We also see the continued legacy of the genocide in efforts to sue the German government
and companies like the Woermann lines for reparations. Money is only one aspect of this
equation: no amount of money can heal the psychological wounds and the loss of cultural
knowledge.
As a writer, I make such legacies visible in the stories I choose to tell and the ways in which I
try to offer pathways to healing. We can theorize the notion of genocide and debate what is,
or what should be called genocide or not, but ultimately the crucial question is how we change
our behaviours-and only imagination and will can provide answers. Story is both the quest
to uncover that past, and imagining a future beyond it. When I returned for my research for
my book, Counting Teeth: a Namibian Story, a librarian in Swakopmund denied the presence
of camps there. When I asked what she would call the mass killing of people other than
genocide, she responded, "Well, not quite that"-words that echo David Lurie's thoughts in
J.M. Coetzee's Disgrace as he reflects on having sex with Melanie even as she averts herself:
"Not rape, not quite that, but undesired nevertheless, undesired to the core." Not quite that:
A crucial step to working with memory, reconciliation, and healing through art is
acknowledging the past for what it was, and accepting our implication in that past and its
legacies.
I have always had a diasporic relationship with Namibia: although I was born there, my
parents returned to South Africa when I was five years old. Yet the country stayed with me-
not only through visits, but through the stories and artefacts that filled my childhood home,
and that occupy a central place in my own home now. While I was at university, I had to
negotiate the complexity of soldiers (on both sides) entering and crossing borders. What
intrigues me is how the ebb and flow of exiles and returnees moving across borders is a
common thread in our histories. And against those bodies in motion, there are the ones who
stayed. How does one negotiate the various forms of physical and emotional exile and return
other than through literature?
Exile and diaspora, I learned from those who have been placed in that position, and from my
own experience in diaspora, involves a very visceral, bodily engagement with a country.
Physical separation from a place that has commanded so much of my body, in all respects,
reminds me of the physical and emotional hurt and agony of separation from a lover. In such
a context, writing about absence becomes a vehicle through which I can explore my own
relationship to the place as well as my responses to reconciliation and repatriation of people
and artefacts of note.
Growing older has allowed me to reconcile myself with my own body and its implication in a
broader past, and this, too, I have attempted to incorporate into my artistic practice. Through
accepting myself and my role in the past, I have begun to consider whether we can pass
healing on to future generations in the same way we have passed trauma on through the
generations that preceded us.
In 2011, I visited Namibia to travel and do the research that became Counting Teeth: a
Namibian Story. It was my first trip back to Namibia since Independence in 1990, and for the
two months that I was there, I kept a diary. Each night as I put down the day's experiences on
paper, fragments of poetry drifted into the writing. After finishing Counting Teeth, I began to
reconstruct those fragments, following the ebb and flow of words, the repetitions and
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