Tag Archive: love





My poem dedicated to the memory of Ahmed Timol’s, who was severely tortured and murdered by Apartheid’s Security Branch, recited by Luthuli Dlamini in the documentary “Someone to Blame” by Enver Samuels and aired on SABC 3 on Sunday 14th October 2018





Ahmed Timol – A martyr to the cause of Freedom …



(dedicated to the undying spirit of Ahmed Timol, brutally tortured and murdered by the Apartheid regime, and to the countless others who made the ultimate sacrifice in the struggle for liberation)





They tortured you, as you waged your struggle in the just battle, 


they murdered you, as you made the grotesque walls of Apartheid rattle.




Your indomitable will, your unshakeable principles, your unbreakable spirit,


soars high today in our collective African skies,


your ultimate sacrifice for freedom, inspires generations, as you  silenced their cowardly lies.




Today justice has prevailed, after decades of insufferable pain, years of deeply gnawing hurt,


today their lies have been consigned to the dirt.




They tried to murder an ideal,


the revolutionary spirit that burned bright in your heart,


they tried to silence you, not knowing your memory shall never depart.




They tried to kill you,


but they will never silence you,


for you live,


through the expanse of our land,


mingling in the rivers,


standing high upon our shared revolutionary hill,


they tried to silence you,


yet the hunger for justice will never be still,


they tried to silence you,


but the memory of your martyrdom never will.








https://www.tvsa.co.za/actors/viewactor.aspx?actorid=3725

http://www.youtube.com/sabc3


http://www.ahmedtimol.co.za


https://khulumani.net/truth-memory/item/1350-someone-to-blame-the-ahmed-timol-inquest-an-enver-michael-samuel-film.html



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the girl with the book

from google





The girl with the Book …





We stood beside each other, in the icy sleet and the piercing rain, 


she held a book in her hand, Nelson Mandela’s “Long walk to Freedom“.




She asked me if I had read it, and I betrayed my ignorance,


“I don’t like politics, its too dirty” I said,


“Everything is political”, she replied as I felt myself being read,


by her eyes chiseling into mine, until I shook my head.




“What comes of politics, when it is all a corrosive pond of muck?”, I asked,


she nodded, “we would not be standing at this bus-stop, were if not for people like him”, and she looked away,


“but his was a struggle for freedom from the tyranny of Apartheid, nothing close to the politics of greed we witness each day”, I said with a self-assurance so plain,


“his comrades and him struggled against Apartheid, yes”,


“but his political creed was the bedrock upon which all his ideals lay”,


“and that was the politics of revolution, and of pursuing a political end”, she smiled at me,


“and was it not his selling out that lead directly to this, our country’s mess?”, I pushed back,


“and you say you’re not interested in politics yet have such stinging political views”, she looked me straight in the eye,


“he sold out so that you and I may share this bus stop together, he sold out so that you and I may walk these streets as citizens, he sold out so that you may vote, he sold out so that your door is not knocked down at 3AM because you hold these views”,


“he sold out so that you and I and all the different races in this country can ride this bus that we are waiting for”.




As we got onto our different school buses she waved goodbye.


in the sleet and pouring rain,


I smiled and waved back, never to see her again.




The girl with the book.


The girl with Nelson Mandela’s “Long walk to Freedom” in her hand,


and I knew then that there is, and that there will always be hope,


even as today looked and felt impossibly bleak,


there will always be hope,


for a better tomorrow, less cruel and more just,


as long as we carry in our eyes and hold in our hearts,


that passionate,

unbowed,

principled, 


steely streak …







during Apartheid South Africa

P  A  S  S  I O N






a baobab tree – art from google




Passion …





undulating, lengthy, scorching kisses,

peppered with sensuous caresses,

with you, i am one,

a bouquet of feelings, infusing every pore,

our bodies in unison, fused at our passionate core.





scribbling verses on on your fiery skin,

dedicating odes to you, my love,

melting into a poem of desire,

burnished against our writhing bodies,

inflamed, on fire.



.

these nights of hungering need,

these days aching to upon each other ravishingly feed,

swept up by our orchestral crescendo,

the symphonies coursing through our veins with greed.




no scribbled verses may even begin, to convey the heat of our shared cauldron,

we become one, we are one, when the stars in the sultry nights disappear,

our sweat trickling off our flesh,

the sparkle in your eyes so crystalline, so clear.




though the years have vanished and slipped into cupboards to sleep,

though the wrinkles have imperceptibly on our brows begun to creep,


we have yet many moons to savour,

bathed in moonlight of our hearts beating as one,

within each other so immeasurably deep …


art from google


“Irises” by Vincent van Gogh



an unashamedly mushy lovey-dovey scribble …




I want you in my arms tonight, I crave your touch ever gentle, ever so feathery light,


I want you to kiss me hungrily beneath our African night, I want to sip the nectar glistening on your lips so bright,


I want all of you and more, I want to pick up seashells with you on our talcum shore,


I want you to clasp my hand, your fingers intertwined with mine, I want to be dazzled by the love we share, a flame that continues to brightly shine,


I want to escape this daily grind with you by my side, deep into the recesses of our souls, where there no longer is the need to scurry and to hide,


I want us to make love, our bodies and minds and hearts becoming one, I want to feel the heat between us like the blazing sun,


I want to promise you love forever more, a vow, an oath, kept safe deep within our core,


I want to grow old with you, my love, my light,


I want to savour every moment shared together,


forever and ever, with the knots of love binding us tight …



“Wheatfield with Crows” by Vincent van Gogh

.                 .             .               .

from google



Drowning in her Eyes …



Drowning in her eyes,

eyes chastising me for looking away,

till my gaze got caught, in her eyes’ captivating sway.



“I fear I would drown in your eyes”, I said in a whisper,


“drown”, she murmured.





from google

from google




She is you …



They say she is opinionated, rude even, and lacking all tact,

they expect her to be demure, to brew tea and cook, so that suitable suitors she may attract.



They castigate her for not following the norm,

they expect her to weather the relentless storm in hushed silence, with acceptance and aplomb.



They dismiss her for being “loud-mouthed”, for speaking her mind,

they demand from her the acceptance of the gnawing shackles that to her bind.



Yes,



she lives in gilded cages, while the blood in her veins rages,

she is condemned to the countless leaking, freezing, boiling shacks, facing horrors untold,

she is used, her body abused, to be bartered, battered and sold.

A single mother, she is savaged by their barbed whispers, their narrow, antiquated attitudes,

while on mother’s and women’s day they pummel her with their hollow meaningless  platitudes.



They speak disparagingly of her flouting cultural, sectarian, and their narrow-minded claptrap,

even as she wrestles the demons, the indignity, the trauma of the punches and kicks, the slaps after slap.



They damn her for unclipping her wings, as she soars free into the open sky,

all the while our silent complicity,

kicks her to the cold ground where she is expected to cower and lie.




She is you, and you are her,

and may you continue to be,

unflinching, unbowed,

and always, always true.





from google

from google




The Shame of All Man …






There is a shame that must be felt, by all Man the whole world around,


a collective, gnawing, nauseating shame,


for Man’s actions over the millennia,


Man must face the unsavoury truths and share the repellent blame.




There is a complicity of silence, a screaming silence, the mute hushed cowardice,


of billions of tongues sewn shut,


a shrieking deafness, of Man refusing to hear,


the disgust of the predatory stares, the abhorrent cat-calls, the sick eyes that linger and leer.




There is a common affliction, an accepted conceit, the obscene display of Male Power,


the barbed words lashing out, the sewage slipping and dripping,


the fists, the palms, the kicks, the slaps, the “you are nothing without me” drivel,


all the while expecting the women to stay silent, to patch their bruised faces, and in corners to curl up and shrivel.




We are in the 21st century, with human beings walking the moon, of hybrid cars, of vulgar jewellery of diamonds and gold,


of bazaars where women are bought and sold,


of places in technologically advanced cities that glitter at night,


where young girls are shredded, their innocence torn out, all within plain sight.




There is the new Man, who barters and buys women on e-commerce stores on the world wide web,


the new slavery with airplanes the new slave ships,


the places women cannot vote and young girls cannot attend school, under the convenient guise of religion, of tradition, of culture,


while Man holds sway, infecting each generation, circling each struggle for equality and emancipation like a diseased vulture.




These are just some of the abominable truths we stand by and watch, as part of the passing parade,


while mouthing platitudes to “women’s rights” as on goes the self-deluded charade.




I am Man,


the one among multitudes who must share the collective shame,


the one among billions whose back must be crushed by the collective blame,


the guilty unprincipled, vile, apathetic, uncaring, unthinking disease,


the one who must tear open my eyes in order to acknowledge that Man sees.




I am Man,


and no matter what I think,

no matter what I believe,


it is from deep within my putrid soul,


that this cancerous sickness I must begin to cleave.









an anti-Apartheid poster and slogan during the struggle against Apartheid

from google






talkin’ 21st century walkin’ blues …



( inspired by Woody Guthrie, Hugh Ramapolo Masekela, The Amandla ‘ANC Freedom’ Choir, Huddie ‘Leadbelly’ Ledbetter, Pete Seeger, uMama Miriam Makeba, Vusi Mahlasela, Youssou N’Dour, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Christy Moore, and far too many more to mention )






walkin’ down these jo’burg streets, where glimmering chariots and hunger meets,


talkin’ about these jo’burg boulevards, where few sip whisky while the many are pierced by jagged shards,


yes, just walkin’ down these suburban roads, where high fences shield the 1%,


while the generous ones roll down their windows to fling out a 20 or so cent,


they said that ‘capitalism with a conscience’ would lead to more equality,


now we know that those words were empty and meaninglessly shitty,


there is no ‘capitalism with a conscience’ to be found,


the system itself is designed to keep the have-nots manacled and bound.




doesn’t all this sound like familiar talk, wherever in the world you live and walk,


doesn’t this happen in your city too, no matter what the stock exchange wants us to believe is true,


as you go walkin’ in your countries and cities the world around, doesn’t all this talk of the economy seem like hollow mishmash sound,


doesn’t the shimmering of gold and diamonds, of fillet mignon and blue label neat, sicken you as you emerge from your cocoons onto the raw festering street,


yes, it’s the same the whole wide world over, the grip of need that binds like a twisted  choker, while millions are wagered in casinos around the whole world on games of poker,


so yes we’re talkin’ 21st century blues, where crocodile skin footwear meet torn shoes.




johannesburg,

detroit,

lagos,

gaza,

delhi,

london,

freetown,

beijing,


soweto,

harlem,

the favelas,

the “squatter camps”,

the “inner cities”,


all these festering sores on all of our consciences, are just blabbered on about in countless conferences,


where the rich and powerful and the greedy, give not a hoot about the starving needy,


where men in suits sip wine and on fresh salmon dine, as the conveniently invisible ones magically appear for a quick shoeshine.




i’m talkin’ these blues not because i’m wise, or humane, or have something so different to say, no i talk these words because i know there is a better way,


a better path where hope lights the lamp of equality, where protest and songs and the fight continues for true liberty.




i’m walkin’ and talkin’ these 21st century blues, knowing injustice is unsustainable, where the 1% will and must pay their pitliless dues,


it is our common internationalism to fight and pull out the dagger of inequality, so all may share the bounties of this earth, with no need for flinging money at the odd charity,


it is a hope we must all carry deep inside us all, and yes they will call us impotent and naive, but these are the common principles and values in which we have no choice but to believe,


as we go walkin’ and talkin’ these 21st century blues, fighting the good and the right and the just fight, even as they call us naive, against the stilettos of greed that into humanity do cleave,


so that the dignity, the respect, the gender-rights, the stab of hunger, the being homeless in the sleet and the rain, is not taken for granted as the normality of this life, where bombs and hunger are no longer taken for granted as “theirs” and not “our” strife,


but where uBuntu* is practised from the cradle to the grave,


for that is the only way we can our beautiful planet, our sisters and brothers, our mothers and daughters and the women so very brave,


fight on, resisting the grotesque truths of our world and our realities from callous greed shake off these suffocating chains, the hideous materialism that we crave,




that are designed to perpetuate the tyranny of the master and of the slave …







* – uBuntu is a Southern African isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”









from google

image

from google

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.

.

For Ernesto ‘Ché’ Guevara de la Serna

(14 June 1928 – 9 October 1967)

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The Wind Carries His Name …

.

.

.

.


They shot him down,

to silence a man of flesh and bone.

.

.

.


Even as the bullets tore through him,

the wind carried his name.

.

.

.


Far across the weary fields,

high above the stubborn peaks,

over the blood soaked streams,

the wind carried his name.

.

.

.


They shot him down,

to silence a man of flesh and bone.

.

.

.


Yet the wind carries his name,

to you and to me,

to them and to us.

.

.

.


They shot him down,

but his name resounds,

as it floats on the breeze.

.

.

.


They still try to shoot him down,

to silence us all,

to stifle an ideal.

..

.


But the wind cannot be stilled,

.

.

and the wind carries his name.

.

.

Che” …
.

.

.

image

from google

double-helixed uBuntu*

from google






double-helixed uBuntu*




these interwoven veins


dna

double-helixed


microscopically

binding


me

you


us

all


through

this common

shared

truth:


‘I am because you are’*


all of us

together

as one


me

you,


uBuntu*




  


*uBuntu is an isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”



from the Nelson Mandela Foundation

The Truest Beauty

from google



the truest beauty …





On that rainy windswept night, when we took shelter under a leaking bus stop,


shivering as invisibles, scratched out of this world’s pitiless sight.



We spoke at length, as the buses passed us by,


we bared our souls to each other, as strangers often do,


laughing about how we roamed these avenues without a clue.



We spoke of excruciating truths, of life’s random cruelty, of our hopes and of our dreams, of our small joys and of our fears,


as we stood under that leaking bus stop, the rain streaking down cheeks that were salty with tears.



I barely saw you, and you could hardly see me, in the rain and in the fog,


as we laughed and cried together, sharing feelings of being swamped in life’s quicksand tugging bog.



We spoke so much that rainy night, we shared what we could not share with anyone else, we spoke of love and the beauty of it all,


we stood in the rainy sleet, dwarfed by the grey buildings towering so impersonally tall.



The beauty that I felt in those moments spent with you, the truest beauty I have ever felt, far beyond the fakery of strutting it all on this daily, gaudy parade,


truer than it all, all of it, far beyond the hollow shells of the neverending charade.



That night passed, as all nights must, yet you remain with me, within me, the beautiful stranger I could hardly see.



Today, I look back through the wisps of time, failing to scribble even the simplest rhyme,


knowing not much, but this much I know to be true,

the truest beauty of all, caresses your soul, and envelopes your heart,


the truest beauty rests,

deep beneath the superficial you …




from google












from google




you are the physics of my world …


1.


the random sparks of infinitesimal neurons,

the random chaos of the vast cosmic beyond,

the random tugs of quantum strings,

have somehow,

incredibly swirled,

bringing your completeness into the vacuum of my world.


2.


these apparently random machinations, of this universe of possibilities,

has defied all permutations of chance,

to coalesce for us,

now,

today,

as we share our brightly blazing celestial dance.


3.


words escape me, there is no explanation,

to describe the meeting of our twin souls,

there is no hypothesis that I am able to construct,

that fuels these passions, these desires, these feelings that skywards into the heavens erupt.


4.


these atoms and quarks and gluons, bind us together in the most unscientific way,

they exude feelings impossible to explain,

love, for instance,

and a love as deep and abiding and true as ours,

is impossible to understand, even if we tried, spending years and countless hours.


5.


now my love of felines brings me to schrödinger and his deadalive cat,

for unlike dear schrödinger I can say with utmost certainty, that in that box my love for you,

is alive, and ever so true.


6.


all the dark matter, that is postulated to roam the entirety of space,

cannot dim the light of the stellar blaze of our star of love,

our sun that radiates gloriously, from the deepest recesses of our heart, from our magnetically interlinked place. 


7.


all the talk of black holes not allowing light to flee,


comes not closer to the raging cauldron of our shared togetherness,


as we lay blanketed by the heavens above that envelope you, and that cloak me.


8.


the distance of light years are bridged so effortlessly, so easily traversed between you and I,


merging our love, our own supernova lighting the unfolding years we have yet to face,


roaring like a furnace, hewn into the very fabric of our innerspace ..

 

from google

Johannesburg in the rain – from google





Our shared African Rain …






When we kissed, beneath our shared African skies, you doused me in the cauldron of an aching desire, as you lit within me, a scorching, eternal fire …




When our bodies writhed, a dazzling confluence of two souls, you tantalised me with many a whispered ode, keeping me company through my vagabond journeys, on this my eternal abode, the yawning desolation of the lonesome road.




When your heart beat against my chest, our bodies a union of love, I sailed the waves of passionate need, imbibing your essence, my constant companion on infinite alleyways tread, as I hobbled further, never knowing what lay ahead.




We were one on that distant Jo’burg night, merged with the rumbling thunder of the African rains, free with gay abandon, breaking the chains, letting go of all stifling reins.




The beauty of those nights of togetherness may be faded sketches on the carpet of yesteryear, though it has always been you, as it always shall be you, my true love tucked away in my heart, kept close so the memories of you may never depart.




Today I yearn to be swept away by you once again, escaping these meagre scribbles that barely rhyme, these paltry words that too many an emotion confine,




to be one again, our souls pining with one another to entwine, our hearts unshackling the knots of all these years, our cheeks no longer feeling the sting of trickling tears.




I want to taste the yearning on your lips, to be woven again, into the tapestry of our exquisite embrace, to banish the distance between us, this void, this empty space.




I wish to hear our hearts beating to that old, sublime refrain, dispelling at once, the pangs of our hearts’ gnawing pain,


to be once more bathed, in the nectar of our shared African rain …

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.

.




My Beach of Dreams …


1.


Turquoise waters tease your toes,


walking on our dreamy beach,


fingers entwined,


a sensuous breeze caressing your lavender hair,


the soft sand kneading your feet so delicately bare.



2.



The burnished sun swoons and dips,


my ravenous mouth hungers for your sweet lips,


our hearts beat as one to the rhythm of the waves,


scorched by the furnace of desire that our love so passionately craves.



3.



I wake up, with your head on my shoulder,


my soul, my being, my very self continues to smoulder,


I kiss you gently on your forehead,


my fingers tracing poetic verses down your cheek,


I am,

at long last,


at peace,

within,


I have found my home,


there is nothing more I care to seek.



from google

art from google



port of call …



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 emerald 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 …



art from google

the parallel lines of love

art from google

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i sometimes fear that i can never be yours,
the sinking feeling of facing closed doors,
where there is no space for me,
where there is no space for you,
in this cruel world where these truths are excruciatingly true.

.

.
i often think of this path we have chosen,
fingers slipping away as we slip on the cold earth so frozen,
where i shall always be the outsider, forever more,
a stab that strikes at my deepest core.

.

.
i wonder how i shall traverse these thorny alleyways,

knowing you and i shall love each other always,

but what becomes of a love akin to parallel lines that will never meet,

with just this ink pouring words on an empty sheet.

.

.
we are torn apart by this gaping hole,

you are where you are, i am where i can never be whole.

i sometimes fear that i can never be yours,

for wherever i look, i end up facing closed doors.

.

.

from google

art by banksy



Greed is Good* …



brands and little tender hands,
sewing and sweating,

in dinghy factories and in smoke-clogged stands.



Haute-couture and ostentatious labels,
black and blue whiskey on heaving sushi tables.



Greed is good,
it ‘enhances’ free-market competition,
as we blindly scamper from mall to mall,
devoid of a scintilla of compassionate vision.



Greed is good,
oh and it feeds,
on complicity,
apathy,
as we reap the rewards,
of the sowing of hypocritical seeds.



Greed is good,
yes it is,
as long as we can buy and buy and buy and buy,

and

as long as there’s gourmet coffee to be had,

and,

as long as there are oysters we can lasciviously shuck,

ohhhh yessss,
greed is good,
so we sew our mouths shut,
as we frolic,
as we party,

and,

as we fuck …





art by banksy




( * – title borrowed from Oliver Stone’s film ‘Wall Street’ )

from the book “Men of Dynamite”

https://www.sahistory.org.za/archive/men-dynamite





https://www.sahistory.org.za/archive/men-dynamite




my pity party – the legacy of Apartheid.





stricken with guilt, since i cannot remember when,


nothing has helped, be it meditation and attempts at zen,


these feelings that weigh me down, paralyse me,


a dark veil beyond which i am unable to see.




i have been to therapists who say upon myself i am too hard,


yet my soul bleeds, pierced by each sliver, every shard,


my guilt flows through my veins like a toxic never ending tide,


as from the sunlight i flee to my darkened spaces to hide.




these feelings are worthless, this much i know,


for nothing can remedy the past, however guilt-ridden and regretful i grow,


it is not your fault, the kind ones try to placate my poisoned guilt,


yet it is i who feels the dagger plunged deep inside me, to the hilt.




the guilt i feel for being the fortunate one,


while my siblings grew up without parents to love them as daughter and son,


this guilt has corroded my insides, the regrets eroding my state of mind,


i stand alone, silent till now about the peace i could never find.




the relationships i have had have always been unfair,


to the pure souls who for me did love and genuinely care,


i am not laying the blame of my failures on one thing,


when most of the times i am unable to be at peace, no matter how beautiful the lilting nightingale does sing.




my life has been a charade, with empty masks that i continue to wear,


and i know that the good people who love me, deeply care,


yet i am unable to break free of these personas, as every short lived joy begins to fizzle,


while all the while the hammer does my very being grotesquely chisel.




i am not ungrateful for this comfortable life that i lead,


yet the gnawing deep inside my core jabs within me, with a singular need,


to banish the guilt and regrets upon which my pity party does so effortlessly feed,


as i listen to the good folk who offer the advice i know i must heed.




these words that i scribble are not meant to elicit sympathy or placating gestures of well-meaning band-aids to patch up the festering sore,


as i remain imprisoned, albeit behind a gilded door,


these scribbles that cloak themselves behind simple rhymes,


are not pleas, nor are they the crying out for sympathy for explanations for the bad-old times.




these rhymes i scribble on my soul, on raw paper,


are often reduced to ashes, billowing out acrid smoke as well as the more insidious unscented vapour,


you may think these scribbles are merely convenient self flagellation, and you may be right,


but i know the demons that assail me in the middle of the night.




these far too easy words that rhyme, may just be a simplistic search to find,


the peace that has eluded me all my life, my heart shackled with chains that do twist and bind,


these manacles that keep me from ever feeling truly alive,


the guilt and regrets which in all truth, i do, to shake off endeavour and strive.




the pain of my siblings, of our parents, the deep sorrow and feelings of loss i can never truly know,


are knots within me, that year by year continue to grow,


and as the well-meaning good people talk of the slow peaceful healing of passing time,


i am unable to shake off the guilt, the regrets, the shame, the thoughts,


of my guiltless crime. 






Nelson Mandela and my father – Johannesburg mid-1950s





President Nelson Mandela amd my father and I – Johannesburg early 2008


President Nelson Mandela and my father – post Apartheid South Africa


My family – A 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.


President Nelson Mandela and my mother – post Apartheid South Africa


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 and 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 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.



My father receiving “The Order of Luthuli” in Silver from President Jacob Zuma

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, and 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.


President Nelson Mandela and I – Sweden 1990


My Family – A Historical Journey through the Seasons


Part Four: Thoughts about Exile, Home, Identity, Belonging

A Flash Back –

I look back to that November evening in Helsinki, Finland in 1989, where the temperature was around -20 degrees Celsius, and we stood on the railway platform with our little luggage (mostly books, photographs etc) with tickets to Moscow via Leningrad (yes, it was still called Leningrad back then).

I recall my mother and father, by then already in their late 50′s, and preparing to return to their home, South Africa, after almost three decades living in exile all across the globe, from Zambia to Tanzania to England to India to Egypt to India again and then to Finland, and now following the Apartheid regime’s unbanning of the African National Congress (ANC) and other political parties and the release of Nelson Mandela and political prisoners, my parents were to return to a country they had called ‘home’ for as long as I can remember. South Africa was always; always home, no matter where we happened to be.

Whether it was in our ground-floor, bleakly dark flat in Zamalek, Cairo where we had to keep the fluorescent lights on during the day, or in our 1st floor flat in Safdarjang Development Area in Delhi, or in our cramped 2-bedroom flat in Helsinki, Finland, I was always told about ‘home’, about family and about the country that I grew up loathing (Apartheid South Africa) as well as the country that I grew up idealising, for South Africa was after all ‘home’, that mythical place where family stuck together and where my brother Azad and my sister Tasneem grew up, separated from their parents, and where finally, at long last, Nelson Mandela walked free after 27 years in Apartheid’s jails.

I often look back on my years growing up as a child of political exiles, and I am thankful, as I grew up without the hardships that so many fellow exiles had to endure.

I am also thankful, for the depth of humanity that I saw in strangers and friends and people who took us in, and loved us, and extended hands of solidarity and assistance and warmth when we were most alone.

I owe a debt of gratitude to so many people, ordinary folk, workers, labourers, academics, doctors and engineers, school-teachers and students, who chose to identify with the plight of the oppressed people of South Africa, just as they chose to support the cause of justice, of freedom and of self-determination in Namibia, Western-Sahara, and Palestine.

I can vividly remember the pain and anguish that my mother endured, being separated from her family and her children, and I remember her tears, her quiet sobbing when I used to return home from school, knowing that my father was away travelling, often for months at a time.

It is not easy to put everything down on paper, and indeed it is impossible to capture all of one’s experiences, yet I feel it is very important that I share these thoughts with you, dear and patient reader, not because of what I wish to say about myself, or even about my parents, but to honour and to remember and to cherish the strong bonds that were forged during those sometimes hard times, and to convey to all, that no matter what one hears about our differences as people, be it differences of creed, of colour, of nationality, there is a ‘human’ connection that I have seen that simply extinguishes the claims by the religiously fanatical, or by the jingoistic nationalists who seek to impose upon us a barrier, a wall, a divide that cannot be breached. I have mentioned what I am about to write earlier, and I only repeat it because I believe it needs to be repeated, so forgive me, dear reader, if I seem to be revisiting old ground.

The old ground that I feel I need to revisit now is that of a story that my mother used to tell me, repeatedly, and always with tears in her eyes, and always with her crying openly as she retold this story over and over again to me.

Let me place the story in its historical context. The year was 1971, and India had just been at war with Pakistan, and my parents had arrived in what was then called Bombay and had rented a small apartment in one of Bombay’s high-rise blocks of flats.

It is important to remember that India had gained independence only 24 years earlier, so the wounds and the trauma of the division of India (into Pakistan and East-Pakistan) were still very fresh.

My father was sent by African National Congress (ANC) to India, in order to work to further strengthen the support that the liberation movement had received from India.

My mother, who was a nurse by profession, had started working at Bombay’s Breach Candy Hospital, and my father was busy establishing links within the sizeable South African student community that Bombay was home to.

One day my father decided to jump over a railing, in order to catch a bus, and slipped and fell.

I shall now let my mother tell her story …

… Now we had just arrived in India, and though Mosie and I spoke Gujarati, we still didn’t know Hindi or Marathi (the language spoken in Maharashtra, the state in which Bombay/Mumbai is located), and here comes Mosie, limping and in pain. I am a nurse and so I took a look at his foot and it looked bad, but what were we to do? We didn’t know anyone, we didn’t have a telephone, and we didn’t speak the language. So I went and knocked on our neighbour’s door. An elderly lady opened the door and I explained in English that we were new in the apartment-block and that my husband had suffered a possible fracture. The old lady then asked me to sit. I sat. The elderly lady then asked me my name and I said ‘Zubeida, but you can call me Zubie’. I then told the lady all about South Africa, about how I had been separated from my two children, about Apartheid, about Nelson Mandela, and about how we were freedom fighters and were in exile. The old lady broke down and sobbed, and I cried too, feeling her warmth towards me, even though I was a total stranger. Then the elderly lady told me that they were Punjabis and during the partition of India, they had to flee their home in what later became Pakistan because they were Hindus. The old lady sobbed when she told me about the rioting, the massacres, the pain of leaving everything behind and fleeing with only the clothes on their backs, and then she grabbed my hand tightly and said that she understood everything, and she shared my pain, because she too had been a refugee once … (at this point my mother would be crying openly while telling me the story) … and that from then on, she was my elder sister. This from a woman who had experienced the horrors of partition, and who realising I had a Muslim name, chose to share her life story with me, and who could understand what we were going through. Anyway, we called a doctor who turned out to be a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ … (laughing between tears now) … and later when we moved to Delhi and her daughter Lata got married to Ravi Sethi and also moved to Delhi, she told Lata that ‘Zubeida hamaari behen hai’ (Zubeida is my sister) and that Lata should keep in touch with us. That’s how Papa and I know aunty Lata and uncle Ravi …

Hearing my mother tell me this story over and over again, emphasising that aunty Lata’s mother had gone through hell at the hands of Muslims, and still she chose to see my mother not as a Muslim, but as a fellow human-being, who shared a similar life in the fact that my parents were also refugees, having fled their country, and that aunty Lata’s mother ‘took’ my parents in, and shared a bond that cannot be described sufficiently in words, as words would only dilute the depth of feeling that the two women shared for each other, only makes my belief in the power of the humanity that binds us all together that much stronger.

Yes, there will be those who will say that those were different times, and that nowadays things have changed.

Yes, there will be many who may call it idealism, romanticism, or simply burying one’s head in the sand, but I still hold on firmly to the belief that aunty Lata’s mother and my mother shared, one person to another, regardless of religion, colour, caste, wealth, status or any of the many other ‘yard-sticks’ that people are measured by, and by emphasising our shared humanity, rather than by highlighting our differences, that we can, and that we shall, indeed, overcome, someday.



Myself and my poem “Remember us when you walk this Way” as part of the permanent exhibition at the Lileasleaf Farm Rivonia Trial Museum – http://www.liliesleaf.co.za



Remember Us When You Pass This Way.

(Dedicated to the countless South Africans who gave their lives for freedom and democracy)


Remember us when you pass this way.

we who fell,

who bled,

remember us when you pass this way,

we who fell so that countless others may stand,

we who bore the brunt of the oppressor’s hand.


Remember us when you pass this way,

leave a flower or two as you pass along,

sing! sing for us a joyous and spirited song.

Remember us when you pass this way,

we who fell,

who bled,

remember us when you pass this way,

remember us in your tomorrows,

as you remember us today.

     




Comrade Winnie Mandela and myself – Johannesburg



My Family – A Historical Journey through the Seasons

Part Five: Thoughts about Exile, Home, Identity, Belonging

‎‎This scribble is going to be a rambling, not too coherent piece all about my thoughts on identity, belonging, exile, and about ‘home’.

So, my dear friends, I invite you to accompany me, with sufficient forewarning I hope, on this scribbled ramble…

Home

Looking back now, I can say that I grew up with two very separate yet entwined ideas of ‘home’ – ‘home’ being both the idealised country of my parents, who spoke of ‘home’, which meant South Africa, as being the place where ‘family’ was an umbrella of safety and a source of comfort, and the other reality of what ‘home’ meant was the reason I was born in exile in the first place, the country that had become a pariah of the world, with its brutal, oppressive system of Apartheid racial-segregation.

Now this may seem odd from today’s historical vantage point, but back when I was growing up in India and Egypt, there was a definite sense that we would never see ‘home’ again.

The hopes and aspirations with which my parents lived by, and probably had to live by, was that freedom would come in our lifetime. But a lifetime can be a long time, so there was also the possibility that we may never see the end of Apartheid, and this fear, which I think is shared by exiles, refugees, and all displaced human beings, was always just below the surface.

This ever-present and often repressed fear was fuelled by the deaths of fellow exiles who passed on before South Africa’s transition from Apartheid state to democratic nation took place in 1994.

I recall an old ANC comrade, an elderly man in his 60′s, who lived with us in Cairo in the early 1980′s, and to whom I became quite close, who later took ill and passed away in a Cairo hospital.

I was 8 years old at the time, and even though my parents did not tell me that ‘uncle’ had passed away, I knew it. I sensed it from his deteriorating health earlier, and from the grave expressions my parents wore for months after ‘uncle’ ‘left’.

My parents carried their own feelings of guilt and pain, of leaving behind a young son and daughter (my siblings Azad and Tasneem whom I did not grow up with) in South Africa, who grew up with my maternal grand-parents in Johannesburg. My parent’s guilt and pain never left them, and I remember my mother as she lay bedridden with Motor-Neurone Disease almost 14 years after freedom still carrying the anguish of the separation of parent from child.

My father still carries the pain with him, and I think even more so today because of the difficulties and emotional minefields that he has to navigate through knowing that he did not share his two eldest children’s childhood, and only now, after all these decades, are the relationships being strengthened, and that too is still a work in progress.

I can only imagine the pain, emotional trauma, anguish and heartbreak that my sister Tasneem, and my brother Azad felt growing up knowing that their parents were out in the world, yet remaining separated from them.

It is a legacy of pain, of homes and of families split up and separated that remains with us today, of Apartheid’s continuing brutalisation of South Africans.

These complex and conflicting issues that we as family, and we as a nation have to deal with may still yield some measure of peace, if that is at all possible, given the weight of the past.

I have so much more to say, dear reader, but it can wait for later.

I can say that my experiences growing up here, there and everywhere have been a convoluted scattering of disjointed places, of half-remembered faces and of many a restless night spent contemplating the questions of identity, home, belonging and of what ‘anchors’ a person.

Perhaps there are reasons for the times when that vagabond exile blood gets restless and that itch, that impatience, that urge to move, to flee, to rejoin the nomadic community surfaces.

And perhaps, there are reasons too, for my ability to suppress the sometimes fiery urge to trade quiet suburban stasis for the unknown path of the unnamed exile.

I leave you, respected reader, with a poem I scribbled some time ago:



Freedom – The Unfinished Dream …


The shackles have been cast off.

The chains broken.

A people once squashed,

under the jackboot of Apartheid,

are free.


Free at last!

Freedom came on the 27th day in that April of 1994.

Freedom from prejudice.

From institutionalized racism.

From being relegated to second-class citizens.


Freedom came and we danced.

We cried.

We ululated as we elected

our revered Mandela.


President Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela.

Our very own beloved ‘Madiba’.


Black and white and brown and those in-between.

The many hues of this nation,

rejoiced as we breathed in the air of freedom and democracy.


Today we pause.

We remember.

We salute.


The brave ones whose sacrifices made this day possible,

on that 27th day of April,

24 years ago.

Today we may dance.

We sing.

We ululate!


We cry.

Tears of joy and tears of loss.

Of remembrance and of forgiveness.

Of yet to be realised reconciliation and of the ghastly memories that still torment us.


Today we pause.

We acknowledge the tasks ahead.

The hungry.

The naked.

The destitute.

Today we reaffirm,

that promise of freedom.

From want.

From hunger.

From eyes without promise.

Today we reflect.

On unfulfilled promises.

On the proliferation of greed.

On the blurring of the ideals of freedom.


Today we say:

We will take back the dream.

We will renew the promise.

We will not turn away.


Today we pledge:

To stand firm.

To keep the pressure on.

To remind those in the corridors of power,

that we the people still need to savour the fruits of the tree of freedom*.


And till that time,

when all shall share in the bounty of democracy,

We shall remain vigilant,

and strong.

And we shall continue,

to struggle.


And to shout out loud,

“Amandla – Awethu!”**


     ________________


* – final words of Solomon Kalushi Mahlangu before he has executed by the Apartheid regime in 1979

“My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom. Tell my people that I love them. They must continue the fight”.

** – “Amandla – Awethu” means “Power to the People, and was a rallying slogan during the struggle against Apartheid.



President Nelson Mandela’s mother and my mother 1950s demonstrating against the imprisonment of political prisoners



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