Cold Case: Revisiting our History

The stage is set to tell the story of  Dulcie September 

One of the motivations for me going back to university was to equip myself with the skills to tell the stories of growing up in District Six and on the Cape Flats. Not only my stories, but the stories of many who cannot tell their own. We’re a deeply divided society, a country still trying to recover from an oppressive past. We cannot sweep it all under the carpet and expect to move on. There will always be a bump there to trip us up, to nag at us to pull it straight.

People need to be acknowledged. Maybe nothing will undo the hurt but at least it’s not being ignored, we’re not being told to get over it and move on. We need to listen to each other with respect, be slow to judge. We need to know that someone saw our pain and understands; only then can we move forward.

I am encouraged by the two shows I saw recently at the Baxter Theatre – Cold Case: Revisiting Dulcie September, which premiered at the National Arts Festival in 2014 and My Word! Redesigning Buckingham Palace.

Buckingham Palace: District Six is, of course, the name of the novel by teacher and author Richard Rive, published in 1986. The tragedy of forced removals in District Six has been well-recorded. Less well-known is the story of anti-apartheid activist and ANC representative, Dulcie September who was assassinated in Paris in 1988.

The Baxter Theatre’s intimate Golden Arrow Studio provided the perfect backdrop to the personal stories of a childhood with an abusive father, a budding activist and a committed freedom fighter. Denise Newman is an accomplished story-teller who moved many members of the audience to tears, made us laugh at reminiscences of growing up in places like Athlone (where September was from). She held our attention for more than an hour, all eyes riveted on her one-person show … surrounded by the cardboard boxes which represent the cold case of what remains of the woman. 27 years later her killer has not been found. Theories abound, the mystery remains unsolved…

The biased history which we were forced to learn during apartheid needs to be balanced by stories such as these, giving value to our own experiences. The tens of thousands of people who attended her funeral, the street, square and boulevard named after her in Paris, make us proud of our struggle.

When I met Newman afterwards I couldn’t help enveloping her in a hug, I felt that I knew her, or at least the woman she had brought to life on the small stage. The run at the Baxter ended last night but look out for a couple of shows in August at the Artscape Theatre, to celebrate Woman’s Day.

Cold Case has won the Standard Bank Ovation Award and the Adelaide Tambo Award for Celebrating Human Rights through the Arts.

http://www.sahistory.org.za/people/richard-rive

http://www.sahistory.org.za/people/dulcie-evonne-september

The Slave Route Challenge

The Slave Lodge built in 1679 to house slaves owned by
the Dutch East India Company

With all the walking I did in the last year, I could have been in Johannesburg. However, I do think that beating the pavements around the neighborhood is what kept me sane and doing longer distances did come with a small sense of achievement. When Penny, my walking mate, posted the advert below on our WhatsApp group, it was the words 'Slave Route' which were most appealing though. And there was a 10km route.

"But it's Mothers' Day," was one response from the group. What better way to spend the morning, doing something we enjoyed and the proceeds were going to Red Cross Hospital? So we signed up, not put off by comments like, "That's a tough one!" I did wonder what we were letting ourselves in for when I heard about "Koeksister Hill". And no snide comments from those of you who have run the WHOLE Two Oceans nine times! The race was fun, the weather perfect, the marshalls the friendliest I have encountered and the koeksisters on top of  the hill the best I have ever eaten (perhaps all the more so for the steepness of the hill!). 

       

            Waiting for the start in
          Darling Street

The hill 

 

Spectators along the way

The route took in familiar landmarks like The Company Gardens, District Six and The Castle of Good Hope to finish on the Grand Parade. Perhaps less well-known was the Slave Monument on Church Square, outside Die Groote Kerk and across the road from the Slave Lodge. 

Granite blocks on Church Square
bear names of slaves 

The Slave Tree once stood here

The race is an innovative way to introduce participants to the legacy of slavery in our city. Participants also received free entry to the District Six Museum and the Castle. Millions of South Africans are descended from slaves brought here by the Dutch from the east coast of Africa, India, Indonesia and other Indian Ocean islands in the 17th Century. These slaves and their descendants built our city and played a major role in shaping the identity of Cape Town. Because of apartheid, we were  taught to view this history through a lens of shame. It's time to reclaim our heritage with pride. 

Some further reading: 

Eyes of the Sky and The Slave Book both by Rayda Jacobs

Khalil's Journey by Ashraf Kagee

Echoes of Slavery by Jackie Loos

You may also enjoy: Walking through History: Celebrating our Heritage 

Same-same, but different

So you may have noticed that I've been absent from the blog-o-sphere for a while. I've been on scholarly pursuits at the university on the hill, as mentioned in previous blogs before academia swallowed me up. 

I managed to churn out almost 80 000 words of a thesis, with a little help from family and friends and a dollop of motivation from Idris Elba, who made me feel guilty every time I opened the fridge, where my daughter had stuck the following picture: 

image courtesy of Pinterest

Normally, yoga would have kept me sane, but I developed a "tennis elbow" as a result of sitting at a computer for hours on end – first world problems, my daughter called it. So, instead of downward-facing dog and sun salutes, I put on my walking shoes and walked.

Now that my life is taking on a semblance of normality again, I've decided to revive the blog. I have held on to the lavender, travel stamps and potjie but it’s been given a fresh look (perhaps more grown-up?) by my friend and fellow-student, Stephen Symons … same-same, but different, as we heard everywhere we went in Thailand when we visited years ago.  I'm sure I even saw T-shirts with that saying.

When I emerged from behind my desk, the real world had been carrying on without me: 
My nephew, born at 34 weeks, had turned into a robust toddler after his shaky start to life. (See blog)

The little preemie soon
after birth 

A year later presumably
on a diet of gravel

The Delft Big Band has played at Starlight Classics, released a CD and made a turn at the Cape Town International Jazz Festival. 

international delegates at WEF 2015

I gave the World Economic Forum a miss this year to complete and hand in the thesis but did manage to balance the last year with a trip to Paris with my daughter.

 

Attending the 2014 WCPRC awards ceremony provided the perfect excuse to take some time out to wrap up the thesis. 

Gripsholm Castle, Mariefred

And I was in False Bay Harbour to see my son and his team mates get rescued by the National Sea Rescue Institute during the Lipton Challenge Cup.

Hard to believe the storm 3 days later

In between, my daughter graduated and is on a gap year while my son is writing matric ... more news and snippets of writing in upcoming blogs!

Bill and Melinda Gates on Three Myths on the World's Poor - WSJ.com

Unfortunately I didn't get to hear Bill and Melinda Gates speak at the World Economic Forum but I was very inspired by this article in the Wall Street Journal.

Bill and Melinda Gates on Three Myths on the World's Poor - WSJ.com

I did attend a session where a young Syrian women commented on the necessity of hearing the positive news of what was happening. She pointed out that for the refugees in the camps, HOPE was all they had to help them carry on. This article gave me some hope.

'via Blog this'

Karim - the story of a refugee

Today I heard a story about Karim. His father was jailed, tortured and killed. Karim, together with his mother and four sisters was forced to flee his country, Syria, across the border into Lebanon, hopefully to safety. At the age of 13, he was the head of his family and had to go out to earn a living. For the past two years they have lived in a tented camp. Karim goes to work at a place where he is abused mentally, emotionally, physically and, often, sexually. He is grateful that it is him, and not one of his sisters. At least, he earns enough for food. 

Karim is only one of thousands of refugees. It may be five or ten years before he can go back to his country. By then he may have become a drug addict or a gun-runner. Certainly, he would have lost the opportunity to go to school and, probably the chance to make a worthwhile contribution to his country.

For a short while I had the opportunity to walk a few steps in the shoes of a refugee like Karim. I was herded and pushed around, shouted at and threatened, forced to give up what little I had with me in order to get food. I felt out of control, helpless and frightened. I wanted to curl up in the back of the tent and hoped that when I stuck my head out again, everything would have returned to normal. But when I lifted my head, bright lights were shining in my face and I was being shoved somewhere else. 

For me, this was only a simulation. For millions of people this is a reality that has stretched into years and in some cases, a lifetime. Crossroads Foundation  connects people in need with those who can help them. Through the Refugee Run they are presenting at the World Economic Forum, they gave me the opportunity to deepen my awareness and understanding and to make concrete the images from the newspaper and television. One tiny way that I can help is to spread the word. 

Reflections on Improving the State of the World

I couldn't help taking a childish delight in witnessing people, from all over the world, coming together to talk about how they can improve the state of the world. Here's Moshe and Mohammed, Enrique and Navanethem, Cho Yoon-Sun and Olafur, sharing platforms with Elif, Shirin and Aliko, engaging in debate and exchanging ideas. 

This is my second World Economic Forum meeting in Davos and I am energised and inspired by the discussions which I have been fortunate to attend. It's not perfect - only 15% of the speakers are women and 'global' discussion is dominated by the US and Europe. But today I listened to Al Gore talking about global change, Lewis Pugh sharing insights about extreme swimming, and the new Iranian president's vision for his country. Writers and artists debated identity and cultural heritage and Young Global Leaders (under the age of 40) discussed creative solutions to rebuilding nations. 

Imagine that we could sit together like this in our country and listen to each other and share our experiences. After 20 years of democracy, I am deeply saddened by the level of debate in our country. It seems that we are so quick to draw lines to divide and polarise our society. It's always 'us' or 'them' and if you are not with 'us', you must be with 'them'.

Charter for Compassion shared this quote, by Martin Luther King Jnr earlier this week:

“People fail to get along because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don't know each other; they don't know each other because they have not communicated with each other.”

The only way we are going to heal the rifts in our historically divided society, is to start communicating with each other. Let's take time to listen to each other's stories. We have a wealth of experience which, collectively, can build a strong and stable nation. 

Wedding Season Part 2

It seems that the 20-second wrap-pleat-tuck-and-drape sequence that looked so effortless in the shop must come with a lifetime of practice. They had offered to sew in the pleats for me, but that sounded like it would be taking away from the authenticity of the experience. The offer of sending someone to the hotel to dress me, also sounded a little too indulgent. Imagine braving the Delhi traffic for a 20-second duty.

Well, getting into the sari in my hotel room was a rather more complicated process than I thought. The person, who housekeeping sent up after my frantic call, was as flummoxed by the slippery, heavily-embroidered material, in spite of being dressed in a sari herself. Hers, part of the uniform, was a much simpler, lighter affair but she confessed that she arrived at work an hour earlier to dress. Half an hour, some compromise and many safety pins later, I reasonably resembled the real thing.  I decided to leave my camera behind at the hotel, unsure of how I would manage taking photographs while trying to negotiate my way around without stepping onto my sari and coming undone.

My daughter, who was dressed in a sort of Indo-Western fashion, didn't have the same navigation concerns and could wield her camera more easily. Our first function was the Sangeet, attended by about 2 000 guests. I alternated between gawking at all the beautiful people around me and at the decorations. Flowers adorned every surface, competing for attention with colourful chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. There was enough lights, music and dancers with bare midriffs for a Bollywood movie set. It took us at least an hour to distinguish the bride and groom amongst all the other leading stars gathered around.

In spite of all the glitz and glamour, the evening was relaxed and friendly and we made many new friends who had also been wandering around gawking, to keep us company over the following few days of celebration. At the end of the evening, heaving a sigh of relief that I had not unravelled, I leaned over sideways and flopped into the back of the car...not quite as Grace Kelly would have done it.