Survivor

I read another tragedy last week – another teenager bullied to death, and once my blood stopped boiling,  I had to wonder: why and how the hell did I survive? Because I was that kid. Granted, we didn’t have social networking to nearly the same extent, so outside of the school gates, I got a slight reprieve. Still, the teasing, the harassment, ostracism and the physical bullying were fairly relentless.

I can’t remember a time I wasn’t the object of derision among my peers. I have very clear and graphic memories of the coping mechanisms I developed, from stoicism to silence, through substance abuse and self-harm. I remember the frustration, the way nothing I ever did was enough to make them stop, to make them just leave me be. I stopped looking for inclusion early on, and just wanted to be left in peace. I remember the frustration, the depression, the desperation for an end, any end, to the torture. I remember trying, more than once, to make that end happen. And I remember deciding (cold, calculated and yes, cruel) that it would be much more fun to make them regret the day I was born than regret it myself.

I’d always fought back physically, always tried to fight back verbally – I’ve always devolved to fight more than flight, largely because I’ve seldom been in a situation where flight was possible. From the tipping point of yet another suicidal depression, I just became more vicious, and less merciful.

I feel no regret: I did what I had to do survive. But it rips at my gut that so many kids don’t have the choices I did, and are somewhat more successful in their bid to end the pain.

Peacemaker

In the 19^th Century, Col Sam Colt brought out a handgun he named the Model P, or Peacemaker. We think of peace as opposite to war, and make up crude slogans to express how contradictory the concept of fighting for peace appears.

We forget that fighting isn’t necessarily about  bombs and guns and bloodshed. Often, but not necessarily. Fighting can be a more passive resistance, an occupation of strategic space (the central theory of Wing Chun is essentially just that – moving into the opponent’s space). And once there, refusing to relinquish said space. No matter what.

The Nobel Peace Prize was founded by the man who invented dynamite – reputedly in an attempt to redeem himself for making such a desturctive weapon. And it’s been awarded to three women: the Liberian Leymah Gbowee, a peace activist instrumental in organising the peaceful resistance against the warlords that ultimately resulted in the Accra peace treaty and the end of a civil war; Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, another Liberian and Africa’s first elected female president; and the Yemeni Tawakkul Karman, also a peace activist and journalist fighting for both women’s and press freedom, in the face of threats and harassment.

We may glibly say that fighting for peace is a contradiction in terms, but in the end, refusing to back down in the face of threats and violence is fighting – it may not be an active offensive, but it requires all the strength of a warrior. 

Hard As Nail Polish

The other day, one of my sparring partners told me off for wearing nail polish. He accused me of going “girly” which is an interesting statement of position, because the last time I checked (and I had thought he’d have noticed by now) I am a girl. And while it’s amusing that he thinks that way, it’s also slightly worrying that there is such a widely held perception that female – or feminine, at least - and strong are incompatible. Regardless of the number of strong women in history, politics or even pop culture, we still seem to struggle, as a culture, with the idea that a woman can be both feminine and strong, can wear dresses and make-up and nail polish, and still think for herself, make her own decisions, stand up for and fight for her own convictions. And this in spite of celebrating women who do just that.

So, what’s a girl to do? In my case, punch him harder and walk out of class with my nail polish still intact and unchipped.

Mother of Nthatisi: African Boudicca

In the 19^th Century, in a place that would become South Africa, lived a queen at whose name men trembled.The stories that surrounded her have made her myth as well as legend: rumour had it she was a giantess who could command swarms of wasps – and other such impossibilities. She was the Destroyer of Nations

Her name was Mma Nthatisi. In peace, she judged cases and determined state policy; in war she planned all strategy and commanded in person.

She was born the baSia chief’s daughter. She grew up strong, skilled with the light battle-axe, and intelligent. She married her cousin, Mokotjo, chief of the baTlokwa. When he died at about 27, his son was still too young to rule, and his mother took on the regency, ruling in his name. This was an unusual move for such a yougn widow, especially at the time of the Difeqane/Mfecane wars.

These were caused by a number of factors, including climactic and geographic ones, however tempting it is just to blame Shaka Zulu. A successful leader in this period had to be politically astute as well as strong. Mma Nthatisi rose to the challenge, leading her husband’s people in several successful campaigns, including against her brothers-in-law, who hadn’t wanted her to rule. She was so successful, in fact, that a Hlubi chieftain begged her for asylum and protection in 1818.  After a series of clashes against the superior weaponry and tactics of the Nguni tribes, she moved her people west, invading the region of the baFokeng. Moving south, she clashed with Moshoeshoe, and the baTlokwa defeated the baSotho in the Battle of the Pots, before being defeated by the amaHlubi. Mma Nthatisi turned north, fighting her way towards the Vaal River, defeating several tribes en route and absorbing their arriors into the baTlokwa, ultimately settling in the Caledon Valley, when Sekonyela finally assumed the leadership, although still sharing it with his mother.