Category: 2026 Ignite Publication

Hebron Kahsay ’26

The Vietnam War, which lasted from 1955 to 1975, was the first widely televised and photographed war. Often referred to as the television war, it was held responsible for increased public distrust of the government (Mandelbaum). The photographs and media painted imagery that questioned the morality of war, thus bringing the brutal realities of war right into American households. Media coverage made the war transparent, forcing the public to question the war’s legitimacy.

The government can do no wrong.

Growing up in South Seattle in an apartment complex known as Sunset View, I faced my own war through the firsthand effects of gentrification. As the rent rose, the number of neighbors who looked like me declined. I lost friends, a majority of whom were Somali, African, and Hispanic, whose shared experiences would always bring me comfort. Unable to feed their families or afford their rent, many in my community felt outcast by the government. It broke apart what held us together for so long and shattered our sense of belonging. The media didn’t cover my story, but it was apparent that my community was quickly and silently being broken apart.

The government can do no wrong.

On February 1st, 1968, American photojournalist Eddie Adams captured the photo referred to as the “Saigon Execution”. The photo shows a South Vietnamese police chief shooting a Viet Cong Soldier at point-blank range under no real duress or threat (Adams). The people saw what looked to be a pointless death at the hands of American allies. Instantly, the tide

was turned against the government as the photo spread nationwide, garnering attention and sparking Americans’ perception in ways only visuals could (Astor).

The Vietnam War made people believe change was necessary, but the war on gentrification was swept right under the rug of those living room television sets. I thought it was nothing, maybe just different times. But I kept thinking how one oppression could be exposed, and the other never sees the light of day?

The government can do no wrong.

At Sunset, I watched kids my age sell drugs in the empty blue carpet staircase leading up to their apartment, come home from school early to take care of their sick grandparents, and fight to retain respect in a community ignored by their own government. I saw people fighting for a territory in a place where they were destined to fail.

The government can do no wrong.

The Pentagon Papers, leaked by Daniel Ellsberg in 1971, detailed years of information relating to the government’s misleading and less-than-moral escalation of war (Gold 7). The suspicions of the majority of the public were affirmed as the papers revealed the government was retaining information and lying to the public about its intentions and conduct in the war. To retain a strong front, the government attempted to sensitize the spread of the papers and arrested Daniel Eisenberg for his role in the distribution of them. Yet the world was already informed and necessarily, nothing that the government could say now could lead the public to believe they were telling the truth. The strength of the media provided undeniable truths that no amount of government suppression could hide from the people. Along with this, it eliminated any chances of governmental and public consensus on the war itself.

The government can do no wrong.

Sunset wasn’t a place of hate and destruction; it was assumed to be so. The story was about high crime rates, no support systems, and gangs. But never once was that story clear. Why were so many people relying on this? Was it for fun? Were they crazy? Was my immigrant family there to cause harm? The story was never transparent because suppression became better than the truth.

The government can do no wrong.

The media shaped the Vietnam War by unveiling the power that imagery and storytelling had on the American public and government. The public witnessed the horrors of war, which allowed them to empathize with their enemies. The media became an important part of shaping public opinion, aside from the narratives of the government. As conflicts were televised, the public could hold officials accountable and question the intentions of the government they abide by.

The government can do no wrong.

The truth was hidden; my community wasn’t filled with criminals; it was filled with families, culture, and perseverance. My community wasn’t invisible, but its visibility was tarnished. The media only covered communities riddled with problems, focusing on the problems themselves. The government placed statistics on them but never revealed why those problems existed or why those numbers were the way they were. Visibility shifts power. The Vietnam War proved that, and my community’s silent war proved that.

The government can do wrong, and visibility reveals that truth.

Hayden Downer ’26

There is a small, green plant, always sitting on my windowsill, that keeps turning towards the light. I must constantly remind myself to rotate it every day, so it does not grow unevenly, but somehow, I always find it in the same direction again. I praise the plants certainty because it always knows which way to face without overthinking it.

At the farmers market, I watch strangers choose fruit like it matters – patting cantalopes, turning apples, and cleaning off oranges with their hands. I do the same thing too, pretending I know what I am specifically looking for. Maybe were all just looking for what feels right and hoping we did not make the wrong choice.

Occasionally I catch myself scrolling through old photos like I am stalking an outgrown version of myself. I recognize my face, but I can not interpret or remember the thoughts behind my eyes. It is strange how proof of memories stay, but the internal thoughts from that memory fade away. Memories are not reliving an experience but rather reflect growth and experience.

Sometimes, late at night, I listen to the dark quiet my room and soften the brightness of my carpet. The noise of the day finally vanishes, and I can almost hear my thoughts settling in. In these quiet moments, life feels slow enough to visualize, like change is not always so sudden, but something that gently grows over time without even noticing.

Win Chandler ’26

Being at the mountain is its own kind of serenity that serenades you in its own simple sounds: the the click of your boots, the zipping of your jacket and the indescribable clap of your skis hitting the snow. The cold settles deep in your chest and makes every breath feel like a refreshing sip of your favorite drink after a long day. You push off and gravity does the talking

Skiing demands a kind of trust and faith that doesn’t come from thinking, but reaction. You lean and continue forward even when all you see is the hill dropping away. Mistakes are expected, the mountain teaches through failure and motion. Falling is brief. Getting up is instant. You correct, push off, and keep moving forward.

High in the mountain, the world simplifies. The sky, endless and pale. Problems fall on the hill and to the to the size of the next run, the next turn, the next breath. Time passes, you forget. You forget everything except balance and speed and the way the snow sprays as you come to a halting stop just reaching the bottom.

Up on the mountain, your mind ad body are disconnected, relying on muscle memory, Fear fades into instinct, and every turn becomes a balance between control and letting go. When you stop, heart racing, you realize the mountain didn’t overwhelm you, it cleared everything else away.

Anthony Caso ’26

Remember the crackle of unending machine gun fire ripping through flesh. Remember the sizzle of caustic gas burning through empty holes that were once eye sockets. Remember the brutal screams and bloody howls through the nights that you couldn’t have possibly slept through. Remember why you’re here: the many men you slaughtered all in a row upon turning the bluff, the fear that ran through you, the molten lead shredding into your legs, the fall backward into the cool mud and waking days ladder swaddled in white sheets and thick bandages. Try not to remember how pleased your commanding officers were, as they commended your “bravery”, your “resolve”, and your “loyalty to the motherland”. Try not to remember the many medals they bestowed upon your breast as if you hadn’t destroyed the lives of men and the dreams of families. Try not to remember your reward (if you could call it one), your “redeployment” as they officially called it. Try not to remember her or the child she bore, what you left behind. Feel the fear of the lost.

Once you arrive at your wonderful reward courtesy of the Czar, trudge through the high piled snow and blistering cold. Watch the massive prison, its spires reaching toward the heavens, surrounded by a wire fence growing closer and closer. Notice the strange manner of the defenses, not a single gun pointed outwards into the vast snowy fields of northern Kamchatka. This alone wasn’t strange as the prison was hundreds if not thousands of miles from the front. However, the several machine guns and light artillery

pointed inward toward the prison insinuated sinister intentions. Feel the fear of the lost. Feel the weight of the unknown.

Attend several meetings and briefings on the nature of the subject matter being studied within the thick, oppressive walls of the prison. Understand which rooms are classified except only to the men in white lab coats and which rooms are never to be entered regardless of rank. Learn plenty but know nothing of what is contained within the north wing of the prison besides the non-stop warnings from officers to never open the small wooden door that serves as its only entrance. Ask every soldier you know about the rather mysterious nature of the north wing. Some think it’s filled with bodies, infested with the next plague to ravage the country. Others believe it’s a new weapon, something to end the war. A select few deliver disturbed answers about dreams and loved ones before disappearing in the night. Sense the ever-growing, ever-oppressive terror that pollutes this hell like mold running through the veins of a long dead corpse. Understand that you should be content with the good rations, simple tasks, and lack of mortar shells shrieking overhead. Curse the feeling that stops you from your peace, that accursed north wing and its foul secrets. Speak to the men in the white coats and sense their fear in the cryptic answers they give about the vanishing men as if they believe themselves to be dancing with lady death herself. “Can you feel it’s voice, can you feel it’s need, can you?” says a disturbed thin man with gaunt features and wide eyes through a voice sputtering like a clogged factory machine. Notice the next day and that the man who spoke these words is now gone as if he had never existed. Feel the fear of the lost. Feel the weight of the unknown. Feel its calling.

Begin to suffer from headaches that strum with pain so bad it feels like thick mud is being poured directly into your brain. Try to pick up your rifle one morning but let it clatter to the floor for your grip to become too weak and frail. Sling it over your shoulder instead as you head to the mess hall for morning rations. Don’t eat your morning rations or your midday rations or your night rations. Actually, stop eating all together and make excuses to miss any communal meals. Use your war hero status to shame officers who have never even killed a man. Become distrustful of your comrades in arms. Assure yourself that you never liked them anyway and they would never understand it. It being the only solace you can find from this twisted, evil place, from the cold blanket of snow around the prison, from the memories of an unending war, and from the pain of the headaches, starvation, and weakness. It is sleeping. Fall into the world of dreams and feel that lovely, singing voice calling to you. Refuse to wake, when it shows you fields of ecstasy and makes you feel them as well. Listen when it calls to you, and it calls you to open the little wooden door, sealing away the horrors of the north wing. Feel the fear of the lost. Feel the weight of the unknown. Feel it’s calling. Feel the compulsion of love.

Volunteer for night watch and walk the twisting hallways that extend before you on your journey to oblivion. The men in the white coats notice you but refuse to stop you from walking off your designated watch route. You know they’re afraid of you or what you might do or maybe where you might go. Don’t fear any of these things as you turn the knob of the small door leading into the evils of the north wing. Swing the door open and run into a dark room with air thick like blood and a smell like the rot of death. Turn around to leave but realize the door is gone in exchange for more pitch-black empty space. Turn a second time

and see them. She stands holding the hand of your child a light emanating through the endless dark. Run to them thinking only of the love you have for them and all the horror you have endured up until now. The war, the prison, the dark, none of it matters now as you break through the black each step growing faster. Reach out to them, open your arms, and prepare to throw them into a deep embrace. Question why you tried to forget. Question why you didn’t return to them sooner. Question what the point of your whole life was if it wasn’t for this exact moment. Remember what your wife and child felt like to hold and remember that they are long gone. Realize that what you’re not holding is neither your wife nor your child. Step back and stare into the burning eyes of the creature.

Stop Feeling

Xavier Abenojar ’26

I still see myself at the free throw line. Taking deep breaths. Dribbling once. Twice. But before shooting, I drop the ball and let it bounce away. I listen closely as the ball continues to roll out of sight. For a split second, I’m in control.  

I was clueless at first. It had black and orange skin. Round. Always watching me in a way. Whether it was in the corner of my garage, in the trunk of the car, it spoke to me even if I didn’t reach out. One day I picked it up, and suddenly that next two years of my life unraveled.  

The language came fast. Swish. Squeak. “Ball!”. I learned it all even though I never asked to. Every little sound fed the men in my family. They shared a huge meal while I sat at my own table, hungry. Watching them play, I saw myself being place into “their” game, not mine. Still, it was easier to dribble instead of explaining why I’m not like them. It felt normal to go against my truths instead of stating them. 

The whistle only made me look forward to the next. I counted down with the clock from the first quarter, eyes already aimed towards the exit. My mind was elsewhere while my body sprinted up and down the beaming court. I did it for the nod… for the approval I’d receive from my father on the car ride home. The court became my life because I was scared of having the answers to the questions they couldn’t answer. 

It only took one bad play to change the rules of the game. The ball felt heavy when it knew my hands so well. “It’s in your blood”, they said. “All boys back home in the Philippines play ball, son”. Blood… Philippines. Those two words alone lingered more than the loss. The car got hot. My eyelids lowered, tears fell. That night, I was still able to hear the ball bounce, matching the pattern of my heartbeat.  

Standing at the front door, I shut it before greeting. It bangs and bangs, but I don’t answer. It had black and orange skin. Round. It called me, but I didn’t listen. My hands remain empty. I peak out the window as it hops away. I turn around and the rest of my life unravels. Freedom. 

Mason Beckett ’27

A Grandfather Tree stood alone in a naked field covered with blankets of white snow. Old tree stumps lay buried in the ground like rotting brown teeth. Icicles clasped onto sagging arms of the wrinkled Tree whose beautiful leaves had fallen long ago. A frozen wind danced obliviously around the Tree, rattling the icicles and the Tree’s memories. It remembered how the forest used to sway slowly with the gently falling snowflakes and dance wildly with the winds of the night. That time was gone, a single moment captured in a snow globe and stored on the Tree’s decaying memory shelf. On the edge of the field stood a desolate, freezing cabin. Logs lay atop each other like wooden coffins. Its cold river stone chimney sat smokeless and had the untamed growth of a hermit’s white beard from the piling snow. The Tree saw a man trudging his way through the heaviness of the field, carrying a blade of rusty teeth who had been starved for ages. The Tree let out a deep creaking sigh as the man’s steamy breath gradually grew nearer and nearer. They were the same. Alone, aging in the winter snow. Both waiting. Waiting for life to melt away.

Kate Smith ’28

Some days the world keeps moving fast,  

while I just sit, let moments last.  

No lists are crossed, no plans are made,  

yet still I rest beneath the shade.  

My shoes are dusty from the hall,  

my backpack leans against the wall.  

The clock ticks on, but I don’t mind,  

I leave my rushing far behind.  

The air is warm, the sunlight stays,  

clouds drift slowly in careless ways.  

No one demands that I perform,  

and in that quiet, I feel warm.  

Not every step must race ahead,  

some steps are still, some rest instead.  

If progress has a shape to show,  

it’s breathing slow, and letting go.