ALUMNI Reflections from UCL

Reflections from UCL

by Maximilian Mihailovici, IBSB Alumnus

Of all the things in this world, there remains but one certainty: that of the passing of time. As we inevitably mature out of our cocoons, sprouting out like butterflies into the wilderness that is post-secondary school life, we come to realise that there are not enough fingers on our hands to count the number of things we took for granted, or miss from our lifestyle of old.

This isn’t so much an exposé on myself as it is a reflection of ideas I would share with anyone daring to think further into the future than the next weekend or so. Take it more as a blunt reflection on all events past in times recent.

Before continuing, I only wish to say the following: if you are a student, just like every class which came before you, you are wrong. Everything you will discover university to be is almost always going to end up being different to how you pictured it in your mind’s eye. It is of the highest essence then that you begin with a blank slate and a clear mind, lest you wish to be wrong, as I was. Vitally, you must acknowledge that you enter 2 schools of life when embarking on this journey anew: that of academia, and that of life. They are equally important, and equally codependent; don’t trade one for the other; instead, learn to use them harmoniously, synchronously, and holistically.

My experiences at UCL specifically, and London at large, are a culmination of post-factum considerations about the intricacies which life no doubt holds over all of our heads. From the very first day I set foot on campus, a whirlwind of thought, as though pre-planned, began casting clouds of doubt over my being. The usual, and predictable, I might add: ‘Am I going to like it here?’ ‘What if I don’t fit in?’ ‘What if I don’t like my accommodation?’ ‘What if I fail my course?’ It was quite the juxtaposition

pondering these ideas while I was sat atop the staircase so emblematically associated with UCL.

And then it came to me: ‘I don’t know.’ For the first time, those words felt comforting, and reassuring. They glistened faintly with a sense of hope, but also with a sense of acceptance. It’s ok if you go wrong. It’s ok if you don’t figure it out. It’s ok if others are seemingly ahead (although it is rarely that simple, I might add). The mere shock of transitioning from one way of being to another is enough to drive some people into the ground, head first. This is the time where you actually get to discover yourself, and that is the only thing I am entirely adamant on. So don’t be afraid to challenge, experiment, and step outside your comfort zone. In fact, that is the single most important facet to early success. Step. Outside. Of. Your. Comfort. Zone. Especially when you’d rather be doing anything else. In the end, as the saying goes, time heals all sorrows. How much time you let pass though, is entirely in your hands.

Habits, I find, are what define the path you set yourself on at university. 3 assignments later, I can attest that good habits are what got me to the finish line with no shortage of breath. University often amplifies both your strengths and shortcomings, and this cannot be understated with regards to your habits. Make a habit of making habits, constructive ones that is: time management, responsibility, honesty and realism; the latter being that which I would like to stress most. Setting realistic boundaries with considerations for the situation present and the ability to gauge them are vital to understanding how you work best.

I would like to end with a closing thought. Of the many thoughts I would like to share, there is without a doubt one which I resonate with most: ‘The difficulty lies not so much in developing new ideas, as in escaping from old ones’ – John Maynard Keynes. The biggest challenge - as much for the students of yesteryear as for the students of new - is to learn that it is normal not to know. The vivacity of the tides of life lays not in their predictability, but in their expediency. Do not, however, strive to combat this, but instead substitute predicting for discovering, and let the breeze carry your strongly-built vessel into the deep blue unknown. Max’s Letter to the UCL student body that resulted in him being elected as the student representative for his course.

Hi everyone, I’m Max, and I’m super glad to have been given the opportunity to study history here at UCL, in the buzzing capital that is London! While I haven’t been on campus too much thanks to the ‘Fresher’s Flu’, it still surprises me to this very moment that we have such a diverse class, which is something of an impossible sight to behold back home.

And so, as Marx laid out his manifesto before the world in 1848, I too shall lay out mine today:

One of the key facets that drew me to history is undoubtedly diplomacy. Diplomacy is the art of bargaining, that of convincing your tutors to roll back the essay deadline slightly in exchange for re-assurances, and that of finding mutual points of agreement that satisfy all parties. Now, I’m not guaranteeing that I’ll negotiate an indefinite end to coursework, but what I am instead stressing is the importance of a smooth and consistent student-staff connection, one which I have dealt with extensively, such as when I was fortunate enough to be nominated Head Boy in my last school, or in debating.

I won’t come out and pretend like I was drawn to history the moment my eyes saw the light of day, because you would see right through that. However, what I will say is that the singular most important factor in pulling me towards history was communication. Back in school, my history class was the only class I took which placed an emphasis on communication, and by that, I mean that every person, loud or quiet, old or new had a say in how things were being taught. The job of representation is to give everyone a voice, and like Swiss referendums, it will be my highest priority to ensure that everyone is heard, and listened to. Because hearing and listening are two different things.

I strongly encourage you to vote, no matter who you vote for, as I’m sure every nominee will do a fantastic job of representing our budding new class!

Studying Fashion Marketing at the London College of Fashion

by Qian Qian Wang, IBSB Alumnus

I am currently in my third and final year of university, studying Fashion Marketing at the London College of Fashion, which is a college within the University of Arts London, or UAL for short. I must say, that if I had to use one word to describe my university experience to date, it would most certainly be the word ‘interesting’- I will explain why I decided to use this specific adjective.

My first year of university was initially all about me grappling with time management, and coping with what felt like a lonely life in central London. Thankfully, the activities the university offered me, like gatherings with other international students, helped me meet and make many new friends quickly from different cultural backgrounds. And even though you might think of my course as more of a business inclined one, I was surprised to find out we were going to have a Fashion History module, where we looked in-depth at the connection of traditional clothing with the fashion world today. We also studied consumer behaviour, branding, and future innovations, allowing me the chance to approach fashion marketing from many different perspectives.

The second year of university was definitely the most challenging, as lessons were entirely online, due to the pandemic, so I had to do everything at home using my laptop. However, I also value that year the most because it made me

grow from an academic perspective: I had to quickly adjust to a situation I had never experienced, which tested my study skills to their fullest.

Now, I am in my third and final year, working on my dissertation, doing research on the connection between cultural appropriation and fashion marketing, looking at real-life cases of brands that have incorporated traditions in their advertising, and whether they went wrong or made a correct, considerate representation. I am particularly interested in the intersection between brands and people; this being something I want to develop further in my future career.

Living and studying in London has made me open myself more from all points of view: I have developed my independence and had the chance to interact with students and professors from various walks of life. I think my course also helped me to realize how essential it is to understand people before theories in business; marketing is all about connecting a brand’s values with individuals’ lifestyles.

Life At University College London

by Tamara Minea, IBSB Alumnus

Reaching the end of my first term at university, I can honestly say that it is nothing like I expected: being both harder and easier than what I had pictured in all regards, but overall, absolutely incredible.

The induction week of my course consisted of talks from our professors and many fun bonding activities between the students. In a programme with only 50 people, we became acquainted with each other fairly quickly, and the most wonderful of surprises was finding myself in the company of so many like-minded individuals. In no time at all, we were exploring London together, enjoying movie nights at each other’s accommodation, and visiting every pub on and around campus… The best thing is the fact that my course mates are interested in the same subjects I study. Being a philosophy, politics, and economics student, you cannot imagine my happiness to find a cohort of friends eager to discuss concepts of morality, the legitimacy of the state, and economic selffulfilling prophecies, all over a pint. Regardless of your interests, you can also always find someone that shares your hobbies and interests at university.

Having had so much fun socialising in the first week, it came as quite a shock in the second week to discover that we already had assignment deadlines looming. They did not go easy on us; being in such a selective course means the professors have very high expectations of work ethic and your ability to learn independently. In my politics course, we have to read

around three to five academic papers every week, discuss our readings in seminars, and then write our own papers in the assigned weeks. For the philosophy module, we study a different philosopher’s book every week, and if we are lucky enough to receive a more modern publication, we can also understand what the writer is saying. I cannot tell you how many times my colleagues and I had to go over the same paragraph six times or more to decipher its meaning. Although the material of the economics module is fairly similar to that of the A Levels, the amount of work given to us each week makes it one of the hardest modules. I have always had a passion for mathematics; hence it is my favourite module thus far. Compared to the sea of open interpretations in my other - essay-based - subjects, I find comfort in the fact that there is a single correct answer to be found in maths. However, university always has a way to show you that nothing is as easy as it seems, and this has led me to question every single maths skill I thought I possessed. Next term, I will be taking up a moral philosophy module that will undoubtedly lead me to question my integrity, and a data science course where I will learn how to programme in the R language used for machine learning, so I will be stocking up on my Nurofen Forte!

As one of my extracurricular activities, I managed to join my university’s competitive basketball team. We have training every Monday and Saturday morning (dreadful) and games on Wednesdays. UCL also has a sports night every Wednesday evening at one of its student bars, where all the sport societies go and socialise. Each team chooses a weekly theme, such as Hawaiian shirts, and everyone has to dress accordingly; you meet lots of new people every week and have a great time in the process. There are always events being organised by societies and the student union; we have theatre plays, Christmas markets, poster and plant sales, and all kinds of food stalls. You will never be bored, believe me: even if you don’t like that week’s events, London is full of exhibitions, parties, new restaurants to eat out at, and fun places to visit.

All in all, my first months at UCL have been no less than sublime. I have bonded with so many people and have already received many offers to visit my new friends around the world this summer. I interviewed for and was selected to be a marketing executive for a student-led news blog with thousands of followers. Right now, I am waiting for responses to my finance internship applications for this spring, and might even manage to get hired. I have discovered so many opportunities and networked at all kinds of events that will help me in the future. University has not just been the most fun I have ever had; UCL and PPE have opened many doors for me that I cannot wait to take advantage of.

I hope you are all well back home; I miss my IBSB family, and will hopefully visit you all soon!

Return to the Swat Valley

8V have been reading the autobiography of Malala Yousafzai. For this task, the students were challenged to write a piece for Malala’s diary as she and her family returned to their home after several months living as a refugee while war raged through the area she had been born and raised.

GEORGE PLATT, Year 8

The mountains stood tall around my town, like a father looking down on their child, as we crowded back into the streets. Even though I had lived there all my life, I didn’t recognise a thing. Houses, shops, roads - destroyed like an apocalypse had come over the area. Cars were going up and down the streets; there were soldiers all around. In our group, there were gasps, cries, anguished shouting; people had lost their homes and family. We had only been gone for 3 months, and already it felt like a whole new town had replaced our home. Well, not town, more like wreckage.

The thing that troubles me most though is that there are still soldiers everywhere, and there are clearly still Taliban attacks going on. I ask all around what happened, but people either burst into tears or mumble under their breath: “I’d prefer not to talk about it, I lost someone close to me.”

I sneak around the town and try to investigate what happened. Clearly it was something big, as it has affected everyone. I keep asking, and asking, and asking. I trespassed into a clearly abandoned building hoping there would be a note or a phone with some messages. But nothing. Just cabinets filled with photos of joyful people, who are either dead or silent, and beds where they slept tightly while people died in the streets. There were some bodies there, I think (I hope I didn’t just leave someone who might’ve been alive!).

I left the building. I wasn’t the only one, as I saw families with kids exit the same block, looking around scared, as if to check someone wasn’t there… Who though? I mean, it has to be the Taliban, but still… The military’s here, the Taliban should be gone, right? I should’ve known back then. The military is not to be trusted. They are detestable creatures, who use the word “soldier” more as a title than as a profession. So, the Taliban is still here. And little did I know, they were closer to me than I thought...

ROBERT AIRINEI, year 8

It was a cold Sunday. We had returned to Swat, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same, as our valley had long been the battlefield for the war between the national army and the Taliban. The buildings were all destroyed; no people, no plants, just a warzone.

We were at the margin of Swat trying to find our home, when I saw an injured army soldier sitting next to a wall. I was watching him, trying to decide if he was on the side helping the Taliban, but before I had made up my mind, Taliban troops appeared from around the corner. We quickly ducked behind the wall. They saw the injured soldier and pointed their guns at him. He started screaming for help, saying he didn’t want to do this, how he just wanted to return home to his family... But the Taliban were deaf to his entreaties and killed him point blank.

We were scared; we didn’t know what had happened to our quiet village. It was a massacre. Now our only goal was to get to our home to try and recover as many items as possible. Half way there, we saw the two armies battling in the middle of the road. We couldn’t get past them, as they would most likely have killed us too, so we took a longer, safer route, passing the house of one of friends, now lying in ruin.

We were now very worried about our house. Would it still be there? As we neared our house, we saw more Taliban troops roaming around, ducking and hiding each time, barely escaping the last group. Only one mile from home, and though we were getting closer and closer it seemed like there was little hope left. Most buildings had been completely destroyed. We were wondering if it was still worth the risk of going, but decided to push on. When we finally arrived, we were happy to see it was still intact, but doubtful that anything was left inside.

We didn’t find our belongings, but at least we had our house intact for now. Ou question answered, it was time to go, being too dangerous stay. The journey to reach our loved home was over.

ANASTASIA CUSA, year 8

After some terrible months, I was finally returning with my family to our home. I was shocked at the sight of all the fallen buildings and the smell of smoke around me. I couldn’t believe this was the home I loved so much - I didn’t recognise a thing. There were soldiers everywhere and it felt like an apocalypse. I looked around to see people walking around looking lost in the commotion and people walking into what was left of their houses. I felt like the whole place was going to collapse around me; I felt a knot tightening in my chest. The place I had been waiting to return to for so long no longer felt safe, a place I could call home.

I wandered around looking at the things I loved, now lost to the ravages of war. My beautiful home was now broken and different. My mind was racing, thinking about everything and nothing; about the things people had lost, never to be seen again. But also, somehow, my mind was blank: I was sad and shocked. I wished I could do something - anything - to return to how things were, to the days when I spent enjoying the pleasure of my beautiful home. In my mind’s eye I could still see the joyful people walking the streets; now there are only sad, angry, shocked people and destroyed homes. I want to pinch myself to wake up from this horrible dream, but I know this is no dream and I cannot wake up.

No-one can right now.

Priya Vijaykumar , year 8

I gasped in horror as the dust cleared, confronted by a view of pain and destruction. Rubble was strewn across the concrete floor. Weeping uncontrollably, I looked away in dismay, wondering what I might encounter next. Sharp metal rods? Broken down buildings? The wind whisked away the fabric and dust from the rubble. You could smell the thick, foggy smoke and taste the bitter dust carried by the wind. I heard crying and saw tears leaving tracks down the children’s cheeks.

And all the time the military waiting and watching on solemnly, passersby not daring to make eye contact. Mothers hid their faces behind veils, scared. The Taliban had taken everything away: books, toys, food packets. Children rummaged through what was left of their house, looking for their cherished belongings. It was supposed to be a happy homecoming. I rubbed the concrete walls feeling the edges; they felt just like my heart: jagged and broken.

It was not the magnificent valley I once knew… No, this was not even close to what I knew. All these feelings bubbled and boiled inside of me. I was like a teapot about to burst! I wanted to lash out at the army and soldiers, to chastise them for not protecting our homes, but I stopped myself. It wasn’t safe anymore. I was upset, mad. I had left to safety, I couldn’t stop them. I was only a girl.

Salty tears flowed down my face. I covered my face so no one would notice, sobbing quietly, to not look weak. My world was falling apart around me. The fairytale valley I once knew had become shades of black and white. The happy memories faded away, forever lost. I pushed the vile thought to the back of my head, trying to look for the positive. Nothing happy appeared. Only short visions of my people sobbing and mourning the dead.

Was this what my world had become? Only the future will tell, but for now I must hide what I’m writing...

A Senator’s

Diary (from Othello)

by Alexandra Sandu, Year 10

Dear Diary,

Something utterly ridiculous happened today.

Most days at the council-chamber have no feel of excitement, just the same old Duke speaking along with the rest of the same old senators. I never like to barge in as it seems my thoughts are always overlooked, but today I happened to overhear word that the Turkish fleet had changed their course from Cyprus to Rhodes.

“Blasphemy!” I remember shouting.

There is no chance that that could be true, Cyprus is very important to the Turkish and it must have been a ruse of some sort to throw us off guard. Compared to Cyprus, Rhodes is much harder to capture as they have greater protection. So why on earth would they change to Rhodes last minute?

Quite literally a second after the Duke had spoken, a messenger burst in announcing the arrival of the Signior along with the Moor. The only words I managed to make out through all the ruckus that Brabantio had caused, was “My daughter! O my daughter!”. The only thought that reached my mind had been the death of the young Desdemona. Although I had never spoken words with her, she had always seemed like a fair young lady. Instant relief came flowing back after Brabantio spoke once again. He seemed like any other father, angry that his daughter is his no more. I can remember disapproval flourishing in me, feeling his daughter had been stolen by the Moor! He had poisoned her with medicines and forced her into marriage. ever shame me in such a way, I should never speak another word with them again.

However, after the Moor had spoken, I realized that maybe he isn’t such a bad fit for the lovely Desdemona. Although his way with words could be improved, he gave an account of his numerous years participating in wars. He sent his ancient to fetch Desdemona while he continued. He spoke of his previous relationship with Brabantio, how he would tell his struggles as a form of stories to both the Signior and his daughter. How Desdemona would cry while listening to his pain, and I believe he stated “She loved me for the dangers I had passed, and I loved her that she did pity them.” For now, it was clear: he had not used any form of trickery, but only his love for Desdemona.

As that foolish Brabantio would not allow his daughter the happiness she desires, he pleaded with her to hear him out, believing their blood connection would change her feelings for the courageous Moor, but as expected... it did not. She stood fast, proclaiming her love and gratitude to her husband, and even though she was raised well by a father who she greatly loves, she duty was to the Moor. As any halfwitted fool would, he begrudgingly gave Othello his blessing, after rude remarks in the direction of Desdemona.

Fast as the conversation started, it switched back even quicker. The Turkish were headed to Cyprus. Since Othello would remain a participant in helping the war effort as he usually does, he requested care for his wife until he returned. All agreed that the father of the bride’s house would be an unreasonable place to stay. Desdemona had pleaded to stay nearby Othello, for having already given so much to be with him, she believed she deserved to live with him as well; there was also promise of no distraction to be caused by the fact that they remain as lovers. What an independent young lady Desdemona is, for all her father had described her as such an innocent little girl.

It seems we fathers never truly know much about our children.

A Senator’s

Diary (from Othello)

by Alessia Grozea, Year 10

Dear Diary,

Today has been one of misfortunes and news of repelling conflict that still have me, even after the reassuring words of my peers, trembling and a bit shaken. Perhaps I was taken aback by the surprising late-night discord for which I had been inadequately prepared. I believe any man of any shape, shade, and wit would not have come to the conclusion that the events of the veiled dusk hid layers of scandal, controversy, and despair. As the poorly illuminated edge of a knife was laid out a sense of panic and gloom descended upon the Venetian, ruling families. To lead our armies, it appears we now have charming creatures who woo soft, naive flowers of Venice - without consent from the men who provided shelter for their petals - and even drag them to the life-shaping enchantment of marriage.

It started with persistent knocks increasing in frequency at my gate: messengers who were commanded to seek me out to be brought before the duke, ‘haste-post-haste’. I willingly changed into more appropriate attire and set out to face his excellency and his concerns. Thoughts of my demure haven being in pain crossed my mind. I tried to dismiss them.

As I arrived, I was instantaneously bombarded by reports of sightings of fleets, those of barbarous Turks. My letters said over a hundred of them were at the very moment sailing towards the seemingly vulnerable Rhodes.

Our constructive thinking was shortly thereafter interrupted by the valiant Moor with the fuming Brabantio, crying out without pause as if a million wounds carved into his chest were cascading to red rivers. He spoke of his Desdemona similarly to a soldier lost in battle; our minds all appeared to jump to the most undesirable of conclusions. “Dead?” everyone present (but Othello) echoed. What had become of his poor maiden? I was engulfed in guilty curiosity as I believed we all were. “To me.” he replied. With a look of disbelief plastered on my face, I leaned in to listen closer.

He told us of the loss of his riches, his sweet-as-honey obedient daughter, and of her alleged entrancement. Captured by the evil hands of the one and only Moor, who stood across the room from us, puzzled.

The trial had begun: “What in your own part can you say to this?” The defendant replied calmly, in a collected manner. He began beseeching his betters, elaborating on the socalled charms and identified them before the Duke as his battle scars and their tales. He spoke of mutual adoration, chemistry, and compassion, of Desdemona being his bandage to his deepest wounds. It was flabbergasting.

“Fetch her from the sanitarium!”, he commanded.

And so his ancient did. The young lady came and took her father on head first. She persistently told him how she had come to love the Moor, but he was uncooperative when it came to acceptance.

The hysterical signior at last came to a deafening silence as the Duke told him the Moor was a good man. Brabantio - a little overprotective of his daughter, whether out of honour of family or love - was visibly feeling substantial distress as well as illness regarding the situation, and showed his distrust in his own blood.

Our meeting concluded, leaving us with a clear impression of the Turks’ true destination thanks to a notice from a sailor, which described their switch towards Cyprus. We have assigned the Moor on the next ship at nine, as well as his wife, who pleaded to go with him against our advice.

I am not certain if the Moor can keep his promise of not letting the outspoken one interfere with duty, but I hope he can. I will soon write more of political matters. For now, I bid the city goodnight.

Molly’s Diary from Private Peaceful

by Rucsandra Curtis, Year 9E

Hello. My name is Molly and I am currently feeling ill. Since I have nothing else to do, I will be writing in this journal.

I have scarlet fever, and it’s terrible. I feel so frail and hopeless, and because of it I am unable to go anywhere. All I can do nowadays is lay in my bed, staring at the wall, while I have to listen to my parents argue with each other.

My parents always argue and, most of the time, it’s about me. They’re old to be parents of a girl my age, so they have always wanted me to be a “perfect child” and it’s not pleasant at all. For as long as I can remember, they would always nag me, slap me, and hit me with a belt if I made the tiniest mistake. I could’ve gotten a bit of mud on my skirt and I would get whipped with the belt three times. It’s really unfair that they have to treat me like this. That is why I would always hang out with Charlie, Tommo, and Big Joe when I didn’t have this horrible illness. It was always so much fun being with them.

I first met Tommo back in school. He was a toddler in the same class as me. He was struggling to tie his bootlaces. Feeling pity because he looked terrified of the other people at the school, I tied his shoelaces for him.

However, what really brought us together was an incident that happened in school.

Jimmy Parsons, who was a very rude boy that always had something cruel to say, walked up to Tommo and began to mock Big Joe, which started a fight. Being taller and stronger, Jimmy hurt Tommo, causing Charlie to get involved, fighting

Jimmy to defend his little brother. I watched as he hit the wicked boy right where it hurts.

Mr. Munnings then came out of the building and saw the fight happening. Furious, he dragged Jimmy and Charlie into the building and whipped them both 12 times.

Thankfully, he didn’t see Tommo, who was cowering on the ground, almost hidden from sight. I helped him get up and assisted him cleaning up.

Eventually, Charlie came out of the building, and that was when we started talking. We became a tight-knit group of friends after that.

Every day, I would go to the Peaceful family’s cottage and spend time there. Their cottage was just like their name - Peaceful. There were all sorts of beautiful flowers growing around it, all of them having a special, sweet scent. Birds flew around the cottage, chirping carefree, and trees would stand proudly, towering over the thatched roof.

Not a lot of arguing would happen there; there was just a lot of peace.

The boys’ mother would always treat me so kindly. She treated me just like her own daughter. She would often plait my hair and brush it while talking to me in a gentle voice. She was the mother I had always wanted.

Big Joe was also a very jolly, kind soul who loved all sorts of animals. He kept a lot of pets in a shed and took great care of them. Often, he would sing “Oranges and Lemons”, which was his favorite song, and we would join in with him, singing loudly and brightly.

Things started to go downhill after Grandma Wolf moved in with them. She used to live with the Colonel but for some reason, she lost her job at his place and had to go live with the Peacefuls.

Grandma Wolf was always so nasty, he would frequently slap me, although she didn’t hit me as much as she did the boys. She would also baby Big Joe and talk to him and about him as if he was a loony, which always filled me with pure rage. However, when I confronted her, she would slap me hard and send me home.

The thing that filled me with the most anger was when she got rid of Big Joe’s pets. For his birthday, I had gotten him a beautiful, little harvest mouse with large ears and bright, beady eyes. I found the mouse running around in the hallway of my house, and instead of letting it get killed by my father, I caught it in a box and gave it to Big Joe as a present.

He adored the mouse and seeing his face light up was a highlight of my week. There’s something about making people happy that’s just so satisfying. I want to do loads more things in the future to brighten people’s lives.

But then, one morning, Grada Wolf found out about the mouse, and released it back into the wild, along with the rest of Big Joe’s pets.

Outraged, I shouted at Grandma Wolf, telling her that she was a cruel, cruel woman and that she would go to Hell when she was dead. Then I ran home, tears pouring down my face.

When I got home, my father saw me crying and (surprise surprise) instead of asking me what was wrong he whipped me with the belt.

Thankfully, after the Colonel’s wife passed away, Grandma Wolf was sent back to live with him, and the boys’ mother could come home.

Charlie said that Grandma Wolf was probably having an affair with the Colonel, which was why the Colonel’s late wife hated her so much, but I don’t think that’s the case. Why would somebody want to be in a relationship with a crabby old woman who has a moustache?

However, Tommo’s mother now had no job, so we had to go poaching on the Colonel’s lands to get food. Every day, Charlie, Tommo, and I would go to the vast lands and hunt.

We didn’t take Big Joe with us because we knew that he would start making noise and give away our cover. We caught salmon, trapped rabbits, and stole apples from the trees. It was always so scary, but exciting at the same thing. The adrenaline would rush through your veins like a rabbit running from a hawk, and your stomach would feel like you had been spinning around in circles. It was always so fun.

When we weren’t hunting, Charlie and I would race each other through the fields. Being smaller than us, Tommo would trail behind and whine at us when he was tired. I would go back to him and pick him up, carrying him on my back until I got tired. He was so sweet; sometimes he felt like my very own child.

I can remember when we all ran into the river and messed about in it. The water was freezing, but after a while I got used to its temperature. The three of us splashed about, shrieking and laughing without a care in the world.

Sometimes, when the boys and I were tired of running about, we would lay down in the shadows and talk to each other. We had all sorts of interesting conversations, ones I wish I could relive. I can remember telling them that I wanted to die right there and then: and that I never wanted tomorrow to come because “no tomorrow could ever be as good as today”.

I meant exactly what I said. That day was probably the best day of my life, and I wish I could go back there.

On that day, I grabbed a whole load of pebbles, and held them in my cupped hands, shaking them. I could’ve sworn that they told me that Charlie, Tommo, and I would always be together and that well always be lucky and happy. And did I believe them? Yes, I did.

I might be sick and unable to see anybody right now, but I know that I’ll recover soon and get to be with the Peacefuls again. I’m sure of it.

I’m feeling tired right now, so I think I’ll go to bed.

Goodnight, diary! Thank you for listening to everything I had to say. I’ll continue writing in you tomorrow morning. Sweet dreams!

Can journals dream? Maybe they can, you never know what surprises this world has to offer. Anyway, goodnight.

Zero’s Return

by Dinu Pietruschevici Balan, Year 7M

A piece of creative writing based on the novel Holes, by Louis Sachar.

Zero was walking through the vast wasteland of the Texas desert, when he saw the Mary Lou in the distance. He felt more determined than ever, and so upon reaching the Mary Lou didn’t stop to rest. He could feel the back of his neck burning. Badly! He couldn’t afford to stop; he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to get back up.

As he walked on, his attention lapsed and he felt himself trip. He snapped back to reality instantly, as he was about to fall headfirst into a giant hole. Adrenaline flooded his feeble body and with cat-like reflexes he managed to catch himself before it was too late.

Zero looked down vaguely into the hole and after a moment of confusion focused his vision on fourteen yellow eyes looking back at him. He opened his mouth to scream, but fortunately no sound came out. He stood deadly still, frozen with fear. The lizards seemed to sense Zero was thin and exhausted, his fatigued legs barely able to hold him upright. It was an all too familiar a sight.

Zero continued on, towards CGL. As he got closer, the landscape of the lake became more and more dotted with holes. Eventually he saw the shack filled with shovels.

Mr. Pendanski was guarding the shack. There was a hole very close to the shack. Zero could try to lure Mr. Pendanski toward the hole. He sighed, took off his cap and threw it down to make some noise.

“What the …” Mr. Pendanski said, and approached within half a meter of the hole.

Zero ran toward Mr. Pendanski and rammed him as hard as he could.

Mr. Pendanski fell into the empty hole, and was knocked unconscious. Zero smiled triumphantly; he hadn’t liked knocking out Pendanski, but he knew he had to do it.

He took the keys from Mr. Pendanski, but left the gun at his side. He unlocked the shovel shack. He didn’t like the peeled gray paint on it.

Zero took a shovel from the shack and turned on his heels to leave. The last thing he saw was Mr. Sir smirking and pushing him into the shack. He heard the click of the door and was alone in the dark.

As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was able to spot a small, dusty trapdoor near the corner on the ground. He thought at first that he was imagining it. He closed his eyes and reopened them, only to discover that the trapdoor was still there. The wood looked old, maybe even older than the Warden. He smiled. Jokes about the Warden made him feel better.

He walked over to the trap door, with some difficultly managed to force it open and peered down inside. It was dark. With no other options, he tentatively placed his feet the first stair and slowly began to descent into the darkness, not noticing the low overhang, and hitting his head going down the steps.

“Well, well, well!” the Warden said. “Look who’s fallen right into my trap.”

One of the counsellors was also at her side, his gun in his hand. Zero presumed the man was from Tent A, as he had a badge with Tent A on his tank top. He had brown hair, which fell messily onto his sunburned and weary face.

“Can I shoot ‘em?” the man asked.

“No, Toby, not yet. Please bring me my nail polish,” the Warden ordered as Toby gave her the gun and sprinted off into the tunnel, re-emerging minutes later with a bottle of nail polish. She twisted the cap off and slowly drew out the brush, glistening with bright red polish. She applied it to her long, thin nails, smiling knowingly. Toby recoiled.

“Now, Zero, I want you to come closer.”

Zero obeyed. In a flash, the Warden took Zero by the arm and smacked him on the neck, where a scratch had appeared. It stung badly. Zero collapsed to the floor in pain.

Twenty minutes later, at precisely 4:55 am, Zero’s heart stopped beating.

He died smiling, knowing he had fought till the very end.

Lights, Camera, Action!

Thursday, December 15, saw our year 10 drama students undertake the first part of their iGCSE practical coursework, which was a 2-3 minute individual performance from a published play. After overcoming some nerves, the students put on a tour de force in front of their peers, the business class.

By Philip James Orme

We started in October, choosing monologues with Mr Orme’s help, and then set to the task of researching our playwright and reading the play that our piece was from. This helped us understand the context of the play and also our character’s motivation. After this, we chose appropriate costumes. When we had done all this, we proceeded to do the monologue dance: it’s surprisingly hard to stand still when speaking, and we all sort of swayed from side to side.

Ana Branescu Changed it twice, then nailed it!

Ana Nanau A little hard to learn, but very glad that I did it.

Diana Dinu It was fun, but at the same time quite scary.

Lisa Tepelea

TIV 1 2021-22 List of contributors

Student Editor: Maria Sticlea

IBSB Staff

Kendall Peet Matthew Tansley Alan Cornish Madalina Soare Alina Radu Alison Tansley Aliviana Sanders Lee Hawkins Thomas Wilson Robin Morrison Orla O’Dwyer Alexandra Ivascu Lucretia Gabroveanu Maria Orban Peter Ennion Philip Orme Cristina Latcu Delia Ciobanu Jayne Baker Johanna Croci Mairead Lonergan Andreea Cazacu Victoria Fay

IBSB Students

Tamara Minea Max Mihailovici Patrick Tansley Rucsandra Curtis Alexia Verdes Ana Cristescu Dinu Pietruschevici Balan Alessia Grozea Alexandra Sandu Anastasia Cusa Priya Vijaykumar Robert Airinei George Platt Qian Qian Wang Mario Ghenea Irina Chemecedji Adelina Oltean Lucian Popa Matteo Bianchi May Abramovici Mateo Hernandez George Vernon Amalia Anicescu Zoe Popovici Medeea Constantinescu Mia Opran Sofia McGregor Emma Apostolu Calin Costantinescu Rares Saizu Maia Bucura Elian Tetruashvili Ioana Aizic Melissa Aydogan

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