(One more love note during this honeymoon phase. AB)

Central heating is extremely rare in apartments in Cape Town, despite the fact that winters here are cold. Thus it happened that on my trip here in 2014, when my heated church/office building was closed, I often rode the bus to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront, to the V&A mall. The mall provided an escape from my frigid apartment.


I became a semi-regular at a little coffee place there. I would order coffee, sometimes chat with the server if it wasn’t busy, and then sit and write for a while.

Naturally I was anxious to revisit this place of refuge when I arrived back in Cape Town. When I managed to get there, I saw that a few stores that I planned to one day enter were gone. And there is an H&M that I don’t remember from before. But overall, the mall is just the same. The post office, the movie theater, the drug store, the good supermarket were all where I had left them.

And my little coffee shop was still there, too.


As I wandered into the coffee place and drank in the memories, the server on duty looked intently in my direction, smiled and said, “You’re back!” My server was still there. And I was so happy to be remembered.

The last time I was here, part of my internship involved attending sessions of Parliament. On one visit towards the end of my stay, I was having a time getting through security. A Cape Townian who worked in Parliament intervened and volunteered to escort me. Because, he told me, “You are at the church on Greenmarket. I heard you preach at the lunchtime service yesterday.” I struggled to pronounce his name, Mbulelo, even after he repeated it more than once. I jokingly asked what people called him for short. He replied, “People call me Mbulelo.” In that instant I comprehended it all–centuries and continents of information. With great mental exertion, my American tongue pronounced that African name. Em-boo-LAY-lo.

Mbulelo adopted me, briefed me on the political currents, introduced me to his progressive friends, and encouraged me that, of course, if I wanted to come back, then I would.

Well I lost touch with my friend, and this trip I have no plans to visit Parliament. I was excited, though, to have arrived in time for the President’s much-anticipated State of the Nation Address (the “SONA”). The morning after the address there was a public gathering of journalists and public intellectuals to analyze the SONA event.


What a stimulating assembly of thinkers! What a delicious free buffet!

Afterwards, as I was walking down the street away from the event, I heard a voice saying, “Alease, is it you?” I looked, and there was Mbulelo! He said, “I saw you inside and thought, ‘No, it can’t be her.’” But there we both were. What a marvelous happenstance, to run into my old friend! I’m so glad to know that he is still here, still politically engaged, and that he remembers me!

Most stores close around 3 or 4 p.m. on Saturday here, and are not open at all on Sundays. During my last trip to Cape Town, I went out one Saturday exploring and hoping to buy a novel for pre-sleep reading. Before I knew it, hours of exploring had gone by, shops were closing all around me, and I had not found a bookstore or a book to read. I despondently wondered why I had to be the kind of person who always gets distracted from the main thing she’s meant to be doing.

As I tried to navigate my way back towards the direction of my apartment downtown, I remembered that I needed to turn down a street where there were old records on the sidewalk outside of a shop. I found the street, and the shop, and saw that the shop was still open. I felt the kiss of the Lord’s delight in me when a peek inside that old shop revealed that they had used books for sale and novels galore!

That shop turned out to be the super-cheap, used book/music/dvd store that I would return to repeatedly while I was there. The proprietor was a Rastafarian, partly from Jamaica, with long black dreadlocks.

This time around, my student status gives me reciprocity with the University of Cape Town. I have begun using their library and taking their free bus to get from campus to near downtown. I got my bearings after a couple of rides on the bus, and realized that if, instead of turning right towards downtown, I proceeded straight ahead from the bus stop, I would walk right past the spot where my super-cheap, used bookshop used to be. So the other day I walked straight ahead. As I approached the place where the bookshop should be, out onto the sidewalk came a man with dreadlocks tucked into a cap. He smiled as I approached and said, “You’re back!” Holding out his hand to shake mine, he asked, “How is the church?”

Downtown, at the mall, even in the next neighborhood over, my return has been welcomed. How can this be? In all of the United States, I cannot think of a city or town or neighborhood that I might return to and find this kind of warm embrace–especially after only 9 or 10 weeks of acquaintance, with an almost 2 year absence, and a reappearance with a very different look.



(Then, I had long extensions, and was always wrapped up from head to toe for warmth. Now, I have short hair, loose clothes, and eyes shaded from the sun.)


Some people fall in love quickly. It happens so fast that the watching world can hardly believe that the love is legit. How, reasonable people wonder, can you really love someone whom you barely know?

I don’t know. But I know that you can.

Some people can look at you once, twice maybe, and see all the beauty inside of you, and you them; beauty that might be concealed from the myopic gaze of the world; beauty that you yourself barely knew was there. Other people might spend half a lifetime looking, and never see the beautiful you, the wonder of you.

Yes, to know takes a lifetime–and then some, but love happens fast all the time. Like the first time a baby girl is placed in her father’s arms.

In 2014 I came to Cape Town. I saw this place, who it is and how it is, and, miraculously, this place saw me. Love happened. Love is still happening. I marvel at the mystery of it all.

I have been asked repeatedly, “Why South Africa?”

I want to respond, simply, that this is where I have sensed the Lord leading me. But I have found that this response is not helpful, or compelling, for many people.

Instead of speaking this dialect of spiritualese, I usually share about how rich the South African context is for contemplating the issues of war and peace that are the subject of my research. Truth and Reconciliation originated here, after all.

(Me and Archbishop Desmond Tutu in 2014.)


Or, I sometimes share with people that I really appreciate how different my colleagues  here in South Africa are from my colleagues back in the States. I talk about how important it is for me to engage the diverse viewpoints of Black Africans from all over the continent, as well as to engage with the different African ways of being, knowing and communicating as I think about war, race, power and money.

Lately, though, a deeper reason for my being in South Africa has bubbled to the surface of my consciousness. More than the social and political significance of my location, and more than the diversity of cultural perspective that adds immeasurably to my project, what makes my being in South Africa so necessary to the research and writing that I am doing, is that my Being is different when I am in this place.

Here in South Africa, I live with internal tensions related to issues of racial, economic, social, and religious identity that are simply not a part of my life when I am in the U.S.

For example, in the U.S. I am Black. In South Africa, despite the fact that Black South Africans frequently mistake me for isiXhosa, I am not a South African Black person. Nor am I Colored or White. I am not Malay Indian, Chinese, or Persian either. I am none of the above. It is not clear who people say that I am.

When I am in the U.S. I see in predictable places those without homes and those who beg as a means of supporting themselves, and I may or may not choose to be in such places and to interact with such people on any particular day. In Cape Town, homelessness and poverty are inescapable parts of the city wherever you go. The relentless reminder of impoverishment requires a continuous decision on my part as to how, not if, I will engage with the poor. In the U.S. I do not have wealth. In South Africa I do.


(A business, a home, and the communal toilets in a Black township.)

In my U.S. world, Jesus loves me and Christianity means church on Sunday, prayer, bible reading, and doing good to others. In my South Africa, Jesus loves each and every one of us, and Christianity means resisting injustice, speaking out for the voiceless, and championing the cause of the powerless. In the U.S., my being Spirit-filled means one thing, in South Africa it means another.

All of these issues of personal identity—race, economic and social class, as well as religious tradition—are implicated in the research that I do with respect to war. Though I have not fully worked out the connection between personal identity and war, I know that war is absolutely personal—both for the victors and for the vanquished. I know that our individual identities, who we think we are and who we think they are, are what make us move toward or away from armed conflict, both individually and as nation-states. I know that who makes decisions about war, who fights and where/how they fight in war, and who is deemed an enemy or an ally in war, all hinge on issues of personal identity.

The unplanned shifts in my identity resulting from my locatedness in South Africa, and my ability to blur the edges and move between the rigid categories that define so much of our conversation about who we are, will serve me well, I think, as I work on understanding the relationship that God, the church, and humanity have with war.


Greetings from Cape Town!
How amazing that I am able to write those words! A year ago, a month ago even, the prospect of being here was merely a dream and a hope. Up until the moment that I boarded the plane, I had doubts that I would actually arrive. But, praise the Lord! I am here!

My time in South Africa began with a great deal of resting and eating. My hosts, Malia and Terence, are amazing beyond words, and Malia is a fantastic cook!  Weight has definitely been gained. But that is a worry for another day.

I have reacquainted myself with the city of Cape Town, and I have introduced myself to the town of Stellenbosch, where my university is located. Stellenbosch is about 30 minutes from the city, in the winelands of the Western Cape. Stellenbosch is beautiful. The town itself reminds me very much of Palo Alto and the surrounds of Stanford University.

Of late, I have been apartment hunting. It seemed to me, and to my friends here who are helping me look, that Stellenbosch would be the ideal location for me to live. Primarily because rents are much lower outside of the city.

As we began our search, however, we learned that the Stellenbosch housing market is as bustling as the New York City housing market! Literally overnight, 7 appointments to see apartments dwindled to 2 appointments, as apartments were leased before we could view them. There are many students who want to live within walking distance of campus, it seems.  I am hoping that as the days pass, and students settle in, the housing market will cool off and the right place for me will present itself. Alternatively, there is the possibility of moving into an adorable, tiny, flat in a student housing development in the city.

There’s a saying that you never step in the same river twice, and the church I attended here is proof of that. The congregation has grown and diversified, there is a new worship team, and the preaching that was so transformative for me when I was here last, is different in a very good way. How beautiful to come back and see such signs of renewal! How beautiful that, despite the changes, the warmth and love of the people at the church remains the same.

Work on my dissertation has not yet begun in earnest. I will be meeting with my supervisor this week to strategize the crafting of my initial research proposal that must be presented to the PhD Committee in late April.

In three days Lent 2016 will begin.

It is like I am on a plane that has just taken off, and while I have been leafing through a magazine the plane has left January and entered February. Then after a quick meal the plane is arriving at Lent. In the time it takes to watch an in-flight movie, I will be passing Easter on this plane, I’m sure, and then the half-year mark will be in sight.

I only want to remember, to savor, every one of these gorgeous days.