Dare to Dream…

VANESSA SMEETS

In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men…  ~Job 4:13


WHERE TO? My destiny was revealed to me at the age of 8. I haven't looked back since... PIC: online

I’m not sure if a blog is the right place to do this, but where else can I declare my feelings on writing? I have lost too many friends this year to realise there is only one life and one chance to write this.

If I had my way, all my readers would be sitting in a hall listening to the following:

Just before my parents’ divorce, I dreamt that my brother, our two best friends and I jumped into a pool. We woke up in heaven, but all went our separate ways…
I followed my guardian angel. Her name is Rebecca. She is over 2 metres tall, carries a golden belt around her waist and has the softest golden locks. I know, angels don’t have genders, but she symbolised womanly strength I was seeking at that time.

I asked her to show me Jesus Christ. There, in a beautiful garden filled with palm trees was a white tent. On the other side, I saw blind and paralysed people walking into a building and coming out completely healed. I was anxious to meet Him. My mom was a strong Christian, but I had questioned His existence. His voice was tranquil. He knew my name before even looking at me. My heart was quickly at rest.

The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart: his words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords.  ~Psalms 55:21


His eyes astonished me the most. They were an amazing metallic blue. When He looked at me, I could feel Him looking into my soul. Yet, I was not afraid. An 8-year old doesn’t have much to hide, except maybe guilty feelings of teasing her little brother.

He was busy painting. It was then that I noticed He was painting humanity using His blood. Using His tears, the strokes would be lighter or darker. I could not bear to watch. He was painting mothers, fathers, children covered in blood, crying out in agony. I started to weep, but He told me to be strong and patient; things could change from one day to the next.

I kneeled beside Him. “You are ready,” He said. He gave me His paintbrush and it turned into a quill. I haven’t stopped writing since that day. When I left the tent, I felt reassured: I knew my purpose, except I had no idea how to go home.

A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.  ~Proverbs 16:9


“Your parents are waiting,” He told me, “But your Father above knows where you’ve been and where you are going.” It has been 17 years since the dream, but remember it as if it was yesterday.
He showed me a corridor that would lead me home. It was a corridor filled with portraits and I have met every single person since then. They don’t just happen as déjà-vus; it’s as if I’ve met them before. Indeed I have and they all came at a time I needed guidance or reassurance.

At the end of the dream, my brother and our two friends meet each other again, but our senses have changed. We speak, listen and see much clearer. Four years ago, after my near-to-death experience, the four of us all found God again. The dream had reached full-circle.

DARE TO DREAM: Whether we believe in God, Allah, Jehovah... we all have similar dreams and the power to change the world around us by revealing them to others. PIC: online

The dream taught me numerous things:

• You may be young, but you can awaken at any time.
• It is on our stillest times, that we hear Him.
•  Sometimes it’s best to go to your room, pray out aloud and wait. Wait till it all makes sense. It eventually will. Your subconscious will communicate with you via your dreams.
• I’m a journalist that types with one finger. People laugh at me all the time about it. It’s okay, I received that gifted finger when I was 8 years old.
•  There is God’s peace in anxious times, God’s love in heartbroken times and God’s hope in uncertain times.

• Dare to dream about peace, love and destiny…

Behind the mask of xenophobia

SANCTUARY: Zimbabwean refugees make their way to Beit Bridge in hope of food and work across the border. PHOTO: Vanessa Smeets

VANESSA SMEETS

At the abandoned babies’ home, there are five newborns neatly placed in a row.

One is a white baby, Luke, with tiny pink lips, whose parents are originally German. Two generations ago, the war played a part in his family moving to South Africa. He was the only survivor in a family car crash. Next to him, there’s a little black baby with big round eyes. Thumi is a product of rape. Her mother left her at the home after she was born. Next to Thumi lies Mamoud, a little Muslim boy whose parents had to give up, after they lost everything in Nigeria’s conflict wars. Mamoud’s neighbour, Sandra, is a beautiful coloured baby with piercing blue eyes. Her history is a mystery. She was found here after Christmas. Lastly, there’s tiny Bo, very premature and from Chinese origin. His mother passed away during his birth.

Luke, Thumi, Mamoud, Sandra and Bo have one thing in common: they are products of a new South Africa. Although their blood may not be Afrikaans, Zulu or Sotho, it doesn’t define who they are. They are all survivors and they have a destiny to live here, in a country that embraces them where not even their own parents could.

They all giggle the same as the nurse tickles their tummies. They all cry the same as she leaves. They even look the same with their blue and pink bonnets and tiny socks.
These children will grow up one day to learn about potjie kos, runaways (an African delicacy made of chicken feet), the national anthem and our first democratically elected president, Nelson Mandela.

One child will grow up to be president and one will grow up in jail. It’s their destiny to choose. All, however, will have to defend themselves in a world that is become increasingly cruel to immigrants.

FIRE WITH FIRE: Xenophobia was at its peak in May 2008. Courtesy: online

Xenophobia is not that different to racism, only that one hates the person’s origins more than just his/her skin colour. The person doesn’t belong because, although he/she may be black or white like you, they speak German instead of Afrikaans or Shona instead of Tswana. Parents and children of the same home also speak different languages, the mother speaks in Afrikaans, the child replies in English, yet no one gets kicked out of the house for saying ‘Dankie’ instead of ‘Thank you’.

Yet, one spits at one’s neighbour because they have nowhere else to go. Ask the Zimbabwean student what he had to go through to be here, or if his parents got through the Beit Bridge border in time for his graduation. It took 12 hours in the baking sun and 14 hours of road…

Luke grows up to be a historian. He speaks only when he is spoken to. He is humble and hard-working. He is the epitome of respect.

Thumi grows up to be the soul of the party, she laughs and smiles a lot and makes everyone feel loved. She is the epitome of friendliness.

Mamoud, despite his Muslim name, grows up to be a peer-group leader in a Christian school. He is kind, warm and caring. He is the epitome of compassion.

At sixteen, Bo falls in love with politics. Despite many hardships and financial trouble, he gets a scholarship, meets well-placed people and becomes president. He is the epitome of perseverance.

Sandra grows up to help troubled kids in juvenile prison. In fact, most of her teen years are spent here comforting and caring for others. Yet, she was judged already. “Grows up in jail” meant convict, right? Sandra is, therefore, the epitome of an open mind.

These five innocent babies who grow up to change the world they live in are the five symbols in conquering xenophobia: respect, friendliness, perseverance, compassion and an open mind.

Are we ready as South Africans to put away our judgements and embrace change? Or will we just sit there and mock the foreigner who speaks English strangely?

MIND SETS: Zapiro depicts the South African mindset on different countries in Africa. COURTESY: Zapiro

May 2008 claimed the lives of dozens of Zimbabweans refugees who had come here to flee an oppressed country. They had come to feed and clothe their families. Instead, they were welcomed with bitterness and hatred and fed to the angry masses.

Xenophobia is about our territorial natures. For some of us, it is harder to share our utensils, bedding and clothes with others. For some, it is about our own survival: who are they to take our land, our wives and our jobs? Maybe the story of those five foreign children at the babies’ home could teach us all a lesson. Maybe it’s time to dedicate ourselves sincerely to a zen created through peace and harmony, even after the festivities of the World Cup.