Although I only knew Shaun for a year, I felt very connected to him. Charming, witty, but also immediately and very obviously thoughtful and genuine, Shaun immediately made me feel welcome in my MRF interview. The thing he said first grounded me – he mentioned that he had seen on my CV that I loved writing, and he then said that he was also a writer. In one warm sentence, he had elevated a hobby that I love into a lifestyle – a kinship – that we shared. I was incredibly humbled that he equated my pastime with his profession and his gift.
Whenever we met at workshops, we would talk about writing – and again, Shaun would address me like a peer. Two vignettes come to my mind. One was at the first workshop. It was dinnertime, and Shaun was seated alone at a table, and so I went to go join him. Although a little intimidated at first, he quickly made me feel at ease.
“Julia, can I ask you something?” he asked, beckoning me in like he was about to ask my opinion on some grand secret.
“Of course!” My heart raced. What would he ask? Perhaps it would be about my vision of African Development? How to counter South African exceptionalism? What the greatest challenge of civil society movements might be on the continent today? I instantly started to sweat, triggered by the seemingly impossible essay questions he had set for the application process.
“Are you a fan of Harry Potter?”
I proceeded to choke on my bread roll, which, despite my best efforts to disguise, he noticed and laughed at.
“A huge fan!” I exclaimed in between mouthfuls.
“Ah, terrific!” he responded, eyes twinkling. “I’ve been involved with MRF for many years, as you know, but I’m starting to take a bit of a backseat. I’m going for a Dumbledore approach – gentle, but there when he needs to be. How do you think I am doing at it?”
There he was again, building kinship. Despite the fact that we were nearly forty years apart in age, he cared what I had to say about his leadership – and saw eye to eye with me; first, as a writer, and now as a leader. Neither of those were titles I might have used to describe myself at the time. In fact, for much of the workshops, I felt like an imposter. But when Shaun asked you something, your answer mattered to him, and made you feel worthy of such labels. For the rest of that week, while he lead various talks and exercises, I detected that Dumbledore-ish kindness and knowledge which I so loved about the character in the series. And a lot of wry wit, too. I struggled not to imagine him with half-moon spectacles, a flowing white beard and resplendent purple robes because the analogy to Dumbledore seemed so fitting.
Now on to the second vignette. This was at our second workshop. Again it was at a dinner table, and this time he asked me about my writing. He inquired about what strategies I employed to get out of writers’ block, how I structured my writing periods and how I found the movement between different genres of writing – journalism, poetry and fiction, all forms that we both loved. I had much more to learn from him than he did from me. Nonetheless, his interest in my responses was sincere, and he was very generous with his advice for me. He explained that he wrote best when he got into a sort of “vortex”, writing for long periods of time without a break.
He explained how he had written much of his novel, The Native Commissioner in such a way – spending large chunks of time in “the vortex” where focus and flow met. What started as a rather abstract conversation about the process of writing quickly transitioned into a candid discussion about his own psychological process writing the novel. He was open about his relationship with his parents, and what urged him to tell their story; he described the complexities of writing a story that was based on biographical fact, while trying to maintain the privacy and dignity of his own family. This was hugely valuable advice for a novice like me to receive, had it been for one minor issue: I hadn’t yet read the book.
Shaun gave an excellent – and very revealing – synopsis of the novel. But fifteen minutes into this detailed conversation about characterisation and imagination and story arcs, Shaun noticed my awkwardness and raised a wry eyebrow. There was that Dumbledore-ish wit again!
“I’m mortified,” I admitted, blushing. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner, but I haven’t yet read The Native Commissioner. My uncle loves it and I’ve only heard good things about it. I promise I will go out and get it!”
Shaun laughed heartily, and then playfully admonished me for allowing him to spoil the ending of the novel for me. But he then turned the conversation towards my own writing; a subject which, although much more familiar to me than his novel, was challenging for me at the time. I love writing, and feel like the freest, most enriched version of myself when I write, but I wasn’t finding much time to do it.
He was sympathetic when I explained that I hadn’t had the creative energy while studying to access “the vortex” for a novel on which I had been working. Shaun believed very firmly that my academic process would strengthen my creative writing and that my thesis should, at least for the moment, come first. I think he believed in people’s abilities to do many things well – as he had done. Ultimately, however, he backed me to finish my novel. It’s not every day that you are granted such expressions of faith. I hadn’t worked on the manuscript for over eighteen months at that point, and having his conviction behind me made me feel – and still does – that it was an endeavour worth seeing through.
The week after the workshop I went out and bought the novel, intending to read it before my final workshop and to tell him my thoughts. Although I went into the novel knowing how it would end, and having had very high recommendations of it, I was entranced by the story. There were so many moments where I clicked with what he was saying in a very tangible way; isn’t that the dream of an author? To make the reader sigh and think “ah, this guy just gets it”. The story dealt with suffering so sensitively, and blended fiction with history in a way that made me think very carefully about our present.
But by the time our third workshop came around, Shaun had stood down from the MRF to make way for new leadership, and to work on his own writing again. I had meant to email him to announce that I had finally read his book (and thoroughly enjoyed it) and to mention some of my thoughts about it. But I got swept up in things and I never got round to doing it.
I myself hadn’t written anything creative for a very long time. I was grappling with the idea that I should be doing something “good” with my talents, and for many reasons, I felt like I couldn’t commit to finishing my novel because such a hobby was trivial, and immaterial. In my mind, it lead to no activism or change; a waste of time.
Something that I now realise is that Shaun believed equally firmly in the power of ideas and the power of art, as he did the power of action – his life and his various career incarnations attest to that. To him, art, creativity and imagination were not incongruent to pragmatism, altruism and hard-work. In fact, to Shaun, those two realms – worlds which felt so distinct in my own mind – enriched each other profoundly. Again, his life work demonstrates how imagination can enrich advocacy.
How I wish now that I had emailed Shaun to discuss his novel and writing more.
And how heartsore I am that the first thing that I’ve written in so long that isn’t a to-do list or set of research findings – instead, something that felt creative and exciting to me – would be this tribute to him.
I will remember Shaun for treating me like an equal, and for building the network of kinship that is MRF. I will remember him for his Dumbledore-like sageness, inquisitiveness and integrity, as well as his joviality. I will remember him as someone who believed in me, and believed in the coupled power of words and deeds. Rest peacefully, Shaun. Wherever you are right now, I hope you’re writing lots and that the vortex treats you kindly.
Julia Lazar Chaskalson (MR Scholar 2019)
