Monthly Archives: April 2013

Weary of a Violent Vocabulary, by Andrea W. Doray

This spring, Writing for Peace looks at gun violence, as well as violence against women and other issues of women’s equality.

Andrea Doray, Writing for Peace Board MemberWeary of a Violent Vocabulary

by Andrea W. Doray

 The other day, the building where I was working was on lockout. There was a shooter in the office park and police had sealed off the area. They were pursuing a person of interest in the incident, an alleged gunman who was still at large and presumed armed and dangerous. The targeted victim survived the attack and was transported to the hospital with unknown injuries.

Lockout, shooter, sealed off.

Gunman, at large, armed and dangerous.

Target, victim, attack.

Considered alone, each of these words and phrases has a very different meaning from when they are strung together to describe yet another event of violence in our communities. Such words, common enough on their own, are now a part of a growing lexicon of carnage, a new vocabulary of violence.

I, for one, am sick and tired of it.

I’m sickened by the loss, the grief, the terror, the waste…sickened by randomness, senselessness, and injustice.

And I’m tired of trying to use our everyday language to give these vicious acts some sort of meaning.

When did “lockout” come to mean more than forgetting my keys, and a “shooter” more than a short glass full of strong stuff?

Why are victims “targets?” Targets are for archery practice and marketing plans and weight-loss goals, not the end results of violent actions. And I’d much rather leave high-speed chases to the Indy 500 and abductions to aliens.

And when did a suspect become a “person of interest?” This sounds more like speed dating to me. I can’t help but wonder if this is a case of art imitating life or life imitating art…in this case, a TV drama of the same name.

I do understand, of course, why we need to use such language carefully, including the word “alleged.” The right to a presumption of innocence in the United States is not shared in all courtrooms around the world.

Of course, this word-choice policy exists to prevent a rush to justice—generated by a rush to scoop the news that often results in misidentification, miscommunication, and wild speculation—but lately, this concession has been stretched to ridiculous levels. For example, as the hearings for James Holmes were taking place recently, I heard the events at the theaters in Aurora, Colorado, described as the “alleged shootings.”

Wait a minute…all the circumstances surrounding this tragedy are yet to be known fully, but the shootings themselves aren’t “alleged”—they happened.

That’s one reason why I’m sick and tired and saddened that a beautiful, powerful, well-respected, and well-loved language is being corrupted to include this new vocabulary of violence.

I’d much rather think of an “attack” as coming from the flu, and of a “shot” as something to protect me from it.

That’s a lexicon I can live with.

 

 About Andrea W. Doray

Andrea W. Doray, Writing for Peace Board MemberAndrea Doray is a writer, media watcher, and careful consumer of the news. She serves as a board member for Writing for Peace and is a contributing editor on its international journal, DoveTales.

Learn more about Andrea W. Doray here.

 

Writing for Peace News:

Mary Carroll-Hackett Joins WfP Advisory Panel

Writing for Peace is pleased to welcome Mary Carroll-Hackett to our Advisory Panel. Mary is an award-winning author, poet, editor, and educator.

Jonas Salk said “Our greatest responsibility is to be good ancestors.” I heard my mama say this when I was a child, and it, from that moment, changed and shaped the way I saw and moved through the world. As a parent and as an educator, to me, there is no greater gift nor more sacred trust than to honor the gifts given me by those who came before by doing whatever I can to help the young ones following behind us, Writing for Peace, particularly for me with their work with young people, will be the way we heal this world, heal and love each other. I’m humbled and honored to be a part of it.

~Mary Carroll-Hackett

Mary Carroll-Hackett, Writing for Peace AdviserMary Carroll-Hackett earned an MFA in Literature and Writing from Bennington College in June 2003. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in more than a hundred journals including Carolina Quarterly, Clackamas Literary Review, Pedestal Magazine, The Potomac, Reed, Superstition Review, Drunken Boat and The Prose-Poem Project, among others. Her awards include being named a North Carolina Blumenthal Writer and winner of the Willamette Award for Fiction. She had an O Henry Recommended recognition for her story “Placing,” and her collection of poems, The Real Politics of Lipstick, won the 2010 annual poetry competition by Slipstream. Her chapbook Animal Soul, is forthcoming this year from Kattywompus Press. She has taught writing for nearly twenty years, and in 2003, founded the Creative Writing programs, undergraduate and graduate, at Longwood University in Farmville, VA, serving as Program Director of those programs until Fall 2011.

Mary Carroll-Hackett invites all young writers to join her students in posting and discussing current event articles on her open Facebook page,  MCH-What’s Going On?.

Learn more about Mary Carroll-Hackett’s work here.

 WfP Adviser Visits Fort Collins High School

Maija Rhee Devine, Writing for Peace Adviser

Kellan McTague, a junior at Fort Collins High School, shared that his grandfather had been a veteran of the Korean War. “Your grandfather saved my life,” said Devine.

Author, poet, and Writing for Peace Adviser, Maija Rhee Devine, visited Fort Collins High School last week to read from her debut novel, Voices of Heaven. The novel was first written as a memoir about her experiences as a young girl during the Korean War. As the North Korean and Chinese armies invaded, Devine’s family fled along with thousands of others through snow and freezing temperatures, carrying their possessions in bags on their heads. Some men, she said, balanced mattresses on their heads in hopes that the extra padding would protect them from flying bullets. Students in Mitch Schneider’s language arts classes listened with rapt attention as Devine described how her mother would cover her eyes when they came upon bombing victims, or as people beside them were struck by sniper bullets. They boarded a boxcar without windows or seats where desperate men clung to the outside of the cars, until they froze and fell to their deaths.

Maija Rhee Devine, Writing for Peace Adviser

Fort Collins High School sophomore, Margarita Gutierrez, and visiting author, Maija Rhee Devine.

Devine explained the Confucian culture that made boys necessary to families, not only for the security of elderly parents, but to perform the ceremonial feasts that ensured the well-being of three generations of ancestors in the afterlife. A man and wife who were unable to produce a male heir would commonly secure a mistress, either maintaining a second household, or bringing her into the home. This was the case in her family, when fifteen harmonious years of marriage failed to produce a male heir. Her novel opens with her family preparing for the arrival of the new mistress amid rumors of war.

Maija Rhee Devine, Writing for Peace Adviser

Fort Collins High School student, Erik Garcia Arellano, and visiting author, Maija Rhee Devine.

Devine said the process to transform her memoir into a novel had taken ten years, but ultimately had freed her to explore voices of other characters within the story. She read about the arrival of the new mistress from her own perspective as a little girl, as well as her mother’s, father’s, and the mistress herself. Devine challenged Schneider’s students to think back to an emotional event in their own lives and write about it in the voice of another character.

The Voice of Heaven, by Maija Rhee DevineMaija Rhee Devine, a Korean-born writer whose fiction, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Boulevard, North American Review, and The Kenyon Review, and in various anthologies, holds a B.A. in English from Sogang University in Seoul, and an M.A. in English from St. Louis University.  Writing honors include an NEA grant and nominations to Pushcart Prize and O. Henry Awards. Maija Rhee Devine is a member of the Writing for Peace Advisory Panel.

Learn more about Maija here.

DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, "Occupied" 2013DoveTales is now available for purchase!

We are excited to announce that the print copies of DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, “Occupied” 2013, are now available to purchase on our website here.

DoveTales is a full color journal, featuring poetry, essays, and fiction from our contest winners, established and emerging writers, as well as art and photography. Writing for Peace Artist-In-Residence Pd Lietz’s artwork is featured on the cover and throughout the journal.  We are grateful for the support of Colgate University Research Council, which provided a $500 grant as a partial underwriting of the initial publication of DoveTales.

In our first issue of DoveTales, writers and artists explored the many definitions of the “Occupied” theme in brilliant and unexpected ways. Contributors include: Chrissie Morris Brady, Andrea W. Doray, Kim Goldberg, Veronica Golos, Nancy Aidé González, Sam Hamill, Denny Hoffman, Michael Lee Johnson, Adam Jones, Ron Koppelberger, Pd Lietz, Paul Lindholt, Cory Lockhart, Shannon K. Lockhart, Ellen Meeropol, Mark A. Murphy, Tricia Orr, Kenneth Pobo, Linda Quennec, Nausheen Rajan, Shirani Rajapakse, April Salzano, Nizar Sartawi, Laura Solomon, John Stocks, Julie Stuckey, Samantha Peters Terrell, Richard Vargas. Contributor biography pages will appear on our website soon.

All proceeds for Writing for Peace publications and products go to support our mission, including future Young Writers Contests, DoveTales and other peace publications, and workshops. We invite you to show your support for the Writing for Peace mission by  purchasing your copy today!

Young Writers Contest

Our 2013 Young Writers Contest closed on March 1st with 106 entries from 21 different countries. We will announce the decisions of judges William Haywood Henderson (fiction), Phyllis Barber (nonfiction), and Michael J. Henry (poetry) on May 1st, 2013. Every participating young writer will receive a certificate of participation, which will be mailed this month. The 2014 Young Writers Contest Guidelines will be posted on June 1st, 2013.

In Our Blog~

This spring, Writing for Peace will look at gun violence and women’s equality, two important issues that are often intertwined. We’ll take a step back from the inflammatory gun control debate by exploring the subject through poetry, essays and fiction. Links to previous posts on these topics can be found below:

Silent Day, by Richard Krawiec

What Happens When We Lose Our Innocence? by Andrea W. Doray

Where Peace Begins, by Cara Lopez Lee

Opportunity, and Public Encouragement, by Richard Krawiec

A Stranger in Trouble, Part One, by Vicki Lindner

A Stranger in Trouble, Part Two, by Vicki Lindner

Exit Wound, by Melissa Hassard

Circle Jerk, by Pd Lietz

Every Month is Women’s History Month, by Andrea W. Doray

This is Where I’ll Die, Translated by Maija Rhee Devine

Like Taking Off Boots, by Maija Rhee Devine

The Flaming Cliffs of One’s Heart, by Adriana Paramo

 

Copyright © 2013 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

A Marathon Introspection, by Syed Azfar Ali Rizvi

Azfar Ali Rizvi, Writing for Peace AdviserA Marathon Introspection

by Syed Azfar Ali Rizvi

Among other things, I am a journalist. As someone trained to sift through information and data, I did what any other journalist would’ve done after today’s senseless carnage in Boston. I read how people were trying to draw parallels with the Oklahoma bombing and the 9/11 attacks. Sheer speculation.

We saw an immediate condemnation from all major Muslim organizations across North America. There is something to be said about the Muslim response this time, particularly if you’ve observed how polarized the society has been lately. Of course that does not stop officious cretins, albeit on smaller networks, who just couldn’t let go. Some larger networks couldn’t stay away as well; at one point CNN was talking to an ‘Iraqi war expert’ sifting through the rubble of yet warm bodies trying to hold on to straws. Where does the politicking stop?

Is the collective guilt factor really dragging the society these days? I will concede, it took me down real hard. I prayed and hoped this would not turn out to be some misguided fringe loner who was coaxed by the Saudi regime into collecting brownie points. And I admit the fringe is even less than 1%, our failure to involve this flake in a discourse has brought the 99% to its knees. The society has failed to embrace the reality, has failed to evolve into a critical-mass, has failed to be just. With itself and those around it. We continue to avoid conversations about identity, faith and justice. We let the 1% pull us in their puddle and beat us with experience. Justice, it seems, is not a diminishing commodity. It has already been lost to pundits, lobbyist, politicians and extremists.

But there is hope.

Every day, I meet souls who collectively talk about co-existence. And peace. More people of faith, willing nay wanting to talk about what plagues them and their people. And everyday I get more hopeful. I see more and more courage around me, everyday. This hope comes in all forms. Mothers. Fathers. Sons. Daughters. In schools, places of worships, homes and distant regions. Every protest, walk, tweet and Facebook post denouncing evil gives me hope. And this is how I continue to forge ahead. We are much more powerful than the 1%. We should not be scared to confront this evil, for there will come a time we will account for what we did. And didn’t do. Did we stand up for our fellow beings or not? No man is beyond the Great Design. I’d rather get my brownie points supporting humanity rather than eliminating it. I decided this a decade ago when I survived a cowardly attack on my being, and have since not looked back. In essence, I am a product of their hate about my way of life. Granted these are tough times, but then it wouldn’t be worth it. I feel the pain Bostonians are going through and I wish I was there to offer, if not much, a shoulder to lean on. Or my condolences to the mother of the youngest runner.

Will this piece be yet again another one for which I will be reviled not feted, I can’t say. I know this. I will continue to hold the maxims of love, co-existence and humanity higher than any other I have learned, on or off the field.

Mr President, you were also only partially right. Justice is a fairly elusive concept these days. Lets retrace and go back to the basics. I’d say whoever was behind this heinous act, should bear the full weight of ‘humanity’. Only then will there be a consensus. And one people. And then perhaps one fine day, we can talk about Justice.

Reprinted with permission by the author.

 

About Writing for Peace Adviser, Syed Azfar Ali Rizvi

Syed Azfar Ali Rizvi, Writing for Peace AdviserAs a proponent of social justice, Azfar’s been a driving force behind interfaith, cross-cultural and pedagogic initiatives across three continents. He is a Toronto based documentary filmmaker, Photographer, an academic and a cross-platform communications strategist.

Originally from Karachi, Azfar experienced extremism in his early years after surviving violent ethnic cleansing first hand. The incidents shook him to the core and he started exploring reasons behind extremism through this writing; something that evolved from local dailies to covering systemic national issues for news and current affairs publications across Pakistan. Before transitioning into television news and documentaries, he took to presenting radio with the country’s first English radio network at the time.

He was a popular TV morning show anchor in 2005 when Pakistan experienced its worst earthquake in history. He was the first journalist to reach the most inaccessible regions and produced ‘Earthquake Diaries’, a documentary series in concert with UNDP, UNHCR and Pakistan’s security forces. He sent daily updates and live reports for the morning show and organized a massive Eid carnival for several hundred children in the survivor tent city near the epicenter, once the town of Balakot. The series shed light on the magnitude of destruction and helped in garnering international relief efforts. Upon his return, Rizvi advocated for a sustained rehabilitation effort and produced another documentary series ‘Hope Floats’ to this effect. He was both loved and hated for his work, his critics accusing him of cherry picking facts while his supporters lauded him for his role in raising funds of over 15 million. Learn more about Syed Azfar Ali Rizvi here.

Website: www.AzfarRizvi.ca

Writing for Peace News:

DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, "Occupied" 2013DoveTales is now available for purchase!

We are excited to announce that the print copies of DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, “Occupied” 2013, are now available to purchase on our website here.

DoveTales is a full color journal, featuring poetry, essays, and fiction from our contest winners, established and emerging writers, as well as art and photography. Writing for Peace Artist-In-Residence Pd Lietz’s artwork is featured on the cover and throughout the journal.  We are grateful for the support of Colgate University Research Council, which provided a $500 grant as a partial underwriting of the initial publication of DoveTales.

In our first issue of DoveTales, writers and artists explored the many definitions of the “Occupied” theme in brilliant and unexpected ways. Contributors include: Chrissie Morris Brady, Andrea W. Doray, Kim Goldberg, Veronica Golos, Nancy Aidé González, Sam Hamill, Denny Hoffman, Michael Lee Johnson, Adam Jones, Ron Koppelberger, Pd Lietz, Paul Lindholt, Cory Lockhart, Shannon K. Lockhart, Ellen Meeropol, Mark A. Murphy, Tricia Orr, Kenneth Pobo, Linda Quennec, Nausheen Rajan, Shirani Rajapakse, April Salzano, Nizar Sartawi, Laura Solomon, John Stocks, Julie Stuckey, Samantha Peters Terrell, Richard Vargas. Contributor biography pages will appear on our website soon.

All proceeds for Writing for Peace publications and products go to support our mission, including future Young Writers Contests, DoveTales and other peace publications, and workshops. We invite you to show your support for the Writing for Peace mission by  purchasing your copy today!

Young Writers Contest

Our 2013 Young Writers Contest closed on March 1st with 106 entries from 21 different countries. We will announce the decisions of judges William Haywood Henderson (fiction), Phyllis Barber (nonfiction), and Michael J. Henry (poetry) on May 1st, 2013. Every participating young writer will receive a certificate of participation, which will be mailed this month. The 2014 Young Writers Contest Guidelines will be posted on June 1st, 2013.

In Our Blog~

This spring, Writing for Peace will look at gun violence and women’s equality, two important issues that are often intertwined. We’ll take a step back from the inflammatory gun control debate by exploring the subject through poetry, essays and fiction. Links to previous posts on these topics can be found below:

Silent Day, by Richard Krawiec

What Happens When We Lose Our Innocence? by Andrea W. Doray

Where Peace Begins, by Cara Lopez Lee

Opportunity, and Public Encouragement, by Richard Krawiec

A Stranger in Trouble, Part One, by Vicki Lindner

A Stranger in Trouble, Part Two, by Vicki Lindner

Exit Wound, by Melissa Hassard

Circle Jerk, by Pd Lietz

Every Month is Women’s History Month, by Andrea W. Doray

This is Where I’ll Die, Translated by Maija Rhee Devine

Like Taking Off Boots, by Maija Rhee Devine

The Flaming Cliffs of One’s Heart, by Adriana Paramo

 

Copyright © 2013 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

The Flaming Cliffs of One’s Heart, by Adriana Paramo

Adriana Paramo,  Gobi Desert

The Flaming Cliffs of One’s Heart

by Adriana Paramo

Sixty million years ago, this part of the Gobi desert called  Bayanzag was the bottom of an Ancient Sea. The place is known as Flaming Cliffs and if anyone has ever heard of them it is because of the dinosaur skeletons and eggs that have been discovered there.

The Flaming Cliffs are not the Grand Canyon or the Badlands. They are quite unimpressive. Really. And if it wasn’t because the sunlight reflecting off the cliff walls makes the formations look more spectacular than they really are, you could drive by and miss them.

Yet, I love these two tiny words: Flame and Cliff.
Both so inherently dangerous.

Flame conjures up images of things set ablaze, things that burst into strident blasts of angry red and hues of passionate orange.

The word flame makes me think of my middle school years when girls used to remove the hair on their arms by passing a candle rapidly over them.  They burned the hair off their arms to make them caressable, to offer them naked and soft to boys with clumsy hands and sticky fingers.  They singed the fuzz on their arms out of love. So that they were welcomed and accepted and kept.

But only little girls do such silly things. When they grow up so does their pain, the caliber of their offerings, and their boldness. Some of them favor self-immolation over singeing. They offer themselves in sacrifice by setting their whole bodies ablaze.  They do it as a form of protest, of martyrdom, out of scorn. They sacrifice their flesh and bones in the name of love. Afghan women wishing to escape abusive marriages, Tibetan nuns protesting Chinese rule, Indian widows seeking eternal love throw themselves into their husbands’ funeral pyres.

Think heat, your skin peeling off, first crispy then waxy like a candle left out in the sun. Think pain, the fat of your body coloring the flames with traces of bleeding green and tender yellow, turning your midriff into a volcanic blow torch.

Flames. Kisses. Passion. That short-of-breathness, the giddiness of a torrid affair, the first love, the first kiss, the first time. Consuming flames that devour and destroy, leaving nothing behind but a mound of smoldering twigs.

Flames.

I once loved a boy who loved alcohol more than he loved me.
“Why do you drink so much?” I asked him one day.
“Because I like how it burns my throat,” he said. “It’s like a flame rushing down my windpipe all the way to my belly. You wouldn’t understand.”

I didn’t.

Cliff.  That’s the word that comes to my mind when I think of roller coasters, paragliding, bungee-jumping, sky-diving and gravity-defying stunts, a list that comprises my worst fears. I’m afraid of free-falls, of losing control, of letting myself go. I imagine how splendidly irrevocable the pull of gravity must be as one goes off a cliff.  The word cliff evokes memories of that last scene in the movie Thelma and Louise when the women are cornered by police only 100 yards from the edge of the Grand Canyon. They weigh out their options and rather than to be captured and spend the rest of their lives in jail they decide to keep going. Thelma steps on the accelerator and drives the 1966 Ford Thunderbird convertible over the cliff.

I once loved a boy who loved his mother very much. On one Mother’s Day, after a weekend out in the country with pals and cheap booze, he drove to his mother’s house. He was too drunk and drove too fast. He missed a bend and his car flew off a cliff. It was a difficult rescue, the firefighters later said. The boy was tall and skinny; he wasn’t wearing a seat belt; the car catapulted his body into the air first, and later into the belly of the cliff.
The casket was sealed.
No one was allowed to see his mangled body.
A gaping abyss swallowed him whole.

 

“The Flaming Cliffs of One’s Heart” was reprinted with permission from Adriana Paramo’s blog, TWL. Travel, Write, Live.

 

Adriana Paramo, Writing for Peace AdviserAbout Adriana Paramo

Adviser Adriana Paramo is a Colombian writer and cultural anthropologist who, following research in Kuwait and the United States, advocates for immigrant women’s rights. She designed a tool to assess the quality of life of Indian servants living in Kuwaiti work camps, reflected in her CNF manuscript, “Desert Butterflies.” Her memoir, “My Mother’s Funeral,” set in Colombia, will soon be published by CavanKerry Press.  Learn more about Adriana Paramo here.

Looking for Esperanza, by Adriana ParamoAdriana Paramo wrote about her extensive work with Florida’s immigrant farming community in her book, “Looking for Esperanza,” the winner of the 2011 Benu Press Social Justice Award in Creative Nonfiction.

Looking for Esperanza: The Story of a Mother, a Child Lost, and Why They Matter to Us chronicles Paramo’s fieldwork and the anonymous voices of the women she encounters while looking for the mother in the story. It also yields the heartbreaking reality of life for these unvalued women who are treated, in Paramo’s words, “like meat scraps on the cutting board.”

Across Florida, in vegetable fields, citrus groves, ferneries, and packing houses, Paramo finds what she describes as “an underground subculture of hungry undocumented women, a hidden world of wage slaves, a microcosm of false names, false Social Security numbers, and false hopes.”

The book concludes with a collage of thoughts from various undocumented women, including one that captures the hopes that compel these women to make the choices they make: “I pray that my children remember me; I ask God they don’t forget that I left Mexico for their own good, so they could have a better life.”

Purchase the book on Amazon.com here.

 

Writing for Peace News:

DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, "Occupied" 2013DoveTales is now available for purchase!

We are excited to announce that the print copies of DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, “Occupied” 2013, are now available to purchase on our website here.

DoveTales is a full color journal, featuring poetry, essays, and fiction from our contest winners, established and emerging writers, as well as art and photography. Writing for Peace Artist-In-Residence Pd Lietz’s artwork is featured on the cover and throughout the journal.  We are grateful for the support of Colgate University Research Council, which provided a $500 grant as a partial underwriting of the initial publication of DoveTales.

In our first issue of DoveTales, writers and artists explored the many definitions of the “Occupied” theme in brilliant and unexpected ways. Contributors include: Chrissie Morris Brady, Andrea W. Doray, Kim Goldberg, Veronica Golos, Nancy Aidé González, Sam Hamill, Denny Hoffman, Michael Lee Johnson, Adam Jones, Ron Koppelberger, Pd Lietz, Paul Lindholt, Cory Lockhart, Shannon K. Lockhart, Ellen Meeropol, Mark A. Murphy, Tricia Orr, Kenneth Pobo, Linda Quennec, Nausheen Rajan, Shirani Rajapakse, April Salzano, Nizar Sartawi, Laura Solomon, John Stocks, Julie Stuckey, Samantha Peters Terrell, Richard Vargas. Contributor biography pages will appear on our website soon.

All proceeds for Writing for Peace publications and products go to support our mission, including future Young Writers Contests, DoveTales and other peace publications, and workshops. We invite you to show your support for the Writing for Peace mission by  purchasing your copy today!

Young Writers Contest

Our 2013 Young Writers Contest closed on March 1st with 106 entries from 21 different countries! Announcements will be made on May 1st, 2013. Participation certificates will begin going out this month. Congratulations to every young writer who participated!  The 2014 Young Writers Contest Guidelines will be posted on June 1st, 2013.

In Our Blog~

This spring, Writing for Peace will look at gun violence and women’s equality, two important issues that are often intertwined. We’ll take a step back from the inflammatory gun control debate by exploring the subject through poetry, essays and fiction. Links to previous posts on these topics can be found below:

Silent Day, by Richard Krawiec

What Happens When We Lose Our Innocence? by Andrea W. Doray

Where Peace Begins, by Cara Lopez Lee

Opportunity, and Public Encouragement, by Richard Krawiec

A Stranger in Trouble, Part One, by Vicki Lindner

A Stranger in Trouble, Part Two, by Vicki Lindner

Exit Wound, by Melissa Hassard

Circle Jerk, by Pd Lietz

Every Month is Women’s History Month, by Andrea W. Doray

This is Where I’ll Die, Translated by Maija Rhee Devine

Like Taking Off Boots, by Maija Rhee Devine

 

Copyright © 2013 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

 

Like Taking Off Boots, by Maija Rhee Devine

Like Taking Off Boots

by Maija Rhee Devine

Yes, we used comfort women, he says
in a 2011 youtube clip about WWII.
“As automatically as yanking boots off,”
Every lull from bombing, driving machetes
Into skulls of big-nosed white bastards
We sprinted to the girls, some babes
Thirteen years old, younger than my younger sister.
To save time, we stripped to hoondoshi
underwear, cursed the wait line,
“Get the hell outa there!  Your five minutes up, fucker!”
“Automatic,” I say, like pulling boots off.

A thousand bees sting inside
Down there in a thirteen-year-old girl
Chopped firewood, pine maybe oak
Ramming, ramming into her
The first time she thought the man’s elbow
Was tearing into her.
What else would have knocked her out?

You pathetic whore bitch, do you have to stuff
Your mouth with a rice ball even while
An elbow pistons up and down inside you?
She trashes herself.

One part blood, one part disinfectant
Two parts water, she swishes her bottom in that
In between serving the “animals,”
Twenty a day, double on weekend days.
Little bees’ mouths chew, chew their way up to her navel.

By the clean dinner plate face of the moon
Out the rip in the tent pitched in the open
To serve troops in front line
There, mommy’s face.  Mommy!

It looks and feels like snot,
What squeezes out the shatgoos
Must I wash these condoms?
Yes, you do, if you want to survive
see your Mommy one day.

Mommy! Roast me a sweet potato
Over charcoal fire, not too burned
But coated with sweet
browned sugar skin

Maija Rhee Devine, Writing for Peace AdviserAbout Maija Rhee Devine

Maija Rhee Devine, a Korean-born writer whose fiction, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Boulevard, North American Review, and The Kenyon Review, and in various anthologies, holds a B.A. in English from Sogang University in Seoul, and an M.A. in English from St. Louis University.  Writing honors include an NEA grant and nominations to Pushcart Prize and O. Henry Awards.

Long Walk on Short Days, by Maija Rhee DevineLong Walks on Short Days, her poetry chapbook about Korea, China, U.S. and other lands she has known, is available through Finishing Line Press here.

Learn more about Maija Rhee Devine here.

 

Writing for Peace News:

The Voice of Heaven, by Maija Rhee Devine Adviser Maija Rhee Devine’s Debut Novel Released!

Last week, North Korean leader Kim Jung Un unilaterally revoked the 1953 Armistice Agreement, threatening to turn South Korea and parts of the U.S. into a sea of flames. Writing for Peace Adviser, Maija Rhee Devine, remembers fleeing Seoul on foot and by train as a child during the Korean War.  The train, she said, was a boxcar, with no seats or bathroom facilities, and crammed with so many people that they hung from the handrail outside in the winter air “until they froze and dropped to death.”

Maija Rhee Devine’s debut novel, The Voices of Heaven, leads readers through an extraordinary love story that parallels the tragedies of the war. The story flows from her firsthand experience of growing up in Seoul during the Korean War, revealing uniquely Korean colors and sounds. You can purchase a copy of “The Voices of Heaven” on Amazon.com here, or directly from the  Seoul Selection site here.

 

In Our Blog~

This spring, Writing for Peace will look at gun violence and women’s equality, two important issues that are often intertwined. We’ll take a step back from the inflammatory gun control debate by exploring the subject through poetry, essays and fiction. Links to previous posts on these topics can be found below:

Silent Day, by Richard Krawiec

What Happens When We Lose Our Innocence? by Andrea W. Doray

Where Peace Begins, by Cara Lopez Lee

Opportunity, and Public Encouragement, by Richard Krawiec

A Stranger in Trouble, Part One, by Vicki Lindner

A Stranger in Trouble, Part Two, by Vicki Lindner

Exit Wound, by Melissa Hassard

Circle Jerk, by Pd Lietz

Every Month is Women’s History Month, by Andrea W. Doray

This is Where I’ll Die, Translated by Maija Rhee Devine

Young Writers Contest

Our 2013 Young Writers Contest closed on March 1st with 106 entries from 21 different countries! Announcements will be made on May 1st, 2013. Congratulations to every young writer who participated!  The 2014 Young Writers Contest Guidelines will be posted on June 1st, 2013.

DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, "Occupied" 2013

DoveTales is now available for purchase!

We are excited to announce that the print copies of DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, “Occupied” 2013, are now available to purchase here.

 

Copyright © 2013 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

This Is Where I’ll Die, by Maija Rhee Devine

About this post:

In 2008, the UN Security Council classified rape as a weapon of war, describing sexual violence as “a tactic of war to humiliate, dominate, instil fear in, disperse and/or forcibly relocate civilian members of a community or ethnic group”.  In the words of Major General Patrick Cammaert, Former UN Peacekeeper, “It’s a very effective weapon, because the communities are totally destroyed.”

To women all over the world, the UN acknowledgement confirmed what was already common knowledge; sexual violence and humiliation  has been a war tactic throughout history. During WWII, the Japanese Imperial Army and Navy captured women from Korea, China, Japan, the Philippines, and elsewhere, and forced them to provide sexual services to Japanese soldiers. These “comfort women” serviced about 20 men each day, and 40-50 on weekend days.

Writing for Peace Adviser, Maija Rhee Devine, has actively sought to document this historic tragedy, translating and telling the stories of Korean Comfort Women, raising awareness, and sharing the work of the Korean Comfort Women Museum (Nanum eui Jip: The House of Sharing in S. Korea). This is the story of one woman, Lee Yong-nyeo, how she became a sex slave to the Japanese Imperial Army, how she survived the ordeal, and how it affected her life.

This Is Where I’ll Die

The story of Lee Yong-nyeo, a former Korean comfort woman, Testimonials of Korean Comfort Women, Vol. 1  (Han-wool, Seoul, Korea, 1993) (Interviewer: Koh Hye-jung).

Translated from Korean into English by Writing for Peace Adviser, Maija Rhee Devine.

Reprinted with permission from Mr. An Shin-kwon, director of The House of Sharing, the museum of Korean comfort women in Kyonggi-do, S. Korea.

Biographical information:

Lee Yong-Nyeo, This is Where I'll DieBorn in 1926 in Yojoo, Kyonggi Province to a poor family, Yong-nyeo was hired out as a domestic worker when she was eight.  At eleven, she moved to Seoul, where she worked in factories or as a domestic until she turned fourteen.   Then she was “sold” to a woman running a wine house, where she ran errands and waited on customers.  In 1942, when she turned 16, the owner persuaded her to move to a new work place without revealing where the new job would take her.  As it turned out, via Busan, Taiwan, and Singapore, she landed in a mountainous region of Burma.  In that rugged terrain, her life as a comfort woman began.

Story:

Born the second of five children on February 10, 1926 at Booknae-meun, Yojoo-gun, Kyonggi Province, I had a brother who was five years older than me, but among girls, I was the oldest.  Originally, our family lived in Yangpyong where we owned some land, but my father gambled it away and left us too destitute to send me to school.

A domestic worker at the age of eight

The house where I was hired out to as an eight-year-old belonged to a well-to-do family in Yojoo.  I remember washing floor-mopping rags at that house.

As we had no land to farm in Yojoo, we subsisted on the rice we bought on credit.  Soon, unable to pay the debt, we packed up and went to Seoul, where my father’s sister lived.  At first, we crammed into one of the rooms at her house, but after a while, both my older brother and I were hired out.

I worked at the home of Mr. Im, who ran a textile business.  Everyday, I carried the family’s baby on my back all day, and often the baby wet the clothes on my back, leaving me with heat rash in the summer.  In the winter, I washed diapers in freezing water, which caused my skin to dry out, crack, and bleed.

After migrating from one rental to another, our finally built a tent shanty behind what is now the Ahyun Elementary School in Seoul.  While we were on the verge of starving, my mother gave birth to a child who was tiny because of Mother’s hunger during pregnancy.  Grandmother said to me, “Even if you have to beg, you’ve got to find food for your Mommy.  She can lose her mind if she doesn’t have food in her stomach.”  So, I took a sack and a basket and begged door to door and kept Mother and the baby alive for the next six months.  In rich neighborhoods like Sajik-dong, the ladies of the houses asked me to work for them.  But I had to answer, “My mother and her baby are starving, and I must find food for them.  So, I can’t work for you.”  Sometimes, they gave me food, sometimes, money.   At that time, a bag of sugar cost 5 jeon.  I fed the baby with a little sugar added to the porridge.

Sometimes we bought the dregs left from making rice wine and boiled that to  make meals.  I also stopped at a potato noodle factory, where I collected the noodles that fell out of the cooking pots and rolled in the dirt.  I brought these home, where I cooked and seasoned them for our meals.

For a while, my father sold vegetables in the market.  Naturally, we ate a lot of vegetables, but we got sick with parasites.  When my face turned brown, and I was near death, my father told me that if I worked for a Japanese family and ate good food, I would be cured.  So, I went and worked for a Japanese family.

After I got better, I returned home and continued to feed the family by begging.  I also carried water up the hill to our shanty every day.  My father made me do all the work.  He said, “Carry some water.  Go get some sugar.  Make some porridge for the baby.”

At fourteen, I went to work at a cookie factory located near the crematory in Hongje-dong.  About a year later, my father sent my younger brother to fetch me home.  When I arrived, I found a plump woman wearing gold jewelry and a Korean style overcoat.  She said if I’d go with her, I could do well not only for myself but also provide for my parents.  My mother kept her back turned toward her, saying nothing, but my father urged me to go.  So, I followed her.  Later, I heard my father received a sum of money from that woman, which he said he planned to pay back in installments over the next year.

The story behind this deal had to do with the housing dilemma we faced.  Those of us living in tent shanties in Ahyun-dong had been forced to pack up our tents and move further up the Hongeun-dong hill.  At that time, Hongeun-dong hill was barren except for graves.  We were told to dig up dead bodies, burn them, and build our homes.  So, we tore up our tent home in Ahyun-dong and moved it up the hill.  However, we needed more lumber, which we obtained on credit.  But when we couldn’t pay the debt, we were forced to either turn our house over or pay what we owed on the lumber.  This was the reason my father made a deal with the woman to give him a sum of money in exchange for my employment with her.

Deceived by the owner

The woman took me to a large wine house called Youngchun-ok, which stood by the Sudaemun West Gate jail.  I set tables for wine-drinking customers and ran small errands.  After a year of working there, the woman asked me if I’d like to get a good job in Japan that paid a lot of money.  Since there would be many other girls also going there to work, she said I didn’t need to be afraid.  I had no idea how to get there, but the hunger for a job that would provide me with good food, clothing, and money was too powerful for me to resist such a miraculous opportunity.  She gave me a packet of Chinese medicine to take home, brew and drink and told me to wait for a word from her.  The medicine, she said, would cut the seasickness in the boat to Japan I would board.  She gave me some pocket money, too.  How much, I can’t remember.  I do remember buying with that money an outfit each for my little sister and younger brother.

Back at home in Hongeun-dong, I took a break for about two weeks.  During that time, I told my friends, “I’ve been promised a good job.”  Hearing this, two of my former co-workers at a cookie factory, Duk-sool Kim, two years older than me, and Hok-geun Kim, a year older than me, decided to join me.

Soon, I received a word to come to a meeting place.  It was 1942.   I had just turned sixteen.  I wore the white short-sleeved dress I got at the Young-chon-ok Wine House and wore a pair of white high heels.  When I arrived at a Chinese restaurant in Myong-dong below the South Mountain, there were several dozen young women waiting there.  My father accompanied me, Duk-sool, and Hok-geun there, and then he left.   For lunch there, we ate sweet-and-sour pork, fried rice, and so forth.  For the first time, I had a dish with sea cucumbers.  After lunch, we boarded a train to Busan.

Arriving there at night, I couldn’t tell what was what.  We stayed at an inn located at the Hot Springs of Dong-rae for seven or ten days.  The day after we arrived there, when I asked if I could walk to the ocean, I was told the road in front of the inn would take me straight there.  But I was also told to stay in.  We were being led by a Korean man and several women.  In the evening, we took baths in the hot spring and feasted on good food, but we were never allowed to venture outside.

When we boarded a huge ship—possibly a transport or military—in Busan, several of the Korean escorts disappeared.   About sundown, pointing at a land across the waters, someone said it was Japan.  There were hundreds of women in the ship, and from the Japanese soldiers, I learned we’d work as comfort women.  I didn’t know what that meant, although I knew some Japanese because I once worked for a Japanese family. Despite having been told we were heading to Japan, we bypassed it and headed south.  I suffered seasickness so badly that I couldn’t eat and stayed stretched out.  Soon, we anchored in Taiwan, but we were not allowed to leave the ship.  I remember lowering my hat to the sellers on the dock and buying fruit that way.  When we sailed again, the ship stopped briefly in the middle of the ocean, where the sun rose right out of the water and later dropped into it.  We were all seasick and lay down, and whenever we hit big waves, we groaned in unison.  Finally, we stopped and anchored.  This time, it was Singapore, but again we were confined to the ship.

 This is where I’ll die

A month after we sailed from Busan, we arrived in Rangoon, Burma.  From there, we took a train to a small village.   Here, my life as a comfort woman by the name of Harata Yo-o-jio began.  When that happened, I said to myself, “Ah, this is where I’ll die.”  The comfort station was a two-story building standing by the side of a road.  The floor was white plaster, and there was a basement, to which we escaped whenever the air raid siren wailed.

The comfort station was at a distance from the village where locals lived, and I didn’t know where the army compound was, but at night, soldiers streamed in from who knows where.  During our stay in that village, I became close with a military support person named Dachewoochi.  He supplied us with rice, other food items, clothes, and various sundries we needed.  Living just outside the military compound, he lived on a property that looked civilian, and he wore civilian clothes, including a white shirt, which he asked me to starch and iron for him.

One of the women who worked with us committed suicide by overdosing on soju and opium.   The soldiers made a wood pile and asked us to come and watch the dead woman being burned.

After a year there, we were moved away by truck.  On the drive, we saw a hot spring.  Soldiers poured the water into large drum cans and sat in them, but we women didn’t.

I lost my mind with homesickness

We drove all day to arrive at sundown at a small village in a mountainous area that had only a military hospital.  Our station was located across a small stream from the hospital.  All the soldiers coming to us seemed to be associated with that hospital.  For the first time, we received a proper physical examination.

The station building had been empty.  So, we cleaned it when we arrived.  The building was square shaped with rooms in a row on both first and second floors.  The building’s roof was high and with inside staircases on both sides.  It was a well-built structure and surrounded by many Buddha statues near the front gate.   On the second floor alone, there were about twenty rooms, one of which was mine.  The sign “Comfort Station” hung on the front of the building.

The Korean couple who had escorted the fifty of us Korean girls left us after assigning a room to each of us.  Each room was numbered and showed the names of girls, but, being an illiterate person all my life, I don’t know what my number was.  The room had wood floor and contained a bed and a wash basin.  Not having a drain, we threw used water over the railing to the ground.  The cafeteria downstairs was small and dirty.  Three Chinese men cooked for us with the rice provided by the military.  For clothing, we wore Western outfits that arrived through the military.

Because I didn’t eat well, my body became weak.  About two years into the life as a comfort woman, I contracted malaria.  I took quinine, which caused jaundice.  Through this ordeal, none of the other women gave me any assistance, which worsened my homesickness.  Eventually, I lost my mind and for about six months, I wandered around—even at night.  I kept looking at the moon and stomped around.  Once, I fell and rolled a ways on the ground.  I still have scars from that fall.

One time, I wore the military uniform of the man who fell asleep in my room and tried to sneak into the hospital.  When a security guard saw what I was doing, he aimed a gun at me.  When he realized it was me, he took me back to my room.  Soldiers often took me to the hospital, gave me tranquilizing shots, and returned me back to my cubicle.  At night, I went to a pond and rode a piece of log, saying I was heading home.  As soon as people pulled me out of water, I went right back in.  I heard these stories after I came out of my trauma.

During this period, a military doctor, a lieutenant, provided me with much care.  Toward the end of my ordeal, he gave me glucose shots and comforted me with warm-towel massages.  He visited me two or three times a week and sometimes force-fed medicine.  After I recovered, he often spent nights with me.

We received weekly examinations for sexually-transmitted diseases.   When a disease was diagnosed, the afflicted woman’s door was tagged with a sign “vacation,” signaling off-limits to soldiers.  The army hospital staff provided us with disinfectants, which, when mixed with water, turned pink to dark brown depending on the amount of water.  We washed our private parts with that mixture.  It was, if ingested, potent enough, to kill a person.  The soldiers brought condoms, but if they didn’t, I had a supply, and I made sure they were used by putting them on the soldiers myself.  But my military doctor friend did not use them.  He came to me for over a year, until the war ended.

Upon entering a woman’s room, the soldiers handed over their tickets, which were about the size of business cards.  We averaged ten to twenty cards a day, but some women collected as many as thirty.  We were told savings accounts were kept on our behalf, but I never saw mine, nor did I dare to ask.  Again, the army doctor was an exception; he did not present to me any tickets.

There was an office downstairs, but I don’t remember who worked there.  One day, the Korean men and women who brought us to this place disappeared, without saying as much as a goodbye.  Later, I believe, soldiers worked there.

Soldiers could enter any of the women’s rooms not occupied by another soldier.   Those on leave came during the day.

While I never used make-up, I received from the hospital basic goods such as a clothes chest, a box, and a mirror.  During my days of deep depression, I laid these out in the middle of my room, or so I was told later.

Three or four of the women committed suicide.  Some women left with officers, with whom they set up housekeeping.  Some died of diseases, while others ran away.  All in all, the number of women dwindled to about twenty.  With permission, though infrequently given, we went on outings.  But, because the surrounding area was mountainous, and the locals were foreign to us, we did not dare to run away for fear of getting caught and killed.  Once, we were told to come and see the corpse of an American pilot whose surveillance plane was shot down.  So, we went and saw a white man who had only his thighs and buttocks left—no head, body or arms.

 Shortly after that, soldiers stopped coming; they had all left the area.

The end of the war and the military doctor

The war ended, a year after I suffered my bout with depression.  The doctor disappeared, too—without a word.  I had never heard a single gun shot the whole time we were there.  Even at the previous place, when the bomb siren went off or bomber planes flew low, we hid in the bomb shelter, but we were never bombed.

Then, out of nowhere, Korean men appeared and asked us to go with them.

We walked in the rain and heat until our feet swelled and blistered.  We crossed a body of water that reached up to our necks, carrying on our heads only rice, red pepper flakes, and salt.   Once, we cooked rice in water red with mud.  After we walked ten days, resting an hour here and there, we reached Rangoon.  There, we learned we would head home, at which news I lost my mind once again—this time with joy.

At the refugee camp in Rangoon, which had a large yard like a school playground, we lived together with Korean men drafted into the Japanese military.  Women from various locations, about fifty in all, gathered there, and we received cooked food that occasionally featured bits of pork fat floating on top.  We were taught how to cross streets, and we even had races.  We sang the Korean National Anthem.  One evening, a stage was set up, and we had plays and sang songs.  I think I sang “Without an Address Plaque nor House Number.”  It was always hot there, and groups of us threw some mats on the floor and slept together.   We even had a dentist, and I got my molars pulled.  We could come and go as we liked, except we needed to return to the camp.

In a large ship, we arrived in Pusan in March, 1946, a year after the war ended.  But because of a person on board believed to have contracted typhoid, we could not disembark.  Then we sailed to Inchon, but we were not allowed to disembark there either.  A word that if we turned over our valuables, we would get to leave the ship circulated.  So, we took off our gold rings and other items, some of which were gifts from soldiers.  Soon we got off the ship, at which time we were given 1,000 won each.

When my friend Duksool and I landed in Inchon, her mother and older brother greeted her, but no one waited for me.  When I reached our Hong-eun-dong family home, they had moved.  How dejected I felt.  Fortunately, my father’s friend took me to my brother’s house in Eul-jee-ro.

There I learned of my father’s death.  On December 2nd of 1945, the year Korea was liberated from Japan, he passed away.  He was fifty.   Back when he sold vegetables in the market and sometimes worked as a porter, he bought small amounts of rice with the money he earned.  But he spent the rest on gambling, often letting his family go hungry.  It was so miserable for us that once I yelled at him, “Why don’t you drop dead!”   Now, those words stab my heart.  My younger brother had worked for a business run by the Japanese, but he injured his leg on the job and became handicapped.

As a twenty-one-year-old then, I held various jobs, including working as a restaurant helper and a housemaid.   To kill the pain life had dealt me, I drank heavily, gulping two or three bottles of makkoli rice wine each day.  When the alcohol hit me, I wept over my pathetic life.  Now, because of bad teeth, I cannot eat or drink hot or cold foods.  My stomach is bad, too.

I never expected to live a normal marriage life as other women did.   After the “January 4 Retreat,” (UN forces abandoned Seoul January 4, 1951 and withdrew to Pyong-taek-Wonju-Samchok line) when I went to live in Chungjoo, I met a man seventeen years older than me and lived with him.   But, as I had an aversion to developing closeness with men, we didn’t have a good relationship.  Of course, I couldn’t produce an offspring.  Five or six years ago, at the age of seventy four, he passed away.  My life has been difficult, but I have the comfort of regarding his son as my unofficially-adopted child.

My words to the Japanese government

I think I could lead a restful life, even if I live in a one-room rental, if only I could receive compensation from the Japanese government.  Since the Japanese invaded our country and did whatever they pleased with our people while living high on the hog, I am not holding my breath to strike it rich with their compensation.  I just want a payback for having had my virginity taken away by force.  They dragged us away and did with our bodies what they pleased.  Now, they spew blasphemies—that we voluntarily walked into that abject life ourselves.   Does that sound like a legitimate justification for not compensating us?   Hadn’t forcibly luring us away and holding us captive against our will been Japan’s imperial policy after all?  The Japanese government must not attempt to wriggle out of their duty to us any longer.

—  THE END  —

 

Maija Rhee Devine, Writing for Peace AdviserAbout Maija Rhee Devine

Maija Rhee Devine, a Korean-born writer whose fiction, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Boulevard, North American Review, and The Kenyon Review, and in various anthologies, holds a B.A. in English from Sogang University in Seoul and an M.A. in English from St. Louis University.  Writing honors include an NEA grant and nominations to Pushcart Prize and O. Henry Awards.

Long Walks on Short Days, her poetry chapbook about Korea, China, U.S. and other lands she has known, is available through Finishing Line Press here.

Learn more about Maija Rhee Devine here.

 

Writing for Peace News:

The Voice of Heaven, by Maija Rhee Devine Adviser Maija Rhee Devine’s Debut Novel Released!

Last week, North Korean leader Kim Jung Un unilaterally revoked the 1953 Armistice Agreement, threatening to turn South Korea and parts of the U.S. into a sea of flames. Writing for Peace Adviser, Maija Rhee Devine, remembers fleeing Seoul on foot and by train as a child during the Korean War.  The train, she said, was a boxcar, with no seats or bathroom facilities, and crammed with so many people that they hung from the handrail outside in the winter air “until they froze and dropped to death.”

Maija Rhee Devine’s debut novel, The Voices of Heaven, leads readers through an extraordinary love story that parallels the tragedies of the war. The story flows from her firsthand experience of growing up in Seoul during the Korean War, revealing uniquely Korean colors and sounds. You can purchase a copy of “The Voices of Heaven” on Amazon.com here, or directly from the  Seoul Selection site here.

 

In Our Blog~

This spring, Writing for Peace will look at gun violence and women’s equality, two important issues that are often intertwined. We’ll take a step back from the inflammatory gun control debate by exploring the subject through poetry, essays and fiction. Links to previous posts on these topics can be found below:

Silent Day, by Richard Krawiec

What Happens When We Lose Our Innocence? by Andrea W. Doray

Where Peace Begins, by Cara Lopez Lee

Opportunity, and Public Encouragement, by Richard Krawiec

A Stranger in Trouble, Part One, by Vicki Lindner

A Stranger in Trouble, Part Two, by Vicki Lindner

Exit Wound, by Melissa Hassard

Circle Jerk, by Pd Lietz

Every Month is Women’s History Month, by Andrea W. Doray

Young Writers Contest

Our 2013 Young Writers Contest closed on March 1st with 106 entries from 21 different countries! Announcements will be made on May 1st, 2013. Congratulations to every young writer who participated!  The 2014 Young Writers Contest Guidelines will be posted on June 1st, 2013.

DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, "Occupied" 2013

DoveTales Hot off the Press!

The print copies of DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts, “Occupied” 2013, are finished! Copies will go out to contributors and advisers this week, and links will be up for general purchase in the next day or so. We will send an announcement as soon as that happens!

Equity for Women Writers

Writing for Peace encourages all young people to write and to believe their writing can make a difference, but is that equally true for boys and girls? Sadly, the latest VIDA Count indicates that we have a long way to go to achieve gender equality in the literary world. Please help us reverse this trend by reading works written be women and promoting your favorite women authors. Ask your children who they are reading in school, supplement their reading list with books by women authors, and talk to their teachers, librarians, and principals about adding women authors to their curriculum. Take note of the authors reviewed in your local papers and advocate for women authors. Head to your library or book store with a list of the twelve amazing women on our Advisory Panel. And please make a statement in support of women writers here. Thank you!

 

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