Scars of War - The Juneck Livi Story (I was only 5 years old)

South Africa was caught in a civil war – the mob petrol bombed our home.  Machete armed men fighting for justice and peace. Aflamed torches seeking change.  Our home represented too many crossover elements. Too much education gained from the white man.  Teachers influenced by white education.

I was five years old with no idea of the storm that raged in the hearts of my people who saw us as the enemy.
The faction fighting and brandishing arms were displays of undisguised abhorrence that ignited and flared into a towering inferno.  I was the innocent victim and those who fought to rid their town of “traitors” melted my bones, my dreams.... my skin. My home.  

but then again, there are no victors in war.
And men give their lives for freedom.  In their distaste of all that was white they hastily took mine. A black 5 year old boy.  

The scars were deep and disabilities hard to behold.  Skin grafting sessions were my second home throughout high school. 
When my classmates refused to listen to my teacher he made his point loud and clear , “Don’t you bunch listen – are your ears glued to your head like Juneck’s”?  In those few words I heard the hiss of the blue-gum slats that framed our home and hypnotically watched as the pomegranate flames hungrily devoured my flesh. In my teacher's taunt I melted into screams. I found solace in the songs of sirens as I fought the inevitable.  I was back inside our home, clutching at smoke. At nothing.

Trauma slept like an idolised mummy.  Ferocious in worship.
Memories of my mother were vague. The Beautiful Angolan jazz singer was sharp-witted and humorous but there was no miracle at hand when a contaminiated transfusion emptied her life.  Maria Livi was the only photograph that survived the fires of hell.  My short life lay scattered among the debris.  Perhaps she was keeping me sane on the earth below my misshapen feet.  Perhaps she was watching over me from the heaven's above my tell-tale scalp.  My father.........well, I will tell that story some other time.  Suffice to say he no longer is around.........me.

My grandmother died that fateful night when the rioters set our town alight.  I never  disclosed to my counselor how I saw her skin shrivel and peel away as she wrapped her arms around me - her eyes loving me - her pretty boy.  I felt her hands slip.

Her heart would be broken if she knew that despite her best efforts I no longer look like the "pretty boy" she loved.  Maybe she knows.  Aunty Aya was a good mother to me and I was blessed to have many mothers who showed me the light of love.

My scarred face became the butt of everyone’s joke and the mockery followed me around.
I was ostracised and beaten by the same ones who fought for my freedom; who plundered the system for my liberty. Who burnt my home, killed my guardian angel and massacred my dreams.  We were like sheep to the slaughter.

Despite my adversities, my faith sustained me; my grandmother's sacrifice and dying words helped me to move past the pain of bullying, past the stigma of “ugly”.

“No matter what Juneck”, she screamed and coughed across and through the crashing timber, and over the head of the fiery serpent that sucked at her throat,
“don’t let the cruelty of this world steal the beauty of your dreams”.  Her hands circled my face as if to ward off the blazing demon.  Gold eyes and red sizzling mouth spitting all over my 5 year old face. The god that haunted my every waking moment since.

The devil lived inside mirrors.  I wished I had died in the blaze. In the fight for freedom. Wishing the angry mob had killed me.

If only the menacious bullies would know the horror of the scourged, the savagery in feeling the skin dripping from one’s face – like the terrifying lick of a dragon's searing tongue. 
  

I have since embraced my own beauty, and my soul has been exorcised from purgatory.
I will not imitate the society that had dealt so treacherously with me –
I had determined that despair would not hold me ransom.  That I would be free, for I knew where my help came from;
my strength.
My purpose.

My grandmother's hope was mine.
Beyond the mountains and the hills I lifted my voice and my prayers were answered.
In this shaky journey love carries me above my storms.
I smile into a mirror and see God there, my eyes illuminated with love
There is no ugly in me.

My grandmother loved me when I was a pretty boy.
Now I am a handsome soul
A man who walked through fire - who reeks of victory
This world is not my home.
One day I too like my grandmother, shall be completely whole.

I no longer hear the hiss of the blue-gum slats but instead I hear the beauty and blessing of rain in my grandmother's screams through the falling timber, and over the head of the fiery serpent that sucked at her throat, “No matter what Juneck, don’t let the cruelty of this world steal the beauty of your dreams”.

I am Juneck Livi.  

I was loved at 5 when I was a pretty boy.  40 years ago.
I'm richer than I was then.  I love the face staring back at me in the mirror.

I am loved by the God whose face I wanted never to see, 

I am loved by the woman who holds my hand when the fateful blue gum slats sometimes come crashing down around my dreams.

(C) Jambiya Kai
(AKA Beulah Kleinveldt)

Note from the author - 

"Juneck Livi is a story shaped around real events (with some creative liberties) and a real hero who allowed me inside his pain.

Burn survivors are not on the socio-political radar and suffer tremendous prejudice, they are the people of the night; they hide in the shadows for fear of mockery and public jokes - fear of being ridiculed and beaten. There is a superstition that believes that those who suffer burns have been punished by God for being children of the devil. I trust "Juneck’s" (not his real name to protect his individuality) story will touch your heart and inspire you to reach out when next you encounter a burn survivor - They have the same dreams you have – The same desires to be loved.  It is not a cliche that our beauty goes beyond what the eyes can see.  I know. I've seen the beyond".  

Image by:  Chrispah Munyoro (all rights reserved)