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Global
pandemic:
Through
the eyes
of the
world's
children
By
MARTHA
IRVINE
apnews.com
Global
pandemic:
Through
the eyes
of the
world's
children
CHICAGO
- These
are
children
of the
global
pandemic.
In
the
far-north
Canadian
town of
Iqaluit,
one boy
has been
glued to
the news
to learn
everything
he can
about
the
coronavirus.
A girl
in
Australia
sees a
vibrant
future,
tinged
with
sadness
for the
lives
lost. A
Rwandan
boy is
afraid
the
military
will
violently
crack
down on
its
citizens
when his
country
lifts
the
lockdown.
There is
melancholy
and
boredom,
and a
lot of
worrying,
especially
about
parents
working
amid the
disease,
grandparents
suddenly
cut off
from
weekend
visits,
friends
seen
only on
a video
screen.
Some
children
feel
safe and
protected.
Others
are
scared.
And yet,
many
also
find joy
in play,
and even
silliness.
Associated
Press
reporters
around
the
world
asked
kids
about
living
with the
virus
and to
use art
to show
us what
they
believe
the
future
might
hold.
Some
sketched
or
painted,
while
others
sang,
danced
ballet,
built
with
LEGOs. A
few just
wanted
to talk.
In
the
remote
forests
of
northern
California,
one boy,
a Karuk
Indian,
wrote a
rap song
to
express
his
worries
about
how his
tribe of
just
5,000
will
survive
the
pandemic.
Their
worries
are
matched
in many
places
by
resilience
and
hope,
for a
life
beyond
the
virus.
This
is life
under
lockdown,
through
the eyes
of
children.
Lilitha
Jiphethu,
11,
poses
for a
photo
outside
her home
in
Orange
Farm,
South
Africa.
(AP
Photo/Denis
Farrell)
LILITHA
JIPHETHU,
11,
SOUTH
AFRICA
Lilitha
Jiphethu
has made
a ball
out of
discarded
plastic
grocery
bags to
keep her
amused
during
the
lockdown.
She and
her four
siblings
play
with
that
makeshift
ball
almost
every
day in a
small
scrub of
ground
that
they’ve
fenced
off
outside
their
home.
The
11-year-old
screams
as her
brothers
throw
the ball
at her.
Then she
laughs,
picks up
the ball
and
throws
it back
at them.
This
happens
again
and
again.
Lilitha’s
house is
like
hundreds
of
others
in this
informal
settlement
of
families
just
outside
Johannesburg,
South
Africa’s
biggest
city.
It’s
made of
sheets
of scrap
metal
nailed
to
wooden
beams.
Like
many
children
under
lockdown,
she
misses
her
friends
and her
teachers
and
especially
misses
playing
her
favorite
game,
netball.
But she
understands
why
school
is
closed
and why
they are
being
kept at
home.
“I
feel bad
because
I don’t
know if
my
family
(can
catch)
this
coronavirus,”
Lilitha
says. “I
don’t
like it,
this
corona.”
She
prefers
singing
to
drawing
and
chooses
to sing
a church
song in
her
first
language,
Xhosa,
as her
way of
describing
the
future
after
the
pandemic.
She
misses
her
choir
but
takes
comfort
in the
song’s
lyrics.
She
smiles
as she
begins.
Her
sweet
voice
drifts
through
the
one-room
home.
“I
have a
friend
in
Jesus,”
she
sings.
“He is
loving
and he’s
not like
any
other
friend.
“He
is not
deceitful.
He is
not
ashamed
of us.
“He
is
truthful,
and he
is
love.”
—Bram
Janssen
and
Gerald
Imray
This May
4, 2020
photo
provided
by his
family
shows
Hudson
Drutchas,
12, in
his
Chicago
home.
Drutchas
is a
sixth-grader
and is,
because
he lives
in a
state
that
still
has a
stay-at-home
order,
is doing
his
schoolwork
online.
He says
he feels
like
he's
missing
part of
his
childhood
because
of the
global
pandemic.
(Kristin
Drutchas
via AP)
HUDSON
DRUTCHAS,
12,
UNITED
STATES
Hudson
Drutchas
waited
and
worried
as his
mom and
sister
recovered
from
coronavirus,
quarantined
in their
rooms.
Just a
few
weeks
earlier,
he was a
busy
sixth-grader
at
Lasalle
II, a
public
elementary
school
in
Chicago.
Then the
governor
issued a
stay-at-home
order.
Now,
the
soft-spoken
12-year-old
receives
school
assignments
by
computer
and
looks to
dog Ty
and cat
Teddy
for
comfort.
“Since I
don’t
get to
see my
friends
a lot,
they’re
kind of
my
closest
friends,”
he says.
He
giggles
when
Teddy,
now 9,
snarls.
“He
sometimes
gets
really
grumpy
because
he’s an
old man.
But we
still
love him
a lot.”
When
not
doing
schoolwork,
Hudson
jumps
and
flips on
his
trampoline
and
lifts
himself
around a
doorframe
outfitted
so he
can
practice
climbing,
something
he
usually
does
competitively.
He
knows
he’s
fortunate,
with a
good
home and
family
to keep
him
safe,
but it’s
difficult
to be
patient.
“It
makes me
feel sad
that I
am
missing
out on a
part of
my
childhood,”
he says.
When
he draws
his
version
of the
future,
Hudson
makes a
detailed
pencil
sketch
showing
life
before
the
coronavirus
and
after.
The
world
before
looks
stark
and full
of
pollution
in the
drawing.
In the
future,
the city
is lush
with
clear
skies
and more
wildlife
and
trees.
“I
think
the
environment
might
kind of,
like,
replenish
itself
or maybe
grow
back,”
Hudson
says.
Still,
he feels
uncertain:
“I’m
worried
about
just how
life
will be
after
this.
Like,
will
life
change
that
much?”
 Alexandra
Kustova,
shows
how she
dances
prior to
an
interview
in her
family's
apartment
in
Yekaterinburg,
a city
in the
Urals,
Russia
on
Thursday,
May 7,
2020.
For
12-year-old
Alexandra,
self-isolation
during
the
coronavirus
pandemic
turned
out to
be a
blessing
in
disguise.
Now that
all the
studies
are
conducted
online,
not only
does she
have
more
time for
her two
favorite
hobbies
_ ballet
and
jigsaw
puzzles
_ she
spends
more
time
with her
family
and
helps
out her
grandmother,
who
lives in
the same
building
two
floors
down.
(AP
Photo/Anton
Basanaev)
ALEXANDRA
KUSTOVA,
12,
RUSSIA
Hard
times
can have
a silver
lining.
Alexandra
Kustova
has come
to
understand
this
during
this
pandemic.
Now
that all
her
studies
are
conducted
online,
she has
more
time for
her two
favorite
hobbies
--
ballet
and
jigsaw
puzzles.
The
12-year-old
also
able to
spend
more
time
with her
family
and help
her
grandmother,
who
lives in
the same
building,
two
floors
down at
their
apartment
in
Yekaterinburg,
a city
in the
Urals, a
mountain
range
that
partly
divides
Europe
and
Asia.
Together,
they
take
time to
water
tomato
plants
and
enjoy
one
another’s
company.
Time has
slowed
down.
“Before
that I
would
have
breakfast
with
them,
rush out
to
school,
come
back,
have
dinner,
go to
ballet
classes,
come
back --
and it
would
already
be time
to go to
bed,”
Alexandra
says.
Ballet
has been
her
passion
since
she was
8. Now
she does
classes
at home
and
sends
videos
of her
drills
to the
trainer,
who
gives
her
feedback.
The
dance
she
shows
for an
AP
reporter
begins
slowly
and
finishes
with
leaps in
the air.
Just
like the
pandemic,
Alexandra
says, it
is “sad
in the
beginning
and then
it
becomes
joyful.”
“I
believe
the end
is
joyful
because
we must
keep on
living,
keep on
growing,”
she
says.
Tresor
Ndizihiwe,
12,
poses
for a
photo at
his home
in
Kigali,
Rwanda
on
Tuesday,
April
21,
2020. No
school.
No
playing
with
friends.
Soldiers
everywhere.
That’s
life
during
the
coronavirus
pandemic
for
Tresor
Ndizihiwe,
a
12-year-old
boy who
lives in
Rwanda,
one of
seven
brothers
and
sisters.
(AP
Photo)
TRESOR
NDIZIHIWE,
12,
RWANDA
No
school.
No
playing
with
friends.
Soldiers
everywhere.
That’s
life
during
the
coronavirus
pandemic
for
Tresor
Ndizihiwe,
a
12-year-old
boy who
lives in
Rwanda,
one of
seven
brothers
and
sisters.
Their
mother,
Jacqueline
Mukantwari
is paid
$50 a
month as
a
schoolteacher,
but she
used to
earn
extra
money
giving
private
lessons.
That
business
has
dried
up, and
the
family
gets
food
parcels
from the
government
twice a
month.
The
only
regular
outside
time
Tresor
has is
in a
small
courtyard
next to
his
home.
“The
day
becomes
long,”
he says
in his
native
tongue,
Kinyarwanda.
“(You)
can’t go
out
there” —
he
indicates
the
world
outside
his
house —
“and it
makes me
feel
really
uncomfortable.”
Tresor
draws a
picture
of the
future
that
shows
soldiers
shooting
civilians
who are
protesting,
he says.
He adds
dabs of
red
paint
next to
one of
those
who has
fallen.
“There
is
blood,”
he says,
“and
some are
crying,
as you
can
see.”
It’s
a stark
image
for a
boy to
produce.
Rwanda
was the
first
country
in
Africa
to
enforce
a total
lockdown
because
of the
virus.
It’s
also a
place
where
the
security
forces
meant to
be
helping
keep
people
safe
have
been
accused
of
serious
abuses
of
power.
Yet
he wants
to be a
soldier.
Jacqueline
says her
son is a
good
student
— “so
intelligent.”
She
struggles
to
reconcile
his own
desire
to join
the
military
with the
picture
he has
drawn.
Jeimmer
Alejandro
Riveros,
9,
carries
a
shovel,
followed
by his
mother,
Nubia
Rocio
Gaona,
37, and
his
brother
David,
14, as
they
walk on
a road
that
leads to
their
small
farm in
Chipaque,
Colombia,
Saturday,
May 9,
2020.
The
small-time
farming
mother
and two
sons are
reinventing
themselves
as
YouTubers
due to a
quarantine
ordered
by the
government
to
contain
the
spread
of
COVID-19,
teaching
others
how to
grow
vegetables
at home
and
providing
self-starter
kits
that
they
deliver
through
a local
courier.
(AP
Photo/Fernando
Vergara)
JEIMMER
ALEJANDRO
RIVEROS,
9,
COLOMBIA
Life
in
Colombia’s
countryside
has
become
even
more
difficult
for the
family
of
Jeimmer
Alejandro
Riveros.
The
price of
herbs
and
vegetables
his
single
mom and
siblings
cultivate
on a
farm in
Chipaque
have
declined.
A spotty
internet
connection
makes
virtual
classes
difficult,
and a
nationwide
quarantine
means
less
time
outdoors.
“Here is
a
mountain
with a
river,”
Jeimmer,
9, says,
pointing
at each
item in
his
drawing.
In his
mind,
the
future
doesn’t
look so
different.
“Here I
am.
Here’s
my
mommy.
Here is
my
brother.
Here is
my
house.
Here is
the sun
and here
is the
sky.”
The
family
recently
launched
a
YouTube
channel
with
videos
showing
how to
grow and
propagate
plants
that now
has more
than
420,000
followers.
Their
first
video,
introducing
the
Jeimmer’s
mom,
older
brother
and dog,
has
garnered,
by now,
more
than 1
million
views.
“Let’s
make
this go
viral!”
Jeimmer
says, as
birds
chirp in
the
background.
Colombia
is one
of Latin
America’s
most
unequal
countries,
and
poverty
abounds
in rural
areas
where
many
still
lack
basic
utilities
like
safe
drinking
water.
Jeimmer’s
family
often
walks 40
minutes
a day to
get
fresh
milk.
Capital
city
Bogota —
about an
hour
from the
family’s
farm —
has the
highest
number
of
coronavirus
cases in
Colombia.
But
cases
are
increasingly
being
identified
in rural
areas
with few
hospitals.
Chipaque
reported
its
first
case
earlier
this
month.
Despite
the
obstacles,
Jeimmer
maintains
an
upbeat
outlook
on life
under
quarantine.
He feels
safe
from the
virus
with his
mom and
brother.
And he
imagines
a future
with
more
time
spent
outdoors
and one
day, a
grown-up
job.
“It
doesn’t
matter
that
we’re in
lockdown,”
he says.
“We can
be
happy.”
In this
image
from
video,
Ishikiihara
E-kor
sings a
rap song
about
the
COVID-19
coronavirus
pandemic
in
Orleans,
Calif.
“Stay
away,
man, six
feet at
least.
Social
distancing,
it’s a
thing
that
could
save us.
What?
Like
5,000 of
us left,
Karuk
tribe,
man,
that’s
it.” He
celebrated
his
recent
11th
birthday
with
relatives
on a
video
conference
call.
(AP
Photo/Gillian
Flaccus)
ISHIKIIHARA
E-KOR,
11,
UNITED
STATES
Ishikiihara
E-kor
misses
all the
normal
kid
things
during
the
pandemic:
playing
baseball,
hanging
out with
friends
and
having a
real
party
for his
11th
birthday,
which he
instead
celebrated
with
relatives
on a
Zoom
call.
The
internet
periodically
goes out
for
hours,
making
it hard
for him
to
complete
his
school
work, so
he plays
with his
dog,
Navi
Noop
Noop.
But
Shikii,
as his
friends
call
him,
also has
bigger
things
on his
mind.
He’s a
Karuk
Indian,
a member
of
California’s
second-largest
tribe,
and has
been
reading
about
how the
pandemic
is
rampaging
through
the
Navajo
Nation,
another
tribe
hundreds
of miles
away.
The
virus
can feel
far away
in the
tribe’s
tiny
outpost
of
Orleans,
California,
where
the
crystal
clear
lower
Klamath
River
winds
through
densely
forested
mountains
south of
the
Oregon-California
border.
But in a
rap
Shikii
wrote,
he urged
fellow
tribal
members
not to
get
complacent.
“Stay
away,
man, 6
feet at
least.
Social
distancing,
it’s a
thing
that
could
save us.
What?
Like
5,000 of
us left,
Karuk
tribe,
man,
that’s
it.”
Ishikiihara,
whose
full
name
means
“sturgeon
warrior”
in the
Karuk
language,
later
adds,
“If we
even
just
lost a
few
people,
that
would be
really
sad.”
Rapping
about
his
worries
isn’t
new for
him. He
has a
song
about
how his
tribe
lost its
tradition
fishing
salmon
runs on
the
Klamath
River,
pondering
in verse
why the
Karuk
“needed
permission
to go
fishin’.”
Baneen
Ahmed
stands
for a
portrait
during
the
COVID-19
coronavirus
lockdown
in
Amman,
Jordan
on April
15,
2020.
Her
family’s
suffering
in
war-time
Iraq has
taught
the
10-year
old that
outside
events
can turn
life
upside
down in
an
instant.
In the
chaotic
aftermath
of the
2003
U.S.-led
invasion
of Iraq,
an uncle
was
kidnapped,
and a
great-uncle
was
killed
by armed
militias,
forcing
her
family
to seek
refuge
in
Jordan.
(AP
Photo/Omar
Akour)
BANEEN
AHMED,
10,
JORDAN
Despite
the
harshness
she has
experienced,
the
quiet,
studious
girl is
brimming
with
hard-won
optimism.
Her
family’s
suffering
in
war-time
Iraq has
taught
Baneen
Ahmed
that
outside
events
can turn
life
upside
down in
an
instant.
In the
chaotic
aftermath
of the
2003
U.S.-led
invasion
of Iraq,
an uncle
was
kidnapped,
and a
great-uncle
was
killed
by armed
militias,
forcing
her
family
to seek
refuge
in
Jordan.
By
comparison,
the
coronavirus
pandemic
seems
manageable,
the
10-year-old
says.
Scientists
will
find a
vaccine,
she
says,
speaking
in
halting
but
vocabulary-rich
English,
her
favorite
subject
of study
at a
private
school
in the
Jordanian
capital
of
Amman.
“It’s
going to
take a
year or
a little
bit to
find a
cure, so
it’s
going to
end,”
says
Baneen,
who
prefers
to talk
and show
how
she’s
studying
at home
under
lockdown,
rather
than
drawing
a
picture.
“In
Iraq,
it’s not
going to
end,”
she
continues.
“It’s
like so
hard to
end it,
the
killing
and the
kidnapping.”
In
the
future,
she sees
herself
studying
abroad,
maybe in
the
United
States
or
Turkey.
She’s
thought
about a
career
in
medicine,
but is
excited
by any
opportunity
to
learn.
For her,
school
represents
hope.
“I
want to
go
somewhere
else
because
they
will let
us study
good
things,”
Baneen
says.
“And my
future
is going
to be
good.”
__
Ana
Laura
Ramirez
Lavandero,
10,
poses or
a
portrait
holding
drumsticks
on the
balcony
of her
home in
Havana,
Cuba, on
Friday,
May 8,
2020.
Ana
Laura
dreams
of
becoming
a famous
drummer.
This was
her
first
year at
a highly
selective
institute
for
students
identified
early on
as
musically
talented.
She is
continuing
with
classes
in math,
history
and
Spanish,
but not
music,
during
the
COVID-19
coronavirus
lockdown.
(AP
Photo/Ramon
Espinosa)
ANA
LAURA
RAMÍREZ
LAVANDERO,
10, CUBA
Her
drawing
depicts
a simple
enough
dream
for a
10-year-old
— “Viaje
a la
Playa,”
a trip
to the
beach.
On the
page,
she has
colored
a palm
tree
with
three
brown
coconuts,
a boat
floating
in the
distance
and a
shining
yellow
sun.
It
is a
scene
representative
of life
on her
island
country,
known
for its
white
sand and
aqua-blue
waters.
For now,
however,
Ana
Laura
Ramírez
Lavandero
can only
dream of
the
beach.
Under
lockdown,
she
finds
herself
confined
to the
fourth-floor
apartment
she
shares
with her
parents
and
grandmother.
On the
balcony,
she
watches
life
through
a rusted
iron
trellis.
It can
seem
like a
jail.
“My
life
changed,”
says the
girl,
who’s
accustomed
to
playing
on the
streets
of her
working
and
middle-income
neighborhood
in
Havana.
The
only
time
she’s
been
able to
go out
in
nearly
two
months
has been
for an
emergency
trip to
the
dentist.
Schools
are
closed,
and
because
many
people
in Cuba
don’t
have
internet,
the
education
ministry
is
broadcasting
lessons
on state
television.
Ana
Laura
dreams
of
becoming
a famous
drummer.
This was
her
first
year at
a highly
selective
institute
for
students
identified
early on
as
musically
talented.
She is
continuing
with
classes
in math,
history
and
Spanish,
but not
music.
Her
children’s
chorus
also
can’t
meet
right
now.
Usually,
her own
choir
meets
alongside
another
one,
with
boys and
girls of
all
ages.
“People
feel
united
in the
chorus,”
she says
wistfully.
She
can’t
wait to
see them
again.
In this
May 7,
2020
photo
provided
by Aaron
Watson,
his son,
Owen,
12, sits
for a
portrait
inside
his home
in
Iqaluit,
the
capital
of
Nunavut
territory
in far
north
Canada.
Though
there
are no
known
cases of
coronavirus
in his
town,
Owen's
school
has
closed
as a
precaution.
He
thinks
it's
only a
matter
of time
before
the
virus
arrives
there.
Iqaluit
has a
population
of about
7,000
people,
many of
whom are
Inuit.
(AP
Photo
via
Aaron
Watson)
OWEN
WATSON,
12,
CANADA
Dressed
in a
puffy
parka
made by
his mom
and with
cellphone
in hand,
Owen
Watson
gives a
tour of
his
town,
Iqaluit,
in the
far-north
Canadian
territory
of
Nunavut.
There’s
still
snow on
the
ground
in May,
though
the days
are
getting
longer
in this
place
known
for its
spectacular
views of
the
northern
lights.
“That
light
blue
place is
the
school
that I
used to
go to,”
12-year-old
Owen
says of
the
shuttered
structure
behind
him.
Then he
turns to
a
playground.
“It’s
not
supposed
to be
played
with
right
now.”
Surrounded
by
rivers,
lakes
and the
ocean,
filled
with
Arctic
char,
his dad,
Aaron
Watson,
says the
name of
their
town
means
“fishes”
in
Inuktitut,
the
language
spoken
by this
region’s
Inuit
people,
which
includes
Owen and
his mom
and
sister.
Dad is
originally
from
Stratford,
Ontario,
and
works in
the
tourism
industry
in
Nunavut.
Under
nationwide
shutdown,
Owen has
kept
busy
with
packets
of work
from his
teachers.
He rides
his bike
around
the
even-quieter-than-usual
town –
and
tries
not to
worry
too
much.
His
dad
observes
how much
Owen has
been
watching
news
about
the
coronavirus
and
wonders
if
they’re
raising
a future
scientist.
So
far,
there
have
been no
documented
cases of
the
coronavirus
in the
town of
about
8,000
people,
many of
whom
work for
the
federal
government
and the
city.
When
flights
are
running,
they can
fly to
the
Canadian
capital,
Ottawa,
in three
hours.
So
young
Owen
thinks
it’s
only a
matter
of time
before
the
virus
arrives.
“If it
gets
here,”
he says,
“I’ll be
more
afraid.”
He
waits
and
watches.
The sun
sets to
the
west, as
clouds
reflect
soft
shades
of pink
and
purple.
It’s a
lot for
a boy to
think
about.
—Martha
Irvine
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