Silence… A woman sleeps soundly peacefully in her dream house. She loved her life: she lived happily with her beloved husband and raised wonderful children. Suddenly, the tranquility shattered. A phone call. Half asleep, the woman stood up. For a second her heart skipped a beat, as if it sensed something was wrong. But she brushed aside her doubts. Silence… The surprisingly calm and peaceful atmosphere is broken by a loud cry. Her husband and son run up to her in bewilderment. Silence. Again. But this silence is different: there is no peace in it. Soon there will be crying again, and it will remain in this house for many years. Who would have thought that this end is actually a new beginning, that this crying is the first step towards stopping other people's mourning? Silence… The world has lost another young beautiful girl, and the parents have lost their only daughter that day. 128 mothers felt the same pain as that woman that day. Another 128 families were stabbed in the back by their loved ones. Time has stopped. Happy moments with her daughter kept flying in front of mother's eyes. She felt deep sadness, rage towards her son-in-law, and guilt for letting her daughter die; emotions were eating her up. Silence… Everyone fell asleep from powerlessness. And even sleep did not bring peace. Now, the woman was thinking about her future. But this time, she looked at it with an empty, hopeless gaze. Funeral… A cry was heard in the dead silence. Everyone immediately understood what kind of crying it was. The mother was in disbelief. “It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she repeated. It is the daughter who should bury her parents, and not the other way around. It wasn't supposed to happen. Gathering her emotions, she went to honor her mercilessly killed daughter. Silence… Court. Sadness still filled the mother's heart. The family waited for this trial for more than 4 months. The trial was already a victory. The trial was a ray of hope that justice would prevail and the killer would be punished as he deserved. An influential rich man could not hush up the matter with bribes. “It is indeed a victory,” she thought. Thanks to the wide publicity of the case, the mother felt not only the support of the public, but also an obligation to remain strong for the sake of her daughter and other women subjected to domestic violence. The judge asked the court to stand up. Silence… Court. It has already lasted 20 days. Looking at the imperturbable face of her daughter's husband and her killer, the woman felt a surge of rage. She wanted to bring him the same pain that he brought to her daughter and the whole family. The rage turned into despondency. It seemed that all the jurors and the judge had already received their bribes, so the killer sat smugly. But looking into the eyes of one of the jurors, the woman realized that the efforts made to conduct this trial were not in vain. On the same day, the president signed the law, popularly named after her daughter. It is designed to protect women and children from domestic violence. For a second the woman thought about the absurdity of the situation. A person had to die painfully for a law to be passed to criminalize beatings, for support centers against domestic violence to operate, for inducement to suicide to be criminally punished, and even for the introduction of criminal liability for sexual harassment of children. The woman felt anger towards the tyrants and sympathy for the victims. But these feelings quickly gave way to mental pain. Only one question was in her head: “Why my daughter?” The woman became pensive and there was silence… Silence was only in her head. A wave of hope swept across the country. The only thing that bothered people was that the trial was not over. Silence… Court… Jury… Judge… Killer… Media… Everything seemed too surreal. It seemed to the woman that she was not in that room. She wished this was a dream. For 2 months now, the whole country has been discussing the life of her daughter. Some even blamed her daughter for what happened. Tears welled up in her eyes. A couple of minutes later, the judge announced a 24-year sentence for the killer (there were cases when wife killers were given only 1.5 years). The country rejoiced. But a storm raged in the woman's heart. All emotions were mixed. This is a victory and a defeat at the same time. This is joy, but at the same time, sadness. Silence… There are different emotions hanging in the air. But most importantly, justice to some extent triumphed. A new era of the country's development has begun. The killers realized that they would be punished for what they had done, and the victims would stop keeping silent about it. People felt safe. However, the grief of the family of the deceased girl cannot be expressed in words. This time, the silence was interrupted by the carefree laughter of children and the silent smile of a woman, satisfied with her life without a tyrant.

LION OF THE PEN When it rains, it pours!! These last few days epitomized this, with no less than four family members being rushed to hospital, two requiring urgent operations! The usually effervescent energy of the family chat group quickly shifted to a somberness that weighed heavily on the chest, often causing laboured breathing! The lighthearted posts were replaced with constant updates from the hospitals, messages of mutual support, and prayers ... lots of prayers... Then.. this afternoon, the dreaded news... I remembered that Saturday morning when he had called, requesting that I attend the Maritzburg unveiling of his book, "Mandela In Focus" at the Nizamia Hall. I remembered being in awe as he addressed the audience. I had attended primary school at Nizamia, as did my parents, uncles, aunts and many cousins. And so did he, as I surprisingly learnt from his speech! But never before had I encountered the history of the school as he told it! Even the school governing body later commented on the need to document it! After his speech, he made a bee line towards me, with the visible joy of one reconnecting with a long lost relative. He even stated that he now "recognized the family forehead"! He then quickly rearranged the row of chairs where we sat, into a circle and promptly summoned and introduced me to two other relatives, who had accompanied him to the unveiling. The last we had met was when I was a little girl, on holiday, at my uncle and aunt's home in Durban, where he was a frequent guest, up until my uncle's passing. Our paths never crossed again until January this year, when he had approached me with an invite, to be a guest on his talk show. It was only after providing a short bio for the show, did he make the connection and delightedly stated, "We're family!" Even after the unveiling event, the handful of us stood out on the school grounds as he continued exuberantly chatting, clearly explaining exactly how my grandfather was his uncle, and my mother his cousin. He pointed across the field to the house in which my grandfather once lived, next to the mosque. He said he had spent a lot of time there and could still clearly remember every detail of that house... every fruit tree in the garden... everyone who lived there... and everyone who visited... He spoke of how my grandfather "presided over the community" and how we needed to co-author a book about his life. His love for my late grandfather was visibly evident. By this time, Kevin Joseph, the photographer of "Mandela in Focus", and the school principal had joined in the conversation. He introduced me as his niece, to which Kevin quickly inquired: "Another one?" "No! This one REALLY IS my niece!" he emphatically proclaimed. I later discovered that he habitually adopted people as family. All the cars in the parking lot had by now long dispersed, except for ours... Over the coming months, I received regular phone calls... a caring uncle watching over me... a seasoned mentor... I thoroughly enjoyed listening to tales about his friendship with Muhammad Ali and Barbra Streisand, the lavish dinners, the times when her home was filled with people, at the height of fame... and other things... He always ended his calls with a bit of parting wisdom... He also spoke about the book he was writing, documenting his experiences as a journalist and activist. He mentioned the title he was considering ... "The Man They Couldn't Gag" ... and asked me to write a short poem for the foreward. I obliged with "Lion of the Pen" Lion of the Pen He feared not the hunter's bullets in his quest to be heard And a deafening ROAR it was From his written word AdielaAkoo At the time of writing this poem, I never once thought that barely six months later, I would be writing this piece! It's only been a few hours since that dreaded news, and it still feels so surreal. The reality of lifelessness in one normally so full of life, is quite jarring! From the influx of messages being posted on social media, the positive impact that uncle Farook had on the lives of so many people, is clearly apparent. Combined with this, was his wonderful talent of making each person feel uniquely special! He will, undoubtedly, be sorely missed... Part of my own treasure trove of memories is this autographed copy of his book, "The Goodwill Lounge", in which he wrote this message in bold letters: "TO ADIELA, WHO OWNS THE SKY" And that is exactly how he made you feel! Like nothing was impossible! You could take on the world, like he did! They say that when an elder dies, a library burns down. These words have never rang truer than in the case of my uncle, Farook Khan. May you rest in peace, Lion of the Pen! (10 September 1944 – 3 October 2019) by Adiela Akoo

I look myself in the mirror, I can discern the decay of my face. There is no smile anymore. The stasis of my lips offers satisfactorily lust in my thoughts that torment my mind with Medieval methods. I touch my idol in the mirror and I hurt. I try to close his eyes, but I cannot. They stay open and still and they look morbidly. Chainsaws echo from the overlooked cemetery, tear into pieces mercilessly the marble crosses. What have I done to myself so he looks at me like this? Why my sharpened teeth do not appear on the glass surface with sole purpose to bite her? Sorrow hallowing my forehead with sorrow. Indestructible thorns jab more deeper in the flesh of my skull. Bloody tears sparkling in my hands' palms. If I scream I will die. If I die I will have to kill. If I kill I am obliged to leave. If I leave, I will return. God, why, the sorrows of people transmute into ebony coffins that are buried within my heart? If only I could soothe my consciousness for seven days… I feel something to choke me. My throat is asphyxiating while my glass idol laughs horrendously. I can't stand the howling. No, yell at me no more. Reigns powerful silence, and then spasms commence recalling me in my starting position, before abyssal darkness arrogates my senses. Maybe fate leads me in a deathly destiny, which in case it happens, will become the salvation which is the highest virtue for a tormented soul like mine. No, I don't murmur. The existing circumstances of life have tired me insurmountably, because as I try to open a way out to the future, it ricochets me to the past. Death is the physical continuation of life, and I will be delighted if it happens to the days of my youth, for the simplest reason, that I cannot avoid him. To speak the truth, I don't want to avoid him. I want desperately to remain alive and to feel whatever joy I can, but they don't let me. In which attempt I give or trying to be present, they find ways to chain me and isolate me. The only thing that will never succeed in accomplishing is to handcuff my mind. A free spirit clearly suffering, but in no way it can be imprisoned. A free spirit prefers death so not to lose innocence, insight, respect and prestige. I have thought many times while I stroll in the city, how life would continue if I committed suicide… For sure there will be consequences and repercussions to people who they love me , however they would continue to exist without me, and with the flow of time the rift of pain would heal in desired spots. The verb “die” does not fit here, so, reasonably I use the verb “suicide”. Suicide is not an act of cowardice as some falsely believe. Because nobody knows how much pain a single human has within his soul. Nobody knows the spiritual boundaries and the stamina in a daily routine that open wounds that cannot be healed. How many people we see daily that smile whilst inside them are literally devastated… How many people we see daily that seek a kind word, a velvet touch, an understanding breath, and the only thing that get is disdain… How many people daily we place of the beam of desperation without remorse…Here is a key word which provokes pathogenic causes with fatal results. Suicide as a meaning and as an act certainly is the ultimate hybris against God, though requires determination and courage to turn yourself against yourself and violently remove the coveted life in that way. How many of you have done this macabre thought at least once… In this theater of paradox we daily live, the incarnation of life to life seems like an unreachable dream. Loneliness, disappointment, sorrow, wrong choices, guilt, remorse, unemployment, compulsion, hatred, unfairy tax policies, lies, eradication, violation of human rights, greed, selfishness, stab democracy that all people worship. The rule of law which could be, turns into a cradle of powerful coldness where everything collapse upon the enormous steel walls of human separation. Undead people wander everywhere aimlessly. They stamp upon dead bodies, seeking comprehensible sunrays of justice and transparent water to wash away their sins. How would it seem to the violators of this planet, who have elevated the obedient lobotomy to a profitable enterprise, a universal peace, which it would dismiss forever the wars for interest and people would live happily? A universal peace will destroy forever the human funnel grinders of annihilation. Only by thinking of it, my heart shivers from hope and expectation. A universal peace would give meaning in words and prestige in actions of future generations in a planet which agonizes… The only thing that is needed is an incision of kindness into the hearts of men… An incision that will bring back long-forgotten feelings, good deeds, smiles, hope… Hope for a palatable future life. We need love to live, not pain. Tears drop from my eyes as my words breath on the paper. What I wish for, what I want is, my words breathe inside your psychic dreams…

There is a beautiful world. Every new ray of the sun in this world gives endless joys. The blue sky is a happy blanket, looking playfully, down at the earths inhabitants. Every living being on earth is safe and full of joy. Every pair of eyes is radiant with million dreams. All hands here are raised to help everyone around them. Every pair of feet walking in peaceful existence. No stomach is empty here, No heart is hurt. No childhood is scarred. No teenage scorned. No contempt here. No judgments. No wars here. No gory. These people here, unaware of harmful weapons. No tears. Nothing at all! What is there then, in this world? What is that there? That thing so big and yellow ? It's a grain of corn, big enough to feed a family. Who is that? A stranger in black clothes trying to lovingly quieten a crying child. Those roofs there, they were made to give shelter from sun and rain. The clothes of people? Pale colored but warm. The food? Enough for all and delicious. Everything else, simple. Transport? Roads? Not needed here. The hearts are close. And the cold screens? The networking apps? This world here, has warm handshakes. Hugs and Kisses. Love in abundance. And the list goes on. For everything we have, this world has more. Our Every More, is a happy ‘less' here. This world is very simple and yet difficult to understand, for all of us. A tolerant world!

Since I mentioned my ass childhood on my biography app... I feel better and at peace with my past. So I just wrote down everything from kindergarten up to 9/11 to grade 9 (high school). For once I feel comfortable in my own corpse (that's what I call my body and skin not that I am dead.) let's put it this why my parents made a read fuck the dog moment when they first put me in catholic school. Since I was adopted I didn't think that my human rights went out the fucking window again. I don't forgive terrorists and my other tormentors but I am not angry because I believe them meaning of buddhist name.... karma. The universe evening things out. And that it did over the high school and my young adult years. I just had to tell my story to the world and as to why I want to climb Everest and other Himalayas for my causes so this doesn't happen to another kid with ethnic DNA and/or PTSD. Let's just say this. A human is a fucking human so treate other the way you wish to be treated.

I recently had an interesting discussion with a friend of a friend on the subject of abstract art and the interpretations and meanings that the audience of such art might bring into it, versus the original intention that the artist brought into the piece at its creation. Having been raised in an analytical setting, I have always been keenly aware of that anecdote, where a university professor is analyzing a novel and the author comes up to the front to correct him. The professor then turns to him and says, "With all due respect sir, what do you know? You're just the author." I've always been of the opinion that once art is released, it ceases to be the auteur's. The creator no longer has any power over it, or over how it is received. Every person that looks upon it will see something different, for both biological and psychological reasons. This applies to every kind of art; paintings, photographs, poems, stories. while they are being created, the artist retains some control, choosing specific colors, using subtle allusions and allegories to at least try to direct the inevitable interpretations in a direction. But once the piece is shared, even if only with one person, the artist must surrender control over it or go mad, because one simply cannot control the meaning that different people, with different backgrounds, having had a different combination of influences upon them, will draw from the piece. For example, take Malevich's black square. When I first saw it, my attention was drawn to how the paint is cracked in the center, but not evenly. If you look closely at the paint that isn't cracked, you start to see shapes, as if Malevich put on a second coat of the paint in those specific places. I see a house in those shapes, an old, wood cabin in the middle of a forest in the dead of night. The reason I see that is because of who I am as a person, because of the influences that were had on me in my childhood, because of secret, subconscious fears and dreams and wishes. Someone else might look upon the black square and see the withered remains of a flower lattice, gone black with age, or a shadow cast by a statue, or the darkness inside of humanity, or whatever else. There's seven and a half billion people on this planet, which means that there are, currently, seven and a half billion versions of the Black Square, originally by Kasimir Malevich. While many of those interpretations likely share quite a few of the traits that Malevich meant to project with the project, no black square will ever exist in anyone's mind exactly the same way as it did in Kasimir's mind as he sat down in front of a blank canvas with a paint roller and a bucket of Vantablack. I guess what I'm trying to say is that every human being is different, and this makes it so that there's no way to predict or manipulate how your audience will receive your piece, because once you've sent it out into the world, there will be no one single [name of piece], but rather a million million versions of it, each version existing safely and cozily in a different person's mind. To try and influence your audience, as an artist, and tell them the "correct" answer, is to, simply put, try to change all of these human beings into copies of you. Because, the fact is, there is no "correct" answer. It's not your piece anymore; you've given it to them, so whatever they define as the one true interpretation of it becomes absolutely true and "correct" - for them. As artists, we must learn to step aside and let our works grow and expand and make babies. We must stop trying to rearrange people's heads to make them like our own, and we must give people the space and freedom to add on to our creations. We must stop trying to plug meaning into them, but rather to let our audience draw out the meaning that was already there. Maybe that's the key to world peace.

It all began along a vibrant street, blossoms everywhere, foliage scattered all around, the brisk frost felt so quiescent, so serene to my soul. How amazing the sky with spiraling cotton clouds, the grass with dew sparkling like diamonds. This divine art of nature tranquilized the mind and body of pedestrians. I was flabbergasted by the nature that I forgot to notice something. Something horrendous indeed. Standing across the street, under the umbrella of sunrays, were four kids with four bags but with “two different stories”. Two kids pale as they seemed, stood in quietude like a phantom, lost in their ocean of thoughts with cries of hopelessness coercing them to drown in abyss. With ceaseless search for hope in their eyes but seemed that destiny stabbed them in the back each time they combated to attain their dream. This never gave them the intrepidity to standup afresh. Their legs quivered, dreams faded and despair engulfed them, compressing them under a state of bewilderment. They knew not whether their future existed, while holding a rugged, patched bag gathering garbage from the surface which enveloped them. While the second story comprised not of rueful souls, bleeding hearts, sorrowful smiles, gloomy eyes and unforgettable tragedies but it accompanied gladsome smiles, blissful lives, faithful hearts and buoyant eyes. The two kids in this tale possessed school bags and books, wore uniform and steadily directed their way towards their school with ambition to strive and chase their aims and dreams. I wish to see the spark of hope in their eyes, in the eyes of the hopeless and grieved ones. I wish to replace garbage bags with school bags, trash with books and brooms with pencils. I wish to see grinning souls and auspicious smiles, instead of lachrymose eyes under the shadows of terror and agony. I wish to glorify each melancholic soul with a resolute vision to thrive and carve their destiny. And I wish them to love life and cherish it like the staunch, enthusiastic children. This example doesn't only represent those four kids but makes us realize how millions of innocent and naive souls kill their dreams, bury their futurity and abolish their destiny due to the lack of opportunities and chances bestowed upon them. This is what I hope to achieve in my lifetime; to make this a “single story” of hope, struggle and passion for fulfilling their dreams. To win the spark of aspiration and contentment in their eyes, and make them flourish their fate and predetermination. I hope to make them construct a promising future, a prosperous life, a determined generation and an ambitious world! I dream to put together the dispersed puzzle fragments into one intact piece of warm fuzziness and beatitude. And dream to make it a “ONE SIMILAR STORY” for each and every juvenile on this planet by healing their sundered futures with the only key to close this door of inequality and poverty, ‘education'.

One day in my natural class in high school, my teacher gave an assignment to analyze nature processes. It was an essay that I had to experience for real. So, I went outside and took several days camping trip with my classmates. I learnt that nature process is actually a complex interaction among plants, animals, and the environment. These interactions, which include photosynthesis, pollination, decomposition, and others, shape natural communities, and most important thing is that this process completely help the environment sustains itself pretty well. It was a remarkable observation to see how they move nutrients or energy from one place to another. A nature process that includes rain, groundwater movement, freeze-thaw cycles, and the action of plants, animals, and microorganism are the pathway to meet their needs. The bedrock used by the plants for growth had to be broke by the storm to become smaller and smaller pieces until the elements are available in the soil for the plants to take up with their roots. Then the photosynthesis process moves carbon from the atmosphere into plant tissues and the pollination process moves pollen from flower to flower using energy supplied by insects or other animals. The animal gets nutrients from the plant, and the plant gets help reproducing itself. Well, even the wastes such as fallen leaves and animal droppings are all recycled back into the environment to enhance and perpetuate the future life. It creates a harmony in silence while no body is seeing. Learning from the nature, it is peace that lives beyond the words. If peace can be described by painting, what would you draw? A calm lake like a mirror towering mountains all around with the blue sky and fluffy white clouds, or a rugged mountain with an angry sky which rain fell heavily and a foaming waterfall in the downside the mountain, but there is a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock and there is a mother bird had built her nest? There are many ways to describe a “PEACE” word. People normally imagine it in the state of lonely scene that there is no one exist. That's why they simply look at peace as a symbol of no war. However, I am absolutely into the second painting because in the midst of rush of angry water, sat the mother bird on her nest in perfect place to live and breed. The first painting is not really a peace because it is hard to create a world without human alive. In fact, it is necessary to know that the worldwide population is somewhat bigger year by year. Consequently, it can be denied that people get along another and sometimes have a conflict. In political philosophy as Thomas Hobbes defined, a conflict -competing to be the most powerful- is a just natural of law since its nature feeling as human being (homo homini lupus). The point is as long as human can meet their needs properly and safely, they all experience the real peace. People should learn a lot from the nature. We see the heavy rain or storm as something terrible that break everything, yet they actually does the process of moving energy/nutrients each other to meet their needs. In the real term, human security should be a goal life. At a minimum, human security means a condition where people easily experience economic development, social justice, environmental protection, democratization, disarmament, respect for human rights, and the rule of law. Conflict, chaos, and war might be still exist, but as long as people are responsible to take care of the sustainability of future civilization, they should be not hurt each other and keep living as harmony like nature system does. Peace means to be in the midst of noise and mess but still be calm in your heart.