On Submission: Reflections about my Master’s research & my mixed feelings about the academy

Much to my own surprise, the day after I submitted my Master’s research paper, I woke up with a lot to say. Here goes:

My research report is titled An exploration of Black women students’ sexual experiences. This is (I think) a very misleading title, based on what I thought my research was about 8 months ago (and what I came up with, while in a rush to hand in my proposal).

At the same time, it’s also hard to say what would have been a more fitting name, because my research paper is about a lot of things. My research paper is about the gravity of emotion in our intimate lives. About how “consent” doesn’t always fully capture what takes place in private. About how we experience complicated feelings sometimes. About things that aren’t black and white. It’s also about how we know things. About how sometimes we know something with our body and we can’t necessarily express it in words. About how that kind of knowledge is just as important as the knowledge we can express verbally.

My research paper is this academic thing where I talk about theories on sexual violence and sex and gender and and and. And just like the title doesn’t capture the essence of the paper, the paper doesn’t capture the essence of the interviews I did.

I interviewed 8 women about their life experiences. We talked about sex, sexual violence, being Black, girlhood, womanhood, confusing things, love, dating, insecurity, heartbreak, sexiness, the pressure to play netball, crushing, clubbing and other stuff like that. In every interview, there was a moment where I thought: “Woaah, you felt that way in childhood/high school/your first relationship? I felt the exact same way.”

I wished we could have more of these types of conversations. Maybe we’d feel less alone.

The interviews were rich in a way I’ll never be able to represent in an academic paper. On one hand, it’s a little frustrating that what I write about in the ‘Results’ section is just the tip of the iceberg. Frustrating because I like sharing knowledge. It’s what makes things like tutoring, lecturing, tweeting, blogging, journalism, etc meaningful for me.

On the other hand, I’m glad that there are things I will never be able to give to the academy. The academy doesn’t love us and it doesn’t deserve the life-saving knowledge we’re sharing. To be a Black person and a woman in the academy is to basically be in an exploitative relationship. It’s to be expected to give receipts for your brilliance all the time, translated and peppered with jargon, and then, when you ask to be treated like a person, issa no. You get painted as ungrateful, as disruptive, as a problem. You get painted with that same paint that washed away the stories of your ancestors.

A black woman in the academy is a fierce lil human library but somehow, it feels like we’re being done some kind of favour for being allowed in. The academy wants our amazing ideas but doesn’t want to acknowledge that it hurt to arrive at that knowledge. Our pain becomes an inconvenience. “Valid knowledge” is defined as that which is communicated through words and numbers in research papers; leaving no room for that which we express in our “first” languages, in tears or struggle songs. I digress… but basically, I’m just happy the academy doesn’t get to keep all our stuff. Not the time of #Fallism and #RhodesWar.

Degree-holder status is given a lot of value in our society. The impression is that those of us with degrees worked hard, that we’re smart and that our ideas have the potential to change the world. While all of this is technically true, it’s not only true for us. Having a degree is not a simple result of work + intelligence. It more likely means that you were lucky to:

  • survive a basic education system where the majority of the country’s youth were shortchanged
  • have had enough funding somehow to apply, pay an acceptance fee and register (whether paid for upfront or acquired through a bank/nsfas loan)
  • have had enough (financial & other) resources to manage any mental illness or physical disability you have (likely with great difficulty) long enough to complete your courses.

There are lots of people who cannot jump over these hurdles, at no fault of their own.

I struggle with the way a lot of people’s knowledge and labour are dismissed because of the value we place on tertiary education. I think of my aunt who was not afforded a high school education, despite her yearning for it. She is one of the best teachers of kindness and generosity I know (summa cum laude levels). The knowledge she’s given me is the backbone of any knowledge I’ve produced. And unlike the schooling system, she always taught me I was valuable – I never had to jump through hoops for her to recognize that. She takes sentience seriously and responds to it with live-giving sensitivity. Trust me when I say, your alma mater could never. The academy does not have that kind of r.a.n.g.e.

I fundamentally don’t believe in universities. Academic institutions have broken my heart into pieces (see: #RhodesWar). I tread anxiously in their big, concrete buildings:  trying not to get too attached. I still have heart though because of those who never reduced me to just my mind. I still have heart because in crevices of libraries, people who share this kind of sensitivity have left me lifelines. Focusing on my work on intersectional & feminist theory has been like a treasure hunt: the treasure being the solace of finding bits of yourself that were stolen before you could even blink. It doesn’t take away the pain of being dispossessed, but still.

I don’t know how much longer I will stick to academic pursuits, but for as long as I do, what will nourish me is the network of people who are using the academy to reclaim our stuff. Kunzima mara sisonke.

Let me end off with an excerpt from the Acknowledgements page of my research report:

My intentions with this research report are closely connected to the greater feminist, womanist, queer, blackity-black legacy of activism/life-giving that has brought me here. I am indebted to all the people who have struggled for my breath and who have ensured the survival of the knowledges that have saved my life. I give thanks to all of you: my ancestors, my grandmothers, the One in Nine campaigners, the Fallists, the reference-list-ers, the healers, the journalists, scientists, teachers, tweeters, etc; basically all the people who are my people, despite (constructed) time and distance separations.

With love,



Re apara se re se batang

Senepe ka Thalefang Charles, Mmegi


Ngwaga oo fetiling, go ne ga nna le tiragalo ya kgokgontsho ko mapalamelong a dibese mo Gaborone. Mosadi mongwe o ne a rogwa, godimo ga moo, a apolwa fa gare ga batho, ke banna bangwe ka ntata ya gore ba ne ba akanya gore gaa apara ‘sentle’. Mogwanto wa I Wear What I Want (Re apara se re se batang) o ne wa simollwa ke bomme bangwe, go lwantsha ditiragalo tsa kgogontsho ya basadi mo sechabeng sa rona.

Mo mogwantong wa I wear what I want, ko Gaborone, basadi ba ne ba tla ka dipalo, ba apere jaaka ba batla, go tsamaelana le molaetsa wa mogwanto o. Fa dinepe tsa mogwanto o di pegwa mo Facebook, di ne tsa tlogela bangwe ba sa itumela tota. Mo pegong e, ke tla tlhalosa mabaka a batho ba, a go sa itumela, le go tlhalosa mabaka a me, le a balwela dishwanelo tsa basadi ka nna, a go tswelela go apara se re se batang.

A ruri boleng jwa mosadi bo bonwa ka kapari?

Kgang ya ntlha e ne go buisangwa ka yone mo Facebook ke gore mosadi o tshwanetse go apara sentle gore a tlotliwe. Mo dipuisanong tse, go ne go na le bangwe ba ba dumelang gore mosadi (wa nnete) ke mongwe yoo ikapesang ka mokgwa oo rileng; gore fa o apere bokhutswane bo bo riling, ga o sa thole o le mosadi sentle.  Go ne gotwe ba ba neng ba apere bokhutshwane jo be feteletseng ko mogwantong o, ga se basadi ba itlhaloganyang, godimo ga moo go twe go supa dikarolo tse di riling tsa mmele (dirope, marago), go diga boleng jwa gago.

Tumelo e ya gore boleng le bontle jwa motho mosadi bo bonwa mo diaparong tsa gagwe e supa tsholofelo mo basading, gore re tshele matshelo a rona otlhe re akantse gore ba batho ba tla re akanyetsa jang.  Jaaka mme mongwe ko mogwantong a buile, kgang e ya gore ga re apara e bo re akantse gore batho baa gore akanyetsa jang, ga se kgang ee siameng. Fa e le gore sechaba sa rona se a go tlotla ditshwanelo tsa basadi, go tlhokega gore basadi re letelelwe go apara se re se batang, le fa go sa ratwe kapari e re itlhophetseng.

A diaparo tsa basadi di baka dipetelelo?

Ditiragalo tsa petelelo le kgokgontsho ya basadi mo mafatsheng ka bophara di tswelela go oketsega ka palo ee sa letelesegeng . Mo Facebook, bangwe be rile go apara bokhutshwane (ga basadi) go diphatsa ka go ka gogomosa banna kana go ba rokotsa mathe.  Go na le ba ba dumelang gore fa re batla go emisa kgokgontsho, re tshwanetse go dira melao ee laolang kapari ya bo mme, ka go akangwa gore go laolela basadi kapari go ka thusa go emisa dipetelelo .

Mathata a leng teng fa, ke tumelo ee reng kapari ya basadi e baka kgokgontsho.  Se ga se boammaruri. Le fa e ka bo e le nnete, go rokotswa mathe ga go lete motho monna go kgokgontsha kana go betelela mosadi. Go thoka fela gore banna ba itshware sentle, ka gore kapari ya motho ga e ka ke ya beelwa molato wa ditiro tsa batho banna. Go dumela gore kapari ee riling e ka emisa dipetelelo, ke go baa molato wa ditiragalo tsa petelelo mo basading. Go bothokwa gore mo dipuisanong tsa rona ka kgokgontsho le dipetelelo mo basading, re gakologelwe gore ka nako tsothle, mo ditiragalong tse, molato ga se wa basadi.

Mosadi sidirisiwa

Dipuisano tse di supa fa mosadi a sa tlotliwe, e le sidirisiwa. Mongwe o ne a tshwantshanya kgang e ya kapari ya basadi, le kgang ya burukuthi, a botsa gore ke eng batho ba na le mabotana go kata matlo a bone. Molaetsa yoo fithilweng fa, ke gore basadi ba tshwaneletswe ke go apara ba fithile mmele, e seng jalo, ba laletsa kotsi kana kgokgontsho. Se se supa tumelo e e reng basadi ba ba sa apareng sentle ke bone fela ba ba kgokgontshiwang.

Mathata aa leng teng fa, ke gore batho basadi (le bana, le banna bangwe) ba kgokgontshiwa ba apere ka go farologana. Ga gona diaparo tse re ka reng di ka laletsa kgokgontsho. Se se bakang kgokgontsho ya basadi, ke batho ba ba palelwang ke go itaola le go itshwara sentle, ba ba ipaang godimo ga basadi, ba ba sa tlotleng basadi.  Batho ba ba kgokgontshang le ba ba thubetsang ba dira jalo ka gore ba bona basadi e le didirisiwa, e seng batho.

Fa e le gore, ruri, re dumela gore kgokgontso le petelelo ke ditiragalo tse di maswe, re tshwanetse go tshwara tumelo eo ka nako tsothle, e seng gore re e latllhe ka di nako tse dingwe. Fa re batla go emisa ditiragalo tsa kgokgontsho le dipetelelo, re tshwanetse gore re emise mekgwa ya go tshwaya phoso mo basading. Go lwantsha ditiragalo tsa kgokgontsho mo Botswana, re tshwanetse go lwantsha kgokgontsho ya basadi botlhe, re sa ba farologanye ka kapari ya bone kana ka boitshwaro jwa bone. Re tshwanetse go tlotla mosadi mongwe le mongwe go tshwana, aa ke mma moruti kana ke mogwebi ka mmele. Re tshwanetse go tlotla basadi ka gore ke batho, re emise go ba tsaa jaaka didirisiwa.

A ruri sechaba se wela tlase ga re apara se re se batang?

Mo dipuisanong tse ke di boneng mo Facebook, go ne go na le ba ba akanyang gore molaetsa wa mogwanto wa #iwearwhatiwant, o tla isa lefatshe tlase. Bangwe ba ne ba supa gore fa basadi ba ka tswelela go apera jaaka ba ne ba direle ko mogwantong, go supa gore “lefatshe le a hela”. Ba bangwe ba ne ba re molaetsa oo, o diphatsa, ka gore fa o ka utliwa ke banana mo dikolong, “tlhakanelo dikobo ya bana” e ka ya magoletsa. (Mmua lebe, le fa a boditswe, o paletswe go tlhalosa gore kapari ya basadi e amana jang le tlhakanelo dikobo ya bana).

Tota ga kea dumalana le molaetsa o, oo reng kapari ya basadi e ka wetsa sechaba tlase. Tiragalo e diragetseng ko mapalamelong a dibese, jaaka go setse go builwe, ke sekai sa gore basadi ga ba tlotliwe mo sechabeng sa rona.  Se ke sengwe se se tshwenyang. Mo go nna, fa go na le sesupi sa gore re mo diphatseng re le sechaba, ke kgang ya gore mosetsana o ne a apolwa ke banna fa gare ga batho: banna ba teng ba sa tshabe sepe, ba sa tlhabiwe ke ditlhong, ba kgokgontsha ngwana wa batho hela ba sa mo itse.  Mo go nna, se se ka re emisang go tlhabologa – go nna sechaba se se nang le boikarabelo ke ga re ka palelwa ke go reetsa le go amogela melaetsa wa #IwearwhatIwant: mo go tla bo go raya gore re paletswe go tlhaloganya gore tsotlhe ditiragalo tsa kgokgontso ya bomme di busetsa sechaba sa rona ko morago.



*I’d like to thank Pontsho Pilane and Lorato Palesa Modongo for writing the setswana-feminist dictionary which inspired me to write this piece and to write, for the first time in many years, ka setswana.

** I am well aware that golo fa, ke kwadile ka setswana se se robegileng. I really tried, like, ke lekile ka bojotlhe jwa me, ne? but like I said, I haven’t written in setswana in years (and even then, I struggled because my school really didn’t prioritize my setswana education (a story for another day)). Anyway, I’m not as practiced as I’d like to be and my sense of sentence/word construction is in the struggle. I therefore invite anyone who wants to to suggest edits and corrections to this piece to do so. I would really appreciate it.


Lisolethu Dlova

Liso wrote me a love letter. I’m writing one back.

Dear Lisolethu,
Thank you for your patience with me. Thank you for your openness with me. Thank you for your sharp mind, which amazes me on the regular. My favourite thing about you is that you’re courageous in so many different ways. You have an incredible strength and it’s a beautiful thing to witness: how you love yourself so deliberately, while hitting back against a world which is insistent on defining and limiting you. It’s beautiful how you make things shake. I’m really grateful for your friendship and your work.
Love you too,

Gorata’s Feminist Theory Curriculum

I had to design a 6 week Feminist Theory curriculum as part of an exam recently. Here it is. (At some point, I’d like to create more links to the material that isn’t accessible for people outside the academy, so this is a working document for now) 

Southern Feminist Theory Curriculum


Gqola, P., 2015. Violent Masculinities and War Talk. In: Gqola,P, ed. Rape: A South African Nightmare. 1 ed. Johannesburg: MF Books.

Magadla, S., 2017. Matrofocality and shared motherhood. 

Available at: mg.co.za/article/2017-08-25-00-matrifocality-and-shared-motherhood

Oyewumi, O., 1997. Visualizing the body. In: O. Oyewumi, ed. The invention of women: making an African Sense of western gender discourses. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, pp. 1-30.

Vaid-Menon, A., 2015. The Pain & Empowerment of Choosing Your Own Gender: Alok Vaid-Menon.

Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7Gh2n9kPuA


Crenshaw, K. W., 2008. Mapping the margins: intersectionality, identity politics and violence against women of colour. In: A. Bailey & C. Cuomo, eds. The Feminist Philosophy Reader. New York: McGraw-Hill, pp. 279-309.

Collison, C., 2016. #FeesMustFall ‘burns’ queer students. 

Available at: https://mg.co.za/article/2016-10-13-00-feesmustfall-burns-queer-students

Dlakavu, S., 2017. On the EFF and gender.                                                        

Available at: https://www.news24.com/Columnists/GuestColumn/on-the-eff-and-gender-20170804

Sanchez, G., 2015. Queering Disability – on the power of celebrating intersectionality. [Online]

Available at: http://ewn.co.za/2015/12/15/OPINION-Gaby-Sanchez-Queering-disability-On-the-power-of-celebrating-intersectionality


Ahmed, S., 2000. Whose counting?. Feminist Theory, 1(1), pp. 97-103.

Berlant, L., 1999. The Subject of True Feeling: Pain, privacy and politics. In: A. Sarat & T. Kearns, eds. Cultural Pluralism, Identity Politics and the Law. Michigan: University of Michigan, pp. 48-84.

Kelley, R., 2016. Black Study, Black Struggle. 

Available at: http://bostonreview.net/forum/robin-d-g-kelley-black-study-black-struggle

Puar, J., 2007. Queer Times, Queer Assemblages . In: J. Puar, ed. Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times. Durham: Duke University Press, pp. 203-222.


Bongela, M., 2016. Where is the white feminism movement in SA?. 

Available at: https://mg.co.za/article/2016-12-02-00-where-is-the-white-feminist-movement-in-sa

Eng, D. & Lan, S., 2000. A Dialogue on Radical Melancholia. Psychoanalytic Dialogues, 10(4), pp. 667-700.

Modongo, L. P., 2015. Don’t you want to be white?. 

Available at: http://thoughtleader.co.za/mandelarhodesscholars/2015/11/04/dont-you-want-to-be-white/

Putuma, K., 2016. Water (Poem in Collective Amnesia). 

Available at: http://pensouthafrica.co.za/water-by-koleka-putuma/

Fick, A., 2017. Am I an African? On xenophobia and violence in South Africa 2017. 

Available at: https://www.enca.com/opinion/am-i-an-african-on-xenophobia-and-violence-in-south-africa-2017

Class, Land, Labour

Amandla!, 2017. Amandla! interviews campaign Reclaim The City. 

Available at: http://aidc.org.za/amandla-interviews-campaign-reclaim-city/

Asijiki: Coalition to decriminalize sex work in South Africa, 2015. Sex work and Feminism. [Online]

Available at: http://www.sweat.org.za/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/Sex-work-and-Feminism_Asijiki-Fact-Sheet_Web.pdf

Benya, A., 2015. The invisible hands: women in Marikana. Review of African Political Economy, 42(146), pp. 545-560.

Available at: http://aidc.org.za/invisible-hands-women-marikana/

Keeanga-Yamahtta, T., 2016. Chapter 7. In: T. Keeanga-Yamahtta & M. Ellis, eds. From #BlackLiveMatter to Black Liberation. Chicago: Haymarket Books, pp. 191-219.

Tsikata, D., 2009. Gender, Land and Labour Relations and livelihood in Sub-Saharan Africa in the era of Economic Liberalisation. Feminist Africa, 12(1), pp. 11-30.


Dosekun, S., 2015. For Western Girls Only? Post-feminism as transnational culture. Feminist Media Studies , 15(6), pp. 960-975.

Motsemme, N., 2007. Loving in a time of hopelessness: on township women’s subjectivities in a time of HIV/Aird. African Idenities, 5(1), pp. 61-87.

Mahmood, S., 2011. The Subject of Freedom. In: S. Mahmood, ed. Politics of Piety. Princeton: Princeton, pp. 1-39.

Nyanzi, S., 2013. Unpacking the Governmentality of African Sexualities. In: S. Tamale, ed. African Sexualities: A reader. Cape Town: Pambazuka Press, pp. 477-501.

Zakaria, R., 2015. Sex and the Muslim Feminist. [Online]

Available at: https://newrepublic.com/article/123590/sex-and-the-muslim-feminist

Learn/unlearn: transgender identity & experiences

*Learn/unlearn is a work-in-progress educational resource project highlighting all my favourite articles, covering various social issues. This post focuses on transgender African people’s experiences. 

Blogs, vlogs and interviews

Sandi Ndelu is a black trans woman & activist in South Africa. You can read her interviews here:

To be young, black and transgender in South Africa – An interview with Sandi Ndelu


On accessing healthcare as a transgender person in South Africa


Phumelele Nkomozake is a Black Xhosa trans woman (and SRC Transformation rep 2018 at Rhodes). Her lit blog is covers topics such as her experience as a trans woman, xhosa culture, gender, race, colourism and sexuality.


She has also been published by Huffington Post:


Glow Mamiii is a trans woman and the first South African woman to document her transition on Youtube. Catch her on youtube: beadssomething 

The GLO’WUP: the intricacies of being a transgender woman in South Africa


Laverne Cox, star of the Orange Is the New Black, produced this documentary about young trans men and women and their experiences in the USA:

The T word

A profile on Motswana activist and Gender DynamiX executive director Tshepo Ricki Kgositau


An interview with ARTivist Kat Kai Kol-Kes


M(x)Blouse on being gender non-binary, their relationship with hip-hip and their debut EP


Genderqueer: Existing outside the boundary by Demelza Bush

http:/ www.bhekisisa.org/article/2015-04-10-00-i-am-genderqueer-comfortable-with-my-identity-at-last

The story of Tiwonge Chimbalanga, a Malaiwian trans woman who was forced into exile


An interview with Zanna Chetty


News Articles

Trans people seek bias-free healthcare


​Torment for trans women ‘sent to the mountain’ to learn to be men (Mail & Guardian)


‘My body is a battleground’: How rural trans people struggle to live out their rights (Mail & Guardian)


Trans men: The ‘invisible’ group in SA’s HIV health plan (Mail & Guardian)



What it feels like to be transgender by Lee Mokobe


How ‘Khwezi’s activism shaped a generation

In 2005, Fezekile Kuzwayo accused Jacob Zuma, then Deputy President of the ruling party, of rape.  During Zuma’s rape trial in 2006, the One in Nine campaign organized a national day of solidarity with “Khwezi” (the pseudonym adopted to protect Kuzwayo’s identity). At Rhodes University in Grahamstown, a group of activists marched to the High Court in solidarity with the One in Nine campaign (the group of feminists who first believed Kuzwayo and kept believing her). A year later, members of the organization hosted the first annual Silent Protest against sexual violence at Rhodes. When I took part in the protest for the first time in 2012, the protest had grown to be the biggest of its kind in the country, boasting over 1000 participants.

In the years I attended, the Silent Protest was somber yet significant occasion. Like clockwork, the clouds would gather together above as we marched to the Main Admin building. During the day, most participants wore black tape across their mouths to symbolize the silencing effect of rape. In the evening, reverberations of Kuzwayo’s courage were felt in the Cathedral vigil, as one by one, those who wore “Rape Survivor” t-shirts entrusted the crowd with their stories. What moved me about the protest was that it provided a space to de-stigmatize the experience of rape: a platform for those who had experienced sexual violence to speak out openly.

In April 2016, four years after I first participated in the Silent Protest, Rhodes University exploded in an anti-rape protest of a different kind. Following the publication of the #RUReferenceList – a list of alleged perpetrators of sexual violence  – on social media, students shut down the campus, demanding the suspension of the listed students.

As the hashtag #RUReferenceList went viral on social media, feminist rage spread ferociously. Soon, our cry for justice was echoed by students from other campuses, who expressed their solidarity by mobilizing under the hashtags #Iam1in3, #UCTSpeaksBack and #EndRapeCulture.

Perhaps for outsiders who were familiar with Rhodes University’s legacy of hosting the Silent Protest, that rape culture still persisted at Rhodes may have come as a surprise. However, for those of us who had over the years learned of the violations of our peers, which occurred often at the hands of other students, the image of our university as a safe space had long faded.

The #RUReferenceList protests highlighted that symbolizing silence was no longer an adequate strategy for ending rape. As activist/author Pumla Gqola had said, rather than symbolic solidarity, there needed to be a social cost for raping. At a time where our faith in our institution’s preparedness to combat sexual violence had dwindled, the Reference List was the megaphone we needed to break the silence.

Months later, shortly before commemorations of Women’s day had begun, four women staged a silent protest as Jacob Zuma delivered a post-election speech in Pretoria. Amanda Mavuso, Naledi Chirwa, Simamkele Dlakavu and Lebogang Shikwambane stood in front of the president, holding up posters which read “#I am 1 in 3”, “Khanga”, “10 years later” and “#RememberKhwezi”. Although they were quickly removed from the venue, their reminder echoed across airwaves and online spaces thereafter. As the name “Khwezi” regained prominence, the nation had to meditate on the sore fact that the victim-blaming beliefs that drove Kuzwayo into exile a decade ago still plague us today.


On the October Sunday that we learned of Fezekile Kuzwayo’s death, we experienced a deep heartbreak; a spiritual laceration. Waves of grief and disbelief washed over us, leaving us worn. At Rhodes University, later that week, when we held a vigil to celebrate Fezekile’s life, even the most outspoken amongst us had no words to articulate the weight of the loss. After all, in mourning Fezekile, we were mourning one of our greatest feminist teachers. In remembering her, we would inherit the responsibility of fighting to create the society she deserved.


In paying tribute to Kuzwayo’s legacy – her courage and her intellect – we must pledge to remain cognizant of the violences that queer people, women, non-binary trans people, and HIV-positive people face every day. Our life’s work is to reclaim justice as our birthright, even when we tremble with fear. It is our task to institute a real freedom and put to shame the farcical institutions that fail us time and again. The enormity of patriarchal violence, fused with our own traumas, may discourage us, but we must remember that Fezekile also treaded this path. We must prepare to carry this baton as far as we can run. As our race heats up, may Fezekile Kuzwayo rest in peace and in power.