In Jonathan Stone’s ebook ‘Moving Day’, senior citizens Stanley and Rose Peke are robbed of all their belongings on moving day by a team of robbers posing as a moving company.
I have been robbed a few times, but never of all my belongings like the fictional Pekes. It has happened to me twice this year already and every time I have felt deeply violated. The feeling will never leave you and it scars you for life. The character of immigrant holocaust survivor Stanley Peke in ‘Moving Day’ is so finely etched that it helped articulate my own feelings about the incidents in my life. For the first time, after reading ‘Moving Day’, I found a voice for what I had kept unexpressed and suppressed all these years. Continue reading So much more than just getting robbed
The hardest thing to do is to come out from behind the glass walls of the tribe. You become so good at covering up, appeasing, never telling on its members, even when you know there is something wrong with the picture. As members of a tribe, glass walls of silence are built around us, the dominant among us think it’s safe to do what they want, get way with it, anyone who has felt their tyranny know to keep silent as they will be violating an unwritten social contract by telling.
You can scream, but no one can hear you through the glass walls. That is where feminism came in a generation ago. It broke through and told on everyone. But there was a price to pay, to come out and tell, for trying to upend the social order. Blowback. Things have come to such a pass that even the word feminism is now tainted with unflattering nuances. It now needs UN campaigns and celebrities to reclaim its place in the world.
I write in search of expiation. This is a piece I had wanted to write more than any other, but one that turned out to be the most intimidating to attempt. The effects of a lifetime wracked with guilt for not doing what is the norm won’t easily wear off. A norm that instinct tells you is deeply prejudiced even if socially sanctioned.
Continue reading Why blue jeans are feminist
I wanted to tell a story in novel form. One evening years ago, as I wrestled with how to turn my favourite archaeological mystery into fiction, I remember, my husband and I were standing at a white porcelain kitchen sink. Swirling around our little apartment was the political debate of the time emanating from a focal television set.
The argument on TV was about the differing versions of history, and which among them were more right than others. In my country, we had been used to a condescending socialist school syllabus, which, by the time I was standing at our kitchen sink, began to be called leftist by those who were right of centre. They had gained in power and were now calling for an amended history to be taught in schools. They believed children needed to be in touch with their traditions and not be apologetic about their customs.
Continue reading Why history
We are all made of legacies. In the genes we get, the cultures we are doctrinated into, and at the most obscure level of the jumping, vanishing electrons bequeathed to us by the stardust that begot us. We seem compelled to leave behind an imprint in the dust of time, however we can manage it. While striving to be something more than animal, we crafted civilisations, societies, rituals and religions, thereafter calling ourselves human.
But as time passed these institutions callused over killing thought and creativity, killing the very thing we sought to become—human. We could go back to that cave wall where we felt the first sparks, to that early song in which we discerned a pleasing pattern. Perchance then, by tapping into that spark, we could communicate with sentient beings elsewhere who call themselves something else, but who feel the same yearning to leave behind an imprint.
And this book is mine. I leave it behind in the binary code of an ebook, in the dust of the virtual world. As a reclusive author you learn to live with paradox. Which is that if you have wares to vend you cannot afford to be retiring. I find it difficult to upsell self, speak up and be heard, to ask people to read my book, let alone buy it. But that is what I do here with these words. Please pardon my retreat from grace into mercantilism, if you can excuse it, dear reader.
Continue reading Why write