The Quiet Violence of Words

I recently went through one of the most traumatic experiences of my life at the hands of a book. Yes, a book. I read it cover to cover reluctantly, only persisting because I was compelled to write an essay on it as a course requirement at the end of term. Before that words had always been wonderful things; always associated with catharsis, creativity, spirituality, relaxation and at the very least escape. Never did it occur to me that words could be vile things.

Duiker (1974-2005) is also the author of The Quiet Violence of Dreams. Source: http://www.randomstruik.co.za/

Enter the accused, that little book by K Sello Duiker, Thirteen Cents. The book is about a homeless boy, Azure, trying to survive on the streets of Cape Town. Each time I discussed the book with friends and peers, I would stress how depressing the book was: “EVERY moment is depressing,” I’d say, “and the moments that aren’t depressing are not less depressing because they are in and of themselves not depressing, but because they are less depressing than all the other depressing moments within the book.” Yes, you get it, the book was depressing.

When I read, I am at that moment held hostage by the words on that page, restricted to what the book describes, the world the book invites me into. As I read I must involve myself in the world of the book, partake of its experiences as though they were my own. It had never occurred to me that reading is, by that description, a violent experience only because my emotions are captive and at the mercy of the author’s pen. It’s a quiet violence because it’s a hostage experience I’ve entered into willingly.

Azure is a young, black male, and Duiker’s description of his experiences raises some compelling questions about identity, history, trauma and its effects on individuals and groups, the representation of violence and reality, and so on. My contention with the book was its graphic nature: Azure is molested, raped and abused physically and emotionally, and far from glossing over these facts, the reader is forced to experience his molestation step-by-step as Duiker takes us through each act in detail. It was difficult to read, to say the least. Because of this, the book alienated me, I recoiled from putting myself in the focaliser’s shoes, and so for the first time, I was repelled by words.

Thirteen Cents is not for the sensitive reader. Source: http://www.sashaarms.com/2010/11/thirteen-cents/

I am not sure if I was more disturbed by having to engage with such violent imagery or with the fact that there are young boys in Cape Town for whom such violence is part of their every day lived experience. I felt at once ashamed to be human in a world where other human beings perform such atrocities on other human beings, and at the same time I felt angered by my helplessness. At the least Duiker managed to get me thinking about the human condition from a new perspective.

On this, the first ‘birthday’ of theDustySoulDiary, I am able to look back on my growth as a writer, how blogging has helped me gain confidence in my craft, and how it has improved my skill. There’s still a lot of growth I need to experience as a writer, but I’ll get there. I am grateful, at the least, for the freedom to write without restriction, and for that I thank the great freedom writers whose words were penned by blood and pain for me and my country. My experience with Thirteen Cents has shown me anew the power of words, of literature… Viewed as a violent act, the power words have take on new meaning in that old adage: the pen is mightier than the sword, for although the wounds of a ‘sword’ may heal, words stay with you forever.

**To mark a year of blogging, DustySoul adds a category to the four theDiary already has: “Look”. As times goes by, the idea behind this new category will be more apparent. For now, happy Youth Day.

Yours,

DustySoul

“When writers die they become books.” – Jorge Luis Borges

Notes on my wall……

“…and I tried to fight the sinking feeling that you and I loved one another too intensely, too quickly, and much too soon. Mixed together we refused to become a homogenous liquid. Instead you, weighed down by that darkness, sank to the bottom like the defeated substance that you are. As for me, I floated to the top, eager for release and escape, after finding that you were holding me down. You know what I mean. I know you do. You know just as well as I, that no matter how good it was in the beginning, we always had the nagging feeling that we were doomed from the start.”

Xxx,

DustySoul

Freedom: A rare flower. A review of Adichie’s “Purple Hibiscus”

“Things started to fall apart at home when my brother, Jaja, did not go to communion and Papa flung his heavy missal across the room and broke the figurines on the étagère.” (1)

So begins Nigerian-born Chimanda Ngozi Adichie’s novel Purple Hibiscus. The opening line to her novel is reminiscent of the title to Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, an effort made by Adichie to deliberately create a link between some of the themes that she covers in Purple Hibiscus, and that Achebe’s work is concerned with.

It is not always that a writer can craft words together so expertly that the reader does not merely look into the characters’ lives as a spectator, but becomes a part of the story. Adichie’s prose, through the character of fifteen year old Kambili, manages to do just that.

Purple Hibiscus is focused on the life of Kambili Achike, her brother Jaja, mother and father as well as her aunt Ifeoma and her children. Kambili and Jaja, abused by their father, know no other way of life until their Aunty Ifeoma begs her brother, their father, to let his children visit her for a while. There, away from their father’s oppression, they are faced with a new kind of freedom.

It is this new perspective that gives Jaja enough courage to defy his father, and it is Jaja’s defiance which sends his father into a rage, breaking his wife’s figurines. The fragility of the figurines, the image of them crashing to the ground, is very much like the world Kambili’s father had created for them: a fragile world, its sole purpose being to be displayed and to please others, yet not strong enough to withstand any major obstacle.

Adichie was born in Nigeria.

Kambili’s journey towards spiritual upliftment, sexual awakening, and finding her voice, makes for an altogether great read.

Yours,

Dusty Soul

“Jaja’s defiance seemed to me now like Aunty Ifeoma’s experimental purple hibiscus: rare, fragrant with the undertones of freedom, a different kind of freedom… A freedom to be, to do.” “Kambili” in Purple Hibiscus, Chimanda Ngozi Adichie

The Words & Magic of Kahlil Gibran’s “Prophet”

When a new year dawns so do fresh hopes and dreams for our life’s journey. Sometimes we renew old vows with ourselves, and establish them not as resolutions but as permanent laws to govern our worldviews and so on. Other times, we choose a different path.

I have decided to do things differently for myself this year. I have set no resolutions. I usually do see them through, (unlike the 30% odd Americans who are said to abandon theirs by the end of January, according to a study done recently by some uppity folks over there) so my decision is not based on fear that I will not fulfil them. Rather, it is because I have one main wish for this year: words and magic.

"The Prophet" has been in print since 1923. Gibran lived in America for the last 20 years of his life.

I have been blessed to be able to read many books this summer. I will be doing short reviews for many of them this month, if all goes well. The first I point you to is Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. I find it appropriate as a first post for this year, as it has so many words and magic that have blessed many generations since it was first published in 1923.

"Jesus the Son of Man".

The book begins with the introduction of a prophet, Almusafa, “a dawn unto his own day” (9) and a man who had dwelt amongst the people of Orphalese sharing his wisdom. In this introduction he has his heart set for other lands, but before he leaves, the people of Orphalese approach him with a request to share his pearls with them for the last time. These pearls of wisdom are the focus of The Prophet.

Khalil Gibran (1883-1931)

Gibran (1883-1931) was born in Lebanon, and in addition to having the gift of writing, was an artist, philosopher and poet. His words are more than poetic: they are so spiritual in the manner that they are expressed that one cannot but conclude that they are Divine – the soul’s own poetry.

 

The Prophet is a masterpiece for its timeless wisdom on everything: love, sorrow, time, children, freedom, crime and punishment, just to name a few. Who can forget his beloved words taken from the chapter on children: “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you,” (23) ?

The book also includes drawings done by Gibran. They are as mystical and spellbinding as his words are. I highly recommend it. It deserves a rating of 5/5. One of the most beautiful passages within the book is that on love. It is included below for your reading pleasure. I pray for you to receive your heart’s desires as much as I hope for my own.

To words and magic, words and magic, words, magic, words, magic…

Dusty Soul

‘When love beckons to you follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north winds lay waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred for God’s sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart. But if in your fear you should seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.” And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.”

                                         – Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

Lessons from my hair (Part 2): The revenge of the Afro

Tlotlo and Tsepo

“Men who have long hair are a disgrace. Women with long hair are beautiful. Long hair is a woman’s crown of glory…” So go the words of the Apostle Paul in a letter to a church in Corinth.

Some theologians have argued that Paul’s words were said not to marginalise women, but to encourage them to separate themselves from being identified along with the prostitutes of the city. Others have dismissed his statement as chauvinist advice meant to advance the standing of men in the Christian church.

Either way, Paul’s letter reveals some attitudes that people have towards certain hairstyles.

Tlotlo Daly

You see, some hairdos are associated with certain behaviour because in many social groups, a specific hairstyle is required in order to be considered a part of the group, or to create a sense of solidarity amongst members.

For some people, such as my good friend Mathabo Tlali, hair is a way of making sure they are not considered part of a certain group.

“I was debating with myself about how I feel enslaved by societies view of ‘beauty’, and began to question why I’m not confident when I have natural hair as opposed to having a weave or anything that’s not ‘naturally me’,” Tlali says.

Mathabo Tlali (Photo by Ettione Ferreira)

Growing up, her mother was the sole chooser of her hairstyles, but with age she began to realise that for her, beauty did not have to just be a weave or relaxed hair.

“I began loathing that superficial notion,” she explains. Tlali has a natural crop and maintains that for her, changing her hairstyle was a freeing process.

My afro is an expression of the decision that I’ve made to embrace a different kind of beauty. To stand outside of people’s expectations and look to God for my mandate. Being different often scares us because stepping out of the norm is risky. But we must step out, we must be true to who we are.

 

 

 

Left to right: Matsie (beautiful), Dusty Soul, Sbosh (http://sboshlestar.tumblr.com/)

Some days I am that girl on campus with the lopsided afro, walking around looking like Frumpy Fred, and I’m still happier than ever. At that moment I smile because I’ve chosen to embrace who I am, flaws and all.

And so to add to the lessons that my hair has taught me, I must say: I am dark.  I stand out. I am not always accepted. I am an Afro, and I am beautiful, either way.

Yours,

Dusty Soul

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.” Proverbs 31:30 (King James Version)

Lessons from my hair (Part 1): The rise of the Afro

I’d forgotten how tough the kinks in my hair can be. So now I was in front of the mirror, fighting with the knots in my afro and cursing my nappy head for giving me such grief so early in the morning. I was about to give up, when God used my hair to remind me a few things that I can learn about myself. 

 I’m not shaped like the rest. I am black, round, lumpy, hard, soft, resilient, tough. I am an Afro. 

Getting wet doesn’t always deter me. It just reveals a different side of me. Embrace the many facets of my being, because I am an Afro. 

Today you push me up into a round sun right on top of your head, tomorrow you twist me to suit your mood, but my texture remains the same. No matter how you choose to see me today, I’ll always be an Afro.

To know me, you must feel me, spend time with me, and travel the pathways of my head. I am an Afro. 

The lovely Busi Mavuso

I don’t mind the parts of me I’ve lost to the floor. There’s more where that came from. I am an Afro. 

Don’t underestimate how far I can stretch/go. I am an Afro. 

So you need a little patience when handling me. Bear with me though, I am raw… I am an Afro. 

 

 

 

 

 

I am an Afro. You’ve tried to pull me apart, but watched me RISE instead. 

Today, I will approach life with the same stubbornness. Hello world.

Morongoa Masebe (a.k.a. Afroetic Wisdom)

Afroetic Wisdom

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have added a video of Maya Angelou’s poem “And still I rise”, because one more thing my hair has taught me, is that I should be resilient and rise in the face of being pushed, pulled, and stretched around. Enjoy.  

Yours,

Dusty Soul

When I should have been studying

I rushed to the balcony’s doors as they were flung open by a gust of wind. Rain poured in before I could make it there. It’s not even a balcony. It’s half a balcony. Besides the fact that I felt like I was in a stormy and dark scene from Wuthering Heights, I didn’t mind having to get out of bed so late in the night. I wasn’t asleep anyway, I was up thinking about, among other things, exam time. A period when you get panicky, hands sweaty and emotions all helter-skelter. Or maybe you become like me: cursed with a short attention span where everything academic is concerned, and itching with a desire to procrastinate. ADD and insomnia are the curse of the imaginative. I’m losing sleep trying to get the words out of me. Like I’ve said before, they’ve just been waiting to be birthed and shared. I’ve tried to keep my mind focused but whenever it all got too boring for me, the Words came rushing in, demanding to dance on paper.

 During the buzz of our lives, we’re moving too fast for anything good to emerge from our creative genius. If anything comes along, it could always have been better had it been given time to be nursed.

 Mary Wollstonecraft, in her Letters Written in Sweden, Denmark and Norway, writes that the pursuit of material goods and commercial success narrows down our capacity for imagination. We’re so busy trying to become citizens who can compete successfully in the capitalist system that we stifle the growth of our minds. Imagination enables us to empathise with others, among many things, and empathy connects us to our humanity, our morality. We’ve been so busy living our own lives that we have not made time for other people. Selfishness and self-centeredness are ugly monsters who feed off of the ignorance we enjoy in the name of bliss. God called it “perishing for a lack of knowledge”.

A creative BEAST I know from church, mentioned that she’s been experiencing more or less the same thing (Phew, I’m not alone! It’s safe to come out now.). She’s supposed to be studying, and then suddenly all sorts of creative ideas come to her. Inspiration in the time of exams. She put it down to the pace of that period. See, when we’re still, imagination has free reign. Those naughty little critters, ideas, run around like motherless children imitating leprechauns (or tokoloshes!). I’m that baggy-eyed girl with the lopsided afro who can’t stop the ideas (this sounds better than saying ‘voices’, I hope) in her head from shouting. It’s not my fault Words don’t behave! Who put them in my kop?!  

 I dream of being able to divide my year into half: six months writing full-time and the other six travelling. Of course I’ll be writing while I travel, but six months is set aside for a creative period of as little interruption as possible. We should be able to choose the terms by which we live our own lives, but there are forces working against us, to harm us, to stop us from realising our dreams. But we are not ignorant of the Old Fiend’s designs. No. We fight his tyranny as best we can, and give the remainder over to God. One thing we must not do, is stand in our own way!

So when I should have been studying, I was reading novels, convincing myself that it’s a deposit into my future as a published writer.

That day I was cooking, throwing together anything I could find and challenging myself to make meals out of nothing.

I blame my friends! 🙂

When I should have been studying, I was hanging with friends, making our bond stronger, I hope.

I was connecting with my Man JC (Jesus Christ), getting in touch with the Source of my being and drinking in His Love.

When I should have been studying, I was writing this blog, sharing a piece of myself with you.

This creative procrastination had better pay off.

 

 

Kisses,

Dusty Soul

 “Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” – Albert Einstein