Dear Zuma…
What is this nonsense I hear about you wanting to separate teenage mothers from their babies, and wanting to send those same teenage mothers away to a place like Robben Island to finish their education? “They must be … forced to go to school far away,” You said, “They must be educated by government until they are empowered. Take them to Robben Island … make them sit there and study until they are qualified to come back and work to look after their kids.” Wow! This makes me so angry – how dare you? No talk of support? Or education? Have you ever been a teenage girl in South Africa? South Africa – this wonderful country of ours but where women are more likely to be raped than educated? South Africa – this beautiful country of ours where one in 6 girls before the age of twelve has been sexually abused? The same South Africa? Have you ever been pregnant? Given birth? Been flooded with the hormones of labour and then had your baby snatched from you? Taken away? Been separated? Had your breasts aching with milk and longing? How archaic is your thinking? ...
Read MoreHome birth as a trend?
All good things must come to a trend, so obviously, home birth in all its fabulousness is going to have to come to the forefront, especially with rumours flying around that the future queen of England, Kate Middleton, is possibly planning a home birth (which I believe to be untrue). But what is it about home birth that is attracting more and more South African women to this particular option? Lana Petersen and I have been running Home Birth South Africa for the last 5 years – something we started purely out of frustration because there was nowhere that a South African woman could go for information on this birthing option – i.e. there was a lot of information available online and in books on home birth but all in the UK, the USA and Australia and nothing which made it seems like a tangible and doable concept within the South African context. So, Home Birth South Africa has been going for the last five years, running quarterly gatherings and information sessions – a place where those interested in home birth, planning a home birth, have had a home birth, wanted one but didn’t get to have one, doulas, midwives, birth activists and those generally interested and who support it can gather to share, ask questions and discuss. The gatherings took place for a long time at Erin Hall in Rondebosch but these days take place at Norman and Jenny Skillen’s rock star mansion in Muizenberg. We usually gather in a circle and each person shares who they are and why they are there, they might share a story and ask some questions. Discussion inevitably ensues and we usually go over time. Over the years, the gatherings have grown in momentum and yesterday’s event attracted nearly forty people to it. Our website and data base grew out of the home birth gatherings when we realised that the need for information and stories needed to be available on a national level. The website gives information, answers questions, provides stories written and shared by South African mothers and families, and offers a directory of home birth friendly practitioners – we are always on the look out for more stories, contributions, information so please feel free to share by contacting us. Stories can be published anonymously. So what is it about home birth and why are we so passionate about it? In this article with photographer Leah Hawker we touch on what drives both Lana and me but I think to summarise, for both Lana and myself it is not home birth per se which is our agenda but being able to provide information and knowledge to women and their families that helps them tap into their own needs around birthing their babies. And both of us are in awe of women when that certain something is unlocked in labour and the new raging, power of that woman is opened as she finds a new part of herself. Innately women seem to want to give birth where they feel safest and most comfortable, and within the South African health care system, while medically very sound, that feeling of safety, of feeling cared for, of being nurtured, of being heard and valued, is so often not there. (And no, there are not really any midwife run birth centres for those women seeking the middle ground.) Not sure when it happened that healthy pregnant women were considered ‘sick’ and deemed only fit to birth in hospital and not sure how it happened that women accepted that this would be the norm. But what I do see are that...
Read MoreCarol Catches Twins
My mother, Carol, was a ‘lay’ midwife (ie she never received any formal training as a midwife) but accidentally ‘fell’ into the catching of the babies on our farm Droëland. This is the story of the birth of the first set of twins she attended. They were undiagnosed twins (i.e unexpected): Willie and Sannie had been on Droëland for about a month when Sannie went into labour. They arrived one Sunday morning on foot with their two children, a boy and a girl, and settled into the labourer’s cottage next door to Dappie and Marie up at the Barracks (this was what the labourer’s cottages were unofficially called). Sannie was heavily pregnant at the time and my mother joked that Sannie was carrying a rugbyspan (a rugby team). Two weeks after Sannie and Willie’s arrival, the farm labourers were being driven into Ceres for their bi-weekly shopping trip on nat naweek. (Literal translation of ‘nat naweek’: ‘wet weekend.’ This refers to the weekends when the farm labourers were paid. They were paid every other Saturday. Unpaid weekends were referred to as ‘droë naweek’, ie. ‘dry weekend.’ ‘Nat naweek’ also refers to the fact that most of the farm labourer’s wages were spent on wine.) Two vehicles, the truck and the bakkie (pick up truck), drove the 60km dirt road in convoy into town. It was about eight in the morning on a beautiful spring day in October. At the turn at Witklippies (one of the neighbouring farms), the truck overtook the bakkie. Willie was sitting in the back of the bakkie and eager to get to the bottle store before anyone else, decided to jump from the bakkie on to the back of the truck. He missed and landed on his head. He was never quite the same again after that. Smell the freshness of the air. The farm only smells like this in spring. Fresh and warm. My mother was in the kitchen with my younger sister Gypsy. “Mami! Mami!” Jasmin (my younger sister)’s voice called from outside. Jasmin had been up at the Barracks and had heard Sannie screaming from the labourer’s cottage. Jasmin had nervously poked her head around the corner of Sannie’s bedroom and seen Sannie crouched on a thin sponge mattress on the cold cement floor in strong labour; the usually shy and quiet woman behaving like an enraged wild animal. Births on the farm had by now become routine for our mother. She now had a well stocked birthing kit. Our mother took her time in getting ready (much to the irritation of my two youngest sisters). She chopped some wood and washed the dishes and put some food on to cook on the wood burning cast iron Defy Dover stove, before heading up to the young woman in labour. Our mother walked up to the Barracks with Gypsy and Jasmin, who rushed ahead burning with curiosity. My sisters ran up and down, rushing our mother along but our mother refused to be rushed and ambled slowly up to the Barracks. Our mother was ushered into the bedroom by An’ Ragel and An’ Christine. Gypsy and Jasmin joined the other curious bystanders in the kitchen (mostly children). Jasmin had been instructed to boil a pot of water with some cotton yarn (to tie off the umbilical cord) and a pair of little scissors. Jasmin did this, feeling useful and proud at having been given this job. The labour went quickly and smoothly and soon a little boy slid out of his mother. Our mother wrapped him in a towel she had brought with her (there was absolutely nothing in the house for a baby). The new mother pressed her breast to the baby’s little face and he began to eagerly suckle it....
Read MoreThis is a Baby of Rape
I live in the seaside village of Scarborough, near Cape Town, at the tip of Africa. It is rather idyllic; small, safe and beautiful. I live in a simple wooden shack near the beach. Life is simple but good. This morning I went to see a pregnant client at her home in Glencairn. It is about a ten minute drive. It was overcast and drizzling but warm. We sat at her table, sipping rooibos chai and chatting while her nearly two year old daughter played around us. I left after an hour or so. All was well with mother and baby. We hugged and said our goodbyes. I drove back to Scarborough and at the bottom of Red Hill, a young mother from the settlement was hitch hiking with her baby on her hip. I stopped and with relief she hopped into the back of the car and told me she was travelling to Ocean View to the clinic there. Her baby had a rash and she needed to have it checked out. I apologised that I was only going to Scarborough ( I had another pregnant client to see there) but could at least take her that far. She said she was happy with that. I asked her how old her baby was and where she had given birth to her. “She is seven months…I gave birth to her in the Eastern Cape,” she said. I asked her if this was her first child. No, she replied, this was her second. Her eldest child was already eight years old. “This is a baby of rape,” she said matter of factly. I was not sure what to say. I turned around and looked her in her eyes and said, “I am sorry.” I am still not sure if that was the right thing to say. But what do you say? I then turned back again and looked at the baby. So sweet and innocent and beautiful, sitting in her mother’s lap. “Your daughter is beautiful.” I said. She laughed and agreed. When she got out of my car I asked her what her daughter’s name was. She told me. I repeated it back. “What does it mean?” I asked. ” It means, ‘We are Friends’…” Then hoisting her daughter onto her back, she slammed the car door, smiled, waved, and walked...
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