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.

Cape Town launches Belly of Fire (2011)

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

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

Thinking things

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

All booklaunch pics at Facebook and flickr

Write in the Vines: Franschhoek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The writing journeys on.

Home Away: Book Review

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Frankenstein's monster...

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

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

Is a fluid vision;
a Flesh and Bone
Reality.

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

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

Realisation
sinks
in:

So,
They do exist.
Beyond
my Wildest
Imagination.

Interview with Fordsburg Independent; Local community paper in Johannesburg.

Dedication

M4K is off to Cape Town...

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

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

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


WORDFIRE Press takes pleasure in inviting you to the launch of

Memoirs For Kimya by Shafinaaz Hassim

Date: Sunday 18 October 2009.

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

Time: 6:00pm

six o'clock gin and tonic

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

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

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

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

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

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

reclaiming authenticity

Standing on the paved concourse just in front of the old Market Theatre complex, a wave of elation washes over me. The wind flicks wisps of hair around my face. Pigeons scatter across the tarmac in front of me; a minibus trundles by. I twirl around to face my host, and the old building proudly bares it's chest to reveal it's status as Museum Africa. This is where it's all being happening; the launch of my new book: Memoirs For Kimya, the networks of creativity and all things bookish, and the energy of the literary arts infiltrating the Jozi CBD.

It's the end, now. Everything has been packed into the boots of our cars, and the backseats heave with some posters and flyers and layers of pink cloth that gave temporary flesh to the skeletons of steel tables. The azaan from the nearby Newtown mosque punctuates the calm air, spreading its sweet fragrance through the Newtown precinct. Calmness prevails. I have so much to be thankful for. To Him who renders me speechless by the Beauty that is revealed in my life.

Cars speed by on the highway within view; we're tucked away underneath the bustle of it all. I appreciate the variance: usually, I am one of those car's speeding between the North and the South on the upper levels of the highway networks, little realising the authentic value of spaces that lie beneath all that craziness. Spaces that wait to be reclaimed as the Real forces of life. Not drenched in hastiness, but rather quenched by contentment and a simple gratitude of the creative life of a city filled with history and activism; a celebration of life in every way.

And this, really, was the theme for this years Jozi Book Fair: the intention to reclaim authentic space in the city. When I met with the organisers for the last time yesterday, accolade was passed between us in a wholesome relay. A general happiness prevailed. And I know for certain that a shift in my consciousness has occurred. And I have remembered many things long forgotten in my choice to take the rollercoaster through my days. Stillness speaks :)

And there's more. Coincidence? You decide: About two weeks ago, I ordered a gift for myself. I knew at that point already, that it was a significant gift to present to myself. A gift of tranquility. A gift of seeking rest. In content, it may seem superficial compared to the symbolism in context. Let me explain...
As a child of five, I remember visiting my mother's grandfather in Potgietersrus in the Limpopo Province. He was a tall man, as even his photo's confirm, and even more so to a tiny person as a toddler might be. He used to call me 'Sakeenah' instead of 'Shafinaaz'. I often asked my mom why he chose to do this, and she would say: He knows secrets that we have yet to learn. And she would smile when saying this. I thought it was meant to pacify me. But sakeenah means tranquility. I may have been the coolness of his eyes... :)

And so in an effort to celebrate my layered forms of self-identification, I bought myself a little work of art by the artist of Soul&Paper. It's called 'Sakeenah', and was delivered to my delight, on Saturday night. Thank you!

Indeed. Stillness speaks!

Memoirs For Kimya

It has been two years since the launch of "Daughters are Diamonds", and I am finally ready to launch my reflective manuscript, a blog to book, or a blook even. To be found therein, are some writings and reflections compiled along with poetry written in various flavours of writings along the years since I began blogging in 2005. And of course, I wanted to create something beautiful to commemorate writing as a journey of choice. As a cathartic one sometimes. And a rather promising and appreciative one at most.

"Memoirs for Kimya" is ready. I am thrilled beyond words. Yes, I repeat. Words cannot quantify how much appreciation I have for this process of creativity, and the ways in which I may share it with readers. Also, it gives me great pleasure to inform interested readers that it is available for pre-order with Amazon.Com along with "Daughters are Diamonds". Search for the individual titles or my full name at the Amazon website and the titles will simply show up.

The official launch of M4K will take place this weekend at the JoZi Book Fair:

Venue: Market Theatre Complex, Museum Africa, Newtown, Johannesburg.
Dates: Saturday 8August from 9am-6pm and Sunday the same. My booklaunch/reading will take place at the BookLaunch Island on Women's Day, the 9Aug at 2pm.
ALL WELCOME :)

2009 is a splendid year so far, and I feel blessed.

:)

tests of compulsion,love and creativity

I have noticed something rather strangely appealing about the blog- and social media world in general. And that is, the worms that find their way out of the woodwork are outnumbered by the people who will leave notes of wonder and encouragement at your blog-doorstep, at precisely the moment when you need to read it most.

I have also paid attention to the trend of writing that follows the blog world, and the facebook/twitter updates that arise from various people across the globe. This is not some kind of discourse analysis of it all, just an awe-inspired sharing of my observations. I had a chat with one of my dearest friends recently, and I have to make the following comment; I believe that every person who lives on this planet, should in some way be able to sit down and write about their lives, even if it's just about one day that serves as a landmark day, their first love, animate or inanimate reference, their marriage, the birth of a child, the death or loss of a loved one. Anything. The hue of stories waiting to be told and heard are as countless as the experiences had by people in general. And once told, the shared stories will reveal a kind of continuum of life energy, humanity and spirituality that transcends the often imagined boundaries that we seem to find ourselves comforted by, and accustomed to.

I have been allowing alot of stress to filter into my life this past week or so. Which is undeniably unusual for me, because not only do I like having all my ducks in a row, but I'm a pretty easy-going girl for the most part.
Perhaps the two aren't exactly mutually exclusive; having ducks in a row makes for easy living, and less stress in the long term.

This is adrenalin on erm speed. Does that sound right? I didn't think so. Okay let me try that again. It's the good adrenalin of something that I am working towards, compounded by the not so good feeling that I may not make the self-imposed deadlines that I have now confirmed to a portion of the world at large. Makes sense? I'm being cryptic. I know. But it's temporary. Hopefully it will all be resolved, at most by the end of this week. It's yet another exciting project, about to be made manifest and one which has had some behind the scenes work for some years now. So here's hoping that it works out in the best way that it can. Taking into consideration my hectic budgetary constraints and all that.

Then onto the writing thing.
The biography project has become a slow and deliberating attempt to unveil the identity and being of a person about whom very little has been written, and we are relying on a large amount of primary data from people who held him in high esteem, but not all of them engaged with him directly. Needless to say, some worthy gems have been uncovered. One of my most trying recent interviewees looked me in the eye and asked: 'Are you serious about this work?' and 'Can you write?'
Most of these people are skeptics of a long-forgotten era. Some are high ranking people, used to business above pleasure. And many are almost 3 times my age. It's a more than forgivable skepticism. I was tested. And apparently I more than won approval at the end of it all. I was thrilled with the balance of the conversation, of course.

I'm editing more than writing, at the moment. It has been two years since my book 'Daughters are Diamonds' was launched at the Cape Town Book Fair. In that time, I have done many little things that seem to be adding up to delightful newness, and I have met myriad people of the same. Also, I have compiled two manuscripts in the last year. I am figuring out what to do with them :)

Much Love,
S

collision course

Im doing alot of that nearing the edge kind of over-thinking these few days; and I think that when we put love and hate on a collision course, then we only have ourselves to blame. Im rambling again. Its just that there are certain of these life lessons that tend to go over my head and then I find them repeating themselves all too patiently while I sit back and scratch my head in confusion. This time the confusion levels are in a near danger zone.

I dont get it. I dont. And its no longer a person delivering a message or gifting this life shock to me. Its something more; there's this nagging feeling at the back of my mind saying there's more more more to this. So, the suspense is killing me. What is it?

More. Less, but more.
I think the space between lessons is lessening. Still, the same lessons. But like contractions before birthing, and what we hear to be the labour process, the timing between mini earthquakes is getting shorter... the end is near. I think I must get it at some point. Like really just have that lightbulb, eureka moment! Aha! I get it! Like that.. Unless the games being upped and the challenge along with it. And Im losing braincells through my nose in the process, making me worse for wear :/

There's alot going on inside; and definite lines in the sand regards how much I am willing to put up with. Those lines are forming barriers that barricade me from the row of daggers aimed in my direction. Not so sure that's a bad thing or a good thing. It just is.

This rumble of stuff from the inside needs a voice. That's the only thing I know.
And all hell will break loose when that happens.
I figure its winter anyway, so at least we'll be warm, right?
Anyone want to cuddle? Okay, make that a group hug :P

I've set myself on a collision course. I hope all bones remain intact when I'm done with my chosen encounter. I hope that indeed, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. And I hope that I can finally demarcate that area between pussy-footing niceties and just being true to myself. Being real. It's the freedom that I'm craving for the moment. Probably for a longer time than only now. And it scares the hell out of me!

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)

i feel empty

i am empty.
empty of any reason. empty of understanding.
empty of. anything tangible.

then i remember rumi,
who seems to think that empty is full.
and full is empty..

so heres to you..
to you who brought out the torch.
to you that shone that light
to show me the way,
to you
who left that torch burning,
unguarded,
until, inevitably
it burnt those petals
that
you'd strewn
on my path..

to you.
for emptying me.
and filling me.
and emptying me.

to you..
thank you!

drip dry is best

she put her heart through one of those
state-of-the-art shredders yesterday..

and it came out in perfectly measured strips;
all the same size..

but dripping, somewhat.

good thing today's
a sunny day;
so the strips and bits
can be hung out to dry
on the washing line.

the label said
drip dry is best.

untitled, but lurking on my pc, forgotten

Piano keys tapped at, make these sounds I no longer recognise..
Destiny revealed is a tease and a taunt..
None of this familiar in its lure;
Just mundane, and painstaking in its intent to turn my day upside down.
Wading through the foliage of everything that’s grown around me, keeping the sunshine at bay, but for how long? Didn’t they say that even sunlight burns you if you get too much. And a certain death if you get none.
Doomed. With and without.
What choice do we have,

Given that it’s safer the other way. Not to have lived at all.
Or not to have loved at all. Is it the same thing?
Then it’s better to have loved and lost.
As the journey of life intends.

Shafs. 28April08

Yeh hai Mumbai, Meri Jaan...

I have been traversing through India for a week now, and it feels like a bit longer; considering the cities and flavours that I have delighted in, in this short space of time... We landed in Mumbai a week ago, in transit to Jaipur, the famed and imaginative 'pink city' of royal fantasy. After gleeful visits to Amber Fort and the treasures of the old city around the City Palace and the glorious Hawa Mahal, the visions of the puppet shows continue to remain as trinkets in my mind (I have a pair souvenir dolls -male&female- to remind me! hmm, just like in that movie.. what was it again..)

The celebration of pinks moved on to deeper shades of colour as we made our way through Rajasthan... onward to Agra, with the incredulous stop at Fatehpur Sikhri, famed for its sprawling palaces and mausoleums. The palace of Queen Jodha, the towering five-storeyed Paanch Mahal, the Diwan-e-Khaas that undoubtedly houses many secrets in his innately carved walls... the Hall of Mirrors... myriad fantasies come to mind in making my way along the paths and through the hallowed arches, and beside the now deteriorating pillars that form the structure of some 46 palaces here...

Agra, filled me. The joy spilled pearls uncounted through my eyes. Its been seven years since I visited the Taj Mahal. Seven is a lucky number? It just occured to me that it might be. Who knows. The Taj is mesmerizing as ever. I am spellbound still. Maybe it means a different thing to me now than it might have back then. But its a good difference. I conversed with those walls of milk and honey. They smiled at me. Mostly for being silly. Mosly for my strange state of self-denial. Mostly for my unwarranted contradictory state of being. I wanted to place what I thought was a burden, at its feet. Too much drama ensued. Have you ever seen the Taj Mahal, in all its majesty, break down into a fit of giggles? It did. And what a beautiful sight that was. Sigh. And then onward to Delhi. Bustling, rumbling Delhi. The grandest rajhdhani. Where I usually delight in the wares of booksellers. But I ventured to nurse a bit of fever and some well-known delhi belly. Souvenirs, no doubt.

Having arrived in Mumbai just last night, I must look somewhat in a trance state; dazed as I am from the happenings of the last week or so. And then, of course, is this something special about actually being back in Mumbai... because there is something that draws me back here, time and again. Something, that links the energy untapped within me, to the immense energy that resonates through this place of many contraditory things. Perhaps it is that it is intensely beautiful in its tragic state, a contradiction in itself. Or that it is so often misunderstood, misused by its custodians and so out-of-reach of its essential benefactors...
So many whats and ifs... and yet the city thrives because of and in spite of it all... immensely alive with creative energy, life, and all things magical. I am here to reconnect. My soul is thirsting and quenching almost at the speed it would take to fumble through the beads of my tasbeeh.. Greatful, and joyfilled and somewhat in acknowledgement of the inner chaos.

Ru-ba-ru Roshni se... Finally face2face with Sunshine. The tears flow freely now.

With Love and Magic
Shafs

To Durban... Thank You!

Lunar Blu is by far the best pizza ever on the shores of Durban. Of course, there’s a whole shoal of other such wonders lining the trendy spaces of this vibrant coastal city; but then there’s also smatterings of art galleries, craft places, viewpoints, malls and yes, even people. Essenwood fleamarket is a delight. Kizo is my favourite gallery from the scant few I have had the pleasure to visit. And Whilsons Warf tops my list of places with good ambience. And so, I will leave this place of many wonders with a smile on my face and little thoughts of farewell… because I can now say that Durban feels a bit like home, since home is wherever little bits of the heart have been left scattered somewhat. Here, in as few words as I can muster, is my vote of thanks:

(Words are insufficient as it is…and it terrifies me that I might forget a name; but the wealth of gratitude is multi-dimensioned as the people who have carried me along this journey.)

To my Aunt, for being a pillar of maternal beauty and strength;
To my Uncle for being her smiling collaborator..
To Abdur Rahim for being an erstwhile bodyguard
To Hishaam for being a bundle of fun and my partner in many criminal endeavours…and for bouncing into my office every once in while with a huge hug and an elaborate smile.
To Fati… for being a sea of love; and to my gran for being so much more.

To Lubna Nadvi for teaching me the values of keeping your head about you when everythings chaos and havoc; and for showing me with great skill, what ‘fun’ really means! To Sultan, for being a king of a big brother figure. By the way, I did the bunny chow thing, finally.
To Sana Ebrahim for being a source of powerful innocence in making sense of life.
To Niel, Rob, Vanessa and all at UKZN’s department of Sociology for making my working life memorable. To Azad, Aisha, Bianca, Nadine and Nomkosi at IOLS-Research for 'challenging' me and for allowing me a seat on the joyride. And for being so tolerant of my tourist antics! And again to Azad, for reminding me, inadvertently, that life is free.
To Shabashni, for inspiration! And for the soul-to-souls that have enthused in me a thirst for better things.. And for holding up the mirror for me as I ranted and raved. And for sometimes being that mirror!
To Mala and the guards at the entrance to the University who find the time to chat to me every so often as they go about their work. I hope you lot will let me in with prospects of good parking when I visit without a staff disc!
To my eccentric ‘grandfather’ Champak Soni, for being a barrel of laughs and a wonderful agent of choice, for believing in me, and for sharing me with your extensive underworld! The family tie goes back before my mom was born, and so I am grateful to inherit the benefits of such love.
To Uncle Aziz, for humouring the demands of your childhood friend, and for believing I am capable of grand things.
To Humza D, for scouting the city for my car every so often and making me feel like I had a ‘Brother’ watching me :P
To Pick-n-Pay Hyper by the Sea for making postal service sweet and simple, and for allowing me to return your brand of weird stuff everytime we made the mistake of buying it. And for regular supplies of TimTams!
To Aneesa @ AMS for the invigorating chats and facials.
To MJ and Seraj, the Voices; and the rest of the peeps at Al-Ansaar for thinking of me as some sort of celebrity.
To Shubnum K for visiting me and adding a spark to my day with your inspired notes regards writing, life, etc.
To Qdee. For being sweet.
To Rae, for the colourful welcome.
To Megan Kleyn for reminding me what free-spiritedness entails.
To Prof Wade at Media, for looking so very inspired as I chatted about this and that.
To Prof Meer, for chiding me for not challenging my mind beyond my assumptions.
To Cedric and the team at Adams for celebrated bookish things and keeping me in the loop.
To Robin Banks and team for the painful exercises at enriching the mind, and for teaching me to acknowledge the power of thoughts.
To Sonu Nigam and Himesh R for visiting Durban.
To cousin Mo for being a first time bunny chow adventurer with me.
To Aunty Luthfiya and the ladies at La Lucia bookclub for being such stars!

To the stars that remind me, always, from when I was too little to think too much nonsense, that wherever I am in the world, I am always under the same umbrella of enthusiasm. And to the ocean, for whispering to me in its every movement, that real love is as endless as the drops that flow through its being. All it takes is believing and being.

To Durban. For being a beautiful medley of life.

And to the Almighty Allah, for endless Mercy, and for the flaming torches of inspiration and the fragrant joys that accompany me on my path.

Oh, and again to Durbs. For planting one souvenir accent into me. I think that got twisted somewhere. Sigh. I like the way the French say it: Au revoir… Until we meet again…