Congratulations to the winners of the HeForShe Writing Contest

     

 

Now that you know about my stone, what will you do?

Will you tell me I enjoy playing the victim, that it’s all in my head?

Or will you join me in the fight? We will throw stones into the ocean,

and watch our ripple effect.

True stories./

I am

I am Khadijah

Tortured

Raped

Black ink imbedded my arms

As mere souvenirs of the memories

That scrape my mind

A black cape

Covering me with fear/

I am Parisa.

Hidden behind my camera lens

Hidden from them

A passion stuck in a cocoon

Pondering the day it will bloom

But I am stuck here on this roof

As if I can’t capture frames

As good as him/

I am Marie

Innocent

Walking on a street in Paris

He came

His words

Dig into my chest/

STOP!/

But he slapped me

His palm marks my skin briefly

His palm marks my soul forever/

I am I am I am…/

Our stories collide

If you take off the pins

Stuck in positions on the map

Our differences subside/

Why do we hide in the dirt

If we are all roots planted in the ground

Foundations

Holding ourselves together

To finally reach the sky/

With each other, our only direction is up/

But we inhale fear

And exhale silence

As our voices are only heard

If they were fortunate enough

To catch our voices amongst their

Yelling and their screams/

We are authors with novels to share

Photographers that show us the world

Businesswomen that lead companies

Engineers that transform cities/

We hide big ideas in a small world/

Why don’t we replace I am with we are

As a mass of voices

Can be heard louder than/

Mine/

In this whirlwind of

Distasteful ideas

That mark our bodies

Our minds

We have to believe that we are

One of a kind/

We are not a minority

The majority

Of our time

Should be spent changing the world

Not treated like this/

We are more powerful if we are together

We are one.

(excerpt from story)

They were marching and it was dark. Barely a light in sight, as they tromped along, damp grass underfoot. A silence filled the air. They were together and yet quite apart. Each knew where their feet would lead. Each sensed that the other was on track with a certain mission, indeed the same mission that each was determined to fulfill. And so they marched, onwards, ever towards their goal.

One had been wounded deeply. There were no physical scars, but deep inside a feeling of dejection arose, and it led quite naturally to an overpowering sensation of bitterness. All those years, working so hard, clearly being so dedicated (beyond description), inching so slowly to the inevitable conclusion. Head down. Surroundings all filtered out: trees, birds, sunshine and all other human beings in the world. A unity of one. A sense of purpose clearly known. Marching onwards, even then. And marching onwards now, with companions in tow. One day a realization that striving for one's heart's desire would never truly resonate unless an audience was there to recognize the accomplishment. An echo needed to be created, to reverberate to everyone in ear's reach of the sound. And so the goal was not abandoned but simply adjusted, to move towards the end in sight, all the time being seen.

The other had arrived on the journey from quite a different route. Marching onwards because that was simply “the thing to do”. Feeling lost, unclear about any reasons for the trek. Putting one foot in front of the other, instinctively. (Much later, when asked, the explanation would be that all the actions taken came from a sense of destiny and of duty, with very little logical explanation. An inner sense of obligation pervaded and then dictated all further bodily motions).

Let us be clear. The other could never truly understand the pain of the primary marcher (let us leave the journey to those who are true travellers, let us not diminish their experiences and their struggles, let us not presume to know, yea to ever know). Destined to forever be an onlooker, it was still possible to observe, to empathize and to even have an admirable goal, which when achieved, would yield a true sense of accomplishment[...]

To read the full story, pick up the HeForShe anthology at the W Store or  the Writing and Communication Centre beginning March 11.

(excerpt from story)

In a garden out of conscious reach, roses of charming elegance bloom with the sunsets and whisper with the nights. Some crawl up the pillars of the classic tiled gazebo to delight in the shade while others peek joyfully beyond the fence of their world into the great nothingness. Their realm provided them with all sorts of exquisite structures for them to play on. Throughout the years, the roses have survived in the enchanted garden. The wind carried their fallen leaves to the distant mountains, the sunlight soothed their stiff outlines, the snow left a universe of stars on their petals, and the rain placed crystal pearls on their faces. The younger ones giggled at the new encounters, while the older ones thought themselves too mature to marvel and remained hushed in their places. The sophisticated roses thought they were the ones taking responsibility for the young ones and often burdened themselves with anxiety whenever they attempted some silly stunt or spoke of a forbidden concept. “What is that floating house over there?” one would always ask. Then they would gesture towards the mansion in the clouds. Of course, the older ones knew all about the history of that mansion. There was the owner, whom the roses deemed “Father”. He was a harsh man, gentle enough towards the flowers but always seemed to be briskly pacing and worrying of the future. There was the owner’s wife, whom the roses deemed “Mother”. She was a compassionate woman who had always had a fondness for roses, and she was the one who had planted the bulbs. Every day, she would put on her sun hat and gloves to tenderly water the flowers, all while humming a delicate melody. Yet they decided to keep the inexperienced ones ignorant, as they enjoyed having some compelling information to keep secret from them.

One day, Father decided that his wife was too old to keep tending to the garden and employed many gardeners to maintain the area. Mother would gaze thoughtfully from her window at the gardeners caring for her precious plants, even though it was beyond her capabilities to instruct them. The gardeners were expected to be able and vigorous to love the roses. Though they were supposed to rotate evenly throughout the garden, it was obvious some gardeners had favoured certain roses and watered them with the utmost uncharacteristic gentleness. The roses deemed these ones “husbands”. To demonstrate their loyalty to the other gardeners, the husbands would tie a lovely ribbon on their most cherished rose. The roses envied those ribbons as they seemed to give the wearers an unexplainable sense of self-esteem. Even if the ribbon was too tight against their stalks, the special roses would proudly present them to the others. There were also some uncertain gardeners that seemed more like roses than anything. Their hair piled softly on their heads like petals, their eyes twinkled like jewels in the sun, and their hands were better off reaching for the glow of the stars than digging around in the dirt. These ones were greatly punished by their employment. Their backs would ache from the constant shovelling and heaving of particularly heavy packages. Worst of all, they would be bothered endlessly by the others for being roselike. The strong gardeners would tease them about their extraordinary imaginations, and Father would frown upon their abnormal appearances. The most roselike of all was Philo. He tried to keep his roseness hidden under an armour of silence and disappearance, often retreating to the most obscure of places in the vast garden. His most preferred alcove would be a nook in a tree, where luminous antique lanterns hung from the branches and fairies seemed to flitter between the leaves. But this corner of the world would often be too damp to be seated comfortably, so he usually abandoned it for a spot on a large rock next to the tranquil waterfall, which was surrounded by soaring columns of marble that seemed to extend to the sky. It was here that he happened upon the rose that would change his life forever[...]

To read the full story, pick up the HeForShe anthology at the W Store or  the Writing and Communication Centre beginning March 11.

(excerpt from story)

Worker Bees are Female. Google it, Honey.

The infamous worker bee is indeed female. The cruciality of the worker bee, as a fundamental creature to the ecosystem should never be understated. The worker bee is, indisputably, the backbone to our survival. In fact, her role is so crucial that if the bees were to go extinct, our human civilizations would be short to follow.

I promise, my seemingly arbitrary tangent holds some relevance in a feminist paper. While it may seem that my importunity is irrelevant or somewhat unnecessary, consider for a moment, that all my life I had surmised that worker bees were all male. Under this misconception, I falsely deduced that in the bee community, it was the Queen bee’s male counterparts, who would do all of the risky work such as venture outward the hive to concur the fields. Admittedly, contributing to my supposition was partially the fault that I simply do not often google bee facts. However, my presumption that ambitious females appertained solely to the human race was incorrect and largely attributed to the detrimental stereotypes society pushes when attempting to define male vs. female roles.

The natural world embodies the progressive structure that we as human beings strive toward. None-the-less, my point prevails, why are the worker bees, who are so immensely necessary, so highly underrated? Similarly, why is the working woman so highly underrated? How do we acclaim the working women as she cultivates a field of her own?[...]

To read the full story, pick up the HeForShe anthology at the W Store or  the Writing and Communication Centre beginning March 11.

(excerpt from story)

I am lucky.

I am one of the fortunate people who can say I have five individuals who support me. I have five other people that will do anything for me to help me be happy. That will be there through the best and worst moments of my life. That will help me jump over every hurdle. That will help me change into the person I want to be.

These five people are all seventeen year old girls.

I’ve known these girls for years. I’ve watched them grow, thrive, cry. I’ve been there through break ups, depression, and anxiety attacks. I’ve also been there while running for coveted positions, getting good grades, and passing drivers tests. I’ve walked beside them as we fight for our dreams, and when they are wounded, I bandage that pain the best I can. They should always know I am there with them through anything.

I love them like sisters.

But from a young age, we don’t always learn to see other girls as confidantes, people we can rely on and who rely on us. Who we can share secrets, laughs and heartbreak with. People we rely on to live full lives.

We learn to see them as competition[...]

To read the full story, pick up the HeForShe anthology at the W Store or  the Writing and Communication Centre beginning March 11.