Chapter 36 | Dear God | An unexpected outburst

12/06/2004

Dear God

I’ve been so busy trying to organize my life that I’ve barely had time to study. Ok, I admit I don’t ordinarily study but it’s close to half term and I’m SUPPOSE to be studying.

I’m sitting in the car waiting for my mum as I write this. Recently Za (Short for Zahra) and I had a huge fight (this being after the whole ‘letter’ incident’).

Apparently people were telling her that she should terminate our friendship reason being: I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most. I didn’t hate her for this. If anything, I understood where she was coming from. What hurt was the fact that she listened to what everybody else had to say instead of forming her own opinion on the matter.

I actually overheard Appa Sumayya say to her: ‘Maybe you should get new friends and no longer confide in her.’ We were ALL in the wrong, what made me the enemy?

What the hell? Appa Sumayya is as close with me as she is with Za. Or so I thought

There was a confrontational blow-out in the car (right in front of Uncle Gul’s) she said some hurtful things and I retaliated (well, my version of a retaliation at least). It was humiliating, I couldn’t believe she had an outburst like that in the midst of her dad.

Uncle Gul’s hadn’t tried to intervene or stop us from arguing. If it was Papa, he would have turned around and slapped us both, his other hand steering the car as if undeterred by the doings of its counterpart.

Anyways, I got home all worked up. Mama knew about the drama but she assumed the role of a supportive parent and chose not to interfere. 

I despised confrontations. Of all the things that induced fear, it was the thing I was most afraid of. With Papa, confrontation meant prolonged minutes (that felt like hours) of silence. I don’t even think Nelson Mandela’s death would be cause for that many a ‘moments of silence’, even if all those moments were amassed and contained in a jar specifically allocated for its containment.

Anyways, Za called that evening. I was mildly surprised, considering all that she had said to me in a fit of rage. We spoke our minds, clarifications were dealt with and eventually we waved the white flag mutually. I’ve never really had a friend who I was close to as I was with Za, Neither did I have a confrontation that boded well. In this case though, it seemed that Za and I were destined to be friends and in that, a lesson in forgiveness.

Just a heads up (in case you had forgotten) it’s my birthday in six days’ time.

Speak soon

Love: Me 

Chapter 35 | Dear God | Zahra and the co-signed letter

11/06/2004

Dear God

There are instances in our lives that make us question whether what we are doing is right. Maybe that happens more often than not.

One of the hard hitting lessons of today was that by doing what WE feel is right isn’t necessarily what the rest of the world would deem ‘right’.  I used to think I could portray a ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude without displaying any weakness but now I’m not certain.

I’ve let my closest friend down. Recently we landed in a pile of trouble when one of our Appa’s found a letter to a boy that we had co-signed. When you’re in an Islamic institute the word ‘boy’ is sufficient enough to warrant a call to your parents. And thus began one of the most terrifying days of our lives. Leave aside the fact that Papa would practically hit the roof had he found out.

Zahra had written the letter and I had signed my signature (in agreement) at the bottom of it. Luckily, for me, my mum was the only one called in as my dad was at work. None of us called blame but neither did we side together. We sat apart afraid, more than anything, of the repercussions of our actions. You have to understand that neither of us came from homes where being called in to the principal’s office would be considered socially acceptable, and that too the principal of an Islamic institute.\

I admit, I am grateful for my mother. She is one of the most logical persons I know (when she isn’t emotionally clouded) and therefore on our way home I wasn’t subjected to a spew of curses. Instead, my mother jokingly said that she still doesn’t understand why she was called in and that whatever it was we had done, should not be repeated.

I realize now, that it was because of my mother’s calm demeanour, that I didn’t turn out to be rebellious. Like her, I did things only after substantial amount of thought was put in and therefore rash decisions were never in my resume. I was spontaneous yes, but never rash.

On a different note I’ll be turning 16 in a month. I’m excited but also apprehensive.

Growing up means that we have to shoulder more responsibilities and I wonder if I’m ready for that, whether I’ll ever be ready for that. How I wish I could be 13 forever. The older you are the more you’re subjected to the question of ‘what will people say?’ This wasn’t a question I asked myself, it was a question the adults in my life would continuously repeat.

At times I question whether there isn’t any more to our lives than the opinion of others. Whether our merit isn’t a determination of how far we’ve reached or the good that resides within but merely a sum of the verification we received from others. The older we get the more we become aware of this but then too, the more we act in accordance to the validation we receive from others.

Chapter 34 | Dear God | Duke Nukem, Mario Bro's and a game called Ung _Gush

2/ 06/ 2002

Dear God

I was strictly forbidden from spending time with my boy cousins in particular, which was tough considering that they spent every holiday by us. They stayed by Daddi but spent most of their waking hours by us.

Getting caught was a terrifying experience as we (Miya and I) either got shouting or a hiding for our ‘misdeeds’. Both were equally bad so I could never say I preferred the one over the other. The funny part now when I think back to the times we spent together was that we did nothing ‘inappropriate’ with them as is common with young kids of today. 

We had fun. Nothing more.

We played TV Games together. Each taking turns until the one lost all their lives. Duke Nukem, Mario Bro’s and Sonic proved an integral part of our childhood.

If we weren’t playing TV games we were at our neighbourhood park. Back then, there was an enormous wooden jungle gym and the slides and swings were in usable conditions.You would find families seated on the benches watching their kids enjoying a Sunday afternoon. Since we lived in close proximity we always felt as if though the park was our territory. We weren't bullies so it wasn't that we threw our weight around but between us we shared this common belief.

We’d spend hours on the swings screaming out the weirdest of things whilst aiming to swing higher than the child next to us.

At night we would spend our time playing a game called ‘Ung-goosh.’ When I think about it now I realize how much the word ‘Ung-goosh’ sounds like Anguish. This is funny because we brought our entire neighbourhood down with the amount of noise we’d make during. None of our class friends had heard of this game before and so we began sharing with them the rules of our special game.

It’s pretty simple. Like the game red rover, you need people standing on either side of the field (we played it in our old backyard which could barely be constituted as a field).

1.       There must be an equal number of players. For eg: If there’s 3 players on the one side there needs to be 3 players on the other end as well.

2.       You need a soccer ball, preferably one that is not pap (soft) but that worked for us too.

3.       One team has to throw the ball and the other has to kick the ball. It’s a lot like cricket the difference being your feet is the bat. Your name is called (by the throwing team) the ball is tossed in your direction and you have to kick. If the opposite team catches the ball before it touches the ground the entire team is out. If the ball is thrown at you whilst you’re making a run (yes, you can make runs) you’re out.

4.       A stick is placed a little closer (to the team kicking) than halfway. If the ball is not kicked further than this line the person who kicked the ball is out.

5.       And where does ‘ung-gush’ come in you may ask? Every time you kick the ball or make a run (which you can only do after you have kicked the ball) you are required to say ‘ung-gush’ if you somehow forget to say it and are blasted by the throwing team you are out.

Fun stuff.

Authors Note: I had initially penned my diary entries as 'Dear Diary', eventually I realized that my verbal conversations with God need not be limited to spoken words and so, I started writing to someone I knew 'gave a damn'. For the sake of this blog (and in wishing I had done this sooner) I started my journal entries with the right way this time round. God was listening all along anyway.

    

Chapter 33 |The one with the Diary (and a FABULOUS give-away)

 The inception of every story starts at that precise moment in our lives when we desire that we be heard. That the story we wish to share be heard by a million others. Sometimes our reasons are selfish. We desire fame, recognition and the fortune that can be amassed thereof. Sometimes we simply wish to share our experiences. We desire nothing more than to touch the lives of others, to enhance their experiences by means of ours and to share the journey we’ve faced.

From a young age I kept a journal. Back then I didn't understand the significance behind this. I simply took it as a means of collecting my thoughts so that one day I could read back to the story that was to become ‘my life.’

I had no idea what ‘life’ had in store for me neither did I understand what all of this meant. I reminisced empty lined pages with a bunch of childish garbage.

Dear Diary.

‘I think I’m in love. I’m not sure what that even means. Every time I see him I like him more.'

I was 10. I had no idea what ‘love’ meant. The boy in question simply took it as a crush. Back then, I thought it was something more meaningful, a couple of years later I realized different. There was no holding hands, sneaking around sort of thing going on, but still, I thought it important enough to diarize.

When my dad found my diary one day, I was gutted. Besides being disappointed with me he also found it hard to trust me. I don’t understand how anybody can take a 10 year old seriously but Papa wasn’t the type to take anything lightly. This was the first of many ‘straws.’ I was barely 10, what did I know?

I shred that diary into a million pieces, even burnt a couple of pages for safety measures, after which, I promised myself, no more.

And I stuck to that promise.

For four years, I didn’t detail a single aspect of my life. It was as if I had no evidence of my existence for that duration. Then, for my 14^th birthday, Miya gave me a Diary. It was actually a notebook, a lily smothered in lilac marked the cover page and I thought it a nudge, to recapture my experiences in a way only words can enable me to express.

What you are about to read henceforth are actual extracts from this diary. Proceed with caution.

AUTHORS NOTE: In order to add an exciting element to Dodging Dad, we’re giving away prizes. To enter you need to subscribe to our blog via email and follow us on twitter. Get family (your great-great grandmother can subscribe from her Qabr, I think) and friends (this is an opportune moment to test those ‘benefits’) to subscribe and follow us, in order to up your chances. Every subscriber or follower (not stalker) that mentions YOUR name (yes, the one your Mama gave you) provides you with an additional entry. The person who garners us the most followers or subscribers (or even both, we’re not really fussy) wins. It’s as simple and easy as that. We’re not even joking.

1st Prize: Aura by Swarovski perfume (Full size)

2nd Prize: A Swarovski studded lip gloss tub and a Swarovski make-up bag.

Disclaimer: The Dad Dodger will not be held responsible for the awesomeness of the prize. Yeah, we’re cool like that. 

Perfectly Imperfect | Authors Note

The intention behind the start-up of this blog was neither as a means to vilify any of those mentioned nor to bring attention to myself or my family, but so that those reading can use this as a means of self-reflection and perhaps, in some way, right the wrongs of their own history.

 Just recently I was reprimanded for writing on aspects relating to those closest to me. I don’t blame them though. Perhaps they find my obtrusion a means of airing dirty laundry best left unwashed.

So, in an attempt of clarification for all those who have chosen to read this, whatever your reason, I hope that this blog reaches out to you as intentioned. Apparently certain family members are using this as resource, to further perpetuate their gossip induced meet ups, and this disgusts me.

This is my story, that certain people are mentioned only signifies the symbolism of their contribution to my life. To those who have misconstrued the aims of this blog, I’d like to remind you that the harshness of reality is prevalent in the lives of every single one of us. Avoidance isn't the solution.

I maintain that the objective of ‘dodging dad’ is merely to share an experience rife with societal expectations, indoctrinated ideals and social wrongs that are dominant in every demographic regardless of colour or race, so that they may be brought to the forefront and combatted.

My disapproval for dogmatism is openly evident and I simply smirk at any mention of this being a rebellious stance.

As I had previously mentioned here, this blog allows me to share my story, my experiences and even my imperfections with you. Writing it has brought back a surge of memories. Whilst most are memories that serve as a reminder of who I was, the childhood that brought me here today, there are some memories I had buried deep under.

This may read as a vendetta fuelled attempt to besmirch my father (and all those mentioned), when in fact this is far from the truth. Life, unaccustomed to those who living under a seemingly unblemished rock, is filled with oddity.

Each of us are faced with stumbling blocks, at varying points of our lives, mines was my father. For the most part of our lives we feign a beau ideal, maintaining a façade that has nothing to do with the torment that belies our smiles. How this assists in rectifying our perceptions and creating a space for lack of judgement if essentially up to us.

I don’t wear my despair on my face, therefore writing has always bode well for me. For those who are too narrow-minded to see beyond the eccentricity’s, I apologize. 

Chapter 32 | The Green steel door of opportunity

The madressa Mama enrolled me in was not even five minutes away from home. Mama was the one that did those sort of things. I don’t know if it was Papa’s disinterest in this regard or perhaps his mental placement of Mama in the role of all things un-Papa-like that made him a stranger to most things that involved ‘us’.

Papa had no idea who our teachers were, how we adapted to schools socially or scholastically, or the challenges we faced thereof.  Sometimes I think, if asked, Papa would have not known the name of our schools either.

 It was almost an unspoken rule, Mama was the parent, Papa, the reckoner.

The first few months at Aalima madressa was a struggle. Socially, I wasn’t able to adjust, and girls, regardless of the nature of the course, can be petty. I wasn’t trained for combat and so, just as I dealt with Papa at home, I held back my anger and pretended that all was well. Occasionally, I’d lash out, but it never fared well for me. I ended up making a glorified fool of myself, in the name of self-defence, not realizing that sometimes silence is the strongest ally.

Academically, I excelled.

Arabic, rooting itself as my favourite subject. Our classroom had no tables and I’d sit, arched, my stomach touching my knees, poured over my books. I’d often get teased about my sphinx like position but I was comfortable, and though it hurt (for some reason) I’d feign indifference.

There was one girl in my class that I was particularly fond of. Her name was Shaista, and she had this friendliness about her that made her the girl that everyone got along with but no one considered their best friend. Her cheeks shared some of the chubbiness that her body carried and we eventually became acquainted.

For that year, I considered her my friend. We’d sit with each other break time, and on the stoep outside waiting for our cars. I’d lend her books (which were always immaculate) and her metallic writing pens and some days, after madressa, I would go to her house.

Things became easier eventually, though I never found my footing socially.

Papa was out of a job then.  As a gesture of good-will, our neighbour, and by then a close friend, Aunty Fazila , loaned Papa some money. It was enough for Papa to start buying and selling cars momentarily, until the assurance of something stable came along.

Mama learned to sew with the one lone machine that stood in the lounge. Eventually it was moved to the kitchen. Abdullah Mamajee gave Mama money to build an outbuilding (aside from the Maids quarters) to be used for establishing her business.

 It wasn't easy to convince Papa that this would be in his aide, but Mama stood by her decision. The outlet was built, painted and a solid green steel door marked the entrance of a room, portentous in possibilities though small in size.

Chapter 31 | An Aalima in the making

The decision to do an Aalima course wasn't entirely my own. I was in the initial stages of memorizing the Quraan, but without much gusto. I attended afternoon madressa that was conducted from a house in Mayfair. The house, a semi much like ours, was purchased with the intention of building a fully-fledged Islamic institution in the near future. 

At the time though, there was just one class running, from what looked like the bedroom of the house. Except for that lone room, the other rooms were barren, nothing to show for a home that once was.

During break we were allowed to go out in the back garden. There, in the midst of weeds and an overgrown tumble of plants, was a giant peach tree. Indented into the ground as if asserting ownership. It bore fruit, despite not being watered, and often, in our eagerness, we’d eat the peaches without waiting for them to ripen. Green peaches, raw and yet, still tasty to our child-like selves.

There were at least five other girls, excluding Miya and I, and I would often catch drifts of their conversational whispers during class. They were in high school and much of which was discussed included the name of some boy or another. I tried to associate with them, futile attempts at trying to fit in, at trying to appease the masses, none of which worked in my favour.

Our Appa, Appa Khadira, was a buxom woman whose layers of fat carved itself into the very fabric of her black abaya. Her dull monotone matched her ever existing tiredness and gave the impression of a much older woman, when, in fact, she was twenty five at the time.

We were often reprimanded when we’d involuntarily burst into fits of laughter by her two year old daughter, Nusaybah, ‘Watts so fun-nee huh? Watts so fun-nee?’ she’d screech, which only heightened our laughing spell.

Appa Khadira was the one who told Mama that I would be better off doing an Aalima course. My memory wasn’t apt, she had said, making it seem as if though there was nothing to an Aalima course except as a remedy for delinquency, or the unimpressionable

 I knew that I would not be allowed to school further than Grade seven. I was neither affronted by this nor did I negate Appa Khadira’s opine. Sometimes I wish I had said something, that I had stood up for myself, but I remained silent. It was all I knew, I thought I was too young to make decisions based on my own standpoint, that I had no inkling as to what I wanted from life, or expected of it.

I wanted to be a medical practitioner, specializing in surgery, I knew that much. But I also knew that my dreams weren’t going to materialize and that for now, I would have to journey on the road that life had chosen for me, in anticipation of all that was to come.

It was decided, I would attend a madressa that was not far from home, to become an Aalima. A woman well versed in the knowledge of Islam.

I spent my last months of my school year responding to questions of ‘So which school will you be going to next year?’ with, ‘I’m not going to high-school, I’m actually doing an Aalima course.’ Often, I would have to explain what an Aalima course entailed and with time the lack of dejection in my voice was evident, my parents decision becoming my own. 

The universe, I believed, was largely like an empty canvas. The drawing I sketched, the colours that I chose to bring to life and the effort I put in, would portray a vision that was either alive with potential or as lacking as a dreary winter’s morning.