Peak Perspectives 8th Edition

Peak Perspectives Student-led magazine

Photo by Albert Siagian, IB1

Edition 8

June 2025

Contents

1 - Contents And Editorial 2 - Photo Competition Winner 3 - People Across Borders, by Donatienne Penninck, IB1 5 - My Teacher Said What? by Ephraima Nzeyimana, IB1 6 - The True War On Terror, by Alex Onu, IB1 11 - Photo competition runners up 12 - The Paradise of Hell, by Raphaelle Le Quéré, Grade 8 13 - Photo competition runners up 14 - Letter To A Younger Self, by Maya Varga, Grade 8 16 - What is everyday sexism? by Carolina Girardi Sirotsky, Grade 8 18 - Worries and Questions 19 - Puzzle Page, by Donatienne Penninck, IB1 20 - Comic Corner, by Barney Goodright, Grade 8

Editorial As the final summer edition of the magazine, there’s a bit of everything to offer: bold ideas, beautiful art, and the buzzing energy of a school that's ready to burst into summer.

Inside, you’ll find stunning photography and artwork that brings colour and life to our pages. We’re so proud to feature pieces that explore big questions - like identity, migration, and what it really means to be young right now. It's not always light stuff, but it's real. And it matters.

Huge shoutout to our amazing students who stepped up and brought such heart and creativity to their work. You’ll be blown away by their pieces. They show that age at Le Regent is no limit when it comes to talent and courage.

As we wrap up this year, take a moment to flip through and reflect. This magazine is a snapshot of us - our voices, our questions, and our celebrations. Whether you're heading off on holiday or just taking a wellearned nap, I hope these pages bring you something to smile about.

Enjoy the sunshine. Stay curious. And most importantly - happy summer!

Ephraima Nzeyimana, Editor-In-Chief Photo by Isabella Canton, Grade 9

Photo Competition Winner Congratulations to Albert Siagian, IB1!

Your paragraph text

People Across Borders

By Donatienne Penninck, IB1 I read a story a few days ago that made me pause and think. A young woman who had recently completed her master’s degree in refugee and migration law wrote it. She moved to Brussels, Belgium, where she began volunteering for an organization called Vluchtelingenwerk Vlaanderen, where she helps people who are trying to seek asylum.

She was initially excited about the job because it seemed like an ideal combination of her education and helping people directly. But when she arrived, realisation came to her. She quickly saw how hard things were. Hundreds of people were spending the night on the streets outside the main asylum centre, Klein Kasteeltje, waiting to be let inside. Some of them had been waiting for days in the cold weather.

She explained how diff icult it was to hear people’s stories and not be in a position to help. She had to inform them that they had to wait outside unless they were very ill, a family with children, or underage. ‘I began to lose faith in the system when I was told that people could not enter the building because they did not f it the requirements to be classif ied as an exceptional case.’ She thought it was unfair that people with trauma and f rostbite were being turned away. Her statement, ‘I felt like a robot, saying the same thing over and over again: I’m sorry I can’t help you,’ caught my attention.

"I was shocked the first time I saw a police officer physically push an asylum seeker."

She was also surprised and upset by how the police treated people outside the asylum. She witnessed an asylum seeker being physically pushed by an off icer.

Additionally, she wasn’t allowed to stand in certain places and wasn’t told why.

Another time, she was told that a police off icer used dogs to move people away.

There was nothing wrong with these people. All they could do was wait and hope for protection.

Apart f rom that, the story wasn’t only about fear and unfairness. It was also full of hope and kindness. At one point, more than 50 people were waiting outside, but the team only had 13 blankets to give out. Instead of f ighting, the people calmly decided who needed the blankets the most, despite their language barrier.

Another night, a local woman came to give out hot meals. After learning about the situation during a school trip, she began to do this. She gathered a group of people who were willing to help cook and deliver food every evening, without the assistance of an organization This shows that even when the system fails, people still f ind ways to care for each other.

"I am incredibly happy to be here and know that I have joined a wonderful team that really do everything they can to improve the status quo" The volunteer ended her blog by stating that hope doesn’t come f rom big organizations, but comes f rom people who want to help. This helped me realize that the refugee crisis isn’t just something in the media. It’s happening side by side, aligned with our daily lives. Even though we cannot solve every problem, we can all choose to be kind and help in any way we can.

My Teacher Said What?

By Ephraima Nzeyimana, IB1

Mr Young

Mr Dunsmore

Should we start bringing sunglasses to your classroom so we're not blinded by your superstar light?

what would you say to your younger self

• “I love that question, of course just like the sunlight it brings a warm feeling. Wear sunscreen though” + “Same thing in my GOATS class (Mr Kenny”

“Probably something like say no more often”

Mr Young

Ms Devine

Favorite Movie after school ?

Are you and mr Kenny vampires?

“Who’s asking?...”

Mr Young

Ms Vocat

Taiwanese food recommendation please

Were you a good student in Grade 11? rank?

“No, looking back I believe I would’ve benefited more from listening to the teachers who cared for me”

Stinky tofu Oyster omelet Soup dumplings

Taiwanese popcorn chicken

Taiwanese meatballs

The True War on Terror A Psychological Thriller by Alex Onu, IB1 It was a Tuesday, or was it a Wednesday?

Evan’s fingers danced as always: pen nib tapping against the paper, the pen cap knocking softly on the desk. Annoying, as always.

I could hear the incessant, yet oddly soothing hum of the AC. The slight static from the TV. Your paragraph text

“That concludes NASA’s report. The President’s shuttle is set to launch next week, and right-wing oligarchs are in tow. Now, the next news, in 5,” the news reporter spoke, murmurs I wasn’t really listening to.

Life was a haze. Some days would pass in a matter of moments, and others couldn’t end soon enough. Time slipped through my fingers. It had become a series of obligations. Gone was the lustre of childhood, full of freedom. In its place, a cold monotony. No time for choices. I had to work, pay bills, make food, and, if there was enough time, sleep. With no time to be, I found myself lagging in a crude attempt to just exist. *** I awoke to blurred vision, ringing in my ears. Silhouettes flashed across my vision, chaos screamed in the air. The heat licked at my skin, sweat trailed down my face. I hurried onto my knees—then collapsed, coughing smoke as vertigo overtook me.

I instinctively raised my hand to my temple, running my fingers across it. Rubbing them together, the sticky, red life that clung to my thumb, fore- and middle fingers informed me of my situation.

Where were my glasses?

I turned over onto my knees, swept my hands across the floor, and even as they skated across wood and stone, with the occasional glass shard nicking a finger, I didn’t stop.

The small cuts were but minor discomforts.

I found them, deformed, yet still wore them. A lens was missing, but it wasn’t detrimental. I took my time to stand, one eye closed to optimise my sight, examining the world around me. The sky stood proud, looming over me where the walls and ceiling should have been; fire warped the very air and smoke billowed like crooked skyscrapers.

The beginning of the end.

I took a deep breath, and then a step, and then one more, crossing through a broken door f rame. I stepped into the next room, realising it was the off ice kitchen.

And there, I saw two bodies—one a charred mess on a chair, a blackened shell I couldn’t quite place, and the other I recognised as Evan, sprawled across the floor.

Wasn’t Evan at his desk?

My brain took a moment to register what had happened. I couldn’t figure out how I had gotten to the kitchen.

A sudden jab from behind knocked me to the ground, jolting me awake. I scrambled around to see my assailant. Dressed in civilian clothes, a man who was my height, maybe, with shades and an army helmet.

An army vest over a shirt, an open ziphoodie on top.

Those were the last details I noticed. My sight had honed in on what I presumed was an M4, its barrel pointed at my face.

Art by Yuri Nakamoto, G10

“Name and aff iliation?” he asked, though it sounded more like an order.

Wha-?

“Name and aff iliation!” he barked, shaking his gun for emphasis.

I told him my name: Mortis. Joseph Mortis. A simple civil servant, working for the US Government.

Having said that, I backed away, away f rom the death that stared me in the eyes.

“Pedestrian, huh…” The gun barrel edged away f rom me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Too soon.

The butt of the gun found its way to my face, whipping my head to the side.

“Liberty or death?” he questioned, his sights once again trained on my face.

I swallowed hard, unaware of the choice I was making. Not that I had a choice. Steel bit into my neck, cold and unyielding. Death loomed, its ghoulish f igure hovering over me, and the words died in my throat.

I answered as he wished, af raid to displease him.

Following that, he slung his gun onto his back, and offered an arm to help me up. But as I sat there f rozen, my eyes trembling, he seemed to realise my confusion.

“Do you watch the news?”

I stayed paralysed, afraid to give an answer.

“Well, I think I can give you a short recap,” he said, unholstering a pistol from the small of his back. “America’s slipping into fascism. The gap between the upper and middle class is widening.” He punctuated his words with a quick function check—racking the slide, ensuring the magazine was loaded, and feeling the weight of the gun in his hand. “The middle class is sinking into the lower class, and the lower class is being pushed further into poverty. The cost of living has skyrocketed, yet minimum wage hasn’t changed since 2009! 2009, Jesus Christ! How are people supposed to live off $7.25 an hour?”

I paused for a moment to let it sink in, and then took his hand.

So, an insurrection?

He twirled the gun idly in his hand, offering the grip to me. “You in?” *** We walked through wrecked streets, reminiscent of war-torn countries I’d only seen on TV as a child. Lampposts flickered in the daylight, their open wiring sparking and crackling. Contrails drowned out the blue sky; black and grey blotted out the sun. In broken houses I saw corpses— children mourning mothers, mothers mourning children. Some had none to grieve for them.

Freedom? No. This is death—final, empty. Not freedom. Just madness.

He looked at me, then flashed a wistful smile.

“Sacrifice is necessary. Don’t you know, Joseph? Progress is built on the dead, not bricks. This wasn’t us. It was the Government.”

We fell silent. I had expected gunfire or shouts, but it was unnervingly quiet. Only muted sobs hung in the air.

Minutes passed before he spoke again, a murmur I couldn’t quite catch. The scratch of a radio caught my attention, and I realised he was communicating with someone else. I thought for a moment, before asking who it was.

“The guy we’re going to meet,” he replied. “Not a lot of officials on our side; none with your clearance. You’re an asset, Joseph.”

An asset?

“Now, let’s get moving.” His voice cut through my thoughts. “We’ve got a click and a half to cover—and not a lot of time to do it.” *** “Down with the Regime! Bring back America! Bring back freedom!”

“No more kings! Democracy is America! America is democracy!”

Chants filled the air, the rhythmic thumping of feet on the floor and the swinging of signs overhead their music. They waved American flags in the air; swastikas for stars and a black cross over its entirety.

“Down with the Regime! Bring back America!

Bring back freedom!”

“No more kings! Democracy is America! America is democracy!”

A group of people, a few hundred thousand strong, stood in the President’s Park, the White House in sight. The area around them lay in waste, the grass stained red with blood, the ground broken and ablaze.

Art by Sophia Markovic, G10

He led me past the mob, toward the Washington Monument—slightly damaged but standing tall as ever. A few ringleaders huddled around a table in its shadow, laptops open and pistols at their hips. But they looked like ordinary civilians.

He motioned for me to stop and stepped forward to greet them. Each handshake was brief, accompanied by a nod and a quiet exchange. Their glances flicked over to me, their smiles widening as the introductions ended and they beckoned me over.

With a greeting, they explained the situation.

I had been targeted. A spy: that was what they wanted f rom me.

“Or you could just die here,” one commented.

My mouth went dry, and my heart pounded… I couldn’t answer—so I didn’t, deflecting.

Why were they here? And not somewhere safe?

“This rebellion isn’t about f igureheads. It's about the American people. It’s required, it’s necessary. It endures with or without us. And here, we provide cause for our f ighters, we prove ourselves men, not cowards, like the President and his f riends. We stand at the foref ront of our cause!” *** “The Government believes they own us! They think we don’t know our rights! They think we’ll roll over in the face of power! We will not! We stand and f ight! They relish in their wealth, sipping wine and feasting as the poor man f ights the rich man’s war! You want proof? Look no further than Joseph Mortis!”

A crucif ix, partly buried and leaning slightly to the side. Strung like Christ hung Joseph— crowned with barbed wire, gutted, stoned. Blood trickled down his face, seeping f rom a punctured eye; his glasses, one lens missing and one broken f rom a bullet.

“He worked for the Government, but he fought back! And what did they do? They killed him, mocking us with a cruel taunt! They taint his sacrif ice! We shall not stand for this! WE FIGHT!”

Art by Jorge Veiga De Almeida, G10

Postface The True War on Terror was written in the early days of Trump’s second administration, a time when fear, anxiety, and disbelief overwhelmed my perception of America’s direction. Though fictional, the story is rooted in real anxieties—about creeping authoritarianism, the erosion of civil liberties, and the normalization of cruelty in the name of patriotism.

The questions that haunted me while writing remain disturbingly relevant: What can one do when the so-called “land of the free” slips into tyranny, not through violent revolution, but through gradual surrender—salute by salute, law by law, silence by silence? When the minimum wage remains stagnant for over a decade, even as inflation crushes the working class, yet the nation’s leaders obsess over "purifying" a country of immigrants—one that was built on the backs of immigrants? When deportations escalate, not just of non-citizen criminals but of American-born criminals to places like El Salvadorian camps? What do you do when those who speak out are detained, kept from the world? These are not the concerns of fiction. They are the slow, suffocating reality.

This story is not about bombs or grand awakenings. It is about disillusionment. About the quiet rot, the decay that creeps in when people stop paying attention. Like Joseph, many of us grow weary—numb to headlines, disoriented by chaos, lulled by routine. And in that daze, we fail to act. Joseph is not a hero. He is not a martyr. He is a man crushed by obligation, sedated by monotony, swept into a movement he barely understood. He joined not from principle, but from fear.

Of course, I would be no better than those I critique if I did not leave you to interpret the text for yourself. So I will only say this: By the end, what remains is a broken frame: the illusion of sight. The suggestion that truth might still be accessible. But both lenses are gone. Joseph is blind.

The people are blind. And worse, they do not know it.

That is the end goal of fascism: control through ignorance.

The True War on Terror is not a prophecy. It is a warning.

Not of a future yet to come— But of a path already being walked.

Its message is simple: Look closer.

See clearly.

Act—before it’s too late.

Photo Competition Runners-up

Albert Siagian, IB1

Adem El Hrari, G10

Isabella Canton, G9

Albert Siagian, IB1

Desdina Aydin, G10

The Paradise Of Hell

By Raphaëlle Le Quéré, Grade 8 Greece. The dream place to go on holiday. The country with the rocky beaches that lead to the beautiful turquoise waters. That was my family's dream. We had been planning this trip for months making sure everything would go according to plan. We were to leave Crans-Montana as soon as my mom finished her work, we were to sleep in a small motel and the day after we were supposed to leave the Geneva airport at 6am. We would arrive at 8:45am in Athens, drive for 1h and half to Loutraki and there we would be in paradise. We would stay a week and lay on the beach each day feeling the rays of sunshine kiss our skins. This was what was supposed to happen. But our trip to heaven quickly shifted to a descent towards hell.

We arrived at the motel towards 11pm. We were all quite tired from the two hour drive and we all wished to sleep. We had to be at the airport at 4am meaning we had to wake up at 3am leaving us barely enough time to actually sleep. I would say I turned the lights off at around 11:45 pm but by the time the big hand hit midnight I was already fast asleep. I remember relaxing in the warm sheets of the bed and slowly drifting away to my own dreams. I remember not noticing when my parents came back into the room to sleep. I remember not hearing any of the noises in the corridor. All this to say I was completely unconscious of the world surrounding me. So when a high pitch ringing started I was convinced it was all in my head and that my dreams had taken me to some kind of bad concert. But I guess I was wrong.

I awoke to my mom shaking my legs and shouting at me to put a coat and some shoes on. Of course I listened but you see, when I wake up I have the same kind of stability a drunken man has. I guess you can imagine that me and my stability didn’t succeed at descending the ladder of the bunk bed graciously. I roughly landed on my bare feet while slamming the back of my heel on the table leg. Then I proceeded to do what mom had asked me to do. My dad then swung the door open letting the fire alarm sound enter our room and causing an even more excruciating amount of noise. We all started speed walking towards the exit. There,outside, in the cold we waited for 15 minutes for the building to fall down to ashes, instead a man from the motel staff calmly walked out and told us that a woman had been dumb enough to smoke inside right under the fire detector. I complain a lot when I’m wide awake but when I am not, oh boy do I complain even more. When I am not awake you multiply my normal complaining to a thousand and you get a mini-dragon who hates being woken up at midnight because somebody doesn't have common sense. It is like that I went back to bed: complaining, mumbling and growling at the whole world.

When the alarm clock rang the next morning it wasn’t only me complaining it was the whole family. I desperately tried to wake up while showering. Let's just say it made me want to go to sleep even more. As we got into the car I had to fight the urge of sinking into a deep sleep, in order to prevent herself from falling asleep on the car wheel my mom turned the volume of the radio to maximum making us all regret the comfy beds of the motel.

The doors of the airport slid open as the cue of the easyjet section took over half of the first floor. Of course, we were flying with easyjet. Reluctantly I rolled my suitcase to the end of the cue. Once we were through half of it a man had to check our tickets. An awkward silence set between the four of us. The man was blankly staring at the tickets while my parents and I were starting to get impatient and desperately wanted to put our suitcases away. When the man finally dared to look up from the tickets he said the four words that would ruin our trip.

“Your plane is cancelled”.

Photo Competition Runners-up

Desdina Aydin, G10

Desdina Aydin, G10

Albert Siagian, IB1

Letter to a Younger Self

by Maya Varga (Grade 8)

Disclaimer: This is a work of f iction. None of this actually happened to me.

Dear my younger self, There’s no obvious start. There’s not a moment where you realize what’s happening. You’ll think nothing of it. You’ll think nothing of when someone whistles at you on the street. You’ll think nothing of when the boys in your class start making jokes about rape. You will see the girls in your class start complaining about their weight. Girls in your class will start wearing makeup. Girls in your class will look up to perfect influencers with perfect bodies and perfect lives and perfect everything. The girls will want to look like them. You will want to look like them.

Slowly but surely, you will care. You will care about how you look. Everybody’s life will look perfect, except for yours. You will think you’re fat. You will think you’re ugly. You will think you’re worthless of love. You will always try to get that perfect life everybody else seems to have.

But it will always be out of reach. Like the top of a pine tree. Like a book on the very top shelf. Like the top of the Eiffel Tower. Every day, you will be reminded of this. Of how you will never look like the barbie dolls you used to play with mindlessly as a four year old. You will wish you could take a pair of scissors and cut off all the fat in your stomach. You will drown yourself in makeup until you can’t breathe. You will slowly kill youself. Poison yourself day by day. And while you’re slowly falling to your death, everyone else will seem to live. They will live while you’re barely surviving.

Your body will never be enough. Your belly will always be too big. Your thighs will never have a big enough thigh gap. Your skin will never be clear enough.

But that’s just the beginning.

Everything will happen slowly. Like the f irst shot of a mass shooting, the f irst tree cut down before an entire forest, the f irst piece of plastic on Kamilo Beach.

Even after wishing you were better, prettier, skinnier, you won’t notice anything. You won’t notice why you want to look like everyone else. You won’t realize when you start feeling insecure about eating. You won’t realize anything.

And now everything becomes more and more clear. You start counting every single grain of rice you eat. You start weighing yourself every morning and evening, getting that horrible feeling in your chest if you are so little as one gram heavier. You pay attention to how the boys in your class talk about women. About how we are just considered objects. Little toys they can discard any second. You don’t notice what’s happening. You don’t realize that you are slowly becoming used to being treated as an object. You don’t realize that every second of every day, you are being acclimated to how men will treat you every day in the real world. Like a goldf ish being put into a new tank.

And now you’re skipping your lunch. You pick at your dinner. You make excuses for not eating your food. You secretly take diet pills every day. You drink loads of water to convince yourself that you’re full. But you don’t need to do any of that.

You’re beautiful. You are not def ined by what you look like. You are not def ined by what others think of you. You are not def ined by your weight. You’re beautiful, inside and out.

There’s no obvious starting point to when all of this starts happening, but there is always something that starts it all. A tiny comment. A joke. Looking at other people pretending they have perfect lives. But none of this should matter in the end. You are you. You are not those models with the perfect face, perfect body, perfect everything. If the girls in your class are pretty, that doesn’t make you any uglier. You don’t have to look like them.

You need to love yourself. It seems impossible at f irst. At f irst you might need help for simply getting the dusty book at the top of the shelf, but it’s not impossible. Next, you might be scared of climbing to the top of a pine tree, but it’s not impossible. One day, you will get to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

So no, there is no obvious starting point and no obvious end. But what there will be is the moment when you realize you are worth it. You are worth being loved and giving your love to other people. You should be proud of yourself for everything you have accomplished. And one day, you will f inally take your mind off of what you look like, and you will see the beautiful things in the world.

You will get to the top of the mountain and look out to the beautiful landscapes below.

-Your future self

What is everyday sexism?

by Carolina Girardi Sirotsky, Grade 8 In general terms, what can be considered sexism? Sexism can be categorised in various ways, for example; In workplace environments, socially and culturally, In public or daily interactions and lastly, in institutional or structural methods. Everyday sexism is a term used to describe sexism in someone’s everyday life, often subtle or normalized ways in which especially young girls and women experience gender based biases and discrimination scenarios in their usual everyday routines.

Laura Bates’ “Enough is enough” article truly displays various factual experiences that she has gone through, and as well as countless young girls and women all over the word, within 18 months of her blog “@everydaysexism” being out for the public to see, she received thousands of entries f rom 18 different countries, ultimately adding up to 50,000 entries by different girls and women. The majority of these entries had something to do with harassment, rape, cat calling and overall violence, typically towards young girls in their school uniform, by older men or teenage boys.

Our current society exhibits the certainty that it is common nowadays to be harassed in various ways. Although most people believe “sexism doesn’t exist anymore” there is countless amounts of proof to prove the fact that sexism will always be around, whether it's towards women or men. Plenty individuals use the sentence “She was wearing a short dress, she was practically asking for it” to excuse f rom the fact not all women are supposed “attention seeking whores”, such vulgar words are used against women everyday, and though it can seem that way, different women wear different things, some feel more comfortable “hiding” their bodies and wearing clothes with more coverage along with some that feel comfortable in wearing tight clothes, and that is all right. Your body, your choice.

Sexism has been around for hundreds of years, tracing back to the 1500s and even before that. A key reason as to why most people fail to take these incidents and events seriously is the historical fact that this has been common for so long that it is extremely diff icult to gain proper equality between both genders, primarily women. For the past thousand years, women have been seen as weak, sensitive, obedient beings, in the past, though this still happens, we were treated as dogs, animals, purely a man's toy. These stereotypes can harm our community in a way no one can describe. Lowering someone else's soul for the benef it of your own is not right, if this continues to occur, I personally, and many others fear for our generation.

As stated before, Laura Bates’ “Enough is enough” shares some key valuable sexism and violence stories f rom women all around the world, f rom every continent, and various countries. In the end, nearly all of them share the same outcome, the woman feels guilty and concludes to feel that what happened was her fault, which in this case it truly was not. These individual stories ultimately add up to build a collective case by using great tension and wording. Laura Bates uses strong phrases f rom real stories, for example “ seized my hand and refused to let go” and “one of them grabbed me, hard, between the legs”, to create pressure between the reader and the piece of literature. Another key example of what this world has created are the phrases “this kind of thing was just a part of life” or “it is a part of being a woman”, this should not be the case. Women should be respected, not used for reproductive purposes.

Therefore, everyday sexism can occur with any gender, though it can be seen as a “joke” or just a “harmless comment”, it can f rankly damage someone, make them feel not worthy and overall make them feel small.

Although it is extreme, sexism can often lead to the decrease of anyone’s mental health. Imagine, a young girl goes to school in the mornings, gets treated like a toy by teenage boys, then on her way home gets leered at or even cat called by an older man, how do you think that would make her feel? Personally it would make me extremely uncomfortable in my own body, this should not be happening, everyone should have the right to feel accepted in their own skin, man or woman. This feeling of uncomfortableness feels like a stab in the throat, if you speak out people think you’re just asking for attention, and if you don’t you live with the guilt for the rest of your life. This is just wrong. Sexism is wrong.

Art by Valentina Faye Rohde, Grade 9

Do you have a question or worries that are too personal or embarrassing to share with anyone you know?

The Mexican tradition is to share your worries with tiny dolls that you put under your pillow at night.

In the UK there is a tradition of wellbeing support called Agony Aunts or Uncles.

People can anonymously write to different addresses in media: magazines, TV/radio stations or websites and get advice from an expert “aunty” or “uncle”.

The letter and response are then published, because often the question and answer are actually relevant to lots of other people too!

We are excited to anounce that Le Régent now has its very own wise adult Agony Aunt/Uncle!

You can write to them anonymously (they will not know who you are) by clicking on the title of this page or on this link .

Crossword puzzle: Across:

5. Designer 7. Sow’s partner 8. Old Spanish gold coin, used in the American colonies 9. Far Eastern green beans 11. Desolate - Marvel’s Iron Man, Tony…

13. Tea or golf club holder?

14. Routine -

16. Quietly curt dismissal 17. Stop galloping!

18. Honeyed (tones) Down: 1. Rats (anag) 2. I’m so (not) sorry!

3. Cancel, make void 4. Set apart 5. Chart of operations sequence 6. Weight system based on the pound, or 7000 grains 10. In a humble manner 12. Wild ox 15. Quipster 17. Kennel noise

Have a try...

The first person to show Ephraima their correct solution to the crossword or sudoku will receive a 5 CHF café voucher!

By Donatienne Penninck

Comic Corner

by Barney Goodright, Grade 8

Your paragraph text

Contributors to this issue of Peak Perspectives Albert Siagian Alex Onu Angelina Chen Barney Goodright Carolina Girardi Sirotsky Desdina Aydin Donatienne Penninck Ephraima Nzeyimana Isabella Canton Jorge Veiga De Almeida Louise Didlock Lucy Shaw Maya Varga Raphaelle Le Quéré Sophia Markovic Valentina Faye Rohde

Art by Jorge Veiga De Almeida