الفائزون بجائزة غادة للكتاب الشباب ــ 2011

The GHADA Award for young writers Second annual contest 2011 First Winner - English The Island By: Razan Abdelrahman Gaphar Not many of us have ever been on the sort of Pacific island that one sees on travel advertisements. People dream about these locations and maybe save up to go on holiday there eventually. Most people who dream of warm holidays by the sea are those who live in lines of houses in cold places, where the wind blows, colds are rampant and the sun seems a forgotten entity. I used to live in a similar environment in the eastern USA, but I never really thought of these exotic places, because when I was little, I had my own, personal island. It was not what most people imagine an island to be, though. My island was a shady area of green in a sea of asphalt, the only beach being some sand under the mailboxes in the gutter, with parked cars instead of moored ships. There were five large trees there and three smaller, with plenty of grass and piles of leaves that never seemed to end. In the cul-de-sac that was our home, the place underwent several name changes. Originally I remember calling it Susie Island. Later on my friends were puzzled at this and didn’t remember calling it by such a name, so we attempted to say Telephone Island, due to its shape being like a telephone symbol. However, that name failed and we simply called our play-place “The Island”. The Island was where we would meet our neighborhood friends for the first time. Every day we would clamor to go and play with each other there. I loved creating my own little world on the Island, quickly dividing the trees into different territories or ‘houses’ for my friends and me. I used to use a small pine branch to sweep the dirt in a circle around my tree. Its perimeters were ringed out with pine cones, which I used to carefully and faithfully gather up from all around the Island whenever they fell. I also used to love digging up rocks from around the thick tree roots and collecting the biggest. I even decorated the branches of my tree with an old c-d I found, so at sunset, when we had to go indoors, it dangled with its colors in the sun. Those trees were shelter to so many beautiful memories. Unfortunately it was a forbidden place for me during spring time and fall as I had terrible pollen allergies and couldn’t go outdoors at the most beautiful times of the year. Thus winter rapidly became my favorite season! I remember once, during a big winter snow, I ran laughing through the Island and lay down on the ground, reveling in the symmetry of the intercrossing branches high above me and the sweet, cold smell of snow. In the utter silence, a red bird alighted upon the black branches above and broke into swift song, silhouetted against the white sky. In the fall, when the other children’s favorite thing to do was jump in the large leaf piles made by the fading trees, I was under strict orders to stay out! Once, we attempted to plumb the largest, permanent pile of leaves, only to give up completely upon encountering various creepy-crawlies and leaves that were slowly turning to earth. Another game we used to play on the Island was one of lava! We used to carefully balance and walk on the curb that was the perimeter between the road and the Island, our world and the dangerous one. If you overbalanced you were promptly declared to have fallen into ‘the lava’ of the outside world and were disqualified. Summertime popsicles and searing hot asphalt, spring longing and flowers, autumnal beauty, winter cold, all came and passed at the Island, in the circle of life that goes on. That same circle meant that eventually, change had to come. The time came when we were to take to our own travels and leave the island forever, almost simultaneously, all the neighborhood children were moving away. For the last time we walked its borders, looked at the decorated trees, marveled at the tiny flowers and funny faces in the trees, arranged the pine cones one more time and then returned home. The next day, I had my last glimpse of the home of our daily shipwrecks and marooning. In a crowded car and through the thick glass, I made my last, silent farewell to the Island. And now I wonder if the Island is yet lonely and a broken c-d turns silently in the wind.