Voice Book Week 2011 by isa library

VOICE

The International School of Amsterdam’s Student Paper

BOOK WEEK EDITION

nts NEWS AND EVENTS Ne

BOOK WEEK SECTION -- SEE PAGES 18-34

Disaster in Japan unites ISA community in support

and tsunami that ravaged Japan on March 11. Though earthquakes are common in Japan, this one stood out for the raw power and the damage it created. The quake measured an astonishing 9.0 on the Richter scale, damaging buildings and collapsing some structures. Japan is the most prepared country against earthquakes in the world so the quake damage was limited. Bullet trains and various other public transport networks automatically stopped, and many people were forced to sleep at work or walk home. Despite Japan’s supreme Mieko Sakakida safety against the earthquake, Members of the Japanese community collect donations for the devastating the real horror came fifteen earthquake-tsunami that struck in March. “We need your help,” urges Sho. minutes later – when Sendai “Sometimes these types of situations allow us to understand was hit with a ten meter high tsunami that moved kilometers how fortunate we are,” explained upper school Head David inland. The death toll currently stands at 12,000, with 16,500 Norcott in the Thursday morning assembly on March 17. “The people isted as missing. question is, what can we do to make a difference individually?” Despite the hopeless situation, the large Japanese The assembly, usually a light-hearted set of announcements, was community at ISA joined together to fund a relief effort: “Pray more grim than usual amid a presentation on the earthquake Continued on page 3

ALSO INSIDE: Stories of Found Girls B-Ball Claim After Graduation the Heart Poetry NECIS Gold Again EDITORIALS

BOOK WEEK

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

SPORTS

BOOK WEEK SCHEDULE OF EVENTS MONDAY APRIL 11

voice and voice extra* are published drop everything and read at 11

everyone stops what they are doing and read for 30 minutes

Who We Are... Voice is the International School of Amsterdam’s upper school student publication. We are grade 9-12 students who meet each week at lunch on Thursdays for publication planning and development – there is no journalism class that supports the project. We commit our time and energy to support our school, our community, and our own growth as thinkers and writers. We welcome your letters. We welcome your article contributions. We welcome corrections that you wish to alert us to. Send all communications to Mr. Michell (mmichell@isa.nl), the project faculty advisor, or drop a note into the Voice “suggestion/ question” box outside room 161.

melvin burgess

the award winning author meets grade 10 periods 5 and 6

TUESDAY APRIL 12

melvin burgess

is back to meet grades 9 (periods 1 and 2) and 11 (periods 3 and 4)

WEDNESDAY APRIL 13

middle school dress up

what book will your class be?

open mike at lunchtime

Rock the Library with your talent!

THURSDAY APRIL 14

high school dress up

which Harry Potter house is your grade?

marcus sedgwick

the award winning author meets grade 8 (1&2) grade 6 (5&6) and grade 7 (7&8)

FRIDAY APRIL 15

author event for teachers sue palmer

Michael Michell

Voice Team: Amber Brown (Senior Editor emeritus), Georgina Gibson-Smith, Marijke Schouten, Aimee Shah, Helen Piekoszewski, Santi Maspons, George-Henry GoldmanWebb, Steffi Renique, Sarah-Mae Lieverse, Bella Human, Adriaan Hilbers (Senior Editor), Saagar Hemrajani (Assistant Editor), Ludo Cinelli, Sofie Axing, Larissa GibsonSmith, Robyn Jones, Gwen Scholten, Victor Swaab, Lars Neleman, Rutger Fuglesang, Katrina Harple, Leor Zmigrod (Assistant Editor), Ryan Sirk (Assistant Editor), Maddy Pauchet, James Cavanaugh, and Hessel Tinga. Elena Cinelli is a regular Voice contributor. Voice is published on 100% post-consumer waste recycled paper, by MultiCopy of Amstelveen (www.multicopy.nl/Amstelveen).

We ask our community to join us in a “read and share” approach. Once you have read your issue of Voice, if you do not wish to keep the edition, return it to the Voice display rack outside room 161 so others may read it. This is environmentally and fiscally responsible. Voice is available as a digital download (PDF) on the upper school library website, a Green Team initiative brought to you by Sofie Axing.

talks about "Detoxing Childhood" and "21st Century Boys"

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Mieko Sakakida

Continued from page 1 for Japan.” From a stall in the cafeteria, Japanese students and parents sold rice balls, collected donations and gave out origami cranes to those who contributed. More than 3,000 euros have already been raised. A video and an announcement were delivered in the upper school morning assembly to explain the situation. The video included tragic scenes of the tsunami. Upper schoolers Wataru Yamazaki,

Kento Kinugawa, Maiko Mitsuhashi and Sho Kurohara spoke about the abatement efforts. “The tsunami was more devastating [than the earthquake],” explains Maiko. “Some victims have lost everything.” Up to 750,000 people – the population of Amsterdam – are now homeless or displaced. The ISA community, thankfully, did not witness the catastrophe firsthand. “One family was personally affected. Their grandparents were missing for a while, but were found.” Junior Sho Kurohara explains that not the tsunami, but the meltdown of a nuclear power plant poses the greatest threat. Because of the earthquake, the Fukushima nuclear plant can no longer cool itself and is slowly overheating. A last effort to cool the plant was made on March 17, with aircraft and the fire department being used to spray cold water over the plant. Radiation levels are still slowly climbing, and Tokyo is becoming worried of a nuclear meltdown, especially remembering the Chernobyl (Tsjernobyl), Ukraine disaster in 1986. “Many of our friends are worried about the radiation,” observes Sho, “this is more dangerous to those we know than the tsunami.” Japan, one of the world’s wealthiest and developed countries, has been struck by a natural disaster of epic proportions. Despite its competent

relief network, it has been hit by something larger than it can handle. “We need your help,” urges Sho, “Japan is very grateful.” By Adriaan Hilbers

Mieko Sakakida

Besides collecting donations, Ms. Sakakida organized a rice ball sale. The money raised is already more than an astounding 3,000 euros. Above, US math teacher Ms. Dykes buys some.

Gwen Scholten

Tenth grade relief with finishing Personal Projects What would you do, if you could create a project about anything you want? Imagine spending six months, dedicating time to something that you are truly passionate about. This daunting question was the one faced by a nervous tenth grade in early September. While there is a delicious sense of

liberation and freedom with the Personal Project, it is surprisingly challenging to find a topic that is broad enough so as not to get tired of it two months into the journey, and that is narrow enough to permit a detailed and concise project. With this mixed sense of fear and excitement, the Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

tenth grade was unleashed into the wild world of decisions. Arriving at the point on the path of their inquiry when a topic has finally been chosen, the grade tens were to discover that it was in fact not Continued on page 4 3

Continued from page 3 to articulate the mounting stress to the rest of the wore a look of exhaustion and happiness – the the most difficult part of the journey. Now came world in the final week of the project through Personal Project glow. On March 11, the victorious students sat behind preparing a goal statement, planning how to social networking sites). Endless drafts, supervisor meetings and tables aligned on the cafeteria floor, with their execute that intention, creating a product based on

the designed ambitions, and finishing all this by the November deadline. That day was definitely one of pride and accomplishment. Yet soon after high-fiving and hugging their peers, the jubilant 15 and 16 year olds experienced a moment of realization. They had to write a 4000 word essay on what they did -- the journey was not over after all. After the initial shock (which originated partly from their naïve unawareness of this very obvious and essential part of the puzzle), the students were off to their desks and computers (some racing to complete the report before all of their friends, others waiting a while, for the chance

instances of triumph and frustration followed. The highlighted and underlined date in the bright yellow agenda -- ‘DEADLINE FOR REPORT, PRODUCT, AND PROCESS JOURNAL OF PERSONAL PROJECT’ -- promptly appeared, along with piles of emails and warnings from supervisors. Miraculously, each student found themselves standing in front of their overseer, clutching a freshly printed report, an aging process journal, and some form of a product. It was over. Six months of anxiousness, anticipation, and recurring nightmares and dreams about this day were finished. All tenth graders

Gwen Scholten

product and report in front of them, rejoicing the culmination of a journey definitely worth celebrating. A diverse assortment of creations laid on display for students, teachers, and parents to learn about. From an elaborate design of a basketball shoe, a cookbook for an athlete’s diet, vibrant music videos, to intricate screenplays, fascinating stories, and 50 other inspiring projects; the variety demonstrates the talent and aptitudes of the graduating class of 2013. By Leor Zmigrod

Cumulation of MYP arts, Happenings, complete “The ‘Happenings’ at its best may serve as what I call a ‘transgressive ritual’ – that is an enactment that distorts or subverts the limits and rules of our everyday to reveal hidden truths [. . .] Through that subversion of reality, the rules that we take for granted reveal themselves, giving us the opportunity to question them and consider alternatives,” explains Mattew Goulish, upper school theater teacher and firm proponent of the Happenings project. But what do the Happenings mean – and more importantly, what did the tenth grade do with them? To quote Matt, the "subversion of reality" was paramount in delivering an enthralling and engaging performance. Students took a facet of their daily lives - Facebook, social alienation - and tied it to the theme of “exile.” This could be a literal or metaphysical exile, a social or societal

one. The tenth grade investigated their perceptions of these unspoken exiles, such as the unchallenged labeling of teens on a superficial level alone jocks, nerds, etc. In exploring the theme of exile, students investigated their awareness of the communities they live in, and consequently, their identity. The project signified the culmination of three interplaying art disciplines. The tenth grade divided itself into groups of students that specialize in one of three art forms: drama, music or visual art. In this way, the magic of amalgamating people of different backgrounds came into full play. The Happenings took place around the school (under the stage, in the elevator, music rooms, corridors, and more) revealed implicit truths about society and the definition of individuality; doing so through a combination of movement, visual art, Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

music, text, and sound. Throughout the school, passersby encountered topics like abortion, conformity, fear and social pressures being subtly suggested or harshly pounded into the audience. There is no shadow of a doubt that this year’s Happenings were powerful. As said by Albert Camus in The Myth of Sisyphus, “We all carry within us ourselves places of ‘Exile’, our crimes, and our ravages. But our task is not to unleash them on the world: it is to fight them in ourselves and in others.” By creating these performances, the tenth grade battled their own feelings of exile, and prompted others to do the same -- all through the expressiveness of the arts. By Ryan Sirk and Leor Zmigrod

Leo Miucci wows ISA

typewriter for hours, pressing the keys and making the music himself. His parents considered a psychologist, but fortunately concluded that piano lessons were the way to go. We could imagine that he dedicated every waking minute of the day learning to play the piano, but in fact, Mr. Miucci admitted that when he was around 16 years old, he went through a phase where his passion for music was lost. It isn’t to say that he didn’t play anymore, but he stopped considering music as his career choice. “Luckily,” he t o l d m e , “ l i ke f o r a l l adolescents of that age, time heals everything and I turned back onto my path.” When asked why he plays without sheet music, he describes, “It’s a technique I Courtesy Leonardo Miucci use to obligate myself to stay in the music, to avoid any lapse of concentration or moments of insecurity and fear of performance. It’s a bit like for a circus artist who completes his routine with no safety net beneath the tightrope. In that moment, for one part, it’s certainly scarier because he knows that he cannot go wrong, but on the other hand he has absolute certainty that he can do the routine if he remains concentrated, having done it many other times in training.” This kind of approach is the one that guarantees the highest possible concentration, and at the same time fights my fears of interpreter and executor.” He continued to explain that each piece he learns is very different, so he cannot quantify how long it takes for him, on average, to feel ready to perform a piece. When asked if he would give any advice to aspiring musical students, he offers a reluctant answer. “Advice? It’s always difficult to give good advice…the only thing that I feel I should suggest is to be stubborn and tenacious, to continue cultivating one’s own passions even when everything else seems horribly complicated…and above all to be sincere, especially with ones self. It’s probably the steepest, most torturous road, but certainly the one that will take you the furthest.”

Leonardo Miucci stunned ISA with two equally spectacular performances. At 28 years old, he is someone that aspiring musicians can look up to for inspiration, and his mind-blowing executions of some well-known classical music were greatly appreciated by the ISA community. His first appearance at ISA was made for a SHARE benefit concert, the proceeds of which went to the various charities they support. Although it was mainly parents and teachers attending the event, students helped make it possible; they made decorations, served food and helped clean up afterwards. Some went as far as referring to him as a “musical genius” and “comparable to Mozart.” Despite his incredible talent, a privileged few discovered Mr. Miucci is about as down to earth as you can get. A week later, Miucci played for the entire upper school who congregated in the theatre one Friday morning. Never before had he been given the chance to play in front of an exclusively teenage audience, “It was a fantastic experience because the energy and tranquility that a similar audience can give you are rare. I think this is because of the typical spontaneity of that age. Therefore, I had a lot of fun in that situation. It was very pleasing!” Mr. Miucci began playing at the age of five. Apparently, he used to sit at his father’s By Elena Cineli

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Fair Trade Q&A What is Fair Trade? Fair Trade is an international non-governmental, non-profit organization. What does Fair Trade do? Fair Trade sells biological food products and hand-made products which have been produced in LEDCs (Less Economically Developed Countries). What are Fair Trade’s objectives? To allow less privileged, hard-working farmers to earn a fair share or pay for their work. How does this work? The Fair Trade organization examines the condition farmers produce their products, and if specific standards are met, the products produced by a farm are labeled “fair trade.” What are some of the rules that must be met in order for a farm’s product to be labeled fair trade? It is not permitted for the farmer to produce products like MEDCs (More Economically Developed Countries) do. MEDCs produce at a large scale using a variety of chemicals and fertilizers. Fair trade products must be natural. A small percentage of the money raised becomes part of a fund known as the “fair trade premium.” This fund benefits local communities where fair trade products are produced mainly by building schools and providing the community access to safe drinking water. Why is fair trade necessary? MEDCs and large scale factories are able to sell products for low prices. This results in customers buying mass production products because of their lower price. Many customers ignore quality. Many European farmers get paid for fixed quantities rather than quality. Because less privileged LEDC farmers cannot produce in masses, it is unfair competition. Fair trade allows hard working people to be paid for their hard work and quality products. How can you contribute? Next time you go to the supermarket and see all those lonely fair trade products lined up in a corner, think twice! Are you willing to pay a little more for good quality products? For more information regarding fair trade or to purchase any product available consult the school fair trade group. By Stefan Weber 5

Egypt: a revolution of the people Egypt’s revolution started January 25, marked the beginning. He says, “No, because I was mainly (and still see) him as the symbol of corruption and as the “Day of Revolt.” On this day thousands of concerned with protecting my home, together with oppression. On the February 4 the people tried to demonstrators occupied Cairo’s Tahrir Square to my neighbors we organized our own ‘militia’ drive out President Mubarak by taking part in a protest against then President Hosni Mubarak. group, and put up barricades to protect the “day of departure.” Protestors gathered in the I interviewed Marwan Sallam, an 18-year- neighborhood. There were constant street fights streets chanting slogans against Mubarak. old student at the Ecole Oasis de Maadi and MUN and the police had lost all its power.” On February 8 the government claimed they participant, through email and Facebook, to gain a Sallam said about the experience that it felt were working on a transition of power, but the student’s perspective on this pivotal event in the like all order was gone and nobody knew what to people were not satisfied with this minor change current wave of revolution sweeping across the do anymore. On February 1 more than a quarter and more and more people gathered at Tahrir Middle East. “What needs to be noted,” says of a million people came to Cairo to participate in Square for the largest demonstration seen until Sallam, a student who witnessed and participated in the Mubarak protests, is “that the protesting started off peaceful at first, demanding little –getting rid of the Minister of Interior – it was only on the next day that things started to escalate. On this day the police tried to stop demonstrators with the use of violence at some occasions. As the week continued the amount of people that went out on the street to protest increased and the amount of violence used by the police to put the protests down got more severe.” Sallam said, “There are interest groups but mainly opposing parties, but to correct the purpose, the Courtesy bbc.co.uk reason why people took part in these protests, was to fight Protest against Hosni Mubarak’s reign at Cairo’s Tahrir Square, the revolution’s epicenter. off corruption and hunger, a demonstration, known the “March of Millions.” then. Two days later, Mubarak announced that he and to fight for freedom of speech.” During the second week Tahrir Square was determined to stay in power, enraging January 28 was when order disintegrated – continued to be the focus of protesting. Violence protestors. But on February 11, after eighteen days when everybody exploited these protests, interest between supporters and opponents of President of protests, President Hosni Mubarak decided to groups mainly, like the Muslim Brotherhood, the Mubarak erupted, as armed groups fought battles step down. The people of Egypt celebrate. ruling party and all criminal convicts. Sallam says, on the streets, that went on day and night. At this Sallam says that even though the revolution “This day was hell, the government cut off all point clashes had started to erupt in other cities was a political upheaval, it was an economic sources of communication, everyone was out on too, such as Alexandria. downfall. Egypt lost over 80 billion pounds in the street, police, police haters, convict attacks, But it seems that the second week was less eighteen days, “So people should stop protesting police departments that were attacked. The ruling aggressive than the first. Sallam says, “When I and go back to work.” The stock markets are closed party hired thugs to fight the protesters.” In his went to the protests, it didn’t inspire me. There out of crash fears. There is still a curfew, but the opinion this was mainly done to show the people were a lot of flaws. Tahrir Square was divided into security is back. “The new government is that without them the country would fall. It was so many groups that each group had their own effective,” says Sallam,” but people need to be also on that day that prisons were attacked and opinion. They weren’t united. It seemed as though patient, so the economy can get back on its feet.” prisoners were let out into the street. Sallam says they were waiting. It was like a carnival; people Time will be the judge of both claims. that it got up to a point were there were about were walking around, watching and waiting.’ 30,000 prisoners out on the loose. The only unifying point was that they all By Sarah-Mae Lieverse I asked Sallam if he took part in the protest at wanted Mubarak to be deposed, as people saw

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

rofile NEW TEACHER PROFILE New T

Name: Ian Kilbride From: Mr. Kilbride was born and raised near Manchester in the UK. He received a master’s degree in Medieval history from University of St. Andrews, Scotland. “I also got on online degree in applied linguistics from the Open University. It’s the biggest online university in the world. I didn’t meet a human being in three years of studying.” Teaches: 6th, 7th and 9th grade EAL. Reason to come to ISA: “I didn’t like Luxembourg. After three years of it, I needed a city with some soul.” Previous teaching experience: Before joining ISA, Mr. Kilbride spent three years teaching at the International School of Luxembourg. Before that, Mr. Kilbride spent eight years at the British International School in Prague. He has taught EAL, History and English at grade levels 6-12. “I miss teaching high school,” he explains. Other information: Mr. Kilbride is a Liverpool FC fan, despite being from near Manchester. “Where I lived was between Manchester and Liverpool. My whole Ian Kilbride family are Liverpool fans, so I didn’t really have a choice. But I’m a bigger tennis fan.” Although he is an Ian Kilbride joins the ISA from ISL. “After three years of Andy Murray fan, he also supports Rafa Nadal. At ISA Luxembourg, I needed a city with some soul,” he Mr. Kilbride is “hoping to set up a debate club.” He also explains. runs half marathons. By Adriaan Hilbers Name: Jing Jing Thomas From: “I was born and grew up in Beijing, China. Yet I became somewhat nomadic later.”

Jing Jing Thomas

Teaches: Mandarin ab initio. Reason to come to ISA: “As a parent of two ISA graduates, I know ISA well. I am enjoying the challenge of establishing a new Mandarin program for the school community.” Previous teaching experience: “I started teaching Chinese Language & Literature in 1983 at high schools and colleges in Beijing, Then taught middle school students and adults in Australia. At ISA I have tutored private students since 2003 in Mandarin ranging from Lower school to IB students.” Other information: “As well as teaching I also enjoy travelling, reading and writing travel literature. I have five books published to date You can see one of my books, A Fascination with Orange, in the ISA upper school library.” By Robyn Jones

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

ls Editorials EDITORIALS Editorials E

It’s looking good for optimists In tenth grade, all ISA English advanced students read two dystopias, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New Wo r l d a n d G e o r g e Orwell’s 1984. Huxley’s science fiction prediction is set hundreds of years from now, but 1984 has come and passed. We don’t live in the slums of some doublethinking superpower and the chance of encountering carnivorous rats in a cage around our heads seems smaller than ever. Sure, 1984 was written four years after the horrors of the WWII, a time when we were questioning if human nature would ever allow us to coexist peacefully, but Orwell was dead wrong in his dystopian estimate. In fact, the last year has more than ever contradicted the depressing conjectures that Orwell and Huxley constructed some seventy to eighty years earlier. We’re headed in the right direction. 1984 revolves around the idea that a few absolute powers will take control of the world and dumb down the population until they are invincible. The world will live in poverty while faceless leaders torture the normal folk. Surely Orwell could not have predicted the human race to be so resilient. In Egypt, protesters staged a coup of dictator Hosni Mubarak, outlasting him in a three week standoff. Despite looming economic crisis and lack of food, the protests amazingly remained peaceful, and collected their reward when on February 11 Mubarak resigned. The army took control and elections for a new leader are scheduled for September this year. Never before have the people of a country so peacefully taken control from a leader, who, despite his absolute authority, could not consolidate his authority. In Bahrain, protesters forced the army, who were fighting the resistance, back to their barracks. In response, the military police were called upon to end the dispute, but they also turned back hours later without major violence. The

Courtesy mstong.files.wordpress.com

contrast to Orwell’s almighty thought police has never been greater. In Libya, protester have been less successful, but have made the tyrant Gaddafi aware of the fact that even his seat, long regarded as invulnerable, is no longer safe. The prediction that doublethink could make entire populations into conforming masses was disproved, as the new media culture informed Libyan protesters of what was happening elsewhere in the world (and in their own country). The world is definitely changing, and people dispute if this is for the better or for the worse. I’m an optimist in every sense of the word, and I’ve never before felt the world progressing so quickly. Orwell’s dystopia was a false prediction, and it’s not looking good for Huxley. The world is moving in the right direction – it’s looking good for optimists. By Adriaan Hilbers

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Mother Nature’s Haunted House - 2011

Courtesy mitomneycentral.com

The 9.0 Richter scale earthquake and subsequent tsunami wreaked havoc on the port town of Sendai, Japan. (see page 1)

Only last month we expressed hope that the recent unprecedented run of natural catastrophes was done. The annus horribilis started in Australia. There were massive floods in three states. Then cyclone Yasi stormed across Far North Queensland, carving a trail of devastation that will take years to overcome. The Australians suffered destructive bush fires in the Perth Hills and damaging rains, winds and flooding in the north. In Christchurch it was a shallow 6.3 magnitude quake that shook New Zealand's second-biggest city with a massive human and physical toll. The event will take many years for our friends across the globe to rebound. Now we have the seventh biggest earthquake in history that triggered a tsunami that has left much of Japan a disaster zone. In the days following the event we sat

mesmerized at our computer and TV screens watching what looked like toy towns swept away and huge ships being tossed around like boats in a bathtub. Bizarre theories are being bandied about. The tsunami comes just two days after warnings the movement of the moon could trigger unpredictable events on earth. Astrologers predict that on March 19 the socalled "supermoon" (perigree syzygy) will be closer to earth than at any time since 1992, just 355,000km away, and that it’s gravitational pull will bring chaos to earth. Others on the internet have predicted it will cause further catastrophes such as volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. We are lucky in the Netherlands. We live in a relatively safe environment. A freak hailstorm was probably the most unusual event of last year. Sometimes I wonder how simple it is for people to forget about these events. Human lives that Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

shouldn’t be lost perish. Structures humans have spent so much time building, gone within seconds. People in unaffected countries may spend a couple of minutes at the dinner table giving thanks and prayers, or reach into their wallets and offer the victims a few coins. But what else? I would like to see the world come together as one in harmony. I like to think that the world is a family, and we help each other out as brothers and sisters. That when one brother falls down, another will help him get back up. This is an attitude the world needs, and not only in those times when Mother Nature’s hand inevitably strikes. By Victor Swaab

School is over… but what comes next?

On Brotherhood

At some point, most of us will face the lifealtering decision: “Should I go to university?” As students of an international school, the ending of school means that finally, the long drag of the IB is over. It also means that we are faced with a choice that will determine the next chapter of our lives. Many of our friends will move back to their home countries, and pursue an education there. But, for the small percentage of us who call ISA their home, the next step is more difficult to take. But don’t fret, as there are many options open for you. Nowadays, students are faced with many choices. “Gap years” are becoming more common due to the increasing amount of recognition it is given. A planned gap year is respected by many institutions, and may actually further your chances of getting admitted to a university after a year of soul searching and travel. But, the difficulty with taking a year off is that often, students find it difficult to return to the dull, repetitive rhythm of mundane school life. Nonetheless, if you are considering taking a gap year, it is important to make s u r e i t i s we l l planned and that you have given yourself an abundance of opportunities like volunteer activities and hands-on, new experiences to commit to. Once you are sure this is what you want, and you feel that working at a wildlife preservation in Thailand or volunteering to teach English at a school in Ghana might be exactly what you need, you can take the next step in planning your future. (http:// www.gapyearprograms.net/)

For as long as The Globe has been inhabited by the human race, She has been forced to be the witness of awful conflict and of dire struggle, of terrible battles, and of dreadful wars. And She has seen them arise for countless many reasons: sometimes for power and sometimes for hate, sometimes for honour and sometimes for riches. Perhaps from time to time they may even have occurred—for love. And The Globe, She has noticed that curiously, the wars are systematically waged in Her name – or, in the name of entities that constitute Her. And for millennia, dear members of the human race, men and women and children have died for them, for these entities that we call our countries, our nations, our states. But, The Globe, She has never understood why, for these entities, they are merely fragments of one whole. Thus She thinks to herself: “What are these borders and frontiers they so often speak of and so often fight about?” Now the answer to this question is not a complicated one: there are truly no such things as borders and frontiers, for we are all brothers and sisters from the same land below and the same sea around and the same sky above. Day after day the trees offer us all air to breath, day after day the sea provides us all with water to drink, and day after day the earth grants us all food to eat. They make no distinction between men and women who are essentially all brothers and sisters. Thus why do we? In the best interest of humanity at large, we must stand united, together as one people, one entity under one banner, for it is “united that we stand, and it is divided that we fall.” We must realize that the “whole world is like a human body with its various members. Pain in one member is felt in the whole body.” So let us quarrel no more on the basis that “I am from here” and that “he is from there,” for, my dear brothers and sisters, remind yourselves—every war is a civil one.

If a gap year isn’t your cup of tea, you may already be considering university. With the recent recession threatening to affect every aspect of our lives, it is inevitable that many institutions have had to cut down on the amount of financial aid they offer and the availability of spaces for incoming students. In the UK, tuition will be raised, beginning in the autumn of 2012. Also, applicants for the Fall 2011 class has reached an all-time high and is now at a peak. If you thought acceptance rates of 7% were competitive for Ivy League schools on the east coast of the US, you will be concerned to hear that many reputable schools with a much higher chance of admission have now fallen below 10% due to the sudden surge in applications. Now, with less space, less money and less of a chance at getting into university, it would be an understatement to say that applying to university has become more stressful than ever. During the first trimester, if you saw a twelfth grader drudging through the halls, trying to sneak a mug of coffee past the carpeted areas, looking like a lifeless zombie, now you know why! Twelfth graders… our fate is sealed! Whether you applied to a few colleges or over a dozen, these are the days we are all feverishly checking our email for those highly anticipated acceptances. Where everyone else is concerned, don’t let the effects of the recession bring down your hopes of furthering your education. Whether you choose to take a gap year or decide to try your chances at your dream school, don’t forget that we are the future, and graduating as students of the International school of Amsterdam, we have been taught to handle whatever crosses our path.

“If you thought acceptance rates of 7% were competitive for Ivy League schools on the east coast of the US, you will be concerned to hear that many reputable schools with a much higher chance of admission have now fallen below 10% due to the sudden surge in applications.”

By Anonymous

By Steffi Renique

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Arts Arts Arts ARTS Arts Arts Arts A

And The Oscar Goes To... Sunday, February 27, was a night when all the stars were out in Los Angeles, gleaming in haute couture ranging from Givenchy and Ellie Saab to Armani. All those who have touched the film industy were seen and judged early on the red carpet then applauded in the L.A. Kodak theatre later. This year the six thousand members of the Academy had a rough job cut out for them, as they had to choose from one of the greatest years in film. There were 56 films nominated for at least one category to receive the highest award in film achievement: an Oscar. The categories ranged from best picture to best sound editing and gave documentaries and short films opportunities to shine. The glitz and the glamour of the evening started on the red carpet where the world could see celebrities posing for cameras and being questioned about their expectations of the night and obviously their choice of wardrobe. This year celebrities didn’t care if they clashed with the carpet that they stood on, for five internationally renowned actors walked the red carpet in fiery red dresses. They got attention. The dress that caused the most hype was that of Mila Kunis, who played a seductive ballerina in Black Swan. Her simple lilac chiffon and lace gown by Ellie Saab blew away most of the crowd. The fashion at the Academy Awards is always important, but two gals did not live up to the standards of the night. Scarlett Johanson wore an unflattering purple dress with seemingly unkempt hair, and Florence Welch wore a beige dress that looked like she bought it from a curtain store. It is quite easy to look dashing in a tuxedo, therefore allowing

every man to be a shining penny or a stunning accessory for the women. As the night proceeded, and the actors finally made it into the Hollywood Kodak theatre, the ceremony started with the introduction to the night by an Inception-inspired short film starring the hosts of the evening, Ann Hathaway and James Franco, searching the dreams of Alec Baldwin for tips and tricks on how to host the Awards. After the jokes were made, the seriousness came through when the first award was presented by Tom Hanks for achievement in art direction. Though not one of the most anticipated awards, it was a beautiful introduction to a magical night. Throughout the night awards were given out by legendary figures in film, such as Kirk Douglas and Tom Hanks. The supporting actors, Melissa Leo and Christian Bale, won awards for the movie The Fighter. The two movies that were the talk of the town from the moment they were released, The King’s Speech and Black Swan both gave their leading actors a time to shine as stars: Colin Firth and Natalie Portman received highest honors, Best Actor and Actress awards. The suspense mounted for the announcement of Best Picture was presented by renowned director Steven Spielberg. And the Academy Award for Best Picture goes to… The King’s Speech. By Gwen Scholten

BAFTA Winners: It is no surprise that the British film of the year, The King's Speech, took home most of the awards at their own ceremony, winning Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Supporting Actor, Best Original Screenplay, and Most Original Music. The statement was clear -the British love their own films. Other awards went to The Social Network, Inception, and Black Swan, films that have been dominating box office sales the entire year, and are destined to be classics.

History Through Literature?! Can you imagine it: two huge armies fighting a battle of epic proportions with swords, shield and bows to conquer new land? Well, historical fiction has it all. It is the genre that takes you back in history and shows all of its secrets, retelling famous as well as invented stories. What makes historical fiction so great is that it usually is based on very thorough research by the author to make sure their work follows history and is realistic. This means that we can gain a lot of knowledge from these novels and truly improve our understanding of certain historical settings. However, it is important to remember that because historical fiction is still fiction not all of it is true, mostly just the environment and general character descriptions are based on historical sources. Besides that, it’s up to the reader to decide what events could have really happened and which are fictional. Personally I really love reading novels set in ancient to medieval history, such as the time of the Vikings, Crusades,

and the Roman Empire. My favorite historical fiction author is Simon Scarrow, known for the “Eagle” series, which consists of ten books (soon to be eleven) about the adventures of two men, Cato and Macro, serving in the legions of Rome. The series follows Cato and Macro in their multiple endeavors, such as their fight against barbarians, their time as a part of the invading force of Britain, and much more. It is very entertaining to watch the growth of the friendship between Cato and Macro, and follow them through glorious as well as horrific battles, and learn about history at the same time! If you’re at all into history and enjoy reading then I genuinely recommend picking up a novel based around a historical period that is of your interest, and I assure you that you will quite likely be happy with what you find. By Hessel Tinga

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Hamlet Lecture Review A few months ago, myself and a group of other 12th grade English A1 students assembled to watch a lecture on Hamlet, the famous tragedy by William Shakespeare. But we were not meeting in an ISA classroom, or in fact in the ISA at all. Rather, we found ourselves gathered inside the CREA theatre, in the heart of the city. CREA is the cultural organization of the Universiteit van Amsterdam (UvA) and the Hogeschool van Amsterdam (HvA), and offers a wide range of activities – including classes, workshops, lectures, debates, theatre and dance performances, concerts, and exhibitions – aimed to support students in the fields of theatre, music, dance, visual arts, video, photography and literature. We were there to listen to a lecture about the portrayal of Hamlet as a tragic hero, presented by Dr. Gene Moore, a teacher of English literature and publicist on the work of Joseph Conrad. For many of us, this was our first real taste of college life, and we were eager to see how it compared to our experiences of high school. The first real difference was the atmosphere; it was late evening by now, and the mood was very low-key and relaxed, with audience members (the majority of which, like us, were literature students) free to walk in and out as they pleased. Furthermore, Dr. Moore did not conduct the lecture as a lesson, but rather as an extensive conversation; an open forum in which audience members

were permitted, and in fact encouraged, to contribute to and even challenge his views. This was a new experience to us, and we were all excited (and admittedly a little awe-struck) when a very eloquent student a few rows down from us stood up and point-blank stated that he disagreed with Dr. Moore’s thesis, and would like to put forward one of his own. In high school, this would be considered cheeky (and frankly, a little arrogant), but the audience in the CREA theatre didn’t even bat an eyelid. Overall, we all thoroughly enjoyed the lecture, and returned to school the following day with plenty of new perspectives and ideas to discuss. Viewing Hamlet from a different angle helped us to move away from generic interpretations of the play, and add a deep and individual interpretation to the words put down on paper by Shakespeare all those years ago. I would strongly encourage a visit to CREA (or any other student-orientated institution) for all those amongst you who are interested in an original and interactive learning experience – it is most definitely worth the trip! By Aimee Shah

Broken Soldier Marching—in the wet War—not in sight yet Close quarters we share Civilians stop to stare A dead man walks among us, Cordial—letters I write Never with delight Buttercups wave in the breeze Covering the stench of Disease A dead man walks among them, Ache in my feet and Chest Cure is an infinite rest Th' morning broke my gas ring That Break isn't the only thing A dead man walks by me, Write hard and clear about what hurts. While your heart into a Stone converts A dead man is inside me, There's a bomb inside my chest Tick—tick—Tick and my heart. Shatters.

Anonymous (author of Shame Was Her Murderer)

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

The King of Limbs (2011) - Radiohead

Four years since 2007’s In Rainbows, Radiohead are back for another round. The digital “pay what you like” concept was partially upheld; the album wasn’t highly publicised, and the record was only available on Radiohead’s official website. Having said that, it turns out that “paying what you like” wasn’t turning enough cash for the selfpublishing band, which broke free from EMI in 2004. Frontman Thom Yorke’s taciturn attitude (nobody’s ever heard the man speak) prevented us from knowing anything much about The King of Limbs before its release, save for the fact that its title is the name of a 1000 year-old tree in Wiltshire. So what were we to expect? Another In Rainbows electronic construction? Something as experimental as Kid A? Or as introspective as OK Computer? What Radiohead have released is a balance of all of these. Radiohead start the 37-minute sprint with “Bloom”, a jagged and almost ghostly track. Horns, violins, and bird noises are used to create the blooming of the 1000 year-old tree. Yorke’s vocals are at their creepiest, observing the darkness of the King of Limbs and its antiquity. The rhythm is incredibly uneven and asserts that The King of Limbs will be going in the direction of Kid A. However, the next track, “Morning Mr. Magpie”, is quicker and has some fantastic guitar effects, along with Radiohead’s trademark vocal harmonies, sounding more like something from In Rainbows. The creepiness remains.

“Little By Little” is softer and more accessible; fans of OK Computer will enjoy this most. The tree is still being explored through the album “Little By Little”, and Yorke doesn’t sound as eerie as usual. “Lotus Flower” starts with some strategically placed clapping, which works well to make the uncertainty about The King of Limbs decrease. It is the first love song on the record, with “there’s an empty space inside my heart / where the weeds take root / so now I’ll set you free”. Thom Yorke’s vocals are particularly commendable in the chorus, where among psychedelic keyboards and beautiful drumming he hits notes which will make even the happiest of hearts manically depressed. And it keeps getting better and better; “Codex” is a slow piano tune about the band finally understanding what that 1000 year-old tree really is. The album ends on a hopeful note, as the spooky tunes heard in the first half of the album disappear into the calm “Give Up The Ghost” and the hopeful “Separator”, the first of which could be found on Radiohead’s debut Pablo Honey (slow and acoustic) and the second on OK Computer (faster, with bright guitars). An honourable mention should Courtesy radiohead.com also go to the music video released for “Lotus Flower”: it could possibly be considered the greatest music video of all time. It features Yorke himself in an empty warehouse, wearing a bowler hat, making beautiful movements and gestures illustrating the developments of a tree. And only when one sees this video does one begin to understand what The King of Limbs truly is. Radiohead break no new ground in this record, it all seems to be based on previous albums. And this is what The King of Limbs is: it’s a metaphor for Radiohead’s career. It’s a “best of” album consisting of original studio tracks. The tree is the unification for the plethora of genres in Radiohead’s musical arsenal, and The King of Limbs proves itself to be the shortest, most effective and cutting compilation album ever created. Many have argued that The King of Limbs doesn’t hit the revolutionary concept which every Radiohead album since their debut has, but it truly does. In what is almost a response to EMI’s 2007 release of Radiohead: The Best Of, which was released without the band’s consent, Radiohead have proven themselves to be more avant-garde than ever by creating a genre-unifying concept album. By Ludo Cinelli

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Artists Coming To Amsterdam Concert Dates, Prices and Where to Purchase Tickets Racoon The popular Dutch rock band, Racoon, will be performing Thursday, May 12, at Paradiso, Amsterdam. The band formed in 1997, and in 2000 they released a hit single “Feel like Flying,” which was their break into the Dutch music industry. The current members of the band are Bart van der Weide (the lead vocals) ,Dennis Huige (guitar), Paul Bukkens (drummer) and Stefan De Kroon (bass). The band is best known for their 2005 hit, “Love you More,” which was redone into a trance hit, in collaboration with Armin van Buuren, a Dutch trance producer. Price: 35 Euros

R. Kelly The urban R&B star will be performing at Heineken Music Hall, March 9. R. Kelly was previously in the band Public Announcement, but the explicit carnality of his music shot him to success in the 90’s. R. Kelly and Public Announcement then released their debut album in the early 90’s, which included tracks such as “Dedicated’ which became a huge pop hit. The apogee of his career was with his hit “I Believe I can Fly,” winning Best Male R&B Vocal Performance, Best R&B Song, and Best Song Written Specifically for a Motion Picture or for Television. His other single with Celine Dion, “I’m Your Angel,” also reached top of the charts, smoothing over R. Kelly’s explicit image, revealing a more romantic, softer side to his music, and himself as an artist. For the 2010 FIFA world cup, “Sign of a Victory” played for the opening ceremony. Price: 70 Euros

courtesy http://www.kindamuzik.net/artiest/racoon

30H!3 The electronic/hip-hop band will be performing at Melkweg, Amsterdam on Saturday, May 21. The lead singers, Sean Foreman and Nathaniel Motte, met at their university in Colorado, and named their band after the area code of where they lived. They then recorded and independently released their debut album in 2007. Their first single in 2008, “Want” was their success, having gone double platinum and having sold more than two million tracks. Although the band has been nominated for “Best New Artist,” alongside big stars like Lady Gaga and Drake, they remain humble, and continue to express their intention to have “fun” with their music. Price: 30 Euros

! Jim Jones Revue

Courtesy http://bossip.com/183582/new-music-r-kelly-tyrese-and-the-dream-pregnant/

The English garage rock band will be performing at Paradiso Monday, April 25. The band consists of Jim Jones (formerly of Thee Hypnotics), Rupert Orton (who met Jim Jones at a night club), Gavin Jay, Nick Jones and Elliot Mortimer. Their debut album was recorded in 48 hours, and released in 2008. All tickets can be purchased at http://www.worldticketshop.com By Bella Human

Courtesy http://imagesfrom.co.cc/domain/yourmusicneeds.blogspot.com/

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Pimp my iPhone - The apps we don’t know Many of you already have or will have an iPhone®, iPod Touch® or an iPad™. Other than its basic abilities, have you considered the technological marvel that it possesses? As the application industry grows, these portable devices are becoming more effective than a personal assistant and more entertaining than a comedian. As most are aware of the popular applications such as “Facebook” and “Doodle Jump,” I will review the more obscure applications, ones that accentuate their capabilities and revolutionise the market in convenience, productivity and entertainment. Infinity Blade Infinity Blade is a work of art. Its unprecedented graphics and the fact that it uses Unreal Engine 3 make it unique to the portable gaming market. This sword-fighting RPG for the iPhone®, iPad™ and iPod Touch® has won Game of the Year in over 20 popular review sites, and rightfully so. This game’s crisp graphics, smooth cut scenes, customisability, ease of control and overall aesthetic allure make it a must-have for anybody even remotely interested in gaming. For just $5.99 in the App store, game developer “Chair Entertainment” has succeeded in transferring console controls and graphics to the touch screen market. Air Video In its basic form, Air Video is a media streamer. It allows you to bypass the time-consuming process of converting and syncing videos to your device by linking you, through your WIFI connection, to the video files on the computer.

“Infinity Blade delivers one of the coolest experiences on iPhone... it’s one of the best mobile games ever made.” (Gamespot)

Courtesy geeky-gadget.com

“This app is by far my favorite Photography app hands down.” (Jeff Goldbloom, Gamestop)

Courtesy blog.pikimal.com

black and white. It cannot be made clearer that ColorSplash is not a professional photographer’s or editor’s application like Photoshop. Using it feels almost like a game. You basically chose a picture, grayscale it and then select which parts you would like to be in color. This simple concept can enhance your pictures greatly and takes little to no effort. It is definitely worth its $1 price.

While your iPhone® and iPod touch® will only allow you to play .mp4 video files, Air Video allows live conversion of AVI, DivX, MKV and other video files. Obviously, you are limited to the range of your WIFI network and it requires an additional (free) application to be downloaded on your computer, but it still is the best video streamer in the App Store. Air Video essentially gives you access to your entire video directory while taking up hardly any space. The fast connection and live conversion ability is truly worth the $3.

Plants vs. Zombies Game developer PopCap has taken the best of both the action and strategy genre to create a linear defence type game known as PvZ. If you thought Angry Birds was addictive, be prepared to spend hours on PvZ. The goal in this game is simple yet truly arbitrary: defend your home from a zombie invasion using a multitude of plants. From frozen pea shooters to exploding landmines, the fast paced adventure mode is extremely well made with constant upgrades to keep ColorSplash the game interesting. PvZ is simple and relatively expensive at $3, though the ColorSplash is not your typical photography application. On the contrary, it is hours of fun that it will yield are a truly good value. actually quite featureless and but yet truly effective at contrasting color and Continued on page 16

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Continued from page 15 Google Search Although Google search may be very familiar to you, the application may not be. This application will undoubtedly be the best and easiest searching experience of your life. The application recognizes sound, images and text. This means that you can record a song or even set it to write out your question. It will also sense pictures, for example, if you take a picture of a famous statue, it will link you to websites where other pictures of that statue can be found. The mechanics of this application may seem complicated but the user interface is so simple that a baby could use it. Plus, it’s free which leaves very little reason not to try it out. NewsRack As unrest rages through the Middle East and Japan recovers from the devastating natural disaster, we all want to stay up to date on the news. Most are aware of the individual BBC and CNN news apps but is there an all-in-one application that can bring the technology reviews on Gizmodo, celebrity gossip on Huffington Post and the world news on the BBC? This is exactly what the full features RSS reader called NewsRack does. The user can subscribe to certain URLs and it puts them all together in an aesthetically pleasing news stand theme. For $5 in the app store, it is pricy but certainly not undeserving.

Dragon Dictation Of all speech recognitions software in existence, Dragon Dictation has always been one of the best. Their effective word and punctuation recognition make it easy for users to trust the program to take notes while they speak. The iPhone®, iPad™ and iPod touch® versions of this program also do not disappoint. The noise cancelling is sublime, allowing you to record in a public place or even with music on. Again, seeing as it’s free, there is no reason not to try it out.

“Word lens is an app that delivers on the promise of augmented reality.“ (Guardian) Word lens To be honest, this application, although extremely useful, will mostly be downloaded as a novelty. Although it is free in the App store it shows the true potential of the iPhone® or a camera bearing iPod touch®. Word lens basically isolates any text recognized by the camera and, depending on the setting, can translate, blur or reverse the words it senses. This allows you to hold your camera up to signposts or virtually any typed text and be able to see the text, magically adjust on your screen. The translation may not be truly accurate but who cares? The beauty in this app is the technology, not the utility.

Dead Space Dead Space on the iPhone® and iPod touch® is, like Infinity Blade, another example of a console game translated to touch controls. Electronic Arts, however does not do as good a job as other similar games, but the horror genre and dense graphics have been successfully fit into the three inch screen allowing for a similar play experience. In Dead Space, you play as an engineer where you Necromorphs. It is not so much an objective based game as it is a show of great graphics, and especially freakishly realistic surround sound. To simplify controls and enlarge the display, Electronic Arts have kept a very minimalist HUD (heads up display) which does make the game slightly confusing at times. Nevertheless, the most loved features, such as the blood, brutal kill scenes and the creepy sound effects, seem almost identical to the console versions of the game. Since it only costs $6 (which is one-tenth of the console cost), it is truly worth it. By Saagar Hemrajani

Courtesy geeky-gadget.com

Video Game Review: Killzone 3 (PS3) “A lot of games can place you in first person and put a gun in your virtual fingers, but few of them manage to make you feel like you're in the shoes of a person, that you're more than just a moving camera.” (IGN)

Killzone 3 was one of the few games that deeply impacted the gaming audience during the E3 of 2010. But does it live up to the hype and can it set the bar for first-person shooters just like Killzone 2 did.

The campaign continues directly after the events of Killzone 2 where Rico has killed the Helghast Leader Visari. Due to the unexplainable death, Visariis seen as a martyr for the Helghast which leads the planet into a bloody revolution against the opposing ISA. Because of the great story that has been created for Killzone 2, Guerilla Games easily picked up on the storyline without trouble. The story continues with Sev (you) and Rico trying to evacuate the planet, but being outnumbered by the Helghast. At first glance, this plot seems awesome, In 2011, the majority of the exclusives appear to come out for the Playstation 3. but frankly, Guerilla Games had a difficult time polishing it. It’s an enjoyable story but it’s weak. The new characters are nothing special, and Sev and Rico With names such as LittleBigPlanet 2, InFamous 2, Socom 4 and Motorstorm do not give the same impact as they did in the predecessor. But on a more Apocalypse, the year for Sony cannot fail. One of the major titles for the Japanese console is Killzone 3 from our own Amsterdam based Guerilla Games. Continued on page 17

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Continued from page 16 optimistic note, Killzone 3 is one of the most realistic shooters to date. When you reload your gun, your character actually looks at the gun, when you run, your head shakes, when you jump, the character pushes down and the camera shakes. All of these aspects put together make you feel like you’re actually the soldier. Everything is done perfectly. It’s not just a first-person shooter; it’s a first-person experience. Every action has weight. There is a slight delay between actions, but this delay isn’t as long as in Killzone 2. Another new addition is the brutal melee. These executions are bloody but fantastic. It adds a new dimension to the franchise. Also the new jetpack adds welcoming platform segments which do increase the variety. Guerilla

Games explained that Killzone 2 used 100% of the PS3’s processing power but they soon realized they were wrong. It can easily be concluded that Killzone 3 has the best graphics on the consoles till this moment. The light animations, weapon detail, personas and setting are equally impressive and this just shows how much effort was put into it. A total of 70 minutes of beautiful cinematics, that take some ideas from Star Wars, adds a new layer of depth. These incredible visuals combine with relevant sounds such as the rattling of ammunition, wind, character sounds and the nearing of an empty clip to create a realistic experience. The soundtrack introduces a more emotional counterpart to the already masculine game which was a clever idea as I sometimes spent 2 minutes on the main menu just listening to the incredible tune. The entire campaign can be played cooperatively, with the Playstation Move and in 3D. All of these aspects make it clear that the campaign was a breath of fresh air for the 8-10 hours of gameplay that it offered.

and long. The new maps are some of the best in the franchise and vary from setting. For example there is one level which is takes place in a slanted green building. This new addition further helps create the Killzone atmosphere of war and industry. Vehicles are present in some maps and prove to be very helpful. What personally made the multiplayer so strong was based on one mode. This mode was already present in Killzone 2 and has been ported to the recent version. Warzone is a mode which contains multiple objects and game modes, all taking place on one map in one match without any breaks. You might win a Team Deathmatch but lose an Assassination mission a minute later. As 7 different objectives are consecutively played, there are no instances when the gameplay felt choppy. By including 5 different classes with an additional customization system, Killzone 3 remains fresh and enjoyable. Guerilla Games has promised to update the game regularly to keep the servers running and to fix glitches, bugs and problems. Also new maps have already been confirmed which does show the dedication of the makers. The only real short coming of the multiplayer is the ability for the infiltrator class to disguise themselves with a shotgun, but this is a small price to pay for such a solid and fresh multiplayer. Guerilla Games has grown from a small Dutch company into a multimillion dollar powerhouse. By releasing Killzone 3, they didn’t just raise the bar of modern Courtesy usatoday.net shooters, they completely obliterated it. Its singleplayer is enjoyable, the multiplayer is one of the best online games that I’ve played, and the entire atmosphere, visual and sound wise, are equally intriguing and brute. Sony made a brave and smart decision of releasing this game early this year so that it can dominate the market for quite some time.

The Verdict 9.1/10

+ Graphics are masterful +Enjoyable Campaign and Co-op +Fresh Multiplayer -Limiting Story Guerilla Games/ SCE Nowadays, shooters need to include a multiplayer faction in order to succeed in the competitive shooter race. Call of Duty is the most popular Out Now on PS3 multiplayer game on the market (for various consoles), followed closely by Halo exclusively for the Xbox 360. Killzone 3 could easily become the new Halo for the Playstation 3 due to the potential of the online part. The maincore mechanics work similarly to Call of Duty following the level up system and unlocking of new guns. In order to unlocking these weapons and various extras, points need to be spent. For every level-up, one point is rewarded, which was a smart choice, as this keeps the game fun, addictive By Lars Neleman

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

heart AFFAIR OF THE HEART Affair

During the months of February and March, the 10th grade English students were given the task of constructing a fictitious love story -- an affair of the heart. It could be platonic or romantic, humorous or heart-wrenching, maddening or thought-provoking; it only needed to reflect one of the ways in which love is a part of the human experience. The Voice has selected a few of these stories to share with the ISA community. Courtesy esnique.com

Tobacco The man is destroyed: dejected, desperate, disconsolate. It’s easy to tell by the way he hangs his head and curls his fists around his hair. It’s the very typical yanking gesture, as if pulling his head off would numb the pain. But even decapitation would not surpass the aching of his heart: she’s gone, lost, nowhere. After all these years, expecting she would still be there was naive; he knows that, yet he couldn’t help but hope... Whenever they talked of her, she seemed so alive, concrete. And now, well... she was gone, lost, nowhere. He’s sitting on the sidewalk, his legs folded onto the road. From the tobacco shop across the boulevard, the old matron can observe his tall silhouette, her eyes widened in unfeigned compassion. If he were to look up, he’d be able to see her: the apron tight around her bosom, the thickly lathered makeup, the bleached hair. She knows that from this distance he would not notice the slight sagging of her breasts, the deepening wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, which, every year, etch themselves further into her skin. She feels her body ageing, her youth stolen before it had reached its prime, but from this distance… No, he wouldn’t notice. But from the cracked glass, almost opaque from dirt and age, she notices; she can see all of it: the starched collar of his shirt, the hungry, searching look in his eyes, the slow tearing of his insides. She sits up, with half a mind to cross the street. She takes a step towards him, her pointy heels banging on the dirty sidewalk, the noise resonating in the silence of the evening. She hesitates; what grotesque shoes, years out of date and yet decades too young. He hasn’t heard her. Reassured, but blushing like a young girl at the risk of being discovered, she slips her shoes off and, barefooted, crosses the street, a million thoughts stinging her mind. She dismisses them all, as she usually does, brushing them away as carelessly as she would pestering flies. Only these flies are particularly insistent: nuisances! Quick – a cigarette! Midway through the street, she pauses and fumbles in her pockets, oblivious to the cars steering to dodge her, the flies slowly fogging up her mind, but ah! A breath of fresh air disperses them as she takes that first puff. Rejuvenated, she approaches the man:

“Hullo.” Someone’s talking. “I’m sorry.” The sound tunes in and out, but it’s definite, someone is addressing him. “Do you have a moment?” Who? And why? Aren’t they repulsed by the tear marks streaking his cheeks, disgusted by the irrepressible jutting of his bottom lip? “It’s just that…” Yes? “Well, I was wondering if you were all right.” Oh, Lord no. “You see, I work over there.” She points to the tobacco shop with the hand still holding the cigarette, the neon lights lazily blinking away the night. “I saw you and I thought you might want some company.” It seemed she had come to a stop, and hovered expectantly around him, bringing the cigarette back and forth to her mouth, the filter marked with lipstick. He tore his gaze off the sidewalk, and slowly looked up at her. She was bare-footed, he noted, her soles soiled from the street. She wore an expression of utmost sympathy, but her eyes were completely miserable, an odd contrast to her warm smile. She, too, had the marks of tears, like a zebra tattoo, streaking naked lines on the caked make-up. He nodded, one curt, minimal movement of his neck in her direction, and she sat down next to him on the sidewalk. Neither talked. He stared at the ground, wondering what it would be like to suddenly spring up and run into one of the cars which were trundling by, but did not dare act on his impulse. She twisted her fingers into her hair, and stole discreet glances at his profile, his aristocratic figure. He was beautiful, his skin so young and smooth, flawless. She clasped the cigarette tightly, but had stopped puffing. The smoke coiled, invisible as it dissipated into the air, illuminated by the flickering lights of the tobacco shop. She broke the silence. “You know, I can tell you’re not feeling too well,” she stuttered, looking doubtfully at him to see if he was listening, “but let me tell you a story.”

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

She drew a long breath before proceeding. “A long time ago, I met this guy, in high school, and he was proper lovely, a real gentleman. We fell in love, or at least I did. I dropped out of high school when I got a baby, and started working in a tobacco shop, a job he’d set me up with.” She stated these things as facts, her voice steady, recounting the errors of her youth without judgement: “He told me that, hey, he’d finish high school, and then maybe go to college and he’d do all he could to make us happy. Well, he did that, at first: he finished school, real smart, and went to college, but then he didn’t come back. He just left. So there I was, selling cigarettes to hobos and drunkards all day long, with a little creature either in my arms or tugging at my legs to be picked up. I know he used me. I know I should’ve known better. I know all of that, now, but it doesn’t matter anymore because I didn’t know it then. I can tell you, honest to God, it wasn’t easy. But that wasn’t the worst of it, not nearly.” Her voice faltered as the young man raised his head off his hands, his attention aroused. Deciding that he was indeed interested, not simply stretching his neck, she continued: “See, ‘cause when my boy was seven, the guy came back, all grown up into a man, fancy and rich. I asked him, “What the hell d’you

Echo―o―o―o Turning the corner into the room, ambling with a determined stride, I saw the diamond chain shimmer in the light, seeming most lustful of it. The rainbows of light emanated throughout the Lilliputian room, invoking an elegant, divine ballroom dance on the walls. Worried the slightest movement might handicap my inexplicable vantage point; I tried my best to obtain a sort of Zen-like stillness or serenity that man had attempted to achieve through years of meditation―that was no challenge; my feet were cemented towards the ground, start struck once again…hypnotized. Although the necklace immediately demanded attention it only did so so as to provide one the opportunity to appreciate the true jewel above it; the face. I’ve seen that face many time before. And yet―each glimpse of it sends my heart racing with the swiftness of a bold and roaring river. The eyes; a deep, languid blue that bordered on

think you’re doing, bud? Coming back after all those years? No, that ain’t right, that’s my kid. You don’t know him; you don’t even know his name, no, no,” I said “that ain’t right.” But all he said was that he was hooked up to a business, and I could tell from all the starch in his shirt, almost stiff like yours. He was just gonna take my burden off my arms ‘cause he could take good care of the kid, but I couldn’t, he said. He could guess I wasn’t making good money in that tobacco shop, and he was right. I asked whose fault is that? He didn’t answer, he just blew his cig smoke into my face, yanked my baby away and left, again, and for the first time, I felt alone, for real, more than ever before. I’d lost my mama at birth and my daddy when I was a little girl, so I knew about loss, but not like that. It was like he’d taken my heart between his dandy hands, ripped it apart and stuffed the pieces into the cig packs back at the tobacco shop.” During all of this, she hadn’t taken a breath, but now, she looked at the man. He could see tears glistening in her eyes, reflecting the street lamps, the smoke of her dimly lit cigarette. “For a long time, I thought that when I sold every last pack of cigarettes, I’d get my baby back. But that ain’t how it works, is it? If he’d put my heart in the packs, I was just selling it away, pack by pack, piece by piece. Each time a new

shipment came in, I’d hope that maybe this time, maybe this pack would be the last piece of my heart, that I’d go numb afterwards, but it never ended, pack by piece by piece by pack. That’s how I took up smoking. I thought that if I helped end the stock, the cig packs would go faster. And now, well, the tobacco shop’s closing, and my son’s not back.” Her voice broke. She pulled out a large, worn handkerchief, and surprisingly ladylike for a woman of her stature, she dabbed at the tears, fugitive from her shut eyelids. He observed her, an odd look on his face, before she resumed talking: “I’ve never told this to anyone. It’s crazy that I’m unloading like this all of a sudden. It just tumbled out, you know? I don’t mean to make you feel worse, no, it’s just that I wanted you to know. You look a lot like my son Sam, even though I haven’t seen him in twenty years. I thought that if maybe I could help, maybe you’d like that. What’s your name?” The man looked at her, and for the first time, his face split into a tentative grin. “Sam. My name is Sam, mom. I was just looking for you.”

anthracite. The chin; chiseled as though by Michelangelo himself. The hair; a perfect length and a coruscate dirty blonde. I always hated that term ‘dirty blonde’; how could it do justice to such a pleasing haircut? Of course it is that mouth at which I stare at the most, the sort of innocent smirk it hosts in itself quite playful and teasing, further tempting with a dazzling array of alabaster white teeth. If there was one flaw that could be attributed to that angelic face it could only be the nose where a slight dent could be found, after hours of gazing, on one side, ruining the otherwise immaculate symmetry. This served, however, only to make the face more humbling, more realistic, more…(dare I say?)…human. Then, tout de suite, Carol, my ‘girlfriend’ as of late, distracted me from my innermost thoughts, exposing behind me a flamboyant smile, recognizable within the mirror before me. She was always smiling; smiling to the point of irritation, smiling as though the very action were going out of style. Carol could be easily be

described as beautiful; her body was stunning and her legs ‘seemed to go on forever.’ She had quite a friendly face, virginal face, which matched her excessive smile, and her French childhood made her seem exotic and interesting. Now that I think of it, she was almost always happy. It irritated me. She seemed as simplistic as a Disney character. Then, surrendering her arms around my waist and closing her eyes, I sighed. She was always so clingy―I tolerated her. I should’ve cared for one who felt for me so, but, I must sadly admit, I truly couldn’t care less for her, her feelings, or her thoughts. Despite her flaws, I did respect one thing of her; her taste in men! When Carol eventually opened her eyes, she found my brow furrowed as though in pain or extreme discomfort. She quickly pulled away, dropping her arms back unnaturally, and murmured quietly, “Are you alright, sweetie?” To which I replied reassuringly that I was fine. I attempted to relieve my face’s obvious discomfort and through doing so translated it

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

By Maddy Pauchet

onto the face of Carol who appeared nauseated and mildly shocked. It was the dead of winter and the stillness of the season created a miserable and self-conscious inducing silence. Many a man would underestimate the power of such a silence, nevertheless it managed to morph Carol’s cheery face into one appearing to suffer from torture itself―I should’ve felt guilty. After a silence long enough to perturb one’s condition, Carol eventually backed away from me, advancing towards the front door, visible from the bathroom. I stared at the mirror intently, fearing a move would spark conversation. Before she pushed down the

The Taniwha’s Promise Long ago, The Sun, Tama-nui-te-rā and The Earth, Aotūroa roamed the earth, checking the welfare of the creatures of the world. Aotūroa was the most beautiful woman in the world, who radiated a sense of protection and loyalty. Tama-nui-te-rā was a powerful and smart man, who valued every creature on earth. The Sun made sure of warmth for the entire world through the creation of seasons, by heating different parts of the world throughout the year. The Earth provided food and shelter to all of the different creatures that lived there. On a crisp spring morning, Tama-nui-te-rā and Aotūroa went walking along the bank of the Waikato River. They stopped to admire the birds that danced around the flax bushes when suddenly a ferocious magic Taniwha burst out of the thundering river. His large scaly body blocked out the sun and his breath reeked of rotting flesh, and as he took one imposing look at the two, he scooped down and ate Aotūroa. Tama-nui-te-rā stood shocked as the Taniwha devoured his love whole. He wept and cried for his partner Aotūroa as she disappeared from his side. As the Taniwha was about to slither back into the roaring river, The Sun, still weeping, looked up at the Taniwha and cried, "You have just killed the most unique girl in the world, not only have you destroyed the one who provides you with food and shelter, but you have also killed the one whom I love.” The Taniwha swallowed and shrugged his shoulders, "In return for eating Aotūroa" Tamanui-te-rā continued, "I require some sort of

handle, she said softly that she was going to her mom’s house for a night or two, who was feeling sick. I nodded without turning ‘round, and replied somewhat boisterously, “Right, I’ll see you when you get back,” the dryness of my words branding. Before she left she sighed, obviously wounded…I chose to ignore it. Even though Carol was now gone and I was free again, I maintained my focus towards the mirror, my eyes cohering with the sheet of glass. I stared into those eyes as though they were an oracle containing perspicacity to life’s questions. My mind dawdled slightly, and eventually wandered upon the pained actions Carol had experienced. Engrossed in the mirror

I stood, contemplating…realizing. Carol had the right to be wounded. She wasn’t my partner or wooer. She wasn’t my Juliet. My Juliet was actually a Romeo, a Casablanca, and he stood before me, staring into my eyes…my soul. I, as Narcissus, was destined to spend minute upon minute, hour upon hour, day upon day, month upon month, and, inevitably, year upon year seeking satisfaction in that reflection before me. I could say I was free without Carol; I was not. I was a prisoner…a prisoner of my own device.

payback. I demand one wish in return." The monster thought about this for a while and agreed that this desire was a fair exchange, so he gave The Sun one night to decide on his wish, which would then be granted in the morning. The Taniwha, however, gave this wish on one condition, that the wish be a desire of the heart. So The Sun roamed the earth, thinking of the range of things that needed to change. He thought of all of the unfair things in the Animal Kingdom, from the lovely Monarch butterflies that live for only one day, to the blue whales who endlessly seek through the large oceans for another to share adventures with. He thought about the owls who are made homeless after natural disasters destroy their nests and he contemplated changing it all, as he knew that was what Aotūroa would have wanted. Tama-nui-te-rā slept little that night and towards the morning dove into his heart for the answer. On the bank of the river lay the Taniwha, absorbing the early morning rays and upon seeing The Sun, he stood up. The Sun seemed exceedingly small beneath the great monster, yet he knew what he had to wish for. Tama-nuite-rā told the monster he was ready, and the Taniwha saw in The Sun's heart what he truly desired. The Taniwha suddenly looked confused as he saw what Tama-nui-te-rā wanted. A gust of wind arose and next to him stood Aotūroa, as cheerful and gorgeous as ever. The Taniwha still did not understand, and asked him, "Why did you wish for her, when you could have wished for anything you wanted?” The Sun needed no time to think and

answered, "Because she was all I ever wanted," The Sun said, "I contemplated changing all of the problems in the world, as I knew that was what she would have wanted. Yet, I then realized we can change all of these problems together, one at a time." The Taniwha respected this decision and crawled back into the river, muttering softly to himself and feeling quite tricked with what The Sun had done. The Sun and The Earth exchanged glances and suddenly, a ray of sunlight shone on both of them, as if to agree with the granted wish. Tama-nui-te-rā smiled and gestured for Aotūroa to follow. For the rest of their lives, The Sun and The Earth shared the world; fixing every problem they encountered one at a time. When their lives finally came to an end, Tama-nui-te-rā and Aotūroa continued to do their jobs. To this day The Earth still provides food and shelter to all the different creatures, including humans and The Sun still provides the entire world with warmth. The love Aotūroa and Tama-nui-te-rā share is still exhibited today, and is the reason why The Sun does not stray to other planets. Aotūroa depends on the warmth of The Sun in order to keep her creatures alive, just like Tama-nui-te-rā needs her to live, as she was the only thing he ever wanted. Along the bank of the Waikato River this immortal Taniwha still lies, awaiting the return of these old companions, a reminder to him of the strength of love.

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

By Bob van Gelder

By Oliver Baijings

The Torture of Bars It’s difficult, distinguishing his form from the gray – I can see his smile though, teeth fluorescent against the dark. My eyes adjust and he comes into focus. “You know I shouldn’t be here this late.” “Who’s to say? Afford me just a few minutes…please, Gary,” I plead in shrill tones, but to no avail; he is gone, and I feel the chill of the air once more. Snoring assaults my ears, and I slip into a half-waking sleep, fingers gripping my blanket. Speakers trumpet the national anthem to much groaning and complaining. In perfect sync with the mechanised opening of the doors, Gary steps into the frame of the door – he beams. We are taken out, and my arms flex as he shackles them loosely. Affectionately, I refer to it as the guard’s caress. It’s as close to an embrace as we can manage during the daytime. As we amble to the canteen, breakfast assaults my nose, making my gut retract and shrink – at least, I think it’s the breakfast. I sit through the porcine grunting of the men wordlessly, hoping to come off as a strong, silent type; they buy it, and I eat in relative peace. A voice interjects, “My girl gave birth to a baby boy, eight pounds and seven ounces, he is.” Code 187…a murder. In here, we have another language – penal codes masked in prose, threats in the guise of compliments. None of the guards or newcomers would be able to see the thinly veiled order – if one did, the baby’s name might look suspiciously like their own. In murder, the man giving the order is known as the father…it’s best to avoid first names when dealing with killers. I feel obliged to hear who the victim will be, but that was a matter for extramural discussion. Clearing my tray, I touch my ear to

Here Lay Leningraders Here lay Leningraders. I took off one glove and wiped the cold snow off of the even colder, grey granite. That brought me 15 centimeters closer to where I thought he was. I thought, because I liked to believe that if he’d survived, he would have come back for me. Here are citydwellers -- men, women, children, and next to them, Red Army Soldiers, the sign read. I tried to picture

Aleksey’s body among partially decomposed

convey my hearing of the father’s message; “Outside,” I mouth. He nods perfunctorily. Gary stands at the entrance of the basketball court, hands interlocked; from his long face and slack shoulders, it’s clear to me he’s in need of company. The weathered back of my hand brushes coyly against his belt. He lets his arms hang down, and our fingers find each other for the briefest moment. Sweat breaks, cascading down my face, collecting in small pools at my feet – I can already see the vapour rising from the tarmac of the court. And then I see the father. He is straining to lift his humungous frame above the chin-up bar, and with each second his turgid veins throb and jut from his burnt skin. I stop a distance from him and ask him the baby’s name. “Gary – lightest of the litter if you ask me,” he answers with a wry grin that makes me grimace. “I’m not sure how long he’ll be around, the doc’s saying a couple o’ days, tops – could you help me out?” His message is clear, but I can’t think straight – I tell him I need to mull it over and tread back feeling drained of energy. This is not the first assassination; my talents for eliminating problem staff are widely known. But loving Gary, tender Gary, he doesn’t deserve it. I wolf down a lukewarm plate of chili. Sauce drips down my chin and my teeth gnash against the cloying, soapy rice. The back of my throat burns in spice agony as it slides down. Wincing, I attempt recovery with a glass of milk and quaff messily. Those around me motion to start a discussion, but to converse with this circle is to tread slyly on thin ice; no one can tell where the cracks are in these men’s psyches. One false step, and quick as lightening they could be on you. Hands clap instinctively to our ears as a siren confirms the end of our meal; it’s approaching bedtime. Gary and I would soon see each other once more, before dark. The guards sidle over to

us in anticipation of resistance, but with our appetites sated we barely put up a fight. Shackles on with a click, followed by the clanging of castanet ankle braces – the prisoners are restless, their feet stamping out a battle march. I get lucky. Gary gently cradles my hands bound to my back, and whistles a soft tune ever so quietly that soothes my aching head. Calmed, I shuffle on, and before I can build up the courage to say something to Gary with the others around, I find myself in my cell. But not before grabbing onto Gary’s hands more forcefully than before, pulling him to the doorframe – bad move. “Looks like we got ourselves a real queer here…what’s the matter, still want your mommy to tuck you in?” chimes a man a few paces away. I’m more compelled to beat his face in than anything else, but I resist, slinking into my bed. The shame sends my stomach reeling, and my fingers and toes curl – I feel weakened. Tenuously, I reaffix my gaze at the jail cell door. Gary flashes me a knowing look; I have gone too far in showing him how I feel. I roll over, cursing my carelessness. After the lights deactivate, I hear a whistling. Turning to the direction of the noise, I recognise his broad shoulders and deep-set eyes – it’s the father, who had asked me to do the deed. He motions with a finger at his neck – it’s going to happen now. But then, his gaze shifts to the cell next to mine – he had picked another. That night, I sit alone in my cell, knees quivering and breath condensing on the blackened bars. There is no Gary; there is only the laughing and the howling. Cells doors screech as they open on either side of me, but mine is ignored. Even above the cacophony, I can hear my bitter crying – no sweet sounds to mourn for a lost love.

corpses, unrecognizable faces and clothes torn to shreds. Aleksey, with his beautiful face that somehow had never lost its youth but contained traces of wisdom. He’d always been my unquestionable best friend, and though he tormented me by teasing me and play fighting when I didn’t want to get my braids undone, as soon as a boy laid a finger on me he was at my side, or rather, pinning said boy to the ground. In contrast to that Aleksey, I remembered the last time I’d seen him. I’d walked up the desolate street, not at all surprised by the gruesomeness of my surroundings. One year and a half ago, the

vibrant city I’d lived in my entire life had become a grey town, incapable of anything but death and war. The fields and the flowers were in complete ashes, and the streets filled with beggars and remains of bombed houses. I was embarrassed to be wearing my mourning clothes, which I’d worn almost every day for the past nine months. In fact, they were the only clothes I had left because we’d traded everything else for food, and I predicted that those were the ones I’d need most often. I’ve never worn anything but mourning attire since that day. I approached the makeshift door and swung it open with a soft touch. I walked in to see my brother holding my father’s

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

By Ryan Sirk

old belt. My reverie was suddenly interrupted by a surge of burning melancholic anger. Then came the tears. I made no effort to control my emotions and just watched as my tears made little holes in the snow that lay a white blanket over a scene that could only be described as dismal. “When were you planning on telling me that you were fired!?” I resisted the temptation to tell him that I’d left of my own will. I could’ve fought back, considering how weak Aleksey had gotten. His strongest retort had been, “What do you think we’re supposed to do now, Korina? Do you expect ME to get a job? It’s hard enough that I can’t support you myself, but knowing that you won’t support yourself because of me. I’m not worth that; do what you need to survive.” The belt hit my back again and by then I wasn’t sure if I was bleeding or just in serious pain. “Aleksey,” I looked up at him, “I need you to survive. And you need me. I know nothing can bring mother, father and everyone else back, but I can’t lose you.” “I’m useless to you! Look at me! There is nothing I can do for you, I’m just burned flesh and broken bones.” I attempted to retaliate, gritting my teeth against the pain and fighting back tears. “Don’t you understand? We need to register your injury, that way we can get help!” “Stop it!” he yelled. “No one is helping anyone now! You say you want to help me but, hell, you’re not even helping by staying at home!” “Aleksey, listen to yourself. You’re all I’ve got left. Please don’t betray me this way.” “I could say the same about you! You’ve been lying to me for God knows how long about your so called ‘days off’ from the hospital!” “I won’t let you slip away like I did to everyone else.” Thud. I heard the belt strike my back, but I didn’t feel it. “It’s not your fault! It’s not father’s fault, or my fault either, Korina. You need to understand that. If this is what it takes to make you understand that lying isn’t going to get us anywhere, then I must keep doing this.” I finally let my tears flow because I knew

Alone, but not Forever Beth Thompson, a day from becoming 26, had had just about enough of humanity. She walked down a bustling New York City street in the midst of rush hour, another miserable person

what I was about to say would hurt my brother. “I’m not the only one who’s been lying, Aleksey.” He stopped, and I uncurled my body to look up at him, only to find him avoiding my piercing gaze. My back regained feeling, making me wince at the pain and close my eyes momentarily. I heard the door slam, and he was gone.

They defended you, Leningrad, the cradle of the Revolution, with all their lives. The lines of the poem echoed in

sheets were ripped apart and faces were revealed. People I knew scurried around, checking if their loved ones could be found among the macabre square that was now covered in corpses. I couldn’t help but look down at the unlucky people who had found a family member and had received confirmation of their death. My inner superiority grew as the day went by and I still hadn’t found Aleksey, which at the time I had interpreted as a clue that he’d come home within a few days, and all the people who hadn’t paid a single ounce of attention to me when I was left alone would be swimming in feelings of jealousy as I ran into my brother’s strong arms and he became once again my protector. I sat on the snow, reflecting on my past, and my mistakes, and how I’d never seen Aleksey again. But I still had images in my head. Some days, I saw the Aleksey who had hit me with the belt. Other times I saw the Aleksey who came back from the war and I drowned in tears of joy for having him back, and tears of sadness as I caught glimpses of his mangled shoulder. I realized that perhaps he wasn’t dead; maybe he had somehow escaped and found a better life; rather than spending his days with his now elderly, heartbroken, traumatized sister, he had made an aunt. Though I hoped this was the truth, because his happiness now meant so much more to me than my own, I knew it wasn’t. Aleksey hadn’t ever come back but it wasn’t because he had died, it was because of his guilt, because of how he’d left on such a sour note, and because of the scars that he had imprinted on my back. But know this, those who regard

my head, as I flashed back to the first time I had heard them recited. Some of my memories of the siege are so blurry that I don’t remember if they actually happened or if they were concoctions of my subconscious. There were others, like this one, which would forever be etched in my troubled mind with the precision of the most skilled craftsman in Russia, like liberation day. Finally, it had come. Despite having lost so much over the past years, joy was evident on everyone’s faces. Everyone cheered as the Russian troops rolled into the city, “Defenders of Leningrad! We thank you!” they all screamed. At the time it had annoyed me; I was restless and saw these cheers as pointless delays. To me, it seemed ridiculous that everyone had become so filled with patriotic pride after years of unrest. We’d been neglected throughout the duration of the siege. Though I should have been thankful, I was nervous. Having spent the last part of the siege completely alone and terrified of everyone, I knew that this would be the day in which I found out whether or not my brother had survived. Surely, despite his feelings of guilt he would come back to me now these stones: nothing is forgiven, no that everything was safe again. We cannot list their noble names one is forgiven. If only I could tell you now, here, there are so many of them that you are, Aleksey. under the eternal protection of granite. I was living in denial of the fact that By Elena Cinelli

Aleksey simply hadn’t wanted to come back, so I hoped that he was there too, among victims of the tragedy that had struck all of us. But then, there was no real way to be sure. I watched as hundreds of bodies wrapped in cloth were dragged into the city on menacing black trucks, and I watched the gruesome scene during which, after they had been unloaded,

in the crowd. Beth had just won her case as a defense attorney, which would satisfy most people. However, her client, acquitted of dealing drugs, was going back on the streets tomorrow, maybe even that night, to sell drugs. She knew this from the start, yet she was obligated to defend him. Worse, he supplied minors; minors Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

* The italicized lines are inscribed on a stone behind the Mother Motherland monument at the Piskaryovskoye Memorial Cemetery in St. Petersberg, Russia, commemorating the 900-day siege of Leningrad by German forces in WWII, a defining event of the conflict and of Russian history.

most likely to get addicted to his drug, like Lindsey. Beth thrust that thought away and focused on crossing the street. As the light changed and Beth began to walk, a bustling businessman knocked her to the ground. While the man continued, Beth remained down; blood dripping 22

down her forehead, blinding her. The jarring sound of a car horn and its harsh headlights shook Beth from her disorientation. When she realized death was upon her, two pale hands grasped her ankles and dragged her out of the way. When she turned to thank her savior, she could only see a dark hooded figure running against the flow of traffic. She made it home without any more incidents, wondering why her Good Samaritan had fled. A large pile of mail welcomed Beth when she opened the door, mostly birthday cards. She shuffled through them and wondered if Lindsey bothered sending her one from rehab. Beth only had communication with Lindsey during her monthly trip to her rehab center. She had not been to that overly sterile prison in twenty-nine days, but the thought of the upcoming visit made Beth grimace. Though Beth rejoiced at the chance to reconcile with her sister, she knew that the feeling was not mutual. Every time she walked down those fluorescent lit hallways, Lindsey was always in the last room she checked. When she walked into the room― the thought made Beth shiver. The stares she received from the other patients at the center, some of them her former clients, were uncomfortable, but the burning resentment that bore into Beth’s skull always resonated from Lindsey’s frail form. They would sit on the mysteriously stained couch awkwardly, waiting for the other to speak. Lindsey would pretend not to notice Beth, while Beth’s gaze unwillingly wandered to the mangled veins of Lindsey’s forearms. Then Beth would ramble on about their childhood, small insignificant things that neither had remembered until then. No matter if the memory had sparked a light in Lindsey, her grudge carried on, leaving Beth to meet the same scathing silence. Beth would then lay down a care package of chocolate, a few magazines, and new flowers for the room. This was always the routine. If she was lucky Lindsey would speak a few words afterwards. A hushed “Thanks,” or a small anecdote about a new patient if Lindsey was in a really good mood. Beth would continue to push and prod if she were in this mood, but would leave when she knew that she had worn out her already thin welcome. While cleaning her wound, Beth’s mind wandered towards her rescuer. Who was she? The person was definitely female, as she remembered the glint of blond hair escaping from the clutches of the passing hood. She winced as she rubbed a disinfectant cloth over the cut. The blood was now loosely clotting and did not look like it needed stitches. Beth sighed. What kind of pain did Lindsey go through? After jamming a needle in

her arm so many times, there was bound to be a painful physical payback. The phone in the living room rang, the Caller ID making her groan. The police station. Surely she wouldn’t have to defend someone at this hour. “Hello, is this Ms. Beth Thompson?” “Yes. Who is this?” Beth replied, puzzled. “Captain Greg Larsen. We need to speak to you at the station. Can you come tomorrow?” “I have a trial, but I’ll come after,” said Beth. “Sure. See you there,” Larsen tersely replied. The line went dead. Night passed and morning came. She successfully defended a man who raped a drugged teenager. She grew more distant than the previous night. Beth thought defense attorneys stopped innocents from being wrongly convicted, but she was really helping criminals be wrongly acquitted. What was the point of crusading against drugs, when there were people like her successfully fighting them back? She was glad that she never told Lindsey about the specifics of her work. The few hours that she was allotted already seemed too short. From the courthouse, Beth headed to the police station. When she found Captain Larsen sitting gravely at his desk instead of the routine scoff he greeted defense attorneys with, she knew something was amiss. He silently opened a file and spread out crime scene photos. Beth’s eyes widened as her brain processed the photo of her sister’s splayed body lying in a pool of blood, wearing a familiar black hoody. “Your sister was found shot outside a bakery last night. The responding officers chased the suspect to the end of an alleyway. When the shooter realized he was cornered, he killed himself. Surveillance tapes revealed that he was trying to sell your sister drugs. When she refused, he shot her. This note and a receipt for a cake were found on her body, and her wallet on the shooter’s body. I am sorry for your loss,” reported the captain. Beth grabbed the note and left. She walked home, preferring to get soaked by the rain instead of hailing a cab. She trembled from head to toe, but travelled silently, her head bowed forward. The New York City chatter, combined with her reopening head wound, provided an uncomfortable pulse in her head. She hastened her pace when a man asked her if she needed “a fix.” She trudged into her apartment, trailing half a river in with her. She clutched Lindsey’s card as she threw her drenched coat off. She collapsed onto the couch and sobbed spasmodically. Knowing that she had been saved by her sister, Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

probably moments before she died, tormented Beth. What if she had been fast enough to stop her? Why did she keep scum like her killer free? Would Lindsey still be alive? She shakily read the note: “Dear Beth. I know your image of me is with a syringe stabbed in my arm, but I’ve come to show you that heroin no longer controls me. I’m clean now and I want to surprise you with a birthday cake. Strawberry cream, your favorite! I’m staying at the hotel down the street, call me. Love, Lindsey.” Beth had never known her sister free of heroin’s grasp, and now she never would. She pulled herself off the couch and stumbled to the kitchen cabinet, still sobbing. She procured a large bottle of vodka. She sat on the floor, opened the bottle, and began guzzling. The burning liquid started to choke her, but Beth tilted her head back and laughed hysterically. Beth was barely conscious when she finished. Lindsey was Beth’s only confider growing up, their parents too busy to care. Their closeness disintegrated when Beth revealed Lindsey’s heroin addiction to their parents. Beth wanted to save her, but Lindsey saw it as betrayal. That plan backfired, since Lindsey was still prematurely dead and Beth alone. All those visits to the rehab center, every time Lindsey refused to forgive her, added another crack in her armor. The biggest fault line being made was Lindsey’s unspoken forgiveness. Beth caught her reflection in the bottle. She didn’t have to be alone. She could release the tension in her armor. She could right this wrong. Beth lifted the bottle up and smashed it against the floor, small shards shallowly embedding themselves into her flesh. She stared hesitantly at the jagged bottle neck. She couldn’t leave Lindsey alone in death, after virtually abandoning her during her drug addiction. But would Lindsey have wanted her to kill herself? Shakily, Beth raised the lethal bottle neck to her throat and dragged. A deep, rough, scarlet line was drawn on her throat, gushing blood as her jugular was severed. Beth choked and gurgled on her own blood, crumpling into a fast pooling puddle of it. Ironically, neither of her parents had any issues with substance abuse. Now, one daughter was killing herself with a vodka bottle over the other daughter who, in addition to being slain by a drug dealer, had heroin problems. As the life oozed out of her, Beth could see her sister waiting for her on the other side of existence, knowing all was not in vain. By Katie Wan 23

Empty The car that came from behind the blind corner and slammed into ours changed everything. Even though it was a year ago, I still remember the exact way she had looked through my eyes until the last moment, before I knew the truth. “Luce . . . . . are you alright? Can you hear me?” I meant to say, but all that came out was whispers and cut off words that I couldn’t seem to formulate. I looked at her to see the blood running down her head, where she had hit the dashboard. She was motionless except for her chest rising and falling. Everything after that went quickly. Witnesses had called an ambulance and we were taken to the hospital. After a long talk with a doctor that liked his vocabulary, I came to the conclusion that the accident had left me with a broken leg. I had asked the doctor if I could see my wife, but got the disappointing answer that tests were still being done to make sure that her head was okay and she wasn’t left with any “abnormalities.” How ironic that statement seemed now. Lucy and I had had the perfect love. I would have said we found each other in college, but really, she found me. Imagining the smallest possible dorm room, mine seemed to be the slightest bit smaller than that, forcing me to spend most of my college days outside of it. I would go to the library to study, though not much studying was done before I found myself talking to someone next to me. One day, finding myself at the library with no interest in studying, I leaned back in my seat, a little too far back. I felt myself falling backwards but didn’t seem to make the effort to stop, because falling would allow for some amusement. Not knowing that the girl behind me was picking up the book she had dropped, I literally fell on her. Now I was in the awkward position of half falling, half leaning on her back leaving her with the decision of standing and letting me fall, or trying to push me back into position. I was mortified, but still slightly amused at the fact that she happened to drop her book at the same time as I dropped myself. “I am really sorry. This is..” I paused. I was going to say “awkward,” but didn’t, in hope of making myself sound slightly more intelligent. I never was a shy guy, but confidence wasn’t an option for me at that point. “Hold on. I’ll try to push you back up,” she said, but wasn’t’ successful, as I was too heavy.

This was killing me. Luckily a guy nearby had observed the whole scene, walked over and pushed me back up. He then left again, but not before giving me a sarcastic, “Nice one buddy.” “Dropping off chairs cannot be healthy,” she said with a smile that infectiously made me smile right back. Her smiles always did. I had asked her out for coffee, to make it up to her, which she accepted. We quickly developed a strong bond and before I knew it college was over and I was planning a wedding with her. It was supposed to be happily ever after, after that. “The tests on your wife are finished and she is in perfect physical condition. There is a problem, though, that I am not sure either of you are aware of,” the doctor reported. I still hadn’t seen Lucy. “What problems?” “The tests revealed your wife has a sociopathic metal disorder.” “…a what?” the blood was draining from my face slowly. “Your wife is a sociopath, meaning she cannot feel emotions such as happiness, guilt, or love. There is nothing that we can do to treat this condition,” he said as kindly as he could, but in that clinical way that doctors often deliver bad news. I didn’t know how to respond, what could I say? It seemed almost hilarious to me, that a doctor had just told me my wife was a sociopath. But I didn’t laugh, I didn’t do anything. My face had become so hot that it felt cold again. With anger? Sadness? I didn’t know. The doctor continued to explain her condition to me. “She was most likely born with this condition, as 3% of the human population is. Signs must have started to appear, emotional differences, in her teenage years…” He kept on talking, but I couldn’t focus on his words. I needed to see her, hear it from her. How could she live with me, marry me, if she had never loved me? The doctor brought me to Lucy’s room. Seeing her face made me light up and want to kiss her, but instantly the fact that things were different stopped me. It was like going to hug a friend, only to stop and remember the fight you had with them. “Honey, come over here,” she said with her sweet smile, but I couldn’t smile back. Something in her eyes was different. Had I never noticed it before? “Is it true?” I didn’t move towards her. I tried to say the words with a steady voice, but I could Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

barely convince myself that it was. “Is what true? Honey, come here. I want to take a closer look at you.” “Don’t play stupid. You never were. They told me you couldn’t feel. That you never could.” “That’s ridiculous. You know me, you live with me! You don’t really believe that do you?” “Lucy, stop. Lying to him won’t help anything right now. Tell him the truth,” the doctor said, with a hint of pity in his voice. “Shut up! Since when do doctors have a say in personal matters?” I had never heard her talk with such disgust before. But there it was again in her eyes, nothing. The doctor left the room. “These last three years, everything we have… it’s not real is it. At least not real for you,” I said more as a statement than a question. I bitterly realized denying it wasn’t going to help me. “I love you, you should know that better than anyone,” she said, trying to beckon me to the bed again. I still couldn’t, no I wouldn’t move any closer to her. It felt like she had betrayed me, done something worse than cheated. She never cared for me. “You can’t! You don’t even know how to!” I couldn’t stop myself from yelling at her, but saw no pain in her face, forgetting that any pain wouldn’t have been real anyways. We were still looking at each other for what seemed like a long time, but neither of us spoke. Finally, she looked down and said, “But I try. I wish I could love and hate but I can’t. Does that mean that I’m not worth loving? I didn’t choose this.” She spoke, for the first time, without any real emotion evident in her voice. No sadness, no joy, nothing. What was I to do, leave a girl who couldn’t love me back because she truly couldn’t? She was right, it wasn’t her fault, but could I live like this? I took a step towards her bed. A year had passed since the accident. Lucy and I had gotten back to our lives as if nothing had happened, and I tried to live like that most of the time. I was at the door, about to leave the house for work, with Lucy on the other side of the threshold. I kissed her goodbye. “See you tonight Honey. I love you,” she said. But it didn’t touch her eyes, nothing ever did. She would never be able to truly say that sentiment to me, say anything, and feel what I felt. But my feelings were enough. “I love you too, Lucy.” By Shelsea Doran 24

Friends in Love She came over to say hi, but as soon as she was within earshot, he struck the first chord on his guitar and played the song he had been practicing for the past two weeks. Suddenly, he found himself back at the countryside where they went on vacation. Perhaps we should just be friends, she had said. The moment was seared into his mind. He could remember everything: the colour of the sky as the sun’s last rays of light fled, leaving behind a deep indigo, he could remember the lights twinkling in the nearby countryside, but, most of all, he remembered her. Black hair matching the colour of her calm eyes, she had told him that the relationship wasn’t working, that it would be better to drop it. But he wasn’t paying attention, though one wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at him. He carefully kept his face an emotionless mask, moving his dirty-blonde hair out of the way of the only part of him that betrayed the emotions beneath. His normally calm blue eyes did nothing this time to hide the sadness within. However, he got over his sadness, and the two, once again, became the great friends that they were before the fiasco of their relationship. He was prepared to put away the love he had for the girl, because he knew that forcing the issue would be a mistake that would cause the end of their friendship. However, all thoughts of doing that left his mind as, one day, the most unexpected thing happened. Once again, he was back in the city. A crowd was gathering to hear him sing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. She avoided his glance, at first, mumbling something about awkwardness and turtles, but after a few more tries, she finally answered him, saying, “Fine, if you want to hear it so badly. I have feelings for you, but I think I’m going to ignore them, because I don’t want to hurt you again, and because I don’t want to lose you as a friend.” Some would expect him to get angry or frustrated with this sudden turn of events. But, really, he was just touched. Even though he may have heard the worst news of his life, he also heard the best. This girl, who he loves so deeply, clearly loves him back. He would have said something there and then, except her bus came and she had to leave. On the way home, he pondered what he could say to make her get over what, to him, was a clearly irrational fear. However, his mind drew a blank. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be biased, or cruel, or manipulative. And so he resigned himself to what seemed to be a very long wait.

force out there was screaming at him not to do what he was about to do. He felt an image tugging at the edge of his mind, of a girl standing in a crowd, completely and utterly disconnected from reality as she watched something seemingly far-off, the indecision plain on her face as her lips alternated between a faint smile, and a faint frown that somehow spoke of an unbearable pain. Ignoring this startlingly vivid premonition, he knocked on the door. There was no response. Unperturbed, he noticed that the lights were off and realized that she was probably out. So he waited outside her door for six hours, watching as the blue sky of noon became the warm red of dusk, and then the deep indigo of twilight. It was cold outside, but he didn’t feel it; the only thing he felt was the overwhelming rush of emotion as he saw her coming down the street. Stop making me a fool to think you need me Waiting for moments I’m scared might never happen

Stop playing with my heart the way you’re doing It was a touching song, and, as he stepped You keep pushing me away, and out of his musical reverie, he realized that the pulling me right back crowd had spread to become a mass of people,

He would’ve been fine, except, unwittingly, she teased him when they met up, resting her head on his shoulder in a movie, or flashing her brilliant little smile his way once in a while. She made his day one hundred times better, but also a thousand times worse, enthusing his soul with a special warmth, yet at the same I hope that you will come and time draining him of his sanity. He began to get desperate, and, one day, he snapped. show me

hundreds of people listening to this tortured soul laying bare the agony it had held back for so long. There were some people he knew among the crowd, but the one face he was looking for wasn’t there. The one face he was looking for belonged to a girl with a faint frown on her face, and tears rolling down her cheeks as she raced up the stairs and ran into her house, shutting that large wooden door behind her.

her house, hesitating on the threshold. This was the point of no return, he realized as he stared at the massive ebony door. The dark wood used to comfort him, the uninterrupted continuity of the marvelous craftsmanship allowing him to lose himself in a place where he could throw away all his fears and not know how to come back to get them again. However, today, the dark colour felt strangely ominous, as if some

Nothing happened for three weeks, but, one day, during those three weeks, she found something within herself. It was pouring outside, massive droplets of rain falling to the soundtrack of lightning and thunder’s eternal race. She was staring at a necklace he had bought her, a white-gold chain with a black onyx pendant, shaped like a teardrop. Her mind was straining to block the images as she remembered the feeling of his arms gently tying the necklace around her neck, when she realized that she didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care about what may happen after the relationship. All she wanted to do was to feel herself in those arms once more, as they

and tell me… Stop speaking through the lines That you can’t take me off your and say it bluntly mind I’m tired of reading through your That you were just scared to smiles to see the truth behind read the signs That we could actually be He took his guitar, and walked straight to something more than friends in love

He had another flashback. It was a pleasant day, the air still fresh and misty with morning dew as the vermillion sky of dawn changed to the cool blue of noon. They were waiting for the bus when he noticed that her usually steady black eyes expressed a hint of nervousness, and that she was shaking.

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

And if you can’t start telling me moved to San Francisco last week.” watched a cheesy sitcom and drank hot chocolate. She immediately ran to his house, your feelings I’m gonna have to find someone By Yotam Sagiv forgetting her raincoat, but not caring, to find that the lights were out. She pounded on the that completes me *Italicized lines are lyrics from “Friends in Love” door for what seemed like hours, the energy of She saw the neighbor walking by and asked by Mia Rose. her revelation making her scrape her palms raw her where he went. The neighbor looked at her in the process, but there was no answer. incredulously and said, “Don’t you know? He

Waiting for Sunshine The Forsythia opened her eyes at the brightness and the warmth of the Sun. It was spring again. “Hello,” shouted the Forsythia to the Sun, with a bright, wide smile. The Sun looked around, and soon saw the small, yellow flower on the bushes,. “Oh, hello. You are early, aren’t you?” “Yes. Don’t you remember me? I am always the first to blossom.” The Forsythia asked the Sun. But she already knew the answer. It was the answer she heard since long ago, an answer that she now understood. “No. Sorry,” said the Sun sheepishly. The Forsythia smiled.

when the other flowers would bloom. The Sun screamed out in excitement, “Oh look! There is another flower! Look!” The Forsythia smiled and told the Sun, “But I cannot see the other flowers, for I am stuck to the ground.” “Oh? Then I’ll talk with the flower and tell you about her and I’ll also tell her about you! And then maybe some day, when your seeds come across each other, they would have common stories to share!” the Sun said, while also turning his head away from the Forsythia towards the new flower. The Forsythia bitterly watched the Sun turn his back to her. The flower petals of Forsythia fell long ago, even before spring was over. Now it was just a plain green bush. The Forsythia looked up at the Sun and shook her branches. But the Sun was looking away in another direction. The Sun never told her about the other flowers after that day; in fact, she didn’t talked to him again. The other flowers blossomed: flowers with colors of canary yellow, tangerine orange, and salmon pink seemed to be more interesting to the Sun. Despite the Forsythia’s hopes, this year was no different from the others. Although she disliked how the Sun didn’t hear her in the summer, she couldn’t deny that summer was simply too beautiful to hate. It was summer that had made her want to talk to the Sun in the first place; it was the warmth that made her wish to be remembered. It was the season that made her want the Sun to shine only for her.

But in a corner of her mind, the Forsythia still wished for the Sun’s attention. Although her leaves were falling and soon she would have no leaf but only ugly branches naked in the cold wind, she still wished for the Sun to look at her, to talk to her. The Forsythia shook the snow off her branches. Most plants, including trees and flowers, had lost their color, their leaves and petals. The Forsythia was one of them. The Sun was barely there now. With her body covered in cold, white snow, the Forsythia shivered. Although the Forsythia can see the Sun, she cannot sense the heat the sun emits, for the snow covering blocks out the warmth. Although the Forsythia can see the Sun, the Sun cannot see the Forsythia, for to the Sun, the Forsythia is a bush no different from other bushes – with blank, bare branches that once used to hold countless leaves and flowers. The Forsythia knew this well. After countless years of the same process, the fact that year after year the Sun cannot remember the Forsythia and just thinks of her as ordinary, is no longer a surprise. The Forsythia shivered once again. Unlike the others, she cannot fall asleep. Despite the fact that the cold would not bother her in her sleep, the Forsythia could not sleep. If she fell asleep, she could not guarantee to wake up first, and then it might be too late for any conversations with the Sun. Although every year, the Sun cannot remember her and she feels no warmth, the Forsythia never abandons the hope that the following year the Sun might at least remember her. She believes that after all the conversations and her deep love for the Sun, it may be possible that one day she will be remembered. The Forsythia shivers and looks at the setting Sun. Waiting.

“So what is your favorite season?” asked the Forsythia to the Sun the next day. “Summer,” the Sun replied, shining brightly with happiness at the thought. “Why?” the Forsythia asked, although once again she knew the answer. “Because it is the season of life and lushness! Because summer is the season when most plants are at their greenest and healthiest, and I can hear the music they make thanking me for my light.” But, the Forsythia thought to herself, it is the season when I cannot be different from any other. It is the season when my petals have fallen, and there are other plants with more stunning, beautiful flowers while I am just a plain green bush. It is the season when I cannot catch your eye; it is the season you forget. But upon seeing the Sun’s bright smile and the blissful atmosphere that circles the Sun, the The leaves of the Forsythia started to fall. Forsythia smiled and replied, “Summer is my The Forsythia shivered in shame; she was simply favorite season too.” For it is when your warmth too ugly to face the Sun. The Forsythia told is at its peak, she thought. “For it is when the herself that she was actually glad that the Sun warmth is at its peak,” she continued. was becoming shorter and shorter; for that As she saw the Sun rise again, the Forsythia would mean that the Sun would be less likely to By Michelle Oh sensed that the time was coming – the time see the Forsythia in her current state.

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Lines FAVORITE LINES Favorite L

Franz Kafka wrote, “A book should serve as the ax for the frozen sea within us.” In celebration of Book Week, members of the ISA community shared favorite lines from literature. Read them as invitations to enter worlds that have touched the hearts and minds of others, then make your way to the library to melt your inner seas.

“I write to read the life I cannot live otherwise.”

Aidan Chambers, This is All

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." Antoine de St. Exupéry, The Little Prince "My lord, you fell from such a height and survived. Thy life is a miracle. Speak yet again." William Shakespeare, King Lear “He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.” Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera "The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of the inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space." Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities "Up ahead they's a thousan' lives we might live, but when it comes it'll on'y be one." John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath “That’s what fiction is for. It’s for getting at the truth when the truth isn’t sufficient for the truth.” Tim O’Brien The Things They Carried “Here is my secret. It is very simple: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” Antoine de St. Exupéry, The Little Prince “He’d never heard anything like it. There was something chitinous in it, as if a giant insect had suddenly discovered its mouth had air, and was giving voice to the accumulated desires and appetites of its kind for the past three hundred million years. Melvin Burgess, Doing It Continued on page 28

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Continued from page 27

“Many were increasingly of the opinion that they’d all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no should ever have left the oceans. And then one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a girl sitting on her own in a small café in Rickmansworth suddenly realised what it was that been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything.” Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy “Imagination is the foundation of everything that is uniquely and distinctively human. It is the basis of language, the arts, the sciences, systems of philosophy, and all the vast intricacies of human culture.” Ken Robinson, The Element “On ne voit bien qu’avec le coeur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.” Antoine de St Exupéry, Le Petit Prince “Real communities flourish when we bring together the voices, hearts and souls of the people who inhabit them.” Debbie Miller, Reading for Meaning "I remember one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the back of a tree just as a butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out. I waited awhile, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient. I bent over it and breathed on it to warm it. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened; the butterfly started slowly crawling out, and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled; the wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath, in vain. It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings should be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had forced the butterfly to appear all crumpled, before its time. It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand. That little body is, I do believe, the greatest weight I have on my conscience. For I realize today that it is a mortal sin to violate the great laws of nature. We should not hurry, we should not be impatient, but we should confidently obey the eternal rhythm." Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek "My skin is kind of sort of brownish pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are grayish, bluish green, but I'm told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, but its silver when its wet, and all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet." Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends "I wanted to breathe smoke. I wanted to burn the Louvre. I'd do the Elgin Marbles with a sledgehammer and wipe my ass with the Mona Lisa. This is my world, now. This is my world, my world, and those ancient people are dead." Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club Continued on page 40

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

e CREATIVE LITERARY RESPONSE cr

In A1 Language courses, all 11th grade students are required to construct an individual oral presentation (IOP) on a given text. These may be accompanied by a creative piece. Several students this year created “found poems” – poems constructed from words and phrases extracted from other texts -- based upon Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, a novel about war, truth, and love. In celebration of Book Week, Voice presents several of these found poems as creative responses to literature.

Courtesy Amazon.com

The Rain Was the War: Lyrics There were bubbles where his head should have been

How could such a good man be Wasted in waste

He was dead weight, boom down, nothing else

The rain was the war and you had to fight it The rain was the war and you had to fight it

And nobody in town wanted to know about him See the waste See the waste

Wasted in waste He was folded in the war

The rain was the war and you had to fight it (see the waste)

He was wasted He was just a kid at war The problem of finding use after the war was that they were

The rain was the war and you had to fight it (see the waste) There were bubbles where his head should have been He was dead weight boom down nothing else

Wasted in waste And nobody in town wanted to know about him The rain was the war and you had to fight it Wasted in waste The rain was the war and you had to fight it He was folded in the war, he was wasted. See the waste See the waste

By Bella Human

A stupid mistake, but it killed him They carried their own lives He closed his eyes and let him be Wasted in waste

* Hear Bella’s recording of this song for her IOP on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/watch? v=Qi8FIJuQi1Y).

The filth erased identities He was a good soldier, his father would be proud

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Madness What do you do when it gets to your head, When the sun won’t shine And the moon is dead?

Would that be catastrophic? No one would blame me Would they?

In a world that’s insane We hear that music that’s pain This is radio f___ing Ha Noi Transmitting live from nowhere

What do you do when it gets to your head, When the sun won’t shine And the moon is dead? I’m just a boy.

The monkeys chatter They chatter death-chatter Then reality shatters And that’s when you become as mad as a hatter What do you do when it gets to your head, When the sun won’t shine And the moon is dead? I might just end it all Lay out my med kit Dope myself up And put a round through my foot.

We all are. Apart from Azar. Azar’s a bastard. Let’s kill him. Let’s scare him to death. Sure, or we can just kill him. What do you do when it gets to your head, When the sun won’t shine And the moon is dead?

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

He’s sprawled beside a pigpen. Go introduce yourself. Be polite. Respect your elders and shake the dead man’s hand. I was too scared But it took guts not to.

Or you can do something else… I mean When the sun won’t shine And the moon is dead, Nobody sees you You can’t even see yourself. Total darkness, you know?

Same difference. But sometimes I can’t remember what dead is. What do you do when it gets to your head, When the sun won’t shine And the moon is dead? You go home Get in your car Start driving around And around And around And around That big lake in your hometown.

You can do anything Anything at all Torture a baby water buffalo Or say “Trick or f___in’ treat, mama-san!” Against the exploding sky, You’re helpless, you can’t do anything worse. Being insane in an insane world just makes you all the more sane, Doesn’t it? By Ludo Cinelli

The Transformation of Innocence Vietnam was full of strange stories. Some improbable, some well beyond that. This one keeps returning to me. The compound was situated at the top of a flat-crested hill. The place was clearly indefensible. The country rose up in thick walls of wilderness, triple-canopied jungle, mountains unfolding into higher mountains… The place had been a Special Forces out post and a squad of Green Berets still used the compound as a base of operations. The Greenies were not social animals. Animals, but far from social. Secretive and suspicious by nature, the Greenies would sometimes vanish days at a time, or even weeks. Then late in the night they would magically reappear, moving like shadows through the moonlight, filing in silently from the dense rain forest. While the outpost was isolated and vulnerable, it always had a sense of safety. Nothing much happened.

In the late nights the men would joke and sometimes have all-night drinking sessions. Once one joked they should bring in a few mama-sans from Saigon, spice things up. It was nothing serious. Just passing time, playing with the possibilities, how you could actually get away with it… They dropped the subject and soon moved onto others. Later in the night, though, a young medic kept coming back to the subject, saying they could actually do it, that there was no harm, all you needed was a pair of solid brass balls. Six weeks later his girlfriend showed up. A tall, big-boned blonde. Fresh out of high school. She had long white legs and blue eyes. The girl seemed tired and somewhat lost, but she smiled. Mary Anne Bell and him had been sweethearts since grammar school. From sixth grade on, they had known for a fact that someday they would be married. That was the plan. They were very much in love, full of dreams, Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

and in the ordinary flow of their lives the whole scenario might well have come true. Though she was young Mary Anne Bell was no timid child. She was curious about things. During her first days in-county she liked to roam about the compound asking questions. She had a good quick mind. She paid attention. The war intrigued her, the land, too, and the mystery. She couldn’t get enough of it. The guys were impressed. A good sharp mind. True, she would be silly sometimes, but she picked up on things fast. Mary Anne wasn’t’ afraid to get her hands bloody. At times, in fact, she seemed fascinated by it. In times of action her face took on a sudden new composure, almost serene, the fuzzy blue eyes narrowing, into tight, intelligent focus. A different person it seemed, her boyfriend wasn’t sure what to make of it. She fell quickly into the habits of the bush. 31

No cosmetics, no fingernail filing. She stopped wearing jewellery, cut her hair short, wrapped it in a dark green bandana. There was a new confidence in her voice, a new authority in the way she carried herself. Once, or twice, gently, her boyfriend suggested that it might be time to head home, but Mary Anne laughed and told him to forget it. In many ways she remained naïve and immature, still a kid, but Cleveland Heights now seemed very far away. Twice, she came in late at night. Very late. And then finally she did not come in at all. Gone with the Greenies. After sunrise, she came trooping in through the wire, Tired looking but cheerful as she dropped her gear. It was as though he had trouble recognizing her. What happened between them nobody ever knew for sure. To look at them from a distance you would think they were the happiest two people on the planet. And yet at close range their faces showed tension, they held hands as if afraid to let go. It had to end, and eventually it did. He began to make arrangements to send her home, she seemed to accept it, but fell into a restless gloom. Shoulders hunched, her blue eyes opaque.

She seemed to disappear inside herself. The wilderness seemed to draw her in. A haunted look, partly terror, partly rapture, It was as if she were caught, between Cleveland Heights and deep jungle. Seventeen years old. Just a child, blonde, and innocent, But then, weren’t they all? The next morning she was gone. Greenies were gone, too. It was nearly three weeks before she returned. But in a sense she never returned. Not entirely, not all of her. They came in under the moon, appeared as if by magic, at the margin of the jungle. There was no sound. No real substance either. The seven silhouettes seemed to float across the surface of the earth, like spirits, vaporous and unreal. The silhouettes moved without moving. Silently, they drifted in a loose file across the compound.

to fully appreciate the full change. In part it was her eyes; utterly flat and indifferent. There was no emotion in their stare, no sense of the person behind it. But the grotesque part was her jewelry. At the girl’s throat was a necklace of human tongues. There was nothing to be done, she was already gone. And then one morning, all alone, Mary Anne walked off into the mountains, and did not come back. She had crossed to the other side. She was part of the land. She was dangerous. She was ready for the kill. By Merry Shea Keeler

Her eyes seemed to shine in the dark— not blue, though, but a bright glowing jungle green. It took a few seconds,

ourtesy Warvietnam.org

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Found Poetry “Notes”

“Spin” Wasn’t ALL terror

Meaningful life seemed Too abstract Too distant With nothing tangible at stake.

Sometimes a sweet chocolate, Sometimes a bitch

Si"ing quietly in # $ade

Mornings spent in bed-mostly alone, With a six-pack of beer, no place to go

Re-assu'ng

I sank down Self pity

Re-playing

Re-ha(enings

Much of it, ) hard to remember

Guilt

Each morning, all r+nd us

People act afraid Don’t know what it feels Kill Get shot Sleep in the rain

T O

Sun, heat and endless pad,es

%e boredom, -at SQUEALS like a pig

%e -ing ab+t remembe'ng - y+ don’t for.t Not BLOODY imaginations But,

Peaceful

I feel it coming---------it came But just disappeared Swirls of emotion, That ended in paralysis FROM MY OWN MEMORIES

Ha(y

Droplets

Flow ~ to~ y+r~ head

Y+’re pinned in its o/ ,mension - It hu0 Yet, y+ never felt more at peace Where -ere ) No

Beginning &

End

Both by Yen Hyoung Cho

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Courtesy Sir Arthur’s Den

Our Whole Lives This found poem, an A2 Written Task, is a creative response to Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman.

It’s two o’clock a hundred and twenty dollars, two hundred gross, five hundred gross, seven hundred gross a hundred, a hundred and ...

nineteen twenty eight

The grace period now sixteen dollars on the refrigerator nine and sixty cents for the washing machine the roof, you need twenty-one dollars seventy dollars and some pennies to fix the hot water I gave you money they are so expensive lend me ten bucks ....

ten thousand bucks

he is dying

Gee, How do you do my dear ten, twelve hours a day suffer fifty weeks of the year twenty-eight dollars a week The man’s exhausted ...

By Sarah-Mae Lieverse

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

hion Fashion FASHION Fashion Fash

Swedish designers taking over the world ACNE With Jonny Johansson as creative director in the lead, ACNE -- which does not refer to a bad complexion but is an acronym for Ambition to Create Novel Expressions -- is taking a leading role in the present and future global fashion industry. Inspired by neoclassicism, Jonny and three friends started up the brand in Stockholm in 1996 by unleashing 100 pairs of unisex designed jeans to friends, family and, later on, to clients. One year later ACNE denim flourished. This season (Spring/Summer) they are proving that minimalism is not even near being equal to boring with the help of block colours, lace and symmetrical cuts. Their stores are located all over continental Europe, Scandinavia and Australia, as well as in big cities such as London and New York. However, if your fashion interest doesn’t go any further than Oude Spiegelstraat 8 where their Amsterdam branch is located, you can always visit their website (http:// www.acnestudios.com/) where you can find all collections, tons of inspiration and most importantly, the online shop.

Tiger of Sweden

Since the release of Tiger of Sweden’s S/S ’11 collection, certain key items have been on everybody’s lips. Inspired by the aesthetics of artist Walton Ford and using texture and colours from the animal kingdom, Tiger of Sweden stated their signature in adventurous minimalism. What came out strongest from the collection were the feather skirts and jackets that Swedish fashionistas made sure there was not a single feather item left by the end of the week. They built their brand from a 100 year old tradition of matching tailoring with ready-to-wear design. Tiger started their business as a simple tailor business for men. Recognized for their impeccable touch and unconventional cuts, they expanded their market -- designing collections for both men and women, lingerie and accessories -- and are now established international design competitors. They are located mainly in Sweden, Finland, Norway, Denmark, Canada, Germany, Switzerland and South Africa. If you wish to find out more, be inspired or shop online visit their website (http://www.tigerofsweden.com/). Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Carin Wester Carin Wester is a small boutique designer. Her shops are limited in locations and mainly sell from shops-in-shops. This is a marketing c o nc ep t w her e stores collect designer items and sell selected collections and items. Her one flagship store is located in Stockholm, Sweden, but she sells her collections worldwide. She started her brand Carin Wester (for women) and Wester (for men) in 2003 after designing the women’s line for Paul & Friends for eight seasons. The designer also has a designing education from Beckman’s School of Design. She’s inspired by a slimmer, welleducated boho chic female and focuses on the lining and You can find selections of their collection in 2PR, cuts of her Ultra Violet and Number 9 in Amsterdam or shop fabric. Once online ((http://www.thelocalfirm.com/). again a Swedish designer wants symmetry to enter their Designing the elegant version of a Swedish A collections for S/S ’11 and this is where Carin Midsummer Night’s Dream is the boutique Wester hit the bulls eye once designer Ida Sjöstedt. With a BA Honours Diploma again. To discover more visit in fashion design from University of Westminster in their website (http:// www.carinwester.com/). www.carinwester.com/

Ida Sjöstedt

The local firm The local firm is one of the more international Swedish designers. With more than 80 store-in-store locations and a kick-ass concept store in Stockholm they are fiercely taking the lead of the dark edginess and futurism in the fashion world. They are known for their sharp cuts, amazing texture, signature TFL DUSK sunglasses and a touch of quirkiness. They are making statements and giving ordinary clothes a fiercer and fashion-forward look.

to glow and be fashionable without leaving the fun at home. Admired for her always so glimmering signature dresses, the S/S ´11 collection includes key materials such as lace, silk and chiffon to create that perfect girly texture with delicate silhouettes and colours of gold and crystal white. To receive store-in-store locations or to get further inspired by all collections from 2003-11 visit their website (http://www.idasjostedt.com/).

Minimarket Minimarket is the brand that in 2009 took Swedish minimalism to a whole new level. The developers of the brand are the three sisters Sofie, Pernilla and Jennifer Elvestedt. Their colour blocking, texture, cuts and kindergarten feel draw inspiration from Donald Duck, Gary Larsson, science fiction and random comic strips they found funny and playful.

This S/S ‘11 they went against the colour blocking that they already designed in their A/W ’11 collection and decided to show darkness with tones and texture from an old African society mixed with unimaginable futurism. With retailers in 18 countries they represent a side of Sweden few people encounter; in Amsterdam you can find selections of their work in stores: 290 square meter or black sheep road. To view more collections visit their website (http://www.minimarket.se/).

Dagmar

DAGMAR is one of Sweden’s youngest designer brands and also one of the fastest growing ones. Established in 2005 by the three sisters Kristina Tjäder (head of design), Karin Söderlind (brandmanager and PR-consultant) and Sofia Malm (head of sales) they have already received five of Sweden’s and America’s most prestigious industry prizes. Inspired by the Art Deco period in the 20’s and 30’s, they are described as “arty chic” with sensual and high class garments that are feather light to the touch. This season their collection is the UK she founded her brand with the idea of inspired by contrasting colours and fabrics, from relaxed, fun and sexy pieces for women who want suede to chiffon and dust to shear pink to create a

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Diana Orving

relaxed and mysterious silhouette of the woman beneath the garments. The name DAGMAR Diana Orving is the Swedish representative for originates from their muse and “cold fashion.” With a background in aesthetics, ultimate source of inspiration – their grandmother whose name was Dagmar and was the reason for the trio’s early interest in fashion. For more information visit their website (http://www.houseofdagmar.se/ (http://www.houseofdagmar.se/).

Filippa K Filippa Knutsson is the founder of Filippa K and designs her brand with three key words: simplicity, quality and style. The base idea is a woman being brave enough to stay sophisticated yet interested enough to want to be fashionable. Her strict policy of who should wear her clothes (the silhouettes are very precise and requre a special and very different figure) led her straight to a target audience that gave Filippa K not only the design but the feeling of her pieces being classic and

Diana’s design concept is as much art as it is fashion and this season she shows off one of her signature looks: draping. With impeccable details and seams that can’t be seen, she had all draping and detailing done by hand. Not yet fully established, Diana’s market is limited to their web shop (http://www.dianaorving.com/webshop/).

WHYRED Whyred’s design is turning towards the SOHO part of Stockholm called Södermalm where the artists, musicians and writers live and hang out. It

is one of the most curious underground societies in Stockholm and is inspired by a relaxed yet rough boot-look. With denim and lace they make their statement in a slouchy look with a silhouette that pretty much anyone can pull off, one of the reasons why the brand has skyrocketed into the fashion industry. With six concept stores in Sweden and Denmark, they mark out Scandinavian fashion at a basic level and will be around for a long time. Apart from fashion, Whyred is known for its art projects in the form of s h o r t fi l m s a n d documentaries, exhibitions and actual products with designers in different industries. To find out more visit their website http:// www.whyred.com/ By Sofie Axing

PHOTO CREDITS: ACNE: Courtesy wwd.com (all images) TIGER OF SWEDEN: Courtesy Saratavasolian.onsugar.com (left image) Courtesy soockertoopp.blogg.se (two right images) CARIN WESTER: Courtesy Carinwester,com (all images) THE LOCAL FIRM: Courtesty Thelocalfirm.com (all images) IDA SJÖSTEDT: Courtesy Idasjostedt.com (all images) MINIMARKET: Courtesty Minimarket.se (all images) DAGMAR: Courtesy Houseofdagmar.se (all images) FILIPPA K: Courtesy Collection.filippa-k.com (all images) DIANA ORVING: Courtesy Dianaorving.com (all images) WHYRED: Courtesy Whyred.se (all images)

timeless. With over 37 locations in the Netherlands alone, her concept is one of the largest reflecting Swedish fashion. To find out more visit their website (http://www.filippak.com/).

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

ports Sports SPORTS Sports Sports

Varsity and JV girls conquer gold in Antwerp

Katie Wan

Varsity PG Coryell Graham (third form left) gets a rebound. Varsity would go on to win the NECIS title.

The basketball season came to a very successful end for both the JV and varsity girls teams, with both winning all their games on the first day and the first game on the second day, finding themselves in the final. While the JV girls defeated ISH (International School of Hamburg) by quite a bit, varsity girls had a very challenging game against the ISL (International School of Luxembourg). With the score tied until the last quarter, ISA just knew to raise the level of their game and make basket after basket to bring them to a glorious third consecutive NECIS title. The close final contrasted the blowout (75-3) win against Eindhoven. The game was nerve wracking, especially as Luxembourg slipped into phases where they hit consecutive

points. The JV girls final was an easy game, as they had beaten Hamburg earlier this season by 15 points. They went into the game confident and won 24-6. What they thought might be a tough game was against the Hague, as earlier in the season they had lost to them by two points and defeated them by only three points another time, so they had to be strong mentally, which they were, and won 29-5. All around it was a good season for both teams, and now the athletes can look forward to the spring sports. By Larissa Gibson-Smith

Road to a grizzly NECIS for boys varsity basketball It was ISAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chance this year to win a NECIS trophy for varsity boys basketball, a trophy that has been aspired to for more than four years. Unfortunately, the pressure got to them as they finished in sixth place. However, the placement does not reflect how well varsity performed. Their journey leading up to the tournament was full of highs and lows, unfortunate injuries and a hint of bad luck. Before heading off to NECIS 2011 on Friday March 18, ISA had six more games to play in total: against Brussels (ISB), The British School of the Netherlands (BSN) and The Hague (ASH) in order to develop their team work and game play. They ended up losing all six of those games by close margins. It seemed as

if they really needed a confidence boost, something to raise their moral. Not all the players appeared to be enjoying themselves and the teamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work ethic was sometimes a bit sloppy. The fans remained by their side the whole way through and would be proud of them no matter if they came back with a trophy or a badge. When it came time to depart for NECIS, the Bears went into the tournament short of two essential players: Jakob Fogt, out with an ankle injury, and Reece Chau, sidelined with a dislocated shoulder. They started off on fire with a first game win against ISH (International School of Hamburg) which was a confidence

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

James Cavanagh

Senior Shota Watanabe poses with his medal and coach Romanowicz after being selected this season’s MVP.

encountered in their pre-season friendlies. Perhaps the fact that varsity had never played both CIS and ISD before was the cause of their downfall as it is always hard to play a team when you have no idea what you are going up against. ISA put up a courageous fight in both games; they were bested by two teams that were simply much taller and more experienced than them. Luck plays a large part in sport, and it is unfortunate that, perhaps the smallest varsity boys team John Romanowicz has ever coached at ISA had to play other teams with giant players. ISA now faced a tough game against ISS (International School of Stavanger) which would determine whether they played for the position of 7th-8th or 5th-6th. The team that ends in 5th place wins a silver plate, which shows, rather bluntly, that your team is in fact the best of the worst. But, nevertheless it was something big and silver, so varsity boys strived to claim it. With the pressure of the next decisive game on the boys’ shoulders, it would not be an easy win. With pure grit and determination they managed to claim a spot in the showdown for fifth or sixth place. Varsity boys drew ISL (International School of Luxembourg), a team that averaged around the same height as ISA. Everybody was expecting a close game, whatever the outcome. Sadly ISA were beaten, and although they didn’t come home with a physical trophy, they return with good memories and an array of newfound experience which they can hopefully use throughout next year’s basketball season.

booster for the boys going into their next two games. Varsity had won (48-42) and lost (39-52) in their previous encounter with ISH. They were already looking like a new and improved team. However, the tournament had just begun and the varsity boys knew that in order to contend for 1st through 4th place they needed to win at least two out of their three group matches. Sadly, despite the motivating kick start of an opening game win, ISA went on to lose their next two games against CIS (Copenhagen International By James Cavanagh School) and ISD (International School of Dusseldorf), two teams which ISA had not

JV boys basketball season: disastrous but 100% consistent JV finish winless, are voted most sporting team This year's tournament was a disappointing one for the JV boys. The team started off with a close game versus the home team Antwerp. The game was tied 23-23 and continued into OT which was seemingly scoreless but as Antwerp wildly chucked the ball right before the buzzer, a foul was called on ISA and Antwerp was given three freethrows. They sunk the last one, ending the game 24-23. This loss was followed by two more versus the overall victors, The Hague, as well as Luxembourg. After the group stages the JV team went into the back-draw and had to face Copenhagen. At this point, the team's starting point-guard, Kohei, was injured and unable to play. With the ability of the team compromised, ISA lost and was forced to the last place game versus Bonn. The game started off evenly but Bonn pulled away in the third quarter and handed the JV team their fifth and final loss of the tournament. Although the team finished last in the tournament, they managed to keep their spirits up as in the end they were voted "the most sporting team." Even though the team lost all their games this season, several players looked on the bright side: “at least we were consistent." By Rutger Fuglesang

Courtesy vondelpark.biz

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011

Continued from page 28

“I opened a fortune cookie and it said, “When all of your wishes are granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed.” Well, I’ve gotten everything that I wanted. We’re the biggest band in America. We’ve gotten platinum albums. We got the Rolling Stone cover that Dr. Hook never managed to get. But I’ve managed to destroy and lose everything that I’ve loved along the way. The whole world now looks at me the way I looked at my grandfather. I hope they like what they see, because now I finally do.” Marilyn Manson, The Long Hard Road Out of Hell "Il y a deux réponses à cette question, comme à toutes les questions tu le sais bien, celle du poète et celle du savant. Laquelle veux-tu entendre en premier?" Pierre Bottero, La Pacte des Marchombres "The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief."

William Shakespeare, Othello

"'I'm a girl,' she said, 'and you're a pissant of a six year-old. We have so much in common, why don't we be friends?'" Orson Scott Card, Ender's Game "Let each carve this name that I bore among men, a funeral epigraph, on the brow of that image in which I appeared to him, and then leave it in peace, and let there be no more talk about it. It is fitting for the dead. For those who have concluded. I am alive and I do not conclude. Life does not conclude." Luigi Pirandello, One, No One, And One Hundred Thousand "All the things that truly matter — beauty, love, creativity, joy, inner peace — arise from beyond the mind." Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now “There must be few people who have played, sung, [or] listened to ... Bach's music who do not feel they have a special understanding of him, a private connection, unique to themselves, but ultimately coming from their idea of what music is and does.” Peter Williams, The Life of Bach

“Loss of Memory” Ayumi Matsui’s

This teacher tells us we must ride the unknown.... She says we cannot rely on a formula.... She says we must learn from each act, and no act is ever the same... recipes are useless. These will achieve only the conventional, she says. But beauty demands a more arduous process.... Suddenly, we find we have a new language. The possibilities, she has told us, are endless... The possibilities, we see, never end. Susan Griffin, Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her

Voice Volume 2, Issue 4, April 2011