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African Renaissance

The Chosen Family from Church to Earth

Abigail George

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Guess at the intensity behind my words. ‘Give me a place to stand,’ said Archimedes, ‘and I will move the world.’ After all that is said and done, Rome was not built in a day. I want to forget Africa as a place of weeping. Listen to this quotation. ‘If Athens shall appear great to you,’ said Pericles, ‘consider then that her glories were purchased by valiant men, and by men who learned their duty.’ What is the source of all greatness in all societies? Our artists. What is the key to progress in our time? Our artists. I consider artists, and performers valiant men and women.Two words. Moses Molelekwa. The pen is mightier than swords.

The thing about being a tortured genius is very real. Your man is not going to be superhuman all of the time. Within every man is a bored and tortured genius waiting for the woman who will understand he is flawed. He also needs to be loved, understood. If you need therapy,and I’ve needed a lot of it over the years, make the call. (Think Hemingway and Salinger, brilliant men, tortured geniuses) who will live for posterity. The gifted, tortured ones always will.You will live for posterity in the lives of your children.Your wife at your side, the people that you work with. What is the legacy that you will leave behind?Two words.

Moses Molelekwa. The thing about being a tortured genius is very real. Your man is not going to be superhuman all of the time. Within every man is a bored and tortured genius waiting for the woman who will understand he is flawed. He also needs to be loved, understood. If you need therapy, and I’ve needed a lot of it over the years, make the call. (Think Hemingway and Salinger, brilliant men, tortured geniuses) who will live for posterity. You will live for posterity in the lives of your children, your wife at your side, the people that you work with. What is the legacy that you will leave behind in the lives of the people who love you, who care for you? The sharpest words cut an artist down, depression, mental illness, and poverty.

(Whether it is clinical or manic, the spectrum of mood disorders that affects the nerves in the brain (nor-adrenaline, serotonin, and dopamine). Time is longer than rope, and it will do us the world of good to remain cognisant of that fact. I’ve lived in poverty for most of my life.We (not forgetting that this is a global phenomenon, to be loved, to be kind, to be humble), artists, are not strangers to the dark. People who are broken, broken-hearted (and I am using the example of artists here use their pain, the locus of their external environment to create world that few of this world, they feel that no one will love them.

No one will accept them as they are (here I speak for myself). I am scared of being seen as an artist. Artists are scared to be seen. They fear people will always judge personality over and above, not adore, worship, or praise them. Artists (here I speak for myself) are afraid of the wolves. Remember Patrice Lumumba, Stephen Bantu Biko, Samora Machel, Chris Hani, Kwame Nkrumah, Ken Saro Wiwa, Frantz Fanon, Bessie Head, Dambudzo Marechera, Sol Plaatje Albert Luthuli, Nadine Gordimer, J.M. Coetzee all of them marched to the beat of their own drum. Let us remember South Africa’s Nobel Laureates. Let us remember.

Let us remember Robert F. Kennedy’s speech at the University of Cape Town.The artist (they have their reasons), broken-hearted (they have their reasons), the extraordinarily gifted (they have their reasons), all have a voice that needs to be seen, and heard.I am an ex-presidentMandela, Mbeki,Zuma, and president-elect Ramaphosa loyalist too.I’m a Julius Malema loyalist, a Winnie Madikizela-Mandela loyalist. My loyalties are aligned with that of the African continent, from the east to the west, the African Renaissance, negotiation, diplomacy, and reconciliation. What my Saint Helenian ancestors believed in, on that island.

What my elders, and statesmen believe in, what our leaders in the cabinet, and our leaders in government believe in. Here, I am speaking about world leaders as well. It feels to me as if we are facing, standing on the brink of another World War. I say look (back), take stock (ownership), and I ask myself this? Has the revolution finally, finally come to an end, and what will become of the revolutionaries, if writers, and poets do not celebrate their life and death, their fight and the struggle?Struggle to me means the art and seduction theories of survival. I think of the cosmos. How does war, and death, bloodshed fit into this cosmos.

For isn’t all of life infinite? I speak for myself. How I see the world. The world of artificial intelligence, the computer age, the digital divide, the dissemination of information knowledge systems, technology, the age of the robot, advances in the medical field. We have come so far, but we think that we have forgotten the psychosis of our veterans. For me, our absolute existence is not just on earth. It is aligned with the universe, the cosmos, and the paradise of heaven. There lies the Einsteinian-truth. Albert Einstein, a clerk envisioned the theory of relativity. Our experience of time is relative. We live in the present moment, and yesterday.

And our tomorrows are non-entities. I am trying to fight the pain of losing you, you all, believers and non-believers, estranged family that I have loved unconditionally for years. I think of winter tress when I am sad, and Sylvia Plath’s ‘botanical drawings’, and what exactly are these winter trees made of in the dead of night, in the dead of winter. I have fallen in love again, and the world is as it should be. I am writing again. Mind, body, breath is reality again. The non-reality of the psychosis of the bipolar mood disorders inside has become like the rain, pavement, drains, and darkened alleyways. In past wars we have gone from protest.

To challenge. In South Africa we are moving beyond apartheid, and Black politics (are we, are we), the makings of the African working class (we are all comrades, and compatriots in Africa). As I write this, new laws are coming into being. Gender-based violence is being addressed. There is an unquiet revolution from within (always remember that the pen is mightier than the sword). The unquiet mind of the artist, poet and African writer. I think of the fragments of human bodies in war, reconciliation and peace in the African Renaissance. So, today my keynote address to you is the African Renaissance, a Jabez prayer for the youth.

A prayer for the dying youth of the Northerns. I speak now of my own background. A sub-economic hovel, the Northerns, that is my home. I think of the Coloured psyche, ego and identity, the near wasted generation, the duplicity, and promulgation of the Group Areas Act, and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Sometimes, on every inhale I watch the sky, the cloud people, the illusion of it all, that war, and not the Fourth Industrial Revolution is going to feed the world. Politics is not going to feed the world, agriculture, and trade is going to do that.I am fighting the war of all of these successions of deaths. Crimes.

All of this that I see in front of me, the prophecy, all my tears, again, and again, and again. I am saying no to revolution, a life being taken again, innocent puddles of blood being shed.Equality and diplomacy is key.

Abigail George is a feminist, poet and short story writer. She is the recipient of two South African National Arts Council Writing Grants, one from the Centre for the Book and the Eastern Cape Provincial Arts and Culture Council. She was born and raised in the coastal city of Port Elizabeth, the Eastern Cape of South Africa, educated there and in Swaziland and Johannesburg. She has written a novella, books of poetry, and collections of short stories. She is busy with her brother putting the final additions to a biography on her father’s life. Her work has recently been anthologised in the Sol Plaatje EU Poetry Anthology IV. Her work was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She briefly studied film.

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African Renaissance

There are two kinds of lovers

Abigail George

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Before 39

I think of my wife Diana. Diana the paramedic with the reading hands, the quiet smile that plays on her lips while she eats my spaghetti.

I am standing on my flat’s balcony. Barefoot, her dark hair loose she hands me a cup of coffee, kisses my cheek, and asks me what I want to eat for supper. There’s birdsong. I look at the gardens of the ground floor flats. They stay with me like a page in a J.M. Coetzee novel. I think of campfires burning in the dark, telling ghost stories at Scout meetings, Khayalitsha burning, the children who lost their lives in that fire. I think of iron faces, winter news in the outline of this, as I read the newspaper. There’s nothing as beautiful as the woman in the photograph who is the bride of high summer days. That woman is Dawn, my mother. I think of Port Alfred, my father at the wheel of the car, I am fighting with my brother. We don’t speak. The last time I saw him was at my mother’s funeral. He was growing older.

He still looked handsome though in his dark suit and Rhodes tie. We spoke briefly. His son was at university studying music and his daughter was finishing off her last year of high school. After the funeral we get home, Diana and I make love, I watch a National Geographic documentary on how climate change and global warming is affecting the rainforest. I eat a pear, and catch the juice with the back of my hand dribbling down my chin. It’s drizzling. The clothes on the washing line is getting wet. It’s too late to save them. I think of my brother as I heat up the leftovers of a takeaway chicken curry from the night before. I eat standing at the kitchen counter. Drink a glass of water. Rinse my plate in the sink, dry it and pack it away. I think of Dawn, how bone-thin she was. She was a minister’s daughter, her mother an English teacher.

In the weeks to come I am overcome by grief. I buy dirty magazines. Hide it under my side of the bed. I start seeing a therapist again. Talk about the close relationship I had with my mother. How she was the only woman who ever really understood me. Sometimes I talk about Diana, how submissive she is, my brother, how we’re not close, how successful he is, how envious of that part of his life I am. I like this therapist. She reminds me of Dawn. The shape of her lips, her well-toned arms, she likes to wear dresses, heels. She’s very feminine, full of life, joie de vivre; she has children, a dreamy husband. The husband is stern-looking in the photograph, so are her two boys. I tell her about washing Dawn’s back, drawing infinite circles on Dawn’s back as a boy. How Dawn taught me how to drive, how she bought me my first typewriter.

The next documentary is on owls in Great Britain. There’s an owl flying through the air in slow motion on the screen. I look at Diana beside me. Her mouth is open. She’s wearing a slip. Her eyes flutter in sleep. I touch her face gently wanting her to wake up, wanting someone to talk to. I want to run her a bath, wash her back, and draw infinite circles on her back. I want to hold her hostage in my arms again, listen to her breath deepen as I kiss her neck and shoulders, gathering her to me. Later when we’re watching the National Geographic channel together I go to the kitchen to make a bedspread picnic of crackers and cheese and green olives in a bowl. We drink sparkling white wine in paper cups. I watch her fingers reach tentatively for the olives. She eats the cheese off the crackers before biting them in half.

Before 19

I come to life in my brother’s Cape Town flat. This was Dawn’s idea. That I stay here while completing my degree. I never see my brother. When we meet up with each other we’re like strangers. Sometimes he picks me up, takes me for an expensive meal, and shows off his car. Then he disappears again. I never see him for weeks. The less I see of him, the better. I think he must think I’m very strange. All I do is study. I never invite friends over to the flat. I don’t have a girlfriend. I think he feels sorry for me. I hate thinking, feeling that. Mostly I eat pasta. I eat lots and lots of pasta, watch cooking shows, and learn how to use two remotes, take long walks up and down Long Street, and I buy ice cream which I eat with a dessert spoon out of the tub while watching Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Bette Davis and Ava Gardner films.

I’m watching an adult film. It’s a gay film. It’s the first time I see a man naked. The television is on mute. Outside it is raining men and women. I’m thinking of people who only say things to be polite. Of how before I do things now, I have to wait for the tiredness to lift from staying up the entire night studying. I’m thinking of my brother and Dawn. How everything around me is fragile when dissected. Sometime I think of the hospital room I found myself in when I was barely twenty for depression. I sleep with married men. I sleep with married men for money. I buy clothes with this money. Tell Dawn I have a job at a campus radio station. Dawn tells me I don’t need to buy new clothes. She tells me I should save the money, and that my brother will look after us. I don’t think of my dad who died in a car accident when I was a baby.

When you are too much alone with your own thoughts you go mad if there is no one to distract you from your studies, your cave, from your books. Whenever I feel like this I go to the beach. Wear my swimming shorts underneath my jeans. Find my own warm sandy space on the beach, spread out my towel and strip down to my swimming costume. I sunbathe. It gets hot, then hotter. I take out my sunscreen out of my tog bag. Put my sunglasses on. I want to fuck. I go swimming. The first wave hits my waist. I duck my head beneath the next one. In a way I feel free. I watch a couple run into the waves, the white girl shrieking in delight as her coloured boyfriend follows behind her. He splashes her, playfully grabbing her arm and pulling her in deeper while she laughs and screams. It’s like I’m watching a soap opera from far away through blurred vision.

I watch them kiss as they step out of the waves. The white girl is wearing a white bikini. She looks exquisite. The boy is holding onto her waist from behind. He is nuzzling her neck. They hold hands as they walk past me. I pick up my book. It’s Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. I read, I swim, I turn brown in the sun, I drink warm soda from a can that I bought before I hit the beach, I pick up the book, I put down the book, and when I get bored I watch the people around me. A man reading a newspaper, his feet in leather sandals, sitting beneath an umbrella with a cooler bag, his wife (I presume) sitting next to him in a similar beach chair, also wearing sunglasses. She would intermittently press a sandwich in his hand or something to drink, or his reading glasses. She was paging through a glossy magazine. I watch young families, the mixed race couple until I fall asleep. 

Before 29

I’ve come out here to Grahamstown to write the great post-apartheid South African novel. I rent a room in a Bed and Breakfast. I sit outside by the fireplace in a patio chair. Rusty nails are coming out of it. I think too much. That’s the trouble with me. Instead of green hills I see blue hills. The trouble with madness is that you think too much. I let the sun shine on my face and try not to think too much. In a land far away, people are on the move as fast as mating rituals in the animal kingdom. They are getting out of bed, waking their children, taking showers, fixing breakfasts, fixing their hair (in that order). Yes, writing bold lists, drawing up hot itineraries like lost beak-nosed birds with fire in their belly. And like me they are surely writing out what their priorities for the day are. And later, everything around me is covered with an intense aura of pink light.

He is back from buying cigarettes. His name is Jakes. His hair is wet (from a ten-minute shower). I can’t shut him out no matter how hard I try. He is my education. He is my companion guide to angst. I know when he leaves he will not leave a note telling me where he has gone, what time he will be returning. He will have vanished into thin air like the thin man. Please love me I said in my youth and my early twenties. I met Jakes on the Translux bus to Grahamstown. He was young, and I’ve never been with someone so much younger than myself. I’ve always slept with married men. There were always children, a wife, but I had a connection with Jakes. When the bus stopped he gave me a blowjob in a bathroom stall. It feels incredible to be desired in this way. Jakes makes me think of the very first time I was with a man.

The man was older, European, a media and communications lecturer. I loved him from afar for the first semester. Turned out he had a thing for his students. He liked going down on them, being dominant, giving pleasure. He was the first man who kissed me. Afterwards I asked him how he knew I was gay. He said it was the love struck way I looked at him over James Baldwin. We would spend Sunday mornings going to church in the mornings and driving to the beach in the afternoons. He had a thing for the beach, church, fig preserve and for picnics. He cut a romantic figure in my solitary life. I told no one about this relationship which lasted the better part of a year. He introduced me to his golden cocker spaniel Sully. He introduced me to mediums and astrologers and consulting them on my future.

He introduced me to Cape wine tastings, weekends away to Franschoek, tiramisu, Anna Kavan, Karin Boye, Ann Quin and Anna Akhmatova. Jakes and I spent most of our time in the bedroom of the Bed and Breakfast in Grahamstown. I even took to smoking his menthol cigarettes. We’d watch soap operas, and cooking shows like I had when I was his age at university. He is young and restless, frustrated with his business and finance courses. On weekends he disappears with his friends. Let slip that there was a girlfriend who is a first year. Of course I was angry. I felt used but it was Jakes who reminded me that I had a life waiting for me back home and that there were two kinds of lovers in this world. I confide in Jakes. Tell him when I broke up with my lecturer I stopped going to church.

Religion didn’t seem important to me anymore. I don’t know why, it just didn’t. I thought of my maternal grandfather, Dawn’s father, the minister. How he would let me sit on his knee, brush my hair out of my eyes, tell me that I looked like Dawn, had Dawn’s eyes, her hands, her smile. How safe he made me feel every time I saw him behind the pulpit. Jakes said that in this world people love all the time. It didn’t always make sense when they left. I loved his energy, the fact that he seemed so lost and fragile to me, couldn’t decide what to study or follow his dream of becoming an actor. His head seemed to be in the clouds, messing around with a first year, a girl fresh out of high school. On our last night together Jakes and I ate a fancy steak in a fancy restaurant. I felt all the eyes in the restaurant on the two of us. Jakes said I was imagining things. We held hands, kissed when we left. It was dark. Nobody could see us.

Before 42

Disguise yourself in any way, shape, and fish. Form, variety, tree, bulb, flower, seed and I will accept it. I think of Diana. Of how when I introduced her to Dawn I said, ‘this is my future wife,’ or something like that. I remember how gracious Dawn was to her.

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African Renaissance

The life and philosophy of the poets Dennis Brutus and Sappho

Abigail George

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Life is like that. Fixing pain is the inert language of blood. All of life is a tree. There is a process to it. The possession, the possibility of growth. Persuasion. If we as poets, as common philosophers whether we are atheistic or religious, could recognize the ground that exists between matter and spirituality, the impulses and stimulus of nature that are secondary to harvest, school, today and you. To remember Tolstoy and Nabokov, Pasternak and Dostoyevsky, the Russian writers writing in that climate, the French writing without any handicaps towards bright authenticity and hospitality. Humanity will always be found guilty with a kind of fixed hurting towards being wounded, and wounding others in return. If I am resentful, bitter, regretful protect me is all I ask. I do not blame my father anymore. I do not blame my mother. There was nobility and humility, service and integrity in both, and they taught me that with family comes responsibility, accountability, partnerships and roleplayers that will be in your life for the long haul.

If I am unhappy, I am still grateful that I can create. Perhaps I was too sheltered and over-protected as a child. I was the eldest. If I am unhappy, it is because I have this instinct in me to always, and to never stop creating like I am a robot. There is an uncertainty that exists now in the world. What is war and what are our liberties, at what cost does peace come, and is it definable, or, does it fall by the wayside as abhorrent and inconsequential in these climatic times. Countries and world leaders, as managers and their underlings have differences of opinion. What and wherein lies the compulsion to identify these spoiled identities, is it merely cognitive dissonance, bankrupt intelligence, is the elephant in the room ignorance, or, excess, is it controversy and the violation of censorship and the virtuous laws of the soul world, of the poet’s existentialism, their enlightenment and rate of productivity in a consumer-based and ruthlessly driven modern society.

The poet is the divine ear of the universe. Everything that aligns itself with the poet’s intellect and psyche, aligns itself with moral judgment, achievement (that most primitive of crafts, that characteristic-building, reformative development instrument of transformative change in the concept of the individual, and the nuclear family as a whole, as well as humanity). Judgment almost always leads to undoing as a whole, doubt, fearful resignation, immorality, a subversive nature and the destruction of sound self-control in the world, anxieties and panicking about things that will never take place.

The poet is complex diarist of the comings and goings on of the creative processes in the arts, the impulses of what is trending on social media and the nuclear powerhouse of families existing and co-existing in harmony. The poet can never escape observation as authority figure, and as elder in the community, the poet is virtuoso caretaker, androgynous nurturer and being, conformist and non-conformist, radically politicized protector of truth, purpose and meaning. Even of feminist accounts, discussion and debate. There is no male-school of thinking, no female guidebook to the written laws of mother tongue philosophy when it comes to the psychology and brevity of the educationalist. For, the poet is educationalist, as well as being apprentice. The poet is masterful in virtue and discretion, both in advancing discourse on relative terms, as well as a philosophical framework when it comes to issues of gender bias, the stigma and discrimination of the mentally ill as if they were physically handicapped in some way, or, deformed mentally in some way by a brain disturbance, or, nervous condition. The fact that war and the practices of peace come under overwhelming debate is an exercise that will carry on repeatedly until the end times. They continue to co-exist on intensifying markers nationally all over the world stage and on an international scale. We as humans serve both paranoia and platform, birth and a paradigm shift from the camp to feminist rhetoric, poet’s sanctioning off on the bleak reality of corruption, the trials of morbid obesity, the vulnerabilities and personal attacks of physical, emotional and mental illness.

It is the poet who is church in a secular and materially-ingrained and dysfunctional society in rapid geographical decline. Perhaps the best truth put forward in years is that artificial intelligence will save humanity in the long run, and save man from man. Is it not plain to see how the poet becomes an institution in society. In both ancient history, Greek mythology and philosophy, poets championed human rights. Still to this present day. To the constellations of modern times and beyond to the stars.

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African Renaissance

“Blooming Cactus”: Star signs, chapters of thanksgiving and prophecy from a gifted pen

Abigail George

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It is raining in Port Elizabeth as I write this. The room is cold and has a pond  life of its own. If I am not reading in this room, I am writing in it. This stellar poetry collection is written in a coalesced brittle fashion, a sound metaphysical abundance spilling out of it with a kind of spiritual existence. It is church, it is mall rat, it is tribe, it is dahliahs in my hands, it is a tribute to community, our heritage, our elders authority, our magnanimous ancestors, all nourishing, caretaking memory of doing up buttons and learning to tie our shoelaces in transient childhood. It is soul food. It is a carnation in a buttonhole. She photographs the incomplete veil of life and the cultural shroud of death so well in this collection. She brings to life the circle of grace and paints mercy with a Christ like-knowledge at the altar of this collection. It is her country and ‘the view of the river from her room’. It is her Jerusalem.

She asks of us to not just understand the complex nuances of the female response to her nuclear environment, to her career, her family, but to wear our silence like armour. Her collection is a statement about the system. A documented commentary

about the abandoned masses of the undermined and exploited working class, detribalised, and the unknown black feminist. It marks the boundaries and territories of class, the gambling discleship of womanhood, with a kind of revisited approach, and spirited interpretation. Blooming Cactus spoke to me like manna on opinionated topics, the burning bush on informative themes, as an oracle on relevant issues with insight and wisdom, compulsion and action, judgement and certainty, morality and the spitfire preachy-lecturing style of contemporary religion. Mbambo is a witness to God.

The smell of darkness is swamp life here, earth is a wasteland, the landscape pathological and away from meaning, always moving towards a pedagogical mindshift, and androgynous reckoning and reconciliatory awakening of the mother-figure as both poet and guardian. That the society we inhabit is grossly materialistic and illusion, conceptual and spoiled, and here in these pages her every speech has a stem. Rare is the language like the experience of the first rain on earth, possessive is the mother tongue, a visual feasting of history in the making trying to justify our terrifying and groundbreaking relationship to climate, social media, gender-based violences, the awareness of the limitless and powerful mother-figure, and mental health.

This poet speaks with a background rhythm that translates itself extraordinarily. She articulates altruistic feminism with wisdom, and expresses herself with insight. The writing is sensual and phenomenal, a collaboration between indigenous knowledge and the digital divide. She astonishes from beginning to end as a river in a forest. She is winter branches. She is a sign of the voices to come not only out of South Africa, but the continent itself. I contemplated for a long while after reading the manuscript of our starvation as female poets hungering after global recognition. That time is upon us like a prayer in my bones.

Mikateko E. Mbambo speaks volumes of the times that we are living in. Our advancement, the feminist movement in Africa. She talks about the political intellect of women and how it relates to the intent, the psyche of the feminist-poet, the land of the brave and dazzling female intellectual, and the freedom and loneliness in writing. I have this to say to her. You are perfect for your assignment. Pain is certain. A kind of grassroots silence is certain when it comes to the voice of South African female poets. Pain of the mind, the psychology of the mind can be transformative as well as an education. Your song is hope and sanctuary. Your refuge speaks to me, makes mention of the fact, it whispers of a future to me. To forget words like ‘child abuse’, ‘lack of mother love, kindness and warmth’, and ‘trauma’. I dream about your future projects and goals being filled with holisticism and vision. Reading you is like envisioning Sappho. Your vision will become the vision of millions. 

World, contemplate this gifted daughter well on her way. This book will become a classic. Thus, her voyage to eternity.

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