Misconceptions

This last weekend, I found myself exploring the depths of spirituality while surrounded (as previously mentioned) by the epitome of beauty and all inspiring splendor  This journey through the life and times of one of the central figures within my religion led me to question many aspects of life and society.

In today’s day and age, Islam is viewed in an essentially negative light. Everywhere we look, Muslims are branded as terrorists or extremists. We are seen as a religion that oppressors it’s women and limits its people. For a person with limited knowledge of the religion, indoctrination by the media is inevitable. Growing up with this concept allows for the growth of a new culture dubbed “The American Idiot”. These misconceptions are bred through the media coverage of the extremists of the religion, of people who misinterpret the way of Islam and essentially live exceptionally conservative lives and as a result try to impose it upon the majority of individuals.

Islam is a way of life, not merely a religion. It deals with all aspects of life: business, the pursuit of knowledge, health, social well-being  family and the list is endless. The main misunderstanding surrounding our religion, one of great debate, is the role of women and the perceived gender inequality. Many people will see a woman wearing a head scarf or covering her face in the “ninja” fashion and assume she is oppressed. Furthermore, many individuals have visited “orthodox” Islamic countries and have witnessed women staying at home, not being educated or even driving.

It is important to understand that these facets of society that we encounter today in no way reflect the crux of Islam and the role of women. During the time of our Prophet, women played a central role in the fabric of society. What we today call Wall Street existed in a different way during these times. Women played an integral part in running the market and trading places of Medina (City in Saudi Arabia) and many were exalted entrepreneurs. Women were encouraged to pursuit knowledge and the practise of preventing one’s daughter from receiving an education never existed and needs to be expelled from many homes. Women are just as entitled to education as men, and striving to gain knowledge from the cradle to the grave is a practise of Islam. Women in this time were vibrant, out-going, interacted with men within the bounds of modesty and strove for excellence in every way.

It pains me to realise that as a nation that should be moving forward, we are moving backward. Where Muslims should be setting an example and dispelling the idea of “oppression”, many extremists still exist who only exacerbate the problem. As a youth growing up in a world entrenched in Islamophobia, I feel it is our duty as the next generation to not only dispel these notions, but to make change a part of our lives. We should strive to emulate the societies of the past.

Where once mosques were a communal building for children to run free in, for prayer and for general socialising, it is now just a desolate building devoid of the warmth and vibrancy that it once held. Why have we strayed so far from the path of our Prophet? Why have we allowed the notion of conservancy completely change the dynamic of Islam? Being conservative breed’s modesty and humbleness but all good things must be served in moderation. Many individuals have taken this idea to the extreme, tried to impose it on others and have led to Islam not only gaining a bad reputation  amongst the female activists of the world, but also to creating a new religion that is far placed from Islam.

It is important to differentiate between that which is true and that which is an exaggeration and extrapolation of the truth. All religions have extremists who serve to overthink and change basic principles of belief. It is important to bear this in mind when being faced by all sorts of media propaganda and brain washing. Islam is NOT a religion of oppression, its women are FREE to pursue education and live their lives and above all it is not merely a religion but a way of life.

Nature Calls

In the vast land of the Drakensberg one encounters Nature and all her marvels whichever way one chooses to look. Enraptured, enthralled and absolutely awe-struck, there is no feeling like rooting oneself into the earth.

Losing oneself in the thrall of nature is like a breath of fresh air. Well, actually you are breathing in fresh air. The crisp, cold air that sears the lungs ever so slightly, and leaves the ears and cheeks blazed with the pink of hyperaemia. It is exhilarating to say the least.

Coming from a small town and always being in touch with nature, it amazes me how people who originate from the concrete jungle can live breathing in the constant pollution and hear through the cacophony of sound pollution on a daily basis. Every day that I spend beneath the shadow of the skyscraper giants, I feel like I am losing an integral part of who I am. I am losing my sensitivity to the subtle beauties of the world beyond the bricks.

The smell of baked earth with subtle the undertones of flora in bloom overloads the senses till you are drunk on nature. The high is unreal, far better and safer than any substance user's imagination. Running in the fields, frolicking in the sun, or simply just lying beneath the stars takes on a whole new meaning when you find yourself in pure solitude, with like-minded people.

Speaking of stars, when was the last time I saw a sky so overloaded with stars it seemed impossible? The city lights block out most of the stars that defined my childhood, so much so that the weak perish and only the strongest shine through. Last night, I was dumbfounded at the beauty of the clear night sky, so blanketed in stars it seemed as though someone had taken a hand full of conflict-free diamonds and scattered them across the heavens.

In a total fit of spontaneity and sheer madness, I found myself running through knee high marshland, in jeans and All Stars. Surrounded by city friends who stared on in shock at my momentary insanity, I found myself at the riverbed just as the sun began its' lazy journey into the Neverland beyond the consciousness. Mud splattered, with toes squelching in the earth contained within my shoes, I found my breath stolen from my lungs. The view, for all the difficulties leading up to it, was by far the highlight of my weekend.

It is in these moments that we find the sheer brilliance of God around us. Surely, it is through nature that we can see His splendor everywhere we look. Getting closer to nature and all its simplicity, opens one's mind to a world far beyond the mechanical routine we have made the norm.

For all life's problems, the aches of living, the pain of loss.... Everything falls away and you find yourself lost in the infinitesimal beauty of the stars.

A Prisoner to the Past

Being enraptured in the past and all the sweet securities that it once held, seems comfortable for a while. We allow ourselves to be consumed by the mirage of the past. With cracked lips and heaving lungs we reach out for just one touch, one chance to quench the thirst of our desire by reliving a facet of our past.

The past, to one who has to deal with a complex future, is always viewed through rose-tinted shades. Our understanding becomes selective and we chose to see things in a specific way and simply block out anything that might be viewed as a source of discomfort. As a result we become prisoners to our past. We begin to yearn for what existed once upon a time, forgetting that it ended and became a matter of the past for reasons stained in pain and tears.

We move on to the present and the future having left behind much in the past. Moving on and starting over is by far a very hard ideal to attain. In the beginning, overflowing with energy, we attack the problem head on, start putting things in order and gain a semblance of normalcy in our lives. However, eventually the energy is sucked out of our being like a parasite sapping the life from its host. We lose our drive, and succumb to despair and hopelessness.

We begin to ache for what was lost. We want to regain some aspect of that life that once seemed so perfect. Ignoring the flaws is easy when trying to find the simplest way out of our broken path. Why work on building something from scratch when it is easier to just try and fix what was broken in the past? It is far easier to ignore what went wrong once, than dealing with everything that appears to be going wrong in our current situation.

Living in the past, believing it will heal one's soul, is so far from productive it is actually ridiculous. Finding the power within us to overcome the fear of facing the uncertain future is far more befitting to building oneself up than escaping into the past and remaining a prisoner forever.

Qualities of Attractiveness

Everyone is out there searching for the perfect formula to concoct a love potion of desire and attractiveness to lure many, or perhaps just one, unsuspecting male into their lair of love, snare them in their web of seductiveness and keep them around to fight off the winter cold.

This formula of sorts has eluded us for so long that we have become deluded into thinking that the answer lies in so many superficial and baseless solutions.

Many a time I have been told that I have a “quality” of sorts that both attracts people very easily and makes me very likeable. Unsure as to what exactly it was that made a person make such a statement I let things slide. However, on recent evaluation it has become clear that the aforementioned quality can only be my self-confidence.

Just as a single mutation within a cell can result in the formation of cancer, so too have we allowed the concept of appearance to grow like a cancer within us. We have allowed our judgement to be clouded by ideals of mirroring societal ideas of beauty and attractiveness. It cannot be denied that the physical appearance of an individual does factor in to whether or not we will chose to engage in coitus with a person but it isn't the only reason we are attracted to them.

We look up to others, idolise and name them our role models not simply because they look good. We see qualities in them that we aspire to attain ourselves and the main quality we see is self-confidence. A person who is comfortable with who they are, is by far more attractive than a person with tons of foundation and fake eyelashes.

Many of us lack self-confidence based simply on the fact that we feel our outside appearance isn't adequate enough. As a result we become meek and allow others to change who we are. We start making excuses for the fundamental qualities and principles that make us who we are until we no longer recognise ourselves. Where do we draw the line?

The moment we realise that we don’t have to apologise for simply being ourselves is a moment of self-actualisation, the pinnacle of Maslow’s Hierarchy. It is a moment of intense understanding and maturity to realise that the person you are demands no explanation. The flaws we have define us and acceptance of them allows for greater understanding.

Members of the opposite sex (same sex or both, depending on personal preference) are automatically attracted to a person who exudes self-confidence. Like cutting off a gangrenous foot, getting rid of the excess make up, uncomfortable clothing, fake accent and any other horrendous methods of gaining attention comes like a breath of fresh air. Removing the stench of plasticity, that is now so common within society, can only serve to make you a better person.

The solution is simple, be comfortable in your skin, laugh at your mistakes and don’t be afraid of saying what you think simply because you fear it will be disliked. Chances are, the more in touch you are with whom you are, the more likely you are to attract the correct person, engage in sexual intercourse and procreate like the licentious Hominoidea.

The Elusive Elaichi Trap

Having been brought up in a very “isolated” home, I have never really experienced social norms in terms of cooking, living and most other happenings associated with day to day living. When first I tasted home cooking beyond that of my mother’s I was vastly inexperienced and unsure how to react.

Most of us are exposed to food on all sorts of levels. From an early age you are up and down and in and out of friends’ and relatives’ homes, eating their food, experiencing how they live and how they manage their household. I, on the other hand, was never gifted this opportunity to expand my knowledge in the field of anthropology. Hence, I could never understand why certain foods smelt differently, and why my best friend always had the faint odour of moth balls about her.

On entering university my world exploded. As you may already know, Ladysmith is far too small a town to boast higher education. As a result I had to pack up my bags and head to the big city. Like a moth drawn to the flame I was awestruck by the size of the buildings, the number of people, and the ocean! I never knew it would look so big!

Okay, I kid. I have experienced big cities before but never have I actually lived in one. I found myself in a boarding house and for the first time ever I was beyond my comfort zone. Eating food, beyond that of my mothers’, for an indefinite amount of time scared me severely. I remember clearly the smell of the chicken as it wafted into my room. It smelt a little bit like home and on tasting it I remember the twisted knot of dread within my stomach loosening up a bit. This wasn't going to be so bad… or so I thought.

Ever heard of an “elaichi trap”? Elaichi, or cardamom in the English language, is an extremely flavourful and native spice used in Indian cooking. It can be purchased both as pods and in the more refined form of a powder. Many Indians enjoy the taste of elaichi in their rice, usually as the pod. One falls into an elaichi trap when they believe they are biting into rice and instead bite into the pod. It is very unpleasant.

In my household, elaichi is not used in the cooking of rice. Bearing the concept of the elaichi trap in mind one can only gather that my first experience with this sort of rice was disastrous. I remember thinking “wow, something crunchy, I wonder what will happen if I bite into it…” followed by gagging and excusing myself from the table feinting a sort of sickness so as not to be rude. As a result, I am very fearful of eating rice beyond that cooked in my home, and have a terrible dislike for elaichi pods.

Every culture approaches the cooking of food differently. It also differs within a culture based on outside influence, climate, and just difference in taste. For example, one will know never to eat cupcakes in the home of a smoker who enjoys singing Bob Marley “Everything lil thing is gonna be alright, so don’t worry about a thing….” unless they want to get high. Likewise, one should be wary about the presence of elaichi in rice, kheer and other forms of Indian food. Don’t be deluded into thinking it is rice… Indians are a sneaky and conniving race, not to be trusted.

Open Your Eyes

From the day we first open our eyes we find ourselves fascinated. I guess finding yourself in a brightly lit room, surrounded by strange people engaging in even stranger behaviour (the weird sounds meant to amuse babies) is bound to have one very fascinated by the anthropology.

Being of the highest level in the hierarchy of the animal kingdom one would think we would be more receptive to the world and all it holds. Yet, how often do we just truly enjoy ourselves? We spend endless hours in the continuous cycle, running around in circles, achieving nothing while our minds idle away before succumbing to atrophy from disuse.

What ever happened to plain old living? To waking up in the morning and hatching a diabolical plan regarded raising the blood pressure of the neighbour next door? For all you know, what keeps him alive is the knowledge that he has to protect his precious petunias from evil masterminds such as yourself.

Mechanical living can only take you so far. We’ve all heard it before: live your life now instead of waking up one day and realising your life is over before it has even begun. The thing is we hear people say this all the time because rarely do we truly meet others who have achieved this. We live our lives in reverse. We try to maximise on every experience as we grow up but when we reach a certain age we become so overtly obsessed with finding love and money, we forget that what makes us alive is our ability to open ourselves up to the world around us.

Being a hippie of sorts I revel in simply sitting in the middle of a grassy expanse and allowing the world to pass me by. Put technology in the back pocket, close your mind to all things dark and worrisome and simply be. In those few minutes or hours you find your life is balanced so perfectly on the ledge of the unknown. In that moment the fear, anger, anguish and pain of day to day living trickles away into the darkness below your feet and you are free – literally standing on the edge of everything about to take the plunge… You take a deep breath; taste the sulphur on your tongue. Your lips are dry from the strength of the wind up so high and just as you muster up the courage to take the elusive “leap of faith” you open your eyes.

That moment of intense serenity can never truly be recaptured for the moment you open your eyes everything comes rushing back. However, once you have experienced the exhilaration of simply being in touch with nature you will find yourself addicted for life. Nothing can come close.

So while we should open our eyes to the world around us, we should also open up ourselves to the potential that resides within us. Live and let be and keep your eyes closed long enough to take the jump.

The Resolution to be Apart

After hours and many a sleepless night of constant deliberation as to how life and everything else associated with it could suddenly become so convoluted, you reach a certain point where you are left wondering if you are the common denominator in the equation. Everything and everyone you chose to get involved with finds itself becoming stiffer than a pubescent boy in the early hours of the morning, before eventually crumbling away in to the general background of destruction that is your life.

Life would be a lot more bearable if everything you touched actually turned to gold instead of a useless heap of dust. Sadly, we eventually realise that King Midas’s curse is not common amongst us mere mortals and so we must bear with the lot we are given.

It is a common occurrence to want to distance yourself from something that brings you pain. You would rather lock it up in a box and discard in in the dark recesses of your mind. This works well if the object of your pain is something inanimate and intangible. What are you to do when this source of pulsating pain is a walking, talking, breathing humanoid? In order to deal with this conundrum you find yourself going through various stages.

Initially it is fairly easy to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind that is screaming at you to run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. You tell yourself that you can handle it, you’re a big girl and this is nothing to work yourself up about. You pursue, engage and continue in whatever manner you think would best suit your means… that is until it no longer does. You find yourself unable to sleep and in the course of working out why you have suddenly been driven to insomnia, you realise that the voice, which sounded oddly like your mother, was spewing out a warning best not ignored.

Realisation and acceptance of the situation you have so willingly brought upon yourself doesn’t really help much. You now know that what you are doing is wrong and impractical yet you keep at it as though it is okay. On further evaluation it is clear that you are desperately clinging on to this person for various reasons. It could be that you fear losing yet another person in the constant cycle of loss and despair that is circling you like a vulture awaiting death. Or perhaps the friendship you have fostered with this person is something beautiful and real and you would like to keep that alive. Yet, how do you keep a friendship alive when you know you are meant to be running away?

Eventually the dull aching and constant fear takes its toll. You’ll find yourself waking up one morning with an idea firmly entrenched in your mind: the resolution to be apart. With strong conviction you slowly begin to distance yourself. You don’t leave room for doubt and just keep at it until it becomes almost mechanical. You believe that what you are doing will actually make things better… until it makes things worse.

Distancing yourself from someone who but a few hours ago meant a great deal to you is both the dumbest and hardest thing to do. Worse is when you find that they don’t mind that you are closing yourself off to them. It hurts more when you are suddenly faced with the realisation that your presence in their life had a far less impact on them than theirs did on yours. You are left wondering if the entire friendship was a façade, a figment of the imagination. Did you dream it all up? Was it even real?

It is around this point that you decide to stop caring. I say “decide” because coming to a decision and actually implementing it is two completely different concepts. Deciding to stop caring about a person is as easy as removing a methi achaar stain from your favourite blouse- it is next to impossible. Every day brings with it further realisation as to how little you mean to that person and yet, you find that you begin to care more and more. Your resolve weakens… Apparently trying to be apart is a lot harder than you had initially anticipated.

“Strive not to make your presence noticed, but your absence felt”. When you eventually realise that neither your presence nor absence means much to another person you would rather continue soldiering on through the growing mountain of pain than face the fact that you are as unimportant as a pesky fly to  another. 

Little Boxes on the Hillside

To unravel the mystery of why society attempts to place us into little boxes is like trying to decipher why a man has an erection from watching a stripper but wants his wife to dress like a nun. It makes absolutely no sense.

When I posed the question as to what “box” a new acquaintance of mine placed me in, his reply was muddled. It was simply though. He couldn't really define me in one simple word but instead chose to name each of the 6 sides of the box. This confounded me tremendously. Why do we as individuals hate being summed up in one single word yet go out and do the same to others? Can a single word be used to define us? Are we, who are composed of billions of cells, described as single cell organisms- gas or non-gas producing bacteria?

It all begins in the early stages of life. You enter school and immediately your school decides if you go to the “smart” A class or the “average” B class. You are suddenly being characterised based on your intelligence. From there it is further broken down based on the choices you make. Either you are artistic, mathematical, a bully, a victim, strong, weak, sporty and the list goes on. If you find an exception to the rule, someone who is both nerdy and sporty, things get confusing.

The concept of “cliques” has been so worn out. Millions of movies have tackled the problem always ending with everyone getting on as one big happy family. Bearing this in mind, why are we still being fitted into little boxes and told where we belong in the fabric of society? We are told not to mess with the system, obey the rules and live out our lives. Why not challenge this. We are all different people, multi-faceted as the face of a conflict-free diamond. We are beautiful, crazy and sometimes scary and exhibiting signs of being a nymphomaniac. That aside we all have something different to bring to the table and definitely more than one thing.

Not wanting to sound like a motivational speaker begging you to break the mould, I’d like to point out that at times being defined is helpful. Many people crave belonging and look out for a label. Something that makes them feel like other people and helps them in finding their place in society. I don’t have anything against such people and firmly believe that anything which can prevent the girl with the vibrator fetish from wanting to electrocute herself, based on the fear that she will never find someone to equal her passion, is good and should be encouraged.

So while I don’t approve of society moving in reverse and continuing with the baseless labelling, I do feel that to a point it is helpful. We just shouldn't make it habitual. We shouldn't judge a person based on what we see on first time basis. The box in which we mentally place people in is usually vastly inaccurate in relation to the secrets they keep in their closest- skeletons and whips included.

I am reminded of a song:

“Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one 
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.”

I think in today’s day and age we all greatly respect our individuality and as a result I firmly believe that our children will not be indoctrinated by this baseless idea of boxing themselves and others based on a single characteristic that stands out from the rest. We should all be peace loving hippies without fear of showing the world who we are (unless you are a necrophiliac- keep that to yourself)

The Dynamic of Friendship

The company we keep as individuals vastly determines how we are shaped and moulded into our future selves. The friendships we build with our colleagues, family and spouses can tell a lot about the direction you wish to take in your life. Birds of a feather flock together as the old saying goes.

If I thought back to my past I cannot remember the first person I ever befriended. It is both eye-opening and heart sore to realise that many of the people I acquainted myself with growing up have faded so fast from my memory that I cannot even remember my first meeting with them. I do, however, recall a childhood friendship that started off with a girl stealing my sweet. Many of the details of the actual encounter remain fuzzy but I do recall coming home from afternoon religious class in tears and telling my parents that a certain person had stolen my red “smoothie” sweet. I was so upset by the incident that my father actually called up the girl’s mother and had her formally apologise to me for stealing my sweet. Strangely, I recall grinning evilly at the girl from behind my father’s formal pants when the apology was made. This leads me to believe that I may not have been entirely innocent in this incident though to this day I cannot for the life of me remember what happened. Funny enough, this person and I forged a friendship that lasted for an odd 12 years or so before it faded away.

I have found that the friendships that have truly stood the test of time are those I forged with various cousins of mine throughout the years. Without a doubt they have stood by me throughout all trials and testaments. Above all, they have accepted me thoroughly, even appreciating my incessantly perverted sense of humour. Together, we have proceeded on many an escapade. Some stick out of my memory more than others and are begging to escape from my cerebral cortex to be hastily typed away on my laptop screen.

On one particularly boring Christmas holiday, we all found ourselves passing the time in my terribly boring hometown of Ladysmith. For the vast majority of people (99.999999999%) who do not know, Ladysmith is a little landlocked town located in the midst of Kwa-Zulu Natal. Famous for its involvement during the Anglo Boer War, the town boasts nothing but dry land, dying trees and the corpses of many a budding youth who have died after succumbing to chronic boredom. With no cinemas or even a hangout for young people to pass their time fornicating, we spent many of our holidays “working” in my parents’ store in what passes for a mall in this backward two-horse town. As already mentioned, Christmas was on the horizon and the “mall” had put up particularly horrendous Santa Claus plushies as part of their decorations. In protest to having to walk beneath the beady eyes of those monstrosities, we took it upon ourselves to rid the innocent shoppers of these beings. We spent all of a week, armed with broomsticks, ducking and diving from guards as we painstakingly stole most of the Santa Claus’s. We didn't stop there though. In order to ensure that our protest was clearly understood, we both interrogated as well as tortured one of these plushies before dutifully returning him to the mall in the wee hours of dawn. The following Christmas, the remainder of these creatures were donated to the unwilling owners of the handful of stores located on the mall premises.

Many of my best memories involving the strong bond of friendship between my cousins and me involve just simply sitting around, drinking tea and sharing many a story. Lately, our stories usually involve the extrapolation of many of my perverted jokes. It would appear that my influence has rubbed off on many an unsuspecting victim. Why, just last week I complimented my cousin on the size of his teacup: “you have a rather well-endowed teacup”. I have now been officially nicknamed “teacups” by my cousins. I am highly offended by the nickname. Is it my fault that a simple statement led to many a terrible joke being made about the other guys and their “teacups”? From spotted dick served with tea, tremendously tall and stunted teacups, to uncircumcised and syphilitic teacups, my cousins have no boundaries. I, however, advocate for the abolishment of the nickname based solely on the fact that I am innocent.

I don’t think I would have made it through the first week of campus had it not been for these guys. Coming from a small town, with no friends along with me, I found myself in a strange environment surrounded by even stranger people. I remember prolonging my visits to the bathroom for fear of having too much time on my hands and no one and nowhere to spend it. Had it not been for my sister and cousin, I would never have had the courage to talk to anyone. It was my sister’s proclamation of “are there any other first years here?” in the lift that got me to meeting both my first and closest friend- Khadeeja. It was through this friendship, fostered in the lift on the way to an isiZulu test, that I surrounded myself with spiritually uplifting individuals. I now find that I have forged a deeper relationship with my religion as well as have found my true fit in the framework of society. The influence of this particular group of friends will remain with me forever as will the bonds we have made.

Looking back on my previous ventures at friendship I can now understand why so many of them have faded into the background. Many of these people either leeched off me or allowed me to leech of them. We didn't help each other grow, didn't share the level of understanding that will allow one to steal and mutilate an inanimate object. These kinds of bonds are lasting and take the dynamic of friendship to entire new levels. 

It isn't every day that you find people who understand how simply saying “I love getting wet, that is why I love the rain” can mean something completely different to a person such as myself. When you find people such as this, it is necessary to latch on to them and never let them go.

Struggle

Every day we find ourselves facing an inward battle, a struggle of sorts. It is akin to a mud war between a pair of sumo wrestlers, slipping and sliding while trying to get a hold on the other. The outcome is very uncertain but the struggle will continue regardless.

Struggles come in all shapes and sizes. From fighting for the right to move freely within ones country, to fighting for freedom of speech or just simply struggling to gain a sense of spirituality or understanding of oneself - it is war. Getting through the day’s battle can result in either victory or loss but irrelevant of the outcome you are left feeling battered and possibly bruised with either intrinsic or extrinsic damage.

Without a doubt some internal organ will be left for the worst and you are unsure whether you will be up for another battle. The war will never be over until we die. Then, and only then, while lying within the dark and eerie bowels of the earth, will we know the end result of the war. At this point, however, your brain is dead, along with pretty much everything else. Unless you believe in life after death (as I do) you are probably wondering what the constant battles will do to lessen the rigor mortis and stench of your decomposing flesh.

If these thoughts have ever passed through your mind, consider the following: what is it that keeps you alive? Sure the first thought that crossed the mind is something anatomical and while that is accurate it is also incomplete. What keeps our organs functioning? What stops us from simply saying enough is enough and letting our organs die off one at a time? The answer, as you have obviously guessed based on the theme of this post, is the on-going struggle within us. It drives us to achieve and be something beyond ourselves. Whether it inspires us to be better or worse is up to us. 

The great nature versus nurture debate is constantly scrutinised when determining the birth of the next Desmond Tutu or Stalin, but I feel while that is important in determining how we relate to the outside world, what determines our intrinsic happenings is how we respond to the battle within. Do we chose to fight for what we truly want or let our inner voice, be it good or bad, make the decision for us? Who we chose to become is our own making. A mother may raise her son to be a prince, but that won’t stop him from becoming a serial rapist.

As a person we have many facets that make us who we are. Through our battles we chose to let either the prince or the rapist flourish. As Aristotle himself said; "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts" While every part in its own way contributes to the whole, we can’t be defined by these parts but rather by the outcome - the entirety. Everyone holds darkness within them and it is a constant struggle to keep it at bay. While some give in and let the darkness consume their souls, most of us chose to live, to put on a brave face and fight.

Despite the outcome, whether there truly is a life after death - would we rather live an empty life, give in to our basic instincts and forget who we are or who we could be; or do we fight to be everything we were meant to be, even if it means dying an untimely but meaningful death?

I've come to realise that much of our time upon this earth is spent in search of something beyond ourselves. Something “celestial” perhaps, a power beyond ourselves that can bring meaning and understanding to the dark recesses of our minds that seem infested by many strange and terrible thoughts.

We believe that we can find this through the discovery of that strange, unattainable idea of love. Finding someone with whom we can spend our lives with has become as important as breathing to many people. We become so obsessed with the search for our supposed other half that we forget who we are and what we are capable of. We forget to live and more importantly, we forget that who we are defines us as opposed to who we are with. What we make of ourselves, what we hope to achieve, the company we keep and the goals we aspire to achieve are far more important than finding someone to live your life with.

Of course I don’t presume to say that we don’t need someone ever. Eventually we will seek out someone with whom to share the agony and ecstasy with, but when has finding that person trumped all other happenings in our lives? Indian culture places great emphasis on finding ones soul mate. Coming from a large family comprising of 4 sisters and 3 brothers, I am acutely aware of the fear that resides within my mother every time she looks at my elder sister who is still unmarried. My sister is not blind to the scrutiny of not only my mother but many of the other elders of our family, and as a result feels pressured to be married and settle down. As a result vast amounts of her time are spent brooding and lapsing into states of depression. Forgetting to live her life and follow her childhood dreams, she is obsessed with her outward appearance and attracting a suitable mate with whom to create budding offspring.

Looking at this brief summary of the last five years of her life I am forced to evaluate my own life and the choices I have made. It is clear that although I understand the importance of being your own person, I am also consumed with the belief that I must spend copious amounts of time finding a partner. This indoctrination of sorts is instilled in all young Indian females. How many hours of conversation with various friends and acquaintances has come back to the topic of marriage and the fulfillment of the gaping hole we perceive to be the absence of our better half? Without a doubt, these conversations and ideas lead one to feeling more emotionally labile than ever before. We so easily forget to count our blessings based simply on the fact that we are “lacking” in the love department.

This said I fear that I will still put my studies and hopes of being a humanitarian aside all in search of finding the illusive "he who shall complete me". Or worse, I will find myself constantly licking my wounds in the darkness of my room from love spurned. This continuous search leads only to feeling rejected, hurt, dejected, unloved, disappointed and worst of all, only serves to lower your self-esteem.

It is easy to be told that love will arrive like a breath of fresh air when we least expect it. It is much harder believing that when we live in a community that places undue pressure upon us to be married from the moment we can comprehend the world around us.

Another morbid day seems to be my weather forecast and along with it comes dark and terrible musings. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.

Death and All his Friends

Darkness is everywhere. Light is bred in darkness and darkness is bred in light. One cannot survive without the other. Similarly, there is no life without death and no death without life.

Bad things are meant to happen in threes as the old wives tales will tell you. In the space of two weeks death has come to my doorstep twice. I shudder to think that there may be truth in those words and the third isn't too far ahead.

Tissues, tears and sleepless nights have become as normal as buttering ones toast in the morning. Is this healthy? Of course it isn't- when is grief ever healthy? Dealing with the pain and sorrow is the healthiest way to move forward. In times like these we search for companionship. We yearn for a person to while away the sleepless nights with, someone to bring light in the darkness and to put you back together.

Searching for these things while clouded by grief is not the smartest thing to do. More so if you are alone and fragile and constantly being assaulted by old ladies at every wedding and funeral as to when you will be married. This seems to be a customary tradition among the Indian population who look for any opportunity to get free food. If you go out searching for a partner in times of grief it just spells disaster. No matter how much this panel of ladies will badger you, rather grieve alone then look for someone to make you whole.

The concept of death has become so commercialised that the real truth and ugliness behind it can be as shocking as seeing your favourite actress without make up. It can scar you. No amount of reading can prepare you for the emptiness you feel at the onset of losing someone. No amount of chocolate or alcohol could ever truly help you forget it. As much as you may wish to smoke away the pain, there are better options. Or so I am told. I am still out searching for these options so in the meantime pass the joint my way.

It is funny how bad things tend to all clump together. The moment you think you have just put yourself together something else will come along to bring you down to size. It is at moments such as these that it is clear God is out there testing your strength of will. Yet where do you draw all this strength from? Conviction of faith can take you far enough but finding someone with whom to share these feelings with helps as well. And so we are back to the start, to the conflicting statement of not searching for a companion while consumed by grief.

I guess some things are easier said than done. It is easier to pretend slavery does not exist in the chocolate industry than to stop eating chocolate. Just as it is easier to pretend you can keep friendship and emotions apart when searching for companionship while dealing with grief. Eventually the lines become blurry and you are left wondering how simply trying to cope with the pain of loss ended up giving you more sleepless nights than solving the problem.

Baby, Baby, Baby, Oooh

Having spent countless hours whiling away my time on social networks and many a chat forum I was suddenly struck by the oddity that is “pet names”. Not just any pet names but rather the ones we share with our lovers, concubines and spouses. In all fairness to the internet users that crave honesty from strangers posting random explosions of cognitive function on the net, I should admit that this thought was actually inspired by a Freudian slip on my behalf.

Consumed with sleep I replied to a message from a friend. However this reply ended up containing a word so loaded with trinitrotoluene it was bound to explode.I used the forbidden word. I called him “baby”. Naturally I was in such a deep state of REM sleep that I am absolutely not to be blamed for the actions of my subconscious. Yet every time I find myself in his company, I am constantly bombarded by a wide variety of insinuations and references to my momentary lapse in judgement.

Naturally I ended up wondering as to the nomenclature of affection. Sure, I understand why we call lovers “honey”. I mean it isn’t every day you get the chance to role play Winnie the Pooh and stick your fingers (or hand, though anatomically impossible) into the honey pot- if you know what I mean. Sweetheart, love, darling, and cuteness- they all make sense. However, a few definitely leave me wondering as to what was going through someone’s mind when first they used it.

When first a friend told me about “hunny bear” (note the audacious spelling) I laughed so hard at the apparent joke until it sunk in that she was dead serious. Her lover had called her a poorly spelt, Winnie the Pooh reference. For the record, she is neither hairy nor scary and isn't always sticking her hand in the honey pot. I am unsure as to whether he actually views her as the above description, but as previously mentioned, I am forced to believe that his use of this name is indicative of where he hopes to find himself in the near future (I’m sure she will be glad to hear of this).

Another term of endearment that never fails to cause peals of laughter to erupt from the caverns of my lungs is “cherry”. Here in South Africa, the term is commonly used among the Indian species to refer to girlfriends of all shapes and sizes. Considering the amount of red lipstick and blush plastered across many of the girls I have encountered, I am not surprised that they have been called such. However, whether they actually taste like a cherry is unclear. Next time I cross one such female I will remember to sink my teeth into her flesh and confirm whether she truly fits the description, or tastes of tacky perfume and cheap make up, as is their wont.

As the moon continues along its lazy journey across the starry sky I am forced to face the forbidden word: “baby”. A word so easily misplaced yet so obviously incorrect in its use. Why do we refer to people we adore as babies? Those squalling, red faced, snotty nosed and constantly defecating individuals could not possibly resemble our lovers! Well, perhaps some do fit the above description, but I’m pretty sure the vast majority of people upon this earth have seen fit to discipline any potential spouse who may fit this description (handcuffs and a whip is strongly recommended if all other conventional methods have failed). Yet this does not answer the question as to why this term is used. Babies are exceptionally unattractive during the foetal period which is the appropriate time in their life cycle to start referring to them as “the baby” and not “it”. This unfathomable conundrum is bound to keep me up many a night. Unless you have a fetish for babies, your beaux resembles a curly haired toddler or you have failed to adequately discipline the aforementioned partner; I see no logical explanation for the use of the word.

As both a side note and conclusion I would just like to say the following: I am not a bitter young lady who has no one to call her cute and pointless names nor am I into any BDSM despite the reference. also, despite the title of this post, I am not a belieber. I am simply passing the time with idle thinking and hopes of amusing some random passer-by.

Embers

How does one preparing for the glaring inferno of emotions that once burned at 323 degrees Celsius to suddenly die? No indication, no gentle decline in the heat, no glowing embers at the end… just a sudden death? You are unprepared- one moment it is there, and then it isn't.

You are left wondering if it was really there all that time or if you were just putting on a front, forcing yourself to feel and believe the impossible. It is as obvious as the fact that the heart is just a pump that the feelings weren't real yet we let ourselves feel for so long. Why? Obviously we don’t have entire control over who we like (not love) but we do have control over how far things get and how much of ourselves we put into it.

Being a person with the terrible flaw of falling too easily too fast, I can’t help but blame myself for the holes I burrow into the earth. I am left with nothing but my bare hands to work my way out: torn flesh, broken nails and bloody fingers being the end result of the climb. Sadly, Miley Cyrus did not get it right when she said “it’s all about the climb”.

Firstly, there is absolutely no view, unless you find prehistoric bones, fossilised trees, creepy worms and decaying flesh pleasant.  Secondly, there are no pit stops on the way up- when your arms are weak from lifting your most likely overweight body, you fall and you fall hard. My advice is simple; build lots of upper body strength. Pole dancing is recommended as it is stimulating in more than one way (if you know what I mean).  Thirdly, there is no food so be prepared to go full fear factor mode- earthworms and beetles to go. Remember, you need to conserve fluid, so try not to vomit as you ingest them. Lastly, if you are afraid of the dark this probably isn't the smartest situation to find yourself in so my advice would be don’t fall for anyone, EVER, or you will have to overcome your fear sooner than you think.

In order not to appear extremely cynical I’d like to point out that this method of falling in like (not love) is actually quite good if you want to lose weight. No chocolate, ice cream and cookie dough once it fails. Hard labour and insects are all you are left with and there is no way you won’t lose weight.

But I digress. The matter at hand is why we let things go so far. Why do we allow ourselves to be deluded by our supposed emotions for so long? One does not simply wake up one morning feeling dead inside without there being some warning signs. American chick flicks will have you believe that the moment you no longer close your eyes when he kisses you means it is all over. In this regard I disagree. What if you just want to catch a sneak peek at his kissing face or even worse what if you are afraid of the dark? Closing your eyes in that instance would be catastrophic! On a more serious note, I guess wanting to knock his teeth out every time he opened his mouth to say something is a good warning sign to go by. I mean sure, his voice was quite sexy and did get me going (in more than one way) but the obviously terrible grammar as well as the general lack of anything intellectual to say did have something to do with the violent day dreaming I used to occupy myself with every time he spoke. I don’t see why a person should continue adding to their carbon emissions by speaking pointlessly. Rather remain silent and help save the earth in the process. That way I could have viewed you as a form of humanitarian, remained content in my emotions and remained slightly overweight instead of losing all that weight in the post break up climbing.

I could easily continue on this rather therapeutic tirade of abuse but I must calm down and stop boring the innocent users of the internet. On that note I leave you with this: always be wary of the warning signs. If he kisses you without brushing his teeth, bores you with his drivel, doesn't shave his armpits and worse of all- doesn't lift you off your feet or have you closing your eyes every time he kisses you, dump his ass.

Sunshine and Dust

It has been ages since I can honestly admit to watching a sunrise. Having not slept a wink all night I am left wondering, "Why don't I indulge in this activity everyday?" With a rather limited view of the ocean over my balcony, I miss the simple rising of the sun from the murky depths of the ocean but my mind is open to the pre-dawn gloom and the happenings around me.

The subtle, yet biting, winter breeze that finds its way into your bones is the first occurrence. As the sky begins to lighten to a dirty grey, you find your senses heighten. The smell of the earth, slightly damp with dew, fills the nostrils. The sounds of the birds singing in what first appears as disharmony, invades one's thoughts and disrupts one's musings. That is until you find the beauty in their disjointed harmony and discover that it is a melodious soliloquy that plays out the discord of thoughts soaring through ones mind. The sudden peaking of the sun over the buildings blinds me temporarily as I begin to hear the world awake around me.

Sounds of vehicles making their way down the road precedes the smell of freshly baked bread from the corner-side bakery. The sound of a child crying alerts me to signs of human life as I witness a couple concluding their morning jog. The sky takes on a light shade of blue and I am suddenly struck by a thought: how can a simple sunrise awaken my heart so easily to the beauty of nature and life all around me?

As fleeting as the moment is, less than 15 minutes, I can't help but wonder why we spend our lives continuously trudging through the sludge of remorse and discord when we can simply open our eyes to a beautiful sunrise and cleanse our minds and souls of the day to day burdens. In those 15 minutes you find peace, harmony, balance before continuing with the terrors of day to day living.

Just 15 minutes. Life is beautiful.

So after booking countless tickets to fly all through India, I have decided to book myself a one way ticket aboard the train to the town of self-pity.

Armed with Mumford and Sons I sit upon my bed and type out the woes of days gone by.

How terribly emotional, and oddly reminiscent of teenage years and the piteous belief that “the world hates me” and “why am I alive”. These hollow and sad statements echo through my ears as I recall the 4 months of 2013 that have come to pass and how I ended up buying this ticket.

It starts with losing a person I believed I would spend the rest of my life with. From Prince Charming to King Jerk in 3 years… you have got to be kidding me, right? Well, no! WRONG! Everything I felt, everything I believed and everything I saw in him and in my future disappeared. Three years I spent building myself, life and dreams around he who shall not be named (henceforth referred to as Exhibit A). In 3 years everything was lost, as simple as that. 

I remember a sense of relief on the day it all ended, believing I was okay and had now gotten my life back and could do everything I ever wanted. How fickle my thoughts, how pointless and absurd! Why would I have spent 3 years with a person who was holding me back? Oh the silly things we tell ourselves as we search for a way to deal with the cacophony of thoughts and voices assailing the consciousness when you have just lost a person who meant a great deal to you. 

It is akin to severing a limb from the body. Or that is how it should have been unless you are me and believe it is possible to totally ignore the bleeding stump of a hand that continuously draws uneasy glances from the odd passer-by.  It simply cannot be done! Eventually you either die from bleeding to death, or you decide to deal with the problem. However, how you choose to deal with the bleeding also reflects how things will turn out. Do you crudely bandage it or do you seek medical attention? Well no surprises as to the choice of a third year medical student with a slight superiority complex. If you guessed medical attention you are wrong! Crudely bandaging seems more apt for a person who believes they have all the answers. Sepsis (infection) soon sets in and either the pain or the stench will eventually affect you. With me, definitely the stench! Headache and vomiting inducing, I was forced to eventually evaluate the choices I had made up to that point.

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Sadly, before I could completely deem my actions as masochistic in the least, tragedy hits again. Another person, one whom I had pictured growing old with, who my kids would call cool uncle Bawa, met in an accident and left this world. 

If I could equate losing a lover to severing a limb, I can only compare losing a cousin-brother-friend as taking a knife in one’s hand and carving out lungs, liver, and any other vital organ not as cliché as the heart. You are left feeling empty, dead of emotion. The shock will never truly leave. From the day it happened (30 March 2013) random images assail my waking form. I hear my father confirm the news. I see Yacoob clearly in my mind as I share the news. I see Lucas looking at me with pain and shock. I feel the tears welling up, Yacoob holding me as I sob uncontrollably, Suhail taking his place, Saadiyah comforting me in shock. I remember falling into my mother’s arm and crying as I have never cried before. I cried myself to sleep. I cried myself home to Ladysmith and I cried throughout the entire funeral. And then I was all cried out.

Of Bawaa himself I remember silly and random things. The texture of his hair, the way he always played with the cavity between this front teeth and my favourite: the sound of his voice as he said “ay you too you know…” I deeply regret not talking to him as much through the last few months. Regretting lost time, however, serves not the dead. “Lemon Tree” will always hold a special place in my heart and, without a doubt, bring a tear to my eye every time I hear it. Walking through the now chilling walkways of the San Marco Centre I am reminded of many a childhood memory spent in his company. Bawaa, Ubaidah, Saadiya and I spent countless holidays creating and indulging in many an escapade there: Buying cocopops, milk, cereal bowls and spoons to have morning breakfast. How about when we birthed a nokia N90 from the “swollen” belly of the “impregnated” Ubaidah? Not forgetting to mention the terrible yet supremely funny videos of us dancing to soulja boy and low. Oh the memories are endless. Many a freezing night we all spent huddled in the garage of my Gorifoi’s sharing a pipe, tea and endless stories. How many times did he pitch up at the Sports Locker with a box of dye and asked me to do his hair? That crazy soft, incredibly untidy hair was always housing blonde streaks (perhaps the colour was indicative of the personality of its owner?). Every memory I type leads me to thinking of 3 more and I cannot possibly type them all. It is as clear as the ocean on a sunny day that Muhammed Bawa Asmal or simple Bawaa was something amazing. I can barely get by every time I think of a life without him. Home isn’t home without him. How does one simply move on? 

Accepting he is gone is simple; it is walking through the town and not seeing him there that takes its toll. Just as I continuously search for the red van of my grandfather’s as I follow his once usual route home, I will always look out for that mop of blonde hair whenever I enter the hometown I shared with him.