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In the reminiscence of our parents' tales about the golden days of their youth, we reveled in the natural gifts bestowed upon us by Mother Nature. My community, deeply rooted in agriculture, witnessed the cultivation of diverse crops over time, while a tranquil river provided both domestic and farming water. These idyllic scenes painted a picture of harmony between man and nature. A few years ago, the prospect of development arrived with an industrious company setting up shop in our community. Entranced by promises of progress and prosperity, we welcomed them with open arms, hopeful that our community would flourish. However, this optimism soon gave way to a harsh reality. The company, while flourishing in its business endeavors, neglected to address the looming specter of climate change. Our once life-sustaining river became contaminated, our farmlands suffered, and the air we breathed turned foul. The impact of this environmental degradation became even more apparent during the COVID-19 lockdown, which temporarily halted the company's activities, offering a brief respite from the damages it had inflicted. The loss of our river, farmland, and pristine environment prompted a deep reflection on the devastating effects of climate change within our community. The need to raise awareness and spark conversations about this global crisis became paramount. In response, I embarked on a mission to share information within my local community, urging them to understand the dire consequences of our actions and advocate for sustainable practices. Nigeria, a nation blessed with abundant natural resources, grapples with the insidious aftermath of oil spillage, particularly evident in the beleaguered state of Rivers. This article delves into the profound impacts of oil spillage on Rivers State, with a focus on its deleterious effects on water resources and the exacerbation of climate change. Oil Spillage in Rivers State Rivers State, nestled in the Niger Delta, has long served as a bastion for oil exploration. However, the benefits derived from this resource have exacted a toll on the environment. Persistent oil spillages, caused by pipeline corrosion, equipment failures, and sabotage, have contaminated water bodies, jeopardizing aquatic life and the well-being of local populations. Impact on Water Quality The rivers and streams of Rivers State bear the brunt of oil spillages, introducing toxic compounds such as polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs) and heavy metals. This contamination not only endangers aquatic ecosystems but also compromises the quality of drinking water for local communities. Residents face heightened health risks, ranging from gastrointestinal issues to chronic diseases, as a result of exposure to polluted water. Climate Change and the Ripple Effect The repercussions of oil spillage extend beyond immediate pollution, contributing significantly to climate change. Greenhouse gases released during oil extraction worsen global warming, while the disruption of local ecosystems intensifies climate-related events like floods and storms. In Rivers State, the alteration of water bodies exacerbates the vulnerability of wetlands and mangrove forests, vital for climate resilience. Community Perspectives and Advocacy Communities in Rivers State are not passive victims; residents, activists, and NGOs actively champion stricter regulations, accountability, and sustainable practices in the oil industry. Efforts to clean and restore water bodies are underway, but the scale of the issue necessitates long-term strategies to prevent further environmental degradation. Conclusion The impact of oil spillage on climate change and water resources in Rivers State underscores the interconnectedness of environmental health, human well-being, and sustainable development. Urgent, coordinated efforts are imperative to address the root causes of oil spills, implement effective cleanup measures, and promote sustainable practices in the oil industry. The global community must stand in solidarity to support the quest for environmental justice in Rivers State, ensuring access to clean water and a future where the devastating effects of oil spillage are minimized, if not eradicated.
"So, you've finally caught up, huh? It took you agents quite a while. As for your 'kings and queens,' they're probably too busy lounging in their opulence to care about the real struggles of the people," she scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. The agent tightened his grip on the weapon, a glint of irritation in his eyes. "Watch your tongue! You're in no position to provoke. We're here to deliver justice, whether you like it or not." The woman, undeterred, maintained her defiant stance, shielding her family with the strength born out of desperation. Her eyes glared at the agent, a fire of defiance burning within her. "Justice? You're just puppets dancing to the tune of those in power. You won't find justice, only oppression," she retorted with a steely resolve. Her mind raced, searching for any opportunity to shield her family from the looming threat. The agent, unmoved by her words, signaled to his comrades, tightening the grip on his weapon. "Enough talk. Your rebellion ends here." The atmosphere grew tense as the woman braced herself, ready to face whatever unjust fate awaited her. The lead agent's voice reverberated through the room, a stern declaration of charges that hung heavily in the air. "Ezzah Edison, you are under arrest for plotting and leading a rebellion against the government, a treasonous act that undermines the very fabric of our society. Your involvement in initiating a conspiracy against the I-Landers, spreading false rumors, engaging in hate speech, and attempting murder can no longer go unpunished. Surrender yourself voluntarily, and justice will follow. Refuse, and we will use force to uphold the law."The weight of the accusations pressed on Ezzah like an unrelenting force, but her eyes never wavered.With a defiant gaze, Ezzah stood tall despite the circumstances. "Arrest me if you must, but know that the rebellion will not cease with my capture. You can imprison my body, but the spirit of resistance will endure," she declared, her words cutting through the tense atmosphere. The children, wide-eyed and terrified, clung to each other, absorbing the gravity of the situation. The lead agent, unmoved by her rhetoric, motioned for his team to secure Ezzah. The room became a battleground of wills, a clash between the enforcers of authority and a woman determined to defy the chains of oppression. As they approached her, she couldn't help but notice the trembling hands of her children and the anguished expression on her husband's face. Ezzah Edison, once a pillar of strength in her community, now faced the harsh reality of the consequences of her actions. The intruders closed in, their movements deliberate and unyielding. The sound of metal restraints echoed in the room as they prepared to take her into custody. In that moment, Ezzah glanced at her family, finding solace in their eyes despite the fear. She whispered words of reassurance to her children, promising that the fight for justice would endure. As the agents restrained her, she cast one last defiant look at the lead agent, a silent vow echoing through the room. "Fear not, my cherished ones. Fear not, my beloveds. In the shadow of adversity, the robin and swan shall stand guard over the sanctuary of our souls," Ezzah whispered tenderly, her voice carrying the weight of a mother's unwavering love and a rebel's undying spirit. The arrest unfolded like a somber dance, a struggle between an individual's quest for freedom and a system determined to maintain control. The children, now forcibly separated from their mother, clung to the remnants of familiarity, their world forever altered by the intrusion of authority. The room fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the bustling village outside—a stark contrast to the turmoil within the Edison household. "As I tread the path to trial, know this – I am the embodiment of truth, and you stand on the wrong side of history. The grim reaper may soon beckon, but the flames within my spirit shall endure. Fire, my friends, cannot be extinguished with more fire," Ezzah declared with a serene yet resolute demeanor, leaving the gathered villagers with a lingering sense of defiance.
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Children are the most affected by war. In a war-torn zone, the trauma children undergo will live with them until the day they die. The trauma induced is deep-rooted and healing from the effects of war is never easy or most often than not, out of the question. Ultimately, the consequences of war related trauma will require precautionary measures as cure is never attainable. Children who has survived the worst of wars will need special attention and aid. Imagine hearing the bomb sirens or gunshots or worse, watch a building crumble right before your eyes. Imagine watching people killed or dying, or writhing in pain from wounds. The pain of the whole situation will numb a young mind to silence. I don't think these children will ever be able to interact amicably with another human after witnessing the horrors of war. How do we treat children who has seen the worst of wars and suffered as a consequence? First, we must accept that children of war are mentally affected by the situation they are thrust into. The psychological effects are massive and often these children withdraw into their own shell due to the frightening situation. Their need to explain even to themselves the results of war can have dire consequences in their actions towards those they love. They become hateful and distrusting of the world around them. In order to help them overcome the difficult transition to lead a normal life as best as they can, the caregivers must be patient with their behavioral patterns. A psychiatrist treating the child will tell you how difficult it is to get them to speak about their trauma. Instead of coming out with their fears, they often hide their feelings of insecurities and fright and try to avoid human connection. They will find it hard to interact with outsiders with the exception of their family members. Often, in the long run, the children blame their elders and family members for the trauma of war they face. They will want someone to blame themselves. Why the war? Effective treatments like trauma-focused cognitive behavioral therapies and narrative exposure therapy are available, however, family support will ultimately play a crucial role in helping children recover fully or to the extent that they can forget for a while. Children need love and a good environment to nurture their growth and look forward to a full life. It is an abhorrence to have them experience war and live to regret the chances they have missed to grow out their childhood and to understand the horrific way their lives have unfolded. At least for the love of a child, wars should end and peaceful negotiations given preference. No matter what it takes, choose peace against war. We wouldn't want to partake in ruining the lives of our children to gloat over the power of being victorious, now do we? Wars won are never a victory at the expense of even one child. The End. (This essay was first accepted for publication in the December'23 online issue by Welter@University of Baltimore. https://blogs.ubalt.edu/welter/digital-lit-current-issue)
The Sick Child has very defined brush strokes, and this is something that stays prevalent throughout all of the times he redid it. There is a lot of green and yellow, which represent sickness and dying (Heer), throughout the painting, but we see some strokes of red and orange around the painting as well. These represent hemoptysis, the blood coming from the child's lungs, which is typical in late-stage tuberculosis (Heer). Instead of having obvious splatters of blood, Munch just has small lines of red here and there more subtly, showing that consumption kills you quietly and lingers in the air after it's done. Munch described this painting as a “breakthrough” in his art (Vermeer). Even though it was not well received by critics, it helped him decide to lean more towards expressionism than impressionism in his art for the rest of his career (Vermeer). This was beneficial to him, as the technique helped him to later make his most famous painting, The Scream. Munch ended up redoing this work several times throughout the course of his life as an artist. He said, “I reworked the picture countless times in the course of a year—scratched it out—allowed it to infuse the paint medium—struggling again and again to recapture the first impression—its translucency—the pale skin towards the canvas, the trembling lips, the trembling hands” (Heer). He wanted to get the feeling and image of his sister dying just right, showing his and his aunt Karen's emotions as perfectly as possible, even in the first few years. He painted it for the first time in 1886, nine years after the event happened. He made a lithograph of it in 1894, and redid it in paint in 1896, twice in 1907, in 1925, and in 1927. He was obsessed with getting this work just right, saying, “I am convinced that there is hardly a painter among them who drained his subject to the very last bitter drop as I did in The Sick Child. It was not only I myself sitting there – it was all my loved ones” (Heer). He felt as though as long as he was reworking the painting, his loved ones who had died, including his mother, sister, and aunt, were still with him. Redoing this painting over and over helped him to heal emotionally from the trauma of his sister's death. Overall, The Sick Child is an amazing piece, showcasing exactly how the artist felt at the time, and how a lot of families and relatives of ill people felt throughout the tuberculosis epidemic. Munch felt that there was no hope left in the world after his sister died except through art, specifically this piece, so he redid it over and over again, ending up with more than six finished oil paintings (“The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch”). It helped him to heal and also to figure out what he really wanted his paintings to be like, what techniques and styles to use in his future pieces. He redid this painting a lot over 40 years, and was able to really make it convey exactly what he wanted it to. This piece goes to show that even when tragedy strikes, you can use it to make something of yourself, and if you happen to be an artist, you can make truly heart-wrenching art from it. Works Cited “Edvard Munch | The Sick Child.” The Metropolitan Museum of Art, http://metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/669368. Accessed 30 March 2023. Heer, Sati. “The Sick Child: Edvard, empathy and expertise.” UNEXAMINED MEDICINE, 17 April 2021, https://unexaminedmedicine.org/2021/04/17/the-sick-child-edvard-empathy-and-expertise/. Accessed 30 March 2023. Paulson, Noelle. “Munch, The Scream (article).” Khan Academy, https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/ap-art-history/later-europe-and-americas/modernity-ap/a/munch-the-scream. Accessed 7 April 2023. “The Sick Child.” Munchmuseet, https://www.munchmuseet.no/en/our-collection/the-sick-child/. Accessed 6 April 2023. “The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch.” Edvard Munch, https://www.edvardmunch.org/the-sick-child.jsp. Accessed 28 March 2023. Vermeer, Johannes. “The Sick Child (Det Syke Barn): Munch's Most Important Painting.” Artsapien, 1 May 2021, https://artsapien.com/2021/05/the-sick-child/. Accessed 7 April 2023.
Edvard Munch led a life that was by no means considered easy, especially at the beginning. His emotional pain led to him painting The Scream. This is a very widely known painting, even today, in the 21st century. If you showed it to the average person, they'd know it by name. They might even know the painter. What a lot of people don't know, however, is that Munch has many other works, many of which are drenched in just as much emotion as The Scream is. The painting that sticks out, and will be discussed today, is The Sick Child. The Sick Child is an oil painting done in Norway by Edvard Munch. The first rendition of it was done in 1896. It features a young girl with red hair looking out the window, resigned, as an older woman cries at her side. As part of his creative process, Munch tended to redo paintings over and over until he believed they were just right. For example, there are four different versions of The Scream (Paulson). The Sick Child is no exception to this, being redone over six times in oil paint and other mediums. He wanted to make sure that this painting conveyed his emotions perfectly, that he took every bit of emotion possible and put it into this work. Edvard Munch's The Sick Child is an extremely emotional painting full of grief and anguish, and the artist used painting this piece over and over as a way to get past the untimely deaths of several of his relatives. This piece's name was originally in Norwegian, and in this language it's called “Det Syke Barn” (“The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch”). Munch ended up redoing this painting over and over again throughout the rest of his career (Heer), to process his feelings of grief and love toward his sister and to make sure that everything about it was right. Edvard Munch's life definitely influenced this piece a lot. At the time that his sister Sophie, the child in the painting, died, he was only 14 years old (Heer), yet he had already been through unimaginable trauma. His mother died of tuberculosis when he was only five years old (“The Sick Child”), and his sister was dying of it now. She was just fifteen and should have had many years left. Munch himself had tuberculosis when he was young, but was able to overcome it. The artist ended up being glad he had such a tumultuous childhood, though. He later said, “Without fear and illness, my life would have been a boat without a rudder” (Heer). Without the sickness and trauma, the artist would not have been able to make so many works that have so much emotion in them. They fueled his work for many years, but first he had to get started. It wasn't until 1886 that Munch revisited his sister's death for the first time, venturing to paint it to try to get his feelings out and work through the trauma that he'd been through. He ended up reworking the painting several times for over 40 years (“The Sick Child, 1885 by Edvard Munch”), trying to get it just right, but many of these renditions are very similar to one another, with just small parts changed. The background of the work is dark in all renditions. The lightest parts are always right in the center, where the subject is lying in her bed. This shows that she had a lot of life in her, even though she was dying. She is very clearly the focal point of this image, her bright orange-ish hair contrasting the dark green background. Her hair seems almost to be glowing. She was the light in Edvard Munch's life and it was devastating to him to see his older sister die. He wanted to highlight the fact that she was still alive in this painting. Referring to the painting, Munch said, “What I wanted to bring out―is that which cannot be measured―I wanted to bring out the tired movement in the eyelids―the lips must look as though they are whispering―she must look as though she is breathing―I want life―what is alive” (Heer). She was still alive, and he wanted to highlight this, the sense of hope he felt even as she was clearly very ill. He painted her with a very neutral expression, even though the person next to her is very clearly in a lot of emotional pain. At this point she has resigned herself to her fate. Sophie, the subject of the painting, is looking toward the window, which is dark. This is seen as another sign of her being resigned to her death. The window has no light, showing that her life is coming to an end; there is no more light in her life (Heer). The woman next to her, who is believed to be their Aunt Karen, taking care of the children after their mother's untimely death, is in dark clothes, representing mourning (“The Sick Child”). She is very upset at her niece's death, even more so than Sophie is about dying, it seems. Munch wanted to capture Sophie's feelings in this painting, his sister being brave in her last moments.
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It is an odd feeling being fifty. Wrinkles are settled in now, and my body feels more flimsy by the day. An elaborate continuum of forgotten memories hangs by a thread. As time passes, my thirst for spontaneity dissipates. My brain is resistant like dusty cogwheels waiting for a spark. Looking around, many strangers I used to know now rest six feet under with an identical bouquet of flowers adorning an $11,000 gravestone. Some of their bodies were taken by the wind, drowned in the deep blue sea, or kept in generational attics. Looking back, I lost many jobs in my late 20s, but thankfully I had a second chance to restart my life. Today is my 50th birthday. A day I never knew would come so soon. Occasionally, I wonder how differently my life would have played out or ponder on old friends. Even at this instant, I can taste the bittersweet memories of nostalgia in my lukewarm cappuccino. Reaching into my pocket, I felt a terrible shock enter my body. Like a pinch too sudden and too painful to even breathe. Slowly I pulled out my hand with purple bruises and a pack of sewing needles. A series of flashbacks entered my mind. My mother had sowed, and her mother sewed, and before her, my great-grandmother sewed, and her mother before that. Funny how bits of my past somehow sneak into my present and future. The pain took me back to when I was a little girl sewing patches of all textures and colors onto my corduroy pants. Clothing was scarce then, and most of my blankets were quilted. Sowing became a part of me and followed me through adolescenthood when I joined the Craft Club at my school. During the second meet-up, I noticed a girl named Lila, with hazelnut eyes and brown hair, in the back of the classroom with a croquet kit on her desk. After introducing myself to her, we became instant friends with the everlasting promise of world domination. Our friendship ended abruptly when she told me she was going to study in Europe. I lost contact with her and thought about her occasionally over the years. Even now, her mystery plagues my mind in times of solitude and reflection. Today is my Birthday. My kids and grandchildren are waiting for me to come home and celebrate a year more. This morning has been my secret escape into the past, but now I must return to the present and finish my cold cappuccino. I reach the table next to me and grab a few napkins to place my needles in. It is an odd feeling being 50, but now I feel comfortable in my flimsy skin. My life has played out the exact way it should have, and now I must keep telling my tale so that my daughter and her daughter, and her daughter will tell it too.
In the early days of the pandemic, I lived in a five hundred square foot apartment. About three hundred of that was taken up by furniture, and the rest was run by my five cats. My momma and I were starved for space, but too scared to go outside for fear of catching covid. We lived in the upper unit of an aged duplex; our downstairs neighbor was never home to keep his apartment cool so the heat rose and baked us in our sardine can. We had a couple decade old window units that tried their best to keep us cool, but more often than not we would eat meals in our car so we could have well-functioning A/C. “All I want is a house,” my mom said while the food wrapper in her hands crinkled. This had been a dream of hers my entire life, I always said if I ever won the lottery the first thing I would do is buy her one. Being in that apartment made that dream bigger, more urgent, something that constantly itched underneath both of our skins. We wanted walls of our own to paint and put holes in, we wanted freedom from overbearing landlords. We wanted to not be scared of eviction with little notice, which is what had landed us in that duplex in the first place. I crossed my legs to make myself more comfortable in the front seat. I stared out at the countryside we had seen so many times in passing, nothing but vast fields with the occasional dots of trees. “I applied for a grant,” I turned to look at my mom and make a questioning sound in my throat, “A grant, some banks will give money to poor folks to help with a down payment. I know we could afford a mortgage and utilities, but I could never save up enough for the down payment,” At the time it seemed like a pipe dream, but the worst thing they could say was no. We would never know if we didn't give it a shot, and at the time all we wanted was that miracle. “Holy shit! Kitty! We got it, we got it!” my mom burst into my room to give me a hug, squeezing me tighter than she ever had before. She nearly dropped her phone her hands were shaking so much. She seemed to be on the verge of tears so I held her a little longer and bonked my head against hers. From that moment on our life consisted of scrolling through Zillow and looking through the newspaper for any home that fit our budget. We didn't have much but fortunately the areas we were looking in weren't the fanciest. We toured place after place, always six feet behind our realtor and shrouded with our masks. “Wow! This place is so spacious and look at those hardwood floors.” She commented as our feet clacked on the floors. The walls were painted a cool blue, it felt like the living room alone was the size of our apartment. It had four whole bedrooms, and a dining room! It was more space than we could have ever dreamed of. At the time we didn't want to get our hopes up, the place was ten thousand dollars over our seemingly meager budget. My mom's door slammed as we climbed into her jeep after the tour. “I mean, it was amazing, but there's no way they'll ever accept our offer,” I looked at her and told her we never thought we would get the grant either. It would hurt more if we never put in an offer in the first place than it would to be told no. It would haunt us to let this opportunity sleep by. A place that wasn't ancient, not too far from family, and had enough room for all of us. She held my hand and nodded, texting our realtor to put in the offer. The day we learned that we got the house, it felt like someone out there was watching out for us. It felt like a blur, between putting in the offer, signing for it, and moving in. For a while it felt like I was dreaming. It didn't hit me until we were standing there in our new living room, with our second hand couch and great value tv stand, that the house was ours. I remember holding my mom real tight, crying for the first time in what felt like years. We spent the night laughing and celebrating, finally able to eat a meal not in our car.
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