Showing posts with label south africa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label south africa. Show all posts
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.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Reconcile
I've severed a tie in my mind today;
it was hopeless,
you see.
Ragged breath and flaring eyes
met me at the door
of innocence.
I let it in. Offering balance.
It tore me up.
Shredded me to bits.
Barking. Angry. Violent.
A calm descended after the storm.
Rose water fell from the heavens.
I drank it in.
I forgave. I forgot.
Hope burst forth.
We watched the moon reflected on the water.
Again I let it in. Hope. Life. Etc.
It snarled. Face contorted.
A new demon revealed itself this time.
I shrunk back.
It bit my head off.
Severed. On reconciliation day.
My life overflowed. Manufactured from within.
I seeped into the ground.
Life sprang forth. A tiny shoot. A leaf.
It shivered in the breeze.
A drop of dew weighed heavy.
Sunshine singed the crease.
Hope takes too much patience.
Now, detached,
I can only reconcile
with all
that I am
today.
it was hopeless,
you see.
Ragged breath and flaring eyes
met me at the door
of innocence.
I let it in. Offering balance.
It tore me up.
Shredded me to bits.
Barking. Angry. Violent.
A calm descended after the storm.
Rose water fell from the heavens.
I drank it in.
I forgave. I forgot.
Hope burst forth.
We watched the moon reflected on the water.
Again I let it in. Hope. Life. Etc.
It snarled. Face contorted.
A new demon revealed itself this time.
I shrunk back.
It bit my head off.
Severed. On reconciliation day.
My life overflowed. Manufactured from within.
I seeped into the ground.
Life sprang forth. A tiny shoot. A leaf.
It shivered in the breeze.
A drop of dew weighed heavy.
Sunshine singed the crease.
Hope takes too much patience.
Now, detached,
I can only reconcile
with all
that I am
today.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Greedy for Air
I've been enjoying my round of fiction reads this month.
Just last week, I got through "The White Tiger". Much can be said about a book that openly reveals that greed and survival are really not the same thing. The human mind forever fascinates me. The limits we place upon ourselves, as well as the new frontiers that are challenged in those finite boxes of sanity and insanity are largely unexplored. There are, I believe, yet to be seen examples of how much the potential of the human mind will surprise and enthrall, and yes, even horrify the 'clanging masses' rest of us.
Taking from the White Tiger, although situated in India, the story has echoes of relevance for South Africa; not just from an 'Indian' point of view, but also if we were to take both a human and then even an inhumane outlook. Okay, let's not pretend that we're one swathing mass of loving humanity; there are amongst us those who will sell their mother's left hand given the right blend of conditions.
Writer's like Adiga are adept at bringing that 'potential' of the inhumane human to the fore; of highlighting the irreverent contradictions of what it is to be a human being. And while I would like to imagine, still, that it takes much of a stretch of the imagination, I know at some rational level, that I would be kidding myself: I had barely put the pages of The White Tiger to rest, when the ET debacle exploded right in our midst. Not even for 7lakh rupees. Just. Dead.
Was it because of years of pent up Hatred?
Was it an act of Love?
I don't really want to know. A human life was slaughtered at the hands of people maimed by his own acts of terrorizing them over years. Do we really reap what we sow? This might be an apt example. Still, a human life is so easily rendered to a bag of bones and flesh and blood that oozes back into the womb of the earth. We're so easily turned back into the clay from which we came.
All material, mortal. There it is again. Mortality looks back from the mirror everyday.
Which brings me to the new book that I am reading, and reviewing, this time, for an Afrikaans paper: 'Say You're One of Them,' by Uwem Akpan. I am just learning, that childhood is a commodity in Africa. Akpan brings this idea to life in his book.
And. midway through the book, I am blown away. Now to scrape and claw for some moments of objectivity. Watch this space.
S
Just last week, I got through "The White Tiger". Much can be said about a book that openly reveals that greed and survival are really not the same thing. The human mind forever fascinates me. The limits we place upon ourselves, as well as the new frontiers that are challenged in those finite boxes of sanity and insanity are largely unexplored. There are, I believe, yet to be seen examples of how much the potential of the human mind will surprise and enthrall, and yes, even horrify the 'clanging masses' rest of us.
Taking from the White Tiger, although situated in India, the story has echoes of relevance for South Africa; not just from an 'Indian' point of view, but also if we were to take both a human and then even an inhumane outlook. Okay, let's not pretend that we're one swathing mass of loving humanity; there are amongst us those who will sell their mother's left hand given the right blend of conditions.
Writer's like Adiga are adept at bringing that 'potential' of the inhumane human to the fore; of highlighting the irreverent contradictions of what it is to be a human being. And while I would like to imagine, still, that it takes much of a stretch of the imagination, I know at some rational level, that I would be kidding myself: I had barely put the pages of The White Tiger to rest, when the ET debacle exploded right in our midst. Not even for 7lakh rupees. Just. Dead.
Was it because of years of pent up Hatred?
Was it an act of Love?
I don't really want to know. A human life was slaughtered at the hands of people maimed by his own acts of terrorizing them over years. Do we really reap what we sow? This might be an apt example. Still, a human life is so easily rendered to a bag of bones and flesh and blood that oozes back into the womb of the earth. We're so easily turned back into the clay from which we came.
All material, mortal. There it is again. Mortality looks back from the mirror everyday.
Which brings me to the new book that I am reading, and reviewing, this time, for an Afrikaans paper: 'Say You're One of Them,' by Uwem Akpan. I am just learning, that childhood is a commodity in Africa. Akpan brings this idea to life in his book.
And. midway through the book, I am blown away. Now to scrape and claw for some moments of objectivity. Watch this space.
S
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!
Monday, December 07, 2009
Inertia, Utopia, CHaOs
I cannot recall a year that went by so quickly, it felt like it had barely begun. Not for lack of having accomplished anything, though. In fact, precisely because of the years adrenalin-filled happenings, do I feel that sense of inertia still making me reel to and fro, and for the most part, vivid images meld into a belligerent blur.
This is a reflection. Not quite the customary year-end ramble.
Which is probably why I cannot find the words to express the stop-start feeling.
And, as luck and fate and the powers that be might have it,
its not over yet.
Do I sound like I'm complaining?
Hardly that.
I'm reading yet another visa script as I type; ready to set off to a desert rendezvous for a week of partying and festivity to round up the year that was.
While Dubai World crashes around us left to the folly of the markets and wanton players, some with tails between their legs, our lot might do the economy a small boost in our lavish outpourings for the next week. Shamelessly said, I know.
Such is the bane and the boon of the clad and shackled.
Ah, its been a year of abundance.
Words flow.
Joy bursts at the seams.
The trickles of sadness, loss and illness linger; keeping a necessary humility in place.
And the mirage of a brighter future looms at eye level.
2010 will be a year of togetherness.
A year of partnering on an equal ground; the dust on the battlefields will settle.
And it will be yet another year to reflect on, to learn from, and to celebrate for its lavish layers of utopia and chaos, in similar measures that maintain our humanity; that sustain all but a crass sanity.
Its not quite goodbye, yet.
But its almost there...
Love and Light,
Shafs
http://shafinaaz.com
Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009
This is a reflection. Not quite the customary year-end ramble.
Which is probably why I cannot find the words to express the stop-start feeling.
And, as luck and fate and the powers that be might have it,
its not over yet.
Do I sound like I'm complaining?
Hardly that.
I'm reading yet another visa script as I type; ready to set off to a desert rendezvous for a week of partying and festivity to round up the year that was.
While Dubai World crashes around us left to the folly of the markets and wanton players, some with tails between their legs, our lot might do the economy a small boost in our lavish outpourings for the next week. Shamelessly said, I know.
Such is the bane and the boon of the clad and shackled.
Ah, its been a year of abundance.
Words flow.
Joy bursts at the seams.
The trickles of sadness, loss and illness linger; keeping a necessary humility in place.
And the mirage of a brighter future looms at eye level.
2010 will be a year of togetherness.
A year of partnering on an equal ground; the dust on the battlefields will settle.
And it will be yet another year to reflect on, to learn from, and to celebrate for its lavish layers of utopia and chaos, in similar measures that maintain our humanity; that sustain all but a crass sanity.
Its not quite goodbye, yet.
But its almost there...
Love and Light,
Shafs
http://shafinaaz.com
Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009
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
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
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
Thursday, April 30, 2009
to the port city of friendliness
I'm off to Port Elizabeth tomorrow. Flight out at 6am. Yep. Means that I probably won't sleep much tonight. Or that I will sleep really early and then not after the morning Fajr prayers. I notice the difference; when my heads lead and I don't make it awake in time for the early morning prayers. My being feels like I missed out on a meal. A nourishment. Something significant. I didn't wake up today; I felt it. Rather, I am feeling it. All day today.
I hope this serves as adequate reason to not miss out again. And again. The flesh is weak sometimes, and turns into molten lead, writhing in bed to the demon's lullaby in my ear. Heaven's music might be sweeter, but its like that proverbial bowl of marshmallows when ur just a weak, infant soul. Dear God, make me grow up. Today.
And Protect me. Everyday.
And so, after what is probably a decade or more, I will travel out to the friendly city. And hope to see Grahamstown, too. When I completed by matric all those many years ago, I applied for my first choice of study, architecture, at PE university especially interested in the idea that the university is set at the seaside. I chose Wits in Johannesburg instead. But PE still beckons more than a decade later. I liek the idea that a place can be labelled the Friendly City. There's something feelgood about that. And I'm excited about the trip, even though I hear that it's already quite cold out there. And with the image of sun and sand in my head, I've already packed a bag of summer dresses and pretty tops with cargo pants, flip-flops and sunglasses. Oh and sun-screen too, of course.
And so, that's to be reviewed, but the excitement stays :)
I hope this serves as adequate reason to not miss out again. And again. The flesh is weak sometimes, and turns into molten lead, writhing in bed to the demon's lullaby in my ear. Heaven's music might be sweeter, but its like that proverbial bowl of marshmallows when ur just a weak, infant soul. Dear God, make me grow up. Today.
And Protect me. Everyday.
And so, after what is probably a decade or more, I will travel out to the friendly city. And hope to see Grahamstown, too. When I completed by matric all those many years ago, I applied for my first choice of study, architecture, at PE university especially interested in the idea that the university is set at the seaside. I chose Wits in Johannesburg instead. But PE still beckons more than a decade later. I liek the idea that a place can be labelled the Friendly City. There's something feelgood about that. And I'm excited about the trip, even though I hear that it's already quite cold out there. And with the image of sun and sand in my head, I've already packed a bag of summer dresses and pretty tops with cargo pants, flip-flops and sunglasses. Oh and sun-screen too, of course.
And so, that's to be reviewed, but the excitement stays :)
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
the energy of words
words have energy. and so do books. even as a child, i was always overwhelmed by the energy inherent in the space of a library or bookshop. i grew up in a small town in the north called pietersburg. the little indian ghetto we lived in was called nirvana. my mom and i would walk to the library every so often. this event thrilled me beyond measure. i remember, i was barely five when i got my first book out the library. the tales of peter rabbit. the over zealous reader in me was enticed pretty early on, wanting to be an adult along with my twenty-something year old parents, and not the baby first-born happy only with teddybears and other such trinkets.
and so began my love affair with books. my parents are avid readers. so the energy follows along a bloodline, perhaps. or a kind of conditioning, maybe. what is interesting, is that, i chose the nerdy reclusive route of an adolescent, intent on burrowing in the world of words, rather than the shaky aspirations of the other kids. my friend mish reminds me often, of her visits to pietersburg, to her maternal grandparents. my sister would be enthralled by her tea-sets, and they could compare notes on barbie fads. (ok, i had an india barbie ;) but, i would be mesmerized by the single wall of towering bookshelves in her grandfather's lounge. layers upon layers of time old wisdom, collected here in his sacred space. i learned much later that, when he passed on, his oldest grandson (my mom's first cousin ebie) inherited his out-of-print works. i also learned, from my dad, that sunday afternoons were set aside for philosophical seminars in his lounge, attended by a select few of his friends. some of his grandchildren of my own age, lament not being at an age of understanding when he was around to impart the knowledge he possessed. but the energy that held my attention, and many others, was undeniable. i remember it still.
when i moved to johannesburg, i soon became acquainted with the old bookstores of mellville, the side roads of fordsburg (i bought orwells '1984' for R2.50!) and the flea market bookstalls at the zoo lake and bruma. old mellville is still my favourite hangout. last year, when i travelled to cape town for the bookfair, i discovered some worthy gems at the parade bookstalls (i got a signed copy of psychoanalyst june singer's 'seeing through the visible world' @ R25 - dr.singer worked with carl jung, btw:P). and this year, when i stayed out in durban for a few months, i happily came upon one or two places of rare bookish discovery, out in bulwer near the university, and in kensington (amitav gosh' 'the glass palace' and vikram seth's 'an equal music' at R40 each) etc.
london's all year sales place one in the happy position to buy books at 'three for two' bargains. and because of the large book buying potential, and hence the great print runs, prices are far cheaper than that of the south african book market. i find this both with regards to local and overseas print. i have my theories, and all are not related to cost. a sinister exploitation abounds. but thats another post.
books have an energy that sings to me like the piped piper did in that old folktale... let me not forget to mention the bookstores of old delhi. i have trudged and dragged my brother and some cousins at various times through the streets around the jama masjid in delhi's old quarter looking for hidden treasures, only to be delighted beyond my expectations. lucky for me, my dad shares my enthusiasm and has more than happily led the way. we're known to gift each other some or other book gift. and unlike a tie or a pair of socks kind of gift, i believe that books (for self and for gifts) find you, and not the other way around. books FIND you. i liked typing that. it reminds me of my new acquisitions, a single copy of 'the essential rumi' and 'the book of love' waited on a lonely shelf in mumbai for me ;)
there was a time when mumbai flourished with too many books to choose from. the 'fountain' area (think scene for movie 'chameli') once listed hundreds of sidewalk vendors intent on distributing largely pirated works, now long cleared up. but even there, i have my choice places to shop at. at least, now, shopping for books is less precarious. and still well worth the ardent search for works not to be found anywhere else in the world. of course, apart from the carefully placed individual booksellers, there are the mainstream stores. but its in these caves of some dust and many sweet-smelling pages that are to be found anything your reader imagination can conjur, from the best-selling popular fictions to the rarest of finds.
there is an energy about this. a sharing of someones soul, someones dreams, someones fears, someones hopes tried and tested. theres a flow of life in books. and this flow of life and energy binds us, inextricably. i am writing again. i feel linked to the energy of the universe in more than one way. spirit thirsts and is quenched. through books, and life, through believing and being.
and so began my love affair with books. my parents are avid readers. so the energy follows along a bloodline, perhaps. or a kind of conditioning, maybe. what is interesting, is that, i chose the nerdy reclusive route of an adolescent, intent on burrowing in the world of words, rather than the shaky aspirations of the other kids. my friend mish reminds me often, of her visits to pietersburg, to her maternal grandparents. my sister would be enthralled by her tea-sets, and they could compare notes on barbie fads. (ok, i had an india barbie ;) but, i would be mesmerized by the single wall of towering bookshelves in her grandfather's lounge. layers upon layers of time old wisdom, collected here in his sacred space. i learned much later that, when he passed on, his oldest grandson (my mom's first cousin ebie) inherited his out-of-print works. i also learned, from my dad, that sunday afternoons were set aside for philosophical seminars in his lounge, attended by a select few of his friends. some of his grandchildren of my own age, lament not being at an age of understanding when he was around to impart the knowledge he possessed. but the energy that held my attention, and many others, was undeniable. i remember it still.
when i moved to johannesburg, i soon became acquainted with the old bookstores of mellville, the side roads of fordsburg (i bought orwells '1984' for R2.50!) and the flea market bookstalls at the zoo lake and bruma. old mellville is still my favourite hangout. last year, when i travelled to cape town for the bookfair, i discovered some worthy gems at the parade bookstalls (i got a signed copy of psychoanalyst june singer's 'seeing through the visible world' @ R25 - dr.singer worked with carl jung, btw:P). and this year, when i stayed out in durban for a few months, i happily came upon one or two places of rare bookish discovery, out in bulwer near the university, and in kensington (amitav gosh' 'the glass palace' and vikram seth's 'an equal music' at R40 each) etc.
london's all year sales place one in the happy position to buy books at 'three for two' bargains. and because of the large book buying potential, and hence the great print runs, prices are far cheaper than that of the south african book market. i find this both with regards to local and overseas print. i have my theories, and all are not related to cost. a sinister exploitation abounds. but thats another post.
books have an energy that sings to me like the piped piper did in that old folktale... let me not forget to mention the bookstores of old delhi. i have trudged and dragged my brother and some cousins at various times through the streets around the jama masjid in delhi's old quarter looking for hidden treasures, only to be delighted beyond my expectations. lucky for me, my dad shares my enthusiasm and has more than happily led the way. we're known to gift each other some or other book gift. and unlike a tie or a pair of socks kind of gift, i believe that books (for self and for gifts) find you, and not the other way around. books FIND you. i liked typing that. it reminds me of my new acquisitions, a single copy of 'the essential rumi' and 'the book of love' waited on a lonely shelf in mumbai for me ;)
there was a time when mumbai flourished with too many books to choose from. the 'fountain' area (think scene for movie 'chameli') once listed hundreds of sidewalk vendors intent on distributing largely pirated works, now long cleared up. but even there, i have my choice places to shop at. at least, now, shopping for books is less precarious. and still well worth the ardent search for works not to be found anywhere else in the world. of course, apart from the carefully placed individual booksellers, there are the mainstream stores. but its in these caves of some dust and many sweet-smelling pages that are to be found anything your reader imagination can conjur, from the best-selling popular fictions to the rarest of finds.
there is an energy about this. a sharing of someones soul, someones dreams, someones fears, someones hopes tried and tested. theres a flow of life in books. and this flow of life and energy binds us, inextricably. i am writing again. i feel linked to the energy of the universe in more than one way. spirit thirsts and is quenched. through books, and life, through believing and being.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
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…
(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…
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