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True story
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| MASTER | Date: Seshanba, 08/07/22, 2:07:06 AM | Message # 1 |
 Adminstrator
Group: ADMINISTRATOR
Messages: 7609
Status:  | LIGHTNING STRIKES
SEVEN TIMES!
Some people say that lightning never strikes twice.
But sometimes ,it does! Just ask Roy Sullivan.
In his lifetime,Sullivan,a park ranger from Virgina,
survived seven incredible strikes.
Six of the strikes hit Sullivan at Shenandoah National
Park.The first happened in 1942 when he was standing in a
lookout tower.It took off one his toenails.The second strike
occurred in 1969 while he was driving.It burned off his eyebrows
The third strike came in 1970 as he was walking across his
front yard.It burned his shoulders.The fourth,in 1972,hit him
when he was standing in a ranger station.The fifth,sixth,and
seventh strikes all occured within just four years.
The fifth strike happened in 1973.Sullivan was at work
when he saw that a storm cloud was forming.He got in his
truck and tried to go faster than the cloud.As soon as he
was sure that he safe,he got out of his truck.But that was
a mistake.
"I actually saw the lightning shoot out of the cloud this time,"
he said "It was coming straight for me."The strike set his
hair on fire and traveled down his leg.Then it took off his shoe.
The sixth strike came in 1974 as he was checking a campground.
Finally,the seventh found him in 1977 while he was fishing.
The lightning strikes damaged both Sullivan's health and his
relationships.After people heard his story, they were afraid to be
around him."Naturally,people avoid me,"Sullivan told a reporter.
"I was walking with the chief ranger one day,and lightning struck
way off,and he said."I'll see you later,Roy"
وَلاَ حَوْلَ وَلاَ قُوَّةَ إِلاَّ بِاللَّ
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| Azimjanov | Date: Seshanba, 08/08/19, 0:08:21 AM | Message # 2 |
 Forum azosi
Group: Foydalanuvchi
Messages: 31
Status: | I HAD A REAL STORY BOOK. I'LL WRITE TO HERE NEXT TIME.
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| Abdurahmon | Date: Shanba, 08/08/30, 4:25:23 PM | Message # 3 |
 Yangilardan
Group: Foydalanuvchi
Messages: 7
Status: | Azimjanov, When you are going to write the story?I'm waiting for you 
Beshikdan to qabrgacha ilim izla!!! (hadisi sharif)
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| MASTER | Date: Shanba, 09/11/14, 1:09:27 AM | Message # 4 |
Adminstrator
Group: ADMINISTRATOR
Messages: 7609
Status: | Azimjanov, Could you give me this book please?
وَلاَ حَوْلَ وَلاَ قُوَّةَ إِلاَّ بِاللَّ
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| MASTER | Date: Juma, 10/01/29, 3:37:56 PM | Message # 5 |
Adminstrator
Group: ADMINISTRATOR
Messages: 7609
Status: | Gold Wrapping Paper
The story goes that some time ago a mother punished her five year old daughter for wasting a roll of expensive gold wrapping paper. Money was tight and she became even more upset when the child used the gold paper to decorate a box to put under the Christmas tree. Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift box to her mother the next morning and then said,
'This is for you, Mummy.' The mother was embarrassed by her earlier over reaction, but her anger flared again when she opened the box and found it was empty. She spoke to her daughter in a harsh manner 'Don't you know, young lady, when you give someone a present there's supposed to be something inside the package?' She had tears in her eyes and said, 'Oh, Mummy, it's not empty! I blew kisses into it until it was full.' The mother was crushed. She fell on her knees and put her arms around her little girl, and she begged her forgiveness for her thoughtless anger. An accident took the life of the child only a short time later, and it is told that the mother kept that gold box by her bed for all the years of her life. Whenever she was discouraged or
faced difficult problems she would open the box and take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there. In a very real sense, each of us, as human beings, have been given a Golden box filled with unconditional love and kisses from our children, family, friends
and GOD. There is no more precious possession anyone could hold.
وَلاَ حَوْلَ وَلاَ قُوَّةَ إِلاَّ بِاللَّ
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| MASTER | Date: Shanba, 10/02/06, 4:04:46 PM | Message # 6 |
Adminstrator
Group: ADMINISTRATOR
Messages: 7609
Status: | Jasmine
In 2003, police in Warwickshire, England, opened a garden shed and found a whimpering, cowering dog. It had been locked in the shed and abandoned. It was dirty and malnourished, and had clearly been abused. In an act of kindness, the police took the dog, which was a Greyhound female, to the nearby Nuneaton Warwickshire Wildlife Sanctuary, run by a man named Geoff Grewcock and known as a willing haven for Animals abandoned, orphaned or otherwise in need. Click for-
Geoff and the other sanctuary staff went to work with two aims to restore the dog to full health, and to win her trust. It took several weeks, but eventually both goals were achieved. They named her Jasmine, and they started to think about finding her an adoptive home.
But Jasmine had other ideas. No-one remembers now how it began, but she started welcoming all Animal arrivals at the sanctuary. It wouldn't matter if it was a puppy, a fox cub, a rabbit or, any other lost or hurting Animal, Jasmine would peer into the box or cage and, where possible, deliver a welcoming lick.
Geoff relates one of the early incidents. "We had two puppies that had been abandoned by a nearby railway line. One was a Lakeland Terrier cross and another was a Jack Russell Doberman cross. They were tiny when they arrived at the centre and Jasmine approached them and grabbed one by the scruff of the neck in her mouth and put him on the settee. Then she fetched the other one and sat down with them, cuddling them." "But she is like that with all of our animals, even the rabbits. She takes all the stress out of them and it helps them to not only feel close to her but to settle into their new surroundings.
"She has done the same with the fox and badger cubs, she licks the rabbits and guinea pigs and even lets the birds perch on the bridge of her nose." Jasmine, the timid, abused, deserted waif, became the animal sanctuary's resident surrogate mother, a role for which she might have been born. The list of orphaned and abandoned youngsters she has cared for comprises five fox cubs, four badger cubs, 15 chicks, eight guinea pigs, two stray puppies and 15 rabbits. And one roe deer fawn. Tiny Bramble, 11 weeks old, was found semi-conscious in a field. Upon arrival at the sanctuary, Jasmine cuddled up to her to keep her warm, and then went into the full foster mum role. Jasmine the greyhound showers Bramble the Roe deer with affection and makes sure nothing is matted.
"They are inseparable," says Geoff "Bramble walks between her legs and they keep kissing each other. They walk together round the sanctuary.
It's a real treat to see them."
Jasmine will continue to care for Bramble until she is old enough to be returned to woodland life. When that happens, Jasmine will not be lonely. She will be too busy showering love and affection on the next Orphan or victim of abuse.
وَلاَ حَوْلَ وَلاَ قُوَّةَ إِلاَّ بِاللَّ
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| MASTER | Date: Payshanba, 10/03/18, 11:09:58 PM | Message # 7 |
Adminstrator
Group: ADMINISTRATOR
Messages: 7609
Status: | In 1919 when the flu killed 40 million people, there was a doctor who visited many farmers to see if he could help them combat the flu. Many of the farmers and their family had contracted it, and many died.
The doctor came upon one farmer, and to his surprise, everyone in the household was very healthy. When the doctor asked what the farmer was doing that was different, the wife replied that she had placed an unpeeled onion in a dish in the rooms of the home (probably only two rooms back then). The doctor couldn't believe it and asked if he could have one of the onions and place it under the microscope. She gave him one, and when he did this, he did find the flu virus in the onion. It obviously absorbed the bacteria, therefore, keeping the family healthy.
Now, I heard this story from my hairdresser in AZ. She said that several years ago many of her employees were coming down with the flu and so were many of her customers. The next year she placed several bowls with onions around in her shop. To her surprise, none of her staff got sick. It must work... (And no, she is not in the onion business.)
The moral of the story is, buy some onions and place them in bowls around your home. If you work at a desk, place one or two in your office or under your desk or even on top somewhere. Try it and see what happens. We did it last year, and we never got the flu.
If this helps you and your loved ones from getting sick, all the better. If you do get the flu, it just might be a mild case....Whatever, what have you to lose? Just a few bucks on onions!
Now there is a P.S. to this, for I sent it to a friend in Oregon who regularly contributes material to me on health issues.. She replied with this most interesting experience about onions: Thanks for the reminder. I don't know about the farmer's story...but I do know that I contracted pneumonia, and needless to say I was very ill. I came across an article that said to cut both ends off an onion. Put one end on a fork, and then place the forked end into an empty jar...placing the jar next to the sick patient at night. It said the onion would be black in the morning from the germs. Sure enough, it happened just like that...the onion was a mess, and I began to feel better.
Another thing I read in the article was that onions and garlic placed around the room saved many from the black plague years ago. They have powerful antibacterial, antiseptic properties.
This is the other note: LEFTOVER ONIONS ARE POISONOUS! I have used an onion which has been left in the fridge. Sometimes I don't use a whole one at one time, so I save the other half for later. Now with this info, I have changed my mind. I will buy smaller onions in the future.
I had the wonderful privilege of touring Mullins Food Products, makers of mayonnaise. Mullins is huge, and is owned by 11 brothers and sisters in the Mullins family. My friend, Jeanne, is the CEO. Questions about food poisoning came up, and I wanted to share what I learned from a chemist. The guy who gave us our tour is named Ed. He's one of the brothers. Ed is a chemistry expert and is involved in developing most of the sauce formula. He's even developed sauce formula for McDonald's. Keep in mind that Ed is a food chemistry whiz.
During the tour, someone asked if we really needed to worry about mayonnaise. People are always worried that mayonnaise will spoil. Ed's answer will surprise you. Ed said that all commercially-made mayo is completely safe. "It doesn't even have to be refrigerated. No harm in refrigerating it, but it's not really necessary." He explained that the pH in mayonnaise is set at a point that bacteria could not survive in that environment. He then talked about the quintessential picnic, with the bowl of potato salad sitting on the table and how everyone blames the mayonnaise when someone gets sick.
Ed says that when food poisoning is reported, the first thing the officials look for is when the 'victim' last ate ONIONS and where those onions came from (in the potato salad?). Ed says it's not the mayonnaise (as long as it's not homemade mayo) that spoils in the outdoors. It's probably the onions, and if not the onions, it's the POTATOES.
He explained, onions are a huge magnet for bacteria, especially uncooked onions.. You should never plan to keep a portion of a sliced onion. He says it's not even safe if you put it in a zip-lock bag and put it in your refrigerator.
وَلاَ حَوْلَ وَلاَ قُوَّةَ إِلاَّ بِاللَّ
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| MASTER | Date: Payshanba, 10/03/18, 11:10:28 PM | Message # 8 |
Adminstrator
Group: ADMINISTRATOR
Messages: 7609
Status: | It's already contaminated enough just by being cut open and out for a bit, that it can be a danger to you (and doubly watch out for those onions you put on your hotdogs at the baseball park!)
Ed says if you take the leftover onion and cook it like crazy you'll probably be okay, but if you slice that leftover onion and put it on your sandwich, you're asking for trouble. Both the onions and the moist potato in a potato salad will attract and grow bacteria faster than any commercial mayonnaise will even begin to break down.
So, how's that for news? Take it for what you will. I (the author) am going to be very careful about my onions from now on. For some reason, I see a lot of credibility coming from a chemist and a company that produces millions of pounds of mayonnaise every year.
Also, dogs should never eat onions. Their stomachs cannot metabolize onions.
Please remember it is dangerous to cut onions and try to use it to cook the next day. It becomes highly poisonous for even a single night and creates toxic bacteria which may cause adverse stomach infections because of excess bile secretions and even food poisoning.
وَلاَ حَوْلَ وَلاَ قُوَّةَ إِلاَّ بِاللَّ
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| LOLA | Date: Yakshanba, 12/12/16, 4:15:05 PM | Message # 9 |
 Peshqadam
Group: Muslima
Messages: 1547
Status: | Smartphone Apps Now use Microphone to Record Your conversations
Cellphone takes private pictures without your consent
Paul Joseph Watson
Infowars.com
October 15, 2012
Did you know that many of the apps you download to your smartphone now use your microphone to listen to you and your camera to take pictures of you without your confirmation?
New terms of agreement contracts now being attached to app downloads require users to accept that their cellphones become literal monitoring devices that record conversations and surreptitiously take pictures without the user ever giving permission.
It’s been common knowledge for years that app companies and service providers use GPS technology to pinpoint the location of smartphone users.
However, after purchasing a new Samsung Galaxy Note II and proceeding to download a couple of Android apps, one a social networking app and the other a simple calendar, I was shocked to discover that users are mandated to relinquish every aspect of privacy imaginable in order to download the app.
As you can see from the image above, app companies now demand the right to;
- “Record Audio” – “Allows the app to record audio with the microphone. This permission allows the app to record audio at any time without your confirmation.”
- “Take pictures and videos” – “Allows the app to take pictures and videos with the camera. This permission allows the app to use the camera at any time without your confirmation.”
App companies are also requiring you to allow them to approximate your location, send SMS messages from your phone that cost you money, read your contacts, read your phone status and identity, get “full network access” to your communications (in other words listen to your phone calls), modify or delete the contents of your USB storage, and disable your screen lock (the 4 digit code that password-protects your phone).
Since the vast majority of people simply consent to terms of agreement without bothering to read them, this means that potentially millions of smartphone users all over the world have given app companies and by extension service providers permission to record their conversations and take pictures of their private life.
This has been allowed to pass virtually unnoticed with barely any press attention or privacy debate whatsoever.
Since smartphones are dependent on apps, users are being given the option to either not use them and render their expensive device largely redundant, or submit to have their private conversations and personal life catalogued as if they were trapped inside The Truman Show.
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| LOLA | Date: Juma, 12/12/21, 12:30:23 PM | Message # 10 |
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Peshqadam
Group: Muslima
Messages: 1547
Status: | Carnage by Marie Manilla
Trash is heaped up in alleys, at the ends of driveways: bones of Christmas boxes, turkey carcasses racoons have wrestled free, shreds of wrapping-paper skin. We’re all bloated from too many parties, our annual over-indulgence of yes-yes-yes.
I haul the tree to the attic, grind the last of the leftovers in the garbage disposal. Through the window a smattering of whiteness in the back garden—an odd snow circle, but no, we haven’t had snow. Perhaps mulch mould, but it’s too cold for that. Maybe the dog dragged something back there and ripped it to shreds. She does that. Tissues. Little boxes. Stuffed toys. A carnivorous instinct redirected.
I hate what I find: bird feathers, perfectly plucked, some downy, some slick with the opalescent sheen of a pigeon. No hint of head or clawed foot or angled wing. A cat, no doubt, having his own Christmas feast. Likely our neighbour’s outdoor mouser. I don’t begrudge him, even if neighbours hate his destruction, so many mockingbirds downed beneath their sugar maples.
A week later I’m walking my dog in the alley, all the Christmas trash collected except for the occasional tipped-over pine twined with tinsel, the overlooked ornament. Such a blue-blue sky, and then what looks like a fat snowflake floats down, two, three, but only in one narrow funnel. I trace the trail up as more and more flecks drift down. Is it ash? Burning paper? No. They’re feathers, downy small ones, and I follow the flume to a bird perched atop a telephone pole, preening, I think, loosening a few feathers in the process. But then larger feathers sail down, the ones necessary for flight. Too many for that bird to soar again. And then I understand. It’s a hawk plucking its prey clean, getting to the hidden feast.
I stop to confirm the hawk’s beak, forgetting my dog, who wanders ahead dragging her leash. She pauses and her eyes ask why I’ve stopped, if she should come back. And I worry for her. She’s small, but not light enough for a hawk to swoop down and carry off, though a raccoon could probably wrestle her from a Hefty bag. Cycle of life, and all.
Four days ago we killed an Iranian general. It was a drone strike, another bird of prey. No one breathed, either here in the U.S. or in Iran, as we waited for the fallout. And then it happened, not feathers, but bombs, rained down on an Iraqi airbase housing U.S. soldiers. No one was killed. It was a calculated response of face-saving de-escalation.
Three years ago, after another Christmas, I found a drone in my backyard, a spidery thing with four propellers. A kid’s toy like something out of Star Wars. I imagined the frantic children roaming the streets and alleys for their lost gift, a father growling behind them at the expense, the waste. So I hauled it to the end of my driveway where it might be more easily found. A few hours later it was gone, safely tucked back beneath the tree, or in some kid’s bedroom where he spun the propellers while plotting his next manoeuvre.
Here, in this alley, it’s stopped snowing feathers. The hawk eyes me, my dog, so I back away, one eye on the bird until the snow starts again as the bird returns to her feast. Danger averted for me, for my dog, for children tucked safely in their bedrooms here and in Iran, and finally, for just a minute, I can breathe.
Marie Manilla is a graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. Her novel, The Patron Saint of Ugly, received The Weatherford Award. Shrapnel won The Fred Bonnie Award for Best First Novel. Stories in her collection, Still Life with Plums, first appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Prairie Schooner, Mississippi Review, and other journals. Her essays have appeared in Word Riot, Cossack Review, Still, and elsewhere. Learn more at www.mariemanilla.com.
Posted in Stories and tagged christmas, CNF, creative non-fiction, essayists, Flash CNF, flash nonfiction, Marie Manilla, Memoir, short stories. Bookmark the permalink.
Message edited by LOLA - Juma, 12/12/21, 12:42:03 PM |
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| LOLA | Date: Juma, 12/12/21, 12:45:37 PM | Message # 11 |
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Peshqadam
Group: Muslima
Messages: 1547
Status: | The Story of a Vietnamese Prostitute
It was one of those hot Saigonese evenings. I was sitting in one of those depraved pubs of Bui Vien Street, having some beers with two Japanese fellow travelers, while watching the motley crowd rambling up and down the road. It was then when, all of a sudden, that cheery, young local girl darted out of the throng, and by the very next instant, had taken the liberty to occupy the vacant fourth chair around our table.
As our interaction thus commenced, and despite her superficial appearance differing in nothing from that of so many a common prostitute sauntering around that area, she quickly made it clear, employing speech and manners, that she wasn’t such an ordinary one after all. What mainly impressed me about her person was her grit, frankness, and eagerness to speak openly about her situation. So, finding that situation of hers intriguing, I urged her to narrate a great deal of her peculiar life story, which I here cite…
“How did your childhood go by?”
“No differently than the one of any typical Vietnamese child. I grew up in a farmers’ family in a small rural town. Like all other kids, I went to school every day and played games in the afternoons.
“That until my sixteen… I then started to drink. I was boozing every single day throughout my teens. I became a proper alcoholic. Then I also lost my virginity, and I right away became equally addicted to sex as to alcohol. I may have slept with half the male population of my hometown.
“I quit school and stopped associating with other teenagers altogether. I was finding them tormentingly dull, speaking only about stupid Korean movies and boy bands and stuff. I began hanging out with old gay guys. I looked up to them as sages. I was fascinated by their sense of freedom and their guts to disregard public opinion.
“That was pretty much my life until I moved to Saigon after I turned eighteen.”
“How come you moved to Saigon in the first place?”
“I always wanted to leave my hometown. That place was too narrow for me, too restricting for what I dreamed for my life. Furthermore, during the last few months of my stay there, my position was incredibly unpleasant due to a problematic relationship I was in.
“I was together with that boy… He was constantly upset because I had sex with lots of other guys, especially when they were his friends. I loved him, but I could not do otherwise, as he was away most of the time. He worked as a male prostitute, gay-for-trade, and had to go to the cities to find clients. I was waiting for my chance to leave him.
“The opportunity finally arose with the aid of one of those gay friends of mine. He introduced me to that girl he knew in Saigon, a few years older than me she was, and he asked her to host me in her apartment and help me start a new life.
“So it happened. I moved to Saigon and stayed with her and her boyfriend for the first month. But the situation there was very intense for me. He was a drug dealer, that dude. They were smoking meth the whole time, screaming and fighting like animals. It was very wild. I also tried to smoke with them a time or two, but I didn’t like it. I could not stand it anymore. So I ran away and endeavored to make a living on my own.”
“And how exactly did you proceed with making a living on your own?”
“I was always charmed by white men. In my hometown, I had mostly known them from American movies. I’d rarely see one in real life, and I was utterly bewitched every time I happened to run into one. And then, in Saigon, I was suddenly surrounded by all those handsome tourists everywhere. At that time, I’d have gladly paid to have sex with them. But then, I found out that a great many of them were willing to pay me for sex instead. Those were the happiest days of my life. It felt like living in a dream.
“It wasn’t prostitution for me, the whole thing. It was fun. My primary objective for sleeping with someone was my pleasure. The money was just what came along with it, a convenient side-effect, so to say. I never slept with someone I didn’t like. And unlike what girls here normally do, I was never asking for money before the act. Nor was I asking afterwards, actually. It’s just that those men would always give me some money on their own initiative, as a sort of gift for the satisfaction I offered them.”
“You were, let’s say, a prostitute-on-donations, eh?”
“Hmm, you may say so. But I was more than a mere prostitute. Look, the clients I usually picked were guys who, despite being handsome, had some serious confidence issues. Besides sex, they needed someone to talk to. We spent some quality chatting time together, and they appreciated that. I had my steady clients, who would come to the bars looking specifically for me. I could easily clear 200-300 dollars a day, far more than the average girl earns.”
“So I guess you rather were a prostitute-psychologist-on-donations… And how come you stopped practicing the profession?”
“I only practiced it for a few months, in fact, less than a year. I stopped when I met my ex-boyfriend. He was a 66-year-old Englishman, a man of great intelligence and strong character. He taught me English. He taught me everything I know. He made me all I am.”
“And what did he do about your financing?”
“Oh, I wasn’t with him for the money. Imagine that, when we first met, he even lied to me that he doesn’t have any money to give me – so to test me. But I slept with him several times, anyway, because I liked him. Only later, when we got in a proper relationship, he divulged that he’s extremely wealthy. But I never was with him for the money. I loved him with all my heart.”
“I see… And how much money was he giving you anyway?”
“He was super rich, yes. But he wasn’t giving me much. A thousand pounds per month only.”
“That was by far less than what you used to make before, no?”
“Yes, sure. But that was just for my pocket money. I was living with him then and didn’t really need any money. He was paying for everything, and we had lots of fun: drinking, dancing, traveling… He also bought me gifts all the time. I didn’t want them, but he was insisting, you know.”
“How long were you together? And how did it end?”
“Quite a few years. We split up after I met my current husband… I fell in love with him at first sight when I saw him in a bar. That same night, we slept together, and I right away knew where my heart belongs. My ex-boyfriend, I understood then, I did not love him; I admired and revered him, but I did not love him. The very next morning, I let him know of the situation and broke up with him. He took it badly, got furious at me, but I hope he’ll understand over time.
“I then left with my new boyfriend. We traveled around Vietnam and Southeast Asia for some months, and we got married. Now he is back home in Sweden. I’m moving over to him next week.”
“I suppose you must be pretty happy about this outcome. Moving to Europe, that’s what all girls around here dream.”
“Nonono! I hate Europe! I love Vietnam! I prefer a thousand times to stay here! But I sacrifice myself for the sake of love!”
“Interesting… That power of love, eh? But what about your comfort? Your husband is a young guy. I bet he can’t afford giving you as much money as your previous boyfriend could.”
“I told you, it’s about real love. He doesn’t give me any money. Well… of course, as a man, he pays for everything. But it’s not as if he gives me money. It’s just that whatever money he has, we have it together. Plus that I have a job of my own, anyway.”
“Job? What about it?”
“I was always fond of dancing. It’s my ambition to become a famous stripper. I aspire to chase after my dream in Europe eventually. But for the moment, my husband discourages me. He understands it‘s about art, but he doesn’t feel comfortable with the idea of other men fondling me and cheering for me. He’s afraid my feelings might get hurt, you know. He is overprotective, sometimes, my sweetheart.
“However, he doesn’t mind if I dance on the Internet. It’s already quite some time I’ve signed up for a cam-girl on a relevant site. I make some good money, doing nothing but what I like: dancing. The clients pay 5 dollars per minute. I earn one, and the site gets the rest. I have my regular clientele.”
“The psychologist-camera-stripper kind of thing, may I assume?”
“Exactly, my sessions last up to more than an hour, and my clients will always come back to me.”
“So, starting a new married life in Sweden next week, how do you foresee your future?”
“I do not want to foresee it. I never plan. I go, I see. Life is a mystery.”
Source
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| LOLA | Date: Seshanba, 12/12/25, 2:41:44 PM | Message # 12 |
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Peshqadam
Group: Muslima
Messages: 1547
Status: | Hard Times
(A True Story)
An Albanian Story
I was very young when the war started so I do not remember everything about it. I just remember that it was very scary, everybody very nervous and none of us really knowing what was going on. Nobody felt safe and there were terrible stories of killings and violence.
I remember my mum telling us one day that we were not going to be safe if we stayed in our home. She said that we would have to cross the border and stay away from our home until the war ended.
I was very scared and I didn’t want to leave my home. Our father was not around to help us and I could tell that my mother was very frightened. She was pregnant with my youngest sister and she had four daughters to look after, including me. I was too young to help so she must have felt very alone.
There were lots of stories about people going missing at the border and this made us all very scared. My father was not around and my mother had also decided that my aunt should come with us. I can imagine how difficult it must have been for them having to look after four young girls in such a scary situation. We heard that people were being killed, and that only a certain number of people were being let through the border into Macedonia each day. All of this made us very frightened, but my mum insisted that it was still necessary for us to make the journey so that we would be safe until the war ended.
I do not remember crossing the border but my mum has told the story many times. It was very noisy and there were lots of people pushing and shoving. Everybody was nervous about the stories and nobody was sure what happened to those who were taken away by the soldiers.
Just as we were crossing, my mum lost sight of my older sister and could not find her in the crowd. She was suddenly frightened that we would be allowed to cross the border but my sister would be left behind or taken by the soldiers. It was my aunt who found my sister just in time and helped her to cross the border so that we were all back together again on the other side.
We stayed with my mother’s family in Macedonia until the war ended, and then we returned home when it was safe. But when I was eight years old my mother said that it was time to move again. I did not want to move because it was so scary the last time, but my mum said that we were moving to England because we would all have a better future. I hated the idea at first because I did not want to leave my friends, but when I arrived here I liked it very much.
Back home, school time ended in the afternoon, but I prefer it here where we stay until three o’clock. There is more choice here in England and I think that you can go to university even if you do not have a lot of money; you just need to work hard and study hard and be determined.
Even though it did take me some time to settle here, I am happy to call England my home as I have so many good friends here. There are also children from all over the world here in England. In my school there are children from Somalia, Bangladesh, Poland, Portugal, and the Philippines, and from other countries too. I do not feel that I am different just because I am from Albania.
I think that this story is about accepting change. Life can sometimes be really difficult and scary, and sometimes there are many changes, but I see that good things can come from change. I am looking forward to going to university and having a career, and I am happy to be in a place that is so full of opportunity and also where I am surrounded by so many different cultures. I call my story Hard Times, but really this story is about the opportunities life gives you when you survive the hard times and look to the future.
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