Hi! I’m Gizela,
This is my why...
When I was 6 years old, my mother handed me a school uniform. I wasn't sure whether it was real or a joke. In slow motion, I tilted my head down to make eye contact with it as I held it out in front of me. Then back to my mother's face, I stared deep into her pupils, looking for reasoning, thinking to myself, "Where did she get the money for this uniform and where will I be wearing it?" She read the concern expression on my face, then says to me, "You're going to school tomorrow."
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In that same year, life for me changed completely.
It started that morning I was supposed to go to school. I woke up to my mom's distressed eyes, "Are you clean," she asks me. "Yes," I respond to her as I am making my way to the uniform. Once I was dressed to play the part of a student, she grabbed my little hand then made our way to school on foot. On our walk there, my mother reminded me to keep my head down and to be quiet. Little did she realize she was just adding to the fear that was building up in my chest from thinking about all the ways the day could go wrong. After a while I tuned her voice out to the point where all I could hear was murmur.
My eyes wander, analyzing what's around me, trying to remember this path for when I walk back home after school.
There she was, lying on the red dirt floor that covered the grounds of Tanzania. When it hit me that her body was soulless, I stop. I feel my mother's weight as she stops herself from taking another step. I am paralyzed and capitalized in terror. This is the first time I am seeing a dead person, a child at that. Before my mother could say anything to me, I release the horror losing itself in my chest. I scream the tears to surface. I forget how to breathe, as well as any happiness I've ever felt before this moment. I turn toward my mother, wrapping my arms around her legs tightly, drenching her skirt with my tears. It feels like the pain will never end and to some degree, it never did.
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I thought about the girl every day after that day. Even though I saw many more bodies after that, I couldn't forget hers.
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"What's her story," I asked myself after I calmed down.
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In my village we told stories to make meaning of life. Because even after it's all said, the deeds are done, and tomorrow comes, we'll remember the stories. They keep us alive. We learn about the hate that causes the wars in stories. We are inspired to love from these stories. We understand courage from these stories. Humanity is found in these stories. Lives are spared from these stories...
My mother and I both knew I was not going to sleep that night. So, before the village songs got quiet, my mother held me in her arms and gave the girl, who once had a soul, a story. When she was closing into her last days, I cut her off, "...she was tired from playing with her animal friends from the jungle. She laid her body down to rest. God saw that she was lonely, so he picked her up and took her somewhere more comfortable. Now she'll have so many friends to play with," I conclude the story.
Writing has the power to turn darkness into beauty and light into love. Among our differences, we have something in common. Stories are our commonality. I am determined to remind the world that love is all we need, and love is found in each other.
Impact is the result of storytelling. Among our differences, we have something in common. We all have a story. And they have the power to turn darkness into beauty and light into love.
That girl and many more others are the reasons why I am determined to remind the world that love can only be found in each other through the strength of storytelling. We have seen and felt enough pain, and we have suffered from it. I think it's time we heal and work together to create new stories. Ones that will make us smile forever.
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