Y Festival – S Hortcut to (Y)Our Heritage
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Fifth Faculty Festival – S hortcut to (y)our heritage Entries for creative writing: S hort-short stories Destination: Limbo by Selasi Akrong A kaleidoscope of thoughts surge through my mind, they tug at me. I’m in between worlds. I am neither here nor there. There is a constant struggle to keep these worlds at bay. Without me they cannot co-exist and without them I do not exist. What’s a girl to do? What is this love? by Mzimasi Mabokwe I fell so deep its ultra vires. Failed to see I could run insolvent from giving my love, but why did I expose myself to such for who will rehabilitate me. I fear for my life, if this love is justifiable. I found love and I abide to my love… Transformation by Marcia Mashele Violated Ignored Discriminated Criticized No voice No audience Where are only rights Oh! Actually I mean Mine Yours Us Our human rights I needed one I demanded one Asked for one Struggled for one Voice for one We all needed A thing Mine Yours Our Human rights Finally granted Jou Africansburg by Karabo Mosienyane Fair enough they may have the Big Apple but we have the big seed that stems through the branches of the veins of the body that produces the Golden Fruit that reminds us that even though we are rooted in the African soil we are not limited to it. Heritage by Daniel Rafferty Through her I saw myself – self as other. History migrating like the ducks on the wall. First in form then in thought. The tweaked fine structure directs the compass eternal. The old, stirring porridge for the new, nourishment through the ages. This wooden spoon. Sole inheritance. Full enchantment. Left unwanted. I Give Thanks by Yukthena Sibran A hundred and fifty one years ago young Indians arrived in the magical land of South Africa. As indentured laborers their hearts ached to taste the sweet freedom that this new and unexplored land had to offer. Today I thank them for their awe-inspiring sacrifices that gave me my freedom. Ikhaya Lami… by Thubelihle Shange Its beauty lies in its rivers that flow from the Drakensburg Mountains Rivers that flow into the Indian Ocean Where the stories of honorable kings and legendary warriors still echo All over the World This place they call KwaZulu-Natal, is the place I like to call my home. My Heritage in 50 Words by Solami Mbatha Heritage is about being an individual in a larger group known as society, it is about embracing each others differences because our differences make us the wonderful rainbow nation that South Africans is. My heritage is where I come from, where I am right now and where I am going. The Road Less Travelled by Alet Uys Awakening, still enclosed by the concrete tunnel. A petite red rose stretching through a crack. Trying to sit up. A healthy, happy rose it seems. Approaching the nearest highway, foot by foot, the rose still in mind. Energised to start the road, weary of its outcome. Kaleidoscope by Talent Maturure My life is like a kaleidoscope or colour-spectrum. I'm a woman, sister, daughter and aspiring lawyer, all in one. Ever grateful for my bi-ethnic background, a Kalanga mother and Zimbabwean father. This life's journey has been bitter yet sweet. Through it all I stand proud. I'm a phenominal African woman. My Life In 50 Words by Jeandré van Zyl My life is a story of black and white, love and hate, truth and lies. And even though every contradiction has a fight within me – the fights are obsolete. Because life alone is a fight itself and the peace it brings is only temporary. My life is nowhere, but There. Entries for creative writing: S hort S tories Chris Vick by Lufuno Ndouvhada This is a told story by a well- known spin doctor, journalist, activist, advisor Mr Chris Vick. Here he tells me about his first journalism internship big assignment that he had to do out in the field with his supervisor. I communicated with Mr Chris Vick via emails, blackberry messenger and also in person. He is a white man who almost sounds like he understands the oppression of black people, hahaha. Chris Vick has spent seven years in the government communications environment. He currently run Black, a communications consultancy. For a profession that is so reflective on the state of the world, South African journalism is sadly remiss in being reflective on the state of itself. This is Mr Chris Vick’s perspective on the current - probably temporary - crisis of conscience. In the past few years, he has been accused of selling out on journalism and crossing some weird ethical line to become a spin doctor for the great and the good. He has been, well not anymore as he resigned five months ago, was our human settlements minister’s advisor, Tokyo Sexwale. What he went through on the day that he first visited Soweto is what changed his life from being a “typical, ignorant, white, prospective journalist to being a member of the ANC, an activist, from that time until today. He was part of the struggle, as he says “I am the struggle” hahaha. Mr Chris Vick’s story of 16 June 1980, like he told it...... In Soweto, the children are crying "In Soweto, the children are crying," they sang. "Fuck off, kaffirs," we replied. It was June 1976, and we were 16. We were sitting outside the Sasolburg post office, and the two young men walking past us were singing softly, in English, to make sure we could hear them. They were singing a hymn in honour of the young black South Africans who had died during protests in Soweto a few days earlier. We showed our usual disdain for all things black. By-products of an apartheid education, we neither knew nor cared for the children crying in Soweto, or for their comrades singing quietly outside the post office. ------- Fast forward to four years later, and I was a trainee journalist on a Sunday newspaper. Errol and I had been sent to cover the third anniversary of the Soweto uprising. As it was a Saturday, we needed to get in and out as quickly as possible in order to file for Sunday's paper. Earlier that week, as part of our research, Errol had taken me to interview Hector Peterson's mother, Dorothy Molefi, at her Soweto home. I was 20 years old and still learning the ropes, and it was my first real visit to a township. The interview with Mrs Peterson took ages, but it was incredibly moving. Hector's mother spoke of her burden on so many different levels, but every level was littered with pain. There was the generic poverty and misery that almost seemed a way of life in her township, but was so unknown to me. She had no tangible source of income. No real hope of a better life. No sense of any other existence. But her sense of hopelessness was compounded by the particular piercing personal pain that had come with the loss of a child. She spoke quietly, almost patiently, about how Hector had died. She explained the intense shock and pain of that day, and the hurt of every day that followed it, as she struggled to cope with what it meant to be a black South African woman. The loss was immense, she said. It was a time of despair, of loss, no hope. I left the interview feeling dizzy, even vacant. It was almost too much to take in. Paramount was an overwhelming feeling of shock at the "quality" of life in a township. A sort of desperation that it could never change, a completely apolitical response to something very political. And yet at the same time I was experiencing a sort of awakening, a sensitization to something that I'd never experienced or participated in and a realization that there were other ways of living. I felt a deep sense of shock about Hector, this kid only a few years younger than me, whom I'd never met. He represented so much to so many, and yet I knew so little about him: a young schoolboy had been shot dead and hundreds others, in one of the largest mass protests in South African history. It had happened less than a hundred kilometres from my own home. He was my peer, albeit at a distance. I hadn't even known his name. I hadn't known about him. I hadn't cared about knowing. Until then. ------ Later that week, Errol and I were back in Soweto - this time, part of a small group of journalists who were privileged to be allowed inside Regina Mundi for the commemoration of June 16. There was drama when we first tried to enter the church. At the time, the Black Consciousness movement was custodian of June 16 celebrations and there was visible hostility and agitation at the presence of two white journalists. Errol seemed to be known, though, and managed to convince the event organizers that we had good intentions. We were shown to a spot at the front of the church and told to keep our heads down. We tried to blend in (as much as two white guys in a Black Consciousness meeting can), and were witness to a powerful set of speeches by church leaders, community representatives and student leaders. None of their names meant anything to me then, and the content of their speeches and songs had little more than an emotional impact.