Weekly Photo Challenge: Journey

Late again with my response.  This is a terrible habit I have acquired.  In my defence, I never miss a plane.  Not that I ever go anywhere (except to France and Spain in the last six months, and possibly to Germany in the future, if I can find a cheap enough ticket).

I thought I would take you on a different journey today: a trip down memory lane; a journey from the past to the future; from wrong to right.

I lifted and edited this from my now defunct South Africa blog.  It’s not amusing, but I hope you enjoy it.

Here is Tory Boy, just turned four:

27 April, 1994, the day on which this was taken, was one of the best days of my life.  It was the first day of the first free and fair elections in South Africa.

We were living in Alberton in the Transvaal at the time.  We got up early to be at the polling station for seven, when it opened.  We didn’t want to be stuck in queues all day long.  The government had declared a national holiday so that everyone could vote, and it seemed like everyone intended to do just that.  Whole families turned out to vote.  We had four-year old Tory Boy with us.

We were first in the queue, but only just.  Not that it did us any good: we were still first in the queue come four o’clock in the afternoon.  There were no ballot papers at the polling station.  The election officials popped out periodically to tell us that they were on the way – in a helicopter now – would be here any minute.  None ever showed up, except on auction sites in the last few years.

In spite of this, and in spite of the news of bombs going off at Jan Smuts Airport, the mood of the crowd was joyous.  There was a lot of singing and a lot of braaing [barbecuing]: those who came later and knew about the long wait brought their skottels [portable gas barbecue] and fold-up deck chairs.  The Hub went home to make us some sandwiches and drinks.  We needed them.

We chatted to everyone around us.  There was a tearful old man who had never believed that he would ever get the chance to cast his vote.  There were Afrikaaners, resigned to the inevitable and taking it gracefully; and many more who welcomed it.  I suppose those with strong opposition to the change were elsewhere, protesting.  People of every race, tribe, ethnicity, colour and political persuasion stood in that queue and waited with great patience for the ballot papers that never arrived.

There were no murmurings or angry voices, but there were a lot of rumours about what was happening in the rest of the country.  We were in a capsule, a moment in time when we were all in this together, all looking toward a happy and prosperous future; each believing that things would be better, fairer, and right.  We were in the mood to party, not fight.

No ballots came.

Because of our tired little boy, we wondered if we should go home and come back next day – the election was intended to be held over two days, but lasted three because of the problem of having nothing on which to cast your vote – but then we heard there was a magical polling station a few miles on which did have ballot papers, and even – whisper it – enough to go round.  We thought it was worth trying because we really did want to cast our vote on a day that would go down in history.  We wanted Tory Boy to be able to say that he was there.

I don’t remember where either polling station was, except that the first was in a suburb and the other in a huge, unkempt field.  At the second, we joined a slightly smaller queue that we could see was moving, though it didn’t have the atmosphere of the first.    It took three hours but we got inside at last.

The most bizarre moment of the day for me was when I went into the booth and there was a scruffy little stub of a pencil.  It didn’t seem fitting to cast a vote that would help change the political landscape of a nation, with a tatty bit of lead.  To this day, I’m not certain that I wasn’t expecting quills or expensive fountain pens.

In the PWV area (Pretoria-Witwatersrand-Vereeniging) we had a choice of thirteen parties.  As brave as the National Party had been, I couldn’t vote for the architects of Apartheid.  I couldn’t vote for the ANC bunch of terrorists either, no matter how just their cause.  I didn’t think the KISS lot (Keep It Straight and Simple) was taking the whole thing seriously enough; and the Women’s Rights Peace Party was missing the point. 

I voted for the Democratic Party.  Helen Suzman was a lone white protest voice in the wilderness of the Apartheid government for many years, so I voted for her party, which I felt had moral conviction.  As the vote was by proportional representation, I helped them to their seven seats.

I discovered a wonderful quote from Helen Suzman, via Wikipedia:

She was once accused by a minister of asking questions in parliament that embarrassed South Africa, to which she replied: “It is not my questions that embarrass South Africa; it is your answers.”

Our tiny piece of history made, we took our exhausted child home, probably collecting a takeaway on the way.  Once he had eaten I put him straight to bed.  We followed soon after.  History is important but it’s the mundane that keeps us going.

Relatives living further out told us they hadn’t bothered to vote on the first day when they saw the queues; they left it to the next day and walked straight in and out.  It seemed most of the country wanted to vote on the twenty-seventh.  I guess we were not the only people conscious of our tiny place in history on that glorious day.

Photo found here.

More Questions Than Answers

Big news for Britain, if you weren’t paying attention: a general election has been called for May 6th.  But it’s not news in the sense of real news, of course, because the press pack had already moved into London over the Easter weekend, waiting to hear the worst-kept secret in Britain.  Our polling cards arrived in the post this morning which means they must have been printed last week at the earliest.  Rumour has it that ITV, SKY and the BBC have been trawling for audience members for the big debates, so they must have had an idea when the election was to be called.  The phony war is over: let the campaigning begin.

If you are eligible, will you vote?  It depresses me, the apathy for politics in this country.  Was it Lenin who said politics affects everything?  I’m not sure that it was, but when I Googled it I did discover that he said, ‘The way to crush the bourgeoisie is to grind them between the millstones of taxation and inflation.’  Labour & Conservative could both use that as a campaign slogan: Labour to keep the militants on side and the Conservatives to attract the rest of the country, who should be scared witless by now that Labour could conceivably win a <shudder> fourth term.

It’s no secret which way I swing but I was prepared to give Labour a fair hearing for all of five minutes, until I heard Mr Brown tell us just how ‘middle class’ he is.  If we live in a country where race, gender, inclination, nationality, etc. are irrelevant, then why is class permitted as an issue?  Why is it wrong to judge a person on the foreign accent with which they speak but okay to judge a person for having a posh accent?  That smacks of double standards to me.  If we shouldn’t blame the former for an accident of birth, why should we blame the latter?  I don’t accuse Mr Brown for being Scots so why should he be allowed to accuse Mr Cameron for being upper class?  Is Mr Brown saying that he is better than Mr Cameron simply because he is middle class?  And if so, and we are obviously working the system backwards these days, does that mean we shouldn’t vote for Mr Brown because he is not working class, which, by his logic, is the best class of all?  It also begs the question, why no working class leader of the party that is championing the cause of the working wo/man? Is this how the election is going to be run?  On class lines?  Is that because Labour have no viable policies with which to tempt us?

Let me state for the record that, while I dislike Mr Brown, I am not enamoured of Mr Cameron: he’s a little too much of a Blue Blair for my liking.  However, I have been watching him over the last couple of years and he’s growing on me.  I won’t be voting for him, but for the party which he leads because they are in my ideological corner.  At least I’ll be voting; will you?  Have you even bothered to register?  If you are a woman, remember it was less than a hundred years ago that we were given the vote at all.  I stood in line alongside thousands of newly enfranchised men and women in South Africa in 1994 and felt privileged to be a tiny part of history.  Wars are fought (were you invited to the Boston Tea Party?) and people die for the right to vote, even today, and you can’t be bothered to turn out?  Shame on you. 

I am not saying you should vote my way, but that you should vote.  You should stand up and be counted or this blog may descend into an orgy of  clichés and I will drown in a pile of platitudes.  You wouldn’t want that to happen, now would you?  They say the people get the government they deserve: if Labour get in again, I know who to blame.

.

 

 .

Yesterday’s prompt was to give your poetry a name and write about it.   I am not satisfied with my effort and I will probably re-write it at some point.

.

My Name Is Discovery

.

Shuttling from pen to page to pc,

my endeavour is the sonnet, the pun,

the couplet – heroic or otherwise –

the clever epigram: an odyssey

that begins in an empty head.

.

Each rhetorical enterprise

leaves me spent; until the next time:

blank space becomes word

becomes poem becomes a thing

that it did not set out to be. 

.

I am challenger, agitator, explorer.

Erupting from mind and heart and hand,

discarding, destroying, discovering. 

I was not, once; and now I am.

.

.