The Sun Always Rises

The war analogy of our current state is not just a sentiment. It’s real. As a kid at school, we learned of the devastation of World War I and II. It always felt far-fetched for me; something from the ‘olden days’.

We’re living through a modern-day war. Amid COVID-19, our family and friends living in parts of Kwazulu-Natal and Gauteng experienced full-on anarchy over a few days during July. This is not something foreign to the people of South Africa. We have a bloodied history.

The main difference with the recent insurgence was the lack of political bravado replaced by blatant thuggery. Looting and vandalising of businesses en masse, torment in suburbs on a scale we haven’t seen before. The images of burning buildings, thick black smoke, casspirs, all redolent of apartheid.

The feeling of helplessness was severe. Knowing that we could not step in to assist the food blackout by getting food or care packages delivered to our dearest was unnerving. Again, as with the health pandemic, we’ve seen that money cannot solve everything.

This coincided with one of my busiest periods, easily the busiest since my days of employment; one that I hobbled through with shingles. Listening to the fear and trauma of family and friends was disheartening. But, as always, we all just moved along. The South African way. Honestly, it’s exhausting.

Fast forward three weeks later and final report submitted, my subconscious takes over – as it always does – and allowed me to release for the first time in months. After weeks of sleeping through the nerve pain, last night, or rather early hours of this morning, I was terrorised between insomnia and dreams of our property being invaded; looting our home; and just general panic.

As I tossed in bed, my consciousness kept pushing through with thoughts that this unsettling was a precursor to more bad news. I kept checking my phone, were there any missed calls or messages. Would it be my father this time? Or Aunty E? Or Mama? Or worse, in my own home?

At one point, I was jolted awake, heart pounding so hard, that I felt it could actually be me, that this was my time to crossover to the other side. No. Not yet. My kids are too young. More trauma.

We’re not just suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), this is more like collective complex PTSD which is characterised by years and years of trauma from childhood – often leaving deep emotional scars – as opposed to one specific event.

And what does this mean for our children?

I read the Youth Tribes Trend Report published by Flux Trends and Student Village giving insight to the “Class of 2020” yesterday. The results of this survey demonstrate how the health pandemic is shaping this generation. It is equally exciting and poignant.

Exciting as I can already see my little souls represented in the findings of the various ‘tribes’ even though they are at least 12 – 15 years younger than the respondents. They’re both Empaths; my first-born is a budding TikTok Trader with his obsession of saving, investment, and his desperate need to buy – wait for it – a ceiling fan; and my baby has long shown an alliance to The Transvisibles in his love for all things, all colours, all people. At 6 years old, he does not limit himself to societal gender nuances and we embrace it wholeheartedly.

The poignancy comes in as this is a world very different from the one in which Mr T and I were raised. As it transforms so rapidly, with all this chaos, I pray that we’re given a lifetime of health and vitality to see them mature.

To make their mark in the Y-Suite, the cohort of young people across the world who are breaking barriers and rules, asking the right questions, changing what no longer makes sense, and shattering inequality to create our new future.

Here’s to life. Here’s to the future. And if you’re reading this, you still have your breath, your life force. Hope is alive!