I love you with all of my heart to the very depth of your soul. I love you in everything you do. I love you in all your successes and all your failures. I love all your beauty and I love all your scars. I love your body, your soul your mind and should any of these fail in this world I will love them still in the world beyond. I love you despite your fears and because of your fears. I see through your mask and understand your need to wear it. I love you when you cry and when you are happy. I love you beyond measure of space, time and dimension. Serendipity is finding something good without looking. I was looking for something fantastic and found so much better in you. Looking into your reaching eyes I dare to dream awake. There was me, there was you, and now there is only us. I love you without condition or expectation of anything in return save the knowledge of a sliver of the depth of my love for you.
It is a selfish assumption that you own any experience. Revel in the moment. Never curse a fond memory with the pain of missing it. Life is but a moment. Enjoy it. The best is yet to come. In the end all we ever own of this world are our memories, so make them count.
There are so many haters with fake accounts drumming up decent and misinformation between our people in this group. Most of these people have their names in Arabic script.
It brings me to the conclusion that our peace loving people are highly feared. That we are truly powerful. That our voice has begun to shake the roots of the oppressors. This is a milestone letting us know that our freedom is at hand.
I call ardently on the administration of this group to beaf up the policy and bring an end to the tolerance of this hate speech.
Who is a coloured?
I want to clear up a misconception doing the rounds which is set on dividing our great people. We need to remember that we did not call ourselves Coloured, but the name was forced on us. It came as a result of the apartheid system which set to divide people to avoid them rising up against their oppressors. It is time to see unity between our coloured people and embrace each other.
If you cut me, I bleed coloured.
Now many of us know that coloured people originate between the mix of white and black. Fewer of us reconise that other mixes are also termed coloured, such as black and indian, white and indian, coloured and white, coloured and Indian, just about any mix you can imagine. This is who we are. A collective group of mixed ethnicity, mixed culture, mixed tradition and it has somehow been forced upon us to weave this tapestry into our own unique culture, the most truly South African one as it does not prejudice on any other culture but seeks to embrace all.
If you cut me, I bleed coloured.
In 1983 Marika De Klerk said this of coloured people: “You know, they are a negative group … a non-person. They are the people that were left after the nations were sorted out, they are the rest.”
We have also been called “Gods own forgotten people “, I do not believe that we are a negative group, and in this spirit I urge you my brothers and sisters to remember that the San and Koi are joined to our hip in terms of their language and culture. They resemble us in physical features and to a largest extent have also become a mixed group. They are also marginalized people and therefore we need to truly embrace them as part of our Coloured society.
If I am cut, I bleed coloured.
Our hearts have bled Coloured for this nation of ours. There is no heart that has bled like that of a coloured. Some of us have even tried to choose to be either black or white to try to fit in. Many of those who tried were shunned and rejected, left recoiling. This has even torn families apart, where some were found “worthy” to belong to one of these races and the others abandoned and left to fend for themselves. This goes as far as international spheres as everywhere else in the world you are either black or white. Harper Lee writes in To kill a mockingbird that it takes but one drop of black blood to turn a person black. Not so for us my fellow coloured South Africans. The one drop is enough to leave us rejected. It is therefore not as simple as choosing a race black or white, but through political and social rejection we have been forced into this coloured race of ours. Yet we choose not to remain bitter but embrace this race we have been thwarted into. We therefore move on in love, my bushy my bra. We are the only race to have a mother tongue in not only the twelve official languages but some of us speak the truly indigenous language of the Koi San and others have mother tongues of foreign languages. Let love and respect each other regardless of our first language. There is a very peculiar case in our history when Zulus fleeing the brutality of Shaka made their way down into the area of the former Transkei. They were wounded, weary and without lodging. I this area they came upon the Koi who were already settled there. As is our spirit of love and gasvryheid coloured Koi people tended to their wounds and provided them shelter. The two peoples intermarried and the Xhosa people evolved. Now Zulu has no clicks, but Xhosa borrowed the language from the Zulus and the clicks from the Koi. The first king of the Xhosa was named Xhosa by the San. Xhosa means fierce or I’ll tempered in San. Here is another people born of mixed heritage who have a mixed culture and a mixed language.
When you cut me, I bleed Coloured.
When the Dutch settlers arrived in Cape Town, they spoke “High Dutch”, it is widely accepted Simon Van der Stel had a son from a relationship with a Koi woman. The coloured people are responsible for rendering of the Dutch language into Afrikaans, and yet a marginalized group of whites want to call themselves Afrikaners, I’m not so sure.
When you cut me, I bleed Coloured.
Let us unite our Coloured people and build our strength. It is through our love that we will concur the hate of our oppressors
I am coming to the understanding that we all share this internal antagonism and that is on the one hand we want to be understood. We need to be heard. On the other hand we do no not want to feel that we completely understood, as if the entire notion is so restrictive. That it confined us, oversimplifies us and removes from our sense of intellectual self worth.
The struggle impacts on our relationship with others. We are perfectly happy to continue to be annoyed and put up with people who do not fully understand us. Their inability to perceive not only exactly what we are saying but perhaps more subtly are sold on the fake paths or innuendo that we purposely weave to misdirect and then find satisfaction with. When we look back at this it shames us and we are uncomfortable admitting it.
We only perhaps can really grasp this if we are faced with the antithesis. In this we meet someone who understands us so deeply that they tend to know what we are going to think before we even have the thought. This is because they have cottoned not just what we think, but how we think and what drives our thought processors. We suddenly feel naked, embarrassed and totally afraid. Finally we have accessed our dream of wanting to be understood and it has turned into a nightmare. We want to run back to the safety of being anonymous sabotage in which we free to compromise ourselves without it being realised.
We choose to call it telepathy or by some other term of wonder. We forget that we always wanted this.
Where are you in your own personal growth? Are you still perfectly uncomfortable in being misunderstood. Are you still blissfully miserable?
I am mistaken for white by nearly everyone except for white people. This makes it hard to find employment from South African racial empathy employers. Let’s get real, racial empathy is one of the strongest drives to employment in “our” country. If skin colour doesn’t matter to you, you probably not an employer.
When I do state my claim as being coloured, it is expected of me to speak Afrikaans as my first language and once again I am still found lacking. I am called a Pondo by my own people, I wish everyone knew that a Pondo is one of the Xhosa tribes along with Mfengus etc.
Weighed, measured and found wanting, it is difficult to belong.
In consideration of our shared heritage, I would like you to take a second look and embrace me too as a Coloured. I would also like to be a Previously Disadvantaged Person as opposed to a Continually Disadvantaged Person.
It is so difficult for this message to be accepted that I find when I try posting it on so called Coloured groups or employment groups that it is doubted or discarded, much like I am.
Like this message if you accept me as a Coloured.
Love this message if you have had the same fight.
t all starts with an emotion. It is often times the emotion that you struggle with the most. The beauty of creative writing is that you can reach that emotion through external characters in your work. Let them play it our. We all human and identity with emotion, reading how you process your emotions makes it easier to process our own. Forget about writing in scenes and joining those together. Scenery is just technical abstract taking up space. Enrich our lives with your emotions. Join those emotions together to make your story real. There is no fiction in emotion. Descartes a renowned philosopher said I think therefore I am. Nowadays we have artificial intelligence. Nowadays we appreciate the value of EQ being often greater than that of IQ. I feel therefore I am. Feel it.
Everyone of us has our own story to tell. Some of us are in pages stuck together that we cannot seem to turn. Is is to late to learn who writes the story of you? Have you let it go to become a character in your the book of you. Has your book become a horror, a thriller or a tail of adventure, comedy and romance? I woke up this morning and took out my pen, because I may have not begun writing the story of me, but I will take it from here. Join me, write your own story and make it one to remember, filled with joy and love. Happy writing.
The earth stopped shaking and Jane feebly fumbled to her feet. There was a strange hissing noise coming from her father where he lay unmoving and whisps of smoke curled up from his body which lay facedown in his airforce uniform ripped to shreds. Jane crossed the empty street to where he lay, got on her knees beside his head calling softly out to him as she did, wake up dad. She gently ran her fingers through his matted coarse hair and found it sticky in blood. In that moment she new he was dead.
Above her the sky was ablaze with fighter jets screaming overhead. If only she had kept her cell phone on her dad would not have had to come in to land to check on her. She had been angry at him that morning for not borrowing her his BMW so that she could drive it to school and impress her friends, he came to her as she was the most important person in the world to him and his landing had made him a sitting duck. Having exited the Griffin his body signature had been picked up by the enemy and he was killed by a single beam directly through his skull.
Jane wiped the tears from her eyes kept to her feet and raced to the open cockpit of the Saab JAS 39 Griffin, climbing its portable rope hanging rope ladder rings two at a time. Her father had given her flying lessons and she had more training hours in the flight simulator than a cadet completed in training. She donned her father’s helmet and heard a familiar voice on the radio;
“Bushy Lead this is Magpie do you you read me over”
The shock and adrenaline coursing through her voice she didn’t hear the words out her mouth;
“Magpie this is Baby Bush, Bushy Lead is confirmed KIA over”
The squadron of Griffins originally designed and manufactured by Saab in Sweden had been covertly overhauled by Denel a local South African Defence manufacturer to provide the jet with a more powerful engine, vertical take off capability and enhanced maneuverability. Jane flipped the vertical take off switch, started the powerful jet engine. She fastened her safety harness while taking off from the ground and radioed; “All call signs report, this is Baby Bush joining the fight.
Jane bit on her lip and thought of her Dad, Major Cecil Williams, the first person of colour to become a fighter pilot in the South African Air Force. A loving devoted father who would do just about anything for his little girl. His former white seniors used to call him Bushy, a racist term for a colourd man in South Africa, but Cecil true to his nature embraced the torment and wore it proudly as a battle scar and even selecting this to the embarrassment of his white colleagues in the post apartheid regime to be his call sign.
The call signs and their positions came spitting through the her headgear.
Jane placed them in her minds eye and checked this against her onboard radar identifying the bogies.