Something I had to write for a school assignment in writing workshop!
Some grammar is messed up, along with tenses (because I did not have great writing skills when I wrote this), but it's overall okay, and shouldn't hurt your eyes too bad!
Who’s the enemy?
Kirsten Costello
3-16-11
It all started when General Mudawar came to our door.
“Kaeleb al- Ajrab,” Mudawar took my father into a different room and
after 5 minutes they emerged. Mother and I scurried over.
“Papa?” I asked cautiously. He had a look on his face, the kind of look he
puts on when he tries to hide his emotions
“Kaeleb what happened?” My mother looked anxious. Mama was
pretty, she had black hair – our whole family did – and pretty brown
eyes that reminded me of the chocolates Papa once bought a long time
ago. She looked at Papa with her jaw set, ready to hold him down if he
said anything she didn’t like. He knew what was in store but he had to
tell her.
“I have to go fight Fatima,” he looked straight into my mother’s eyes, his
own green eyes were full of emotion.
“No! No! You can’t, I won’t let you!” My mom started kicking and
screaming as he held on to her waist.
“If I don’t they’ll kill you and me and Amira anyways. It’s better like this
where I at least have a chance of surviving.” I looked at him when I heard my name. I hated this war, I hated it all! Why had the people revolted? I was happy, why weren’t they? As if he had known what I was thinking papa came and pushed strands of jet-black hair out of my face. “Amira, not all people are as lucky as us, some are treated unfairly. We were lucky but I understand their cause.” He gave me his knowing smile, “Besides, they might need a spy or two.” I didn’t understand quite what he was saying then, but I knew there was a second meaning to it.
I reached out my arms and grabbed his hand He was almost out the door. Mudawar had been waiting outside, patting his plump belly “Papa,” I said, then he hugged me, for the very last time.
“Amira get in the house right now!” Mama called for the sixth time. I could hear her voice cracking. I wanted to run into her open arms and go back into the safety of our now worn down house, but I couldn’t. I remembered the bombs that came crashing down. The way Ma had pulled my arm to dragged me to the cellar. My friend Medina had called just before the bombs saying she was scared, and then the line went dead.
I stood before the rubble in dismay and my stomach did somersaults. Something caught in my throat as I tried to speak and nothing came out.
“Amira!!” Mama screamed. That’s when the missile came down 100 feet away.
My reflexes shot me back toward my mother whose eyes were wide. It had been five days since Papa had left and we had not heard from him. Each day Ma would get more and more depressed. She would sit in Pa’s old reading chair and stare out the window. She called in sick to her job waiting tables at the restaurant down the street.
“Please, please!” Ma’s voice is carried through the dust. I could barely see and breathe, but I somehow found my home just as the other missile came down where I had been. “In the house!” Ma barked angrily. I obeyed.
For the following 48 hours we huddled in our cellar as missile after missile came. I counted 1….. 2…. 3…. 4…. 5, 6, 7 missiles. There would be one, then an hour later when you think it’s safe, another comes. Two hours after the seventh missile, the Sirt air raid sirens finally clicked off and Ma opened our battered cellar doors. When I poked my head out, I nearly fell backwards. Ma’s face was frozen and hard. Our house was non- existent and the rest of Sirt was completely leveled.
“No!” I gasped. The next thing I knew, I was running out of my cellar into the desert of debris. “No! No! No!” I wailed. Ma was still in the cellar doorway, a melancholy look washing over her face. She wasn’t yelling at me to come back so I stayed, bent down crying on what had once been my home.
I started seeing people walk out of the dust far away.
“Are you happy now?! Did destroying my home make things better?!” I screeched trying to run at the shocked people. Strong arms locked around my waist and I was hoping and praying it was my father. From far away I heard my mother scream.
“Calm down bent,” The boy said using the Arabic word for girl.
“Put me down!” I yelled. The boy set me on my feet but held my arms behind my back. I twisted my body to look at my captor He was tall, but I knew he was no older then 14, like me. I narrowed my eyes at him. He frowned like he understood my pain. “Why did you people do it? Why did you destroy my home? You people already took my father, why don’t you just take my thoughts, my clothing, my best friend!” Hot tears spring up in my eyes.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“The missiles? The bombs?”
“That wasn’t us, we’re trying to be peaceful protesters.” The boy gave me a look saying, duh!
“Well then, if it wasn’t you, who was it?” I give him a hard look
“Well it was Gaddafi, as soon as the missiles stopped we came to see if there were any survivors.” I tried to struggle free of his grip.
“Liar! That- that’s insane!” I wailed. “Sirt is his most valuable town! People he cares about live here! Why on earth would he destroy it?!”
“Well we aren’t sure yet, we knew something weird was going on when he removed his troops from the area. Earlier a few protesters were talking about taking over, and I think Gaddafi some how found out. Instead of letting the take over happen, he decided to destroy it instead”
“Without a second thought of who lives here?! I think you’re lying, there’s no way he’d destroy his biggest source of support! It’s not sane!” The boy’s face-hardened and he let go of my arms, making me fall on the ground.
“No one ever said he was sane.” He mumbled. The air raid siren crackled on again for a moment but shut off with a burst of static. The boy froze and his protester comrades did too.
“Inside!” A bulky man called. That was when I was aware of Ma’s limp body nearby, being held up by a man. There was no way I could have brought her to the cellar on my own, I’d need these people’s help to take care of her.
“We have a small cellar, but it can hold 10 people.” There were 6 in the group of rebels.
“Amira!” That voice. Medina!
“Medina! Where are you?!” I called, the boy followed me as I searched the nearby rubble.
“Over here-” she said weakly. I followed the voice and stepped on something. “Ow.” She grumbled.
“Medina, you um-” I pointed to the boy
“I’m Mohammed.” The boy said.
“Right, Mohammed, help me get Medina to the cellar!”
“We have to hurry, the missiles are going to get here in minutes.” We rush to pick Medina up. I saw a line of white smoke and the black dot of the first missile. I get a sudden adrenaline rush, we aren’t moving fast enough! Mohammed is strong but not fast. In a big heave I take all of Medina’s weight and run full speed towards the cellar. Mohammed looked surprised at first, but shook his head and ran after me.
By the time we got in the cellar all the rebels were in. It smelled like sweat and scorched clothing. I had to sit next to Mohammed the whole time, and although he seemed nice, he was my enemy. I was not allowed to acknowledge him as a person.
He and his friends killed my father, destroyed my town. Even if they hadn’t, none of this would have happened had they not protested. But when he was trying to start a conversation with me I only responded to one.
“Your father always said you’d be tough to break.” My eyes go wide.
“You knew my father? You knew Kaeleb?! Is he alive?” Mohammed grimaced.
“He’s alive, but in one of our hospitals, rebel spy, got caught. But one of the reasons we were sent to scope Sirt for survivors was under his command.” My eyes went wide.
“You mean, he isn’t dead, and he’s a- a rebel?” Mohammed nodded.
“And he wants us to invite you to be a rebel, so will you join us?” Missiles crashed down but I didn’t concentrate on that, my father was alive.
“Yes.”
Mohammed walks up to me and smiles.
“You ready?” I nod but he sees my reluctance. “Amira, it’s peaceful and if anything goes wrong I’ve got your back.” I smile.
“Yeah, even so I think I could handle myself out there.” I stick out my tongue at him and we both laugh. Since I’ve joined the rebels, two weeks ago, we’ve become close friends and comrades. My father had almost fully recovered, if you don’t count the missing leg. My friend Medina went on her first protest and braved the tanks. Now Mohammed and I are going.
“Ladies first,” he jokes. I grin and take his hand. Then the doors open and we run out, ready to fight for a new tomorrow.
Some grammar is messed up, along with tenses (because I did not have great writing skills when I wrote this), but it's overall okay, and shouldn't hurt your eyes too bad!
Who’s the enemy?
Kirsten Costello
3-16-11
It all started when General Mudawar came to our door.
“Kaeleb al- Ajrab,” Mudawar took my father into a different room and
after 5 minutes they emerged. Mother and I scurried over.
“Papa?” I asked cautiously. He had a look on his face, the kind of look he
puts on when he tries to hide his emotions
“Kaeleb what happened?” My mother looked anxious. Mama was
pretty, she had black hair – our whole family did – and pretty brown
eyes that reminded me of the chocolates Papa once bought a long time
ago. She looked at Papa with her jaw set, ready to hold him down if he
said anything she didn’t like. He knew what was in store but he had to
tell her.
“I have to go fight Fatima,” he looked straight into my mother’s eyes, his
own green eyes were full of emotion.
“No! No! You can’t, I won’t let you!” My mom started kicking and
screaming as he held on to her waist.
“If I don’t they’ll kill you and me and Amira anyways. It’s better like this
where I at least have a chance of surviving.” I looked at him when I heard my name. I hated this war, I hated it all! Why had the people revolted? I was happy, why weren’t they? As if he had known what I was thinking papa came and pushed strands of jet-black hair out of my face. “Amira, not all people are as lucky as us, some are treated unfairly. We were lucky but I understand their cause.” He gave me his knowing smile, “Besides, they might need a spy or two.” I didn’t understand quite what he was saying then, but I knew there was a second meaning to it.
I reached out my arms and grabbed his hand He was almost out the door. Mudawar had been waiting outside, patting his plump belly “Papa,” I said, then he hugged me, for the very last time.
“Amira get in the house right now!” Mama called for the sixth time. I could hear her voice cracking. I wanted to run into her open arms and go back into the safety of our now worn down house, but I couldn’t. I remembered the bombs that came crashing down. The way Ma had pulled my arm to dragged me to the cellar. My friend Medina had called just before the bombs saying she was scared, and then the line went dead.
I stood before the rubble in dismay and my stomach did somersaults. Something caught in my throat as I tried to speak and nothing came out.
“Amira!!” Mama screamed. That’s when the missile came down 100 feet away.
My reflexes shot me back toward my mother whose eyes were wide. It had been five days since Papa had left and we had not heard from him. Each day Ma would get more and more depressed. She would sit in Pa’s old reading chair and stare out the window. She called in sick to her job waiting tables at the restaurant down the street.
“Please, please!” Ma’s voice is carried through the dust. I could barely see and breathe, but I somehow found my home just as the other missile came down where I had been. “In the house!” Ma barked angrily. I obeyed.
For the following 48 hours we huddled in our cellar as missile after missile came. I counted 1….. 2…. 3…. 4…. 5, 6, 7 missiles. There would be one, then an hour later when you think it’s safe, another comes. Two hours after the seventh missile, the Sirt air raid sirens finally clicked off and Ma opened our battered cellar doors. When I poked my head out, I nearly fell backwards. Ma’s face was frozen and hard. Our house was non- existent and the rest of Sirt was completely leveled.
“No!” I gasped. The next thing I knew, I was running out of my cellar into the desert of debris. “No! No! No!” I wailed. Ma was still in the cellar doorway, a melancholy look washing over her face. She wasn’t yelling at me to come back so I stayed, bent down crying on what had once been my home.
I started seeing people walk out of the dust far away.
“Are you happy now?! Did destroying my home make things better?!” I screeched trying to run at the shocked people. Strong arms locked around my waist and I was hoping and praying it was my father. From far away I heard my mother scream.
“Calm down bent,” The boy said using the Arabic word for girl.
“Put me down!” I yelled. The boy set me on my feet but held my arms behind my back. I twisted my body to look at my captor He was tall, but I knew he was no older then 14, like me. I narrowed my eyes at him. He frowned like he understood my pain. “Why did you people do it? Why did you destroy my home? You people already took my father, why don’t you just take my thoughts, my clothing, my best friend!” Hot tears spring up in my eyes.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“The missiles? The bombs?”
“That wasn’t us, we’re trying to be peaceful protesters.” The boy gave me a look saying, duh!
“Well then, if it wasn’t you, who was it?” I give him a hard look
“Well it was Gaddafi, as soon as the missiles stopped we came to see if there were any survivors.” I tried to struggle free of his grip.
“Liar! That- that’s insane!” I wailed. “Sirt is his most valuable town! People he cares about live here! Why on earth would he destroy it?!”
“Well we aren’t sure yet, we knew something weird was going on when he removed his troops from the area. Earlier a few protesters were talking about taking over, and I think Gaddafi some how found out. Instead of letting the take over happen, he decided to destroy it instead”
“Without a second thought of who lives here?! I think you’re lying, there’s no way he’d destroy his biggest source of support! It’s not sane!” The boy’s face-hardened and he let go of my arms, making me fall on the ground.
“No one ever said he was sane.” He mumbled. The air raid siren crackled on again for a moment but shut off with a burst of static. The boy froze and his protester comrades did too.
“Inside!” A bulky man called. That was when I was aware of Ma’s limp body nearby, being held up by a man. There was no way I could have brought her to the cellar on my own, I’d need these people’s help to take care of her.
“We have a small cellar, but it can hold 10 people.” There were 6 in the group of rebels.
“Amira!” That voice. Medina!
“Medina! Where are you?!” I called, the boy followed me as I searched the nearby rubble.
“Over here-” she said weakly. I followed the voice and stepped on something. “Ow.” She grumbled.
“Medina, you um-” I pointed to the boy
“I’m Mohammed.” The boy said.
“Right, Mohammed, help me get Medina to the cellar!”
“We have to hurry, the missiles are going to get here in minutes.” We rush to pick Medina up. I saw a line of white smoke and the black dot of the first missile. I get a sudden adrenaline rush, we aren’t moving fast enough! Mohammed is strong but not fast. In a big heave I take all of Medina’s weight and run full speed towards the cellar. Mohammed looked surprised at first, but shook his head and ran after me.
By the time we got in the cellar all the rebels were in. It smelled like sweat and scorched clothing. I had to sit next to Mohammed the whole time, and although he seemed nice, he was my enemy. I was not allowed to acknowledge him as a person.
He and his friends killed my father, destroyed my town. Even if they hadn’t, none of this would have happened had they not protested. But when he was trying to start a conversation with me I only responded to one.
“Your father always said you’d be tough to break.” My eyes go wide.
“You knew my father? You knew Kaeleb?! Is he alive?” Mohammed grimaced.
“He’s alive, but in one of our hospitals, rebel spy, got caught. But one of the reasons we were sent to scope Sirt for survivors was under his command.” My eyes went wide.
“You mean, he isn’t dead, and he’s a- a rebel?” Mohammed nodded.
“And he wants us to invite you to be a rebel, so will you join us?” Missiles crashed down but I didn’t concentrate on that, my father was alive.
“Yes.”
Mohammed walks up to me and smiles.
“You ready?” I nod but he sees my reluctance. “Amira, it’s peaceful and if anything goes wrong I’ve got your back.” I smile.
“Yeah, even so I think I could handle myself out there.” I stick out my tongue at him and we both laugh. Since I’ve joined the rebels, two weeks ago, we’ve become close friends and comrades. My father had almost fully recovered, if you don’t count the missing leg. My friend Medina went on her first protest and braved the tanks. Now Mohammed and I are going.
“Ladies first,” he jokes. I grin and take his hand. Then the doors open and we run out, ready to fight for a new tomorrow.
