---

( http://www.vietabroader.org/forum/index.php?act=ST&f=50&t=1116&st=1830#entry58075 )

It was indeed.

To be honest, we didn't feel that way when we finished reading the books by our own. But today, and the days before, in class our English teacher showed us a document composed by herself, called "A journey to the Heart of Darkness".

Last week it was just about the history, how the empires and the Belgium conquered Africa; and we didn't really feel it. But today, it was all about what they have done there. You can't help it, if you see the images - real images of what really happened - of the father horror-stricken, staring at her daughter's arm and foot; or the images of real human heads hung on the flower bed in Rom's garden there. And today, we were just halfway through the whole presentation. We covered out eyes with our hands, didn't want to see it, but it's the truth and it happened. We were dumbstruck because of those real pictures of reality, not by the book. But knowing our teachers, when we looked at the book again, all the things would come in pieces and we would see even more through Conrad's words. It's the reality - I don't think just reading the book can make us feel this way. I really wonder what worse, horrible things can come next in the last half.

Our teacher cried when she was showing us the image of the father I said above. She was thinking about her 2 year old daughter, and how would it feel like if she were in that position, were to see her own daughter's parts of the body. And, one more thing, one third of my class are Africans. So all the images, all the facts, all the names, all the betrayals are so familiar to them. And since they had been always taken away from the truth by their British history textbook, when they had still been in their country, may be all the haunted effects of that era on their society nowadays suddenly become real, clearer, truer, and more visible than ever.

And outside of the classroom, everyday here we live with many Europeans, among which are a Belgian, a British, 2 German, 2 Spanish... We like these people, just as they like us as well. We know that they are kind, and we are even close to them. But when we think about it, this Belgian guy, the food he ate, the clothes he wore, the education he got... all of that nation arose from the blood and humanity of the Congo. The blood and humanity of some of our ancestors. The same goes for others Europeans. Do you think that they have studied Heart of Darkness, or this kind of history back home in Belgium or Britain? And although I know that I shouldn't, when I think about this British girl who is so friendly and funny, who lives in the same dorm with me, I can't help questioning if she too, is another among the "germs of the empire". Is it better to be happy from ignorance or to suffer out of truth? Many of us often ask this question, but did we really know what it meant? And those people who chose to be knowledgeable, could they ever imagine how cruel can the truth be?

Heart of Darkness is not only about what happened, it also predicts the future. You believe in a better world? All your belief just simply collapses as you contemplate the ending. We all thought it would be better if the white just killed the black natives, instead of cutting away parts of their bodies - arms, feet - when these natives failed to provide sufficient rubber, or just because making people suffer was the white there's hobby. Our teacher, however, showed us something difference : the photos of these victims nowadays, embraced in their family's hands. Our teacher - it is her "Heart" of Darkness.

Our English teacher is a great teacher, a great presenter as well. She did Grendel, Kitchen, the God of Small Things, Things Fall Apart, The Metamorphosis and A Doll House before doing Heart of Darkness, and she really knows how to get us really into the books. Every single one of them really did something to us ... they all really changed us in one or another way.

Sorry for being so wordy. Just want to express my feelings and thougths.

---

It was the most depressing, the saddest class hour ever since the beginning of school.

Our teacher, Melody, stared at the image of the father. Her face expression changed so subtly that we didn't even recognize when it had begun. She cried without tears, and carried on her lecture, tried to find the words to convey what it felt like, with her trembling voice.

Nandie didn't dare to look at the screen, staring at her red skirt. She said she just wanted to run out of the room and never come back.

Daniel held his fist real tight, tried to suppress his temptation to sob. There, in front of our eyes, the images of the unveiled, the evidence, the crimes. Everybody was dumbstruck, left inside the cruelty of human, of truth and knowledge.

This is the real world.

What am I doing here?

We left the classroom with our chins down and our eyes dare not to look up. We had, sometimes, known that what we had been doing was meaningless, but never before had we realized how meaningless it is. We realized that all our thoughts before were all superficial, and all our knowledge before was no knowledge.

It is said that you can never look at the world the same way again after finishing Conrad's Heart of Darkness. And it's true.

Those who know very little are the happiest.

---

I remember last year, summer, when I went to Toronto. It rained every other day, and I often sat by my computer in my room in the basement, looking at the raindrops on the ground above my head. I would go up to the ground floor, opened the front door and stood there gazing at the gray house opposite, trying to listen to the violin through the ta-da sounds of the rain.

You liked to play the violin when it rained. I often overheard Serenade by Schubert, Chanson Triste by Tchaikovsky, and some other sad pieces of that sort. Sometimes, when it was pretty late at night, I came over your place and you greeted me with a faint smile. You would take me to that room where you had just been; I sat down at the piano beside which you stood with your violin in your hands. I would play something melancholy, and you would follow me.

We and other often hung out at weekends, most of the time to the Skydome, to watch baseball. Once or twice, all of us had dinner together afterwards, in some nearby restaurant. I recalled one evening like that, in my last week before coming back to VN. Brandy suddenly asked for Elton John's music, and "Something about the way you look tonight" was first played.

And I can't explain, but it's something about the way you look tonight
Take my breath away... and that feeling I care about you deep inside...

You held my hand under the table. Though it doesn't sound realistic, it doesn't sound practical, I sometimes do think that understanding is all that required. It's not something I often wonder, however.

Recently something happened, reminding me of one similar situation we had. Once Kateryna asked if we minded the order of the concert performance. "I don't care" you replied. "I do care" - but I said. We stared at each other, and smile.

You used to say, one of the good things about me - according to you - was the willingness to disagree, and not to say "yes yes yes yes" or "no no no no" with no further reasons or explanations. I'm not sure if you meant it in general, or you meant the willingness to disagree with you. Perhaps, independence is another thing that is required.

We are persons, aren't we? Such question is redundant, I can see you nodding.

Happy 19th birthday. You have gone through one important year of your life, and may you remember all the alternatives, "opportunity cost" that you could have. May you remember all that you have, and have not experienced in the past year. May you remember, as you have always done, that there are things that don't show themselves in the surface of your live, but always back you up when you need them.

My special birthday wishes, for someone special.

---

My 2nd Spanish essay, corrected by Quique, my Spanish teacher

Topic : imagine that you lived in the highest floor of an apartment in a big and crowded city. One day, you woke up, looked down the street from the balcony. Describe what you saw.

Miro hacia abajo.

Es temprano en la mañana, y hay solo unos coches en la calle. Generalmente, esta calle donde vivo es la calle más apiñada en la ciudad. Y este apartamento donde vivo es el apartamento más apiñado en la calle.

Me levanto detrás del barandal, que tiene solo un metro hacia arriba y 0.3 metros hacia delante entre mi y la inexistencia debajo.

Avanzo, pongo mis manos en el tubo metálico y horizontal - la línea misma, la línea fragíl. Mis manos se estremecen. Puedo sentir el frío de la mañana temprana, el silencio, la pureza del aire que, voy a, a regañadientes, contiminar en los dos minutos próximos. Antes de mis ojos, todos son borrosos.

´´¡Valencia!´´

Voy a elevar mi pierna cuando escucho la voz de Julio debajo. EL chico de 9 años, quien vive en la planta segunda, me grita y continua patinando. Grita algunos más ´´A´´s y ´´O´´s insentatos antes de que desaparece detrás del buzón en la esquina.

Suspiro. ¿Comó puede un chico estar tan feliz por hacer una cosa insentata?

Ellos quien saben muy poco son los más felices.

Mi pierna está en la barra metálica del barandal. Quiero alzar mi cuerpo, pero, extrañamente, parezco no tener fuerza. Me doy cuentade que mis manos están sudando, hacia la parte del barandal que está bajo de ellas resbalosa. La agarro más fuerte, y intento hacerlo una vez más.

Derrepente, mi teléfono celular llama. Desesperada como estoy, al principio no me di cuenta de que alguien me está llamando. todo lo que escucho es el sonido del Etude ´´Revolution´´ de Chopin.

No sé como puedo atender. Una voz dulce y cálida llega a mi oreja. ´´Mi cielo Valencia, ¿Qué tal? Solo quiero despertarte y recordarte del seminario a las 8 de esta mañana, porque tú siempre tardas.´´

Es Alvaro, mi novio. Mi mano que tiene el teléfono se agita un poco. Alvaro, él no sabe que me desperté hace treinta minutos para hacer algo que lo amarga muy, muy mucho.

´´Estoy bien, Alvaro, estoy bien. Gracias por despertarme.´´

Pienso que mi voz no fue tan normal como lo que quería. ´´Que pasa , ¿Valencia?´´ Me pregunta.

´´Nada,nada. Estoy sólo dormilona. Me estoy preparando para el seminario.´´

´´Entonces, hasta luego.´´ Él cuelga el teléfono antes de que puedo decir algo más.

Una lágrima baja en mi mejilla.

Lo siento.

Lo siento.

Me doy cuenta de que estoy immovilizada, manteniendo el teléfono celular apretadamente en mi mano durante cinco minutos.

...¿Por qué?



Miro hacia abajo.

Está apiñado debajo, en la calle, y en las aceras. El café en frente ha abierto por la gente para desayunar o beber un café.

Intento - tanto buscar como esperar - un espacio vacante donde puedo bajar y no pegar a nadie. Pero no lo puedo encontrar.

Veo una figura familiar en el frente del callejón. Es Esperanza. Ella está corriendo. Me ve, y me saluda con una sonrisa grande en su cara. Me apunta , y hace ademanes de hablar formalmente. Ella me está recodando que tengo que pronunciar un discurso hoy.

Ella sale.

Mis manos sudadas. desagarran el barandal, y mi pierna se retira junto a la otra. Lentamente, adentro de la habitación.

Miro el reloj. Son las siete y treinta. Alvaro tiene razón, siempre tardo. Esta vez, también tardo.

Tarde suficiente para hacer una ´´Revolution´´.

---

My first writing in Spanish, corrected by Quique, my Spanish teacher :)

Topic : Write about your dream, using all of these words : aún, lágrima, tipo, viejo verde, ahogado, piel

En mi sueño veo un fuego de compamento. La gente aparenta chapada a la antigua, como en el oeste de los Estados Unidos en tiempo del rey que rabio, y no le conoce nadie. Me siento al lado de una señorita. Soprendentemente, aún continuan observando el fuego y no dicen nada. Aún no me miran.

Miro la señorita al lado. En la luz del fuego, puedo ver la lágrima bajando sobre su carrillo.

El hombre más viejo se dice ´´Nada. No tendríamos nada.´´

El chico quien esta está al lado de la señorita sostiene enseguida. ´´¡Abuelito!´´

´´Si no damos tú madre al dictator, nos desvalijiraría todo. No casa, no campiña. No lugar para morar, no comida para comer.´´

´´Pero, papá´´ Otro hombre dice ´´ ¿Sabes que tipo es el dictator? ¿Comó estaría la hermana en las manos de ese viejo verde?´´

´´Si quiere, puede arder esta campiña, puede matarnos y secuestrara tú hermana. Pero no lo hizo, y tenemos una escapada. Tú hermana es la mujer de la familia, y tiene la responsibilidad de sacrificarse por la piedad de la familia.´´

El aire sopla y el fuego vacila. Temblorosa, la señorita apuña un ramo de hojas y lo echa al fuego. Pero, el aire está demasiado vigoroso. El fuego continúa vacilando débilmente. La señorita solloza.

El hombre joven le mira a su hermana con los ojos tristes. Él también está temblado. ´´¡Cállate!´´ Clama, iracundo. ´´¿Por qué agradamos al dictator quien nos abruma? ¿Por qué no nos mató solamente? Adémas, ¿ Comó hablría usted con su marido, el ahogado quien no pudo soportar la injusticia? Mi hermana es también una humana con todos sus sentimientos y derechos. Y usted, papá, por forzara mi hermana, ¿Comó es diferente del dictator?´´

El hombre viejo parece extremamente anojado. ´´¡Cállate! ¿Qué sabes por quejar? Lo hago por todos nosotros, tenemos que sobrevivir. Tú cuñado fue un tipo débil y un liebre quien huyó la realidad. ¡Tenemos que sobrevivir hasta que esta era termina!´´

´´¿Por sacrificar nuestro persona amada? En tal caso, papá, ¡tendréis otro ahogado en la mañana!´´

Enmudeieron.

La señorita está aún temblando, mete más hojas en el fuego. El aire sopla una vez más y el fuego llega a su mano pequeña. ´´¡Ay!´´ Expresa. Alza la mano lentamente y la contempla. La piel se ha puesto roja. El fuego se extingue.

Ellos y yo, todos quedamos en la obscuridad.