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Either email addresses are anonymous for this group or you need the view member email addresses permission to view the original message. In a twilight world of international espionage, an unnamed CIA operative, known as The Protagonist, is recruited by a mysterious organization called A Star is Born to participate in a global assignment that unfolds beyond real time. The Protagonist will soon master the art of "time inversion" as a way of countering the threat that is to come.

Work of art in the form of a series of live images that are rotated to produce an illusion of moving images that are presented as a form of entertainment. The illusion of a series of images produces continuous motion in the form of video. The film is often referred to as a movie or moving picture. Film is a modern and popular art form created for business and entertainment purposes. Film making has now become a popular industry throughout the world, where feature films are always awaited by cinemas.

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Party Panic Free Download. Pro Evolution Soccer Free Download. Recent Comments. Iron Harvest Free Download. The political dynamic between these two groups was very complicated, but the simplest way to understand it is as a proxy war between Zulu and Xhosa. The Inkatha was predominantly Zulu, very militant and very nationalistic.

The ANC was a broad coalition encompassing many different tribes, but its leaders at the time were primarily Xhosa.

Instead of uniting for peace they turned on one another, committing acts of unbelievable savagery. Massive riots broke out. Thousands of people were killed. Necklacing was common. The ANC did it to Inkatha. Inkatha did it to the ANC.

I saw one of those charred bodies on the side of the road one day on my way to school. In the evenings my mom and I would turn on our little black-and-white TV and watch the news.

A dozen people killed. Fifty people killed. A hundred people killed. Hundreds of rioters in the street.

My mom would edge the car slowly through the crowds and around blockades made of flaming tires. As we drove past the burning blockades, it felt like we were inside an oven. But not my mom. Let me pass. She was unwavering in the face of danger.

That always amazed me. She had things to do, places to be. It was the same stubbornness that kept her going to church despite a broken-down car.

Even when she should have been. When we walked out of Rosebank Union it was dark and we were alone. It had been an endless day of minibuses from mixed church to black church to white church, and I was exhausted.

In those days, with all the violence and riots going on, you did not want to be out that late at night. The streets were empty. This is why God wanted us to stay home. There were times I could talk smack to my mom—this was not one of them. We waited and waited for a minibus to come by.

Necessity being the mother of invention, black people created their own transit system, an informal network of bus routes, controlled by private associations operating entirely outside the law. Because the minibus business was completely unregulated, it was basically organized crime.

Different groups ran different routes, and they would fight over who controlled what. There was bribery and general shadiness that went on, a great deal of violence, and a lot of protection money paid to avoid violence. Drivers who stole routes would get killed. Being unregulated, minibuses were also very unreliable.

When they came, they came. Standing outside Rosebank Union, I was literally falling asleep on my feet. Not a minibus in sight. The driver offered us a ride, and we climbed in.

A Zulu driver got out with an iwisa, a large, traditional Zulu weapon—a war club, basically. Another guy, his crony, got out of the passenger side. Why are you picking people up? I knew that happened sometimes. My mom spoke up. Leave him. We were the only passengers in the minibus. In addition to being violent gangsters, South African minibus drivers are notorious for complaining and haranguing passengers as they drive.

This driver was a particularly angry one. As we rode along, he started lecturing my mother about being in a car with a man who was not her husband. She told him to mind his own business, and when he heard her speaking in Xhosa, that really set him off.

The stereotypes of Zulu and Xhosa women were as ingrained as those of the men. Zulu women were well-behaved and dutiful. Xhosa women were promiscuous and unfaithful. And here was my mother, his tribal enemy, a Xhosa woman alone with two small children—one of them a mixed child, no less. Not just a whore but a whore who sleeps with white men. Disgusting woman.

Death was never far away from anybody back then. At that point my mother could be raped. We could be killed. These were all viable options. Plus my mom stayed very calm. She just kept trying to reason with him. My mother sat next to me, holding baby Andrew. When we came to the next traffic light, the driver eased off the gas a bit to look around and check the road.

My mother reached over, pulled the sliding door open, grabbed me, and threw me out as far as she could. Then she took Andrew, curled herself in a ball around him, and leaped out behind me. It felt like a dream until the pain hit. I smacked hard on the pavement.

My mother landed right beside me and we tumbled and tumbled and rolled and rolled. I was wide awake now. I went from half asleep to What the hell?! Eventually I came to a stop and pulled myself up, completely disoriented. I looked around and saw my mother, already on her feet. She turned and looked at me and screamed. It was animal instinct, learned in a world where violence was always lurking and waiting to erupt.

In the townships, when the police came swooping in with their riot gear and armored cars and helicopters, I knew: Run for cover. Run and hide. I knew that as a five-year-old. Had I lived a different life, getting thrown out of a speeding minibus might have fazed me. Why are my legs so sore? Like the gazelle runs from the lion, I ran. We smoked them. I think they were in shock. I still remember glancing back and seeing them give up with a look of utter bewilderment on their faces.

What just happened? We kept going and going until we made it to a twenty-four-hour petrol station and called the police.

By then the men were long gone. Once we stopped running I realized how much pain I was in. I looked down, and the skin on my arms was scraped and torn. I was cut up and bleeding all over. Mom was, too. My baby brother was fine, though, incredibly. I turned to her in shock. Why are we running?! You just threw me out of the car! I was asleep!

I was too confused and too angry about getting thrown out of the car to realize what had happened. My mother had saved my life. This was not thanks to God! I know you love Jesus, but maybe next week you could ask him to meet us at our house. I started laughing, too, and we stood there, this little boy and his mom, our arms and legs covered in blood and dirt, laughing together through the pain in the light of a petrol station on the side of the road in the middle of the night.

A partheid was perfect racism. It took centuries to develop, starting all the way back in when the Dutch East India Company landed at the Cape of Good Hope and established a trading colony, Kaapstad, later known as Cape Town, a rest stop for ships traveling between Europe and India.

To impose white rule, the Dutch colonists went to war with the natives, ultimately developing a set of laws to subjugate and enslave them. When the British took over the Cape Colony, the descendants of the original Dutch settlers trekked inland and developed their own language, culture, and customs, eventually becoming their own people, the Afrikaners—the white tribe of Africa.

The British abolished slavery in name but kept it in practice. They did so because, in the mids, in what had been written off as a near-worthless way station on the route to the Far East, a few lucky capitalists stumbled upon the richest gold and diamond reserves in the world, and an endless supply of expendable bodies was needed to go in the ground and get it all out.

They set up a formal commission to go out and study institutionalized racism all over the world. They went to Australia. They went to the Netherlands. They went to America. Then they came back and published a report, and the government used that knowledge to build the most advanced system of racial oppression known to man.

Apartheid was a police state, a system of surveillance and laws designed to keep black people under total control. A full compendium of those laws would run more than three thousand pages and weigh approximately ten pounds, but the general thrust of it should be easy enough for any American to understand.

In America you had the forced removal of the native onto reservations coupled with slavery followed by segregation. Imagine all three of those things happening to the same group of people at the same time.

That was apartheid. My mother, Patricia Nombuyiselo Noah, is black. My father, Robert, is white. During apartheid, one of the worst crimes you could commit was having sexual relations with a person of another race. Needless to say, my parents committed that crime. Race-mixing proves that races can mix—and in a lot of cases, want to mix. Because a mixed person embodies that rebuke to the logic of the system, race-mixing becomes a crime worse than treason.

Humans being humans and sex being sex, that prohibition never stopped anyone. There were mixed kids in South Africa nine months after the first Dutch boats hit the beach in Table Bay. Just like in America, the colonists here had their way with the native women, as colonists so often do.

Based on those classifications, millions of people were uprooted and relocated. Indian areas were segregated from colored areas, which were segregated from black areas—all of them segregated from white areas and separated from one another by buffer zones of empty land.

Laws were passed prohibiting sex between Europeans and natives, laws that were later amended to prohibit sex between whites and all nonwhites. The government went to insane lengths to try to enforce these new laws.

The penalty for breaking them was five years in prison. There were whole police squads whose only job was to go around peeking through windows—clearly an assignment for only the finest law enforcement officers. And if an interracial couple got caught, God help them. The police would kick down the door, drag the people out, beat them, arrest them.

If you ask my mother whether she ever considered the ramifications of having a mixed child under apartheid, she will say no. She wanted to do something, figured out a way to do it, and then she did it. She had a level of fearlessness that you have to possess to take on something like she did. Still, it was a crazy, reckless thing to do.

A million things had to go right for us to slip through the cracks the way we did for as long as we did. If you were a black woman, you worked in a factory or as a maid. Those were pretty much your only options. She was a horrible cook and never would have stood for some white lady telling her what to do all day. So, true to her nature, she found an option that was not among the ones presented to her: She took a secretarial course, a typing class.

At the time, a black woman learning how to type was like a blind person learning how to drive. By law, white-collar jobs and skilled- labor jobs were reserved for whites. My mom, however, was a rebel, and, fortunately for her, her rebellion came along at the right moment. In the early s, the South African government began making minor reforms in an attempt to quell international protest over the atrocities and human rights abuses of apartheid.

Among those reforms was the token hiring of black workers in low-level white- collar jobs. Like typists. Through an employment agency she got a job as a secretary at ICI, a multinational pharmaceutical company in Braamfontein, a suburb of Johannesburg.

When my mom started working, she still lived with my grandmother in Soweto, the township where the government had relocated my family decades before. But my mother was unhappy at home, and when she was twenty-two she ran away to live in downtown Johannesburg. There was only one problem: It was illegal for black people to live there.

The ultimate goal of apartheid was to make South Africa a white country, with every black person stripped of his or her citizenship and relocated to live in the homelands, the Bantustans, semi-sovereign black territories that were in reality puppet states of the government in Pretoria.

But this so-called white country could not function without black labor to produce its wealth, which meant black people had to be allowed to live near white areas in the townships, government-planned ghettos built to house black workers, like Soweto. The township was where you lived, but your status as a laborer was the only thing that permitted you to stay there.

If your papers were revoked for any reason, you could be deported back to the homelands. To leave the township for work in the city, or for any other reason, you had to carry a pass with your ID number; otherwise you could be arrested. There was also a curfew: After a certain hour, blacks had to be back home in the township or risk arrest.

She was determined to never go home again. So she stayed in town, hiding and sleeping in public restrooms until she learned the rules of navigating the city from the other black women who had contrived to live there: prostitutes. Many of the prostitutes in town were Xhosa.

They also introduced her to white men who were willing to rent out flats in town. She met a German fellow through one of her prostitute friends, and he agreed to let her a flat in his name. She was caught and arrested many times, for not having her ID on the way home from work, for being in a white area after hours.

The penalty for violating the pass laws was thirty days in jail or a fine of fifty rand, nearly half her monthly salary. She would scrape together the money, pay the fine, and go right back about her business.

She lived in number He lived in As a former trading colony, South Africa has always had a large expatriate community.

People find their way here. Tons of Germans. Lots of Dutch. Hillbrow at the time was the Greenwich Village of South Africa. It was a thriving scene, cosmopolitan and liberal. There were galleries and underground theaters where artists and performers dared to speak up and criticize the government in front of integrated crowds. There were restaurants and nightclubs, a lot of them foreign-owned, that served a mixed clientele, black people who hated the status quo and white people who simply thought it ridiculous.

People would meet up and hang out, have parties. My mom threw herself into that scene. She was always out at some club, some party, dancing, meeting people. She was a regular at the Hillbrow Tower, one of the tallest buildings in Africa at that time. It had a nightclub with a rotating dance floor on the top floor. It was an exhilarating time but still dangerous.

Sometimes the restaurants and clubs would get shut down, sometimes not. Sometimes the performers and patrons would get arrested, sometimes not. It was a roll of the dice. My mother never knew whom to trust, who might turn her in to the police. Neighbors would report on one another. And you must remember that black people worked for the government as well.

As far as her white neighbors knew, my mom could have been a spy posing as a prostitute posing as a maid, sent into Hillbrow to inform on whites who were breaking the law.

Living alone in the city, not being trusted and not being able to trust, my mother started spending more and more time in the company of someone with whom she felt safe: the tall Swiss man down the corridor in He was forty-six.

She was twenty-four. He was quiet and reserved; she was wild and free. Something clicked. I know that there was a genuine bond and a love between my parents. I saw it. All I do know is that one day she made her proposal. I asked you to help me to have my kid. I just want the sperm from you. Honor me with your yes so that I can live peacefully. I want a child of my own, and I want it from you. You will be able to see it as much as you like, but you will have no obligations. Just make this child for me.

She wanted a child, not a man stepping in to run her life. Eventually he said yes. Why he said yes is a question I will never have the answer to. Nine months after that yes, on February 20, , my mother checked into Hillbrow Hospital for a scheduled C-section delivery.

Estranged from her family, pregnant by a man she could not be seen with in public, she was alone. The doctors took her up to the delivery room, cut open her belly, and reached in and pulled out a half-white, half-black child who violated any number of laws, statutes, and regulations—I was born a crime.

They probably knew she was lying, but they accepted it because they needed an explanation. Under apartheid, the government labeled everything on your birth certificate: race, tribe, nationality. Everything had to be categorized. And my mother, true to her word, was prepared for him not to be involved.

The next week she went to visit him, with no baby. To her surprise, he asked where I was. So the three of us formed a kind of family, as much as our peculiar situation would allow. I lived with my mom. The only time I could be with my father was indoors. My mom and I used to go to Joubert Park all the time. My mother tells me that once, when I was a toddler, my dad tried to go with us. He panicked and ran away. I thought it was a game and kept chasing him.

When I was a newborn, she could wrap me up and take me anywhere, but very quickly that was no longer an option. I was a giant baby, an enormous child. There was no way to hide me. It was illegal to be mixed to have a black parent and a white parent , but it was not illegal to be colored to have two parents who were both colored. So my mom moved me around the world as a colored child.

There was a colored woman named Queen who lived in our block of flats. When we wanted to go out to the park, my mom would invite her to go with us. Queen would walk next to me and act like she was my mother, and my mother would walk a few steps behind, like she was the maid working for the colored woman. We lived in town, but I would spend weeks at a time with my grandmother in Soweto, often during the holidays. The township was a city unto itself, with a population of nearly one million.

There were only two roads in and out. That was so the military could lock us in, quell any rebellion. And if the monkeys ever went crazy and tried to break out of their cage, the air force could fly over and bomb the shit out of everyone. In the city, as difficult as it was to get around, we managed. Enough people were out and about, black, white, and colored, going to and from work, that we could get lost in the crowd.

But only black people were permitted in Soweto. It was much harder to hide someone who looked like me, and the government was watching much more closely. In the white areas you rarely saw the police, and if you did it was Officer Friendly in his collared shirt and pressed pants. In Soweto the police were an occupying army. They wore riot gear. They were militarized. They operated in teams known as flying squads, because they would swoop in out of nowhere, riding in armored personnel carriers—hippos, we called them—tanks with enormous tires and slotted holes in the side of the vehicle to fire their guns out of.

You saw one, you ran. That was a fact of life. The township was in a constant state of insurrection; someone was always marching or protesting somewhere and had to be suppressed. My memories of the hippos and the flying squads come from when I was five or six, when apartheid was finally coming apart. I never saw the police before that, because we could never risk the police seeing me.

Whenever we went to Soweto, my grandmother refused to let me outside. Please, can I go play with my cousins? Children could be taken. Children were taken. The wrong color kid in the wrong color area, and the government could come in, strip your parents of custody, haul you off to an orphanage. There were also the blackjacks, black people who worked for the police. My gran still tells the story of when I was three years old and, fed up with being a prisoner, I dug a hole under the gate in the driveway, wriggled through, and ran off.

Everyone panicked. A search party went out and tracked me down. I had no idea how much danger I was putting everyone in. The family could have been deported, my gran could have been arrested, my mom might have gone to prison, and I probably would have been packed off to a home for colored kids. So I was kept inside. I lived inside my head. I still live inside my head. I have to remember to be with people. Traveling around the world today, I meet other mixed South Africans all the time.

Our stories start off identically. Their parents met at some underground party in Hillbrow or Cape Town. They lived in an illegal flat. The difference is that in virtually every other case they left. The white parent smuggled them out through Lesotho or Botswana, and they grew up in exile, in England or Germany or Switzerland, because being a mixed family under apartheid was just that unbearable.

Once Mandela was elected we could finally live freely. Exiles started to return. I met my first one when I was around seventeen. You mean we could have left? That was an option?

You hit the ground and break all your bones, you go to the hospital and you heal and you move on and finally put the whole thing behind you—and then one day somebody tells you about parachutes. I went straight home and asked my mom.

Why should I leave? We adopted the religion of our colonizers, but most people held on to the old ancestral ways, too, just in case. I come from a country where people are more likely to visit sangomas—shamans, traditional healers, pejoratively known as witch doctors—than they are to visit doctors of Western medicine.

I come from a country where people have been arrested and tried for witchcraft—in a court of law. I remember a man being on trial for striking another person with lightning. That happens a lot in the homelands. There are no tall buildings, few tall trees, nothing between you and the sky, so people get hit by lightning all the time. So if you had a beef with the guy who got killed, someone will accuse you of murder and the police will come knocking.

You used witchcraft to kill David Kibuuka by causing him to be struck by lightning. The court is presided over by a judge. There is a docket. There is a prosecutor. Your defense attorney has to prove lack of motive, go through the crime-scene forensics, present a staunch defense. My father was loving and devoted, but I could only see him when and where apartheid allowed. His name was Temperance Noah, which was odd since he was not a man of moderation at all. He was boisterous and loud.

He loved the ladies, and the ladies loved him. He had a big, dazzling smile with bright white teeth—false teeth. We found out much later in life that he was bipolar, but before that we just thought he was eccentric.

He was in his eighties. I was twelve. He had his fists up, circling me. Come on! Put your fists up! Hit me! I ran to my mom, and she got him to stop.

Temperance lived with his second family in the Meadowlands, and we visited them sparingly because my mom was always afraid of being poisoned. Which was a thing that would happen. The first family were the heirs, so there was always the chance they might get poisoned by the second family.

It was like Game of Thrones with poor people. They might poison us. In addition to my mom there was my aunt Sibongile; she and her first husband, Dinky, had two kids, my cousins Mlungisi and Bulelwa. Sibongile was a powerhouse, a strong woman in every sense, big-chested, the mother hen. Dinky, as his name implies, was dinky. He was a small man. He was abusive, but not really. He was trying to live up to this image of what he thought a husband should be, dominant, controlling.

Because she loves you. I was in the yard and Dinky came running out of the house screaming bloody murder. Sibongile was right behind him with a pot of boiling water, cursing at him and threatening to douse him with it.

And men were lucky if it was water. Some women used hot cooking oil. Water was if the woman wanted to teach her man a lesson. Oil meant she wanted to end it. My grandmother Frances Noah was the family matriarch. She ran the house, looked after the kids, did the cooking and the cleaning.

Where my grandfather was big and boisterous, my grandmother was calm, calculating, with a mind as sharp as anything. If you need to know anything in the family history, going back to the s, she can tell you what day it happened, where it happened, and why it happened. She remembers it all. My great-grandmother lived with us as well.

We called her Koko. Her eyes had gone white, clouded over by cataracts. The coal stove was always on.