This Place I Call Home

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.

Imagined differences

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.

Faqir: short fiction lurking on my pc

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

short stories in six words

A writer friend recently told me that Hemingway once wrote a short story in six words, and claimed it was his best; (FOR SALE: baby shoes, never worn.)

I was fascinated. So we decided to play with some ideas... okay so I cheated on the first one; and got cryptic on the second... but it was fun. Feel free to try it out! :P

***

He loved her. She lied. It was murder.

***

I love you. Dead flowers. Rain.

***

I do. A crash. Funeral honeymoon.

***

Thirty days. Paycheck. Paid rent. Broke.

***

One muffin. Pink icing for two.

***

A bottle. A rattle. Empty cot.

***

Fake flowers. Perfume. Fifty dollar nights.

***

Broken windscreen. Dead bird. No insurance.

***

One cake. Two people. Happy birthday.

***

Life is Tangible Fiction

Sometimes, life's greatest fictions occur in front of our eyes. Other times, they're stories told to us over camp fires, revealing the hopes and fears of their orators. Some are carved into the pages of ornate classics; others are splashed across the headlines of the media or spray-painted onto the digitized walls of the big screen.
Whether they're oral or in some or other form of the visual or sensual, words and images evoke emotion and memory. They link us to a time when we also felt those things implied by them: fear, sadness, helplessness, elation, ecstasy, hate. And so runs this multi-coloured thread of humanity and insanity. Life is a tangible fiction, really. We make it up as we go along, all the while relying on the raw material box of odds and ends we're given at the beginning, adding the stuff that we pick up along the way, and stealing and borrowing bits and bobs too. Its what makes us plain human. We rely on instinct to survive. We beg, borrow and steal. We use intellect to plan, plot and maraud. Then we dig deep down into that spiritual core to look for redemption, contentment, and a ticket to the paradise of enlightenment and a hoped for full realisation of all that we are.

I listen to stories every day. Ask someone what their name means, and a story unfolds. Its happy. Its sad. Its somewhat bittersweet. Or its just nothing. I met a beautiful French woman. She was well-dressed, poised and confident. She spoke much of her travels around the world, and her choice to settle in South Africa. She had an old world charm about her that reminded me of my grandmother. Only, her name unsettled her. Her name was Ettie. She said it made her feel ugly and insignificant. Not beautiful and meant for fame like Alexandria, for example.

Then, there's stories that are overtly exaggerated in their intent. Stories that carry with them an energy that makes you feel like you're listening to the diatribe of someone whose life lacks lustre. An addict of victim hood. A virtuous complaints agent. Someone wanting to irately dump their hot potato on your lap. That energy overrides your own, blocks your flow of inspiration and makes you want to say: 'Stop!'

Until you retreat to the cave in your mind. Silence. Then the realisation dawns. The simple human drama's that manifest in every persons mind and life, are resemblant of some of your own. We mirror each other on this journey. Either by way of learning a lesson we may not have been able to in the past, or in preparation for a forthcoming event. Or maybe its just part of our collection of data to do as we please with. Or not.

But then, there's some stories that, no matter how much you'd rather not hear them, they keep coming back to you. Grating, like sandpaper to your skin, they retell themselves...They emerge in your dreams and add salt to your food. And just when you think you've read the end credits, they start all over in someone else's words...

Unfinished Stories, Our Time.. and sourcing life along the journey

These were the last two that we saw of the Film Fest. My imagination has been bruised for a bit, by the implications pu on stage; Unfinished stories placed in Tehran, and Our Time in India.. that age old story of the exploitation of vulnerability. I disagree with the inability to carve a sense of spiritedness from it all, though. Somehow, theres always that. Samina thinks so. And so does Khalida. And perhaps, at some point, even Salma will see the light. Im not so sure about Zahida though... Theres some concern for sanity there.