Gibran’s Cold
Winter has settled in on the Highveld. There’s a new government in the holy land and the EU voters have gone properly fascist. Okay, that’s not true, the EU voters have returned to their fascist roots. Maybe they never left those roots. Not unlike the locals who can’t conceive of the reality that the holy land is composed of a diversity of peoples and that we have choices beyond the limits of their small, backward ideologies.
In the past two weeks, the sheer volume of political commentary has been overwhelming and my regular habit of turning it off has been somewhat compromised. Sometimes that volume has been inside the sanctuary I currently occupy, so I’ve had to listen to a fair amount of it. Okay, that’s not true, the commentary has not been fair. It’s been no less than dull ideology and rabid hate, couched in so-called intellectualism with its cheap props of rank and station. To be fair, there have been sane, rational and even bright ideas amongst the commenting class but as with every exception, it only serves to highlight the pervasive rule.
But enough of the hate spreading, be it on Twitter or being talked down to in the cramped kitchen. I’ve never yearned more for my lost copy of Gibran’s Prophet than in the past two weeks or so. I cannot recall if he addressed politics directly but I’m reasonably sure he did shed some light on our duties and responsibilities towards each other and the collective. I found myself wishing my copy were at hand and that the next time honey eyed babe came round, we might take a break from the details of her busy day to retreat into an altogether more enlightened space. Maybe we would seek guidance for this time in a more refined, humane reference point. One that went beyond false binaries like black or white. I guess the final straw was on the evening the new government was elected for the holy land. A foreign news network took great pleasure in reporting how a white political party had reached an agreement to work with the (globally hated) liberation movement turned government.
Then one of the leaders of the said white political party tackled them in a tweet which just happened to pop up on my TL despite my fastidious attempts at shooing away such things. I paused and clicked through to the foreign reporting item. Then went back to see what the (also much locally hated) Tannie had to say about it. And then there I was actually finding myself in agreement with the Tannie leader. I had to swallow my own bile at this strange turn of events. For while I may hold no hate towards the Tannie, she’s not a healthy energy to have around because she’s the Karen of Karens. Not unlike Jesu is the King of Kings.
Like much of her political party and their supporters; she is tone deaf, has two left feet and projects an unhealthy obsession with being right. An ideal make-up for the political class. Or much of the middle and upper class in the holy land if not modern society as a whole. Still, Tannie was right to lambast the foreign news channel’s take on the deal between her party (yes, it’s literally hers) and the (globally hated) liberation movement turned government.
Up to this point the small, awkwardly laid out kitchen was still a friendly zone. For all this was going on in my head while in my immediate physical vicinity; honey eyed babe was telling me how the said Tannie’s politics were now globally ‘seen’ and how she should shut up and sit down.
May G-d forgive me.
Did I not have the temerity to have an opinion and then the gall to express it and say; ohh, I like what the Tannie did there with that tweet telling the foreign news channel to shut up and sit down.
The previously slowly warming up small, awkward kitchen suddenly went very cold and became a lot quieter. Only the gentle bubbling of the haleem simmering away on the stove punctuated the sharp intake of her breath.
What followed was (another) mis-schooling. This time served with derision and garnished with suspicion of my actual political leanings. I listened through all of it. It required no effort on my part to have served to my face all the narrow-mindedness, hate and invective I see dished out willy-nilly online. While being served, I also managed to add some thyme and coriander to the haleem and with fond thoughts of my late mum, a healthy dollop of butter on top before turning the stove off. The aroma became a beautifully safe cloud around me while head shaking and other non-verbal disbelief rained down in close proximity.
There’s no naan, sorry. I’m going to heat up some shop bought roti; I find myself saying. This offer to literally break bread in the midst of the righteousness I am wordlessly accepting is ignored and I proceed with using the wholly inadequate frying pan to heat the supersized rotis. And prepare some ripe lemons too.
Are you ignoring me? she asks.
I’m listening; I say and as the words leave my mouth I know they’re cold as the Highveld evening outside. It’s wild but I find myself turning as cold by the thought of sharing a meal with an IRL version of the small-minded hate mongering, know-it-alls I avoid online. I feel the bulge of the exit gate remote in my pocket, reach in and click on it.
Ohh, are you expecting someone, she asks.
I nod a silent no and gesture towards her handbag that costs far more than the monthly minimum wage. There’s several seconds (it feels longer) of mumbling under her breath, then the traditional f-you for the neighbours to hear and finally; she’s gone.
The next day, I sit down to the simple meal I skipped the night before in favour of a cup of tea and some entertaining, if mindless Cussler. The haleem is utterly delicious and I feel the wholesome warmth of the generosity of spirit that went into making the dish and the love in the barakat shared.
Reflecting on the silent ending later, I’m reminded that for the most part; adults tend to be rather set in their ideas and present themselves as fully formed. It’s a rare thing to come across people still becoming, still forming, still growing, still curious. Rarer than tanzanite. Still, if that’s anything to go by, then just maybe we in the holy land might have a chance to make something special happen here. Far beyond the limits of the haters so very well formed ideologies.
Gibran’s Cold is a note to self to stay curious, it might bring you to a whole, complex and beautiful life far beyond the limits of plastic pattern people (thank you Gil Scott Heron).
© Jesh Baker for Oppi Stoep 2024, All Rights Reserved
