We’ve been watching Starter For 10 in my Interpersonal Communication class, and honestly, it feels like a very vivid dream. Look at that slap fight.
make me choose
↳ therosyrabbit asked: boromir or faramir
|—||My 10th grade English teacher about Jane Eyre, and about us. More than three years later I still think about it all the time.|
even if you were too small to understand why
to mark world theatre day, held on march 27, one hundred young syrians from jordan’s zaatari refugee camp acted in an adapted production of king lear. the play — which tells a story of exile, of a ruler losing touch with reality, and of a land divided by rival groups — was directed was nawar bulbul (third photo), a popular syrian actor who fled his country after appearing in anti government protests.
"i wanted to show that these children are not worthless …that they have something real to contribute." he said. “the show is meant to bring back laughter, joy and humanity” and "help [the children] express themselves." the kids — all under the age of fifteen — were actively involved in the costuming, for example.
many of the children cried when they heard the applause of onlookers at the play’s end. said one child, “i do not feel lonely any more in this place.” their parents described the project as a rare point of light in a bleak camp existence. after the show, they boasted of their children’s talent.
the production, months in the planning, was also meant to help counteract the effects of a war that has caused young syrians to miss vital years of education. about 60,000 of the refugees at the zaatari camp are younger than eighteen, and fewer than a quarter regularly attend school. many fear the war is creating a lost generation of children.
photos are by warrick page for the new york times and jared kohler for unhcr. for more on syria’s refugee crisis, see #withsyria, care international, oxfam syria crisis appeal, human care syria and free syrian voices
(it’s interesting to note that shakespeare actually mentions the city of aleppo in mabeth, which serves as a reminder that syria is one of our oldest centers of civilization.)
"Of course I don’t want to help her anymore. In fact, this whole thing’s ruined me for helping anyone ever again."
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.