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Jenna & Alexandra

Meet the junior winners of the Sentinel Creative Writing Contest!

This year, Sentinel hosted its first Creative Writing Contest! Inspired by the GUARDS value statements, Sentinel students were tasked with writing a short narrative about someone who inspired them. Four winning entries were selected - two from the junior category and two from the senior category in both English and French. The Sentinel Sun featured the senior winners last edition here, and this edition we are featuring the junior winners! Congratulations to Dahlia Naami and Flora Kiss Barath for winning the Sentinel Creative Writing Competition in the junior category! The Sentinel Sun sat down with them to learn more about the people they wrote about, why they like creative writing, and their favourite memories at Sentinel. We have also included their winning essays below.


What made you choose the person you are writing about?

Flora: I had a bit of trouble deciding who I would write about, but I kept coming back to my grandfather: he has a really interesting story that I've wanted to tell for a long time, so I decided to give it a try and it worked.

Dahlia: I was thinking for a few days about any TV characters I saw that impacted me the most. I finally remembered the infamous Dr. Gregory House from House M.D. I chose Dr. House because he's such an unusual and an imperfectly-perfect role model. You wouldn't expect someone like him to be an inspiration, yet there's something about him that you simply cannot forget even with all his flaws. It's his perseverance.


Why do you like Creative Writing/why do you think it is important?

Flora: I've always loved reading books, so Creative Writing is a natural interest for me. I think that it's useful for anyone to have strong Creative Writing skills because you've got be able to communicate your ideas. Creative Writing is often about telling a story that's very personal to you, which is something that comes up no matter what you do in your life.

Dahlia: I like creative writing because you can just let loose with the rules and freely create something meaningful. I think it's important because in our society today, we don't have many chances on being creative and valuing that type of art.


What is/was your favourite class at Sentinel? (This year or from high school overall)

Flora: This is a tricky question, as I'm pretty much equally interested in all my subjects. I really like a good challenge, so calculus this year was probably my favourite class. I got to understand the math behind a lot of the stuff I see every day, and the course got me thinking about pursuing math (or something math-related) after high school.

Dahlia: PE with Ms. Jepsen in grade 8 and 9. Never a dull moment, it was so much fun.


What is your favourite memory at Sentinel? (This year or from high school overall)

Flora: Definitely goofing off with my friends in class. Life can get pretty stressful, so being able to laugh with my friends gets me through a lot of stuff.

Dahlia: When my friends and I created a dance to one of Beyoncé's songs for gym class. I die of laughter every time I watch our dance.


What are your future goals? (personal or career wise)

Flora: I think I'd like to do something STEM-related in the future, but everything's up in the air right now. I know for sure that I will always have a soft spot for the humanities, even though I don't plan on committing to them as a career. Overall though, I love learning about pretty much anything, so I think I'll just let that guide all my decisions. Things usually have a way of working themselves out.

Dahlia: I'd like to go to university, study something in the science realm and I'd love to go study abroad in France or Spain.


Scroll down to read their winning essays! Huge congratulations to Dahlia and Flora.

______________________________________________________________________

Flora Kiss Barath:

Plum Palinka

On a balmy August day last summer, my siblings and I gathered around my grandfather to hear him recount his daring escape from the Red Army at the height of the Hungarian Revolution. A gifted storyteller, he gesticulated above the plastic-covered dining table to catch our attention.

Fearful of mounting civil unrest, the authorities called in Russian troops to quell rebellious attitudes. As tanks encroached on Budapest, protesters clashed in the streets and the country descended into chaos. By October 25th, 1956, they had stormed the capital and were marching through the streets, firing at will. Far from being determined by the inclinations of stray bullets -- which 3000 civilian casualties had regrettably suffered -- the fate of enlisted men, such as my grandfather, was not left to chance. Hungarian soldiers were to be captured and imprisoned. However, if deemed dangerous or uncooperative, they faced execution. And so, there was nothing to do but run.

As we all huddled around the dining table, entranced by my grandfather’s words, the details of his escape punctuated the evening air.

“A dozen fellows were captured because they took too long to get ready. One of them even insisted on shaving before leaving!”

He chuckled even as he told us of his squadron's narrow escape from Soviet soldiers, himself armed with only a rifle and ammunition against their armoured cars and heavy artillery. Relying on the hospitality of strangers, he slowly made his way back to his hometown, travelling up to 50km a day -- on foot.

Gradually, the story drew to an end and we were left sitting in awe of his great adventure.

“So, you all made it back in one piece?” I asked.

His characteristic smile suddenly vanished; looking down, he solemnly related how a man in his squadron had perished in the struggle.

I would later learn that this was only one of many, much darker stories my grandfather hesitated to tell us. Born just as fascism began to sweep over Europe, he peacefully came of age in the Hungarian countryside while in nearby Budapest, tens of thousands of Jews and Romani were deported to concentration camps, while others were shot into the Danube river. But his childhood was not wholly untouched by the war; I have read his account of the Red Army’s crossing into his village and the ensuing chaos with unflinching sincerity. While in person he affects an invariably cheerful demeanor, in writing he vividly lays bare the initial panic of the Soviet occupation.

He has certainly had an eventful life: he was already exposed to two opposing but equally dictatorial regimes before his twentieth birthday, starting with Nazi German forces in 1944 which were soon replaced by a lengthy Soviet occupation. His life has been chock-full of uncertainties, twisted politics, cultural isolation, and scepticism of the outside world -- themes which may overarch into his present reality.

It is then especially troubling to consider the circumstances he inhabits today. While leadership has changed over the years, today’s Hungary is slowly reverting to the single-party authoritarianism that marked its recent history. But my grandfather treats this situation with same chutzpah, the childlike irreverence, that he does everything else. Sequestered in his little cinder-block house, one he has occupied for half a century, (“I built it with my own two hands. Why should I leave?”) I can’t help but feel he has an entirely singular quality: in many ways[1], my grandfather is the product of circumstance, but I have never seen him succumb to the same lack of hope which dominates his peers. While he is troubled by the rise of neo-authoritarianism in his home country (which it so ardently vowed to eliminate a few decades ago), his attitude towards the world is characteristic of Hegel’s “beautiful soul”. He may be distressed by the world, but he is nevertheless unstained by it.

These days, he occupies himself by growing tomatoes in his greenhouse, fashioning useless contraptions in the shed, and distilling “palinka[2]” in the backyard. He selects the fruit (homegrown deep black cherries, dusty plums, fragrant apricots) with impossible patience and surgical care. Glued to his chair, he waits for the spirits to distill. Waits as the world goes by.

[1] Notably, his scathing opinion of hip-hop. (“Boom-boom music.”)

[2] Strong Hungarian fruit brandy.

______________________________________________

Dahlia Naami

Poème: Mon inspiration: Dr House

Quand vous pensez à une personne qui vous inspire

Vous ne penseriez pas à une personne qui provoque l'ire

Des images d'idoles typiques envahissent votre cerveau

Ceux qu'on entend toujours à la radio


Un militant qui combat jour et nuit pour les droits de l'homme autour du globe

Un prêtre qui dénonce des pensés xénophobes

Un astrophysicien qui découvre de nouvelles ondes gravitationnelles

Ou bien un généticien qui recherche des remèdes exceptionnelles


Toutes ces personnes sont des inspirations parfaites

Où on devrait les admirer pour leurs sacrifices sur cette planète

Mais mon idole n'appartient pas à cet collectif d'anges


En effet, il mérite sa propre catégorie


La personne que j'admire est un médecin

Mais loin d'être un saint

Il est sadique, sardonique et solitaire

Il est direct, quelques fois immature et vulgaire


Le jeune vieillard gobe des pilules amères à chaque seconde

Avalant chacune avec une tasse de lumière sombre

Afin de combattre sa propre guerre immuable

Qui ne cesse qu'à rendre sa vie misérable


Mais continue à pousser malgré toutes les épreuves survenues

En essorant son cerveau plus fort que le commun des mortels n'a jamais vu


Qui est cette personne? Vous vous demandez

Qui est l'objet d'admiration d'une jeune fille inspirée

Pourtant ayant tant de vices

Est la première idole de ma liste


Le voici

C'est le médecin fictif légendaire: Dr. Gregory House


Persévérance? Vous la connaissez

De temps à autre, elle vient vous visiter

En te propulsant vers de nouveaux horizons

Comme un réacteur luisant d'un avion


La persévérance n'a pas poussé le drogué

Mais House qui l'a poussée


Il l'a poussé à un extrême inimaginable


Face à une énigme

Son processus devient plus que sublime

Avec ses méthodes peu professionnelles

Il accomplie la tâche d'une façon exceptionnelle


Que ça soit fouiller dans la maison de ses patients pour trouver des indices pantois

Désobéir à son patron pour la nième fois

Prendre des risques considérés hasardés

Ou bien de forcer ses patients à dévoiler leurs secrets


Il ne cesse pas à chercher


Tests après tests

Images après images

Biopsies après biopsies

Pilules après pilules


Il ne cesse pas à chercher


Il reste coller au problème comme une sangsue qui s'attache à votre peau

Qui ne cesse de sucer pour avoir ce qu'elle veut, sans repos

Son cerveau est un tableau blanc taché de gribouillis noirs grandioses

Barrant chaque maladie qui n'explique pas les symptômes


Il ne cesse pas à chercher


Il affronte des vagues de gens qui ne le croit pas

En leur montrant un par un qu'il arrivera

À un diagnostic impecable

Qui aidera un patient à guérir d'une maladie impensable


Il ne cesse pas à chercher


Il n'a pas peur de faire des erreurs

Car il sait que ça va l'obliger à penser avec ardeur

Les problèmes n'ayant pas de solutions évidentes

C'est ça sa vraie drogue apaisante


Et il fait tout cela à chaque jour


À peine supportant une douleur adoucissante dans sa cuisse

Remplie d'un cocktail de chagrin, regrets et d'adversité destructrice

Mais il vide ce mélange saturé de désespérance

Et il le remplace avec la pure persévérance


J'aimerais lui dire merci

Sans lui je n'aurais pas atteint ce niveau-ci

Il m'a donné la ténacité et l'esprit bucheur

Dans ce monde inondé de merveilleux malheurs


Il m'a montré qu'importe la situation

Il y a toujours une solution

Que ça soit en face de vous

Où cachée sous plusieurs couches de boue


Il m'a appris au cours de notre rencontre éphémère

Tout ce qu'on a besoin est une ténacité plus brulante que la somme de toutes les étoiles de l'Univers


Même si House n’apparaît pas comme l’idole parfaite dans vos yeux

Ayant pensé d'une idole typiquement gracieux

Il est la première personne sans doute à qui je pense

Quand quelqu'un me dit le mot persévérance

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