Category Archives: International

No Phone, No Problem

By Nasiruddin Hamid, Qadian, Punjab, India.

We all love playing video games, watching funny shorts, and making movies on our smartphones. However, some of us use the cellphones much more than others.

I live in Northern India with my family. After school, my father gives me his cellphone for ten minutes to play games and enjoy SnapChat and YouTube, etc. When those ten minutes turn into 20 or 30 minutes, and then into an hour, I don’t even realize it—but my father does.

Last year, I started avoiding playing outdoors and spending time with my friends. I was using the phone more and more without telling my parents. But my parents never stopped keeping an eye on me.

One day, my father told me when he was a kid, he used to play many outdoor games like Pakadam Pakdai, Baraf Pani, Pitthu Gram, and Addi (see the end note below for a short explanation of these games children play in India). He said, “We didn’t have phones, but we’d read comics and novels in Urdu and English for our pasttime.”

Thinking of those outdoor games and thoughts of reading comics and novels really got me interested. So I made a deal with my dad that he and I would play outside and read books together. He bought me a new bicycle, and now I go riding; he runs beside me while I ride my bicycle, which is quite fun! He also bought me new comics and a few novels, and he reads them with me.

I really like reading the tales of Akbar and Birbal, as well as the stories of Mullah Nasruddin. They are full of humor and wisdom. I must say, I find reading books or riding a bicycle outdoors much more interesting than playing video games or watching YouTube shorts.

Yes, I know cellphones have their own benefits, but as my father says, “They are more useful after a certain age.” We should limit our phone usage. I have read that too much smartphone use can damage our brain cells, affect eyesight, and even our emotional health.

I believe my parents when they tell me that there can be many unforeseen negative impacts of these devices. I always trust them with any issues that come up.

As school age kids, we should use cellphones only for short duration, and under parental supervision and guidance.

By Nasiruddin Hamid, Qadian, Punjab, India.

Notes:

Akbar and Birbal Stories: Akbar was a Mughal emperor who ruled a large region in South Asia that includes modern-day Northern and Central India, Afghanistan, and Pakistan during the 16th century. Birbal was a close advisor and wise minister in the court of Akbar for some 30 years. The Akbar and Birbal stories are not only entertaining but also witty and are widely-read favorites of Indian kids.

Mullah Nasruddin (aka Nasreddin Hodja) appears in countless stories—mostly witty or wise—where he is shown as a (holy) fool that teaches great wisdom to the world. He is considered a Sufi (Islamic) character and he may have actually lived in the 13th century in present day Turkey and may have traveled to many lands as his stories are widely known.

A Short Explanation of the Games:

Pakdam Pakdai: Run and catch game One kid tries to catch others who try to run away.
Baraf Pani: When caught, you freeze like “Baraf” (Hindi word for ice) until someone frees you by saying “Pani” (Hindi word for water)
Pitthu Gram: Players break a stack of seven stones with a ball and then try to rebuild it before getting tagged by the fielders.
Addi: is played with two teams of 5/5 players. One team starts in a circle and tries to reach the end of the field line while the other team chases and blocks the players from reaching it.

Fighting Antisemitism , Fighting Injustice

Fighting Antisemitism, Fighting Injustice

By Donna Nevel, Florida

When I think about how to end antisemitism, I feel grounded in principles I learned from my parents. They taught me to be proud of who I was as a Jewish person but never to think I was better than any other person, group, or community. They showed me by example that caring about antisemitism meant caring about anti-Black racism and all forms of injustice. They lived by these principles always, which inspired my love of being Jewish as well as my desire to participate in movements challenging injustice and for collective liberation.

Antisemitism is generally understood as discrimination against Jews, violence against Jews, or targeting Jews simply because they are Jewish. Sometimes antisemitism is expressed through stereotypes and generalizations about Jews.

Jews come from many different experiences and histories. There are white Jews, Jews of color, and Jews from different parts of the world (my family migrated to the United States from Eastern Europe). Antisemitism does not always look the same for each of these communities and groups; there are differences based on geographies, class and race, intersections with other political identities, and more.

Some examples of antisemitic violence in recent years in the US include the 2018 massacre of eleven congregants at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh; Jewish cemeteries being destroyed; and people who are visibly Jewish (wearing a skull cap or another Jewish symbol, for example) being attacked.

The most well-known example of antisemitic violence is the Nazi murder of six million Jews (the Holocaust). In 1933, there were nine million Jews in Europe. By 1945, the Nazis had exterminated approximately two thirds of European Jewry in death camps and through mass murders. The Nazis also targeted and murdered other groups and communities on a racial and political basis, including Roma, Poles, and other Slavic peoples, queer people, those with disabilities, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and communists and members of political opposition groups.

Today, white nationalist violence–which, in many different, harmful ways, targets and denigrates Black people and other communities of color, trans and queer people, immigrants, Muslims, and Jews—is increasingly on the rise in many spheres of our society. White nationalist tactics include the use of conspiracy theories, among other manifestations. Antisemitic conspiracy theories promote notions of Jewish power and control and of Jews as untrustworthy and sinister.

Ending antisemitism also means understanding what is not antisemitism. False accusations of antisemitism are too often directed at those who criticize the State of Israel and its treatment of the Palestinian population. It is important to know that Palestinians had been living in Palestine for centuries before Israel was established. In that process, 750,000 Palestinians were expelled or dispossessed from their lands and homes. (See more on Israel’s establishment/Zionism and the Nakba in note below.)

Antisemitism is directed at Jews as Jews. Criticism of Israel and/or its ideology is directed at a nation-state. Criticisms of Israel’s ongoing violence against the Palestinian people and the expulsion of Palestinians from their land and homes reflect a commitment to human rights and equal rights—and to what is just. Palestinians, Jews (such as members of Jewish Voice for Peace), and many others are committed to those principles. That is the furthest thing from antisemitism, and it is deeply harmful to suggest otherwise.

So, how can we participate in ending antisemitism? Antisemitism has its own distinct characteristics—as do other types of discrimination—and is also connected to other forms of racism and injustice that different communities experience. Therefore, thinking about ending antisemitism also means thinking about how to end all types of injustice. We know that fighting injustice against one group while being silent or supporting it against another group will bring justice for no one.

This is what it means to have a commitment to collective liberation—the belief that we all are entitled to live lives with justice and dignity. Collective liberation also means that we have each other’s backs and can count on one another to speak out when anyone or any group faces an injustice.

People of all ages can participate and take action in different ways although we know it is much harder in these repressive times. For students, that might include holding educational workshops (maybe at a community space or in a friend’s home) on pressing topics of interest or encouraging your schools to open up spaces for participation in social justice actions and discussion of issues of social concern (including the ways that false accusations of antisemitism have been used to shut down student protests in support of Palestine).

Throughout history and until now, Jewish people have been part of many movements devoted to their own safety and the safety of all people. Jews have joined together with others who care about the well-being of all our communities to fight against any form of racism and discrimination. For example, Jewish civil rights activists and labor activists joined together with all those committed to civil and human rights and economic justice. The fight against antisemitism is part of that larger struggle for justice.

A Note on Israel’s establishment/Zionism and the Nakba:
Zionism is the primary ideology that drove the establishment of a Jewish-majority nation-state in the land of historic Palestine. As nationalism rose in Europe in the late 19th Century and as antisemitism intensified, Jews responded in a number of different ways. Some Jews, notably Theodor Herzl, considered the father of modern Zionism, thought the solution to antisemitism was Zionism: the establishment of a nation state for Jews in Palestine. During the years leading to 1948, as part of the Zionist movement’s process of colonizing Palestine and establishing Israel, 750,000 Indigenous Palestinians living in Palestine were expelled from their land and homes. The “Palestinian Nakba (“Catastrophe” in Arabic) refers to the expulsion of over 750,000 Palestinians during the establishment of Israel as a Jewish majority country on land that had a two-thirds majority Palestinian Arab population. The Nakba is present-tense; the displacement of Palestinians and the destruction of Palestinian life has been ongoing for over a century.” —www.project48.com

Donna Nevel, a community psychologist and educator, is co-director, with Nina Mehta, of PARCEO, a resource and education center that partners with community groups and institutions seeking to deepen their organizing and educational work for justice. PARCEO has co-created and facilitates workshops on Antisemitism from a framework of collective liberation, from which this piece is drawn.

2025 Civil Rights Art Contest Winners

Hindus for Human Rights Has Announced the

2025 Civil Rights Art Contest Winners!

HIGH SCHOOL DIVISION (Grades 9–12)

Contest Theme: For centuries, people in South Asia have used art—like folk paintings, music, and dance—to speak out against injustice. These art forms have helped communities resist colonial rule, caste discrimination, gender inequality, and government oppression. How do you see that same spirit alive today?

First Place Winner:

“Chardi Kala: Resilience in Action” by Tara Kodial, grade 12, New York.

2nd Place Joint Winners:

“Roses and Thorns: A Bengali Woman’s Journey in Film” by Grace Saji, gr. 12, California.

“Dance Captured Through a Screen” by Eshita Lahiry, grade 12, Louisiana.

3rd Place Joint Winners:

“Dancer Breaking Free” by Aditi Karthik, grade 9, Georgia.

“Financial Freedom Teachings through Mehendi” by Zainab Habeeb, gr. 12, California.

Boy in the Back

By Michael Steel, age 14, grade 9, B.C., Canada

I was always the boy in the back
Letting time slip through my fingers
Watching the cluster and the chatter
Watching and never doing

A silent ghost, never real and never seen
Floating in the cosmos behind my eyes
Breathing in the synthetic suns
And polyester skies
Starry moons of the finest gleaming plastic
Twenty years in the blink of an eye

I saw the other side of the world
From the back of our classroom
The clay people danced before my eyes
Only I could see them move

Watching the constellations of LEDs
Soar brightly over my head
The things I never saw,
But I always believed

I was the boy in the back
Living a thousand ceramic lives
In a thousand spun-glass galaxies
But I was never here at home

—Michael Steel, age 14, is a high school student and published author currently living in Vancouver, British Columbia. He lives with his parents, brothers and ridiculously fluffy cat, Taco. His hobbies include creating arts, reading, writing, and playing Block Blast.

“A” Series of Journeys: The Story Behind the Board

By Kate Han, age 16, from South Korea, studies in Canada.

‘A’ Series of Journeys by Kate Han, age 16, Canada.

I’ve always struggled with the question, “Where are you from?” It’s not that I don’t know; the answer has never felt complete. I was born in Korea, spent much of my childhood in India, and now study in Canada. Each country left something inside me, not just as memories but as layers of identity. My artwork (see above) , ‘A’ Series of Journeys, emerged from this sense of fragmented belonging. But without the backstory, I realized the artwork feels like a silent map—colorful but unexplained. This is the narrative behind that map.

From Korea to India: My First Migration

I was five when my family moved from Seoul to Bangalore. What I remember most from those early days was the constant feeling of being “new.” New sounds, new smells, new alphabets. Even at that age, I knew I wasn’t just visiting—I was being asked to live someone else’s normal. In school, I was the only Korean girl. I didn’t speak Kannada or Hindi, and I barely knew English. But children don’t wait for fluency. I played tag with my hands, not my words. I watched others tie their shoes, share lunch, and greet teachers. I mimicked until it became second nature.

India gave me my first lesson in courage: that you can belong without blending in thoroughly. My neighbors wore saris and spoke a language I didn’t understand, but they treated me like family. We celebrated Diwali together, and over time, the questions stopped being “Where are you from?” and started becoming “Are you coming to dinner?”

India didn’t erase my Korean self. Instead, it added to it. I still spoke Korean at home, wrote Hangul in my diary, and celebrated Chuseok with food parcels from my grandmother. But the girl who lit sparklers on the rooftop during Deepavali wasn’t pretending. She was expanding.

Canada: A New Kind of Destination

Years later, I moved again—this time on my own, to a boarding school in Canada. If India was about cultural immersion, Canada was about cultural comparison. I had more words now, and more awareness. I could see how my classmates viewed “Asia” as a single block. I could also see how they saw me: someone exotic, sometimes confusing, occasionally admirable. Someone told me, “Wow, your English is excellent.” It was meant as a compliment, but I felt the space between us widen.

Boarding school life sharpened my understanding of identity—mine and everyone’s. I met friends from Nigeria, Ukraine, Mexico, and Australia. Some had never left their home countries before.

Some, like me, had already moved across continents. We bonded over strange cafeteria food, homesickness, and midnight conversations about who we were becoming.

Canada taught me that identity is not a finished product. It’s in constant motion. You carry your past, but you also build your future with every choice—what you say, how you listen, which memories you protect.

Why I Made the Board

‘A’ Series of Journeys started as a personal project to visualize this idea of motion. I used pins and thread to create intersections, connections, and collisions. Each line on the board represented a person, a place, a story, or a version of myself. The foam base—soft yet firm—symbolized the adaptability I’ve had to develop. The photos marked moments in time that still speak to me. Together, they formed a chaotic and orderly piece, much like my life.

But something felt unfinished. It was only after receiving the Skipping Stones Editor message that I understood why. The board is a conversation starter, but it needs a voice. The images are full of meaning, but only when paired with a story. Without this reflection, the piece may be a decorative design, not a lived experience. That’s why I’m writing this—to give the work its missing voice.

What I’ve Learned

I’ve learned that home is not a location—it’s a rhythm. It’s in how you wake up, how you say goodbye, what you find strange, and what you start calling your own. In India, I learned to listen before speaking. In Canada, I learned to question people’s meaning by saying “diversity.” In Korea, roots can deepen even when far from the soil.

Another lesson: People are much more than the labels we use. The word “immigrant” doesn’t tell whether someone is hopeful or scared. “International student” doesn’t reveal how many languages people hear in their dreams. I’ve learned to ask better questions. Not “Where are you from?” but “What feels like home to you?”

Above all, I’ve learned that my journey is not a detour—it’s the main road. My experiences are not interruptions to everyday life; they are my life. And through them, I’ve gained a sense of the world and a stronger sense of self.

Why This Matters

For young people like me, art is more than expression. It’s a translation. It’s how we turn complexity into something we can share. I hope ‘A’ Series of Journeys speaks to anyone who has felt between places, languages, or versions of themselves. I hope it shows that confusion can lead to clarity and discomfort can lead to growth.

This write-up is not the end of the project—it’s part of it. The series continues as long as I live, move, reflect, and create.

By Kate Han, age 16, grade 11, originally from South Korea, currently studies in a boarding school in British Columbia, Canada.

A New Chapter of My Life

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida.

Another box. Then another. My black hair, usually silky, was sticky with sweat as I packed up all of my earthly belongings.

“Ming, get ready.” Under my mom’s authoritative voice, a note of trepidation quivered. “We’re about to go to the airport.”

“Ok, fine,” I replied, as reluctantly as I could.

I had lived in the buzzing streets of Shanghai for my whole life. I haven’t taken one step out of the comfort of my country. Now, all the sudden, my parents had decided to move to America, where my dad could find a better job. I’d have to leave all my friends, teachers, and even my tennis coach, who taught me how to swing a racquet before I could write my name. So, as you can see, I absolutely do not want to move to America. But, according to my parents, “Ni zhang da yao sheng huo hao, shiao shi hou yao mian dui tong ku.” That basically translates to, “If you want to live a good life when you are older, then you have to suffer when you are young.” They also said something vague about staying true to yourself and your dreams even when moving to another country—which I never really understood. My dream had always just been to enjoy my life in China.

“Are you ready?” my mom called.

“Yes, just one more thing to pack,” I replied, my heart racing like an F1 driver. I carefully placed my last precious item, a picture of my family and me, into the final box.

Then, I hurried down the stairs. With a heavy heart and dragging feet, I slowly made my way to the door. I tried to savor that short amount of time, but just knew it was going to make me more devastated. I briskly walked into a bluish, gray car with shiny windows. The driver was my Dad’s best friend, Uncle Tong. Yet another friend we would lose when we move to America. The car was about to burst with our luggage—we all held our breath to see if everything would fit until the trunk finally slammed shut over the last suitcase. The driver began to turn the key to start the car and stop my heart, my breath, and everything about my life for all twelve years of it so far. I took one long, regretful look at our apartment as we began to drive away, the engine humming, into my new life.

It’s not an exaggeration when I say the airport was extremely packed when we got there—it buzzed with more people than even the densest street of the crowded city I was born in. The hustle and bustle made me feel like part of a huge ant colony. Just as we made it through the final security checkpoint, an announcer called through the speakers: “Passengers of Flight 224, we will start boarding the plane soon for Miami, Florida.”

After endless hours of being trapped in the sweaty plastic chair along with all the other airplane passengers, finally, that same voice jerked me to attention from the stupor I’d fallen into. “Attention all passengers, please gather your belongings, we are approaching our destination.” We were here, in the dreadful place I had only imagined months before.

I peered out the window. America sure looked less crowded than home, but it was nothing like my home halfway across the globe. People started to file themselves out of the plane, and we followed. When we got to the airport terminal, my dad decided we would sit down and eat lunch. I expected soup dumplings, noodles or roast duck, but instead there were hamburgers and french fries. When I tried the bun, my taste buds were left disappointed by the lack of flavor. As I bit into an over-salted fry, this time, I also bit back tears.

A week later…

My stomach wasn’t just doing cartwheels now: it was double backflips, and handstands. I walked into the front doors of my new school. Everything seemed foreign. The school was a big cement building with newly polished windows, unlike the tinted windows in my old school. Kids turned around to look at me. They started magnetizing into groups and whispering. Suddenly, I was in the middle of the hallway while clusters of other kids gathered on the sides. I caught some people saying, “Who is she?” and, “ Is she a new kid?” I blushed. Then, a strange noise rang out and everybody started walking to different rooms.

Nervously, I cast around for someone to ask. I spotted another kid, who had almond-colored hair and blue eyes, similarly to many of my classmates. What she didn’t seem to have, and which set her apart, was friends. My throat dry, I whispered, “Why’s everybody leaving?”

The girl looked over at me. “They are going to their classes.”

What did that mean? I gave her an inquisitive look. She somehow understood that I was not American and I didn’t speak much English. Then, she all of a sudden said hi in Chinese.

“Ni hao ma?” She could speak Chinese?

At my astounded expression, she added, “Wozai xue Zhongwen.” I am learning Chinese.

I don’t know what triggered me to do this, but I started a full-blown conversation filled with laughs and smiles. We smiled at each other and went to our rooms. There! I had found my first friend. Already! Maybe this wasn’t that bad after all.

The rest of the day flew by. Amelia talked and laughed with me and we had a lot of fun. As we walked home together, I felt a warm feeling spread over me. This was the beginning of a new adventure.

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida. She writes, “Both of my parents are from China and so are my grandparents. I was born in the US. I regularly visit China to see my grandparents every year. I am fascinated by the cultural difference between the two countries. I imagine instead of being born here in the US, if I were born in China, how my life would be different. I sometimes dream about this. In school, I visualize and put myself in the shoes of students who came from China. Their life and perspective must be very different from mine. This multiple culture comparison fascinates me and drives me to write this story about Ming.”

Beneath the Shade of Truth

By Nasiruddin Hamid, Qadian, Punjab, India.

In the 19th century, on a pleasant afternoon in August, in the serene mountains of Kashmir, Abdul Kareem, 65, and his grandson, Abdul Rahim, were watching their goats and sheep graze on the lush green mountain grass. The air was fresh and crisp, filled with the scent of wildflowers and pine trees. A gentle breeze swept across the hills, rustling the leaves and bringing a cool relief from the warmth of the sun. They were both leaning on a large, smooth rock, resting beneath the shade of tall trees, with the distant hills providing a protective embrace. The sound of the breeze and the peaceful bleating of the goats and sheep made the scene feel timeless.

Abdul Rahim, who was around 15 years old, began the conversation in gentle voice.

“Baba (grandfather/ father), are we Muslims?”

“Yes, dear, why?” answered Abdul Kareem.

“Are we the best people in the world just because we are Muslims?” asked Abdul Rahim.

“I don’t know, son,” replied Abdul Kareem.

“Why don’t you know, Baba? Our master, Molana Sadiq, says we are superior to all human beings. We rule the world, and after this life, we will go to heaven because we are true followers of the Prophet. Others will go to hell because they don’t worship Allah as we do,” said Abdul Rahim.

“I don’t know about being superior, son,” said Abdul Kareem.

“Did Molana Sahib (sir) lie to us then?” asked Rahim.

“No, son. Actually, Molana Sahib doesn’t truly know Almighty God. That’s why he says those inappropriate things about God,” said Abdul Kareem.

“How so? Please tell me, Baba Jan (dear grandfather),” said Rahim.

“Son, Allah doesn’t work the way we say or believe. He is far superior to what we think. He made this world according to His plans and will, but humans have degraded Him according to their own greed and desires. Every Molana (Maulana, a Muslim religious leader), Padri (a Christian priest), or Pandit (a Hindu scholar) claims that their religion is the true one, and others will go to hell. But they use God’s name only to serve their own selfish interests. They have turned God into a figure to scare innocent people. The truth is, God is not as horrible as they make Him out to be. We don’t know God or His ways. It is His will that He made some people beautiful and others not, some rich and others poor, some healthy and others sick. We cannot have complete knowledge of Him. That’s why we create stories about Him based on our own desires. Allah (God, in Islam) is for everyone, whether we believe in Him or deny Him. He doesn’t care about religions; He cares about humanity. People who love and care for humanity are the true believers of God, and they will be rewarded in this world and the next, if there is one. So, my son, just be a good human and respect everyone if you really want to succeed in life,” said Abdul Kareem.

The cool breeze continued to swirl around them, carrying the smell of the mountains as the sun began to dip behind the hills, casting long shadows across the grass. After saying this, both sat in silence, contemplating the words of wisdom, until dusk settled in. Then, they gathered their sheep and goats, and made their way back home, the rhythmic bleating of the flock echoing through the quiet, peaceful valley.

By Nasiruddin Hamid, Qadian, Punjab, India.

Between Names

By Jane Helen Lee, age 17, South Korea.

I was a collector of languages before I even knew the English word for “language.” I would gently pluck foreign words from overheard conversations and save them like colorful marbles in my pocket—later turning them over, swirling their smooth coolness between my tongue, sounding out hola, nǐ hǎo, 안녕하세요 (annyeonghaseyo). Through the sun-dappled filters of childhood that gently curtained my vision, there was something quietly magical about being able to say “hello” or even just “thank you” to a stranger in their own language. It felt as if I were weaving a thread between myself and someone I might never meet again.

The complicated kanji, hanja, and hangeul forms a patchwork quilt of syllables and syntax, woven from the voices of street vendors, lullabies, movies, and late-night whispers between siblings. Even when I couldn’t understand the meaning, I could feel the emotion behind a sentence—the rise in pitch, then the tremble, then, finally, the laughter tucked like a baby in a swaddle between vowels. Language to me, is and will always be something so achingly human.

But at age eight, I nearly lost my mother tongue.

My first language was Korean, and I learned English at a pretentious little english-only, ridiculously expensive preschool where white teachers would give Korean children names like “Emma” and “Madison.” When I moved to the US at age 6, my mother (omma) was shocked by how fast I forgot that my name was 재인 (Jae-in), not Jane. Suddenly, 엄마 (omma) was mommy and 숙세 (sook-jae) was homework. This shook her and, so, she pulled me out of school for 2 weeks to teach me, to make me re-learn and make sure I never forgot. This is something I thank her for to this day.

I once came across a piece of writing that claimed we are different people to each person we meet. I suppose that is true. To my mother, I am “재인아”, to my dad, I am “peach”, to my brother, I am “누나” (noona), to my classmates, I am “Jane.” I am 寶貝儿 (Bǎobèi er), 헤레나 (hae-le-na), Janie, peanut…, and I could go on forever. But that left me wondering: who am I to myself if all the names and identities I answer to have been lost or borrowed as changing masks to wear when interacting with others? See, when someone calls me “재인아” (jaein-a), I reply “응?” (eung?) or “네?” (nae?) and I’m what you’d describe as mature, and if you discount my horrible posture, maybe even ladylike, but call me Janie and I will change to become ever so child-like. Say “누나” (noona) and I will be strong. But despite being all these things, all these people, at once, I am just me. To me, I have no name, no title. The voice that tells me “ooh you shouldn’t have said that” or “hey, you look kind of good today” has no name for me. The thoughts I think that you will never hear except through the filtered microphone of my many masks do not belong to any one person, they belong to me, the many “me”s that together compose a jar of water made murky with the mixing-ins of paintbrushes tainted with colors from all parts of my life: every memory I have lived, every word I have spoken, and every song I have sung. And I can only hope that my jar, rinsed so many times of all the colors I have lived and palettes I have used, is not a dirty gray.

—Jane Helen Lee is a Korean-American writer currently based in Seoul, South Korea. She has been recognized by YoungArts and the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for her work across screenwriting, poetry, and fiction and is an alum of the Kenyon Young Writers’ Workshop. Jane also serves as Editor-in-Chief of Unseen, the academic journal of the Korean Youth Honor Society, and finds joy in writing, debating, and volunteering at her local rehabilitation center.

Jane adds: “I am a senior attending high school in South Korea, and pencil was to me, what a Barbie doll was to many others: my dream, and my lighthouse. While dolls came to life in the hands of others, my pencil became an extension of myself. I began writing before I could even speak, creating stories and songs with scribbles, translating the world around me into language. In its easily broken, soft body, I found power; in its worn tip, wisdom. The pencil was my voice when I had none, and my refuge when life felt too loud. Now, that voice continues to guide me as I explore the issues close to my heart through my writing.”

Patron, The Warrior Terrier

By Connie Salmon, Published author, Connecticut.

Who is the best friend of Ukrainian children and soldiers alike? Patron, that’s who! And who is Patron? Patron is nine pounds of military might. He is a Jack Russell Terrier—the mascot of the Ukrainian State Emergency Services.

Patron, the Mascot of the State Emergency Service of Ukraine. Photo credit: the State Emergency Service of Ukraine; dsns.gov.ua.

Mykhailo Llyev is the head of the pyrotechnic unit of the State Emergency Service of Ukraine. He bought Patron for his son when he was just a puppy. (The name comes from the Ukrainian word “patron,” meaning “bullet cartridge.”) The original plan was to train him to participate in dog exhibitions. But, at six-months-old, Patron showed the abilities of a sniffing dog. Mykhailo started taking him to work with him and gradually taught him how to recognize explosives by their smell. Patron has a keen sense of smell. And his size and weight make him ideal for getting into the small spaces the army needs for sniffing out bombs and mines. An antipersonnel mine will detonate with a weight of about 11 lbs. However, since Patron weighs only 8.8 lbs., he will not detonate the bomb.

When the full-scale invasion of Ukraine by Russia started on February 24, 2022, Patron went to work. As of September of 2022, Patron had helped to find more than 300 enemy explosive devices!

In May 2022, Patron became the face of the Ministry of Internal Affairs mobile application, “Deming of Ukraine.” This App allows citizens to quickly inform law enforcement agencies about discovered explosive objects. Also, it has a map of areas where unexploded shells and mines may be.

On May 9, 2022, Patron was awarded the medal for “Dedicated Service” from the President of Ukraine, Volodymyr Zelensky. And his owner, Mykhailo, was awarded the “Order for Courage.” That same month, the brave Jack Russell won the “Palm Dog” Award at the Cannes Film Festival in France. In November of 2022, Patron received the “Dog of Goodwill” title from UNICEF of Ukraine. He is the first dog ever to become a Goodwill Ambassador. He has also received lots of pats and praises from top politicians and celebrities from many nations.

The bomb-sniffing dog also made it to TV screens. Starting on January 7, 2023, supported by USAID and UNICEF, Patron stars in the animated series, “Pes Patron.” The main character tells children about the rules of mine safety and how to move around safely in a war zone.

Today, you can see Patron’s image on candies, soft toys, pillows and T-shirts.

Patron brings much comfort to Ukrainian children. He offers them companionship and emotional support during these challenging times. He reminds us, that even the smallest among us, can make a big difference.

By Connie Salmon is originally from Puerto Rico. She now resides with her husband and their two pets in Rocky Hill, Connecticut. Patron Photo from the social media of the State Emergency Service of Ukraine; dsns.gov.ua.

Where is Home to You

Where is Home to You?

My piece explores my evolving understanding of the concept of “home.” What began as confusion during a second-grade writing assignment has turned into a meaningful journey of self-reflection. Through literature, dance, and lived experiences across multiple cultures and countries, I’ve come to understand home not as a location, but as an internal sanctuary—something rooted in peace, expression, and emotional connection. I was inspired to share this story because I believe many young people around the world also struggle with this complex question.

—Leah Hyolim Lee, age 14, New York.

The question, “Where is home to you?” is a deceptively simple yet profoundly
complex inquiry. Every individual has a unique interpretation of the question. For some, it may evoke a geographic answer, rooted in soil, and for others, it is a neutral blend of cultural heritage and personal experience. For many years, it remained an elusive enigma, a landscape shrouded in both familiarity and fog. At times, I found myself blaming my diversity and uniqueness for my confusion.

In the second grade, we were required to write an essay, and the prospect of my first major writing assignment filled me with curiosity and joy. My eyes were laser focused on the green basket, which contained a mix of cards. Each of them read a different prompt, and that promise of individuality planted a seed of anticipation and interest in all of us. I daydreamed about the type of subject I would be given. I lost myself in reverie, imagining every scenario possible that I could think of: all of which I knew fully what the answer would be. Would it be a fantastical prompt that required me to use my imagination, or a historical viewpoint that I needed to assert my opinions on?

My trance was broken when my teacher’s voice cut through my thoughts like a razor. With each step towards the teacher’s table, an unmistakable sense of nervousness rose within me, an almost tangible tension that coiled around my chest. When I finally read what was written, it put me in a place of unexpected confusion. What had once seemed so simple now felt like a labyrinth, where I was trapped in the maze lost in disorientation.

It read, “Where is home to you?” in bold unforgiving letters, and I found myself frowning as my footsteps grew shorter with a loss of hope. Thoughts buzzed around in my head like a swarm of restless bees, each one darting from idea to idea, stinging my mind with urgency.

The sharp chime of the bell sliced through the quiet like a sudden gust of wind. As I
looked down, eraser marks and salty tears took the place of words that I prayed were there.

From then on, I subscribed to the conventional image that a “home” was synonymous with a tangible, physical space. I chose to take the easy way out, as I fantasized about a beautiful house, where the rhythm of belonging hummed softly to comfort me. However, each time my family moved countries, my picture-perfect image became increasingly fractured, like a mosaic of pieces that never quite held together. I wondered if my odd life was not deserving of something like a home.

I was met many times with silent criticism from others when I tried to answer the
question, “Where are you from?” Random words spilled out of my mouth, as if they too, were uncertain of their purpose and destination. I felt the unspoken implication that my origins, divided and shifting, were less valued than those steeped in singularity.

The more I bloomed into a more mature individual, I came to realize that I should not have pushed myself into the shadows as I lived in confusion of who I really am. This new perspective was the start of my own journey to sanctuary.

I began to fall in love with the world of literature, where I found a peculiar sense of home in the novels that I read and in the movies that I watched. I embarked on adventures with Huck and Jim and went on a frivolous journey with Chris, Gordie, Vern, and Teddy. The ink and paper seemed to embrace me with the warmth of familiarity that became a refuge where the chaos of the world fell away. The characters’ struggles, triumphs, and moments of reflection mirrored my own, creating an unspoken bond. A thread of shared experiences wove us together into the fabric of human existence.

Through this discovery, I often found myself perplexed. How could a mere assemblage of paper and ink evoke the sense of belonging that I had longed for? How could a world, spun from the loom of imagination, offer such a welcoming hand? It forced myself to confront my sustained belief that a home was a structurally defined place.

A home, as I experienced, can also take the form of an art style. I found shelter in a studio, with its polished floors and mirrored walls, which became a sacred ground. It was not the studio itself that gave me a sense of home, it was how it housed a place where I could express myself in ways that I had never before, where I was both the performer and audience. Through ballet, I learned an entirely new language that spoke to me in a way words never did.

The rhythm of my breaths and the breaths of others synchronized into one. It was a silent but meaningful indication that the mere art form of ballet had brought me both a place for sanctuary and fictive kinship.

The Oxford Dictionary defines a home as “a place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household,” which is a seemingly straightforward and static notion. Yet, I find myself at odds with this definition, as it enforces the idea that a home is a fixed place, an address, and a place in which an individual is anchored for a lifetime. Even as I challenge the dictionary’s definition, there are moments when I long for the permanence that it reflects and when I yearn for the comfort of knowing exactly where I belong. My own internal diversity has led me to this hard fought journey, where I am able to confront my own definition of where I belong. My belief continues to evolve, but for now, I live by my own definition that a home is not measured by the land beneath my feet, but by the peace within my heart.

By Leah Hyolim Lee, age 14, New York.