Unfounded reality

They say I’m cold-hearted, almost reptile. I believed it once. It’s strange really how you change, how your opinions change, how you (seemingly) suddenly grow a heart. Well, that’s what it seemed like anyway. Being brought to tears by the inaction of an Israeli soldier wasn’t on the itinerary. She walked through the metal detector and back again, hoping desperately that this time it wouldn’t sound. Her outer calm seemed out-of place. The Israeli official behind the counter put on a face of obvious oblivion. Did he derive amusement from seeing her go back and forth like an out-of-sync pendulum? Perhaps it was the normalcy of the episode that kept her so. Moments later, on realizing the futility of the yo-yoing she bends to take off her shoes and tries again. The queue behind her was building up. Some Palestinian, some foreign, some Israeli. We watched in silence, while others chitchatted among themselves. Moods ranged from the festiveness of Jerusalemian weekenders to the bitter annoyance we felt growing at our own subjugation. The crowd turned their backs to her as she removed her studded bodice from underneath the purple coat. Without a change room or wall behind which to perform the task at hand, fellow female travelers stepped forward to shield her from public view. Providing moral support for what, in any other world, would be deemed a wholly unnecessary humiliating circumstance, was the least they could do. To my own great relief, she manages to go through the detector, now without causing it to buzz. Then, almost robotically, she gathers her belongings and walks off; her head still high, her Palestinian pride purportedly unhurt.

What sound is this?

"Look at my Kids. Ready to learn." I say with a smile on my face

Tumelo and Aslam the twelve year old pair that I'd come to tutor on Saturday mornings were ready and waiting for today's dose of tuition. These grade fours are amongst the 37 children that live at a shelter in bonela, just outside my own, middle class suburb. Today was the day we would start learning to read. I opened a story book, "Mr Happy and friends" and attempted reading. The book, that should be quite manageable for a grade four proved to be far too challenging with words like "always" and "grumpy" too complex. Dissapointed but not nearly ready to give up we packed away the english and continued with maths.

A week later, armed with flash cards and renewed motivation we approached the task of reading for a second time.

"What sound is this?" i ask, pointing to the letter 't' in the 'tall' flashcard i held out.
"t", Tumelo sounds out
"t", Aslam repeats

A few minutes later, having completed a cycle of the six or seven cards i held, i give Aslam a chance of answering, this time without Tumelo's help.

"What sound is this, Aslam?" i ask pointing to the 't' again,
"d"
"Are you sure?"
He gives me a blank look.

Children schooling in Bonela, a township that is not even mildly rural and completely accesible are suffering from a large gap in their knowlede of 'the basics'. Its harrowing that these and the thousands of other south african children, in their situation and worse will be deprived of 'making it in the world' because of a inadequate education system and teachers that simply can't afford to care.

deception

"Aap ka naam kya hai?"
"Maya"
"do you go to school Maya?"
"Nahi"
"How much are these?"
"50 Rupees"

The Delhi gate, a war memorial attracts thousands of visitors each day during India's peak tourist season. In a country where the majority live well below the poverty line, a western construct of 1.25 dollars a day, the street vendor must count his blessings.

my visit to the Delhi gate afforded me the acquaintance of a 10 year old bracelet vendor, Maya. Despite the tour guides' warnings of 'don’t look, just walk' we still do. And when an innocent 10 year old is asking you for a mere R7 its hard to resist.

"i'll take 4 bracelets, let me write the names for you"
"okay, just wait 5 minutes now"

Some ten minutes later, post family-picture taking session in front of the gate, Maya, Maya's six-year old sister and their even younger cousin return with my plethora of bracelets, which, by now had upped themselves to seven.

Maya starts counting, then half-mouths, half hand-signals a price of 400 rupees per bracelet.
"But Maya, you told me 50 Rupees"
"Nahi"
She points to the heart-shaped bead at the end of each bracelet, "100 rupees", the string, "50 rupees" and each alphabet, "5 rupees"

A few minutes of arguing, angry walk-offs and in-toe trailing brings the price down to 100 a piece. Surprise surprise.

One's initial sympathy for an underfed little girl, trying to make an honest living is morphed into a mix of awe at her ingenuity and anger at the world. A different place and time and Maya could have been a great salesperson, manager, marketer or even actor.

Walking home from school

Found my matric short story the other day. 88%

Walking home from school

My older brother Thabo is always talking about how good life would have been if he were white. To be honest, I don’t understand why he would want this. According to mama, white people can get skin diseases much more easily than us black people. Thabo says that I will understand when I am a bit older but I still don’t think that I, Phindile Maseku, would ever want to have a pale skin that burns easily in the sun.
Anyway, let me introduce you to my family. My father Sibusihlo works on a farm in Mpumalanga so we don’t see him very often. My mother is Precious Dlamini and she works nightshift in a shoe factory near our house. My parents are not married since the Lobola price was too much for my father to pay. But my parents do not mind that they are not married. They say that there are many Zulu people who are in the same situation as themselves; besides, our family is not any different from any other family just because they are not married. They still love each other and love us. Then there is Thembikile (Thembi for short), my older sister. She works for a white family as a domestic worker in the Transvaal so we only see her once a year, at Christmas time. After Thembi, there is my brother Thabo. He finished school last year and now has a day job in Mr Peterson’s garage. Then, of course, there is me, Phindile Maseku. I am in standard two at a Bantu school ten kilometres from our house in Umlazi central.
Today I stopped by at Mr Peterson’s garage after school. Mama does not like me walking home by myself and Dolly with whom I usually walk home was absent from school today.
Thabo and Mr Peterson’s son, Richard Peterson, were in the workshop.
“What’s your damn sister doing here again, mister? I warned you about this before. If she keeps coming here and distracting you from your work I will have to let my father know that you are not fit for this job.”
“Sorry, but I…”
Thabo was cut off by Richard. “You know, there are lots of godamn darkies out there who could easily replace you.”
“I’m warning you, Richard. Don’t talk about my people like that. We didn’t ask for dark skin anymore than you asked for white skin.”
“Listen here you brainless thing. God made me white and you black so deal with it.”
Unsure of what I was supposed to do I stood, motionless. I was confused afraid and nervous. I did not know whether to make a run for it while I could or whether to go and save my brother.
But before I had time to make up my mind Richard started again,
“You know I’m not scared of you Thabo” with a smirk on his face he carried on. “I’m in charge here so I suggest you watch you step you black retard!”
After a stony silence Thabo awkwardly blurted out, “Stop it! I’m not a retard, okay! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“So you think you are a big boy now, Thabo? Well, I have news for you. You had better stop wasting my time and get back to work or you’re fired!”
“I’m not going back to anything. Not until I get an apology from you, anyway!”
“Mmmm. A white man apologise to a godforsaken, worthless darkie. You amuse me Thabo. God, you are pathetic!”
I was tense. Thabo looked angry. I closed my eyes, wishing that I had just walked home by myself. I did not know if Thabo would ever forgive me. I was helpless.
I opened my eyes in time to witness Richard giving my brother a firm slap across the face. I screamed at Richard to stop it but he yelled at me and told me to shut up.
Then, in anxious anticipation, I watched as my brother stood up straight. He looked Richard in the eyes and confidently said, “I quit. Yes Richard, I quit. Now you can go and find one of your plenty darkies to replace me. I’ll be surprised if you can find one that can speak English half as well as me.”
Thabo was right. There weren’t many natives in this country whose English was as good as ours. This was thanks to my grandfather’s overseas education. We learnt more from him and his books than we could ever have learnt from school. The Bantu education system was very limited.
Thabo was uncontrollable. After a hurried breath he carried on, “Tell your father that he can keep my week’s wages or even give it to you. In fact, I don’t really care what he does with it. I don’t want his or your money”
“Stop trying to be smart, Thabo! You know you need this job. Anyway you can’t just quit like that!”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I can do what I want and no one is going to stop me.”
Through the confusion and surprise I was beginning to feel proud of Thabo for being so daring. But I was worried. What would mama say? What would baba say? Would Thabo be able to get another job?
After giving Richard another penetrating stare Thabo turned around, walked towards me, took my hand in his and we walked off. Not full of disgrace or humiliation but full of pride and triumph.

Operation Zim

I find the human mind a strange embodiment. A few weeks ago, perhaps just days I was somewhat angry, somewhat emotionally involved in the plight of the Zimbabwaen. And now, however it's the plight of the Palestinian (or Gazain specifically) that's bothering me so. How is it that we, as human beings are able to attach and detach so quickly when it comes to that which is close to home, yet not close enough.

Some weeks ago, around the time of Eid-ul-Adha my family made a trip up to Zim, the main objective of which was to oversee a Qurbani operation in the region. This was of course around the same time that Zim seemed to be making daily headlines with the cholera induced death toll standing at some 300 persons reported and further still those unaccounted for of the more rural regions. One's initial reaction, my own included to an optional journey into a famined, economically unstable region is skeptism, uncertainty and then curiosity.

we stocked up with food, incredible amounts of water and a 'jerry can' of reserve fuel- basically sufficient supplies to keep the 8 of us going for a week, (tho we only planned to stay 5 days) and enough petrol to drive beyond a border no matter where in the region we happened to find ourselves. The departure from Durban was hassle-free, we drove via jhb, pit stopped at polokwane and then to musina. Musina being the closest town to the SA-Zim border was swarming with bulk-buyers. The scene was like no other town we had driven through that day. Besides the overcrowding on the main road, there were ques of people at the local spar, clothing stores and furniture retailers. Buses, trucks, bukkies and even the regular family-mobilia were piled with goods ranging from crates of bread to fridges and freezers.

The border-crossing took some 3 hours, a bribe (or persuasion fee as we've come to call it) and a considerable amount of patience. The contrast between the two sides of the border was more than apparent. While the South African side had tarred roads, painted buildings, flat-screen workstations and efficient clerks; the Zims were exactly the opposite. On route to Harare we found ourselves dodging potholes and offering confectionary to the policemen at every roadblock. We had arranged, prior to our departure to stay at a pilgramaging- relative's empty house in Harare. Here we assumed the position of only a few privleged Zim occupants.

A once thriving city centre was now the hub of the barterer, the underground forex dealer and the unlucky jobseeker. The car showrooms were empty, the chain stores had minimal items on their shelves and the supermarkets had even less. It was evident that the finding one's daily supplies, running a business or even holding down a job had become one of life's major uncertainties. With the price of bread ranging from R10 to R30 a loaf depending on the day, time, place u were at and an average salary of R2- R5 a month it is would not be surprising if civil war were imminent. The Zimbabwaen people, a truly amazing creed of people, however are patiently praying for relief instead of looting the shops, assassinating the president (if u can call him that) or resorting to violence. Among the unemployed are doctors, engineers, teachers and many other highly qualified, highly able Zimbabwaens. All of whom, now look forward to a loaf of bread for supper, a ripe tomato is their back garden or a day when this man-made economic crisis will be over. "The end is near" they say, hope in their eyes - hunger in their minds.

hijabed like her

every so often i, along with just about everyone else with half a claim to humanity, takes some time out to 'observe' those around me. Whether one is at a coffee shop, waiting in a que, taking a study break or simply hanging on the beach, one can't help but notice those around you. one quickly attaches a personality, a lifestyle, a background, a social circle and even a potential future to the observee. i dont think its so much judging the person as trying to complete the entire puzzle with just a single piece. its a sort of game we play, without ever making a conscious decision to do so.
Anyway here's a bit of one of my games, that was perhaps played over a considerable period of time and is yet to be over.

The Hijabi Observed:

Hijabi no. 1: the first group of hijabis are those that don the cloak, a black scarf and black shoes. Now this Hijabi, probably comes from a family of 'cloaked hijabis' and does not want to draw unecessary attention to herself. She is probably a 'hari poiree' that will one day get married, have the cutest kids possible and will always be satisfied with her lot.

Hijabi no. 2: the second group of hijabis are the 'colourful cloakers'. these hijabis wear black cloaks (or abaayas if u'd prefer the term) with a brightly coloured scarf. The scarf usually matches the shoes and possibly a handbag too. This hijabi often wears make-up, with the eye shadow matching the accessories. She is probably the sort that enjoys dressing up but will only do so within the shariah. She is also fashion concious and if purple is the new pink, then purple it is! (she takes the easy way out - see hijabi no. 4 below)

Hijabi no. 3:
the third group are the 'i wanna be arab too' lot. these hijabis wear long floor-sweeping abaayas, the matching abaaya scarf, worn dophata style but with the 'aristocrat' bulge on the top of the head, that is, a bulge on the top of the head created by the up-tied bun. a common characteristic of this group is plastered foundation, thick eyeliner and often, especially with the younger generation an ashlee-simpson sidesway fringe sticking out the front. This lot is especially fashion concious and will wear nothing but the latest designer abaaya costing some R5000. the dubai airport is definitely the place to check these kids (along with their commonly practiced, commonly acclaimed air of superiority) out.

Hijabi no. 4: the 'layer people' are those that wear regular clothing in such a manner that it fits within the bounds of hijab. This group wears jeans, tshirts, make-up, jewellery, and anything in fashion. in their quest to wear anything they want, they will wear up to four layers of clothing; a long under-top to increase the lenght of the top, a long-sleeved top for sleeves (duh) and the actual focul top. these are the people you find wearing mini-skirts with jeans underneath, jeans a size too big and many other bizzare or unconventional combinations of clothing. they also always seem to be dressed a bit too warm for the weather! Quite the revolutionary bunch me thinks... brave!

Hijabi no. 5: the next group are the 'scarved' hijabis; a flexi hijab style. this group feels that as long as they have a scarf on their head they can be identified as muslim and thats cool with them. this hijabi wears regular clothing; short/long sleeved t-shirts, jeans, skirts; all with a scarf to match. She isn't that big on the loose clothing or the non-transparent scarf but is definitely on the road to self-development. she's trying isn't she?

Hijabi no. 6: the 'part-time hijabi' wears hijab when she feels like and when the occasion is right... basically she is still getting there. Her head-covering varies; be it a beanie, a bandenna, a mexican hat or a shawl. her scarf is often serves the purpose of a neckwarmer, or fashion accessory (or becomes one as the day progresses). She will wear her hijab to any 'islamic' event/gathering, on fridays and without doubt, in Ramadaan. This hijabi is still experimenting.

Hijabi no. 7: Hijabi no. 7... who is she?
(okay, i'm going to leave this blank for now, im pretty sure there's someone i've left out.) <Edit Here>


Found this pic [click on it to enlarge] on google someplace, actually the URL is on it (if ur interested). Thought it quite apt... Plus its not my opinion, its someone else's :-D

** This post was not in any way intended to be offensive to anyone, be they hijabi or not-hijabi. Furthermore, most hijabis, including myself may (or may not?) fit into more than one category at one or more times of their lives.

respect the yes men

front page of yesterday's daily news: NEW YORK TIMES SPOOFERS END WAR

yes, the yes men, all hail the YES MEN have managed to release a fake edition of the New York Times. The front page of the fake newspaper sports a convincing headline "IRAQ WAR ENDS". I am both amused and in awe. Who fakes a newspaper? I'm all for pranks, give me a chance and i'll send you a fake wedding invitation. But a prank on this scale. im incredulous. the fake is said to have taken 6 months to produce and is dated July 4, 2009. that is, post dated by a whole 8.5 months. They, a nameless organization of pranksters at this point recruited volunteers to distribute 1.2 million copies of the paper. so besides the fact that they thought up the idea, carried it out with such precision and secrecy (6 months of planning and production!) and funded it themselves, the articles all seem to be very well-written and could definitely pass for the original. And what, with the recent election of Obama very good timing too! Perhaps it is their prediction of next year, the US admitting that no weapons of mass destruction were found in Iraq and calling their troops home. aah, wouldn't that be great.

I respect them, the YES MEN (that is, if that is really who they are)!


On the other hand, also on the front page of the daily news is an article titled, "Research shows women get less bitchy after the age of 50". LOL. Who researches stuff like that? anyway, it says that researchers at a London univertisy have found that women who had reached menopause are more likely to admit that another woman is "attractive" as compared to their younger conterparts.
Further proof of my lack of femininity! If a girl is pretty i have no problem admitting it... why not, i have nothing to lose :-P

soon

soon? did i say soon?
soon is to be redefined, soon.

:D

get back to your toys now kids...

change

so i just attempted to change my blog's url, only to find that my three potential adresses were all already taken! how is it even possible that some other person desires exactly what i do? and three times over?

Option 1: weedingthegarden.blogspot.com - my title, so naturally i tried it. I really don't place all that much worth on my blog, but this guy's blog was just random pics - that didnt have all that much to do with weeds or gardens or the earth or or... grr

Option 2: myearth.blogspot.com - this one was particularly annoying - the person's blog was empty - just a blank screen.

Option 3: mygarden.blogspot.com - okay so i wasnt that keen on this one, but still it wasnt availabe either

sigh. i'm going to smile and move along. coz thats just what i do. :)


** a more significant post coming soon

9 months later

so i'm back. the temptation was just too great. So, i had quit because i had nothing to say. do i now have something to say? probably not!!! oh well... we'll wait and see.

so facebook has recently moved up the ranks and become one of my favourite means of procrastination of late (about the past 3 weeks), its a bit concerning... blogging, gtalk and facebook all at once. this could end up in a complete annihilation of the real me by the usurpment of the virtual one... and all this to coincide with exams???

considering that i havent blogged in a whole 9months im pretty much guaranteed that nobody comes here any longer - pretty awesome by me, now i can post utter trash if my mood dictates. its like that song, nobody's listening... only i am not repulsed by the idea.
so this is my journal of nonsensical musings. now the thoughts in my head can have a place of their very own. :D
yay!