SINGLE PARENT
So how did I end up becoming a single parent? Contesting for custody was never a thought that entered my head. Well, shortly after Valeria and I divorced she asked me to take care of Jeremy while she travelled abroad. She’d been invited by her restauranteur friend, the guy she hadn’t been interested in. When we didn’t hear from her for some time, and after her expected date of return, I simply suggested that she let Jeremy remain with me until she felt more settled.
I’d moved into a beachfront apartment with an uninterrupted view of both Table Mountain and the beaches that stretched out as far as the eye could see. I joined a local gym and started working out. On weekdays Jeremy busied himself with swimming lessons at the gym and he soon became a part of the furniture, hanging out at the juice bar. I could keep an eye on him from practically anywhere except when he occasionally visited the playroom, but he’d periodically check in with me. In the evenings, we’d cook dinner together, take walks along the beach frequented by dog-lovers, or park and watch the kite-surfers racing in and out of the surf performing some pretty spectacular freestyle tricks and jumps.

I quite quickly adjusted to life as a single parent. I kept an eye on the local news, seeking out kid-friendly mall activities, and pop-up funfairs. When we ate out, it was usually at kid-friendly restaurants that offered an outdoor service with a park, a jungle gym, or a sandpit – preferably all three. We learned to fish because I thought that’s what fathers were meant to do. With rods and tackle, we’d head for the trout farm a few kilometres after the Huguenot Tunnel, located 80 kilometres from Cape Town. It couldn’t have been easier – ponds that were so well-stocked that the surface would boil with trout feeding when you tossed in a handful of pellets. However, after investing in all the right equipment, I remained clueless – or perhaps I just didn’t possess the patience required to enjoy fishing. Fortunately, Jeremy would often team up with one of the assistants to get the job done. With no catch and release policy, and thanks to our newly accomplished fisherman, we’d end up with a lot more trout than we could put on the grill.

While it was usually just the two of us, I had a couple of good friends we spent time with. Stan and his wife, my friends from the Atlantic coast, regularly invited us for a weekend at the dam about a three-hour drive from Cape Town, where we learned to water-ski. Then I also got to know Ray, the employee who informed me about his boss – and my so-called best friend – seeing Valeria while we were still married. Ray and his fiancé coincidentally lived in the same street that I’d moved to. She was more of a homebody and was only too happy to let Ray take me out for an evening while she babysat.
We’d very much settled into a comfortable weekly routine. Jeremy regularly saw his mother on alternate weekends, and we’d fortunately established a good relationship with Gareth’s father. We often got to include him and his stepbrother in our weekend excursions. However, I was concerned that Jeremy seemed to require an awfully large amount of reassurance. I couldn’t be a minute late for anything, and without fail he’d physically insert himself in the middle of any conversation I might try to have. Bedtimes turned into marathons of children’s books and nursery rhymes, and we’d often finish with Rodney Rigby’s There’s a Building in the City. It’s a zany collection of beautifully illustrated poems: a cowboy who caught a couple of passing clouds, a cake that sang Happy Birthday, Martians who counted stars instead of sheep, a boat so big it used wheels to roll along the bottom of the ocean.

Early one Saturday morning, while still nursing a hangover from an evening out with Ray, I received a call from Valeria’s current boyfriend. I’d never met this guy before, so his opening line came as a surprise.
Without any introduction, he demanded, ‘You’d better get your ass over here and collect your son before I beat the crap out of him.’
Naturally, I got in my car and drove to their place as quickly as I could. When Valeria let me in, I was immediately confronted by an aspiring provincial cricketer looking somewhat menacing with a cricket bat in hand. This character obviously hadn’t cooled down yet, so I chose to ignore him and asked Valeria to get Jeremy’s things together. Not happy with being ignored, he tapped the bat next to some drawings on their living-room wall. My head was in flight or fight mode but I was frankly unwilling to engage in front of my child, and certainly not with someone brandishing a weapon. I saw the problem, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s not that difficult removing crayon marks from a painted wall and after all, he was a building contractor. I was thinking What the fuck is your problem?
Fortunately, Jeremy was ready when Dean started saying, ‘The next time your child . . . ʼ
‘Why don’t we both accept that I’m glad you called, because if you ever raise your hand to my son, I’ll end your cricket career before you get started. I imagine it must be kind of difficult trying to play cricket with one hand.’ I cut him off but wished I hadn’t. I just couldn’t let him finish.
And with that, our stand-off escalated into a whole lot of bullshit posturing. Somewhere in there, Valeria chose to remind me I didn’t have legal custody, and she could take Jeremy away without notice.

Gareth had been a superstar throughout Valeria’s pregnancy. But the day after our first visit to meet his newborn brother, Gareth had needed reassurance as so many kids do after the birth of a new sibling. We were hastily finishing off some renovations to our family bathroom in preparation for their homecoming when Gareth posed a question. And for the love of me, I can’t remember what the question was. However, I clearly understood what Gareth needed at that moment. So I stopped to make sure that he understood he would always be as much of a son to me as his newly born brother was. And in my mind, there was absolutely no difference between them. I let him know that he’d always be just as important to me as ever and that I’d always be there for him no matter what. But I wasn’t thinking ahead. To this day, I’m still not sure what I could’ve done differently. As far as I’m concerned, there’s still no difference between them. But I was wrong then, and I was busy making the same mistake all over again with Jeremy.

On the way home, I suddenly realized that Valeria was one hundred per cent correct. I didn’t have legal custody, and up to that point, in the two years that Jeremy had been with me, the thought of doing something about it had never crossed my mind.
A few days later, I saw an attorney who gave me some of the best advice of my life. He suggested I make an appointment with a family advocates office – advocates to represent children and their best interests in any court of law. The office in turn referred me to one of their trusted child psychiatrists who would prepare an evaluation. This was the early 1990s, and I’d never met another father who had custody, nor ever heard of any form of shared custody. I was truly afraid of losing Jeremy because I knew that traditionally, I had little or no chance of being granted legal custody. Furthermore, I honestly wasn’t sure who needed who more, so I decided to emulate the family advocate’s thought process and focus only on Jeremy’s best interests.

Jeremy’s psych-evaluation ultimately read as follows: ‘The male and female traits are combined in one person. The father fulfils both traditional roles. The mother nurturing function and the father protector function are not perceived as two separate roles or functions. In the child’s mind, they are one idea, one parent, his father.’ I should have been happy with the report, but I was confused and somewhat perturbed by the thought that he might not have bonded with his mother. Despite the powerful expert opinion that we’d obtained, which strongly supported my case, I still didn’t believe that I had much of a chance. In my opinion, and to her legitimate credit, Valeria was and is a good mother. She regularly collected Jeremy for alternate weekends, and from everything that I could see she truly loved her children. I was, in part, preparing myself to accept whatever the court determined would be best for Jeremy. I felt that all Valeria had to do was to turn up for one final observation session at the family advocate’s office, and my case would be thrown out of court.

I got lucky because unbeknown to me, they were planning to reschedule their final assessment till after Valeria spent a full week with Jeremy. Except she never showed up for the assessment and she couldn’t be reached. We occupied ourselves with the remains of some wooden toys and building blocks until they locked the office for the night, and we went home to read ‘space- travelling Martians anxious for sleep were heard counting stars in the absence of sheep.’
Eventually, the case proceeded without Valeria’s cooperation. Armed with the favourable report from an expert witness and the full backing of the family advocates office, I was finally granted full legal custody of Jeremy.

MARRIED TO AIDA 30,10, 1995 – 15,01, 2001

After a rather rocky start to our first year together, my marriage to Aida seemed to settle into a reasonable routine of its own. However, in year two, something in Aida changed and there was no letting go of her desire for another child. Before and after our marriage, we’d discussed at length that in Jeremy and Ellen we already had the perfect pair and neither of us had wanted another child. As a couple, we weren’t on solid ground, so I was still opposed to the idea. It sounds like such an awful thing to admit, especially now that I have another gorgeous son. But I guess he’ll just have to judge me by my lifetime commitment and performance as a parent.
Ever since I’d lived and worked on the Atlantic seaboard, I’d envied the competitive advantage the children in the area gained from growing up in entrepreneurial families, and the knowledge I imagined they must have gained during mealtimes. Furthermore, while I enjoyed the security of my job, I was bored out of my brain and there was very little to no opportunity to advance my career with South Africa’s new affirmative action policies. I became involved in Aida’s business, and it would be unfair for me to say that I was roped in. I was a willing participant. Initially, I was working two jobs, but it soon became apparent that we’d do better if I joined her.

Some may rightly call me foolish, but I didn’t think it necessary to negotiate a position, a share, a contract, or for that matter even an agreed salary – and nothing was offered. Considering the volatility of our marriage and our agreeing to have another child, it should have seemed like a very bad idea to start working together, and in many ways it was. However, ultimately, both decisions – another child and the business – turned out to be two of the best decisions I ever made. Together, we rapidly grew her new venture, and our lifestyle, into a significant expression of perceived success. Our newly renovated home, along with photos of Aida with the children, was featured in home design magazines. Additionally, we employed the services of PR consultants to ensure that we’d be seen mingling with the so-called right crowd and were photographed at all the right events.
Samuel was delivered by c-section on the 2 of June 1997.

Generally, once reasonably recovered, mothers invariably can’t wait to meet their new offspring. To my surprise, Aida showed no interest in meeting Samuel at all. Instead of asking for Samuel, she asked for her laptop and immediately disappeared into checking her bank accounts. At first, I thought that her reaction must have had something to do with the general anaesthetic, which I was told could affect reactions or even memory. Unsure of how to handle the situation, I prodded her with questions and attempted to gently remind her that she’d just given birth to a healthy and beautiful baby boy. But my reminders were only countered by questions about projected turnover, what I was working on, and when we could expect a deposit. At the time, I couldn’t possibly begin to comprehend that Aida’s priorities were never going to change.

We weren’t happy and, as so many couples do, we disagreed about money. I was frustrated by the fact that it didn’t matter how well we were doing, how much we achieved, what we built, or what we bought, it never seemed to quench Aida’s thirst for more. For me, it felt as if we were simply chasing shadows, and I found myself constantly repeating ‘It’s never enough.’ Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed our success, and parts of our lifestyle, as much as I imagine anyone would. Only I didn’t understand why we were continually accumulating more debt when we were doing well enough to pay off our mortgage, be debt-free, and invest for the future. It all seemed somewhat extravagant and quite frankly unnecessary. But I kept questioning myself, thinking I was too fiscally conservative to be in business and should be more courageous. But then, I wasn’t truly in business. I didn’t own a share, even though I’d largely funded the business. And while I knew that I was personally responsible for generating more than seventy per cent of the profits, I wasn’t even an employee. That said, I kept giving Aida the benefit of the doubt, thinking that I had to learn how to be braver.

On top of that, we also held vastly different opinions on the best way to raise our children. Aida, in my opinion, followed a strict post Second World War British approach in which well-disciplined children were to be seen, but not heard. They were to be taken care of by their nannies until they could be shipped off to boarding school to continue their education. Obviously, it was the last thing that I wanted. I believed they’d learn more by being home and spending time with us, especially for meals. I desperately wanted them to experience what I’d witnessed during my time on the Atlantic Seaboard. I believed that they too would gain an early competitive advantage, should they decide to go into business – or preferably for the day they inherited ours. But they shared meals with their nannies and other household staff, and rarely – if ever – joined us for dinner. We shared one brilliant family holiday on the island of Mauritius. After that, our children were excluded and sent to their grandparents while we indulged ourselves at international luxury resorts.

I didn’t understand where Aida got her child-rearing ideas from. She came from the most incredible family. Her father was and is – in my opinion – a masterful educationalist. Like his mother before him, he became the headmaster of one of South Africa’s most prestigious private schools. Her mother, as a physiotherapist, chose to work with disabled children. As a couple, they represented the very definition of salt of the earth.
They invested wisely in a coastal town, positioned between expansive lakes, nature reserves, and the Indian Ocean. This small town offered an extraordinary experience of nature. Her father enjoyed a lifetime love affair with restoring vintage British motorcycles, often rebuilding them from parts stored in old shoe boxes. I imagined he would have loved the 1960s British era of mods and rockers. He was exceptionally active for his age. Now well into his sixties, and despite a crippling injury from his youth that permanently damaged the tendons to one of his legs, he continued year after year to participate in an event branded the world’s most beautiful marathon – Cape Town’s annual 56km Two Oceans Ultra-Marathon. Living where they did, with a home on the lake with its own jetty, they sailed and fished, and as active members of the mountain club they regularly explored the surrounding reserves.

What more can one say about a couple who in retirement flew off to tackle the base camp of Mount Everest, after which they embarked on an eighteen-month around the world adventure on the back of a recently restored motorcycle? They accepted Jeremy without question as if he was one of their own, and they knew how to keep any child thoroughly entertained. Jeremy and all their grandkids could expect to be taught how to sail, fish, and restore bikes. They got to participate in local sailing regattas and were taken on hiking and camping trips. On the road, grandpa could with ease keep the kids enthralled and educated at the same time while discussing nothing more than cloud formations or any other subject of potential interest. As a parent, I couldn’t possibly have wished for better grandparents. If I had anything to complain about, it would only have been that they didn’t live a bit closer so we could see them more often.

To the outside world, Aida is an attractive, feisty, ambitious, and confident individual. Friends, acquaintances, and colleagues could be forgiven for legitimately believing they’d met their new best friend, someone who instantly understood them better than they knew themselves. The world saw what I first saw, but behind closed doors I experienced a vulnerable person with an inconsolable need for attention – which I found particularly endearing. Her vulnerability appealed to the rescuer in me, and I honestly wanted to make life better for Aida. I wanted to heal her, and I wanted her to truly become the person she was so very capable of projecting. Of course, I know today it wasn’t my place and it shouldn’t have been my job. But back then, I was probably too arrogant to know.

I still believed I could make a difference. Except I had absolutely no idea about how to deal with her inexplicable, excruciatingly difficult demands for perfection. Aida loved entertaining. Well, at least I thought she did, and she was decidedly pretty damn good at it. As for me, it was like walking on a tightrope, doing my best balancing act but never knowing whether she approved of what I had to say, or whether her guests were possibly a little bit too interested in what I had to contribute. Invariably, I’d soon enough hear that I’d slipped, and the best heartfelt apology that I could muster simply wouldn’t suffice. Any apology only triggered an endless barrage of shape-shifting circles around unresolved issues compounded historically with what happened last month, three months ago, or even from the first day we met. Wherever possible, I started to excuse myself from social engagements.

Then, I still hoped that if I somehow buried myself in work, it would keep Aida happy – and potentially alleviate my ever-present worry about how much we were spending. So I continued to suppress the nagging feeling of being manipulated, and I continued to deny the subtle erosion of my values. But my hamster-wheel approach only seemed to lead to more unhappiness. I’m ashamed to admit that I wasn’t around for the kids as much as I should’ve been, and I didn’t insist on their inclusion.
Worst of all, I didn’t pick up on just how devastatingly unhappy Jeremy had become. Perhaps I’d taken it for granted that he was doing okay because he had grown into an awesome teenager. With an endearing, somewhat playfully rebellious personality – and a dry sense of humour – he had built an amazing circle of friends. Ellen and Samuel couldn’t possibly wish for a better older brother than Jeremy. But I guess, just like me, he was doing his best to avoid any contact at home. He awkwardly moved around our home with his shoulders hunched over, keeping his eyes down, doing his best to stay out of the way and to avoid conflict.

Unbeknown to me, he was struggling with depression that not even the tranquillity he found as an avid reader could relieve. There was so much that he was afraid to tell me. I only heard about the true extent of verbal, psychological, and physical abuse he endured many years later when he and his friends were reminiscing about their childhood. I should’ve been more attentive. I’m so grateful that he found the courage to let me know, before it was too late, about how unhappy he’d become. It’s simply not an acceptable excuse, but I was running all over the country doing business and when I got home I’d invariably have a dinner party or some other event to attend. I was exhausted and I regret to say that I didn’t make enough time for my children. Additionally, it seemed to me, the more successful we became, the more Aida needed to be in control. To the point that taking ten minutes to read any of our kids a bedtime story could easily erupt into an irrational argument that could carry on all through the night and potentially turn violent.

When Jeremy was only seven years old, Valeria fell in love with a visiting Australian. Soon after, she left South Africa to start a new life six-thousand nautical miles away. Before leaving she’d been a fairly brilliant alternate weekend mother. After leaving, she kept in regular contact, but she had essentially abandoned her two children when she left them behind. In fairness, I did have custody – so she couldn’t have taken Jeremy with her. But that’s almost impossible to explain to a child, nor does it change how they experience the loss of their mother. While chatting, it soon became apparent that in my quest to make my marriage work, I had abandoned him all over again. And I couldn’t honestly say which of us, Aida or I, had caused more damage. Furthermore, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that if I didn’t act, and act quickly, I was looking at a potential teenage-suicide victim. Fuck it! I knew I’d messed up and let him down. That said, I still wasn’t in a position to immediately do anything about it – or rather I wasn’t in any condition to respond appropriately.

ADDICTION CLINIC MAY 2000
‘I’m not sharing a room.’ Someone with an unfamiliar accent was complaining. I’m usually an early bird and don’t ordinarily struggle with hangovers. Even though my mouth was dry, my nose blocked, and I could have done with a bottle of water and a splash of the face, I pulled the pastel pink flowers firmly over my head and tucked the corners of the duvet under my chin.
‘This room has four beds it’s meant to accommodate four patients,’ a nurse replied.
‘Well, I’m not sharing a room with him. If I must share, find someone else,’ the odd accent replied and thankfully exited the room.
I thought they’d both left and I could get some much-needed sleep. But it wasn’t to be, and I soon enough heard ‘You need to get up and take a shower. Breakfast is in a half-hour, and you have a lecture to get to. Oliver will show you where everything is.’
I’m known for my snoring, especially after a night out, so I guessed I’d probably annoyed Oliver, the person with an odd accent, and most likely kept him awake. My fragmented brain thought You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m here to detox, to rest, and to recuperate. Before checking in the previous evening, I’d polished off a bottle of scotch in the parking lot. And I was pretty sure I’d told admissions that I’d been using cocaine non-stop for thirty-three days with little or no sleep.
I showered, but I don’t think I ate. Then I followed the others to the lecture room and dropped into a chair. Propped up against the wall in the back, I closed my eyes and did my best to follow what was being said.
‘Euphoric recalls will only cause you to relapse, and ultimately you’ll be right back using your drug of choice,’ was about all I heard, but I had no idea what they were talking about.

Day one ended with a line in front of the nurse’s station. Someone whispered, ‘It’s not a sleeping tablet it’s a placebo.’ I signed for my one and only sleeping tablet, thinking I wouldn’t need it.
In week one, we were instructed to write our life stories. Mine didn’t include much. An ordinary story of a boy from a poor neighbourhood who believed that he was fortunate to have had more than others. A reserved lifestyle that regrettably included two failed marriages. Baring the past thirty-odd days, I’d previously tried weed on only a few occasions in my twenties, but over the past few years, I’d possibly been drinking more than I liked to admit. However, I had no horror stories to tell, and I had no idea what the counsellors meant by junkie pride.

I’d only tried my first party drug a few months ago. For the second year in a row, our business had elected to celebrate our year-end at the Mother City Queer Projects (MCQP) – which also welcomed members from the breeder (heterosexual) crowd – said to be one of the biggest party events of the year. Eager ticket holders often planned and coordinated their themed outfits for months in advance. The costumes were then shown off as they boogied, twerked, and minced their way around an extravaganza of dance floors and DJs, bars, and chill-out zones. Heavenly Bodies was the aptly chosen theme that year. I was somewhat taken aback when Aida asked me to share an illicit street drug with her because she didn’t want to try it alone. I knew that ecstasy was very popular among teens and young adults, especially at nightclubs and raves, but all I’d previously paid attention to was a tragic report of a teenager who died from her first-ever dose. I hesitantly agreed, then spent the rest of the evening downing bottles of water for fear of dehydration. I don’t believe I felt anything other than an exaggerated sense of responsibility when it was time to round up the group and get everyone home safely.

Then – thirty-three days before checking myself into rehab – while visiting Sun City’s Palace resort, we’d barely closed the door to our suite when Aida started crushing and chopping up fine lines of cocaine. I knew she’d asked me about it a month before. But at the time, I was busy making some last-minute adjustments to a banner about six meters off the ground and I’d completely forgotten our conversation. However, I’m pretty sure that I would have suggested that we talk about it later, and I honestly don’t remember discussing it again.
Blame-game-Amy, a twenty-year-old veteran, called me out in group therapy. Amy was on her fourth tour through the revolving doors of rehab. Of course, she was right. It was my call, and I could have simply said no, but I didn’t. Again, my first impression was that I hardly felt anything, so I didn’t know what the big deal was. When asked by Aida on our way to dinner, I said I couldn’t understand why people were so willing to spend so much on something that only made me feel a bit more relaxed. However, after sharing a single gram on our weekend away, I was the one looking for more. And one week later I needed to find a second dealer. We were getting cocaine from a close friend of one of our staff members and I didn’t want anyone, including Aida, to know just how much I was using, nor that I was using every day. I’d been around drugs in the 80s and I didn’t mind if others used, but I was never that interested in experimenting. Yet, at the ripe old age of forty-one, and with a family to provide for, I went from zero to completely out of control in a matter of days.

In week two, we were taught about the dangers of umbrella addictions – sex, retail therapy, gambling, over-exercising or even series binge-watching – all of which could potentially lead us straight back to our drug of choice. Plus we were introduced to the fellowships of Alcohol and Narcotics Anonymous.
A sober ex-patient arrived to the deafening sound of, ‘We don’t need no education. We don’t need no false control,’ to take me to my first meeting. Following his instructions, we piled into the back of his tiny 1200cc pick-up that was way too small to safely accommodate us. A friendly ‘How you doing? Staying clean one day at . . .’ was drowned out by The Wall as the screaming pick-up flung us around and we desperately attempted to hold onto anything we could. Thankfully, we didn’t have too far to go before we reached our destination where we were told, ‘go inside, there’s tea, coffee, and biscuits, and don’t forget to pick up newcomers pack.’
The church hall seemed half full of students, one of whom hugged me and told me, ‘You’re the most important person at this meeting tonight,’ then said, ‘Listen to what you can relate to, what you can identify with.’ As I made my way to an empty seat in the back, I felt sure I’d recognized one of Jeremy’s friends.
I listened to the opening preamble.
‘Our whole life and thinking were centred in drugs in one form or another – the getting and using and finding ways and means to get more. We lived to use and used to live. Very simply, an addict is a man or woman whose life is controlled by drugs. We placed their use ahead of the welfare of our families – our wives, husbands, and children. We had to have drugs at all costs. We did many people great harm but most of all we harmed ourselves.’
I immediately asked myself how I was supposed to relate.
They had a guest speaker for the evening who was celebrating two years of being clean and sober. Maurice, who was thankfully closer to my age, started by describing what a nightmare he’d been to his family. For more than eighteen years his wife and children couldn’t count on him for anything. On paydays he’d have every intention of taking his pay home, ‘But I was powerless,’ he said, then continued ‘Instead of going home, I’d find myself at the crack-house and when I ran out of money, I’d sneak into my wife’s house and take anything I could pawn for cash, including some of my children’s stuff . . . I once traded their PlayStation for more crack.’ At times he’d disappear for days, sometimes weeks. Yet somehow his wife and kids always forgave him and stood by him, no matter how often he let them down.
Finally, after years of self-loathing, he hit another rock bottom when his wife had had enough and decided to kick him out. He found the rooms of Narcotics Anonymous, possibly the only place he felt welcomed, and out of desperation he was willing to listen. As suggested, he did ninety meetings in ninety days. During this, he found a sponsor who helped him to work the steps. Before long, for the first time in his adult life he was able to hold onto his job – something he’d previously never been capable of. He was grateful for having found a program that saved his life. After thirty days of sobriety, his wife rolled out the red carpet and welcomed him home. A day at a time, he was slowly rebuilding his relationship with his wife and two boys. To celebrate his two years of sobriety, he’d taken his boys fishing, and for the first time in his life he was starting to feel like a productive member of society. When he finished everyone clapped, and several attendees congratulated him and commented on parts they identified with. It was a supportive and encouraging environment. And while I was happy for him, and especially for his wife and kids, I simply couldn’t relate.

On our way back to rehab, I thought something had worked or changed. Our volunteer driver had significantly slowed to within the speed limit, and he’d turned down the music. The next day, I had what I thought was a relatively positive review of my first NA meeting – other than me noting I had struggled to relate. However, my comment didn’t go down well. I was told I was in denial, and incapable of recognising that I was lying to myself. Which earned me the privilege of wearing a Special and Different placard for the next few days. Don’t get me wrong, I was very concerned – or perhaps confused – and definitely frightened by the experience. Mostly, I didn’t understand why this seemingly innocuous drug had so incredibly quickly taken over my life. However, to be accurate, when I booked myself in I had only used it for exactly thirty-three days.

When Aida visited, I was told that the children were missing me and that I wasn’t to worry because no one knew where I was. Family, friends, and staff had been told that I was feeling a bit overworked, and I merely needed some time off. With permission, at the end of our visiting time, I got to walk Aida to the parking lot
because she had forgotten a magazine featuring our home that she wanted me to see. Only, it had nothing to do with the article. Yes, there was a magazine featuring our home that I got to keep, but underneath she’d prepared some lines. We were overheard discussing whether I needed to be in rehab or not, and the idea of responsible using only on weekends. As a result, I had to be kept in isolation until the centre received a negative result from a mandatory blood test.
At the end of my twenty-one days of treatment, there was no welcome home party for me, not that I was expecting it, and there was certainly no red carpet rolled out for my effort. Instead, I was ushered into a meeting room where an attorney was waiting to serve me with a restraining order. In addition to not being allowed within a kilometre of my home, he was there to inform me they’d obtained a power of attorney – for my protection – and had emptied all my bank accounts. Ellen and Samuel were abroad, cruising the Mediterranean with their grandparents who’d kindly taken up a holiday booking that Aida and I were unable to use. Furthermore, with no job, no money, and no home to go to, I urgently needed to collect Jeremy from the bus terminal. While I was away Jeremy had been with Valeria’s parents and was on his way back, arriving in the next two hours.

Well, there certainly wasn’t a party for me, and I wouldn’t have wanted one. But that night, the very same night that I left rehab, Aida had arranged to have what some would describe as the party of the year at our house. I wasn’t sure what our staff had been told or how much they knew. But somehow staff always knows, and they also knew I was out. It didn’t take long before I was inundated with calls, primarily to find out if I was okay, and wanting to know where I was. Naturally, all my friends had been invited to the party, and they all seemed to be having a great time. The calls ranged from ‘How are you?’ and ‘We heard you were out. Sorry, we hope it’s okay, but we were instructed to not contact you.’ to ‘We’re at your house. Wow! what a party, two live bands, a DJ, and three bars serving free drinks.’ and ‘Where are you and why aren’t you here?’ Later, as the evening wore on and they were feeling a little bit more emboldened, they’d enquire, ‘Who’s this guy and do you know that he’s living with Aida . . . in your house?’ and ‘Can you believe this arrogant asshole has just given a speech and he seems to think he’s a new director or something?’

Before the evening was over, I discovered that Aida not only had been spending wildly on champagne and cocaine, but it had only taken three days for her to decide she needed to replace me. She’d signed up for an online dating service and had been bragging about an airline pilot she’d been seeing, and some other suit that had been regularly hanging around the office waiting to pick her up for lunch. And now this guy, who no one had met before but who thought he was a director, who was definitely living with Aida. I knew that emptying my bank accounts was not done out of concern for my sobriety, but I couldn’t help but think that perhaps they had a point. Either way, with Jeremy to take care of, I felt fairly confident that even though I’d just walked out of rehab with only twenty-one days of clean time behind me, it was highly unlikely that I’d want to use again. Before going away, I had promised Jeremy that I would sort things out. Only, I didn’t have to do anything. After four years of marriage to Aida, it was all but finalized for me in the twenty-one days that I was away.

WOODSTOCK
Woodstock evokes a special kind of nostalgia. To the best of my knowledge, Woodstock represents one of only two areas in South Africa that survived apartheid’s relocation policies. It remained a melting pot for ethnic and religious diversity. Before the Dutch settlers arrived in 1652, the Cape was primarily inhabited by nomadic tribes known as the San and Koi people. The Dutch additionally brought a workforce of slaves, along with their Islamic teachers, from the islands of Indonesia and Malaysia. Most of these were initially housed in the Bo-Kaap and De Waterkant areas to be close to the gardens and the port. The gardens were developed to grow fresh fruit and vegetables to replenish food supplies for the Dutch East India Company ships rounding Africa en route to and from the east. Later, many people would relocate to Woodstock, originally known as Papendorp. The suburb was named after a local property owner, Pieter van Papendorp, who’d settled there in the mid-eighteen-hundreds when it consisted of sporadic thatched farmhouses and fisherman cottages. As more residents arrived, farms were subdivided, and Woodstock became a popular and fashionable seaside village. Unfortunately, a decision in the 1950s to expand the harbour destroyed the shoreline and the beaches. Today, Beach Road marks the original shoreline.

Apartheid, a system of institutionalized racial segregation, was implemented in South Africa in 1948 by a nationalistic political regime led by the Dutch. The racial hierarchy placed whites at the very top and black South Africans at the bottom. Those in the middle were coloured (mixed race), Indians and Asians. Residential areas, education, businesses, entertainment, public areas, transport, and even the beaches were segregated, and signs posted for whites-only or non-whites appeared everywhere. Non-white South Africans were moved out of cities, and black South Africans were moved into wretched settlement schemes with little or no access to basic needs. Marriage or sexual relations between the races was banned and any couple caught faced jail time.

As Southern Africa basked in the glow of a post-2nd-World-War economic boom, state-owned industrial enterprises attracted skilled white workers from Europe. At the same time, the expansion of the public service provided jobs to lower-class white workers at inflated rates. White poor often became white workers, and white societies generally attained wealth. However, their material and subjective privilege remained dependent on continuous state intervention.
Whites predominately performed supervisory jobs and they were paid higher wages, offset against the low wages that black South African workers could be paid. I’m not a historian, but my family and I undoubtedly benefited from white social and physical mobility that contrasted sharply with the ever-intensifying control to which all others were subjected. When I was born, my father worked the nightshift for a morning newspaper, then
as a supervisor for a large fish packaging company, and later in life he secured a position as a security guard at the post office. My father never attended high school. My father was a dedicated hard worker, but in a truly competitive market, with his PTSD and severe lack of education, he would never have been so easily employed.

In Woodstock, some white European workers were relatively wealthy, but they were often classified as second-class citizens. They could claim hardly any sense of dominance associated with colonial white power. I don’t know why Woodstock remained relatively untouched during the apartheid era. We were an assortment of poor and working-class: from Europe and the UK, illiterate Portuguese, Madeiran fisherman, Greek traders, and coloureds – the apartheid classification for mixed-race people who form the majority of Cape Town’s population. Also in the mix were the descendants of the Cape’s indigenous Koi and San tribes, Indians, Asians and people originally imported as slaves – my friend Vernon preferred the term Islands people. With all of us living together, maintaining social relations, and often comfortably blended through marriage, we essentially represented what the ruling elite whites feared most – racial degeneration.

FORCED REMOVALS
Our neighbours weren’t so lucky. In the 1970s as I entered high school, our neighbouring suburb – District Six – was targeted for forced removal. What had been a sanctuary from the oppressive apartheid regime in the 50s and 60s was bulldozed. A vibrant community, beautiful buildings, and churches were destroyed, and families were split apart. Noor Ebrahim, a former resident of District Six and curator of the District Six museum, described the pain and horror of the removals in his book Noor’s Story:
‘One evening on my way home from work, I saw bulldozers demolishing houses and shops in William, Stone (which we knew as ‘Klip’) and Caledon Streets. I knew I was witnessing a terrible evil. I felt hopeless and helpless. Day after day, the bulldozers came closer to our house. Too soon it was our turn. Officials of the government told me that I had one month in which to clear out. What could I do? No one had any choice in the matter. I made arrangements to buy a house in Athlone. Luckily our children Isgaak and Mariam were too young to fully understand what was happening . . . Every day for six days, I stopped my car and stared at my house. On the seventh day I got out of the car, leaned against it for a moment and then walked around the house. By now the windows and window frames had been removed. The front door still carried the small round royal blue and white plate indicating that this was 247 Caledon Street. I ran to the door and ripped off our number. Then I went to the kitchen and saw the bolt was still on the back door. I removed this too and took it with me. A week later I passed my street again and saw that the house was gone. Even the rubble had been removed. I stood on the vacant plot with desolation in my heart.’

VERNON
Naturally, that fear spilled over into Woodstock where many had immediate family members, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, or cousins who had been forcefully removed from District Six.
At a point in my recovery process, I needed help to remember parts of my early childhood. I called a friend and lecturer from the University of Western Cape (UWC). It is located on the windswept Cape Flats, twenty kilometres down the road from the University of Cape Town (UTC), in a stunning setting close to Rhodes Memorial on the slopes of Table Mountain. UWC was a planned apartheid government university designated to provide second-rate academic education for coloureds. In the mid-1960s, it was a quiet institution. But in 1970, UWC’s moment of liberation came when a university student, Desmond Demas, was expelled for not wearing a tie to lectures. He objected to being treated as a child while white students at UCT were allowed to dress casually.

A little up the road, at the country’s oldest university, the University of Cape Town, students had started their own sit-ins. After the university failed to stand up to the government’s decision to rescind an offer of employment
made to the black lecturer Archie Mafeje, UCT students staged a sit-in similar to the occupation of universities taking place in many parts of the world. Mass meetings were held in Jameson Hall, usually reserved for graduations. The event attracted favourable international media coverage and messages of support flowed from global anti-apartheid movements that had emerged as part of the 1960s counterculture. UWC remained actively involved in the upsurge of resistance to apartheid, and by the 1980s the university became known as the intellectual home of the left. The protests for academic freedom, for One Man-One Vote, and to free Nelson Mandela continued until Mandela was released in 1990 after twenty-seven years of imprisonment.

As a former resident of District Six, Melvin had been intimately affected. And as a lecturer at UWC, he was naturally politically astute. I hoped that by listening to his story I would reboot parts of my memory that I’d missed or intentionally blocked out. Melvin was working from home on the effects of alcoholism in the workplace. After a brief general catch up about family and friends, I launched straight into the reason for my visit.
‘I’m struggling to recall so much about my time in Woodstock and recently I’ve had some stuff come up. I kind of feel taking a trip down memory lane might just help.’ A bit perplexed, he asked if I’d spoken to our mutual friend Vernon, saying ‘You two were tight!’
Of course, he was right. Vernon had lived less than a block away in Woodstock and was one of my classmates, but we hadn’t always been close. We were friendly enough, but at school he was a talented athlete and I was a Christian nerd. Vernon’s story clearly reflected much of the blurred boundaries of Woodstock. He’d been left with his grandparents after his parents divorced. They had lived less than a block away from my home and were essentially an illegal marriage between a Jewish girl and a coloured boy. His father’s parents were descendants of Islands people, who’d been forcefully removed from their home in District Six. When his father emigrated to Canada and took Vernon’s two lighter-skinned brothers, he felt abandoned all over again. His mother occasionally visited, but because she lived in a white area he was never allowed to visit her or her home. Vernon is a strikingly handsome, fairly dark-skinned brown man. While still at school, his popularity had already extended to the wealthy suburbs on the Atlantic coast. Exotic was the term bandied about to describe Vernon. Before I married Valeria, he and I often bumped into each other on the Atlantic coast – where his popularity had only sky-rocketed when he married the owner of a restaurant popular with the all-night crowd. Vernon had been classified as white, he held a white ID book, and we had attended the same white school. Even so, as a young child, he’d been instructed to never visit the mall where his mother owned a clothing boutique, and if they ever accidentally ran into each other in public, he was to not let on that they knew each other. Later in life, we truly connected and become closer than brothers.
‘Absolutely, I see Vernon almost every day and I know his story, but can you share your story?’ I asked.

Melvin began: ‘District Six was rezoned and declared a whites-only area in 1964. I was born in 1965 and my family lived in Constitution Street.’
While Melvin was recalling fond memories of building go-carts and riding them along the Warmer Estate bus route, I realized it was close to the Harley Davidson Clubhouse where I’d been a member for the past five years. I had used the same route at roughly the same time, and I tried to recall if I’d ever seen kids on go-carts in the hustle and bustle of the neighbourhood. At some point, his conversation switched over to an academic analysis involving critical race theory, race identity nexuses, and social justice. His new puppy had come over to say hello while I tried to follow, and most of it flew straight over my head. Tickling the puppy’s tummy, I drifted off to the years of dog walking he had ahead.

I caught up with Melvin when he switched back to, ‘Those GG registered government VW Beetles were a constant, regularly dropping off yet another notification for their assigned areas. My grandmother would see them coming and hurry to get dressed in her best. She looked white and would place her Catholic Mantilla on her head before opening the door.’ I shifted, uncomfortable in my seat and wondered where the puppy had gone.
‘We were one of the last families to be removed, that was in 1976.’ Slipping into one of my coping behaviours, I calculated that he must have been fifteen at the time, the same age as his son and my youngest.
‘We were told that the area was rat-infested, an unsafe and an unhealthy environment. But our old home is one of the few houses that was never demolished and it’s still standing now thirty years later.’

We had been talking for over two hours when his research assistant, who I’d almost forgotten about, needed to leave. I was offered a cup of tea while they took a few moments to discuss their current project.
When we continued, I told Melvin, ‘It feels so strange. I was right in the middle of things, well at least on the edge, but not particularly politically aware. I feel like I should have known more and been more actively involved. I don’t think I did enough.’

I first became aware while in primary school of the government’s segregation policy. My close friend and I wanted to attend the same high school and our parents did their best to explain that we were classified as different and that it was against the law. Then, in high school, a group of us in school uniforms wouldn’t be allowed to catch the same bus. Someone could easily be singled out and told, ‘You, Hottnot! Wait for a non-white bus.’ The word Hottentot from the 1700s was the name given to the Khoikhoi people of southern Africa. It’s regarded as offensive, with the shortened version – Hottnot – considered to be even more derogatory. Nothing would be said, and we’d all simply get off and wait for the next non-white bus to arrive.

If I’m kind to myself, I guess that as children we didn’t know what to make of the injustices. We were confronted and challenged, yet we kind of accepted it, worked around it, and carried on as if everything was normal. The school I attended was totally intermixed, and it was not uncommon to find two brothers classified under different categories but who came from the same parents. Racial classification was the cornerstone of all apartheid laws. The Population Registration Act of 1950 required that each inhabitant of South Africa be classified and registered by their racial characteristics. It placed individuals in one of four groups: native, coloured, Asian, or white. And our identity document was the main instrument used to enforce this racial divide. Apparently, Vernon’s grandfather was one of many tasked with determining which identity document you or your children would be issued. In Woodstock, to buck the system and hopefully give your children a better chance, it was often agreed to register your brown featured child as white and allow your white child to carry the burden of the coloured classification. This may or may not have been beneficial, except for the 1967 Defence Amendment Act which made military service compulsory for all white males between the ages of 18 and 65 years old. We were handed our call-up papers at school and couldn’t help but notice the white brother was not called to serve when the coloured brother received his instructions to report for duty. We said nothing, but we’d all be wondering what kind of hell was waiting for him in the army, or where he would be stationed.

I feel it’s important to attempt to clarify that although the racial category coloured was socially constructed by the apartheid regime, it was not considered to be a discriminatory term for the longest time in South Africa. However, from the 1980s, most coloureds began to self-identify as black to stress their common experience of oppression. Later, the term People of Colour was positively adopted, with special emphasis placed on the capitalization of the letter ‘P’ to symbolize the rejection of racist terminology.

It’s not my place to use either of these offensive terms, but as I began to apologize Melvin immediately cut me off.
‘Oh, don’t go there, there’s no need to, it’s exactly what I’m personally dealing with right now.’ Then he continued ‘As a community, we were highly politicized against apartheid, yet discrimination continued to exist between the different schools in our area. And as a child, I’d listen to adults’ intense discussions in opposition to racism, only to witness a totally different attitude a few moments later on my way to school. Hell, even my mother used to call me a Hottnot.’
I wanted to interject and point out it was perfectly okay for him and his mother – who probably used the term affectionately – but he was on a roll, so I didn’t interrupt.
He continued ‘Just the other day, less than a month ago, guess what? When a drunk coloured staggered in front of my car, I screamed “You Chinese bushman! Get the fuck out of the road!” So, I guess there’s some degree of racism in all of us. And as far as I’m concerned, I’m a racist myself.’ Chinese bushman is a term suggesting the individual is an offspring of a prostitute who worked the docks servicing the Chinese fishing industry that regularly frequented Cape Town’s harbour.
After a short pause, he concluded with ‘You know, growing up, I hated being called a coloured. However, I’m discovering that what I hated more . . . were other coloureds, myself included.’

His honesty had given me a rare glimpse into how trauma is often internalized. And I couldn’t help but ask why we needed yet another study on alcoholism when we could all benefit from a deep dive into the lasting effects of racism. As I drove home, I was thinking that we, as a community, had it relatively easy – I kept asking did we do enough? Did I do enough? And when is it ever okay to hide behind a veil of ignorance?

There may have been poor and working-class whites among us who were afraid of labour competition from black Africans. Universally, lower-class whites are known to instigate racial friction and are often the group responsible for frustrating Africans’ aspirations, as well as acts of unspeakable physical violence against blacks. Hell, my very own uncle, while working as a ticket collector, threw me off a bus because he thought my schoolmate wasn’t white enough. But he wasn’t from Woodstock. While we were afraid of the authoritarian regime, I don’t think that we were intimidated out of our convictions. At least that’s the Woodstock community that I remember. But did we do enough? I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to answer that question. We didn’t have to endure the wretched conditions that black Africans were subjected to. We were spared from the bulldozers. And we fell short of the more radical ideological orientations of the black student movement and other small groups of student activists of the time. But I believe that as a community at large, we landed on the right side of history. Despite our fears, some of us taught our curriculum in townships to supplement the substandard Bantu education that was been offered to black South Africans. Many of us joined in the One Man-One Vote protests and those to free Nelson Mandela. We celebrated his release from prison, and we are proud to have played a part – even a small part – in the most successful and peaceful transfer of power ever witnessed by the world.

With the turn of the century and a new democracy, an urban revival transformed Woodstock into a trendy neighbourhood. The neighbourhood was only a ten-minute drive from the heart of Cape Town’s central business district and property prices initially attracted artists and photographers seeking cost-effective studio spaces, academics for the convenience of a shorter commute to the University of Cape Town, and designers for its well-established garment and furniture industries. Community centres started offering art classes, yoga, meditation, and drumming sessions. Victorian townhouses were bought, renovated, and resold. Property developers spotted an opportunity for trendy apartment complexes and soon after the young up-and-coming professional crowd moved in. Restaurants and markets offering an array of cuisines from fusion, to locally sourced, to vegan emerged. Today, Woodstock has regained some of its former glory as a popular evening and weekend destination.

I WAS LOST
As a child, for as long as I can remember, I’d been wandering around feeling somewhat lost and disconnected. My family moved to a new neighbourhood when I was eight years old. Our new place was only a bit further than a block from our previous home. Initially, I met the wrong kind of friends who left me confused and slightly traumatized. But then I met up with a group of friends whose families were involved with a local evangelical Christian church. After they invited me to their Friday evening youth club, the church soon became a big part of my life and I became a regular member who seldom missed either of the Sunday services.
Shortly after this, my mum gathered us to visit her brother. I hardly knew him; I honestly couldn’t remember if I’d met him before, but he’d asked for me after she’d informed him of my newfound faith. Years of excessive drinking had caused cirrhosis, the most severe form of ARLD liver disease. The liver is the second largest organ in the body. It filters harmful substances from the blood and converts food and fluid into nutrients and energy. End-stage liver disease is not a pretty sight. The changes that occur are a build-up of bile in the body that causes the skin and eyes to turn yellow – jaundice – an enlarged abdomen from a build-up fluid that may cause shortness of breath, and reduced brain function as toxins cause confusion. There were a few other family members gathered at his bedside. His wife was sitting to one side with a rather large collection of fluffy toys, and others were busy catching up on their respective lives. I sat with him, prayed with him, held his hand, and watched him peacefully slip away, without anyone else noticing. He had what I felt was a contented smile as it happened.

Looking back, I exhibited some pretty strange behaviours as a child. At times, I’d plan a lunchtime trip to the central business district to engage with the business community. Wherever possible, I’d intentionally make eye contact as if I could telepathically let them know that I belonged. But I’m not sure they even noticed me. While my new friends had introduced me to their church, they often avoided me. Many of them who lived in the same street simply didn’t open their door to me or said they were busy when I came calling. I understood that I was from the wrong side of the tracks so to speak, which in our case was a highway that separated the two neighbourhoods. So, more often than not, I’d hang out with an eighty-four-year-old spinster who I’d met at church. She needed assistance walking because of having contracted polio as a child and was additionally prone to epileptic seizures. Even so, she always opened her door and seemed happy to have me around. My newfound understanding of service told me we are supposed to take care of the poor, the sick, and the needy. After the experience of my uncle’s death, I started frequenting the local hospitals, one of which would later become famous for performing the world’s first open-heart transplant. I’d get there for visiting hours and look for anyone who appeared to be alone.

The church unquestionably provided me with a haven to develop some much-needed social skills and gain a semblance of self-worth. Because of the growth I experienced through this support, I was chosen to serve as head prefect when I reached my final year of schooling. I was trying to decide whether pursue a career as a pastor or to accept the full scholarship I’d been offered by the Department of Correctional Services. The scholarship would allow me the opportunity to qualify as a criminal psychologist and it meant that I’d also be exempted from mandatory national military service. At the same time, I was also considering doing my military service because my closest friend throughout high school and I were, incredibly, called up to serve in the same unit.
While I was still mulling it over one of our church elders, the father of three friends from my youth group, decided it would be okay to discuss his marital problems with me. Out of respect, I attempted to listen for as long as I could; and out of naivety or youthful ignorance, I thought he was expecting me to advise him. But when he mentioned his sexual frustrations, he triggered everything I’d been trying to forget and everything I’d been praying to be forgiven for. For years, I’d desperately prayed to have my childhood slate wiped clean so no one would ever know. I used to beg for its removal from God’s record so it would never be mentioned again, neither in this lifetime nor the hereafter. Despite my intuitive reaction which had me in flight mode, I wanted to give the elder the benefit of the doubt. I thought he was possibly seeing me in some sort of pastoral role since I’d recently been asked to deliver the evening service.

Regardless, the incident made me realize that I desperately needed a lot more life experience. The army had played such a major role in my father’s life I thought it might be something he’d like me to do. I also saw being called up to serve in the same unit as my friend as a sign from the heavens. So, I chose to do my military service, primarily because I thought that it would probably offer me more life experience than my other options. Well, at least until I had a better idea about which path I might want to pursue.

BACK TO CHURCH 1987
After being discharged from the army I didn’t return to church. It was ten years later – after the demise of the company where I was employed, my newfound responsibilities as a husband and a father of two young children, a cottage in the suburbs, and the intense emotional reaction I had to Jeremy’s birth – when I gravitated back to church. And soon after, I found myself teaching Sunday school and helping on Fridays with the youth group.
At our Wednesday home group, we covered some pretty informative topics. As a father of two young boys, I particularly enjoyed working through Steve Biddulph’s book Stories of Manhood. We discussed the importance of understanding our fathers, their life experiences, and their decisions. I was astounded to learn that less than ten per cent of grown men develop any form of a meaningful relationship with their fathers. Sadly, conversations men have with their fathers too often amount to nothing more than dutiful surface chatter about lawnmowers, oil leaks, or sports. For me to have anything more meaningful, I would need to resolve any outstanding issues or resentments I might be secretly holding onto. To become a strong compassionate man, I had to create a space for my father to open up about his life ambitions, achievements, failures, disappointments, fears, and insecurities. Without truly understanding my father, I couldn’t possibly form the kind of relationship I wanted to have with my children.

The next book we discussed was John Bradshaw’s Healing the Shame that Binds You, where I learned more about how toxic shame had affected me. I started to recognize just how badly I often treated myself. How critical, unforgiving, unsympathetic, and even cruel I could be with myself. I started to pay attention to being a bit gentler, patient, loving and kind with myself. It would take years. Generally, I’d only notice that I was being unkind through how I perceived others. Whenever I recognized that I was becoming too critical of others, it usually meant that I’d been treating myself quite harshly. I will always remain grateful for the significant role the church played in my development. Ironically, I can’t help but remember the amount of unwarranted shame its puritanical teachings caused me throughout my years of puberty.

CHILDREN SEPARATED
I went back to church primarily because it had previously worked for me. The company that I worked for went under, and I was afraid of what the future held. And I guess a part of me was hoping there was some truth to the saying a family that prays together stays together. But it wasn’t to be. I’d always feared that at some point Valeria might need to feel free, to experience what she had missed out on. I’d voiced my concern when we were being pressured by Valeria’s parents to get married. It’s not that I wasn’t committed to her and Gareth, I simply felt that she’d become pregnant and been married way too young the first time. So, though I preferred to wait, we were married a little before Gareth’s second birthday. We went through an awful period of suspicions, questions, denials, and a yearning to believe. There was her behavioural change: staying out late and arriving home a little tipsy. Then things escalated. I was told about a potential affair with a local restaurant owner and then saw them race off together in his car. I was called by one of my best friend’s employees and informed that my friend had been indiscreetly boasting of an affair with Valeria.

It all came to a head when Valeria forgot to collect the children while I was in a meeting and couldn’t be reached. Our eight years of marriage was amicably ended when we informed our circle of friends that we had decided to separate. Culturally and legally, custody of the children was never in dispute. Despite all that had transpired during this awful period, I still knew Valeria to be a loving mother and a decent human being. I kind of understood that Valeria wanted a do-over, a second chance at life, but I was surprised when she chose to leave the boys and emigrate to Australia. Gareth was left with his biological father and Jeremy, who had just turned seven, remained in my care.
Then ten years later, despite my best efforts, I ended up repeating the process. It happened all over again with Samuel and his sister Ellen.

THAILAND AND ELLEN’S HEART
I know that cruelty exists, but most of us think it will never happen to us or someone we love. I never expected that I’d find myself utterly powerless to protect my daughter.
When Samuel returned from his day of hiking with his friend, he showered and changed for dinner. We ate dinner on the beach next to the restaurant where Samuel, as he often did, busied himself assisting the chef barbecue some seafood kebabs and langoustine. I was happy he’d enjoyed the day. The day before, he had been missing his sister Ellen and had drawn a huge heart in the sand encompassing their names. I was summoned to photograph his art after he’d positioned himself in the middle to mimic I-miss-you gestures and blow kisses for Ellen to catch.

For the first year and a half after Samuel’s mother and I split, both children were staying with me for eight out of every fourteen days. How were we all supposed to feel? Ellen was happy and settled and she had her own room, which we’d enthusiastically decorated with fairies. Then without warning, she was brutally torn from my arms and removed from my care. We never got a chance to comfort and prepare her. I didn’t get the chance to reassure Ellen I would never stop loving her until two years later when her au-pair slipped up.

AIDA 1995
I met Aida in 1995. We were both single parents at the time; she had Ellen who was only eighteen months old, and I had Jeremy who’d just turned eight. We met when we were out of town and were introduced by a mutual business acquaintance. I noticed her ear – of all things – cutely peering out from behind her long brown hair. Also, as she was an accomplished athlete with national colours behind her name, I couldn’t help but notice that she had the best-shaped legs I’d ever seen. But above all, she displayed a level of confidence that screamed, ‘I’ve got this!’ which was particularly attractive.

I’d been on my own with Jeremy a little over six years and admittedly I was a bit lonely, but I wasn’t looking for a relationship. It had been a while and I was no longer sure if I knew how to have one or if I trusted myself,
so I never followed up. Then, a month after we met, I got a business call from Aida. The call ended with an impromptu ‘I’m in your area, are you free for lunch?’ Another dinner invitation, a week later, turned into an all-nighter talking about children and life as a single parent. After spending the night together, I thought that I’d fallen in love – with all the animated bells, whistles, and butterflies – for the first time in my life. I’d heard about chemistry, but I’d never experienced it before. It all happened so incredibly fast, that three or possibly four weeks later we were engaged to be married.

I fell so hard that I completely ignored the nagging feeling of being manipulated. More importantly, my thoughts were reminding me how painful it had been letting go of Gareth. There were other early warning signs. A meeting with Aida’s accountant the Tuesday before our wedding revealed a small, temporary shortfall. Her business partner’s husband, also the part-time bookkeeper, was suspected of misappropriating funds.
The week after our wedding the business partnership was terminated. Stock capital and more working capital for new premises were urgently required to reopen as a sole trader.

While Aida was naturally somewhat swamped with her new venture, Jeremy and I relocated to the house I’d purchased to be closer to her work and sports commitments. Our move represented a significant change for Jeremy, who needed to change schools and who naturally missed the childhood friends he’d made. A second alarm rang after I thought we were done renovating and Aida wanted more. But, thinking she simply had too much on her plate with her new business and all – and believing I was a true romantic – I got a crew together, we packed up Aida’s and Ellen’s things, and I moved them in.

I kept ignoring the warning signs and continued to believe that I’d met my soul mate. Someone who loved me, cared about me, and intuitively knew me better than I knew myself. But, as for caring? Well, that certainly didn’t last long. Within months, the dynamic had completely changed. Her initial need for my approval evaporated, and my thoughts and feelings were almost always dismissed as though they never existed. It took me a while to understand that only two things mattered: how much money we made, and the illusion of perfection. For this, the rest of the family was be held to an impossible standard. To the outside world, she presented herself as a considerate partner and loving mother, an elegant, graceful, and entertaining host, a dynamic businessperson, and your new best friend. But behind closed doors, nothing the rest of us did was ever good enough. We’d face a barrage of unrelenting criticism and instructions on how to dress, how to act, what to say, and even how to enjoy ourselves. Given the chance, I felt she’d try to control bodily functions.
In our first year, I’d paid for a rather lavish wedding and honeymoon aboard. After that, there was the investment in her new business and the cost of a newly renovated home. My savings had been practically depleted when our first Christmas rolled around. When she pointed out a set of earrings as well as a ring, both from different jewellers, I thought I’d done the right thing by choosing the more expensive of the two. Both cost substantially more than I’d ever spent on a gift before. But I’d gotten it wrong, and our first Christmas day together marked her first episode of physical violence. When she opened her gift expecting to see both, the ring was thrown at me and I was violently punched in the face. Still, I chose to see what I wanted to see: a feisty, ambitious, determined, and confident individual.

CONNECTING WITH MY FATHER
I started going for marathon walks at night, using Ellen as an excuse to get out. Ellen would often wake up and it was quite a struggle getting her to go back to sleep again. I’d dress her warmly, put her in the stroller, cover her up, and hit the road. She’d be asleep in minutes, but I’d keep walking for miles.
I met Aida shortly after my father passed. We’d scatted my father’s ashes at Rhodes Memorial, a national landmark nestled between the trees on the northern slope of Table Mountain. I watched as his ashes were blown away by our famed south-easterly wind with a lump in my throat and lingering thoughts of a sensitive, brave, and regal man who unfailingly loved my mother. He too enjoyed going for long walks and we thought he’d enjoy the panoramic view that stretched out across the southern suburbs, where Ellen and I often walked, to the snow-capped peaks of the Hottentots Holland Mountain range. I have fond memories from my high school years of getting up before dawn to attend an Easter Sunday open-air inter-faith service, held at the Memorial. We’d arrive before sunrise, secure a spot, and as the sun began to rise from behind the mountain range, we would also rise with the hymn Up from the Grave He Arose.

At age seventy-four, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. If caught early, there’s usually a favourable prognosis. Unfortunately, in my father’s case, it spread aggressively and quickly. I was grateful I was able to spend his last year with him, while also supporting my mother. But I did find it hard to imagine what I’d do in his situation. He subjected himself to being poisoned, burnt, and cut as he followed all the suggested curative procedures offered, and hardly ever said a word. Despite her ‘I don’t take care of the sick’ and ‘I never loved your father’ mantras, Mum was there for him. With the attention to detail of a perfectionist, she monitored his medical appointments, visiting hours, daily schedules, our involvement, and Dad’s medications. When Dad’s cancer progressed into his bone marrow, a particularly painful form of cancer, curative care changed to palliative care, and Dad was sent home with larger and more frequent dosages of morphine prescribed and administered.

As a born-again Christian teenager I’d been annoyingly preachy, and Dad’s standard reply had almost always been ‘What you’ve still got to learn, I’ve already forgotten.’ Near the end, my father asked me to pray with him. While my own beliefs had significantly shifted, I was privileged to pray with him as he accepted Jesus as his Lord and Saviour. His appetite faded and he experienced visions of family members who had gone before. Then one night, Dad passed away silently as he slept. I have a wonderful lasting memory of my father huddled together with Jeremy. The two of them, under a blanket, happily watching yet another children’s program. The next morning, when I dropped Jeremy off, he walked into his classroom and announced that he had good news. It was as if he intuitively understood that his grandpa was now in a much better place.

Ellen and I had been walking for well over an hour when we reached the Newlands Rugby Stadium. Historically, it’s the second-oldest stadium in the world. After recently hosting the 1995 Rugby World Cup, the stadium’s surrounding pathways had been substantially improved and they were perfect for the stroller. Ellen was still sound asleep, but I thought it best we turn back. I’d been chatting to my father, as I so often did while walking. It was the strangest thing that after my father’s passing, he seemed closer than ever before. I finally felt that we could talk about things other than the 2nd World War.

There are many cultures around the globe that practice ritual celebration of deified ancestors. This is especially evidenced in Taoism and Buddhism, where founders of both temples and schools are revered. In the East, it’s not dissimilar from the bedrock faith of Confucian philosophy which calls on one to respect one’s ancestors. Ancestors, spirits, and gods are considered part of this world. Because they almost exclusively focused on male ancestors it’s often considered to be a patriarchal religion. African religions of ancestral worship similarly believe in the eternal existence of souls and their ability to influence the affairs of their living descendants. While I was no longer sure if I believed in an afterlife, I did appreciate my new relationship with my father, and I could certainly do with a little bit of help and influence from beyond.

I continued my conversation with Dad as Ellen and I headed home.
‘I’ve got to admit that I was a bit taken aback by your conversion to Christ in your last few days. Don’t get me wrong, I’d probably do the same, if only as a last-minute insurance policy. But I somehow suspect it’s something you did for me as a parting gift.’ Feeling him smile I continued. ‘As for me, I’m no longer sure what I believe in. I find it peculiar when people are so sure that they know. It is even worse when they insist on being right. I believe in their shared concept of service to others, and I’ve come to respect all faiths. And I kind of like what I recently read: “All the rivers run into the sea, Yet the sea is not full; To the place from which the rivers come, there they return again.” (Ecclesiastes 1:7) Some twist and turn more than others but along the way, they equally nourish, replenish, and sustain a variety of communities. However, they all eventually find their way to the sea.’

Adjusting Ellen’s blankets and beanie I continued. ‘Dad, I think I’ve done it again and I need your help. You unconditionally loved Mum and that kept us together. I love Mum, but honestly, I don’t know how you did it. I’ve already failed twice, and I really want this marriage to work.’ I rounded the corner to our street hearing Doctor Hook’s song in my head, ‘When you’re in love with a beautiful woman, everybody wants her, everybody
loves her . . .’ and thinking about the only bit of advice I could remember my father giving me – if you want to be happy, pick the plump one.

SUNSET IN THAILAND
Samuel had taken a break from helping the chef to join me for dinner. It’s quite popular to gather on the beach for sunset. Many people lay out blankets, bring some wine, pack a picnic basket, or order from the restaurant, and enjoy yet another of Railay’s spectacular tropical sunsets. I didn’t see Annie or her family, but I did start a conversation with a Dutch couple who sat next to us. They were planning a trip to South Africa and were naturally interested in what I could share with them.
South Africa is a wonderful tourist destination, with so much to see and experience. From the white sandy beaches that surround Table Mountain to our neighbouring wine lands and our famed Garden Route. There’s the northern part of South Africa, with our national game reserves: stunning bushveld offering an unprecedented opportunity to view the big five in their natural habitat. There’s the multicultural diversity of our people and our cosmopolitan city life. And of course, I suggested a visit to Robben Island to learn about our former president, Nelson Mandela, who after twenty-seven years of imprisonment lead his party to successfully negotiate the peaceful transition of power in a country ravaged by apartheid.

However, as much as I love my country, I felt morally obligated to warn this couple about the potential violent crime they could encounter. But it’s pretty difficult explaining a level of violence beyond most European’s frame of reference. So, I gave them an example of someone who’d been stabbed in broad daylight on a popular main road for nothing more than their cell phone. I suggested using the services of a guide, and always remaining vigilant. Not wanting to scare them off, I added they were more likely to only meet hospitable, helpful, and friendly folks across all our cultural divides. After the couple left, I noticed Samuel wasn’t looking so happy. Although I thought that he wasn’t paying attention, he’d heard every word. He turned to me and said, ‘I’m never going back.’ I suddenly realized that he’d been blissfully unaware of the dangers we faced back home.

We sat huddled together to watch the Indian Ocean stretch out before us. Trying to distract him, I pointed out the long-tail boats’ colourful decorations. The combination of coloured ribbons chosen has no real significance. However, they date back to ancient times when Animism was the predominant belief. The ribbons tied at the head are thought to appease the spirits of the seas, who protect the boat and its passengers from harm and bring good fortune when fishing. We found a boat that just so happened to share his mother’s name. As the remains of the golden, orange, and red sunset faded away, I got an awesome photo of him with her namesake for him to forward to his mother.

BACK TO THAILAND

ANNIE & CHILD NEGLECT

Once again Annie caught me deep in thought. She woke me from my reverie, saying ‘Where’s Samuel?’
‘Hi, Annie . . . hiking, you know the friend he is always with? They set out early.’
‘Rowan has also gone hiking, or trekking, as the Europeans prefer to call it. I have a couple of emails to attend to, so I thought I’d work at the cafe. I see you are also doing some work.’
‘Well, not really,’ I replied. ‘I have been keeping a journal for several years now, so just catching up.’
Annie looked surprised but soon connected it to my comments from the day before. She pushed back her chair. ‘I’m in a bit of a fix, Daniel. We are supposed to run a story about an orphanage based in Sudan. One of the feature writers has a cousin, Kate, whose husband is on contract there. Kate doesn’t have much to do and has started visiting one of the orphanages. There is such a taboo placed on kids born out of wedlock that they get dumped. The nurses there are culturally primed to believe these kids are cursed and they can’t bring themselves to pick them up or touch them. The babies are fed, clothed, and kept warm, but without any form of physical affection, and they just don’t last.’
‘What do you mean, they don’t last?
‘They die,’ said Annie. ‘We have a rather haunting account of how these infants die from touch deprivation, a condition known as Marasmus. Kate tries to go to the orphanage as often as she can to spend time holding them, cuddling them, singing to them, and generally showing affection. She’s amazed by how well they respond, how they almost instantly spring to life from a little affection. Still, it’s rather disturbing because there’s only so much she can do.’
I tuned in as Annie continued. ‘It’s our feature story and Kate’s a bit anxious. Her husband was involved with high-level government projects, so she doesn’t want to offend anyone. We’ve done our due diligence, thorough research, and have included commentary from child psychologists which we believe will be of interest such as children who enjoy physical touch and tactile stimulation grow into well-adjusted, capable, and loving adults. Touch deprivation in infancy creates a tendency for aggressiveness and violent behaviour. Children with this background can also lack self-esteem and emotional problems.’
I looked at my coffee and asked, ‘Do you have to include the name of the orphanage or even the country? And can’t you use a pseudonym for Kate?’
‘Well, we have pictures we’d like to run with the story and they’re easily identifiable.’
I enjoyed this insight into Annie’s world but also felt weirdly responsible for the synchronicity of Annie’s topic and my engrossing thoughts about my own birth.
‘Yesterday we spoke about child abuse and today the subject comes up again in the form of babies.’ Annie continued, ‘Don’t you think we should pick a more uplifting topic for this morning’s coffee?’
‘Sorry Annie, I started it yesterday, but today it’s on you.’ I wanted to correct myself because I knew better. Recently it was always me initiating discussions of that nature, often inappropriately and at the wrong time.

With a feeling of unsolicited panic, usually reserved for when I wake up, my thoughts returned to my mother’s damaged childhood and her inability to give or receive affection. My mother was pretty much allergic to being touched. As a teenager, I believed that I could fix her, so I’d attempt to hug her whenever the opportunity presented itself. She’d tense up so badly it felt like I was holding a solid piece of granite. But I’d hold on just a bit longer, believing she’d feel my love in those extra few seconds. Most often, she’d instantly push away and leave the room as quickly as she could saying ‘You know I don’t like that, Daniel.’ But at times, I felt certain I’d extracted half a smile from her. I’d tease her with, ‘I know you felt that. I think you might even have enjoyed that one.’
Returning to my conversation with Annie, I said ‘Sorry I was thinking of something else. At least in Thailand touch is highly celebrated, you can get a massage on practically every street corner and the beach.’ I’d effectively changed the topic to the Thai massage experience, and I made a mental note to check if Samuel might want to try one.
With Annie’s prompting, I ordered some kuih-muih: sticky rice with coconut, egg, and jam, wrapped in banana leaves. She could easily transition from dieting tips and social issues to motorbikes and muscle cars. Ordinarily, Annie wouldn’t order this dish for herself, but she was more than happy to share mine. We spent the rest of the morning swapping stories.

ALL BOY HOUSEHOLD

Annie enjoyed my recall of my family’s feeble attempts to introduce any form of female energy into our all-boy household. For a while, our male-dominated home consisted only of the boys, me, and a male cat who essentially belonged to Jeremy but whose name had been chosen by Samuel – Figaro, after Pinocchio’s cat. Then, when the time was right for Samuel to take responsibility for his own pet, we acquired a puppy. Initially, Samuel named him TK after a Japanese series he’d been following. TK underwent several name changes, including Buddha pup – derived from the peculiar way he’d sit quietly upright as if meditating with his stomach protruding. We all finally settled on naming him Puglee, our made-up derivative from his breed, the Japanese pug. So began our procession of pets, which despite our best intentions, all turned out to be male right down to the smallest: a dwarf hamster.

We’d decided on getting a larger dog for protection after Jeremy had been kidnapped while walking a friend home. Jeremy and his friend had been bundled into a car at knifepoint only a few meters from our home. Robbed and forced to empty their bank accounts, they were driven around and terrorized for hours before fortunately being let go in the middle of an unknown township. But not before the perpetrators threatened to return and murder everyone at home if we didn’t keep replenishing the accounts. When a friend uploaded some pictures of boxer-bullmastiff mix pups, we decided to pay them a visit. From the moment we arrived, one of the male pups connected with Samuel and wouldn’t leave him alone. We laughed about it and earmarked one of the females. Still, Max, the soon-to-be newest member of our household, had his own idea and repeatedly attached himself to Samuel during every subsequent visit. Samuel finally relented ‘Okay buddy,’ while Max chewed playfully at his ears and hair.

Annie tentatively inquired about the boys’ mothers. A question that I didn’t know how to answer. Neither of my children’s mothers was delinquent or incapable. They’re both outwardly beautiful, intelligent, successful, and even dynamic. Obviously, I knew how I had obtained full custody and I’d kept all the legal correspondence, court orders, rulings, and emails pertaining to our custody battle neatly filed away. In addition, I also had my journal to
reference, which showed what I was thinking and feeling throughout the process. I still felt it was a miracle for the kids to be with me.

CLIFTON 1984

I’d recently returned from a few months of backpacking around Europe, a type of coming-of-age ritual for many young South Africans. On my return I moved to Clifton, an exclusive residential suburb where the mountain meets the ocean. Clifton is best known for its four white sandy beaches and their distinctive vibes. I rented a house in a cul-de-sac within steep but easy walking distance to the beach. It was a somewhat more challenging walk back up the many flights of stairs. The house had floor to ceiling windows offering an uninterrupted view of the bay. Neighbouring Camps Bay had a lively bar and restaurant scene, and I was only ten minutes away from the vibrant nightlife of Cape Town’s city centre.

My friends and I surfed before sunrise, often finishing a bottle of Old Brown sherry en route to find the best wave. One of my surfing buddies would often bound into my room at some ungodly hour, as early as four or five in the morning. We’d fix our boards on the roof racks and head out to find the best waves. The cold ocean water would sober us up before getting ready for work. We’d surf weekdays, and ride dirt-bikes on weekends – something I was not particularly good at.

Rita’s, in the centre of town, was the all-night club-of-the-day. It boasted a rather large chill area with couches that one could disappear into. I hung out with a group of friends, most of whom were either young up-and-coming entrepreneurs or children from well-established and influential families. They were charismatic, athletic, good-looking, and pretty much the crowd most people wanted to be a part of. I never quite understood how or why they’d taken to me. Usually, we’d go out together, but if we didn’t, or we got separated, we’d meet up again at two or three in the morning at Rita’s. In the early hours, if you were chilling with someone you’d recently met, our friend Stan would waltz in and throw a somewhat theatrical tantrum. His theatrics could easily include a slap to the face, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was for real. One time, pretending to be gay and posing as a teapot, he said ‘You little bitch’, as if I was a lover he’d caught cheating. But it signalled that it was time for a Cadillac burger at the Hard Rock Café, or to grab a bottle, head to the beach, and watch the sunrise. Once Stan achieved the desired reaction, he’d drop the act, flop onto the couch, introduce himself and invite everyone to join us. This was all before the outbreak of the aids epidemic, and we were carefree and somewhat reckless at times. But, during the day we worked hard, then partied the night away.

VALERIA AND GARETH
I met Valeria when she applied for a position at my place of work. Half British and half Spanish, she breezed through the office like a stunning palomino mare. With her long flowing brunette hair, engaging big brown eyes, and bubbly personality, she instantly made everyone sit up and pay attention. Almost without question, she got the job. While just about everyone else was smitten by her, for some inexplicable reason I wasn’t. I probably wasn’t interested because she was married. Or quite possibly, because outside of the office I was constantly surrounded by beautiful people. Then, one afternoon, she needed a lift to visit her eight-month-old son who’d been admitted to the Red Cross Children’s Hospital.
We parked and I accompanied her inside where I briefly got to see her son, Gareth. Then I waited to give her a lift home. I got a bit of her story on the way to her apartment. She’d become pregnant while still in school to escape a controlling and rather critical father, only to end up being married to a husband who was more interested in his music. He was currently on tour, but when at home, it turned out he was more abusive than the father she’d escaped. After dropping Valeria off, I’d chosen the freeway as it was the fastest route home. But for some unknown reason, I felt compelled to return to the Children’s Hospital where I pulled up a chair next to Gareth. His arms were strapped to prevent him from dislodging the tubes assisting him to breathe. But when I put my
head next to him, he wound his tiny fingers around my hair and went to sleep. So, I stayed for as long as the nursing staff allowed.
When I saw Gareth, something in me changed, as if someone had flipped a switch and I inexplicably had to be there for him. He was, after all, in an intensive care unit with such a severe case of croup that he could stop breathing at any moment. Scary stuff. I began regularly driving Valeria to the hospital for visiting hours, taking her home after, and then returning to the hospital myself. Inevitably, it wasn’t long before we got involved. She was married and what we did was wrong. But she had an infectious personality, and it didn’t help that she was drop-dead gorgeous. Nor did it help that we connected physically in a way that I’d never experienced before.

JEREMY’S BIRTH 1987
Gareth was eight months old when I first met Valeria, and four years later in April of 1987, I witnessed the miracle of the birth of my son Jeremy. The experience was off the charts for me, as it is for most others. But somehow, looking back now, I can’t help but remember how recklessly I’d behaved before AIDS came along. Of course, I always knew that someone could potentially get pregnant, but like so many others I never thought it would happen to me. In the heat of a moment, Valeria had once suggested we make a baby and nine months later, here he was, ten fingers and ten toes, a living, breathing, beautiful, perfectly formed miniature human being.

Shortly after we married, we moved to a suburb well suited for young families and closer to her parents. We purchased a cottage-style home in a cul-de-sac, built of dark burnt bricks with white Georgian windows for contrast. For the interior, we chose warm, English autumn colours, and began sourcing pieces of furniture from markets and hidden antique stores. A rocker or dresser, when stripped of its layers of paint, would delightfully turn out to be old oak or beech. A wing-back chair could be reupholstered to complement gingham wallpaper and matching lampshades. Dressers displayed our collection of mismatched china sourced during weekend excursions.
I had roped Gareth into helping me finish our cottage bathroom’s cabinetry during Valeria’s pregnancy. He had been amazing throughout the pregnancy; magnificently thoughtful, helpful, and caring, constantly holding and hugging his mother’s baby belly, and talking to his much-anticipated baby brother.

Valeria was in labour for hours. It’s sometimes hard to tell if the mother’s water has broken. The amniotic sac provides a soft cushion for the baby’s head and umbilical cord before birth. If Valeria had been lying down when her membrane broke, she would have experienced the rupture as a gush of liquid. I can only guess that it possibly happened when we were walking the corridors of the maternity ward and Jeremy’s head pushed down and acted like a cork against her cervix.
The last three centimetres of dilation is an extraordinarily painful stage, so doctors regularly insert a device – it looked to me like a long crochet hook – to induce or speed up the process by puncturing the amniotic sac. Because of the risk of the umbilical cord slipping down around the baby’s head, which could potentially impede the flow of blood, the membrane can’t be ruptured too early. Well, not until the baby’s head has firmly descended into the pelvis. So as instructed, Valeria had taken a long warm bath and we’d paced the corridors for several hours.
The doctor decided he needed to break her waters, and with his first attempt to gently prod at the amniotic sac I instantly reacted, saying ‘You hurt our child.’ He stopped to patiently explain that with the latest technology, he couldn’t possibly hurt the child. Feeling a touch foolish, I decided that I needed to trust him as he was an experienced gynaecologist and he’d been kind enough to explain the procedure. However, with his second and third attempts, I nearly lost it, and Jeremy entered our lives with three rather nasty lacerations across the top of his head in between some endearing curls of chestnut hair.

JOHANN

My father Johann was born on 14 August 192I into a predominantly Afrikaans farming community approximately 130km from Cape Town. As the youngest of nine children, he lost his mother when he was only eight years old, which left the children to be raised by their formidable father. We have a singular photo of my grandfather with unusually large dinner-plate-sized hands. A Neanderthal-sized hand that once snapped the neck of a man he’d caught stealing, instantly killing him with a solitary, open-hand slap. A man who used a cattle whip with precision to instill discipline at mealtimes.

At the first opportunity, a few days before his sixteenth birthday, my father enlisted with the allied forces in their war against Nazi Germany. The war left an undeniable mark. An aged, dog-eared newspaper clipping found after his death, together with treasured bits of war memorabilia, told the story of a local hero wounded in the north African desert who could have been sent home but, as a platoon sergeant, had insisted on re-joining his men in Italy. Shortly after, while leading a night-time recon behind enemy lines, his foot was blown to bits. It took three days for the Allied front line to move up to where he’d hidden. By then the wound had turned gangrenous. About twenty operations later his leg needed to be amputated a few inches below his knee. This was my father’s story.
I don’t ever remember my father speaking about the horrors of war; he only spoke about having fun in Cairo, and of blowing up condoms into balloons for fun while watching a movie at a local movie theatre. Perhaps I was simply accustomed to his injury, but as far as I was concerned you wouldn’t notice that he was an amputee. I remember a regal, immaculately dressed father in flannel trousers and navy-blue blazer, finished off proudly with his regimental tie and shoes shined to mirror perfection. Physically, he seemed unaffected by his injury, and I have fond memories of my father wearing his military beret, eating freshly picked chillies from our garden while mowing the lawn or trimming hedges.

According to my mother, with the benefits he received while recovering from one of his many surgeries, he could have bought several properties in a suburb set aside for returning veterans. But at the time, he blew it all on treating the nursing staff to extravagant excursions and nights of drinking at the then-popular dance halls. However, I remember him as the friendliest man you could bump into on his regular walks. And while he continued to enjoy playing soccer, now as a goalkeeper, he was a man who didn’t enjoy socializing but rather preferred to avoid large gatherings. He seemed content being at home following the cricket on the radio and entertaining my sister and me by mimicking a barking British bulldog with his stump.

PAM

My mother Pam was born on 9 April 1934, the middle child of a family of eight children. Her father was an angry violent man and an active alcoholic who’d come home to a terrified family after work. As soon as he walked in the door, the violence started. Dinner would be set out beautifully on the table. No one was allowed to touch it until he sat down to test whether the food was up to his standards. Children were to remain in the bedroom until he was finished eating and had retired for the evening. The food seldom met his standards, meaning that dinner would more often than not be thrown on the kitchen floor for my grandmother Doris to clean up and discard. The children would hear it all, as they cowered together in their bedroom. They’d hear his anger gain momentum; hear their mother being verbally berated, psychologically battered, and ultimately beaten and raped.

Out of eight children young Pam, believing that her mother would quite possibly be killed, would run to the nearest police station in an attempt to save her. But this was the thirties, an era when a man’s right to discipline his family was accepted, rarely interfered with, and in some instances even admired. Movies from the fifties and sixties, such as the iconic James Bond series, continued to portray hitting your woman as manly. No one would get fed and often they would all go to bed terrified and hungry.

Doris, my grandmother, was never allowed to leave the house, not even for groceries. By now, most of my mother’s siblings were afraid of people, so young Pam took over the responsibility of shopping for groceries. When they had no money for food, she’d walk to relatives living sixteen and a half kilometres away in Woodstock. Only all too often she’d return empty-handed, without being offered the bus fare for the return trip.

Pam, like all her siblings, was required to leave home after completing only junior school. She was forced to leave while essentially still a child without a single change of clothing and no shoes, but only the dress and undies she was wearing. Barefoot and without a cent to her name, she once again made the long walk to Woodstock. There, she was able to rent a room from a cousin and ultimately start working.

When I was a teenager I often wondered if she was exaggerating, until I was old enough to evaluate the damage so clearly evidenced in her siblings. Mum and her favourite brother seemed to be the only ones that weren’t periodically institutionalized. Unfortunately, Clifford, a devout Jehovah’s Witness, tragically died in a car accident at the tender age of twenty-eight before I ever met him. Bizarrely, two of her brothers died while undergoing shock treatment for depression, one of whom was the cause of an extensive investigation due to a known pre-existing heart condition. One, aged thirty-four, died from alcohol-induced liver failure. As if her story couldn’t get any stranger, yet another brother, aged forty-five, died of a heart attack while institutionalized. I only got to know her remaining three siblings. The youngest, even to the untrained eye, clearly suffered from severe social anxiety, and the remaining two spent the rest of their lives circling through the revolving doors of various psychiatric wards. Pam took care of her mother and remaining siblings, arranging appointments, getting them to and from the hospital, and assisting with visitations. Even as a young, inexperienced man it became increasingly impossible to question the validity of my mother’s story.

SAMUEL GOES HIKING

Enough cigarettes later, and my journal was full of scribbles. It was late and our neighbours had stopped playing their music. Samuel would be up early, eager to get down to the beach to meet up with his newfound friends. I showered and went to sleep on the couch. I rarely, if ever, slept in a bed. Freshly pressed linen on an extra-length king-sized bed didn’t work for me. Likewise, I don’t dream. Well, maybe I just don’t remember, so I was a little perturbed the next morning by my thoughts of what could have been a dream or a nightmare. Images from my childhood were smashed together as if they were all a singular incident: several beatings, my clothes being set alight and my amazement at how quickly my shirt had ignited and burst into flames, being stripped naked and made to walk along a narrow and dangerous ledge several stories up, a cracked socket that dislodged my left eye, and of being urinated on as I attempted to protect myself in a fetal position.

Sure enough, early the next morning, one of Samuel’s newfound friends arrived. ‘Please, please, please . . . can Samuel come climbing with us?’ He was a lovely child, a mixture of German and Thai, with blue eyes, a tanned complexion, and thick curly hair. I’d met his parents and had already agreed. I got Samuel ready with a bit of a shoelace issue, but thankfully the scratchy sock debacle had disappeared. With kids, socks can be scratchy one day, but not the next. Armed with sunscreen, a bottle of water and some snacks, the three of us walked back to their bungalow. I thanked his parents and let them know how much Samuel was looking forward to their day’s adventure.

On the way back I stopped at a cafe where the owner knew my name. After ordering my usual coffee, I opened my journal. I didn’t feel like writing, so I rather hurriedly jotted down my thoughts. None of what I’d dreamed came as a surprise. I still bore the physical scars as a reminder of some of them, but they weren’t the sum of my childhood. Nowadays, some may find these incidents disturbing, but as far as I was concerned, I’d had a fairly happy, uneventful childhood. That said, I also knew that I was to some extent living in denial, trying my best to avoid a secret that relentlessly raised its head in moments of intimacy.

MY BIRTH
Johann was smitten for life after meeting Pam at her evening job. During the day she worked in a clothing factory as a seamstress, and in the evenings as an usherette for a local movie theatre on Main Road, Woodstock. I was told he relentlessly pursued her until she agreed to marry him. He was, after all, her senior by thirteen years. And mum made no bones about not loving him; according to her, she only married him because she felt sorry for him. Perhaps he believed that with time she would grow to love him as much as he loved her. I never quite understood the nature of their relationship. Pam was decidedly incapable of showing any form of affection. But I suspect that she chose my father because he was the gentlest man she could ever hope to meet. I believe that she chose my father because she felt safe with him, and she knew that he would never even raise his voice, let alone be physically violent. He never reacted, no matter what she threw at him. She would publicly disagree with almost everything he said, belittle and question his intelligence, consistently adding that she never loved him in front of my sister and me. He’d absorb all her verbal abuse and at worst he’d retire to their bedroom.

Growing up, I often wished my father would stand up to my mother. So much so, I vowed I’d never let anyone speak to me that way. Then, I didn’t understand the difference between agreeable and assertive personalities. I later discovered that there are easier, softer ways of being assertive and it often requires more strength to simply walk away. Fortunately, my father seemed more than content to just be with her and to be a part of her life. I suspect that my father knew her rage had little or nothing to do with him. And while she may have believed that she was incapable of love, she was, in her way, always there for him. She dealt with the ghastly nightmares which had him thrashing around in his sleep fighting an imaginary enemy, during which she’d often get accidentally knocked about. She never questioned or attacked him about his nightmares. She understood that they were part of being married to a war veteran. Sadly, she knew all too well what real violence entailed and continued to share his bed till the very end.

Struggling to carry to term, Pam experienced several miscarriages before finally giving birth to my sister Abigail, and I followed eighteen months later. My mother managed to carry me for seven months and I was born in February 1958. Naturally, I should have been incubated, but because the nursing home was experiencing an epidemic of sorts they felt I’d have a better chance at home. Still, I only had a slim chance and I later learned that neither the doctors nor the nursing staff had expected me to survive. Episodic memory does not develop until after age four, so I have zero recollection of my first two years. However, I grew up listening to a story – which my mother seemed comfortable sharing – about a shoebox, an elderly neighbour, and a red potion. I was small enough to fit in a shoebox and on my first night, I was left outside with the trash behind our tiny semi-detached home. I learned how an elderly neighbour, alarmed by my continuous wailing, rescued me and returned me a few hours later covered in some kind of red potion. Dad worked at night as a proofreader for the morning paper so I’m guessing that he wasn’t aware of what was going on, or that my mother was quite likely suffering from a
severe case of postpartum depression. To this day, she freely admits to being incapable of nurturing me. She desperately needed to sleep, and she had lost previous children. Because of this, and what she’d been told at the hospital, she didn’t expect me to live.

As previously stated, I have no memory of my first few years, only of the repetitive stories I grew up listening to. The stories progressed to nightly excursions to a nearby park as a toddler, where I’d often be spotted by neighbours returning from a night out. The earliest memory I have is of my sister Abigail showing me how to drag a chair from our kitchen to open the front door while mum was walking around mumbling her mantras to herself:
‘I can’t feel, I don’t feel.’ . . . ‘I want to die.’ . . . ‘I don’t look after the sick.’ . . . ‘I’m wicked and I’m going straight to hell.’

The 1969 Woodstock festival opened while scheduled musicians were stuck in standstill traffic. When the festival’s opening performer Haven ran out of tunes, he improvised with the rich negro spiritual Motherless Child, drawn from an era when it was common to sell the children of slaves. In an interview later he explained, ‘I’d already played every song I knew, and I was stalling, trying to think of something else to play. And then it just came to me.’
Music permeates my culture, yet I can rarely connect with instrumental compositions or hear the poetry. This bobbing, sweat-drenched performance of Haven’s with its intense lyrics is one of the very few songs that I can hear.
I was wearing my black freedom t-shirt illustrated with lines of people holding hands. Being away from home, I felt I could exhale, shift into another gear, tune all the voices in my head into Richie Haven’s freedom song, turn up the volume, and let it play: this passionate scream for freedom. The soundtrack matched my shirt and mirrored my state of mind. At that moment, it was my all. ‘Freedom, freedom, freedom,’ my head kept pounding. ‘Sometimes I feel like a motherless child’ was the only lyric I could remember so the rest of the song turned into a hum until ‘freedom’ came around again.
FREEDOM THAILAND
Still seeking freedom in my life, I had aimed to go away somewhere so I could stop obsessing, somewhere I would feel spiritual, and hopefully leave behind the craziness of the last couple of years. India, I thought. I had the booking all done. It was planned and sorted when Samuel’s mum, Aida, once again dropped a bombshell at the last minute: ‘I’m not having Samuel for the holidays.’
I was used to this by now. Anything could happen with Aida. India isn’t a place for children, so I re-routed, frantically working to cancel one set of tickets, and organizing others to include Samuel. If it couldn’t be the ashram, I imagined a backpacking, island hopping, and scuba diving trip in a country with a Buddhist influence would do just as well. A place I could take Samuel.
We were at Railay Beach on the west coast of Thailand staring at a landscape dotted with islands, coral reefs, and caves. Behind us was a feast of forests, rivers and waterfalls, a landscape that opened endless hiking possibilities for Samuel and me. My lovely son, Samuel.
Railay’s limestone cliffs are rock-climbing heaven. Enthusiasts come from all over the globe to take their chances on the jagged outcrops. Over 650 routes have been developed since the late 1980s when Railay hit the climbing mainstream. Wandering paths follow limestone crags, steep slabs of rock with overhangs, and hanging
stalactites. Access is by boat or jungle walk, or even by abseil. Using the French grading system, routes range from gentle beginner 5a to more difficult multi-pitch 6a, to the extremes of 8c. There are enough options for years of climbing. A climbing Mecca. Climbers gather here, energetic and vibrant.
SAMUEL AND THE CHILDREN
After a traumatic six months of no access, Samuel returned to me just in time to enrol for his first day of formal schooling. Custody: what can I say? If you sincerely believe it’s in your child’s best interest, you do whatever it takes from the very beginning. I felt I hadn’t done this, but in the end, I was exceedingly lucky. On his first day I was naturally a bit anxious, only to learn I need not have worried. At the end of his day, a beaming Samuel finally appeared with two new friends. He was holding them so firmly around their shoulders, I don’t think they had a choice. ‘These are my friends.’ he proclaimed, ‘we’ve been playing.’ The school had a kindergarten and Samuel soon became the go-to guy whenever the nursing staff had any trouble settling a child for their afternoon nap.
Samuel was now nine years old. Practically from birth, he seemed quite independent. As soon as he could waddle-walk, he would fetch his formula from the kitchen by himself at night rather than waking anyone. Later, as a toddler, he’d keep himself occupied for hours building and re-configuring his Lego designing miniature replicas, or systematically stripping and rebuilding any toy or item that caught his attention. As the youngest of four children, he certainly was the easiest. Like most parents, I am aware that my parental pride can be a bit over the top, but this kid was something else. The previous year we had relocated a beehive from a derelict granny flat we’d refurbished into an office. Seasonally, bees would return, and Samuel would take it upon himself to rescue them. He collected stray bees with his bare hands. With Samuel around, even mosquitoes could feel safe.
Samuel may as well have been St Nicholas, the Patron saint of children, or a kind of a Pied Piper on this trip. In Railay, by lunchtime, he had collected all the children from the beach, and they followed him wherever he went. Admittedly, when we first arrived in Thailand he needed some encouragement, and my suggestion to go and play with the other children was met with a bit of resistance. ‘They don’t speak my language,’ he’d reply, but eventually he’d wander down to weave his magic.
As it turned out, most of the beach brigade was made up of British families. Families who had been booking the same chalets every Christmas and New Year for several years. They all knew each other well, so the grownups could comfortably do their thing with a kids-should-be-seen-and-not-heard credo until it was time for dinner. It didn’t help that Samuel was a bit of a magnet when frustrated parents struggled to collect their children.
Then we met a delightful young Dutch family with a seven-month-old with suspected early signs of autism. Unbeknown to us, this gorgeous child had not yet engaged or bonded with his parents. Samuel wandered over while her father was climbing. With the baby close at hand, the mother was busy belaying. With both her hands occupied with ropes, she attempted to ward Samuel off. Except, the moment Samuel started to tickle the baby’s tummy, the baby burst into giggles. Astounded and delighted, the family came looking for a daily dose of Samuel for the next week and a half.
PHUKET & PROSTITUTES
Before Railay, we had unfortunately started our journey in Phuket because the most cost-effective flight tickets included a free four-night stay at a resort. We met an ex-pat married to a local girl with whom he’d opened a typical Thai bar-restaurant. This somewhat chatty British lad had invited us over, so we wandered down and found his bar.
In Phuket, whenever we stopped, a waiter or bartender would hand us a frozen facecloth. It’s a welcome touch, considering the humidity. However, despite the fact it was plain to see I was travelling with a child, I found that before long I’d be solicited with offers of companionship for the duration of our holiday. Even the Brit was in on the program. He presented me with what looked to me more like a child. Despite the usual statement of ‘I’m in
college,’ she seemed so young. Smaller in stature than Samuel, I couldn’t help but notice that Samuel’s hands were a bit bigger than hers. Nor did it help being told the girls supported and fed their families up north.
I paid an hourly fee for Samuel and her to play a few games of pool while I waited for our lunch. Samuel had pocketed a striped ball, so if the local rules were the same, he’d have to continue with stripes. My mind did its parental second-guess-myself thought process, wondering how this scene would be played out or cross-examined in any family court. Jeremy was now in his twenties, I’d been a single parent for almost eighteen years and I still all too often felt clueless.
THAILAND’S ACCEPTANCE
Bradley, the British bar owner, was determined to get me hooked up. ‘You’ll be pleasantly surprised with Ratana – that’s Crystal in English.’ He continued ‘She’s over eighteen and busy with her bachelor’s degree.’
I liked this guy, but I was starting to get a bit annoyed. He’d ignored or forgotten our previous conversation, so I politely reminded him with ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m on holiday with my son and it’s not my thing.’
He left me alone after saying ‘If you change your mind, let me know. You don’t have a wife or girlfriend with you and it’s completely acceptable here.’
Let me be clear, I hold no judgement about anyone who has worked or is working in the sex industry for whatever reason – whether they’re from impoverished communities where it’s their only viable option to support their family, or they’re involved because they enjoy sex or feel empowered in their chosen profession.
Our food had arrived, and I elected to sit at one of the four-seated dining tables crafted from bamboo and with a view of the beach. Samuel, who’d been knocking some balls around, sat down to eat the toasted ham and cheese sandwiches he’d ordered. ‘I sank five balls, dad.’ Ratana went over to chat with Bradley. After a brief discussion, she turned and pulled a sad face followed by a playful smile.
This wouldn’t be the last time I confronted this argument: prostitution provides an opportunity for those less fortunate to support their families back home. Although people generally disapprove, it doesn’t carry the same stigma as in other countries. Marrying a former prostitute or supporting a mistress as a second or even a third wife is common for Thai men who can afford it. The argument for this seems to be based on an acceptance that men find it hard to curtail their urges and a belief that prostitution reduces the prospect of being raped. Sex simply for the pleasure of sex has become way more acceptable in the West, and part of me feels envious. Admittedly, because of my background I can’t imagine being okay with the idea of a partner engaging in empty sex to curtail their urges.
I’d changed my travel plans at the last minute and I hadn’t done much investigation, but I hoped to explore my newfound interest in meditation and Buddhism. I felt naive and wholly unprepared for Southeast Asia’s sex tourism industry and its scale. But I soon enough found out that sex is a major part of the tourism industry. Of course, the story wouldn’t be complete without the gangsters, the mafia, and the politicians. One of the culprits, considered the godfather of prostitution in Thailand and owner of several brothels, served a four-year term on the Thai House of Representatives. He revealed that some of his best clients were senior politicians and police officers. Later, a BBC article in 2003 reported a commotion over the possible banning of MPs from having mistresses or visiting brothels. One of the MPs told the Nation Newspaper that if the ban was enforced, it would rule out 170 of the 200 representatives. The story got even stranger when it was reported that during an election drive Viagra was offered to elderly voters in exchange for their support.
This holiday was meant to be about time-out from the insanity of the past few years. In discussions with locals, I learned more about the practice of Buddhism in Thailand. One of the beliefs is that women have more lives than men. So, if this life is one of hardship, they will have another opportunity in the next. I’d also learned that a handbook for monks described ten kinds of wives. The first three are described as women who can be paid for their services. If true, this may help appease a man’s conscience. I couldn’t help but question if it all was simply about the desperation of impoverished communities.
BBC HUMAN TRAFFIC
Although I’d told Bradley that it wasn’t my thing, that wasn’t entirely true. I had previously paid for services, and I had brilliant justifications for doing so. I still believed the most caring relationship I’d experienced was with a girl I’d met at an escort agency in Johannesburg. However, I was just starting to deal with flashbacks from my childhood when I watched a two-part series titled Sex Traffic, written by Abi Morgan, and directed by David Yates. And none of my justifications could withstand one message from the series: over 75% (of women) are being used by men in the sex industry, men who may be doctors, police officers, high-level politicians, or your neighbour. Where there’s a demand, there is always a supply, a 7-billion-dollar supply. Although a fictional series, it was based on a real-world scenario.
It no longer mattered that I was single or divorced, that I’d chosen an agency with better working conditions where the girls worked from 11 am to 11 pm, and that they were well paid. I was a part of the demand that fuelled a sex trafficking industry exploiting women. This series brought to life exploitation beyond my imagination which I should have been aware of but chose to ignore. Despite the free luxurious resort equipped with three pools, breakfast platters of fruit, pancakes, bread, sushi – a favourite of Samuel’s – and the hospitality and lazy days, I couldn’t wait to get out of Phuket.
ANNIE & ROWAN MASS CONSENSUS
In Railay, I met Annie, a glamorous and worldly magazine editor. Her husband Rowan had recently left the corporate world to study social science. Annie had a knack for getting in deep. Almost immediately, coffee became our common fix. On Railay’s tiny shopping strip we found a coffee shop, the only place for a decent Brazilian brew. Its U-shaped counter dominated the floor space, and with the three of us together, the conversation often became heavy.
‘Annie, you are in the media business and your magazine covers contentious issues. You’re de-sensitized. We’re tourists in Thailand where prostitution is so much more in my face, and it doesn’t seem to matter that I’m travelling with a child! And so many of these girls seem to be so young. But we both know that this happens everywhere, including both of our countries.’
She pulled a face at the thought. ‘There are many issues in the world. Glaring issues that people are blinded to. We do have our share of protesters, people that tie themselves to trees, splash blood on themselves, go on starvation diets. But not everyone is Gandhi. Sometimes we run editorials about atrocities: abuse of women, stuff about the Taliban. Then someone forms an organization and starts fundraising, sometimes legislation gets passed, but somewhere else evil pops up in another form.’
Having someone like Annie to speak with was a rare gift, which I appreciated.
‘Annie I’m fully aware that we can’t save the world. The best I can manage is to try to be aware and to follow issues that are investigated by the media: people like you. Or at least pay attention. My issue is apathy, including my own. Few of us take on the challenges, and some issues are just not spoken about. Still, the idealist in me believes that we can make changes. Nelson Mandela said that poverty was man-made, which means we can un-make it. His words made me wonder: is there anything that we can’t undo? Why not poverty, hunger, and equal opportunity for education, to name but a few? I have to ask myself if I’m doing enough. What can I do, and where and how do I start?’
Rowan, Annie’s husband, arrived and ordered a coffee but I knew he would want to get to the beach. I wasn’t sure if it irritated him that Annie and I got into so many conversations. She had on a huge sun hat, which she took off and put on the table – a gesture indicating that she would stay a while, so I carried on.
‘Well yes, there’s a passive tolerance of evil, but couldn’t there be a simpler answer? Aren’t we just too busy with our own lives, feeling entitled to our successes and focused on our selfish ambitions? And we are culturally expected to ferociously compete with our neighbours, our friends, and even our immediate family. I might be
living in la-la-land, but still like to believe most human beings would jump at an opportunity to make a difference or to be of service. I think that Rowan’s career change is a great example.’
Listen, Daniel, in terms of manipulating mass perception, I’m the enemy. Advertising is the lifeblood, the finance behind magazines, and we need to raise aspirations to get people to buy stuff. A part of me feels guilty about that. There is a psychologist, Joanie Connors, who specializes in group and relationship systems. Ages ago, I copied a quote from her that’s so pertinent to what you are talking about. It’s somewhere on my phone.’ Rowan came back with another round of coffee and biscuits while Annie fumbled with her phone. ‘Wait here it is: “Mass consensus reality trance means that we see and accept the world as we are told to see it by media leaders and corporations, even when their policies threaten our health, well-being, and security.”’
Annie explained: ‘To be entranced in mass-consensus reality means that we follow mass-consensus trends in our lifestyles: clothing, personal care products, food, drinks, and in our ways of thinking and acting – what to buy, what entertainment to choose, how to spend our leisure time, whom to vote for, whom to admire and whom to believe – instead of using our own personal judgement. In effect, we become conforming followers who do what media experts and our peers tell us, and live in fear of being different.’
Annie continued as I set aside my coconut biscuits for Samuel. ‘Basically, our thoughts are conditioned. Mass consensus can seduce us into the same beliefs, apathy, and seeing, without being spurred to outrage. We think along worn neural paths. New paths require energy. When we do nothing about something outrageous, the emotional impact is deadened, and we end up walking around lost in a fog of mass consensus. Child abuse in Thailand has slipped into that category,’ she explained.
I heard everything, but I was primarily listening to my own thoughts.
‘For me, it’s not just Thailand. For a little while now, I’ve been looking into research surrounding the sexual abuse of children, which happens worldwide and often within a hundred meters of any of our homes. Advocacy centres and other initiatives often report that as many as 1:3 girls and 1:5 boys are sexually abused before the age of 18. But because children don’t talk – we really don’t know.’
Annie was eyeing me with a mixture of suspicion, concern and/or empathy. I needed to tread lightly, having previously encountered a negative reaction from other highly educated, intelligent, and progressive parents – one of Samuel’s regular clan of sleepover friends had never returned even for an after-school afternoon get together.
Rowan interjected a comment on what I assumed he’d last heard, ‘Being out of sync or discordant feels threatening.’
KATHRYN BOLKOVAC
‘Kathryn Bolkovac’s story in an interview with Nisha Lilia Diu of The Telegraph says it all.’ Annie went on. ‘Remember she blew the whistle on DynCorp, the private contractor providing American personnel for the UN mission in Bosnia? Madeleine Rees, the head of the UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, had recruited her to run a pilot project on violence against women. Dozens of girls began turning up at Bolkovac’s station with eerily similar stories: They’d taken a job abroad as a waitress, cleaner, or nanny, often at the insistence of their own families. They were taken away, forcibly stripped, and sold to someone who humiliated, beat, and raped them into dead-eyed submission. Then they were imprisoned in brothels in Bosnia. Girls who escaped were frequently found – sometimes grabbed outside safe houses – and brutally punished by their pimps, while others were made to watch. But that wasn’t the only reason they wouldn’t testify. They didn’t expect the police to help them.
‘She discovered numerous individuals in the Bosnian and UN police – made up of some 1,800 officers from 45 countries – who were not only using trafficked prostitutes but were on the traffickers’ payroll. Free access to the girls was an added perk. They were paid to give warnings of raids and return girls who escaped. Or, when rescued girls were repatriated and dumped somewhere on the border, they let the traffickers know where to collect the young women so they could be recycled.
‘The more Bolkovac investigated, the more her UN colleagues turned against her. Bolkovac’s files went missing, her superiors pulled her cases, and people warned her to back off. Eventually, she wrote an email detailing everything she’d uncovered and sent it to fifty senior mission personnel, with the subject line “Do not read this if you have a weak stomach or a guilty conscience.” Four days later, she was demoted, and a few months after that DynCorp fired her for falsifying her timesheets.’
I kept thinking of Bolkovac’s courage. She had kept copies of all her files. She sued DynCorp for unfair dismissal. The UN tribunal said it was hard to imagine a case in which a firm had behaved more callously.
‘Within hours of the ruling,’ said Annie, ‘DynCorp settled a second whistleblowing case against it, offering an undisclosed sum to an aircraft mechanic from Texas, Ben Johnston, who had evidence of UN personnel buying and selling girls elsewhere in Bosnia. Most disappointing of all was what happened next: several men were sent home, but none were punished. No future employer would ever know what these men were guilty of.
‘DynCorp continues to win multi-million-dollar military contracts with the American government in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Haiti. Unlike those who had been quietly sent home, Bolkovac’s professional record was ruined by her dismissal, and she’s been unable to find work in international law enforcement since.’ Annie concluded.
Annie, with the story of Kathryn Bolkovac’s, had widened the arena of our conversation.
I responded: ‘Sex Traffic showed what these girls endure en route and after being forced to work in the sex industry in our cities. It was an eye-opening, hardcore, and very necessarily confrontational fictional drama that certainly called on me to question my personal responsibility.’
Samuel arrived at the table with two friends, cutting our conversation short. They needed help carting wet sand for the huge sandcastle they were building. I said my goodbyes, stepped out into the heat of the street and followed them back to the beach. Tinkering Samuel had focused his attention on designing a drawbridge from sucker sticks he had collected, while I was designated to do the manual labour of fetching the required loads of sand.
SEARCHING
Later that night after getting Samuel to sleep, I sat outside smoking a cigarette. Someone from the adjacent room was playing a Joni Mitchell song, ‘We are stardust,’ she sang, ‘billion-year-old carbon. We are golden. Caught in the devil’s bargain and we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.’
‘Back to the garden,’ I repeated. More like back to basics for me, I thought. To find some semblance of sanity I must get back to basics, even though conversations about trafficking and child prostitution are important and necessary.
I knew that I all too often inappropriately initiated these awkward discussions. Primarily because I desperately needed to speak about what was going on in my head and I simply had no idea how or where to begin speaking about my childhood.
The song had started playing from the beginning and it took me back thirty years. I rarely listen to music, but when I do its autobiographical nature can accurately send me to exactly where I was in the past and how I was feeling at the time ‒ even if I lack the ability to identify those feelings. Music for me is a memory marker. I thought about my sister, who enjoyed Joni Mitchell when we were growing up, and then I thought about Samuel’s sister and how much both of us loved and missed her.
There was so much that I couldn’t figure out. I kept repeating practically the same pattern, and I felt the answer could only come from examining my behaviour. After all, it’s the only area that I have any power to change. Three marriages had turned into three divorces where siblings were separated from each other. As a part of our divorce order, both mothers – without a fight from my side – were automatically granted custody. However, within months the children ended up living with me. Inevitably, I was placed in a position where I believed that I had no other alternative but to go back to the family court to seek a reversal of the original order.
I see myself as a father to four children – Gareth, Jeremy, Ellen, and Samuel – regardless of whether they are biologically mine or not. Sadly, half of all marriages end in divorce, and I’ve yet to meet an adult that doesn’t experience a sense of failure after divorce. But it’s unquestionably the children who are most affected. I was
responsible for enough hurt and I was not prepared to put my children or myself through another round. I would slowly come to understand that what I had repressed would not go away, would not be ignored, and that my secret was keeping me sick. I had a lot of work to do on myself.
In April of 1999, I found my life once again in crisis, faced with the decision of saving one of my children. Every fibre in my being was telling me that if I did not act, and act immediately, I would have a teenage suicide on my hands. But saving Jeremy meant leaving two toddlers, my son Samuel who was only one year and ten months old, and his beautiful five-year-old sister Ellen who was currently with her mother. Ellen, being my only daughter, would forever hold a very special place in my heart. Barring a miracle, Ellen and Samuel would be left to face the same brutality that Jeremy had so bravely endured for as long as he could.
Someone several years ago had suggested that I start keeping a daily journal. They said it would help with clarity and stop the relentless chatter that invaded my thoughts and kept me awake at night. Writing things down was a tool I could use to stop me from reacting – or shall I say inappropriately over-reacting. It created space for things to settle and time for me to consider options. Writing could be a tool for me to get advice and prevent me from creating more mess, which I’d then have to clean up later. So, as the moon moved across the night’s sky, I habitually picked up my pen and began to write.

This is a story of living forwards and understanding backwards. At the heart of this storyline is the dark terrain of the lasting impact of sexual violence against children. Perhaps the time is right for such a narrative.

For the past two decades, while trying to come to terms with my own childhood, I’ve found myself periodically drawn to look at the statistics presented by various research initiatives and advocacy centres established to aid and assist survivors of childhood sexual abuse. While I’ve referenced a few of these at the back of this book, it’s important to note that I’m not an academic, therapist, or crisis counsellor. What stood out for me is the enormity of child sexual abuse and the magnitude of the lasting negative consequences.

In the United Kingdom, over 45,000 cases are reported annually. Professor Dame Sue Black from the University of Dundee, speaking for Wired UK in February 2018, said ‘To put that in perspective, that’s 124 cases per day, the size of a medium-sized school of children being abused every week in the UK. 1:20 children in the UK have been sexually abused; 1:3 children abused by an adult don’t tell, we really have no idea. Over 90% of children have been sexually abused by someone they know.’

In the United States of America, there are more than 42 million survivors of sexual abuse. Every 9 minutes child protective services substantiate or find evidence for a claim of child sexual abuse. 1:3 girls and 1:5 boys are sexually abused before the age of 18. 1:5 children are solicited sexually while on the internet before the age of 18. 30% of sexual abuse is never reported. 90% of child sexual abuse victims know the perpetrator in some way.

In the USA the scope and impact of sexual violence are difficult to measure, and there is no single source of data that provides a complete picture of the crime and its effect on all victims. The effects of child sexual abuse can be long-lasting and affect the victim’s mental health.

Victims are more likely than non-victims to experience the following mental health challenges: about four times more likely to develop symptoms of drug abuse, about four times more likely to experience PTSD as adults, and about three times more likely to experience a major depressive episode as adults.

Further, adults with major depression who experienced abuse as children had poorer response outcomes to antidepressant treatment, especially if the maltreatment occurred when they were aged seven years or younger.

Abused children are more likely to engage in sexual risk-taking as they reach adolescence, including a higher number of sexual partners, earlier initiation of sexual behaviour, and transactional sex (sex exchanged for money, gifts, or other material support). Several studies have documented the correlation between child abuse and future juvenile delinquency and criminal activities.

In the UK existing research has linked child sexual abuse with low self-esteem and mental health conditions. The accounts provided to the Truth Project have supported this: victims and survivors have reported a range of mental health issues that are a result of the sexual abuse they suffered.

The most common issues reported were depression (33%), lack of trust in authority (32%), thoughts of suicide (28%), anxiety (28%), self-harming (22%), and attempted suicide (22%). Participants said that they were most likely to experience anxiety, fear, depression, self-harm, and thoughts of suicide. Panic attacks, low self-confidence, obsessions, eating disorders, and alcohol and drug use were reported as well.

There are also long-term effects of child sexual abuse that include a range of illnesses and disabilities: hypertension, chronic fatigue, malnutrition, mobility, and problems with reproductive systems and childbirth. I could go on; the list of consequences appears to be endless.

What I struggle to wrap my head around is that if I accept these statistics, victims of childhood sexual abuse could arguably be the single largest demographic group of people living on planet earth. Yet the topic remains the number one international taboo – we just don’t talk.

At age eight I swore myself to secrecy, and as far as I was concerned my decision had worked up until my mid-forties. But after a third failed marriage, my inner world became shattered with flashes of returning childhood memories. Internally, I was devastated, depressed, screaming, and afraid. Fortunately, in my outer world, I had children who needed me – and the saving grace of a single parent’s school runs and the three-meals-a-day routine – to get me up, keep me going, and keep me reasonably sane.

Additionally, I was extraordinarily grateful to have found the Twelve Step program. It was there I heard, to quote How Al-Anon Works for Families & Friends of Alcoholics, ‘Most of us have had good reasons for hiding certain information from ourselves – it hurt!’ And I was given the tools to begin the process of recovery: to recognize my pattern of attraction to the emotionally unavailable who I thought I could love, pity and rescue; to let go of resentments; to acknowledge the child victim; to find a compassionate understanding for those who I’ve been privileged to love.