2025 LISTEN TO A LIFE CONTEST

CONGRATULATIONS TO THE
GRAND PRIZE TIMELESS WINNER…

Kei Onuma, 13
and his grandmother Takako Onuma, 95

Kei is a grade 8 student at Bowditch Middle School in Foster City, CA.

Kei entered the Listen to a Life Contest because he had always been curious why his grandmother, who was born in Japan, chose to marry his grandfather, who was born in America – even though the two countries were once at war. This question motivated him to explore his family's history more deeply.

He says that the theme of his story is that war doesn't just end when peace is declared. War is horrifying and leaves lasting scars that continue to affect people's lives long afterwards. Through his grandmother's experiences, he came to understand that the line between life and death during war can be incredibly thin – sometimes survival depends on just a small amount of luck. His grandmother's story made Kei realize how fortunate he is not to live in a place of war, and to never take peace for granted.

Kei enjoys writing, plays tenor saxophone and flute in both the wind ensemble and the jazz band at his school, and is a member of the school tennis team. He also feels it's important to help others, and volunteers in a non-profit organization called ACEing Autism, which teaches tennis to children on the autism spectrum. He wants to make sure everyone feels included and supported, on and off the court.

Here is the winning entry Kei submitted…

"Let me in! Please, let me in!"
"No! It's full! Go away!"

I was pushed away from the bomb shelter and fell to the ground. Overhead, air raid sirens wailed. The American B-29 bombers were approaching Kobe, Japan. I panicked and my heart was pounding as the roar of engines grew louder.

"Someone help me!" I cried desperately.

A voice called from behind.

"Over here!"

An old woman waved from another shelter. I ran into that shelter just as the first bombs fell.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The blasts were deafening and the ground shook violently. In the shelter, everyone sat frozen in total darkness. No one spoke. We barely breathed. It felt like an eternity, but finally, there was silence.

Someone slowly opened the door. A blast of hot air rushed in.

Outside, the world was burning in a sea of flames. Though it was night, the sky blazed red. Thick black smoke rose and formed blood-colored clouds. Behind those clouds, a B-29 appeared. The red flames reflected off the plane's shiny body and it strangely looked beautiful.

Someone moaned and I was snapped back to reality. I turned and ran home.

Was Mom alive? My sister?

I ran past the shelter that I had been pushed away from – it was demolished. It had taken a direct hit and black smoke rose from the remains. No voices. Just silence. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. No one had survived.

Even now, eighty years later, I can still smell it, hear that moan, and feel the pain.

War takes away our humanity. No matter how many years pass, its scars never truly fade. I survived the war, and I pray my children and their children never have to experience war.

7 LEGACY AWARDS

With a Category 5 hurricane bearing down on New Orleans, 1.5 million people were forced to evacuate – including my grandfather. With limited space in his car, he packed important papers and several changes of clothes. Hurricane Katrina forced him to leave not just his home, but a lifetime of memories.

My grandfather lived along the 17th Street Canal. When the levee behind his house broke, his home flooded almost to the roof.

Two weeks later, volunteers from the Cajun Navy rowed him down his street in a canoe. He entered his house, wading through two feet of water. A black ring of mold marked where floodwaters had stagnated. In the house where my grandfather had lived for nearly thirty years, every piece of furniture was destroyed; not one item could be saved.

After Hurricane Katrina, there was uncertainty about everything. Would the floodwaters recede completely? How long would it take to repair all the damage? Would New Orleans ever be the same? My grandfather chose to rebuild his home and his life. However, it was not easy. Rebuilding came with many challenges. Some officials argued he would have to give up his land. He spent years in limbo, waiting for answers. Finally, he received approval to rebuild. Every one of his neighbors relocated. He is the only pre-Katrina resident on his block who rebuilt.

My grandfather taught me to have the courage to start over even when faced with uncertainty. It doesn't have to be a hurricane. It can be a bad grade, a pet's death, or drifting apart from a friend. All that matters is that I remain positive and stay strong. My family's legacy lives on in New Orleans, all because my grandfather refused to give up.


Lucy Rivera, 12
and grandmother Teresa Rivera, 84, Maryland

SURVIVING THE NIGHTMARE OF CHALATENANGO

In 1989, the town of Chalatenango, El Salvador became a focal point of the Civil War. The night was suffocating, the air heavy, as if the Earth itself was holding its breath. Suddenly, the ground trembled, and a deafening explosion shattered the silence. The war, once distant, was here – brutal and unrelenting, bringing only fear and destruction.

I thought of my son, Oscar, who had fled to the US in 1988 to escape the fate that claimed his older brother, Rodolpho. Fearing conscription, he crossed the border, seeking refuge in a world now far away. Before I could dwell on my remembrance of him, a blood-curdling cry tore through the night, followed by more explosions, each one closer and more terrifying.

Jose, my husband, returned with our youngest, Luis, his face drained of color. He had seen two rebels planting explosives in our yard, hidden beneath the cold moonlight. Dread tightened in my chest.

I rushed to the window, heart racing. There, perched in the avocado tree, a shadowy figure gripped a rifle, its barrel gleaming like a serpent. Below, another rebel advanced, rifle aimed at some unseen target. The air thickened with danger.

A sharp shot shattered the silence, followed by a barrage of gunfire. Blood-curdling cries and agonizing screams echoed, cutting through the air like a knife, filled with terror and desperation. My children, wide-eyed with fear, moved toward the window, but I yanked them back. No one was safe – not even children, who were being abducted and turned into soldiers.

Another explosion rocked the ground. I thought of my nephew, who had taken his life in this madness. But as the darkness pressed in, I clung to one thought: this nightmare would end. It had to – for them, for all of us.


Alex Kim, 17
and grandmother Hun Kyu Min, 78, Maryland

My grandmother was born in 1941, in a village nestled between mountains and hills. Small brick houses dotted the landscape, with farm fields stretching as far as the eye could see beneath clear blue skies. While she spent her childhood days peacefully, the country around her was being split, reclaimed, and divided.

In 1950, when my grandmother was just nine years old, the Korean War erupted. North Korean soldiers marched southward, eventually reaching her remote village. But by then, the houses stood empty.

"Word travels faster than feet," my grandmother tells me, her eyes distant with memory. "The entire village had already fled to the mountains."

For months, she followed the villagers from hill to hill, forest to forest. They moved like shadows across the terrain, staying one step ahead of the lurking soldiers. Sometimes they would cautiously descend to gather supplies when troops moved elsewhere, but the constant fear kept them vigilant.

"We slept under pine trees," she recalls. "The adults taught us children to be silent – even crying babies were hushed immediately. One sound could give away our position."

My grandmother describes how they created makeshift shelters from branches and leaves, how they foraged for wild plants, and how the village elders would take turns keeping watch through the night.

"We were lucky," she says softly. "Some villages weren't warned in time."

When the war reached a truce in July 1953, they cautiously emerged from hiding. Though life eventually returned to normal, the experience never left her.

Now, whenever she hears of conflicts in distant countries, my grandmother grows quiet. "People don't understand what it means to hide from those who want to harm you," she says. "That fear stays with you forever."


Se Eun Park, 16
and grandmother Jessica Yoon, 68, Massachusetts

"Halmoini! Why won't you eat bean sprout soup?" my granddaughter asks.

I smile and say, "I don't like them."

"But you said I need to eat all the vegetables! How come you don't?"

I pat her soft hair with my rough hands as my daughter tells her to stop asking questions and eat.

Bean sprouts remind me of the earthenware jar on my mother's back during our escape from Pyongyang to Pusan when I was seven. I carried my baby brother while Big Brother carried blankets. Father carried our precious hot pot and belongings. We fled through mountain paths to avoid North Korean soldiers.

Whenever we found clean water, Mother watered the bean sprouts growing in her jar. We ate those sprouts when they grew tall enough. Otherwise, we survived on tree bark that Big Brother heroically climbed to reach, as lower bark had been stripped away by other refugees.

I saw countless deaths – trees, streams, people. After a week, I stopped screaming at corpses, passing them like fallen trees.

One day, we discovered a dead mother and child, still warm. In the mother's white sack was rice. We prayed for the dead, and that night we had rice with bean sprouts – the best meal in weeks. I felt almost glad they had died.

It was not until years later I remembered that day. And I stopped eating bean sprouts.

How could I tell this to my American-born granddaughter who knows only abundance, where too much food is a greater problem than having none? Where war exists only on television? I want to tell her, and I hope that she will understand. But not today, I say to myself. But someday, I will.


Cassidy Buehrle, 17
and grandmother Linda Buehrle, 80, Wisconsin

FIRST LOVE

In High School I didn't know I would meet someone like David. He was the type to make everyone laugh, either with a joke or just a silly grin. I wasn't an outgoing person like him; I was more quiet – more reserved. But somehow, he was my first love.

It wasn't until prom junior year that everything changed. I was nervous and excited. The whole night was one big blur. David came up to me and said, "You look especially beautiful tonight." I know that sounds cheesy, but I promise it wasn't.

We laughed and danced the night away. For the first time, I felt seen by him, like I mattered.

At the end of the night, we were lying on the ground looking up at the stars. He looked over at me and said, "I think I've liked you for a long time." My heart started to beat faster. I had liked David, but I never knew he felt the same way.

"I think I like you too."

David was my first love. Yes, it didn't last forever, but it was amazing. It was the kind of love that makes you feel like you're floating; it felt like nothing else mattered when I was with him.

Even in my older years, the memories still bring a smile to my face. We both went our own ways, but I will forever cherish the time that we spent together. David showed me what it truly meant to be loved and cared for, and that is the one thing I can promise you I won't forget.


Naomi Katz-Moss, 10
and grandmother Kuniko Katz, 82, New York

BECOMING MRS. KATZ

Kuniko stared at the snow outside the hospital window. It was January 1970, and days earlier, she had been hit by a car. She had been studying in New York for six months, and her roommate Trish was saying she wanted Kuniko to meet someone. She tuned out Trish's voice and watched cars drive down the snowy streets.

There was a knock at the door.

"Kuniko, this is Jeff Katz," said Trish.

Jeff, a young man with black hair, smiled shyly at Kuniko. "Konban ohima desuka?" he asked hesitantly.

Are you available tonight? Kuniko thought, is this a joke?

"Well, I am, but as you can see, I can't move," she answered in Japanese. Jeff laughed.

"That's the only Japanese I know!" he admitted, grinning. "My college friend taught me that, and I've always wanted to use it!"

Kuniko laughed, too.

That was Jeff's first of many visits to Kuniko in the hospital. After her hospital stay, they stayed close. But in the summer of 1971, Kuniko went home to Japan, thinking she would never see Jeff again.

A year passed, and Kuniko was working at a hospital in Nagoya, Japan. One afternoon, as she was about to tend to a patient, a worker called, "Koga-san! International phone call!"

Who could it be? Kuniko wondered as she hurried to the phone.

"Hi." She recognized the voice.

"Jeff, hi! How are you?" Kuniko asked.

"I'm okay. I miss you." He hesitated. "I have a question. Would you like to be Mrs. Katz?"

Kuniko gasped. A crowd had gathered. "What? What?" they asked.

"He just proposed!" she answered. Then into the phone, she shouted, "Yes!"

And so, in December 1972, almost three years after the accident, Kuniko Koga returned to America to start her new life as Mrs. Katz.


Maura Hartnett, 17
and grandfriend Steve Kinsey, 64, Wisconsin

"So connected to the internet, yet never connected to the world."

Steve Kinsey, owner of a small-town custard shop, talked to me about how new generations are less engaged.

In a world buzzing with Wi-Fi signals and continuous notifications, it's ironic how disconnected we've become from one another. Steve's simple observation reveals a simple truth: our modern obsession with virtual connections often overshadows the meaningful, face-to-face connections that once shaped communities.

LeDuc's Frozen Custard is more than a business; it's a gathering place. From peewee baseball to families coming together for some custard, it holds memories for customers and employees. As an employee for Steve, I've watched little kids absorbed in their devices, missing out on precious moments with their parents and grandparents. The growing dependence on screens is quietly tearing the fabric of society.

Steve has watched human interactions deteriorate, from his time making heavy machinery for the military to running his small business. "Back then, we didn't have this," he said. His words painted a picture in my mind of a once prosperous community that thrived without worrying about your Snapchat streak or Instagram likes.

I've never experienced a time shaped by wars that demanded unity and sacrifice. During tough times, connections weren't forged through hashtags but through hardship and resilience. Today, battles are often fought in isolation, with people retreating to their screens.

Reflecting, I saw the paradox in my generation. The more we plug into technology, the less we seem to connect to humanity. It's a challenge to prioritize family and friends rather than seeking connection on something that isn't tangible and genuine.

LeDuc's stands as an oasis in a digital desert, a reminder of what we're losing in our obsession with virtual connections.

GTB ECOLEGACY AWARD

Little Gandhi tended merrily to her garden, plucking only the finest red chillies, the juiciest papaya, and the sweetest mangoes for herself. She was entitled as the youngest and only girl in the family. It didn't matter that her parents and neighbors freely shared their harvests amongst one another in her closely knit village. Generosity cannot be taught. What was theirs was hers, and what was hers was hers alone.

A reckless fall from her mango tree changed everything. Gandhi failed to capture the view of the world high in her tree that day – a world that was hers to take from.

She observed with quiet guilt as her family wept and prayed profusely for her recovery. Her mother made her concoctions with neem while her eldest brother spent late nights gently soothing her cries until she found sleep. While she had routinely spat with her other brother, he now asked without end what he could do for her.

She did heal – suffering only a fracture in the leg – and yet she was never the same after that fall. She realized the full extent of the unconditional kindness her loved ones possessed. Generosity wasn't taught, but discovered.

Gandhi began a garden upon arriving in Ontario, one that belonged to the Earth. She rose every day to water and cater to the seeds. She happily insisted on sharing the gains – except for the bruised ones, which she kept for herself. In the summer she planted bountiful banana trees which made a tasty treat for anyone passing the flourishing garden.

Part of me was saddened to see how people here hoarded their goods and took until nothing was left. She showed me that it was okay. What was theirs was theirs, and what was ours we should share with everyone.