Like Coming Home

This morning when I got on the mat, it felt like coming home. For the last two weeks, I have been paddling furiously to keep up with all the end-of-year goings on.  It hasn’t helped that there was no routine with schools as well as the yoga studios I attend, all closed. My body has been protesting the absence of a good stretch and the grounding it gets from a regular practice. The little I have been doing by myself at home has not been focused enough for real satisfaction.

All the rushing around culminated in getting onto a plane to Mauritius, not a moment too soon.  The rush to the airport included a stop at my daughter’s school to get her exam results – more of that later...And so I woke up in paradise and took myself off to a yoga class. As I sat down, breathed in and settled down, I felt a sigh escape my body. It really was like coming home. I allowed the sing-song voice of the yogi to guide me through the familiar postures my body knows so well - though not without muscles protesting from disuse and abuse. Yes, even two weeks can make you lose it. It was a pure Hatha yoga class which took me right back to my roots in the Ananda Kutir ashram.

A gentle breeze was blowing in from the ocean and the sounds of birds singing and frogs croaking, was all the music we needed. As we chanted “Om Shanti” to end the class, I was at peace. 

Post-Plett Rage

For the last few days we have had a semi-comatose post-Plett-Rager lying around on her bed or on the couch in front of the TV. In fact, anywhere that she could drape her body and settle down to catch 40 winks. In between she has been coughing and sputtering as a result of the “Plett Plague” that has afflicted a number of them. The “real” food I made on Sunday, was also very much appreciated as an alternative to the “Provitas-and-cheese” diet she has been on.

But in spite of the after-effects, she has had so much fun. It seems like they slept and partied, slept and partied to the sounds of Goldfish, Jack Parow and many more. The “Rage” was well-organised; there was ample security, as well as taxis and concerned community members looking out for the thousands of post-matrics who descended onto the beaches and surrounds of Plettenberg Bay.

I admit to being more worried about Plett-Rage than about sending her off to build water tanks in the hills of northern Thailand. But this has been as much of a rite of passage - letting her hair down, partying up a storm with her friends and saying goodbye to school books, uniforms and bells. I am glad that she is safe. I had to smile quietly when I read her sms towards the end of last week - "feeling green from eating junk, not enough sleep and too much partying". That was something she had to find out for herself!

A Mezcla of a Wedding

Last week I attended a real mezcla of a wedding. In Spanish mezcla means a blend, a mixture or a medley. Spanish, Jewish, Catholic, South African and American cultures came together in what I like to think of as a new South Africa celebration. The bride, a friend’s daughter, is Jewish/South African/American, while the groom is Basque and Catholic.

A female rabbi, Dr Azila Reisenberger, was performing the ceremony and she took care to explain the meaning and origins of the different rituals that formed part of the union. The bride’s parents walked her down the aisle accompanied by a traditional Basque tune to the chuppah  or canopy under which the ceremony took place.

We had a little giggle when the rabbi asked the groom to identify his bride when the veil was lifted. This, the rabbi explained, has its origins in biblical times when Jacob, who was in love with Rachel, was tricked into marrying the wrong sister after working for their father for 7 years in lieu of a dowry!

The part of the ceremony that I loved was where each person in the retinue read out a blessing to the married couple and poured a little wine into a silver cup. By the time 8 people had done this, the “cup was running over” with blessings and it was given to the couple to drink from and share with their parents. Then it was time for a Jewish song and after the signing of the register, the groom’s sister played the flute while her father did a traditional Basque dance for the couple.

We followed the bridal party down through the vineyards (stopping to nibble on biltong and nuts) to the reception hall where a marimba band contributed the South African flavour.

Mazeltov! to these young people who have embraced the differences in each others’ cultures and traditions and at the same time enriched everyone at the wedding with the opportunity to be a part of a beautiful medley. 

Thank You St Cyprian's

Last Monday my daughter wrote her last school exam, ever. When she was finished she took off her school shoes tied them together by the laces, and put them in a big box for Mama Amelia, along with the shoes of all the other girls who had finished writing. Mama Amelia will distribute the shoes to those who are in need of them.

She walked out of the school grounds barefoot, leaving behind 14 years of formal schooling and stepped towards a new phase of her life. She has been nurtured and prepared for her adult life all the while being made aware of the needs of those less fortunate. Leaving her shoes behind is just one of many reminders that have helped her on this path.

St Cyprian’s has proved to be a very special school. The ethos of social responsibility, tolerance and respect, runs deep. The school is working hard towards being as diverse as it can be – teachers and students of different cultures, colours and creeds work and learn side by side. At one stage there were 20 different languages being spoken in the boarding school. The French students had petit dejeuner with pain au chocalat and croissants; after the Afrikaans exam their teachers were there with koffie en melktert to sustain them.

For Human Rights Day this year they came to school barefoot with a pair of their own shoes to donate. By the end of the day they were able to trace out a giant ‘140’ with all the shoes on the sports field, for the 140 years the school has been in existence.

Every year Africa Day is proudly celebrated – everyone dresses up in the colours of one of the African countries, classroom doors are decorated and food pyramids created.  From grade eight they are challenged to complete a certain number of hours of community service. The school enables this by organising various projects. In December senior girls are chosen to go off to work on one of the Round Square International Service projects.

As a Round Square school, St Cyprian's subscribes to the ideals of internationalism, democracy, environmentalism, academic excellence, and leadership. They are certainly fulfilling these aims. And year after year the girls come back to celebrate St Cyprian’s Day in St George’s Cathedral, ending with a scrumptious tea in the school grounds and a dance around the cypress tree!

Cypress tree in front of the school

A Free Press

This week I have felt tired. Tired with the government for its controversial information bill – I don’t expect us to be having to defend the right to a free press this far into democracy.

But I am equally tired with the media who would like us to think that it is a sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter. I feel that they have lost the plot – it seems like it has stopped being about our right to know but more about the money.  In my book the plot is to provide us with independent information, to increase our awareness of the world we live in so that we can make up our own minds about what to believe. For too long we have lived in a nanny state where we are told what to do and what to believe.

When I pick up a newspaper I feel like I am being manipulated, being steered in a certain direction. Why should I care that Malema wore a purple suit to a wedding in Mauritius? And do I care about who is eating sushi off who? Even if I don’t want to know about it, I can’t ignore it because it is on the front page of not one, but a few newspapers, and on the television when I switch it on. Good karma to them if they think that that is a good way to spend their money. It all feels a bit like the old apartheid propaganda of swart-gevaar – look what these blacks are up to now that they have power/money.

Two weeks ago I went to my favourite annual dinner for awards for ordinary philanthropists. It buoys me up. I didn’t read much about it in the newspapers. Are we really a nation of negative, pessimistic people? Or is it the media who is feeding us doom and gloom? I think sooner or later we will become immune to the shocking. Sometimes days go by and I ignore the newspapers which get delivered to our door. I am tired of the negativity and the manipulation.

If you read the newspapers you will believe that the government is evil. While we have a far way to go still, and much needs to be done, we live in a country with a democratically-elected government. We should all stand up to defend a free press. We should also demand more responsible reporting from that same free press.

My sister works on the other side of the “boerewors curtain” and on Tuesday was texting me some of her colleagues’ comments - among them, the feeling that democracy was going down the drain and maybe we would need an underground newspaper again. Well, Viva! Let’s go for it. Maybe the press needs a bit of pressure to get back to the plot.

Plett Rage

One more matric exam to go – and so ends 13 years of formal schooling. The exams have gone well as far as stress levels are concerned. It has been a bit of a military operation with the mocks being the practice run. We have combined modern medicine and complementary health approaches with good diet and exercise. Yoga and Boot Camp have been useful when she felt like knocking her brother over the head (or me). But, as someone commented last week, for someone who has been writing exams for weeks, she is looking damn good!

And now looms another rite of passage – the dreaded Plett Rage. Traditionally after the final exams, the matrics from all over the country hit the beaches for one big party. In the Western Cape it’s off to Plettenberg Bay. This is a newish tradition, certainly not one that was around when I was doing matric. Every maternal instinct is screaming out against it – I keep thinking of hundreds of teenagers, newly empowered with driving licences and legally able to imbibe alcohol, wanting to shake off 13 years of institutionalised learning – sounds like a lethal mix to me.

But everyone is going. Everyone. I know there are other parents who are concerned, especially about getting to Plett which is 5 hours drive away. I have made one rule, which is that she is not driving up in a car operated by a teenager or someone who recently passed their driver’s licence test.

There appears to be structures in place and activities seem to be organised in so far as they can be. I guess this is the part where I have to trust that she can go out there and have a good time while holding onto all that she has learnt at home. And hope that she will be safe.

The Gaza Doctor

Hate is an easy option. It takes courage to not hate. That is the message that has come through strongly for me from Dr Izzeldin Abuelaish’s book, I Shall Not Hate.  Dr Abuelaish is also known as “the Gaza doctor”. In 2009 he suffered unspeakable tragedy when three of his daughters were killed by Israeli Defence Force shells, three months after he lost his wife to acute leukemia.

A month ago I attended one of his lectures at the UCT medical school as part of the alumni program. I was blown away by this man who spoke of the tragedy with tears quietly streaming down his cheeks. But it is his response to this tragedy that is remarkable. He refuses to sink into hatred, although he acknowledges the anger he feels. Anger is important, he says, if it is accompanied by change and propels you toward necessary action to change the situation and make it better for everyone.

He spoke for close on an hour with a passion and quiet strength that points to how he has managed to survive with dignity and compassion. He says that as a medical doctor he has been trained to save lives, to treat people irrespective of who they are and that it is this belief that has helped him to search for the humanity in everyone that he has come into contact with.  

I had to buy the book to learn more about what makes this man tick. It is hard to imagine the daily life in Gaza that he describes in the book, the immense difficulties that he has overcome to achieve what he has. In spite of the immense loss that he has suffered, he believes that peace is possible. He hopes that the deaths of his daughters will be the last sacrifice on the road to peace in the Middle East.

He urges us to act now – that it is up to all of us to speak up and take an active role in promoting peace. During his talk he quoted a passage from the German Pastor Niemoller whose words I remember having up on my notice board during the apartheid years:

In Germany they first came for the Communists, 

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. 

Then they came for the Jews, 

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. 

Then they came for the trade unionists, 

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. 

Then they came for the Catholics, 

and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant. 

Then they came for me — 

and by that time no one was left to speak up.

I Shall Not Hate by Izzeldin Abuelaish is published by Bloomsbury