 Live
your religion
My darling daughter
I understand your concern when you write that I must be careful these
days when there is so much violence around. It frightens me too for it
appears that other than the sorrow and fear caused by the on-going conflict
- another more insidious culture of violence is emerging in our beloved
country. A violence that ranges from murder and rape to abuse - much of
this violence is committed by youth - a school boy argument takes place
and one pulls a knife and stabs the other, a young girl is raped and strangled
and this in a country which begins the day with the broadcast of religious
worship.
Whatever our different beliefs, we are all part and parcel of a cultural
religious tradition that deems it evil to kill even the most insignificant
insect. I wonder what then has caused this emergence of violence that strives
to erase all trace of religious values.
I often think daughter we adults are to blame. We do not live our
religion; we pay lip service to it. Religion has not permeated our lives
and the young see that even as we speak of lofty aspirations, our lives
and examples do not reflect It. We as parents do not teach our children
that self discipline and compassion are the basic components of any religion.
When I see the lackadaisical attitude some parents take in passing off
the bullying and fighting that takes place among children in school and
play as childish pranks and the inability of most parents to correct their
youngsters I wonder at the way they will grow up. You will remember daughter
of how often I would remind you that you must control your temper and be
gentle and kind to those around you. It is in the home that the child learns
religious values, concern and respect for others, kindness and compassion.
Today most parents shelve that responsibility and pass it to the schools
and religious teachers. How can any one of them give the guidance that
a parent can? I sometimes think that the old fashioned custom of a child
worshipping the parents before leaving the house reflected the relationship
between parent and child - guidance and blessing.
Perhaps, daughter without blaming the media, drugs or whatever temptations
the young have for the violence we see, we should turn the searchlight
inwards and ask, have we failed in teaching our children religious values
and are we not to some extent responsible for the violence that seems to
be affecting society.
I wish, daughter, that you will always remember what I have tried
to teach you, that religion is meant to be lived so that you become the
temple of your God.
Ammi
Travel
with my man
'I Love Paris'
By Alya Henry
On the plane, I wait for Paris with impatience and hum, 'I love Paris,'
hoping it won't be raining. We read our guide book and practise 'school
French.' The attendants are helpful. They are dressed in blue outfits or
red dresses matching the French tri-colour; they're trim and tres chic
they say Madame, Monsieur and Merci all the time. The furnishings are coloured
French- blue seat covers, pillow cases, red coverlets; cups, plates, tryas
are rimmed in white and blue stripes. A French touch.
Spending a long night in the black sky wrapped in clouds gives me the
jitters. I wonder how we'll manage in gay Paris. What will the weather
be like? what are the people like? My God what have we got ourselves in
for? We heard the French were so and so. Was it true?
At Charles de Gaulle airport we drop into a soup of confusing emotions.
Where was the hotel transport vehicle? How do you get the Paris phone card
to work? Play cool, I said and ran to the toilet only to shudder in disgust
at the smell of the horrors inside. For hundreds of female travellers there
was just that one toilet where the walls and toilet seat were smeared in
shit. What to do? I suggest MM ask for help, while I play cool. (MM's toilet
was quite OK)
To keep steady, I observe the steel and glass airport. I notice a crowd
of travellers, big African men and women in bright 'mammy' clothes of amazing
dimensions, outlandish design and colours, rushing at me with trolleys
piled high with suitcases. I was in the middle of stampeding, bizarre fashion-conscious
giants. I wondered dizzily if Paris haute couture designers could've used
the styles in their famous annual fashion shows.
Eventually MM made contact with our hotel, discovered how to travel
by train, metro and bus; understood the directions to the train station,
which was right at the airport terminal. So voila ! Our carriage waits!
and we zoom into the French countryside cool, calm, collected.
At every mill or stable home I shiver with delight and hum 'I love Paris.'
We change platforms and trains and begin to feel like pros. As we emerge
into the sunlit streets I know that my love for Paris is unshakable whatever
the season of the year, toilets not with standing.
I say Monsieur to every Tom, Dick and Harry and Madam to every Dominique
and Marie Loise. Bonjour drops from my lips like blossoms off a cherry
tree. Surprisingly the ticket sellers smile and respond charmingly.
At the hotel we receive smilar attention. We wonder if a transformation
had ocurred while we weren't watching. Had the French transmogrified in
the past few years and become generous with their geniality.
Our immaculate sixth floor suite looked straight at the Eiffel Tower!
We're a hop step and a jump away from that great monument to French technology.
At the end of our street we found a little village square. On the corner
the smell from a French bakery, the croissants, baguettes, brioches was
tantalising. We filled our bread with ham, cheese and tomatoes, and strolled
across a pedestrian crossing while cars stopped stock still. We felt safe
and contented as we sat in a public garden and munched on our simple but
delicious lunch.
Confidently we walked some blocks to the park surrounding Eiffel Tower
looking like a giant spiders web. We stopped in our tracks as we reached
a wall of tourists, who seemed to be tangled in a windng queue. Joining
a queue as long as three city blocks was not MM's idea of seeing Paris,
so we decided on a 'Hop on hop off bus' which came while I took photos
of MM snoozing under a shady oak tree. Everything fell into place. It was
great riding the roofless double decker: it took us around all the famous
Paris monuments; MM christened it the 'Topless Bus.' Passing under avenues
of leafy branches a breeze cooled our faces while we looked at the wonders
of Napoleonic architecture.
It was a brilliant day. Paris from this height was superb; carvings,
gargoyles, churches, palaces, monuments, sculptures appeared at eye level;
the glorius monuments of the Napoleonic victories were giant dioramas.
As we rode the bus listening to the guide's' description or information
on the monuments in English then all again in French, we felt our French
improved by the minute.
Lulled by the rhythm of the rolling and rocking bus MM fell into fits
of snoozing, while I snapped at all passing sights. It was great seeing
the monuments at eye level. Only once did I hop off at Invalides to visit
Napoleon in his monolithic mausoleum. Later as the sun got hotter I decided
to take it easy and forgo all that climbing till after a good sleep.
That night there were no music recitals. We dined in the village square
and observed the local scenery. A family of six stopped beside a trash
can and peeled their oranges and threw paper wrappers into it. I said to
MM 'Parisians do love their city clean! Didn't we see street sweepers cleaning
the streets this morning?'- (More next week)
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