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Associated Press 

CHICAGO (AP) — These are children of the 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.



Ishikiihara E-kor plays with his younger sister, Vuunsip Imkuukirii, on rocks near the Karuk Tribal Administration headquarters in the unincorporated community of Orleans in Humboldt County, Calif., on March 4, 2020. Ishikiihara, whose name means sturgeon warrior in the Karuk language, is one of 5,000 members of the Karuk tribe still living in a remote area of far northern California. Ishikiihara has been doing distance learning and has been coping with the pandemic by writing rap songs, one of his favorite hobbies. He celebrated his recent 11th birthday with relatives on a video conference call. (AP Photo/Gillian Flaccus)

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'."

—Gillian Flaccus



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)

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.

In this May 7, 2020 photo provided by Aaron Watson, the sun sets over Iqaluit, the capital of Nunavut territory in far north Canada. Iqaluit has a population of about 7,000 people, many of whom are Inuit. Watson says, so far, there are no cases of coronavirus in the town. (AP Photo via Aaron Watson)

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



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



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)

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.

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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.

—Yulia Alekseeva



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.

—Daniel Sabiiti and Gerald Imray



In this photo provided by her family, Niki Jolene Berghamre-Davis, age 11, stands next to a red flowering gum tree in Port Melbourne, Australia, on April 30, 2020. While sad about all the people lost to the virus pandemic, Niki is hopeful that the shutdowns are teaching the world how to live in ways that will help the environment. (Anna Berghamre via AP)

When she doesn't move enough, she doesn't sleep well. So, Niki Jolene Berghamre-Davis tries to go hiking in the forest whenever possible during this global pandemic. Even in the best of times, that's where the 11-year-old from Port Melbourne, Australia, feels most at home.

"She is our nature girl," says her mother, Anna Berghamre.

Her mom wasn't surprised when Niki Jolene drew a self-portrait of herself facing a grove of trees. Within the drawing, there are signs of caution.

"I have a face mask in my hand," she says holding up the drawing, "because, well, I've just kind of taken it off, and I'm still aware."

She says that falling leaves she included in the sketch symbolize the lives that have been lost in this pandemic.

Yet the roots of the trees — wide and prominent like those of the flowering red gum trees near her family's townhome — represent "possibilities," says the bubbly girl, known as "Snickers" to some of her friends. She smiles often, showing a full set of braces on her teeth.

"After this corona pandemic, after this will end, I think it will be much more full of life," she says, throwing her arms up for emphasis. She hopes, for instance, that people will walk more and drive less because she's noticed how people in her neighborhood have often done without their cars during the shutdown.

"I think people won't take things for granted anymore."

—Martha Irvine



Danylo Boichuk envies his cat, Kari, who is able to escape from the family home in a Kyiv suburb and run free. Because of the pandemic, his family had to cancel a summer camp in Bulgaria, and 12-year-old Danylo worries a lot about closed borders.

Sitting on his back porch, he has used his LEGO blocks and figures to create his version of the future — a situation at the border.

"Here is a vessel en route to Copenhagen, and border guards are inspecting it," Danylo explains, pointing to particular pieces and holding up others. "This crew member shows medical evidence that everyone on board is healthy, except for one man in an isolation cell."

The plastic figure makes a rattling sound after he drops it into the makeshift jail.

"There is a security guard restricting contact with the man," he continues. "There are IT specialists at work. There are also people who lost their jobs — musicians, farmers, showmen."

The boy wonders if authorities in some countries will use the coronavirus crisis to tighten their grip on people's lives. "For example, they may implant chips to track (people's) whereabouts … ," Danylo surmises.

His parents say he has an analytical mind. Already, he wants to become a businessman in the future and create a start-up to develop online games. He's been reading books about Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple, and other famous entrepreneurs, during self-isolation.

After the pandemic, he says people will invest more in internet products and games.

"This is an opportunity one should use," he says.

—Dmitry Vlasov



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.

—Andrea Rodríguez

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