Our home in Heideveld felt like an oasis. Fruit trees grew thick in the backyard; we could step outside, pluck ripe fruit straight from the branches, and eat our fill without ever considering price or scarcity.
Memoir 1 By Shereen Ben
Roots, Freedom, and the Heideveld Sun
My story began on a Monday morning in the warmth of our family home. My father was so overjoyed by the arrival of his baby girl that he went straight out and bought a white car with my name painted on it. As the fourth child—and the only girl after three older brothers—I was born into a whirlwind of noise, laughter, grit, and fierce affection.
Growing up, I possessed a restless curiosity and an appetite for adventure. My father loved tinkering with automobiles, and my brothers naturally followed suit. I spent hours watching them work with their hands, mesmerized by the choreography of engines, the weight of steel tools, and the craft of restoring a machine. That early fascination never left me.
Yet my interests were never confined to one lane. I threw myself into arts and crafts, transforming scrap materials into imaginative projects. At age seven, I took up karate—a discipline I carried into adulthood that forged my resilience and focus. Cooking came early, too. Because I was too small to reach the stovetop, my eldest brother would place a small wooden stool beneath my feet so I could stir the pots. My family nurtured my eagerness in their own practical, loving ways.
Our early childhood unfolded in Heideveld on the Cape Flats, where I attended Willows Primary School. It was an easy walk from our front door, though I had an incorrigible habit: I loved walking barefoot. Rain or shine, I wanted to feel the earth beneath my soles, regardless of whether I had a decent pair of shoes.
One drenched morning, I decided on a compromise: I zipped my school shoes safely inside my backpack and splashed along the pavement barefoot. The school principal noticed immediately. Shocked, he summoned my mother from work, insisting she purchase proper footwear for her daughter. When my mother arrived, frustrated and anxious, I was called into the office. I reached quietly into my bag, pulled out a perfectly polished pair of shoes, and set them on the desk. That stunt cost my mother half a day's wages, and the scolding I received at home is etched in my memory forever—a childhood misdemeanor that eventually mellowed into a cherished family legend.
Our home in Heideveld felt like an oasis. Fruit trees grew thick in the backyard; we could step outside, pluck ripe fruit straight from the branches, and eat our fill without ever considering price or scarcity. Nature provided, and we savored it. Even now, when a handful of fruit at the supermarket carries a steep price tag, I find myself longing for the effortless abundance of that garden.
Life was grounded in community. We were the first family on our street to own a television set, turning our living room into the neighborhood gathering spot every evening. My mother would fold back the furniture and spread thick blankets across the floor so a sea of neighborhood children could sit shoulder to shoulder. My parents never complained about the racket or the crowded floorboards; they simply opened the door.
There was an unspoken neighborhood pact: if someone from the street was missing at broadcast time, we were sent out to find them. You looked after one another. We learned early that you cannot live purely for yourself—we were bound by a shared life, and that sense of mutual responsibility remains one of the greatest legacies my parents gave me.
The author is Human resources specialist and social worker, based in Pretoria, South Africa