Awkward

It was one of those balmy Jozi evenings, just as the world was tentatively shaking off the grip of the COVID pandemic. I’d been invited to dinner at the home of an old school friend in Parktown, that venerable suburb where grand Herbert Baker-designed homes still stand like silent guardians of a bygone era, their red-tiled roofs and stone facades dotted along tree-lined streets. The invitation promised a low-key gathering—nothing fancy, just good food, wine, and conversation to reconnect after the isolation of lockdowns. Little did I know it would devolve into one of the most surreal and uncomfortable encounters of my adult life.

The guest list was small: my friend, his father (a warm, retired businessman with a penchant for marketing), and a neighbor named Rex, a retired South African judge who’d hung up his robes a few decades earlier. Rex was in his eighties, sharp-eyed and impeccably dressed in a crisp shirt and trousers, exuding the kind of authoritative presence that comes from years on the bench. At first, the evening unfolded pleasantly. We sat around a wooden dining table laden with homemade bobotie, fresh salads, and a robust bottle of local Pinotage. Conversation flowed easily—reminiscences about school days, the quirks of Parktown’s history, and the shared relief of emerging from pandemic restrictions. Masks were off, vaccines were in, and there was a palpable sense of normalcy returning.

But as the main course gave way to dessert, the tone shifted. Rex, perhaps emboldened by a second glass of wine, steered the discussion toward the pandemic itself. What began as mild skepticism quickly escalated into a full-throated rant about conspiracy theories. “It’s all Bill Gates’ doing,” he declared, his voice rising with conviction. “That man’s not content with his billions—he wants to control the world, Illuminati-style. The vaccines? Just a ploy to track us, make more money, and play God with humanity.” He went on, citing vague “sources” from fringe online groups and social media echo chambers that amplified such nonsense, painting Gates as some shadowy puppet master behind global events using microchips hidden in vaccines.

I listened politely at first, but as someone who’d built much of my career around technology, I couldn’t let it slide unchallenged. “With all due respect, Judge,” I interjected calmly, “I’ve spent my entire professional life using, supporting, and deploying products that originated from Bill Gates’ company. Microsoft has been a cornerstone for so many of us. Gates? He’s just a plain old nerd at heart—a brilliant one, sure, but his philanthropy, especially in medical causes, strikes me as genuine. He’s poured billions into fighting diseases like malaria and polio, not to control the world, but to make it a better place. It’s about giving back, not some sinister plot and there are no microchips floating in vaccines.”

The room fell silent for a beat. Rex’s face reddened, his judicial composure cracking like thin ice. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and barked, “Fuck off.” The words hung in the air, crude and jarring, utterly out of place in this refined setting. My friend froze, fork midway to his mouth; his father cleared his throat awkwardly, staring into his plate. I blinked, staring back at Rex, wondering if this was the onset of senility or just a flash of unchecked temper. Had the pandemic’s isolation frayed his edges, or was this the real man beneath the robe?

The rest of the evening limped along in strained politeness. Dessert was eaten in near silence, punctuated by forced small talk about the weather and local events—anything to avoid the elephant in the room. As I drove home later, winding through Parktown’s shadowy streets, I couldn’t shake the unease. How had this man, entrusted with presiding over courtrooms and dispensing justice, harbored such irrational beliefs? How could someone so unbalanced in temperament have wielded the gavel, deciding fates with the weight of law? It was a stark reminder that titles and authority don’t always equate to wisdom or restraint. In the end, that dinner wasn’t just awkward—it was a window into the fragility of reason in an age of misinformation.

But, hey, the world is full of those.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Christmas

As December rolls in, like clockwork, I dust off my well-worn copy of Love Actually and settle in for the ritual viewing. It’s the quintessential Christmas movie, one that never grows old, with its heartfelt message of love, connection, and holiday magic distilled into pure Christmas essence. For me, Christmas isn’t just a holiday, it’s a tradition that seeps right into my bones, a visceral pull that feels as innate as breathing.

Being German by heritage, I suppose I’m a tree worshipper at heart, a bona fide tree hugger with roots that run deep. My earliest act of arboreal devotion was to a wild fig tree that sprawled outside the window of the dusty farmhouse where I spent my youth. I’d gaze at it for hours, imagining it as a guardian spirit. And it’s no exaggeration to say this reverence is in my blood; our family has over 500 years of documented history intertwined with Christianity, tracing back to the very door in Wittenberg where Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses, sparking the Reformation. That legacy pulses through me, even if my own beliefs has evolved.

Growing up in New Hanover, the local Lutheran church embodied the season’s splendor. Each year, a massive pine tree would be hauled inside and positioned proudly beside the altar, a towering symbol of evergreen hope. It wasn’t adorned with modern electric lights but with real candles, each one carefully ignited using a match affixed to a long stick—a ritual that filled the air with the warm flicker of flame and the faint scent of melting wax. The sight was mesmerizing, almost sacred. Afterward, the church’s brass band would strike up hymns, their notes resonating through the pews like a communal heartbeat. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, the church bazaar became a highlight, bustling with stalls selling handmade ornaments—delicate glass baubles, wooden carvings, and glittering stars that we’d hang on our own trees at home.

No Christmas memory is complete without visits to my grandmother Bertha, whose kitchen was a haven of holiday delights. She’d serve her traditional Butterkuchen, that buttery yeast cake dusted with sugar and almonds, alongside Zirupskuchen, a syrupy treat that melted on the tongue. Those flavors are the very taste of Christmas for me, evoking warmth and nostalgia in every bite. Even now, living in Johannesburg, I scour the shops each December in search of authentic Lebkuchen—those spiced gingerbread cookies that transport me straight back to my roots.

My parents would put on a Boney M cassette in the Mercedes Benz. We would listen endlessly to “By the Rivers of Babylon”. I’m still transported to the back seat of that car, wedged between my boet and sis every time I hear that song.

My sister shares this passion for the season and takes charge of our family gatherings, orchestrating a sumptuous dinner on Christmas Eve. We skip the fanfare of Christmas Day altogether, honoring the German custom of celebrating on the night before, the Heilige Nacht, or Holy Night. If possible, we seek out a church service where we can join in singing “Silent Night,” its melody wrapping around us like a familiar embrace. The tears come unbidden, rolling down my cheeks without shame, a release of all the accumulated joy and melancholy of the year.

At its core, Christmas for me is about giving—everyone deserves a present, not something extravagant, but a token that’s personal and meaningful, chosen with thought and care. And here’s my confession: for all the Christian heritage in my veins, Christmas isn’t truly religious to me. Sorry, Jesus—it’s something deeper, more primal, woven into my DNA. It’s a potent brew of ancestral echoes, a pause for reflection amid the whirl of life, blending the simple pleasures of tree hugging and Süßigkeiten—the sweets that make the season sparkle. I suppose some might brand me a heretic for saying so, but by choice, I’d leave my Christmas lights twinkling all year round. Their soft glow is too beautiful to confine to just one month. That’s me—unapologetically enchanted by a primitive festival’s enduring magic.

My favourite apostle is Thomas who would always go to first principles, and Christmas is not about the myths but being nice as the first principle.

Window shopping

As a young boy growing up on our family farm in the rolling hills of KwaZulu-Natal, the simple rhythms of rural life shaped my world as I learned the land’s secrets from my father’s calloused hands. But come December, a magical ritual broke the monotony—the annual pilgrimage to Pietermaritzburg for window shopping. This wasn’t just any outing; it was our prelude to Christmas, a shimmering promise of the holiday’s joy wrapped in the cool evening air. The town lay about 30 kilometers away, a journey that felt like crossing into another realm, where the dirt roads gave way to bustling streets alive with lights and laughter.

We’d pile into the Mercedes—my parents, siblings, and I—after supper, when the sun dipped low and the night sky began to twinkle like the decorations we’d soon behold. Pietermaritzburg, with its colonial charm and vibrant energy, was a far cry from our isolated homestead. The main streets pulsed with holiday cheer, shops aglow with festive displays that drew crowds like moths to a flame. But none captivated us more than Stuttafords and John Orrs, the grand dames of the retail scene. Their windows were masterpieces: elaborate tableaux of twinkling trees, mechanical Santas waving merrily, and piles of wrapped gifts that sparked endless “what if” dreams in my childish mind. We’d stroll from one to the next, pressing our noses against the glass, oohing and aahing as the displays unfolded like storybooks come to life. My mother would point out the elegant dresses, my father the sturdy toys, and we’d all imagine what treasures might find their way under our modest tree back home.

Those evenings were pure enchantment, but one particular Christmas Eve outing etched itself into family lore, recounted at every birthday and holiday gathering thereafter with equal parts horror and hilarity. I was not yet going to school, and was wide-eyed and overwhelmed by the urban spectacle. As we lingered before John Orrs’ magnificent window—a veritable winter wonderland of faux snow and animated reindeer—nature called with urgent insistence. Being a farm boy through and through, accustomed to relieving myself against a tree or in the open fields without a second thought, I saw no issue with the matter. So, right there on the bustling sidewalk, I sidled up to the window, dropped my shorts, and let loose a stream against the glass. To my innocent logic, it was as natural as breathing; the city lights reflected in the puddle at my feet like some impromptu holiday art installation.

The gasps from passersby were immediate, but it was a stern-faced lady nearby who broke the spell. She turned to my mortified mother, who was frozen in shock, and quipped dryly, “At least he shook it.” My parents whisked me away amid apologies and stifled laughter, the incident becoming an instant legend. Back on the farm, it was retold with embellishments—how the window nearly steamed up, or how I waved cheerfully to my reflection mid-act. Even now, decades later, as we gather around the table, my sister inevitably pipes up with, “Remember that time in Pietermaritzburg?” and the room erupts in chuckles. It was a lesson in the clash of worlds: the untamed freedom of rural life meeting the polished propriety of the city. In those windows, I didn’t just see holiday dreams; I glimpsed the boundaries of my own innocence, forever marked by a boy’s bold blunder.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Redefining disabled

The world is obsessed with labels, and few words carry as much unintended weight as “disabled.” It’s a term that’s thrown around casually in medical forms, policy discussions, and everyday conversations, but what does it really mean? At its root, “disabled” suggests a fundamental lack, incapability, brokenness, or deficiency. It paints a picture of someone who is inherently less than whole, forcing them into a perpetual battle to prove their worth against the so-called “able-bodied” norm. But here’s the truth: no one is truly “disabled” in the way this word implies. We’re all navigating life’s challenges, and physical or cognitive differences don’t equate to incapacity. Instead, they often forge extraordinary resilience, creativity, and strength.

Think about it: every day, we all have to prove ourselves. The entrepreneur pitching their startup, the artist unveiling their work, the parent juggling chaos, none of us get a free pass. Why, then, do we burden some with a label that screams limitation from the start? It’s time to retire “disabled” and embrace a narrative of human potential. Let’s look at some real-life heroes who shatter this myth, proving that what society calls a “disability” is often just a different path to greatness.

Stephen Hawking | The Mind That Defied Gravity

Take Stephen Hawking, the brilliant physicist whose name is synonymous with black holes, the Big Bang, and the very fabric of the universe. Diagnosed with ALS as a young adult, Hawking gradually lost the use of his limbs and voice, relying on a wheelchair and a speech synthesizer. Yet, did this make him “disabled”? Far from it. He authored A Brief History of Time, a bestseller that made complex cosmology accessible to millions. He held the Lucasian Professorship at Cambridge, the same chair once occupied by Isaac Newton. Hawking’s intellect soared beyond physical constraints, challenging our understanding of time and space. He once quipped, “My goal is simple. It is a complete understanding of the universe, why it is as it is and why it exists at all.” If that’s “disabled,” then sign me up for the club. Hawking wasn’t limited; he was liberated by a mind that refused to be confined.

Lord Nelson | Victory on the High Seas, One Arm at a Time

History is rife with examples, and few are as swashbuckling as Admiral Horatio Nelson. The British naval hero lost sight in one eye during the Siege of Calvi and had his right arm amputated after the Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife. Battle-scarred and physically altered, Nelson could have retired to a quiet life. Instead, he led the Royal Navy to decisive victories, most famously at the Battle of Trafalgar, where he crushed Napoleon’s fleet and secured Britain’s dominance at sea. Nelson’s famous signal, “England expects that every man will do his duty,” wasn’t uttered from a place of pity or concession, it was a rallying cry from a leader who embodied unyielding determination. His “disabilities” didn’t hinder him; they became part of his legend, proving that true capability lies in strategy, courage, and will.

Douglas Bader | Reaching for the Sky, Legs or No Legs

One story that hits particularly close to home for me is that of Douglas Bader, the RAF fighter pilot whose biography, Reach for the Sky, I’ve devoured multiple times. Bader lost both legs in a flying accident. Doctors said he’d never walk again, let alone fly. But Bader, with his trademark grit, fitted himself with prosthetic legs and badgered his way back into the cockpit. By World War II, he was commanding squadrons in the Battle of Britain, piloting Spitfires with acrobatic flair and racking up multiple aerial victories. Captured by the Germans after being shot down, he even attempted multiple escapes from POW camps, once famously trying to climb out using his artificial legs as leverage. Bader’s life screams defiance: “No matter what, you can achieve.” As a Spitfire ace, he wasn’t just participating; he was excelling in one of the most demanding arenas imaginable. Fuck yeah, indeed—that’s the spirit that turns obstacles into fuel.

These aren’t isolated cases. The list of such trailblazers is endless: Frida Kahlo, who channeled chronic pain into revolutionary art; Beethoven, composing symphonies while deaf; or modern icons like Paralympic athletes who redefine speed and strength. What unites them isn’t a shared “disability”, it’s an unwavering refusal to let circumstances define their narrative.

The Personal Lens | One Eye, Infinite Perspectives

On a more personal note, living with one eye changes things. Depth perception shifts, your brain rewires to adapt, and everyday tasks like driving or catching a ball require a bit more finesse. But at its core, it’s not a deficit, it’s a distinction. It makes you rare, forcing a unique way of seeing the world (pun intended). You notice details others miss, anticipate movements differently, and build resilience that “two-eyed” folks might never need. It’s a reminder that differences aren’t disabilities; they’re superpowers in disguise. Society’s labels try to box us in, but embracing our uniqueness unlocks potential we didn’t know we had.

Redefine

Disabled is a word that creates barriers where none need exist, fostering pity instead of empowerment. Instead, celebrate the human spirit’s adaptability. Whether you’re Hawking unraveling the cosmos, Nelson commanding fleets, or Bader soaring through dogfights, the message is clear: capability isn’t about perfect bodies—it’s about unbreakable minds and hearts.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram