My Mother (1920-2010)

My mother died on May 16, 2010 and I am dedicating this post to her.

Her funeral was a memorable occasion filled with the bitterness of loss and the sweetness of celebrating her life. Her family was present, two children, five grandchildren, two great grandchildren, daughter and son-in-law, grandchildren-in-law, as well as many members of our extended family, and friends. In her heartfelt eulogy my eldest niece called my mother a matriarch. This is an apt description. My mother was a strong, independent woman to whom our extended family looked for, and were generously given, unconditional support. She was the conduit through whom we all connected. On the night she had a stroke several years ago, she had called family members around the globe to wish them New Year greetings. It was so painful to watch as the devastation of the stroke took her independence, almost all of her speech and eventually her mobility. She endured three years in a wheelchair without complaint and with an indomitable will not to succumb without a fight to the inevitability of death. Not for one moment did she go gently into that dark night.

My mother had a remarkable life spanning almost a century. She was born in Africa and died in North America. Left motherless at the age of two, she was the second of three siblings. After a happy marriage my mother was widowed at forty-nine, and shortly thereafter became a cancer survivor. When she turned sixty she emigrated to be with her son (my brother) and his young family. She set about building a new life in a strange country. Her friendliness and willingness to try new ventures, brought her happiness and many new friends.

My mother was a lady in the best sense of that word. Always dressed with appropriate flair and style, she warmly carried that propriety into all her relationships. She never missed a grandchild’s graduation either from high school, college or grad school. She provided a haven for her often harried family, cooking familiar and well-loved foods. She always had the right words for each occasion, and a gift whenever appropriate. She was a political junkie and hardly ever missed the BBC news on the radio and TV. She had a soft spot for Bill and Hilary Clinton and Pierre Trudeau. She loved watching tennis and golf and had a soft spot for Jim Courier, Roger Federer, and Tiger Woods. She loved playing bridge. She was a knitter and her family treasure the blankets she knitted for us. My mother loved walking, nature, and being out-of-doors. She was an avid reader with weekly visits to the library. She survived cancer, heart attacks, several falls resulting in broken shoulders and hips, and through it all she maintained her dignity, her compassion and her interest in all the family “doings” and the events in the world at large.

In her last years as she endured increasing discomfort from being wheelchair bound and from the effects of the slow debilitating deterioration of her advancing age, so my admiration and love for her grew exponentially.

A mother is irreplaceable and there is a hole inside of me.

Now, Mom, you know the mystery of the bourn from which no one returns. Rest in peace.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Here are three taken on a recent vacation in south-west Florida.

Standing Plovers

Swimming Sea Hare

Plovers in Flight

Three thousand powerful and evocative words to reflect the natural beauty we are fortunate to encounter on a beach walk.

On March 21 1960 the South African police shot and killed 69 people–men, women and children–at the police station in the dusty East Rand township of Sharpeville, South Africa. Almost two hundred more were injured. Almost all were shot in the back as they tried to escape the police bullets. On that Monday, the Pan-African Congress (PAC), an anti-apartheid movement lead by university lecturer Robert Sobukwe, initiated a series of protests against black people having to carry the hated “dompas” (identity documents) signifying that they were aliens in their own country. As the tragedy at Sharpeville unfolded outrage in the country and around the world resulted in unprecedented media fury aimed at the racist apartheid policies of the white Afrikaner Nationalist government.

The  10 days following the Sharpeville massacre changed the course of South African history. Protests and strikes were widespread and a run on the stock market particularly by foreign investors almost crippled the economy. Scores of thousands of protesters were detained, and as the jails filled, Sobukwe’s goal of rendering the country ungovernable seemed closer. Prime Minister Dr. Verwoerd’s government declared a state of emergency and on April 9 he miraculously survived an assassination attempt. Repressive legislation aimed at squashing any resistance was rushed through parliament and ushered in the dark years of “granite” apartheid as South Africa (overnight it seemed) became a police state.

Subsequently, regrettably, the world has seen similar outrages against humanity, and it seems they increase exponentially as we watch innocent people dying as a result of  terrorist activity or internecine warfare all over the world. But Sharpeville remains a high-water mark of shame in the struggle for human rights.

A native South African, I was a young teenager at the time and already a staunch proponent of human rights and an anti-apartheid activist. Today I remain committed to the struggle for human rights everywhere. In 1960 I can remember hearing the military helicopters overhead as the government cordoned off the black townships from the rest of the country. At night, in the Johannesburg suburb were I lived, to the east and west, we could hear salvos of gunfire as the police quelled all resistance. I was convinced that the anti-apartheid movement would prevail and freedom was upon us. But it took 44 more years for the first democratic elections to be held in South Africa, and Nelson Mandela’s African National Congress government of national unity to be formed.

Currently March 21 is a public holiday in South Africa, Human Rights Day. To celebrate the great heroes of that historic moment, particularly Robert Mangaliso Sobukwe and his PAC, and the extraordinary events of the year that shook South Africa, my motherland, a place I love fiercely, I have written a historical novel, CONFLAGRATION. It is a tender love story set against the perverted political furor.

I am hopeful I will connect with the right literary agent for this book. If any interested literary agent thinks they may want to represent this work, please contact me, so with this novel, we can help  to carry the torch of human rights forward, as well as the dream of a shared humanity that never dies. I’d love to hear from blog readers too.

Tags: apartheid, Children, Conflagration, creativity, historical fiction, human rights, Sharpeville massacre