Desperate times, desperate protesters

I was in tears today as I watched the TV coverage and looked at these images of today’s ANC Youth League demonstration outside Luthuli House in Johannesburg. The visuals of attacks on media, riot police, water cannons and stun grenades are so reminiscent of the very bad old days that I am filled with despair.

For some time I have been seriously concerned about the political and economic future of the country that I love. I am no politician, nor am I an economist, but as an ordinary South African citizen it is plain to me that the country is becoming increasingly divided as our “leaders” either ignore or exacerbate the problem.

It is undeniable that there are massive social problems that we need to address as a nation. If I, as a middle class and comparatively privileged South African, have reached the end of my financial and emotional tethers; how much worse must it be for the truly poor and disenfranchised? We are all the victims of the poor service delivery. We are all victims of the ever-increasing crime. And unfortunately, we can’t all move to the supposedly greener grass of “developed” nations.

So as despicable as I often find Malema and his methods, I have to concede that he does represent a large number of South Africans. As much as I may disagree with his methods, I must recognise that the problems he seeks to address are legitimate.

But Malema himself does not scare me. To my mind, he is a shrewd and greedy man who has been lucky enough to make a space for himself in a country beset by division. It is his supporters, who appear willing to engage in whatever violent  action occurs to them when the mob mentality hits, that truly frighten me. Not because of their tactics – which I think we can all agree are morally reprehensible – but because, to me, they represent a people pushed to desperation. A people pushed to the very limits of poverty. A people unheeded by their president and government representatives. These are fellow South Africans so desperate to find an enemy that they are willing to turn on the party that spawned them. And people desperate for an enemy are dangerous.

Today’s demonstrations scared me more than the countless break-ins and crime, more than the seemingly endless upward spiral in the cost of living. They scared me because of the attitudes and desperation that they highlighted. Perhaps the most frightening thing of all is that a large part of me understands. While I could never condone violence against anyone, I have a tiny inkling of how it feels to believe that things are not getting better. I know what it is like to fear that they never will. I understand the hopelessness. I get it. I too am tired of feeling like – despite my best efforts – the realities of living in South Africa are engineered to keep me financially and emotionally fragile.

Looking into the eyes of these demonstrators, I can’t help but wonder what will happen when we truly reach the end of our collective rope. There is so much rage and hate, so much fear and desperation; that I am no longer confident that we can overcome the sins of the past. Or the sins of the present.

Like oil and water, I fear that South Africa’s many factions will never mix without an enormous amount of agitation. I fear that Malema will get his revolution. Because what other option has been left to the millions of South African’s struggling to endure an insufferable situation?

Writer’s block: Getting over the hump

Writers block is kicking my ass right now. Its not that I don’t have anything to write about, because I have a number of ideas kicking around in my head. I just can’t get down to actually writing them. I have sat down in front of my computer countless times to write something for this blog and each time have ended up browsing knitting patterns – my own personal opiate.

With most of these ideas, I simply cannot commit them to the page because they’re too close to my heart and writing about them would be to expose such a personal piece of myself that it fills me with dread. Intellectually, I know that I should work through this fear because these are usually my best pieces. They come from a place of honesty and self-reflection that somehow makes them work really well. I am usually most excited about writing these. Yet at the moment I cannot bring myself to do it.

I am going through a fairly intense time at the moment, with lots of things happening in my life and lots of change on the cards – both good and bad. Since I usually write about what is happening in my life, I feel like I would bore and/or depress everyone to tears were I to regale you with tales of the rough time I have been going through for the last few weeks. I’m totally in favour of spreading the love when I’m happy, but really dread turning this blog into one of those awful self-indulgent whine-fests. I’m going to try to just suck it up though, because I know that nothing but writing will get me over my writer’s block.

So why am I so stressed?

First, my family lives in Christchurch and hearing about the earthquake but being too far away to actually ensure their safety and well-being has left me completely freaked out. I know that, even if I was with them, I would be unable to do anything that could realistically keep them safe. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. I feel like I need to be there to provide them with support. Unfortunately, this just isn’t an option at the moment. I know that they have been left shaken by the experience. (No pun intended – oh ok, I thought that was funny and have used it a few time this week. I have to latch onto the little things…) I also know that it would make them feel a whole lot better to see me. I so want to give that to them. And myself. It is immensely difficult and stressful to know that your loved ones can’t even trust the ground beneath their feet and not be able to be there for them.

Second, I am in the final stages of securing a full-time job and expect to be joining the ranks of the permanently employed very shortly. I am fabulously thrilled and excited about this, which is what seems to be the problem. Every day I feel a little guiltier about the fact that I am so ready, willing and eager to abandon my son to the care of someone else. Someone who will be a stranger, since I am yet to find a suitable nanny. That’s another thing – I have a ton of admin to do in the short space of time before I start working and this is really stressing me out. Trying to figure out what the best child-care option for our family is and then getting it arranged is a task that sits heavy on my shoulders and heart.

Third, the burglary has really left me feeling fragile. It has left me feeling so vulnerable and exposed that I feel like I have to do everything in my power to safeguard myself and my family. This makes it a terrible time to be thinking about leaving my son with a nanny every day and extends to a fear of exposing myself through my writing. This is not a good head-space for a writer to be in.

So bear with me, dear readers, as I figure out my crazy life and get myself into a more positive zone. I promise that soon, my blog shall be heavy with the weight of new musings.

Is crime damaging my child? Cos its sure damaging me!

At about 5h00 this morning our house alarm went off. J got up to switch it off and make sure that everything was OK. As it turns out, everything was not OK.

Some nasty little frakker had broken into our home and stolen both our mobile phones and J’s MacBook. As soon as he realised that the stuff was gone, J charged out of the house and ran down the street to look for the scum and/or the private security company. In his underpants. Which would be funny if it wasn’t so downright scary.

I keep thinking about what would have happened if he Had found the guy. Would I be dealing with even more trauma right now? He didn’t find the culprit, but he did find one of the local security companies’ patrol cars. He notified them of the burglary and asked them to search the area for the guy, which they did. No luck though.

This is not the first time that this has happened, so we were prepared and familiar with the process that then started. About 15 minutes after the alarm, our security company arrived (with big guns) and searched the property to make sure that the criminal was no longer on the premises. They examined the criminal’s access point, took a statement and called the cops.

Standard procedure for our security company is to call after they receive an alarm signal to find out what the problem is. Because our phones were stolen, they were unable to reach us. So they called J’s mom and told her that our alarm had gone off and they couldn’t contact us or gain access to the property. I cannot imagine how scary it must have been to receive that phone call. Obviously, she freaked out and rushed straight over.

A while (about 3 hours) later the police arrived. With even bigger guns. They then searched the property, examined the site of the break in and took statements.

Thankfully, E slept through all of this and didn’t have to witness the parade of security personnel with large firearms. This time. He has been witness to this before though. More than once.

I hate guns. I hate the look of them. I hate what they do and I hate the fear that they inspire. I really hate that they seem to be a necessary evil. More than anything, I hate that when the men with big guns arrive, I feel safer. Most of all I hate the fact that guns, and the big guys in bullet-proof jackets that carry them, are a fundamental part of my son’s reality at only 3 years old.

I was one of Those parents. You know the ones that won’t even allow toy guns into their homes? But how do I maintain this ban on weaponry in the home, when E has seen men with the real deal tramping through my house in the early hours of the morning on more than one occasion? I don’t think I can, because weaponry in some form is becoming a part of our every-day lives. Like a friend said this morning, I can keep him away from the movies and video games. I can keep him away from the violent TV shows. But, short of drugging him when we have a ‘security incident’, I can’t keep him away from the harsh realities of life in South Africa. I am so angry about this.

It would appear that I’m angry about a lot of things.

While I’m extremely grateful that he is safe, I am angry with hubby for running out of the house and risking actually finding the guy. I am angry at our government and police for not making sure that I am safe in my own home. I am angry with myself for not being able to protect my son and for feeling so helpless. I am angry that that he has to grow up in a world where the bad guys can actually come into your home, take your stuff and get away with it. This sort of anger can’t be healthy to carry around.

More than that, I’m afraid. So very very afraid. Once the police left, J had to go out to get the phones sorted. I was too afraid to be left at home alone. I recognise that this is a slightly paranoid reaction, but the fact is that my sanctuary has been violated for the umpteenth time and I simply do not feel safe in it.

Each time we have a break in (and this is about the 5th time in the 2 and half years that we’ve been in this house) I feel less and less safe. I feel more stressed and paranoid. And I have no idea what to do to feel safe again.

My electric fence is not enough. My alarm system and private security company are not enough. My dog (who kept E company and slept through the experience) is not enough. The padlocks and burglar bars are not enough. What is? What do I have to do to sleep soundly at night?

Every time this happens, for at least a few weeks after the event, J and I have trouble sleeping and startle at every little sound. We just got E out of our bed and I have been so pleased about that. But I know from experience that for the next few weeks – perhaps months – I will want him in my room because I will be completely paranoid about someone breaking in, but coming through His room. I am constantly running through various possible scenarios and what I would do in each eventuality to ensure that my family and I stay safe. I am becoming increasingly distrustful and jaded. I am afraid to let my son out of my sight for even a moment. I obsessively check that doors are locked and the alarm is armed. Not that this seems to make any difference whatsoever.

I know that it was just stuff that was taken (well, that and all the IP and data stored on the devices) and, as is the norm in South Africa, we have had the usual stream of messages saying “At least no-one was harmed”, “At least you didn’t get held up/stabbed/shot/beaten” etc. I appreciate the sentiment and that people want to make us feel better. But I can’t help wondering and worrying about how many ‘free’ passes we get before someone Is hurt.

Besides, the fact is that I WAS harmed. The stress and emotional distress of having this happen on a regular basis is starting to take its toll on me. How is it that, as South Africans, we have become so good at down-playing the trauma of having someone invade and brutalize our personal space.

I’m really beginning to believe that this ongoing exposure to crime and the threat/fear of it becoming violent is causing me to experience some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Wikipedia sites the diagnostic symptoms for PTSD as:
“re-experiencing the original trauma(s) through flashbacks or nightmares, avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, and increased arousal – such as difficulty falling or staying asleep, anger, and hypervigilance. Formal diagnostic criteria require that the symptoms last more than one month and cause significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.” (http://tiny.cc/jycvp)

Pretty much all of those apply to how I live my life. I don’t think that I am naturally a paranoid person, but I do feel as though I am being forced to be. I have been told (by people older and wiser than me) that I get to choose my reaction to this situation and I believe that to be true, to a certain extent. But I also know that because it has happened so often, I feel incredibly dis-empowered so it is difficult to feel in control enough to choose a positive approach to the stress.

And if this is how I, as an adult react to crime, what sort of impact is it having on my 3 year old son? I don’t know the answer to this question, but the possible answers terrify me.