Sorry
Is all that you can't say
Years gone by and still
Words don't come easily
Like sorry like sorry
I first heard Tracey Chapman when she played at the Free Mandela concert in London. I was smitten. The words still don’t come easily. Why?
Why is apology so difficult for the human ego? The dominator systems of our societies have made an absolute mess of the lives and cultures of so many, many people. No-one is innocent and healing is clearly required. Everything is rocking, crumbling, crashing and burning, there is fear, rage and frustration. Perhaps its time to bow our heads, make amends and begin with a clean slate? Perhaps its time to say sorry?
Of course it’s not easy. Intelligent people have questioned racism, dog-eat-dog capitalism and destructive world views even when benefiting from the institutionalisation. But I think we still shy away from taking responsibility enough to stand up and say: I am so sorry! We made a mess.
An apology requires a recognition that the status quo was, and without atonement still is, imbalanced. True healing cannot happen without it.
My wish is that each of us take a personal stand for peace by just saying sorry, and meaning it. It’s a start. It is about accepting truth. Its simple and profound.
Years gone by and still
Words don't come easily
Like forgive me forgive me
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
genetic soup
I am now an official Twitterati stalker and loving it. Finally – some juicy debate and free-spirited opinions.
In one of the threads I find that this debate about labelling and identity continues and, once again I wonder: how do I define who I am in a country that is divided on the issue?
In the sixteenth century, Inguni peoples are said to have migrated into Southern Africa from the Great Lakes region. In the seventeenth century my first white ancestor arrived here on a ship. I do not know how long my shadowy Griqua ancestors had been in the Eastern Cape but apparently my Bengali ancestral mother was one of the first foreign women to be officially bought to this colonised tip of South Africa.
I am cultural soup. My maternal Grandmother came from rural England two generations ago, my maternal grandfather from urban Germany. My paternal grandmother was a Boer and my paternal grandfather was of German Lithuanian decent.
Great-grand-father was bought up by missionary parents amongst the Venda peoples and, it is said, was initiated into Venda culture (though to what extent these ancient sacred ways were shared with him remains a secret). He was the first to record the Venda language by writing the bible in Venda using Venda mythology and poetry, after being sent to Berlin to be dipped in European cosmology.
My English Christian grandmother married a German Jewish refugee during the second world war in South Africa. On the other side, my missionary-bred grandfather married my boer grandmother at a time when this was considered opposite sides. My boer grandmother has mixed ancestry, including Malayan and African, some of which is traceable and some of which is hidden - although I have established a direct line to one of the original Cape slave mothers, who was either Hindi or Muslim.
And then there is me. Married to an Alien (Home affairs terminology for a non-South African), I come from an English speaking South African mother and an Afrikaans speaking South African father. I lived in London for twelve years until my early thirties and travelled devotedly, returning via West Africa (where I found I belonged on this continent) for South Africa's first real elections. I am an installation piece of mis-matched overlays that I have willingly explored and crafted into spirited dragon.
I have dreamed an ancient Bushmen guide since I was a teenager. She has always referred to herself as my San Grandmother (and claims the vagabond meaning of ‘San’ with pride). I have searched for her in our family tree, but find only nuances. She has guided and taught me in ancestral ways for decades. She has taken me to dream sites sacred to Africa where I have asked forgiveness for the ways of my ancestors and she tells me I am inextricably linked to this great mother continent.
So who am I? Euro-African cultural whore? Global mixed-blood? I feel I come from all sides, does this have a name? I know this though: my spirit is earthed, my heart is African, my skin is European and my mind’s my own.
In one of the threads I find that this debate about labelling and identity continues and, once again I wonder: how do I define who I am in a country that is divided on the issue?
In the sixteenth century, Inguni peoples are said to have migrated into Southern Africa from the Great Lakes region. In the seventeenth century my first white ancestor arrived here on a ship. I do not know how long my shadowy Griqua ancestors had been in the Eastern Cape but apparently my Bengali ancestral mother was one of the first foreign women to be officially bought to this colonised tip of South Africa.
I am cultural soup. My maternal Grandmother came from rural England two generations ago, my maternal grandfather from urban Germany. My paternal grandmother was a Boer and my paternal grandfather was of German Lithuanian decent.
Great-grand-father was bought up by missionary parents amongst the Venda peoples and, it is said, was initiated into Venda culture (though to what extent these ancient sacred ways were shared with him remains a secret). He was the first to record the Venda language by writing the bible in Venda using Venda mythology and poetry, after being sent to Berlin to be dipped in European cosmology.
My English Christian grandmother married a German Jewish refugee during the second world war in South Africa. On the other side, my missionary-bred grandfather married my boer grandmother at a time when this was considered opposite sides. My boer grandmother has mixed ancestry, including Malayan and African, some of which is traceable and some of which is hidden - although I have established a direct line to one of the original Cape slave mothers, who was either Hindi or Muslim.
And then there is me. Married to an Alien (Home affairs terminology for a non-South African), I come from an English speaking South African mother and an Afrikaans speaking South African father. I lived in London for twelve years until my early thirties and travelled devotedly, returning via West Africa (where I found I belonged on this continent) for South Africa's first real elections. I am an installation piece of mis-matched overlays that I have willingly explored and crafted into spirited dragon.
I have dreamed an ancient Bushmen guide since I was a teenager. She has always referred to herself as my San Grandmother (and claims the vagabond meaning of ‘San’ with pride). I have searched for her in our family tree, but find only nuances. She has guided and taught me in ancestral ways for decades. She has taken me to dream sites sacred to Africa where I have asked forgiveness for the ways of my ancestors and she tells me I am inextricably linked to this great mother continent.
So who am I? Euro-African cultural whore? Global mixed-blood? I feel I come from all sides, does this have a name? I know this though: my spirit is earthed, my heart is African, my skin is European and my mind’s my own.
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