My South Africa

A friend reminded me about this piece by Professor Jonathan Jansen in response to my last blog.  

Professor Jonathan Jansen

My South Africa is the working-class man who called from the airport to return my wallet without a cent missing. It is the white woman who put all three of her domestic worker's children through the same school that her own child attended. It is the politician in one of our rural provinces, Mpumalanga, who returned his salary to the government as a statement that standing with the poor had to be more than just a few words. It is the teacher who worked after school hours every day during the public sector strike to ensure her children did not miss out on learning. 

My South Africa is the first-year university student in Bloemfontein who took all the gifts she received for her birthday and donated them - with the permission of the givers - to a home for children in an Aids village. It is the people hurt by racist acts who find it in their hearts to publicly forgive the perpetrators. It is the group of farmers in Paarl who started a top school for the children of farm workers to ensure they got the best education possible while their parents toiled in the vineyards. It is the farmer's wife in Viljoenskroon who created an education and training centre for the wives of farm labourers so that they could gain the advanced skills required to operate accredited early-learning centers for their own and other children. 

My South Africa is that little white boy at a decent school in the Eastern Cape who decided to teach the black boys in the community to play cricket, and to fit them all out with the togs required to play the gentleman's game. It is the two black street children in Durban, caught on camera, who put their spare change in the condensed milk tin of a white beggar. It is the Johannesburg pastor who opened up his church as a place of shelter for illegal immigrants. It is the Afrikaner woman from Boksburg who nailed the white guy who shot and killed one of South Africa's greatest freedom fighters outside his home. 

My South Africa is the man who went to prison for 27 years and came out embracing his captors, thereby releasing them from their impending misery. It is the activist priest who dived into a crowd of angry people to rescue a woman from a sure necklacing. It is the former police chief who fell to his knees to wash the feet of Mamelodi women whose sons disappeared on his watch; it is the women who forgave him in his act of contrition. It is the Cape Town university psychologist who interviewed the 'Prime Evil' in Pretoria Centre and came away with emotional attachment, even empathy, for the human being who did such terrible things under apartheid. 

My South Africa is the quiet, dignified, determined township mother from Langa who straightened her back during the years of oppression and decided that her struggle was to raise decent children, insist that they learn, and ensure that they not succumb to bitterness or defeat in the face of overwhelming odds. It is the two young girls who walked 20kms to school everyday, even through their matric years, and passed well enough to be accepted into university studies. It is the student who takes on three jobs, during the evenings and on weekends, to find ways of paying for his university studies. 

My South Africa is the teenager in a wheelchair who works in townships serving the poor. It is the pastor of a Kenilworth church whose parishioners were slaughtered, who visits the killers and asks them for forgiveness because he was a beneficiary of apartheid. It is the politician who resigns on conscientious grounds, giving up status and salary because of an objection in principle to a social policy of her political party. It is the young lawman who decides to dedicate his life to representing those who cannot afford to pay for legal services. 

My South Africa is not the angry, corrupt, violent country those deeds fill the front pages of newspapers and the lead-in items on the seven-o'-clock news. It is the South Africa often unseen, yet powered by the remarkable lives of ordinary people. It is the citizens who keep the country together through millions of acts of daily kindness. 

I copied the article and photograph from the South Africa The Good News website.

Professor Jonathan Jansen is the Rector and Vice-Chancellor of the University of the Free State.

Socialising in the 21st Century

The modern version of having friends around...

The school holidays have whizzed by. My daughter is still at university, so for the first time it has hardly felt like a holiday -  everyone has carried on doing what they normally do, except for my son.

Well, I say hardly felt like a holiday except for the "men" lounging around in our living room, playing games, pretending to be socialising with each other!  They looked up only when they needed to refuel and then actually spoke to each other.

It is an ongoing challenge trying to instil a balance - there is so much interfacing with technology. Granted, they did spend hours playing hockey or soccer followed by hours on the couch...so I guess it does sort of balance out. Plenty of time to think about creative ways of engaging before the bumper end of year holidays...any ideas?

Keeping the Perspective

In many ways matric exams are the most important academic exams that students will write, determining their future study and job options. But I do agree with my friend, Mary, from Canada, who commented on the overwhelming importance matric exams seem to have in SA. She said that all around the world children write final school exams, they pass or they fail, and life goes on.

Here the whole country seems to be geared towards it – you can’t switch on the radio or open the newspaper without hearing or reading about the impending exams. The daily newspaper features interviews with learners about how they found each examination paper. There are advice columns in the newspaper about how to cope with stress, including suicide help lines. No one should have to want to kill themselves because of an exam.

A few weeks later the results get published in the newspapers and the whole country knows not only whether you passed or not, but how well you did. And then the post-mortems start - the comparisons and the laying of blame.  The next year it starts up all over again.

I found myself getting caught up in the hype. “Has she ever failed an exam?” asked Mary. The answer is no. And it is no for most of them. So why all the angst?

This year the matrics could go to their schools the day before the newspapers published the results, to see how they did before the whole country sees it. Hopefully this will be the start of changes to take some of the pressure off the matriculants. While school exams are hard, life exams can be harder. Let’s keep the perspective.  

Our complicated relationship with .... Food

Towards the end of last year I was completely fed up with my body - it seemed hell-bent on doing its own thing, in spite of me eating healthily, doing regular yoga, walking (OK, maybe not so regularly). So I did what I usually do - I bought a book. 

Women, Food and God jumped out at me off the shelf. The blurb at the back promised to "reveal how our relationship with food is the doorway to freedom and what we want most: the demystification of weight loss and the luminous presence that so many of us call 'God'" - quite a claim, but I was interested to see what she had to say especially since I have this ongoing quest to define spirituality and religion. I did not encounter any new revelations and felt that the book was directed at people with more complicated relationships with food than I have. But it did remind me of another book which I had read cover-to-cover about two years ago, French Women Don't Get Fat.

I had taken that book on holiday to Mauritius and devoured it while lounging in the sunshine at the edge of the Indian Ocean. Periodically, I read out the bits which we were going to implement at home,  to my husband. We enthusiastically, in the idyllic environment of having someone cook for us every hour, embraced the principles. To our credit, I must say that we carried on eating like French women for a good while back home before the rat race intruded more forcefully.

Anyway, I hauled it out to read again and everything makes as much sense now (away from the sun and the ocean) as it did then. This book is written by a French woman who spent an exchange year in the US as a teenager and returned home "looking like a sack of potatoes", to quote her shocked father when he picked her up at the airport on her return. It describes the lifestyle of the French and eating for pleasure, yet staying healthy. It makes good sense.

I am also coming to the end of another book which deals with similar issues (interesting how books become magnets for other books) - When Hungry, Eat. I enjoyed the insight into the process of what makes you leave the country of your birth and all that is familiar, to settle in a new country. I also enjoyed her writing about the time before and immediately after democracy. As far as eating goes, I did not feel that I gained any major new insights. 

All three books in different ways, highlight how our relationship with food is tied up with beliefs, culture, comfort, pleasure and control. How many of us remember not being allowed to leave the table until our plates were empty? At the end of the day, like so much else in life, it comes down to finding the balance. It is a sobering thought that humans are the only animals that eat when they are not hungry. 

• Women Food and God by Geneen Roth
• French Women Don't Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano
• When Hungry, Eat by Joanne Fedler

Trust the process

I have survived the rugby season. This may not seem like a big deal to all the lovers of that game that you play with an egg-shaped "ball" and take off people's heads if they get in your way. I breathed a sigh of relief when my son aged nine at the time, decided that in spite of being at a school that seems to give birth to Springbok rugby players, he would not be going to rugby camp. I cheered for this strength of character that allowed for going against the flow, for being different. I wondered if he would be able to stand up to the inevitable peer pressure.

And believe me, the pressure has been there over the last few years, however subtle it may have been made out to be. I just don't get the game. And I cannot watch it - I see spinal cord injuries happening (a throw-back to my previous life as an occupational therapist). I have tried - a few years ago I got caught up in some of the patriotism when we won something, but I could not sit through the match. (I have to admit, at the risk of being ostracised, that I have yet to see the "tear-jerker" Invictus).

Well, last year there were some rumblings about maybe playing. I pointed out that he would have to make a choice between rugby and his other commitments - horse-riding, hockey, tennis, music, etc. and he decided that perhaps he didn't want to play so badly that he would give up another activity. I did suspect that the desire was in part due to his admiration for a certain teacher. 

This year however, he came out quite strongly about playing and also was very certain that he would manage all his other activities. Now, a little background here, this is a young man who when he was four years old told me that he would not be doing more than three things during the week, and that included school. I was never able to arrange play dates with other mothers without consultation. "Why did you say he could come and play? I had someone yesterday. I can't be busy two days." I take some blame for this need for balance - he was two years old when I started doing aromatherapy, yoga and meditation. He sometimes would find me cross-legged on the mat and come and quietly join in. 

In hindsight, I think a surge of testosterone has been at the heart of this need to suddenly be macho. He turned 13 at the beginning of the year - seems to be all arms and legs and has achieved his goal of being taller than I am. As the season comes to an end I realise that he has managed to play hockey twice a week, rugby twice or thrice and go horse-riding on a Friday afternoon ("because it is a good way to end off my week"). And on a Sunday morning he starts phoning around to organise a soccer game on the field nearby, with maybe some tennis thrown in. What happened to not being busy for two days in a row? 

He chose not to go to Sweden last week because amongst other things, there was inter-house hockey to end the season. "Of course, you know hockey is my thing", he said. "Oh really?", I replied. "Yes", he casually threw over his shoulder, "you know I won't be playing rugby next year." Well, I didn't, but I gave a mental leap into the air. As always, he has known exactly what he needs.