Relate Bracelets - Making a Difference

There’s a rhythm to threading beads which I had to learn this morning – 4-1-1-1, 4-1-1-1, and so on. I sat down and started threading without making sure that my beads were in the right order and pretty soon I had made a mistake. Luckily, I was sitting in-between two experts, who quickly showed me the secret. 

The bracelets we were making are the basics of an inspired project for social upliftment, started by Lauren Gillis in 2010. The project offers township seniors dignity, companionship and an income to support themselves; offers disadvantaged youth an opportunity to earn a living, and, at the same time, helps new organisations grow their potential. What’s more, the bracelets which are produced help raise awareness of causes as varied as early childhood education, clean water, malaria and wildlife conservation. 

The finished product in aid of Masikhule

The concept is simple – the bracelet which can be completed in a matter of minutes, is the tool which provides purpose, income and awareness. To date, Relate has created earning opportunities for over 350 people, supported over 70 causes and sold almost 2 million bracelets. Young adults are employed to turn the strings of beads into a bracelet which bears a disc identifying the cause which will benefit. We had the opportunity to engage with them and hear their dreams of a future as a teacher, butler, musician and more.

Younger experts putting the bracelets together

But back to the threading room... to end off, the gogos and tatas (grannies and grandpas) showed us how they keep fit with a series of seated exercises to some lively music, before a feast of Nando’s chicken. The project is truly holistic!

Visit the website, www.relate.org.za, for more information or to purchase bracelets. 

Red Roses and Blue Wigs: A Tribute to Edward Mellerick

I keep replaying the last time I saw you. Were there any clues I missed? Were you in more pain than usual? Sad? Miserable? But, no, I think you were your usual flamboyant self as you drilled me for the details of my son’s dance date.

You made me angry sometimes. “Have I come here to be abused? Whose hair is this anyway?” I learnt to go with the flow, shed the objections with the hair dropping onto the floor. And then you’d pronounce, “You look beautiful. If only I was ten years younger…”

“Yes, Edward, and straight…”

“Oh, shut up and get your lipstick out the bag.” You’d raise your eyebrows in despair at me never having the magic wand you thought could fix any mood.

You lived vicariously through all of us, your loyal followers.

“How are the beautiful babies?” (never mind that they were adults now) and then, like a praise-singer, you’d recall their achievements and milestones from first haircut (which you insisted on giving even though you had no patience for cutting children’s hair), relating the story of my son, aged 9 or 10, being interviewed regarding playing chess, (“… and then the interviewer asked him so what was your shortest game? Five minutes. And against who? Pause for dramatic effect … with sheer delight at the answer – my dad!), my daughter’s matric dance (who is that bouncer she’s taking?), her graduation and her save-the-world sojourns to foreign places. My trips to Sweden were deliberately confused with Switzerland; my flippant answer to your question, what’s the Muslim version of a kugel? (a koeksister) got retold many times.

You’d embarrass me by running through a richly-embellished version of my life every time you introduced me to someone – “from virgin to mother of 6” – adding details about life on campus, meeting my husband and having kids, weaving in overseas trips and the accomplishments of various members of the family … you took as much pride in my return to studies after many years as if you really were the brother you told people you were.

“When those hands get too tired to work you should write,” I said. “We’ll get you onto that computer yet.” I’m writing this for you now. You would’ve loved a blog all to yourself, although you probably wouldn’t have been able to find it on the internet you viewed with such suspicion.

I’m going to remember you for the single rose that used to arrive on my birthday from “the other man”, slobbering me with kisses, your beautiful garden, the enormous displays of flowers that greeted us when we came to visit you, getting ready for functions and you booming at me – “colour? colour!” – and the collections for all your charities every Christmas in lieu of gifts and, most of all for the time you walked down the hallowed corridors of Vincent Pallotti hospital to cheer me up post-op, wearing your blue wig. Thank you for making me laugh.

Towards an Archive of Freedom

Siona O’Connell is on a mission to tell the stories of growing up in Cape Town and to that end has directed and produced a number of documentaries that have emerged out of her research as a faculty member at the University of Cape Town’s Michaelis School of Fine Art and the Centre for Curating the Archive. Siona and I grew up opposite each other on the edge of District Six and share a similar background. Her work is centred on issues of identity, memory and belonging in post-apartheid SA, which all resonate with me. In the past few years she has inspired and cajoled me into exploring similar issues.

I was fortunate to be at the premiere of her latest offerings which screened at the Baxter Theatre on Thursday evening. The first documentary, An Impossible Return, deals with the forced removals from the Cape Town suburb of Harfield during the apartheid-era.

Capetonians in general seem to be unaware of the extent of the forced removals, tending to focus on District Six, but removals occurred across most suburbs subsequently declared “for whites only”. These include Woodstock, Newlands, Kenilworth, Plumstead and Simonstown. Something that had never occurred to me before was that people had to chop up furniture to make it fit into the matchbox dwellings the government moved them into. 

What I remember most about my grandmother’s removal to Mitchell’s Plain in the 1970s, was her loss of independence. Suddenly, the fiercely-independent woman who had survived two husbands, was exiled to a suburb without any infrastructure and had to ask for help to fetch her pension from the Cape Town Post Office as she could no longer get there via public transport.

The second documentary, The Wynberg 7: An Intolerable Amnesia, is a deeply moving account of the lives of the group of teenagers who became known as the Wynberg 7, after being detained during a protest march on the same day as the Trojan horse massacre in Athlone. They were sentenced for public violence, a criminalisation of the public protest.

The documentary includes original footage from the march, court case and detention. It includes interviews with a lawyer, student activist and photographers plus the family of the 7. The trauma is fresh in the minds of the family, especially for the aged mother of one of the young men, who was subsequently diagnosed with schizophrenia. She is concerned about who will look after him when she dies.

I was shocked to hear that those who hadn’t testified at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission still have criminal records. Listening to their stories and the lack of acknowledgement 30 years later, I don’t blame them for wondering whether the sacrifices they made were worth it.

The admission to the screening of the documentaries was free and open to all. The theatre was packed with more than a few who were in the theatre for the first time in their lives. The emotion was palpable and the audience rose in a spontaneous standing ovation after Siona’s powerful speech.

                                

The title of the blog is borrowed from the title of the symposium hosted by the Centre for Curating the Archive I attended last week. 

For more, see
Centre for Curating the Archive 
Story of Wynberg 7