day is a beginning and an ending. Perhaps each day something dies, and perhaps each day something new is born. And in a year, with the coming of the spring...


I should say, "I think I'm just really tired. Or really bored. Or both lolz..."
I should say, "I have no idea what I'm trying to say :P"

But I do. I know exactly what I'm trying to say. I'm just not sure how to say it.
Forgive my ineloquence... And my word creation... ;)

Vinterferien

http://ellenmargrethe.blogspot.com/

Ellen Sier:

Nå må jeg bare si at:

* Det er 22 dager til vinterferien!!
* 58 dager til vi reiser til London!!
* 140 dager til siste skoledag!! :)

Elindomiel Sier:

Jeg har vinterferien nå. :D

I'm so mean. But yeah, ours is shorter, and over today, in fact. I've only done half my homework. But I have a lot. Gah. :(

Check out the Decoy Blogs...

http://elindomiel.livejournal.com/

http://www.xanga.com/Elindomiel

The live Journal looks a lot better, for some reason. Interests on Live Journal:

39: arabic, aramaic, blogging, boating, camping, canoeing, clam chowder, computers, emailing, fantasy, finnish, garlic, george rr martin, german, girl scouts, hiking, history, italian, japanese, languages, latin, linguistics, lobster, lord of the rings, mythology, norwegian, orange sherbet, packages in the mail, pen-pals, pita bread and hummus, quiznos, rp-ing, scandinavia, scandinavians, seafood, spanish, traveling, video games, writing.

Wow Liisa!

http://blogit.ts.fi/extreme/2007/01/27/aina-valmiina/

I can't really read this, but I'm guessing it's one of her articles. She's so amazing!

For a really wild guess, I'd say this MIGHT be her joke article, because of the quotes in the beginning. I can only make out like 9 words in the whole piece, though!

It's so neat to find her site like that. She's also in the banner, second from the right.

Heladas Alturas

I've just started reading "El Reino del Dragon de Oro", by Isabel Allende. It's the first time I've read a book in another language, on my own time, where I didn't already know the story.

Reading in Spanish is a little odd. Reading in any language where your reading proficiency isn't above average is weird. For Gwen: It's like that essay we read in Trieschmanns class about writing. How terrible to write the way that poor woman did.

"When you write," she wrote, "You lay out a line of words. You wield it..."

She goes on to describe exploring the world by picking at it, inch by inch, with your line of words. Theres a feeling of darkness, as if anything outside of these specific words is somehow nonexistent, as if it comes into being at the exact moment you encounter it, and for no other purpose.

At any rate, reading in Spanish is like that. In English, I read a whole page almost at once. I read the lines individually, but my mind jumps. I see "smile" halfway down the page and I feel a sort of happiness, or bitterness, as it may seem, spread across the scene. I can skim down a page looking for a passage and get a basic idea of what's going on.

In Spanish it's different. I attack a line of words. I understand. I don't have to use a dictionary or a grammar tool. I guess at the words I don't know, most of them cognates. My mind quickly bridges gaps and recognizes new meanings for "Tarea" and "Helado". But it's still slower going than reading in English, by a long ways.

Dil Bahadur and his mentor-guy have been climbing the alps FOREVER, without a glimpse of another human being. I am beginning to tire of them and their plight. Each detail of how they use the fur of the yak and what they eat and how they find shelter are interesting and then wearying for the energy they take to decipher. It's subtle; word by word you don't notice it. But after pages...

So after climbing these mountains for what could surely be broken off into a separate novel, (I'm on page 10), I see a beautiful 'line of words'.

"Luego de escalar montanyas por varios dias, subiendo a heladas alturas, llegaron a Czenthan Dzong, el monestario fortificado de los antiguos lamas que inventaron la forma de lucha cuerpo a cuerpo llamado Tao-Shu."

Yes! A monastery! A fortified Monastery! That means safety, maybe warmth! It means new charectors! I'm done with Dil and the Lama mas Viejo. :D

And my heart is crushed, more so because my eyes have no chance to preview, because word by word the truth is painfully revealed. The monastery has been abandoned for generations, ever since a terrible earthquake.

This is no surprise to our old friends Dil and Lama. It's not meant to be a crushing blow to the spirit of the reader. But like "Que Hace el Pez?", everything has more meaning when it takes a little longer to understand. It's all more profound.

:'( Quiero un monestario fortificado de antiguos lamas a salvarme de las Heladas Alturas...

Um... Alright...

Interesting text message today. Especially considering my blog post just a few days ago. Talk about mixed feelings: (In order)

1. Nani-nani? What's this?

2. A text message? Who would text message me? Liisa?

3. Sent me a card? I hate that girl... I didn't even think of sending her anything, she'll be making up holidays if...

4. .... ..... Stian?

5. Is this date correct?

6. Well it's in English, it must be for me.

7. It also has my name on it...

8. Eh... Have you split your head open?!?

9. What do you want from me!?!

10. I mean, it's a nice thought...

11. But, why?!?

12. Can't you leave me alone?

13. On today of all days...

14. -gla i'deg-

15. Bah, what's with you, anyway? What are you playing at?

16. I'm so confused... :(

The Death of Something

Yeah, Nova's Middle Earth closed.

It's not like it was a big deal. There was no rping there since 2006, and nothing but the odd OOC post for months and months. Besides, I was the last person to join the board and probably posted about 100 times. No big deal, no big surprise, but the death of LOTR Rping was so gradual, and so slow, that I never really, really felt it.

Ah, well. It's small enough now. A small enough distance to fall. But I still felt it.

I kind of liked it being there, even if it was a mockery of itself.

It made me who I am.

Mountain in Tibet

"Boys Suck"

Ha! I can say it!

I guess this means I can finally admit to myself that they all suck, that they lie, that they don't really mean they'll be your friend forever.

It means they'll call you names they have no right to and not even bother to respond to your email.

It means I shouldn't waste any more time on them.

Alright, you mean nothing to me now. Or little enough, as little as you ever will... The flower of an undeveloped heart.

Et Språk Er Aldri Nok!

Un homme qui parle trois langues est trilingue.
Un homme qui parle deux langues est bilingue.
Un homme qui ne parle qu´une langue est anglais.

Wer fremde Sprachen nicht kennt, weiß nichts von seiner eigenen.

Bir dil bir insan, iki dil iki insan.

Luftputefartøyet mitt er fullt av ål

(Guess what I've been doing? :P And it's been extremely busy at school.)

¡Una lengua nunca es suficiente!