Ethos Magazine | Issue 1

ADVERTISE WITH ETHOS CONTACT US AT ETHOSZINE@GMAIL.COM

ethos Editor in Chief Emily Cheng

Supervisor Ms. Sara Ellison Editors Ernest Cheng Brandon Mok Priscilla Ng Jai Rane Julia Xu Contributors Sakina Abidi Corinne Ang Gunjan Bhargava Hazel Chan Emily Cheng Max Ferguson Nikita Gogineni Katie Ko Sabine Kwan Brandon Mok Priscilla Ng Lee Phillips Kuhu Singh Abbie Walker Julia Xu Thomas Xu ethos-magazine.blogspot.com ethoszine@gmail.com

CONTENTS

FEATURES POETRY 03 04 07 08 44

Letter from the Editor Emily Cheng Rise of the Dragon Brandon Mok The progression of the female protagonist in film Lee Phillips Real Or Not Real?

Emily Cheng En Lumière Mr. Walker Emily Cheng & Gunjan Bhargava

PROSE 10 14 17 18 20 21 22

Life’s Edge Brandon Mok Horrors Within Thomas Xu The Circus Max Ferguson Only Julia Xu Untitled Max Ferguson Mirror Kuhu Singh La Mer Max Ferguson

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32 34 35

Hasta la Vista Anonymous Alone Abbie Walker The loudness of [-------] Brandon Mok

38

PHOTO GRAPHY

16 37 19 39 20 22 41 23 43 28 ARTWORK 28 06 29 15 33 29 36 30 41 31 42 Anonymous Emily Cheng

things i feel someone ought to know Sakina Abidi A Broken Spell Kuhu Singh dada Anonymous

Tears Emily Cheng Joint Priscilla Ng

The Leopard Nikita Gogineni Starry Sky Sabine Kwan

A Daydreamer’s World Corinne Ang

The Art of Deduction Emily Cheng

Carnival Emily Cheng New Life Emily Cheng Expanse Emily Cheng Beautiful Creatures Emily Cheng Series Hazel Chan Untitled Gunjan Bhargava Big Sur Emily Cheng Diverge Emily Cheng Canvas Anonymous Uniform Anonymous Untitled 2 Gunjan Bhargava The Last Light Katie Ko

letter from the editor S

everal months ago, Ethos Magazine was but a spark of imagination in my mind. Now, thanks to the hard work of our student team and the overwhelming support from across the school, Ethos has emerged as a fully-fledged publication that showcases the extraordinary literary and artistic talents within West Island. The name of this magazine, Ethos, is a Greek word for character, or beliefs and values. I believe that our inaugural issue is a celebration of West Island School’s values, the diversity of thought and the inclusion of the entire school community.

This issue is all about travel, both literal and metaphorical. Our photographs showcase far-flung destinations, whereas our written works take us through time and history. Lee Phillips’ piece on female protagonists transports us to the Civil War-era of Gone With The Wind; quickly enough we are whisked away to the 80s New York of Annie Hall. My own article on reality TV reveals the microcosm of Hollywood up close, whilst showcasing a local perspective from Helena Chan of Asia’s Next Top Model. The voyage only continues in our prose. Life’s Edge, a short story by Brandon Mok, beautifully recalls a man’s life in a series of anecdotes. Set in the modern day as well as Mao’s China, the narrative recounts a violence-ridden history against the backdrop of the Great Wall. Max Ferguson’s works take us to the circus, the city and the sea in a succession of exquisitely composed writing. We are transported into the mysterious depths of a mirror by Kuhu Singh’s thought-provoking piece of the same name.

This issue is also one of contrasts. Hazel Chan’s stunning photographs transport us to faraway remoteness, whilst the bittersweet poem Alone by Abbie Walker hits close to the heart. We are brought to tears of laughter by the sardonic Hasta la Vista, and tears of grief by the evocative dada.

Ultimately, our talented contributors have proven the power of the pen: writing is a potent yet eloquent way to unleash ideas.

Many of you may see just a magazine, but it represents months of sweat, tears and a lot of diligence.

This publication would not have been possible without the generous assistance of our principal Ms. Jane Foxcroft, the head of English Ms. Louise Davison, and most of all our supervisor Ms. Sara Ellison. Without her encouragement and constant support, this magazine would not be here today. I’d also like to thank our amazing editorial team, consisting of Priscilla Ng, Julia Xu, Jai Rane, Brandon Mok and Ernest Cheng. They have been with me every step of the way and helped nurture the magazine from concept to substance.

Creating this magazine has taken me on a wonderful journey. I hope that reading it will do the same for you.

Sincerely,

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RISE OF THE DRAGON

By Brandon Mok

First it was Britain. Then America. Now the latter has a contender: China. Once the center of the ancient world, China fell from its high perch as a culture-defining suzerain at the beginning of nineteenth-century, its people crushed as the country suffered invasion, war and famine. It has languished there for the better part of a century, but now China is growing more powerful and may once again become the Middle Kingdom. But look at the delicate equilibrium of global relations now: will this dragon’s rise raise or wreck the world order as we know it? This author stands firmly on the latter.

Firstly, China has a history of belligerence; it has a track record of interfering with its’ neighbours’ affairs. The Korean War. The Taiwan Strait. The current dispute over the Diaoyu Islands. In each of these examples, China has intervened obtrusively with varying degrees of its military might in full knowledge that nonintervention is an axiomatic principle of foreign affairs that cannot and should not be broken. China has both the desire and ability to incite major conflicts within Asia. Secondly, the rise of a Chinese hegemonic order will give rise to an arms race between key players in Asia. The Cold War is an instance of this: the US and the Soviet Union were locked in a struggle in which neither admitted to pre-emptive action, instead performing a type of shadow-boxing consisting of proxy wars and arms races designed to subdue the other. The harms were tangible: diplomatic relations soured, trade was fraught and other countries found themselves wedged as the battlefield of two nuclear juggernauts. This will happen with China’s meteoric rise. With one difference: the results will be far more catastrophic with contemporary technology.

China’s rise as a military superpower has not been peaceful; thus Asia would be wise to fear it.

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Firstly, China is a nation inclined to military action to solve its disputes. When North Korea became embroiled in internecine conflict with South Korea, Mao Zedong promptly sent “volunteers” to aid their fellow Communists. More currently, China has been acting belligerently against Taiwan in all the various crises that have ensued since the Nationalists fled there. There have been a total of 3 military conflicts that have each resulted in attendant diplomatic crises.

In the First Taiwan Crisis, the People’s Liberation Army unleashed a heavy artillery bombardment of Quemoy and bombed the Tachen Islands near Taiwan. In 1958, the PLA shelled the islands of Matsu and Quemoy in the Taiwan Strait in an attempt to seize them from the Republic of China in what would comprise the Second Taiwan Crisis. The Third Taiwan Crisis involved a show of aggression thinly veiled as a “military exercise”. More recently: the Tiananmen Square Incident in 1989. China sent in tanks to resist unarmed students. These four examples show the extent to which China will pursue its goals in its-less-than-irenic manner. In addition, China still considers Taiwan its territory – if it is prepared to go to such lengths to apprehend its own compatriots, what will an external nation face?

Secondly, the rise of China will inevitably cause shockwaves in the Asian community as it seeks to become a regional hegemon. Regardless of political assurances, hegemonic powers always seek to disseminate their prevailing political ideology and culture peacefully; but when push comes to shove, they impose their systems on weaker states by force. The US is a global power – it has sought and continues to seek the germination of democracy in all nations. Regardless of the benign intentions of this particular hegemon, this shows the immense pressure world powers can wield on other nations. If China becomes a world power, it will seek to impose its authoritarian regime on other nations.

Instead of political progress hoped for by countries, political regress will instate itself as more and more power is taken from the people and centralized in the state’s hands.

As mentioned before, China is a belligerent, aggressive nation. Other Asian nations will seek to prevent its rise by aligning themselves with a counterbalancing power, the United States in an attempt to create an exclusionary bloc against China. The attempt by the existing ASEAN members to block its entry lends credence to this. According to the September 2012 issue of the Economist, Japan, Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore

and Vietnam are in favor of a pro-American bloc. This is already happening. And it will continue to happen.

This will in turn provoke China into achieving its ends through more aggressive means. This has happened before: the Cold War was a watershed incident in the 20th century. The US and USSR both sought to dispel the other’s hegemonic potential with arms races and proxy wars. The specter of nuclear war loomed over all.

It is now the 21st century – the technology of materiel has improved exponentially, deadly and stealthy weapons have grown only deadlier and stealthier. As my first speaker mentioned, China’s military capacity is redoubtable. China now has 240 nuclear warheads.

Only 1 is needed to destroy the world order. China will seek to impose its will on weaker nations – with or without military action.

In the face of such dysfunctional diplomatic relations, any major overtures at foreign policy reform will be

rebuffed as Asian countries seek to out-weapon China.

It will result in proliferation of nuclear and non-nuclear weapons. The risk of nuclear war will, regardless of claims of nuclear deterrence, drastically increase the chance of nuclear war.

To conclude: Firstly, China is a belligerent nation inclined to using military action to solve its disputes. If any such disputes arise, China will unleash its military might on the aggressor nation. Secondly, hegemonies unbalance the world order and an inevitable consequence of Chinese dominance is the imposition of the Chinese authoritarian political system on other states, regardless of military pressure or not. And finally, Chinese hegemony will lead to dysfunctional diplomatic relations, heightened hostility, and increased proliferation of nuclear weapons, leading to instability within the world order. Thus, China’s rise as a military superpower should and must be feared by Asia.

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The progression of the

femalE protagonist IN FILM

By Lee Phillips

From the damsel in distress, to the housewife who longs to break free, to the unflinching girl with a gun, female protagonists have played central roles in many of today’s most successful and critically acclaimed films. Although characteristics females are expected to embody as protagonists have changed in recent years one thing has remained the same: successful female protagonists never conform; most female characters are usually one step ahead of social values.

When female protagonists were just breaking into the movie scene, the characters were often opinionated, strong, and above all, attractive. At this time, a woman voicing her opinions and conversing with a man on equal grounds was far from the preestablished ‘woman’ of the day, making protagonists of this kind all the more intriguing. Gone With the Wind (1939), was a groundbreaking phenomenon for the female protagonist. In a time when women were meant to be seen, not heard, the protagonist, Scarlett O’Hara (Vivien Leigh) did both, using her intelligence, wit, and charm to keep her and her family afloat despite the destruction of the American Civil War. With her subtle but effective wit, she cleverly used her looks to her advantage, and upheld and protected her dignity.

Fast-forward about 40 years, and the stock characteristics of the female protagonist have not changed drastically. Annie Hall (1977) was a new take on women in a romantic comedy film. Annie was an awkward, neurotic, self-conscious woman, dating an even more neurotic and dangerously pessimistic comedian. Not exactly a Prince Charming situation.

Her honesty and sheer likeability is what made her stand out as a protagonist. Her glitzy charm, odd wardrobe and quirky catch-phrases appealed to many women who want to relate to a character as opposed to admire and idolise them. This movie proved to everybody at the time that a woman does not have to be man-like to be interesting. A woman is a woman, and no matter how hard you try to turn it the other way, it will never be as effective as a woman just being a woman. Annie Hall was possibly the greatest example of this; the tale of a self-conscious but opinionated woman blossoming under the companionship of a very different man, and becoming so independent that she decides to do it all on her own.

However, as we enter the mid 1980’s the subtle emotional strength that made the female protagonist so special begins to siphon away as screenwriters and directors decide to create a bolder, more heroic, femme fatale. Suddenly, emotional strength alone isn’t enough

to create an intriguing female protagonist.

Women in film and media are now only compelling if they are in a position that a man would traditionally be in. The result? We are sucked into an ocean of movies about female FBI agents, machine gun wielding vigilantes, and superheroes dressed in the most ludicrous spandex uniforms, the ‘riveting’ lead characters of the 1980s.

One example is Jodie Foster’s Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs, a crime-thriller which revolves around a hardened and determined FBI agent (Foster), who teams up with a captured deranged cannibalistic serial killer, Hannibal Lecter, in an effort to catch another serial killer still at large. Clarice’s femininity is completely overshadowed by her ambition and fearlessness in the face of danger, yet, despite her determination to mask all personal feeling, emotion still seeps through,.

Today, in the 21st century, emotion has been completely disregarded. In Quentin Tarantino’s, Kill Bill, a dangerous formerassassin, driven mad with thoughts of revenge, goes on a gory, action packed journey in the attempt to kill the many people who have wronged her. Uma Thurman plays Beatrix Kiddo, who is essentially a blonde, female Bruce Lee. The fantastical and heavily choreographed fight scenes where Beatrix completely annihilates over 80 trained swordsmen, have transformed her into ‘one of the coolest female characters in film history.’

But what exactly makes a katana-wielding blonde bombshell more appealing to the modern audience than the sensitive women of yesteryears? Does the fact that films are now depicting women in this manner constitute the rise of feminism? Scarlett O’Hara is such an ordinary woman today that we are required to dream up bolder female characters in order to engage an audience long bored by the ‘norm’.

Which leaves us with the simple question, is this dramatic change in the portrayal of female lead characters an attempt to empower women, or to fulfill the misogynistic fantasies men have that involve women in a traditionally male occupation, but looking good on the job?

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REAL OR NOT REAL?

Where’s the reality in reality TV?

By Emily Cheng

t

he term ‘reality TV’ is an oxymoron in itself. Reality is banal and mundane, whereas television aims to entertain and amuse. It seems to be a formula for failure, yet in recent years reality television has proliferated beyond our greatest expectations (or dismay).

Our channels have been invaded by a slew of Kardashians, child pageant queens, ‘real’ Housewives and bronze-baked Jersey girls desperate to showcase their lives in the public eye. Oddly enough, the public is completely enthralled by this new form of entertainment. When did reality, previously so dissatisfying, suddenly become so appealing?

Television used to be about fantasy, an escape from the disappointment of reality. In the past, our small screens were filled with exciting sci-fi, dramatic soap operas and thrilling crime mysteries. Now, apparently we’ve come full circle and ended right back at reality. I’m not convinced that our viewing tastes are any different: we still crave the theatrics of TV shows past. If we haven’t changed, it must be reality that has.

Author Sarah Rees Brennan once said that “Real life is boring, rarely conclusive and boy, does the dialogue need work.” This quote rings painfully true: the trivialities of real life are not worthy of an audience’s attention let alone precious screen time. Therefore reality on television is amped up and dramatized to create a more exciting experience for the viewer. The personalities of the show are expected to create commotion and conflict that will

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stimulate audiences and up the ratings. Reality star Kim Kardashian is a prime example of how generating drama can garner attention from the public. In 2007, she achieved notoriety as the subject of a racy video (that she had allegedly leaked herself), and rose to fame that same year in her reality show, Keeping Up with the Kardashians. In 2011, she married athlete Kris Humphries in a lavish and extensively publicized ceremony, only to file for divorce 72 days later. Whilst she was heralded as a fame monger for using her marriage as a publicity stunt, Kim received more fame than ever in exclusive press deals and promotion for her brands. Most importantly, the splashy shamwedding multiplied viewership for her show – drawing record ratings for its channel E! Entertainment. Evidently, integrity is a small price to pay for fame and fortune. This appears to be this way with many if not all reality stars; moral rectitude is thrown out of the window in favor of fame. Flick through the channels of E! and TLC, and you can see it for your own eyes. In the show Here Comes Honey Boo Boo Child, child pageant star Alana Thompson throws diva-esque tantrums and exposes embarrassing details of her family life. In Jersey Shore, guidettes Snooki and J-Woww flash paparazzi cameras and pick fights at nightclubs, all the while dressed in trashy, skin-tight clothing. In the Real Housewives series, bourgeois women whine extensively about shopping, plastic surgery and their antagonisms towards each other. In all, they compete with shameless flagrancy for ratings and viewership. This

pandering to the camera is vulgar, yet we viewers not only condone, but revel in the theatrics.

However, even this is not enough to make good TV. Reality is disjointed, the excitement too infrequent and the boredom too extensive to make for interesting viewing.

Thus it becomes the producer’s job to cut and edit the show, reworking life into a constant dramatic high. Rather than sticking to their roles as faithful biographers, they become creative storytellers, even spin-doctors. Some take it to the next level by completely scripting reality, playing God and coercing the show participants to play roles - albeit unwillingly. Reality star Kristen Cavallari of The Hills fame claimed that her entire television series was a fluke. According to her, the whole franchise was based upon “fake fights” and “fake relationships”, including her own romance with costar Justin Bobby. Furthermore, she even confessed to feeling more like an “actor” than a reality personality. It seems that reality shows bear more resemblance to outright fantasy than the ‘life’ they claim to portray. As they do for movies, reality shows often film several takes of a single scene in order to get the personalities in their best light - to show reality at its finest.

Kim Kardashian famously had her marriage proposal from Kris Humphries reshot for her show, just because “she didn’t like how her face looked in the first take’’ and she wonders why her marriage didn’t work out. It’s this exploitative attitude that makes reality shows so despicable. Yet in all honesty, they are simply giving the audience what it wants, drama and emotion albeit with added trickery on the side.

relaxed atmosphere that she was used to in the working world. The living conditions of the competition were no help to her either: Helena revealed to me that in the twomonth shooting period of the show, the girls were not allowed to use phones, use the Internet or even watch TV. Not only that but they weren’t allowed to leave the model house for activities, and they had cameras trained upon them 24/7. These conditions would be enough to make any sane person claustrophobic, but even more so when one was confined to a house full of fellow competitors.

The situation only got worse for Helena as the show progressed. As the producers noticed her frank, confident and competitive personality, they manipulated her candidness to appear condescending. “I think I was an easy target because I am a very outspoken, loud and crazy person in general,” she confessed. Undoubtedly the producers targeted her for just that; as the episodes progressed she was quickly labeled the “bad girl” of the show. Frequently pictured alone, with the other girls making disparaging comments about her in Confessional, she became the classic scapegoat present in every competition show – the one everyone loves to hate. Also subjected to harsh critique from the judges, it soon became too much for Helena to handle and she suffered her first anxiety attack, right in front of the rolling cameras. Recalling the incident, she told me that it wasn’t until the show that she experienced an anxiety attack.

Yet even after the show ended, she continued to suffer anxiety problems, so much so that she had to see a doctor back here in Hong - Helena Chan On the television screen, reality Kong. The show may not have Asia’s Next Top Model Contestant shows may be repugnant but they directly induced Helena’s anxiety appear fairly innocuous – not attack, but it was sufficient causing harm to anyone or anything enough to create captivating besides our brain cells. Yet what happens off screen is an drama at the cost of her distress and disenchantment. entirely different story. I recently spoke to Helena Chan, “I came out of the show incredibly confused and dazed,” veteran contestant of the reality competition show Asia’s she said. For her, and for me also, it was eye opening to Next Top Model, and she recounted her experiences the brutalities of the reality competition show. I used to with an air of disillusionment, even disappointment. believe that there was still a trace of moral righteousness in Competition shows are notorious for being overly harsh the reality TV business. Taking into account the way they on their contestants, eager to expose anxiety and distress treated Helena, I’m not so sure that they can be trusted on camera. I was dismayed to find that these speculations with anything, let alone the substantial responsibility of were true. Helena, an effervescent model with a vivacious depicting the truth. personality, confessed that her naiveté led to a huge shock as she entered the world of reality TV. “I came to he term ‘reality TV’ is not only an oxymoron but the competition thinking that ‘I’m always happy on set [of also a misnomer: there’s nothing real about it at all. photo shoots], I’ll be fine,’” she said “But then it all turned Through careful scripting and manipulative editing, on me.” She revealed that the producers of the show would producers have rendered reality shows as fake as the put immense pressure on the competing girls, in order to next soap opera. Perhaps when audiences realize their to elicit stressful responses for the TV cameras. “What they lack of credibility, they will move on to more intellectually would try to do is make it as difficult as possible for you to stimulating fare – I’m still waiting for that to happen. perform.” the model divulged “They stress you out, they You may be disappointed that your favorite reality show, make you upset, they make sure everything in the model whether it be Keeping Up With The Kardashians or Asia’s house is super stressful so that you just come to set super Next Top Model, is far from the truth. That’s the thing stressed.” For the full-time model, it was totally alien to the though - reality sucks.

I came out of the show incredibly confused and dazed

t

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LIFE’S EDGE

By Brandon Mok

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Y

ou can’t take those things that stalk your dreams and invade your reality and possess your family anymore. You have tried everything, from sharp pain to shaman-aided purge. You don’t care about anything anymore; you just want peace.

You walk. Your breath comes out as short-lived clouds.

Sunshine kisses your face and spreads a buttery glow over the stone.

You walk on.

You pause, turning back and smiling as you realize that all this will end soon. Then you keep going.

You enter a tower and make your way up crumbling stairs until you emerge into the air. You revel in the stillness of a predawn world. From your lofty perch you imagine yourself as a feather-light spirit twirling through the unsullied air.

You feel as though the world is oddly muted; as though the arrival of the sun should be heralded by bursts of music that have only now been silenced.

You hear birdsong and you decide that that will be your herald.

You walk on.

And you keep on walking, even as beneath your feet the ground becomes eight meters of empty air, and you realize that your body is not a feather, but a stone.

“I am dying.”

The man rolls the syllables in his mouth. They have a particular flavor.

“I am dying.”

There is something liberating about saying it aloud.

“I am dying!”

That sends them running, sympathy plastered on their faces like cheap makeup. Father, are you alright? Father, don’t say such things; you still have a long life left. Father, you must fight.

If there’s one thing he is certain that he has taught his children, it’s how to lie.

They don’t do it very well.

He waves them away and they scuttle out, fearful that their intrusion will have diminished their inheritance. A dry chuckle escapes from his lips. He has had seventy years of hale life - surviving war, revolution and famine. It is anticlimactic that his own body is his killer.

He can still remember the energy as he marched as a Guard, waving his little red book and chanting slogans. It all seems another life.

He is dying. And there’s nothing he can do. But his death is of no importance. Ever since Doctor Wang said he had forty-eight hours left, only one thing matters. A memory.

A haze of a memory so far into the past that he himself is unsure whether it is true or not. But its verity does not matter – what matters is he remembers. This memory was his anchor. It was something so naked, so touching, so raw that it shook him to the core.

He curses himself for his failing mind. If there is one thing worth living for, it is this.

He searches, but cannot find.

He had been playing hide-and-seek with his sister when his cousin had come running. He was crouched beneath the chicken coop, watching the roosters strut like emperors.

A scream rent the air. He saw his aunt stumble out, clawing

the air and crumpling to the ground. Her body heaved. His father walked out as though in a dream, his arms slack. He saw his sister run out of the house.

“Hey, I won!” he shouted. But she had already fled. He thought he heard her sob. Wondering at the strange turn of events, he waddled to the house. As he neared, he heard someone say: “They found her at the bottom of the Wall. She just jumped.”

Who had jumped? Hadn’t he been at the Great Wall today? He couldn’t remember…and he would’ve definitely remembered if someone had indeed jumped. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything. It was like he had simply woken up into the game of hide-and-seek.

It was nearly sundown: time for dinner.

He trotted in. The two aunts who had been chatting stopped and stared.

“Does he know?”

“Know what?” he said. His other two aunts glanced at each other and kept silent. He didn’t care. He was hungry.

Normally dinner would be here already, a half-bowl of rice, boiled cabbage, and some chicken if he was lucky. The table was empty.

“Where’s Mama?”

He didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t see Mama again. To him, she was just away.

Everyone acted funny around him. His father shot quick glances at him. His sister wouldn’t speak to him. His aunts whispered behind his back.

A week after she’d gone, he decided to go to where she had left. He woke up extra early and slipped out. He walked all the way to the Wall and stood on the edge of the tower, eight meters above ground, feeling the wind grab at him.

He felt nothing, not even when he stood on one foot and deliberately teetered.

So he jumped back down and went home.

No. The man knows it’s not this. There’s nothing pure about this act. But he knows it’s the first domino that will bring them all back.

He settles deeper into his pillows. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought his children were trying to suffocate him with cotton.

He closes his eyes, and remembers.

The airplane flew so low he fancied that he could see the pilot’s face. The engines roared as the plane spat a chain of bullets into the neighboring field. A plume of blood puffed into the air.

He felt bile rising. The plane soared onwards. He made sure no more were in sight before dropping his scythe and running towards the fallen man.

Red unfurled beneath him. A smell of iron filled his nostrils as he stripped away the man’s shirt. He knew then that the man was going to die.

He had seen the man from afar in the village. A fellow farmer, just like his father.

The man gave a sudden shudder. His eyes glazed over.

No sound stroked the boy’s ears apart from the gentle shushing of corn.

It could’ve been him. Or his father. It could’ve been anyone.

But instead the Japanese pilot had chosen this man. He

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was not even that good a farmer anyway. Just a normal person trying to survive.

The war had barely touched. He’d seen a few soldiers marching along the Wall, but that was it. He didn’t understand. What did they get from this one death?

He closed the man’s eyes, trying not to cringe as his hand came away smeared with blood. Then he picked up his scythe, and walked away.

They had come back for more. They hadn’t stopped there.

His cousin wasn’t killed, but what was left of her after was a husk. She would move like she was shifting through water. She would answer with a mumble. It wasn’t one, or even three who had taken her. It’d been five.

He was thankful when they were beaten back.

A chain of little black dashes had sliced the thread of that man’s life. He had gone through thirteen years in the illusion of his immortality. That moment had torn away any notions of his invincibility.

He had run to the man an innocent, and walked away stained.

The memory was sullied. But the image of blood lingered and poured until it became another memory.

The power was intoxicating.

He now understood what it meant to be a Red Guard. It was even better being the commander of a Red Guard troupe.

“Where’s the counterrevolutionary Hu?” he barked. A man was dragged out from the jail, which was merely a guarded classroom. But it sufficed. The teachers could not spread their evil words through concrete.

“Do you confess to your crimes?” he said.

“I have done no wrong, sir,” the teacher whimpered. His right temple was bleeding. He’d used to teach him math.

He could still remember Mr Hu sneering at him for a wrong answer. Well, the good and oppressed had now been elevated by Chairman Mao himself. He felt justified doing what he did now.

He addressed his comrades. “The reactionary denies everything.” He waited as it sank in. “You.” He stabbed a finger at Lin, who shrank back. He’d never liked Lin. He always kowtowed to teachers. Traitor. “Do you think this teacher is a liar?”

Lin dipped his head further.

“Guang? It seems that we have –“ “Yes! Yes, he is a traitor. Look at him. His hands are shaking; he’s crying. If he’s telling the truth, he’d be calm.

The Quotations says so.”

Hu had stopped whimpering. He knew what was going to come.

The commander smiled for his comrades, even as inside he recoiled at what they would do to Hu. Hu didn’t deserve this. None of the teachers did. There had only been the news from Beijing. He knew that if he didn’t take control, one of the rougher boys would and then everything would be worse. But it didn’t mean he liked it.

With Hu gone, there would only be two left. It was almost a race with the neighboring schools to see how many they could get rid of.

Two Guards dragged the limp man out. As commander, he would have to preside over the proceedings.

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He did so. But when they began to hoist Hu up to the loop of rope hanging from the tree, he closed his eyes.

He was seventeen.

A hand latches over his mouth and presses. He struggles.

The hand disappears.

He sees a face above him before he blinks, and it disappears.

A face that used be clean and set in a permanent frown, now dappled with dried blood and snot.

Hu. He can no longer tell reality from dream.

The television has been burbling in the background. Ha. It is him on the screen. A prisoner of food tubes and plush sheets. The scene changes and his children appear. They look grieved but he knows that they are thankful he is near the end.

He presses the plunger for more painkillers.

The button is red. A red that he has seen before on flags, books and buildings.

Red fills his vision, and as he falls into another memory, he thinks: I am so close.

His words injected energy into them. “…shall destroy the relics of an ignominious past that have no place in our new future. Go forth, comrades, and build a new world!”

His voice stirred the ocean of Guards as the moon stirs the tides. They roared their approval.

The newly arrived Red Guard roared with them, brandishing his little red book like a bayonet.

It had begun.

When Mao had ordered the closure of all schools, the boy hadn’t known what to do. Harvest time was still two months away. Then Mao had called for a meeting of Red Guards in Tiananmen Square. The boy was chosen by the townspeople to represent them.

It was the first time he had left the town. The train rocketed past fields at an astonishing 20 miles per hour. The Great Wall, which had seemed so impossibly distant and vast, dwindled until his hand could shield it completely. It was now a mere ribbon of stone.

He’d been a dutiful Guard. He participated in rallies and the burnings of Western things daily.

Then: “The Great Wall is a great irony of our country. It stands as a symbol of strength yet it has done nothing to keep the invaders out. Let it not stand as an artifact of shame.”

That was all it took. By the next morning thousands of Red Guards, he included, flooded the trains towards the Great Wall. They stormed the waiting brick and mortar, chanting and singing as they used hammers, rocks, even their own hands to tear the Wall down. It bore this silently.

And when they tired and retreated back into the houses they requisitioned from their owners, it remained shining in the moonlight.

What woke him up he did not know. Only the fleeting shadow of a kiss on his forehead. Seeing as he was wide awake now, he walked into the night.

The Wall was a swathe of void against a star-dusted sky.

The silence was as enameled and cold to feel as a Ming vase.

They had torn entire sections down, leaving yawning gaps through which he could see the other side. He climbed up

the rubble onto the Wall proper.

Eight meters above and it was another world. The stars were as sharp and bright as dagger-points and the moon bathed the valley in silver light. He looked across and inhaled sharply.

He could see his village.

It was unmistakable. The clock tower and the rings of mud brick houses festering over bare dirt; the patchwork of farmland. Who knew it was just a wall away? He had left his home to seek a new life, only to be brought back.

The sun was beginning to kiss the horizon. Warm gold smothered the stars’ silver. He turned to the east to feel the warmth and as he did so, caught sight of the silhouette of a woman poised on the edge of the tower ahead of him, one foot delicately placed over air. An imperceptible motion: the earth beckoned. Time shrank, dilated, stilled, sped.

He started to run.

His children are back.

The memory floods in. He remembers her, but who is she?

Is - was she real?

Does it matter?

He is gripped with an urgency so potent he can barely breathe.

“Xiao. Xiao,” he croaks. The gangly man by the window half-turns. The other children are buzzing around the nurse, concerned for their oh-so-beloved father. Xiao is the only one who shows that he doesn’t care. That’s why the dying man is asking for him.

“What is it, father?” Xiao bends awkwardly over.

He tries to speak.

“Father?”

The other children, hawk-eyed, swoop in. Father, what is it? Do you need anything? They are pesky sparrows.

“Take me to the Wall.”

His announcement ignited a row. Xiao and him against the others.

He was now cocooned in a private ambulance. They moved agonizingly slowly – a concession he’d had to make for his other children. He didn’t understand why they bothered.

Prolonging his life did nothing for their wallets.

“Father. Are you comfortable?” one of the sisters looms over. He has forgotten her name.

He grunts. He feels that he is entombed in a white, portable mausoleum, sliding to his final resting place. If he closes his eyes and ignores the beep-beep of the machines and the sister’s horse-like heaving, he can pretend he is already free.

The Wall is exactly as he remembers it.

He ignores the shouts of angry tourists who have been shunted off. He focuses on the white-fluffed blue above, the marching grey below, and the ruffled green around.

His children buzz over him like harpies, feasting on the fruits of his thoughts. He sighs.

It’s some time before he notices the silence.

They are all gone. Everyone. He inches his head to each side. Not a single soul. Silence reigns supreme. Has he died?

He forces himself up, surprising himself in the process. It’s been nearly a year since he has sat up. He gingerly maneuvers his legs over the bedside. A flush fills him – it feels as

though he is getting younger. He stares at his hand. Before his eyes, liver spots shrivel, wrinkles un-wrinkle, and skin straightens. Everywhere he feels the tautness of youth.

He breathes deeply and relishes the fresh air in his lungs.

For once, he is alone.

The Wall ribbons away in grey from under his feet, snaking and shrinking over the next mountain. It had been darkest night seconds ago but at super-speed the sun has breathed light into the world. It is when sunshine plumes down her hair does he notice her.

She glides. He tries to run after her but it’s like running through syrup. Every step he takes is five of hers. He does not know why he is running; even when he had been hale, he had never felt the need to. He tries to call but only a puff of air comes out.

She stops suddenly. She turns. The sun flashes.

His mother smiles at him.

He wades after her as fast as he can as the air solidifies around him. For some reason the world seems to be growing. The ramparts loom over his head; he can see nothing except the road. His arms are weakening; his strides shortening. He catches sight of his hands.

They are the pudgy paws of a toddler.

And as the sun births rays that sing across the sky, the truth dawns on the ninety-three-year-old in the five-yearold body.

This is it. This was it.

The memory.

Y

ou watch as the old, old man staggers to his feet.

You watch as he moves towards you. You watch this child, this father, this traitor, this Guard, this son of yours perseveres now as he has done his entire life.

You know all of this, for it was you who brought him here.

You know the Wall was his home. Innumerable times he has fled; innumerable times he has returned. It has been the circle and the center of his life.

You watch now as he stands on the tower from which you had left eons past.

You see his tears swirling down to a smile as bright as the rising sun.

You see him as he takes a step forward, as you had.

Another. Another. He keeps on walking. And even though you know the exact point in this longest journey of his life where the unyielding stone will surrender to emptiness and he will leave as you did, you close your eyes.

Because for you, he will be forever on the edge. On that edge between stone and air, between life and death, between him and you.

Forever aloft.

ethos | 13

horrors within

By Thomas Xu Blood on the walls.

I am staring at them again, the four bars standing between freedom and darkness, light and justice. And I am thinking how this came to be... No! No, I must not think, must not remember. Only then will the horrors fade.

Blood on the walls.

I cannot stop myself. I am back in the castle, in halls of stone, chambers lit with torches. Each flame, each crack in every brick exquisite, perfect. No! I must stop, must purge myself of this darkness that preys on my mind. No, it is too late, and I am falling.

Blood on the walls.

I am walking, walking towards the door, the door at the end of the hallway. Guards in front, guards behind, blocking my view, my view of those perfect flames, dancing to each pad of my feet, each beat of my heart. We reach the door and it opens. And I see my chance...

Blood on the walls.

14 | ethos

No! I cannot stop, and yet I must. I am staring at the bars, those four bars. But they are fading, dissolving into darkness. The horrors draw ever nearer...

Time slows and I see. I see the blade, steel shining, glowing in the torchlight. And I see the flames, flickering, dancing.

Luck has never been my ally, and yet I see today it shall be my friend. I seize the torch, snuffing out that perfect dance. The blade is in my hand. Red fills my vision, which should have been black. The world is spinning...

All is still. I find the torch and the dance begins.

I see the guards, lifeless, sprawled at my feet. And their eyes! Their eyes! Staring at me! At me! Accusing, like fingers pointed in condemnation. And the walls, the walls...

I am running, fleeing the horrors, leaving behind this world of death for which I was responsible. I am hiding, hiding from myself...

And I am staring at the bars.

ethos | 15

16 | ethos

THE CIRCUS

By Max Ferguson Hot and sticky August. Inside the big top, the canvas shifts lazily. The parking lot is transformed into the magical land of lions and horses with plumes. The curtains twitch and the lights dim. Music floats, crisp in my ear as the conductor steps out in his gold-braided coat. Painted faces flash by, the smell of sawdust dances around the tent as horses kick and dancers twist, contorting into impossible shapes.

Drumbeats vibrate through my bones. The lions glare, their cold eyes gleaming in the mid-light. The air shimmers and for a moment I believe. The crowd cheers and for a moment I believe. Then just like that, with a snap of someone’s sorry fingers, it’s over.

ethos | 17

ONLY

By Julia Xu

I

awoke to the sound of water. I sat up, trembling. My face illuminated by the moonlight, I listened. The ship rumbled and groaned and relinquished its final breath. My breath was trapped deep inside me, held prisoner by fear and panic. Bare toes barely touching the rough, splintery floor, I ran. All thoughts now centered on survival. Water gurgled and sloshed all around the ship and the first screams pierced the stale air. I reached the outer deck and gasped as the cold, harsh wind flew into my face and attacked my hair. I whirled around, seeking security and help. The deck was deserted.

A shrill cry echoed off a wall near me. I hurdled towards it, hoping it could provide the answers to the pulsating problems pounding in my head. A woman lay sprawled on the stairway; her foot broken through a stair as she had frantically tried to escape the watery killer below. The water was now almost on the deck, swallowing up half of the woman’s body. A reddish tinge in the water formed around her maimed appendage as I stared. I ran.

I ran forward and pounded the now damp stair with my fists. Cool, almost calming water danced around my knees as I did whatever I could do to destroy the stair and free her foot. Suddenly only the sound of water could be heard. I stopped, then turned slowly, as if in a trance. The woman’s open eyes gazed sightlessly under the water that had engulfed her, the water was rising quickly now. My eyes filled as I thought of the many souls who had already perished, the blank faces, known and unknown, that would forever see without truly seeing. I angrily swiped at the tears with my hand; I couldn’t even save just one soul.

I rose to my feet and remembered the lifeboats the captain had informed all the passengers of when we first boarded.

The starboard, near the stern. I repeated the location of the life vessels in my head as I somehow salvaged the energy to sprint. The ship lurched to the right, sunk a few more inches. Running and running through time and space, almost running on water. Oh the irony. The next jolt was far stronger and I went tumbling backward in the shallow water that sloshed on the deck. A flash of orange! Hope came and went. The small orange lifeboats were all gone, most likely carried away with the tide. The hopelessness inside of me finally reared its miserable head. I collapsed.

ACHOO! The monster of a sneeze that erupted from my nose awoke my broken heart and reminded me that there was more to life than giving in. I shivered involuntarily;

18 | ethos

I was soaked, colder than a wilting flower in the midst of a heavy storm. There was no sign of life anywhere on the ship. Impossible, had no one escaped from below? Did the water really rise that quickly? My body was numb from the knees down, where the water was sloshing menacingly.

My depression soon turned into defiance. I rolled up the sleeves of my blue striped pajamas and waded my way up to the mainmast. The looming shadow of approaching death triggered the adrenaline that allowed me to scale the mast like a squirrel up a tree. My shoulders shook as I laughed grimly at all the movies of sunken ships I had seen in the dark, familiar comfort of theaters back home; now, gone were the cushioned mauve chairs, the calamity clichés of rescue ships arriving just when all seems lost.

With this touch of remembrance I became acutely aware of everything, a rush of the past buffeted by a rush of icy sea wind. My entire life of memories seemed to fly away with it. What is this life? I wanted to shout at the barren ocean, to muster a force that would somehow propel me from this dark, churning world of water. But all I could do was hug the mast tightly, and hope that I would never have to let go.

Thunder shook the ship, roaring at my forlorn silhouette.

The continuous downpour made the waves rock the already halfway-submerged ship more angrily and united the terrible sky with a violent sea. My arms were sore, ready to snap like twigs sooner or later with exhaustion. Cold wind seared its way down my throat as a scream erupted from my mottled blue lips. A strong current washed over the weakened vessel and shoved it sharply closer to destruction—my bare feet dangled above a gaping mouth.

Muscles shrieking cacophonously in my mind, I now clung to the mast like a monkey. Shivering with cold, I stared down at the watery death that lurked below me, the chaos of the open sky that shrieked above me.

Life. So easily lost. I marveled at how long I had lived already. How can twelve years have passed so carelessly when death glides on such swift tides? Permeated with a dull and final numbness, I greeted what was to come with solemn acknowledgment. Looking up one last time at the clouded sky, the almost beautiful mixture of grays above, a patch of dawn’s gold light broke through the storm and the ship accepted its doom with a final shudder.

I jumped into the mysterious depths below and finally closed my heavy eyes.

​​​ winter, cold and dull, wisps of mist weaving around the looming steel gray towers and the sky trussed up by long It’s streaks of grey clouds, monotonous and dirtypallor. Mindless people trudging down silent winding mazes and hunched tired roads leading to the weary, old waves drifting past the forgettabledishwater harbor. The buildings sigh and lean over each other, the colours bleeding into each other like an artist giving up on his masterpiece. They all look the same, every office block, shopping center, flickeringflourescentlight diner. Just like the people, there is no difference. ​ on’t make a sound lest it echoes through the dark gaping alleyways, startling the grey suited businessman, schoolgirl, D taxi driver, maid, shopkeeper, trash collector, tourist, banker, the fancy lady and the stay-at-home wife. They seem still, unmoving as if they have lost the will, the glow of life oppressed by the heavy weight of the water vapour ridden air pressing on their shoulders. All the different faces with the same expression of no expression, blank like a page waiting for touch of a pen. Even the stray dogs with their mottled and mangy and matted fur, lie still.

Listen. The intangible drag of feet, pitchy wind, off-key drone of unhappiness.

Look.

By Max Ferguson

20 | ethos

MIRROR

By Kuhu Singh

The beauty of it can be quite overwhelming at first. Such an ordinary object, a mere mirror – how can it be capable of radiating an aura so strong that flaws are turned into perfection by the faintest hint of desire? The mirror is perched on the top shelf in the antique shop down the road. It’s hidden away from the naïve eyes of lost and lonely souls who don’t know any better than to stare straight into the very glass of the mirror. But certain people are destined to be tested by this mirror, and so fate guides them until they eventually reach it.

And then they look into it.

Now, the mirror itself seems to be an excellent sight. But if one were to notice the details about the atmosphere around it, it wouldn’t be difficult to spot all the signs that scream out to throw away the cursed piece of glass and run. The air around the mirror seems quieter, breezes stop as they move nearer. Its power is so strong, almost visible, even tangible! A layer of mist encases every curve, every slope of the mirror’s body. And yet each part of the mirror sparkles clearly in the musty room that the shop is. Brightening up from within, it compels the victim to look into the glass.

of your dreams will be right within your reach. And as most humans do, you fancy the idea of yourself achieving this stage of beauty, perfection and excellence so much that you are prepared to give anything to buy it. Even your soul, your very freedom. No one would want to go back from here to that world of insecurities. So you do what the mirror has been willing you to do all along: choose your untrue perfection over your authentic self.

You submit yourself to the forces within the mirror.

You, your soul, your mind, your very being – trapped inside the glass forever. And just as you begin your imprisonment, a new gem on the mirror will brighten up to sparkle. One more victim.

For the first few days, months, maybe years, you will be satisfied with the new you. But eventually the gloss of your new excellence drains out. Memories are fractured, broken, fragmented. Life before the mirror? What was it?

The roller coaster starts off at satisfaction, then moves on to helplessness, disappointment, regret and finally anger.

Banging on the glass of the mirror does no good, neither does screaming for help; no one can see you or hear you.

Looking at the people passing by the shop pricks at some memory or incident before the imprisonment.

And if you look in, you’ve lost the battle. The mirror will tear open your soul and look within. Your deepest insecurities and worst fears will be found. Wildest horrors that you buried long ago will be brought back to life.

Every thought that ever ran through your mind will be filtered for information on your weaknesses. And slowly but steadily, the mirror will extract all it needs from you and the only thing that you can do is attempt to recover from the shock of it all. The glass will transform to reveal an alternate you: every fear, insecurity, worry and weakness exaggerated to the maximum. It must be noted that by this time, the mind has lost the capability to fight back with reasoning or logic. And so it believes what it sees; it has no other choice. But the mirror does not stop here, no, that would be too easy. What it does next is even worse: it gives you your perfection.

The visitors of the shop walk in to innocently inspect the antique collections. And every once in awhile, someone will come to the mirror. Pick it up, turn it over, have a good look at it. And you? Your heart will race. Will she get trapped? Will she fall for it? High hopes of getting a companion. No, you shouldn’t wish for her to get trapped like you. Emotions conflict and fight and become all tangled. What a mess! The girl, she’s turning the mirror over. She’s looking at it now. What’s that? She’s smiling.

But why isn’t anything happening? Something must be wrong! She’s admiring herself now. She should be seeing her fears and terrors, shouldn’t she? You can feel the mirror compelling her, but it’s just not working! The girl turns her head to the side one last time. Happy with what she sees, she smiles and puts the mirror back down. And leaves.

All your dreams, all your hopes. Poof! They’re real.

Everything you hated about yourself will be gone. There will be no trace, no memory, not a single fragment of truth to prove the existence of your flaws. The perfection

She fought it. She fought the cursed power.

And you’re left to ponder the question one more time: Why did you choose this wretched excellence?

ethos | 21

LA MER

By Max Ferguson

It’s beautiful, in its own quiet way.

They say that a person is defined by not how many times they fall but how many times they get back up.

If this is true, the ocean must be very clearly defined as it crashes so many times yet it always rears back up to repeat the process.

I am quite entranced by its different faces.

The stormy dark blue faceted waves promise to drown you, yet, you don’t mind. The cold embrace flicks small jewels of salt water, nicking your skin with its cold bite. It froths like a pet at your arrival, the lacey lather latticing the ever changing surface. Sometimes it is like a friend; nothing to hide and always there, other times like a stranger; distant, cold, mysterious, aloof and elusive.

It is controlled by the ever-present, dominating moon.

Yet it still manages to break out. A sign of rebellion in the refracted light, reminding me, happiness is a state of mind.

22 | ethos

Hasta la Vista Hasta la Vista, Crafty Mona Lisa To the source of my demise, hear the anathemas of my last goodbyes.

That glint of gold upon your rectangular cage, that secret smile that tempted me to stage— your destruction.

From the sofa off which I jumped, to the sound of that satisfying thump, of you smacking the ground.

Why, Mona Lisa, did you have to fall?

Why couldn’t you just stay on the wall?

My parent’s rage after you broke would make any bull elephant choke.

Yes Mona Lisa, hear my cry!

I will not just let you by!

You devious, mischievous, portrait on the wall.

Though you are, unfortunately, a stunning success, flaunting Leonardo da Vinci’s intelligence, why?

Why even though you’re mended, do I have to stay in my room until Wednesday?

And as I sulk while my teeth grate, you’re allowed to stay up late.

Dangling amidst the wall’s smooth wood, I should’ve smashed you up for good.

- Anonymous 32 | ethos

ethos | 33

Alone Alone You left me on my own I was never shown A picture of you Guess you hated me too I never knew what I did To make you blow your lid All I know is that You put me down and I sat On the shop step With no-one to prep Me for the news That I was part of a ruse To get some money Guess you thought it was funny To leave me Alone

- Abbie Walker

34 | ethos

The loudness of [-------] Cut my tongue out So I cannot speak Cut my hands off So I cannot write Blind me deafen me silence me break m-e The world will still See Hear Me as [----] as a [gunshot] For my silence will still be [------] than your [ ]

- Brandon Mok

ethos | 35

36 | ethos

Anonymous She was the girl with the featureless face A face that left no impression on most Fleeting passerby, leaving little trace Forgotten the very next day She was the girl with the lackluster hair Not strands of corn silk nor ebony black But a mousy brown Lost amongst the crowd She was the girl with the flitting figure A waif-like thing amongst curves, sticks and pins Neither fat nor thin Swamped by masses in the din She was the girl with the nondescript name Overlooked by strangers and mixed up with others A lonely fate to befall Having this name was having no name at all It builds, it manifests Cruel thoughts infest I was anonymous I am anonymous I will always be anonymous.

She was the girl with the lackluster hair Hair that stained crimson as it crushed against the tracks She had decided to be nameless no more And take a final leap From anonymous To notorious She is the girl with the infamous face Bloodstained remnants splashed across pages She is the girl with the household name Mourned and grieved by the masses She is the girl who got what she wanted Leaving all of us, haunted Yet in a day she will be a girl of the past Her newfound fame unable to last She will be the girl who has once again digressed Into the back pages of obituaries and the rest But no, her death was not for naught There is a lesson to be taught Anonymous faces are not anonymous souls Each act of neglect will take its toll The next time you see her with the featureless face Equivocal expression and ephemeral trace Look into her eyes and offer a smile A long-awaited reason to live for a while.

- Emily Cheng ethos | 37

38 | ethos

in my defense; i had not known that my heart was not a throbbing organ. rather, it was a figment of my imagination and it was made of glass. that upon breaking, it did not cut into two parts, but fell into pieces upon the floor as i stood there and you walked away. it was wrong of me to hope, but i wanted so badly for a minute piece to embed into your skin. that every time you walked you saw red as it pierced through your tissues, eventually making its way to your lungs, so every time you took a breath you’d feel a prick, a stab, a sting as if it was a splinter and it’d never leave you be.

- Sakina Abidi

ethos | 39

i am standing at a candy store and i wait for you to beckon me in. i already know i will turn towards the bitter chocolate in the back and turn away from the sweets at the counter that i love so dear. because they are cheap. and artificially flavoured. they are untruths that are made easy to swallow and i will regret them later when i see the wear they do to my body and face. i will eat my bitter chocolate in wretched silence because i am now grown up. and grown ups are bitter, surrounded in cigarette smoke and coffee cups its taste never leaving me entirely

- Sakina Abidi

40 | ethos

A Broken Spell The leaves fall, hold, now they kiss the ground Swiftly with the wind they twirl Brush slightly, make no sound Reds and shades, colours unfurl The fragrances, soft, fly into the breeze Dance on the mountain tips They shake and they tease Spill little magic flicks Look here, the flowers shine sweet and far Bloom away, petals open Left behind every scar Careful, a spell now broken

- Kuhu Singh

ethos | 41

42 | ethos

dada, you knew and we knew, so they all came to sit by your bedside and told you they loved you, and how hard they were trying, and ‘please keep trying’, and ‘i love you, i love you, i love you’. your birthday was the day after mine; now i have no-one to call. and i’m sorry i only spoke broken urdu and you’d reply in broken english so we could never actually speak. i should have tried harder. i didn’t know how important it was until i got older and you were dying, so i tried to tell you all i could, but it hurt you to answer back, and it was hard for you to hear. you broke my father. he called me all the way from there to tell me that ‘jaan, my father’s gone’. voice hitched and breaking, and not from lost connection. and i’m sorry i came out so pale, so foreign, so gora not in appearance but in actuality. i’m sorry you could never quite look at me and go, ‘her. that’s one of mine’. that i wasn’t awful, but i wasn’t great. and i’d come ‘home’ and crinkle my nose at the dilli air because it’s putrid smell would circle me until it was all i could inhale. but i want to tell you that the aligarh air, is one of the beautiful things. because it isn’t the city air, it’s the smell of fresh earth after the rain has washed everything else away. i hope you know they all talk fondly. they sit in circles with bittersweet smiles that should reek of nostalgia, but they talk in present tense and i wonder if it’ll ever truly hit them and if they’ll stop and leave you in the past. but i’m not afraid, i promise, because they love you, they love you, they love you.

- Anonymous

ethos | 43

If you could date any fictional character, who would it be?

Well, it’s gotta be Jessica Rabbit from Who Framed Roger Rabbit?. In terms of strong female characters that I admire, I love Lyra from the Northern Lights trilogy by Philip Pullman. I think that she’s incredibly courageous, brave and breaks the mold.

If you had the chance, which dystopian world would you live in?

Possibly the world of The Matrix; I like that fancy world where you can kind of transcend from one thing to another. Of course I’d like to be woken up; I wouldn’t want to be in a capsule all the time with a battery in my head.

mr. walker E N

lumi è re

What first GOT you interestED in English?

I loved reading books, and I liked the ideas surrounding the books that I read as a kid, books like The Color Purple, The Great Gatsby, and To Kill a Mockingbird.

They were very much about social ideas, very much about the ways in which characters could be constructed. I often escaped into the world of those characters; I found many aspects of their personalities engaging and I tried to adapt them to my own world.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NOVEL? One of my favorite books is A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. I find it absolutely fascinating: the way it’s been crafted, the way in which it can engage you into science but it’s kind of fixed with a bit of creativity. Life of Pi by Yann Martel is yet another good book. It’s a really well put together story about the art of storytelling. Lord of the Flies by William Golding is a great one as well, about how children can try to find their own responsibilities without parents or authority figures.

If you could be any fictional character, who would you be?

One of my favorite books is The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexander Dumas. The protagonist Edmond Dantes is tested by the extreme adversity, and luck never seems to go his way. However, he keeps his faith all the way throughout the trials and tribulations that he is put through. I find inspiration in his courage, in the sense that you should never give up. He’s probably the character that I am most inspired by, and aspire the most to be. Not that I want to end up in prison for thirty years as he has!

44 | ethos

Who is the biggest bookworm in the staffroom?

That implies that we teachers can read! I’d say that Ms. Hasell is a contender; Mr. Clayton and Mr. Playford also enjoy a good read. I’d probably put myself up there too I’m a bit of a book geek.

What’s your favorite word in the English language?

Swear words aside, I really like the word ‘flabbergasted’!

It sounds fun, and you can kind of spit as you say it.

What do books mean to you?

It’s a bit cheesy, but books are very much like friends to me. They’re very precious to me and I find it very hard to give them away. So I’m a bit of a hoarder: I have all these books that I will lend to friends, but I want them back because they mean something to me. They’re important because they remind me of childhood and friends, places that I went on holiday, feelings and emotions that I had at a certain time. The way that books are written also leaves a lasting impression on me. At the moment, I’m reading a book by Martin Amis called Money. It’s quite graphic, gruesome and dark, but the way it’s written is incredible!

The prose, the gluing and weaving together of the words it’s like a beautiful piece of music, or a wonderful canvas of art that just takes your breath away. It’s like looking at a piece by Salvador Dali, or listening to an extremely wellwritten piece of Eminem music, which you might not see as art but is actually really beautifully constructed. But yeah, I see books as quite personal friends - it’s quite sad really *laughs* Has a book every made you cry?

Actually, as recent as last year, I read a book called A Fault In Our Stars by John Green which was really well put together. Without giving anything away, the ending is incredibly emotional because it’s been built up to a point when you actually care about the characters. John Green didn’t over-sentimentalize the ideas, but the outcome did make me shed a tear or two. Well I did get goosebumps at least - men don’t cry! I had something in my eye, that’s what it was.

Interview by Emily Cheng & Gunjan Bhargava

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