CREATIVITY AT COLLEGE
A landmine tore her little body into jagged chunks . Her piercing shriek still haunts the corridors of my mind .
My mother – exhausted and emaciated – died from illness as we reached the harbour . Her sunken eyes and prominent ribcage told the stories of how she selflessly gave her food , and her life , to me .
They got me to the harbour . It was my duty to ensure that their sacrifices were not in vain . It was my duty to escape this land : this war-ravaged nation . I needed to cross the sea .
As the new moon sky hid my furtive movements , I eyed a small vessel . The shadows concealed me , and after eavesdropping , I discovered the ship ’ s destination : Greece . He might as well have said Elysium . Greece was a promise of a safe haven , a bountiful land of hope and joy . This was our version of the American dream .
I slinked aboard the vessel , as the watch changed , nestling myself among some empty olive crates . Though the lingering smell tortured my hollow stomach , my body capitulated and I fell into a deep slumber .
D Atembe ( Sixth Form )
Machine-guns spat bullets : every short , sharp and erratic burst signalled another death . This was the glory and justice for which we were fighting . We hated them though , just as they hated us , for we were enemies .
Putrid odours wafted from abandoned limbs , caught in the barbed-wire fences . Walking corpses shuffled over sleeping men : frozen with the cold and numb with the horror of it all . Rats crawled and scurried , brazen in their movement . We didn ’ t have the heart to kill without need . We would still kill ‘ them ’ though , because they were the enemy .
Shrill , demented choirs of shells bombarded us . We waited for the one that sported our name . They rent the earth , scarring the mud . My friends were buried : dead and alive . This shell opened a portal , linking the hells of the overworld and underworld . There would be no funerals : just a poppy and a white grave . Ypres was not a battlefield upon which gallantry and heroism took place . The ‘ Battle of Ypres ’ was glorified slaughter , a monstrous formation of a boneyard of gargantuan proportions .
Every metre we progressed , we left a piece of our childhood behind . Every metre that we lost meant that another sacrifice was in vain . The enemy charged over the top , and a few even managed to make it into our trench . I gazed upon the face of the enemy : a German lad of 15 or 16 . I did not hate him , even as I thrust my bayonet through his eye socket and watched ‘ triumphantly ’ as his quivering corpse sank to the muddy ground . In that moment I realised , wars cannot be won . The side that wins is simply the side that loses less .
I was woken with a jolt . A warm weather-beaten hand was firmly placed on my shoulder . Apparently my snoring had alerted them to my presence . After a few moments of relatively intense interrogation , I was fed , clothed and given a hammock for the evening . With my faith in humanity having been erased by the atrocities that I have experienced from birth , the pure unadulterated philanthropy of these men absolutely disarmed me , providing a strong antidote to my cynicism .
The crossing was brief . As the shores of Greece dominated the horizon , a feeling of grim satisfaction surged through me . With a pat on the back , I was placed on the docks – alone . I was an island , floating in a sea on unfamiliarity .
As I made my way out of the labyrinth of warehouses , a gaunt man in a blue uniform asked me if I was “ yet another Syrian refugee ”. Upon my affirmation , he directed me into his vehicle and drove me to the camp . “ There is more of your kind here , boy ” he muttered .
But as the door of the car shut behind me , my heart sank . The air reverberated with a sickening cacophony of cries and wails . They hung over the camp like a cloud . The stench of dead bodies and human waste assaulted my nostrils .
And as a tear slowly rolled down my dirt-stained cheek , I wiped it away . At least I was better off …
Or was I ? R Hodgson ( Sixth Form )
Every night I wake up screaming , and all I can envisage is me killing . And in the end , peace was decided upon in a boardroom . None of the soldiers who survived will ever have peace though . The dead died for a fragile document , broken later by men who thought there was still glory in war , men who had not seen enough soldiers dying . These men wear suits and ties , and they sit in boardrooms , and with the flourish of a pen they decide who lives and who dies . These men are agents of the Angel of Death , Azrael , because it is in their soft , dry and nigh-on-unused hands that all our fates lie .
These men are the real enemy .
Stowaway
R Hodgson ( Sixth Form )
My father was shot : three bullets through his back as he ushered my family out of our home city , Aleppo . His lifeless form sank to the ground – his arms outstretched into a final goodbye …
My sister , just six years old , placed her foot on the wrong patch of road . S Magoso ( Sixth Form )
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