A group of my friends lately visited the Singapore flyer and their feedback about the ride was all negative. They all complained and said it was a waste of money. There chairs are too hard, it is not comfortable, it’s without end, they just went on an on about how boring it was. When our school announced that we would be visiting the flyer, I felt obliged to go. I expected the ride to be exhausting and take ages to make one complete revolution and to add on top of that I am agoraphobic. I pictured myself sited in the capsule and counting sheep until the ride was done, not my idea for one to have fun especially since we had just completed our exams. I began thinking of excuses I would tell my teacher to keep me from going and experiencing the greatest boredom of the centaury but once I found out that the things we would learn would contribute towards our school marks I had no choice but to attend. I decided to bring along a story book and my music player to keep me entertained until the ride was over before the flight was over. Little had I known that I was in for a fun day filled with excitement and anxiety!
When we first arrived at the flyer I noticed how spectacular and breath-taking the venue was. I was exhilarated by the standard of professionalism and it made one look forward to the ride itself. It was extremely eco-friendly. There was a lovely display of plants and flowers of a wide variety positioned underneath the humungous Singapore flyer. The venue also had a clean surrounding with not a speck of dirt around. Everything form the shops to the information office was well organised, to add on top it had friendly staff which never failed to greet one with a smile. When I laid my eyes on the actual Singapore flyer I was taken aback by its magnificent structure and its eye catching view. I was now more anxious to take a ride on it. Little had I known that there were more attractive places to see. The first attraction that I saw from a birds eye view was the Marina Barrage. The marina barrage is a damn built at the mouth of the marina bay area that opens out o the sea to act like a tidal barrier to prevent high tides. It looks set to become the next hot spot for water sports. I also saw the marina bay integrated resort. It will be Singapore’s first integrated resort and will add a new dimension to the landscape of marina bay. The Fullerton hotel and the durian shaped Esplanade was visible from the top of the flyer. Not far from the esplanade was the floating stadium which consists of a 27000 person seating gallery and it’s the world’s largest floating platform. I had a stunning view of all these venues while inside the superb engineering feat.
As the wheel went round, it brought tons of butterflies in my stomach but the cacophony of students’ chatter quickly filled the surrounding and within seconds I had forgotten that I was even claustrophobic to start with. It was not as frightening as I thought it would be. One could barely feel it moving. It was probably due to the fact that I was having too much fun with my friends to notice. I kept my eyes glued on the glass frame waiting to find as many attractions as I could. I and my friends would play a game to see who would spot the most unique locations in a given period of time. If we got disinterested of our mischievous activity we would take pictures with each other and wave at our classmates which were in other capsules. I had loads of fun. I longed for the ride to go on without end. My expectations were more then met. I was blown away by what I experienced. I never thought that I would enjoy myself so much.
When we reached the peak, which was the highest point of the flyer, which is about the height of a 42-storey building or to be more exact, 31 male giraffes stacked on top of one another, my co-form teacher, Mr Mok, showed us a building that was in a form of a number 13.I stared at the building in wonderment as he narrated the story behind it. Apparently the people who build the hotel dreamt of seeing a number 13. He then went ahead to build a hotel that was in a shape of a number 13. He claimed that it was an auspicious number. I was taken aback by what I heard. I never in my whole entire life imagine that person would go ahead and build something based on what he dreamt. I guess there are a lot of interesting things that will keep you in wonderment.
I not only think it’s a trip worth going but I KNOW so. Singapore Flyer is the world’s largest Giant Observation Wheel and is set to be one of Asia’s biggest tourist attractions. It should be placed as a must see not only with tourist but also with locals. Even though one has been in it before, you will never get tired of repeating the whole cycle. I would definitely recommend that everyone makes at least one trip there. It’s an excellent economic booster at the same time it is good for family or friendship bonding; you can even go to the extent of having a private dinner arranged. The magnificent structure with its panoramic view is a must see for all, but its more enjoyably if you share this memorable experience with a loved one, it’s a joyous experience you will never forget.
Thursday 20 August 2009
Tuesday 18 August 2009
1. The Japanese gentlemen buried me up to the chin in a shallow grave and left me to compost in 13 tons of soggy ground coffee. Fermentation had heated my pool-size percolator to a barely tolerable 60°C. For 2,000 yen (US$9.50) and 30 minutes, I steamed in some $10,000 worth of the world’s most popular beverage component, perhaps the best buy in today’s Japan. Billed as an antidote for almost everything, this featured attraction at Nishiarai Kouso Sauna Center in suburban Tokyo merely left me limp and somewhat immodestly clad in a dissolving paper bikini.
2. If the unique bath did little for me therapeutically, it surely showed how tastes have changed in this land of traditional tea drinkers. A generation ago few Japanese had sampled coffee by the cup, let alone by the tubful. Now Tokyo alone has some 16,000 coffeehouses; the nation, more than 100,000. None of the coffeehouses I visited even remotely resembled Europe’s, where scholars, philosophers, and politicians crowded into smoky dens to sip the brew for a penny or two. Japan’s coffeehouse charges the equivalent of US$1.50 a serving. For those who find indoor prices too steep, platoons of curbside vending machines dispense coffee for about 50 cents a can, hot or cold according to the season.
1. Although new to Japan, coffee had been an eye opener in other places since the ninth century, when according to legend, an Ethiopian goatherd found his flock frolicking about after munching on coffee cherries. He sampled a few and was soon gamboling along with his goats.
2. From humble beginnings as both food and drink for African tribesmen, coffee evolved into a global phenomenon of extravagant proportions. Among natural commodities in international trade, coffee usually ranks second only to petroleum in dollar value. All 50 exporting countries—led by Brazil, Colombia, Indonesia, and the Ivory Coast rely upon coffee as a major source of income. Some 25 million people depend upon it for their livelihood and uncounted millions down it by the potful.
3. This adds up to an amazing piece of action for a peanut-size bean whose sole purpose on this planet is to provide a virtually nutritionless beverage made mildly stimulating by the caffeine it contains. Unlike Brazil, which grows a third of the world’s supply and drinks a third of what it raises, most producing nations consume coffee sparingly. The bean brings more leaving home than staying there. It’s not their addiction to caffeine that gives Brazilians the jitters. Rather, it’s the chilling thought of a killing frost, which, in 1975, damaged nearly half of the country’s three billion coffee trees and sent retail prices into orbit.
4. Another such disaster loomed in June 1979, when I talked to Wolney Atalla, the world’s largest coffee grower. Frost had again hit southern Brazil. “The loss of a single tree means the loss of income on that spot for the three to five years it takes to replace it. Multiply that by our 15 million trees, and you can appreciate our concern.”
5. The only major export country susceptible to frost, Brazil, suspended all shipments pending assessment of damage and uneasy importers, fearing a shortage, went on a buying spree. Inevitably, prices rose, even though Brazil’s actual losses fell far below the first dire predictions. Several international experts summed up coffee’s swings in much the same way: “We have long periods of low prices, short periods of high ones. When highs occur, farmers rush in to plant. Once the tree begins bearing, it churns out beans without too much effort for the 12 to 30 years of its normal life. Overproduction follows; prices fall. Farmers tear up their plants and put in more stable crops. A disruption in coffee supplies starts the cycle all over again.”
6. Producers and consumers agree that the only sensible solution is to limit output to what the market can absorb, plus a standby reserve, and sell at prices reasonable to both sides. By imposing a quota system, they can limit the outflow of beans from producing nations in times of oversupply. These controls, in force to sustain prices only until the market does so normally, have been applied twice: from 1963 to 1973 and again in October 1980. Despite yo-yo conditions and a 100 percent increase in living costs in the United States over the past decade, coffee remains one of the least inflated prepared beverages: five cents a brew-it-yourself cup.
Adapted from The Bonanza Bean: Coffee By Ethel A. Starbird
NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC
2. If the unique bath did little for me therapeutically, it surely showed how tastes have changed in this land of traditional tea drinkers. A generation ago few Japanese had sampled coffee by the cup, let alone by the tubful. Now Tokyo alone has some 16,000 coffeehouses; the nation, more than 100,000. None of the coffeehouses I visited even remotely resembled Europe’s, where scholars, philosophers, and politicians crowded into smoky dens to sip the brew for a penny or two. Japan’s coffeehouse charges the equivalent of US$1.50 a serving. For those who find indoor prices too steep, platoons of curbside vending machines dispense coffee for about 50 cents a can, hot or cold according to the season.
1. Although new to Japan, coffee had been an eye opener in other places since the ninth century, when according to legend, an Ethiopian goatherd found his flock frolicking about after munching on coffee cherries. He sampled a few and was soon gamboling along with his goats.
2. From humble beginnings as both food and drink for African tribesmen, coffee evolved into a global phenomenon of extravagant proportions. Among natural commodities in international trade, coffee usually ranks second only to petroleum in dollar value. All 50 exporting countries—led by Brazil, Colombia, Indonesia, and the Ivory Coast rely upon coffee as a major source of income. Some 25 million people depend upon it for their livelihood and uncounted millions down it by the potful.
3. This adds up to an amazing piece of action for a peanut-size bean whose sole purpose on this planet is to provide a virtually nutritionless beverage made mildly stimulating by the caffeine it contains. Unlike Brazil, which grows a third of the world’s supply and drinks a third of what it raises, most producing nations consume coffee sparingly. The bean brings more leaving home than staying there. It’s not their addiction to caffeine that gives Brazilians the jitters. Rather, it’s the chilling thought of a killing frost, which, in 1975, damaged nearly half of the country’s three billion coffee trees and sent retail prices into orbit.
4. Another such disaster loomed in June 1979, when I talked to Wolney Atalla, the world’s largest coffee grower. Frost had again hit southern Brazil. “The loss of a single tree means the loss of income on that spot for the three to five years it takes to replace it. Multiply that by our 15 million trees, and you can appreciate our concern.”
5. The only major export country susceptible to frost, Brazil, suspended all shipments pending assessment of damage and uneasy importers, fearing a shortage, went on a buying spree. Inevitably, prices rose, even though Brazil’s actual losses fell far below the first dire predictions. Several international experts summed up coffee’s swings in much the same way: “We have long periods of low prices, short periods of high ones. When highs occur, farmers rush in to plant. Once the tree begins bearing, it churns out beans without too much effort for the 12 to 30 years of its normal life. Overproduction follows; prices fall. Farmers tear up their plants and put in more stable crops. A disruption in coffee supplies starts the cycle all over again.”
6. Producers and consumers agree that the only sensible solution is to limit output to what the market can absorb, plus a standby reserve, and sell at prices reasonable to both sides. By imposing a quota system, they can limit the outflow of beans from producing nations in times of oversupply. These controls, in force to sustain prices only until the market does so normally, have been applied twice: from 1963 to 1973 and again in October 1980. Despite yo-yo conditions and a 100 percent increase in living costs in the United States over the past decade, coffee remains one of the least inflated prepared beverages: five cents a brew-it-yourself cup.
Adapted from The Bonanza Bean: Coffee By Ethel A. Starbird
NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC
Tuesday 4 August 2009
Lukas family was worried because … The child was missing. They could not understand how he disappeared. They knew of what awaited a child when there was no one with him. The elephant had been eating around thus frightening them that the elephant would not feel if it stepped on the child. The family searched and called out for Lukas until dark. Anna and the men were back at midnight. Martiens, took over giving orders for the people to search north south east and west And the women to make a big fire in the middle of the Island incase the child fell asleep somewhere and wakes up, he'll see the glow and come back. Koos, left for Deep Walls to tell the forester about the missing child. By midday, woodcutters helped search for the child and later on the constable joined them.. Wherever the news had spread through the Forest, the woodcutters laid down their Martiens thought the child was no longer alive.
Sunday 2 August 2009
A Helpless Child
Anishka the seven-year old girl sat alone in the dark late at night, cat on her lap, dog by her side, the television is on. She could not sleep but that is about the only problem. As she focused her attention on the television, all she saw were people brutally being murdered, women crying and effortlessly struggling to leave behind the remains of their dead children whose body parts were scattered by bombs and lives been lost with a blink of an eye. A tear slowly trickled down her smooth delicate face as she murmured these words to herself without fail to stop, “When is my turn to die, when will I become like them.” Then and there she realised that she was a lucky sod.
Anishka is a Sinhalese, her parents were raised and born in Sri Lanka. They later died due to health problems and poor Anishka was taken in by an Indian Tamil family at the age of one. She never got the chance to know who her real parents were or what it felt like to be a Sinhalese. The Indian Tamils were shipped to Sri Lanka by the British in 1940s. The British gave good benefits to the Tamils over the local Sri Lankans. This angered many Sinhalese and when the British left in 1948 and granted Sri Lanka its independence, the Sinhalese decided to take their revenge slowly by changing some policies. Little had they known that these changes would results in millions of lives being lost.
Little Anishka did not experience a normal childhood, she grew up in an environment where little children of her age were holding guns and shooting at whomever they please, men and women brutally beaten up and left half naked to die on the street. She lived in constant fear all her life. Even in a place she called her home, Anishka was the centre of her step parent’s anger. She was the punching bag, be it at school or home, her life was centred around violence. Her step parents would vent their anger on her or beat her up for every problem they encountered because of the Sinhalese. Poor Anishka was brought up to hate her own kind.
“Ah ma, please don’t make me go to school today, I…I p-p-promise to be a good girl if you let me g-g-go with you to work,” stuttered Anishka in agitation.
Slowly lifting her arm, her mum smacked her across the face and accused her of being disrespectful, “Don’t you ever think you can control my decision just like the Sinhalese do!” she said out of breathe as though she had just run a race.
Trying to be strong, Anishka lifted her frail, weak body as she struggled to put a sentence together, “s-s-sorry, ah ma, I w-w-won’t d-d-do it again.”
She picked up what looked like a torn plastic bag which was on the verge of breaking, opened the door and headed for school. Tried to fight back her tears but they slowly streamed down her pale rough cheeks which looked like they have not been washed in months. As she entered the school gates, she felt the cold stares of her Tamil classmates come upon her. Though Anishka was a Sinhalese, she was raised Tamil and that was the only language she was exposed to. She therefore went to a Tamil school. The Tamil students in her class shunned her as well. Some of them were afraid to talk to her as they themselves were taught to hate anyone that did not look like them.
“My brother didn’t get a place at the university after he worked very hard for it, my mum says it’s because of people like you,” cursed the boy angrily at Anishka.
Filled with tears in her eyes and confusion she tried to fight back, “Don’t compare me to them, I’m Tamil, I’m one of you not them,” she cried as she tried to convince her schoolmates.
Realising what was going on a teacher rushed to her side as she reprimanded the boy, “Anishka is one of us, stop treating her as an outcast.”
Anishka was relived as she heard the school bell go off, she quickly grabbed her back pack and with a heavy heart she dragged her feet home. On the way home she tripped over dead bodies of helpless people, crying in pain, people shouting to her across the street, “Go back were you belong, you not wanted here.”
“Maybe if I join the LTTE my parents and schoolmates would realise that I am really one of them and they will be much nicer to me,” she thought to herself. The LTTE also known as the Tamil Tigers was an organisation that fought for the Tamil rights.Instead of heading home that day, Anishka headed to an army camp where she heard that they trained young children to be brave and fight for their people. Anishka’s need for acceptance led her into hatred for innocent people who did nothing wrong.
All little Anishka wanted to do was to be loved and accepted for who she was by her friends and loved ones. Instead she realised the only way to get that was to loathe and kill people that had done nothing to her in exchange for love that she longed for. Little did she know that the people she was killing, were people of her own race.
Anishka is a Sinhalese, her parents were raised and born in Sri Lanka. They later died due to health problems and poor Anishka was taken in by an Indian Tamil family at the age of one. She never got the chance to know who her real parents were or what it felt like to be a Sinhalese. The Indian Tamils were shipped to Sri Lanka by the British in 1940s. The British gave good benefits to the Tamils over the local Sri Lankans. This angered many Sinhalese and when the British left in 1948 and granted Sri Lanka its independence, the Sinhalese decided to take their revenge slowly by changing some policies. Little had they known that these changes would results in millions of lives being lost.
Little Anishka did not experience a normal childhood, she grew up in an environment where little children of her age were holding guns and shooting at whomever they please, men and women brutally beaten up and left half naked to die on the street. She lived in constant fear all her life. Even in a place she called her home, Anishka was the centre of her step parent’s anger. She was the punching bag, be it at school or home, her life was centred around violence. Her step parents would vent their anger on her or beat her up for every problem they encountered because of the Sinhalese. Poor Anishka was brought up to hate her own kind.
“Ah ma, please don’t make me go to school today, I…I p-p-promise to be a good girl if you let me g-g-go with you to work,” stuttered Anishka in agitation.
Slowly lifting her arm, her mum smacked her across the face and accused her of being disrespectful, “Don’t you ever think you can control my decision just like the Sinhalese do!” she said out of breathe as though she had just run a race.
Trying to be strong, Anishka lifted her frail, weak body as she struggled to put a sentence together, “s-s-sorry, ah ma, I w-w-won’t d-d-do it again.”
She picked up what looked like a torn plastic bag which was on the verge of breaking, opened the door and headed for school. Tried to fight back her tears but they slowly streamed down her pale rough cheeks which looked like they have not been washed in months. As she entered the school gates, she felt the cold stares of her Tamil classmates come upon her. Though Anishka was a Sinhalese, she was raised Tamil and that was the only language she was exposed to. She therefore went to a Tamil school. The Tamil students in her class shunned her as well. Some of them were afraid to talk to her as they themselves were taught to hate anyone that did not look like them.
“My brother didn’t get a place at the university after he worked very hard for it, my mum says it’s because of people like you,” cursed the boy angrily at Anishka.
Filled with tears in her eyes and confusion she tried to fight back, “Don’t compare me to them, I’m Tamil, I’m one of you not them,” she cried as she tried to convince her schoolmates.
Realising what was going on a teacher rushed to her side as she reprimanded the boy, “Anishka is one of us, stop treating her as an outcast.”
Anishka was relived as she heard the school bell go off, she quickly grabbed her back pack and with a heavy heart she dragged her feet home. On the way home she tripped over dead bodies of helpless people, crying in pain, people shouting to her across the street, “Go back were you belong, you not wanted here.”
“Maybe if I join the LTTE my parents and schoolmates would realise that I am really one of them and they will be much nicer to me,” she thought to herself. The LTTE also known as the Tamil Tigers was an organisation that fought for the Tamil rights.Instead of heading home that day, Anishka headed to an army camp where she heard that they trained young children to be brave and fight for their people. Anishka’s need for acceptance led her into hatred for innocent people who did nothing wrong.
All little Anishka wanted to do was to be loved and accepted for who she was by her friends and loved ones. Instead she realised the only way to get that was to loathe and kill people that had done nothing to her in exchange for love that she longed for. Little did she know that the people she was killing, were people of her own race.
JUSTICE
7 year old Anishka sits alone in the dark late at night, cat on her lap dog by her side, the television is on. She cannot sleep but that is about the only problem. As she focuses her attention on the television, all she sees are people brutally being murdered, women crying and effortlessly struggling to leave behind the remains of their dying children whose body parts were scattered by bombs and lives been lost with a blink of an eye. A tear slowly begins to trickle down her smooth delicate face as she murmur these words to herself without fail to stop, “When is my turn to die, when will I become like them.” Then and there she realises that she is a lucky sod.
Anishka is a Sinhalese. Her parents were raised and born in Sri Lanka. They later died due to health problems and poor Anishka was taken in by an Indian Tamil family at the age of one. She never got the chance to know who her real parents were or what it felt like to be a Sinhalese. The Indian Tamils were shipped to Sri Lanka by the British in 1940s. The British gave good benefits to the Tamils over the local Sri Lankans. This angered many Sinhalese and when the British left in 1948 and granted Sri Lanka its independence, the Sinhalese decided to take their revenge slowly by changing some policies. Little had they known that these changes would results in millions of lives being lost
Little Anishka did not experience a normal childhood, she grew up in an environment where little children her age were holding guns and shooting at whomever they please, men and women been brutally beaten up and left half naked to die on the street. She lived in constant fear all her life. Even in a place she called her home, Anishka was the centre of her step parent’s anger. She was the punching bag, be it school or home, her life was centred around violence. Her step parents would vent their anger on her or beat her up for every problem they encountered because of the Sinhalese. Poor Anishka was brought up to hate her own kind.
“Ah ma, please don’t make me go to school today, I…I p-p-promise to be a good girl if you let me g-g-go with you to work,” stuttered Anishka in agitation.
Slowly lifting her arm, her mum smacked her across the face and accused her of being disrespectful, “Don’t you ever think you can control my decision just like the Sinhalese do!” she said out of breathe as though she had just run a race.
Trying to be strong, Anishka lifted her frail, weak body as she struggled to put a sentence a together, “s-s-sorry, ah ma, I w-w-won’t d-d-do it again.”
She picked up what looked like a torn plastic bag which was on the verge of breaking, opened the door and headed for school. Trying to fight back tears; with fail, they slowly streamed down her pale rough cheeks which looked like they have not been washed in months. As she entered the school gates, she felt the cold stares of her Tamil classmates come upon her. Though Anishka was a Sinhalese, she was raised Tamil and that was the only language she was exposed to. She therefore went to a Tamil school. The Tamil students in her class shunned her as well. Some of them were afraid to talk to her as they themselves were taught to hate anyone that did not look like them.
“My brother didn’t get a place at the university after he worked very hard for it, my mum says it’s because of people like you,” cursed the boy angrily at Anishka.
Filled with tears in her eyes and confusion she tried to fight back, “Don’t compare me to them, I’m Tamil, I’m one of you not them,” she cried as she tried to convince her schoolmates.
Realising what was going on a teacher rushed to her side as she reprimanded the boy, “Anishka is one of us, stop treating her as an outcast.”
Anishka was relived as she heard the school bell go off, she quickly grabbed her back pack and with a heavy heart she dragged her feet home. On the way home she tripped over dead bodies of helpless people, crying in pain, people shouting to her across the street, “go back were you belong, you not wanted here.”
“Maybe if I join the LTTE my parents and schoolmates would realise that I am really one of them and they will be much nicer to me,” she thought to herself. Instead of heading home that day, Anishka headed to an army camp where she heard that they trained young children to be brave and fight for their people. Anishka’s need for acceptance led her into hatred for innocent people who did nothing wrong.
All little Anishka wanted to do was to be loved and accepted for who she was by her friends and loved ones. Instead she realised the only way to get that was to loathe and kill people that had done nothing to her in exchange for love that she longed for. Little did she know that the people she was killing, were people of her own race.
Anishka is a Sinhalese. Her parents were raised and born in Sri Lanka. They later died due to health problems and poor Anishka was taken in by an Indian Tamil family at the age of one. She never got the chance to know who her real parents were or what it felt like to be a Sinhalese. The Indian Tamils were shipped to Sri Lanka by the British in 1940s. The British gave good benefits to the Tamils over the local Sri Lankans. This angered many Sinhalese and when the British left in 1948 and granted Sri Lanka its independence, the Sinhalese decided to take their revenge slowly by changing some policies. Little had they known that these changes would results in millions of lives being lost
Little Anishka did not experience a normal childhood, she grew up in an environment where little children her age were holding guns and shooting at whomever they please, men and women been brutally beaten up and left half naked to die on the street. She lived in constant fear all her life. Even in a place she called her home, Anishka was the centre of her step parent’s anger. She was the punching bag, be it school or home, her life was centred around violence. Her step parents would vent their anger on her or beat her up for every problem they encountered because of the Sinhalese. Poor Anishka was brought up to hate her own kind.
“Ah ma, please don’t make me go to school today, I…I p-p-promise to be a good girl if you let me g-g-go with you to work,” stuttered Anishka in agitation.
Slowly lifting her arm, her mum smacked her across the face and accused her of being disrespectful, “Don’t you ever think you can control my decision just like the Sinhalese do!” she said out of breathe as though she had just run a race.
Trying to be strong, Anishka lifted her frail, weak body as she struggled to put a sentence a together, “s-s-sorry, ah ma, I w-w-won’t d-d-do it again.”
She picked up what looked like a torn plastic bag which was on the verge of breaking, opened the door and headed for school. Trying to fight back tears; with fail, they slowly streamed down her pale rough cheeks which looked like they have not been washed in months. As she entered the school gates, she felt the cold stares of her Tamil classmates come upon her. Though Anishka was a Sinhalese, she was raised Tamil and that was the only language she was exposed to. She therefore went to a Tamil school. The Tamil students in her class shunned her as well. Some of them were afraid to talk to her as they themselves were taught to hate anyone that did not look like them.
“My brother didn’t get a place at the university after he worked very hard for it, my mum says it’s because of people like you,” cursed the boy angrily at Anishka.
Filled with tears in her eyes and confusion she tried to fight back, “Don’t compare me to them, I’m Tamil, I’m one of you not them,” she cried as she tried to convince her schoolmates.
Realising what was going on a teacher rushed to her side as she reprimanded the boy, “Anishka is one of us, stop treating her as an outcast.”
Anishka was relived as she heard the school bell go off, she quickly grabbed her back pack and with a heavy heart she dragged her feet home. On the way home she tripped over dead bodies of helpless people, crying in pain, people shouting to her across the street, “go back were you belong, you not wanted here.”
“Maybe if I join the LTTE my parents and schoolmates would realise that I am really one of them and they will be much nicer to me,” she thought to herself. Instead of heading home that day, Anishka headed to an army camp where she heard that they trained young children to be brave and fight for their people. Anishka’s need for acceptance led her into hatred for innocent people who did nothing wrong.
All little Anishka wanted to do was to be loved and accepted for who she was by her friends and loved ones. Instead she realised the only way to get that was to loathe and kill people that had done nothing to her in exchange for love that she longed for. Little did she know that the people she was killing, were people of her own race.
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