Her gaze pierced me, and I could see a thousand stories living behind those hazel eyes: bare foot treading through landmine-laced fields, boiling away the last of the lamb fat to make it through the winter, work-cracked hands raised in dubious surrender to Soviet troops.
Old before her time, she pauses, the green of her dress visible through the tattered shoulder of her robe. I could brush past her in the marketplace and never take a second look, but here, now, she captivates me, draws me in with her stoicism, her willfulness. She will not bow to any man's boot.Will not pick crops for any man. She would die beneath the lash before lowering herself to that. Strength lives in this woman, inhabits her as if she herself were merely a tattered suit of clothes, still just able to serve its purpose.And here's an example from one of our first period students, Kristen (minor editing done):
She looks at you with such intensity. The blazing red cloth raps around her delicate skull. A splash of green adds variety to the palette of colors. Her cloudy gray eyes tell stories you wouldn't believe. They witness more than one lifetime can hold. The dark smudges of filth hold proof of those tales. Her lips look like they belong to a Greek goddess. Her nose sites proud on her face. To some she may hold salvation and hope. To others, a life lesson.And another from Kayla:
The Afgani woman's pebble eyes widen at the sight of the camera, full of confusion. Her caramel skin coats her face, showing no trace of any flaws. The woman's lips zip closed with no sign of opening. Blood red blankets cover her entire body. She stares at the camer man, startled by the picture he took of her.