The Dilution of Memory…
Embers fade,
disappearing into the hushed night…
Petals wither,
falling on the soft grass…
Words pale,
obscured by the anguish within…
Faces blur,
dimmed by the galloping years…
Kisses lose,
the urgency of those bygone depths…
Feelings recede,
lying dormant in shielded vaults…
Love loses,
fatigued after numberless skirmishes…
Pain flees,
seeking new wounds to inflict…
Scars remain,
sentinels against,
the dilution of memory.
Then, Now…
Then –
Promises,
dreams,
hopes,
love.
Life. Alive,
breathing hopeful sighs.
Now –
Desolation,
regret,
guilt,
pain.
Alive. Living,
exhaling exhausted breaths.
Then. Now.
…
…Emptiness tightens its shackles,
…
imprisoning me.
…
Jagged shrapnel,
piercing my heart,
…
my emotions trickle away,
yet hope refuses to flee.
…
I write, to feel again.
…
Something, anything.
…
I write,
to be free.
…
I write to feel again.
…
something, anything.
I write to be.
…
…
Clawing into myself,
digging, scraping, scratching a phantom itch.
…
Amputating feelings, thoughts, emotions,
love,
always excising love,
…
to feel some pain,
for once, to feel the ache, the heartbreak, the anger, the desolation, the loss, the pangs of remorse,
to feel anything at all,
not this numbness,
these tattered synapses, this innured state of anaesthetised unfeeling, the brittle thoughts that shatter, painless, when I stumble and crash, and fall.
…
I ache for the ache, pining to pine, hungering to hunger, bleeding fragments of myself, only to bleed, to feel,
alive,
again…
…
Refusing to succumb,
to the alluring haze of self-pity,
I refuse to wallow,
in an ocean of regret,
I choose to banish thoughts of despair,
dispelling pain, while tempting joy to emerge from its shielded lair.
I shall sow the seeds of promise,
nourishing well,
the tendrils of hope,
breathing new life into my nights, my days.
I must stand, I will rise, I have to believe,
in a better tomorrow,
not perfect, nor rosy,
yet filled with tidbits of bliss,
as well as with shards of sorrow.
…
…
Callously discarding,
talismans of heart and soul,
hastily scorching all bridges,
in a supernova burying me whole,
retreating into emptiness,
no salvation to be found,
sins too many to absolve,
drowning, in a freshly
dug hole in the cold ground.
Hollow, empty, barren desolation closes in,
asphyxiating me,
within the walls of my dismal room,
sinking into the abyss,
disappearing, fading, lost forever,
inside an emotionless,
vacuum
…
My Family: A Historical Journey Through the Seasons.
Part Three: A Summer Digression.
And now, dear reader (may your patience be praised!), I am going to steer this ship of memories as we embark on a journey of emotions – a subjective voyage through the feelings that I have felt, the emotions that I have experienced during the course of my 40 year old life.
You, dear reader, may stop reading right now if you find outpourings of emotion and wearing one’s feelings on one’s sleeve not your cup of Earl-Grey! If however, and I sincerely hope you do decide to read through this ‘summer’ of life’s memories, I assure you that what you will read will be savage honesty, however painful and hard it is to bare one’s soul for all to see the flawed human-beings that we all are.
And so it was that just past my 18th birthday in September of 1990, I found myself ‘home’ in South Africa, after 18. years of dreaming what ‘home’ would be like and how my brother and sister and cousins and aunts and uncles would take me into their homes and lives.
I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and kindness showered on me, the ‘returning’ boy who was not really returning, but was dipping his toes into the early 1990’s, a period of South African history, just preceding the first free and democratic election in 1994, that was one of the country’s most trying of times.
The Apartheid regime, having unbanned all political organisations and liberation movements and releasing political prisoners such as Nelson Mandela and others, was still not willing to relinquish power, and had embarked on a cynical and dirty campaign of fomenting violence in the sprawling black townships in Johannesburg, Durban and other cities around the country.
There were killings and hit-squads that roamed and terrorised communities while negotiations between the Apartheid government and the African National Congress (ANC) offered hope and then broke down, and then were restarted until finally, on April the 27th, 1994, black South African, for the first time in their lives, cast their ballots which resulted in sweeping Nelson Mandela’s ANC into power, with Nelson Mandela or ‘Madiba’ as he is known becoming South Africa’s first black President.
I attended the inauguration of Nelson Mandela as South Africa’s first truly democratically elected President in Pretoria on a crisp May 10th morning along with friends and comrades, and we openly wept as the South African Air-Force flew overhead, the flag of our new ‘rainbow’ nation fluttering below.
A Flash Back –
My early days in South Africa were ones of family dinners and visits to relatives and old family friends and comrades in the struggle. My father started work almost immediately at the ANC’s headquarters in central Johannesburg, and I attended my final year of high-school, also in central Johannesburg.
Looking back now, I see myself then as a caricature of the immigrant who just wants to fit in, always being on one’s best behaviour, and under no circumstances allowing the turmoil within to bubble to the surface.
I was born to parents who were non-religious, my father definitely more so than my mother, who ‘believed’ in God, though was never one to make a show of it.
I grew up not really knowing what religion I was born into, as my parents never, and though never is a strong word, it is applicable here, my parents never mentioned religion at home.
My mom would cook up a storm on Eid-ul-Fitr every year, the feast that is the culmination of the fasting month of Ramadaan, but then we never fasted or paid attention to religious ritual or practice. I can say that religion was absent from our home, whether we were in India, Cairo or Helsinki.
I am forever indebted to my parents for having raised me with, and this may sound pompous of me to say, humane values, rather than strictly religious ones, not that the two are mutually exclusive!
I attended a school in Delhi in the 1980’s, Springdales, an institution founded by two great humanitarians, Mrs. Rajni Kumar and her husband Mr. Yudhishter Kumar, both human-beings who possessed the highest qualities of compassion, humanity, and a burning sense of the need to tackle injustice, wherever and in whatever shape or form it was to be encountered.
My years at Springdales in Delhi, though I was hardly a promising academic student (having failed standard 8!), I now look back and am forever indebted to the culture of tolerance and respect for all people, regardless of station in life, religion, caste, gender or race, that my still-beloved Springdales inculcated in me.
The culture of Springdales School and the manner in which my parents raised me, has led to a life-long aversion to intolerance in any shape, colour or form, and a strong belief in the power of rational and critical thinking.
I thank my parents again, and my Springdales, for bestowing on me this invaluable gift.
A Flash Forward –
And so I find myself, now in the teen years of the new millennium, still always feeling that I am on the outside, looking in – and I find this vantage point to be, strangely, comfortable now, I must admit.
I do not have much time for religion or for cultural affiliations. Again, this is not meant to be offensive to anyone, these are the feelings I am comfortable with. I cannot stress this enough, just how my upbringing and my years at Springdales have hewn into my consciousness, the absolute need for the respect for all.
I am growing weary of talking about myself, as I am sure you, dear reader, are as well, and so I shall stop this monologue with the words of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara who when responding to a woman who also bore the ‘Guevara’ name and who had written to Che asking him where in Spain his ancestors came from. This was Che’s response …
“I don’t think you and I are very closely related but if you are capable of trembling with indignation each time that an injustice is committed in the world, we are comrades, and that is more important.”
Thank you, dear reader, for your patience, and for your taking the time to read these ramblings of mine.
TO BE CONTINUED…
…
Three words,
murmured in exhaled whispers,
filling infinite ears,
through numberless tongues.
Three words,
soothing, embalming, teasing, cajoling, suffocating, giggling,
spoken so much, meaning so little,
conveying dreams, hopes, life, peace,
offering solace, comfort,
bliss,
stoking fear, frustration, anger,
emptying days of meaning,
offering rickety crutches,
onto which countless emotions end up leaning.
Three words,
mumbled, gargled, spewed, spit out,
violated, battered, ripped open, casually desecrated,
crashing down upon skewered hearts,
shrinking into nothingness,
in each breath that departs.
Three words,
‘I love you’,
blaring out of empty mouths,
emblazoned on fluff,
rings on fingers, cards, flowers, puffed teddy-bears,
stuff,
hollow stuff.
Three words,
mortify me, as I scribble this verse,
rendered catatonic by fear,
revisiting the truant past,
knowing,
three words,
curled-up, wounded, gasping for air,
accepting at last,
that,
you do not care
…
Savage lies, mercilessly spoken,
battering emotions, a heart exposed, nakedly open,
companionship was all that was sought,
not blue-chip bonds, hastily sold and bought.
The bonds I sought were simple,
peaceful nights, scribbling verse in unseen black,
delicately caressing words of love, my fingers tracing poems, over the contours of your soft back.
It saddens me to say, my thoughts were dreamed in vain,
and it grieves me see, the ashes of our love,
floating down the streets we walked,
scattered in the rivulets of this night’s pouring rain.
Alone I scribble this paltry verse,
the darkest of nights, in the midst of howling storms,
and though I may heal some day,
the memory of the ashes of our love,
floating down the streets we once walked,
shall remain buried deep,
until my dying day
…
No crackling sounds,
or smouldering embers,
not even a hint of a wisp of smoke,
no heat felt at all.
Still, a fire rages,
scorching through the canyons of my memory,
in sweltering waves of loss,
without a whimper, or a thundering roar.
Yet,
I stand alone, seemingly unscathed,
but,
burnt to my very core.
…
…
An imprint of you remains,
mingled in the blood racing through my veins,
hewn into my flesh you stay,
a chiselled tattoo from our long-lost yesterday,
deeply branded by your entire being,
rooted to a memory incapable of fleeing,
torn, and twisting inside my skin,
the pain screeches like jangling cans of tin,
a desolate nightmare this agony feels,
with a phantom whiff of your sweet breath my soul reels,
now that you are gone, lost within a labyrinth of illusions,
your voice swarms inside my desperate delusions,
scratching, clawing layers of past moments spent with you,
you are a part of me, an unfaded, vivid tattoo,
and as my dreams of you frantically race,
I am unable to erase,
the blazing picture of your exquisite face,
so let me be, and leave me to burn in this furnace of my hell,
I should have known better,
but all that matters little,
because it was for you, that I fell.
…
My Family: A Historical Journey Through the Seasons.
Part One: Winter –
There is a legend in Delhi that when a male-child is born, the parents are visited by a group of ‘Hijras’, a derogatory term used to describe the Transgender community. The troupe gather en-masse outside the home of the parents of the infant boy and sing and dance, and offer blessings to the new arrival, while in return a small sum of money is offered to the visiting party and all returns to the relative ‘normalcy’ that prevails in a home that has just experienced the birth of a child.
These were the early 1970’s, and this story was told to me in great detail by my parents, who themselves were recently arrived political exiles in India, having to leave South Africa, where my father was arrested along with Nelson Mandela and 156 others in the infamous ‘Treason Trial’ of 1956.
The ‘main’ “Treason Trial” lasted four years till 1960, though the entire trial lasted till 1961, when the 30 remaining accused (of which my father was one) were acquitted by the Supreme Court.
The outcome of the trial was that all 156 were acquitted of the charge of ‘High Treason’.
During the 5 years of the trial my father and his co-accused had to travel daily to court in Pretoria from Johannesburg, some 60 kilometres away.
The accused were all charged with ‘High Treason’ and faced the death penalty if found guilty. My father was the youngest accused at 22 years of age.
A Flash Forward –
Later, in 1963, when my father was arrested again and held at Marshall Square Police Station in central Johannesburg, my father and three fellow political detainees managed to convince a young Afrikaner warder, Johan Greeff, into helping the four escape from the downtown Johannesburg prison. He was promised financial remuneration for his cooperation.
The news of ‘The Great Escape’ embarrassed the Apartheid state at a time when it felt that it had crushed the African National Congress (ANC), with most of its leaders either in jail, or having gone underground. The ‘Sharpeville’ massacre of 1960 resulted in the Apartheid state declaring a State of Emergency and banning the African National Congress (ANC) and other political organisations.
My father, Moosa ‘Mosie’ Moolla and his three fellow escapees (Abdulhay ‘Charlie’ Jassat, Harold Wolpe, and Arthur Goldreich) parted ways and moved from one safe-house to another, until my father, heavily disguised, managed to slip through the border into neighbouring ‘Bechuanaland’, now the country Botswana.
Goldreich and Wolpe managed to disguise themselves as clerics and made their way to Swaziland, a British High Commission Territory, from where they flew over to Bechuanaland (now Botswana).
The South African authorities offered a reward of 5000 Pounds Sterling for the capture of any of the escapees.
Following the escape my father and His fellow escapees were separately sheltered by members of the ANC underground for a few days.
They then parted ways for safety reasons and Abdulhay Jassat made his way to Bechuanaland where he sought political asylum.
By the time my father made his way about a month after the escape to Bechuanaland, the two white colleagues ( my father and Jassat are of Indian-origin) Wolpe and Goldreich had flown over to Tanganyka (now Tanzania) where the ANC’s external headquarters were located in Dar-es-Salaam.
It should be noted that a chartered plane to ferry ANC students and Wolpe and Goldreich was blown-up on the tarmac by South African agents in the early hours of the morning.
Wolpe and Goldreich then flew over on another flight. Jassat followed suit.
An Interesting Fact –
My father and Abdulhay ‘Charlie’ Jassat were both born on June 12th, 1934, and the two were arrested and escaped from prison together, and subsequently lived 30 years of their lives in exile, and both men returned to South Africa following the release of Nelson Mandela and all political prisoners, and the unbanning of the ANC and all liberation movements, and the return of political exiles.
As I type these words, my father and ‘Charlie’ live a few kilometres apart in Johannesburg and meet fairly regularly – mostly at functions or events held to commemorate the years of the struggle for freedom and democracy in South Africa.
But more about my father in a bit.
A Flash Back –
My mother, Zubeida or ‘Zubie’, a nurse at the time, and expecting my brother Azad (which means ‘to be free’ in Urdu) was subsequently arrested and detained while having to endure interrogation about her husband’s whereabouts. Azad was born in late 1963, a few months after my father’s escape.
Thus my father did not see his first-born son till 5 years later in 1968 when my mother and young brother and sister reunited with my father on the Tanzanian border. My father had by then joined the Armed-Wing of the African National Congress, Umkhonto-we-Sizwe, or MK, ‘The Spear of the Nation’, which was formed in 1960 following the ANC’s decision to abandon non-violent opposition against Apartheid and to take up arms.
My sister Tasneem Nobandla, ‘Nobandla’ or ‘she who is of the people’ in isiXhosa was given her Xhosa middle name by my father’s comrade-in-arms and his Best-Man, Nelson Mandela, who couldn’t make it to my parent’s wedding because he was in detention at the time, a few years earlier!
My sister Tasneem Nobandla Moolla was born on October the 14th 1962
‘Nobandla’ was named when Mosie asked his comrade and Best-Man, Nelson Mandela, who could not make it to his wedding to name his new-born daughter. The two men had spent time in jail together in adjoining cells a year earlier in 1962.
Times were tough in those early years of exile, with my father off on military training with the newly formed ANC’s ‘Spear of the Nation’, and my mother having to shoulder the extreme difficulties of life in exile, in a strange country, having left her family behind, and having to essentially fend for herself and her two young children.
This led to a decision that continues to haunt my family to this day.
According to my parents, the situation in exile in those early years of the Anti-Apartheid struggle abroad was so dire, and my father being away training in guerrilla tactics and the like, while my mother worked as a nurse trying to raise two young kids, suffering from bouts of Malaria and being short on money as well, a decision was made to send my young brother and sister back to South Africa to remain in the care of my maternal grandparents, in the hope that when things in exile ‘improved’ or at least settled a bit, the kids would leave the care of their grandparents and join their parents abroad.
This did not happen, and this is one of the most difficult parts of our family’s history to write and talk openly about. Due to circumstances beyond their control, and due to a myriad other reasons, my young brother and sister remained separated from our parents, and grew up in Apartheid South Africa with my maternal grandparents in Johannesburg.
My mother, who passed away in 2008 after a lengthy battle with Motor-Neurone Disease, carried the pain and the guilt of that decision till she died. My father still lives with the guilt and the trauma of being separated from his children, and his family for over 30 years.
My brother Azad and my sister Tasneem, had to endure the unimaginable trauma of knowing that their parents were alive and on distant shores somewhere, yet being utterly helpless in joining them and living as a family, albeit a family in political exile.
The wounds are deep, and the trauma is still raw, all these years later, and my mother died broken-hearted, having to endure the separation of a mother from her children, as well as having to deal with a husband who was engaged full-time in the ANC and the anti-Apartheid struggle in exile.
It is only now that I can understand my mother’s strength of character and fortitude in remaining sane under circumstances that no parent should ever have to go through.
My siblings, on the hand, had to grow up with grandparents, and this has led to our family having to continuously grapple with the scars of a family torn-apart by Apartheid.
My brother Azad, a lawyer, is married with two beautiful young girls, and my sister, a teacher, is married with four beautiful daughters as well.
We all live in Johannesburg, and though some progress has been made in reconciling our family, it is very painful to say that there are many unresolved emotional wounds, which are completely understandable given the circumstances.
TO BE CONTINUED…
My Family: A Historical Journey Through the Seasons.
Part Two: Spring
The narrative here is neither chronological, nor is it meant to be a complete history of my family thus far – that would be highly presumptuous of me to attempt – so what you, dear reader, are reading (praise be to your perseverance!) are the disjointed thoughts and memories and anecdotal and other stories that every family shares.
I must state that the facts about my father’s internment and escape are all verifiable using a web-search engine, as are the facts about my parent’s involvement in the struggle for liberation in South Africa, and my father’s subsequent appointment by then President Nelson Mandela as South African Ambassador to Iran (1995 – 1999) and later by President Thabo Mbeki as South African High Commissioner to Pakistan (2000 – 2004) in the newly democratic country that countless South Africans sacrificed their lives to achieve.
My parents often spoke of the privilege that they felt to be alive and return to the country of their birth after spending virtually their entire lives as foot-soldiers in the African National Congress, the liberation movement that included in its ranks giants of South African history – Nelson ‘Madiba’ Mandela, Walter Sisulu, Govan Mbeki, Ahmed Kathrada, Dr. Moses Kotane, Dr. Yusuf Dadoo, Joe Slovo, Bram Fischer, Chris Hani, only to name a few, and with no disrespect meant to the many, many more that I have not named.
The ‘privilege’ my parents spoke about was that they were the ‘fortunate’ ones, the ones who lived to see the non-racial, non-sexist, democratic constitution being drafted, and a South Africa without the crime against humanity that was Apartheid.
So many comrades and friends and fellow compatriots did not live to cast their vote on that glorious April day in 1994, and to see Nelson Mandela being inaugurated as South Africa’s first freely elected black President, a President who represented the whole of South African society.
A Flash Back –
And so it was that I was born in 1972 in an India that had just been engaged in a war with Pakistan, which in turn led to the establishment of a new country – Bangladesh.
India at the time was the in midst of austere Nehruvian Socialism, and my parents who had spent the mid and late-1960’s in Tanzania, Zambia and Britain, were deployed by the African National Congress to India, where my father was the Chief-Representative of the ANC.
My early childhood years were spent in India, and I recall the sweltering Delhi summers and the torrential monsoons that offered respite, albeit briefly, from the furnace of the Indian summer.
When I was 6 years old, my father was deployed by the ANC to be its Chief-Representative in Cairo, Egypt, and to be the ANC Representative at the Afro-Asian Peoples’ Solidarity Organisation (AAPSO).
This was 1978, and as a 6 year old, I am afraid I have very few fond memories of Cairo – we lived on a meagre stipend and though we lived in an apparently ‘better’ suburb of Cairo called Zamalek, an island on the Nile, the flat we occupied was on the ground-floor of a high-rise apartment block and it was damp, dark, and had the unfortunate distinction of being right next to the apartment block’s garbage-disposal area!
This meant a steady stream of litter, literally being flung from the windows of our neighbours in the flats above us, and often landing with a crash of shattered glass right outside our tiny kitchen.
Cairo was also where I had to unlearn the Hindi I had learnt in Delhi and pick up Arabic, which I did as most 6 year olds do when required by circumstance to learn a new language.
I faintly remember the Presidents’ Sadat-Carter meetings around the time of the Camp David Peace Accord signed between Israel and Egypt and my days were spent riding my bicycle through the dusty lanes of Zamalek.
One memory that is particularly poignant, is that of my mother, with her head in her hands, sobbing as she pined for her two children at the opposite end of the African continent. I remember many days walking back from school and before stepping into our apartment block, seeing my mother through the window of what was my room, head in hands, crying.
It is a memory that I carry with me still.
Another indelible memory is when we visited the WWII museum of the battle of al-Alamein, in al-Alamein. Walking past the graves of the fallen in the war against Nazism, we came across many South African names, and I remember vividly how my father explained to me what Fascism and Nazism meant, and how important it was at the time for the world to fight it.
As we walked through the tombstones of the WWII soldiers from all parts of the world, my father explained to me how Apartheid in South Africa was a scourge (though not in those words!) like Fascism and Nazism, and how just as the world had joined forces to fight Hitler and Mussolini, we too had to fight against Apartheid in South Africa, and that is why I was not at ‘home’ with my brother and sister.
‘Home’. That was something for a 9 or 10 year old to hear, because I had grown up always being told about ‘home’ being South Africa, which was as distant to me as the stars above the Pyramids. I was aware from as young as I can remember my parents’ sometimes angry insistence that home was not where we happened to be, at a particular time, whether in Delhi or in Cairo, but in distant South Africa.
I however, could not understand why ‘home’ was not where I was. In Delhi I spoke Hindi like a local, and had friends and felt that ‘home’ was our little flat on the 1st floor of a block of flats in Greater Kailash. But then came the move to Cairo, and in no time at all I completely forgot my Hindi, and learnt Arabic like a local, and had friends and felt that ‘home’ was our dinghy flat in Zamalek.
And then in 1982, my father was re-deployed from Cairo back to Delhi, and suddenly there I was, 10 years old, meeting my old friends and not knowing a word of Hindi!
So the idea of ‘belonging’, of ‘home’, of being rooted in a place and time was alien to me from a very young age. I remember dreading when the next ‘move’ would be, given that my parents were political exiles and often having to pack up our few belongings and travelling at very short notice. I do not want it to sound like it was particularly unpleasant in any way, because there also was the thrill a child has of the packing and the plane rides, and the new places that were so, so new to me. Cairo and Delhi probably had only the following things in common: the heat, the population, and the fact that both Egypt under Gamal Abdul Nasser and India under Jawaharlal Nehru were two of the four countries (the others being Sukarno’s Indonesia and Marshall Tito’s Yugoslavia) that founded the Non-Aligned Movement (NAM) during the Cold War.
A Flash Forward –
The year is 1990, and my parents and I found ourselves in Helsinki, Finland, where in November 1989 the ANC deployed my father as ANC Secretary to the World Peace Council (WPC) which had its headquarters in Helsinki.
For the 17 year old that I was to suddenly, in a matter of weeks, pack up and leave high-school, friends and a girl-friend at the time, was particularly harsh for me.
I remember spending the winter of 1989 holed up in our two-bedroomed flat in Helsinki, not knowing what had just taken place. I pined for the girl I was (kind of!) dating back in school in Delhi, and I was thoroughly shocked by the below-zero temperatures of winter in Scandinavia, and thoroughly disheartened by the short days and long, long nights. I did love the snow however!
Then it happened. We heard the news that Nelson Mandela and all political prisoners in South Africa were to be released, unconditionally, and that the liberation movements, and the ANC were to be unbanned!
This changed everything.
It was a chaotic and heady time, with high hopes and renewed life as the once impossible dream of returning ‘home’ was to be realised.
A very memorable trip was made by my parents and I, by ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm, Sweden. An overnight ferry-ride, the trip was magical, for we were to meet Nelson Mandela, free after 27 years on Robben Island and in Sweden to meet the President of the ANC, comrade Oliver Reginald Tambo, Mandela’s old friend, law-partner and life-long comrade in the ANC. President Oliver Tambo, who had been in exile for almost 30 years was a dynamic and charismatic and intellectual giant who had built the ANC in exile from being just another liberation movement in exile into the voice of the South African freedom struggle, launching successful campaigns to isolate Apartheid South Africa from the world community.
Unfortunately President Oliver Tambo had suffered a stroke and was convalescing as a guest of the Swedish government, themselves staunch allies in the fight against Apartheid. Nelson Mandela met his old comrade in Stockholm amd we met the godfather of my sister, and the would-be best-man of my father in a hall in Stockholm. I have photographs of the tears and and joy as Mandela hugged my father and mother, and as old comrades including Ahmed Kathrada who also spent 27 years in jail with Mandela and the other Rivonia Trial accused, met after nearly 30 years! I was overwhelmed, as were countless others to finally meet the man who had become the face of the worldwide struggle against Apartheid.
That my parents knew the Mandelas as young friends and comrades only made the reunion on a Scandinavian day all the more special.
There was a sense of vindication, of oppression though still not defeated, but definitely in its final moments, as we acknowledged that we all stood on the cusp of something so many had not only dreamed about, but dedicated their entire lives to achieve.
We spent a few days in Stockholm and Uppsala, and then hopped on the ferry back to Helsinki, to finally begin preparations for the return home.
The trip we made was on freezing November night, when we boarded a train from Helsinki to Moscow, and then flew to Maputo in Mozambique where we spent a night, before boarding a South African Airways flight to Johannesburg.
I will never forget the stifled sobs of my mother as the pilot announced we were flying over South African soil.
My parents and I returned to South Africa on a November day in 1990, as part of a batch of returning political exiles.
I was 18 years old and met most of my family members for the first time.
To be Continued…
…
Echoes of furious thunder,
splintering the silence of night.
The rain beating down in sheets,
fractures the darkness with lashes of light.
Branches strewn snapped and broken,
leave limbless trees shattered.
The torrential deluge crushes,
delicate flowers laying bruised and scattered.
…
Ah, but the storm passes,
as all tempests eventually fade,
leaving raw wounds to heal,
shielded from the morrow’s blazing sun,
resting in the serene coolness of comforting shade
…
…
Alas, so many books, yet no “Cat’s Cradle” by Vonnegut!
…
‘One Billion Rising’, Johannesburg, South Africa, Thursday 14th February 2013 at ‘Constitution Hill’
…
1 Billion Rising.
For Men Everywhere.
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
Stop!
Stop the abuse!
Of grand-daughters,
colleagues,
daughters,
girlfriends,
partners,
mothers,
sisters,
nieces,
wives,
all women.
Listen!
Listen to the voices!
Of grand-daughters,
colleagues,
daughters,
girlfriends,
partners,
mothers,
sisters,
nieces,
wives,
all women.
Think!
Think of how you treat,
grand-daughters,
colleagues,
daughters,
girlfriends,
partners,
mothers,
sisters,
nieces,
wives,
all women.
Act!
Act now to change yourself!
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
The violence,
the abuse,
the rape,
stops when you stop,
the violence,
the abuse,
the rape.
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
The violence,
the abuse,
the rape,
is perpetrated by,
grand-fathers,
colleagues,
boyfriends,
husbands,
nephews,
brothers,
partners,
fathers,
uncles,
men,
all men.
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
The violence,
the abuse,
the rape,
stops when us men stop,
The violence,
the abuse,
the rape,
today, now.
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
…
…
Today we rise.
No more hiding in the shadows,
of culture,
creed,
tradition.
No more silent complicity,
defensive arguments,
sickening pretences,
shabby excuses,
for the actions of men,
brutal and coarse and vulgar and obscene and murderous and abusive.
Today, we rise,
as one.
Today the change starts,
with me,
within me.
Today we rise.
…
So, the frenzied hunt is on,
for that perfect gift,
that unique something,
for that special someone.
Heart-shaped chocolates,
diverse species of stuffed animals,
gold and silver anklets,
carefully trimmed bouquets,
painstakingly worded cards,
gift vouchers, moonlit dinners,
cruises, picnics, breakfasts in bed.
Gosh, I’ve got to run,
I’ve just thought of exactly,
exactly what my cat will love…
…
‘did you hear it’, he asks me in a dream.
‘I haven’t stopped listening’, I say.
‘I wish I could hear it, just once’, he says with a pained smile.
‘the Ode to Joy moves me to tears’, I say.
‘I wish I could hear my sobs’, says Ludwig ruefully.
‘I wish I could see my tears’, I say.
He laughs a laugh he cannot hear.
I laugh too,
my eyes brimming with tears,
that only Ludwig can see
…
…
I blink,
squinting,
searching for salvation.
I look,
straining,
pining for absolution.
I cry,
tears falling,
from eyes that fail me.
I implore them,
I beg them,
not to abandon me.
I stare,
aching to see,
I wait,
and wait.
I am still waiting,
to see
…
…
Futility and Hope
Buttoning-up my coat of weariness,
comfortable in catatonic numbness,
seeking nothing,
knowing,
nothing seeks me.
Dulled by the glitzy neon haze,
innured to the crassness of casual consumption,
seeking nothingness,
comforted,
that nothingness seeks me.
Futility gnaws,
clawing my insides,
I seek respite from the ceaseless torrent,
of helplessness.
I live with hope,
hugging it close to me,
I embrace hope,
knowing it to be true,
I cherish hope,
never wanting it to crawl away,
hope is my salvation,
hope is my talisman,
hope is all there is.
And so I live,
with hope.
…
…
1.
I should have listened.
Alas, I was lost in the crowd.
You may not have said that you loved me,
there was never a reason for it to be said aloud.
2.
I should have known better.
I kept pushing you away.
Your patience was tested,
till we each went,
on our own separate way.
3.
Now the years have vanished.
I am grey and older.
I may not miss you all that much,
yet each day seems colder.
4.
Time has not eased anything.
Yet I have no reasons for regret.
Days come and go as always,
but somehow I am unable to forget.
5.
So forgive me if you can.
Not an easy task given my past.
Though I may be unable to absolve myself,
the void I feel is permanent,
my loss shall forever last.
…
(Inspired by her poems ‘Bloody Men’ and ‘Flowers’)
1.
I may not have brought you flowers.
I know I was always late.
You tolerated my moodiness,
and my ever-increasing weight.
2.
You said men were like buses,
and you had grown weary of waiting,
Of putting up with my quirks and my fusses,
though we barely knew we were dating.
3.
Ah, but we weathered the squalls;
Your patience has always been saintly.
And now that old age palls,
our tiffs are recalled only faintly.
4.
We laugh at youth’s follies and know,
the beauty we had sought unaware;
It’s as wide as a calm river’s flow,
and as timeless as our years of care.
…
(Inspired by Wendy Cope’s poems ‘Bloody Men’ and ‘Flowers’)
…
Special thanks to Donald Webb of ‘Bewildering Stories’ for kindly editing this poem!
…
…
A Carpet of Sprinkled Stars.
1.
There is solace to be found,
amongst the midnight shadows,
with,
stars embroidered on the carpet of night,
offering comfort,
to my tattered heart,
that seeks only stillness,
as cryptic day retreats.
2.
My wandering mind,
shuffles silently,
massaging the cacophony of today to rest,
while bound wings are unshackled,
and memories, hopes, aspirations,
spread their wings and take flight.
3.
A cascade of nostalgia,
bathes my jangled nerves,
hewn into the creases,
of a lifetime of crumbling hope,
perennially awash with renewed promise,
as I brace for the onslaught,
of another tomorrow.
4.
I feel my thoughts, my hopes, my dreams of love,
kicking the dust,
taking flight,
gliding high,
surfing the clouds,
in a boundless moonlit sky.
5.
Hope defying all constraints,
free,
coasting along the carpet of night,
sprinkled with stars,
breaking all restraints,
free,
of all shackles,
floating through my caged bars.
6.
Memories wash up against my being,
teasing infinite regrets out of their lair,
afloat on a waking dream,
moonbeams streaming through the midnight air.
7.
However lost my yesterdays may seem,
tomorrow offers slivers of hope,
my task is simple,
my wishes the least extravagant,
my desires plain,
wishing to banish all gaudy thoughts,
hoping to cast-off,
this lingering pain.
8.
Cleansed by the soft moonlight,
my back resting gently,
on the carpet of sprinkled stars,
knowing this to be but a dream,
I hold onto each moment of freedom,
while revelling in the soft light,
of a solitary moonbeam.
9.
My reverie is broken,
yet my dream remains true,
of holding you in my arms,
resting on a carpet,
sprinkled with stars,
for my heart no longer resides within me,
my heart has been given,
to my truest love,
my heart now rests with you.
10.
The night slowly begins to fade,
morning mere moments away,
I cling on, cradling you in my thoughts,
you give me the strength,
to endure,
another lonesome day.
…
I am reposting this today, the day Anene Booysen will be laid to rest after being brutally raped and murdered.
The funeral service is taking place at the Dutch Reformed Church in Bredasdorp**, Anene’s hometown.
Hamba Kahle*, Anene.
Hamba Kahle Anene Booysen! (1996 – 2013)
Dead at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
‘horrific’, ‘repulsed’,
‘brutally raped’, ‘shocked’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
Anene was raped,
savagely mutilated,
Her 17 year old body tossed aside,
by the hands of men.
Men, always men,
cowardly, beastly, perverted, twisted men.
‘Beastly’, ‘perverted’, ‘twisted’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
who now lies cold and dead.
How many Anene Booysens will it take,
for us,
society,
families,
people,
human-beings,
and,
men, especially men,
to excise the ghastly menace,
of the heinous capacity that resides,
within men,
always men,
to brutalise, rape, mutilate, and murder.
‘Brutalise’, ‘murder’, ‘rape’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left,
to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site,
in Bredasdorp.
Anene Booysen
(1996 – 2013)
* – Hamba Kahle – “Farewell, Travel Well” in Zulu
** – Bredasdorp is a small town near Cape Town, South Africa
Anene Booysen
(1996 – 2013).
Dead at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp*.
‘horrific’, ‘repulsed’,
‘brutally raped’, ‘shocked’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
Anene was raped,
savagely mutilated,
Her 17 year old body tossed aside,
by the hands of men.
Men, always men,
cowardly, beastly, perverted, twisted men.
‘Beastly’, ‘perverted’, ‘twisted’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
who now lies cold and dead.
How many Anene Booysens will it take,
for us,
society,
families,
people,
human-beings,
and,
men, especially men,
to excise the ghastly menace,
of the heinous capacity that resides,
within men,
always men,
to brutalise, rape, mutilate, and murder.
‘Brutalise’, ‘murder’, ‘rape’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left,
to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site,
in Bredasdorp.
Anene Booysen
(1996 – 2013)
* – Bredasdorp is a small town near Cape Town, South Africa
1.
A path leads,
to where wild grass grows,
sashaying in the summer breeze.
2.
Along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
swooning,
tickling ankles,
swaying to the lilting bird-song,
in a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing the remnants of pain away.
3.
Melodies float across fields of green,
delicately caressing my heart,
teasing emptiness to flee,
comforting the mind,
to silently be.
4.
Walking on,
savouring the peace,
a momentary respite,
from the burdens of the now,
all is quiet,
a stillness cradling fractured emotions,
the grass in the fields sway,
dusk descends,
shadows lengthen,
nudging dimming light to take leave,
of the day
…
Barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
with the breath of the ocean a caressing balm,
soothing pained memories away,
to the swaying of a solitary palm.
Barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
feeling the brushing away of all past turmoil,
on a quest for solace, ever so hard to find,
yet comforted by the crashing of the waves,
as the tide cleanses all pain,
and leaves despair far, far behind.
Barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
drenched in a sea-breeze of mist,
that hushes the ache of bygone moons,
tasting the salty tang on my lips,
as the burnished sun,
over the distant horizon,
swoons,
and dips.
Barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
searching, ever searching,
for a slice of solitude,
as memory bids a final adieu,
reaching under the sea so vast,
and seeking comfort in the depths,
while embracing,
the tomorrows to come,
wishing that they be true.
Barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
seeing my truths drown,
as they slip beneath the turquoise waters,
feeling my heart ablaze,
with a passion that rarely falters.
Barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
yet knowing that I am home at long last,
wishing the waves would wash away,
the defences that once stood,
like an impregnable wall.
Barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
I have found, at long last,
my final port of call.
…
“The African Rains” Published at ‘The Blue Hour”
…
“The African Rains” Published at ‘The Blue Hour”
…
…
Squandering love, casting emotions aside, friendships carelessly discarded, always scurrying behind my masks to hide, no thoughts for those I have selfishly disregarded.
Trapped within my hubris, innured by conceit, enslaved in the dungeon of past misdeeds, offences I seem gladly prone to often repeat.
Fracturing hearts, siphoning goodwill, tossing feelings by the wayside, generally comfortable for others to foot the bill.
I stand accused, offering no defence, the charges plain for all to see, all appeals for clemency categorically refused.
Accepting responsibility, facing the noose, a charlatan I have been, prowling the boulevards, selfishly on the loose.
What becomes of me, I dare not say, left exposed by my own deceit, splintering moments, reducing truth to ashes, I readily accept the shackles binding my feet.
My confession has been noted, all my farewells have been said, I am lost in the fog of crippling regret, knowing no solace is to be found, I dare not utter another sound, I stand guiltily aware, stricken I am, by all that I am unable to forget
And so it goes, while life hobbles on, I feel too old to live a lie, and so I ask for forgiveness today, knowing all too well, that my shallow words, can never take the pain I have caused away.
My confessions here are for all to see, I stand guilty in front of you, I have no excuses to concoct, no more yarns to spin, I am exhausted by my very own spineless lack of decency, and the absence of any gesture of penitence still.
The defence rests, with an admission of guilt, no more hiding behind fancy talk, I stand accused, and I accept my fate, if need be to the gallows I shall readily walk.
It may be far too late, to offer apologies, yet I do so nonetheless, and for once I do so sincerely, without fear, for the ones that I have hurt, are the very ones, who have been closest and truly dear.
…
…
1.
Tracing drops of rain,
down weeping windows,
tempests rage, ablaze,
a furnace of fiery passion,
thoughts of you,
only of you,
meander through corridors of my thumping heart,
filling my being, with the memory of your touch, the warmth of your breath, my hands caressing your exquisite face,
aching for your fragrant kiss,
thirsting for your whispers,
pining for your embrace.
2.
Famished and parched,
alone,
on my knees,
scraped raw with time,
searching between the raindrops,
seeking reasons for this heartbroken rhyme.
3.
Stay with me tonight,
slip into my dreams,
weaving sensuously deep inside,
embroidering my memories in vibrant colours,
banishing all shades of blue,
awakening my senses,
reaching the depths of love,
simple, precious, pure,
feeling a love,
eternally true.
4.
Stay with me this stormy night,
lift me up on your unshackled wings,
let our love soar to the heavens,
in graceful,
elegant,
effortless flight.
…
…
A Poem for Wendy Cope.
1.
I may not have brought you flowers,
I know that I was always late,
you tolerated my moodiness,
and laughed off my ever-increasing weight.
2.
You said that men were like buses,
and you had grown weary of waiting,
putting up with my madness, my silliness, my inane fusses,
though neither of us barely knew if we were even dating.
3.
Ah! But we weathered the storms, your patience has always been saintly,
and now that we are old, hunched-over and grey,
the silly fights are recalled only faintly,
for I love you so much more now, and you are so much more beautiful,
than you ever were,
on that very first day.
…
😉
…
😉
Walk with me,
in this lonely world,
where hearts are casually broken,
and kind words rarely spoken.
Take my hand,
on this highway of brittle glass,
where love is traded like blue-chip shares,
and bank-balances are coveted as priceless wares.
Smile with me,
as we walk hand in hand,
as the ocean tickles our toes on the cool beach sand.
Smile with me,
and I shall smile too,
we may not have much,
but you will have all of me,
and I will have all of you.
😉
…
…
On a momentary sliver of hope,
in the vacuum of a desolate night,
she appears,
in a blazing instant,
a dream perhaps,
a wishful, comforting apparition,
yet she appears.
…
Her breath is warm,
her touch light,
her laughter tender.
She takes my hand,
I hold on,
clinging to the vision,
and,
though she is long gone,
I live the lie, in moments here and there,
and as she blows me her farewell kiss,
I live the lie, I smile,
squinting to focus,
to embrace, to hold on,
to a transient moment,
of long lost bliss
…
An unpleasant whiff,
settles down, infecting fertile minds,
reeking of prejudice, propped-up in gaudy ostentation.
The odour slips through barricades, absorbed through oblivious pores.
I resist, I tell myself,
I dispel such rotten thoughts,
yet the plague,
of intolerance,
and of hate,
and of racism and of prejudice,
waits,
biding its time.
It waits,
patient and calculating,
knowing it has time on its side.
And with our complicit silence,
the hate,
the intolerance,
prejudice,
the racism,
is emboldened,
no longer seeking,
hidden corners of the mind,
to embed itself,
and hide
…
…
Breathing regrets,
in greedy swallows,
the guilt thickening my marrow,
I seek no salvation,
for none can be found.
Lost in the labyrinth of lies,
wasting away each night,
I resist no more,
the shackles to which I am bound.
My yesterdays scald my waking thoughts,
and today ravages my night,
I expect no absolution,
my sins shroud my being,
entombing me ever so tight.
Tomorrow inevitably appears,
a ghastly vault in which I am trapped,
no point in resisting now the coming doom,
my will to fight has itself been sapped.
So walk away, leave me be,
you deserve to be free,
and do not turn,
do not look back to see,
my suffocating soul,
cast adrift,
to drown in this bleak cold sea
…
1.
Calm descends,
feathery, misty, settling gently on this city’s breath.
Elusive sleep,
teases,
hiding amongst the clouds,
while silver ribbons of moonlight, caress the concrete.
2.
Midnight in Jo’burg,
alone, in this wild-eyed, crazy city,
warm and cruel at once,
ragged, torn, sublime,
brimming with African life,
alive in an African summer night.
3.
Zimbabwe, you are us,
Morocco is infused in our veins,
Nigeria lingers on our wet kisses,
Malawi, we are you.
4.
A continental mosaic,
the smells of Cairo,
and sounds of Dakar,
soaked in tastes of Addis,
mingle on my city’s streets.
5.
We are all, African.
‘They’ are not the other,
we are ‘them’, tossed in a communal pot,
sipping mampoer*,
and chowing pap and vleis*,
in my city,
my Jozi**,
your Jo’burg**,
our eGoli**
_____
* – a home-brewed drink, and a maize-meal porridge and meat.
** – all names refer to Johannesburg.
____
..
Hollow conversations,
toxic smiles,
coarse laughter,
spew foul odours,
of consumption,
over finely crafted hors d’oeuvres.
Pouring aperitifs,
down insatiable mouths,
eating,
drinking,
screwing,
deadened flesh,
against numbed skin.
Escaping, breathless,
stealing momentary respite,
within, deep within,
silent, peaceful, whole,
while more canapes are served,
and,
banality re-fuelled
“The Burning of Manuscripts” published in the February 2013 issue of SnakeSkin WebZine
“The Burning of Manuscripts” published in the February 2013 issue of “SnakeSkin WebZine”
1.
Scattered shards of being,
strewn here, there.
Fragmented memories, rootless,
piercing everyday.
2.
Eternally exiled,
a cast-away on the edge of sanity,
incapable of remaining,
at rest,
yet unable to depart,
with no shore beckoning,
no voice calling.
3.
Eternally exiled,
promises of tomorrow,
squandered,
leaving a meagre pittance,
on which to cling.
4.
Eternally exiled,
regrets of years drowned,
vanished,
devoured by ceaseless whirlpools.
5.
Eternally exiled,
aching to shed,
wounded yesterdays,
yet,
condemned by memory to live yesterday today,
tomorrow.
6.
Eternally exiled,
no home exists,
but this momentary place,
fleeting, insecure, unsure,
a permanent abode,
of the eternal exile
…
Subsync’s Poem of the Month: February 2013
“Port of Call” – Poem of the month at Subsync Press
Scribbled Verse 