"Memoirs For Kimya" by Shafinaaz Hassim

The right to write...

2012-01-17T20:35:00.000+02:00

There's never a really perfect time to write. Some people envision a quiet cottage on the beach, or a secluded room with a desk, good lighting and endless coffee as company. Sure, there are variables that might enhance the writer's experience, but the reason that we get writing is found even beyond a particular 'state of mind'.There should be, for everyone who wants to be a serious writer, serious about their writing, a switch, a space in your mind that you can retreat to or go to, when it is time to write.Create that attitude. Cultivate that space.Writing is creative reward, and shared expression.Writing is cathartic and oceanic. It allows you to isolate thoughts or allow them to be part of something greater. The bigger picture is made manifest here.Writing is prayer and contemplation.Writing is conversation and release.To Write, to love to write or to hate writing and do it anyway to the best of your ability, is to take a glimpse into Eternity. And to be addicted to the Journey.

it is you

2012-01-12T16:53:00.000+02:00

you hold a mirror to my face and say, 'look, it is you!'i hold the mirror to my face and say where? all i see is you...

Exquisite deviation

2012-01-10T12:06:00.000+02:00

Mirror of time is a portal above my bed:Yesterday seemed shrouded in shadowsuntil Tomorrow poked its headfrom behind lush meadows.Joy manifest itselfin all things shared,pain seeped inwhen no one cared.Now, past and present collide in a mix of colour like falling pots of paint off a jack-knifed truck;nothing makes it to destination, life gone cold, the road ahead is bleak, tasteless, beyond luck, but oh-what-an-exquisite-sight-to-behold!

You be the judge

2011-12-29T00:15:00.001+02:00

We make easy judgements of our peers and loved ones, little realizing that many a time, the inference is to ourselves. Every judgmental thought and comment is a mirror held up to ourselves.Maybe not in the exact form, but pretty much the same anyway. And if soul clusters are anything to go by, then there's really no coincidence as to why you're in that space to begin with. Recognize the mirror! Pay attention to what it reveals ...I'm grappling with all the info in front of me as I attempt to make sense of the year that was.I'm refecting on the situations that I have had the temerity, pleasure, and odessity to encounter.I'm struggling with the challenges that I have clashed with, celebrating the adventures that I have dived into.What was the purpose of often frivolous activity, pushing for results, measuring outcomes?I'm also immensely grateful for the people that life has allowed me to cross paths with along the course of this year in particular. And also of the many reminders of how time as we package it in stubborn hours, weeks and years is beyond such measures. Past meets present in a back to the future kind of way.And there is no coincidence. It all makes perfect sense. Back to front. And looking ahead.I'm looking forward to newness yet again.2012, here's to another great one ahead.

Temporary Fascinations

2011-12-28T23:51:00.001+02:00

I have a new fascination. You have no idea, dear reader, how bad that is for my writing. The muse is taking this personally. At least that's how the lack of coherence can be explained, in my opinion.And so the fascination will be allowed to seep into skin and consciousness for sometime until explication and emergency extraction for the sake of writing sanity.For now, let it be. I surrender.#towriteornottowrite#isurrender#tweettweet

Disingenuous discontinuity

2011-12-06T18:37:00.001+02:00

My last few posts towards year end always tend to reflect on the year gone by; kind of like a taking stock of things done, the to-do list checked off and a retrospective meander through the mind.It doesn't take much to muster the courage to make these notes of course: data gladly presents itself, just as it did this weekend past. There's nothing like a friendly, family social event (such as a wedding) to stir one into a mix of familiar faces. A mocktail of sorts in which I found myself in Alice-like charm, drowned in some contentious, other bemusing fluid moments of a ping-pong game gone awry. My writing is almost as dizzy as I feel.There is one certainty I should make note of: the past, if left like a weeded plot untended, will crawl over your garden wall and make its way into the present. That's a given. Weeds. The kind that can kill roses, if you're not too careful. Okay so life is still fragrant, but I am left thinking, reflecting, with words like disingenuous swirling in the murky waters of my mind. And I'm wondering about life as some supposed sort of continuum, the dots and dashes I see instead, the adoption of a process of broken steps, the inheritance of the discontinuous.It's been a while since I free wrote a load of cryptic hogwash. It feels really good.I'm still upset by the findings that landed in my lap, though.But they won't alter my course.

Cape Town launches Belly of Fire (2011)

2011-11-16T12:41:00.001+02:00

Dear All, We're on our final leg of the 4-city book tour, and the Belly of Fire team will be in Cape Town next week, 23rd Nov. See below for details and feel free to send this invitation to any erstwhile booklovers out on the West coast, whom you think might enjoy spending some time with us at WordsWorth Books, V&A Waterfront.Many thanks,Shafinaaz

WordFire Press SA, and Wordsworth Books V&A invite you to the launch of "BELLY OF FIRE: an anthology of hope, forgiveness, redemption, and reawakening" (2011) Compiled by Shafinaaz Hassim Guest Speakers/Co-authors: Dr Nazia Peer (medical doctor, novelist), Nielfa Cassiem-Carelse (book designer/poet),Luqmaan Rawoot (engineer, poet),Dr Lubna Nadvi (author, poet) and Shafinaaz Hassim (author, publisher) Venue: Wordsworth Books, V&A Waterfront, Cape Town Date: Wednesday, 23 November 2011 Time: 6 for 6:30 pm "Belly of Fire" is a metaphor for the anxiety and fear that we hold within ourselves;the voices of those who are disempowered by racism, poverty, war and gendered abuse, voices that remain silenced, are housed as fire in our bellies.Themes of abuse, xenophobia, war and displacement, forgiveness and reawakening are unpacked here in a collection of seven reflective, compelling stories intertwined with no fewer than thirteen contemporary poems that bring out the essence of the themes developed in the narratives.Fifteen voices are profiled altogether, to reveal the strength of stories that standtogether against the structures that try to oppress and maim the individual.

Post- post-ism's and colliding bodies in space

2011-11-07T20:55:00.007+02:00

I studied Architecture for three years before I read for my Arts degree. Back then, what struck me as an (perhaps rather impressionable) design student, was that beyond the need to create form and function, habitat and structure, there was this inherent need to present spatial recognition for the body; a theatrical stage for life to be played out. And so the experience of life and the articulation of the body in that space became primary to the ways in which I conceptualised design. If anything, I have taken these learnings onward into the way that I write, both in structural intent and in literary composition.

Literature meets the post-modern when we collide against traditional notions of knowledge production and what we deem palatable for public consumption. Real life allows for as many interpretations of the individual experience as there are people. We've just noted the birth of number 7 billion. Go figure.

This is the dynamic with which the contemporary short story and poetic musing is breathed life into. The -ism's of the sociologist's realm step aside for that brief moment when hegemony gives way to anarchy; and we're made to witness an explosion of ideas, of ways of making sense of the lived world, of the many truths that reside herein.

If change is the most reliable constant, then so is the embraced and engaged surrender of ongoing dialogue, unbridled narrative and the body as an instrument in space, and in this, the theatre of life. Literature meets art meets cinema meets life. Belly of Fire is dancing to this rhythm as we 'speak' ...

This Jade

2011-11-07T14:36:00.004+02:00

Jade is a stone,
I once heard someone say.
Light bounces off it
in an opaque, soapy way.

And I turn it in my hand,
And marvel at its stoical feel,
colour, disaffection

And then I show it to you,
tinkling voice and shiny eyed you.

You marvel, too
turning it in your hands,
curious, intrigued, and then nothing.

And, of course, I should've known
what would happen next:

It melts.

This Jade turned in your hands
is now a liquid gem;
opaque, soapy,
bouncing light,
but glassy, fluid,
like my eyes
reflected
in yours.

Gulbaden

2011-11-05T14:57:00.003+02:00

I am never thirsty when I'm in my mother's presence...

Beautiful, passive, active, living Light.

Mother of my being and of my soul.

I am eternally quenched knowing,

That from His Divine harvest,

I came through you,

I came to you.

That I can be you.

Hope. Purpose. Grace. Light.

Rumi, Journey and Discovery

2011-11-04T12:35:00.002+02:00

Pilgrims
why are you turning round in circles,
what are you looking for?
The Beloved is here, why search in the desert?

If you look deep in your heart
you will find Him within yourself.
You have made the pilgrimage and
trod the path to Mecca many times.

You rave about the holy place
and say you've visited God's garden
but where is your bunch of flowers?
You tell stories about diving deep into the ocean
but where is your pearl?

There is some merit
in the suffering you have endured,
but what a pity you have not discovered
the Mecca that's inside.

J. Rumi

(Gardens of the Beloved)

Beyond the surface...

2011-10-31T22:32:00.001+02:00

You see a Mirror when you look at me;
I am the surface of a pond.
Be drunk with the idea of drowning,
Don't come here just to look at yourself.

Shafinaaz Hassim (c) 2011

Roundabout 2011

2011-10-30T16:04:00.006+02:00

This is the best time of the year, even though it's not quite over, it's nearing completion and so there's plenty inspiration for reflection of what's happened, the promise for the year ahead to take a leap off this one, and the current that carries me through the few weeks to the end. The waterfall of writing that awaits come December/January. It's also the first week of Zil Haj. There are incredibly powerful, wistful memories tied to these days of the trip I made with my parents and siblings in 2005.

Hajj was Rumi-esque, reflective, soulful, cohesive for us and a wholesome, contemplative experience.
Hajj was an expansion of soul, heart, spirit, mind.
Hajj is as no other journey has ever been.

And every year seems to have it's own set of trumps, triumphs and setbacks for whatever reason. But the progress is always undeniably forward and upward with faces touched by sunshine.

It's been a roundabout year all-in-all, but what an exhilarating one indeed!

Thinking things

2011-10-28T12:43:00.003+02:00

There was a time when I wrote diligently and copiously at this space, this blog. Social media demands, life and bookish stuff have made for a rather divided year in terms of time and loyalties. From June and the short story challenge to now, much has happened to bring me to the near end of this year. Gratitude fills the pockets of air around me. Belly of Fire launched in Polokwane on the 21 September to a packed media event and sparked off fabulous energy for our book tour. Love Books hosted WordFire for the Johannesburg launch on October 5th, by far the most delightful of the launches yet, and Exclusive Books launched the book for us in Durban this past weekend, Sunday 23rd.
It's onward to Cape Town now, soon after Eid. My heart overflows with the engaged responses. The love and support has been tremendous. And 2011 has delivered Beauty in oh so many ways, at my door.

All booklaunch pics at Facebook and flickr

Love Books

2011-06-22T09:46:00.003+02:00

And so we have results this morning.
After a fabulous, fun day of writing, stories were put to the vote. The Book Lounge team won! Congrats to a powerful team of writers!
And our Love Books team came a rocking second with just one less vote! Superb, methinks, especially with having to collaborate with such awesome writers from varied genres, crime fiction, literary and chic lit, to non-fiction.
Written in six parts, our stories went live in the order that we wrote as follows:

Fiona Snyckers, David Chislett, Jassy Mackenzie, Kate White, myself, and then Isabella Morris to round off a wonderfully surreal, incredulous tale.

Find my excerpt below, and read the full story at http://chainssds5.wordpress.com

*** ***

You can't just bomb Randburg," Peter spluttered, sending shrapnel of saliva into the tray of hors d' oevres.
The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think of what he was saying. His mind clicked into gear. "What I meant was, there will be no reason to bomb any place, you already have a war on your hands, Flotus!"
"And what is that supposed to mean?!" Juju bellowed. "There are no wars in Africa!"
Peter's cellphone shrieked a polyphonic rendering of 'The Final Countdown', startling everyone around him. He balanced the tray in one hand while he fumbled his track pants for the offending device.
Once retrieved, he swung around in what he thought was a polite fashion, to take the call away from his mixed bag of spectators. It made no sense to think of protocol standing between Obama's wife, his stepdaughter and the nations beloved Juju bear, when he was about to take a call from his mistress, Clarissa. She had been avoiding him all week, and he wanted to know why.
"Babe! Where have you..."
The tray caught on a basket of flowers that decorated the table in the foyer, sending flowers, pebbles and glass marbles all across the porcelain tiled floor. Everything happened at once. What sounded like Mrs First Lady shrieking in super high pitch turned out to be Juju in obvious trauma at the wasted food now lying amidst the flowery debris. Adding to the sight that met poor old Peter's eyes was Corenza looking like she was about to faint. Security and bodyguards were ushered into the scene, looking every bit like one of those FBI secret agent shows on the television. Mrs Obama was ushered out by what seemed a dozen men in black suits. Juju was gone. He might have vanished into thin air for all you knew! Or he'd been raised in some apocalyptic stunt through the roof. It was difficult to look towards the raised glass skylight at this time of the afternoon, a bright golden hue swept into the atrium space and lit up the entire hallway.
"Clear the area, we're coming in!" More of these toy soldier types filled the area.
Corenza seemed to be in some sort of daze. One of the bodyguards grabbed the satchel at her feet. A blade poked out of it, a spark of sunlight glinting off it alerted the guard that he had found something potentially menacing. He glared at Corenza, but she seemed unfazed still, rooted to the spot like some disheveled Barbie doll. Only when the man reached inside the bag and pulled out the knife that she had hidden inside it, did she finally look up.
Peter reached her just as her knees gave way under her.
He lifted her into his arms, and made his way to the exit.
"Hold it, right there! Where do you think you're going, Mister?" the man with the satchel said.
"She's ill. She needs a doctor," Peter said.
"She wasn't supposed to carry weapons," the man said. "We're taking her in for questioning. She may have tried to assassinate Mrs Obama! And you're coming with us, too!"
Peter looked towards the lift door that had just opened invitingly beside him. Using Corenza's limp body as he swung around, he managed to knock the guard off his feet. Once inside the lift he pressed the button for the top floor. He also pressed a few floor digits into the keypad so that they wouldnt know where he had gotten out. And then he dialed his house number. His son Sam would be home alone, Sulenza was only due back home later in the evening.
"I'm in big trouble. Come over to the Sandton Towers. Will send you a text. Just come get me. And don't tell your mother!" He got off at one of the floors and made his way down the hallway. He tried a few doors. Using a trick he had learned in the army, he managed to pick a lock and quickly made his way into room 1452. He tried to put Corenza down, but she clung to him. He reached for his phone and typed Sandton Towers, Room 1452, and then pressed the send button.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and before he could get to it, the door was broken down. As expected, black suits clambered alongside army suits for a piece of him. And at the front of this mean looking gang, was non other than his wife, Sulenza.
"What do you think you're doing with my daughter, you sick bastard!" she glared.

**** ****

Chain Gang Challenge

2011-06-21T12:34:00.003+02:00

Aaah, fascinating Monday it is out in Johannesburg... I've just arrived off a flight from Durban, after a weekend of family fun in the sun, and I'm sitting with a team of writers out in Mellville, on a chain gang writers challenge for Short Story Day South. So check out the website as our stories go live!

www.shortstorydaysouth.co.za

Xxx

Dear Yesterday...

2011-06-10T00:07:00.000+02:00

Dear Yesterday. I'm an artist, I know, and so I enjoy the shreds that you leave for me to pick at, to write poetry about, to dye and splash across canvasses. But sometimes, I wish that you would leave me alone. Thanks. Me.

Madeeha on Writing...

2011-06-07T21:59:00.005+02:00

My niece, Madeeha will be four next month.
Yesterday she asked me, 'So, masi, why did you go to Cape Town?'
'I went to a writer's convention,' I said, watching her in wait for what was certainly to be a volley of questions.
'What's a con-ven-shun?' she asked carefully.
'A place where writers get together and talk about their work. So, I talk about my work, and other writers talk about their work. And we sit around looking at these beautiful mountains surrounding us, and then we feel like writing some more, and so we write!' I said with a big smile, thinking that's probably the best way to describe it to a toddler-type.
'Oh,' she said. A serious look adorned her face. 'Well, you should tell them that I'm a writer, too!' she exclaimed. 'And so I should come to Cape Town with you, the next time they all go there, so I can talk about my work!'
'Uh-huh!' I said. 'You're right. You should!'
And then she smiled. It's a deal. A done deal by the look and sound of it.

I wanted to go to the library when I was four, and so Mum took me. I had my first encounter with Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit, there. Madeeha, wants to go to a writer's convention so that she can talk about her work ;)
I love this little girl!

xoxo

key: masi - aunt (mother's sister)

The City

2011-05-31T10:05:00.003+02:00

This city is home,
for a minute
or a day.
One day I will
work it out,
If I can stay.

The city that gave birth to me,
the city that cradled me:
is more foreign than most.

The city that taught me,
the ABC, my 123;
the city that shaped
the way I smell, taste, see
is so far from me.

Another city sang to me,
some time ago,
some distance between us,
turned it into,
the city of memories.
Musty nostalgia fills the album.

Yet another city
laughed with me,
embraced me,
shared its shorelines,
its gaiety,
and sobriety.

And then I came back to this,
this city of youth,
this place to be,
this heart of me.

I might just stay,
someday.

Islamic Relief's Book Day 2011

2011-05-30T16:07:00.002+02:00

Dear Islamic Relief South Africa

Thanks again for the opportunity to be a part of the IR Book Day. I am passionate about reading and loved the opportunity to witness the great efforts that IRSA is making to engage a love for reading with young learners especially in an organisation such as Osizweni place of help, where it seems that primary care givers are not parents necessarily and resources are stretched. Your aid and support to such courses as a team, highlight the methods taught to us as in the prophetic model.

I can only commend you and your team for the immense inspiration that I received by being present there. Bright faces filled with expectation are nothing less than looking at the glory of a clear blue sky. I feel glad that the work that is being done will fulfill these expectations and ignite the love for both reading and storytelling in children. Children have a natural capacity to dream, to wish and to fantasize. If reading helps to stretch their fresh imaginations to new limits, and then also if we are able to encourage them to write and tell their stories, I believe that we will give birth to a whole new generation of writers, storytellers from the colourful blend of cultures that we have in SA. And the idea is also to write and orate these stories from different languages other than just English.

The way I see it, IRSA's Book Day efforts have struck a match, and that spark that has been fired up in the kids hearts and minds is exactly what we need to give rise to a whole generation of new thinkers and dreamers!

With appreciation,
SH

Mustafa

2011-05-30T15:59:00.002+02:00

How insane is this passage of time?
About a year ago, my sister and I were running around getting 'last minute things' done; visiting a friend who we'd intended to visit as she had been widowed after a car crash, packed my bags as I was leaving for Cape Town before the end of week, and done other basic errands; we'd even managed to get a lunch outing in along with some shopping. Later that night, she went into labour and in the early hours of the next morning, 25 May 2010, my nephew, Mustafa Ebrahim/Gaba was born.

I'd had a dream about him just that evening. I dreamt that I was in a meeting and that I was introducing a tall suited man beside me as my nephew :)

And today, just past his first birthday (amid a week long celebration between grandparents and the rest of us), I'm sitting here wondering, where did this year go to?

All I can be certain of is the greatness of life, love and precious moments. And full appreciation for the gifts that come our way.

MAQAM, the place where Abraham stood

2011-05-24T11:38:00.001+02:00

Dear All

I attended the Johannesburg dinner event that hosted Asmaa Islam, daughter of Yusuf Islam (Cat Stevens)and hope to share the website with anyone who's interested in reading more about the holistic Maqam centre that the Yusuf Islam Foundation has developed.
Not only do I think this a course worth celebrating and supporting, but that the intention behind it is worth noting for our local landscape; that integration of traditions is important in order to foster learning between the different religions in SA.

Check out:

http://themaqam.com

'The MAQAM will be an exhibition, arts and well-being space, aimed at drawing a balance between the mind, body and spirit. It will serve as a venue where people, regardless of faith or background, can come together to learn about themselves and each other and increase their understanding and enjoyment of Islam’s spiritual, artistic and material contributions.'

Asmaa Islam speaks in Pretoria on Tuesday, 24th, Durban on the 25th and Cape Town on the 27th.
Media Enquiries ( for more information or to arrange to speak with Asmaa) may be directed to Mr Edris Khamissa on 082 825 1991

Best,
Shafinaaz

Belly Of Fire: An Anthology

2011-05-17T11:27:00.004+02:00

Belly of Fire is a metaphor for the anxiety and fear that we hold within ourselves; the voices of those who are disempowered by racism, poverty, war and gendered abuse, voices that remain silenced, are housed as fire in our bellies.
The stories in this collection grapple with real, everyday issues that face ordinary people. The poetry interspersed between them reveals emotions that arise from dealing with these issues, reflecting on them, using them to rebel or act out against the pressures that try to silence us.

Write in the Vines: Franschhoek

2011-05-16T16:25:00.007+02:00

A short few weeks ago, when the opportunity arose to enter a sample of my writing into a literary competition, little did I anticipate that I would be the winner of the writer's residency, and to be treated to the five day retreat, the delights of a fabulous little town named Franschhoek and a grand literary festival to follow, there.

I guess I only really believed that it was happening, when I was on the flight to Cape Town on Wednesday, 11 May.
And when I received a text from my as yet unknown co-residency writer, Verashni, that she had heard my flight boarding and that we would meet for the first time, on the other side (Cape Town Airport), the surreal was made tangible in some way. If one regards words as tangible, as I do.

Writing out in Franschhoek was nothing short of a spectacular experience. Not so much that I produced volumes, as this was not the case, but that I found my centre. I rediscovered that place inside that allows me to be one with my writing; with reason and motivation for the biography project, and with a renewed clarity of purpose. It had much to do with the people that I met from the time that I touched down in Cape Town. Verashni Pillay, a sparkling soul and talented writer, who was to be my housemate for the retreat and the gem of a woman with a passion for the musical talent in this country, Kerry Friedman, who was to transport us through the strawberry fields and vineyards to Franschhoek.

On arrival, we met our mentor and the retreat facilitator, Barbara Nussbaum. Lesley and Robert were to take care of us during our daytime hours at their guesthouse estate, Le Auberge Chanteclair; a place of beauty, designed for rest, inspiration and contemplation if I ever saw one.

By some coincidence perhaps, the four writers who had signed up for the retreat were all women, and included Michelle Watts from the UK and two Kaapenaars, Elsibe and Penny. It doesn't take years of studying group dynamic to be both enthralled and swept up in the awesomeness that was to embrace us in the days to follow.

And then, we were led to our place of rest; the 17th Century manor that Verashni and I (as the winners of the retreat) were to use as 'home' for the duration of our stay: Boekenhoutskloof Manor.
Set in the Boekenhoutskloof vineyards, in a valley encased in mountains and the scent of rejuvenation, we were treated to a rustic, beautifully decorated house fitted with all the modern luxuries imaginable. This included under-floor heating in the bathroom and a flat screen TV (the latter totally out of it's league, in my opinion). Sprawling front lawns and leafy vine-covered awnings surrounded the house to ensure that poetic content was well-balanced within artistic context. And wooden floors and gables enclosed antique four-poster beds to cradle us after a long day of writing.

Flighted as the gourmet capital of South Africa, Fanschhoek also made certain to take care of our taste buds. Allora made available ample food and transport to and from the restaurant. I'm definitely going to be trying out their Sandton branch.
The famed Reubens served us a gourmet finger lunch at Le Auberge Chanteclair on the first day. I think I just had bad luck with them afterwards, for having ordered a vegetarian meal, got served a beautiful looking salad with dried helpings of bacon chips all over it. And then the refusal, later on, to cash any of our vouchers. Still, it was generous of them to have written out so many free vouchers, whatever the resulting confusion had been. Salmon Bar's divine Franschhoek trout held some fascination as did the goodies I got to take home to Johannesburg. And in my walks around the town, I managed to discover the Village Bookshop and an local art gallery where I gathered an armful of books as well as painted greeting cards made by a local artist. She also happened to be the owner of the gallery, and when I enquired about the artist, she said, in fact that she was the 'poet' of the works. How enchanted, I was! I bought about 20 pieces, which I will write little notes of my poetry and send around to my dearest ones. I think I want to start by writing to my nieces and nephew. Just feel this urgency to pen for them; or to them. One day, they may just read all of it. Or they might feel the energy of the intention. Or something...

On the last day in Franschhoek, Verashni and I had yet to cash in our vouchers at an courtyard pub called the Elephant & Barrel, which turned out to be this convivial restaurant next to the Village Bookshop with tables and chairs set up in a courtyard behind the village shopping main road. We lunched there, with Nielfa and Razeen, and Khaya Dlanga of the twitterverse and other such media wonders, fame. Okay, not so tongue-in-cheek as it sounds. After having reached the ORT Airport, I have images of all these writer's mulling about waiting for bags to arrive, checking mobile phones and doing odd things like trolley-skating their way out of the baggage claim area ;)

Franschhoek. After those immeasurably inspired days in the vineyards of the Western Cape, I'm finding resistance in getting back into the swing of things in the city. Thanks to Razeen and Nielfa, I made my way through Maccassar on the way to the CT Airport, to stop for a few moments of contemplation at the Karamat of Sheikh Yusuf; all in keeping with the essence of the biography that I am writing, especially because there are - as I'm slowly discovering - these links between mutiny and spirituality.

I am overwhelmed, still, when I recall the events of the past week that were strung together, in the way in which they played out, and the discourse that has been lent to me. I am centred, once again, and even as the pendulum swings, I know that I will return to this, time and time again.

The writing journeys on.

Peace, Freedom and other wild fantasies

2011-04-27T13:02:00.003+02:00

I've dreamed of peace and freedom ever since I was a little girl. That one day, things would change, and I would finally grow wings. It never happened.
But then, one day, I woke up and realised, that the thing I wanted more than anything, was to fly, and that that was never on the cards for a reason: I'm a human being, and not a bird or a unicorn or some ill-placed-in-time flying dinosaur. I'm a person.

And I learned that freedom isn't a different kind of mobility; it's a different way of being, a mind free of conditioning that's so lavishly lathered onto you from a very young age, and it's a demeanor of your own choosing. Freedom is peace. And peace, in and of yourself, is freedom.
I stopped dreaming of wings, and changed my focus.
I got wings, and dropped those ego boundaries.
I became one with Us.
You became Me.
Love became eternal.
The world reached the clouds.
Sky melted into the earth.
Life taught us Oneness. We experienced Peace. Love seeped into us.
We inherited a new legacy. We discovered anew: Freedom is.

Dodging bullets and filling holes

2011-04-23T12:44:00.007+02:00

Evolution of the mind is a beautiful thing to behold. While reading The Museum of Innocence last week sometime, I was mesmerized by the layers of expressiveness, the obsessive, deep emotion, the frivolous made real in so many ways. Orhan Pamuk's writing can be easily put down for another day, or drowned in so totally that the rest of the world of work is reduced to background noise. Please note spoiler alerts from here onward, for if you plan on reading the book!

And so, the reason for my having bought and read this book on a whim quickly revealed itself to me. You see, while reading the book, I was taken by the idea that I could, after what seemed like ages, read a book just for the fun of it.
But then, I got to the latter chapters and was treated to the conversation between the author and the protagonist. And I was completely blown away. I realised then, that this was no mere coincidence. I was certainly not just reading this book for the fun of it!

This book turned uncanny in it's message to me. It was also rather unpredictable.

Readers of this blog will know that along with the courses that I present, I have been engaged in the research and write-up of a political biography over the past two years. This means that I have had the honour of meeting and interviewing some interested veterans of the anti-apartheid struggle; various gregarious and surreal personalities from around the world, Paris, the UK, South Africa and India.
The journey has been hugely satisfactory for the most part; a delight in many ways.
But I've said this to a few friends, that the writing of biography also feels on some days like a project of dodging bullets and filling holes. I know - it sounds a lot dodgier when it's said that way. It's not a literal exposition at all. But it's every bit as crazed and meandering as its meant to sound.

Until I read this book, that is. Orhan Pamuk's written conversation with his protagonist, Kemal Basmaci, is for me as a biographer, ultimately revelatory and highlights the many features of the biographical process and the importance of giving it authentic subject voice.

And many things regarding the telling of the tale; defining the idea that it's easy to want to write 'everything' that gets dumped in your lap. That there are many people who are loathe to the idea that much will be revealed therein, details which they had hoped would never see the light of day. [Some will go to lengths to make sure this status quo remains unaltered.] That there are some who will make fraudulent claims to history, when in fact they were never really at the front line, as the unsung heroes really were. There are many who will have the story from their viewpoint. And then, there is the view of the protagonist. And this is all that matters. In this way, the biographer's job is made clear cut, if not simpler.

I learned these things from Orhan Pamuk.
And I think that the path has been cleared for me to go on.

Everything for a reason, then. No coincidences, only plan.

S

The Museum of Innocence

2011-04-13T10:55:00.004+02:00

I had never considered the possibility of an eloquent expression of anguish, until I picked up a copy of Orhan Pamuk's 'The Museum of Innocence'. This is my first foray into the world of writing that encompasses Pamuk's genre of work. Having won a Nobel Prize in Literature in 2006 for his novel 'My Name is Red', Orhan Pamuk is widely read and loved, and I can see why.

On Visiting Newclare Cemetery

2011-03-19T12:13:00.007+02:00

I had just one wish on my birthday in February this year, and that was to visit the grave of my maternal grandfather. Perhaps it was a frivolous wish and so the universe put to the test just how much I wanted to go there. And maybe to figure out why...
And so a whole month later, on the 13 March, I finally made my way to the Newclare cemetery in Johannesburg, with my brother and a friend.
The experience was probably more profound than I had the humility to anticipate.
I think we'd been there as kids. I had only vague recollection. But it all didn't make much sense back then.
Here was a man we had never known, but heard of in so many anecdotal references along the years. And so we had over the years, pieced together a character with likes and tastes and moods. The stories overlapped from the lips of my mom, my dad (who knew him because, as it happens, my maternal and paternal grandfathers were cousins somehow) and from other family members.
My grandmother rarely speaks of him. In our shared moments, on occasion and when probed, she has said to me that losing him felt as though a light went out in her life. But the metaphor was rather literal as well. She said it was just as quickly as that. You flip the switch on a light and it's gone! Wrapped in this narrative of reverance and deep sense of loss, that was all I've had to work with over the years. Needless to say, there's always been the unspoken 'what-if' of what life would have been like if he really had been around today. But I'm understand that the passage of time here is finite. And so the wonderings dissolve.

In this very same cemetery, an old and peaceful stretch of land that has long been filled to it's capacity, is to be found a section of child graves. A few paces apart are each of my grandmother's sons: one born in May 1954, and having passed away in Dec 1956 and Baby M born/died in 1961. Little is known about their medical conditions. Or maybe just little spoken about their demise. And my mom was too little to remember much.
A simple green and white board over my grandfather's grave indicates a timeline for his life 1928-1969. Emotion overwhelms me. Not an inherent sadness, but a peaceful joy. It's as though the physical manifestation of years of stories is made apparent right then and there. It's as though time has drawn a line for me from all the many images that brought into existence lifetime's before I came into being, and that will continue to dot between our generational paths long after my time on this earth has passed. And perspective flashes as lightning; my view is transformed at once. There is no devastation at present; rather we are measured in the way we are able to intercept and transcend the challenges placed before us.

Peace is a place inside.
It is also a sense of belonging to ones self.
Knowing that we're just one dot on that line. That a thread exists before us and that it moves effortlessly, inevitably ahead.

My birthday wish is complete.

S

Huda - Rightly Guided

2011-03-01T22:34:00.004+02:00

I'm not sure that we truly take into account the wonders of birthing until a child is cradled in our arms. Tiny perfection exists in quite that way: in the form of a newborn. Huda, my newest niece, was born after much contemplation at 16h51 pm on Thursday, 24 Feb. A daughter for Sarfaraaz and Amina, and a baby cousin sister for Madeeha and Mustafa, the reason I say 'after much contemplation' is because Amina carried to full term (40 weeks) and experienced a long 16 hour labour with immense effort from brave mum and extremely courageous baby girl. Also, it did seem as though baby was contemplating her entry into the world.
And so she finally made her arrival amid two sets of thrilled grandparents, and of course parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family members all in all.

She's beautiful What else can I say? Or need I even?
God is Great.

And another fabulous February person has arrived! :D

xoxo

Learning...

2011-02-23T01:31:00.003+02:00

I've missed blogging, what with all the writing and editing and living that's been happening. Also, a lot of learning for me in this new year. I'm just learning that strawberry yogurt is an excellent (and guilt-free) quencher when you have the munchies at just past 1am, as is now the case.
I've also made note, that some of us weren't born to be pawns, and if we're treated that way, then we will leave the chess game and make our own way across the board games of life until we find our own space to breathe, to grow, to be.
And of course, even though I believe that everything in life happens for some or other reason (often not immediately understood), we have to pay attention to how life seems somewhat randomized, that we will collide as atoms do and that's one of the most beautiful realities about this whole business of living.
PS: This is a one a.m ramble. And at second read (I refuse to edit this!) it does sound a bit heavy and vent-worthy. But. I'm looking forward to an exciting year and a string of new projects and opportunities. More learning. More being me. More of this and that. More writing! And endless love.

Belly of Fire, the anthology that waited patiently for me to pick it up from the shelf of 2010's busy schedule, is on the road to being born. Yes, like a pregnancy. Speaking of which, I will be an aunt sometime soon.
And as of this week, I will be lecturing the Feminist Theory course for Hons students in Sociology at Wits University with Daughters are Diamonds as core text alongside Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex. Accompanied to this is an exciting reader of fabulous material to be discussed in the seminars. The possibility of a play (if the department agrees) and a film to be reviewed by students. It's strangely satisfying, being back at my alma mater. And surreal at the same time, walking around the old haunts, remembering things I may have inadvertently forgotten.
I'm all set for an interesting year ahead.
That's the certainty that is my companion for now.
Good night, blogmites.
xoxo

someday

2011-01-03T18:16:00.004+02:00

someday,
i will write a poem about you...

someday,
when my fingers have wrinkled
more than my face
from all the makeshift laughter
and the inherited sorrow,
when my tears have dried
and the scent of rose
only just lingers, fleeting
like a memory.

someday,
when the titter of children
playing in the street below
aren't very different from
birds flying past my window,
i will write a poem
about you.

when mothers no longer bury their
dead babies,
partying lovers don't drown their laughter
in tears, or shroud their tears in laughter.
someday,
when it is all silent again,
when the light has dimmed
and the noise has cleared.

someday,
when all is restored
as it was meant to be;
then on that day,
i will write that poem about you.

the essence of memory

2010-12-30T19:11:00.004+02:00

memory lane is strewn
with papers from my life.
a wrapper from a sweet,
an old band aid, discarded,
the plastic packets that
held my first
set of books,
non-biodegradable
as these
memories.

memory lane is
enveloped in the
fragrance of the past,
the promise of tomorrow,
the surreal of today.

there are pies in the oven,
a cd spinning on the deck,
a whisper on the wind,
and a photo frame dangling
on the edge of the windowsill.

curtains dance,
teased by the wind,
reaching for that photo frame,
playing to erase it,
from the details
of this memory lane.

it crashes to the floor,
succumbing to its fate,
splattering tiny bits of glass
like blood, white, frozen
sedate.

i don't reach for it,
don't move to pick it
from the floor.
no need to take one last look.
the shell is cracked,
broken, but
the soul of its memory lingers
in my core.

For Rabiya: Becoming

2010-12-17T00:37:00.005+02:00

The face in the mirror is haggard.
Restless. Not myself.
It needs a shift. I know.

I want to learn to be more like me,
and less like him...

Him, who turns me into a ball of foil
and uncreases me,
and crumples me;
he does this a few times
before throwing me into the distance.

I want to learn to be less like that,
and more like this.

This inside. This promise of a new dawn.

That is me.

Reconcile

2010-12-16T14:33:00.006+02:00

I've severed a tie in my mind today;
it was hopeless,
you see.

Ragged breath and flaring eyes
met me at the door
of innocence.

I let it in. Offering balance.

It tore me up.
Shredded me to bits.
Barking. Angry. Violent.

A calm descended after the storm.

Rose water fell from the heavens.
I drank it in.

I forgave. I forgot.

Hope burst forth.

We watched the moon reflected on the water.
Again I let it in. Hope. Life. Etc.

It snarled. Face contorted.
A new demon revealed itself this time.

I shrunk back.

It bit my head off.
Severed. On reconciliation day.

My life overflowed. Manufactured from within.
I seeped into the ground.

Life sprang forth. A tiny shoot. A leaf.
It shivered in the breeze.
A drop of dew weighed heavy.
Sunshine singed the crease.

Hope takes too much patience.

Now, detached,
I can only reconcile
with all
that I am
today.

City of many seasons

2010-12-14T22:36:00.005+02:00

There must be
something
powerful,
and beautiful,
something rather enigmatic,
about seeing the city
that you live in
turn so many shades,
show so many colours,
reveal various personas
as the seasons wash over it.

In that place that you call 'home',
sober autumns might be followed by
a bright white Christmas;
and scented springs followed by
a vibrant, raging summertime!

But, what if the same can be said of
the person that you love?

What then?

Sober moments, rare and fleeting might be
followed by blinding cold,
the winter of your Love.
Fragrant love-making, impassioned or sweet,
followed by the storms of a violent retribution.

They say that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

Either way, the seasons still wash over it;
over that place you call home.
And rest assured,
the Master Painter forever waves
a kaleidoscopic paintbrush
over that city
of your dreams.

White is a colour...

2010-12-09T12:49:00.006+02:00

White is a colour. Anybody who says otherwise has never had the joy of sloshing about in the snow. My very first, as yet abstract experience was rather grim. Having landed in Frankfurt in the early hours of Friday 3 December, I was treated to the laments of frustrated passengers from around the world who had been eagerly waiting to get their flight to Berlin for Christmas. Many had been waiting for a flight for over 24 hours. The delayed flight schedule was the result of new blankets of snow covering the city.
Anxiety crept stealthily through the waiting lounge, reflected on the faces of travellers. I felt it too, as the ground staff announced further delays every ten minutes or so. Until finally, just over an hour had passed beyond what would have been our departure time, and the boarding gates opened.

Of course, it would be yet another 45 minutes before take-off, but then we were all set to our destination Berlin.

And a beautiful sight awaited us on arrival...

It didn't matter that we had just stepped into a city that allowed us a drop of some 30 degrees Celcius. A scorching Johannesburg had just bid us farewell at 22 degrees the evening before, and Berlin boasted an icy welcome at -8 degrees. Generous lather of bright white snow covered pathways, trees and buildings. A steady trickle of snow flakes continued to make its way to the ground. Delighted, I eagerly shoved my waterproof K-way gloves into the pockets of my down-padded jacket, slipped back my fur beanie and gathered handfuls of the soft ice.

There is a first time for everything, and this was my first encounter with snow.

S-N-O-W

A gush of wind whistled past my face, freezing a silly smile in place. Adrenalin was not to let this cold get the better of me. At this point, cold is just a word in the dictionary. Google it. Really. It is just a word! It means nothing compared to the precious experience that can transport a stuffy academic back to the days of childhood wonder and discovery.

And it renders beautiful a puzzled city of brilliant old architecture, remnants of pre-fab ugliness and gloomy grey skies. The snow adds colour. And Berlin comes alive! The streets are filled with grace, filled with smiling faces, filled with the festive glow of Christmas and the promise of newness.

White is a colour. A vibrant one at that!

Berlin sparkles because of it.

This Journey

2010-11-30T02:25:00.005+02:00

I am nothing more than bemused at the accent on time and the markers that it seems to have left along my journey so far. If there are more kimyatic ramblings at this space to come in commemoration, then so be it!

The journey is more than fraught with entertainment, if we just let it be. If you read this blog regularly, then you will have noticed that the banner has undergone yet another change. What began as simply mymemoirs, evolved over time to become SoApBoX Shafinaaz: A World of Words. A rather grandiose title, perhaps. This time, it has come to it's final naming: 'Memoirs For Kimya' - in this way immortalising the essence of why this blog began in Kimya's name. The difference now, is that I have, since the publication of the blog-to-book version, put my name to the writings and ramblings of these virtual pages. I used to scribble here in 2005 simply as 'kimya'. She was the veil behind which I wrote. Perhaps it made it easier to share with the outside world. Or it was a clever way of silencing self-censorship. Either way, its entirely possible that the flavour of writings has changed with the intentions and hence reinventions of the blog. I have not changed a word of early bloggings since I laid full claim. So if anyone has the slightest curiosity, go ahead and search for earlier posts. Forgive the grammatical errors. As you know, they continue to speckle my path; a symbol of my insolence, my refusal to edit the raw matter that forms my art of vanity and other such luxuries displayed here. All else is evolving as we speak. And so am I.

Kimya, naming, and being. All range across the spectrum of interrogation that has used this canvas to pull me through my challenges, my fears, my childish rants and my somewhat poetic, often academic musings. I have arrived. And yet another new road beckons. This is what it was all about to begin with.

Note: Search this blog for A Rose By Any Other... A reflective post circa Oct 2006 about my making sense of identity, naming, and the interplay of layers of identification.

Blessed Showers

2010-11-23T14:19:00.006+02:00

It's raining beautiful sheets of silver on my last day here in Polokwane. Just last night, I sat looking at the blank tissues of this screen and pondered the many things that have infiltrated my mind of late. I tend to do this. Usually on my last day at my parents home. Especially, at the close of yet another year.

There's something beautiful, replenishing about a rainy day like today. Like it's not an ending but a beginning, yet again. The scent of promise lingers. An announcement echoes from the heavens. There is yet much to look forward to, of that I am sure. And home will always be right here for when I need to return into it's embrace.

'Reflection' and 'Contemplation' are twins of course. And 'Appreciation' is a far-related, but necessary cousin. She's always invited to the party :)

Love and Light,
S

A million days of hope...

2010-11-18T12:50:00.004+02:00

A million stars,
A million promises,
A million days of hope.

Days of sunshine,
follow
Nights of rain.

There can only be
good to
come
of
this.

Rain On Me

2010-11-17T15:52:00.006+02:00

Three doors,
crowd me,
hover, patiently.

Three choices,
life presents to me.

Number one:
'Earn your wings,'
- the choice to fly.

Number two:
'Stay grounded,'
- my own roots!

Number three:
'Have rain,
make rain,
be rain!'

As ever before,
I choose the one that
intrigues me,
holds me,
spellbinding-ly.

Rain seeps into my skin
I drink it in

New being blossoms;
This is rebirth.
A new me pretends to
implode
from within.

A rush of blood
and energy,
A surge of gratitude.
Newness. A new me.

Joy is rain.
Rain, life.
Life rains down on me.
I rain.
'Drink it,' Life says.
I say, 'Drink it in!'

Insane in Time

2010-10-20T17:25:00.004+02:00

It's been an insane year. So much so that it's evident in me not having blogged here for almost two months. That's seven weeks or so. My reference to insanity is not said as a bad thing, although I do miss my blog.
But the insanity is also a fabulous time to reflect on the passage of the ten months that 2010 has been, and the very fleeting two remaining months that will be.
Even though its been a very quickly melting year, I've often in the past not been able to account for these quick spurts of time. This year is most different, and I have much to be thankful for.
And so when I have those moments when I come up for air, I know and remember to be grateful to the Source of all my creativity, starting from the breath that sustains me on a daily basis.

And to 2010. Thank you for being the rollercoaster of delights that you have been. Thank you for the promises that you have laid before me that will continue this gregarious festive energy well into the new year. Thank you for the highs, the open doors, the lifted ceilings, the fresh air, the wonderful people that I am able to work and play with and the very thing that makes life worth every bit: Love.

What point would the M4K blog have if it wasnt to appreciate the advent of the blook in its name, Memoirs For Kimya, right?
M4K will be distributed as a gift book by some women's empowerment initiatives and corporates in the coming weeks. And I will be off to Germany with Daughters are Diamonds and my research on violence and gender during the first two weeks of December to present at a conference at Humboldt University. And then, its the new year. The New Year.

God is Great.

Forgive

2010-09-05T21:43:00.006+02:00

Seek forgiveness
the wise man said.
Forgive.
Forget.
Let go.

Seek forgiveness?
the young man asked.
No, said the sage.
Seek to forgive,
and then you will find the Forgiving.

We carry the heaviness
in the pit of our bellies.
An ulcer murmurs,
rumbles,
and then ruptures.
We carry this heaviness,
hoping to heave it at the source;
and then to seek forgiveness,
but all we need
is to seek to forgive.

We need not Forget.
We need to Forgive.
And then, to
Let it go.

Can you forgive? the wise man tested.
No. Perhaps. Not I? thought the lad.
Forgive? said the man.
Yes, said the lad,
Forgive them, forget them, let it go.
Good, said the saint.
Not good, said the lad,
There's one yet to forgive
for the furor of life,
and he's
the one
who looks back
in the mirror.

The Banquet

2010-08-25T22:42:00.004+02:00

For some people
love is delivered
fresh from the oven,
aromatic as a prayer,
to be consumed only
after a ritualized
washing of hands.
Others meet God five
times a day:
each time they are hungry
God manifests on a plate
to fill them up.
This banquet is beyond religion,
more personal than breath,
universal.
The spent soul is replenished
through the echoing chamber
of an empty, grateful body,
each of its cells saying
repeatedly
thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.

Poem "The Banquet" from 'The Everyday Wife' (2010) by Phillippa Yaa de Villiers.

This Place I Call Home

2010-08-17T22:54:00.000+02:00

Book Review: This Place I Call Home by Meg Vandermerwe (Modjaji Books, 2010)

Home is a place of rest. For an observant South African writer, spanning the expanse of time, history, culture and landscape, the concept of home is also a thematic vehicle.

Meg Vandermerwe’s debut book, ‘This Place I Call Home’ is a collection of ten stories that easily captures the feel of what it is to be South African from just as many points of view. Peering through the eyes of a hijack victim, a hunter, a domestic maid, an exile about to return home and a range of others, the reader is made to see how identity is constructed, altered and challenged in a country that has seen many versions of reality in its time and across the reach of its political horizons. In addition, it also captures what it is to be a foreigner in South Africa especially with the spate of xenophobia that we witnessed not too long ago. Needless to say, each of the protagonists grapples with haunting emotional challenges in their personal spaces that are inevitably reflected by the socio-political landscape. These stories tell us much about where we have come from as individuals, separated by the colour of our skins, the hierarchy of our place on the social ladder, and the baggage that we carry as we move forward as South Africans.

Vandermerwe also manages to capture the authentic voice of each of the protagonists in her stories, which is an impressive feat on the one hand, but can be a bit jarring for a reader moving through the stories one after the other. One has a sense of listening to a line-up of ten people narrating each of their encounters, or reliving a particular moment that was formative or impactful, and then it’s on to the next one. More so because of the shift in timelines. But it is also precisely because of this that the many colours of their narratives standing side by side, tend to blend into a remarkable anthology of South African-ness that makes for a must-read for historians and anthropological enthusiasts.

But there’s more. We all have significant markers of identity and home. That is, how we make sense of both where we are, and who we are in the world is determined by the associations we make with particular things, specific encounters. Vandermerwe highlights these and the reader will find it easy to draw on the nostalgia that these markers evoke: a mango tree, a dictionary, the anticipation of a holiday or having heard of the story of someone returning home from exile. There are stories of loss and grief and hope and redemption to be found in this little gem of a book. Protagonists are challenged by disease, broken promises, xenophobia and a range of subjects that the reader is able to identify with; these stories will carry forth from the local to the global context an authentic flavour of the multi-coloured African dynamic. And the resounding theme of what it has meant to be South African, over the span of time and politics, comes through in the sentiments expressed by each of the protagonists; a domestic servant, a madam, a hunter’s aid and his master.

Vandermerwe deals in astounding detail with the issue of HIV/Aids, the inevitable cloud of superstition that surrounds the disease and the reliance or the faith that people place in traditional vs. modern medicine. The Red Earth is probably my favourite read in this anthology. Its characters don’t jump out at you; rather they sit beside you and allow you a peek into their deepest thoughts. They reveal their fears and prejudices. To me, that is the most remarkable accomplishment of the fiction writer; the ability to give the reader the opportunity to more than identify or sympathise with the character, but to really walk in their skin, taste and feel and dream as they might.

I particularly noted how Vandermerwe is able to denote class struggles in the local context, and the resultant mindset that arises from having to know your place. Inferiority is a powerful voice. Often more so than superiority. It reminds you mostly of the things that you do not deserve. And that you should know your place. This is the marvel of the post-colonial era. And it continues to be echoed in the economic reality that separates the haves and the have-nots. The writer achieves this balance in portraying both the yearnings of those on lower rungs of the social ladder as well as the expectations of those who teeter on the edge of the higher rungs of this shaky ladder. And so the reader is made to see at once the numerous layers of South African history as well as contemporary South African society beyond the shining tourist manuals. We also learn that if there are spaces that are sometimes unforgiving to South Africans, that these spaces can be even more threatening to ‘aliens’. In our insistence to claim our place, our home, we label the outsiders mercilessly. Strong notions of other-ing resound through the narratives. And we are made to ask questions of whether our existence is validated by this defining of ‘other’ and the subsequent removal of the alien other from what we claim to be our space. Narrative is a safe yet interesting way for these themes and debates to emerge. This Place I call Home is a book that manages to do this.

That the reader is made to read in the authentic voice and viewpoint of the character with such ease is the most enduring and positive attribute of this writer’s art. And this is what brings these stories home for us.

Home Away: Book Review

2010-08-12T20:58:00.003+02:00

Never have I been so vividly held captive by the intricate balance of metaphor and narrative as I have with this new work-of-art compilation of travel writing that is Home Away. This spectacle of South African writing is anything but isolated lekker local stuff; rather it reveals the truly global flavour of being South African at home in the world at large.
Edited by Louis Greenberg of ‘The Beggar’s Signwriters’ fame, twenty-four writers have been handpicked, each to envisage an hour in a day in a particular city in the world. It is as Greenberg suggests, a collection of ‘…stories (that) blur fact and fiction; they contain a dozen languages and two dozen versions of the truth. Together, they write a South Africa for tomorrow that yesterday would not allow.’
At the very beginning, the anthology kicks off with the excitement of this whirlwind tour around the world in just one text. Vikas Swarup sets the scene as your conductor to begin this journey; be prepared. In addition you will meet an alter ego in each writer as you move along. You will be whisked through Nairobi at midnight, with a plot to kill a politician, and then taken briskly through Mauritius, Amsterdam, Sydney and Mainz before you can think of drinking sunrise. Havana is the last of the poetic night rendezvous; you wake up in the warm arms of Kampala. Not white. Not black. Purely African.
Through the morning you are swiftly guided through Lagos, Maun, Ushuaia, then onward to Oxford, Tokyo and the City of Angels, Los Angeles. After lunching in British Columbia you will commit the perfect crime in Moscow before being shown how to juggle odds in Dakar. It’s mid-afternoon in Patmos and Peru before you know it and you’re treated to glimpses of London and Austria. Ivan Vladislavic enlikens Oklahoma City to the Free State. A flavour of being South African lingers through the mind of each writer, each voice displayed here. The evening is rounding up. But it’s not over yet. Fairbanks greets you before you rush off to Paris.
Finally, a happy ending awaits in Hong Kong. The clock strikes midnight.
You may raise a glass of the finest. You’ve earned your wings!

And so at once, the reader is made aware upon opening these pages, that it’s a good idea to keep your seatbelt fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop. This is only going to happen when you have finally reached the last page.
Home Away occurs as a series of freeze frames. Rather, it feels as though you’re watching twenty four short films through the eyes of twenty four actors; each on cue waiting their turn to play their part on this wordy stage until the hour hand on the clock has made not one, but two complete circles. A day slips through the sands of time.
I had the pleasure of attending the Johannesburg launch of this new masterpiece on May 13. About ten of the 24 authors were present, including Greenberg, the editor and creative genius behind this work. While it’s true that these 24 hour segments occur as flashes from 24 different cities around the world, it also bears mentioning that these 24 writers capture very different temperaments, flavours and energies linked to their respective stories.

In this gem of a collection is to be found more than varied armchair travel, and much more than you bargained for if you were looking for entertainment. These narratives also tell much about the sense of place and displacement that comes of traversing geographical boundaries, sometimes out of choice, often because of some extenuating circumstance. A war, a heartbreak, a recession, an escape. Something might happen that causes a land of promise to turn hostile. And so you leave.
Our love affairs with land and country can be quite fickle. This love-hate relationship with our environment is vividly shown to mirror our ways of relating to people in Home Away’s string of motion picture type stories. We learn that how we create our identity is strongly linked to where we imagine we belong in the world.
And that the fluidity of both our identity and where we might be situated in the world, is a fuel to each other. Sometimes we want to stay where we are. Sometimes we just have to leave. We have to move on. And yet other times, we know that we will inevitably find our way back to the place we always called home.

The twenty-four resounding voices in Home Away echo one thing: that our sense of place and feeling at home in the world will always be foreshadowed by the ability to feel at home with ourselves. These ideas resonate throughout the book and its chain of narratives.

It’s impossible to choose favourites in such a harmonious treasure of writing, but I would like to share just three sips from the ocean of Home Away. The reader has to read the entire collection to be truly quenched:

‘In Kampala there are moments when I forget that I am white. The woman who is here doesn’t feel like a middle-aged, white South African woman. The light is muted. The air is warm. She imagines she is black, that she has lived here all her life, that she is truly African.’ The warm arms of Kampala by Colleen Higgs

‘In this perfect stillness, noise is obscene. I know this because a loud thump has jolted me out of my slumber. Even before I am fully awake, my Palaeolithic self is in full panic, flight-ready: adrenaline surging, heart thumping, muscles rigid, ears pricked for the slightest clue as to the source of the sound. I wait.
… I haven’t been back in Sydney for long. Evidently, this is my Joburg self reacting: naked feral fear, fear so habitual that you no longer notice it’s there. It takes a while to learn to let go of the unceasing anxiety… Here, in the dark of the middle of the night, I must learn to be an expat again. Remind myself that I have nothing to be afraid of, congratulate myself on my escape.’ Redundant by Sarah Britten

‘With or without electricity, my favourite city in the entire world is not dissimilar to a series of quick, sharp slaps to the cheek… My first slap comes at 7:01. I wake up suddenly to the sound of a street fight brewing outside my open bedroom window. I listen intently; the fog of sleep quickly lifts and my mind and body are alert, ready for a day in Lagos.’ The Generator Man by Moky Makura

Note: Royalties from the sale of Home Away are being shared between the Adonis Musati Project and Kids Haven. Both organisations deal with the needs of refugee children and families.

Say You're One of Them...

2010-07-22T13:49:00.003+02:00

Book Review: 'Say You're One of Them' (Abacus, 2008) by Uwem Akpan.

We make easy associations of images with the stereotypes and myths that have come to be a part of how we make sense of society. Social divisions, national identity or age have come to be markers of behaviour and the way we relate to each other. So when we think of childhood, we have at least some amount of sweet, fantastical memory attached to it. The memory of being a child certainly would have held some moments of pleasure. So it might come as a spoke in the movie reel to digest the idea that childhood is a commodity in Africa. And Uwem Akpan brings this idea to life in his bestselling book ‘Say You’re One of Them’.

Never have my notions of identity and society been as steeply challenged as they have been on reading this beautifully orchestrated telling of story, this compelling oratory. Because that is what a book like ‘Say You’re One of Them’ must be described as. The words don’t just sit there, lame, impotent as letters on a page might be expected to; they jump up at you and dare you to piece the puzzle together, they dare you to drink in the images that are revealed of Africa’s brutality towards the most innocent fruit of her womb. The children of Africa.

Akpans anthology of five stories take us on an armchair travel from Kenya to Benin, than onward through Ethiopia, Nigeria and finally, Rwanda. And along this journey, the reader is held at the edge of the armchair rather than calmly settled into it. The stories are striking in their detail. Akpan makes no apology for revealing to the sanitised reader what life in Africa demands of its children.

We continue to insist that greed and survival are two vastly different concepts, and yet when we are made to see how they collide and bring the face of humanity to commit up until now, unspeakably inhumane things, then we are forced to realise the reality of childhood in a continent weighed down by inequality, unrest and all things antithetical to a natural way of being.

Uwem Akpan reveals this as his intention early on, and with little effort. And his methods vary: in each of the stories he is able to bring to the narrative the flavour and tone of the original language, be they indigenous African languages or the tongue of the colonial French. He takes this method further in his display of language as beyond the realm of just words and geography.

From the outset, this tapestry of stories expects you to step into the bare feet of a small child. At that point, the dust is removed from in front of you and any evidence of childlike innocence torn from your soul. You have to get it at last: this is what it is to be a child in Africa.

But once that veil of innocence has been removed, the ageless wisdom and resilience of children is beautifully emphasized. Akpan by no means glamorizes Africa. While his love for his continent of birth is tangible, we are made to see through the eyes of child prostitutes, beggars, those being readied for trafficking and those torn from each other on the basis of imagined social lines; Hutus from Tutsis, Catholics from Muslim. And then Akpan extends his metaphor: if it is the children who bear the brunt of society’s dysfunctions in the family unit, then it is Africa’s children who bear the brunt of a world wrought with inequalities.

There is also to be found a profoundly moving statement in the sadness of each of these stories, and yet it is the strength of these tiny examples of humanity that resonate for the reader. The power of the need to survive, to surpass the pressure of an unfair world adds a lustre. But there is work to be done and Akpan does this by allowing us to dig through the grime of the stories in order to find those inevitable questions about where it is that we might find ourselves on the scale of greed and survival. Without a doubt, it also draws a line in the sand between what it means to be a child in the world, in Africa, in the lands of the North and the South. And the answers glare at the reader defiantly awaiting rejection of their truth. Do we dare to deny that these brutal stories are more fact than fiction?

If Akpan compels the reader to continue turning the pages, and manages to awaken an almost denialist sense that such things might occur in the contemporary social world, one thing that we certainly cannot deny is his superb mastery of storytelling, his ease with language and metaphor. His writing is marvellous; his characters believable. Their experiences are a drought to the soul, but they serve as a reminder and awaken the compassionate in us, in sheer rejection of the evils that befall the weakest among us, mainly children.

Akpan succeeds in many ways as a spiritualist, as a humanitarian, as a storyteller in both bringing characters to life as well as stoking the fires of social awareness and conscience in the reader.

But most of all, he succeeds in showing the triumph of human spirit above the adversity that offends and challenges many of Africa’s children on a daily basis.

oOoOo

Uwem Akpan was born in Nigeria on May 19, 1971, in the southern village of Ikot Akpan Eda. Both of his parents were teachers and he and his three brothers grew up speaking English and Annang. He joined the Jesuit order at the age of 19, in 1990 and became a priest on July 19, 2003. He has also studied theology for three years at the Catholic University of East Africa and philosophy and English at Creighton and Gonzaga University. He later earned an M.F.A. degree in creative writing at the University of Michigan in 2006. ‘Say You’re One of Them’ is a collection of five stories from Africa. Of these stories, ‘My Parent’s Bedroom’, set in Rwanda, was shortlisted for the Caine Prize for African Writing in 2007, and longlisted for The Guardian First Book Award in 2008. After completing a teaching assignment at a seminary in Harare, Zimbabwe, he is now at a parish in Lagos, Nigeria.

oOoOo

http://shafinaaz.com

Look at You and remember Me

2010-07-16T17:55:00.002+02:00

"You've no idea how hard I've looked for a gift to bring You...
nothing seemed right.
What's the point of bringing gold to the gold mine, or water to the Ocean?
Everything I came up with was like taking spices to the Orient.
It's no good giving my heart and my soul because you already have these.
So- I've brought you a mirror.
Look at yourself and remember me."

Jelaluddin Rumi

Free imaginings

2010-07-15T11:01:00.003+02:00

The way we live our life seems to be a function of our imagination. We imagine that we are at a certain point, measured only by our relative perceptions. And we make our way along a path that we deem is wrought with difficulty or strewn with rose petals, often to our own detriment or perhaps a precursor to little bouts of disappointment and some level of joy upon discovering that we have far exceeded our own expectations.

So. Most of all, the relevance of life is measured by how we prioritize matters, beliefs, people and things in general. How deeply we felt something, only to have it washed aside in a moment of disparate agitation, speaks much of the frivolity with which we might splash emotion or withhold it, even.

Above all else is the dire need to foster this growing, thriving fuel of imagination.
It's the foundation for everything that we delve in, the inspired gas of our oblivion, the grease on the the wheels that pull a cart of memories and the glue that holds us together in times of trauma and distress.

Imagine a world without this essential element?

;)

It all began in Africa

2010-06-11T10:46:00.009+02:00

It's a truly fabulous time for South Africa.
The force of soccer fever, the undeniable collective awesomeness of the moment is a glue that has begun to fill superficial holes in our social sphere.
Two weeks ago while I was in Cape Town for a bookreading of Memoirs For Kimya, I attended the screening of 'The Killing of the Imam'. Just last weekend, I attended a gala dinner in honour of the late struggle hero Ahmed Timol. On both occassions, I was reminded of a time when brave men stood for justice and lost their lives; rather, they were decimated by mere suspicion of being a threat to the regime. Men like Imam Haron, Ahmed Timol, Babla Saloojee, AbdulHay Jassat, an MK operative and numerous others were tortured in detention. Timol's body was recovered with his nails removed, burn marks dotted his corpse. AbdulHay Jassat survived, his escape was facilitated by Defiance Campaign leader and struggle tactician, Maulvi Cachalia, but has fought epilepsy for over 40years as a result of the electric shocks he received while he was held in detention. The dinner event is dotted with reminders. The Timol's are seated on various tables. Babla's widow is seated on the table in front of me. AbdulHay waves in my direction, distinguished in a tweed jacket. The late Timol's friend, His Excellency Jo Jo Saloojee, the Pahad brothers, Mosie Moolla and Advocate Bizos are seated together. The stories pile up on my desk, too horrendous to swallow all at once, too numbingly numerous to do justice to in a blog post.

And after rummaging through piles of notes that remind and echo the dark age of apartheid, the squalor of a time that easily categorized ordinary South Africans by the colour of their skin, and then dehumanized them to a point of little recognition, it is a warm and generous celebration; a momentous occasion, to welcome the world to our shores.

South Africa has come a long way since the days of darkness, days in which ordinary citizens simply of darker skincolour could not walk freely in the streets; the overflowing streets and stadia of 2010 are wholly evident of our pride in leaving a draconian apartheid legacy in the mud.

Of course, there are remnants, economic and structural poverty lurk as bitter reminders that we have yet to overcome, and some fear that the current FIFA state will do little to turn the tide. South Africans living in informal settlements will not have the electricity to watch any of the soccer matches on television. Ordinary South Africans will miss the glory of this world spotlight, because they have already been decimated by poverty. And so this is our condition today. On the one hand, the insatiable joy of being the soccer podium for the world to look at, and on the other a sacrifice, an allowance for an exclusive sporting event that will fall beyond the affordance of many. The ambivalence is grating, and yet the sheer exhuberance of nationalism brought on by having the world spotlight on South Africa is something that we're bound to bask in for a while.

Right this minute, we are a little piece of Europe. We are collective African soul, we are African soccer on African soil. We are the right place at the right time. And the wonder of a moment like this affirms our status in the world with much to offer the international arena.

And while the world shines its torches and sits back watching our sport fields, let us remember that it is a moment to display our genuine South African hospitality. Let's allow the visitors to go back home with precious gifts of the African spirit, that will resound in all the corners of existence for a long time to come. And all the while we need to build on the idea that there is a way for us to take the benefits down to ordinary citizens who have yet to feel the presence of such a great and powerful event in our midst. If hosting the World Cup in South Africa is an expensive (and rather exclusivist) event, we need for once to step back and look at these as opportunity costs for greater economic relations with other nations. Our ports and our gateways are now open for opportunities. But all of this grand national pride only makes sense of we are able to take it back down to the foundations in order to strengthen the infrastructure towards breaking the socio-economic inequalities apparent in this country.

Ke Nako! The Time is Now.
This is where it all began; and now the world has come home to Africa!
Let's make it count for ordinary citizens, South Africa! Let's make it count!

Happy 60th Birthday, Dad!

2010-06-06T10:00:00.008+02:00

It's my dad's 60th birthday.

There was a time when I thought that 60 was the furthest thing.
Life has a way of affording us a change in perspective. I now fraternize with people in the age category 70 - 90. People of sound mental capacity. People who once trained as military cadres, spent time in the damp wasteland of prisons and roamed the globe in exile from the place they called home, for daring to stand up to the apartheid regime.

All this, and the general notion of relativity, make my dad turning 60 seem not really as age-relevant as a celebration of milestones, once again. Sixty is no doubt a defining and momentous occasion. It is also a reason to look back and reflect, something that I am certain he does a lot of on his own; often sharing those musings with our often impressionable ears.
But it is also a time for me to reflect on the journey that both our relationship as father and daughter, and our friendship as two not dissimilar beings has taken.

I've written and reflected on this before; a post called Driving Dad Crazy is among my favourite.
I've also had some opportunities for example, to publicly, albeit spontaneously, honour him when he walked in on a session at the Limpopo Legislature, where I directed the programme for the YCAwards and I happened to be speaking about the role of educators and parents in a child's development. My parents have played a significant and indelible role in my development, in the dynamic of who I am. And so there he was, sitting at the top of the indoor arena, smiling, suited in his classic well-groomed way. Smiling, that warm, encouraging smile. I have basked in this paternal glow of pride and love that is cast over me on every other day.

We're different and yet the same; knowing each other especially because of that sameness in the balance. It's true that fathers are the ordinary seeming heroes in our lives; at first purely because they're our fathers, and later precisely because of being only human, and real to us in every way.

I owe many stages of development to him who is my one and only Dad.
Happy 60th to this 'little girls' forever hero.

With a heart filled with love and appreciation,
Shafinaaz Sikander Hassim

rotten potatoes

2010-06-03T17:09:00.002+02:00

potatoes left to rot on the rack
always feel like
a waste
of carbs,
a waste of
good energy
a waste
of
time
and earth
and sunshine
and water
and
a waste
of
life.

tomatoes still have a use
ever after
but potatoes,
well,
they're just
a rot
of life
on
the compost heap.

wholesome
gone
rubbish.

KIA Experience has a Winner

2010-06-03T10:02:00.002+02:00

THE KIA EXPERIENCE HAS A WINNER!!!

Casey Monteiro has been chosen as South Africa’s social media representative for
the Kia Experience and will also receive an EA FIFA 2010 PS3 game.

Join the Kia Facebook Fan Page and be part of The Kia Experience which continues through the 2010 FIFA World Cup ™
Follow @KiaMotorsSA to see Casey's updates and to find out about his experience.
As the Kia Experience prize, Casey will join 12 other global bloggers from 26 – 29 June 2010, to stay at the new Rosebank Hotel, attend one 2010 FIFA World Cup ™ game and a day trip test driving the Kia Sportage as well as an EA FIFA 2010 game.

givingbirthtolotsofrandomthoughts

2010-06-02T00:11:00.005+02:00

It's really difficult to hand out advice.
Especially when the audience is either really eager about results and solutions; or, it's that your brand of advice is expected to be tailored in a certain way.

And so as I said, really not an enviable post at all.

I wonder if I am as averse to taking advice though.

I got a few rolling themes this past few weeks, and they recurred at an alarming rate and in the least likely places, and to top it all, from some rather unlikely quarters.
Or rather, I met with people I was really not expecting to bump into, from another lifetime ago, shall we say.

You would think I was sitting around with tonnes of time on my hands.
Really, Universe.
What's the game plan?

Big Picture and all that aside. What's the grand deal?

Hmm... I feel a whole new wave of poetry about to unleash itself.
And no, none of it is of the sad, defeated variety or of the love is awesomeness kind.
This is different.
And I need a house on top of a hill somewhere if I am to birth these new ones.
And I hope it isnt too windy either.
I want sunflowers on my doorstep.
And sunshine on my face.
And the sound of water.
And some birds.
And sharp pencils. A whole bunch of them.
I want them to have that freshly sharpened smell.
And I want sheathes of paper, uncut, just rolled out onto a nice sized desk.
And I want vanilla cupcakes with butter icing.
And tea.
I want lots of tea.
That's it.
For now.

Big Pics and Bigger Circles

2010-06-01T23:29:00.004+02:00

I have flashbacks from my past, almost as though something from my past is repeating itself. Or just about to. You know how they say, when you reach that crucial moment in your life when it all comes together for you and you take a peek at a rushing stream of past, present and potential future moments all at once, a dizzying speed of images collide at one point. Well, not quite that, but still. That.

Without making any deliberate sense. I feel like that thing that happened then, and again later sometime, and one more time in the not too distant past, is about to happen again. Different, but the same. And I haven't the faintest clue why it is to be so. Or if it is just a figment of my imagination.

And of course, on cue, the same voice appeared out of almost nowhere, saying to me, well: this is it, happening all over again, because I didnt pay attention to the details the last time.
Oi.
Attention to detail? Are you kidding me?

Maybe it was the bigger picture that I failed to take note of.

That's it!

The bigger picture.

This is where I step back to get a better view of it all.

Breath easy :D

Lights. Camera. Action!

words like honey

2010-05-21T20:37:00.002+02:00

today was one of those thirst quenching days.
i read the words of a fellow poet and floated about
for most of the rest of the morning.
mostly because he is one of my favourite contemporary writers.
he spins words into threads of gold. beauty!

and the request was to read the new manuscript
and then to write the foreword for the soon-to-be-published work.
i am astounded by the profound offer.
and humbled.
and honoured.
and delighted!

The Kia Experience: The Power to Surprise

2010-05-20T22:33:00.009+02:00

Join the Kia South Africa Facebook Fan Page and complete The Kia Experience quiz
to stand a chance to join a global campaign whereby 12 bloggers
from across the world have been invited
to travel to South Africa for 4 adventure filled days which includes a ticket to watch a 2010 FIFA World Cup ™ game and a Kia test drive to Magaliesburg with Kia’s latest surprise.
Also stand a chance to win a 2010 FIFA World Cup™ South Africa PS3 EA game.
And there's a Sony Cybershot camera to giveaway.

The Kia Experience Prize is to join 12 other global bloggers from 18 – 21 June 2010,
to stay at the new Rosebank Holiday Inn Hotel,
attend one 2010 FIFA World Cup ™ match
and a day trip test driving the All New Kia Sportage.

The competition runs from 20 to 25 May
and the winner will be announced on 2 June 2010.
Terms and conditions included on the Facebook Entry Form

Tweets @KiaMotorsSA

Kia Motors South Africa Facebook Fan Page & the Competition Page

“Kia Motors: The power to surprise”

Tu Jaane Na, by Atif Aslam

2010-05-08T01:43:00.000+02:00

Beautiful things; precious moments...

2010-05-02T16:14:00.005+02:00

I've been back in Durban almost a fortnight, counting the beauty, the days of good and wondrous encounters, the love of life and the blessing of being around my maternal grandmother. I bask in the sunlight of her spirit. Sitting in her presence is a quenching for my soul. I drink on, satiated.

And then I drink more of her loveliness.

There's a varied peace in this...

I measure my life in milestones. Not timelines, but in connectivity with loved ones, proximity to them. Haji'ani Ma, my maternal grandmother, is my measure for all these things.

I have noted various stages along her life path. A strong and resolute woman, but also a fragile and lovely being. She brought up her two daughters after being widowed at the age of 39. And I was born before her 50th birthday; to her eldest daughter, her first grandchild.

The cream over her milk, as she likes to say of us grandchildren.

She will be 82 this week.

Holding her delicate body in my arms, feels like I'm hugging a dream.

I already know that a part of her is looking onward to higher places.

And a part of her remains here, with us. Counting our successes, sharing our smiles. A haze of the fantastical forever lingers. Reality beeps to the beat of our hearts. Mortality of the body overshadows immortality of spirit, being, a lifetime of dreams realised, hopes dashed, joys shared, loss made visible.

Instead of counting the days, I want to celebrate the precious moments. One at a time.

Greedy for Air

2010-04-16T15:47:00.005+02:00

I've been enjoying my round of fiction reads this month.

Just last week, I got through "The White Tiger". Much can be said about a book that openly reveals that greed and survival are really not the same thing. The human mind forever fascinates me. The limits we place upon ourselves, as well as the new frontiers that are challenged in those finite boxes of sanity and insanity are largely unexplored. There are, I believe, yet to be seen examples of how much the potential of the human mind will surprise and enthrall, and yes, even horrify the 'clanging masses' rest of us.

Taking from the White Tiger, although situated in India, the story has echoes of relevance for South Africa; not just from an 'Indian' point of view, but also if we were to take both a human and then even an inhumane outlook. Okay, let's not pretend that we're one swathing mass of loving humanity; there are amongst us those who will sell their mother's left hand given the right blend of conditions.

Writer's like Adiga are adept at bringing that 'potential' of the inhumane human to the fore; of highlighting the irreverent contradictions of what it is to be a human being. And while I would like to imagine, still, that it takes much of a stretch of the imagination, I know at some rational level, that I would be kidding myself: I had barely put the pages of The White Tiger to rest, when the ET debacle exploded right in our midst. Not even for 7lakh rupees. Just. Dead.
Was it because of years of pent up Hatred?
Was it an act of Love?

I don't really want to know. A human life was slaughtered at the hands of people maimed by his own acts of terrorizing them over years. Do we really reap what we sow? This might be an apt example. Still, a human life is so easily rendered to a bag of bones and flesh and blood that oozes back into the womb of the earth. We're so easily turned back into the clay from which we came.
All material, mortal. There it is again. Mortality looks back from the mirror everyday.

Which brings me to the new book that I am reading, and reviewing, this time, for an Afrikaans paper: 'Say You're One of Them,' by Uwem Akpan. I am just learning, that childhood is a commodity in Africa. Akpan brings this idea to life in his book.

And. midway through the book, I am blown away. Now to scrape and claw for some moments of objectivity. Watch this space.

S

fail to see

2010-04-12T16:03:00.005+02:00

you say that you cannot find me

and here i am
where i've always been

i am the poet

i am the ink

i am the bark of the tree

and that blade of grass

i am the wispy cloud
the gravel on the road
the hay stack

and the humming bird

i am the poem
and the pebble

and inevitably,
i am the rock.

i am also the
person looking
out the window
every now
and then

just
in case
you come home
again.

Imagined differences

2010-04-03T19:27:00.004+02:00

Something fascinating happened this weekend. I met someone for dinner, had a chat, and a whole new world opened in my experience of life.

This is how it happens. Every once in a while you meet someone who affects a shift in your thinking. Or provides the answers to some of the questions you've been mulling over. Or erases some of the doubts you have been holding onto regarding something or the other.

Something. sOmething. SomeThing. There's always something that someone does, says or implies that causes something to stir in you. Realisation, joy, fear, anger, doubt, reassurance. Something.

For the most part, I think its that if we allow ourselves to open our hearts and minds to the world view of yet another person, a new learning happens for us.
Why some of us choose to close off this option is beyond me. But then, ignorance is a dreaded bliss; an empty bliss for most.

Everyday, we are as a vessel, filled and emptied. And in the ebb and flow of the life force, we are a moving energy, merging, engaging, being super-imposed with the energies of others. If you are a vat of positive, dynamic energy, you will find some people gravitating towards you in order to quench a thirst in themselves. Or they will resent your ability to drink from the ocean of life.
Life affords us opportunities to replenish ourselves or to cleanse ourselves so that we're not drained by the flow of energy. Being self aware is about finding equilibrium as often as possible. And self realisation is necessary for real growth.

Its really left up to us to identify these moments and to absorb them; to make them a part of the journey of awareness.

These moments reinforce the idea that the stories we live are the blueprint for a collage of universal living. And that we need to write these. That we need them to become part of something larger. Human biography is not just about documenting the art of life. Sharing them is a way of celebrating our humanity, rather than concentrating on our imagined differences.

#SpeakZA: Bloggers for a Free Press

2010-03-24T06:55:00.008+02:00

Last week, shocking revelations concerning the activities of the ANC Youth League spokesperson Nyiko Floyd Shivambu came to the fore. According to a letter published in various news outlets, a complaint was laid by 19 political journalists with the Secretary General of the ANC, against Shivambu. This complaint letter detailed attempts by Shivambu to leak a dossier to certain journalists, purporting to expose the money laundering practices of Dumisani Lubisi, a journalist at the City Press. The letter also detailed the intimidation that followed when these journalists refused to publish these revelations.

We condemn in the strongest possible terms the reprisals against journalists by Shivambu. His actions constitute a blatant attack on media freedom and a grave infringement on Constitutional rights. It is a disturbing step towards dictatorial rule in South Africa. We call on the ANC and the ANC Youth League to distance themselves from the actions of Shivambu. The media have, time and again, been a vital democratic safeguard by exposing the actions of individuals who have abused their positions of power for personal and political gain.

The press have played a vital role in the liberation struggle, operating under difficult and often dangerous conditions to document some of the most crucial moments in the struggle against apartheid. It is therefore distressing to note that certain people within the ruling party are willing to maliciously target journalists by invading their privacy and threatening their colleagues in a bid to silence them in their legitimate work.

We also note the breathtaking hubris displayed by Shivambu and the ANC Youth League President Julius Malema in their response to the letter of complaint. Shivambu and Malema clearly have no respect for the media and the rights afforded to the media by the Constitution of South Africa. Such a response serves only to reinforce the position that the motive for leaking the so-called dossier was not a legitimate concern, but a insolent effort to intimidate and bully a journalist who had exposed embarrassing information about the Youth League President.

We urge the ANC as a whole to reaffirm its commitment to media freedom and other Constitutional rights we enjoy as a country.

What can you do? To show your solidarity with 'Bloggers for a Free Press' please email this article or link as is, including blog roll. RT ref #SpeakZA

Blog Roll...

http://thoughtleader.co.za/siphohlongwane
http://rwrant.co.za
http://vocfm.co.za/blogs/munadia/
http://vocfm.co.za/blogs/shafiqmorton/
http://blogs.news24.com/needpoint
http://capetowngirl.co.za
http://thoughtleader.co.za/sentletsediakanyo
http://thoughtleader.co.za/davidjsmith
http://letterdash.com/one-eye-only
http://boyuninterrupted.blogspot.com
http://amandasevasti.com
http://blog.empyrean.co.za/
http://letterdash.com/brencro
http://6000.co.za
http://chrisroper.co.za
http://pieftw.com
http://hamishpillay.wordpress.com
http://memoirs4kimya.blogspot.com
http://thoughtleader.co.za/azadessa
http://watkykjy.co.za
http://fredhatman.co.za
http://thelifeanddeathchronicles.blogspot.com/
http://blogs.timeslive.co.za/common-dialogue/
http://www.clivesimpkins.blogs.com/
http://mashadutoit.wordpress.com
http://nicharalambous.com
http://sarocks.co.za
http://blogs.timeslive.co.za/stompies/
http://helenmoffett.book.co.za/blog/
http://01universe.blogspot.com
http://groundwork.worpress.com
http://iwrotethisforyou.me
http://fionasnyckers.book.co.za
http://attentiontodetail.wordpress.com
http://blogs.women24.com/editor
http://www.missmillib.blogspot.com
http://snowgoose.co.za
http://dreamfoundry.co.za
http://www.vanoodle.blogspot.com
http://www.exmi.co.za
http://cat-dubai.blogspot.com
http://alistairfairweather.com
http://www.zanedickens.com
http://www.nickhuntdavis.com
http://guysa.blogspot.com
http://book.co.za
http://baldy.co.za
http://skinnylaminx.com
http://blogs.african-writing.com/zukiswa
http://www.mielie.wordpress.com
http://blogs.timeslive.co.za/gatherer/
http://thoughtleader.co.za/sarahbritten
http://stii.co.za
http://blogs.news24.com/FSB_AP
http://twistedkoeksuster.blogspot.com
http://whensmokegetsinyoureyes.blogspot.com/
http://trinklebean.wordpress.com
http://commentry.wordpress.com/
http://matthewbuckland.com
http://blogs.news24.com/colour-me-fran
http://gormendizer.co.za

http://ravingfans.co.za
http://khadijapatel.co.za
http://moralfibre.co.za
http://www.missmillib.blogspot.com

Faqir: short fiction lurking on my pc

2010-03-20T00:29:00.008+02:00

The drought had lasted longer than anyone anticipated. The land was screaming for its thirst to be quenched. Cracks were appearing in the ground and on people’s faces.
Faqir Hussain’s business was to look at his hands. He lifted them up and wagged them at passers-by. The regulars were kind to him.
Modi the mithaiwala gave him ten; less if his wife was with. And Merchant sahib gave him twenty. On another day he had given him fifty. Jaggu the moneylender was too stingy to give anything. But he always asked him how he was.

Still, the drought was a bad sign. Rain made people’s hearts blossom, like roses. And their hearts dried up with the drought. Tempers flared, and friends bickered like nasty old women. It was the drought that made his hands ache for the feel of water. It was this drought that was making them ignore him on the footpath. Midday sun was burning holes in his bald head. It wasn’t that they did not have any money to give. It was the new footpath hero that they took trouble to notice today. His name was Ali.

Faqir's eyes wandered across to where Ali was perched like the last item of a street-vendors wares. He felt sorry for the boy. He had the face of a hero. A beautiful face. But he had to use his arms to move the piece of wooden board that held his torso. Two stumps pretended to be his legs. And three wheels from a rusted old supermarket trolley made the board mobile.
He was the one stealing the glances and pity from the people. He was the one causing this new drought in Faqir Hussain’s life.

Evening was already throwing a blanket over the land. Not a single coin. Not one rupee also. Faqir knew he would sleep on a feast of yawns. He leaned his back to the vandalised wall behind him. Some young goons had sprayed slogans of Aazadi on the wall. That was their only freedom. Hunger made him sleepy; it was easy to doze off. Until the sound of shouting woke him. The young boy was crying; three men kicked him, screaming for more money. They were Karim Khan’s men. It all made sense. Ali was one of the Lala gang’s victims. Faqir knew why he felt sorry for the boy. He was young and healthy. They must have broken his legs to make him more profitable. People paid for pain. They paid to make their pain go away. Faqir knew this better than the potholes on his bald head. He used the lines; “I will pray for your daughter’s happiness... May you live a long life... May Allah give your family a hundred sons.” And usually it worked. Nobody would refuse to give money if he said those kinds of things. Because what if they didn’t give money and the opposite happened? No one was willing to take chances like that.

But nothing could beat a young boy without legs. The gang knew that. He was their golden goose. Him and so many other children on the footpaths. They were all the dust on the dry pathways. It would take the rains to wash it all away. Rains would remove the drought. Young Ali was being carried off by the goons. Darkness covered the street, and people had moved to the other side to get away from Karim Khan’s men.

A drop of water trickled along the rippled skin on Faqir's head. He reached his hand out to see if it was a dream or a reality. A few more drops collected on his palm. The dry skin drank the water.

He leaned back against the wall. The gush of air from his nostrils slowed down; the pulse in his neck steady. It didn’t matter that the rain was soaking him. A body in that state doesn’t shiver. Sleep is like death. And death is like sleep. Each is a kind of freedom.

Copyright (C) Shafinaaz Hassim 2010

Notes:
Faqir - name/ direct transl: beggar (as a name refers to humility rather than ostentation.)
mithaiwala - sweetseller
Aazadi - Freedom

"We are the leaders we've been waiting for" -WLC 2010

2010-03-15T13:14:00.009+02:00

I attended a conference of diva hotseaters late last week. If there is any reason to re-awaken the potential we all know that we have lurking inside us, then the best way to go about it is to surround yourself with women who challenge themselves everyday, women who break with regulatory myths, women who trample unsavoury stereotypes; yes, women who change the world, one day at a time.

The Women's Leadership Conference convened at the Sunnyside Park Hotel in Johannesburg on 11-12 March 2010. As luck would have it, traffic into Johannesburg was reduced to a mere crawl thanks to a truck having exploded near the Atterbury exit into Pretoria and traffic was rerouted around nearby cities rather than over and through them. I was on my way into the mega-city having been out of town for the wedding festivities of a friend. It turned out to be a rather testy welcome into Gauteng, if you take into account that losing your cool is not the greatest show of survival of the fittest in a city that collides with the shortness of time and has to digest a population of feisty beings intent on making a corporate killing rather than just surviving on a daily basis. Those below the breadline are a mere mirage, an invisible fringe for the most part. A fantastical media report or two at the most. Such is the plight of the rainbow nation governed by the most TENDER-hearted of statesmen.

Time is money and tangents are costly. So where was I?
Aah. And so it came to pass that I was invited to join this gregarious bunch of divas in this neatly carved space for dialogue in Parktown.
I missed Debora Patta's talk but heard snippets for the length of the conference; she being of South Africa's more outspoken, daring media personalities and unsurprisingly Vodacom's Media Woman of the Year for 2009.
Kristine Pearson envisages a world of 'Women Lighting-up Africa'. She is CEO of the Freeplay Foundation based in the UK, US and SA. Noble cause indeed. And much to be made of the impressive vastness of her not-for-profit international organisation and its intent to more than create awareness of the devil of parafin usage in rural Africa and its insistence on gobbling up unsuspecting children in the impending darkness. She lobbys for clean and renewable energy, lighting and job creation for rural women in Africa.
Day 1's workshop was run by Philipa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa: The Art of Telling Your Story. A powerful orator, Philipa held the audience in a trance of sorts as she went about her talented renderings and interactive sharings.
I sat on a panel that rounded up day one, along with Nicole Wills, founding partner and MD of award-winning advertising and communications agency Stick Communications SA; and Dr Sonia Joubert, academic and consultant in Creativity and Organisational Intelligence. A beautiful thread of conversation ranged from ways in which we might galvanise our own creativity on a regular basis to how to mentor and be mentored in an environment that encourages and unleashes creativity in others. I was happy to work to the theme of the THINK DIFFERENT ad, thanks to a friendly reminder from a brainstormy friend. Crazy works for me!
This theme pretty much carried forth throughout to the end of the two day-conference. It was more than imagination that confirmed the sparkle in people's eyes by the end of it all...

Day 2 began with an inspiring presentation on the mastery of organisational politics by Mardia Van Der Walt-Korsten, Businesswoman of the Year 2009 who is also the CEO of a German multi-national called T-Systems. Mardia cites her key to success simply as her love for life, and her intention to create an environment that puts soul into IT. Her value for humanity in her workplace is infectious as the direct interaction with a woman whose eyes sparkle when she speaks about her life and her work.

Tali Nates from the Johannesburg Holocaust Centre spoke about building bridges and learning tolerance. She spoke about the awareness of being: are we perpetrators, upstanders, bystanders or victims? Choice and repentance were strong themes in her talk.
There could not be a more fabulous way to end the conference than to welcome Prof Edna Van Harte, Dean of the Faculty of Military Science at the Military Academy in Saldanha at Stellenbosch University.
If it is about challenging stereotypes, and if its about a question of whether or not there is a place for women leaders in the military, then I think that she awakened that potential in more than one way.

The conference rounded up with the message of social movement; believe in something strongly and passionately enough, and get something going! Remember this? The MTN Clap :P

Enjoy. And stay with the magic. Its inside of you. Let it Live!

In Memorium: Fatima Meer (1928-2010)

2010-03-13T23:20:00.003+02:00

Power
Value
Being

There are not many people in the world who embody the essence of such words.
And those who were, are fast disappearing from our midst.

She touched lives. She angered at the way the veteran struggle was forsaken by the new dispensation. She was a pillar for the underdog. A voice for humanity.

I remember those words, as I sat and scribbled at her bedside: 'When you wake in the morning, challenge the assumptions that you have woken up with. And make sure that they don't go to bed with you again.'

The gleeful stories about Maulvi and her father, MI Meer and their visits to Gandhi's compound in Phoenix sit side by side on my laptop now. Her voice reverberates on a shiny but shame-faced digital recorder. The echoes bounce off hollow walls.

The spirit of who she was, a free one now; unhindered by the ravages of time that show only in the material plane.
The shell has been discarded.
Fatima Meer has ascended.
Rest in Peace, Prof.
Surely, He is most pleased with thee; free to rejoin now with the Most Beloved.

Frankenstein's monster...

2010-03-05T13:09:00.004+02:00

Brutal imaginings
make their way into
my consciousness.
Sensation reverberates;
Blinding, Putrid, Bitter.
A final clang signals the winding hour;
I turn to clay; grey and cold.

The villain that hovered
as an image,
a formation of
words
and paper,
a scrawl of ink and graphite,
and yes,
someone elses dreams,
dashed-

Is a fluid vision;
a Flesh and Bone
Reality.

I feel like Frankenstein.
Please hold the champagne, though.

A lump born in the throat
falls into the
ulcer-ed pit,
heaving with
the knowledge.

Realisation
sinks
in:

So,
They do exist.
Beyond
my Wildest
Imagination.

Top 50 Blogs: in humanity

2010-02-24T18:55:00.008+02:00

I'm having a pretty random day. And so a random search for my blog brought me to discover this:

Apparently, SoapBox Shafinaaz makes some random list by NetworkedBlogs as number 19 on the Top 50 Blogs: in humanity.

I had no idea that such a thing existed. Nor was I notified.
But it's obviously some part of the Networks way of marketing readable blogs at various stages; making blogs known to the rest of the blogosphere, and to pretty much the rest of the virtual surfers out there... What I am curious about is the criteria involved in making this assessment. The social scientist in me wants to know :P

In related news, "Memoirs For Kimya", the blog-to-book, is having an inspired new year so far :D

I'm the one that's at a loss for words, for the most part.
Yes, stranger things do occur.

Peaceful thoughts to all...

S

Temporary Madness...

2010-02-18T14:54:00.000+02:00

Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are.

Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.

Captain Corelli's Mandolin6.

birthday reflections: a piece of sheesh mahal (palace of mirrors)

2010-02-12T15:35:00.003+02:00

gifts of humanity, celebrations of self.

2010-02-04T11:38:00.005+02:00

There are few things as refreshing as a few hours in the company of dear friends. Julekha and Nazmeera are sisters, and two of my childhood friends, and I had the pleasure of spending some time in their company yesterday, in celebration of Julie's birthday. This is standard practice for a good many years, as February is birthday month for the both of us. And so, in typical feelgood fashion, momentous celebrations of self usually begin on the 3rd Feb and go on, until the 12th, the day that I was born. In between, we will reflect, go out for a movie, a lunch, a dinner, and just do ritual celebratory things that add to the markers along the path of this fortnight between our respective birthdays. We missed out in 2008 when I lived in Durban, but I think that this is the year to make up for it.

It's also a fascinating double celebration this time around, especially because Nazmeera has set a wedding date roughly a month from now, 6 March. This only means a full month of extended celebration. I'm thrilled for her, because the certainty and joy is a rose grown to fullness in her being. Even more so, because I attended her wedding a few years ago when she married at the age of 21, and then her carefully constructed house of cards fell apart some few months later and she got divorced. I saw her fall ill to the disappointment, the confusion, the hurt and pain. I watched from afar as her sister tried to shield her from the insensitive comments of onlookers, ogling the spectacle. I listened, and tried in vain to humble the experience, without trying to trivialise the depth of the wound. Her parents were phenomenal in their support, as was Julie. I flitted in and out of their cocoon every once in a while. And then we stepped back as she worked her way out of the ditch of misery, and began to bloom, once again.

Four years later, I have total respect and appreciation for the growth that she has undergone: it shows in the way that her mindset has taken leaps, in her new sense of spirit, in the honours degree that she has achieved, in the person that she has become. Four earth years might look small, but with the right encouragement, support and intentions made by a person, they can be more valuable than a lifetime of careful living, far less destructive than a full decade of self-pity. And clearly, they have been formative years for her realisation of self. She didn't hold back and shared these Eureka moments, gladly. We made mental notes and smiled as we learned from her, shared some of our own messy details, and hoped that we were rising above them.

Lessons learned are burdens on the back of a miser, and veritable bags of gold in the pockets of those willing to share their humanity with others. These are the truest celebrations of self.

Intense familiarity

2010-02-01T18:00:00.003+02:00

Sometime, I think during day two of the Literature Festival that I attended in Jaipur, I looked up from a bench that I was seated on to see a woman coming towards me with a look of immense glee adorning her face. A moment of intense recognition passed between us, and I all but bounced off my seat to hug and greet her, all the while doing the math in my head as to how I might actually know her and more so, searching the files in my head for a name. The mind is a soldier, and will quickly look to reasoning the name, place, event or some or other marker that will explain the familiarity.
The intense familiarity, as I said before.
And when that moment had passed, and we enquired after each others names, we discovered to both our surprise, that we had not ever met before. Emma is from the UK, and now lives in Delhi with her family. I thought I'd met her back home in South Africa. I was wrong. But then, she too, was oddly caught off guard that I wasn't really known to her. We chatted on for a bit, she introduced me to her companion, and then we became friends. We bumped into each other a few times more over the remaining days at the festival.

On day three, I met Deepika. Also by chance; as I think she was friendly enough to strike up a casual conversation when we were seated together, also outside the Dharbar Hall at Diggi Palace (I just realised that it was the same place that I had met Emma). And we proceeded to some of the sessions together, and chatted on for a while. I was struck by the familiarity in our exchange, and I must say that the magneticism of some people will always leave an indelible impression.

Or perhaps its just India. The space of mystery around the heritage site that was host to the celebration of the art of writing, as opposed to the commercialisation of the sacred space. And the energy of the people who converged on the space almost like pilgrims, intent on being nurtured and sharing the magic of the bookish events there.

I think its just India.
And whatever it is about being in an ancient, flowing mass of energy that millions of people call 'Mother Land' that draws people to it, as well as it being the space within which people, souls rather, are drawn to each other, almost as though they are known to each other all along.

Emma and Deepika really seemed to know me a long time in the space of a few minutes. I did wonder if they would recall their encounter with me. And then I got mail from Deepika, confirming just that.

So. I think its something to do with the air in India.
I think, its just India.

Quenched sentimentalist: Rabb bhi Deewana Laage re

2010-01-24T17:42:00.004+02:00

Bias is a passionate vehicle. When I first visited India in 1994, I hated it. My arrogant teenage sense was easily offended by the superficial grime and slime of cities that are burdened by the sprawl of their citizens demands on match-stick infrastructure. But then, India made certain that I fell in love with her before I left, and I have travelled back and forth more than a dozen times since.

Needless to say, I have never encountered a more resilient, more colourful, or a more diverse, emotive country as India is. And she makes this claim rather unpretentiously. But it holds fast in the minds and hearts of all who must make their way through her at some point; those who must, inevitably, be drawn to her, and who will fall madly in love with her as I have.

We touched-down in Mumbai on 20th January before we flew on to Jaipur. Tomorrow, after some eighteen months, I will be reunited with the energy that is Mumbai, the same vibe that echoes in my veins.
The romance of Rajasthan is unmistakeable; age old charm embraces the city within, while every conceivable public space is fragrant with the whisper of the poets of old. At the airport, instrumental background music brought the words of the old maestros to my lips. We dined and stayed at places called Peshawari, Jal Mahal, and Rajputana; then went on to fraternize in heritage sites like the Diggi Palace and the Birla Auditorium. We walked the streets of the Pink City and were embraced by the same winds that would have veiled a different era of nobility, grandeur and impression. The verse of the ghazal singers lingers in our ears. It's the begin of the Basant season. And not coincidentally, its also the begin of the wedding season. Everywhere we go, we are met with wedding processions led by boisterous walking drummers, tamboreen artistes, trumpeteers. The bridegrooms follow on horses bedecked with flowers, jewels, finery not very unlike the armour that they themselves have worn.

The images fade to a blur on my last night here. But the scent of celebration remains. And Mumbai beckons to me. Farewell, Jaipur... The memory of a beautiful week overwhelms me, makes my head reel. There is something magical about the soul of a city filled with contemplating, reflective people from around the world, brought together at one point to share sips of something to quench the restless seeker.

Quenched, indeed.

Shafinaaz

Rajasthani Romanticism

2010-01-23T21:58:00.004+02:00

Jaipur is insatiably beautiful. From beneath the squalor and decay, can still be felt the pink sands of time and matter that form the legacy of this ancient city that juggles with some grace, the modern and the antiquated.

The cities beauty stands out for me because it is an unadorned one: its certainly not an obvious beauty, in fact its a rather oblivious one.
But at some level, it is also a taken-for-granted regal, yet unnoticed one.
Beauty is in the bones of Rajasthan.

I have the pleasure of being here at a time when the city is host to both a Literary Festival as well as a Heritage Festival. These are run in parallel, creating a rather combustable creative energy. And sparks fly! Like when Prof Nandini Sundar of Delhi University says, "Fuck the State! We will be heard!" or when Hanif Qureshi says, "when all those rather confused pieces come together to make sense of identit(ies), then we call that literature" and even more so when Asma Jehangir says that she's disappointed with India's arrogance while admitting that Pakistan is 'the menace'. Or Girish Karnad's comment earlier today when he said that VS Naipual must have been stone deaf. Why? Because he wrote about India, but he failed to write anything at all about music, and it's indelible influence and meaning in the Indian context.

Sparks fly, indeed, when you find yourself at the core of a melting pot of grand ideas, challenging minds and fanciful collaborations.

I've also managed to see two plays at the Birla Auditorium, thanks to the Heritage Festival and the Jaipur Virasat Foundation. One, 'Salesman Ramlal' is the Hindi adaptation of Arthur Miller's 'Death of a Salesman', and features a cast including Satish Kaushik as Ramlal and his wife played by Seema Biswas... and the other was directed by Naseeruddin Shah. Comprehensive reviews to follow. I'm not quite quenched with this cup of Jaipur dynamism, drink on, drink on!

With much love from my moonlit hotel room,
at almost 2a.m. Indian time,

S

the lure of the desert

2010-01-16T18:14:00.002+02:00

Sometime early December, I made my way to Dubai for a wedding. The reason was festive, a wedding in the extended family, and the meeting of many known faces for the same reason. We loved the energy there, and it was a great way to end the year.

Two weeks later, the father of the bride drowned in a jet ski accident in Lake Malawi.

Life and death are cyclical. Of course, we know this. But the proximity of these events in dimensions of time, space and relativity make for a surreal mosaic: What a way to begin the year!

Time is a treadmill at high speed.
Another trip to Dubai this evening, feels like the spiral draws and engulfs, the wheel turns and the hamster runs it.

Not a wedding, this time, but festive all the same, considering the oasis in the desert born of stories beyond the 1001 Arabian Nights.

There's certainly something to be said about the lure of the Arabian sands and the passage of time.

2010

2010-01-01T00:16:00.002+02:00

There are many ways to anticipate the advent of good things. It takes more than belief. It takes a certain amount of knowing, at that extended level. Beyond the place of reason and reasonable doubt, even.

2009 need be celebrated for the many gifts it placed at my feet.
2010 will be celebrated for its own reasons. But more so, is that alongside this wonder of the mystery, this anticipation of what is to come, is the firm knowledge that I am blessed with an entourage of angels, my loved ones, my friends, my cluster of souls that alight in the same space within which my life is made manifest.

The inspired choices are endless. The life ahead is pregnant with the promise of more delights, impending potential to be realised, dreams to be met along the way, and doors of greatness waiting to be opened.

One thing is certain, as we begin this new year: We will have our spotlight in the sun. And this is the year for it!

Happy New Year 2010 :)

a drumbeat signals the end

2009-12-23T10:23:00.008+02:00

Some people say that soul mates are arranged in heaven, separated on earth, and evolve over time to discover each other again at some stage in their lives. So, they conquer the trials set before them and emerge to be replenished by the lessons learned, and are duly rewarded by the advent of 'the soulmate'. I find the story somewhat biased for a whole number of reasons. From an analysts point of view, it turns out to be a shaky hypothesis, and leaves out a whole bunch if variables; time of marriage, propensity of someone in New Zealand to ever make it out to Mount Kilimanjaro and Budapest and Vancouver in their lifetime to meet potentially, 'the one'. And various stages of life growth, and how that might be measured. So,needless to say, the vastness is not at all taken into account.

As a spiritual being, I am somewhat stymied. Fate decides. Gods will prevails, to make lesser sense to mere mortals until in retrospect, that Eureka moment might be dispensed to us, now thirsty for some reprieve from the discontent, or the numbing acceptance.

Even then, some of it makes sense. And sometimes, it really doesn't.
We continue to grasp for clues.

I am all for feeling blessed at the ability to dodge a bullet or two.
But the lesson for waking up from a dream to find myself standing on a battlefield is lost on me. Life does tend to have a drier sense of humour on some days.

The silence engulfs me. Darkness doesn't console as it should. I'm searching for sunshine, thirsting for it even.
Every step forward feels like an uphill drag. Standing still, the ground caves in.
But even the ground won't take me like this.

What else is there?

Another year. Yet another goodbye.
Repetition resonates.
A steady drumbeat signals the end.

Interview with Fordsburg Independent; Local community paper in Johannesburg.

2009-12-16T12:50:00.001+02:00

Inertia, Utopia, CHaOs

2009-12-07T09:06:00.003+02:00

I cannot recall a year that went by so quickly, it felt like it had barely begun. Not for lack of having accomplished anything, though. In fact, precisely because of the years adrenalin-filled happenings, do I feel that sense of inertia still making me reel to and fro, and for the most part, vivid images meld into a belligerent blur.

This is a reflection. Not quite the customary year-end ramble.
Which is probably why I cannot find the words to express the stop-start feeling.
And, as luck and fate and the powers that be might have it,
its not over yet.

Do I sound like I'm complaining?

Hardly that.
I'm reading yet another visa script as I type; ready to set off to a desert rendezvous for a week of partying and festivity to round up the year that was.
While Dubai World crashes around us left to the folly of the markets and wanton players, some with tails between their legs, our lot might do the economy a small boost in our lavish outpourings for the next week. Shamelessly said, I know.
Such is the bane and the boon of the clad and shackled.

Ah, its been a year of abundance.
Words flow.
Joy bursts at the seams.
The trickles of sadness, loss and illness linger; keeping a necessary humility in place.
And the mirage of a brighter future looms at eye level.
2010 will be a year of togetherness.
A year of partnering on an equal ground; the dust on the battlefields will settle.
And it will be yet another year to reflect on, to learn from, and to celebrate for its lavish layers of utopia and chaos, in similar measures that maintain our humanity; that sustain all but a crass sanity.

Its not quite goodbye, yet.
But its almost there...

Love and Light,
Shafs

http://shafinaaz.com

Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009

the circularity of blood and dust

2009-11-30T13:42:00.005+02:00

Writing is farcical, if it is not able to create a shift in some way. It must, in some small way, undo the latch to the dusty box that is our potential, and reveal the raw material inside that seeks to become something majestic, at least.

Writing, just like anything else that we might do, is undue banter and rather superficial, if it is not accompanied by a whole range of purposeful conditions. Or at least, just one. A purpose. A need to adjust the everyday meander, dissolve the self-doubts and dissipate the fears of failing and of succeeding all at once. Writing is and must. Writing with a sense that something more must come of it. It must be loaded with that intention to do and be for the greater good; even if the path getting there is strewn with thorns. Writing is a vehicle and a weapon, a building and a bridge. Each might be used or abused; the action is fueled by the intent.

Writing, if you really think about it, is an act of worship.
It is a show of love. And a way to bribe the creative soul into production.
Writing is also a show of hate. A means to burn and destroy the wasteland of minds that prefer the route of the blissfully ignorant. It purges these, tearing unused sinews apart, washes away the rust and then forces the flow of new contemplation into the midst of these healing recesses.

Tedious tasks done, writing is the balm. The disease and the cure.
The bitterness and the sweet are found to be one.
Love is, life is, being is.
Bitter. Sweet. Bittersweet...
Living is.
Dieing is.
Bittersweet.
Living-Dieing.
Circularity breathes reason into being.
Writing gives it form.
The vehicle moves onward, transporting thought from one to another. Me to you.
A building of ideology soars skyward.
Glass shatters at a crazy altitude.
Someone slips.
Someone falls.
A grey suit hits concrete pavements of unreason; it bears the mark of the martyr. Red becomes brown.
Brown is earth.
Like ashes to ashes; like dust to dust.

Living is dieing
Dieing is living
Writing is Living-Dieing
Reviving the dust, the ashes, the blood and the being.
Re-creating, moving, becoming, seeing.

"Keep breathing. Everything else is a bonus."

Copyright 2009 Shafinaaz Hassim

Tribute to a struggle veteran

2009-11-23T14:38:00.001+02:00

“MICHELANGELO would have liked to paint or sculpt him.
Not just because his face, wreathed by a white beard of rare gentleness, had a hand-carved perfection to it. Or because his pair of ocean-travelled eyes seemed to say "I have seen, seen it all". But because his entire countenance, bearing, mien, were compelling. Like that of some Old Testament figure who has been drawn into the New, a friend of some past nobility that has stumbled onto a newborn's crib. The subject for a Basilica's murals.”

Gopal Gandhi on Maulvi IA Cachalia, ‘Legacy of Struggle’, The Hindu, 19 Oct 2003.

http://www.hinduonnet.com/mag/2003/10/19/stories/2003101900140300.htm

You cannot read 'Loss'

2009-11-21T16:03:00.001+02:00

A striking quote from the movie: Memoirs of a Geisha...

~ At the temple, there is a poem called "Loss", carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read "Loss"... Only feel it.~ Narrator.

Literary Award Winners 2009

2009-11-20T18:13:00.003+02:00

A16: Food + Wine by Nate Appleman, Shelley Lindgren and Kate Leahy
Winner of the IACP Cookbook Awards

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
Winner of the Man Booker Award

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
Winner of the Newbery Medal and Hugo Award for Best Novel

American Lion by Jon Meacham
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Biography

Blue Heaven by C. J. Box
Winner of the Edgar Award for Best Novel

The Land of Green Plums by Herta Muller
Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature

Tribute by Nora Roberts
Winner of the RITA Award for Best Novel with Strong Romantic Elements

Different, and the same...

2009-11-18T15:55:00.003+02:00

Silence is barely empty when you punctuate it with so many things that can mean more than all those thousand worded delusions that I have been chasing all my life.

It is, full. And it is empty.

I think I have all the answers to that one question.

I think I know.

I know that days will still run as an open tap; that years will flow as running water from therein. Years flow from days. That's what I have come to know.

I know that words will get stuck like that log in that dream, causing dams to form of muck and grime and sand and silt.

I also know that I will change. And I will remain the same.

And the running thread will always be that place of Silence on the
piece of green mat; my earth. My knees stuck there; different, and yet, the same.

I know that certainty will falter, and be sturdy in its affirmations;
that it will give birth to new confidence,
and bludgeon some assurance to an unnatural death.

And after all is said and done,
I know,
that I will be
as I have been;
And you will be
as you have been.

Different. And then, too, the very same.

SN33ZE

2009-11-08T17:45:00.004+02:00

I write because its what I do. Like breathing, thinking, eating, being. Writing is something to do. It takes the dust from the sinews in the mind and scatters it just under my nose, makes me sneeze to release the collective phlegm. Get it out. And then, when the nasal passages are cleared, it allows me to breathe in the reality of a cleaner world. I take it all in. The stories from around me, and the data from within. I make notes. I present them to a greater audience. And it takes on a life of its own.

I write. Because I love the idea of feeling bloated with ideas and letting them flow through an unlikely orifice; the tips of my fingers. Like a secret door, they tap, tap, tap at the keyboard to undo the latch and let the words out. They burst forth then, spewing contempt, reason and appreciation all at once. Its a colourful blend, not always fit to smell the fresh ink of the printer's realm. But expressive and alive all the same. Sometimes the tap, tap, tap of these tips must be felt on a pressed leaf; sheaths of paper partake in their regurgitation and the force of the tapping is the inspiration for a charcoaled soul in a wooden body that must collate the tappers whispers into something solid, readable, drinkable. Pencil painstakingly carries this guarded duty, then.

I write because I must.
Drink. And be drunk on everything that life has to offer.
I write. And write. And forget to write. And then, I dream about writing. So I write.

Free writing is almost embarassing.
But. I write. Because. It's free.
Breathing should be just as free.
And thinking.
And being.
But for now, writing is.
Free.

PS: Apologies for the ramble. I'm spring-cleaning! *SN33ZE*

Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009

Dedication

2009-11-05T21:32:00.000+02:00

Biting off pieces to chew on

2009-11-03T21:16:00.002+02:00

I have just done reading Jodi Picoult's "My Sister's Keeper", and discovered that there are far too many moments of writing that I could play a kind of contact sport with, many that I thoroughly enjoyed. There were also times that I had to put the book down for a bit and distract myself because of the fullness of the emotion that Picoult's characters are able to bring out in the reader. In myself.

Here is one of the extracts that I liked reading. Tightly writ, loaded in so many ways... A reminder of how I would like to tie my more purple prose together:

(Picoult, pp89-90)
"Is there any place on earth that smells better than a Laundromat? It's like a rainy Sunday when you don't have to get out from under your covers, or like lying back on the grass your father's just mowed - comfort food for your nose. When I was little my mom would take hot clothes out of the dryer and dump them on top of me where I was sitting on the couch. I used to pretend they were a single skin, that I was curled tight beneath them like one large heart.
The other thing I like is that Laundromats draw lonely people like metal to magnets. There's a guy passed out on a bank of chairs in the back, with army boots and a T-shirt that says Nostradamus Was an Optimist. A woman at the folding table sifts through a heap of men's button-down shirts, sniffing back tears. Put ten people together in a Laundromat and chances are you won't be the one who's worse off.
I sit down across from a bank of washers and try to match up the clothes with the people waiting. The pink panties and lace nightgown belong to the girl who is reading a romance novel. The woolly red socks checkered shirt are the skanky sleeping student. The soccer jerseys and kiddie overalls come from the toddler who keeps handing filmy white dryer sheets to her mom, oblivious on a cell phone. What kind of person can afford a cell phone, but not her own washer and dryer?
I play a game with myself, sometimes, and try to imagine what it would be like to be the person whose clothes are spinning in front of me. If I were washing those carpenter jeans, maybe I'd be a roofer in Phoenix, my arms strong and my back tan. If I had those flowered sheets, I might be on break from Harvard, studying criminal profiling. If I owned that satin cape, I might have season tickets to the ballet. And then I try to picture myself doing any of these things and I can't. All I can ever see is me, being a donor for Kate, each time stretching to the next.
Kate and I are Siamese twins; you just can't see the spot where we're connected. Which makes separation that much more difficult.
When I look up, the girl who works the Laundromat is standing over me, with her lip ring and blue streaked dreadlocks. 'You need change?' she asks.
To tell you the truth, I'm afraid to hear my own answer."

Anna Fitzgerald, 13. My Sister's Keeper, pp89-90, by Jodi Picoult.

Silence

2009-10-31T12:33:00.003+02:00

Silence
you are the tapping of these tips on keys,
making sound, soundless.

Empty yet yielding
something;
soundless,
but real.

Silence you are
intimacy,
scribbles
and thoughts made whole,
but not heard.

Silence,
you are
a tightrope
between
him, and me

and a lifeline
between Him, and me.

Silence,
you are a river
that flows
between humanity
and Being.

Silence!
You are larger
than
Life.

Voices

2009-10-24T11:15:00.004+02:00

There are many ways in which thoughts, emotions and the experience of life that flows through us may be expressed or even shared with those around us. Facial expressiveness, and the use of varied tones of voice are perhaps the most obvious forms. Some people paint, or write poetry, prose or stories; while other's create masterworks of cullinary genius, fashion sculptures in the form of fabulous architecture or perform daredevil acts in full view of an awestruck audience.

I write.

I am no poker face, and that is something that I have come to terms with. I dabble in oil colours and do various other things like firewalking and the like. But if I had to really draw that dotted line along my path, then the realisation of who I am is linked by the need, love and joy of writing. I have journals going as far back as those primary school scribble notes in perfumed diaries with delicate locks. I dare not read those for fear of throwing them out. Or something.

These years of journals are housed in a little metal chest that used to be my toy box as a child; and while the journals carry traits of their evolutionary nature over time, the metal trunk lays claim to a history of its own: it began as a carrier for cinema reels that came from the subcontinent back in the 60's, was discovered at some point by my maternal grandfather at the cinema house that belonged to a friend of his, and brought home for mom to use as a storage box for her teenage magazine and music collection. And so I came to inherit it some twenty years later, and it remains with me still, now repainted and revived, albeit almost half a century old.

Hinges of history hold its tinkering walls together to carry the evolution of me; the years of growth in my voice. Aside from the layers of paper dreams, hopes, fears and songs of lament and joy, are to be found those early floppy disks and stiffys of my first soiree into the world of digital media. The only signs of my earlier girly journals on these computer disks of memory, are the glittery name stickers that leave tinsel on my fingertips, and declare just the year of their imprint: "Shafs Ramblings, 2001"

And then, these memoirs were born. For kimya, and for me. Sometime in 2005, when I emerged from years of sociology and more time spent discovering a life of corporate surrealism that I may have been unwittingly groomed for, and found myself to be flourishing in, against my every expectation. It is quite amazing how we might exceed our self-judged limitations.

Memoirs For Kimya evolved in its own right. It started off as a canvas of silence, made noisy only by the echo of thoughts in my head.

Now a trumpet blares. No. Make that, a vuvuzela.

It called to me, once. Now it rages outwardly, to those who will hear with understanding; those who will engage it's ramblings, shared spewing forth of words and all things manifest therein.

And this great sea of voice occurred to me most profoundly when, at the Cape Town launch, my guest speaker, fellow writer and dear friend, Nazia Peer, read two of my newest works out aloud to the booklaunch audience.

I was mesmerized. No, don't get me wrong. Not as if to think, Oh my word, I wrote that! The spark of a soul moment was the realisation that all this time, the voice in my head gave life to these words, and for the first time ever, a reflective post like Revelatory Moments, or an emotive piece like Cut was being read in a voice of someone else, but more so by someone I have had the opportunity to know dearly, and who has been the source of inspiration and soul-coolness to me. Another voice. A loaded moment. A celebration, in more ways than my humble soul can count.

And yes, it all makes sense. This now and where. The why and how.
It all makes perfect sense.

Cape Town: Fiddunya hassanatau (The beauty of this world)

2009-10-21T17:09:00.006+02:00

Being in Cape Town taught me a few good things. One, that writing should never be taken for granted, and two, that the low literacy levels in our country will always mean that the work of a wordsmith will always be driven by the need to engage readers. To really create in them a thirst for reading. And to make these readables available and accessible in more ways than one; so its not only about learning how to read, but about creating a culture of reading. And so that reading is also an affordable pass-time. A new initiative by Zukiswa Wanner of 'Madams' fame, called ReadSA is engrossed in this project in many ways.

The nose to grindstone image refers.

Cape Town was also a time of rejuvenation for me. I was happy to be plugged into all that the city had to offer me: the smell of the ocean, the embrace of glorious Table Mountain, which served as a backdrop to the launch of M4K, and the throng of people that I had the delight of coming into contact with over the three days that I was there. It started off on flight. I left Johannesburg at 6:55am Saturday morning. I arrived in Cape Town to meet a group of amazing ladies for breakfast at Origins cafe.
Nielfa, Ayesha, Saarah, Nisrien, Saberah, Haseena and Maryam were my coffee companions; a superb start to a riveting weekend.

With this lovely lot, I got to see the District Six Museum, and the Planetarium. Also got to see the Gardens. Walked by the National Library, and planted myself outside the Slave Lodge until I was whisked away to do some bookish things, and to check out the launch venue for the very first time (I went on a limb with this one! in tandum to my advisory team: Nielfa, Yaseen and Nazia for the most part) But to my absolute delight, this venue turned out to be the most incredible of venues I have used for any previous launches or other social engagements.

Meeting my darling friend Nazia Peer was a highlight for me. The fleeting time we had together was enough to tear at me for some time; the quality of which always makes up for the luxury of 'more' in life. Saturday night also turned out to be the dinner and musical in honour of a cousin whose engagement we were there to attend. Boys side party that lasted well into the late hours or early hours; whichever way you need to look at it. Needless to say, I met friends and family that I have not seen in a good while from as far as small towns around Polokwane, Nelspruit, etc. All colliding at this one festive spot in Cape Town or Rondebosch to be more precise.

And so it came to be that Sunday took us from the Waterfront, where we were staying, to the Athlone Civic Hall in attendance of the grand engagement celebrations. Speeches started at 11am and went on until about 1ish in time for grumbling bellies to be filled to satisfaction. Speakers included Ebrahim Rassool, MP and Mr A.Kays, whose work is cited in Daughters are Diamonds. Thanks to a feisty guest who recognised me as the author of DaD at some point, I was introduced to a friendly Kays saheb. Kays speech was short and sweet and bordered on the quest for Layla (girls name) to finding her Majnun (because he hadnt been told that my cousins name is Muaaz) Rather innovative of him in any event. And at first, I thought he might be named Qais, seeing as the original Majnun in the persian tale is called Qais.

And so I met Qais. Or rather, Mr.A.Kays. A wonderful gentleman. And a writer, of course. I also met Judge Siraj Desai and his lovely wife in that fuss of a moment. Desai declined the invitation to the launch due to prior arrangements to meet with Che Geuvara's daughter. Should that be censored information? He didnt say, and so here you go.

And almost time for the launch. I'm meeting people, still. Friends like Luq and more family... People who know me because of whose daughter I am. People who last saw me when I was just that tall (A wavering show of hands somewhere near my navel to show how diminished I may have been back then)

Brother wants to take a drive up to Micassa. Stepping out of the city for a bit. To subdued realness. A little bit of time travel, to visit Shaikh Yusuf. The views are breathtaking. I may have left a few breathes behind. A dirt road leads up the incline, and looking back in view of raised fortified walls, a curving road and some canons not-in-use, balancing still... the feeling overtakes me, that this is a moment in time that may not be measured by the date on my calendar, or on the blackberry in my bag. I relinquish the offending mechanism to the boot of our car and walk a little faster so as to catch up with the rest of the family.

The launch was nothing short of amazing. My noteworthy surprises were not over. Lubna, another of my dearest friends, stopped over between her delegatory role at the IPSA conference and on her way to her flight back home to Durban. She is officially the first purchaser of pre-launch Memoirs For Kimya at the Jozi Book Fair, and managed to make an appearance at the CT one too. The Bo-Kaap was an apt placement for the bookish event. I loved the energy generated there, the people I met, the quality of engagement, the view of Cape Town that twinkled below our feet in that raised glass box that was Bo-Kaap Kombuis... and the embrace of the mountain in the background. It is very difficult not to be affected by the incredulous flow of inspiration that fills this city. It is incredibly difficult not to fall in love with this place. I feel blessed to be able to visit again, with the launch of my new work, my celebration of soulful writing, and to plant the seed of writing inspiration in others, as I hope I have.

Monday held more for me; a call from Exclusives, Wordsworth books and a visit to District Six for books, books and more books. Also got to lunch with family, make serendipitous stops in town and outside a strangely familiar place called Bingo, before finding my way to a pretentious pavement coffee shop in wannabe bo-kaap to say my goodbyes to Nielfa, Yaseen, Nazia and Muhammad H, my charismatic programme director for Sunday's launch.

*Deep Breath required here for these goodbyes that Im never good with*

Here's to the joy of blessed moments, and knowing that life makes perfect sense being exactly where we are. Here's to Cape Town, until we meet again.

M4K is off to Cape Town...

2009-10-13T19:20:00.005+02:00

I have wonderful memories of my first book launch in Cape Town in 2007. Daughters are Diamonds was well received at the Cape Town Book Fair that year, and went on to produce a momentum that resonates still. It's time to visit the shores of this beautiful city once again, with a string of friends waiting there, and of course, with my new publication: Memoirs For Kimya.
Ben Williams of BookSA made special reference to the event here: http://news.book.co.za/blog/2009/10/13/au-courant-three-indie-book-launches-on-our-october-radar-screen/

Also, I will be chatting to Nancy Richards on SAFM (104-107fm) tomorrow at 1:00pm.. or a little after 1.. Tune in to listen or call in if you wish... Audio streaming live at www.safm.co.za

"We move through life as it moves through us. We make up stories in our minds.
And often these stories overlap.
We hope with all our heart.
We dream. We love, often deeply. We experience some gains and some losses.
Each of these moments leave an imprint on the rich tapestry of our souls.
Sometimes the only way to share the awesomeness
is by whispering a few words on the wind.
'Memoirs for Kimya' is a collection of whispers
and a tribute to the many people we meet along life's journey."

WORDFIRE Press takes pleasure in inviting you to the launch of

Memoirs For Kimya by Shafinaaz Hassim

Date: Sunday 18 October 2009.

Venue: Bo-kaap Kombuis, 7 August St, Bo-Kaap; Cape Town

Time: 6:00pm

raw realness

2009-10-04T22:45:00.003+02:00

We work our way through a range of insane definitions of what love is, what it should be, and how it should present itself in our lives. Then we spend many short lifetimes debating and insisting that it be done quite that way. Done. As in produced, manufactured, packaged, sealed and delivered to our doorstep. Quite that way that we always envisaged. It isn't to be, of course. Life has other plans.

Sometimes it comes to us, not quite looking like love. It comes in a tomato crate with creaking boards that bear splinters as evidence of the raw material quality with which the crates were made. Raw realness. Bearing also the traits of human potential. Not glamorous at first sight, but holding that ability to reach heights never before felt or experienced. Ingratiatingly, for the child soul stubborn to wait out the process of discovery, it might seem like an endless appeal for who-knows-what. But for the less compulsive, the more trusting, and the calmed-to-knowing types, this is precisely what they have been waiting for.

So, how to bridge this gap then?

Simply this. Love is rain and fire and air and solid ground. Love is all this and more and less and something in-between. But it is Love only when it has been stretched to its limits and shown to reveal an energy beyond your wildest expectations. When its all clear as to why. And the why no longer matters. When its all certain as to the how. And the how needn't make sense because its so far away from the beginning. The urgency for gratification is a cloak of heaviness that needs to be discarded if the love-seeking soul is to move unburdened, with lightness of being, into a field of discovering the authenticity of surrendering to all that is to be.

And the analysts mind needs to be shut down. Just about now. And Silence needs to tell its own story. And when the noise has seeped out, maybe then, Love might thrive.

breathing

2009-09-29T22:07:00.003+02:00

I know that I am being tested. More like I asked to be tested. My deepest prejudices are being uncovered. I feel cut open and left bare. But I'm reveling in it! I don't really know how to explain it all. So why try. It's incredibly enough to feel it. There's something happening here. Inside of me. And some of it outside :) And I'm filled with this feeling of being ALIVE. Breathing and breathe-ing.

There cannot be questions born, without the answers in waiting, somewhere, to be discovered. A treasure of answers are to be delivered to me in the next few hours. I can almost taste them. I have been following the maze and picking up the clues; diligently collecting and collating them. Studiously making my observations. It all makes sense. I'm standing under the waterfall now. Refreshed. Thrilled by the eureka moments that life is throwing my way. Aha! I say. A-Ha! Indeed. Thou art Most Beneficent.

Cut

2009-09-25T10:49:00.005+02:00

Life can cut you. And like an open fruit, you will be at some point, left bare; revealing the glory of guts to the elements. But this gross cut is a blessing in disguise. Why? Because it is at precisely this moment that it all starts to make sense.

For the first time, you are one with everything that ever was, everything that is, and everything that ever will be. Open to all that is, you will feel life flow through you. And you begin to get the idea that inspiration exists, because you do.

intermittent sadness

2009-09-22T23:31:00.004+02:00

intermittent sadness
overcomes me

like the soft soap suds from the washing trough,
clean and uninhibited,
but the detergent
sneaks through
nostrils
with a warning label:

'unfit for consumption'

intermittent sadness
overwhelms me
it is. and it is not.

little more can be said
in that space between
what is safe
and what is not.

intermittent it may be
but this sadness even frightens me.

this, that
something scattered
can be felt so deeply

while something untethered
can be made so devastatingly
tangible.

i ask again.
what is safe?
and what is not?

intermittent sadness follows at my heels now,
unattended,
lurking,
searching still,
between
the is
and the
is not.

Revelatory moments

2009-09-19T15:54:00.006+02:00

Ive not been up to writing much these few days or weeks, and yet there is so much happening at the moment that I would actually like to share as a way of appreciating, and even celebrating these. So, what's been happening? Not all gratingly physical things as such; more a variety of all things revelatory. Of course, the advent of my new book, its sales and the reception it has received in five weeks since it came off the press is celebratory... Memoirs For Kimya is now available in hardcover; a beautiful imprint that fills me with joy; but there's more.

Life's telling me things these days. Revealing all the answers to all the questions that I have collected like an avid sea-shell collector. Years of putting them to the ear to hear nothing; and now the whispers are more than telling. Revelations are in more than words and sounds: they are accompanied by tastes and colours, vivid images that make for quite a gallery of viewing.

There is no time span when gratitude fills your being. I feel this now. Past and present merge into one. The future feels like an unopened gift, gleaming just within reach of eager fingers. Everything is precisely as it should be. There's really no rush. I am no longer the kitten that chases it's tail. I'm the Cheshire cat with cream on her ever-smiling lips.

Absolutely every human being should feel this, just once.
It's the best of both worlds. It really is.

And of course, everything makes total sense. Revelation is momentary and transcendent at the same time. Kind of like spraying rose water into a space and stepping into it to be embraced by it, to breathe it in and then be soaked in it all at once.

Indeed, His favours are undeniable.
:)

Charm

2009-09-18T22:15:00.001+02:00

"Your charm lured me
to the edge of madness.
I lost my composure.
Humbled, I was sent away.
Then, You touched my heart,
transformed and shaped me
into any form You fancied."

RUMI

Little Notes from Arabia

2009-09-08T14:12:00.007+02:00

31 Aug:
Sometimes, dua, prayer, supplication, moves through us, if not from us. I learnt that today, while standing in front of the Holy Kaaba. I remembered the name of a woman that I have not met. Ever. But I know that she ails. And that almost intangible ailment filters into the lives of her loved ones. Her name came to my lips in full form, surprising me.
I also discovered that empty spaces, mundane ones, are filled easily by the wholeness of humanity. I realised that I am here to experience the notion of a crowded oneness that I write about, ramble about, and even try to fashion into words.
The concept of tawheed is neatly embodied in being one with the crowd. Circling the Kaaba for the last time, amid midday heat that defies logic in its sentient calmness, coolness. Having sought newness, this is it: both Content, Complete.

1 Sept:
The thought crosses my mind that its Spring Day back home in SA. And we're roasting peanuts in the Arabian Sun. The glow is unmistakeably tinged with the radiance of the moment's entirety; of being here, and just being.

3 Sept:
There is something about Madinah that unties that last knot. The last tether is loosened here; and all flows freely. I am easily moved to tears, being the unapologetic sentimentalist that I am, but being here removes that final frontier of abandon. Grace is felt here. Mercy adorns. Forgiveness flows. Love does, too.
I am at once soaked and drenched in it. The beauty of it all.

6 Sept:
Woke up to the distinct sound of the Athaan Call to Prayer in my ears. Its 11am in Madinah, and check out time is after the midday prayer. Only thing is, its too early for the Athaan. But I was so sure. Still. The mind lacks a tether here. It only knows greatness, not of its own doing though. It's time to say farewell to this City of Angels, sadness distilled with the hope that the tranquility prevails, somewhat.

We traverse the Arabian desert for most of the afternoon, chomping kilometres in a rhino-esque vehicle called a GMC; less Gulf-ish than it sounds, as its really an American creature. We arrive in Jeddah just as the sun sets. A golden-pink sun bounces playfully on the horizon for a last few minutes before it plunges into the depths of the Red Sea. We take in the sights of this final destination of our Arabian journey. And then we fly home. Finality has so many colours for me. This time, it's many shades of red.

Journey of Love

2009-08-25T16:40:00.007+02:00

I feel myself revisiting Hajj 2005 in more than one way. And the process has led me down memory lane to scavenge for scraps of writing from that trip. I leave on Thursday for Saudi Arabia, to perform the Umrah pilgrimage with my loved ones. It will be the first time since that landmark Hajj four years ago. I also wonder how very much I have changed since that time... Some change is mandatory, some not so obvious.

In preparation for the Journey, I wrote this piece in November 2005:
The Pilgrim

I do hope that my style of writing has improved, although the space for reflection still exists, thankfully :) I wrote Struggling with GOodbyes just before I left, in December. (I still use words like 'whirr')

I kept a Hajj Journal for my varied encounters; for those days when I happily merged with the crowd to be a single mass of collective worship. A mass of Love. And this, the Journey of Love. I scribbled notes in the darkest hour of night when the camps in Mina finally laid to rest. And again when they awoke to the call of the early morning prayer, and the energy of people ascended to the heavens in one voice. I learnt surrender. I could not find the words to write it. I just knew. I wrote about The Hajj, soon after my return, in attempting to capture it all; but more because I wanted to reclaim that feeling once again. The evasive surreal. I could only try. My favourite piece: The Hajj.

I surrendered once more to the evasive surreal. I wrote a poem a week later: Perfect Circles suggested that even if I could not capture what was, I could own it. I made peace with me.

the lightness of being (apologies to kundera)

2009-08-21T22:52:00.003+02:00

A year tends to bring numerous landmark events; personal ones, vocational ones, social, political, economic and faith-based ones. Some are steeped in elements of what is real and likely, while others are built on a foundation of fantasy, and collapse even before the hype and adrenalin has run it's course.

We live through the year over-dosing on temporary fixations, no doubt. The compulsive tendencies are fed to fullness on these tempting obsessions with the superficial, the random, and often the mundane. Twenty four hours can transform something that you cannot live without, into second rate trash.

I know these things about the infinite randomness of being, because admittedly, my life tends that way all too often. I hear the whirrrrr of the wheel as I run it like a good hamster. Whirr-whirrrr. I hear it.

And then that silver sliver of a new moon appears in the sky. Friendly faces peek out from behind the wood of trees made into solid doors. The gleam of delight is absurdly awesome; I am at once ensconced by it all, and lifted by the immense lightness of being a part of this communal life. Grace descends as silk. We are swathed in creamy layers of it, fragranced with a joy willed by the entry of this blessed month. It's the Holy month of Ramadaan. The almost Utopian goodness inherent in being human, reveals itself. Redundant excuses no longer make for a fitting diatribe. Devil may care only for a tether that renders evil useless somewhere on the ocean floor. Triumph is left to those who will embrace the rewards on offer; to those who will drink sweetness from ego's ultimate surrender.

There is, in surrender only one outcome: and that is the lightness of being.

Much love and blessings of an engaged surrender to one and all.
Ramadaan Kareem

six o'clock gin and tonic

2009-08-20T18:07:00.004+02:00

I walked into Rika's apartment a little after 3pm yesterday. The appointment was set for 2:45pm, but a young driver wandering around unknown parts of the city can be easily forgiven, or so she said.

I'm always thirsty for easy forgiveness, so I didn't argue much on that. Besides, I know at least enough not to argue with someone whose three times my age, and very astute for the average 91year old. I whisper a silent prayer in awe: God, let me be that way at 91, or not at all! This is Rika Hodgson. Veteran ANC stalwart.

And so she launches into her animated chat about the days of old; you know, when you could hide a bottle of whiskey in an old typewriter, and share it with a friend of another race, even if there was the scare of the Immorality Act hanging over their heads. But not before she has made absolutely sure of the fact that I am comfortably seated with the sun from the large bay windows swathing me in a welcome embrace, and a steaming cup of tea settled withing close reach from my notebook and pen.

I scribble and try to repaint in few words the enigmatic imagery that she spurts forth in words and facial expressions, almost as if I am being let in on secrets never told before; sometimes she takes for granted that I may not have lived a time as that. She clucks incessantly at the realisation. I release a sigh of apology.

I am quickly forgiven, and the stories unfold once again. Mr & Mrs Jack Hodgson. Their journeys into Botswana, Tanzania, India and beyond. The Pahads, the Cachalias, the Sisulus and the rest of the lineage of the anti-apartheid struggle reveals itself in yet another thread of narrative. I make fervent notes. My voice recorder laps up the milk and cream of the voice and word content of this dialogue. It retells the story to me hours later, when I have returned to my desk in a less quieter part of Jozi.
Another dotted line is drawn, making for a tangible thread between her apartment in the North and my room in the centre of Johannesburg. Voices echo around me, bouncing off the walls, tempting me to make something of them. I am impatient, but its still not the time to write. Patience.

I relive the last few moments of my visit. The endless books. The endless rays of afternoon sunlight. I got invited to stay for her six o'clock gin and tonic; said with a rather mischievous grin to highlight her ample wit, as I was leaving. Ah, I know that you don't drink, she said in reply to my laughter. Everything works around traffic, here in Jozi. I had to leave, anyway... But in many ways, I stayed.