2024 Untold Tales Youth Writing Competition Winners

And Still, I Remember

By Mira Boueiz

This is our third house of the day. Trash bags in one hand, brooms in the other. We knew we were probably heading home after this. But for now, we’re here and she’s greeting us.

Standing at the door, a medium-built woman covered in dust welcomes us in with a broken smile. There is never any need for explanation, it’s all so clear. There are hundreds like us around the neighborhood if not thousands. She lets us in and gives a quick tour of what remains of the place her family called home just a few days ago.

It’s been almost 4 years now and still, I remember.

Like many others in my country, my friends and I were doing our best to help after the Beirut explosion on August 4th, 2020. We would start our day before dawn to cook and feed the survivors and leave work early to clean homes, to distribute food, water, and clothes donations. We would go from house to house and help them clean out the glass. Because as every citizen in my country knew: no one else was going to.

So, on our third house of that day, the woman informed us that her priority was to remove the glass so that tomorrow her kids could come back home. We argued with her about the safety of the building and what’s left of its structure. We told her that her house was in no state for anyone to live in until massive repairs had been made, and to wait for the decision of the government before moving back… but this was home and they had nowhere else to go. How long can a family of 5 share the home of another before their hospitality runs out? She didn’t want to find out.

So, we got to work. Just like every other family we had helped so far, in what seemed to be an unspoken custom, she was telling us about the room we were cleaning, what it looked like before, and most importantly who was in it during the explosion and what they were doing.

I thought that over the years, my memories of these months would somehow merge into one. Maybe, I was hoping that all the glass would look the same, the broken toys would accumulate into one pile in my mind, and that all these homes would turn into one gigantic phantom mansion. Deep down, I think a part of me wanted to transform every one of those days spent cleaning glass, dust, and blood into one bad dream. Perhaps, it would be easier to digest then.

Unfortunately, I still remember every day and every house and every person. All of their stories still ring in my ears at the first sign of silence, whenever I start to restore a certain sense of normalcy. All this to say, it’s been four years and I still remember the black couch in the living room filled with glass. I remember envisioning her husband calmly watching TV unknown of the tragedy that would follow mere seconds later.

No words were spoken when passing by the cat litter. We simply didn’t want to know.

I still remember moving from the living room to her children’s room and her asking us not to clean the bathroom because she needed to do that herself. I still recall her telling us how she had promised her son ice cream after his bath without knowing that she couldn’t keep her word. Engraved in my mind is the way her lips shivered when she told us that she would have had to bury her son had he finished his shower just one minute later, how she hugged him during the explosion to protect him from the shards of glass that would have drowned him mere seconds ago.

When we got to the children’s bedroom, we saw an ancient bookshelf toppled on a bed and were all frozen at the mere thought. Inexplicable relief filled our chests when she informed us how that room happened to be empty at the time. She explained how the bookshelf was used as an apparatus for separating the room to give the kids the feeling of each having their own room. It took two tries and all six of us to get the massive chock of wood standing again. On the first try, we accidentally dropped it when the presumed dead family cat appeared from inside the shelf terrified and screaming. Our second try was successful… and we went home after that.

I never knew her name. I will never forget her terrified white cat, her black couch, or the broken glass in her shower even though I never knew her name. I remember her house, the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen, the two bedrooms, the greenish cat litter … just like I remember the ringing in my ear during the explosion, just like I remember the overwhelming feeling of numbness as we cleaned every other house, just like I remember my mom helping me remove glass shards from my shoes and the sole of my feet in unspoken sadness, just like I remember my father’s anger the first day I told him I’m going to Beirut to help, just like I remember how he couldn’t look me in the eye when I got back. His daughter shouldn’t have to do this, it’s not her job, not her responsibility, not her fault; his daughter shouldn’t have gone through this.

It’s been almost 4 years now and still, I remember.

Not  Less Than

By Layla Pearce

I am a woman I always have been I always will be but I'm not seen as a strong independent woman because I can't be if I stand up in a room filled with men to share my opinion I am seen as ignorant or rude but I stand because they don't see my hand I stand because their voices are put before mind if I speak up or react to a man I am seen as dramatic if I wear a tight dress or short skirt I'm just asking for it but what if I'm just wearing what i love what i feel comfortable in? What if it's just for me? Oh, wait it can't be, nothing I do is for me it's for them because that's what we do we listen to them there are the dominant ones the smarter ones the stronger ones the men. Time and time again I see young women young girls watch as they are put behind a man I remember playing at recess with the boys but it wasn't playing it was me sitting on the sidelines watching them kick the ball because women don't play football they wear dresses and sit on the side fanning themselves because women don't have limbs that work women sit there and they look pretty they sit there and smile but not a happy real smile, not a big smile because they can't seem too eager a calm controlled smile a subtle one a proper lady one. I remember when I was in middle school and it was warm out I wore my favorite jean shorts but my smile faded when I was shamed because I had some hair on my legs I was confused because all the boys did and no one cared I got told my shorts were not long enough and my shoulders were distracting but the boys wear what they want we can't though because what they decide to do is because of our clothing. I was in 6th grade in gym class and we were picking team captions there were two teams both captions were the boys because they knew more about basketball than girls did I watched as they picked their teammate one by one and every time they did it was a boy Team one boy Team two boy Team one boy Team two boy… until there were just girls left I watched as they studied us there eyes moving up and down they didn't think we could play so they picked the pretty ones so at least they were useful for something Team one the one with doe eyes and the button nose and clear skin Team two the one with perfectly straight blonde hair and ocean blue eyes Team one the one with the perfect body Team two the one with the straight teeth… until me and four other girls were left the boys sighed as they pointed Team one the one with glasses Team two the one who was a little bigger than the others Team one the loud outgoing one Team two me the quiet awkward one we had two separate teams two different groups of children playing against each other but what it seemed was all of the boys from each team were working together to make sure a girl didn't get the ball because if we did we would make them lose but it wasn't about winning anymore it was about them and how they are boys so they know more than we girls do. Basketball is a sport dominated by men along with football, baseball, soccer, etc. And they are sports that take skill they take strategy and are hard but I as an equestrian am constantly told I just sit there and the horse does everything and that is because it is a woman dominate sport along with gymnastics, ballet, ice skating, etc. They are all woman dominated sports so they don't take skill and they are easy you see? Anything a woman does is easy, or a man could do it it's not that hard but anything a man does is hard, and a woman can't do. Most women spend so much time making sure they look perfect for men that some men can't even buy them flowers or simply say ‘I love you’ they can't hold their hand or kiss them goodnight but they can eat the food they cook they can sit on the sofa that they cleaned and sleep in the bed they made most women are only known for love for a child for a wife but they've not known for their beauty and their fidelity their courage and their dignity men get all of that they get the power and the crown women are always one rank lower one step behind not because they are not worthy enough but because we live in a world where women are not seen as what they should be seen as they are seen as needing a man to accomplish something they are seen needing to fight and to cause a scene to be seen for what they are for who they are and it's just sad because you stop and look around you see people nothing but people. Humans we are just as much humans as we are animals women deserve to wield just as much power as men and i wont say if not more i would say just as much because we are all humans we are all equal and we are all different and we are all unique no one person thinks the same no one person looks the same but because one is feminine and not masculine does not mean they are less than.

Act Now

By Priscilla Oye

I sat in the comfort of my room contemplating the most suitable outfit for a picnic a few miles away from my residence when my eye caught a moving image on the television screen. The screen showed people moving out of their settlement in droves and underneath it was a caption, “Flood forces family out of their ancestral home.”

I had never really given thought to the possibility of climate change induced floods happening in my country until that moment. Before then, whenever I hear or read about environmental disasters caused by climate change in other countries, my concern feels as distant as their geographical location. Sheltered by the illusion that my country is insulated from the effects, the most I offer is a halfhearted thought and prayer.

The devastating flood in the wake of Hurricane Harvey in 2017, widely televised by local news outlets in my country, was my first visual exposure to the realities of climate change. Although the incident occurred in a far away foreign soil in the Americas, it confronted me with the plight of displaced people and the threats to human existence. Yet, I only talked about it for a few hours and offered thoughts and prayers.

In 2019, when Cyclone Idai wrecked havoc across the southern part of Africa, in the process destroying the lives and properties of people my country shares the same landmass with, it felt close to home. At that moment, I began to sense the proverbial winter coming. Again, I only talked about it for a few days and offered thoughts and prayers.

Then, a massive flood came along the coastal area of my country in 2021. The incident was my first close confrontation with the cold truth that my country would not be spared from the effect after all. I felt my self-inflated bubble shrink and reality began to set in. Yet again, I only talked about it for a few weeks and shared the hashtag “Pray for Nigeria”.

As I watched the heartbreaking footage of a flooded community lying a few distance away from mine, I knew it was only a matter of time before the flood arrived at my doorstep. 

The realization that the devastating effect of climate change can be observed in my backyard sent a chill through my spine. The illusion that I held in front of me shattered, revealing the folly of my indifference and inaction.

First, the scourge of climate change came for people living overseas and I did not act because it is not my continent. Then it came for those in my continent and I did not act because it is not my country. Then it came for those in my country and I did not act because it is not my community. Then, when it came for my community, I realized the thoughts and prayers I had offered to others would also be sent to us in kind with no action to back them up.

Ignoring the pile of clothes calling for my attention, I hurried out of the four walls of my room. Walking along the wet, cold and misty street, I wondered about other climate change induced disasters happening at the same time in different places around the world -Wildfires in temperate regions; floods in tropical and monsoon regions; droughts in arid regions; and melting permafrost in artic regions. The thought of humans staring helplessly in the face of our fears gave me the scare. Retributions for years of our collective negligence?

The downpour stopped soon enough. The rolling thunder seized its rumbling. The grey sky turned blue again as daylight displaced darkness. I took it as a forewarning sign to begin to take action, else a less forgiving one comes our way. The experience changed my attitude towards climate change. It shaped the way l lived ever since. I substituted meat for plant-based meals, buses for bicycle, and energy intensive appliances for more efficient ones. I repaired and reused domestic products that would have otherwise graced my refuse bin. I turned broken bowls into flower vases, worn-out clothes into pillows and pack of bottles into stools.

Perhaps we can adopt the aforementioned proactive measures and other strategies lay down by the United Nation to reduce reliance on energy use at individual level. But beyond these basic measures, we need to pressure corporations into making ethical decisions as they contribute a fairly large percentage to the world's total carbon emission. This may be achieved on two fronts. On one hand, we can identify erring companies, call them out and boycott their goods and services if necessary. On the other hand, we can pressure our government into making new regulations or updating existing ones to protect the environment.and blacklist offending companies.

The approach enables us to curtail the effects of climate change and also present the upcoming generation with a blueprint needed to realize a sustainable future. The responsibility of kickstarting the shift to make this future a reality however lies squarely on our shoulders. Let's lead the way with the first step. Act.

References

https://www.worldvision.org/disaster-relief-news-stories/2017-hurricane-harvey-facts

https://www.worldvision.org/disaster-relief-news-stories/2019-cyclone-idai-facts

https://climatetracker.org/flood-nigeria-disappearing-coastal-village/

https://africanarguments.org/2023/08/nigeria-coastal-communities-build-flood-barriers-embankments-mud-and-sticks/

https://www.un.org/en/actnow/ten-actions

God Tests His Best Knights

By Aayushmaan Malviya

God tests his best knights, but never thinks about them for once. 

Obviously problems flight, But take away tons. It might not be the right time, As rightly said. When time's committing a crime, You are just waiting for the death bed. 

I feel empty from inside, As all tears have dried. All my brothers are playing seek-and-hide, But about their positions they have lied. I saw a bird chirping everyday, Keeping me up. Now the bird's turned into hay, Torso in the eagle's nest, blood in the vulture's cup. Others are playing a game of chess, I am a participant. Just sitting here to impress, Making up a tent. Just a calm and breezy commencement to the day, slipping down some warm coffee in the backyard, awaiting the newspaper, since surfing is better than scrolling. The doorbell rang, I rested my demitasse on the escritoire, my socks gently tickled my feet as I went down the corridor. Opening the mailbox, it felt like the most refreshing essence trapped me and I leaned into it, willingfully. There was a new attachment alongside the newspaper. A letter, directed to my address, it was from my home, my ancestral house where I lived before moving out. Pure maple manuscript pages, I instantly got the hang of the writer. Only my mother can write a letter in the era of video conferences. 

10th Street Avenue Strait Park, 

Wellingham Alley 

March 2nd 2026 

Dear son, I've been longing for you since eternity, I hope you are fine and doing a terrific job at work. It is probably the last letter I am composing, I've been sick since the last few weeks, I am under constant surveillance of medical support, but these medicines can only block the way for a few days, otherwise your father is calling me. Before I walk the stairs I want to see my son once. Hope you can take some time out from the urban wind. With my warmest regards, Your mother.

The pandemonium was febrile. My tears couldn't handle my distraught but they tried their very best. It was time for me to head back to my roots. I swept away the dust from my portmanteau, packed my life in it, and made a run for the bus. The fresh air, the raw streets with hearts of gold. I, for a moment, forgot my purpose. All of my crumbled confidence and trepidation wafted up in the air. 

Even though it was a remote vicinity, but the experience was incredulous. While I was delved into my own nostalgia, a woman, with a creaky voice and a slightly bent back, but flawless hair patted my shoulders. "I missed you so much. I am just hanging on a cliff with my hopes clinged on your arrival. I wanted to meet you once before I break ties from the earthly abstracts."  

The room consisted of just the two of us, but the memories and versatile emotions left no corner vacant. I looked over my childhood draped over the wall. We spent the night with tranquility, immersed into the past, I heard some bellows which reminded me of the wolves that used to protect us during the night, I comforted myself in the warmest blanket, but it felt like the urban wind has frozen my equipment. It seemed like the howls had no intention of hitting the skids, so I clustered some pebbles to ensure that they maintain a distance from our house. The cold breeze shuddered my spirit but something had to be done. 

The wooden doors of our house were opened to the startling visuals of a crew of men with the most expensive arms all locked and loaded. I rushed back to my house to ensure that my mother does not wake up. 

"Why are you trembling?" She said in a faint voice with her eyes closed, I didn't respond. The night darkened and finally a void was suspended in the air. The dawning sun endeavoured and carved out the greatest challenge. When the clock struck 12 noon, a dozen or more men rusted the town hall, announcing that they have held the town hostage and acts of repulsion won't reap fruitful outcomes. All of us were ransacked into an old library, with no food, no water whatsoever, just the one gallon of soda stationed near the gate. 

I was tensed about my mother's state, her health was slendering, all this escalated her pulse above hundred. I calmed her down but for how long. We were indefinitely trapped in this bunker of death with absolutely no inkling of the future. The mendicants of Mercy, Dragged into the null and void. The bunker turned into the innocence's penitentiary, People just scrolling it down on their Droid. 

Five days went by, every second felt like an hour, and now the terrorists had to do what they did. They broke into the scene and shot one down in front of the gate as a message to the media and to the government. The trepidation resonated our souls. Our throats were slit, the sounds of birds flapping away incarcerated our senses, every five to ten days, they came in, shot one, and went back. 

It felt like we were just toys to them. I tried to keep my mother calm but the only words she would say incessantly were "They are going to kill us." 

My heart was torn apart into fragments. A month passed, her dilapidation crept up on my senses. We were sitting in the puddle of blood that once rushed in the nerves of our brothers. I was just feeding my mother her medicines with the help of the soda and keeping her distracted with the ostentatious abstracts when a couple of guys stormed in. 

The gates creaked open and the dark room was illuminated, I saw a hope in that light as we were finally set free. My mother and I finally inhaled the air of freedom. A sense of tranquil rushed past my soul as I tossed a look upon my mother to finally witness her smile, which I missed for a whole month, but her expression was contrary to my expectations, her eyes were shut, the Sun never rose. 

After the cremation of her choice, I went back to my home. Which was just a piece of land now. When I looked at the past, it was dark. The cataclysmic events of the last month left a drastic impact and an everlasting scar. While I was sitting at the bed where she would tuck me to the blanket and sing me lullabies, I heard the knocking of the door, picking up the piece of cardboard which had my illustration with another woman, I mustered all my courage and opened the door. The neighbors were clustered on the street. "We are in this together."

Shake It Off

By Khrizza Castillo

I’m sure you might have heard the song “Shake It Off” at least once in your life. The said song was great, it has a lively beat and catchy tune, and based on the title it is implied that it was about ignoring or brushing things up and just going on your day. This was a common motto in the poor nooks and slums of the Philippines. Totally normal thing right? But as always there is more than meets the eye.

One of the normal things in our everyday life is poverty and hunger, it should not be normal but it is the reality. It has always been there, even in ancient times, but no known cases exist where zero people have experienced hunger. How miserable it must be that even though there are many resources to replenish our need for nutrients, many people still don’t get to eat and have to endure sleeping with grumbling stomachs.

“Pagpag”. That was the name my fellow countrymen call the food they have recycled. It can be translated as dusting off or shaking off the dust. They would scavenge garbage usually near fast food chains to get leftover chickens with little meat on them, clean it, and re-cook it to serve it to their family or even a small way to get money by selling it for a little price.

It was possible to get diarrhea, typhoid, and hepatitis from eating Pagpag because the re-cooking process may not be enough to kill the toxins or the bacteria that had accumulated from its time in the trash bin. People knew the risks of eating this food however it came to a point that it did not matter or bother them if they got sick or poisoned. What matters the most to them is filling their stomachs, feeding their family, giving sustenance to their little ones, etc.

At first, even I could not believe that a person could do such things. I was very bewildered and mindblown. How desperate must they be to reach a level where they have to do that? How naive. Pagpag was a big reality check for me, it taught me that there might be different ways to resolve their hunger but would that still matter if their eyes are already white because of hunger? This food may not be a lot and even disgusted many, it does not matter; tightening their belts would not suffice anyway but Pagpag carries them to survival– the food that they shake the dust off lets them dream for a better tomorrow.

Life might not always give us the gifts that we are hoping for– always remember that life is a gift itself. We must always persevere and work hard for a better tomorrow where hopefully no one experiences coiling insides because of hunger. Thrive for a zero hunger future and I hope you don’t shake it off.

In The Heart of Nigeria

By Chisom Annabella

In the heart of Nigeria, amidst the bustling streets of Lagos, there lived a young girl named Ada. She had dreams as vast as the Nigerian sky, but her reality was clouded by the oppressive weight of poverty and inequality. Yet, Ada refused to let her circumstances define her destiny. 

Every morning, before the sun could kiss the horizon, Ada would sneak out of her small, rundown shack to attend school. Education was her only beacon of hope in a world filled with darkness. Despite facing ridicule and discrimination, Ada remained resilient, determined to carve out a better future for herself and her community. 

One day, while walking to school, Ada stumbled upon a group of children huddled together under a bridge. They were dirty, malnourished, and devoid of hope. Moved by compassion, Ada approached them and learned that they were street children, abandoned by society and forgotten by the world. Unable to turn a blind eye, Ada took it upon herself to be their voice. 

She rallied her classmates and together they started a grassroots movement to advocate for the rights of street children. They organized protests, lobbied government officials, and raised awareness about the plight of the marginalized. 

Their efforts caught the attention of local NGOs and international organizations. Soon, Ada and her friends found themselves at the forefront of a nationwide campaign for children's rights. They were invited to speak at conferences, participate in workshops, and collaborate with policymakers to enact change. 

But their journey was fraught with challenges. They faced backlash from conservative groups, threats from corrupt officials, and skepticism from those who doubted their abilities. Yet, Ada remained undeterred, fueled by the fire of righteousness burning within her soul.

As their movement gained momentum, Ada and her friends became symbols of hope and resilience. They inspired countless others to join their cause, sparking a wave of activism across Nigeria and beyond. Their voices echoed in the halls of power, demanding justice, equality, and dignity for all. Slowly but surely, the tide began to turn. Laws were enacted to protect the rights of street children, programs were implemented to provide them with shelter and education, and initiatives were launched to address the root causes of poverty and inequality. Nigeria was undergoing a transformation, guided by the principles of human rights and sustainable development. 

Years passed, and Ada grew into a fearless leader, championing the cause of social justice on a global scale. She traveled the world, sharing her story and inspiring others to stand up for what is right. And though the journey was long and arduous, Ada never forgot the children who had sparked her activism. 

Underneath the bright lights of Lagos, Ada returned to the bridge where it all began. The once-desolate space was now filled with laughter and joy, as children played freely without fear or insecurity. Tears of gratitude welled up in Ada's eyes as she realized the impact of her efforts. In that moment, Ada understood the true power of human rights and sustainable development. It was not merely about laws and policies, but about the collective will of individuals to create a world where every voice is heard, every life is valued, and every dream is possible. And as she looked out at the horizon, Ada knew that the journey was far from over, but with courage, compassion, and determination, anything was possible.