Flag
The flag carried by champions,
It always sways high.
The flag in the hands of the winners
Praises from far and near
In the hands of generations
Following the path of the ancestors
In the web of my heart
You are sacred, my dear flag.
The flag is my pride and joy.
Heads towards the goal,
My strong helper
My priceless flag!
Maftuna Rustamova
Buxoro viloyati
Jondor tumani
30-umumta’lim maktabi
9-sinf oʻquvchisi.
I’LL WRITE YOU A LETTER
I’ll write you a letter
Not to remind you of your 5-daily prayers
Or your morning and evening Azkar
But to gist you about the heavy thought that occupied the bulk of my time.
I’ll write you a letter
Not to tell you how long I became an ardent worshipper of Love
But to finally tell you the words I whisper million times to the air
Hoping that one day, just one day
Those cool words would caress your ear like the evening breeze sweeping through a grass field.
I’ll write you a letter
Not just with an ink on paper
But with a mixture of blood and tears
Hoping that they’ll send my hearty request to you;
That I seek to make You and I – US!
And that one day, we could play and dance the “Nā cika buri na” song in our home.
I’ll write you a letter
Not to showcase my feeble knowledge of love and romance
But to connect with your soul so that when you excitedly read this letter
You’d hear my voice solidly pleading my case,
For somewhere in me, I feel the need to kiss your soul.
I’ll write you a letter
Not because I can write one
But because I wanna remind you of how You and I fit like a pair of gloves
And together we’d play a tune that’ll never register a discordant note.
I’ll write you a letter
Not to display the obvious elation that cover my face as I write this
But to tell you how your name is scribbled all around my diary.
And when far from the world I am,
I open each page and whisper your name to God, praying that He makes you mine.
And when I’m done, I place the diary on my chest, imagining it was your hand.
I’ll write you a letter
Not minding others calling me an old-fashioned lover
But to just send you these three words “I LOVE YOU”
After much struggling, I’ve cancelled many words
Just to show how lost I am in your world.
I hope these three words could do the magic!
I’ll write you a letter
Not because people didn’t call me Majnun already.
But for you to come to my rescue before life finishes rendering me useless.
However, if after you came, you found me on my grave;
Just know that, I’ll still be waiting for your reply.
WHEN I’M GONE
When I’m no longer here,
When far from this world I go
Just let me go
Don’t weep thinking of me
Because I’ve the Beloved to meet and the eternal garden to explore.
When I’m no longer here
Be grateful for the beautiful years we spent
During which I gave you my whole
Now is the time for me to travel alone
To leave for a joyfully distant race of no return.
When I’m no longer here
Trust me, we’ll only be separated for a while
So, smile knowing precious memories remain behind;
Lingering love that’s hard to find.
When I’m no longer here
Don’t go to my grave crying
I ain’t there, I am with the Beloved.
He’ll make me the star that shines at night
And the awakening of the birds in the calm morning.
Mohammad Babangida Ibrahim is the guy behind the pseudonym Moustapha Misau. He is a Nigerian poet that grew up traversing the globe through the pages of books. When he is not sorrounded by books, you find him at the gym working out to have a better physique. He has his poems published at williwans.express and an anthology by Young Creative Writers. He can be contacted via +2348060807042 or Moustapha Misau on socials.
The Importance of Natural Feeding in a Child’s Development
Today, beauty standards and elegance remain pressing topics among women. At the same time, many young mothers are unjustifiably giving up natural breastfeeding. Concerns such as body shape, the risk of infection in breast milk, or the belief that formula contains more vitamins are often cited as reasons — but let’s take a closer look: are artificial formulas truly beneficial?
Yes, formula milk does provide energy for infants. Its iron and B-group vitamins support muscle and brain development.
However, despite these benefits, there are also significant downsides. A common issue among infants—bloating—is actually an allergic reaction to artificial feeding. Moreover, since the baby’s digestive system is not yet fully developed, constipation often occurs.
An excess of gluten in formulas can also lead to iron deficiency, resulting in anemia.
Although some young mothers choose this method for the sake of convenience or body image, scientific research has proven that artificial feeding can negatively affect not only the child’s physical health but also their emotional and intellectual development.
1. Weakening of the Immune System
Breast milk contains immunoglobulin A (IgA), lactoferrin, lysozyme, and many vital micro and macro elements that strengthen the infant’s immunity, acting as a natural vaccine against respiratory and intestinal infections.
According to data from the World Health Organization (WHO), illness and mortality rates are significantly lower among breastfed infants compared to those fed artificially.
2. Risk of Metabolic and Endocrine Disorders
Artificial feeding can cause excess protein and calorie accumulation in the infant’s body. Over time, this increases the risk of obesity, insulin resistance, and type 2 diabetes.
3. Psychological Developmental Changes
Breastfeeding naturally fosters a strong emotional bond between mother and child. This closeness helps the baby feel safe and secure, forming the foundation for future emotional and social development. In contrast, artificial feeding reduces this connection, often leading to sleep disturbances and frequent crying.
Moreover, breastfeeding provides not only emotional intimacy but also physiological benefits, such as the natural spacing of pregnancies through lactational amenorrhea.
Conclusion
This period is not merely about feeding a child—it is a shared emotional journey filled with love and trust. Breast milk nourishes the body, but a mother’s care nourishes the soul. Therefore, natural breastfeeding is the key to a healthy generation and joyful motherhood.
Shokhida Nazirova was born in 2004 in Andijan city. She is the founder of the “Osiyo Academy” art studio. She serves as the ambassador of several international organizations in Uzbekistan.
She is the author of more than 20 scientific articles. She is fluent in Russian, Turkish, and German.
THE ROLE OF LANGUAGE IN EDUCATION
Hayitboyeva M.SH.Student in Kokand universityEmail:hayitboyevamaftuna38@gmail.com
Annotation: Grammar serves as the structural foundation of any language, providing rules and frameworks that enable effective communication. This article explores the crucial role of grammar in language learning, addressing its theoretical significance, practical applications, and pedagogical implications. By analyzing contemporary research and educational practices, this paper highlights how grammar facilitates language acquisition, comprehension, and production. Furthermore, it discusses debates around explicit versus implicit grammar instruction and how grammar integrates with other language skills. Ultimately, understanding grammar’s role enhances both teaching methodologies and learner outcomes.
Keywords: language, education, communication, multilingualism, culture, learning
Introduction Language learning is a complex cognitive process involving the acquisition of vocabulary, phonology, syntax, semantics, and pragmatics. Among these components, grammar—often defined as the set of rules governing the structure of sentences—plays a pivotal role.
The role of grammar in language learning has been a topic of considerable debate among linguists, educators, and psychologists. Some argue that grammar is indispensable for acquiring proficiency, while others advocate for a more communicative, usage-based approach that downplays formal grammar instruction.
This article examines the role of grammar in language learning by exploring its theoretical underpinnings, its function in language acquisition, and the practical implications for teaching and learning. It also reviews empirical studies that investigate the effects of grammar instruction and considers how grammar interacts with other linguistic skills.
Grammar encompasses morphology (the study of word formation), syntax (the arrangement of words in sentences), and, to some extent, phonology and semantics. It provides learners with the rules that dictate how words combine to form meaningful utterances. Without grammar, language would be a collection of random words lacking coherence.
Several theories shed light on the importance of grammar in language learning:
Generative Grammar Theory (Chomsky, 1957) posits that humans possess an innate Universal Grammar that guides language acquisition. According to this view, grammar is central because it reflects underlying cognitive structures. Interactionist Approaches emphasize that grammar develops through interaction and communication, suggesting a more dynamic role where exposure to grammatical input in meaningful contexts fosters learning.
Usage-Based Theories argue that grammar emerges from language use and frequency, highlighting the importance of input and pattern recognition rather than explicit rule learning.Despite differing perspectives, these theories agree that grammar plays some role in enabling learners to produce and comprehend complex sentences.Grammar helps learners decode meaning by signaling relationships between words, such as subject-verb agreement, tense, and word order. For example, understanding past tense morphology allows learners to interpret temporal context, while knowledge of sentence structure helps parse complex sentences.
Producing grammatically correct sentences enables learners to communicate ideas clearly and be understood. Mastery of syntax and morphology reduces ambiguity and improves fluency. Furthermore, grammar knowledge allows learners to manipulate language creatively, forming novel sentences beyond memorized phrases.
Explicit Grammar Learning involves direct instruction about rules, often through formal lessons and exercises. This approach supports conscious understanding and correction.
Implicit Grammar Learning occurs naturally through exposure and use without focused attention on rules. It mimics how first languages are acquired but may be slower and less precise.
Research suggests that a combination of explicit and implicit approaches is most effective, with explicit grammar instruction benefiting learners in formal educational contexts, while implicit learning supports natural language use.
Traditional language teaching emphasized grammar-translation methods, focusing heavily on grammatical rules and translation exercises.
However, modern communicative language teaching (CLT) stresses meaningful communication and tends to integrate grammar instruction contextually rather than isolating it.
Task-based language teaching incorporates grammar within meaningful tasks, helping learners notice and apply grammar in authentic situations. Content-based instruction uses subject matter content to contextualize grammar learning, promoting deeper engagement.
Digital tools and software provide interactive grammar practice and immediate feedback, enhancing learners’ engagement and offering personalized instruction.
Computer-assisted language learning (CALL) environments support both explicit grammar drills and communicative practice. Studies have shown that explicit grammar instruction can improve accuracy and understanding, especially for adult learners. However, overemphasis on drills without communicative practice may hinder fluency development. Meta-analyses reveal that integrated approaches combining form-focused instruction with communicative activities yield the best results.
Despite its importance, grammar instruction faces challenges such as learner motivation, cognitive load, and individual differences in learning styles. Future research should explore adaptive grammar teaching methods, leveraging AI and data analytics to tailor instruction. Additionally, investigating how grammar instruction supports multilingualism and heritage language learning remains critical.
Conclusion
Grammar is a foundational element in language learning, crucial for comprehension, production, and effective communication. While debates continue over the best ways to teach grammar, consensus points to a balanced approach that integrates explicit instruction with meaningful practice. Understanding the role of grammar enriches language pedagogy and ultimately supports learners in achieving linguistic competence.
References: Chomsky, N. (1957). Syntactic structures. Mouton. Ellis, R. (2006). The study of second language acquisition (2nd ed.). Oxford University Press. Fotos, S., & Ellis, R. (1991). Communicating about grammar: A task-based approach. TESOL Quarterly, 25(4), 605-628. https://doi.org/10.2307/3586987Larsen-Freeman, D. (2003). Teaching language: From grammar to grammarian. Heinle & Heinle. 5.Nassaji, H., & Fotos, S. (2011). Teaching grammar in second language classrooms: Integrating form-focused instruction in communicative context. Routledge.
By Zikrillo Latipov
9th-grade student, Qo‘shtepa district, Fergana region
It was a summer evening in the year 2050 when I first visited the Bank of the Future.
In place of the old bank buildings now stood tall glass towers, glowing with soft light and energy.
As soon as I stepped inside, a small flying robot approached me with a cheerful tone:
— Hello! I’m your personal assistant. How can I help you today?
I was so amazed that I stood silent for a moment.
In the past, people had to wait in long queues and fill out piles of forms at the bank.
But here, all I had to do was place my finger on a scanner — and immediately, my personal cabin opened before me.
Inside, a transparent screen displayed all my accounts, savings, and even the loans I could receive in the future.
The robot spoke again:
— Your money is not only safe here; it is also being used to support clean energy projects and children’s education.
I felt as if I had stepped into a fairy-tale world. Money was no longer just numbers — it had become a force for good, a tool to make society better.
What fascinated me most was that without even leaving the bank, I could enter a virtual world to manage my finances or instantly send money to my friends in other countries.
When I left the bank and looked up at the sky, a thought crossed my mind:
> “So, the banks of the future are not just about money — they are bridges that turn human dreams into reality.”
Shadows Under Table Mountain
by Dianne Reeves Angel
Ellerman House, Cape Town, South Africa, 1982
The year was 1982, and Cape Town stood before me like a postcard come to life, a stunning coastal paradise that belied the dark political reality gripping South Africa. Our Castlemont team, Robert Carlyle, Rudiger Gartner from our Berlin office, and I, arrived in what we believed to be a dazzling mirage at the southern tip of the continent.
That morning, we strolled along the old waterfront beneath a sky of gauzy light. Sun filtered through soft clouds in long, radiant shafts, while seabirds drifted high above, indifferent to the weight of history below.
We were staying at Ellerman House, Cape Town’s most exquisite retreat, perched high above Bantry Bay. The property was a magnificent blend of Cape Dutch colonial charm and Mediterranean grandeur, with its winding staircases and cream colored balustrades smooth as crafted marble, catching the golden light. Each suite offered sweeping ocean views and a sense of stillness that made time feel suspended.
After our long morning walk, Carlyle, Rudi, and I climbed the stairs of Ellerman House, hungry for their brunch. My producing partners were larger than life in both physique and appetite. They could’ve passed for brothers; same height and same Alfred Hitchcock girth. Both wore matching crowns of silver hair, perfectly coiffed and shellacked with AquaNet to conceal the creeping truth of their bald spots. They were often marinated in Lagerfeld cologne, the kind of fragrance that entered a room ten seconds before they did. Gourmet meals were their weakness. Actresses, their downfall. They ordered their steaks rare and smoked unfiltered cigarettes, remaining undeterred by the surgeon general’s warnings.
Ellerman’s famous brunch was served on its massive terrace, a broad stretch that opened toward the sea. The view was stunning, a horizon of endless Atlantic blue where the sky dissolved into the ocean. At the center stood a long buffet table, laid with bold extravagance: shrimp piled high, oysters gleaming with a bright mignonette, chilled lobster, and pickled seafood. Nearby, jewel-toned salads and caviar set-ups flanked trays of canapés arranged so precisely they looked as if Santa’s elves had taken up catering in the off-season.
The terrace was filled with well-dressed guests, men in crisp linen suits with pastel ties, and women in chiffon floral sundresses that fluttered in the breeze. Black waiters moved through the crowd with the polish of young lieutenants, offering fruit-laced mimosas to start, then Bloody Marys once the serious eating began. I nearly matched my companions bite for bite, sip for sip. We drank. We laughed. We looked at one another with the kind of glee that bubbles up only when everything feels perfect. I glanced down at the oyster on my plate and thought, This must be where the expression ‘the world is your oyster’ comes from. In that moment, it felt entirely true.
As I glanced around at the terrace, I felt a slow chill rise in my chest as the thought struck me. There wasn’t a single person of color among the diners. In that moment, I remembered exactly where I was.
We hadn’t come to Cape Town for the scenery or the five-star brunch, tempting as both were. The Castlemont contingent was there on a mission, one that would prove more sobering than any of us anticipated. We arrived in this coastal city at the bottom of the world after two fraught days in Johannesburg.
Our journey to the Republic of South Africa was riddled with complications from the start. We flew South African Airways, not by choice, but out of necessity. Robert Carlyle had a complicated history on the African continent, particularly in Lagos, Nigeria, where he and his brother, Redmond, spent the 1970s oil boom brokering construction deals for American and European hotels.
I got the story in the first-class lounge at Heathrow, during a long layover before our midnight flight to Johannesburg. Carlyle was nursing a Johnnie Walker Red over ice in his signature bucket glass—“None of that skinny tumbler nonsense,” he’d always say. “I want room to think.” He lounged in a low leather chair like a man expecting applause, even if I was the only audience in sight.
Physically, Carlyle was full of contradictions—overweight, with a broad, commanding presence and steel grey eyes that didn’t miss a thing. He carried himself with the ease of a duke. His clothes were impeccable: silk shirts that fit just right, custom slacks, Italian loafers without a single scuff. His grooming was equally precise; clean-shaven, nails neatly trimmed, and always a breath mint in his pocket, just in case diplomacy was required. Women found him fascinating. He exuded that rare kind of confidence that made people lean in just a little closer. When he entered a room, the energy shifted; when he spoke, people listened. He once told me there were only two kinds of class: first and none. He lived by this code.
But more than anything, he was a raconteur. His stories were bold, told with such conviction and flair that you didn’t dare question the details or veracity. And to my good fortune, he was my mentor, the man who taught me how to take a meeting, take a risk, and take no bullshit.
When I first met Robert at Castlemont Productions, he was already a respected producer, known for his vast knowledge of international business and his calm authority. It wasn’t until that night in the Heathrow Lounge that I learned about his earlier deals, negotiating labyrinthine and cross-border contracts for major studios. He told these stories with gusto, relishing the intrigue and the sheer improbability of it all. Listening to him recount midnight escapades running guns on the Ogun River in Lagos, or negotiating backchannel deals in European capitals, I felt as though I’d been handed a keycard to the hidden floors of international life, where the real deals were struck behind closed doors and heavy drapes.
“Nigeria in the ’70s,” Carlyle said, swirling the ice in his glass, “was unpredictable. With the right connections, you could make a lot of money fast.”
It was clear Carlyle belonged to that set, a man who made, and probably lost, obscene amounts of money.
“Oil money was pouring in, and Lagos was full of promise. Construction sites sprang up overnight, featuring hotels, corporate towers, and planned communities. Deals were struck over cocktails, sealed with a handshake.” Carlyle laughed, clearly savoring the memory.
“Red and I were negotiating hotel deals,” he said, “but mostly we were waiting—for permits, for payments, and trying to figure out whose palm needed greasing.”
He leaned in then, lowering his voice just enough to suggest mischief.
“I may have brought in a few things that drew the wrong kind of attention. A personal weapon. A couple of Playboys for the boys. A bit of gold stitched into the lining of my blazer. More cash than was legally permitted.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly did you get all that contraband into Nigeria?”
Carlyle grinned. “Haven’t you been listening? The cash, Sally. You could get anything past customs as long as it came wrapped in American dollars.” I was enthralled as he shared these tasty details. I never knew anyone like him.
“Red and I had a lot of time on our hands, so we decided to become The Grunt Brothers. Red and Runny Grunt. A piano lounge act. Red would croon in an exaggerated Sinatra-style. He’d start singing an Engelbert Humperdinck number, and I’d bang out the chords. The ladies ate it up. If the pay were better, I’d have done it full-time.”
His tone shifted from Our Man in Havana to a darker, more deliberate cadence.
“We made a few friends. And a few we wouldn’t mind never seeing again. There were … incidents. One arrest. A little surveillance. Things got a bit murky after that.”
I couldn’t shake the sense that he was only skimming the surface, just enough to intrigue, never sufficient to reveal.
“I’ve learned to be careful about where I travel ever since.”
He paused, his face unreadable. He might have been rethinking just how much he wanted to reveal to his eager acolyte.
“When the Gowon government collapsed, the Americans ran. The new regime didn’t care who you were; they assumed we were all spies. Red and I were added to their hit list after they decided our contract trades were fraudulent, total bullshit. We were declared enemies of the state. Permanently barred from returning.”
He spoke the next part quietly, almost to himself.
“If we’d set foot in Lagos again, we would’ve been arrested on the spot.”
To avoid any unplanned stopovers in “unfriendly” nations, Carlyle explained, our safest option was to fly South African Airways to Johannesburg. During apartheid, SAA was denied flyover rights by most African countries, so their routes were designed to bypass the entire continent. This meant flying around the “bulge” of Africa, an exhaustingly long journey made worse by the airline’s strict enforcement of apartheid-era censorship.
I was filled with excitement as we boarded the midnight flight to Johannesburg. Flight attendants moved through the cabin like customs agents, confiscating “contraband” reading materials. My copies of Time and Newsweek vanished, along with those of other passengers—Playboy, Stern, and The London Times—all deemed subversive.
The night flight was plagued by brutal turbulence. Somewhere over the Atlantic, a wobbly Englishman staggered into the aisle and demanded, “Where the hell is the captain?” Passengers stiffened. The crew didn’t flinch, but I could sense it—the way their eyes started tracking the cabin differently. More alert now. Within seconds, the captain marched down the aisle: tall, steely, and in no mood for boozy defiance.
“Take your seat, sir,” he commanded.
The drunk jabbed a finger toward the front of the plane. “We need to change this goddamn flight path! I’m in first class, and I’d like a drink. Damn your turbulence—and damn you!”
The captain’s voice was flat and final. “Changing course isn’t an option.”
He let that settle, then added: “We have no radio communication.”
The drunk just stared at him quizzically.
“Political restrictions. We cannot radio down. No one will take our call.”
That line hit the nervous passengers like a sudden pressure drop. For the first time, I understood just how alone we were up there in that tempest. SAA could send out signals all night, but the continent below wouldn’t respond.
The man slumped back into his seat. The captain pivoted and walked back to the cockpit.
Carlyle tried to reason with the defeated drunk, but the man wasn’t listening. He pressed a mini bottle of Johnnie Walker Red into his hand—finally, a little peace for all of us aboard that blustery flight.
When we landed at Jan Smuts International, armed men in paramilitary uniforms boarded the plane and moved directly to the boisterous Englishman. They snapped on the cuffs, seized him by the arms, and escorted him off without a word. Their silence was more unnerving than a shout.
As we drove into downtown Johannesburg, I was struck by how bleak it was—colorless and institutional. Concrete high-rises pressed in from every direction, interrupted only by wide roads and razor-straight curbs. There were few parks, little greenery, and almost nothing to soften the landscape. Carlyle agreed with my assessment.
To my delight, Rudi Gartner was waiting for us in the lobby of the Hotel Carlton. “Willkommen, meine Freundin,” he said with a grin, embracing us both like old friends. He led us to a quiet corner where a thoughtful afternoon tea was laid out with a tidy arrangement of finger sandwiches and canapés. I kissed him on both cheeks. “You’re an angel,” I said, meaning every word.
The lobby hummed with the soft din of a first-rate hotel: phones ringing at the reception desk and the low rumble of luggage wheels across the stone floor. After the flight we’d endured, the calm felt medicinal. We eased into our chairs and let the tea work its magic, steadying our nerves, taking the edge off the flight. We finished the last of the sandwiches and agreed to meet later for a proper meal at the hotel restaurant.
At dinner, the system revealed itself. Our waiter, a courteous, sharply dressed Black man, leaned in and murmured, “Your meal may be a bit rushed this evening, I’m afraid.” He said it with such grace, I almost missed the warning.
Rudi didn’t. He set down his menu and spoke in a low voice. “There’s a ten p.m. curfew,” he said. “For anyone who isn’t White.”
I blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Black, Indian, and so-called ‘colored’ residents. By law, they must be out of town by ten. They’re shuttled back to Soweto.”
Soweto. I’d heard the name on the news, but it hadn’t registered until now.
“They’re forced to leave?” I asked.
“Every night,” Rudi said. “And what they go home to is an overcrowded hell-hole.”
“And nobody does anything about this?” my voice rising.
Rudi shrugged, folding his napkin. “Who’s ‘no one’? The people with power aren’t affected. The people affected have none.”
He sipped his coffee.
“That’s how it’s done here.”
I stared at him, irritated by his seeming acceptance of this cruel reality.
A waiter poured more coffee as Rudi continued,“ Growing up in Berlin taught me to pay attention. The city was divided, bombed, and constantly observed. It wasn’t dangerous, exactly. Just … tense.”
He paused, his gaze fixed just beyond the edge of the table.
“My family was in the East. Friends too. Hauled off to jail because their TV antennas were pointed toward the west. People just … vanished.”
His expression darkened, and his voice took on a quiet edge as he sipped his coffee.
“I spent years doing business behind the Iron Curtain—Belgrade, Warsaw, Prague. You didn’t need to see soldiers in the street to know where you were. The fear was in the air. Phones were tapped. You were always being watched.”
Carlyle and I were surprised by his candor.
“Sally, what do you think could be done about it?” he asked forcefully.
I didn’t have an answer. The rules, the layers, the sheer machinery of it all—it overwhelmed me. I sat still, trying to understand what he’d seen firsthand, knowing this wasn’t an abstraction. It was the architecture of his past. I just shook my head.
Rudi glanced around the restaurant, then made a slow, sweeping gesture with his hand.
“So, no,” he said. “I’m not surprised by any of this.”
He picked up his coffee cup and finished the last sip. Nothing more needed to be said.
Watching the staff file out, uniforms crisp, faces unreadable, I felt my stomach twist. The whole thing was obscene.
I couldn’t wait to leave this joyless city behind and head to our real destination: Cape Town.
###
We came to Cape Town to scout locations, conduct research, and pursue financing for an ambitious historical screenplay, James Barry, written by Carlyle and me. Dr. Barry was a 19th-century British Army surgeon who built a reputation here as a brilliant physician and an outspoken advocate for sanitation reform. But it was the secret beneath the uniform that first drew us in: James Barry was born Margaret Bulkley, a woman who, in an era that barred women from studying medicine, reinvented herself entirely to pursue her calling.
She lived as a man for more than fifty years, not as a temporary disguise but as a lifelong commitment to her work. She faced down military generals and treated wounded soldiers on the battlefield of the Crimean War. On Robben Island, she attended to lepers who were left to rot. The sheer audacity of it—choosing vocation over self—was staggering to me. She was a woman who shattered conventions and refused to let the world dictate her existence or limit her calling.
Carlyle and I envisioned the Barry project as a grand epic: wind-swept coastlines, vast views of the South African savannah, all set against the stark weight of colonial power; pure David Lean, large-screen grandeur with history embedded in every shot.
In Hollywood terms, we were golden. An Oscar-winning actress was obsessed with playing the role of Barry. A major male star was circling the role of Charles Somerset, the Governor of the Cape Colony, her lover and protector. We struck a deal with Olympia Pictures and secured an A-list director with a prestigious award on his mantel. On paper, it was everything a production company could hope for: prestige, scale, and serious star power. Carlyle and I spent more than a year developing and writing the script, which drew enthusiastic responses from both talent and financiers. Castlemont was riding high, fueled by cinematic ambition and a steady flow of development funding.
I was thrilled to be in Dr. James Barry’s adopted country, chasing down any facts or clues that might bring us closer to the heart of this mysterious and fascinating figure.
Our first meeting in Cape Town was with our host, Paul Steiger, a short German national who owned one of the region’s largest textile factories, specializing in jute and plastic packaging. Rudi arranged the introduction. What we encountered was far from ordinary business.
South African factories at that time were notorious for their brutal conditions: twelve-hour shifts, low pay, and little attention paid to worker safety. Herr Steiger’s factory was no exception. Weaving machines clattered at full tilt, generating a mechanical roar that made conversation impossible. I couldn’t imagine working at those machines for twelve minutes, let alone twelve hours. It felt like Blake’s dark vision, one of those “satanic mills,” grinding away at the human soul as efficiently as it processed jute. The air was thick with heat and lint. As I was led down the narrow aisles, flanked by rows of workers, mostly Black women hunched over their machines, I could feel their stares boring holes through my skull. I was a young visitor, an outsider, moving freely through a place where their freedom was crushed daily. For a moment, I imagined doing something cinematic and bold—leaping onto a worktable and shouting “Union! Union! Union!” like a fiery Norma Rae. But this wasn’t a film set. There were no unions. No whistleblowers. There are no government agencies to protect these hardworking women. By the late 1980s, protest movements began to gain traction in Cape Town, ultimately leading to significant reforms. But that day, the injustice was palpable, and the memory of those women’s eyes has stayed with me ever since.
After a brisk walk-through of the factory, we piled into Herr Steiger’s massive Mercedes for the next leg of the tour. He was eager to showcase the Cape Dutch Colonial architecture that would feature prominently in our film, along with the Charles Somerset Hospital, where Dr. Barry treated her patients.
Steiger was a small man who could barely see over the massive dashboard, yet he drove with the blithe confidence of a man twice his size. He handled the Mercedes like Mr. Magoo, cheerfully oblivious as he drifted into oncoming traffic, ignoring the blaring horns and screeching tires. We chain-smoked like grotesque fiends in the back seat, trying to stifle our gasps and quiet screams. I silently wondered if this was how I’d die: flattened by a fruit truck on the outskirts of Cape Town, in the company of a textile baron with a death wish. Steiger remained blissfully unaware. Just as another eighteen-wheeler came roaring straight at us, Rudi leaned forward and barked, “Halt hier, bitte! Diese Location ist fantastisch!” It was a ruse, Rudi’s desperate attempt to get us out of the car before we became a headline.
Herr Steiger obediently yanked the wheel and veered off the highway in a maneuver that sent us into a tailspin, kicking up a cloud of dust as we skidded onto a patch of soft dirt shoulder. He beamed as if he’d discovered a diamond mine, then gestured grandly toward the landscape. “Isn’t it magnificent?” he said, utterly unfazed.
We tumbled out of the car, legs shaky, coughing and barely able to breathe, pretending we were after the perfect shot, not just grateful to be back on solid ground. As it turned out, this stretch of landscape was ideal. Carlyle and I took roll after roll of photographs, capturing the rolling hills, sun-dappled vineyards, and unspoiled farmland of Stellenbosch, confident it would meet our film’s every cinematic need.
From the roadside, Steiger led us to his private vineyard, a scenic estate tucked into the hills and unmistakably his pride and joy. The setting was idyllic. Though it was March, the air carried the golden softness of a Marin County autumn. A pair of staffers appeared with a tray of chilled floral wines, which we sipped gratefully. We barely raised our glasses when Walther Rothmann came bursting onto the scene, trailed by a fragile-looking blonde with pale alabaster skin and oversized sunglasses that swallowed half her face. She barely acknowledged any of us, gliding behind Walther like a shadow in a white linen sundress that rendered her almost invisible.
He was in his thirties—polished, ambitious, and visibly thrilled to be included.
“Herr Rothmann!” Steiger called out, beaming. “Come, meet the Castlemont team.”
We rose as he made the introductions. “Miss Trent, Mister Carlyle, Herr Gartner. This is Walther Rothmann.” Walther shook our hands with prolonged enthusiasm. “Please, just Walther. I’ve read your James Barry script—twice, actually—and I think it’s very, very good. Truly. It’s got everything: daring, sword fights, a woman ahead of her time. And she pulled a clever trick on those pompous Brits!”
He beamed. “I’d like to produce my first feature here, what could be better?”
He glanced back as if remembering she was there. “And this is Sunny.”
Sunny offered little more than a faint smile, then looked away, her gaze drifting toward the vines. She remained utterly inscrutable. I laughed a little, catching the irony of her name.
Rudi gave Walther a cool nod, then murmured to me, “Let’s just hope he reads contracts as carefully as he reads scripts.”
We passed the rest of the afternoon under a shade tree, sipping wine and hammering out terms for additional financing. Herr Steiger, as it turned out, was as good as his word—and our visit proved more fruitful than we’d dared to hope.
On the drive back to Cape Town, I sat in the back seat, scribbling thoughts in my notebook about the parallels between wealthy, fascist South Africa and the struggling communist regimes of East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Yugoslavia. Different ideologies, same result: power concentrated in the hands of a ruling few, while the majority endured bleak living conditions and even bleaker prospects. Civil dissent was treated as treason, freedom of speech didn’t exist, and the media functioned purely as a mouthpiece for state propaganda. At Ellerman House, I threw myself on the bed, too tired to remove anything but my shoes.
We were on a tight, albeit productive schedule. The following afternoon, Rudi led us down a side street to the Crowbar Pub, a no-frills brewery wedged between a shuttered tailor shop and a liquor store near the city center. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of hops and fried onions; the crowd was young and White. At a back table sat Jilly and Martin, the British-Afrikaans filmmakers we’d come to see, a married couple who’d spent their entire lives in Cape Town. Introductions were made. Rudi explained that we were his Hollywood partners, on a scouting trip, looking to shoot a feature in the Cape. I was pleased when Jilly nodded at the mention of our subject, James Barry.
“Fascinating figure,” she said. “Born Margaret, but lived and worked as a male doctor. Barry was a trailblazer.”
When we asked about their vocations, Jilly explained that they made documentaries, primarily about South Africa’s national parks, wildlife, and conservation efforts.
“We try to focus on what’s beautiful here,” she said. “The land, the animals, the fragile ecosystems.”
Martin added, “It’s not political work. At least, not on the surface. But in this country, everything’s political.”
I glanced at Carlyle, then back at the couple. “That’s being generous. Jo’burg was bad enough. But the Cape Town factory, Jesus. Women hunched over their machines, the noise like a war zone.”
Jilly nodded, “It catches up with you. Eventually, you have to decide where you stand.” She glanced at Martin. “We learned that the hard way. We went to a pro-union demonstration in Belleville South,” she continued. “Peaceful, until the Cape Town Gestapo showed up.”
Martin took a long sip of beer. “Those bastards came in swinging. No warning. Batons, shields, and tear gas. They charged the crowd like we were terrorists.”
“They cracked open a student’s head right in front of me,” Jilly said. “He was maybe fifteen. Just holding a sign.”
Her voice stayed steady, but her gaze was floating elsewhere.
“I tried to run,” she went on. “One of them grabbed me by the hair, yanked me to the ground, kicking me in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. They cuffed me and dragged me to a van.” Martin nodded grimly. “I took a baton to the back before they threw me in a holding cell. They left us in there like animals—no food, no phone call, nothing. Took three days before I could call my parents, let alone a lawyer.”
He glanced down, shaking his head. “The Black kids had it so much worse. Just a few months earlier, the cops opened fire on striking miners near Cape Town. Eight young men were killed. The ones they didn’t shoot, they dragged off and tortured in their cells.”
I was appalled by the actions of the Cape Town police and their excessive use of force.
The waiter arrived just then with The Gatsby,an enormous sandwich bursting with fries and chili sauce. Carlyle took a hearty bite and instantly turned fire-engine red. He coughed, reached for his beer, and waved down the waiter.
“For the love of God,” he rasped. “What is in that?”
I smirked. “State secrets, no doubt.”
Jilly allowed the faintest smile. “You should try the meat pies at the Ministry of Information.”
We laughed, said our goodbyes, then made our way out into the cooling dusk. The walk back to Ellerman House was quiet. A bewildering nausea overtook me as I sensed the hostility and unhappiness of people in their own country, combined with the feeling of being spied on by government agents. I couldn’t decide where I felt safer—in the leafy suburbs of Cape Town, where opposing liberal viewpoints could get you arrested, or on the bleak streets of East Berlin?
When we reached Ellerman House, I threw my arms around my burly co-producers in a wave of confused emotion that even I couldn’t explain. They exchanged puzzled glances as I bolted up the stairs. I landed face-first on the bed and slept like the dead for twelve straight hours.
James Barry never progressed beyond the dream stage. We couldn’t close the financing, our stars slipped away, and our director took a studio deal and stopped returning Carlyle’s calls.
And so, James Barry was dropped and quietly tossed onto the bottomless Hollywood trash heap, where all the other unmade scripts go to die.
Carlyle and I were laid low. This tough guy with the hide of a rhinoceros was hurting as much as I was. He offered offhandedly, “Some stories,” he said gently, “just don’t make it.”
I spun around, tears streaking down my cheeks as the dam of emotions finally broke. “But James Barry deserved to. It was meant to be told on screens in full Technicolor. We had a vision.” I was practically hysterical, sobbing as the weight of it all crashed in.
Bob smiled at me, “Sure, Hotshot. But we didn’t have that last, elusive ingredient every Hollywood film needs to survive: luck.”
I let out a loud, broken sob—and then laughed, because damn it, he was right.
###
Watching Out of Africa years later—with its sweeping vistas, David Lean-style grandeur, and that unforgettable score, I felt gutted. It was everything we once dreamed of making. Life moved on, but James Barry remains a ghost story at the edge of my memory. In quiet moments, I can still see her in full military regalia, bold as brass, in the film we never made.
As I sip my morning coffee in the quiet of my living room, watching the waves roll in below my window, my thoughts drift back to South Africa. The memories of our film project recede to the periphery, eclipsed now by the real story—the story of a country on the brink.
I remember the hostile stares. Tense conversations reduced to whispers, the palpable fear and dread. In 1982, I didn’t believe for a second that South Africa could change without swells of violence. It seemed impossible. The anger was everywhere. I thought to myself that one day the White rulers would be slaughtered in their beds in the dark of night by an angry Black majority; justice arriving not with ballots, but with machetes, delivered by an oppressed people pushed to their breaking point. I shuddered at this disturbing image of revenge.
And then, the unimaginable happened. Nelson Mandela pulled South Africa back from the precipice. Through quiet strength and unwavering resolve, he led the country away from catastrophe and dismantled the yoke of apartheid for twenty-eight million people. The fiery revolt so many feared never came. South Africa began again, not through violence, but through vision. Mandela guided the country with patience and moral authority, and miraculously, the nation followed. It became a beacon of hope to others still living under injustice, a reminder that even the deepest wounds begin to heal when a leader steps forward with patience and grace.
I marvel that apartheid was dismantled within my lifetime, that a nation built on cruelty and division could be pulled back from the brink by a force as fragile as it was formidable: hope. It made me believe that history can still surprise us, and that grace, when it holds its ground, can move mountains.
There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires.
– Nelson Mandela
The Kaleidoscope of Existence
My faithful friend, for so many years
that I can’t even remember when yesterday was,
remains within my being,
laughing and crying by my side.
This time, laughing, he read that no
one knows who their skin color is.
An African poet clarified it, saying that
some are one color
from birth to death, but others
change throughout their lives:
At birth they are pink, in the sun, tanned,
when cold, blue, when sick, they turn green,
and when frightened they appear white,
and when they die they are gray.
* Equal in my soul,
he for giving his life and I for the one
I added by his side.
*From the poet and former Senegalese President Léopold Sédar Senghor (Free translation)
