Islam
A Course with Sarah
Hudspith
I am a ghost of my town, a loner. I keep to myself and don't bother with much. I have a name but I don't use it. I am me. My mother, whom is one I listen to and trust, protects me from myself. I choose a way for me, for her, and likewise.
I am an artist. I write, I draw, I play, I live. Not many people know me, or even know who I am, I am me.
There is a darkness in my life, it is like a hole that can't be filled, surrounded by nothingness. That darkness keeps me going, but also brings me down. But that darkness is a part of me, and I am me.
Life gets darker by the day, and by night life goes on. Each day I arise and prepare myself for another day of darkness. May be I hold that darkness, may be I collect it, I don't know, all that I do know is I am me.
I sit here in my room all alone, wainting. I don't know what I am waiting for. Am I waiting for my mother? Am I waiting to take this drug that will soon end my short and almost meaningless life? Am I waiting for someone to come into my life and to stop me from taking this drug?
Who is that person? Will they ever come? Is it someone that I know? I have got to stop this nonsense. Why have I spent my whole life waiting? I am sick of waiting. I am sick of it all. I am taking the drug.
Its over. I don't have to wait any more. I don't have to dream up excuses to stay alive. I am me, and I am done.
My last minutes of life are these sad, lonely minutes. I never said good-bye, but to whome would I have said good-bye to? My mother? The cat? My mother knows me and knew this was coming. She couldn't have not.
I can't write anymore. I feel woozy tired, and I almost can't see. Its getting dark, and I must go.
My
Mosque
by Alina Schnitzlein
There are the feelings of total silence, nothingness, unimportance
of any surroundings when I enter my mosque. For a non-moslem like me, a mosque
is a place to come to myself, not being disturbed by anything, in the silence
and coolness and love of the believers.My mosque is the botanic garden in
Munich. My special places are teh garden, the cactus-house and, most important
of all, the palmtree-house. That's where I find my peaceAt the entrance I can
already feel coming nearer to "my place" with an exotic breeze of an palmtree.
I get a small ticket reminiscent of the times without computers, and see the
big glass palace with its dirty, green windows. I know my way and stand in
front of a door which announces on a plastic card the temperature change. I'm
going into the jungle. No noise, just the peaceful blob of the walet with its
turtles in it. The air, the time seems to hold on its breath and is waiting for
me to react to its beauty. I lift my head up to the roof of bombus and palmtree
leaves, hear the scartching sound of stones touching each other under my feet
and smile. I take a step forward and time starts again. But there isn't any
change in my mosque. The change is in me, I came to a stop. Now I am free to
breath the damp air. It doesn't disturb me any more. I feel my independence and
stroll on with my head high up as if this was my place. On the right and on the
left side of me are green shadows and hundreds of different greens living. I
know, I don't own this, but I know, whis is my mosque. I try to enter it
everytime with new amazement, astonishment, honour. And when I leave again, I
leavewith the feeling of relief and freedom and with new
selfconfidence.
This is my mosque.
Justice
by Maaike Rogger
Buuung, and the door was closed again and with the closing of the door the light was also gone. Just a few seconds before a few light beams were illuminating the square concrete room, the prison cell.
Now he was sitting in the dark again. He sat in the left corner, crouched in thin and pale.
Just before a prison guard came in to bring him one piece of old dried bread, that was all. The prison guard didn't talk didn't smile didn't even look at him, just opened the weire door a tiny bit, shoved in the bread turned around and left.
He moved out of his corner to get the bread, it was normal for him that the priosn guards were unfriendly and that no himanity existed in this prison, sad yes extremely sad but that was true reality.
The first day he came here, he could see the cell for some minutes, with the light of a lantern. He saw hoow dirty everything was and how unfriendly dark and depressing, in the end of the corridor he could see some cloth or sheets, he was not sure what it was but surely nothing nice and cosy. The he wanted to look around for a while but the guard left and with him the light of the lantern.... darkness.
He was sitting in his cell in the left corner already far a very long time, he couldn't move to the right corner, because there were stille some leftovers from the prisoner who must have been here before.
........sometimes he thought about all the other prisoners and
what had happened to them. were they also sitting in a corner, were they dead
already or did their hand get cut of or their eyes get taken out or ...
sometimes he heard from far away a bum ... probably an other door from an other
cellm opened by an other cruel prison guard. Since he has been here the
question what his final judgement was, was turning around in his head, how long
did he still need to sit here, suffer and wait, in the dark, smelly gloomy
room?...
and would his judgement be fair, he knew he stole from his friend
and he knew it wasn't right, and in his brain he knew that the normal judgement
for stealing was that your hand get cut off, but he tried to suppress this
thought ... it was too horrible to think about.
He was wandering what was right what was fair and actally he had already enough punishment, by just sitting in this... the door opened a few light beams fell into the room, two prison guards stepped inside, they told him tonight he would receive his punishment, they would come and get him, the prison guards turned around and left, the door was colsed again.
What would his punishment be, would it be fair? and who decided if it is fair or if it has any sense of justice? Does the judge know what justice is? What is justice?
Some words passed his thoughts, it were the words of Martin Luther King. He said: The old law, an eye for an eye leaves on both side blind people. That was a simple sentence and totally true, this sentence carries a lot of wisdom!
Is it right when you kill someone that you get killed, is it right when you steal, that they steal your hand by cutting them off or is ist not right, what is real fair justice? If I kill and then get killed I'm gone and can't kill anymore but still many more people can kill. Shouldn't there be some other kind of judgement, then just doing the same thing back to the one who gets punished? Otherwise it goes on and on. Don't those wise people say mistakes help you to grow ... Would he ever find the rules of real justice, or is there more then one true justice, hasn't every culture or eben every single person their own definiton of justice, would he find out?
The door opened and two guards came in, they told him to come. He left for the first and last time the gloomy, cruel cell.
Surrender
by Livy Vinhateiro
I was on my way to school one afternoon, carrying a heavy bag and I was a bit on the late side, when suddenly a heavy rain got me by surprise. This was really annoying. Not only did I get wet and cold, but I also just saw my bus driving away down at the stop, So I would have to wait for a long time there with out any shelter.
I tried to walk as closely to the houses as possible, so I could mybe escape a few drops, but no. My hair got wet and stick to my head, along it water came into my face. Water came into my bag too, onto my books, because it was so full I couldn't close it properly. Water dropped onto my shoes and I could feel the wedness git through to my feet. The shoes were ruined, the rain weighed me down.Everything around me became grey, my hair was wet and weighed me down. I let my head hang as to hide from the rain, my wool pullover was soaked and weiged me down. I held my arms tightly around myself hopelessly trying to fence off the rain. I myself was soaked and weighed me down.
Then I saw a young woman coming up the road. She wasn't dressed especially colourful, but she looked colourful to me. She was walking in the middle of the street, barefoot, carrying her shoes in one hand. Every now and then she shook her wet hair. The rain seemed to wash away any of her negative feelings and give her joy and energy. She really warmed my heart, and eventhough she didn't work the same for me as the rain did for her, I remember her everytime I get into a rain and try to surrender a bit mor everytime.
