tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22620556679943706182024-03-28T19:59:24.511+02:00ixhanti lam"Asinakuthula umhlaba ubolile..." (we cannot keep quiet...-Nontsizi Mgqwetho)utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.comBlogger194125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-10134315439783961912024-02-03T07:32:00.025+02:002024-02-11T16:05:10.538+02:00Dress rehearsing joy<p style="text-align: center;"><i>It's not possible to constantly hone on the crisis; you have to have the love and you have to have the magic. That's also life. </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vgEhN4fypw" target="_blank">Toni Morrison</a></p><p><br /></p><p>Ndikhule sisokola ekhaya. There! I said it. Which is to say I grew up <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVD8YRgA-ck" target="_blank">dress rehearsing tragedy</a>. Lately I've felt the need to write more about my childhood (<a href="https://ixhantilam.blogspot.com/2023/10/every-time-it-rains.html" target="_blank">see previous post</a>, "Everytime it rains"). In the past, writing and talking about my childhood felt like giving into poverty porn and exposure because of all the consequences of being poor. Even while ndikhule sisokola, it wasn't within a politicisation about siyi-working klas ekhaya because I remembered a time when we weren't poor. Or perhaps we didn't seem poor. There were always stories and pictures: mama as a teacher and Tata as a clerk. We moved to the burbs in 1994 and we were well on our way to being South Africa's emerging black middle class; except it wasn't emerging because there's a history of black middle classness which I have seen in the images of my maternal great-grandparents. </p><p>Once upon a time my dad had the kind of work where he wore cuff links and tie pins, wore suits and carried a brief case. But slowly things began to change and each eviction made it very clear we were becoming working class. But within this experience, we had middle class sensibilities. My sister and I have often joked about being working class snobs. It didn't help that we went to a public girls' school which masqueraded as a private girls' school (story for another day). Much has been said about people rising out of poverty but the reserve is seldom equally scrutinised. And perhaps it is this weird silencing of this experience that has me reflecting a lot lately about my relationship with the sense of 'making it out of poverty'.</p><p>I know all about resilience and survival. I know all about how to develop an edge as an eleven year old. I know all the tricks about making sure intlupheko yam ingabhalwa kum. Kulomama kwakuthungwa (kusathungwa nangoku: EmaBheleni VG Mashologu Dressmakers, eMthini, Buffalo Street). Ndikhule umama esifundisa iindlela zokuba singabhaqwa ukuba siyasokola. Mama used to sew and make us beautiful clothes (this is why I have a tailor to this day; story for another day); so no-one knew the extent of our poverty by simply looking at us. But the mask was always precarious. Especially because we went to a school that had a disdain for poverty. And yet, on the other hand, walking around town wearing a green blazer and brown shoes meant that the world read me as a middle-class, English-speaking, suburban-living little girl. And I played my part. </p><p>If I had told people that I know what it means to sleep in an abandoned building eSouthernwood, they would have never believed me. If I had told people that I have an intimacy with homelessness, they would have never believed me. If I had told people I know what it's like to live ematyotyombeni eZiphunzane, they would never believe me. When I tell people that the scars on my hand are from a violent attempted mugging eZiphunzane on my 18th birthday, I suspect they don't believe me.</p><p>Even while I was buffered by school and church in my childhood (the perfect colonial subject) I have lived with the consequences of growing up within this hybrid experience of rich and poor, having and not having. My sister and I (whom I shared my experiences with during this period) carry many secrets from this phase of our lives. Some of the experiences were so traumatic our brains have protected us by forgetting. Imagine that: the body is designed to help us forget so we can keep living.</p><p>And now as an adult whose life does not reflect anything from my childhood, I am learning to live a life that is marked by a different hybridity. The poverty still exists in weird ways. But by and large, I made it out. But there's a precarity that lingers with reminders that I didn't make it out wholly because there are other households that depend on my salary. We didn't all make it out. And I live in a world where inequality is rising.</p><p>While I am no longer swallowed up by poverty, I have a different kind of burden: learning to live with the knowledge that abundance is possible and it is systemic. I have always been irked by that nonsense about "poverty mentality" but if it is true, then there must be a flipside: an abundance/wealth mentality. A belief that there is plenty in the world and that we are deserving of it. And if poverty creates a poverty mentality, how does one develop an abundance mentality? This is not simply self-help nonsense but a thinking aloud about how to make sense of a world that feels unfamiliar to me as I have grown up. When I was in varsity, a friend and I started sharing our life stories and we recognised so many similarities and she became a kindred spirit. We would reflect often about our milestones when we recognised the practical things that marked that we were no longer poor: buying toiletries! When we were poor toiletries were the basics and cost below R100. When we started making money toiletries all of a sudden could be R250! (an aside: that same friend is a trailblazer in her field and slays dragons from time to time!) This seems like a minor anecdote but I have plenty examples of realising the small and big shifts about how money has changed how I live in the world.</p><p>But back to poverty!</p><p>One of the tools of poverty is dress rehearsing tragedy. Because everything feels so out of control when you're poor, terrible things happen all the time. The systemics of poverty mean that a simple and natural occurrence like rain can turn into a flooding because of bad infrastructure. There are many examples of this daily grind: going to the toilet ematyotyombeni can turn into a dehumanising experience because communal toilets ematyotyombeni are vile (and deathly in the case of Michael Kompape who drowned in a pit latrine esikolweni). There's nothing like smelling shit all the time; especially in summer (this is why I have a poem titled "Ikaka" in <i>Ilifa; </i>it's very personal).</p><p>So from a young age, I learned to hustle and find ways of protecting my own dignity. Spirituality became the bedrock of building and sustaining that dignity. It's hard to explain the connection between prayer and the systemics of poverty, especially in a context where so many poor people are religious/spiritual and yet their poverty is enduring. But this is not what this essay is about because that needs more time to reflect upon. There were many times in my childhood where I prayed for things to change and they didn't; instead they got worse. I thought I would occupy this liminal space of poor-but-not-quite for the rest of my life. </p><p>But things did get better and the past decade has been a reckoning with this new reality. Even as I write this essay I am skirting around what I mean. In simple terms: I'm not poor. I have a job (in a context where unemployment is a reality for many young people), I have savings, I have enough money to share with my family, I can choose to use public transport because I have a car. I can control my life. And yes, much of this financial freedom is because I do not have children. And no, I am not the rich aunty!</p><p>In the past few years, many of the tools of poverty have become useless. And I have felt the anxiety of losing my street-cred. When I was 11 years old one of my teachers made it her job to ask me every time she saw me why I was scowling. This manifested as a tension in the skin above my eyes. I was stressed as a child. This aged me. This is one symptom of poverty, it ages children. And now, all I seem to hear is how young I look. I am no longer scowling (though I do have a mean resting bitch face). I attribute this to a change in lifestyle which is enabled by the fact that I live well. I have had to train myself out of dress rehearsing tragedy.</p><p>I now dress rehearse joy, blessings, soft things. But it feels like an active process. I have a myriad of mantras I have to repeat to myself to remind myself that it is good and it is true: I have a beautiful life. </p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVPAciFYZyyH5cZVKotvqxbum4XQho7zlV_0XzT6Som_BWLGLzfb69YpKJAvU5OIcI_lyzvJQN4XO-yBsSqcW9kwE4T0XCeMarigDFlcWCjqbR1sMnVsr4KcQD5dEdfu2GUEZWxtdyglolqn5QaOD7TekWRmJufDrsFL1KCHKw7GAJvwNedyssjxdL99A/s1600/IMG_4067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVPAciFYZyyH5cZVKotvqxbum4XQho7zlV_0XzT6Som_BWLGLzfb69YpKJAvU5OIcI_lyzvJQN4XO-yBsSqcW9kwE4T0XCeMarigDFlcWCjqbR1sMnVsr4KcQD5dEdfu2GUEZWxtdyglolqn5QaOD7TekWRmJufDrsFL1KCHKw7GAJvwNedyssjxdL99A/w400-h300/IMG_4067.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Jame's Tidal Pool</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>I began writing this essay while sitting at the St James tidal pool where I sometimes do my<a href="https://juliacameronlive.com/basic-tools/morning-pages/" target="_blank"> morning pages</a>. St James is a five minute drive from where I live. That's where most of my days begin. In the ocean. I have developed the ability to have a sense of time and leisure, to map out my day in a way that suits me. There's a direct correlation between poverty and how time feels like it's been stolen (mostly by the hustle). I have often heard myself reflect with a friend how spacious my days feel. I can do a lot mostly because I can take my time and work at my own pace (despite other schedules where there are meetings and workshops and deadlines which I know how to work with and around). Poverty steals time and joy. </p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglb4d9LCp5kb99j0zvWWUwhd8k3YuqaZbnlk2z5vh0BeMq2ghbOp4ErDDE7cBki1M5vjxvrhZNtit32t7nH3lQTrw1lsEu2KqDkd8gdCU4CbYz0jzusWIrTYbbsFvuv8yAZu-wQOEBr5FsjHmBPYMmSwUTL6ixVfEHBTr5KzVokEG_NzYApQyk0r-ajgA/s1600/IMG_4065.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglb4d9LCp5kb99j0zvWWUwhd8k3YuqaZbnlk2z5vh0BeMq2ghbOp4ErDDE7cBki1M5vjxvrhZNtit32t7nH3lQTrw1lsEu2KqDkd8gdCU4CbYz0jzusWIrTYbbsFvuv8yAZu-wQOEBr5FsjHmBPYMmSwUTL6ixVfEHBTr5KzVokEG_NzYApQyk0r-ajgA/w400-h300/IMG_4065.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>Writing this essay has been an act of savouring. To allow myself to say ndisuka kude. It's okay for me to do my morning pages elwandle. And take my time.</p><p>And yet, from time to time, I have to suspend the thoughts about the collective activism to end poverty's injustices. And then I have to reckon with some of that guilt. Survivor's guilt perhaps. I am learning to allow myself simple joys of being in the sun, frolicking in the water (before I encounter emails, sometimes working from home, which I love). </p><p>One day I might write a longer piece about the joy toolkit. Maybe when I no longer feel like I am in the learning phase. But I'm already pre-empting whether that would mean I am taking the goodness for granted. But for now, I know that gratitude is the mainstay of the joy toolkit. It seems too simple but somehow it has changed the texture of my life.</p><p><i>Photo credit: Chris McConnachie</i></p><p><br /></p>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-14384563924943487982023-10-08T20:46:00.002+02:002023-10-08T20:46:41.289+02:00Umoya<p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; text-align: left; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Sundays are days of holiness and beauty...</i>-- Myesha Jenkins, ("I call it home”)</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">This post began writing itself while I was in the water a few hours ago. I was swimming laps which is always a time for reflection and allowing my mind to wander. A strange sensation occurred as I swam breaststroke. I burped. It was a release I didn't even know I needed. It felt like an air bubble had been trapped in my body. I wondered where it came from. It felt like a release yokukhupha umoya. My body felt instantly lighter. Free. Clearer. My body took me to places about my relationship with umoya. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Yipasika. It's an evening service. Siyacula. UYesu asikamvusi. The service is coming to an end. IGuilders recently introduced instimbi ecaweni and it's causing tensions. A'khoseziyoni apha. KuseWisile. Sibetha umpampampa. Intsimbi yenza ikenqke. Ivusa imimoya. But we persist as ulutsha because there's something that wants intsimbi ecaweni. There's something that demands ikenqke eWisile. We were standing in a circle about to do ufefe. His outburst was akin to a lament at first and then a torrent of wailing. Yangathi yimbongi but he was also crying. His tiny body convulsed and was shaken and taken over by something else. We were singing iculo which died down into a hum while his outburst morphed into a prayer. No one panicked. We witnessed. I don't remember what he said. But I remember the feeling of witnessing. It felt like something important was happening. Umfundisi and umama unoBhayibhile inched towards him and prayed for him, calming him down. There was no rush. Umoya wanikwa ithuba. The song continued. We were all part of the moment. Later mama would explain that unomoya la mntwana. That child was taken over by a spirit. This made him special. It made us special that the spirit would give us the opportunity to witness a holy moment. We were safe enough for his release. I never forgot the moment of being a witness. </i></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">This is the memory which comes to mind as I am in the water feeling my body change and I am trying to trace where the air bubble comes from. I was in church earlier. I went to a different service in the 'burbs rather than eKhayelitsha where I have been trying to ensconce myself as a member amongst people who do not know who I am. The music wasn't great. The preacher even said ingathi asikaculi as the service began. It was a slow warm up. Te Deum was a disaster. I regretted not going to my church which never sacrifices uSiyakudumisa. But because I am my mother's daughter, I had to suspend my judgement and be in the service and choose to be present. The moment came when we sang <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aVURWvHuFlw">Nkosi ndive ngezibele</a>. It's one of those hymns that always changes the texture of the room. It is transcendental. Like many songs eWisile it has the ability yokuvuselela. Ivusa imimoya.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I grew up in the black church. And after many years of bumbling through multiracial churches and white churches, I am firmly back in the black church for political and psychospiritual reasons. But at the most fundamental level, nditsalwa yingoma. One thing I was never able to replicate when I left the church for almost ten years was the collective embodiment of spirit. The heaving and swaying of bodies singing together. Creating something beautiful. Evoking something elevating. Raising the roof in song. Edifying ourselves. Sizinika ubuntu bethu. Together. Carrying each other through sound and reading the room anticipating when we have had enough and when we have healed our bodies by moving together and singing together.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">This is an ancient register. Ndikhule ekhaya kukho iintlombe. I grew up missing them when we moved to the 'burbs. I grew up around the magic of umoya and what it can do. I grew up knowing the power of igubu and the pounding in my chest which mirrored igubu. I grew up with prayer that made us weep. I grew up knowing that words chosen carefully and said in a voice trembling with reverence and fear had the ability to lift our burdens and change our perspective after the tears released our bodies. I grew up with words said by elders which made a material impact in the world. I have been chasing this holiness throughout my adult life. And in the absence yentlombe nemisebenzi ekhaya, I find it through amaculo aseWisile.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">After the sermon today we sang <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEE3MpP1WAs">Lukhangela kuwe</a>. Another elevation which is the most moving when sang in reverence in a slow tempo. I recognised the bubble in my chest. But because I do not trust my body and I was in an unfamiliar church, I made an active decision to ignore it. I gave myself to the songs hoping that would relieve my body. I have seen people allow themselves a wail, a scream and sometimes a whimper in church. Sometimes it's grief. Sometimes banyukelwa ngumoya. I have actively denied the wail. Andiyifuni into ejongisayo. But I also insist on safety before I let myself go. Those who know, know that I am kidding myself. My restraint will only take me so far and one day it will betray me. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But for today, the release came in the water while in a stroke I have identified as a heart opening gesture. I denied myself witnesses. The environment felt artificial. There was no song to carry me. Just the sound of the few other swimmers and my body changing in posture. I was relieved that at least my body would not allow me to sit with the bubble in my chest. I was reminded of something igqirha once said to me when I was trying to understand umoya intellectually. She said to me, the body always remembers. Today my body remembered umoya. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But come to think of it, the bubble began last night while watching <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHs7Lld0R9M" target="_blank">Gregory Maqoma's Exit/Exist</a>. I felt it in my body. I walked away telling my friend I have artist envy. I have witnessed artists who allow themselves to become vessels zomoya. Last night Gregory Maqoma, the singers and the guitarist became those vessels.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFWMwfePqCPcFcaV1zWDBRNBIgXGE2CpRJbe6VVPFYwGy8xU-R-8G9OSZssKrrGM2X3sIqlEtQCt8hwOzMqSBb4KAOn_4HlFxxl7bqSSUWBC0kLNamlFgRdeTnT3g0xPZC07lM7SCdu6K4TSlxflb9D24HBddYej1wLYpQmnzRSZivuX_EH3THy4JCq0/s2145/Screenshot%202023-10-08%20at%2020.04.57.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2145" data-original-width="1125" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFWMwfePqCPcFcaV1zWDBRNBIgXGE2CpRJbe6VVPFYwGy8xU-R-8G9OSZssKrrGM2X3sIqlEtQCt8hwOzMqSBb4KAOn_4HlFxxl7bqSSUWBC0kLNamlFgRdeTnT3g0xPZC07lM7SCdu6K4TSlxflb9D24HBddYej1wLYpQmnzRSZivuX_EH3THy4JCq0/w336-h640/Screenshot%202023-10-08%20at%2020.04.57.png" width="336" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Watching a friend of mine perform recently I had the same sensation. She's a singer. And I recently told her one day I will write about her (this is not that piece) because I have seen her perform a few times and I have watched her harness her gift and allow it to do what it needs to do in the room. To evoke ubuntu bethu. We had a long conversation about creativity and what it does in the world and recognising my own anxieties and insecurities. My friend seems to have the confidence I lack and I witnessed this in the short set she did. I was struck by her hands and arms: wide open as though she was embracing the room. At times it felt like a take off, as though she would levitate. I'm sure she will be shocked by my observation. Maybe I am projecting. Maybe I was searching for an elevating experience and I found it in her performance. She seemed to give herself to the moment and give her voice to the room wholeheartedly. A full body experience that cannot be be done otherwise; because the people in the room know wholeheartedness when they see it. They know hollowness and superficiality when they see it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Today swimming gave me a gift I didn't know I even needed. In the same way collective singing holds me together. Swimming reminded my body that it needs umoya. Swimming reminded me to suspend my complicated feelings with church and the politics and its history. This is only possible when I allow my body to remember.</span></span></div>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-45415553678139935722023-10-01T21:31:00.003+02:002023-10-01T21:50:32.657+02:00Every time it rains<p> It's hard to believe that this time last week I was huddled in blankets with the heater blazing and viscerally shook by the raging storm outside. When people called or texted to check on me I told them kuyagwetywa, ngunogumbhe! Everywhere I went last week people were complaining about the prolonged winter. I have now mastered the art of hibernating and using all the paraphernalia to protect myself from the rain and the cold.</p><p>My sister and mother are the only two people who have an intimate knowledge of the trigger which comes with rain that remains for too long. We share a memory. A trigger. I sent my sister a picture of the weather forecast with the message "It's been a horrible day". </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgx-FgRAJjeSSqIm8Z_2jpHzBd1IE1Ku5XYRTsqrRI3Mx2AHY60YeakF26W-23EwAvJ7n1HmQanCFq2AedboVADhRAi0iyqvHg0qC2oosHps9xemrtd9A1OpxmjMVzM-52eKkOETj744SJZLNu9X0z6TqJEYQvGlqUyE7-__s41P8ulVv8hij6eUA6qro/s1600/PHOTO-2023-09-24-22-04-17%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="942" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgx-FgRAJjeSSqIm8Z_2jpHzBd1IE1Ku5XYRTsqrRI3Mx2AHY60YeakF26W-23EwAvJ7n1HmQanCFq2AedboVADhRAi0iyqvHg0qC2oosHps9xemrtd9A1OpxmjMVzM-52eKkOETj744SJZLNu9X0z6TqJEYQvGlqUyE7-__s41P8ulVv8hij6eUA6qro/w235-h400/PHOTO-2023-09-24-22-04-17%20(1).jpg" width="235" /></a></div><br /><p>Not only because of the weather and the havoc it was causing. I had finally decided to face a reoccurring memory which returns every time it rains. Unabatedly. When I shared this with my sister she responded "Rainy days are always the hardest for me". This is the code we share from surviving our childhood. Unlike <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNTksUjElRw" target="_blank">MamGcina Mhlophe's poem "Sometimes when it rains"</a> which begins "Sometimes when it rains/I smile to myself...", my memories of the rain leave me hollow and grateful all at once. </p><p>The memory comes and goes and each time it returns it takes on a different meaning. I am sleeping on water. I can still hear the sound of the rain when we went to bed that night. We made umondlalo wethu as usual: blankets on the floor for extra padding, mama on the couch. We had no furniture that was ours by this point. Just our clothes, a few dishes and pots we had salvaged from the numerous evictions we had already had. Loss was another member of the dwindling family. When we woke up the next day, we woke up to the sound of the rain and the shiver from water seeping through the blankets. By the time we opened the door to let in the light and figure out what was happening amanzi ayesemaqatheni.</p><p>We lived in a backroom in Southernwood. It was behind a house that had been converted into offices. We were there after an eviction. There had been a night outside followed by the kindness of a stranger who offered a room in an abandoned building eSkyways where we stayed for a week with strangers. It was the beginning of a school year. By now we had mastered the art of hiding our reality at school. When we needed help getting our meagre belongings to eSkyways we had to blow our cover and ask a friend's dad for help because we needed a bakkie. They were so bewildered and we convinced them everything was under control. Nothing was. There was a caucus on our behalf and a friend's aunt organised a room: the main house were the offices of an NGO, there was a garage and the storeroom. </p><p>We didn't have a bed. They provided a couch, a trapezium-shaped table, a blue plastic chair and another wooden table and the floor. Mama slept on the couch, my sister and I on the floor. We hung our clothes on the walls and behind the door. Hangers on a nail. The rest of our belongings went into the garage. Mama kept some clothes under the cushions of the couch, a tactic to keep them neat in lieu of ironing. We had become so familiar with letting go with each eviction. The flooding was yet another invitation to let go. We had no choice. Like fire, water is unstoppable. It bleeds through everything. </p><p>"I'm sleeping on water" my sister said. I thought she was sleep talking. I'd like to remember I was awake or half awake and cold (I think I was cold for most of my childhood and thought that was normal; I once spent an entire day in wet uniform and school shoes after being rained on while walking to school. My feet were prunes when I eventually took off my school shoes which probably had holes in them; story for another day). </p><p>Mama got up from the couch and her feet landed on the wet floor. My sister and I slept head to toe: my head against the couch, hers towards the door. The room was the length of our teenage bodies and the width of a couch. By the time we opened the door the water had begun its destruction. Maybe it was hours or minutes but the water soon reached our knees and everything was at risk. What we managed to salvage was on the table. There was little time to think. We had to carry the water out in buckets. The helplessness. The confusion; avela phi la manzi? Kutheni engapheli? It was while fighting with the water that we remembered we had boxes in the garage and they were not safe from the rising water. I don't remember when we asked for the keys to get them out but I remember assessing the damage and laying out things to dry in the sun when it eventually returned. </p><p>Throughout the flooding mama convinced us she had everything under control. She was the captain of a sinking ship. We were in full blown survival mode. A muscle we had learned to develop since the first eviction almost ten years prior. Mama was in manic episode mode which meant the water was also a sign from God. Okanye sithakathiwe? Again? Why didn't God send a miracle like he did for Noah?</p><p>The day was spent making attempts at controlling the water. A futile attempt. We later discovered there was a spring-like outpouring of water at the crevice where the floor meets the wall, behind the couch. A steady flow of nature that we could have never controlled. We had to wait for the rain to pass. </p><p>We were in recovery mode for days after the rain stopped. This must have happened during the holidays because I don't remember going to school during the ordeal. That was where we could escape to and enter a world where there was routine, safety and predictability.</p><p>Maybe people offered us a place to stay that night. I don't remember. I remember the three of us trying to figure it out together. We slept in the same room that night. We had removed everything. The floor was bare. We made makeshift beds negotiating some kind of care with each other and a readiness should the rain return and the spring to well up again.It never did. But sleeping with the sound of the rain was never the same.</p><p>It has taken me years to appreciate the rain. To love it even. But I have too many umbrellas. I never want to be caught off guard. This fragmented memory means the memory is not yet ready to return fully. Or perhaps my brain is still protecting me from the trauma of dispossession. If I remember everything I may weep and never stop. I might have to remember ematyotyombeni Eziphunzane which I've tried to unpeal in a poem in <i>Ilifa. </i></p><p>But today I am safe enough. The sun has been good. I can face my sadness when it returns because I know how to live after a night of fighting the rain and the water. These days I can worry about the plants in the garden and how much they need the rain. My 15-year old self would never have believed it. And yet here she is, ugcakamela ilanga.</p><p><br /></p>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-41431696911660423252023-08-28T01:54:00.000+02:002023-08-28T01:54:22.114+02:00Thank you Kampala...again!<p> I have been visiting Uganda every few months since last year July. And every time I visit I feel like my humanity is stretched a little more. When I visited last year, I was here for an introductory trip. It was just a week and I had come to introduce myself to people I had been chatting to over email. I've had a bee in my bonnet about a South African woman who moved to Uganda in 1939 and married a Ugandan man. She lived such a storied life I convinced myself I should write her biography and now here I am: reading about the Buganda, the women’s movement in Uganda, pre-independence Uganda and making new friends and family in another country. When I visited in January earlier this year, I was welcomed into a family who looked after me for two weeks. This past week I have been here for a conference and reconnecting with some people. I have been stunned that the research journey has been as equally fascinating as the archival and writing journey. Maybe I will follow <a href="https://johannesburgreviewofbooks.com/2020/05/21/sampler-issue-read-an-excerpt-from-a-new-edition-of-ddt-jabavus-travelogue-in-india-and-east-africa-e-indiya-nase-east-africa-in-isixhosa-and-english/" target="_blank">DDT Jabavu</a> and write a travelogue about visiting East Africa. I definitely won't be following in <a href="https://johannesburgreviewofbooks.com/2019/08/05/on-noni-jabavu-and-the-return-home-makhosazana-xaba-celebrates-one-of-south-africas-foundational-literary-centenarians/" target="_blank">Noni Jabavu's</a> footsteps whose writing about her experience in Uganda caused much umbrage when her memoir <i>Drawn in Colour </i>was published in 1960.</p><p>I'm writing this post sitting in a hotel room in Nakasero, passing time in anticipation of the midnight trek to the airport for an early morning flight at Entebbe. I have been rehearsing this post for months (initially as an op-ed rather than a blog) because every time I visit Kampala my heart rate drops, my life moves a little slower and my humanity is restored. This is not to romanticise the city and the country but rather to recognise that despite the context, I have been able to witness and experience the complexities of freedom and questions of ubuntu.</p><p>I will not regale you about the many experiences thus far but offer a snapshot of what I experienced a few hours ago. After a slow day recovering from a conference at Makerere University, I had lunch with what I have decided to call my Kampala family. After a few hours of some soulful connection and warm hugs and affection I left to get ready to meet a friend to watch a production I had seen on Instagram: <a href="https://www.newvision.co.ug/category/news/batalo-easts-traditional-dance-nambi-to-show-NV_168440" target="_blank">Nambi: The African Shieldmaidens at the National Theatre</a>. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mRz97491mXlX-9PpEXaY8FZVZg8zgbEpk8kY6BwIq9W6GverQ2-HsekIeqhPRm4KWD-W_eKmL1GsMc6_2HWuiJl4hI1C_dn2Fv-3NBADa2JIugsdqG-uShqLTIeEJ_iVLJmiQBjuHWzgFIQfiDYLd01kIKx_wv-_QCHhXsOgxzKkUA_PwTH1hbrHpoY/s2048/Nambi%20poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1388" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mRz97491mXlX-9PpEXaY8FZVZg8zgbEpk8kY6BwIq9W6GverQ2-HsekIeqhPRm4KWD-W_eKmL1GsMc6_2HWuiJl4hI1C_dn2Fv-3NBADa2JIugsdqG-uShqLTIeEJ_iVLJmiQBjuHWzgFIQfiDYLd01kIKx_wv-_QCHhXsOgxzKkUA_PwTH1hbrHpoY/w271-h400/Nambi%20poster.jpg" width="271"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: Batalo East Twitter</td></tr></tbody></table>I didn't google the production. I was mostly interested in the experience and wanted to see the theatre as I only know about it through the market situated behind the theatre (which has been my Kampala card with friends who live in Kampala but had never been to the market: blog post for another day). The poster gave me Wakanda vibes and I decided to suspend some of my cynicism. When my friend cancelled I had a moment of doubt, but when I saw the theatre is five minutes away from the hotel (only when there's no traffic on a Sunday) I felt compelled to go.<div><br></div><div>I arrived 5 minutes before the show was about to start and the foyer was definitely giving me African-theatre vibes. The theatre was smaller than I had imagined but a solid building with good bones that probably hasn't been upgraded too many times. But it had the same quaint feeling I get at the <a href="https://www.thelabia.co.za/">Labia Theatre in Cape Town</a> in a strange way. The foyer was an African jungle aesthetic with grass on the floor. I braced myself. Before the production began there was a voice over prompting the singing of the national anthem (insert eye roll). I sat near the front. There was a healthy sized audience with most muzungus I've seen in a week (much like the Jane Goodall lecture I had attended earlier in the week when I arrived; another post for another day). There was a red velvet curtain covering the stage which reminded me of school productions. More nostalgia.</div><div><br></div><div>And then the production began. There was smoke emerging from behind the curtain as it was rolling up. The music and the special effects had me spell bound. Five beautiful women appeared on stage. Their focus and postures signaled something important was about to unfold. Even while their costume (especially their hairstyles) screamed Wakanda Forever (I'm being tongue in cheek; if I wasn't so cyncial I would be referring to <a href="https://consciousness.co.za/case-study-miriam-makeba-hair-beauty-icon/">Miriam Makeba's iconic hairstyles</a> inspired by traditional African hairstyles like the one Thandiswa Mazwai and Simphiwe Dana have also had) I decided to pay attention and allow myself to get lost in the music and the smoke. When the smoke cleared the stage set was bare with the exception of bamboo looking sticks suspended at the back of the stage. </div><div><br></div><div>The shieldmaidens captivated me with their movements. Their costumes were not quite as scant as the warriors in the movie Woman King, but the women were definitely Agoji adjacent. There was something heavy and dignified about their presence on stage. Regal. Their movements however, were not loud, but their bodies carried the story. They occupied the entire stage in synchronous moves that were disciplined and edgy. After about 30 minutes my cynicism returned. I was getting tired of the intensity that seemed to lack range even while it was rivetting and beautifully choreographed. Without any knowledge about the story I had to make it up on my own and read the story carefully through the movements. And then something changed.</div><div><br></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-MTVi0hGj2ZlK0QKh2oWTHG7WYV-x1ooJ1HVl_kGBc7WIW6g8ULz4WIAKjglrOxUduEx9gwNFtCiSghWCBF5C_32Ks8obZlPBZHcze_XcH3C3X2fbV9zAvvu-KON_Iw0NW_QC-aXEuHuEZYKepfngFnUv_toR4F7APFEZtuhNGf0r3qG230otFL5LtuE/s2048/first%20half.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="2048" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-MTVi0hGj2ZlK0QKh2oWTHG7WYV-x1ooJ1HVl_kGBc7WIW6g8ULz4WIAKjglrOxUduEx9gwNFtCiSghWCBF5C_32Ks8obZlPBZHcze_XcH3C3X2fbV9zAvvu-KON_Iw0NW_QC-aXEuHuEZYKepfngFnUv_toR4F7APFEZtuhNGf0r3qG230otFL5LtuE/w640-h312/first%20half.jpg" width="640"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: Ojok Okot, Twitter</td></tr></tbody></table><br><div>The first layer of the costume (which I interpreted as the army uniform) came off. Beneath were chiffon dresses and tassles. This felt like a moment of shedding skin. This was followed by a solo performance by one of the maidens which drew me in. The intensity of the first half softened. There was a vulnerability and an openness in the solo piece. When the other shieldmaidens returned on stage the softness continued. Until this point, the shieldmaidens had not made much physical contact with each other. They were constantly well choreographed, in formation. Army-like precision. Until they shed off the capes. The contact was gentle and at times even sensual. It felt like an introduction to the shieldmaidens behind the masks of precision and order. There was a tenderness and beauty. There was a cradling and being in each others arms which revealed a perhaps more human side to the strength and edginess in the first half. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHIgrkel3Rhxw1j1-FG-nUpcyv8fp08mnCf5MP8ZbuyYciBHubuv_fNIC9iv43qClJ7j9uwxJT2F-aTlSc3ljJUIkvsrGfegItxmx8JvYZyEJthCJcb1tnaWqaDTx870lzK7hnUqSuxC9mY8fi0t0f1vHqZha0_BlB-xRenrDRygxV5togIo6lAVdJA0/s2048/second%20half%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHIgrkel3Rhxw1j1-FG-nUpcyv8fp08mnCf5MP8ZbuyYciBHubuv_fNIC9iv43qClJ7j9uwxJT2F-aTlSc3ljJUIkvsrGfegItxmx8JvYZyEJthCJcb1tnaWqaDTx870lzK7hnUqSuxC9mY8fi0t0f1vHqZha0_BlB-xRenrDRygxV5togIo6lAVdJA0/w640-h480/second%20half%202.jpg" width="640"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: Procy Arinaitwe Twitter</td></tr></tbody></table><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbYEwM3LfiPXhnVI-uOZzAjKgyLSxp-P0EerHvwMLdSqwRyu32ySMufc_IjrJMLNPRkcdfHJVFOHuhJLo46Lwdq3mbHnXPs9GU4t_ML0DcnaCfE0Z7v2QgQPOuWZ-3xhtqR-ZAPXoi_pq9LpQPP2MIufL5uPE6jix_nEbzXSCWOkUOM9mHv2zPTLmUDM/s2048/second%20half.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbYEwM3LfiPXhnVI-uOZzAjKgyLSxp-P0EerHvwMLdSqwRyu32ySMufc_IjrJMLNPRkcdfHJVFOHuhJLo46Lwdq3mbHnXPs9GU4t_ML0DcnaCfE0Z7v2QgQPOuWZ-3xhtqR-ZAPXoi_pq9LpQPP2MIufL5uPE6jix_nEbzXSCWOkUOM9mHv2zPTLmUDM/w640-h480/second%20half.jpg" width="640"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: Batalo East, Twitter<br><br><br></td></tr></tbody></table>There was a moment when all their bodies were woven together as though they were one body rocking a baby. It reminded me of the moments of warmth and care when women gather together to look after each other. However, this did not last very long, a shadow emerged when the flimsy dresses were discarded signaling and unlayering of the maidens' complexity.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxLPwHy-5CMSbsLekU8ARClIBtB5K5tFC8GOB3ZZEAavVnqTVG_afUkeTLxENPCe7HuUzVEr6DZJZuO1PFgcrXfm8UvqaXuJsABZGGWTkmveQGDn9AlEhJlGAkOQ-xV2iZu3hAemIy-E8zCA-ZDkPIf3k_TC5P3HNowanxmOZYIgUOtLNlhyJE41daCk/s4096/last%20costume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="2731" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxLPwHy-5CMSbsLekU8ARClIBtB5K5tFC8GOB3ZZEAavVnqTVG_afUkeTLxENPCe7HuUzVEr6DZJZuO1PFgcrXfm8UvqaXuJsABZGGWTkmveQGDn9AlEhJlGAkOQ-xV2iZu3hAemIy-E8zCA-ZDkPIf3k_TC5P3HNowanxmOZYIgUOtLNlhyJE41daCk/w266-h400/last%20costume.jpg" width="266"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: Andrew Kaggwa Mayiga Twitter</td></tr></tbody></table><br><div>There was a shadow cast and dances between the maidens felt like animosity and danger between each other. The rawness had me gasping out loud at some of the movements and interactions amongst the shieldmaidens because they were no longer in formation but at times scattered and violent towards each other. This was another layer unfolding in the story. That behind the facade of perfection and even some of the warmth in the previous scenes, there is a shadow in women's relationships. There is a shadow amongst strong, black women. Not simply the stereotypical and sexist 'pull-her-down' rhetoric but something about the shadows we carry in all of us. That ,it is in the spaces of intimacy that we experience the most difficult parts of ourselves and those we are close to. But there was also a de-individuating where the choreography was not synchronous but it was jarring and angular. It was the music and the lighting that signaled the final shift where there was a resolve amongst the shieldmaidens. </div><div><br></div><div>I haven't experienced this kind of journey and teleporting through a theatre production in a while. I was mesmerised by the ways in which the women's bodies could sustain a story and shapeshift throughout the hour (though the show felt longer). I wondered what it meant to showcase such intimacy and beauty using the body in a context that is so hellbent on policing bodies in light of the homophobic laws in Uganda. There was something subversive about the production, even while there was a simple beauty in portraying a story about women who are powerful, strong, beautiful, tender and soft all at the same time. It was groundbreaking to watch the ways in which bodies can carry a story without using words and excessive props. There was an expansiveness for the audience to imagine what is unsaid and remains in a gesture and a look.</div><div><br></div><div>The production received a rousing standing ovation. It was deserved. It was at the end of the production that the cast and production team were introduced: Nabaggala Lilian Maximilian, Nakato Rachael, Natabi Salama, Nambooze Haula, and kawesa Shanta. I also heard about <a href="https://bataloeast.org/">Batalo East</a> and the rest of the team joined the cast on stage. Lilian shared how this had been a journey which begun in 2017 as a cast of three women and performed in Ethiopia and Rwanda. </div><div><br></div><div>This production was the best way to end the week in Kampala. It was a witnessing of what is possible when the arts are taken seriously. It was a suspension of time in order to experience a beautiful story. It was also another window into the creative world which is thriving in Kampala. I walked away wishing I had a blesser and/or patron that could support this work so it can travel into the world. There is something about beautiful experiences which edify and expand our humanity. Nambi was an edifying experience. </div><div><br></div><div>I plan to return to Kampala in November for more research which is to say, another experience that will stretch my imagination and sense of being in the world. There’s so much that happened in this short week. Perhaps there will be more reflections about Kampala. But for now, thank you Kampala. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><p><br></p></div>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-16738107151295958072023-08-13T20:33:00.004+02:002023-08-13T21:27:36.527+02:00The consequences of ostriching<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnSArGSYTEu4ZdLBIYDsMpPJ3EUGazsN4c6KWtwM-tuRofyUjKHMcKxgHs5fBvFFyU5I8ZrmcfIrhGMxm6fER-4uhrvuHHGwCer907zyvVllX6w59MRg7zk5dZb-N88chfR_MeVz2gyi09amSrfxubq0v1g9XOJ7hzo62a4D15kILcuKVF1VzsNbBQPuo/s1125/IMG_95E114B3E42B-1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1125" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnSArGSYTEu4ZdLBIYDsMpPJ3EUGazsN4c6KWtwM-tuRofyUjKHMcKxgHs5fBvFFyU5I8ZrmcfIrhGMxm6fER-4uhrvuHHGwCer907zyvVllX6w59MRg7zk5dZb-N88chfR_MeVz2gyi09amSrfxubq0v1g9XOJ7hzo62a4D15kILcuKVF1VzsNbBQPuo/w400-h306/IMG_95E114B3E42B-1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>We therefore make bold to say that South Africa is a country of two nations. One of these nations is white, relatively prosperous, regardless of gender or geographic dispersal. It has ready access to a developed economic, physical, educational, communication and other infrastructure...The second and larger nation of South Africa is black and poor, with the worst affected being women in the rural areas, the black rural population in general and the disabled...This reality of two nations, underwritten by the perpetuation of the racial, gender and spatial disparities born of a very long period of colonial and apartheid white minority domination, constitutes the material base which reinforces the notion that, indeed, we are not one nation, but two nations. (Thabo Mbeki, 1998)</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfECcWrq77UjqvFzc8wt4nyKtpLF50-hnUfFarn_DgJYpAXkYm37oyDgSxHgmQcc0ES5OOIxV-fCPmagxYqoK-6rGgupELjyJ9TPyJHajYXZe-21ikR7tPDTGWf6wF6OBe1cuJqFt9vr0AlCqe9TYnzOzBSjfOU8U4gwbLt_iCwGztNaCAodasFzjiOEI/s1125/IMG_E34598EB07D6-1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1125" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfECcWrq77UjqvFzc8wt4nyKtpLF50-hnUfFarn_DgJYpAXkYm37oyDgSxHgmQcc0ES5OOIxV-fCPmagxYqoK-6rGgupELjyJ9TPyJHajYXZe-21ikR7tPDTGWf6wF6OBe1cuJqFt9vr0AlCqe9TYnzOzBSjfOU8U4gwbLt_iCwGztNaCAodasFzjiOEI/w320-h245/IMG_E34598EB07D6-1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I was not affected by the recent taxi strike in Cape Town. Inconvenienced, but not affected. I watched and listened from afar and began to realise that I have the privilege of checking out because I am on the receiving end of the apartheid spatial design which makes it possible to be unaffected by the experience of the majority. And to some extent, to check out, to ostrich. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I was away when the news broke. My sister sent me a message checking on me. I went to social media to find out what was happening. I read the traffic updates with dread. I returned to Cape Town on Saturday afternoon and the only inconvenience waiting for me was my luggage not arriving. I left the airport without my luggage, picked up my car with the hope that I will be informed when the suitcase has arrived. After a few follow up calls on Sunday morning I received a call that my suitcase was at the airport. I decided I would pick it up after church. I go to church in Khayelitsha and the airport is not too far. En route I saw three caspers (are they still called caspers?): two belonging to the police and one from a private security company. This was the first sign of alarm that something was amiss. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I decided to go to work on Monday because I needed to finalise some admin but also to try get a sense of the effect of the strike. My drive to work was smooth. Ominously so. There was not even a hint of the violence I had read about. I arrived at work without even a hitch. I was face to face with the realisation that I live on the right side of the two nations President Mbeki spoke of in 1998 (previous reflections on this blog can be read <a href="https://ixhantilam.blogspot.com/2019/08/two-nations-mamelodi-high-school-and.html">here</a>). This world has made it possible for me to be inconvenienced but not affected. It allows me to check out when I need to. Driving to work last week meant that my life could carry on smoothly. By and large I have the kind of life that allows me to ostrich. I developed this habit during lockdown as a form of protection. I didn't want any information about the number of deaths, I didn't want to know what was happening in the world provided my bubble was secure. It was a survival tactic because when I did start paying attention I found myself inundated with terrible news which would render me comatose. I may have perfected the art of ostriching since then.</p><p style="text-align: left;">While I am part of active communities which are interested in participating in the world, the extent of my activist work has largely been writing letters, gathering resources but not necessarily taking to the streets. In fact, I have rejected the idea of being an activist the more I have watched how middle class my world has become. While I grew up poor, it would be disingenuous and dishonest to claim any kind of working class experience other than what is in my past. While I am grateful for this change, I know that the window for upward mobility has shrunk over the past decades (as I reflect in this <a href="https://mg.co.za/thoughtleader/opinion/2022-10-07-restore-state-institutions-to-take-people-out-of-the-cycle-of-poverty/" target="_blank">Mail and Guardian article</a>) and the cycle of poverty is reproduced over and over again in many black households. I decided to go to a church in Khayelitsha because I want to remain proximate to the other world described in the extract above. I do not want to forget. I do not want to take anything for granted (and perhaps this needs a separate post to explore further). And yet, from time to time, I ostrich. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I drive to work on the M3. If I drive via Boyes Drive for the scenic view, I can avoid the taxis on Main Road. When I get on the highway there are no taxis. I haven't been stuck in back to back traffic since I left Joburg. I roll my eyes everytime people in the southern suburbs tell me about traffic. Maybe people on the N2 and N1 have a different experience but traffic on the M3 is nothing compared to what I experienced in Joburg. If I miss the school traffic in the mornings, I can avoid traffic altogether in my daily life. This is just one example which shows that it is possible for me to curate a middle class life that knows nothing of struggle other than a few inconveniences. This realisation has left me deeply troubled because I have a glimpse into the world of people who are born into this world and know nothing of struggle. </p><p style="text-align: left;">A few months ago when this dawned on me, I was raging with friends: given what we know about inequality, surely it must implode. I have imagined the apocalypse many times. When I first moved to Sunninghill Gardens, a gated suburb in the north of Johannesburg, I ideated about how easy it would be to block off all the entrances, and stage an insurrection: burn and kill all the middle class people living behind the safety of their walls and security. This never happened of course. Since moving to the deep south of Cape Town my apocalyptic ideations have returned. Unlike Johannesburg, this part of Cape Town has very few back routes. There's Main Road, M3, M5, Baden Powell Road and Ou Kaapse Weg. A revolt seems easy enough: block off all the main roads, start a fire and hopefully it pushes everyone towards the sea or the mountain (this hypothetical still needs some work). The point is, there's a way to block off entrances and resources and burn all the privileged people in their little suburbs. These are the ragings I shared with my friends. They are older and wiser and they laughed at my naivety. They told me we are well out of the woods of a working class revolt. Middle class people have already mastered the art of fortifying against poverty. The rich and the poor have made a truce to live parallel lives together.</p><p style="text-align: left;">In the middle of the taxi strike there was a public holiday. I went to the beach to get lunch and the weather and the throngs of people had me thinking we're in December mode. I overheard a customer talking about safety and how quiet it was on the road driving towards the beach. I wondered what had happened to the taxi strike. Was it over? Of course it was not but by Thursday and Friday decisions had been made by the powers that be that taxis would return. After loss of life and dignity and all the things that violence strips us of. And still my life went on as I had planned it. No glitches.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Today at church, the preacher shared that it took her 4 hours to return home during the strike. One of the mamas prayed for the children as they would be returning to school this week (for a moment I thought about school holidays but in fact she was referring to the strike which saw many children missing school). There was a humming agreement when the preacher reflected that "ibinzima le veki sisuka kuyo, masithembe le singena kuyo iza nomehluko" (this past week was difficult, let us hope that the new week will be better). These lamentations were a stark reminder that I live in a different world and my effort of being proximate to the real world will be in vain no matter my efforts. But there is no harm in trying.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-67062475503644509482023-07-30T21:01:00.004+02:002023-07-30T21:31:45.621+02:00Hello blogging my old friend<p>I have been ideating for months about returning to this place: blogging, my first love which got me into public writing which I have forsaken for others (newspapers, thesising, children's books, poetry etc). I have missed this form of writing: a low maintenance platform which helped me find my voice. For a while I rationalised that it was just a season and it has served its purpose. But now that I am reviewing my relationship with writing, I think I am due fo another season with blogging.</p><p>Since 2018 when I first started working on my PhD I developed a different relationship with writing. I was writing a different genre. My supervisor was at pains explaining this to me in order to help me develop my academic voice. I was resistant. It was like learning a new language. Eventually I gave in because I always want to be a good student. But it was after many frustrating conversations with my supervisor and many drafts. She asked me to stop writing for other platforms. Perhaps that is part of the reason I abandoned this blog. Part of the PhD process was meeting deadlines and working according to the three years worth of funding I had received. I also began writing academic papers and papers for seminars and conferences; some have been published, others have not. Much of this was also driven by academia's need for us to produce outputs. This has begun to create an anxiety about how much, where to publish and how often. I am now working at my second university and I still feel like I am making sense of this new culture towards knowledge production and the world of ideas.</p><p>Since the PhD, I published a collection of poems (<i>Ilifa</i>), a children's book series <i>Imbokodo </i>(with Xolisa Guzula) and an afterword in Noni Jabavu's collection of columns <i>A stranger at home </i>(with Makhosazana Xaba).<i> </i>These have been exhilarating experiences four years in a row. Much of this has taken me by surprise and possibly a different blog post for another day. The beauty about these books has been that they have helped me identify my anxiety about academic writing. They have reminded me that I have many writing voices and projects that are not bound to the tyranny of academic publishing (even though they count as creative outputs which DHET recognises) because they emerged from my own convictions and collaborations with friends. The poetry has been the greatest gift because it is a gift that keeps on giving because it involves a different process of writing which is often private and at times spiritual. These forms of writing have reminded me of the joy of writing.</p><p>Since the PhD, academic writing has taken a turn. No one warned me about this change. Mostly people warn about the spare feeling once the PhD is submitted and there's nothing but waiting for examiners. I was never prepared for the sadness I developed after losing what felt like hallowed time to focus on one area and drill deeply into a particular focus. I often lament that I miss the routine that I established during the three years. It was a beautiful rhythm which revolved around mornings at my desk, reading and carving out time for a life (except when I disappeared in order to finish the thesis). Now I have to juggle teaching, departmental responsibilities, book launches, public talks and writing projects seem to be competing with everything else. And when I am writing, I seem to be on other people's deadlines because all the papers, chapters, books come with deadlines. I seem to be writing as a means to an end rather than writing simply because that is what I do. And as for reading (which is the other side of the coin of writing); I find myself wrestling time for that, especially reading for pleasure and not reading with a writing project in mind.</p><p>The tyranny of publication deadlines has slowly eroded my joy for writing. At some point I had to catch myself when I began to equate being a writer with published work. This was around the time I started writing for the Mail and Guardian again (I stopped because they wouldn't pay me; they still haven't. They ghosted me when I followed up). Writing felt like it only mattered if it was being published regularly. I find this is the other shadow of visibility as writers; somehow we have to remain relevant by the other forms of writing that keep us in circulation in between the books we produce. When I stopped writing for the Mail and Guardian I was confronted with all the essays I had written because I had lots of ideas I wanted to explore but as soon as the columns ended, so did the writing. I have been acutely judging myself for this. I reserve the harshest form of judgement for myself. Alongside this judgement has been the feeling of shame I feel every time I ask for an extension for a writing piece. For every writing project I have had this year, I have had to ask for extensions. Much of this has been as a result of the nature of first semester which is dedicated to teaching which takes up every ounce of my energy. I cannot seem to write, teach, supervise, research and keep up with admin. No one seems to really but we (academics) continue to push ourselves one way or the other. I have been making list upon list of all the writing projects I hope to return to now that I have a lighter teaching semester. Last year I felt a different rhythm but this year all I seem to be doing is rewriting the list and not actually getting to the writing itself. And if I do, I'm not happy with the quality of what I am writing. I pulled an article from a review process because the reminder emails were giving me anxiety. I am quarter-to pulling out of a book project I submitted a chapter to (I have been reworking the chapter since May and it's just not coming together). </p><p>I have finally completed a book project where I am one of the editors: we've been working on it since 2020 and my role was mostly the admin of keeping the contributors in the project and co-writing an introduction and curating a book we can be proud of (which I think is going to be amazing!). I was hoping this would give me a new wave of energy but instead I am hiding behind other projects which are important but I know are taking me away from writing. I have always been a multi-tasker working on multiple projects because when I am bored with one project, I can move between projects. All my writing projects excite me and some I have extra support with collaborators but I just can't get past the feeling that I am not doing them any justice.</p><p>I guess I am writing this here to air out this weird shame I have been sitting with. Or perhaps expose the behind-the-scenes of my writing life which feels very chaotic at the moment. And this is happening at a time when people are congratulating me on all the wonderful work I have done in the past few years. Much of which was done quietly over a few years, often slowly and without deadlines. One of my mentors advised me last year to dedicate one month in the year where I do nothing other than write: no extra-curricular activities. It worked for about 75% of the month last year on account of book events for <i>Imbokodo</i>. Right now I keep ideating time where I am simply left alone: no invitations, no requests etc. I find this happens when I intentionally disappear and simply say no (which never gets easy).</p><p>I want a different relationship with my writing. I need a different relationship with my writing. I want to write without the external pressures of deadlines. I want to write purely for the joy of it. Which is partly how this blog came about. I was struggling with academic writing. I needed to think through some ideas. And even when I had resolved the academic writing funk, I continued when I was a teacher and I would write about my classroom experiences. During that season blogging became the tool to keep me writing because teaching seemed to leave very little time for writing. The thread seems to be the need to keep writing in spite of the other demands. But this does not resolve the problem with deadlines and ideas that do not seem to be shifting because I feel stuck. </p><p>Coming back to blogging is also about reminding me that I have other writing ideas that do not quite fit into the other projects I am working on but need a place for expression. When I opened blogger to start writing this post (which I was determined to publish no matter what), I found a draft from April which began a lament about writing followed by a story about racial profiling (TBC). And then I stopped. Earlier this year I had even set up a monthly reminder that at least once a month I would post a blog post, dololo! It is August tomorrow. It was taken me more than six months to come back to this because I know it is a muscle I need for getting back into writing. The trick is, will I maintain or will I disappear into the shame of asking for more deadlines?</p>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-32663982163426385512021-08-20T11:33:00.000+02:002021-08-20T11:33:29.890+02:00Imfundiso yokuzixolela (lessons in forgiving myself)<p>On 18 August a box full of books arrived and changed my life forever (incidentially 18 August was also the birthday yabatshana bam who turned 11 and 17). In the box were two books zesiXhosa: Unam Wena by Mthunzikazi Mbungwana and Ilifa by me (published by <a href="http://uhlangapress.co.za/blog/2021/7/22/announcing-ilifa-by-athambile-masola-and-unam-wena-by-mthunzikazi-a-mbungwana-iincwadi-zethu-zokuqala-ngesixhosa">Uhlanga Press</a>). Yes, I published a book of poems ngesiXhosa. Nothing could have prepared me for the mixed emotions of imincili (excitement) and iinevs (anxiety). It was finally done. The book would be getting to people's hands and taking on a life of its own. I kept the moment to myself barring a short video which I've been sharing slowly with friends and family: zifikile iincwadi!</p><p>The vulnerability of writing and sharing poetry has always had a different texture from sharing prose writing. As an academic I am less precious about my other writing. I have a pretty good handle on it; by and large I do it well; I have been told I write well. I have written thousands and thousands of words. But poetry. That's different. It has a different texture. It comes from a different place whereas my academic writing emerges from a cerebral place. So why share poetry? A friend once called me a closeted poet when I shared one of the poems which has made it into the collection: "Zithuthe" but has been published as "Coconut". And now here we are: many yeas later and I am no longer a closeted poet.</p><p>The collection is a dedication to my grandmother: Vuyelwa Gladys Mashologu. She is on the cover of this collection: my first book. There are poems which have been inspired by memories of her as well as many of my mothers who have held me throughout my life. Many of the poems are meditations on what it means to be a woman in this world. Umyalelo wentombi is the first section of the collection where most of these poems are. Two of the poems are dedicated to the memory of 9 August 1956 which I first published in <i><a href="https://www.skotaville.org.za/product/kauve-e-book/">Kauve: The Women's March to Pretoria in 1956</a>: </i>"Oomama bomthandazo" and "Incoko" which were a response to images of the women's march. </p><p>In order to locate them in this new book I decided to add the date underneath the title in order to add more context. Imagine my shock and horror when I read the book anew this morning and noticed that the date says <i>9 August 1954 </i>instead of 1956 (my mother was born 1954). Luckily I was sitting outside by the beach and I had a good scream at myself. Oko ndizingxolisa. I can't unsee nor undo the error. There is no excuse for this error. The book went though numerous rounds of editing and reading from a variety of people. None of us picked it up. Amehlo ayadinwa.</p><p>So I thought let me write about here: ndizixele, ndizixolele. It's a typo which may communicate a carelessness to dates. But it's also a big humble pie for me: a whole historian whose job it is to care about dates. And somehow I got this one wrong. In my first book nogal. Me: who writes about people's "historically dubious" readings of history, got the date wrong for one of the most important dates in this country's political history. </p><p>I expected that there would be typos (there are other typos). That's part of the process. Since Wednesday I have been going through the book reluctantly because I can't seem to read it uncritically. I feel like the error with the date is a wink from the past: a hard lesson on grace and accepting mistakes that I can do nothing about. Mistakes that have the potential of being the butt of every joke: the literary historian cum poet cum public spokesperson on women's history made a mistake. I am still learning to enjoy what it means to have a book with my name on the cover and my grandmother's pensive portrait on the cover. </p><p>There will be another print run and the error will be fixed. But I will have this reminder and the sinking feeling of making this kind of mistake in something I care about so deeply. But I will also have a lesson on grace for myself and the process of putting one's writing out in the world.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwuCAgntTJAnvAuTmDphEvHtfV6oSJan3C5biDaibo4zFNbcVih2sOhvp3wjvThKoGEGQzJAyZGpDcKPhLQ_k2Ap3gGF4dpvHvTPiZ7-gePkmjYZX2srH7Vpw2NqWgrwQB-i1S8R9d7MQ/s462/masola_ilifa_cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwuCAgntTJAnvAuTmDphEvHtfV6oSJan3C5biDaibo4zFNbcVih2sOhvp3wjvThKoGEGQzJAyZGpDcKPhLQ_k2Ap3gGF4dpvHvTPiZ7-gePkmjYZX2srH7Vpw2NqWgrwQB-i1S8R9d7MQ/w260-h400/masola_ilifa_cover.png" width="260" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-92187693427176115222020-12-30T15:28:00.001+02:002020-12-30T15:28:15.352+02:00Igenge yegroove: the groove generation<p style="text-align: justify;">I have been trying to imagine the lives of the people behind the pictures of the Savanna antics: who are these people? What are their lives like? Where do they live? Other than igroove what else gives them the space to be as creative and as playful as they are in these images? What do these images tell us about the condition of blackness? Could it be that there’s a reproduction of young black people who are caricatures rather than wholesome people who direct their lives in meaningful ways?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiHxIbBdOPx4Ekxtjbe638kRCC1dtnmo3bwH1vzYc6QU9TH2idK6p08v4lwUmOscXtuT1axzs3l0cZUzlkhvVbQ9-Jrnb0mNOHkkXyPrHXnvQ5hsy-ekMeUGACKV7bqY-BmKPbL0BijmA/s1024/WhatsApp+Image+2020-12-29+at+09.52.23.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiHxIbBdOPx4Ekxtjbe638kRCC1dtnmo3bwH1vzYc6QU9TH2idK6p08v4lwUmOscXtuT1axzs3l0cZUzlkhvVbQ9-Jrnb0mNOHkkXyPrHXnvQ5hsy-ekMeUGACKV7bqY-BmKPbL0BijmA/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2020-12-29+at+09.52.23.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">My conservative bent does not allow me to be generous nor expansive in my imagination. I have made up a dull image in my mind: possibly unemployed young people who have been let down by a system that has not given them the space to expand their creativity. Or young professionals who are battered from working in corporations which dim their light. So all they have is igroove and pursuing dead-ends in a country that has shrunk the opportunities for young people (in spite of whether they have ticked all the boxes such as going to school and getting a degree). </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYV6bLbZizBvwx-u3ABwzm-autb3hd3SCBiPNNTAmg2LsYK3OhekxljCGFTQ4riuLMvHqwJTYwpF3l-OJr0VuC1gAJkCCWSq2uukB7nHAS6WQNRO-11T_D9WqaxfjMq5YUSYy0p4kBmQ/s1024/WhatsApp+Image+2020-12-29+at+09.52.23+%252810%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYV6bLbZizBvwx-u3ABwzm-autb3hd3SCBiPNNTAmg2LsYK3OhekxljCGFTQ4riuLMvHqwJTYwpF3l-OJr0VuC1gAJkCCWSq2uukB7nHAS6WQNRO-11T_D9WqaxfjMq5YUSYy0p4kBmQ/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2020-12-29+at+09.52.23+%252810%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">When I heard about the matric rage and how the children of the elite had behaved at a super spreader event, I was simply annoyed: on brand, rich people’s children who think they are entitled to their rite of passage no matter the consequences. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">When young people in Mabopane blocked the highway and had a party, their videos and images were shared and it was reported that the Minister of Transport “was appalled by the behaviour of the group…disappointed by the trending videos which showed revellers gathered and partying with scant regard for Covid-19 safety protocols”. According to IOL he said “these dastardly acts invariably end in tragedy…this conduct is unacceptable, and our law enforcement authorities will show no mercy towards people who turn our roads into party spots”. In a Facebook post where I first came across the news, a friend commented on the double standard: <i>Can we talk about the disparity in approach, when the state engages with Black, working class people vs when it engages with predominantly white middle class people?</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Q4wGi0oPotOgqOBCrWgaUe5s-JXFUgsLYRgFzKo8L-p6fYZNvrr1MW0nRLTr75C2enetKG5TTDFxXCFZi5mDo7rX-2R0fBjLN1E2ZbrS_5vK_4OSearjLn-WhWjomQsjHmTOFJ9HITc/s1065/IMG_2331.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Q4wGi0oPotOgqOBCrWgaUe5s-JXFUgsLYRgFzKo8L-p6fYZNvrr1MW0nRLTr75C2enetKG5TTDFxXCFZi5mDo7rX-2R0fBjLN1E2ZbrS_5vK_4OSearjLn-WhWjomQsjHmTOFJ9HITc/w240-h400/IMG_2331.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">I’ve been watching a series on Shomax, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbM84z4XYgc" target="_blank">Industry</a>. It follows the lives of young people who work in the corporate financial belly of London. There is sex, drugs and alcohol galore and yet their lives continue in spite of the stressful work environment which has a severe impact on their personhood and mental health (one of the characters dies at work from a drug overdose while trying to meet a deadline). What I find fascinating about the series and the characterisation is that while these young people are living seemingly reckless lives, there is a buffer which prevents their complete crash (I haven’t finished the series so this is based on the 5 episodes I’ve watched). There is always death looming but having money, an education and a social network wards off the death and destruction which would otherwise befall them. I am including this fictional world here because it offers a contrast to the images and the stories behind the images I have alluded to. This fictional world resembles the world of Sandton elites where cocaine is so common it’s no longer an open secret. But the privilege of being middle class protects them. These young people are the minority and fall off the radar because in the bigger scheme of things, their privilege will protect them.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">There have been many accounts of young people behaving recklessly because of igroove not only in South Africa but across the world as lockdown regulations have been eased or flouted. In the past, pictures of young people living their best lives would not have garnered outrage or moralistic judgement. However, a global pandemic has changed how we read youthful exuberance. Much has been said about the selfishness, the disregard amongst a long list of other lamentations (and memes).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyPqSahPr5p_qHg8bflWrdIBu73H3eKtjff6DM3okEv7BEme6tFhvE7LTJCmCBLh_uSmEjXcM0zZ4jJLdcWpvmMe0D7kRU4B2ltMPuSBBEGTcKngIb0ohnl-ZWXsKaeSuhtoQu2ltxZHs/s1024/WhatsApp+Image+2020-12-29+at+09.52.23+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="666" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyPqSahPr5p_qHg8bflWrdIBu73H3eKtjff6DM3okEv7BEme6tFhvE7LTJCmCBLh_uSmEjXcM0zZ4jJLdcWpvmMe0D7kRU4B2ltMPuSBBEGTcKngIb0ohnl-ZWXsKaeSuhtoQu2ltxZHs/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2020-12-29+at+09.52.23+%25281%2529.jpeg" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Underlying this commentary has been about the relationship South Africans have with alcohol. Moreover, the history of alcohol in South Africa is the current we seldom pay attention to as another friend pointed out on Facebook which was received with gusto on Twitter: in short, South Africa’s relationship with alcohol is deeply connected with the past which was meant to impoverish African people. The consequences of alcohol have often meant death, violence and social death. We all talk about the drunk uncle as the norm in our families.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Behind the images and the videos going viral on social media are the whispers from the past. It is the whispers of ancestors whose lives were destroyed by the dop system, which has had a generational effect. There are the whispers of the 1976 children who fought with their parents who were wasting away in township taverns while their children were fighting the apartheid government. Another friend described this relationship with alcohol as grief: people are drowning their grief and the excessive alcohol is the medium.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">After the latest alcohol ban, Beer Association of South Africa made a statement opposing the ban citing loss of revenue and loss of jobs (I’m not sure about the exportation of alcohol and the extent to which that was affected). They also cited the increase in illicit sales which were rife during the previous alcohol ban. While these are valid concerns I was left wondering who makes money from people’s impoverishment because of alcohol? What would it mean to rebuild an economy which did not rely on industries which were complicit in people’s demise? </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Igenge yegroove may or may not be thinking about these questions but they know that something is amiss. They know there’s a global pandemic which places their livelihood at risk. They have also lost love ones during the pandemic. Yet they choose to dance anyway. They choose igroove because it makes them feel something or nothing. What they are mostly thinking about is how long their stash will last them, or what kind of life they will have without the ability to go to igroove—where will they escape to? The streets? Whatever the choices available, it seems to me igroove is a way of being in the world. It is a lifestyle. A religion. It is a cultivated condition. A practice. A set of choices. It is a series of images and videos of young people living what they see as their best lives in a country that has let young people down. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheehpc7yRoCOx4uq1wOtI-1bMZ7FFb52nEYcoyfL_jn1yIw3GBvDi5FVIgeEFxG0XsD8sdAqrb0PdTylwT7WMZ8ScLD1O1Gm_bGU3hewnBX0dz2wxGSvCUdsjyETy382Kvoz5pOvbTJBw/s1024/WhatsApp+Image+2020-12-29+at+09.52.23+%25289%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheehpc7yRoCOx4uq1wOtI-1bMZ7FFb52nEYcoyfL_jn1yIw3GBvDi5FVIgeEFxG0XsD8sdAqrb0PdTylwT7WMZ8ScLD1O1Gm_bGU3hewnBX0dz2wxGSvCUdsjyETy382Kvoz5pOvbTJBw/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2020-12-29+at+09.52.23+%25289%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-8910114751497124422020-06-12T11:16:00.004+02:002020-06-15T10:52:21.159+02:00When they say they can't find black talent<div>I started teaching at Claremont High School (CHS) in Cape Town in 2012. It was a new school (established in 2011) with carte blanche in hiring. I discovered them in an article published in the Mail and Guardian and I decided to send an email on a whim and they responded. I didn’t do a PGCE but I had volunteered in schools throughout my studies and I was a Mandela-Rhodes Scholar nogal! I had a masters in education. I know CHS took a chance on me. And I’m glad they did because I saw the cracks in the system and that hiring can be made with concessions. </div><div><br /></div><div>I taught English for three years at CHS. I left when I realised there would be no room for me to grow into leadership. In the third year of the school’s existence they hired a disproportionate number of white teachers placing black and coloured teachers in the minority even though the school body was black and coloured children. The message was clear: white people are the faces of authority. It was easier to say I’m moving to Joburg because my partner is in Joburg. I probably should have stayed but I didn’t have the energy to fight to be seen as worthy for promotion given the kind of work I did beyond my teaching responsibilities. </div><div><br /></div><div>I applied and was offered a teaching position at St Mary’s school in Johannesburg (2015-2016). They also took a chance on me. I had too much experience for what they were looking for but a black English teacher made them look progressive. My sister told me without skipping a beat: you’ll be unhappy there. She wasn’t too far from the truth. I was a junior English teacher which I accepted because after three years at CHS I wanted something light with little heavy lifting. I spent my first year observing which gave people the wrong impression that I was quiet. I carried on blogging and got involved in extra-murals. I spent the second year getting more vocal and more involved. That’s where the problems started: when I had an opinion about the curriculum and the black girls began confiding in me about what they were experiencing. By the time I left some of my colleagues had stopped talking to me. I had written a <a href="https://thoughtleader.co.za/athambilemasola/2016/09/26/heritage-day-whats-wrong-with-this-picture/">blog post </a>about heritage day and people’s feelings were hurt. I decided to let go of the issue because I had no critical mass to support me in spite of the conversations I had with the head of the school. I left and I took a job at the University of Pretoria and did my PhD. </div><div><br /></div><div>Over the years I applied to schools for shits and giggles and every time I felt invisible at UP. I wanted to experiment and see what would happen when a black woman with a Masters degree, leadership and volunteering work, teaching experience applied to prestigious schools. Just to see if they would grant me an interview. Here’s a list of the schools where I applied (the ones I can remember; this is not chronological):</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Parktown Girls High School</li><li>Reddam House College, Waterfall</li><li>Redhill (Sandton)</li><li>St Andrew’s College, Grahamstown (they granted me an interview: a blog post for another day)</li><li>German School in Cape Town </li><li>Roedean School (SA)</li><li>Jeppe High School for Boys (they granted me an interview: a blog post for another day)</li><li>Michaelhouse (twice: they re-advertised and never responded to either of my emails)</li></ul></div><div>I should mention that in each case above I had the experience they were asking for. A technical matter might have been my SACE certification (South African Council of Educators): I had used an annual certificate I had to apply for through the school which I had done during my time at CHS and St Mary’s (a span of five years). In some instances they wanted someone with HOD experience which is exclusionary because few black teachers are promoted to become HODs in both private and white public schools (I can count the ones I know on one hand). Others would say experience in an IEB school would be an advantage which is code because this limits the opportunity to people who are already in the network. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is a garbled and summarized version of the story. In between all of this I was involved in a variety of work such as facilitating workshops in schools, writing publicly, attending summer schools abroad, starting a podcast, starting a girls school in Khayelitsha, starting NPCs with friends and just being an eager beaver black woman: but no one poached me. No head of a school coaxed me to join their prestigious school. And I carried on with my life. Stayed at the University of Pretoria and taught the next generation of teachers (where there were plenty black students in the PGCE classes I taught; by the way). I attended meetings at the DBE, attended conferences, wrote open letters, spoke on radio and eNCA and lived my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>So when they say they can’t find black talent to lead their schools, tell them they are lying. When they say they can’t find black women with the right experience or the right qualifications, tell them they are lying. They have deliberately overlooked people like me. I don’t think of myself as exceptional. There are many talented black young professionals who would consider teaching as a career but because of the experiences in their own schools they never considered teaching as an option for a variety of reasons: the primary being the trauma they experienced at the hands of white teachers. </div><div><br /></div><div>I could say more about the hiring practices of white teachers without my experience. I could say more about dodgy hiring of teachers behind the guise of SGB posts which are not used to transform schools but rather to further the project of keeping Model C schools as white as possible. Perhaps I’m asking you to read between the lines and make your own conclusions. If you are a parent perhaps ask why your child has never been taught by a black teacher. If you are a student, ask your teachers why there aren’t any or many black teachers in the staff room. </div><div><br /></div><div>To heads of private schools and model C schools: take responsibility for the the actions you took to exclude black people from key positions in your schools. Especially those whom you deliberately ignored. Go back to your inbox and count the number of black applicants you ignored or turned down. Stop lying and saying you can’t find black talented people in Africa. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWsOICG2Cn8FYuMRzpktjYJkrTHRPQKTYipLzXPLp0kzebfJ-0kBvUF0v-iAmmbkHUwJZ581mZrZdmudStrGlTd9lGbAOhCEUMHAkJE30dv_yCoE62tgAU24cWZkuVhJEwFFYY3csnG4/s795/IMG_1723.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="640" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWsOICG2Cn8FYuMRzpktjYJkrTHRPQKTYipLzXPLp0kzebfJ-0kBvUF0v-iAmmbkHUwJZ581mZrZdmudStrGlTd9lGbAOhCEUMHAkJE30dv_yCoE62tgAU24cWZkuVhJEwFFYY3csnG4/w404-h500/IMG_1723.jpg" width="404" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This image is a visual representation of my experience.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-77205318467838339272020-06-10T12:38:00.001+02:002020-06-10T12:38:37.259+02:00There are black people in the future<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3r89ZOTkzfan8_7TB2imvT_zg7g-FFcC69YkGN7CJQe64O7goo8o6OKNNEjTluu3Xle2DF9bvvb8CvgV65TyoqNyvfo-7GyrFgxjnoDqhCoTmVFiqCbnodQ6EMJu6jtC2209vcCIxwTc/s640/IMG_1642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3r89ZOTkzfan8_7TB2imvT_zg7g-FFcC69YkGN7CJQe64O7goo8o6OKNNEjTluu3Xle2DF9bvvb8CvgV65TyoqNyvfo-7GyrFgxjnoDqhCoTmVFiqCbnodQ6EMJu6jtC2209vcCIxwTc/s320/IMG_1642.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dear Black People </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I wanted to write a love letter. A love letter to black people. I wanted to tell black children how sorry I am that they are still fighting the war which began centuries ago: they are repeating the pleas of their ancestors. I have been struggling to write for two months since the lockdown began in March. It’s not that I can’t find the words to write a love letter but words seem so trite when black people need more than a balm that is words. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It’s terrifying to live in a world that values the economy above humanity. It’s bewildering to live in a time where the “best lack all conviction, while the worst /are full of passionate intensity.” More than once I have echoed my mother “Hayi makugwetywe!” to express bewilderment which can only be resolved by the world coming to an end. I have spoken myself off the edge of futility because I am curious. I still wake up every morning with a sense of what could happen today: will I feel less dread? How much tea can I drink to melt the lump in my throat and soothe the pain in my chest?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I don’t know how I will recover from the knowledge and the experience of living through a global pandemic and white supremacy. I used to use work as a way to cope with my own heaviness. Work has become insufficient because at the core of white supremacy and global inequality is people like me hustling to prove their worth in order to survive. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Survival! What a damned existence. And yet here I am still hoping to live to tell the tale. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">“There are black people in the future”: a statement of hope or a declaration of further violence on black people?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I saw two army trucks roving through a community the other day. A community of black people. Where I live (which is not a community of people but rather a community of buildings) there’s been no army surveillance. Army trucks pass through on their way to the army base which is located nearby. Passing through is not the same as meandering through to remind black people that they ought to be controlled. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It feels better when I don’t pay too much attention to the world. When I don’t watch the news. When I don’t see a video of what is happening in Trump's America. I want to know what is happening in India but I am too afraid of what I will find. I want to know what is happening in Brazil but I am too afraid of what I will find. It is easier not to know the lengths and breadth of how banal we can be in our inhumanity. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So instead I find peace through the sound of the sea. I find joy in the nourishing food I eat. I find laughter in the shows that I watch. I am thrilled by the connection with friends. I find comfort in a cup of tea. I find security in the rhythm of my breathing. I find myself in the small moments of the everyday. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><font size="1">Image: I took this picture last year while walking out of The Cathedral of St John the Divine in New York. </font></div></div>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-62473027876086193032020-03-01T12:47:00.000+02:002020-03-01T12:57:42.390+02:00Zuihitsu kaMama<i>Zuihitsu is neither prose poem or essay although it can sometimes resemble both. To 'follow the brush' suggests a certain not-knowing of what will happen, that whatever might result from the process will be down to discovery rather than plan. There is a strong sense in zuihitsu writing that the creation of order depends on disorder. Zuihitsu demands as its starting point, juxtapositions, fragments, contradictions, random materials and pieces of varying lengths.*</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0UileplH4Jc9zO3StMz6OyHZDQCwviCPjgW0Hqmg6q5Zmvqc7ZbpDYcdGFH66TzBCwgtd-3Ge8WC7HHsrHL33_x9OGKs2KC5woGfkjNIBqlq6SqqQxn5KAkPdI6ihb-pp0bRAcvs9hs/s1600/DSC03973.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1600" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0UileplH4Jc9zO3StMz6OyHZDQCwviCPjgW0Hqmg6q5Zmvqc7ZbpDYcdGFH66TzBCwgtd-3Ge8WC7HHsrHL33_x9OGKs2KC5woGfkjNIBqlq6SqqQxn5KAkPdI6ihb-pp0bRAcvs9hs/s400/DSC03973.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collaborative Poetics Retreat: Picture by Kundai Moyo</td></tr>
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<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
I think a lot about what we’ve lost. I think a lot about you.<br />
<br />
Every time I see a flower I think about the garden you lost.<br />
I wonder if you ever mourned the loss of your dreams. Or did you silently watch them slip through your fingers nje ngamanzi?<br />
<br />
Undiphe ulwimi.<br />
Wandipha amagama.<br />
Everyday they come and go.<br />
<br />
Ithini intonga yakho?<br />
A question with no answer unless it came and went in one of those dreams I never remember.<br />
<br />
I’ve grown impatient with you.<br />
I’m tired of being your daughter.<br />
Being your daughter has meant mourning you usaphila.<br />
<br />
There’s a picture of you driving your first car.<br />
A blue Chevvie you named Judy.<br />
The picture is a car full of wild women dressed up with wild wonder and laughter.<br />
What happened to those women?<br />
What happened to you?<br />
Do you even recognise that picture?<br />
It is a myth.<br />
<br />
You were one of the few to first own a car eMdanstane. But when you finally convinced Tata to let you drive his car I was afraid.<br />
My fear was a self-fulfilled prophecy.<br />
You didn’t last a block. You went back to the passenger’s seat.<br />
<br />
I’ve watched you closely. Searching for you. Hoping you’ll emerge out of your armpit and live again.<br />
<br />
I’ve lived on fears you breastfed. The spoonful of fear you mixed into the black sugarless tea on the long days of hunger.<br />
The dreams evaporated with the steam from the boiling water you kept on the heater to keep us warm.<br />
Your dreams disappeared with the water:<br />
Indubela<br />
Amanzi olwandle<br />
Iinyembezi<br />
<br />
All I have left are fragments of you.<br />
Amaculo<br />
Amalaphu<br />
Iintsimbi<br />
I have lost the desire to have a full picture of you.<br />
I have lost the desire to know you.<br />
<br />
Will I pass on these fragments to my imaginary children?<br />
What will be their inheritance?<br />
Uncried tears<br />
Unscreamed screams<br />
Unlaughed laughs<br />
Unlived life<br />
<br />
I’ve learned to rely on the whispers in the wind in order to survive.<br />
I’ve learned the power in my hands so I’ve been disentangling myself from you through pen and paper.<br />
I’ve learned to rely on the movement in the clouds:<br />
To watch for rain<br />
To learn new directions<br />
To see the potential of freedom<br />
<br />
I still think of you when I hear ińgańgane before the rains.<br />
But sometimes it doesn’t rain.<br />
<br />
I’ve learned to love the rain anew.<br />
I kissed a lover in the rain.<br />
I can listen to the torrents of water without being tormented by the memory of what we lost in the rain.<br />
<br />
Undenze ndaphanga ubude.<br />
Ndaphanga. Ndabindwa.<br />
Ngoku ndizipholisa ngokusela amanzi.<br />
<br />
I will never stop writing to you.<br />
For you.<br />
About you.<br />
I know I cannot undaughter you in the same way you will never unmother me.<br />
You are my inheritance.<br />
<br />
*I wrote this piece last month at a Collaborative Poetics retreat at Lalela hosted by Refilwe Nkomo and Kathy Engel. This extract is from a handout Kathy shared explaining zuihitsu from Kimiko Hahn.<br />
<div>
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utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-50745536758485834092020-02-28T07:28:00.002+02:002020-02-28T08:06:03.396+02:00An ode to rest<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>Ukuthele.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>Ulivila.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>Intombazana ayilali emini.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>Uyakwazi ukuququzela.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>Uyashixiza.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>She’s conscientious.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>She’s so responsible.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>She’ll get it done.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>Pick up your feet.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>Don’t drag your feet.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<i>Walk briskly.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
These are some of the messages I internalized growing up. I grew up with no room for laziness, ubuvila. It was <span class="il">an</span> insult that cut <span class="il">to</span> the core of the kind of girl and woman I want <span class="il">to</span> be.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfisezPh5BWL6x-_sP3t2F402HOfZy_3TklApCdepju3ru_Wg_262Z0G5K-A-IYOOnolsWy427S60KBbTBjglocUwGF-CQ7VFgXwHOyopJQMUOnlFyeMrTrnPVKQjlLRH4EBiD7YhKLRI/s1600/the+river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfisezPh5BWL6x-_sP3t2F402HOfZy_3TklApCdepju3ru_Wg_262Z0G5K-A-IYOOnolsWy427S60KBbTBjglocUwGF-CQ7VFgXwHOyopJQMUOnlFyeMrTrnPVKQjlLRH4EBiD7YhKLRI/s320/the+river.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first visit at Lalela (I can't remember who took this picture)</td></tr>
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Recently I wrote in my journal: I don’t rest enough. I wrestle with compliments about how and why I get things done. A huge part of my identity is about being a person who gets shit done.</div>
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Last year I was working on a PhD, I started a podcast, I traveled, I wrote papers, I started <span class="il">an</span> organisation, I hosted <span class="il">a big public</span> event. I was part of lobby groups which meant tv and radio interviews and meetings. That’s just a list of the things I remember. </div>
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I love that I get shit done. But how do I learn <span class="il">to</span> rest? How do I see laziness as a form of kindness? I’ve started <span class="il">to</span> use the word schloomfing as a way of getting into laziness mode. Schloomfing looks like not getting out the house. It looks like not opening my laptop. It looks like lying in bed and enjoying the light streaming into my bedroom. It looks like actively blocking out the world.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqfFKUULbaJ3bIh0KKurGe_RXLUHxABLooEZnfRKjZAMISHebBM8WbLn3C0Y_P51mchQnrAPOSX8dUyvY0K6-zHeLkE1ZrIqEpKvq1cbBj_1JslY3X2aVg1IHteDhlQ7uPyOIvxUG-w8/s1600/Lalela+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqfFKUULbaJ3bIh0KKurGe_RXLUHxABLooEZnfRKjZAMISHebBM8WbLn3C0Y_P51mchQnrAPOSX8dUyvY0K6-zHeLkE1ZrIqEpKvq1cbBj_1JslY3X2aVg1IHteDhlQ7uPyOIvxUG-w8/s320/Lalela+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sky at Lalela.</td></tr>
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Schloomfing is <span class="il">an</span> effort.</div>
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There’s guilt.</div>
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My period pains are the only biological condition which force me <span class="il">to</span> stop. But that’s one day a month and it comes with pain. I know that when I do have period pains my body is sending me a message. “Slow down baby you’re going too fast...”</div>
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I wrote my <a href="https://africasacountry.com/2020/02/excavating-forgotten-histories-in-south-africa" target="_blank">first piece </a>post-PhD. My supervisor sent me a cryptic message: </div>
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<i>I see you. </i></div>
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I asked her <i>what do you mean? </i></div>
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She said <i>back to writing</i></div>
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I said <i>Oh yes (monkey emoji) I wrote down all the pieces I wanted to do since you banned me from other writing now I'm going back to them.</i></div>
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She said <i>The ink is still wet on the thesis...(wink emoji)</i></div>
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I said <i>(monkey emoji) I know but I'm not good with taking time out (face palm emoji).</i></div>
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She let me be.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-JubTu1cite_kGi1TJyDbV4SAps5Vwq6h7zMJN9k1xRdrGSEkv-wPODk3XQQkD3Q3Lseeldd4N6ZEKtaOXFdbeuJHEeaoqvOR7lmyMAoo2O3CYHZASQ2y3UYRtEhWMWxUjxRn98ufDk/s1600/the+veldt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-JubTu1cite_kGi1TJyDbV4SAps5Vwq6h7zMJN9k1xRdrGSEkv-wPODk3XQQkD3Q3Lseeldd4N6ZEKtaOXFdbeuJHEeaoqvOR7lmyMAoo2O3CYHZASQ2y3UYRtEhWMWxUjxRn98ufDk/s320/the+veldt.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the veldt (Zen Marie)</td></tr>
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I spent a weekend in Port Elizabeth and Makhanda with friends recently. I was celebrating a friend's achievement and the weekend became a long weekend with women whom I love and respect deeply. When I arrived in PE I picked up Zora Neale Hurston's <i>Their eyes were watching God </i>and started reading in spite of the fact that I had work to do. I used Zora for work-avoidance. Blasphemy. The rest of the weekend was emails and admin (reluctantly) and some beach and a movie. When my friend dropped me off at the airport on Sunday I said "I haven't laughed this much in a long time". Here's to more rest and laughter.<br />
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I started writing this post while lying in bed yesterday. Instead of enjoying that moment, I counted all the things I hadn't done because I woke up a little later than I should have. Should: a damned vocabulary. And now I am completing this while sitting in my friend's room at Lalela; the safest place I've found where I live according to a different rhythm. As soon as I hit the gravel road I have no choice but to slow down.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vlst8hO79zb-k55pCyvDfP4jobRYqhJ_pZHrXK7fpQdM4K1fe45bXQffEr8eI-D5v5or43zP-PDLenhyJ4xLERr_H0KZGzSFqjxzO_YqeLmv57RYl-tke8z6f6p7TsPL3lg00aqXNyo/s1600/Lalela+2jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="1600" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vlst8hO79zb-k55pCyvDfP4jobRYqhJ_pZHrXK7fpQdM4K1fe45bXQffEr8eI-D5v5or43zP-PDLenhyJ4xLERr_H0KZGzSFqjxzO_YqeLmv57RYl-tke8z6f6p7TsPL3lg00aqXNyo/s400/Lalela+2jpg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lalela: the view from the stoep.</td></tr>
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I’m writing this as a confession and a wish. That one day I will embrace the art and pleasure of laziness.</div>
utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-56294440047870268132020-02-18T10:22:00.002+02:002020-09-07T08:20:24.995+02:00"Let's talk about sex baby"I’m going to start with some disclaimers:<br />
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<li>I can only write this post from my personal vantage point which is limiting and potentially dangerous because I’m opening myself up with a topic that’s shrouded in shame in spite of the access to sex via porn and pop culture.</li>
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<li>I’m writing this post as someone who grew up on really warped ideas about sex thanks to my Christian upbringing which made sex shameful unless it was in the context of marriage.</li>
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<li>I’m also writing this in a context where sexual violence is the cloud that hangs over all of us. Most people experience sex through violence and shame and there’s little support to talk about this in safe space or in public discourse. This post could even be potentially triggering and unhelpful for some people because it assumes so many things about sex.</li>
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Like my previous <a href="https://ixhantilam.blogspot.com/2020/01/lessons-from-my-divorce.html" target="_blank">post about divorce</a>, I’m writing this blog as part of my own exploration and experiment with honesty in the public space. In a Facebook post about this I said I’ve decided to be that self-appointed auntie who talks too much. I have nothing to lose in writing about sex because I own each experience I have. My hope is that more people will have these conversations and hopefully get a step closer to healing and healthy sex.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoxArP-6EVg9f6EMH7u7-P9HPSM6UMrlou6MQWI6q_HqTeoUsIHcP-BT1I_VfBVejiNyScnbolSGqmQOuX05P_p9zcFECDftZr4sQdH-GUaao0g6NaEE1Z2PLGzGG_el3Xvu9PpFYDX0/s1600/IMG_0975.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="640" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoxArP-6EVg9f6EMH7u7-P9HPSM6UMrlou6MQWI6q_HqTeoUsIHcP-BT1I_VfBVejiNyScnbolSGqmQOuX05P_p9zcFECDftZr4sQdH-GUaao0g6NaEE1Z2PLGzGG_el3Xvu9PpFYDX0/s320/IMG_0975.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Afrosexology: Instagram</td></tr>
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While I want to start with my post-marriage experience with sex perhaps it’s more honest to say that like most women who were socialized through Christianity: sex was a no-go area. I learned about sex via Days of Our Lives and the Bold and the Beautiful. I can safely say Hollywood has been responsible for my sex education. "Pretty Woman" was the first movie I remember being a vivid moment of learning about sex. Not very helpful at all. BoysIIMen's "I'll make love to you" was equally as significant with "Pretty Woman". I then had to deal with “no sex before marriage” which I lived by until I left the church and Christianity for 9 years. I had to work through the feeling of guilt before I could have sex, let alone enjoy sex.<br />
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When I did eventually start having sex when I was 25 I had to mentally go through “worst-case scenario”: what do I do if I couldn’t negotiate a condom/fell pregnant/ got assaulted? An endless list of all the things I know can come as a result of sex. I had to make a conscious decision about each of these scenarios as I way to feel like I could protect myself if anything went wrong. I was aware that I would be at my most vulnerable during sex and safety was my responsibility rather than a shared commitment.<br />
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This experience was unfolding while I was contributing to a blog about sex, sexual experiences and life nje in general <a href="https://myfirsttimesa.com/" target="_blank">“My first time” </a>which culminated in a book edited by <a href="https://jen-thorpe.com/my-books/my-first-time/" target="_blank">Jen Thorpe</a>. Reading the experiences from other women showed me how fraught sex was and the myriad of ways women were finding to liberate themselves from unhelpful tropes about sex. In spite of this blog I still found I was scared of the prospect of sex before marriage. The narrative was so deeply ingrained I had so much internal work to do before getting to a place of freedom to explore sex.<br />
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I also intuitively knew that uDays noBold, RnB songs and Hollywood were insufficient sex education. My school sex education was even worse after spending twelve years in a conservative girls school. So I decided to watch porn. I had a hunch that there was more to sex than rolling around in sheets (get rid of sheets when having sex; they’re such a drag) and porn confirmed this. I tried to find the kind of porn where people were experiencing pleasure. This was a challenge. Like everything that has been tarnished by racism and sexism, the porn industry is a minefield of navigating the harmful images about women; particularly black women. While I found examples of helpful representations of pleasure I also found violence and penis-centric images of sex rather than intimacy. While porn was a starting point I’ve had to think carefully about how, when and why I consume porn. I’ve been advised to pay for porn in order to get the kind of experience that is humanising. I haven’t got there yet. As a feminist I have to sit with the emotions and complexity of what it means to continue consuming images that are dangerous for women. A conversation for another day.<br />
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Fast-forward to post-marriage sex (marriage sex implicates someone else so out of respect for that relationship I’ll leave that out). I felt like I was starting from scratch. I had to experience my body anew with a different person and it was daunting. I spoke to a friend who shared her log in details for the website <a href="https://www.omgyes.com/" target="_blank">OMGYES</a> which helped me with thinking and participating in self-pleasure. Other than my childhood fascination with my vagina, the first time I had touched my vagina was when I was using my moon cup and I had to genuinely feel for the first time what my vagina felt like so I could become comfortable with using the <a href="https://www.myowncup.co.za/" target="_blank">moon cup</a>. Self-pleasure(I hate the word masturbation) wasn’t something I’d thought about even when I started having sex in my 20s because sex was in relation to the male body whom I was having sex with. Watching OMGYES was like being in conversation with regular women who had a vocabulary for pleasure outside the confines of pleasure with men. It was liberating and scary. I thought I was doing something wrong. I decided I had to actively rewire myself and develop a whole new relationship with myself if I was going to have sex after all the narratives I had fell apart during my marriage. This meant developing a f**k it attitude. I had to court territory I’d never courted before and admit that I loved every moment of it. Initially it was my little secret and then I spoke to friends about it and discovered people just like me who enjoyed self-pleasure without any guilt. I finally bought my first sex toy last year when a friend told me Clicks was selling them. I bought a pink bullet and some lube and loved every single moment of the experience.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0DwLJjRMdFtcyt-P_3Yaj8ShJbmd7Snd-0nj_HC3WD9sh03vAl_294BNz3nHGt7TjmQhQCC7pW-t-aD8u0zV32ytItYjCeIuBGvjw0cTSBpjQQN66gbV8nlmykuTAaZFilSu-sv3iv8/s1600/IMG_0973.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="634" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0DwLJjRMdFtcyt-P_3Yaj8ShJbmd7Snd-0nj_HC3WD9sh03vAl_294BNz3nHGt7TjmQhQCC7pW-t-aD8u0zV32ytItYjCeIuBGvjw0cTSBpjQQN66gbV8nlmykuTAaZFilSu-sv3iv8/s320/IMG_0973.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Afrosexology: Instagram</td></tr>
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My first post-marriage sex experience was with someone I considered a friend. I had a list of things I knew I needed from the experience and being with someone I was familiar with was important. The thought of introducing myself to a stranger and being vulnerable with someone I didn’t know was debilitating. It was while chatting to the friend on the phone that the thought crossed my mind. I told him about the marriage and divorce and the rollercoaster ride of healing and putting myself back together again. He listened and was respectful. I felt safe with him. We met a few weeks later for drinks and spoke about sex. I told him what I’d like. He was taken aback by my proposal of having sex followed by “what do you like” kind of questions. It was a thrilling conversation for me. We met a few weeks later and had sex for the first time and continued for a few months. This experience taught me the importance of feeling empowered and taking a risk. Rejection and insecurity and constant negotiation were a strong part of this relationship. I learned about parts of myself I had never anticipated. I had to learn about catching feelings and realizing that that would not necessarily lead to a relationship. I learned the importance of boundaries. I learned that part of the dangers of sex is about relying on the practice of one moment leading to the next moment without checking in with the other person. I’m still working through this.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0V_AKPR8yPhd5vDksePgTbw4Uk5Lp9tUEMWDLagiHHhk-l0uFHKMcGvO2YF7L4tsjFKCRzr7VN2i9j2SGaTDBLuJa_jMmCjMUn8arM6V2f1Bifr76e_WRV8dBCBzFsioDaKcZVBJPg0/s1600/IMG_0974.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="640" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0V_AKPR8yPhd5vDksePgTbw4Uk5Lp9tUEMWDLagiHHhk-l0uFHKMcGvO2YF7L4tsjFKCRzr7VN2i9j2SGaTDBLuJa_jMmCjMUn8arM6V2f1Bifr76e_WRV8dBCBzFsioDaKcZVBJPg0/s320/IMG_0974.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Afrosexology: Instagram</td></tr>
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Last year I started a podcast Umoya: On African Spirituality and one of the episodes we had was about the "<a href="https://iono.fm/e/668205" target="_blank">Metaphycis of Ukujola</a>"; navigating sex, intimacy and spirit. This episode was part of negotiating post-marriage intimacy and sex. I was also working through the harmful messages where sex was a sin and therefore outside of spirit. While the episode was using African spirituality as a starting point, the end point of the conversation was about choices and integrity. The episode was not about right and wrong. It was about learning about love, spirit and sex anew. I no longer believe that sex outside the context of marriage is a sin. I’m still grappling with the sacredness if sex even while it’s a seemingly carnal and physical experience. In the podcast episode we discussed the connections that form through sex. I still believe sex is an energy (and physical) exchange. Something shifts in every sexual experience; for better or for worse.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpmJKmpBvz500O60b7e7GqVktfx7nWffR8C66VQJidhAWkPuEZCt0gE3AjuQ4EHuPLz0SVSvn6dCv1wnrRaEYbl-poiztgXMkAx8oHYy5bSK_4guU5Fe93Ske8vPWV3C7DafasdXdVh0/s1600/umoya+meme+1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpmJKmpBvz500O60b7e7GqVktfx7nWffR8C66VQJidhAWkPuEZCt0gE3AjuQ4EHuPLz0SVSvn6dCv1wnrRaEYbl-poiztgXMkAx8oHYy5bSK_4guU5Fe93Ske8vPWV3C7DafasdXdVh0/s320/umoya+meme+1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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And then there is the reality that a lot of the sexual experiences are mired in lies and violence. This is part of the reason I’m writing about these experiences: it seems untenable to pretend as though things are okay in our bedrooms. The statistics about intimate partner violence and rape means that there’s evidence that something has gone deeply awry. That even in the context of relationships there’s violence and shame. One of the ways in which I know to break shame is by talking about the silences in the open. Find a friend or therapist to talk about what’s happening in your bedroom. Talk about it honestly. Talk to your lover, partner, person you're having sex with. It’s a healing experience because it demystifies the silences around sex.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4YaejFR_KJ8Y2REr8QeHbQv_r6zyTVgCwPSqnB9NkFPlya_-z0qsxW6hf3XJtsp2ysnrJk7qTDUxtCZdaYbDFdVvLHtB4kbbX0BrSfAOZDk7s6AWb6lz_xASPVaohyUt8-c40xbl6IbM/s1600/umoya+meme+2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4YaejFR_KJ8Y2REr8QeHbQv_r6zyTVgCwPSqnB9NkFPlya_-z0qsxW6hf3XJtsp2ysnrJk7qTDUxtCZdaYbDFdVvLHtB4kbbX0BrSfAOZDk7s6AWb6lz_xASPVaohyUt8-c40xbl6IbM/s320/umoya+meme+2.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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I’m still torn about questions of privacy and my sex life. I’ve tried to write this piece as honestly as possible and hopefully it’s the first of many. I started following <a href="http://www.afrosexology.com/" target="_blank">Afrosexology</a> on Instagram. It’s a platform that centers sex-positive conversations for black and queer people. It’s a liberating online space I find deeply affirming. I’d encourage anyone to find such a space if talking to people in your life is still difficult. I recommend you begin with their most recent offering the Intercourse Project which is described in the image below:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZ8szIxWKBVaxTYwQViXGnmDdCI6Xtpmgpzi8MEFnskYmYd9nhw7ByvB65_gc16T-LaxI9QrObJKPuyzEaT_My92Ez02osU0uO0OiwEoszL1r-wnMPPki4ItMiyVVqZYSwzXTuweb7eE/s1600/IMG_0995.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="990" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZ8szIxWKBVaxTYwQViXGnmDdCI6Xtpmgpzi8MEFnskYmYd9nhw7ByvB65_gc16T-LaxI9QrObJKPuyzEaT_My92Ez02osU0uO0OiwEoszL1r-wnMPPki4ItMiyVVqZYSwzXTuweb7eE/s640/IMG_0995.jpg" width="411" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From: <a href="https://www.intercourseproject.com/the-challenge">https://www.intercourseproject.com/the-challenge</a></td></tr>
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I'd love to write more about negotiating condoms in sex and the conversations I'm having with friends about this. Or the conversations about falling pregnant even while using a condom. One day I might even tell you about the three hour sex experiences I've had with a lover and passing out every time. Maybe I'll even tell you about the conversations I've had with the lover about sex which have contributed to my ability to even share this post. There's so much to talk about when it comes to sex and intimacy.<br />
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While this blog has been about my personal journey with sex there’s still so much ground to cover. There’s the conversation about the historical narratives about sex which show the recency of monogamy and how it’s contributed to the unhealthy relationship many people have with sex. There are examples from other parts of the world where pleasure and sex are not taboo so there’s no need to report on the sexual trysts of politicians because that’s not newsworthy. Only in a country where there’s sexual violence and serious repression is sex newsworthy. We need to have a better relationship with sex. When you google the word kunyaza you will discover the approach to sex which is not about male dominance in countries like <a href="https://newint.org/features/web-exclusive/2017/12/15/kunyaza-rwanda-sex-equality?fbclid=IwAR3GCdGz_oXM92tHFYGc3e8fOBLfuYGgNd807c1nV0yFUe4zmnBvqwghfWQ" target="_blank">Rwanda</a>.<br />
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Recently I read an essay by <a href="https://public.wsu.edu/~hughesc/morrison_memory.htm" target="_blank">Toni Morrison, The Site of Memory</a>. She writes about memory and narrative in her work. One of her paragraphs is about imagination. I’d like to conclude with this paragraph as it feels apt for this post which is an invitation to examine our relationship with sex and intimacy which requires an imagination:<br />
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<i>You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. "Floods" is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, that valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is emotional memory--what the nerves and the skin remember as well as how it appeared. And a rush of imagination is our "flooding...Still, like water, I remember where I was before I was straightened out.</i><br />
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I think of this piece as being like a river and talking about something mired in silence and danger like sex in spite of the exhilarating beauty of sex. I am remembering parts of my sexuality before I was straightened out. In fact I am resisting being straightened out with every word I write about experiences which I have been afraid to claim because of fear.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7hBxjh24OxxnMJlYW8x5iFj4k_CvNbuyXtp1O0XBKi3fh8KBuiIfY6oPKY2BuZLuYkCCDa3xn13ZESJA-vNaXFTNkY7BgBfrUgxqvtagk5JdJclgLkomYOL5AShyphenhyphenPdIoT3rIqgu8nwg/s1600/IMG_36ED296857E7-1.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="640" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7hBxjh24OxxnMJlYW8x5iFj4k_CvNbuyXtp1O0XBKi3fh8KBuiIfY6oPKY2BuZLuYkCCDa3xn13ZESJA-vNaXFTNkY7BgBfrUgxqvtagk5JdJclgLkomYOL5AShyphenhyphenPdIoT3rIqgu8nwg/s400/IMG_36ED296857E7-1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Afrosexology: Instagram</td></tr>
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<br />utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-34910047478406050962020-01-16T07:18:00.000+02:002020-01-19T05:48:44.807+02:00Lessons from my divorceThis blog post might come as a surprise to some of you: yes, I was married. For three years. There was no big wedding, no big announcement, no change in surname. We did it the way we wanted to. Perhaps that's one of the biggest disappointments I have from the experience because we intentionally did it our own way (perhaps that was part of the problem) and things fell apart. But this is not about the sordid details about what happened. This is a reflection about what I learned after he left and I had to pick up the pieces of my life. I'm still putting myself together again. I'll always grieve the relationship and parts of myself I lost in the process. But in the bigger scheme of things, I've learned to appreciate my freedom. And perhaps that is what this post is about: freedom.<br />
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It's important to note that I'm writing this blog for myself: a heterosexual Black woman who was raised on a good dose of heteronormativity about what it means to be a man and a woman. This post is partly about naming some of that and unlearning the unhelpful lessons from my socialisation about what relationships mean. Talking about divorce openly is also not to discredit marriage; I've noticed that when I talk about divorce as freedom people seem to think that I'm knocking marriage. I'm shedding lighting on the toxic and unhelpful elements of marriage which are causing problems for people but part of the code of marriage is silence and discipline: thou shalt not share what is happening in thy marriage. There's merit to privacy but not when there's toxic behaviour.<br />
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<ul>
<li>The first lesson was about shame: <b>STOP SHAMING US FOR GETTING DIVORCED</b>! We still don’t know how to talk about divorce beyond the narrative of shame. Divorce is as old as marriage; if anything, most cultures all across the world found ways to do divorce carefully, especially when there were children involved. I was stunned when people had no qualms making judgements and assumed I hadn't tried everything just because things ended after three years. My worst was someone saying "oh so you've joined the bandwagon" to my face, lol! Of course the shame is rooted in this unshakeable belief that marriage is the ultimate reward. That marriage is graduating into something special. It's not. Marriage is where the work begins. Divorce is liberating because it allows both people to start afresh and hopefully heal. I remember my mother (also divorced) who used the language of being a return soldier after her divorce. My heart broke for her because her whole identity became about failing at something she was supposed to desire as a woman. Watching her experience of being divorced and going through it myself I now understand her shame (especially for her 15 years ago). The shame is about people stripping you of your dignity because you are whistleblowing that something is amiss there by marriage and god forbid anyone ruin the one thing that every woman should desire. Shame is the punishment women get for not towing the line and divorce is about not towing the line. To all the people working through the shame that is given to them when they get divorced: it's not for you to carry.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<li><b>WE NEED TO RETHINK MODERN AFRICAN MARRIAGE</b>: This is a complex one I'm <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrRSbEoBD_EEmzb0gguZPeXNkHEPUMDNc-R8lW7Pyt7xOOEXuSbk1UsmIJY5Q7OTxZnf_bQxCWmvf-T3I8RjfwyCffe1AKWZyAgCrSPROYi_6EHC8nSoBnZpd213FLyhD3m3mX_SIyuSM/s1600/the+spirit+of+intimacy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="467" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrRSbEoBD_EEmzb0gguZPeXNkHEPUMDNc-R8lW7Pyt7xOOEXuSbk1UsmIJY5Q7OTxZnf_bQxCWmvf-T3I8RjfwyCffe1AKWZyAgCrSPROYi_6EHC8nSoBnZpd213FLyhD3m3mX_SIyuSM/s320/the+spirit+of+intimacy.jpeg" width="227" /></a></div>
still trying to unpack. Any young Black woman who is thinking about marriage needs to think carefully about what exactly they are getting themselves into. Lots has been said and written about how marriage has changed over time. I've been thinking about the version of marriage we are sitting with at the moment which is a new hybrid between African traditionalism and the isolation of Victorian marriage. What does it mean for women not to have space and freedom in marriage anymore? Men no longer go to war or hunting for extended periods and women are isolated from the communal version of mothering. This means women are bound to the home in very unhelpful ways (you literally have a bond with a house that roots you) and much gets centered around making that house a beautiful home. I'm still not sure men know what to do in the home other than watch TV. And then of course women also have careers and much has been said about women putting in the double shift at work and again at home. Who is carrying the burden of keeping the family together? Women. I'm not convinced men know how to family (let's make this a verb) other than the dysfunction they've seen of either absent fathers, abusive fathers, or the silent father in the home. This is a longer conversation about the practice of making a home within the context of heteronormativity and toxic masculinity which leaves very little space for imagination (I'm obsessed with the languaging around this particularly in isiXhosa which has emzini as a marker of the home a woman has when she marries). While there are helpful tools from the past, we need new ways of homing each other as Black people because our homes have been the sites of struggle in ways that we are still not able to talk about.</li>
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<ul><br />
<li>Now that we've made marriage about love (remember this is a recent change thanks to De
Beers "diamonds are a girls best friend" propaganda) <b>DO WE KNOW HOW TO LOVE EACH OTHER? SIYAKWAZI UKUTHANDANA? </b>The first book I returned to during my divorce was <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/270045-all-about-love-new-visions" target="_blank"><i>All about love </i>by bell hooks</a>. Then I came across <a href="https://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/book-reviews/view/1417/the-spirit-of-intimacy" target="_blank"><i>The spirit of intimacy </i>by Sobonfu Some</a>. Both books offer different perspectives about the practice of love but at the centre of each book is the provocation that love is a practice not a feeling. If you are thinking of getting married or you are in a long-term relationship with someone or you are crushing on someone I recommend these books. The challenge with love as a feeling is the Hollywood version of love and romance. Sobonfu writes at length about the facade that romance creates because it is a performance of a version of the self. This is part of the reason Mili and I did an episode on ukujola and spirituality in our <a href="https://iono.fm/e/668205" target="_blank">podcast Umoya</a> because there's a latent understanding about 'love' which is not serving us; especially as Black people who are still in the throes of the trauma of violence in our homes and communities (I write about Black people because I don't know what's happening in white people's homes and communities; y'all have high walls). Ukujola is not the best preparation for marriage. It creates the impression that niyazana but <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhhOjD_odmX8XIeYWAw3eMoyaE1nxPWAao2wGWMUJlp_K_Ae20YzoOdcOx-uA1VobZGO8JMDOI7mpj-aOo6U5iSQes-oOO3ZgriezZIQ5xZ2TGOQpes8K0qgkRwPs8HdueWjJVJc51kk/s1600/all-about-love-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1063" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhhOjD_odmX8XIeYWAw3eMoyaE1nxPWAao2wGWMUJlp_K_Ae20YzoOdcOx-uA1VobZGO8JMDOI7mpj-aOo6U5iSQes-oOO3ZgriezZIQ5xZ2TGOQpes8K0qgkRwPs8HdueWjJVJc51kk/s320/all-about-love-14.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
actually anazani. What people know is how to reproduce the dysfunction they’ve seen at home already. The default position: memory kicks in and we rely on an old trope of marriage that is not useful for anyone but we do it anyway. And so the question remains: do we know how to love each other? See each other? Especially because love was never really a prerequisite to getting married but now that we’ve made it about love; do we know how to love each other as Black men and women? The stats about intimate partner violence tell us that we probably don’t. The levels of masquerading in relationships suggests that we don't. While having this conversation with a friend she used the analogy of looking for a school (for a child): ukujola is the process of looking for schools, researching their curriculum, asking people who know the school if it's any good etc. The research. Marriage is the part where you choose the school and go to class, but you never actually graduate. Love is the lessons you learn while in class. We need to become students of love. I've removed <i>All about love </i>from my book shelf and getting ready for another reading. Become a student of love if you want to experience it otherwise, jolani at your own peril!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNabQ7RvwNe9Dd-Yt5tOHJ0DxuZhOXHL-5Ons-I1_0n4bn_0r70nkpuqdAK6G09uaJrAYMxJrbrWQJO5EeIcrcpM3cQ9ScKTgF2wfnsIi5uPSW6yP6JbdVmAnJotCvL7auzcdjxkkFBiQ/s1600/ukujola+meme.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNabQ7RvwNe9Dd-Yt5tOHJ0DxuZhOXHL-5Ons-I1_0n4bn_0r70nkpuqdAK6G09uaJrAYMxJrbrWQJO5EeIcrcpM3cQ9ScKTgF2wfnsIi5uPSW6yP6JbdVmAnJotCvL7auzcdjxkkFBiQ/s400/ukujola+meme.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<li><b>MARRIAGE IS NOT FOR EVERYONE!</b> Someone people make better lovers than husbands/wives. Don't confuse the two. I don't think it's necessary to be a lover and a spouse but somehow we believe Hollywood and then get wholly disappointed. And if someone says they don't want to get married please don't tell them they'll change their mind. Stop that. Just stop. In the same way when womxn say they don't want children and you tell them they'll change their mind: stop that. Please. </li>
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<li><b>WILL YOU GET MARRIED AGAIN?</b> This is the worst possible question I've had to engage with in the past 2 years. I was taken aback that while I was in my feels grieving the loss of a relationship and a person in my life, people felt the need to ask "Will you get married again?" There's so much wrong with this question I will probably come back to it in another a longer post. But for now let me say: the question often came before the question about healing. I can count on one hand the number of people who asked me "how are you healing?" without creating the impression that the way to recover from a divorce is to already think about rectifying the failure through another marriage. This is an unhelpful question. It is invasive and rude. Of course the question is couched in some latent fear that now that one has seen the horrors of marriage which have led to a divorce, will they buy into the institution again. The question is also about the lack of acknowledgement that more often than not, people are in toxic marriages having bad sex or no sex at all (we also need to talk about bad sex in general). So here's the answer to the question: I love the freedom of no longer pining for something I have heard about since I was a little girl. I don't have enough words to describe this freedom. I was raised to desire marriage in spite of the fact that my grandmother Bhele had chosen against it. I grew up with aunts who never married and wore that as a badge of both shame and honour. I wonder a lot about what kind of life would I have chosen if I had not been raised to desire marriage. Do we have an imagination of little girls who aren't conditioned to desire the attention of men throughout their whole lives in order to become wives? </li>
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<ul>
<li>There are still REMAINING QUESTIONS on this issue I can't do justice here:</li>
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<li>Why would you marry your best friend? (That just feels unnecessary) </li>
<li>What does the nature of marriage tell us about the nature of friendships between men and women?</li>
<li>Capitalism and marriage: the money conversation. Starting marriage with debt and we don’t talk about that. Why?</li>
<li>Black mothers and marriage: I think many of our mothers are watching incredulously: why would you do that? </li>
<li>Cheating...what does this even mean? How can we talk about compulsory monogamy in a context where people have desires with other people?</li>
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I may come back to this issue when someone triggers me about being divorced. But let me pause for now. I'm hoping that this post will give people permission to talk about marriage for what it is: a complex thing we've inherited that needs serious attention if we intend on keeping the tradition. I hope for those who are divorced, you'll breathe a little easier and shake off that shame. Fetch your life from the dregs of shame. My divorce has helped me think about healing, self-love, community, love and that in fact, as Black people, we seriously need to talk about intimacy and love.</div>
utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com238tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-54037344288126701442019-08-05T17:24:00.001+02:002019-08-05T17:24:33.513+02:00Two Nations: Mamelodi High School and Midstream College<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>We therefore make bold to say that South Africa is a country of two nations.</i></div>
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<i>One of these nations is white, relatively prosperous, regardless of gender or geographic dispersal. It has ready access to a developed economic, physical, educational, communication and other infrastructure...The second and larger nation of South Africa is black and poor, with the worst affected being women in the rural areas, the black rural population in general and the disabled...This reality of two nations, underwritten by the perpetuation of the racial, gender and spatial disparities born of a very long period of colonial and apartheid white minority domination, constitutes the material base which reinforces the notion that, indeed, we are not one nation, but two nations. </i></div>
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(<a href="https://www.sahistory.org.za/archive/statement-deputy-president-thabo-mbeki-opening-debate-national-assembly-reconciliation-and-n" target="_blank">Thabo Mbeki, 1998</a>)</div>
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Today I visited two schools which capture the lived reality of being a South African: Mamelodi High School and Midstream College. The experience was jarring and yet another reminder of the inequalities which exist in South Africa.<br />
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I arrived at Mamelodi High School just after 8am anticipating a lesson which would begin at 8:30am. Upon arrival I encountered a group of students who were harried and late for school. This was an hour after the school day had begun. There was a teacher with a clipboard writing down names of learners as they pushed passed her. Most sauntered into the school as though they had all the time in the world. There was no urgency about the fact that they were late. My student met me in the car park and we chatted briefly about the latecomers. She told me "This is nothing, some of them even arrive after 9am". I thought about time-on-task and the research showing the amount of time lost in poor schools in South Africa.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PWGrdAhNypc7EIvWDWKqbbagnZcZFSSOX8SpA-NTDgaTM3Yyh0CPUu6s84tBpDNUh4T4p1Sb42FgpNJvyHtDJH9Rx1sHGkAgwubg2AJa3coRX0JYulyLFOJjhbqCpUQ849dbIVuPh-g/s1600/Mamelodi-high.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="518" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PWGrdAhNypc7EIvWDWKqbbagnZcZFSSOX8SpA-NTDgaTM3Yyh0CPUu6s84tBpDNUh4T4p1Sb42FgpNJvyHtDJH9Rx1sHGkAgwubg2AJa3coRX0JYulyLFOJjhbqCpUQ849dbIVuPh-g/s400/Mamelodi-high.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mamelodi High School entrance. Pic from: http://wirelessafrica.meraka.org.za/wiki/index.php/Mamelodi_Mesh</td></tr>
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We walked towards the staff room and spoke about her experience thus far. She seemed keen and ready for her lesson but I knew something was amiss. During the conversation she told me how she wishes she'd been at Mamelodi High School during the first teaching practice so that she would not be assessed (students go to two schools and they are only observed during one of their teaching practice stints). I could sense that she was nervous but I suspected that she had not had a positive experience. She told me that the school was at assembly and we should be heading to her classroom as soon as assembly was finished. I learned that it was a long assembly because there were sports awards being handed out to learners. I decided not to be nosy and I stayed in the staffroom going through the student's file; aware that my presence in the school as an outsider from the university was akin to being the hated school inspector.<br />
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The first lesson of the day began a little after 9am. Walking towards the classroom the usual scene of South Africa's poor schools began to emerge: broken windows, graffiti on the walls, dirt and patches of burned rubbish behind a wall, While standing at the door of the classroom I was greeted with dust emerging from the classroom door as students were frantically cleaning the classroom as they were made aware that there was a visitor. The rubbish was simply added to the rest of the rubbish behind the door. I entered a classroom that had bare walls with more graffiti; no posters or pictures signaling that this is a place where learning happens. There were more broken windows and no electricity (there were no globes in the fittings where they should have been lights). There was a chalkboard and a white board. The smell of poverty was overwhelming: it's the smell of paraffin mixed with smoke and body odour. (I know this smell well because this was the smell I knew from home when we used paraffin lamps and a heater and a primer stove for cooking.)<br />
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My student began her lesson on verbs using the chalkboard and her voice. There were no props, no technology; just a textbook and her notes. The students were largely quiet because my presence symbolised authority. They were told to take out their textbooks and notebooks. The mentor teacher remained in the classroom in order to help my student establish order amongst the learners. I noted a quote on the wall on an A4 piece of paper: Educator's purpose is to replace an empty min with an open one. I rolled my eyes at the irony and wondered how many students in the classroom could read that statement and point out how problematic it was. I wondered if the person who put that paper on the wall believed nor cared about what it meant for the context of Mamelodi High School.<br />
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As my student proceeded with her lessons to Grade 8s I was reminded of another lesson I had observed the previous term in a classroom with Grade 5 learners. I knew instinctively that little to no learning was happening. My student was exasperated because there had been a 45 minute delay to her lesson and while the learners were trying to behave, she also knew this was a futile exercise. I don't remember much of the lesson. By the end I was thinking about what I could say honestly to my student about what she was experiencing. I wondered if it was fair for her to be in a school where no learning was happening. She used the textbook, the same learners answered questions she posed during the lesson, the others carried on with their conversations. By the end all I could hear was noise. There were 38 students in the class and my student told me this was the smallest class. As we walked out she also told me that was the best lesson she had had since arriving and that was largely due to my presence as a visitor.<br />
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While walking back to the staffroom to debrief two of the other teachers came outside. One was asking her for a red pen and the other was checking the timetable. Even though it is third term, the school did not have a permanent timetable which contributed to disruptions in learning. The timetable needed to be adjusted and I didn't ask why this was the case because it was yet another red flag about the disruption in learning. We walked towards a gate which led towards the staff room. It was locked. The only person who could open the gate was the principal. We waited for him to arrive. The purpose of locking the classroom was to ensure that learners did not roam around the school as was the culture; there were about 5 classrooms behind the gate. I though about the symbolic violence of being locked inside an environment where no learning was happening. I thought about being jailed in in order to be controlled. The principal eventually came to open the gate and led us out and locked the gate again.<br />
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I tried to be as honest with my student. We both knew that it was not her fault that she could not teach in that environment. That in fact, we all knew that no learning was happening in the school. There were constantly teachers in the staffroom. We spoke in whispers so I did not come across as being overly critical or naive about what it meant being in that school. My student was dejected because I think she feared failing. I had to use a rubric that assumes the best case scenario where learning happens. I allocated a mark; I made comments and we walked to my car. Our conversation ended with more stories about how today was the most productive day at school as learners were not wondering around the school. Last week, COSAS had had a meeting with students about their behaviour and it seemed as though the students had listened. I said I few encouraging words. We spoke about making an appointment for my next visit and I got into my car and drove away.<br />
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My next school observation was at Midstream College in Midstream Estate. I had visited the school last year and I already had a knot in my stomach. I was going to a new school which had been established about 10 years ago. It was the prime example of white flight and middle class flight. A community and a school behind boom gates. The first time I had visited the school I sat in a classroom where there was one black child and I was the second black person in the classroom. I hadn't know about Midstream Estate until that visit. I had heard about estate communities but had never visited one with a school, a shopping complex and a petrol station. It was a self-sufficient enclave behind boom gates. On my way to the school one of the signs read "Heritage Hill Estate: A village in the City".<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJ7JgsL87A-I4BuSDBIwJPxtl-L1T3IJD2wssYt0JJbiCkE5d_3IM3XTqXAwEQ5Tk9XISy9m9D_Z6zLQsfL6BhoX9WeFMPTtBCJ5T92gccSXgkn0h8SLWkg3xfaju7WsZ4onSbftgZg0/s1600/Midstream+College.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="1080" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJ7JgsL87A-I4BuSDBIwJPxtl-L1T3IJD2wssYt0JJbiCkE5d_3IM3XTqXAwEQ5Tk9XISy9m9D_Z6zLQsfL6BhoX9WeFMPTtBCJ5T92gccSXgkn0h8SLWkg3xfaju7WsZ4onSbftgZg0/s400/Midstream+College.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Midstream College. Pic from: <a href="https://arcarchitects.co.za/project/midstream-college/">https://arcarchitects.co.za/project/midstream-college/</a>)</td></tr>
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My student met me at Gate number 4 and we walked through a pristine campus. It was break time and learners were sitting happily on the grass, in their racially segregated groups. I observed a lesson with about 25 learners. I was the only black person in the room. Before the lesson my student told me about how he was teaching Grade 9 short stories and had been experimenting with tailor-made lessons for each class in order to serve the students' needs. He told me about the approach he was taking which wanted more conversational lessons in order to be more approachable to his learners. As the learners walked into the classroom there was music welcoming them into the lesson. They were all seemingly happy teenagers talking and dancing their way into an English lesson. They took out their iPads from their bags and waited diligently for the lesson to begin. My student had warned me that this was the rowdiest class he taught. The extent of the rowdiness emerged during the game the students played at the beginning of the lesson to introduce the story. The introduction to the lesson gave the learners a roadmap of what to expect in the lesson. They would even have a five minute break. The lesson unfolded without a hitch other than the expected kinks of any well-behaved classroom.<br />
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At the end of the lesson the learners filed out and moved onto their next lesson. My student and I had time to debrief and I allocated a mark on a rubric that had his school and lesson in mind. He walked me to the gate and we spoke about some thoughts he had about the ways in which he could give his students choices in their learning experience. The knot in my stomach had moved to a pain in my lower back.<br />
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I thought about the humanising and dehumanising experiences I had witnessed within a space of a few hours. A world where learning was taken for granted and learners were happy to be reading a short story about Roald Dahl and a world were students were asked to define a verb. In one day I was confronted with the neurosis that is South Africa which accepts inequality as a way of life. Mamelodi High School is the epitomy of social death and how it happens in classrooms across South Africa. While Midstream College is humanising for those children in that class, there is something jarring about a classroom where white children are protected from the realities of this country by virtue of who has access to their school. My thoughts are still muddled up in my head. I am not shocked by what I experienced. I am beyond angry about the failures of this country. I am amazed that inequality is a normal part of life which we have found ways to placate ourselves. South Africa is a ticking time bomb. I am no longer interested in being hopeful. I am post-hope. I like it as an idea that gets me out of bed and loses steam as I go about the rest of my day. Instead I think about what I will do when this explodes. Will I stay or will I leave? Will I stay and be the chorous that says we told you so or will I leave and resume a life of comfort elsewhere? These are some of the questions which keep me awake at night. This country is unsustainable and only a fool will remain hopeful.utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-90160664554503672762019-07-04T18:04:00.000+02:002019-07-04T23:54:20.656+02:00This is AmericaI grew up on American pop culture. This isn't a unique experience as a black child growing up with the steady growth of American imperialism. I grew up when it was cool emulating "black American" culture through music and movies. I think I may have been shocked to learn that African-Americans were not the majority in their country because they occupied so much of our cultural public discourse in South Africa.<br />
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Watching Roots was my first introduction to American slavery. It was the only time mama allowed us to stay up late during the week in order to follow Kunta Kinte's journey. We spoke about Kunta Kinte as though he was someone we knew. It wasn't until I read Sojourner Truth's Ain't I a woman in a copy of <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Daughters-Africa-Margaret-Busby/dp/0345382684" target="_blank">Daughters of Africa</a> </i>that I began to get a deeper understanding about black women's relationship with American imperialism. I began to seek out writers such as Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, Gwendolyn Brooks, Audre Lorde and bell hooks. I've always felt like I'm always catching up because there are so many African-American women who have been writing about what it means to live in this country. And this trip to New Haven has been part of this journey in understanding how black women relate to the violence that is global white supremacy.<br />
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A friend of mine recommended me for a teacher exchange programme hosted by the <a href="https://glc.yale.edu/" target="_blank">The Gilder Lehrman Center for the Study of Slavery, Resistance, and Abolition </a>at Yale University. Slavery isn't a new topic for me but talking about it in the context of a Trump administration where the words white supremacy are not abstract, it seemed apt to be having these conversations. The first part of the trip was visiting the <a href="http://www.amistadcenter.org/" target="_blank">Amistad Center for Art and Culture</a> which is hosting an exhibition featuring black artists. This was followed by a trip to the Connecticut Historical Society Museum and Library which is hosting a travelling exhibition <a href="https://chs.org/event/exhibit-tour-of-black-citizenship-in-the-age-of-jim-crow/2019-07-06/" target="_blank">Black Citizenship in the age of Jim Crow</a>. What was striking about both these institutions is the way in which American history is documented intentionally. For all it's faults, America's obsession with institutions means that when there is good work which challenges racism and white supremacy, it is done through institutions which create a holding space for making sure people can access the stories which show up the dark underbelly of this country's violent past and present.<br />
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I began to realise the dangers of the haphazard nature of South Africa's institution building which began with the rainbow nation rhetoric which tried to lull our consciousness into a weird dormant state rather than challenging the history intentionally with the establishment of cultural and educational institutions to host this work. While the diversity and transformation sector has grown in South Africa it has largely been hijacked by a discourse that encourages integration rather than having conversations about structural reform that overturns racism. If a country such as America is still reeling from its past of slavery, Jim Crow and the current reality of mass incarceration, who are we in South Africa and the continent at large in fact, to think that we can create warm and fuzzy slogans in order to masquerade that we have moved on?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Listening to the presentation about Jim Crow*</td></tr>
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One of the reflections I've had on this trip has been the global nature of white supremacy, largely located in the politics of America and smaller countries in Europe as well as global resistance. In South Africa we love to feel exceptional about our problems and talk ourselves into a frenzy because we are incapable of looking up and learning from other parts of the world (beyond the skewed school curriculum which teach world history as though it's World War I and II). Even more so from looking into what is happening on the continent. This is to our detriment. If we do not locate anti-black racism in the context of slavery and immigration we cannot locate ourselves within the global resistance movements many of which are right under our nose such as Black Lives Matter. But there are more movements which are inevitable erased from the kind of attention that Black Lives Matter receives because of its location in the global north. What is even more damaging is that many South Africans do not know about our own relationship with slavery which I first learned about i Prof Pumla Gqola's book <i><a href="https://nyupress.org/9781868145072/" target="_blank">What's Slavery to me: Postcolonial/Slave Memory In Post-Apartheid South Africa. </a></i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the Exhibition at the Amistad Centre*</td></tr>
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I'm writing this on the 4th of July. This is the second time I am experiencing Independence Day in the United States. But this time I'm less enthused by it as I was last year when I wrote about it in this <a href="https://ixhantilam.blogspot.com/2018/07/4th-of-july.html" target="_blank">blog post</a>. Earlier this morning I finished watching <a href="http://www.avaduvernay.com/13th" target="_blank">Ava Duvernay's documentary 13th</a>.Today I want to opt out and think about global white supremacy and the ways in which it has morphed like a cancer. There's a quote that is attributed to Malcolm X (I'm yet to see it in context): Racism is like a Cadillac; they bring out a model every year. This captures the current cultural moment as I experience it in South Africa. White supremacy changed from the white settler colonialism into the brute force in the images of apartheid and iterated into economic supremacy which continues to perpetuate the inequality between the rich and the poor. This mirrors the ways in which in America, slavery became Jim Crow laws, the war on drugs became the vehicle for mass incarceration in the form of the prison industrial complex.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Part of the Exhibition at the Amistad Centre*</span></td></tr>
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I'm still thinking about what it means to resist in this moment. Thus far I have opted for the one of the lessons I've learned from black women's historiography. I write about white supremacy and when in a room and it rears its ugly head I name it. I've taken Nontsizi Mgqwetho's words to heart: Asinakuthula umhlaba ubolile. We cannot keep quiet when the world is in shambles. This past week a friend and I organised <a href="https://bua-lit.org.za/african-language-research-and-development-open-letter-to-president-ramaphosa/" target="_blank">an open letter to the President</a> about the insidious role played by white researchers in our education system. I was very afraid of writing this letter because support was not guaranteed because it requires people to put their names on a letter that challenges a group of people who hold power. It is also a letter that is saying to the state that we know that they are complicit in the ways in which black, often radical researchers, are not given space to guide policy because their ideas are threatening to the people who hold power. I see this letter as whistle-blowing. I hope we can build momentum about the social justice issue behind the language policy and African language development in our education system which ensures that black children continue failing because they are taught in a language they do not understand. For as long as we have an education system which privileges English hegemony we keep in tact an education system which perpetuates coloniality.<br />
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The lectures during the summer school were conducted by Prof Keisha Blain. We had a brief chat which convinced me I'm on the right track with my research and that there's so much more fulfilling work at the end of the PhD. She gave me a copy of her book <i><a href="http://keishablain.com/set-the-world-on-fire" target="_blank">Set the World on Fire: Black Nationalist Women and the Global Struggle for Freedom</a> </i>which is going to be central to future research and will get a post all on its own once I've finished reading the book. We also received a copy of a book she co-edited <i><a href="http://www.processhistory.org/charlestonsyllabus/" target="_blank">Charleston Syllabus</a>. </i>Both these books are an example of the ways in which African Americans ensure that the current political moments are seen through the lens of history. This will also be another blog post in the future.<br />
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For now it seems apt to end this post with Childish Gambino's This is America:<br />
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<i>*Pictures: Seila Senoamadi</i>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-80970442190549172902019-05-16T10:54:00.000+02:002019-05-16T10:54:34.771+02:00Women who made history: Charlotte Maxeke and Nontsizi Mgqwetho<i>In preparation for the Maxeke-Mgqwetho Annual Lecture and Masterclass, I spoke at St Mary's School which will be hosting the two events. Below is the message which I shared with the girls in the chapel services. There were two readings in the service: a poem "Mayibuye iAfrika" by Nontsizi Mgqwetho as well as the gospel reading: Matthew 28:1-10.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Images of Charlotte Maxeke and Nontsizi Mgqwetho </td></tr>
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Today’s gospel reading is about women who made history; which is intricately linked to the two women I’d like to introduce to you. In the gospels we read about women being the first people to go and find Jesus’ body after the crucifixion. Much has been said about this scripture because it opens up the conversation about the role of women in the story of Jesus. In fact, many have written that without the two Mary’s Christianity would not have been established because it is the women who are the first to discover the resurrection. Without the resurrection, the story of Jesus, the promise of the risen Christ would not have been verified. And so it matters that the people who find the empty tomb and meet the angel who confirms that Christ has risen are the two Marys: Mary Magdalene and Mary, the mother of James and Salome.<br />
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It is important to note that what these women were doing—going to find Jesus—was potentially life threatening. In Matthew 27 we read about the tomb being guarded because the chief priests and the Pharisees suggested that the tomb be guarded because they thought that the disciples would come and steal Jesus’s body so that they can fake the resurrection. So Pontius Pilate says “go, make the tomb secure as you know how…and the guards made the tomb secure by putting a seal on the stone and posting a guard”. So in a sense, the women were doing something potentially illegal if we think about the political context of Jesus’ death. And so, the fact that the disciples aren’t the ones who go find Jesus tells us about the level of fear amongst the disciples because of the nature of Jesus’ death. And if you are ever interested in the politics of the death of Jesus read the book Zealot by Reza Aslan. So the question I ask myself when I read this story is: why were the women unafraid of going to the tomb? Asked another way, why were these women unafraid of making history?<br />
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I found it very interesting that each of the gospels give a slightly different account of what the women experienced when they arrived at the tomb. This is the consequence of the way in which the gospels were written and it often helps me to think about the Bible as a historical document which has tried to mark the moments of Christ. What is interesting is the ways in which the Mary’s are introduced in the story. In Matthew we read about Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, in Mark we read about Mary Magdelene and Mary the mother of James and Salome, in Luke we only get the women’s names in verse 10 as though their names are not important in the story and in John only Mary Magdelene is mentioned. And in each account, the disciples hear about Jesus from the women. This is significant because it mirrors the ways in which history is recorded and the implications it has for women. Because of the ways in which history has been recorded by men who wanted to tell their own version of the story and remain in power, the stories about women are often misrepresented or erased completely. The ways in which we have been taught to believe about the role of women in history is such that their names don’t matter or they are not recorded at all. Luckily for the two Marys they went to the tomb; if they hadn’t gone to the tomb, we would probably not know the extent of the relationship they had with Jesus. And so it seems that in order for women not to be forgotten we have to accept that we must be unafraid, or perhaps not overthink danger in the same way the two Marys took it upon themselves to go to the tomb and do what seems to be a basic tradition of putting oil and spices on Jesus’ body. So instead, they were making history.<br />
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These two Marys remind me of many other women across history whose names I am finally beginning to find in order to make sense of my own life but also to make sense of history. Like the two Marys, there are two women in South Africa’s history whose names are not as famous as they should be. Their names are Charlotte Maxeke and Nontsizi Mgqwetho. We know very little about Nonstizi Mgqwetho’s life until she enters the social scene in the 1920s as a poet who wrote in isiXhosa in Umteteli Wabantu, a popular newspaper in the 1920s. Her poems were collected over time and in 2007 a book of her poems and translations into English was finally published.<br />
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Charlotte Maxeke is a little more well-known than Nontsizi Mgqwetho. She had a seemingly normal childhood for a black child in the 1800s but her life changed when she met her two teachers Paul Xiniwe and Isaac Wauchope. Both these teachers were influential in Charlotte’s life and saw her potential. They were themselves influential characters in South Africa’s history. Isaac Wauchope was a writer and Paul Xiniwe was a musician who was involved in the establishment of the African Choir which toured Britain in 1891 and performed in front of Queen Victoria which Charlotte Maxeke was a part of when she 22 years old. In 1894 she travelled with the choir to America where they performed until the bad financial management of the choir masters caught up with them. It was an advert in a newspaper which changed Charlotte’s life as she was able to stay in America and study at Wilberforce University in Ohio with the help of the African Methodist Episcopalian Church which funded her studies. This meant that she became the first black woman to get a university degree abroad graduating in 1901. This matters because at the time, in South Africa, there were few opportunities for women to study, let alone study and get a degree, so for Charlotte to get a degree abroad, matters in ways we cannot imagine given our relationship with studying further. There were also other black South African students studying abroad at the time. Many of them returned to South Africa to play a historical role which changed the life and politics of South Africa.<br />
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When Charlotte returned to South Africa after graduating, she did not disappear into a quiet life; she became a social activist. She was married to a newspaper man whom she had met at Wilberforce and the two of them set about writing and talking about the politics of their time. Her connections at Wilberforce University also led to the establishment of the South African chapter of the African Methodist Espicopalian Church. In 1918, Charlotte established one of the first women’s organisations called the Bantu Women’s League.<br />
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I like to imagine that these two women were friends. But we don’t have enough information about them to make this conclusion. What we do know is that they knew about each other and admired each other’s work deeply. In her poetry Nontsizi wrote about how inspired she was by Charlotte Maxeke’s work. In an article Charlotte Maxeke wrote lambasting the political shenanigans of the men the organisation the SANNC which later became the ANC, she wrote about how inspired she was by the sharp political poetry of a woman whose voice has been silenced, she was writing about Nontsizi.<br />
<br />
Like the two Marys in the bible, Charlotte Maxeke and Nontsizi Mgqwetho wrote themselves into history as though they knew that if they did not write about their work and write about what they saw around them, no one else would do it. It was Charlotte’s interest in music which led her to another country which changed her life. It was Nontsizi’s poetry which we have access to even today that allows us the opportunity to think about what does it mean to be women who speak about the things which hurt us, which undermine us and which do not uphold our humanity.<br />
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The stories of Charlotte Maxeke and Nontsizi Mgqwetho are important not only for us as women, but they are important about what it means to be citizens in this country. I will end off with the poem which invokes the names of more women whom we are yet to write about and whose stories we are yet to hear. The title of the poem is Tongues of their Mothers by Makhosazana Xaba:<br />
<br />
I wish to write an epic poem about Sarah Baartman,<br />
one that will be silent on her capturers, torturers and demolishers.<br />
It will say nothing of the experiments, the laboratories and the displays<br />
or even the diplomatic dabbles that brought her remains home,<br />
eventually.<br />
This poem will sing of the Gamtoos Valley holding imprints of her<br />
baby steps.<br />
It will contain rhymes about the games she played as a child,<br />
stanzas will have names of her friends, her family, her community.<br />
It will borrow from every single poem ever written about her,<br />
conjuring up her wholeness: her voice, dreams, emotions and thoughts.<br />
<br />
I wish to write an epic poem about uMnkabayi kaJama Zulu,<br />
one that will be silent on her nephew, Shaka, and her brother,<br />
Senzangakhona.<br />
It will not even mention Nandi. It will focus on her relationship<br />
with her sisters Mawa and Mmama, her choice not to marry,<br />
her preference not to have children and her power as a ruler.<br />
It will speak of her assortment of battle strategies and her charisma as a<br />
leader.<br />
It will render a compilation of all the pieces of advice she gave to men<br />
of abaQulusi who bowed to receive them, smiled to thank her,<br />
but in public never acknowledged her, instead called her a mad witch.<br />
<br />
I wish to write an epic poem about Daisy Makiwane,<br />
one that will be silent on her father, the Reverend Elijah.<br />
It will focus on her relationship with her sister Cecilia<br />
and the conversations they had in the privacy of the night,<br />
how they planned to make history and defy convention.<br />
It will speak the language of algebra, geometry and trigonometry,<br />
then switch to news, reports, reviews and editorials.<br />
It will enmesh the logic of numbers with the passion that springs from<br />
words,<br />
capturing her unique brand of pioneer for whom the country was not<br />
ready.<br />
<br />
I wish to write an epic poem about Princess Magogo Constance Zulu,<br />
one that will be silent on her son, Gatsha Mangosuthu Buthelezi.<br />
It will focus on her music and the poetry in it,<br />
the romance and the voice that carried it through to us.<br />
It will describe the dexterity of her music-making fingers<br />
and the rhythm of her body grounded on valleys,<br />
mountains and musical rivers of the land of amaZulu.<br />
I will find words to embrace the power of her love songs<br />
that gave women dreams and fantasies to wake up and hold on to<br />
and a language of love in the dialect of their own mothers.<br />
<br />
I wish to write an epic poem about Victoria Mxenge,<br />
one that will be silent on her husband Griffiths.<br />
It will focus on her choice to flee from patients, bedpans and doctors.<br />
This poem will flee from the pages and find a home in the sky. It will<br />
float below the clouds, automatically changing fonts and sizes<br />
and translating itself into languages that match each reader.<br />
It is a poem that will remind people of Qonce<br />
that her umbilical cord fertilized their soil.<br />
It will remind people of uMlazi that her blood fertilized their soil.<br />
It will remind her killers that we shall never, ever forget.<br />
<br />
I wish to write an epic poem about Nomvula Glenrose Mbatha,<br />
one that will be silent on my father, her husband Reuben Benjamin Xaba.<br />
It will focus on her spirit, one that refused to fall to pieces,<br />
rekindling the fire she made from ashes no one was prepared to gather.<br />
This poem will raise the departed of Magogo, Nquthu,<br />
Mgungundlovana,<br />
iNanda, Healdtown, Utrecht, kwaMpande, Ndaleni and Ashdown,<br />
so that they can sit around it as it glows and warm their hands<br />
while they marvel at this fire she made from ashes no one was prepared<br />
to gather.<br />
<br />
These are just some of the epic poems I wish to write<br />
about women of our world, in the tongues of their mothers.<br />
I will present the women in forms that match their foundations<br />
using metaphors of moments that defined their beings<br />
and similes that flow through our seasons of eternity.<br />
But I am not yet ready to write these poems.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-68811853717883096582019-03-14T11:30:00.000+02:002019-03-14T12:05:43.269+02:00The politics of camaguGrowing up umama used to give me valuable information I took for granted. For example, my love for body art came out of a conversation with her about umvambo because she used the phrase "ukunyamezela umvambo" often and I would ask her "yintoni umvambo" and so the conversation would lapse into history and language and pictures (more on that in a post when I write about the tattoo sleeve that's almost complete). Another conversation was about simple words we took for granted: molo/molweni.<br />
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Mama told me molo(hello) comes from the Afrikaans word môre (morning). She says when she was growing up she often heard people say bhota/bhotani. In fact, when she moved to Ezibeleni after she married tata she was impressed by the consistency of the people who used bhota/bhotani; she hardly ever heard the use of molo. Much to her delight I'm sure.</div>
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So imagine my pride when I read that mama was in fact teaching me something that <a href="https://www.sahistory.org.za/people/dr-walter-rubusana" target="_blank">W. B. Rubusana</a> writes about in his book <i>Zemk'iinkomo Magwalandini. </i>In the first part of the book Rubusana is introduced as iLungu lokuqala lePalamente kwabamNyama baseSouth Africa, umfundisi weHlelo laseRhabe, IPresident yokuqala yeSouth African Native Convention. His cv places him firmly in the early African elite intellectuals of the 19th century. His works are regarded as classics even though they are not available in public circulation. The book was first published in 1906 by Lovedale Press. Even though I studied isiXhosa for two years at university, this is the first time I have laid eyes on the book.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRo6yEGUe0KoXOJXaRuNhh1G-j43EhrgLQBtGrIwVh9aSSgf1-ntQXqlatMZrC0cHgCoMeiKsHaSbqDn4WDptr0XZ-ehyphenhyphenLly-s8vX_MCFr9Ict0uRwcjqCSSo37NOZ_sY8eCm4NhpJhCk/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="988" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRo6yEGUe0KoXOJXaRuNhh1G-j43EhrgLQBtGrIwVh9aSSgf1-ntQXqlatMZrC0cHgCoMeiKsHaSbqDn4WDptr0XZ-ehyphenhyphenLly-s8vX_MCFr9Ict0uRwcjqCSSo37NOZ_sY8eCm4NhpJhCk/s400/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>
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I came across an extract in the book which reminded me of my mother's lessons: Imibuliso (Greetings).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghM8ZnJU1_Gh9HKoQqf-3tDmVg6vDwNEZliLRdMXwrxoMKloPY3lEOxcYMv92ijWQRa0aaHJnpt01DpXdkvOjT0wBTL-5JG-buV2G9gSqpPq78m0FojyhpKVkKy6k5DQrxH_Q0mPrfohQ/s1600/Imibuliso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1019" data-original-width="1600" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghM8ZnJU1_Gh9HKoQqf-3tDmVg6vDwNEZliLRdMXwrxoMKloPY3lEOxcYMv92ijWQRa0aaHJnpt01DpXdkvOjT0wBTL-5JG-buV2G9gSqpPq78m0FojyhpKVkKy6k5DQrxH_Q0mPrfohQ/s400/Imibuliso.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I was struck by how succinct this section was and that an W.K.N. is referenced. I've been telling people about the use of bhota/bhotani and I was beginning to feel like mama made it up because I was yet to find a direct reference so people would believe me when I tell them about the origins of the word. I was also reminded of a talk I attended last year where I heard the speaker unpack the use of the word molo with a political framework. That in fact, part of the colonial project was to disconnect us from our languages and replace them with words from Afrikaans and English. And the greetings are the most stark. The speaker gave an example of the word camagu. </div>
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My encounter with this word was from iintlombe that were held ekhaya when umama wayethwasela ubugqirha. I never heard the word used anywhere else and I associated it with ukuthwasa nezinyanya which meant I didn't see it as meaningful for my daily life which was about Christianity. The origins of camagu relate to amacam, another word for water. I am yet to unpack the significance of a greeting that invokes water and has been marginalised and misunderstood in the same way that African Spirituality has been misunderstood and marginalised. </div>
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When I posted this picture on Facebook friends of mine made comments about their relationship with the words we use for greetings. One friend spoke about the process of being distanced from the kind of isiXhosa she spoke ezilalini kokwabo when she arrived in boarding school. It seems getting an education was tantamount to being enculturated into speaking a version of isiXhosa that would distance her from her family life. She reflects: "sasibuya ezilalini sasigxekwa ngesiXhosa sethu ekwakusithiwa sinzulu kwaye kusithiwa asihambi namaxesha. We started to doubt ourselves ke sawayeka amagama". Ridicule and scorn are still part of our education system which alienates African children from their history and languages. </div>
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When I first started talking about the word camagu another friend equated it to the more popular word namaste which means the divine in me greets the divine in you. This is striking given the wide acceptance for Indian spirituality without acknowledging the similarities between ancient spiritual practices. My friend added that she had begun using the word after we spoke about it and this is what happened: "After we spoke about "camagu" I have started saying it to my Xhosa friends which often gets the reaction of "uliqgirha ngoku"?". This reflects the suspicion and perhaps ignorance many people hold not only for our languages but more importantly, ancient spiritual practices which have been painted in a negative light by the kind of Christianity which we received via the colonial project.</div>
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I still haven't used the word camagu. It feels weird. Mostly because I know I will have to explain myself. But perhaps this is the work of decolonising even the most mundane such as greeting. Except greeting is not mundane. Growing up I listened to adults who had very elaborate ways of greeting. Kwakubuzwa impilo and one could visit someone for an entire afternoon because ebezobuza impilo. My uncles used to tease my gran who used to lament their behaviour when someone simply asked "ninjani Bhele". She would answer "Hayi siyaphila, ngaphandle nje ngokuhlutshwa ngooThulani..." and continue berating my uncles for their debauchery and the anguish it caused her. My uncle would respond "Yintoni le nto usenza impilo ngathi" because for him, my gran's elaborate answer was unnecessary. But ukubuzwa impilo allowed people an opportunity to vent and share what was really on their heart. But now we live in the world of "I'm fine" and that's accepted as an answer because life must continue and quite frankly, no one is interested in impilo yakho. </div>
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Maybe I'll challenge myself more and more and become comfortable with the word camagu, ndikhe ndibuze nempilo. My friend, Xoli, reckons there's no harm in the word molo because "I like the different varieties rather than discarding anything. I like to collect words that would be synonyms kule mihla ke". While I agree with her, I love words and collecting new words, but camagu presents an opportunity for us to rethink the mundane and consider the political and spiritual in the things we take for granted. </div>
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utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com213tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-80958354471110878992019-02-08T12:26:00.000+02:002019-02-08T12:26:08.383+02:00An open letter to the girls at Sans SouciMolweni gals<br />
<br />
Ya'll have had quite the week ne! Going viral. Again. And this time the story has paused with your protest supporting a teacher who slapped one of your peers. You guys reckon she's not racist. Fair. She's your teacher. You like her. Even your favs are problematic but ke as'kho lapho.<br />
<br />
I'm curious about what happened before the video was taken. What's the nature of the relationship between the teacher and the student who slapped her. Had she taught her last year? I suspect (and I could be wrong) that there's residue from last year's issues. At least I'm hoping that's the case; otherwise your teacher's behaviour is more troubling than you think.<br />
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The thing is no teacher should talk to you guys like that. Ever. There's a history of white women yelling at black girls and black 'girls' (domestic workers, oomama bethu, white women insist on infantilising; to this day). That picture would have looked very different had your teacher been a white male teacher behaving in the same way. You would have understood his bullying tactics because male bodies are dangerous. But because she's a white woman, she's still seen as the victim at the hands of a violent black girl. This is a trope as old as time. White women being victims and black women being the problem. All the time. There's a special kind of socialisation of white women we haven't spoken about in South Africa where women like your teacher are raised to believe that they can speak that way to problematic black people and will be super nice to other blacks who don't challenge them. But maybe you'll see that as you get older.<br />
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Also, why is she yelling so much? I'm worried that y'all have been yelled at so much by these white women you think it's normal. It's not. When I was at school we could clearly see who was the target of the yelling: it was always the noisy brood of black girls. Now that your student body is majority black I doubt you can make that comparison. Those of us who sat in schools like your school and were in the demographic minority in the 90s know the pitch and timbre of that yelling. It's reserved for special occasions when the teacher has "had it" and "reached their last tether...at her wits end". A good teacher would have walked out the classroom to calm down. Or asked the student to step outside to have a chat while the rest of you work quietly (coz you seem like a nice bunch of girls who can be trusted). Or maybe she would have asked the student to make notes on another piece of paper. Or she could have ignored her because maybe she'd been doing this for the 100th time (but also it's February, term is still fresh for people to be wilding out). Or maybe she could have given her a demerit. Or written her name down so the grade head can get involved. etc etc. What I'm trying to get at is that your teacher had many options available to her. So many that the last thing that should have happened is her slapping a child. Also she slapped her then tried to grab her neck. Seriously guys. Seriously!!!<br />
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I used to be a teacher not far from your school (Claremont High School in fact; just up the road) and I guarantee you, the kids used to drive me nuts. Apparenetly that's what teenagers do when they're in school. I once walked out of my classroom in the middle of the lesson and went to the Deputy Principal to tell her I needed a break. I probably looked like I was ready to burst into tears. If I had stayed in the classroom I knew I would have said and done something I would have regretted. I didn't walk out because I'm a good teacher; I walked out because I'm human and walking away is one of the ways you can preserve your sanity. I also had a kid in my class who drove EVERYONE crazy. His name was Fisher. He used to drive me nuts. Completely and utterly nuts. The saving grace was that he was smart and I knew he was smart so every time he walked into my class I reminded myself that he's being a kid and he's not the sum total of his behaviour. So that's the thing with being a teacher; we have to make choices all the time; especially when we're having a bad day. My kids used to drive me so nuts I would restrain myself from saying to them "do you know who I am?" (I was googlable and thought I was a big deal) because I knew they would mop the floor with my attitude. So the biggest lesson I learned as a young teacher was humility and also making the right choice in split seconds moment. That's what working with teenagers requires: a sense of humour and sound judgement. I could share more stories about the number of times I got it wrong but made choices. Sometimes the right choice is simply to laugh and walk away from the situation. And that would have gone a long way in the interaction we saw. The point is: good teachers know when to pause and collect themselves. I know I'm being Judgy McJudgy but our profession is on the line here. Your teacher has costed all of us.<br />
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If your teachers are yelling at you on the regular and y'all think that's normal, your school is in deeper trouble than you think. You are in deeper danger than you think. The psychological effects of white-woman-yelling mode seep deep into our psyche in ways you will only understand with time. Another equally dangerous tool that goes hand in hand with yelling is passive-aggressiveness. Now that we're older and woke we call this psychic violence. It is one of the ingrained behaviours whiteness has to undo in order for white people to become more human.<br />
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I'm really worried about you girls and the treatment you've had to endure over time in the name of being good girls. Sihle Ntshokweni's blog post, <a href="https://sihlesapplecrunch.com/2016/08/31/model-c-schools-corridors-of-violence-assemblies-of-assimilation/?fbclid=IwAR1047guMQ8l-VXWm5MFFoopFkISzqUbI8h6Ff63FLl623xSPGZlR85eeoQ" target="_blank">Model C Schools: Corridors of violence & Assemblies of Assimilation</a> captures what you're going through. The trouble is your parents are probably not in a position to support you and march into the school every time your white teachers are wilding out because they are at work dealing with their own white people white-peopling. Or they are so grateful that you are receiving the kind of education they perceive to be the best because they did not have what you have. Or they don't know what's happening in your school because some of you can't quite articulate that something is amiss so you tell them everything is fine.<br />
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Everything is not fine. Thoses of us who have walked the hallowed halls of whiteness walked away with a semblance of dignity not because we received a good education but because our mothers insisted we go to black church on Sundays or go to family gatherings so we could remember our humanity. After the dust has settled I hope your parents will demand that your humanity become part of your education. I hope you will demand more from your teachers who are now probably scared shitless because y'all have phones and can take videos of them when they wild out (don't let them take your phones away otherwise we won't know what's happening in your schools). Take more videos of them. Record every single lesson if you have to. If that's the only thing that will stop them from yelling at you or treating you like you don't belong there.<br />
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I haven't even spoken about the bogus language rules in your school-<a href="https://theconversation.com/how-schools-use-language-as-a-way-to-exclude-children-64900?fbclid=IwAR2ith6avB7lOZYJJ95nYmYS5NagNKud6jDjBGdEobUBsQzEMYLDa5iSrZw" target="_blank">-apparently y'all get demerits when you speak isiXhosa</a>-- but maybe that's a letter for another day.<br />
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Nizoba rite wethu. Right now we're all triggered but knowing the South African news cycle Twitter and Facebook will forget about you in about a week. But you are not alone. You have each other. See each other beyond the caricature that the Sans Souci culture is trying to make out of you. Here's a poem by Alice Walker that I keep returning to when whiteness rears its ugly head but I'm too stumped to call it out because whiteness is relentless:<br />
<br />
Be nobody's darling;<br />
Be an outcast.<br />
Take the contradictions<br />
Of your life<br />
And wrap around<br />
You like a shawl,<br />
To parry stones<br />
To keep you warm.<br />
Watch the people succumb<br />
To madness<br />
With ample cheer;<br />
Let them look askance at you<br />
And you askance reply.<br />
Be an outcast;<br />
Be pleased to walk alone<br />
(Uncool)<br />
Or line the crowded<br />
River beds<br />
With other impetuous<br />
Fools.<br />
<br />
Make a merry gathering<br />
On the bank<br />
Where thousands perished<br />
For brave hurt words<br />
They said.<br />
<br />
But be nobody's darling;<br />
Be an outcast.<br />
Qualified to live<br />
Among your dead.utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-2934905511173450452018-12-05T23:17:00.000+02:002018-12-05T23:17:40.169+02:00Ukuzilanda: resisting erasure<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few weeks ago I was invited to speak at UNISA about MaCharlotte Mannya-Maxeke. This was off the back of a paper I had written about MaCharlotte and MaNontsizi Mgqwetho. Here are some extracts from what I shared (when the paper is published I will share the link).</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’d like to start with a few lines from SEK
Mqhayi’s poem which he wrote upon Charlotte Maxeke’s death:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<td style="height: 180.65pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 223.05pt;" valign="top" width="223">
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maz’emabele made
yase Afrika<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okwanyis’usapho
luka Ntu luphela;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Azi nonyaka
yaphusile nje,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Logagangwa
yintokazi kabanina?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Menzelen’ilitye
lokukhunjulwa, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ze siqhayisele
ngal’amavilakazi.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Az’angaz’alityalwe
kokwabo;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Az’angaz’alityalwe
emhlabeni<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Az’angaz’alityalwe
eAfrika!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
full-breasted woman of Afrika<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suckled all the
black children<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since this year
her breasts have dried up,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Whose daughter
will take her place<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Raise a stone to
her memory<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To display to
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">May she never be
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">May she never be
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">May she never be
forgotten in Africa<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is the work
of not forgetting MaMaxeke. Not forgetting is an act of resistance against the
erasure of black women’s lives, their intellectual work and political
contribution throughout history. Remembering requires that we actively say the
names of the women who are political, literary and spiritual ancestors who,
because of the way they lived their lives, black women today can step into conversations which has been happening for centuries and across continents. In
her book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5406/j.ctt1q31sfr" target="_blank">Beyond Respectibility: The intellectual thought of race women, </a></i>Brittney Cooper tracks the work of
early intellectuals, African-American women and how they combated the onslaught
of the Great Race men at the time who controlled the debate about race in
America. She writes about how the women used to write up lists: “Their own
genealogies of Black women thinkers. I do not think of these lists as mere
lists. Instead the intentional calling of names created an intellectual geneology
of race women’s work and was a practice of resistance against intellectual
erasure.”. Cooper refers to this as listing: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These lists
situate Black women within a long lineage of prior women who have done similar
kinds of work, and naming those women grants intellectual, political, and/or
cultural legitimacy to the Black women speaking their names. Listing also
refers in the fashion industry to an edge produced on a piece of fabric and
applied to a seam to prevent it from unravelling. In similar fashion, Black
women’s long traditions of intellectual production constitute a critical edge,
without which the broader history of African-American knowledge production
would unravel and come apart at the seams.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If we fail to talk
about women like Maxeke we run the risk of coming apart at the seams because
that is what erasure does; it unravels human dignity. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the African
discourse, memory is an act of ukuzilanda: to fetch oneself and connect oneself
to the past in the present moment. Talking about MaMaxeke and the long list of
women who still not part of the public imagination or general knowledge amongst
our children is an act of ukuzilanda.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">***********************</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The danger with remembering is that in our woundedness we only want to remember the positive part of our histories. And the same with how we remember our ancestors. We only wish to show their light but their dark remains hidden. And the same applies with MaMaxeke; in hailing her outside of the context of her peers and the difficult decisions she had to make in a political context that required people to make difficult decisions: what did it mean to have an unshaken conviction about being a representative leader of the race, a bridge between white and black worlds as Campbell describes Maxeke’s conviction? This is still a tension faced today in light of radical politics which call for the dismantling of institutions founded upon white supremacy; while now there are black elites who find themselves deeply invested in these institutions because they now benefit from them even while the structures remain unchanged. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Moreover, the glaring absence of the names of women MaMaxeke worked alongside begs the question about the nature of her own relationships with women of her class and in particular, the women she was helping and lifting from the miry clay of poverty. Campbell hints at some of the less desirable qualities of Mother Maxeke as she was affectionately known: Campbell refers to her steely qualities: “immense personal ambition, courage and an uncanny ability to gauge the expectations and sensibilities of her audience…she knew what she wanted and adept at obtaining it”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What does this legacy mean for us in 2018?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess the most obvious for me has been the cognitive dissonance of discovering the extent to which black women were present in the public discourse only for the this to regress to the point where even in the 2000s I could count on one hand black women intellectuals who were writing publically. This regression of backlash perhaps explains why the ANC women’s league felt it was okay to say that South Africa was not ready for a woman president. It seems to me they were out of sync with their ancestors who had established the Bantu Women’s League because the SANNC had not believed women could become members. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Secondly, I am interested in the ways in which we read history, particularly as black feminists, and how we make sense of the decisions and attitudes women held in the early twentieth century. I think there’s a tendency of being more forgiving for men to become products of their times, but women are not allowed to be products of their time and so we cannot easily dismiss their work and their lives and render them invisible because we cannot see them as part of the complex historical time they occupied. In a sense, we continue to punish women for the things they said far more than we punish the men. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reading about the intellectual and political contribution of women reminds me that this has been done before: being a black woman who is not afraid of speaking truth to power is not anomalous with being a black woman. In fact, it is the very essence of being a black woman because stepping outside the legacy left by Maxeke and Mgqwetho would mean that black women thinkers would not survive. As Mgqwetho says, Asinakuthula umhlaba ubolile. The lesson in MaMaxeke’s life and the women we now know about and some we are still yet to discover and list is that being present in the public discourse is a matter of survival. Being present and speaking and doing the work of changing the lives of other women matters because in 100 years from now the threat of erasure will still exist if patriarchy is not dismantled and so the struggle against erasure will continue. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, it is significant for me to deliver this lecture during the same week where women are gathering under the banner <a href="http://www.sabcnews.com/sabcnews/johhannesburg-to-host-launch-of-african-women-in-dialogue/" target="_blank">African Women in Dialogue </a>at Birchwood Hotel. That gathering is reminiscent of the gathering which established the Bantu Women’s League in 1917. 100 years later women know the importance of gathering together and thinking about the future they deserve because we know no one else will do it for us. </span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-49455183736135449272018-10-10T07:57:00.000+02:002018-10-12T07:26:36.268+02:00On love: speaking at the DSG Matric Dinner<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<span style="text-align: center;">Last night I spoke at the Diocesan School for Girls in Makhanda. Here's a copy of the speech. I like to think of this post in conversation with the previous one about the </span><a href="https://ixhantilam.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-art-of-loving.html" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank">art of loving. </a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m going to start with a poem written by
my friend Makhosazana Xaba: (read <a href="http://www.poetryforlife.co.za/index.php/poem-selection/south-african-selection/114-tongues-of-their-mothers" target="_blank">here</a>):<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As tempting as it is for the English teacher in me, I won’t break it down
like I would in an English lesson. I’m just going to leave it in the moment and
let the women’s names linger in the air. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopefully by the end of this speech you’ll see
why I started with this poem. I want these women’s stories to be in the room
today as we share your rite of passage which marks the end of your time in high
school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was supposed to speak to last year’s
matrics and it didn’t work out so Mrs Frayne said I would come this year. So
I’ve been carrying you in my heart since then. Luckily I’ve heard stories about
you and had a chance of spending time with you in a workshop at the end of your
Grade 11 year. So for a change, I’m speaking to a crowd I have a sense of. I
have a sense of some of the challenges you’ve faced. I have a sense of the
anxieties you deal with. I have a sense of who you are because I’ve also been
in a girls’ school and I taught at a girls. My life is all about what it means
to be a woman. I was raised by women. Strong, loud, broken, praying black
women. I spend most of my time writing about women and what it means being in
this body at this particular time in history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And I’m sure you’ve already figured out
that it isn’t easy being a woman in 2018. It isn’t easy being a black woman in
2018. If you don’t believe me, look across the world; Hillary Clinton does not
have a job she is qualified to do. It was given to a man who joined politics as
a joke. Serena Williams is depicted as throwing a tantrum by an Australian
cartoonist because she stood up for herself. Diane Rwigara was imprisoned for
inciting insurrection because she dared to confront Paul Kagame in the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rwandan elections last year. Nude photographs
of her were released shortly after she announced her candidacy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In South Africa the ANCWL said South Africa
was not ready for a woman president. And now we have Cyril Ramaphosa who was
implicated in the Marikana Massacre which killed 34 miners in 2012; the largest
massacre in a democratic South Africa which brings back memories of the 1960s
Sharpville Massacre. I could tell you about the statistics of femicide and
gender based violence in our country, I could tell you about stories about
women’s livelihood who do not make it into the news cycle. But that would
defeat the object of what this day represents; a new season for you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I guess it’s difficult to think about this
season without thinking about what you need in order to survive in the world
outside DSG. I could tell you to believe in yourself. I could tell you to speak
up for yourself. But instead I found myself thinking about love. I've been going through a season of learning about love: loving others and loving myself. I have a
friend who has a deep understanding about his purpose in life which is all
about love. He talks about love in relation to institutions all the time. All
the time. I have a tattoo on my arm about love because love consumes me even
though I feel like I don’t understand what it is most of the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Last month I attended the inaugural lecture
commemorating the life of Fezekile Ntsukela Khuzwayo; the woman who pressed
rape charges against Jacob Zuma and lost and ended up in exile. When Fez
returned to South Africa I met her through an organisation, 1 in 9 Campaign
which had supported her during the rape trial. Fez and I became friends until
she died two years ago. At the inaugural lecture, Pregs Govender was the speaker.
Pregs used to be a member of parliament and is the author of the book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love and Courage. </i>In her attempt of
remembering Fez she spoke about love. She said that in a world of hate love
isn’t taken seriously. She also said love is the quality of our being. She
asked two questions I’m still trying to answer:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li>What will we do to remember our
wholeness?</li>
<li>How do we sustain ourselves?</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Our lives as women in 2018 are intricately
linked to a history that has asked these two questions of women since the
moment a need arose for women to find a way to survive. I don’t want to believe
that patriarchy and misogyny have been a part of our lives since the beginning
of time. I want to believe that there was a time of peace and people flourished
and lived their best lives and patriarchy and misogyny began as a result of
clambering for scarce resources. Some argue that patriarchy begins with the
Adam and Eve narrative because Eve is used to justify women’s oppression. No
matter where and when patriarchy and misogyny began, it is here now but I don’t
believe it has to be a reality forever. And love is one of the ways to respond
to this. And by love I’m not talking about a feeling. I’m talking about an
existential and metaphysical orientation if we are to keep ourselves whole, if
we are to sustain ourselves. By love I'm referring to a practice that reminds us of our humanity: ubuntu bethu.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once upon a time people believed that
racism as a system was inevitable but through the civil rights movement in
America, people challenged this idea and pushed the imagination. One of the
leaders of the civil rights movement, John Lewis, referred to the civil rights
movement as a love movement. He says “The movement created what I like to call
a nonviolent revolution. It was love at its best. It’s one of the highest forms
of love. That you beat me, you arrest me, you take me to jail, you almost kill
me and in spite of that, I’m still gonna love you”. I find this very difficult
to believe: that love can be an appropriate response to systemic oppression and
dehumanisation. But the results of the civil rights movement are still being
felt in America and in places across the world which find inspiration in
movements and work which challenge us to make the world a better place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We can’t make the world a better place
without love. One of my favourite poets who wrote in the 1920s, Nontsizi
Mgqwetho wrote about making the world a better place and my favourite line from
one of her poems is “Asinakuthula umhlaba ubolile” translated into English as
we cannot keep quiet while the world is in shambles. Your DSG world is
different to the real world. If you haven’t already, you will encounter a world
that is in shambles. And there’s no running away from the fact that it’s not
your fault that the world is what it is; but it is what you are inheriting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When I was in high school I discovered the word
idealism. I think someone used it against me to insult me because I wasn’t a
realist. I latched onto the word because it pointed in the direction of
something I believed at the time: that the world is not good enough and we have
to make it better. I still believe that. We have to make it better, mostly
because our lives are at stake. Quite literally, our lives as women are at
stake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve never known what it’s like not to be
thinking about the world and how to make it a better place. Growing up poor and
black and having the opportunity of going to a good school and having a loving
church community—with all the problems and complexities churches and schools
have—I began to see how having loving communities in the form of some of my
teachers and friends and church helped me survive poverty. My life changed
because I had teachers, friends and church family who loved me. My sister and I
have a dark sense of humour when it comes to our childhood; we always laugh and
think how did we survive? Statistically, I shouldn’t be here but that’s a story
for another day. But I am here because people loved me. They made choices to
share their time, resources, homes and an endless list of things that it takes
to humanise someone. Because poverty dehumanises. So because I am a survivor I
believe in love. I believe we can make the world a better place. And that’s
what I ask you to do as you transition into an ugly world. Choose yourself.
Choose community. Choose life. Choose love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I started with a poem and I’m going to end
with a poem by Alice Walker that she shared with students in 1972: Be nobody’s
darling...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be nobody's darling; </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be an outcast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take the contradictions</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of your life</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And wrap around</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You like a shawl,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To parry stones</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To keep you warm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Watch the people succumb</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To madness</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With ample cheer; </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let them look askance at you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you askance reply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be an outcast; </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be pleased to walk alone</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Uncool) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or line the crowded</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
River beds</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With other impetuous</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fools.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Make a merry gathering</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the bank</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where thousands perished</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For brave hurt words</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But be nobody's darling; </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be an outcast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Qualified to live</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Among your dead.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsdfFxtqHlyTwEoSHqZRxeBRBbdzwPvj75_pIHKboREvtbmJK7LhCKDW5-Qc5wirloRzilc-wOhHvmUrLYqWRj-h9CfSDpRsj7rOiYySKN9S3gMd96b-tvFKenvt9X2vl3y9xjJBln1k/s1600/DSG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsdfFxtqHlyTwEoSHqZRxeBRBbdzwPvj75_pIHKboREvtbmJK7LhCKDW5-Qc5wirloRzilc-wOhHvmUrLYqWRj-h9CfSDpRsj7rOiYySKN9S3gMd96b-tvFKenvt9X2vl3y9xjJBln1k/s400/DSG.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-77413701854990395092018-10-02T06:13:00.000+02:002018-10-02T06:13:11.374+02:00The art of loving<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ndiphe olo thando</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ndibathande bonke</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ngomphefumlo nangenqgondo </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>nangamandla onke</i></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAv4p9PMZtjPsNDCfvrmOCYeVbATqwx1spafd59TS9m0ILPNbKKwX0QeIjcrY-Z-hzmqbO2CNy96Br1D4B6635kp5lUWmDnueLOgztRWnuSPSLKpsIAqhQoI4YCF8GqcmyFbuUzzjz9rc/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1076" data-original-width="1600" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAv4p9PMZtjPsNDCfvrmOCYeVbATqwx1spafd59TS9m0ILPNbKKwX0QeIjcrY-Z-hzmqbO2CNy96Br1D4B6635kp5lUWmDnueLOgztRWnuSPSLKpsIAqhQoI4YCF8GqcmyFbuUzzjz9rc/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Almost ten years ago I got my first tattoo: Luthando eyona nto, Love is the greatest. Not only did it mark my body, it marked who I was becoming. My first tattoo co-incided with me leaving the church and trying to figure out spirituality and who I am for myself. I had been raised in the church; I knew all the hymns and scriptures but something didn’t feel right. In leaving the church I knew I wasn’t leaving God—or rather God wasn’t leaving me—but I was leaving the church version of God which did not make any sense with the spiritual experiences which had led me to God when I was in high school and my childhood. I had experienced God through the love I received from others. I knew God existed because I had seen people choose love. So in leaving the church I took with me some of the gifts I needed to navigate the new experience of seeking for myself and the importance of understanding love has been an enduring part of seeking.<br />
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<br />By marking my body with these words I was reminding myself about what I knew for sure: Luthando eyona nto. I wanted to distil for myself what my spiritual journey was about outside of the rules of Christianity. Later I learned I had chosen the hardest parts of who I am because I struggle with love: loving myself and loving others. And perhaps this is the starting point for being able to be a seeker and pursue the art of loving.<br />
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In the process of ending a long-term relationship I was led back to bell hook’s books <i>All about love</i>. I had read the book a few years ago because a friend of mine could not stop talking about it. I read the book as I did any other book because I was not yet ready to deeply engage with what the book demands; a cracking open and realising that in fact, we know very little about love. Hollywood movies teach us that love is a feeling. Growing up in a dysfunctional family prepared me to learn how to survive and it was through my relationship with my sister that I began to understand love. It is impossible to write about love without writing about my greatest teacher in love.<br />
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Like most sisters we fought when we were growing up. We grew up as twins because the age-gap is just under two years. I remember the moment when things changed. I was in primary school. I think she was in Grade 8. It was my birthday and no-one had remembered it in my family. My parents had ceased being present and my sister had begun to realise that we had to become each other’s emotional support. Around 7pm I noticed her rummaging through the magazines she’d collected. She was standing in the kitchen paging through looking for something. I assumed she had a school project and I decided to let her be. A few moments later she called me to the kitchen (together with our bath time, the kitchen had become the only place we could speak in whispers away from our parents because we lived in a one-roomed apartment with no privacy). She handed me a folded piece of paper and inside were two chocolates; a heart-shaped chocolate and a star-shaped chocolate melting in the February heat.<br />
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The piece of paper was a picture from her glossy magazine; two models standing alongside each looking into the distance. She had scribbled on top of the picture a message which began with the words: “I was actually looking for a picture of two-peas in a pod which symbolises what you are to me”. The rest of the message explained the significance of the shapes of the chocolates and how we were like two-peas in a pod. It was my first lesson in love from my sister because until that point it had simply been implied that she loved me because we are family. She was inviting me into a relationship that continues to grow in our adulthood. My sister has continued to be my greatest teacher in the art of loving. I have watched her show up for herself, her family and the children which have been entrusted to her with the kind of courage I am still learning.<br />
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The art of loving is an ongoing meditation. It is a practice that is counter-culture because it requires that we take nothing for granted. I have been drawn to other people’s words which remind me that love is a practice that has nothing to do with our feelings but rather a life-long pursuit which begins with self-love. Below are two pieces of writing which have shaped my experience of being a student of love this year:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIJbbv9POkYdNy0W3eSGGMqf9z78bJrYzxkKOsHPseX-ew7GOtHqUR4rAXnl7iq0bgbFKmtgvft-koqJxiDKff03oyhkd2JKVH9lGMn-AOMDKBSMcvkSpLAr5ejdqnmCHwp1qNUDPEPE/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="727" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIJbbv9POkYdNy0W3eSGGMqf9z78bJrYzxkKOsHPseX-ew7GOtHqUR4rAXnl7iq0bgbFKmtgvft-koqJxiDKff03oyhkd2JKVH9lGMn-AOMDKBSMcvkSpLAr5ejdqnmCHwp1qNUDPEPE/s320/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I saw this on Instagram a few months ago and knew I would keep coming back to it.</td></tr>
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“Let me tell you about love, that silly word you believe is about whether you like somebody or whether somebody likes you or whether you can put up with somebody in order to get something or someplace you want or you believe it has to do with how your body responds to another body like robins or bison or maybe you believe love is how forces or nature or luck is benign to you in particular not maiming or killing you but if so doing it for your own good. Love is none of that. There is nothing in nature like it. Not in robins or bison or in the banging tails of your hunting dogs and not in blossoms or suckling foal. Love is divine only and difficult always. If you think it is easy you are a fool. If you think it is natural you are blind. It is a learned application without reason or motive except that it is God. You do not deserve love regardless of the suffering you have endured. You do not deserve love because somebody did you wrong. You do not deserve love just because you want it. You can only earn - by practice and careful contemplations - the right to express it and you have to learn how to accept it. Which is to say you have to earn God. You have to practice God. You have to think God-carefully. And if you are a good and diligent student you may secure the right to show love. Love is not a gift. It is a diploma. A diploma conferring certain privileges: the privilege of expressing love and the privilege of receiving it. How do you know you have graduated? You don't. What you do know is that you are human and therefore educable, and therefore capable of learning how to learn, and therefore interesting to God, who is interested only in Himself which is to say He is interested only in love. Do you understand me? God is not interested in you. He is interested in love and the bliss it brings to those who understand and share the interest. Couples that enter the sacrament of marriage and are not prepared to go the distance or are not willing to get right with the real love of God cannot thrive. They may cleave together like robins or gulls or anything else that mates for life. But if they eschew this mighty course, at the moment when all are judged for the disposition of their eternal lives, their cleaving won't mean a thing. God bless the pure and holy. Amen.” </div>
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― Toni Morrison, Paradise</div>
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utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-79375581223803091342018-08-16T10:14:00.001+02:002018-08-16T10:17:43.316+02:00On Spirituality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A while ago I thought I was doing a thread on Twitter. Turns out I did it all wrong so I've decided to rework the tweets into a blog post of sorts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was musing about spirituality; African spirituality to be specific. I've been to a few occasions and her people reference "African theology" which is unusual in the Methodist church. But I recognised it as a response to the moment where people ware talking about spirituality beyond the Christian discourse. Obviously this has been happening for years but within the context of the consequences of Christianity and even Atheism in relation to young people who find themselves estranged from their family's traditions while living in complexes and estates. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So here are my musings:</span></span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">MaAfrika,can we talk about ukuphahla?Ingxaki is this,our bodies and spirits want to do something some of our parents refused to teach us in the name of impucuko. Now our spirits remember something we lost #thread</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I started having this conversation a while ago and I was stumped by where to begin. I began to remember my mom enebhekile she spoke over for a while and then she stopped. I don't really know who she was talking to. She tried to teach me some things but there are gaps</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Is ukuphahla the same as ukuthandaza? Language matters. You might be wondering, why am I bringing this to twitter? Because this is where conversation happens.I'm thinking a lot about spiritual practices our elders didn't teach us and now we need them more than ever</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">What does an African spiritual practice look like outside the Christian narrative?Can we really integrate it into these capitalist lifestyles we live?Where do you find a place to be quiet between traffic jams and long commutes and living in complexes with no meaningful community?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I know some people created ubuhlanti when they moved to the suburbs and told izinyanya zabo where they are; but many didn't. So what happened? Do we know how to find them if we haven't invited them into our homes? But of course they are spirits, they are always with us</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm just thinking out aloud. I'm not suggesting ubomi in the suburbs is mutually exclusive with African spirituality. Or is it🤔And we're outchea pretending like our lives are normal kanti our internal lives are in turmoil?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I've been watching people document African spirituality: sharing videos and pictures. And it looks a particular way. I'm yearning for someone to say "my journey looks different and that's okay". I lie; I've had one person tell me that. Maybe there are more.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Last year a friend gave me three silver candle holders and small candles; I've been burning candles since then. At Christmas a friend gave me imphepho. That sits next to my candles and I burn it regularly. My sister came to visit and she asked me why I have candles and mphepho😳</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I probably mumbled something about missing home and imphepho reminded me of home. I'd sent her a long voice note about how we can remember our grandmothers (especially) within the lives we had. Her response was biblical scripture so I dropped the conversation 🤷🏽♀️</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">About the candles&mphepho; I started reciting iziduko after lighting the candles but it felt weird so I've stopped until I figure that out. So now I say a short prayer "mabudede ubumnyama kuvele ukukhanya" which I used to hear as a kid when my mom was becoming igqirha.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh yes, there's that too: mama started becoming igqirha/healer and stopped. Story for another day. So now I have a little table with candles,impepho and incense (because I like it mostly). But it feels out of sync with the rest of my life. Cognitive dissonance of sorts.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And then I had to think about the land. That the cognitive dissonance I feel is because I'm dislocated. Unlike some friends who can go emakhaya and there's a place where this all makes sense; I don't have a home to go to (story for another day) other than this apartment I live in</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm sharing all this because I'm hoping someone will say "even me, I'm going through the same thing". I have a hunch I'm not alone. I have friends who've figured this out because their elders didn't let them down. They straddle African spirituality and Christianity with ease.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I also have friends who don't find the need to straddle and find all the answers in African spirituality (Christianity always has disclaimers). I envy these friends who have it figured out mostly because that's part of the inheritance they've received from their families.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm having this experience as someone who is committed to a church community because that's the only thread that's remained in my life. The questions about Christianity ebb and flow and I'll live with that for the rest of my life. These questions about isintu are more pressing</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Mostly because I overthink everything and when I don't have questions I think I'm not living fully.</span></li>
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</span>utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-44090169868646376662018-07-21T15:11:00.003+02:002018-07-21T15:56:52.673+02:00Remembering my grandmothers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few months ago I got a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tattoo with my grandmothers’ names: Hlathi
and Bhele. Hlathi is my paternal grandmother’s isiduko and Bhele is my maternal
grandmother’s isiduko. I have also been fascinated by how no one called them by
their names but rather their family names. Their names are part of a picture of
Xhosa women dancing taken by Constance Stuart Larabee. It is on my arm above my
elbow. Below that is an image a student of mine drew of a woman wearing a
headwrap and where there’s supposed to be a face there’s a fist: she told me it
represented parts of who I am: strength, black consciousness, black womanhood.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Constance Stuart Larabee's picture which appears on my arm</td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Soon after got the tattoos with my
grandmothers’ names I was caught in a bit of a whirlwind in my personal life. I
found it quite strange that after etching their names on my arm I was faced
with what I saw as adult experiences and more often than not I found myself
looking at their names thinking what would Bhele do in this situation? What
would Hlathi do in this situation? I couldn’t find the answers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was estranged from both my grandmothers
at a young age. My eldest sister has wonderful memories of both of them and we
always teased her as umntwana kaBhele, umntwana kaMakhulu. I’ve always been
quite jealous of my sister’s bond with both her grandmothers. A few years
before Hlathi died we visited her Ezibeleni and she had Alzheimer’s. Throughout
the afternoon she kept asking us “Ungubani kanene wena?” and we had to
introduce ourselves anew as she had forgotten who we were. By the end of the afternoon
I was fighting back my tears because of the reality that she didn’t know who we
were and had no memory of who we were as kids. I began to mourn the loss of her
before she even died because<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>realised I
had missed out on a crucial life experience of having a grandmother who had
stories and experiences to share that my parents never could.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBat96oAUByrhVj5_sUTEx5AVJ3oQ2Duhzg6BujV2WJivDqt83KgTUc3Raj1CjeQT6EEJevz6GagN9_ZWkVTpM4OhmjM9VKBFczI1qHfZdKNt4nF4iuh6lCsGgx5mIMMkqGaOOYxq1ogw/s1600/Scan+31.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="306" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBat96oAUByrhVj5_sUTEx5AVJ3oQ2Duhzg6BujV2WJivDqt83KgTUc3Raj1CjeQT6EEJevz6GagN9_ZWkVTpM4OhmjM9VKBFczI1qHfZdKNt4nF4iuh6lCsGgx5mIMMkqGaOOYxq1ogw/s400/Scan+31.jpeg" width="306" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">uHlathi</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span>I was less mournful with uBhele even though
I became estranged from her when I was 7 years old when we moved to the
suburbs. Before she died she and my mom rekindled their relationship which gave
permission for me to visit her again. I spent a few days with her months before
she died and asked her about her experiences of growing up and being an adult
in apartheid South Africa. She showed me a copy of her pass book and I asked if
I could keep it after she passed away (my aunts were very conscientious about
making sure I got it when they were clearing her room after her death). She
told me about how stylish she was and how she got away with being cheeky
because ngumtwana kaMfundisi. I didn’t have enough courage to ask her about her
lovers and how she came to have 6 children by three different men. She told me
about moving to eMdantsane in the early 1960s. It was winter and the house was
a skeleton compared to the home she had had in Duncan Village. She told me
about the harshness of moving to a destitute place that had houses that were
incomplete and wind was blowing through the crevices in the winter with young
children to look after (some of whom who were subsequently shipped off to be
looked after by friends and relatives which would have dire consequences for
family relations when they became adults).</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQcmMHcQ7Ae-RThWtZwvr5BD0dDuPTV9tqrRWBYOISAwy9G2fma9C12g6HoVga7OlpM0YH2IJoJgoYpEc1TtwJ3AM8kCkLlkg-z1uRpjfL5JIuoKCWd7RGLrgwgkfgMmRpXZL-HVH3K4/s1600/Scan+23.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="199" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQcmMHcQ7Ae-RThWtZwvr5BD0dDuPTV9tqrRWBYOISAwy9G2fma9C12g6HoVga7OlpM0YH2IJoJgoYpEc1TtwJ3AM8kCkLlkg-z1uRpjfL5JIuoKCWd7RGLrgwgkfgMmRpXZL-HVH3K4/s400/Scan+23.jpeg" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">uBhele in her youth</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have always remembered this story about
my grandmother and recently the story came to mind while chatting to a friend
about the pain we inherit from our grandmothers and the lessons we can learn
from them about our lives in 2018.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have a few stories about uHlathi. Mostly
snippets based on what people said about her. I know she liked wearing heels;
granny heels in her old age. She was also stylish and prided herself on her
style and ability to still be wearing heels in her old age. At her funeral
people spoke about the pride she had about being one of the most educated
people in her village as she had stayed in school as far as Standard 6 (Grade
8). This was an accomplishment given that she married my grandfather who hadn’t
managed to get very far in school. This means she knew how to write and read
and she was a seamstress who was known for her handiwork (just like uBhele who
was still sewing clothes for people late into her life). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For both my grandmothers, the ability to
sew and make clothes for others became a lifeline; they were able to be
financially independent in spite of the crushing economic, social and political
structures which granted them little to no humanity. Bhele never married.
Hlathi married my grandfather, Jabavu (fondly known as uJ). Mama tells me
stories of the effect of migrant labour on Hlathi when uJ would come home once
a week looking dapper like a man about town and nothing but fish for supper to
show for his toil in the small town of Queenstown. Hlathi was able to remain
alive because she sewed and made money and her sons had jobs in the store
nearby. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I think a lot about my grandmothers as I
get older. What I lost and who I am because their blood runs through my veins.
I am my grandmothers’ daughter. When Bhele died I had a burden on my heart to
embody her rebellious spirit because she said what she wanted to say and gave
middle class respectability the middle finger: her father was a Baptist
minister, she had been educated at Shawbury Girls, her brothers were Fort Hare
alumns. For all intents and purposes she ticked the boxes of the Africanised,
Christianised elite of the Eastern Cape but she shunned that by remaining a
single woman with children much to her father’s chagrin. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">uBhele</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have bits and pieces of who my
grandmothers are. And I love both of them deeply for the memories I have but
also what they represent. My work has led me to the historiography of black
women in the early 20<sup>th</sup> century. Both my grandmother’s were born in
the 1910s and 1920s and became adults as apartheid began to build a stronghold
on both their lives. In spite of the pain of what it meant being a poor black
women somehow they survived to see us live our lives in the new South Africa.
They saw the best and the worst of the rainbow nation: Bhele had to bury two
sons because of HIV. Both stayed in the townships where they had established
their lives as adults with their children. I think about what it meant to build
homes in spite of the pain of being subjugated and tormented by an oppressive,
racist system that did not value their dreams and personhood. I think about
what it meant to be black women with desires and visions during this time and
have to surrender those dreams because fighting was too much of a risk. And yet
they both lived well with a community around them until they were both in their
80s.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And now here I am, their granddaughter
contending with the ugliest and best parts of living in South Africa in 2018. I
am free in relation to my grandmothers. I am educated beyond their wildest
dreams, I have a voice and an opinion which I share on public platforms. But I
am still a black woman who has to contend with what it means to be in a system
that pretends to uplift black women while stifling our personhood. More often
than not my friends and I talk about how this system does not see black women:
no matter where we are we are often infantilised and cast aside but we continue
to rise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The one inheritance from both my
grandmothers which keeps me alive has been the ability to survive and remaining
steadfast in my faith. Both my grandmothers were part of uManyano. Both of them
had a skill like sewing which gave them meaning, status in their communities
and financial independence. Unlike the women whom I read about in my research,
they were not privileged, they were not highly educated but they were here.
They are part of the story of what it means to be a black woman. They are part
of my story about what it means to be who I am. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And every time I am overcome by pain and
feeling like I want to shrink because I am being crushed by circumstances, I think
of uHlathi noBhele and the many black mothers, aunts and grandmothers my
friends and I talk about and I am inspired to look beyond the pain and choose
to live. I choose love, friendship and faith every time I think about these
women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262055667994370618.post-39291063858846235982018-07-05T17:06:00.002+02:002018-07-05T17:22:38.539+02:004th of July<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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home of the brave</i></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbQHgyIlHYpEQWBtyJCVSnP_kIIZoowZ0np8M5bOPXPAQZDyLT7S2Pabm3Az6PNeW_72bYr89uyGziEF-XUKivtln8waf8hk5dDzyZ5y2SdnKsptM544O0HID6zmGyPnXNQkO3V4OfmY/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2018-07-04+at+23.17.52.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="1032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbQHgyIlHYpEQWBtyJCVSnP_kIIZoowZ0np8M5bOPXPAQZDyLT7S2Pabm3Az6PNeW_72bYr89uyGziEF-XUKivtln8waf8hk5dDzyZ5y2SdnKsptM544O0HID6zmGyPnXNQkO3V4OfmY/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2018-07-04+at+23.17.52.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">4</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> of July happens in the midst
of a heat wave</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">It happens in the season of images of
children in cages<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">(euphemistically referred to as family
separation)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">News reporting on the Supreme Court’s
jeopardy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And the Muslim ban continues<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
land of the free<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
home of the brave<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I experience the fireworks with a community
of misfits and oddballs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">We spend 21 days discussing peace and
conflict in the world<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We represent what the empire<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>desires and detests:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">We rethink the world and refashion the
world into a new order<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">While cocooned in the forest campus in the
midst of a world that refuses its humanity<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
land of the free<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
home of the brave<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXfRL-TTeo2w1xopoPzfJP-b27tTF6drSuu748oPV0AOLFKB41LVWPbFdha-otBZQvF1NyviwRdVaJPsxoPel1GrZJE0TcrqmOOSgCl-nWt_UZHpkCLGgiPQ508b68qQ1IDssyOO5tojY/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2018-07-04+at+23.15.16.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1032" data-original-width="774" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXfRL-TTeo2w1xopoPzfJP-b27tTF6drSuu748oPV0AOLFKB41LVWPbFdha-otBZQvF1NyviwRdVaJPsxoPel1GrZJE0TcrqmOOSgCl-nWt_UZHpkCLGgiPQ508b68qQ1IDssyOO5tojY/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2018-07-04+at+23.15.16.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture: Khanis Suvinita</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
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The fireworks reverberate through my body</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Each thunder and burst of light I am
reminded of children separated from their mothers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I struggle with the futility of the
celebration in a country being confronted with questions about justice<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I grapple with the words which point us
towards justice: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">(</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">The <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">arc</span> of the <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">moral</span> universe
is long, but it bends toward <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">justice)</span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-ZA; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
land of the free</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
home of the brave<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I wonder aloud about mourning<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Collective mourning<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">In a world that willingly grinds a
machine which dehumanises<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
land of the free<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
home of the brave<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I wonder about celebration<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And nationalism and pride<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The warm and fuzzy feelings existing
alongside hatred<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
land of the free</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
home of the brave</span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
I clutch my chest preventing my heart from
leaving my body<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As the thunder and colour continues to
dazzle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I wonder about the sound of bombs and
bullets which mirror the sound of the fireworks<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Bombs and bullets in Syria, Nigeria, Indonesia, Israel, Palestine; fireworks in
New Jersey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
land of the free<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
home of the brave<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2DhQ5tnnU86AOjrrNVXlYIkCK2b7_xJSM4HypmaLldZ-bqaJDhIjvcD6yyZB7xQx5XaaG2KbqDaw6dbWRXhFgYSrTD3afkcSbcGuETXJBmcKdSTDDRLTaF9GD8DxAydYIIs7eDi7RoeI/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2018-07-04+at+23.15.14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="1032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2DhQ5tnnU86AOjrrNVXlYIkCK2b7_xJSM4HypmaLldZ-bqaJDhIjvcD6yyZB7xQx5XaaG2KbqDaw6dbWRXhFgYSrTD3afkcSbcGuETXJBmcKdSTDDRLTaF9GD8DxAydYIIs7eDi7RoeI/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2018-07-04+at+23.15.14.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture: Khanis Suvinita</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Yesterday the Drew Institute group gathered for a barbecue to mark America's 'Independence Day'. It's a fraught holiday which marks the American experience. We gathered and spoke about religious freedom and ended the evening by walking to a nearby park to watch the fireworks display. I wrote this poem while trying to reflect on the experience.</div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />utterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08867361588236686988noreply@blogger.com0