We are thrilled to celebrate the outstanding work of Year 7 student, Farha, who recently produced a remarkable monologue as part of her English assessment.
As part of their studies, students have been developing writing skills by re-imagining the stories of female characters from Greek mythology.
Farha chose to write from the perspective of Clytemnestra, the wife of King Agamemnon, exploring the complex mix of power and powerlessness in her life, particularly after Agamemnon sacrificed their daughter to the Gods to ensure favourable winds for the journey to Troy.
Farha’s monologue demonstrates a keen understanding of character, emotion, and narrative voice. She crafted a piece that is both moving and thought-provoking, showcasing her talent and passion for storytelling. Farha has long aspired to be an author, and this work is an exciting step toward her dream.
We are proud of Farha’s creativity and dedication, and we look forward to seeing her continue to develop as a writer.
So this is the silence they promised me. Not peace- no. A hollowed air scraped clean of my daughter’s breath. Agamemnon. You call it sacrifice as if the word was holy enough. You took my child and named it duty. You took her scream and called it wind for your ships.
I see her still. Not the offering you praised, not the symbol you sharpened into usefulness, but my daughter- her fingers clutching mine. Her eyes searching for a lie strong enough to save her. And I had none.
What God demands a girl’s throat? What brother smiles whilst another man’s child is killed? You wept they say. How touching. Tears fall easily when they’re not your blood.
I am empty now, a mother scraped out, a house that echoes when I walk. Grief sits in my chest like winter- cold, unmoving, endless. But listen closely, beneath all the grief, something sharp is breathing.
You thought me broken. You thought sorrow would bend me into obedience. Fool. Sorrow teaches memory and memory teaches patience.
I will not howl like you bribed with her life. I will wait. I will smile when custom demands it. I will pour wine with steady hands. And when the hour ripens-when you least expect a mother to remember, I will sacrifice with sacrifice.
For a daughter is not a coin to buy a war. And a mother is not a woman who forgets.
