ISKL+Dakshina

**Introduction:**
Include some or all of the following, as well as a link to your blog: first name, what you like to do in and out of school, favourites (food, sport, hobby, TV show, video game, etc.), places visited, future plans, claim to fame.

Hello people! Im Dakshina, from Mauritius, and that is not in India, Malaysia or anywhere else in Asia. I love to design, (couture), to travel and i like gymnastics to. I love Tv and I have probably wasted a quarter of my life on msn. I love to eat, sweet and savory, you name it, but dont be fooled, I am not fat:b I really like running, when Im angry I run around everywhere until I calm down. I really like making dresses, I have been doing it for a long time, Im am no amateur. I don't scream a lot, sorry, I am not going to lie to you. I have some really cool friends that are just like me;o I really love acting, not long ago I was in the school play. I was the witch it took so long to put on. I was not surprised to be the witch. I like making friends with everyone, older than me or same age, even a little younger. I live for my ipod and my phone. I live for shoes too. I am not the least girly though. I really hope to see some of u people. See ya!

**Paste your story here:**
Somewhere in Pakistan Sahir Somewhere after the windy months, Labor. It does not mean any one thing to me. Life is life thus some are just condemned to a cataclysmic lifetime. My given name is Sahir but my worker name is boy three. I was abducted from a minute cramped rural community, close by Zomba in Malawi. I do not know of my age, maybe thirteen or fourteen, fifteen maybe. I educated myself to comprehend and talk in the English language by reciting and doing my own narrations and recitals of the newspapers that I had found in the dustbins. The men who have held me hostage here are working under the “Terrores” gang, (a Spanish name for a Pakistani child labor gang). Los terrores, in Spanish, means the terrors. They kidnap kids like me for their dirty jobs but mostly we are used to make sports equipment. We are trained to make footballs and shoes etc. When we finish “los terrores” send them to be shipped to other companies like Nike sometimes and other companies based all over Africa and Asia that sell soccer balls and other types of sports gear. Los terrores is a Spanish name but the gang itself is a very small one in Pakistan. I’ve lived an existence of anguish, desolation, neglect and indifference; I have no hope for the present or the future. I wish there would be someone to love me. I wish that I had someone in my life that would care if I were to be crushed by a steamroller. My life has been lived on despairing dreams; only my mind consoles me from reality’s sting, momentarily. Sometimes I just wish that I would have enough nerve to run away. I knew that I had made my mind, something that day had made me comprehend that a life like this was not worth living. It was around four thirty in the morning. I was trying to write my name on the ground in Urdu. I heard vague ushers behind the stuffing space where all the balls and shoes were packed. The muted voices became grunts and then moans and then yells and hollers. The wooden door flung and open Jabba stomped out, marching irately, kicking dirt, as his massive feet never left the desiccated mud. When he saw me he stopped to a lethal stillness. “What are you doing?” he questioned, a masquerade of nuisance crimsoning his usual calm-er features.

“Nothing! I am trying to spell my name” I stuttered, “B…but it is not important, I’m going to work. I…I am really sorry sir. “

He eyed me skeptically, “Why are you trying to write your name huh? What good does that do? Is it as valuable as making footballs, I DIDN’T THINK SO!! If you have nothing else to do make some shoes you lazy boy.”

“Sir, if I may… I am learning to write my name because one day, when I become free, I will study and be a famous lawyer. And when people ask for my autograph… Well, sir, I need to be able to sign them!” I whispered in a buoyant tone, closing my eyes to envision it. When I opened my eyes, Jabba was gaping at me, his appearance hardened, tensed by anger. I froze in alarm. Jabba suddenly began laughing hectically; his raucous hoot reverberated through the crumbling “tall gates”. (Tall gates were wall-like gates that were there to stop us from escaping.) He picked up a bunch of stones and launched them at my head; one hit me in the eye, tearing the tissue of my eyelid. Jabba grinned as I rolled over the dirt in sheer agony.

“You think you have a future?! University! My word, a crummy worthless boy like shouldn’t even have any dreams.” He spit, peering into my eyes with a scornful expression. “Children like you never get anywhere. You’re stuck here, and when you’re old enough to report us we dump you in the middle of nowhere with your hands and legs tied together. How do you like that future? Huh?”

I shuddered on the spot, my hand, wet with the blood dripping from my left eyelid. “I have a future!” I cried, sobbing on the grimy dirt. “ Everyone has hope. But I will seize that hope, Jabba!”

His face softened noticeably and his eyes shimmered with the throbbing of old memories. “I used to have dreams too.” He moaned, “I wanted to create my own shoe company.” He chuckled and shook his head contemptuously “Look where I am now. Me, probably the boy with the biggest dreams…” He smirked at his own stupidity. “But then I realized how dumb I was and I gave up! That took away my dreams but brought me back down to earth!”

Jabba walked away as he dumped the lingering stones in his hand on the ground. I knew that I could not live my life like this. I thirsted for liberty. I was going to escape this home of torment tonight. Jabba and Harahan always left the gate opened from five to five ten for their break, that’s when I would flee. Then I would find a way to get into the train to Islamabad and there I will become a lawyer and save myself from this existence. I ran into the sleeping place where all the other kids were still resting. I mutely reached for my sheet of paper below my cover. I had found in on the road two years ago and I had been saving it since then. I reached for my feather, another thing I had picked up from the sewer… I began to write but soon I remembered…INK! I did not have any ink, if this letter was not written, I wouldn’t have anything to write in my admittance letter for my future university. I knew that I was only thirteen but it was better to be safe than sorry. I read in the newspaper that you needed an admission letter to go to university. I had no choice; I put the end of feather against my bleeding eye and began to write on my paper with my new ruby red ink. It burned every time I stuck feather in my eyelid but what would more pain do to me? When I was done I packed everything in a bundle in my cover and I took my mother’s picture, it was in my pocket the day they abducted me. I ran to the gates, making the least noise because a single rub could make an incredibly loud noise if it was against the tall gates. I tried to slip through but suddenly, the bulge of my bag pushed the two gates and they opened with a piercing screech. I could hear Jabba yelling, “He’s escaping, he’s escaping!!!!” I ran as fast as I could, strait down the road faster and faster. I could hear Jabba and Harahan behind me, gaining speed. I was carrying my paper in my pocket, my bag and my mother’s picture in one hand. Out of nowhere, I felt Harahan’s fleshy fingers grab my hand! I continued running, tears welling up in my eyes. I gained speed, Harahan was falling and tumbling and that meant I had a chance to escape from him. Suddenly I felt Harahan’s hand slip, before he let go he grabbed my bag and my picture and fell. He had my bag and my mother’s picture. I could not turn back, I ran on for three and a half hours until, paralyzed with fear until I reached the train station.

At the train station the lights were dimmed, no one was there. The next train was going to arrive in five minutes. I did not know what money looked like so I did not now what to look for on the road. I begged the lady to give me a one-time pass but she refused. The train was arriving in two minutes now.

“Please Madam, let me by. Please madam… I want to be a lawyer and make people aware of what is going on here and how we are suffering so much!” I pleaded, wincing as my eyes began to sting.

She replied fiercely, “And what IS going on here you ungrateful little rat! I will not give a pass to you, you peasant child!

Suddenly a big white woman appeared from the side of the counter. She smacked her chubby hand onto the counter and said with a tone of exasperation “It’s okay, I will pay for him. Really, darling, would it have killed you to give him a free pass? Its five twenty in the morning” She said in a beautiful accent. The lady gave me my ticket and walked with me to sit down. I could not help but gawk at her. She had the most amazingly white skin, like pearls. Also she was wearing a pretty black shirt that read, “E-v-e-r-y-o-n-e h-a-s t-h-e r-i-g-h-t- t-o- a- v-o-i-c-e” I thought she was one of those American peacemakers or something. When the moldy bulb lit up on top of us, her skin glowed even brighter. The white woman turned her head and peered at me with a pair of piercing gray eyes. Her face had the shape of a dewdrop, her lips looked soft and red. Her features were exhausted, bags colored her eyes, through her superb beauty, she carried a load of pain, you could see it in her eyes, the way they flickered so desolately when she saw me.

“The trains are really terrible here aren’t they?” she said disapprovingly as we began to hear the faint puffs of the cabin train arriving.

I had always wanted to be on a train, they were such amazing creatures, full of metal and colors, space to sit and rich people who could afford to buy the tickets.

“I find it a wonderful thing madam, I always wanted to get on a train, and then my legs would ache less than having to walk.” I replied cheerfully.

I noticed three long lines of red welts across my arm. “Ugh.” I thought. It had probably been Harahan’s fingernails, or maybe his penknife. The welts were bleeding steadily, drop after drop. I suffered in silence while the big lady ogled in horror. I tried to cover my arm; I did not want her to know that I had been beaten. Denial, the story of my life: my whole life I convinced myself that the way I was living was ok, that I was not suffering, that I was not being beaten into a bloody pulp et cetera. I rubbed arm against part of my shirt, I yelped in pain as grains of sand and dirt and pieces of rocks entered my wound. “Are you okay!” screamed the lady as she ran to help me. “I’m fine.” I affirmed in a shaky voice. “Who did this to you dear! Why are you bleeding so much?” She questioned, taking a good look at my arm. “No one!” I said, hoping that my tone would stand firm, “I was in a fight with some of my friends. Now I am taking the train on the orders of my parents, who love me very much!” Words like friends, parents and love never ceased to make me cry. I had lied to her, telling her what I would have rather been through, I was recreating my life and it felt good to know that at least someone thought that I had been loved. Growing up without parents slowly killed me, my heart ached for attention that never came.

The lady smiled apologetically, “Ah, I understand.”

“This must been one of those rowdy Pakistani boys, coming back home after running away. Why don’t boys ever admit that they too have emotions, I guess it was hormones or something. I should have left him alone in the first place. Good job, Alice, good job…” she whispered to herself under her breath, almost inaudibly. She looked at me, “Okay, well at least take this napkin and wash off your wound okay. Just for the sake of personal hygiene, nothing else…” She said soothingly as she pulled out a tissue out of her pocket.

I cleaned up my arm and stood up as the train arrived, huffing and puffing. The lady and I shared a cabin. The cabin was a small square space, with a floor and no doors, just two big open spaces, just how I imagined it. The lady’s face was twisted with looks of revulsion as she stepped into the cabin. We both sat down on the floor on the different extremities, facing each other. We would be in Islamabad within three hours at most, unless some cows happened to be walking along the rails. The first twenty minutes were spent in silence. Then I saw her take a sheet of paper with writing on it from her bag. Then she began reading: “The United Nation’s is proud to present the children rights festival. Here, we will be advocating for children’s rights all over Pakistan. To give you a better understanding, I have found someone very special who will talk to you about what is has been growing up without these foundations.” She stopped and sighed and put her head in her hands in hopelessness. “Jesus!” she said, “I haven’t found anybody who corresponds to my paper, and the festival opening is today! What do I do?” She exclaimed desperately. I supposed that since she was reading, I could do some too. I took university paper and started reading.

“College Application by Sahir. Dear Sirs and Madams in the Universities, this is my college application sheet. This is the story of my life. Even if I do not get accepted, I want people to know what it was like to have grown up in a house of child Labor…” Before I had finished, the lady moved up and sat right next me, reading my first paragraph. Soon her eyes were blood shot with tears and her cheeks were all red.

She looked at me in a puzzled way, “Darling, you told me that you had parents!”

I looked at her shamefully,” I am so sorry miss; I lied to you because I hate my life. I hate to know that I never had a childhood, I hate to accept that I have been bullied every moment of my life and most of all…” I paused as my voice began o crack under the weight of my pain, “I…I hate to live with the fact that somewhere in this world, I would have had real parents who would have loved me and treated me like a human. Somewhere in the world, I would have been loved.”

She sighed at put her arm on my shoulder. “Please read your letter to me.”

“Okay,” I said as I cleared my voice ” College Application by Sahir. Dear Sirs and Madams in the Universities, this is my college application sheet. This is the story of my life. Even if I do not get accepted, I want people to know what it was like to have grown up in a house of child Labor and painful work. I want to raise awareness amongst people for them to know what is really going on in Pakistan. I was kidnapped in a small village, close by Zomba, in Malawi. Then they taped my mouth and covered my eyes and put me in a giant box with more stolen children. I went six days with only a slice of bread every day and rain and river for water. When we arrived in Pakistan they took the covers off our nearly blinded eyes, I don’t remember much after that. All I know is that we were told that making footballs and shoes was our destiny and no one escaped destiny. Rules were strict; you sleep on the floor, eat on the floor, work on the floor and die on the floor. I was making soccer balls in one week, all by watching the older children watched. I learned math and English from papers in the garbage. I got whipped every day, whether it was for being too slow or missing a stitch or looking at Jabba in the eyes. I fractured my wrists three times, my kneecap cracked twice, and seven of my baby teeth were knocked out but never once have I gone to a hospital. My heart begged for love, my heart cried for attention and I was slowly dying under the pressure of the grief I carried every morning for around thirteen years. If my parents had been there with me, I would go through this 1000 times again. I always wanted a future but every time I tried to get it, I was beaten with rocks and sticks. I want to be a lawyer, a famous one that earns 1000000000 dollars. I will take cases of children like me that have had enough of this inhuman life of torture and neglect. Today I have decided to run away and seize my chance to be a free person. Everything I have achieved has been thanks to me. This is why I beg you, my sirs and madams, to give me a chance to be something. To recreate my life and forget the past, to live the life I haven’t had the chance to live. Thank you, by Sahir.”

The white madam was crying when I finished. Deep inside I knew that the chances I could have a future, even in Islamabad, were extremely low but it was all I had. She started scribbling things on her paper. When she was done she looked at me and beamed.

“Madam” I asked “Do you know what I can do to share this with everyone. I have no experience, I have been locked in a dark house all my life…”

She beamed even more, “Sahir, how would you like to be my guest speaker for the opening of the United Nations Children’s Right’s festival?”

This time, I did not care to hide my emotions; I hugged her hard and smiled like I had never smiled before. It was a bizarre feeling, loving someone, but it was the strongest feeling I had ever felt. I loved the white madam. And with her my life was going to take a new turn.

**Questions for Peer Reviewers**
(Think in terms of questions you would like to ask the author.)

1. Think of plot—is it original? (If an adaptation, is it creative or interesting to you?) What suggestions do you have for the author(s)? Hey! I love the plot. It is hard to say that that kind of slavory is still going on in some countries. It was really well writen. 2. Think about problems that the characters face. Are there complications that add enough suspense, tension, or interest? Is there a climax that satisfies you? Is the resolution satisfying? What could be added or changed?

3. Think of characterization—are the characters life-like? Are characters likable and enjoyable? Do we get a good sense of character from many of these: description, dialogue, narrator's opinion, discussion from other characters, the character’s own actions?

4. Think of imagery and details. Do they help you //see// and //hear// and //experience// the story? What details would you like to see in the next revision of the story?

5. What areas of the story need the most improvement? What suggestions do you have for the author?