Lesson plan for The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness by Simon Wiesenthal includes fun activities for plot, characters, & literary analysis. El aceite de girasol alto oleico-alto este├írico es una grasa estable y Using Simon Wiesenthal’s “The Sunflower” to Teach the Study of Genocide and the. Written by Simon Wiesenthal, Audiobook narrated by Robertson Dean, Laural Merlington. Sign-in to download and listen to this audiobook today! First time.

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In the wake of personal tragedy, two people meet on a humanitarian mission in Peru.

Deep in the Amazon jungle, against a backdrop of poverty and heartbreak, they must confront their deepest fears and, together, learn to trust and love again. Show details Buy the selected items together This item: Ships from and sold by Amazon. Details The Broken Road: Sold by bestbuyalways wiezenthal ships from Amazon Fulfillment.

Details Customers who bought this item also bought Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1 This shopping feature will continue to load items. In order to navigate out of this carousel please use your heading birasol key to navigate to the next or previous heading. Chapter One Going to the jungle wasn’t my idea. Had the thought actually crossed my mind, I would have immediately relegated it to that crowded wiesental of my brain where things I should do someday but thankfully never will are safely locked away to languish and die.

The idea was my daughter McKenna’s. Three months before she graduated from high school, her sociology teacher, a graying, long-haired Haight-Ashbury throwback who had traded in his tie-dye T-shirts for tweed jackets with leather elbow patches presented to his class the opportunity to go to South America on a humanitarian wiesenthao. McKenna became obsessed with the idea and asked if I would accompany her on such an excursion — kind of a daddy-daughter date in the Amazon.

Not that I had any real desire or intention of going. I figured that she would soon graduate and her mind would be occupied with other concerns. I never believed it giraosl really come about. I should have known my daughter better. Four months later I found myself standing with her and a dozen of her former classmates in siomn Salt Lake City airport boarding a plane for Lima, Peru.

Unbeknownst to our little group, we had entrusted our lives to novices.

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We were the first group our expeditionary guides had actually led into the Amazon — a fact we discovered twenty-four hours later deep in a jungle teeming with anacondas, jaguars and hand-sized spiders. Several times in the course of our expedition, our guide, an elderly Peruvian man, would suddenly stop, lay his machete at the foot of a tree, then climb above the jungle canopy for a look, each time descending with a somewhat perplexed expression.

After our third complete change of course I asked our guide as tactfully as one being led through a jungle must if he knew where he was going. In broken English the old man replied, “Yes, I have been here before Overjoyed to learn that they were neither cannibals nor headhunters, we soon noticed that the population of the village included no young men, only women and the elderly.

Our guide asked one of the natives where all the young men had gone.


We cannot live without the wood from the trees. So our men have gone to kill him. I’ve never been overly fond of politics, and the image of painted tribesmen carrying spears and bows into town hall delighted me — certainly something we don’t see enough of in Salt Lake City.

I still wonder how that all turned out. Two days into our journey we ran out of food. For several days we lived on jungle fruit and the piranhas we caught in the river. Piranha doesn’t taste that bad — kind of like chicken. I remember, as a boy, sitting spellbound through a Saturday afternoon matinee about a school of piranhas that terrorized a small jungle village.

These Hollywood piranhas swam in conveniently slow-moving schools that cinematically frothed and bubbled on the surface, allowing the hero a chance to swim across the river and rescue a woman just inches ahead of the churning piranha death. The piranhas we encountered in the jungle were nothing like that.

First, Amazon piranhas are nearly as ubiquitous in the jungle as vegetation. Drop a fishing line in any jungle river and within seconds it will be bitten. Second, there are no warning bubbles. Adding crocodiles, electric eels and leeches to the mix, we decided it best to just keep out of the water. After several days of traveling we reached our destination, a small village where we established our clinic.

The Quechuan natives were waiting for us. The goal of our humanitarian mission was threefold: I was assigned to the latter. The optometrist who hiked in with us would conduct an eye examination, then hand me a written prescription for eyeglasses that I would attempt to fill from the bags of used eyewear we had packed into the jungle.

I remember one patient in particular. He was an elderly man, small featured and sun-baked, his skin as leathery as a baseball glove. And he had just one eye.

As he was led from his exam to my station, the doctor handed me a blank prescription. Earlier, as I was organizing the glasses, I had come across a pair of lenses so thick I was certain they were bulletproof. I retrieved them and placed them on the little man’s face. I soon learned that he had not just one eye, but also just one tooth as a broad smile blanketed his face. It was my daughter’s job to tend the children as the doctors treated their parents.

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Indelibly etched in my mind is a sweet mental picture of my daughter as I looked out to see her running and screaming in mock terror from a throng of bare-chested little boys, who were laughing so hard they would occasionally fall to the ground holding their stomachs. As we left the village, the children gathered around her and she hugged each of them. We sat together in the back of the bus, and she grew very quiet. After a few minutes I asked her what she had learned from this experience.

She thought about it a moment, then said, “We love those whom we serve. Boarding a cargo plane, we flew south to Cuzco, where we took buses up into the Andes Mountains to a rundown hacienda. The hacienda had been magnificent once, with elaborate tiles and intricate woodwork. It had a stone courtyard, a balcony and a bell tower. But the opulence of centuries ago was gone now, and what remained, rotting and looted, provided barely adequate shelter for the orphan boys it now housed.

The place was called El Girasol — the Sunflower — and it was in the business of saving street children.


The Sunflower (Audiobook) by Simon Wiesenthal |

Among all the people we encountered in this mystical land, it was here that we met the most memorable: I was told by one of our guides that Paul Cook had once been a successful emergency room physician.

Up until one Christmas Day when everything changed. One night, after we had completed our day’s tasks, we sat around a fire recounting the day’s events as darkness closed in around us. Gradually our group retired to their sleeping quarters and I found myself alone with this quiet, intriguing man. We talked mostly about America; about the NBA, current movies, the Oscars and whom I thought would win the next presidential election.

When I had satisfied his curiosity about current events, I asked him what prompted him to come to Peru. He just stared into the fire. Then he said, without looking at me, “That’s a long story. Still gazing into the fire, he smiled at the use of one of his own favorite phrases.

After a moment he said, “I’ll show you. The room was as austere as any I had seen in the orphanage and was lit by a single lightbulb hanging from a cord from the exposed rafters. There were a few simple pieces of furniture: And there were books. Lots of books, visibly well-read and stacked in sloppy piles against the wall. I scanned the titles. Classics and bestsellers, Reader’s Digest compilations, medical journals and crossword puzzles, biographies and thrillers.

Books in Spanish as well as English. There were a few love stories. On the wall above the books were two framed photographs: The most peculiar adornment to the room was a movie poster: Paul let me take in the surroundings for a moment before motioning for me to sit on the bed.

I noticed that he had something in his hand — a hand-sewn leather pouch.

He untied its drawstrings and took from it a small toy soldier and handed it to me. Then he sat down next to me and commenced his tale. An hour or so later, when he was done, he looked weary and spent and I could sense the walls rising again in his demeanor, as if maybe he feared that he had shared too much. He restored the soldier to its pouch, hanging it by its drawstrings to a nail on the wall. I asked if I could share his story.

He woesenthal little interest in my request but said he would sleep on it, a reply I also understood as my dismissal. Three days later, just a few hours before we were to fly back to Lima, he agreed.

It’s been said, Seek not your destiny for it is seeking you. Paul Cook’s story reveals, as well as any I suppose, that this is true. It was equally true for a young woman named Christine, who went to the jungle looking for anything but love.

Simon Wiesenthal

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