Robben Island

I have the greatest view. I seriously think so. The only contender would be someone living at the foot of Mount Everest.


Yet, my view carries my country’s past with me. The picture above shows Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for so many decades. It’s part of my view. In winter the sun sets right behind the island. In summer the island is a memory to the right of the sunset. (symbolic, hey?)

The daily joy of trying to see if the sea and sky and wind and clouds will conspire yet again to surprise me (never failed yet) … all of that has a twinge of … something in it.

I am not sure what the something is. I think it’s part of me. Part of having grown up white in Apartheid South Africa. Part of being ashamed of all the things my childhood heroes got up to on the other side of the censure board. Part of being tired of being ashamed about the core of who I am/was.

It’s part of my writing as well. It leaves me with a dry mouth of regret sometimes that the stories that I have to tell, no one particularly wants to listen to any more. Because the stories of this generation is politically incorrect.

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