Mulling Over Mainstream
1 day ago
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Monday, September 23, 2013
For Kenya, and senseless murders
Tis blood that's shed to shake our souls,
This blood that's shed, is from my veins, my child, my mother, my sister, my friend,
Father shouts for us to go,
He takes the bullet, sheds more of us.
We're frozen, at first, and then we melt into rose red,
Seeping into the rivers of sorrow.
Africa beats her chest in pain,
She stomps her feet, anklets betraying her fury.
Our children have returned to the Earth.
Life has lost this round to the firing squad in a material world.
The whirlwind is tormented souls crying havoc.
Tears fall into ocean and are buried there, forgotten.
Until a new day for blood and sweat and maybe victory.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Own your Heart
One day,
When you emerge from life,
A woman whose heart has been
Ripped out of her chest
A few times;
Ripped and restored with care
Fingers dripping with the remnants of
Hurt and sinew,
Bloodied.
When you’ve done this a few times,
Allowed the lovers hand to reach in and rip it out,
To replace and wait until wounds have healed,
Then you wake up to realise
That the ripping out
Has helped to reveal a real heart
And the restorations have made you whole.
I think back to the first man
To rip my heart out from my throat …
And when I gagged on the blood and fear,
Trembling,
Only then did I see the fear in his eyes
Were an image of my own
And I saw that the heart he was taking was his to take.
And a small pulse beating inside showed me,
that left behind was my own. Whole. Alone.
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
Regulating sexualities and the emancipation of women
[I wrote this article for The Thinker (TNA Media) about two years ago.]
How far have we come?
Regulating sexualities and the emancipation of women.
By Shafinaaz Hassim
“It is not enough to inquire into how women might become more fully represented in language and politics. Feminist critique ought also to understand how the category of ‘women’, the subject of feminism, is produced and restrained by the very structures of power through which emancipation is sought.” Judith Butler: Gender Trouble.
Is a notion of emancipation to be seen as an attack on religious structures, and capitalism? It is on the unfair balance that patriarchy presupposes, and on any such readings of structures that order behaviour in a primarily gendered way. Further, one may ask if the structure of society and the construction of the state is in any way threatened by the equal defining of women’s place in the economic and political sphere. Historic presupposition affirms that both in exclusion and bondage to the forces of production is to be found the basis of all forms of oppression.
Let us first begin by taking into consideration that contemporary readings of gender identity might be a self-ascribed label. Notions of masculinity and femininity are regarded with far more fluidity in the post-modern social sphere. Gender in its traditional sense is a reflection of a cultural explication of sexuality and what it is deemed to mean within a given context. Simone de Beavoir in The Second Sex, suggests that gender is constructed, albeit within the conditions set out by a culture, i.e. a compulsion to culture. It is significant to make note, then, that the identification with particular modes of thought regarding how we construct gender and take meaning from this construction, and how this might define a sense of abject difference in the overlapping versions of its cultural construction makes for what can be seen as the basis of exclusivism that easily borders on social intolerance.
The advent of the Sarkozy lament on the headscarf in recent weeks has brought about debate regarding the choice to express religion by way of a particular dress code, and the structures that may or may not enforce or restrict such behavioural codes and fashions. But whether or not this is a stylistic statement or an act of legality, what can be seen to emerge from these dialogues is an increased display of gross social resentment and hostility between the amalgamation of cultures that exist in the post-modern social landscape. We are made to ask whether it is the imposition of a code or the banning of it, that is in fact two sides of the same coin of patriarchal domination and a toppling of anything that might even remotely suggest women’s autonomy in the decision-making process, in the forms of expression that they may engage with.
These contemporary challenges raise important questions about the underpinnings of a progressive demarcation of women’s place in society. The post-World War II socio-political landscape is riddled with indiscriminate labour security of women who were newly displaced on the factory floor, being paid less than male counterparts and enticed to once again remain at home where they belonged. Adding to that, against capitalist forces, Marxism saw the notion of a feminist position as reactionary and a way of separating male and female labour forces. On average, women around the world are still being paid less than their male counterparts. This is a central and pressing issue. Domestic labour in SA continues to be low bargaining – a primary example of the exploitation of women in low paid jobs. The feminization of poverty is compounded by the increase of HIV/Aids orphans relying on older generation caregivers who are women on below the breadline subsidiary grants. The rhetoric of a gender bias in structural poverty occurs as ample evidence to suggest that our readings of the gender dynamic are impoverished and leave much work to be done.
The battle for equality has a long history and is likely to rage on, especially in the developing world where resource and other structural inequalities already present a dynamic that challenges the articulation of pendulums of change.
At the roots of inequality are still to be found the insistence on affirmative regard that resorts to nothing more than ways of overlooking the underlying features of discrimination, be it racial or gender or any other. For example, establishing quotas serves as a form of eventual tokenism rather than digging at the roots of the problem. All it serves is a show of effort but it doesn’t solve anything.
A big resounding question remains as to whether representation of women in the body politic is in fact a holistic one that is both empowering and sustainable in its momentum to further encourage the demand for skilled women professionals, academics in all walks of socio-political and economic life as we know it.
Friday, June 11, 2010
It all began in Africa
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
#SpeakZA: Bloggers for a Free Press
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
Monday, March 15, 2010
"We are the leaders we've been waiting for" -WLC 2010
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!
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!
Saturday, March 13, 2010
In Memorium: Fatima Meer (1928-2010)
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.
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.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Tribute to a struggle veteran
“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
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
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Lunch with Kathy & Ms C
These interview sessions are taking me down a path of memory recollections that lead off into some of the darkest sinews of the human mind. Most of them are rooted in conflict and struggle; some thrived on tiny snippets of hope and almost always thirsted for compassion. Of course, there was very little to be found.
Ahmed Kathrada was tried along with hundreds of others in a time when treason was almost a buzzword. Today we sat down to a feisty curried lunch after he recounted the details of some of those proceedings; and the strategic mindset of his senior, Maulvi Cachalia, during the freedom struggle. But the moments I found to be most profound of these recollections, would have to be the close to thirty years spent in jail; and the criminal record for life, that disallows entry into a country like Canada.
The archives of memory and history twist with far more complexity than nature's vast DNA, and yet they need to be unraveled...
Ideals still need to be purveyed and protected; hope still gleams for many in an effort to not succumb to despair; and the quest for survival still a more than valiant struggle that keeps us in the depths of the quandary, hard at work.
But then there's that cloud of depravity; the winds of apathy churning sandstorms around us, blinding.. misleading... and allowing only thuggery to show its face.
About those ideals... What were they again? All evidence lost that there were men of steely character who fought in blood and sweat and tears and more blood. Ruling party or not, politics is a strange-ish game of umbrella morals and scattered corruption beyond the reach of the greater scope of an organisation.
Will the Emperor be found unclothed? Whats the vote?
Ahmed Kathrada was tried along with hundreds of others in a time when treason was almost a buzzword. Today we sat down to a feisty curried lunch after he recounted the details of some of those proceedings; and the strategic mindset of his senior, Maulvi Cachalia, during the freedom struggle. But the moments I found to be most profound of these recollections, would have to be the close to thirty years spent in jail; and the criminal record for life, that disallows entry into a country like Canada.
The archives of memory and history twist with far more complexity than nature's vast DNA, and yet they need to be unraveled...
Ideals still need to be purveyed and protected; hope still gleams for many in an effort to not succumb to despair; and the quest for survival still a more than valiant struggle that keeps us in the depths of the quandary, hard at work.
But then there's that cloud of depravity; the winds of apathy churning sandstorms around us, blinding.. misleading... and allowing only thuggery to show its face.
About those ideals... What were they again? All evidence lost that there were men of steely character who fought in blood and sweat and tears and more blood. Ruling party or not, politics is a strange-ish game of umbrella morals and scattered corruption beyond the reach of the greater scope of an organisation.
Will the Emperor be found unclothed? Whats the vote?
Thursday, March 05, 2009
My Odyssey with George Bizos
I met George Bizos today. As my car inched its way into the basement of the building that houses his offices, Braam Fischer House, I played the rehearsed meeting over and over in my mind. My readings told me all I needed to know about the encounter I was about to make: the man needs very little introduction as the human rights lawyer of the apartheid struggle along with an incredible string of accolade that rolls off a tape measure of milestones and accomplishments. But I still didn't know, or have an idea of the man I was about to meet. Or the reception that awaited me.
Who is George Bizos? A Google search will tell you much of what you need to know... WhosWho@24.com. A face to face encounter will allow you to search the eyes of a kind soul, to see into the light of a gentleman of the world. I was at ease as he began his chat, informally, by his own admission, in an office walled with leather bound journals and archives of his professional nurturing. I asked about his work, his influence and his life. I got asked about my own. He spoke animatedly about Greek food, the Ottoman Empire and the apartheid struggle; he stood counsel on numerous cases concerning the Group Areas Act, as well as the infamous Rivonia Trial (under which Mandela and Sisulu and a host of others were tried for treason) and the Delmas Trial (under which e.g. Terror Lekota was tried).
Bizos at almost 81 is of fine memory and incredible spirit. His words deliberate, eyes twinkle with merriment as the stories from the past reveal themselves first to him, and then to me. I am mesmerized by the sheer energy of light that emanates as he speaks of past and present; digging memories of significant trials and tactics of the freedom struggle, and of his contemporaries, especially the protagonist of my biography, Maulvi IA Cachalia. He was a 'tactician', he repeated after each rendering of one or two examples of particular trials that they discussed and managed around the unjust legalities of the time.
Of course, as we moved on to talking about baclava, chai (my favourite; Bizos prefers kahve) and biryani (apparently the Greek word for it is very similar), appetites and memories were enticed to an anecdote about samoosa's in the Heidelberg trial, another example of the Group Area's Act tug-of-war.
The scribbling and doodling of his fountain pen (in Greek letters nonetheless) still follow my mind as he chatted with that shiny gleam in his eye. I can see the sparkle of eye mirrored in smile, still. I doodle too. It jogs memory and muse. The interview transcript will reveal all the technical details ('The machine must tell the story' - Bizos) for later analysis. For now I am basking in the measure of a morning spent on the ninth floor of a city centre office in Johannesburg, with a man who is most certainly an institution in his own right.
'S'
Books By George Bizos: No One To Blame? - In Pursuit Of Justice In South Africa (1998); and Odyssey to Freedom (2007)
Who is George Bizos? A Google search will tell you much of what you need to know... WhosWho@24.com. A face to face encounter will allow you to search the eyes of a kind soul, to see into the light of a gentleman of the world. I was at ease as he began his chat, informally, by his own admission, in an office walled with leather bound journals and archives of his professional nurturing. I asked about his work, his influence and his life. I got asked about my own. He spoke animatedly about Greek food, the Ottoman Empire and the apartheid struggle; he stood counsel on numerous cases concerning the Group Areas Act, as well as the infamous Rivonia Trial (under which Mandela and Sisulu and a host of others were tried for treason) and the Delmas Trial (under which e.g. Terror Lekota was tried).
Bizos at almost 81 is of fine memory and incredible spirit. His words deliberate, eyes twinkle with merriment as the stories from the past reveal themselves first to him, and then to me. I am mesmerized by the sheer energy of light that emanates as he speaks of past and present; digging memories of significant trials and tactics of the freedom struggle, and of his contemporaries, especially the protagonist of my biography, Maulvi IA Cachalia. He was a 'tactician', he repeated after each rendering of one or two examples of particular trials that they discussed and managed around the unjust legalities of the time.
Of course, as we moved on to talking about baclava, chai (my favourite; Bizos prefers kahve) and biryani (apparently the Greek word for it is very similar), appetites and memories were enticed to an anecdote about samoosa's in the Heidelberg trial, another example of the Group Area's Act tug-of-war.
The scribbling and doodling of his fountain pen (in Greek letters nonetheless) still follow my mind as he chatted with that shiny gleam in his eye. I can see the sparkle of eye mirrored in smile, still. I doodle too. It jogs memory and muse. The interview transcript will reveal all the technical details ('The machine must tell the story' - Bizos) for later analysis. For now I am basking in the measure of a morning spent on the ninth floor of a city centre office in Johannesburg, with a man who is most certainly an institution in his own right.
'S'
Books By George Bizos: No One To Blame? - In Pursuit Of Justice In South Africa (1998); and Odyssey to Freedom (2007)
Monday, March 02, 2009
real life drunken flower-picking
An old world exists hidden in the recesses of some of Johannesburg's quaint suburban patchwork. Some remnants lie behind palisades crawling with flowering plants; other signs exist just in the archives at Baileys and various scattered media. My fingertips pry these places with a mixture of glee and apprehension and what I might discover. I am a good month into the new project and I have written scant little about it, save for a few transcripts. Just one dive in and I am being swept away by the current that prevails. I am on a spate of interviews as part of the data collection phase; and I have yet to speak to a person under the age of 60. Life is revealing itself to me at a whole other level. Writing does no justice.
The stories pile up on my virtual desk. Some merge in tapestries of biography that will themselves reveal to be whole new stories to look into. Other's add colour to the mainframe of a story that works its way into my new work. And it's all just the raw material for now... a range of logs that wait for the craftsmen to get to work creating canoes that will carry contemporary readers across the river to the other side... to a view of a world that our generation can only ever read about and never really know.
I am to write a biography in the next few months; and the realness of a non-fiction work is filling me with an amazing sense of being once again a part of something wholesome. I love narrative biography; the basis for 'Daughters are Diamonds' was just that. This is different though; I am walking into a world that even my imagination at a stretch would be unable to tease out. It will present itself as the life story of a man who, arguably, may not have commissioned the work if he was alive. That in itself lends to a responsibility in the way that I present this. The comments resonate, both in the archives, and from the transcripts of his contemporaries, his children, his recorded notes and memories. There once walked a man distinguished more by his sense of presence than by the guarded allegiances he made with the freedom struggle of his time. My thoughts are scattered more by the brilliance in simplicity than by the ostentatious delving into this almost forgotten world.
At some point, I must emerge from this trance and get back to the drawing board for some real work. For now, the flower-picking continues...
The stories pile up on my virtual desk. Some merge in tapestries of biography that will themselves reveal to be whole new stories to look into. Other's add colour to the mainframe of a story that works its way into my new work. And it's all just the raw material for now... a range of logs that wait for the craftsmen to get to work creating canoes that will carry contemporary readers across the river to the other side... to a view of a world that our generation can only ever read about and never really know.
I am to write a biography in the next few months; and the realness of a non-fiction work is filling me with an amazing sense of being once again a part of something wholesome. I love narrative biography; the basis for 'Daughters are Diamonds' was just that. This is different though; I am walking into a world that even my imagination at a stretch would be unable to tease out. It will present itself as the life story of a man who, arguably, may not have commissioned the work if he was alive. That in itself lends to a responsibility in the way that I present this. The comments resonate, both in the archives, and from the transcripts of his contemporaries, his children, his recorded notes and memories. There once walked a man distinguished more by his sense of presence than by the guarded allegiances he made with the freedom struggle of his time. My thoughts are scattered more by the brilliance in simplicity than by the ostentatious delving into this almost forgotten world.
At some point, I must emerge from this trance and get back to the drawing board for some real work. For now, the flower-picking continues...
Saturday, February 14, 2009
love, labour, lost
crime hurts in ways that we can no longer measure. all those stats that insist on the 'greatest crime capital' badges that make some people smile in pleasure at the accolade, are worth nothing compared to that extended realm of devastation. on thursday, a friend of mine left a sweet birthday message for me at facebook. sometime yesterday, mom told me that she had been kidnapped from her city of residence in Durban on the east coast, bundled into the back of a delivery vehicle and transported to Gauteng overnight, where they finally located her early yesterday. (-this all happened on thursday night-)
i need to remember to breathe at this point... it upsets me so much!
of course, i am glad that she has been found, and that she is ok. adding to the unfortunate incident is the fact that she is pregnant. but still, she is ok. physically ok. but i cannot begin to imagine the trauma. this whole thing should never have happened!!!
i need to remember to breathe at this point... it upsets me so much!
of course, i am glad that she has been found, and that she is ok. adding to the unfortunate incident is the fact that she is pregnant. but still, she is ok. physically ok. but i cannot begin to imagine the trauma. this whole thing should never have happened!!!
Monday, January 19, 2009
belief, trust and process
I am in need of one of those magic potions that will keep me astride the latest developments, and all pepped up with the vitamins of good and glorious. Okay, what I mean to say is that what with all the hype of my new writing project, I am in constant need to replenish the energies of enthusiasm and to find myself the inspiration I need to dive into it.
*Deep Breath*
The new project is about to begin. I got a call to set the ball rolling late last week. And so, I am about to take that nose-dive into the refreshing waters of an exciting research project that has already got me meeting some fascinating types. My world is about to merge with an underworld of veterans and newbies; spies of old, turned fruitsellers and ex-pats nostalgic for the dust of days gone by.
Of course, colliding with that novel that I have been pretending to write, means that the overlaps will prove to be an interesting challenge for me. And there's no rush to get anywhere, anytime as per diary and stop-watch. No guilt about words that won't happen. No anxiety about the project being compromised. I am just being one with the words and being pulled along by the current from which they flow.
I believe in process; I trust the ability for things set in motion to make their way along a vine of growth and contention and more growth.
So they will happen together; my rainbow of things, side by side. And together, they will merge on this canvas of newness.
PS: This post represents the inauguration of the new baby. I will do a separate post on it in a few days when I can get back to the blogs. Cheerio till then. S.
*Deep Breath*
The new project is about to begin. I got a call to set the ball rolling late last week. And so, I am about to take that nose-dive into the refreshing waters of an exciting research project that has already got me meeting some fascinating types. My world is about to merge with an underworld of veterans and newbies; spies of old, turned fruitsellers and ex-pats nostalgic for the dust of days gone by.
Of course, colliding with that novel that I have been pretending to write, means that the overlaps will prove to be an interesting challenge for me. And there's no rush to get anywhere, anytime as per diary and stop-watch. No guilt about words that won't happen. No anxiety about the project being compromised. I am just being one with the words and being pulled along by the current from which they flow.
I believe in process; I trust the ability for things set in motion to make their way along a vine of growth and contention and more growth.
So they will happen together; my rainbow of things, side by side. And together, they will merge on this canvas of newness.
PS: This post represents the inauguration of the new baby. I will do a separate post on it in a few days when I can get back to the blogs. Cheerio till then. S.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
dust off your hands... it will be done
2009
hello
what will you have?
a cup of tea? with lemon and ice?
or a bag of flour to bake your own cupcake, perhaps?
i have nothing to serve, you see...
you're an unlikely newness
raking the same glory from the days gone by
a bit too quickly for my liking, i say
and a bit too slow
if it counts that
there's a war crime or two
happening in some part up north
i don't know exactly where
just that
its not okay
because those babies i heard in my dream
weren't actually in combat
the lollypop that got splattered with blood
was just fresh out the wrapper
gosh
the baby was fresh out the wrapper!
but they said they were bombing
an area of armed combatants
(with lollypops - red ones!)
so what will it be?
a glass of ice water?
a dash of tequila?
on the rocks... and the rubble
underneath which
lies a mother and her two children
the third one is just
a
splattered
mush of flesh.
doesn't count.
it's just a matter of
ashes to ashes,
dust
and clay
to dust.
white phosphorous will make sure of it!
dust off your hands. it will be done.
happy new year.
we can wait for FIFA's act,
but the games have already begun.
hello
what will you have?
a cup of tea? with lemon and ice?
or a bag of flour to bake your own cupcake, perhaps?
i have nothing to serve, you see...
you're an unlikely newness
raking the same glory from the days gone by
a bit too quickly for my liking, i say
and a bit too slow
if it counts that
there's a war crime or two
happening in some part up north
i don't know exactly where
just that
its not okay
because those babies i heard in my dream
weren't actually in combat
the lollypop that got splattered with blood
was just fresh out the wrapper
gosh
the baby was fresh out the wrapper!
but they said they were bombing
an area of armed combatants
(with lollypops - red ones!)
so what will it be?
a glass of ice water?
a dash of tequila?
on the rocks... and the rubble
underneath which
lies a mother and her two children
the third one is just
a
splattered
mush of flesh.
doesn't count.
it's just a matter of
ashes to ashes,
dust
and clay
to dust.
white phosphorous will make sure of it!
dust off your hands. it will be done.
happy new year.
we can wait for FIFA's act,
but the games have already begun.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Good News and Bad News...
Good news is always welcome.
I believe that.
Especially since a lot of negative words get thrown about and rages flying from people you probably won't remember in two years time can cause unnecessary grief. And then there were those 'venom-spitting turds' who called themselves anon. Aaaarghhhh. I mean...who needs someone else's hot potato in their laps, right? Especially when things you say get twisted by ego's only ready for a jol.
What happens when their thirsts are quenched? Will they see the light, or will they continue to delude themselves for a lifetime? I guess everyone gets what they deserve, me included :) Alhamdulillah.
Ok.. First the bad news. I am in an excruciating amount of pain today. This all due to some painkillers wearing off and an hour of dental drilling into the recesses of my one measly tooth. It used to live quite peacefully at the back of my mouth until that dreaded day. A cavity. My dentist says its due to those braces I had when I was 13. Today's braces don't do that, she says. Right. Back then it was the coolest thing to sort out twisty teeth; accept for the fact that I couldn't chew gum or eat 'jawbreakers' (remember those hot spicey red ones??!!) or that I couldn't eat those lollypops with the gooey centre.
Back to the present; this all a load of drama to bring me to my proverbial knees. Actually, I am sitting on my knees as I type this! (I use one of these posture accurate typist chairs that has a rest for knees and butt. It's kinda funky. And it has wheels :P I love it. But Boi am I in pAiN!. Sigh.
So, to put away the bad news, I'm going to sleep. Writing is not happening today. Not like this, any way. Hmm... now for the good news...
I have just been appointed as a trustee (the youngest, I might add :P) on the corporate board of WIPHOLD. I know, its just a word. Or an acronym. I know. But it's a feather in my cap, whichever way. We are a total of five board trustees. The CEO of WIPHOLD, the CEO of WipCapital and the Chairperson (a Founder Member with great Merit in her field - legal and corporate). And then theres another two of us, newly appointed. This piece of news comes at a rather opportune time, seeing as I am at the threshold of many choices. It is a culmination of the many coats that I wear in the corporate and social sectors and I really hope to be able to make the most of it.
Read the Corporate Profile Mission Statement HERE.
The reasons that I have become hugely interested in this organisation is their immense social responsibility programmes in place. In some cases, companies like these are able to do more than the state. Read more about the extensive Social Development Commitment HERE.
I have a feeling that 2009 is going to be one heck of an exciting year!
I believe that.
Especially since a lot of negative words get thrown about and rages flying from people you probably won't remember in two years time can cause unnecessary grief. And then there were those 'venom-spitting turds' who called themselves anon. Aaaarghhhh. I mean...who needs someone else's hot potato in their laps, right? Especially when things you say get twisted by ego's only ready for a jol.
What happens when their thirsts are quenched? Will they see the light, or will they continue to delude themselves for a lifetime? I guess everyone gets what they deserve, me included :) Alhamdulillah.
Ok.. First the bad news. I am in an excruciating amount of pain today. This all due to some painkillers wearing off and an hour of dental drilling into the recesses of my one measly tooth. It used to live quite peacefully at the back of my mouth until that dreaded day. A cavity. My dentist says its due to those braces I had when I was 13. Today's braces don't do that, she says. Right. Back then it was the coolest thing to sort out twisty teeth; accept for the fact that I couldn't chew gum or eat 'jawbreakers' (remember those hot spicey red ones??!!) or that I couldn't eat those lollypops with the gooey centre.
Back to the present; this all a load of drama to bring me to my proverbial knees. Actually, I am sitting on my knees as I type this! (I use one of these posture accurate typist chairs that has a rest for knees and butt. It's kinda funky. And it has wheels :P I love it. But Boi am I in pAiN!. Sigh.
So, to put away the bad news, I'm going to sleep. Writing is not happening today. Not like this, any way. Hmm... now for the good news...
I have just been appointed as a trustee (the youngest, I might add :P) on the corporate board of WIPHOLD. I know, its just a word. Or an acronym. I know. But it's a feather in my cap, whichever way. We are a total of five board trustees. The CEO of WIPHOLD, the CEO of WipCapital and the Chairperson (a Founder Member with great Merit in her field - legal and corporate). And then theres another two of us, newly appointed. This piece of news comes at a rather opportune time, seeing as I am at the threshold of many choices. It is a culmination of the many coats that I wear in the corporate and social sectors and I really hope to be able to make the most of it.
Read the Corporate Profile Mission Statement HERE.
The reasons that I have become hugely interested in this organisation is their immense social responsibility programmes in place. In some cases, companies like these are able to do more than the state. Read more about the extensive Social Development Commitment HERE.
I have a feeling that 2009 is going to be one heck of an exciting year!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Colaba under Curfew
In all my travels, one of the cities that has most wound its way into the sinews of my heart is Mumbai in India. I first travelled to India in 1994. Dad wanted to reminisce his journey with Mum back in '79, when he could afford to take her out of the country on vacation for the first time. They spent some three months roaming the length and breadth of the beautiful Bharat. In all my years, I have heard myriad stories of them traveling through the night, sleeping on trains and traversing the grand expanse of the land of their forefathers. We have been subjected to long hours of looking at literally hundreds of slides played on whichever of the walls of the house we happened to be living in was free of furniture or framing. These are accompanied by hours of commentary from dad, additions and or corrections by mum and the sound of Rafi Sahb or Kishore Da in the background just to make sure we captured the correct mood. My great-grandmother's were sisters. And so, back then, they went out to meet the only living third sister; they marveled at her tiny but incredibly clean living space and her wonderful charm and warmth. And so, fifteen years later, we were to make our first trip as a family, to recapture some of that ambience. What I knew about India was peppered with stories from Bollywood. I could sing-along to all of my parent's favourite tunes and quote from their epic oldies such as Mother India and Pakeezah. My first impression was implorable. The stench of the place, knocked us over in an all too eager greeting. The heat all but defeated us just as we got out of the aircraft. A taxi-walla carted us from the airport towards Colaba where we were meant to be staying. (Dad wanted to stay at the Natraj; this was before the Intercontinental revamp- Gladly shortlived by the rat parade). We had to stop for fuel at a petrol station. It was April. The sweltering heat played tricks with our vision; a steam seemed to rise out of the ground. And here and there, potholes were filled with murky water. All of this seemed relatively innocent. Stopped at the fueling place, I rolled down my window in a bid to give this place of many stories a chance to make its impression on my imaginative minds eye. I didn't have time to regret the decision or to make amends by closing the creaky glass. A swarm of mosquitoes quickly invaded the interior of the car. Air osmosis is such a thing! I was only learning about such things as a high school hopeful, not quite graduated from such institutions.
What did I want to do? Daddy, I want to go home! I squealed. Dear sweet dad was delighted at the entertainment. Welcome to India, everyone. Mum giggled. They exchanged smiles and glances. We rolled eyes.
But then we drove into the depths of this dark city. We saw the crumbling infrastructure and tasted the unflinching conviction of the people. We heard the cries of feisty streetchildren, some better entrepreneurs than New Yorks best. And we were humbled. We were hooked. I bet at that stage already, we were sworn devotees. Pilgrimage has become an affair of heart, mind and soul. Speaking of which, Haji Ali Dhargah and Mahim Dhargah are frequent visit sites. Each have a story to tell. But thats for another post.
Needless to say, I have been back to India almost a dozen times since. I have attended weddings filled with some seven thousand people. I have returned with armfuls of books and shoppers delights, memories and photographs of wonders shared and felt in this city of cities. I have walked its streets and rubbed shoulders with its vast populace. I have felt the seasoned Mumbaikar if only for a hopeful time. In this little love affair, I have ravaged the pages of Shantaram and Maximum City to quench my thirst for more about this pulsating place. I have danced in the scorching heat and brought back souvenir tans, and have been drenched in the monsoon rains numerous times. And I have loved every minute of it. A planned trip back there makes my heart skip a beat or two. I was due back there, save for a wave of attacks last night that has left a city of many heartbeats under a shocking curfew. Colaba never sleeps. Mumbai rocks on like the diva of energy that she is. Until now, that is. Colaba is under curfew. Schools didn't open today. Construction came to a standstill. People stayed indoors. A city grieved the communal death of the freedom to breathe in safety. Mortality stares us in the face, just one more time. Mumbai's heart has just skipped a very long beat. I never thought I'd see the day.
Just imagine if you were walking in Nelson Mandela Square in Sandton, or on the Durban beachfront, or at the V&A Waterfront in Cape Town or any of South Africa's city centres, and a range of grenades were spewed around you. Just imagine. What would happen? Violation is rife everyday, in every sphere of our lives. This sort of thing is that n-th dimension we don't want to think about. Rather relegate it to something that 'only happens in the movies'. BUT JUST WHAT IF??!!
What did I want to do? Daddy, I want to go home! I squealed. Dear sweet dad was delighted at the entertainment. Welcome to India, everyone. Mum giggled. They exchanged smiles and glances. We rolled eyes.
But then we drove into the depths of this dark city. We saw the crumbling infrastructure and tasted the unflinching conviction of the people. We heard the cries of feisty streetchildren, some better entrepreneurs than New Yorks best. And we were humbled. We were hooked. I bet at that stage already, we were sworn devotees. Pilgrimage has become an affair of heart, mind and soul. Speaking of which, Haji Ali Dhargah and Mahim Dhargah are frequent visit sites. Each have a story to tell. But thats for another post.
Needless to say, I have been back to India almost a dozen times since. I have attended weddings filled with some seven thousand people. I have returned with armfuls of books and shoppers delights, memories and photographs of wonders shared and felt in this city of cities. I have walked its streets and rubbed shoulders with its vast populace. I have felt the seasoned Mumbaikar if only for a hopeful time. In this little love affair, I have ravaged the pages of Shantaram and Maximum City to quench my thirst for more about this pulsating place. I have danced in the scorching heat and brought back souvenir tans, and have been drenched in the monsoon rains numerous times. And I have loved every minute of it. A planned trip back there makes my heart skip a beat or two. I was due back there, save for a wave of attacks last night that has left a city of many heartbeats under a shocking curfew. Colaba never sleeps. Mumbai rocks on like the diva of energy that she is. Until now, that is. Colaba is under curfew. Schools didn't open today. Construction came to a standstill. People stayed indoors. A city grieved the communal death of the freedom to breathe in safety. Mortality stares us in the face, just one more time. Mumbai's heart has just skipped a very long beat. I never thought I'd see the day.
Just imagine if you were walking in Nelson Mandela Square in Sandton, or on the Durban beachfront, or at the V&A Waterfront in Cape Town or any of South Africa's city centres, and a range of grenades were spewed around you. Just imagine. What would happen? Violation is rife everyday, in every sphere of our lives. This sort of thing is that n-th dimension we don't want to think about. Rather relegate it to something that 'only happens in the movies'. BUT JUST WHAT IF??!!
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Provoked
What does it take for a woman of modest bearing, to wait till the quiet hours of the night until her husband of ten years is sound asleep, and to douse him in a carefully prepared mixture of cooking oil and other household flammable liquids, and then to drop a flaming candle at his feet, and watch in horror, and relief as the flames sieze and engulf his screaming frame!?
What does it take?
Insanity is a gleaming and rather self-righteous label designed by the self-acclaimed 'sane' and an appeasing banner to the designated who must wear it as a yoke. Why must some plead insanity to obtain justice? Or rather, as a human right's activist in the movie suggests, 'Why must women plead insanity to obtain justice, while men need only lose their tempers for the same?'
'Provoked' is the name of the movie that profiles a young Punjabi woman's plight to restore her dignity from within the confines of an abusive marriage, and in an act of being driven to temporary irrational insanity, she sets her husband on fire. He dies after some days in hospital. She is charged. This, she maintains, is her first taste of freedom.
Battered wife syndrome is, as a result of her case, a legally recognised condition.
Abuse is a messy subject, and many people will shy away from the indications to take the topic by the horns and do real battle with it. How do we break the cycle? We engage in abuse and are abused every other day when we choose to ascribe labels on each other, and when we carry those with which we might be branded. Where does it all stop? And how?
What does it take?
Insanity is a gleaming and rather self-righteous label designed by the self-acclaimed 'sane' and an appeasing banner to the designated who must wear it as a yoke. Why must some plead insanity to obtain justice? Or rather, as a human right's activist in the movie suggests, 'Why must women plead insanity to obtain justice, while men need only lose their tempers for the same?'
'Provoked' is the name of the movie that profiles a young Punjabi woman's plight to restore her dignity from within the confines of an abusive marriage, and in an act of being driven to temporary irrational insanity, she sets her husband on fire. He dies after some days in hospital. She is charged. This, she maintains, is her first taste of freedom.
Battered wife syndrome is, as a result of her case, a legally recognised condition.
Abuse is a messy subject, and many people will shy away from the indications to take the topic by the horns and do real battle with it. How do we break the cycle? We engage in abuse and are abused every other day when we choose to ascribe labels on each other, and when we carry those with which we might be branded. Where does it all stop? And how?
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
deuce juice
I am reluctant...
fundamentally flawed by the curse
of a day gone by.
the end.
and the beginning, a bitter reminder
of some inner longing
reduced to a case of ulcer
and putrid
gas.
what with the price all so shaky at the moment,
the oil-rich look less shiney
and the starved look somewhat
a trendy artists grunge inspiration.
aah, the pathos of
a new condition
regurgitated from the machine
of an over-worked mind
and a rather battered muse;
with a juicy social consciousness squeezed from
the-eye-half-closed to wrongs,
an airy fairy soul still struggles
to cling onto
plastic wrap
and staples
in the hope that the competitive edge will
inspire the one to entice suffocation
or the other to slice
wrists damned by
the clerks
choices!
for now, head-to-head
are dreams reduced to deuce
with so much work
still left
to do.
fundamentally flawed by the curse
of a day gone by.
the end.
and the beginning, a bitter reminder
of some inner longing
reduced to a case of ulcer
and putrid
gas.
what with the price all so shaky at the moment,
the oil-rich look less shiney
and the starved look somewhat
a trendy artists grunge inspiration.
aah, the pathos of
a new condition
regurgitated from the machine
of an over-worked mind
and a rather battered muse;
with a juicy social consciousness squeezed from
the-eye-half-closed to wrongs,
an airy fairy soul still struggles
to cling onto
plastic wrap
and staples
in the hope that the competitive edge will
inspire the one to entice suffocation
or the other to slice
wrists damned by
the clerks
choices!
for now, head-to-head
are dreams reduced to deuce
with so much work
still left
to do.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Power games, headaches and my theories of reciprocation
Its been months since I had a decent headache; I used to harvest those with the fervour of a rare tulip gardener. Today, my harvest seems to have come in with a vengeance. I have much on my mind it seems. I remember when I was younger, and I felt pain in a limb, arm, leg or hand. I would imagine the affected area in a particular colour (eg red) and then proceed to imagine it flowing like a syrup out of the affected area all the while turning through the spectrum of colours in diminishing impact: orange, yellow, green, blue, shades of lighter blue and lavender.. softer, quieter and then gone!
And it worked. It became a game. A semi-conscious one at best. One that works wonders in traffic! And so began my delving into games of the psyche. I was forever mesmerized by notions of conscious and sub-conscious activity. 'The Power of the Subconscious Mind' was probably one of the most profound texts to allow my eyes and fingers a dance across its scenic pages. The mastery of June Singers 'Seeing through the visible world' in more recent years made similar impact. June Singer, a psychoanalyst, worked closely with Carl Jung and proceeded to write in light of Jungian philosophies and her own research observations. Singer describes what she refers to as her first experience with spirituality as a little girl, watching an ant climbing up the frame of a door and over the brass door knob; and she thought to herself that the ant climbs along various terrains without appointing meaning beyond survival and the like. But she could move beyond her chair, turn the door knob to open the door and move into a new room/realm. Similarly, she figures that human beings are like the ant in the bigger realm of consciousness and life; and beyond our limited reasoning and ability is the consciousness of a greater Power, God, who is able to Will far greater things than we are mostly capable of imagining!
Anyway, since this was meant to be an arb post, I will continue in light of games of mind and manner..
Power games. The games people play. Issues of security and insecurity; lack of communication when its most needed and fear of rejection. Key themes in a melting pot of relationship mud just waiting to be hurled at mostly unsuspecting patrons. Naive patrons? Perhaps so. Everyones been there some time or the other, well-bathed in both the mushy and the gory elements! And to learn what lesson? I heard a female friend say that she knows this really nice guy who likes her, but doesn't know how to GET RID OF HIM! Nice going lady. Just talk to the dude! They have been friends for some time. So he's not your average stalker type. Then theres this legal eagle guy I know who feels you shouldn't sent out text/SMS messages in a string.. rather one at a time until the other person responds. Ok and this means what? He says its a pride thing. To power freaks: I say its putting power in the hands of someone else;) And lets not lose sight of the fact that spontaneity is being sordidly murdered here! To hopefully most others: Games are fun if they're on state of the art gaming gear made by state of the art companies with good colour, graphics etc. This eight year old I know just got a new Wii. Moves up the ranks on coolstuff gadgets in my books, a close second place to the new GHD :P
Oh but regards endless discussions about the games people play and the pathos of rhetoric like: 'you hurt the one's you love the most'.. I could go on and on dipping into hours of research undertaken by scores of friends over copious amounts of chai, cuppacino, espresso even.. sometimes lots of lemon flavoured liqui coolers and often the gregarious tub of chocolate chip ice cream. Then theres the stuff of entertainment thats heard from the mouths of leathery horses! This reminds me of scribbled notes in the annex of my cobwebbed mind regards theories of reciprocation. All leads back through the maze to this thing about text/SMS messages and scoreboards keeping count of how many each side sent the other and (whose keeping count anyway?!) oh and home advantage! And hostile environments. And relationship choices as investments. Short-term and Long-term ones; Apparently. And so the spiral of relationship vocabulary dwindles further and further toward the abyss. Reason long lost in the impending darkness! Yet, methinks there might be a tiny flicker of love's light fighting for breathes.. And so here's hoping that the kiss of life will rekindle it! And that strategies for games of war turn to cultivation plans for gardens of divinely inspired love. Just what the world needs! Of course, We can hope. And pray :)
And it worked. It became a game. A semi-conscious one at best. One that works wonders in traffic! And so began my delving into games of the psyche. I was forever mesmerized by notions of conscious and sub-conscious activity. 'The Power of the Subconscious Mind' was probably one of the most profound texts to allow my eyes and fingers a dance across its scenic pages. The mastery of June Singers 'Seeing through the visible world' in more recent years made similar impact. June Singer, a psychoanalyst, worked closely with Carl Jung and proceeded to write in light of Jungian philosophies and her own research observations. Singer describes what she refers to as her first experience with spirituality as a little girl, watching an ant climbing up the frame of a door and over the brass door knob; and she thought to herself that the ant climbs along various terrains without appointing meaning beyond survival and the like. But she could move beyond her chair, turn the door knob to open the door and move into a new room/realm. Similarly, she figures that human beings are like the ant in the bigger realm of consciousness and life; and beyond our limited reasoning and ability is the consciousness of a greater Power, God, who is able to Will far greater things than we are mostly capable of imagining!
Anyway, since this was meant to be an arb post, I will continue in light of games of mind and manner..
Power games. The games people play. Issues of security and insecurity; lack of communication when its most needed and fear of rejection. Key themes in a melting pot of relationship mud just waiting to be hurled at mostly unsuspecting patrons. Naive patrons? Perhaps so. Everyones been there some time or the other, well-bathed in both the mushy and the gory elements! And to learn what lesson? I heard a female friend say that she knows this really nice guy who likes her, but doesn't know how to GET RID OF HIM! Nice going lady. Just talk to the dude! They have been friends for some time. So he's not your average stalker type. Then theres this legal eagle guy I know who feels you shouldn't sent out text/SMS messages in a string.. rather one at a time until the other person responds. Ok and this means what? He says its a pride thing. To power freaks: I say its putting power in the hands of someone else;) And lets not lose sight of the fact that spontaneity is being sordidly murdered here! To hopefully most others: Games are fun if they're on state of the art gaming gear made by state of the art companies with good colour, graphics etc. This eight year old I know just got a new Wii. Moves up the ranks on coolstuff gadgets in my books, a close second place to the new GHD :P
Oh but regards endless discussions about the games people play and the pathos of rhetoric like: 'you hurt the one's you love the most'.. I could go on and on dipping into hours of research undertaken by scores of friends over copious amounts of chai, cuppacino, espresso even.. sometimes lots of lemon flavoured liqui coolers and often the gregarious tub of chocolate chip ice cream. Then theres the stuff of entertainment thats heard from the mouths of leathery horses! This reminds me of scribbled notes in the annex of my cobwebbed mind regards theories of reciprocation. All leads back through the maze to this thing about text/SMS messages and scoreboards keeping count of how many each side sent the other and (whose keeping count anyway?!) oh and home advantage! And hostile environments. And relationship choices as investments. Short-term and Long-term ones; Apparently. And so the spiral of relationship vocabulary dwindles further and further toward the abyss. Reason long lost in the impending darkness! Yet, methinks there might be a tiny flicker of love's light fighting for breathes.. And so here's hoping that the kiss of life will rekindle it! And that strategies for games of war turn to cultivation plans for gardens of divinely inspired love. Just what the world needs! Of course, We can hope. And pray :)
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Polokwane on the map of history..
Its strange. I grew up in Pietersburg, and often, people ask where it is.. If you travel internationally, you say you're from South Africa, or Janu-be-Africa or in places like Egypt, simply say Bafana Bafana or Nelson Mandela and that kinda situates you. In South Africa, you get asked where Pietersburg is and you sorta waffle an explanation about the 'city' on the way to Beitbridge, and into Zimbabwe. From Johannesburg, onto the N1 Northbound. Easy driving, good concrete highway now patched with chewing gum tar where the wear and tear has raised its bruised craters, and roughly 380km in distance, a little over two hours gets you clean into the city centre. As if all of that didnt encourage geographic problems of explanations and make for more talk than the weather, Pietersburg, just over a year ago was renamed 'Polokwane'..
An eclectic mix of people from all over Africa and around the world, this little town with little known identity has this last few days become the topic of great conversation, amidst much anticipation, controversy and festivity as the host of the 52nd ANC Conference. And, as the place where the ANC leadership has just changed hands from an intelectual core to, well, Im not quite sure. That bit remains to be seen. Yesterday, in a sweeping victory, the Zuma camp of the deeply divided ANC cleared majority votes of roughly 2300-2400 against the Mbeki camps 1300-1500. The democracy of an apparent electorate easily equated to the cult of the mob. And Polokwane is the place where all of this is convened. And will be remembered for this historic moment. But alls not over yet. This, is in fact, just the beginning.
But what interested me both as a sociologist, and as person who knows Polokwane to be an unpretentious and simple city with just enough amenities to keep its residents sane, and that much of the old-school dorpie feel to it to keep it grounded and make it home.. is the ironic simple prominence of delegates, MP's and councillors walking around the city, in some cases relatively anonymous to the public on the pavements. I stopped by Savannah Centre about an hour ago, and took note at Mac Maharaj chatting with some old NEC members most casually and comfortably at one of the main shopping centre's popular coffee shops, Cafe Rossini. And all this time I had thought that they would remain carefully stowed away onboard the guarded Mother Ship constructed for the duration of the conference on the outskirts of Polokwane at UniL. I was glad to know how wrong Id been. Refreshing thought, to know that the bigwigs had ventured to get to know the little host city and engage in its mundane everyday experiences. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy to think about.
An eclectic mix of people from all over Africa and around the world, this little town with little known identity has this last few days become the topic of great conversation, amidst much anticipation, controversy and festivity as the host of the 52nd ANC Conference. And, as the place where the ANC leadership has just changed hands from an intelectual core to, well, Im not quite sure. That bit remains to be seen. Yesterday, in a sweeping victory, the Zuma camp of the deeply divided ANC cleared majority votes of roughly 2300-2400 against the Mbeki camps 1300-1500. The democracy of an apparent electorate easily equated to the cult of the mob. And Polokwane is the place where all of this is convened. And will be remembered for this historic moment. But alls not over yet. This, is in fact, just the beginning.
But what interested me both as a sociologist, and as person who knows Polokwane to be an unpretentious and simple city with just enough amenities to keep its residents sane, and that much of the old-school dorpie feel to it to keep it grounded and make it home.. is the ironic simple prominence of delegates, MP's and councillors walking around the city, in some cases relatively anonymous to the public on the pavements. I stopped by Savannah Centre about an hour ago, and took note at Mac Maharaj chatting with some old NEC members most casually and comfortably at one of the main shopping centre's popular coffee shops, Cafe Rossini. And all this time I had thought that they would remain carefully stowed away onboard the guarded Mother Ship constructed for the duration of the conference on the outskirts of Polokwane at UniL. I was glad to know how wrong Id been. Refreshing thought, to know that the bigwigs had ventured to get to know the little host city and engage in its mundane everyday experiences. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy to think about.
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