FRED B. BENJAMIN PEACE WRITING CONTEST
For Maryland Middle School Students
Description: This is an annual, statewide writing contest for middle school students in Maryland focusing on the themes of peace and social justice. The contest is sponsored by Anne Arundel Peace Action, PeaceAction Montgomery, Maryland Peace Action Education Fund and Benjamin Peace Foundation. In 2006, students were asked to write no more than 1,200 words on the following topic:
Imagine that you are a "pen pal" with a student in Iraq. You have sent an e-mail message inquiring about how his or her life has changed as a result of the war and subsequent events. Write an essay about what you believe your pen pal will say.
This is the winning essay, written by Samuel Shumway of Baltimore (Friends School of Baltimore):
Hello, Samuel,
I was very glad to receive your e-mail just last month. I am sorry I took a while to reply. The computer at my school is very inaccessible around the winter, near Ramadan. I am also sorry about the text in this letter, the poor English. You may know my age, you may not. I am 14. I have not fully learnt your language and I had to ask Mr. Qurnah to help me. He look at your e-mail and his face went paler than sand. He printed your text out onto yellowed paper and we walked to his house near the marketplace. In one hand, he had your letter and with the other, he grasped my shoulder. I don't know why he did this, the only thing I thought about was how much my shoulder pained me so. Mr. Qurnah didn't have an automobile, so we trudged the sandy streets. If he had a car, none of this next part would have happened. Let me remind you, Samuel, that you may not tell anyone about this. It is our secret. . . our curse. Mr. Qurnah half walked, half sprinted, dragging me the entire time. I don't like Mr. Qurnah, he is strict, but he is the only teacher I have. Even still I was afraid. We had left school at lunch without a word and Mr. Qurnah had classes to teach. We turned into an alley, but I could see his house, we had gone there to celebrate the New Year when I was small. He had seemed so happy then, not like now. . . Not at all. Mr. Qurnah rounded on me. He glasses had fallen off one ear and they dangled pitifully, threateningly, on his long, sharp nose. He started to say something, then he stopped, and turned away. His hands folded across his chest and then turned back. He held up the letter that I wanted so badly and he shook it frantically as he spoke. "We are not allowed to talk of this."
His voice was scared, like mine was when I climbed a date tree too high and I got stuck. Soldiers, American, and other people walked to and fro past the alley entrance. A man in an army suit entered the alley. His helmet was brown and his boots were black. On his back was a gun, a weapon I never want to see again. He asked us if there was a problem in a thick American accent. Mr. Qurnah said no and hid the paper behind his back. The soldier told him to give him whatever he had behind his back. Mr. Qurnah said no again. The soldier retrieved his gun from his back and held it, not directly at us but towards the ground. I was scared, terrified. I knew there was a war, we all did but this was too real. I backed against the wall. The soldier asked again, but this time threatening to take him to a place he didn't want to go. Mr. Qurnah said no again, but there was a spark of something in his beady eyes that I hadn't seen since Muhammad had placed a tack on his chair. He dropped the paper on the ground and stepped back a foot. The soldier bent to get it and before I knew it, Mr. Qurnah jumped at him, biting and scratching. He let out a loud shout as the soldier flung him off. Now some people started to filter into the alley. Some people had joined the fight, but there was only one soldier who was reaching for his weapon of death.
I will not tell you what happened next, it is too hard to recall and it will scar me forever. Now, Mr. Qurnah is dead as well as three other Iraqi people. None of the Americans perished. I don't blame you for what has happened, in fact, it helped me write back to you. You asked me whether or not my life has changed because of the war and other events. My live will never be the same.
My deepest blessings,
Kurhu Hyaah
This essay, written by Melanie Gatewood of Owings Mill (Friends School of Baltimore), won second prize:
"I want to fly and see the world," says Abbas Dalati. Abbas is a thirteen year old Sunni Muslim. I have been writing to him for almost a year now. We have lots of things in common. We like to read, play sports, and eat ice cream. Even though we have a of things in common, we have one life-changing difference. He lives in Baghdad.
From what Abbas writes I have come to the conclusion he is just a normal kid stuck in a crazy world. He has written about riots in the streets and the piercing sounds of gun shots in the middle of the nights. He has continuous anxiety attacks during the night. He fears a bullet will kill his mother or sister.
In the last three years, he has grown accustomed to seeing the American soldiers riding through the streets of Baghdad in military trucks, heavily armed. He says they yell and scream at the Iraqis, telling them to clear the streets. He tells of the abuse and assault the soldiers inflict on the people, kicking and punching them, sometimes even shooting them. He has seen dozens of homes, businesses, and families destroyed by bombs, at the hands of "peace keeping" troops. In his opinion, no good seems to be coming from this war.
Abbas's father was a pharmacist whose business was destroyed during the initial bombing of Iraq. Life has become too difficult for him and other Sunnis. His father and many other Sunni Muslims gathered in Abbas's basement to discuss how they could improve their situations. They allowed Abbas to sit and listen. They talked of how to get the Americans out of Iraq. They decided to make small bombs from household supplies and throw them into the American vehicles as they rode past. Fearing for his father's safety, he begged his father not to do this. Abbas was pushed aside.
The morning they had planned to throw the bombs, Abbas was told to stay home from school. His father instructed Abbas, his mother, and younger sister to hide in the basement until he returned for them. They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity. Periodically he heard his mother praying softly to Allah, for his father to come home soon. He was scared. He could hear explosions and gunshots overhead. He pushed thoughts of becoming the man of the house out of his mind. He felt too young and inexperienced to take on that role.
For a brief moment there was no noise above. They held their breaths, waiting to hear the sound of his father's voice calling. Suddenly, they could hear many footsteps entering the house now. They came out of the basement expecting to see their father. Instead they were greeted by American soldiers. They told them of their father's death and left. They said he had a bomb in his hand so they shot him. Seven other men were also killed. The soldiers had tears in their eyes. One soldier's blue eyes were blood shot and "had tears like rivers." His tears "were so many they washed his dirt covered face." In that moment, Abbas realized his world has changed forever. He is now the man of the house and must be strong for his mother and sister. He also realized that not all of the soldiers were heartless and insensitive.
"I''ll never fly." As I read the letter, tears rolled down my cheeks. My heart was weeping for the mothers, the fathers, the sisters, and the brother, of all who died in Iraq. All I want to do is find Abbas and wrap my arms around him. I wanted him to fly. I wanted him to fly away from the pain and suffering of so many people. I wanted his dream of seeing the world to come true. Abbas was one of the millions of Iraqi children hurt by the war. His childhood was cut short. He's now forced to take care of his family and many never be given the opportunity to fly away.
The third prize winner was Megan Bethge of Huntington, Plum Point Middle School.
