Category: childhood - Mala Naidoo's Book World

May I tell you?

Growing up in apartheid South Africa as a non-white person, living under the Group Areas Act where you only saw people like you with the same coloured skin, living with the knowledge that your people had to be hidden from view — white view — left scarred for life and needing immense strength to shelve the hurt and pain in memory’s hinterland.

This divisive system invites shame — why am I not good enough? Why can’t I eat at that wonderful seaside restaurant? Why can’t I go to a school with its English countryside setting and Victorian buildings? Why am I afraid every time I see a police officer or paddy wagon? Why can’t I lift my eyes above the ground? What have I done to be born black?

Here is why…

Racism is hatred that unleashes a plethora of negativity both ways: Unchecked power that intensifies with acts of brutality that crucifies an already broken self-concept. Systemic injustice — physical, emotional, and psychological feeds the depraved hands of power. How does the victim deal with an enforced erosion of who they are?

Let me tell you…

There are only two ways: head down — mind their manners or take to the streets to protest. Stop! When power strikes up against protest it is obvious that human survival instinct kicks in and violence erupts. Nobody wants violence — justice is all the victim wants — a fair go — it starts out as a peaceful protest, and if left to do just that, no force is necessary. Let the voices crying out for change be heard or it speaks of intolerance to change.

Then somebody cries ‘looters!’

This is why this happens…

The downtrodden are as the words say it, the ‘have-nots’— denied, deprived, shamed, and blamed for all the ills of the land. Human instinct kicks in again and necessity guides reaction/behaviour. Before we cry ‘looting’ investigate what underpins it. Where there’s social inequity the ‘haves’ have ‘looted’ the country for a very long time taking more than they needed — perpetuating inequity.

History tells us that peaceful protests become violent when the hand of power strikes. Decades before Nelson Mandela sat at the helm of government in South Africa, the country was on the brink of civil war and the Sharpeville massacre of 1960 like the Soweto riots of 1976 started out as a call for justice but led to police taking up arms against protesting civilians who wanted their voices heard.

#BlackLivesMatter is a timeless cry for justice from the time of Rudyard Kipling who referred to the people of the African continent as ‘half-devil and half-child, ’ in his 1899 poem, White Man’s Burden.
Colonialism stole the right to justice — a fair go, for original inhabitants of the land. Assimilation — one way or no way denies culture, heritage and the right of recognition.
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Remember those fallen at the hands of racial prejudice — countless — the loved ones of grieving families — too many still dying at the hands of what can be changed…if they are heard.

Listen to this Ted Talk by Amy Thunig: Disruption is not a dirty word that pulls no punches on racism endured by Indigenous Australians in a country I call home.

It’s 2020, and some in the misguided grip of power swim in the quagmire of the barbarism of racial prejudice — educated by book not humane moral code — sure-fire intellect — no emotional intelligence. Silence widens and deepens the stain of prejudice. Speaking out against racism does not always win friends and influence people, but the few who join black brothers and sisters in the fight for justice at the risk of losing their tribe — those are the gems that make #AllLivesMatter, for they will pull together to create liberty, equality and we all need fraternity.

What is your choice to be on #BlackLivesMatter?

Stay safe, speak up against injustice but as John Proctor cried in The Crucible – ‘Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! … leave me my name!’

What do you want to be remembered for?

Teacher Spotlight: Early Creative Influence

Writers might be influenced by a family member who writes, or motivation is drawn from a much-admired writer. I come from a reading family and absorbed that passion as a child. This brought many pleasure-filled hours to an introverted child. More on this can be found on my, about page.

Why Teachers Matter

The early teenage years opened another door — the door to the other side of reading, equally exhilarating — notably writing. This influence stemmed from my brilliant, nurturing high school English teachers.

One such teacher was Ms Devi Anderson.

Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education ~ Aristotle

My fourteen or fifteen-year-old first impression of my new teacher was that she was so young, vibrant and intelligent. She was passionate about literature and brought Shakespeare to life in our South African classroom, drawing connections, making her students feel the angst and joy of the bard’s characters, and life situations.

She was selfless and spontaneous in conducting weekend literary discussions on the texts studied, and additional literature she selected to extend students’ knowledge and passion for such works — yours truly devoured it all. The discussions were just that — not teacher-talk like so many classrooms of the time. You mattered and your voice was valued. You were praised for trying. Ms Anderson was a godsend to many, more particularly to me. Her presence in my school life had a profound influence on my teaching with a passion and thirst for literature.

In a flashback moment, I recall a lesson on haiku poetry. It was my first lesson on this poetic form, Ms Anderson made it accessible and intriguing with her easy-going, warm manner. Every student received her attention, each made to feel that the work done was worthy of praise and encouragement. To this day, many moons later, I remember the poem I wrote, as a somewhat angsty fifteen-year-old. Here it is (I might have to retreat from global after this revelation!)

Haiku (5-7-5)

‘I stared at his face

Wondering at his beauty

Confused, I slapped him’

My English teacher thought much was said in those short lines, there was laughter followed by a deep conversation on my haiku attempt — the adult ‘me’ now blushes that it might have been a dead giveaway on some infatuation — a missed opportunity, perhaps? Memory does not serve well on that count! The moment remembered is a teacher who made my effort worthwhile.

I am not a teacher but an awakener ~ Robert Frost

From Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night with the love-sick Duke Orsino’s famous lines, If music be the food of love, play on… to novels and poems introduced, my love for literature grew in intensity under the nurturing tutelage of Ms Anderson. Those early days, for which I am eternally grateful, paved the road to writing novels and short stories, and occasional poems in my adult life.

As Shakespeare’s fate would have it, by accident most strange, a bountiful Fortune, (The Tempest), so together with the helping hand of a schoolmate and Facebook, I reconnected with Ms Anderson across the Indian Ocean — I wanted my inspirational teacher to know how influential she was, when two roads diverged in a yellow wood, (Robert Frost), I followed her teaching passion.

Today, these brief months later, we are Facebook friends, and I know my students, past and present, will enjoy knowing this. Many lessons along my teaching career raised the appreciation I had for my English teachers with Ms Anderson sitting at the helm of the list.

It is with gratitude that I share her influence on my teaching career and writing life and the joy in reconnecting with her.

The impact of a teacher who makes all the difference, is never forgotten.

Please share your memorable teachers and their influence on your life or choices in the comment box below.

Are you particular about dates?

When I ask ‘Are you particular about dates?’ – I’m not referring to the dating game or romance.

Here’s my reason for asking.

I recently published Vindication Across Time as the print version late in September to coincide with my father’s birthday.

The digital version on Kindle, Kobo, iBooks, BN will be released next week on my mother’s birthday. It’s up for preorder on these sites now.

I can hear you ask, ‘Pray do tell us more!’

Some of the themes reflected in Vindication Across Time – the pursuit of truth and justice is a value I grew up with. The truth no matter how painful had to be acknowledged and implemented.

Lies were severely admonished in my childhood home regardless of any perceived justification for stretching the truth.

Truth and lies are dominant in the novel as in different versions of the truth. The bearers of fake truths are soon discovered and good karma visits those who steadfastly adhere to the truth. My understanding is that there is only ONE truth. If a man has been gunned down, there might be one person directly responsible and others who helped expedite the heinous act.

Justifications offered for why this happened does not remove the truth that a defenseless man was gunned down in cold blood. The next truth to be served is that justice must prevail regardless of individuals’ motives and challenges.

There, in a nutshell, is why the print version of Vindication Across Time was released on my father’s birthday as an acknowledgement of his respect for truth and justice.

What about my mother made me choose to release the Kindle and eBook versions on her birthday next week?

The expression of culture and values through strong female characters in Across Time and Space, led to greater nuances of imperfect lives in Vindication Across Time. This is where my mother’s love, compassion, and strength shaped these ideas.

Continue reading “Are you particular about dates?”

Bookshop to Bookshelf

Bookshops still hold magical fascination with their multiple shelves laden with the artistry of wordsmiths who have crafted stories and histories that are timeless as the works of Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and a multiplicity of contemporary writers spanning many decades through to today.

The reader is transported into a world of heartbreak, love, crime, mystery, suspense, science fiction, fantasy, memoirs, how-to books and histories of generations past and predictions of the future. This is just the tip of the iceberg in the bounteous valuable books that grace our libraries and bookshops.

My own fascination with books started with having a mother who is an avid reader and a maternal uncle who was eager to share his prized books from his stained glass, antique bookshelves that ran along four walls of his room. They were majestic and mysterious, a mini bookshop in a study.

Anna Karenina, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, and A Christmas Carol are fondly remembered as books that had cloth covers, were well-worn and difficult to return to the gracious lender, once read.

Hours spent lost in a bookshop brought cherished delight to my introverted world that was fascinated by faraway places. I mentally marked my next purchase and saved every nickel and dime, counting my ducats each night like Shylock, but eager to have the money saved for the next great read. I loved birthday presents that were a few bobs here and there rather than an aliceband or cardigan which held no value in my world of books other than to keep my hair out of eyes when reading or keeping me warm on that winter afternoon when I remained riveted to the story.

Pennies saved to buy my beloved book is a tale I am bound to tell to the end of my days. Pennies wisely saved and wisely spent.

The treasured purchased book was safely carried home, my name was proudly etched with a fountain pen, in black ink, in the most artistic font (so I thought) I was able to create in the words, This book belongs to…

Some sad tales of those cherished books were those lent out that either never made their way back home to my bookshelf or were unrecognisable in their dilapidated returned condition. I mourned the loss of and injury to my book pals.

Bookshops must never be forgotten nor cast aside, they should be the place where parents and grandparents take their young ones to, for the experience of a life time – the look of a cover, the feel of the pages and the words that bring endless delight whether read alone or read to by a melodious voice – these are memories that never fade.

A bookshop is a peaceful sanctuary of silent voices waiting to be heard.

Teaching children to save a bit of pocket-money to buy their favourite book inculcates a lifetime love of reading. Taking children to a bookshop to choose a book they want to read and then add to the beginnings of their book collection is an opportunity every child should have.

Spread the love – no age restriction applies if the content is appropriate!

Happy Reading! Happy Sharing!

Share your bookshop experiences in the message box below.

Do You Remember The Days?

Do you remember the things you did during your childhood that defines what you do as an adult?

I remember being passionate about drama, performance and the pleasure it elicited. When I say being passionate about plays, I mean reading them with great zeal.

Growing up in apartheid South Africa on the ‘wrong’ side of the colour line meant that going to the theatre was not an option. Additionally, television had not been introduced into the country. I make reference to this in an earlier post, To Kill a Mockingbird Moment Realised, here.

I remember going to the library, standing in a long queue to add my name on the waiting list for a particular playscript I was eager to read.

One such play that is vividly remembered is Toad of Toad Hall written by A.A Milne as the dramatisation of Kenneth Graham’s, The Wind in the Willows.

Growing up under the horrendous apartheid regime in South Africa makes the adult me smile at this choice. As much as the child enjoyed Rat’s, Badger’s, Mole’s and Toad’s car and caravan adventures, the deeper issues were lost in the euphoria of ‘putting this on stage’ in the apartment building of my childhood.

Actors were sourced from eager children who were hungry for entertainment during the school break. Parents were at work and no laws protected downtown children from being left at home alone with an occasional check in from an elderly neighbour- this was all an aspiring eight-year-old producer needed!

Parts were allocated and lines rehearsed over two days. Pitch, tone, movement and a haphazard choreography were based on the whim of the eight-year-old producer who ensured she donned a hat and a scarf for a theatrical edge that was akin to those seen in magazines and the Sunday newspaper.

What a time was had by all! An intermission was in place and red Kool-Aid duly served as the drink of choice in plastic wine glasses to an innocent audience ranging in years from five to ten. Mothers’ costume jewellery, ‘plastic pearls’ and hats with feathers were placed askew on little heads for attendance at this momentous production in the dining-room of my parent’s apartment.

Innocent children made their debut into the world of theatre, revelling in being transported to a magical world away from the tedium and boredom that sets in after playing all the games children could come up with during a six-week long school break.

Fast-forward decades later, in another country of choice, the itch takes hold, not as a theatrical producer, but one who has started to pen fictional tales of life and its challenges, thus Across Time and Space is born.

Such, such were the joys of childhood.

What do you remember of your childhood that lingers fondly as a defining moment? Share your thoughts below.

Unforgettable

Nelson Mandela’s name was and remains magical to the tongue, heart, and mind, to all who lived in hope of acceptance, tolerance, understanding, and democracy. Amidst the much-anticipated release of Nelson Mandela from incarceration into civilian life, a life of iconic stature, I waited with bated breath. South Africa exploded in a tidal wave of celebration creating a carnival atmosphere of street dancing, a cappella singing and a profound sense of unity!

The early 1980s was conscientised by the ideology that students were the voice of a nation – students could improve the human condition that prevailed in South Africa by raising their voices in a cry for democracy, freedom, the right to vote and be accepted as human with no references to race, to be acknowledged by nationality – simply ‘South African’.

The release of Nelson Mandela was palpable. The moment hung on the ears and lips of a nation whose citizens were shunted into ‘Group Area’ zonings in a country where the Immorality Act made love across the colour line a crime.

Amidst the celebratory mood that prevailed, one night stands out as a flaring beacon, etched in memory.

Nelson Mandela was visiting the community I lived in, he was to address residents in this little monocultural town, to quell fear and spread wisdom that a peaceful transition to democracy was essential.

Throngs gathered outside the venue from around midday to secure a spot to see this iconic man in the flesh. He was the timeless hope alive in the human breast of apartheid oppression.

At 6:30 pm in strode a tall, lean, upright figure, smiling broadly, waving a greeting like a father returning to his family after a day at work.

The community hall erupted in an emotional outpouring of song and dance – men, women, and children wept as wave after hypnotic wave of: ‘O, Mandela! O, Mandela! O, Mandela! rose in a unified chant to the rooftop and beyond into the night sky.

Strangers hugged each other and shook hands. I stood up on a chair to get a better view of Nelson Mandela, holding onto my little girl and husband both of whom were immersed in the jubilation of that moment – here was the man who held the promise of an end to suffering, the urgency for literacy for all, the hope for justice and equity regardless of race, gender, socio-economic status, ethnicity, culture, sexual orientation and religion. We waited for him through long, dark and terrible days…

The soaring joy of that moment lives in my psyche – the legend enshrined in my parents’ home was now before me, in the flesh, smiling, humble, caressing all with love and hope, without a trace bitterness from the solitude of twenty-seven years of incarceration with hard labour– his soul was unmarred. Here was the symbol of grace, dignity, compassion, and warmth, spreading the word by his very presence– one can make a difference regardless of the challenges faced.

To denounce the identity, contributions, and presence of a people is tantamount to obliterating their very existence – such was the horror and brutality of the apartheid era in South Africa and many such oppressed nations around the world.

Basking in the light of Nelson Mandela’s presence, I was as proud of my identity and the colour of my skin, as was every other person in that small community hall – those who had endured the full blight of oppression.

I have relived that moment – of seeing the gigantic Nelson Mandela, many times in my life – it’s the wind in my sails, the fuel in my tank, it keeps me whole and free…

#RIPMADIBA (b.18/7/1918)

Share your thoughts in the comment box below:

Fertilising the Imagination

When access is denied, imagination provides fertile ground for creativity.

The absence of television in apartheid South Africa was strategic, to keep the masses ignorant regarding democracy and justice in a bid to thwart the emerging voices of resistance. Avid reading and listening to the radio for recreation offered many hours of joy in a world where outdoor games were limited in apartment blocks.

My About page with a brief biography on my origins as born in South Africa meant that I had a childhood in an era devoid of a television set in the family lounge room. The only ‘moving pictures’ apart from the local cinema were those created in my imagination.

Radio held its own fascination with the popular weekly, Friday evening, crime fiction episodes of, Squad Cars. I listened intently, forming images in my mind about places and situations in each episode. My rite of reading passage into the world of crime depicted through voices and sounds grew each week. Crime/Detective/Adventure fiction in children’s books from the Famous Five series to Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys and ultimately Agatha Christie’s and Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories were hunted down each week at the local library. Visions of snaking queues of children lining up, thirsty for their favourite book is imprinted in my memory. Such were the days…

After school radio programs for children were eagerly anticipated, excitement gained momentum with the chatter of voices speculating what Noddy (by Enid Blyton) would be getting up to and whether Mr. Plod, the policeman’s kind and watchful eye over Toyland would save another day. Empathy for the skittles who did not seem to care whenever they were run over, filled my waking and sleeping hours. The imagination was ablaze with stories that wove into the stories of my mind’s eye. The imagination was fertilised with self-created images of places, characters, and events. An emotional investment of compassion for those who struggled or were mistreated and revulsion for those who harmed others was set in motion.

Listening and reading awakened the inner being as fodder for the imagination in the years ahead in the creation of my own stories – in the adult years, I turn back to my own voice recordings of my reactions to places I have visited, places that I have been moved by, to mulch and refresh an evocative sense of place through the voices and visions of my characters.

Audio books are a blessing, like reading is, to supercharge the imagination for a personal take on people, places, and events that ‘moving pictures,’ with all its commendable grandeur, might not quite fuel.

‘Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere’- Albert Einstein

What do you think?