The first year in Kenya was discoloured by nostalgia. Mom and dad missed their friends, many of whom were now in jail. Songs amplifying the feeling of loss spun on our turntable: Songs of the French Resistance by Yves Montand; Paul Robeson songs; Pete Seager songs; Joan Baez, Miriam Makeba and songs of the South African struggle. On the cover of the South African album was the picture of an anti-pass demonstration. A great weal of dust rises and a policeman lash out with long knobkerries. A falling women reaches with her hands to regain her balance and fend off the attack. Mom sometimes held my hand and asked me to sing along with her: “We shall overcome. We shall overcome. We shall overcome, someday. Oh I do believe that we shall overcome some day.” And, at 4, listening to her quavering voice I could feel my throat fill so fast with tears I could almost drink them. My parents looked longingly at pictures of purple mountains with flowery meadows in the foreground: the Karoo, Natal, pic
Left wing commentary from the heart and the head