Author: leilahbhyat

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Being too big for your boots

Sitting in a meeting of powerful young artists and being the oldest one there really does give one a sense of authority (Just for the record Iโ€™m 19 years young.) Somehow I had the feeling that I held a certain authority that the younger members of the group didnโ€™t yet possess. Is this what older people feel? Surely it must be, otherwise where does the phrase ‘you’re too big for your bootsโ€™ come from? ( UK formal: โ€˜Youโ€™re too big for your britches.โ€™)

This seems to pose problems too big for my mind to be able to wrap itself around. The lack of faith that โ€˜grown upsโ€™ have in the youth is mind boggling. When doing research about youth culture the following headings came up:

-The historical and sociological Context of Psychological substance abuse

-The sociology of gangs

-Youth Risk Behaviour 

And many many many others.

These topics were the ones that stood out to me the most. It is true that these are definitely valid areas of research and concern. No one can blame academics for trying to understand the difficult circumstances many young people face โ€˜on the daily.โ€™ After all, it is research like this that helps us counteract the hardships faced by youth, or at the very least try to lighten the burden. However, these become the the words that we associate with young people. 

We are descibed as โ€˜lostโ€™ and โ€˜reckless.โ€™ (I may just point out that freedom fighters such as Martin Luther King jr and Nelson Mandela may have had similar labels placed on them – and no, I am not comparing every young person to the likes of these great men so donโ€™t have a heart attack.) Surely some room can be left to say that these labels are not the be all and end all of our lives. Especially to those who live in areas where hardship is perperual and simply passed down from parent to child, over and over.

Yes, of course we were pretentious โ€” what else is youth for?

~Julian Barnes

I think one area we definately beat out previous generations is in the sheer amount of problems we seem to have these days. Rises in anxiety, depression, learning related difficulties, more medication, less sunlight, too much television and social media, not enough real information, rises in chronic deseases and the big one – Suicide. 

What we do seem to forget though, is that these problems are also present in older people. (Yes kids, it is not just us. In fact, these problems are becoming the norm.)ย 

Julian Barnes said โ€œYes, of course we were pretentious – what else is youth for?โ€ and I could not resonate more with this. The stories my parents tell about how they didnโ€™t always do what their parents wanted them to, are often the stories that ended with great adventures (well of course there was that one timeโ€ฆ BUT we do not speak of such things.) Often we will make decisions our elders donโ€™t agree with or understand, well that kind of makes it a โ€˜like father, like sonโ€™ situation because they were once young too. (If you donโ€™t believe me ask your grandparents, they will give you all the dirt on your parents.)ย 

So what is the youth for? 

Well, I donโ€™t think that is a fair question. Perhaps it woud be more helpful to ask โ€˜What are you for?โ€™ (The best thing about this is a little thing called Freedom of speech. If you donโ€™t know the answer, you arenโ€™t under any obligation to say anything.) Knowing what you are for takes time, so no, we are not โ€˜lostโ€™ or โ€˜reckless.โ€™ You have to go through your life looking for peices of yourself, and eventuallyโ€ฆ you still will not have all the peices. It is impossible. I guess what I am saying is that, maybe being too big for your boots is alright. I used to dress up in my motherโ€™s high heels when I was three years old. Those boots were too big for me too, but I grew into them. Just like one day, we all grow into our opinions and beliefs. Such things make for very big boots, but donโ€™t ever convince yourself that you will never be able to fill them. 

Featured image of my beautiful mother. This my be contradictory to say but:

Happy Birthday. You never age.

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Plates of gold

Letโ€™s take a trip to Japan. Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pieces of pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. The result of this is lovely gold and silvery streaks covering the surface of the pottery, such as bowls and plates. In this way it treats the flaws and breaks as part of the piece’s history instead of treating it as though it is something to disguise. 

I suppose we ought to be ashamed of putting broken bowls and plates out when guests come over. After all, it is just an admission that you were clumsy enough to break something, and why would anyone ever openly admit to another human being that they are less than perfect? Thatโ€™s just way too out there, I mean, what will the neighbours think of us?

Kintsugi is closely related to Mushin, a philosophy which literally translates to โ€œno mind.โ€ (loosely translated to โ€˜Hakuna matata.โ€™) It promotes a living-in-the-present attitude. This acknowledges the veins of gold instead of the break. It acknowledges that the most important part of the hurt (the break) is the healing (the gold) and that this should not be hidden, but celebrated. But again, what would the neighbours think?

What everyone seems to forget is that, you are not the only person in the whole universe who has broken a plate, and you are not the only person who has cracks of their own. So really, why not display the broken plates? Perhaps when Mrs Jones from next door comes over for dinner, you two will have something to talk about.

If we are able to admit that the gold, in something as arbitrary and mundane as the plates that have been broken, makes them more beautiful, surely we should be able to do that for ourselves. 

Just like the art of kintsugi, he knew the art of fixing up broken people with the laqcuer of his golden words.

– เคจเคฟkhz Jomraj

https://www.yourquote.in/nikhz-jomraj-dmml/quotes/just-like-art-kintsugi-knew-art-fixing-up-broken-people-his-guc85

As wonderful as this concept is, I do find a flaw in it. The only way a plate can be repaired in this way is for someone to take the time to apply the gold mixture to its broken pieces and one by one, help put them together again. (And yes, I am certainly comparing human beings to a flat piece of porcelain.) In order for this to happen, someone needs to see that the plate, is in fact, broken. (This is where humans differ from plates.) Human beings tend to be better at hiding their cracks then plates are, and so, if no one can see the cracks, they arenโ€™t going to get fixed. 

As strong as we are and as much as we believe we can do things on our own, we are fatally flawed :

We tend to not be able to see the gold that is already within us, and so we believe that none exists at all.ย 

I suppose when you woke up this morning you didnโ€™t expect to be taking advice from something you donโ€™t give a second thought to; something you eat your morning toast off of. I wonder though, if we donโ€™t give a thought to the small things, how should we expect others to give a thought to us? Especially when we make ourselves out to be less significant than a plate.

Featured image was obtained from https://www.artlovingitaly.com/the-japanese-art-of-kintsugi-explained/

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Alone on the farm

It had been a long, hard day. The sun had beat down on her back as she had tried to fix the roof of the shed. Her face was shielded by a large hat, but by the time she had drawn a bath that night, it stung when she touched her neck.

In an attempt to sooth the stinging, she went outside to collect some aloe. She broke off a few pieces and made her way back inside. The kitchen was large. They used to have two cooks, but now there was only her. She broke the aloe and did her best with her splinter ridden hands to empty its thick juice into a shallow bowl. She added a little warm water to make it easier to apply and went to the bathroom where one of only two mirrors in the house was kept.ย 

Carefully she dabbed a cloth into the mixture and started to apply it to the back of her neck. Once that was done she applied some to the back of their hands. They were not stinging yet, but had started to become darker and darker of late from her long hours spent working in the sun. She feared the tanning would be worse for her then the sunburn was.ย 

Next, she went back to the kitchen and placed the bowl in the old sink. It was rusting on the edges, but was still good. She took out another bowl and squeezed some lemon juice into it, then proceeded to attempt to remove some of the splinters in her hands. It was a long ordeal, after half an hour she had only managed to remove three. Hoping the lemon would clean her hands, she gently placed them in the bowl. They started to sting where the little wooden shards had penetrated her skin, but she endured. Lately it seemed that most things stung in some way or another. 

She placed the second bowl in the sink and took a mug to the table. She filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Collecting her nearly discarded lemon, she squeezed a little juice into the mug and then threw the lemon out the window. She had picked some tea leaves from the garden the day before. So she broke a few pieces of the long green leaf and placed it in the cup. Sugar was expensive, but the bees on the farm produced honey and she knew how to collect it, so she kept a jar on the counter. She took a spoon of honey and placed it in the cup. By then the kettle had started to whistle, and she poured the hot water into the cup. She stirred it with the spoon she had used for the honey. 

She went to the living room down the hallway which she now slept in, placed her mug on the side table and made herself ready for bed. Then she took out her clothes and placed them on the chair in the corner and made a quick job of dusting off her work shoes and placing them under the chair. 

Finally she got into bed and sat with her back leaning on the wall. She retrieved her tea from the side table and took a deep breath; inhaling the scent of the tea. For a moment, nothing stung. Until she took the first sip of her tea, then she could taste the sting. 

And the next day she repeated everything all over again.

By: Leilah Bhyat

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Backspacing and yellow bomber jackets

I am sure we all know the feeling. The one where you are writing a text message or strongly worded email. You get half way through, or maybe you even finish it and once the adrenaline rush of telling this person your truth has passed, all you can do is sit there, catch your breath, and promptly begin to backspace furiously. 

I found myself sitting in front of my laptop doing that a lot last night, and I got to thinking. Do we really think so little of ourselves that, in addition to not wanting to take up space in this world and kind of just blend in to the crowd, we also happen to degrade the worth of our own unique life experience and what could happen if we actually spoke up about it?

Whether it be you finally telling the boy that you really see this relationship going somewhere, or maybe you are a guy who wants to slow things down a tad because you are not comfortable with the pace. Maybe your boss has dismissed your opinion one to many times and youโ€™d like to express your serious concerns in this. 

I canโ€™t count the amount of times I have sat before a keyboard furiously typing my words, unapologetically expressing myself and feeling empowered by it. Then stopping. 

I do not believe that this is a question of gender, as many people might believe it is, everyone does it. Perhaps itโ€™s a trend โ€œeveryone is bottling up their feelings, I should too,โ€ or perhaps, โ€œCrippling self doubt is the new yellow, everyone should have at least two shades.โ€ 

But even though itโ€™s in fashion, no one wants to outwardly display their yellow bomber jacket, because that is just too out-there. Yellow gets you noticed, and once you start backspacing that strong hue starts to fade. 

I think what we donโ€™t realise is that deleting the words doesnโ€™t suddenly delete the emotions. Itโ€™s the โ€˜out of sight, out of mindโ€™ mentality that has become acceptable. Effectively, you are taking yourself, tying them to a chair, making them pour their heart out and then duct taping their mouth shut once they are looking up at you with tears in their eyes. Then you leave them in a concrete room with a solid metal door, and expect them to be able to go on as if nothing happened. We do this over and over again. Each time chipping away at our voices and self worth. I think wearing the bright yellow bomber jacket might just be the lesser of two evils. 

Or better yet, maybe we should hit that send button and see what happens.

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Made on Earth

My father and his best friend grew up in Apartheid South Africa. My father is of colour and his best friend, who I fondly refer to as Uncle Kimon, is white. Growing up I heard endless stories of the trouble these two used to get into. Them going to “whites only” beaches, or Uncle Kimon picking up my Dad’s girlfriends from their houses, so their parents wouldn’t think they were going out with an Indian boy.

My Father, Mohamed Bhyat on the left and my Godfather, Kimon Rousos on the right.

Although Kimon was considered run of the mill ‘white’ on paper, in reality, his parents are Greek. Because of this, people couldn’t quite place him. With his dark, almost-black hair, straight nose and olive skin, no wonder people couldn’t place him. To them he was Portuguese, or Italian, even ‘coloured’ at times. It isn’t any wonder then why, when asked, “Well, what are you?” Kimon got tired of explaining. Eventually he started giving the same answer each time.

“I’m a citizen of the world”

Knowing him, it was said as a joke or a rather cocky remark. But I like to believe that my dear Godfather accidentally stumbled on a rather timeless piece of wisdom.

Before anything else we are human. Once we are born all sorts of labels get placed on us, none of which we decide on or even ask for. Growing up in South Africa gives you a particularly unique perspective on the subject. My Dad’s side of the family gets labelled as “Indian,” my Mum’s as “white.” Both my parents look like they are from the Mediterranean.

Inevitably I get asked the same question as Uncle Kimon, “Well, what are you?” (A question, it must be noted, is not considered rude if you are well acquainted with someone where I come from.) I have a few responses to this question:

  1. “I’m Indian” (an answer reserved for the simple minded folks I meet)
  2. “Why does it matter?” (reserved for those who really believe they can know everything about me if they know the answer to this one question)
  3. “South African” (reserved for people who insist I must be from somewhere else even though I’ve already insisted that I am, indeed South African, and on some occasions, shown them my ID)
  4. “Human”

“I’m a citizen of the world.”

-Uncle Kimon

People don’t seem to like the 4th answer much.

People tend to look at their fellow human beings as things; objects that need to come with a “Made In” label. I’ve been told I’m Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Brazilian, German, Arab, Greek, Lebanese, Turkish, Egyptian, British, American, Australian and Persian. And I’m sure my mother must be exhausted from giving birth in all those places at once. The airline tickets alone must have cost a fortune, never mind the visas.

Thinking about it now, I don’t need to show anyone my label, no one needs to know what fabric I’m made of (It would definitely me satin, just for the record) or if my colour runs out if you put me in the washing machine (It doesn’t, olive skin will always be olive.) In fact, I don’t need to be put in the washing machine at all, I’m perfectly happy with a warm shower like everyone else.

I’m not “Made In,” I’m “Made, on,” I’m made on Earth to be precise, And definitely a Citizen of the World. Though I don’t think the government would be too ecstatic if i wrote that on my passport, it might cause a few problems at customs.

Thank you to Sheldon, for your never ending support. Check out his site, like and support!

https://quitequeer.wixsite.com/lgbtqiaap

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The Beach House

There was a place we used to visit on the beach. A cottage had stood, hidden in the greenery a few dozen meters from the shore. It was made of red brick. It had belonged to my grandfatherโ€™s employer who was kind enough to lend it to us every now and again when the weather was good and my family did not feel like dealing with the hassle of the city a few hours away. You would not have been able to find the cottage unless you had lived on the street, or unless you had already known it was there.ย 

From the back patio, across the lawn, you could see down the sand pathway and to the beach. I remember my grandfather always bringing a white hammock with and hanging it between two palm trees at the edge of the garden, overlooking the breaking waves. I would be woken up early to witness the dolphins playing in the waves. And even earlier to see the moles in the garden peak up from beneath the grass. There were many animals here.

Crabs would scurry up from the beach, and quickly burrow back into the ground when approached. Some would even try their luck at running down the sand steps sideways and inevitably end up falling and having to be turned over after the landed on their backs. Around the left hand side of the house, there were snails that lived in the bins outside; they grew as big as soccer balls and made my sister scream and run away one spring. My grandfather had even spoken of seeing snakes in the garage, but that was before I could remember this place. 

I too had a strange encounter with an animal when we were down at the cottage. I had woken up while the house was sleeping, just before dawn. The birds had started to chirp as I opened the sliding door onto the garden patio and collected my discarded sandals and water bottle. I knew I would be able to see the dolphins if I stayed on the patio, but decided to go down to the beach to get a better look. I crossed the garden after putting my shoes on and made my way over to the right and down the steps made of sand. A few crabs made way for me as I passed the aloe trees. I removed my sandals and stepped onto the fine sand, taking a moment to watch as it moved up between my toes. 

I looked up from my feet to the beach in front of me. The Sun had started to rise and rays shone on the water, leaving a glossy finish to the smooth water. I did not manage to spot any dolphins, but as I scanned the beach I noticed a large rock that I did not remember seeing before a little while away. I started walking towards it, curious to investigate the strange rock. It didn’t seem to have any jagged or sharp edges, in fact, the closer I got, it seemed to be completely smooth. I was intrigued. My mother had explained that broken glass that gets thrown into the ocean becomes smooth because of the salt water and the sand after some time, and sometimes gets washed up onto the shore, just as shells do. I had wondered if that is what had happened to this large rock. 

But as I got closer I realised that my hypothesis had in fact been wrong. It was an extremely large turtle. If a horse had been lying down, this turtle would be double, or perhaps even triple the size. I moved towards itโ€™s head, I could hear itโ€™s laboured breaths as it rested with its eyes closed. It seemed to be all dried up, there wasn’t any moisture on its lips or around its nostrils. I took my water bottle and carefully poured some of the water over the turtles head. Then, I got a little closer and poured some over its mouth and nose. It seemed to let out a relieved sigh, just as I had used all my water. I hastily got up and ran to water to fill my bottle, then back, and started pouring water all over the turtleโ€™s body. I repeated this process several times, then, as I once again made my way to the turtle, it moved one of its flippers. Cautiously, I approached its head, only to find one big eye staring up at me. Kneeling down, I felt drawn to this creature. Carefully, I reached out, and stroked it, and once again its eyes closed. 

I got up and forced myself to go back to the cottage and wake my parents up, drag them out of bed and outside. But by the time we all got back to the beach, the turtle was gone. Deflated, I was turned around by my mother, my back facing where the turtle had been, just minutes before. And looking up to the house, I saw my grandfather standing at the edge of the garden, watching us. Two months later my grandfather told me his boss had said people who lived near the beach cottage had witnessed the birth of dozens of baby turtles, something they hadn’t seen for many years. And it was then that I knew, that it didn’t matter that I had only met her once. Once was enough.

By: Leilah Bhyat

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The lonely traveller

A monologue from the play Blood Stains the Sand by Leilah Bhyat

Well, once upon a time a man of poverty rose to be a wealthy man. He had never lived in a proper house so he decided that with his riches he would find a piece of land and build himself a grand home. He searched for many years to find the right place to build his house. He travelled all over the world, from the desert to the sea, to lands with rolling green hills covered with luscious grass, yet the more the man searched the more weary he grew.

And so he returned to his birthplace in the desert where he used to fall asleep under the stars. Not long after, a traveller passed where he lay and woke him up. He offered him a place to stay but the man turned him down. The man explained to the traveller his long journey and the traveller grew perplexed the man. โ€˜Why could you not find land for your home?โ€ asked the traveller, and the man replied by saying. โ€œNo matter where I travelled I could not find land which was not occupied by another, whether it be sand, grass or soil. There is no room for me to build a house because the land already belongs to others.โ€

The traveller looked at the man then, deep in thought, and finally said, โ€œMy son,โ€ and he picked up a handful of sand and the man watched as the sand fell through the travellers hand, โ€œwhen I pick up the sand, the sand moves to make place for my hand, when the sand is in my hand, my hand makes space to allow the sand to move through it.

In this way the Earth makes space for me and I make space for the Earth. We live together because we make way for what is new, and what is new makes way for what is old.โ€ And with that the traveller got up and carried on his journey and the man was left alone.

By: Leilah Bhyat

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Painting the sky

The tiles on the steps are hot today. They burn the back of my legs but I donโ€™t mind, because Daddy is coming. Iโ€™m sure he is.

We were sitting here a while ago, I donโ€™t know how long, Iโ€™m not good at time yet but Granpa says Iโ€™ll learn. Daddy and I were sitting here and looking for the fairies, he says they are in the trees but Iโ€™ve never seen them. โ€œIf you look really hard and keep very quiet theyโ€™ll come say hello.โ€ He told me, so I sat quietly, โ€œIโ€™ll be right back.โ€ Daddy said, and he went inside.

I heard big footsteps when Daddy came back. โ€œDaddy, youโ€™ll scare away the fairies.โ€ I told him quietly. โ€œDonโ€™t worry we wonโ€™t.โ€ Said a voice, but it wasnโ€™t daddyโ€™s voice that talked. I turned around and saw a man standing behind Daddy, Daddy looked scared. โ€œBaby this is my friend, say hello.โ€ So I say hello.

Daddyโ€™s friend told me and Daddy to sit on our special steps and keep looking for the fairies. We sat down together, and I turned around to see Daddyโ€™s friend, he was holding something big and grey and was pointing it at Daddy. It looked very heavy. Daddyโ€™s friend started talking to him in a way I didnโ€™t understand. They were shouting and it sounded funny. I think they were playing a game.

โ€œGo play with Rover darling.โ€ Daddy told me. I walked down the steps and went to find Rover in the garden. I called him but then I heard a big bang sound that made my ears hurt. Then I saw Daddyโ€™s friend running to the house were the cars sleep and driving away in Daddyโ€™s blue car.

I wanted to ask Daddy why his friend took the blue car so I went back to the special steps and found Daddy lying on the grass looking at the clouds. It looks like Daddy spilt red stuff on his shirt, it almost looks like the stuff Mommy puts on my chips. I went to lay next to him and hold his hand. โ€œPaint the sky baby girl.โ€ Daddy said but he sounded sad. Then he kissed my hand and said, โ€œI love you princess.โ€

โ€œI love you too Daddy.โ€

Thatโ€™s when Mommy came and these big men took Daddy away in a big red car. He told me he liked red cars so I think he had a good ride. I miss Daddy. I hope he gets back soon, but Iโ€™ll just keep painting the sky like he asked until he comes back.

By: Leilah Bhyat

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