In the thorns and the cross-hairs: Liberation movements – strange thing about them – labelled outlaws, terrorists, revolutionaries, enemies of the state…. Ideals change, men change, so do politics and thence, perhaps most of all, people… people are the most fickle. “I choose God before man” – Rev. Beyers Naude People are complex, forever in a struggle to find out who we are, what we’re here for. And so now, in the modern quest for globalization – although it has been an idea for quite some time now, since the inception of colonialism – making the world one country, seeking integration, unity, solidarity, love and all that good stuff, in a world getting ever ‘smaller’ – are we not discarding ourselves? We constantly (without reward) seem to be seeking answers in each other. I made an earlier post about heritage, and remembering where we all came from; to not discard our past and to preserve our culture, yet this means to oppose the concept on globalization on some level. Of course a part of the concept of the global village is to accept each and all equally, flaws and imperfections included, and unite under the banner of humanity. However, as is very easy to surmise and gather when looking at the world today; things are becoming ever more superficial, run by capitalistic ideas and motives. Thankfully, certainly from my perspective, the larger portion of society is waking up to see that ideals are not as black and white as they assumed it was – there was never the simple ‘good guy bad guy’ complex in world politics – we were just led to side with certain nations over others, when in fact guilt can be laid equally on all sides. Propaganda. Humanity. Opinion. Belief. Strange hey? Although it is our differences that make us unique – through all the beauty – it is those same differences that has been the cause for so much conflict. Many would support the idea of maintaining traditions – the good ones at least – to retain some notes of cultures from all corners of the globe, for it is that which weaves such a colorful and diverse tapestry. As we move headlong and with gaining momentum into an uncertain future, we should always reflect, remember, pause and breathe new and perhaps better life into one of the few certainties of this life – our past. To briefly shed the complexities and distractions of today. I had such a moment a few weeks back while visiting Freedom Park in Pretoria. The center piece of the park is the wall of names (S'khumbuto - meaning, among other things "place of remembrance") with all those who died in the eight major conflicts that shaped the nation, with particular emphasis on honoring those who died in the name of peace, human rights and the freedom and liberation of South Africa. Those conflicts are:
In total, up until 1994, the nation of South Africa had been at war for over 500 years. However, it’s not just about recognizing those souls, but also laying them to rest. Something which should be mimicked in every country, in some way, is the concept of Isivivane (derived from the word “viva” – in this instance carrying the meaning of “commitment to solidarity”, “unity of purpose” and “coming together”) – the place of healing and rest. This is the symbolic burial ground for all those who died. Isivivane is crucial to Freedom park, built to enhance awareness and inspire commemoration. Arriving at the site, one is required to remove your shoes as a sign of respect. This was also the site where a host of religious leaders held ceremonies and rituals to lay to rest those fallen heroes. No matter your belief, it is hard not to be moved by this experience which is concluded (after receiving an in depth explanation as to the relevance and meaning of the surrounds) by washing your hands and face in a rock pool of fresh water. Everything here holds some meaning; even the type of trees planted, and the method for entering and exiting (through separate pathways). The actual burial ground – some would liken it to the tombstone of the site – is the ring of boulders. In addition to the two boulders denoting National government and the International community, there are 9 other boulders from the 9 provinces in South Africa, all with Historical significance. For example, the boulder from the Limpopo province is from a site once ruled by one of the earliest kingdoms on the sub-continent who traded gold with India and Egypt. The boulder from the Western Cape is from the Table Mountain range – one of the oldest mountains in the world. The biggest rock is from Mpumalanga province, a piece of green Verdite from the recorded 3.5 million year old Barberton Green-stone belt (yes, one side of the rock really does have a green hue to it). If you ever get the chance, I recommend visiting this rich place, to get away from our usual everyday ebb and flow. For those unable to visit the park, feel free to visit the website at Freedom Park.
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Probably the final part of this particular short fiction series on my blog. It does become something of a schlep for those seeing this for the first time, wanting to catch up and having to search through old posts (so just click in the sub menu of the "Short fiction" Tab in the menu above - Short fiction "Awakening" - I'll be posting all updates in there. Going home... and then home again. Short Fiction by Steven Benjamin (2012) The wheels squealed as he turned the car around. Linda stared at every one of his precise movements. He’d grabbed her arm and ushered her to the car. “Where are we going?” She turned as she heard her children rousing. When she calmed them down she turned back to Jeremy. “Well…” “Taking them to your parents. Tell them I need hospitalization and we need some time. Tell them it’s not an emergency, but we need to sort it out now. Like an insect bite or something; it could even be infected.” Linda glanced at the road. Her eyes then fell toward the foot well. She swallowed, tasting only dryness. “Where are we really going?” She whispered. They drove in silence for a while. Eventually he spoke, “Home. We’re going home.” The rest of the drive was in silence. Linda followed her gut, and simply did as she was told… even when it came to dropping off the kids. This man she knew as Jeremy, had sat in the car the whole time, only acknowledging her parents with a glance and a slight but distant wave. It was a strange silence as they made their way home. He seemed to be deep in thought, and not just thought but summations, plans, calculations; as if he was remembering things and cataloging them as he drove. He didn’t say a thing, even as he waited for her to unlock the front door, even while he rifled through his lock box which he’d retrieved from the bottom of his closet. In that box were plenty of papers, a couple of passports, a set of keys and a few trinkets Linda had never seen before. He unpacked them all systematically on their bed until eventually he stopped. He knelt down at the side of the bed, cupping his face in his hands. She heard him taking deep breaths. Linda walked over and sat on the foot of the bed, watching. Eventually his face emerged from behind his hands, his eyes scrutinizing the empty box one more time. For a moment Linda recognized him again and for the first time in what felt like an age, she felt compelled to voice her thoughts. “What is it?” “I’m looking.” His hand then reached toward the underside of the lid. He pulled on a small satin strap embedded in its inner rim. The small strap was like those strips used for book-markers, the type seen in many Bibles. The underside of the lid released from some unseen clip. The only thing in there was a medium sized envelope. He closed his eyes as he opened it. “I need you to look at this. I believe it will all make sense then. For both of us…” He pulled out a simple Polaroid photograph and offered it to her. Linda looked at him briefly before accepting the picture. Before she looked at it she gave him one more glance, as if for reassurance. This glance, that subtle look, would prove to be the last time she saw the man she knew as her husband, for the next three years. Jeremy watched her intently, anticipating something, even though he didn’t know what. She seemed not to recognize the image at first, but then she started pulling it slowly toward her face. Her eyes blinked profusely, and then she shut them tight, clenching the bridge of her nose. When Linda’s eyes opened eventually, they were staring at the wall ahead of her. Her head turned to him, and then her gaze followed. “I have always cherished this time between us Eli; these moments before you leave. You can go now. It is safe.” She nodded to him and smiled. He nodded several times, though it seemed involuntary. He leaned back and stood up in one continuous motion. He took the image from her and repacked the lock-box in the reverse order of how he’d unpacked it. Moments later, he closed the closet, turned and left the room. She heard the front door close. He backed out of the driveway slowly. Just as he put the car in gear, he looked up and paused, catching sight of the house he’d lived in for the past five years, now receding in familiarity. TBC "Happy reading - enjoy your weekend!"
Consider yourself a Writer? Since I am one I decided to give you ten tips on the very subject. Well, actually I'll be giving you someone else's tips - Elmore Leonard in fact, a somewhat more accomplished voice in the industry... only somewhat though (he's the guy who brought us the stories behind films like Be Cool, Get Shorty, Jackie Brown, 3:10 to Yuma and the current, brilliant TV series starring Timothy Olyphant as 'modern-day-cowboy' US marshal Raylan Givens, in Justified... FIY, this series and Olyphant's rendition of the main protagonist also inspired Leonard's latest novel entitled "RAYLAN". The series as a whole, for the uninformed, was inspired by Leonard's short story 'Fire in the hole'. So there, my fellow writer/author Elmore Leonard - now you know, he's that guy). Anyhow, so he came up with a quick fire list for those fancy themselves skilled with pen and parchment, in particular, for those looking to spew out a novel. It has been said, by someone, don't know who exactly so lets just say ME, that 'everyone can write, but only a gifted few are good storytellers'... This was originally posted by the guardian.co.uk (for the expanded article with more tips from more of my esteemed counterparts, just click the link) a while back (2010), but with all good writing, such things are always relevant. So, enough already, to the 10 then...
Elmore Leonard: Using adverbs is a mortal sin 1 Never open a book with weather. If it's only to create atmosphere, and not a character's reaction to the weather, you don't want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead looking for people. There are exceptions. If you happen to be Barry Lopez, who has more ways than an Eskimo to describe ice and snow in his book Arctic Dreams, you can do all the weather reporting you want. 2 Avoid prologues: they can be annoying, especially a prologue following an introduction that comes after a foreword. But these are ordinarily found in non-fiction. A prologue in a novel is backstory, and you can drop it in anywhere you want. There is a prologue in John Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, but it's OK because a character in the book makes the point of what my rules are all about. He says: "I like a lot of talk in a book and I don't like to have nobody tell me what the guy that's talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks." 3 Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue. The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But "said" is far less intrusive than "grumbled", "gasped", "cautioned", "lied". I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with "she asseverated" and had to stop reading and go to the dictionary. 4 Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said" ... he admonished gravely. To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin. The writer is now exposing himself in earnest, using a word that distracts and can interrupt the rhythm of the exchange. I have a character in one of my books tell how she used to write historical romances "full of rape and adverbs". 5 Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. If you have the knack of playing with ex-claimers the way Tom Wolfe does, you can throw them in by the handful. 6 Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose". This rule doesn't require an explanation. I have noticed that writers who use "suddenly" tend to exercise less control in the application of exclamation points. 7 Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly. Once you start spelling words in dialogue phonetically and loading the page with apostrophes, you won't be able to stop. Notice the way Annie Proulx captures the flavour of Wyoming voices in her book of short stories Close Range. 8 Avoid detailed descriptions of characters, which Steinbeck covered. In Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants", what do the "American and the girl with him" look like? "She had taken off her hat and put it on the table." That's the only reference to a physical description in the story. 9 Don't go into great detail describing places and things, unless you're Margaret Atwood and can paint scenes with language. You don't want descriptions that bring the action, the flow of the story, to a standstill. 10 Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them. My most important rule is one that sums up the 10: if it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Firstly I’ll say this; when I first heard the term uttered by former South African president Thabo Mbeki, I’d simply taken it on face value. I’d simply used my understanding of the word Renaissance and applied it to an African context. This is not an idea that's grasped easily since the images and thoughts immediately infiltrating our minds when one mentions the word Africa, is poverty, war, animals, rundown cities, corruption, unspoilt terrain, lots of dark skinned people, the Sahara desert, the Pyramids, lots of brown skinned people, colourful flags, a Kenyan winning an Olympic runners medal, “indigenous culture” and perhaps for a privileged enlightened few, the images of everything that may or may not be loosely defined and envisioned as the idea/concept/entity known as “soul”. So then, the term Renaissance doesn’t really gel with all of that; and so it remains, for the time being, a fragile idea, shared by a dedicated few. Then again, ideas and ideals that bring about greatness and great change, is usually started by one. Much like Ghandi’s “be the change” saying – a model that is noticeably void in society today. “A dream is not a dream until it is a dream of a community” – Khoi San saying So anyway, here is the clinical definition and description of what the African Renaissance is and how the Renaissance Foundation (RF) hopes to go about achieving its goals: African Renaissance “It is the regeneration, reclamation, reawakening and a rebirth for the furtherance of the Pan-Africanism within the global context.” (Definition according to the RF.)
[It’s pretty ‘wordy’ I know, but intellectuals will always put it a certain way. Note: furtherance in this context alludes to what all Africans want the world to know about us, as appose to what the media from outside quarters has fed the world.]
What occurred through colonization was that many Africans fail to identify with their own heritage and culture, effectively disowning it because they were led to believe it was inferior to all others. Liberation movements fought physically for our freedom, but the after hundreds of years of pain, war, annexation, migration and subjugation et al, the mental scars run deep, and will only be fully absolved through the next generations; but it’s crucial that the current and future generations retain their heritage. - “Give us sanctuary in the blood of our people.” A message from a Khoi San chief… He knew war was coming (with British settlers) and that survival was unlikely. Fully prepared to die, he sent portions of the tribe to all parts of the country to seek shelter with any who’d accommodate them, with the goal being that, though the tribe would be all but wiped out, there would be a small part of them within the generations to come – an attempt to continue living through and in the children of all the peoples of our nation. Ultimately there are still portions of first nation people living in the Northern Cape, as well as those that fled further north into Namibia. So, there are many facets to the vision, concept and philosophy of African Renaissance, but at the heart of it lies the desire to preserve, and to then grow the consciousness of the African people (All Africans including the diaspora), to positively express ourselves and take action, to eventually correct the wrongs of our past and turn our weaknesses into strengths… … This is a vision that can only be executed if ALL Africans are united. (Another part in realizing this vision is the formation of the African Union to seek, at the very least, political independence in the road to establishing safety, peace and security across the continent. As many know, the complexities within Africa are vast, and thus the best suited to resolve our issues, are ourselves. Although the RF is run by many people, an undeniable driving force in its inception has been apartheid struggle icon and poet/novelist Dr. Wally Serote) Definitions are taken as defined by the Renaissance Foundation (2012). If you're skeptical about the term African (especially since there are so many people from different religions, races, creeds and countries within this continent, we take inspiration from Thabo Mbeki's speech "I am an African" - poetic it may be, but it perfectly encapsulates the beauty, complexity and diversity of what makes us Africans. For the speech, click here Awakening - [*provisional title*] -- (by Steven Benjamin, 2012 )
… Linda’s mouth hung open. “Jeremy” he said it again, as if tasting the words for the first time. “Oh. Yes. I remember.” His head tilted back as he looked skywards. “What?” Linda heard herself say. “What does that mean?” His attentions found her again, but not for long. He glanced around as if in mild panic, slowly rubbing his fingers together. “You were sleeping.” “Y-yes…” “I was away.” “No. You were driving the car. There, look!” “I was away for a while… saw this, this bridge. There was something I had to get. Something hidden.” “Jeremy you’re scaring me. Let’s just go to the car. Do you want me to drive?” “Shh.” Linda took a step back trying to recover. She was blinking profusely, her hands clutched to her chest as she attempted to formulate some kind of response. “I came here. I came back here… there’s something I need to do. I just need to,” He glanced toward the car again and then back to Linda. “Can you get something for me?” “Hm? You mean…” “Here.” He pulled the keys from his pocket. “Go home. I need something from my lock-box.” “Wh-what? Are you kidding? NO! We’re going home together, stop this, and get in the car.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him closer but he didn’t move. Linda staggered. He was looking at her in a way he’d never before. “You said my name is Jeremy.” She opened her mouth to speak, noticing then that she hadn’t seen him blink. “It isn’t.” His voice was a whisper. “Not remotely.” Her breathing was quicker now, “… Jay. You’re scaring me.” “I know. I was too at first… years ago. Course, I was unaccustomed to it then.” A road of many directions... -- by Steven Benjamin (2012) Linda awoke because of the silence. They weren’t moving and something had caught her eye. Jeremy seemed to be standing outside, a few dozen feet away, looking over the railing. She turned to look at the vacant driver seat as if to confirm that it was him. The light at the bottom of the door was on; Jeremy must have left the door slightly ajar so as not to wake her when he got out. Linda’s fingers pulled on her own door handle. She tried to step out but the seat belt restrained her. Fumbling for the clip, she was finally free, stepping into the cool night air. She glanced back inside to make sure the kids were still asleep in the back, catching a quick reflection of her face in the rear window. For a moment she felt a little deja vu – it felt like all the holiday trips when they stopped over at fill up stations at night; only this time the overhead lights came from the amber glow of a street lamp in the middle of nowhere. Her skin tingled as she walked toward Jeremy. It was a rarefied feeling, walking on the side of a somewhat deserted highway. When her feet hit the curb of the bridge the sounds around her changed. Roads always had an interesting tone – in the dead of night, they were usually the sound of desolation, or at least that’s what she thought desolation sounded like. She wiped he face and pushed her hair behind her ears and then tucked her hands beneath her arms as she walked toward her husband. She could hear faint sounds of running water now, or perhaps that was just the breeze playing tricks. She slowed as she neared him. He hadn’t moved at all. He wasn’t looking down but rather straight ahead, presumably at the dark water down river – or was it up river, she couldn’t tell. “Jay.” Her voice was soft but firm. She wanted to tap him on the shoulder but thought it too startling. “Jay. What are you doing?” Linda glanced around as if to make sure they were alone. He must not have heard. Her mouth opened again, but then his head turned, slowly. He was looking at their car now, and then his eyes wondered again. Her eyebrows furrowed. She took a step closer and reached toward him. “JAY!” He swiveled on his heels immediately, his head whipped round, his eyes wide open… he stared at her for a moment, “Can. Can, I help you?” Linda was lost between confusion and shock. “Jeremy what’s going on? Are you okay?” “Jeremy?” He said it like an insult. ... -to be continued. Part 2: Fish River Canyon The Edge of the World...All photos by Steven Benjamin A daunting awe overcomes all and a prayer is said, just before taking the plunge. “To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man…” Geoffrey Chaucer said that – or at least his character did in A Knight’s Tale. I believe we all have an experience sometime in life where it requires you to simply put your head down, ignore the pain, discomfort and heat… and just trudge on.
It must be said that from a personal stand point, I’m quite accustomed to blisters, even big juicy blood blisters right in the sweet spot of where my rock climbing shoes presses hardest against my toe… So anything the Fish River Canyon threw my way I was well prepared for. Nevertheless, it is what it is, an irritation; and when they all mount, trouble emerges. Just like the millions of grains of sand which poured from our shoes at every rest point… but alas, this is what we signed up (and paid!) for. I can honestly say I hit a very low point during night 2 – as did we all – but I clung to that Bible verse in Corinthians, so eloquently highlighted for me by Mark Lowry in one of his messages: “This too shall pass”. Suffice is to say, prayers were said, whispered, moaned and mumbled through much of the windy and sandy night, where sleep seemed to escape most. (Some definitely got a few winks – you could always tell by the differing pitch of the snoring pattern emanating from a few sleeping bags) But why did I entitle this Inconsequential? This was a mighty feat, a triumph of human spirit long to be remembered by a tired few; it’s certainly not something to be scoffed at. However, there are so many instances where ‘inconsequential’ would be a perfectly appropriate term – consider the blisters I spoke of, and then the sand, the heat, the pain… in the end, if you overcome them, they may seem of little consequence. Then consider the footprints, those you tread in, and those you leave behind… nature will inevitably claim all those back, and no trace will be left to mark where you’ve been. Lying snug in my sleeping bag, listening to the wildlife – mostly birds with an occasional grunt from a Baboon – then waking the next morning to find animal tracks just a few meters from where you slept, be they baboon or leopard; it certainly gets the mind working. Not to get too deep here but, noticing the small effect we had on the Canyon and its Eco system (which is how it should be), and then returning home to settle into the old routines again (Ricky likening it to plugging back into The Matrix), there seems to be a common theme here. Barring a few memorable pictures to keep record of the accomplishment, there’s little else but the knowledge each hiker shares. And yet, there’s nothing new in this apparent revelation. Life goes on, the amazing personal feats; just like those that are being achieved in the Olympics, will only be remembered by a concerned few, and forgotten or ignored by another few. So that’s it, in the greater scheme of things, our footprints will be blown or washed away in time… and yet, and yet we trudge. This wasn’t meant to be a post about life and the passing winds of time, but while walking in the midday heat or lying in the cool dark, staring up at the bright stars and full moon, you can’t help but be aware of your inherent connectivity with the surroundings. The subtle breath of life, the morning rays of sunshine, a gentle stream of flowing water to quench your thirst… and perhaps even a friendly helping hand just when you need it most. Life in the Canyon helps you realize, or reminds you of what is inconsequential – and to help you let go of it. What makes you linger to take a closer look, and what really truly matters in life, especially when it feels like you’re treading, the edge of the world. God Bless |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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