By Shelina Merani
One of the fondest memories of my youth was curling up in bed at night reading the magical words of Anne Frank. I would pore through pages of her diary, knowing that she had no close friends to confide in. Her words spoke directly to me. I was entrusted with her innermost thoughts.
She shared her poignant friendship with Peter, her fears, pain and moments of happiness; the latter helping to lighten the daily uncertainty upstairs in the attic, the Secret Annex where her parents and sister were hiding from the Nazis.
I too was a teenage girl struggling with my own personal attic. Not knowing where I was coming from and trying to determine who I was. I was not alone in my struggles. Anne was with me. On March 16, 1944, she writes, “The nicest part is being able to write down all my thoughts and feelings, otherwise I’d absolutely suffocate.” (CONTINUE READING)
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