With the absurdity and desperate publicity antics that accompany Lady Gaga wherever she goes, I had to ask myself if perhaps she had a hand in the recent 'wave' of protests against her tour of South Africa, given her outlandish penchant of deliberately drawing attention to herself. I'm not at all surprised by the reaction of some in Indonesia, when she dared to bring her seemingly meretricious and hyperbolic act to that country. Indonesia is fierce ly protective of it's religious identity, albeit in a rather medieval way. The country clearly doesn't take kindly to the meat (was it Halaal, we still don't know?!) attire, egg transport habits and cancer-inducing spectacles the pop star has infamously made famous. Congregations of Catholic-spooked Filipinos also got themselves in a huff recently, when Gaga turned her attention to their country. But religious protests against a musician in SA?! Computer says 'Ummmm...?'
But there they were, with their placards, crosses, Bibles, condescending attitudes and punchy protest slogans ('Hell no, Lady Go' or something like that) outside ticketing offices, their selective morals on display alongside their intolerance towards anything and anyone who doesn't look like them or hold their beliefs. The four horsemen of the apocalypse bridled their steeds, hell and brimstone loomed in their warnings, 'She's a Satanist' bellowed one demonstrator. One organiser warned, 'Allowing the bride of Satan into the country will allow a curse to enter.' Bride of Satan?! The Dark Lord must be rather chuffed he can still attract such a prominent personality to the dark side. Of course, the greenies joined the queue to vent their fury at the musician bringing her Satanically carnivorous tendencies to Africa. Her meat apparel and proclivity for wearing fur has their lentils in a twist. Although, these types tend to at least steer clear (for the most part) of hypocrisy. The same can't be said for the anti-Gaga legions of the Lord.
Despite the uproar, Lady Gaga, staged a 'successful' concert in Joburg. 'Successful' because as I woke up the next day I couldn't make out any signs of a curse on our country (except maybe further news of the curse that is President Jacob Zuma's spending habits.) I peered apprehensively out of the window expecting scenes from apocalypse-stricken '2012.' I dressed accordingly expecting temperatures to soar as hell burnt through to the top. Nope, nothing. Just more anal retentive cyclists, errant taxi drivers and a disturbingly blue sky. Where were the sulphur and demons? What happened to the infernos? Why were there no horns sprouting from my head? She came and went... and Joburg, as well as the world, is still intact. Well, for the most part, at least.
With the energy spent on preventing Gaga from opening the gates of hell, I wonder if these fundamentalist Christians, so deeply opposed to her, ever thought of staging similarr protests against other bands visiting our shores. Where were the wise-cracking religious-right slogans when those beasts of the underworld, Coldplay, delivered upon us their venom? Why were pickets not held when devil's own, Kings of Leon, toured here? Are the band's risque lyrics (see 'Sex on Fire') not too, well, risque for their sensibilities? Over the very same weekend Lady Goo Goo performed, those arson-inciting, misogynistic-inclined electro-rockers, The Prodigy, were also in the country doing a concert. As far as I know the the fundamentalists were nowhere to be found when this band, who's one song infamously threatens to 'Smack my b*tch up' gigged in the Cape this past weekend. Selective protesting against the universal right to make music appears to be the agenda of this grouping of religious nuts. Or is it a sad, myopic attempt to grab headlines a la Julius Malema style?
Will these very same gospel-haunted prudes dare to take on Metallica when they tour the country next year? Will there be the same kind of reception for The Red Hot Chili Peppers when they tour, what with the band's long-standing logo, which could easily be interpreted as a bastardised cross (that's if you allow your mind to be narrowed into the same gutters of asininity as the anti-Gaga brigade.)
I vividly recall a pious deputy-principal at my high school singling me out as a 'problem' because I listened to the likes of Metallica. Little did he know Metallica was the tamest of all the bands I listened to as a seething adolescent. This misguided educator lectured me on the dangers of such music and it's association with Lucifer and all things that didn't fit his idea of twisted morality.
I roll my eyes now, much like I did then when confronted with such views. At the time, I roll my eyes as I witness Gaga concert-goers trooping off to see her, dressed as morons and humming her songbook of brain-numbing tunes. They do so at their own peril - Apparently hell awaits and so does the scorn of religious hypocrites.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Striking for Blood
2012 could arguably be characterised and dubbed as 'The Year of the Strike'. On my 10 fingers (my toes kept in in reserve) I've counted around 22 major industrial actions this year, covering and overlapping a number of crucial sectors. South Africa has in a sense become uncomfortably comfortable with the concept of strike action. It was a right violently denied under Apartheid. And like a fat child on a diet, being denied sweets and McDonald's burgers,trade unions, who were denied the right to legally call strikes in the past, seem to be stuffing themselves with industrial actions, making up for lost time and opportunities.
The PC thing to do and say is to sympathise with many workers. Many are truly downtrodden, they cheated and bitter, especially in the face of the feeding frenzy we see in government for money. Their grievances are almost always justified... except, my sympathy is waning.
As striking farm labourers in De Doorns in the Cape set fire to hectares of vineyard, torched houses and looted shops I ask: Has the right to strike, to vent and to show one's anger been taken too far? Will this rampant violence really achieve anything apart from damaging the legitimacy of strike? ON the latter question the answer is simple - No.
Maybe to a degree in the case of De Doorns it forced the hand of grape farmers in the region to revisit labour issues around a negotiating table. The strike revealed the agonisingly shameful conditions under which farm staffers have had to work, for decades. Mission accomplished. The industrial action hurried the relevant stakeholders to the table. But in real terms, it won't hurry a tangible solution.
It's common knowledge farm workers are among the lowest paid in the country and have historically been marginalised. But could it be these strikers are envious and crave attention? Could the actions of a few mindless individuals be viewed as a form of jealousy, where some are seen to be jostling for attention among the working class, given all the focus which has been trained on the likes of the mining sector? Was it a sad attempt to grab headlines? I struggle to sympathise with workers amid what I honestly regard as an idiotic, futile display of bestial, rabid violence, which is defacing a protected right to demand better wages, etc. If they can resort to anarchy, why can't I also then tip my desk over, stomp on my computer and toyi-toyi outside the bosses office? Does it not occur to those strikers, prone to violence, that perhaps the message they are sending is that they have become nothing more but glorified criminals, disguised as the stereotype of a desperate member of the proletariat and all it's romantic associations under Marxism? Probably not. The visual of man on a TV news broadcast haphazardly carrying a cash register after looting a shop during a wave of unrest that clinched De Doorns recently stands out in my mind like an unsightly pimple. Was he a shop owner, jealous of his competitors cash register? Again, probably not. In all likelihood he was just another fool who allowed himself to get caught up in a moment of madness, which entailed him grabbing whatever he could in the heat of the looting. Once the daftness lifted, I hope it occurred to him his actions amounted to little more than criminality and stupidity. Amid this madness, we are expected to sympathise because we have it better than them. Sorry. My sympathy has gone on strike.
Much like striking miners turning on each other, waging a war of sorts on their own in the mining sector, the act of striking now translates into real conflict, with weapons, bloodshed and peace talks. At the same time, the right to down tools is being degraded by wanton violence, which won't help ease the grip of poverty, but only worsen it. A lot like truck drivers who downed their keys earlier this year couldn't just limit their grievances and actions to pickets and protest marches. Many thought it necessary to torch trucks and attack non-striking colleagues. In at one such case, a man died in Cape Town. Where are trade unions and their officials in all this? Some are in boardrooms, exercising the right to negotiate with employers. No doubt some of these talks could be likened to peace negotiations. Others, however, are among the legions of the maddened strikers. They form part of the rank and file of asininity. Many of these so-called unionists seem content to simply witness to the carnage and rarely ever speaking out against it. Those who do speak opt to tow a tenuous line, absurdly defending union members, denying they are party to the mayhem. In such instances, the collective intelligence of the entire country is tested. Those who choose to believe these poorly constructed lines of defence should count themselves as part of the ongoing fatuity.
Let me put it this way - if setting fire to trucks, houses and farmland is to be justified by some (many of whom like to frame themselves as radicals) in the struggle for better wages, then surely torching the Union Buildings and Parliament would be another (even more radical) way to display workers' rage? Surely then tax payers would be within their rights to descend on Parliament, armed with knobkieries, spears and petrol bombs and take matters in our own hands every time news of President Jacob Zuma's spending habits emerges? As a quick disclaimer, let me assure you I don't condone this, even though much of the rage seen this year during strikes should actually be directed at Government, and at times all I want to do is take my anger over the flagrant abuse of our monies onto the streets.
The PC thing to do and say is to sympathise with many workers. Many are truly downtrodden, they cheated and bitter, especially in the face of the feeding frenzy we see in government for money. Their grievances are almost always justified... except, my sympathy is waning.
As striking farm labourers in De Doorns in the Cape set fire to hectares of vineyard, torched houses and looted shops I ask: Has the right to strike, to vent and to show one's anger been taken too far? Will this rampant violence really achieve anything apart from damaging the legitimacy of strike? ON the latter question the answer is simple - No.
Maybe to a degree in the case of De Doorns it forced the hand of grape farmers in the region to revisit labour issues around a negotiating table. The strike revealed the agonisingly shameful conditions under which farm staffers have had to work, for decades. Mission accomplished. The industrial action hurried the relevant stakeholders to the table. But in real terms, it won't hurry a tangible solution.
It's common knowledge farm workers are among the lowest paid in the country and have historically been marginalised. But could it be these strikers are envious and crave attention? Could the actions of a few mindless individuals be viewed as a form of jealousy, where some are seen to be jostling for attention among the working class, given all the focus which has been trained on the likes of the mining sector? Was it a sad attempt to grab headlines? I struggle to sympathise with workers amid what I honestly regard as an idiotic, futile display of bestial, rabid violence, which is defacing a protected right to demand better wages, etc. If they can resort to anarchy, why can't I also then tip my desk over, stomp on my computer and toyi-toyi outside the bosses office? Does it not occur to those strikers, prone to violence, that perhaps the message they are sending is that they have become nothing more but glorified criminals, disguised as the stereotype of a desperate member of the proletariat and all it's romantic associations under Marxism? Probably not. The visual of man on a TV news broadcast haphazardly carrying a cash register after looting a shop during a wave of unrest that clinched De Doorns recently stands out in my mind like an unsightly pimple. Was he a shop owner, jealous of his competitors cash register? Again, probably not. In all likelihood he was just another fool who allowed himself to get caught up in a moment of madness, which entailed him grabbing whatever he could in the heat of the looting. Once the daftness lifted, I hope it occurred to him his actions amounted to little more than criminality and stupidity. Amid this madness, we are expected to sympathise because we have it better than them. Sorry. My sympathy has gone on strike.
Much like striking miners turning on each other, waging a war of sorts on their own in the mining sector, the act of striking now translates into real conflict, with weapons, bloodshed and peace talks. At the same time, the right to down tools is being degraded by wanton violence, which won't help ease the grip of poverty, but only worsen it. A lot like truck drivers who downed their keys earlier this year couldn't just limit their grievances and actions to pickets and protest marches. Many thought it necessary to torch trucks and attack non-striking colleagues. In at one such case, a man died in Cape Town. Where are trade unions and their officials in all this? Some are in boardrooms, exercising the right to negotiate with employers. No doubt some of these talks could be likened to peace negotiations. Others, however, are among the legions of the maddened strikers. They form part of the rank and file of asininity. Many of these so-called unionists seem content to simply witness to the carnage and rarely ever speaking out against it. Those who do speak opt to tow a tenuous line, absurdly defending union members, denying they are party to the mayhem. In such instances, the collective intelligence of the entire country is tested. Those who choose to believe these poorly constructed lines of defence should count themselves as part of the ongoing fatuity.
Let me put it this way - if setting fire to trucks, houses and farmland is to be justified by some (many of whom like to frame themselves as radicals) in the struggle for better wages, then surely torching the Union Buildings and Parliament would be another (even more radical) way to display workers' rage? Surely then tax payers would be within their rights to descend on Parliament, armed with knobkieries, spears and petrol bombs and take matters in our own hands every time news of President Jacob Zuma's spending habits emerges? As a quick disclaimer, let me assure you I don't condone this, even though much of the rage seen this year during strikes should actually be directed at Government, and at times all I want to do is take my anger over the flagrant abuse of our monies onto the streets.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Public Work-less
I'd love to be a fly on the wall of President Jacob Zuma's office (or lounge, bathroom, chauffeured car, his new Nkandla office) when he does, what seem to have become regular, cabinet reshuffles. How does he choose where people will be 'deployed' to? What are the criteria (pulling straws, flipping coins)? I'm sure it must be tough. Or not. With the ANC's policy of 'cadre deployment' one could simply conclude it comes down to who's the most loyal and sycophantic. Cynical and reductionist answer, sure, but with the behaviour of some cabinet ministers, it's maybe the only conclusion, as dispirited and jaundiced as it is, we should and are able to come to.
It's also partly a case of who would be dumb/brave/desperate enough to accept an offer to become a government minister, especially one tasked with taking over a portfolio as damned as that of Public Works. I often wonder what were the reasons Thulas Nxesi agreed to taken a sip from that now suitably poisoned chalice that is the Public Works ministry. He's been in his position for just under a year, having 'inherited' the position of minister from Gwen Nkabinde-Mahlangu, who was sent packing after the SAPS building lease debacle further reinforced the damning downward spiral Public Works was following. In politics nothing happens quickly, so I'll forgive Nxesi, to a point, for not having been able to effectively rehabilitate his department. Up until last week I liked the language Nxesi was talking. Words like 'dysfunctional', 'disarray', 'urgent action' were used in seemingly frank and honest tones when Nxesi described the state the ministry has been in. I like tough love, particularly in government, purely because it allows no space for sentiment and emotions. And Nxesi appeared to be taking this approach, freeing himself of brain dead towing of party lines. That was until last Friday (5th October). Like Public Works ministers before him, Nxesi had developed a long face, scarred with a frown framed by a distinct irritated tone in his voice and a neurotic-paranoid state of mind. These have become symptoms of all Public Works bosses. He was dealing with yet another scandal involving the ministry. Sharp, trenchant questions from reporters on the now scandalous Nkandla project (or 'Zumaville' as we can cheekily label it) sent him into that corner where his predecessors and politicians generally go to whine, clumsily defend, accuse, skirt around the edges, pass-the-buck and awkwardly deny when confronted with sensitive matters. Very little came of that Friday press conference in the way of intelligible explainations as to why it's perfectly fine for taxpayers to be bankrolling the R200 million plus Nkandla development. Instead Nxesi adopted the attitude of his predecessors by crouching in the above-mentioned corner and blaming the media and everyone else for being sensationalistic, inflammatory, irresponsible. An opportunity to show he's different from those before him was squandered. He reinforced his threats of launching an investigation, not to determine if something is rotten with the whole issue, but ostensibly to reveal whistle blowers and pesky informants who keep 'leaking' information to the media and perpetuating the label of 'Public Work-less' which the department has come to be known as by many.
Nkandla is just one niggling concern involving Public Works. The cliche 'only the tip of the iceberg' sums it up perfectly when talking about the mountain of problems actually facing the department.
I made a point of recording the number of times the department has been mentioned in recent weeks at various Parliamentary Portfolio Committee meetings. And not it glowing terms. I distinctly recall a delegation of officials from Correctional Services outlining to a committee how the many problems with Public Works in turn impact on their job, in one way or another. For example, the building of a number of new prisons has been in some way impeded because of issues dogging Public Works. I've lost count how many times complaints surfaced in Police Portfolio Committee meetings directed at Public Works and how it's ongoing shortcomings are having a domino affect. At a Health Portfolio Committee gathering, the ailing ministry (Public Works that is) kept being brought up as an impediment of some kind to hospital refurbishment projects.
Everything in government overlaps at some point and clearly the botheration plaguing Public Works is not isolated. Much like corruption, it's dysfunction is becoming endemic. Nxesi may've been handed a poisoned chalice. However, instead of simply throwing the contents out, he's quite happy to continue sipping from the same container Stella Sigcau, Geoff Doidge and Gwen Nkabinde-Mahlangu drank from. He's quite content chasing whistle blowers , attacking the media and kow-towing to the ANC, where he could instead actually revive, at the very least, the Public Works department's soiled image. Much like the many government buildings and structures Public Works is responsible for (as part of its mandate), the department has itself become a ghetto-type tenement, inhabited by individuals who don't seem to care about the alarming state of disrepair it's in.
It's also partly a case of who would be dumb/brave/desperate enough to accept an offer to become a government minister, especially one tasked with taking over a portfolio as damned as that of Public Works. I often wonder what were the reasons Thulas Nxesi agreed to taken a sip from that now suitably poisoned chalice that is the Public Works ministry. He's been in his position for just under a year, having 'inherited' the position of minister from Gwen Nkabinde-Mahlangu, who was sent packing after the SAPS building lease debacle further reinforced the damning downward spiral Public Works was following. In politics nothing happens quickly, so I'll forgive Nxesi, to a point, for not having been able to effectively rehabilitate his department. Up until last week I liked the language Nxesi was talking. Words like 'dysfunctional', 'disarray', 'urgent action' were used in seemingly frank and honest tones when Nxesi described the state the ministry has been in. I like tough love, particularly in government, purely because it allows no space for sentiment and emotions. And Nxesi appeared to be taking this approach, freeing himself of brain dead towing of party lines. That was until last Friday (5th October). Like Public Works ministers before him, Nxesi had developed a long face, scarred with a frown framed by a distinct irritated tone in his voice and a neurotic-paranoid state of mind. These have become symptoms of all Public Works bosses. He was dealing with yet another scandal involving the ministry. Sharp, trenchant questions from reporters on the now scandalous Nkandla project (or 'Zumaville' as we can cheekily label it) sent him into that corner where his predecessors and politicians generally go to whine, clumsily defend, accuse, skirt around the edges, pass-the-buck and awkwardly deny when confronted with sensitive matters. Very little came of that Friday press conference in the way of intelligible explainations as to why it's perfectly fine for taxpayers to be bankrolling the R200 million plus Nkandla development. Instead Nxesi adopted the attitude of his predecessors by crouching in the above-mentioned corner and blaming the media and everyone else for being sensationalistic, inflammatory, irresponsible. An opportunity to show he's different from those before him was squandered. He reinforced his threats of launching an investigation, not to determine if something is rotten with the whole issue, but ostensibly to reveal whistle blowers and pesky informants who keep 'leaking' information to the media and perpetuating the label of 'Public Work-less' which the department has come to be known as by many.
Nkandla is just one niggling concern involving Public Works. The cliche 'only the tip of the iceberg' sums it up perfectly when talking about the mountain of problems actually facing the department.
I made a point of recording the number of times the department has been mentioned in recent weeks at various Parliamentary Portfolio Committee meetings. And not it glowing terms. I distinctly recall a delegation of officials from Correctional Services outlining to a committee how the many problems with Public Works in turn impact on their job, in one way or another. For example, the building of a number of new prisons has been in some way impeded because of issues dogging Public Works. I've lost count how many times complaints surfaced in Police Portfolio Committee meetings directed at Public Works and how it's ongoing shortcomings are having a domino affect. At a Health Portfolio Committee gathering, the ailing ministry (Public Works that is) kept being brought up as an impediment of some kind to hospital refurbishment projects.
Everything in government overlaps at some point and clearly the botheration plaguing Public Works is not isolated. Much like corruption, it's dysfunction is becoming endemic. Nxesi may've been handed a poisoned chalice. However, instead of simply throwing the contents out, he's quite happy to continue sipping from the same container Stella Sigcau, Geoff Doidge and Gwen Nkabinde-Mahlangu drank from. He's quite content chasing whistle blowers , attacking the media and kow-towing to the ANC, where he could instead actually revive, at the very least, the Public Works department's soiled image. Much like the many government buildings and structures Public Works is responsible for (as part of its mandate), the department has itself become a ghetto-type tenement, inhabited by individuals who don't seem to care about the alarming state of disrepair it's in.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
A Study in Futility
Next to the prospect of Julius Malema becoming president, braaing being declared illegal, the wrath of a god and a sudden shortage of beer in the country, most of us understandably fear crime the most in South Africa. Having 'done time' in that cemented jungle of a 'prison' called Johannesburg, my neurosis (I'm white, we don't fear, we are neurotic!) is deeply rooted in falling victim to crime... again. It's a fear I have carried with me all the way to Cape Town.
A recent crime victim survey shows most of us are more afraid of falling prey to house-robbery. Strangely enough murder is listed as the fourth most feared crime (?!). Unless you're Canadian or an Aussie, much of the world comprehends and appreciates the anguish and fear which accompanies crime. The fact we carry out surveys to gauge our feelings (which I would've thought are glaringly obvious and don't require surveys) tells me, as a country prone to navel-gazing at the best and worst of times, we are maybe losing sight of the real impact crime has. I'm not talking about lofty theories on how crime levels can affect foreign investment and how authorities need to analyse themselves and their tactics. Those are important aspects, but one can easily become myopic by staring to closely at our belly buttons in search of 'answers'. Such surveys mean nothing to a person arched over the corpse of a loved one, gunned down by a criminal. And so the release of the of the ominously titled 'Shadow crime statistics report' by the Western Cape Community Safety Department will automatically send our eyes straight back to our navels, where we will find more fear, more agony, added anger and pain. According to this document one is more likely to be stabbed to death on a Sunday from midnight to 6 am during the Festive season in the Cape. If you're male, aged between 18 and 35, it's tickets for you... that's if you dare to venture in Nyanga or Khayelistha after dark. The purpose of such surveys/research escape me. Apart from fueling neuroses, building up existing stereotypes and sparking panic, I can't really find a real purpose for such 'studies'. Okay, so those tasked with keeping us safe will argue such research helps inform crime fighting strategies. Maybe. However, as just another Joe Nobody, I read such 'findigns' with arched eyebrows, whitened knuckles, a rapidly beating heart and a renewed sense of paranoia. Much like I used to drive around Joburg at night, checking over my shoulder and refusing to stop and red traffic lights, I now take my life into my own hands by going out after dark during the festive season on a Sunday (and I'm 34-years-old), which means I'm a dead target! That's the only conclusion I can draw from such piffle. That's how I as a regular citizen read the Shadow report on Crime, hatred, stereotypes and all things dodgy. It's fine to intellectualise crime. Established bodies such as the Institute for Security Studies have been doing it for years. But documents with words like 'shadow' in their titles and surveys gauging most the obvious of fears, mean nothing to the every-person. Give us tangible evidence that things are being done in real time, in the real world, free of pontificating and theories. Give us evidence that crime is being beaten. That's the reason behind the release of crime stats. Whether they are made public once or twice a year (the fodder of opposition parties) also means sweet fanny nothing to us - the targets and the victims.
When 16 members of my family were held up, bound, assaulted, the women threatened with rape and children manhandled in 3 separate incidents over a period of just 2 years, all I felt was helpless, unbridled hatred towards, not just the offenders, but also 'law enforcement officials'. These relatives lived in 'security estates', in relatively well-off suburbs, replete with private security guards and patrols, for which they paid dearly each month. Yet they were held hostage in their own homes for hours and terrorised with seemingly no end in sight. Crime knows no boundaries, of course, but it seems intellectual musings on the nature, causes and effects of this scourge won't assist in easing the trauma. At best they simply provide content for journalists, ammunition for politicians and night-time reading material for police.
How do crime victim surveys help structure crime combating initiatives? I believe they don't. But if they do, it's minimal. In the real world police are themselves often left helpless in doing their jobs effectively. Reasons like being under-resourced and over-worked are glibly cited by people in suits in corner offices as to why we can't get a grip on crime. Then we are constantly reminded of the socio-economic nature of the problem and how it feeds desperation, which in turn can lead to crime being perpetrated. Again, we know this. W aren't (all) stupid. South Africans can't escape the grim reality of what often fuels crime. But again, surveys, studies, research - all this won't be effective in making us feel safer and making the country a better place.
A recent crime victim survey shows most of us are more afraid of falling prey to house-robbery. Strangely enough murder is listed as the fourth most feared crime (?!). Unless you're Canadian or an Aussie, much of the world comprehends and appreciates the anguish and fear which accompanies crime. The fact we carry out surveys to gauge our feelings (which I would've thought are glaringly obvious and don't require surveys) tells me, as a country prone to navel-gazing at the best and worst of times, we are maybe losing sight of the real impact crime has. I'm not talking about lofty theories on how crime levels can affect foreign investment and how authorities need to analyse themselves and their tactics. Those are important aspects, but one can easily become myopic by staring to closely at our belly buttons in search of 'answers'. Such surveys mean nothing to a person arched over the corpse of a loved one, gunned down by a criminal. And so the release of the of the ominously titled 'Shadow crime statistics report' by the Western Cape Community Safety Department will automatically send our eyes straight back to our navels, where we will find more fear, more agony, added anger and pain. According to this document one is more likely to be stabbed to death on a Sunday from midnight to 6 am during the Festive season in the Cape. If you're male, aged between 18 and 35, it's tickets for you... that's if you dare to venture in Nyanga or Khayelistha after dark. The purpose of such surveys/research escape me. Apart from fueling neuroses, building up existing stereotypes and sparking panic, I can't really find a real purpose for such 'studies'. Okay, so those tasked with keeping us safe will argue such research helps inform crime fighting strategies. Maybe. However, as just another Joe Nobody, I read such 'findigns' with arched eyebrows, whitened knuckles, a rapidly beating heart and a renewed sense of paranoia. Much like I used to drive around Joburg at night, checking over my shoulder and refusing to stop and red traffic lights, I now take my life into my own hands by going out after dark during the festive season on a Sunday (and I'm 34-years-old), which means I'm a dead target! That's the only conclusion I can draw from such piffle. That's how I as a regular citizen read the Shadow report on Crime, hatred, stereotypes and all things dodgy. It's fine to intellectualise crime. Established bodies such as the Institute for Security Studies have been doing it for years. But documents with words like 'shadow' in their titles and surveys gauging most the obvious of fears, mean nothing to the every-person. Give us tangible evidence that things are being done in real time, in the real world, free of pontificating and theories. Give us evidence that crime is being beaten. That's the reason behind the release of crime stats. Whether they are made public once or twice a year (the fodder of opposition parties) also means sweet fanny nothing to us - the targets and the victims.
When 16 members of my family were held up, bound, assaulted, the women threatened with rape and children manhandled in 3 separate incidents over a period of just 2 years, all I felt was helpless, unbridled hatred towards, not just the offenders, but also 'law enforcement officials'. These relatives lived in 'security estates', in relatively well-off suburbs, replete with private security guards and patrols, for which they paid dearly each month. Yet they were held hostage in their own homes for hours and terrorised with seemingly no end in sight. Crime knows no boundaries, of course, but it seems intellectual musings on the nature, causes and effects of this scourge won't assist in easing the trauma. At best they simply provide content for journalists, ammunition for politicians and night-time reading material for police.
How do crime victim surveys help structure crime combating initiatives? I believe they don't. But if they do, it's minimal. In the real world police are themselves often left helpless in doing their jobs effectively. Reasons like being under-resourced and over-worked are glibly cited by people in suits in corner offices as to why we can't get a grip on crime. Then we are constantly reminded of the socio-economic nature of the problem and how it feeds desperation, which in turn can lead to crime being perpetrated. Again, we know this. W aren't (all) stupid. South Africans can't escape the grim reality of what often fuels crime. But again, surveys, studies, research - all this won't be effective in making us feel safer and making the country a better place.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
A Country Down the Toilet
Count me as a mischievous journo, possibly with too much time on his hands, prone to staring at my navel and fishing for issues, but Tokyo Sexwale's recent briefing to the Human Settlements parliamentary portfolio committee smacked of a mini-State of the Nation address (SONA) or, at the very least, a dry run of sorts. He held a boardroom in the palm of his hands as he gave his synopsis of the country.
Cynically his words became a quote-a-minute, replete with drama, dressed up in his characteristic baritone voice delivering scenes of future-case scenarios dripping in dystopianism, which, some would argue (most of them from within the belly of that beast the ANC) amount to nothing more than surreptitious campaigning. But cynicism (mine included) aside, his reflections on how dysfunctional government has become was refreshing.
"Something is simmering that we must be able to take action to address so that we don't have other Marikanas," warned Sexwale, a remark almost certain to be included in quotable quotes of the week. Soon his 'home truths' as he put it, started looking like a State of the Nation in reverse. I say this because when presidents usual deliver their (executive) summaries of the state of a country, excpect flowery quotes, saccharine obsequiousness, mangled rationality and mind0numding rhetoric. Want to hear some more of Sexwale's topsy-turvy SONA? He had loads more to say. "The Marikanas will keep on repeating themselves over and over until we crumble," the wannabe Commander-in Chief lamented. I scanned the braordroom for signs of life in MPs as Sexwale spilled over with uncomfortable honesty. A stifled cringe appeared on the face of one member (was it the tuna croissant which didn't sitting well?). Reporters smiled, excited by the quality of the quotes which could jostle and compete for paper space (if Julius Malema could keep his trap shut long enough not to steal the limelight). Most listened in genuine rapt attention. Sexwale had them. His 'home truths' were seeming more like a backdrop to a president in waiting, a leader (of sorts) flexing his muscles in the run up to (can you guess?) Mangaung.
From Marikana to the arms deal, Sexwale deftly drew parallels between how wrong the State can get it and how it needs to find direction. Was he the captain who was going to steer the ship back onto course? "It has come back to haunt us (the arms deal). It has caused such a lot of disquiet," he fretted. He added, "If you think it is disassociated from the problem (of sanitation provision problems) you'd be wrong." He went on to virtually wail if only a quarter of the money spent on the abortion of an arms deal was spent on things like housing for the poor we wouldn't have the problems we see today. Half an hour passed and Sexwale was still not done, sketching a country in distress. His intention was by that stage very clear - He was coming to save South Africa. "To Blame Apartheid is no longer wisdom," he said, "it's gone, the task now rests with us." Virtually everything he said could be applied to some aspect of the country's woes. From housing, and sanitation, to service protests and strikes Tokyo was laying it out - an uncomfortable scenario of government failures, set against the shading of a presidential campaign race.
His campaign for the heart, soul and small intestine of the ANC of course didn't start in that committee room in parliament last Friday. Tokyo has been eyeing the leadership of the ruling party and by proxy the country for years. I recall in the run up to the ANC's Polokwane conference Sexwale addressed students in Johannesburg, where he let rip with the usual politicking, complete with promises of delivery, assurances of not rocking the boat with radical policy changes and views on how things would be awesome and amazing if only he was the boss. We know how that turned out for him and now he's having another bite. Was it Tokyo's Mangaung Campaign Version 2.0 we witnessed in parliament last Friday? Methinks, absolutely!
As he hammered home 'home truths' as a backdrop to the release of the findings of a sanitation audit carried out my a ministerial task team. A more apt setting one would struggle to find! Like the provision of basic sanitation needs for the poor, which was itself in the poo (Forgive me this crude pun for I can't resist) too many other aspects of government delivery was going down the toilet (probably of the 'open air' persuation as seen in Makhaza). But is Sexwale truly, genuinely willing to get his hands dirty in fixing the problems, remains to be seen?
Cynically his words became a quote-a-minute, replete with drama, dressed up in his characteristic baritone voice delivering scenes of future-case scenarios dripping in dystopianism, which, some would argue (most of them from within the belly of that beast the ANC) amount to nothing more than surreptitious campaigning. But cynicism (mine included) aside, his reflections on how dysfunctional government has become was refreshing.
"Something is simmering that we must be able to take action to address so that we don't have other Marikanas," warned Sexwale, a remark almost certain to be included in quotable quotes of the week. Soon his 'home truths' as he put it, started looking like a State of the Nation in reverse. I say this because when presidents usual deliver their (executive) summaries of the state of a country, excpect flowery quotes, saccharine obsequiousness, mangled rationality and mind0numding rhetoric. Want to hear some more of Sexwale's topsy-turvy SONA? He had loads more to say. "The Marikanas will keep on repeating themselves over and over until we crumble," the wannabe Commander-in Chief lamented. I scanned the braordroom for signs of life in MPs as Sexwale spilled over with uncomfortable honesty. A stifled cringe appeared on the face of one member (was it the tuna croissant which didn't sitting well?). Reporters smiled, excited by the quality of the quotes which could jostle and compete for paper space (if Julius Malema could keep his trap shut long enough not to steal the limelight). Most listened in genuine rapt attention. Sexwale had them. His 'home truths' were seeming more like a backdrop to a president in waiting, a leader (of sorts) flexing his muscles in the run up to (can you guess?) Mangaung.
From Marikana to the arms deal, Sexwale deftly drew parallels between how wrong the State can get it and how it needs to find direction. Was he the captain who was going to steer the ship back onto course? "It has come back to haunt us (the arms deal). It has caused such a lot of disquiet," he fretted. He added, "If you think it is disassociated from the problem (of sanitation provision problems) you'd be wrong." He went on to virtually wail if only a quarter of the money spent on the abortion of an arms deal was spent on things like housing for the poor we wouldn't have the problems we see today. Half an hour passed and Sexwale was still not done, sketching a country in distress. His intention was by that stage very clear - He was coming to save South Africa. "To Blame Apartheid is no longer wisdom," he said, "it's gone, the task now rests with us." Virtually everything he said could be applied to some aspect of the country's woes. From housing, and sanitation, to service protests and strikes Tokyo was laying it out - an uncomfortable scenario of government failures, set against the shading of a presidential campaign race.
His campaign for the heart, soul and small intestine of the ANC of course didn't start in that committee room in parliament last Friday. Tokyo has been eyeing the leadership of the ruling party and by proxy the country for years. I recall in the run up to the ANC's Polokwane conference Sexwale addressed students in Johannesburg, where he let rip with the usual politicking, complete with promises of delivery, assurances of not rocking the boat with radical policy changes and views on how things would be awesome and amazing if only he was the boss. We know how that turned out for him and now he's having another bite. Was it Tokyo's Mangaung Campaign Version 2.0 we witnessed in parliament last Friday? Methinks, absolutely!
As he hammered home 'home truths' as a backdrop to the release of the findings of a sanitation audit carried out my a ministerial task team. A more apt setting one would struggle to find! Like the provision of basic sanitation needs for the poor, which was itself in the poo (Forgive me this crude pun for I can't resist) too many other aspects of government delivery was going down the toilet (probably of the 'open air' persuation as seen in Makhaza). But is Sexwale truly, genuinely willing to get his hands dirty in fixing the problems, remains to be seen?
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
How being Right can be so wrong.
I'm prone to cringing easily. I cringe at the sight of blood. I crumple my face amid cigarette smoke. The retching reflex, with its accompanying wince, is reserved for body odours and halitosis. For me to witness someone spitting, for example, is like watching a dog defecate as I eat: that's how yuck it is to me and how flawlessly and effortlessly I pull my face in horror in the presence of such uncouth behaviour. In Afrikaans - that language so filled with expression - there's a perfect word for my response to all things yucky - 'gril'. I struggle to find the appropriate English equivalent, safe to say cringe would be in the same linguisitic neighbourhood as gril. Although given the topic of this column, the unofficial Afrikaans idiomatic extension of 'gril' goes like this: Ek gril myself dood (I cringe myself to death), is apt. TV news has at times in recent weeks been dominated by the far right. From the sentencing of the Boeremag treason trialists to the sentencing of Chris Mahlangu, the convicted killer of the Grandaddy of South Africa's extreme right wing, Eugene Terre'Blanche, I've been confronted with what seems bizarrely frequent lapses in intelligence(not mine, let me emphasise) compliments of this shrunken sector of our society - the White far right.
At each of Mahlangu's court appearances the AWB roadshow pulled into town; over-utilised khakis, scuffed veldskoene, molested swastikas, nicotine stained teeth (those left in their mouths) and menacing sjamboks on full show. They belched out Die Stem, proclaimed their (mental) 'independence' from the rest of the country (and their senses), snarled, threatened and called for white supremacists to rise up against their black oppressors (I warned you of the momentary lapses of intelligence) to avenge the murder of their leader. I gril and cringe, hurl my body across rooms and hang my lilly-white head; not so much in shame, but in embarressment; for these buffoons. Yes, I said 'embarressment' because I share their hue of skin colour and feel they paint the rest of us sane white people much like a 2-year-old would finger paint - badly.
I share some strains of Afrikaans-ness too. But the good kind, the progressive kind, which sees the language and it's culture as forward-looking and an integral part of the nation's diversity. Right wingers do nothing to promote the culture they so dearly cherish and want to preserve. They damage, harass, molest and deform it with their brawling mentality of intolerance.
As a white South African, I can't hide from racism and it's beefy, ugly cousin the right wing. However, I have become inured to the mindlessness of racism, but remain acutely aware of how shameful I feel at times when having to witness the likes of the late Terre'Blanche's ilk
I try to meander towards diplomacy in describing this bunch, but can't seem to find a delicate way in addressing how absolutely moronic these people are.
With his beer boep seaping from his khaki cargo pants, a bearded right winger paraded outside the court where Mahlangu was sentenced with a black doll, a noose around its neck. I laughed. Not at the poor attempt at disparaging black people, but at the 'mean' face this individual put on as he virtually goose-stepped his way further into studpidity, his misplaced seriousness never once falling from his face. You see, that man is proud. Not of his Afrikaans heritage, but of his mindset. He's proud that he can hate, not just black people, but Jews, Indians, the British, in fact anyone who doesn't share his pea-brained approach to the world. That would include me, a white, non-believer, with an English tongue and adequately English skin so petrified of the sun. I don't even know this moron (wouldn't want to meet him anyway). I can say, however, if I ever had to cross his path, he'd probably pour the same amount of scorn on me as he would on a black person because I'm nothing like him. In other words, I can sing the whole of Nkosi Sikilele, indigenous languages and all. I have been known to wave a South African flag (the 'new' one) when struck by bouts of patriotism. Hey, I even have black friends so obviously I can't be racist (chuckle and chortle). I share only a skin colour with this man and related types. I'm grateful the similarities stop there.
I'm equally elated that I don't share a mindset with the ailing right wing of this country in the face of further examples of just how idiotic and embaressing they can be.Let me remind you of the time Andre Visagie, the former mouthpiece of that laughable minority of the 'militant 'backward, the AWB, tried to touch an eTV anchor, famously 'on his studio'. It was like an abdurd parade of uncomfortable intolerance, even with hints of deeply repressed homo-eroticism (By this, I refer to the khaki-clad youth who stoned onto the TV set to back up Visagie. It just seemed rather camp to me.) These white supremacists, so backed into their corners and besieged by their narrow-mindedness and perceived 'swart gevare', deal with reality much like a toddler does - by throwing tantrums and gurgling out threats made incomprehensible by myopic rage. Another far more brutal reminder of how right wingers and racists deal with societal differences comes in the form of a Muslim man being beaten to death allegedly by white men, all because he dared to challenge them over apparent derogatory comments about his beard. I cringe and sink my head into my hands. The extreme right will always resort to violence to literally hammer home their views. Such militancy knows not to look to intellect so as to make an informed point.. This form of militancy is shared by the the likes of Julius Malema and Co. Yes they occupy the furthest point of the political continuum far away the right. But Malema seems to only know how to spew anger, hatred and intolerance, much like white right wingers.
As for the Boeremag, well, where do a begin with this grouping of the more militant-minded morons of the wing to the far right. I recall vividly running across Soweto covering their infamous attempt at insurrection in 2002. Once it emerged it was a right wing plot, my mouth fell open, my eyes balooned from my skull. Was I really covering a real right wing attempt to overthrow a democratic government in South Africa in the 21st Century? Indeed I was. For a decade the Boeremag saga dragged on in court, showcasing the desperation of a super-tiny minority, it's brain so addled with religious fervor and misplaced anger towards, not just black people, but anyone who didn't talk, think and behave like it. The devil lay in the details that emerged during the sentencing of the plotters. They wanted to do away with the Rand, replacing it with a currency called the Veld. They were going to send black people packing out of the country. As for the pesky white liberals, well, they were going to be deployed to clean up informal settlements. The madness kept coming. And the intelligent of the country kept roaring with laughter.
I can't help but laugh when confronted, even indirectly, with right wingers. Half the reason I can chortle to myself is because I'm relieved I'm not one of them. Yet at times I find myself cackling and 'grilling myself dood', with hints of nervousness because I realise such types do exist and do have a minuscule of an ability to brainwash others into their downgraded mindset, in turn perpetuating stupidity and further ensuring my gril-reflex (much like a gag-reflex) stays intact.
At each of Mahlangu's court appearances the AWB roadshow pulled into town; over-utilised khakis, scuffed veldskoene, molested swastikas, nicotine stained teeth (those left in their mouths) and menacing sjamboks on full show. They belched out Die Stem, proclaimed their (mental) 'independence' from the rest of the country (and their senses), snarled, threatened and called for white supremacists to rise up against their black oppressors (I warned you of the momentary lapses of intelligence) to avenge the murder of their leader. I gril and cringe, hurl my body across rooms and hang my lilly-white head; not so much in shame, but in embarressment; for these buffoons. Yes, I said 'embarressment' because I share their hue of skin colour and feel they paint the rest of us sane white people much like a 2-year-old would finger paint - badly.
I share some strains of Afrikaans-ness too. But the good kind, the progressive kind, which sees the language and it's culture as forward-looking and an integral part of the nation's diversity. Right wingers do nothing to promote the culture they so dearly cherish and want to preserve. They damage, harass, molest and deform it with their brawling mentality of intolerance.
As a white South African, I can't hide from racism and it's beefy, ugly cousin the right wing. However, I have become inured to the mindlessness of racism, but remain acutely aware of how shameful I feel at times when having to witness the likes of the late Terre'Blanche's ilk
I try to meander towards diplomacy in describing this bunch, but can't seem to find a delicate way in addressing how absolutely moronic these people are.
With his beer boep seaping from his khaki cargo pants, a bearded right winger paraded outside the court where Mahlangu was sentenced with a black doll, a noose around its neck. I laughed. Not at the poor attempt at disparaging black people, but at the 'mean' face this individual put on as he virtually goose-stepped his way further into studpidity, his misplaced seriousness never once falling from his face. You see, that man is proud. Not of his Afrikaans heritage, but of his mindset. He's proud that he can hate, not just black people, but Jews, Indians, the British, in fact anyone who doesn't share his pea-brained approach to the world. That would include me, a white, non-believer, with an English tongue and adequately English skin so petrified of the sun. I don't even know this moron (wouldn't want to meet him anyway). I can say, however, if I ever had to cross his path, he'd probably pour the same amount of scorn on me as he would on a black person because I'm nothing like him. In other words, I can sing the whole of Nkosi Sikilele, indigenous languages and all. I have been known to wave a South African flag (the 'new' one) when struck by bouts of patriotism. Hey, I even have black friends so obviously I can't be racist (chuckle and chortle). I share only a skin colour with this man and related types. I'm grateful the similarities stop there.
I'm equally elated that I don't share a mindset with the ailing right wing of this country in the face of further examples of just how idiotic and embaressing they can be.Let me remind you of the time Andre Visagie, the former mouthpiece of that laughable minority of the 'militant 'backward, the AWB, tried to touch an eTV anchor, famously 'on his studio'. It was like an abdurd parade of uncomfortable intolerance, even with hints of deeply repressed homo-eroticism (By this, I refer to the khaki-clad youth who stoned onto the TV set to back up Visagie. It just seemed rather camp to me.) These white supremacists, so backed into their corners and besieged by their narrow-mindedness and perceived 'swart gevare', deal with reality much like a toddler does - by throwing tantrums and gurgling out threats made incomprehensible by myopic rage. Another far more brutal reminder of how right wingers and racists deal with societal differences comes in the form of a Muslim man being beaten to death allegedly by white men, all because he dared to challenge them over apparent derogatory comments about his beard. I cringe and sink my head into my hands. The extreme right will always resort to violence to literally hammer home their views. Such militancy knows not to look to intellect so as to make an informed point.. This form of militancy is shared by the the likes of Julius Malema and Co. Yes they occupy the furthest point of the political continuum far away the right. But Malema seems to only know how to spew anger, hatred and intolerance, much like white right wingers.
As for the Boeremag, well, where do a begin with this grouping of the more militant-minded morons of the wing to the far right. I recall vividly running across Soweto covering their infamous attempt at insurrection in 2002. Once it emerged it was a right wing plot, my mouth fell open, my eyes balooned from my skull. Was I really covering a real right wing attempt to overthrow a democratic government in South Africa in the 21st Century? Indeed I was. For a decade the Boeremag saga dragged on in court, showcasing the desperation of a super-tiny minority, it's brain so addled with religious fervor and misplaced anger towards, not just black people, but anyone who didn't talk, think and behave like it. The devil lay in the details that emerged during the sentencing of the plotters. They wanted to do away with the Rand, replacing it with a currency called the Veld. They were going to send black people packing out of the country. As for the pesky white liberals, well, they were going to be deployed to clean up informal settlements. The madness kept coming. And the intelligent of the country kept roaring with laughter.
I can't help but laugh when confronted, even indirectly, with right wingers. Half the reason I can chortle to myself is because I'm relieved I'm not one of them. Yet at times I find myself cackling and 'grilling myself dood', with hints of nervousness because I realise such types do exist and do have a minuscule of an ability to brainwash others into their downgraded mindset, in turn perpetuating stupidity and further ensuring my gril-reflex (much like a gag-reflex) stays intact.
Friday, August 17, 2012
The Tragedy of Blaming
The dust has settled. The blood has congealed, the bodies stiffened into a grisly suspended animation, rigor mortis concluded amid wailing and tears. The cordons are in place, the investigators are on the ground now scouring and probing. And the questions swirl, boil and fly; the answers... may never be provided. As the country takes a step back from the battlefield that was a dust bowl of a piece of the veld, lost in the nebulous, brown, winter-killed geography of the North-West province, we now turn to pontification and analysis. Many don't have that luxury of building up some distance between emotions and reality, and must confront the unbridled bloodshed. Others will turn away, flinch when visuals of the shooting unfolding appear on before them. We will for months, years be dwelling, recalling and analysing the events of the 16th of August 2012, when a scene harrowingly similar to so many which unfolded in blood under apartheid, left a nation stunned.
I won't put the spotlight on what many have labelled a massacre. The blinding light has been there for days and won't move for many more to come. I want to look at what is now just a fraction of this tragedy - the role trade unions have played. Over the past few years, it's become a trademark (I want to say an ugly, disfiguring characteristic , but choose to temper myself) of trade unions in South Africa to, like many ordinary citizens, choose to look at others to blame for their negligence, arrogance and mistakes. Many unions seem to only be able to accuse others and clamour for denials whenever their members and workers resort to chaos. Never shall they realise 3 fingers point back at them each time they shift the blame, usually in a cringing desultory manner, onto others.
Take the security guard strike several years back where people hurled from trains if they were found not to be part of the industrial action; where for months non-striking guards dressed in 'civvies' when going to work for fear their uniforms will give them away to the grabbing hands of striking colleagues, deranged and hungry for some kind of skewed, misguided vengeance. When strikers in SATAWU garb during that very same industrial action ran amok in city centers, their leaders didn't even bother to stick their heads in the ground. They'd witness the rampage and then move on, all the while denying it could be their own members. I struggle to recall any violent strike-related protest march where the relevant union leaders have actually acknowledged their members could've, just maybe possibly been a party to mayhem. "It's not our members", I'd hear union bosses belch when asked to comment on strike-related unrest. Almost always they blame 'criminal elements' who have infiltrated their ranks to foment and stir up trouble.
Having covered more than a few violent demonstrations associated with strikes, I've seen with my own eyes union members smashing, beating, trashing, stoning, hurling and threatening their way through marches; hammering home their points and demands in mindless, anarchistic fashion. Never once have I heard a unionist admit their own are involved, even when evidence is provided. It's a foreign concept to our unions, where admitting to being in the wrong is substituted with an arrogant, bombastic stance akin to a Mugabe-esque scenario of blind drunk power infatuation.
In interviews, at press conferences the bosses reiterate, often clumsily, "It wasn't us." And that's that. The rest of their poorly formulated arguments result in nothing more but an abuse on common-sense, intelligence and rationality.
Even in the days leading up the Marikana travesty, the two unions involved in the mess, NUM and AMCU, played the blame game down to the first bullet that was fired. In the wake of the tragedy, I still don't see any remarks which even vaguely indicate the two labour movements could've handled the matter better. Yes, some union officials did try to defuse the tensions, all in vain. But still, no acceptance that perhaps, just maybe they are partly to blame. How? The answer is as complicated and murky as the circumstances around the shooting. But it is still evident. The rival unions seemed to have spent more time blaming each other than trying to call negotiations, where a 'truce' could've been agreed to. Negotiations are certainly not foreign to unions. Yet the accusations flew, far away from negotiating tables. The two groupings seemed far more interested in calling press conferences where the blame-game continued and posturing contorted into disproportion rather than adopting a rational approach devoid of finger-pointing. Maybe it wouldn't have helped, talking and negotiating. Maybe I'm being too idealistic and optimistic to think that the country's labour movement is mature and well versed enough in obviating calamities. THey are far more eager to call strikes, 5to throw petrol onto fires, to grandstand and flex their muscles.
I believe at Marikana NUM and AMCU did just that - they aggravated an already dangerous situation, when they should've been more assiduous in talking to members and to each other.
Unions are often accused of being too powerful in this country. They could've used their power for good or at least to mitigate a disaster, which has become a blight on SA. 'The psychology of the mob' as one analyst has put it, did take over at Marikana. That and a healthy dose of madness. However, as quickly as the police are being blamed by some for being too trigger happy, the country must now turn to NUM and AMCU, not to necessarily only blame them for not taking a more responsible approach, but also to ask: Was the the posturing and the arguing worth it now that 34 people are dead?
I won't put the spotlight on what many have labelled a massacre. The blinding light has been there for days and won't move for many more to come. I want to look at what is now just a fraction of this tragedy - the role trade unions have played. Over the past few years, it's become a trademark (I want to say an ugly, disfiguring characteristic , but choose to temper myself) of trade unions in South Africa to, like many ordinary citizens, choose to look at others to blame for their negligence, arrogance and mistakes. Many unions seem to only be able to accuse others and clamour for denials whenever their members and workers resort to chaos. Never shall they realise 3 fingers point back at them each time they shift the blame, usually in a cringing desultory manner, onto others.
Take the security guard strike several years back where people hurled from trains if they were found not to be part of the industrial action; where for months non-striking guards dressed in 'civvies' when going to work for fear their uniforms will give them away to the grabbing hands of striking colleagues, deranged and hungry for some kind of skewed, misguided vengeance. When strikers in SATAWU garb during that very same industrial action ran amok in city centers, their leaders didn't even bother to stick their heads in the ground. They'd witness the rampage and then move on, all the while denying it could be their own members. I struggle to recall any violent strike-related protest march where the relevant union leaders have actually acknowledged their members could've, just maybe possibly been a party to mayhem. "It's not our members", I'd hear union bosses belch when asked to comment on strike-related unrest. Almost always they blame 'criminal elements' who have infiltrated their ranks to foment and stir up trouble.
Having covered more than a few violent demonstrations associated with strikes, I've seen with my own eyes union members smashing, beating, trashing, stoning, hurling and threatening their way through marches; hammering home their points and demands in mindless, anarchistic fashion. Never once have I heard a unionist admit their own are involved, even when evidence is provided. It's a foreign concept to our unions, where admitting to being in the wrong is substituted with an arrogant, bombastic stance akin to a Mugabe-esque scenario of blind drunk power infatuation.
In interviews, at press conferences the bosses reiterate, often clumsily, "It wasn't us." And that's that. The rest of their poorly formulated arguments result in nothing more but an abuse on common-sense, intelligence and rationality.
Even in the days leading up the Marikana travesty, the two unions involved in the mess, NUM and AMCU, played the blame game down to the first bullet that was fired. In the wake of the tragedy, I still don't see any remarks which even vaguely indicate the two labour movements could've handled the matter better. Yes, some union officials did try to defuse the tensions, all in vain. But still, no acceptance that perhaps, just maybe they are partly to blame. How? The answer is as complicated and murky as the circumstances around the shooting. But it is still evident. The rival unions seemed to have spent more time blaming each other than trying to call negotiations, where a 'truce' could've been agreed to. Negotiations are certainly not foreign to unions. Yet the accusations flew, far away from negotiating tables. The two groupings seemed far more interested in calling press conferences where the blame-game continued and posturing contorted into disproportion rather than adopting a rational approach devoid of finger-pointing. Maybe it wouldn't have helped, talking and negotiating. Maybe I'm being too idealistic and optimistic to think that the country's labour movement is mature and well versed enough in obviating calamities. THey are far more eager to call strikes, 5to throw petrol onto fires, to grandstand and flex their muscles.
I believe at Marikana NUM and AMCU did just that - they aggravated an already dangerous situation, when they should've been more assiduous in talking to members and to each other.
Unions are often accused of being too powerful in this country. They could've used their power for good or at least to mitigate a disaster, which has become a blight on SA. 'The psychology of the mob' as one analyst has put it, did take over at Marikana. That and a healthy dose of madness. However, as quickly as the police are being blamed by some for being too trigger happy, the country must now turn to NUM and AMCU, not to necessarily only blame them for not taking a more responsible approach, but also to ask: Was the the posturing and the arguing worth it now that 34 people are dead?
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Mirror, Mirror on the wall...
As bizarre as it is to continually have to hear and grudgingly abide the ANC and its playgroup, the Youth League, in the Western Cape keep insisting in orotund, asinine and chest-beating ways, that they will make the province 'ungovernable.' (I temporarily place the word in brackets for loss of a grip on reality in trying to determine how to interpret this intelligently). All this because the party is; rightfully so actually; frustrated and annoyed over poor service delivery in Cape townships. Nowhere in the country's nine provinces and more than 200 municipalities would even the most assiduous investigative reporter, researcher and opposition party spin doctor find a perfect delivery of services. In fact, I suggest (boldly!) that we do away with the word 'perfect' altogether, strike if from the vocabulary of local government and substitute it with a more real word, like 'satisfactory'.
Things are far from where they should ideally be in Cape Town and the Western Cape, much like the rest of the country. Poverty seethes and grows healthily in the form beggars, homeless people, street urchins and engulfing and townships looming on the fringes of the 'leafy, white suburbs' (as the ANCYL so ineloquently defines them). A personal example, down the street from my apartment in Woodstock, itself one of the Mother City's more salt-of-the-earth neighbourhood, there's proper, real life, patch of poverty - a grouping of shacks and wendyhouses, slap-bang in the middle of this fast gentrifying suburb. So believe you me, I am regularly reminded of that grim reality of penury shared by millions and how lucky I am to have evaded similar circumstances..
But why of lordy why doesn't the ANC, which (mis)rules the Eastern Cape, a close, uncomfortable neighbour of Zillestan (that now cliched mocking conflation of the Western Cape and its feisty premier, Hellen Zille often employed in public speeches by tripartite alliance leaders) kick up a bit of a fuss and a huff over the seemingly never-ending deterioration of even the most basic of services in that province? Why don't they also resolve; as the party in the Western Cape has - to evaluate all ANC councillors and members of the provincial legislature to gauge their performance - a refreshingly concrete, constructive way to try and improve service provision and, of course not to forget that other cynical ulterior motive, to win back the Cape come the next elections. Why can't the ANC kindergarteners, who liberally puff out their chests and threateningly whine over inadequate service delivery in the Cape, also turn the mirror on the Eastern Cape, where surely that dire state the region finds itself imprisoned in will stare miserably straight back at them? Why not threaten to make that province ungovernable too, if your real concerns are over service delivery and not winning that perpetual political-football game that is the Western Cape.
Week after week newsrooms are bombarded with tales of woe when it comes to the Western Cape's eastern 'bumpkin' cousin and its emaciated condition. Yet no protest marches are being rustled and bussed in by the ruling ANC in the province to the local legislature to issue ultimatums, lists of grievances and memoranda of demands, all of which can be summed up in one blustering, over-inflated threat by the League as "Or else we'll make the province ungovernable!" Could this lack of a backlash by the League there be because just maybe it's too embarrassed, perhaps even ashamed, of the abysmal state of the Eastern Cape? Maybe it's because the League daren't adjust the mirror too much for fear of accidentally focusing squarely on the ANC and how it can't seem to rehabilitate the province? The true reflection would be too ugly a sight for the League to bare.
A rare exception to the above-illustrated hypocrisy of the ANCYL, is the body's Limpopo branch actually taking a stand on a service delivery dilemma there by speaking out over the textbook dumping scandal. The League has spoken in angry tones on the fiasco, but as far as I can determine it has never once threatened Cassel Mathale's administration with tantrum-moans of making Limpopo 'ungovernable' because of poor delivery. Nope, there too is a truth perhaps just a bit too sore to endure. And so the ANCYL clumsily and conveniently avoids provinces where the burning issues of rolling out services are as ugly as can be seen in the Cape, where the DA does makes mistakes. But rarely without the ANC doing the same and in some cases makes uglier mistakes.
Things are far from where they should ideally be in Cape Town and the Western Cape, much like the rest of the country. Poverty seethes and grows healthily in the form beggars, homeless people, street urchins and engulfing and townships looming on the fringes of the 'leafy, white suburbs' (as the ANCYL so ineloquently defines them). A personal example, down the street from my apartment in Woodstock, itself one of the Mother City's more salt-of-the-earth neighbourhood, there's proper, real life, patch of poverty - a grouping of shacks and wendyhouses, slap-bang in the middle of this fast gentrifying suburb. So believe you me, I am regularly reminded of that grim reality of penury shared by millions and how lucky I am to have evaded similar circumstances..
But why of lordy why doesn't the ANC, which (mis)rules the Eastern Cape, a close, uncomfortable neighbour of Zillestan (that now cliched mocking conflation of the Western Cape and its feisty premier, Hellen Zille often employed in public speeches by tripartite alliance leaders) kick up a bit of a fuss and a huff over the seemingly never-ending deterioration of even the most basic of services in that province? Why don't they also resolve; as the party in the Western Cape has - to evaluate all ANC councillors and members of the provincial legislature to gauge their performance - a refreshingly concrete, constructive way to try and improve service provision and, of course not to forget that other cynical ulterior motive, to win back the Cape come the next elections. Why can't the ANC kindergarteners, who liberally puff out their chests and threateningly whine over inadequate service delivery in the Cape, also turn the mirror on the Eastern Cape, where surely that dire state the region finds itself imprisoned in will stare miserably straight back at them? Why not threaten to make that province ungovernable too, if your real concerns are over service delivery and not winning that perpetual political-football game that is the Western Cape.
Week after week newsrooms are bombarded with tales of woe when it comes to the Western Cape's eastern 'bumpkin' cousin and its emaciated condition. Yet no protest marches are being rustled and bussed in by the ruling ANC in the province to the local legislature to issue ultimatums, lists of grievances and memoranda of demands, all of which can be summed up in one blustering, over-inflated threat by the League as "Or else we'll make the province ungovernable!" Could this lack of a backlash by the League there be because just maybe it's too embarrassed, perhaps even ashamed, of the abysmal state of the Eastern Cape? Maybe it's because the League daren't adjust the mirror too much for fear of accidentally focusing squarely on the ANC and how it can't seem to rehabilitate the province? The true reflection would be too ugly a sight for the League to bare.
A rare exception to the above-illustrated hypocrisy of the ANCYL, is the body's Limpopo branch actually taking a stand on a service delivery dilemma there by speaking out over the textbook dumping scandal. The League has spoken in angry tones on the fiasco, but as far as I can determine it has never once threatened Cassel Mathale's administration with tantrum-moans of making Limpopo 'ungovernable' because of poor delivery. Nope, there too is a truth perhaps just a bit too sore to endure. And so the ANCYL clumsily and conveniently avoids provinces where the burning issues of rolling out services are as ugly as can be seen in the Cape, where the DA does makes mistakes. But rarely without the ANC doing the same and in some cases makes uglier mistakes.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Let the Games begin!
We may be kicking and stroking our way to gold in a few events at the London Olympic Games, but I doubt we'll be able to score the 12 medals SASCOC has so over-optimistically set out to achieve (or am I'm being just too pessimistic?). Never fear. As a country, we have excelled in other areas and activities, mostly of them seemingly of the non-sporting persuasion, yet executed with such precision and perfection, in such glorious, awe-inspiring fashion and technique many of us are self-proclaimed Olympians in our own right; even if it's not at the traditional Olympics or in the form of any recognised activity.
Take corruption. In the alternative Olympics of a parallel netherworld a Team SA of some kind would soar to victory, breaking records aplenty along the way. The arenas and venues would be the seats of power such as Parliament and the Union Buildings. The competitors? These would be drawn from the growing masses of politicians, those paragons of futility, the almost-but-not-quite athletes who have broken too many records to count in the field of graft. These Games are not limited to just politicians. Of course in the spirit of the Olympics, everyday Joe and Jane Nobodies also compete. This sport involves different styles. There's Stealing, Cheating, Lying and Back-stabbing. Excel in these and you not only become the champion of the world, but also impressively wealthy. The stock standard commentary would go something like this: And off they go! In lane one we have MP Steel off to a great start, edging into the lead. In lane two Tender Preneur has taken up second position followed by Eets Miright and I.M Fatcat, who are fast gaining ground... You see where I'm going with this.
The criteria of this lesser-known sporting spectacle would differ greatly from the authentic Games where traditional athletes exert immense displays of power and talent and sporting prowess. The most obvious and common criteria for, shall we dub them the Parallel Olympics, is power. But it wouldn't be gauged, recorded, timed and measured along the same lines as the real Olympics, where power is usually seen in how fast one can run, how high you can jump, how often you can achieve victory. To win, competitors are expected to gain as much power as possible, by any means necessary.
The Parallel Olympics would showcase sports, which have never enjoyed the glamour and adoration showered on the traditional events of the real Olympics the world has come to know. Nonetheless, the events are taken as seriously as other perplexing activities like jukskei, handball and curling.
Take the event of Sitting Around. On the surface it's a pointless challenge to the untrained, unappreciative eye. The aim: To simply out-sit your competitors and excel in doing as little as possible. Judges take into account posture and sitting styles. The crossing of legs and folding of arms are all considered and scored. MPs seem to excel in this, putting on impressive displays of indifference and sloth, all of which add to the scoring.Where would professional Sitters train? Parliament is the main training ground, but only for those competitors of the advantaged kind, who've been able to have their training professionally funded (often in surreptitious, dubious ways) and overseen. Other competitors are found all around us, on the sides of roads and streets, where they languish on their backsides, waiting for jobs, brandishing cardboard signs pleading for donations and employment. In informal settlements - where so-called 'Development Training Programmes' are being rolled out - the disadvantaged have been hard at 'work' for years training, honing their talent at sitting and waiting.
Many South Africans excel at the often-overlooked sport of Object Throwing. Again the roads and streets of everyday society serves as the training venues for these sportspeople. At the Parallel Olympics contestants compete in rounds where different projectiles must be hurled as far as possible. First, a stone must be thrown at a moving target (usually a person resembling a police officer or a vehicle). Secondly, the highly technical Petrol Bomb throwing event is judged on how competitors ignite Molotov cocktails. They must then ensure the incendiary projectile is successfully thrown without going out. They are scored on distance thrown and whether the projectile ignites after making contact with a target.
Another sorely ignored activity, which has is origins in Object Throwing is Protesto-Police Wrestling. The aim of the game is for a competitor to try and avoid fellow contestants who must catch them. The ensuing flinging, contorting, slipping, flipping, arching and flailing (all of theses are actual positions/techniques used in the sport) are scored along strict criteria, which is itself based on the ultimate goal of avoiding being pinned down and 'apprehended'.
Substance Consumption has become a hugely popular event in SA, but also the most dangerous. The objective entails contestants consuming as much alcohol as possible during certain time periods. They are scored on this and how they conduct themselves behind the wheel of a vehicle. The finesse in the swerving, and jumping of lanes and stop streets serve as hotly contested criteria. Contestants must then alight from their vehicles and try to convince judges they are intoxicated, all the while ensuring they hide the slurring, the red eyes and mask the stench of booze.
While the Parallell Olympics may not have superceded the hype and popularity of the real Olympic Games, you'll find it's far more accessible to the every-person, with many of us striving, battling, exerting ourselves to mind boggling degrees to become the best. Some of us are already professional Parallelympians, we just don't know it.
Take corruption. In the alternative Olympics of a parallel netherworld a Team SA of some kind would soar to victory, breaking records aplenty along the way. The arenas and venues would be the seats of power such as Parliament and the Union Buildings. The competitors? These would be drawn from the growing masses of politicians, those paragons of futility, the almost-but-not-quite athletes who have broken too many records to count in the field of graft. These Games are not limited to just politicians. Of course in the spirit of the Olympics, everyday Joe and Jane Nobodies also compete. This sport involves different styles. There's Stealing, Cheating, Lying and Back-stabbing. Excel in these and you not only become the champion of the world, but also impressively wealthy. The stock standard commentary would go something like this: And off they go! In lane one we have MP Steel off to a great start, edging into the lead. In lane two Tender Preneur has taken up second position followed by Eets Miright and I.M Fatcat, who are fast gaining ground... You see where I'm going with this.
The criteria of this lesser-known sporting spectacle would differ greatly from the authentic Games where traditional athletes exert immense displays of power and talent and sporting prowess. The most obvious and common criteria for, shall we dub them the Parallel Olympics, is power. But it wouldn't be gauged, recorded, timed and measured along the same lines as the real Olympics, where power is usually seen in how fast one can run, how high you can jump, how often you can achieve victory. To win, competitors are expected to gain as much power as possible, by any means necessary.
The Parallel Olympics would showcase sports, which have never enjoyed the glamour and adoration showered on the traditional events of the real Olympics the world has come to know. Nonetheless, the events are taken as seriously as other perplexing activities like jukskei, handball and curling.
Take the event of Sitting Around. On the surface it's a pointless challenge to the untrained, unappreciative eye. The aim: To simply out-sit your competitors and excel in doing as little as possible. Judges take into account posture and sitting styles. The crossing of legs and folding of arms are all considered and scored. MPs seem to excel in this, putting on impressive displays of indifference and sloth, all of which add to the scoring.Where would professional Sitters train? Parliament is the main training ground, but only for those competitors of the advantaged kind, who've been able to have their training professionally funded (often in surreptitious, dubious ways) and overseen. Other competitors are found all around us, on the sides of roads and streets, where they languish on their backsides, waiting for jobs, brandishing cardboard signs pleading for donations and employment. In informal settlements - where so-called 'Development Training Programmes' are being rolled out - the disadvantaged have been hard at 'work' for years training, honing their talent at sitting and waiting.
Many South Africans excel at the often-overlooked sport of Object Throwing. Again the roads and streets of everyday society serves as the training venues for these sportspeople. At the Parallel Olympics contestants compete in rounds where different projectiles must be hurled as far as possible. First, a stone must be thrown at a moving target (usually a person resembling a police officer or a vehicle). Secondly, the highly technical Petrol Bomb throwing event is judged on how competitors ignite Molotov cocktails. They must then ensure the incendiary projectile is successfully thrown without going out. They are scored on distance thrown and whether the projectile ignites after making contact with a target.
Another sorely ignored activity, which has is origins in Object Throwing is Protesto-Police Wrestling. The aim of the game is for a competitor to try and avoid fellow contestants who must catch them. The ensuing flinging, contorting, slipping, flipping, arching and flailing (all of theses are actual positions/techniques used in the sport) are scored along strict criteria, which is itself based on the ultimate goal of avoiding being pinned down and 'apprehended'.
Substance Consumption has become a hugely popular event in SA, but also the most dangerous. The objective entails contestants consuming as much alcohol as possible during certain time periods. They are scored on this and how they conduct themselves behind the wheel of a vehicle. The finesse in the swerving, and jumping of lanes and stop streets serve as hotly contested criteria. Contestants must then alight from their vehicles and try to convince judges they are intoxicated, all the while ensuring they hide the slurring, the red eyes and mask the stench of booze.
While the Parallell Olympics may not have superceded the hype and popularity of the real Olympic Games, you'll find it's far more accessible to the every-person, with many of us striving, battling, exerting ourselves to mind boggling degrees to become the best. Some of us are already professional Parallelympians, we just don't know it.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Mobile-less Bliss
We South Africans love getting out knickers in a knot over just about anything. As if we don't have enough kak to worry about (the big issues, I mean) we will find minuscule, banal things to further add to our 'bitching lists'. Enter the cellphone. Most of us can't seem to get through a minute without clutching, holding, caressing, fidgeting and pawing these devices. These gadgets of mass consumption themselves consume and enthrall their users, arresting them into a technological trance (My preciousssssssss...). Unchecked, mobiles can easily trapped one into a mental paralysis, where use of the human brain - even with it's evolutionary, innate flaws - becomes secondary and little more than an irritation due to its mortal limitations. I take no high road here. I too have been known to attack my being in frantic search of my cellphone; not only in times of neurotic forgetfulness where split second realisations of "Oh my God, where's my phone!" attack me. As a person plagued by perpetual boredom, my mobiles have served as sources of respite. The games, Tweeting, Facebooking, random Google searching, Wikipedia-ing - all successfully manage to stave off flashes of boredom which normally punctuate my days.
So, with mobiles forming a veritable backbone to most of our days, imagine the horror of not possessing one, losing one, having to go for periods without one or (Cue dramatic music: Dum, dum, dummmm...) being dispossessed of one.
The Gestapo that is Cape Town municipal/traffic law enforcement will now be confiscating cellphones from motorists caught using them while driving. They will proceed to slap the guilty parties with a R500 fine. If you even think of resisting - sorry for you - you'll land up behind bars. It's understandable why authorities are resorting to this. Most South Africans can't even think while behind the wheel, and then they still want to try and make a phone call or SMS, all the while eating, smoking, doing your make up and a crossword puzzle. "Enough is enough" the hallowed peace officers of the Mother City have decreed.
And what do many of us think about this? The move is met with outrage by most, I gather from the coverage given to this matter. Like true South Africans we see this as an attack on our rights, and infringement (stemming from an infringement) "They're just going to far," many will groan. We'll mutter irritable curses, throw our hands up, whine, whinge, bitch and moan. That's the SA way.
I too rolled my eyes at this latest move by Cape Town authorities, not because I oppose it. I myself have transgressed and have been known to have liberally lengthy conversations, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding my phone. I flick my eyes upwards in response to the knee-jerk moaning ignited by this latest 'weapon' in the growing arsenal of traffic law enforcement. Resistance is futile and will, anyway, get you arrested. Instead we should try to resist answering and making calls while driving. It's so simple it's sad. Many seem to shudedre at the mere thought of having to not even so much as glance at their mobiles while commandeering a vehicle. It's become so ingrained, so stitched into our modern lives. Like a phantom limb most of us would wake up in a muddled frenzy searching for our lost appendage the cellphone.
I recently had to go without a mobile while abroad. At first the thought of not being able to stay in regular contact with family and friends left me somewhat anxious. At times the niggling and the gnawing of this loss felt like the irritation a smoker feels when running out of those phallic harbingers of cancer. Was I really bereft without mass communication? No! The loss thereof actually soothed the irritation brought on by modern life, it's insistence on constant connectivity, the misguided belief we need stay in touch all the time, everyday, day and night, no matter what, no excuses. As the days progressed, I soon learnt to make do without my techno-accessory. In fact, the absence of the apparatus brought a bliss of sorts. No more could telemarketers foist their futility on me. Banks couldn't track or hunt me down and bully me and employers were without their key machine of torture and so couldn't harass or force into guilt. My nights and weekends again became holy territories, devoid of the ringing and bleeping and buzzing and vibrating. I was almost totally free of the chains of constant connection (I still had a laptop) and was reminded of a pact I made with myself years ago: Once I'm done with my working life, when I can retire away from the madness and the folly, when I can rest my weary boans and substnace-addled mind, I will gather up every mobile device I've ever had to own. I will then proceed to the nearest body of water and sho -put them as far as my aging arms will allow, much like Nelson Mandela and his appeal to the warring masses of our country, "...take your guns, your knives, and your pangas, and throw them into the sea."
So, with mobiles forming a veritable backbone to most of our days, imagine the horror of not possessing one, losing one, having to go for periods without one or (Cue dramatic music: Dum, dum, dummmm...) being dispossessed of one.
The Gestapo that is Cape Town municipal/traffic law enforcement will now be confiscating cellphones from motorists caught using them while driving. They will proceed to slap the guilty parties with a R500 fine. If you even think of resisting - sorry for you - you'll land up behind bars. It's understandable why authorities are resorting to this. Most South Africans can't even think while behind the wheel, and then they still want to try and make a phone call or SMS, all the while eating, smoking, doing your make up and a crossword puzzle. "Enough is enough" the hallowed peace officers of the Mother City have decreed.
And what do many of us think about this? The move is met with outrage by most, I gather from the coverage given to this matter. Like true South Africans we see this as an attack on our rights, and infringement (stemming from an infringement) "They're just going to far," many will groan. We'll mutter irritable curses, throw our hands up, whine, whinge, bitch and moan. That's the SA way.
I too rolled my eyes at this latest move by Cape Town authorities, not because I oppose it. I myself have transgressed and have been known to have liberally lengthy conversations, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding my phone. I flick my eyes upwards in response to the knee-jerk moaning ignited by this latest 'weapon' in the growing arsenal of traffic law enforcement. Resistance is futile and will, anyway, get you arrested. Instead we should try to resist answering and making calls while driving. It's so simple it's sad. Many seem to shudedre at the mere thought of having to not even so much as glance at their mobiles while commandeering a vehicle. It's become so ingrained, so stitched into our modern lives. Like a phantom limb most of us would wake up in a muddled frenzy searching for our lost appendage the cellphone.
I recently had to go without a mobile while abroad. At first the thought of not being able to stay in regular contact with family and friends left me somewhat anxious. At times the niggling and the gnawing of this loss felt like the irritation a smoker feels when running out of those phallic harbingers of cancer. Was I really bereft without mass communication? No! The loss thereof actually soothed the irritation brought on by modern life, it's insistence on constant connectivity, the misguided belief we need stay in touch all the time, everyday, day and night, no matter what, no excuses. As the days progressed, I soon learnt to make do without my techno-accessory. In fact, the absence of the apparatus brought a bliss of sorts. No more could telemarketers foist their futility on me. Banks couldn't track or hunt me down and bully me and employers were without their key machine of torture and so couldn't harass or force into guilt. My nights and weekends again became holy territories, devoid of the ringing and bleeping and buzzing and vibrating. I was almost totally free of the chains of constant connection (I still had a laptop) and was reminded of a pact I made with myself years ago: Once I'm done with my working life, when I can retire away from the madness and the folly, when I can rest my weary boans and substnace-addled mind, I will gather up every mobile device I've ever had to own. I will then proceed to the nearest body of water and sho -put them as far as my aging arms will allow, much like Nelson Mandela and his appeal to the warring masses of our country, "...take your guns, your knives, and your pangas, and throw them into the sea."
Monday, July 2, 2012
Enough already!
On the 11th of July some of us may be bored enough to know it's World Population Day (yet another pointless day of remembering, honouring and thinking about something. You choose, if you care enough). I opt to deviate from my habitual ambivalence and will actually develop a morsel of interest in this particular day. Why? I'm glad you did(n't) ask.
Driving to work, amid the mess of traffic on a daily basis it has been frequently occurring to me of late: It doesn't matter whether you driving on the heaving asphalt that is the M1 in Johannesburg or a tumbleweed-strewn piece of tar like Poeg-en-poel Rd in Vokallfontein; there are just too many people abound these days, clogging up our lives in so many ways.
In SA we are looking at over 50-million of us, in the world there are now over 7-billion homo-sapiens scouring one of the smallest planets in the galaxy for anything and everything. Food, jobs, potential mating partners, people to talk to, people to kill, maim, bore or please, or just simply a bit of space to call their own. Many simply search for other peoples' spaces and the belongings thereon, to steal or, shall we euphemise, 'surreptiously claim' as their own. Too many of use means too many problems.
Borderline agoraphobes like me don't need a lot of space. I can do with a few square meters of anything really (to be picky in my desperate case would be absurd). I only need a corner or a square or a circle of this floundering earth to call my own, I will occupy it happily... in the absence of others around me. Dream on. The hordes of conglomerated bodies heaped up on each other in tin coffins-cum-homes in places like Diepsloot or Khayelitsha often can't choose their habitat. I can live happily by myself amid 50-million other people, many of them, in my useless opinion, equally as moronic and futile in function as I. But only if it's just that - amid - not necessarily always 'among' others. I encounter stupidity on a daily basis. Firstly, when I wake up and look in the mirror. Secondly, when I have to extract myself from my little piece of lonely heaven/hell to face the outside. I am forced - not by myself, but by necessity and circumstance - to squeeze into daily life, to find my niche in a neck of some other twat. Along with my car, in the maw that is traffic I must endure the idiocy that is a typical South African driver. I observe my fellow-humans, themselves visibly caught in the mechanical, exponential growth of society and humankind. In taxis, they are sardines, breathing, coughing and talking on each other. In the streets, pedestrians in their droves navigate through the desultory queues of non-drivers and not just on the sidewalks. They spill over into the road, partly because of a lack of space on the aforementioned pavement. The space on pavements, like the streets and roads, never enough for the ever-growing foot traffic of people, clamouring over each onward towards... well, who cares.
People, people, people, everywhere, every time, all the time. And the space? It can't grow, unless we cast our eyes skywards. Yes. That's our future - the sky - which does have a limit (as many of us are mundanely reminded by the more cheerful and optimistic among us). Unless we look to space, the Moon, maybe even Mars, where we can continue to breed, consume and behave as humans are expected to - greedily.
Those of use fortunate enough to have employment can 'escape'... not each other, unfortunately. We can take sojourns to other parts of the diminishing space we call earth for holidays where, once we arrive... we will encounter tens of thousands of other other people also vacationing away from their realities.
Speaking of jobs, maybe you have one or two to offer to the hordes of less fortunate, the 'currently and possibly forever disadvantaged', lugubriously standing sentinel at traffic light intersections, 'guarding' our vehicles, mashed into shebeens drowning their sorrows, queuing outside social welfare offices - many of them clutching little humans or bearing the signs of future denizens of the world in their bellies.
It's an unstoppable train, this population of the globe. We, every single last one of us, will be reminded until we shuffle off this mortal coil (to make way for another thousand newborns) to 'change our ways' or we will have to endure equally brain dead cliches, 'make the world a better place for all'. I get it, okay! The growing millions, tens of millions, hundreds of millions, billions and so forth pushing and shoving their way into the world since the nucleus of time have been screwing it all up for too long. But maybe, there are those among us (and I know there are many, many, many of them) who should be thinking (or trying to learn to think) twice, thrice and then a few more times thereafter, before procreating and adding to the 7-billion. I single out no nationality, no race, no culture. I address every-single-person (sad enough to be reading this) to stop with the baby-making, for just a bit, and create some space to breathe, live, to find some common sense and sustain what little of this beleaguered planet (and our sanity) that is left.
Driving to work, amid the mess of traffic on a daily basis it has been frequently occurring to me of late: It doesn't matter whether you driving on the heaving asphalt that is the M1 in Johannesburg or a tumbleweed-strewn piece of tar like Poeg-en-poel Rd in Vokallfontein; there are just too many people abound these days, clogging up our lives in so many ways.
In SA we are looking at over 50-million of us, in the world there are now over 7-billion homo-sapiens scouring one of the smallest planets in the galaxy for anything and everything. Food, jobs, potential mating partners, people to talk to, people to kill, maim, bore or please, or just simply a bit of space to call their own. Many simply search for other peoples' spaces and the belongings thereon, to steal or, shall we euphemise, 'surreptiously claim' as their own. Too many of use means too many problems.
Borderline agoraphobes like me don't need a lot of space. I can do with a few square meters of anything really (to be picky in my desperate case would be absurd). I only need a corner or a square or a circle of this floundering earth to call my own, I will occupy it happily... in the absence of others around me. Dream on. The hordes of conglomerated bodies heaped up on each other in tin coffins-cum-homes in places like Diepsloot or Khayelitsha often can't choose their habitat. I can live happily by myself amid 50-million other people, many of them, in my useless opinion, equally as moronic and futile in function as I. But only if it's just that - amid - not necessarily always 'among' others. I encounter stupidity on a daily basis. Firstly, when I wake up and look in the mirror. Secondly, when I have to extract myself from my little piece of lonely heaven/hell to face the outside. I am forced - not by myself, but by necessity and circumstance - to squeeze into daily life, to find my niche in a neck of some other twat. Along with my car, in the maw that is traffic I must endure the idiocy that is a typical South African driver. I observe my fellow-humans, themselves visibly caught in the mechanical, exponential growth of society and humankind. In taxis, they are sardines, breathing, coughing and talking on each other. In the streets, pedestrians in their droves navigate through the desultory queues of non-drivers and not just on the sidewalks. They spill over into the road, partly because of a lack of space on the aforementioned pavement. The space on pavements, like the streets and roads, never enough for the ever-growing foot traffic of people, clamouring over each onward towards... well, who cares.
People, people, people, everywhere, every time, all the time. And the space? It can't grow, unless we cast our eyes skywards. Yes. That's our future - the sky - which does have a limit (as many of us are mundanely reminded by the more cheerful and optimistic among us). Unless we look to space, the Moon, maybe even Mars, where we can continue to breed, consume and behave as humans are expected to - greedily.
Those of use fortunate enough to have employment can 'escape'... not each other, unfortunately. We can take sojourns to other parts of the diminishing space we call earth for holidays where, once we arrive... we will encounter tens of thousands of other other people also vacationing away from their realities.
Speaking of jobs, maybe you have one or two to offer to the hordes of less fortunate, the 'currently and possibly forever disadvantaged', lugubriously standing sentinel at traffic light intersections, 'guarding' our vehicles, mashed into shebeens drowning their sorrows, queuing outside social welfare offices - many of them clutching little humans or bearing the signs of future denizens of the world in their bellies.
It's an unstoppable train, this population of the globe. We, every single last one of us, will be reminded until we shuffle off this mortal coil (to make way for another thousand newborns) to 'change our ways' or we will have to endure equally brain dead cliches, 'make the world a better place for all'. I get it, okay! The growing millions, tens of millions, hundreds of millions, billions and so forth pushing and shoving their way into the world since the nucleus of time have been screwing it all up for too long. But maybe, there are those among us (and I know there are many, many, many of them) who should be thinking (or trying to learn to think) twice, thrice and then a few more times thereafter, before procreating and adding to the 7-billion. I single out no nationality, no race, no culture. I address every-single-person (sad enough to be reading this) to stop with the baby-making, for just a bit, and create some space to breathe, live, to find some common sense and sustain what little of this beleaguered planet (and our sanity) that is left.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
A Touch of Pink to the Blue
In less than a decade we have yet another National Police Commissioner. Indulge me as I go down the list of so-called top cops who’ve been allowed to wear (and tear up) the blue uniform. We had Jackie Selebi who, at first, seemed to bring a renewed urgency to crime-fighting, but gradually became mired in his own brand of crime. We were willing to overlook the glaring fact that he wasn’t, in anyway, a career cop, capable of operationally guiding the real foot-soldiers of the police service. He lumbered on in his position, even becoming INTERPOL President and, granted, making small strides in making South Africa safer (-ish). Tim Williams then served as the acting commissioner, while Selebi drifted in and out of courts and controversy. Williams, was for the most part, invisible; possibly because he was trying to do some overwhelming damage control in the wake of Selebi. Years passed. Levels of crime vacillated between stable and disturbingly high. Then came the new sheriff in town, Bheki Cele - he of the Stetsons, John Wayne swagger and machine gun-mouth. Again, he was not a career officer, but yet another political deployee, who, in the end, proved completely inept in his handling of the day-to-day administration of the SAPS. I believe he did, in small ways, build up some morale among the men and women in blue. But his macho, oafish way of doing the job helped sully his and the police’s image even. His detractors would argue, he imbued many officers with a dangerous bravado (much like his own), leading some to shoot, beat, kick and bully their way to a brutal form of crime-fighting. The next acting commissioner, Nhlanhla Mwkwanazi, while only in his position a few short months, seemed to do all he can to mitigate the cluster bombs flying around the service. At the same he had the uneviably task of having to defend the abortions of arrogance and power left by Cele. Richard Mdluli, the flagrant abuse of power, corruption, Cele’s ongoing woes; They came fast and furious, and this true career policeman, who seemed capable, just couldn’t manage the skulduggery.
Cele’s dismissal is now official. Mkwanazi, well, he was always just serving in an acting capacity, clearly and sadly failed to impress President Jacob Zuma to any degree of convincing the him a rank-and-file officer is needed to run the SAPS. All the above-mentioned personalities had one visible thing in common – they are men, imbued with testosterone-machismo and host of other male traits, including the refusal to admit it when they are are wrong. We yet again have a new commissioner who has no experience in the field of dealing with crime. The new ‘Top Cop’, yet another deployee of President Jacob Zuma (ultimately the ANC), Riah Phiyega, does however, have an impressive CV, at least taken at face value. We can only wait and see if she can return some dignity to the battered SAPS. Selebi and Cele have left the service looking like a joke; and at this stage the public is left saying ‘Anyone must be better than those two!’
While I view Phiyega in a cynical light (purely based on her not having served in the SAPS and worked her way through the ranks to the top), I do harbour some optimism. She’s a woman (and no, I won’t launch into some feminist praise-singing about how females should be given the chance to prove themselves in all spheres of life, despite their gender. I’ve always believed that anyway). A woman at the head of the police service may just, at this stage, given the mess left by the men who preceded her, be able to bring a much needed woman’s touch to the organisation. By this, I mean, a true sense of organisation and management, which most women innately seem to possess. As a member of the fairer sex, she’s unlikely to be cavalier and may dispense with the reckless machismo, 'mine-is-bigger-than-yours' attitude displayed by her predecessors. This ‘boys don’t cry’ adage which permeates the service, has done very little in creating competent officers. Sensitivity among most law enforcement officials is sorely lacking. Almost weekly we read with horror of victims of rape, particularly of a sexual nature, becoming ' secondary victims' at the hands of officers. In this regard, a lady at the helm could use her position to remind cops, a well-rounded officer needs is both a competent and sensitive one (by sensitive I don't mean in the limp-wristed, flower-arranging sense). Phiyega could/should be open to taking advice (unlike most men who won't even ask for directions), such as perhaps not making any mention of shooting to kill or other moronic quotable quotes. As a woman, perhaps she can bring a true human touch, one which many women have, in instilling dignity back to SAPS members, instead of only urging them just to fight crime, but also to deal with the consequences. For too long the old SAPS adage and mentality of ‘Skiet, skop en donner’ has been enforced and permeated, often leaving victims forgotten and adding to the scourge we label crime.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
The Global Futility Index
As we South Africans gaze into our navels contemplating how unhappy we seem to be regarded by yet another pointless study/survey, we now appear to have one more thing to ponder - the country doesn't seem to be as peaceful as it was in the past. SA is ranked 127th on what's called a Global Peace Index, drawn up by some grouping called the Institute for Economics and (cue: drum roll) Peace. If the organisation is to be believed and taken seriously, the nation has dropped 29 places from 98 in 2007. Yet this same 'study' reckons regions such as the Middle East have shown improvements in 'levels of overall peacefulness'. By 'overall' I can only assume this refers to a general, gross and possibly naive glossing over of the facts and events of the past 2-years in a region gripped by immovable dictators, fundamentalist terrorisim and swept up into the now cliched Arab Spring. Certain areas of the Middle East, which have been paralysed into a catatonic state of upheaval for decades, remain exactly that, frozen into historical submission, arrested by violence and numbed into helplessness; to a pint where I doubt studies into peace would have any equal standing next to levels of fear and anxiety . You needn't think too hard of examples like Israel, the West Bank and Gaza, to counter the findings of an index which has for years claimed to 'gauge' peace. An ordinary Syrian, marooned in war-ravaged Homs, would have to summon up a guffaw out f his/her war-weary countenance if presented with the findings of this index and its claim that the very same region the study believes is now 'generally more peaceful' is the same one gripped by carnage on par with any conflict seen over the past decade. Should the GPI be declared null and void from the outset? Or should its authors simply be pinched back to reality? It makes for a morbidly amusing read, at the very least, along with the likes of a Global Happiness study. It could prompt some other haphazardly thrown together organisation to start working on the something like the Worldwide Nosepicking Index or a Global Coughing Study. I recall a research labelled the 'Look Alike Study' conducted among married couples to see if they start to resemble each other over time. Then there was the Curvy Hips study which attempted to gauge the intelligence of women by their waist measurements. All 'scientific' researches, carried out to... well, I can only assume to give people in white coats some respite trying to find a cure for cancer. I propose the Global Futility Index, which can study, gauge, research and ponder the uselessness of studies which seem to mock intelligence and common sense; an index which could take into account how much time is wasted by navel-gazers and pretend-intellectuals who seem to have too much time on their hands and too little tolerance for reality.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
A Sigh for the Times
A sigh - a type of paralinguistic respiration in
the form of a deep and usually audible exhalation of air, at least that's how
Wikipedia defines this every day, banal act of the mouth. I’ve heard it being
called ‘breath venting’’ and while I can’t be sure who termed it that, I’ve
settled on it as a far more apt and colloquial definition. We sigh everyday of
our life, often without any thought being given to this prosaic escape of
breath. A sigh is usually formed as an expression of relief, but is certainly not
limited to this. It's an expression of grief and yearning in some cases. For me,
in most instances it's a distinct and passive act of anger and frustration, a
substitute, of sorts, for physical displays of aggression. The amount of times
I've been told to breathe, close my eyes and count to 10 when confronted with
aggression (both from myself and from others) cannot be counted. I opt instead
to audibly sigh, giving voice to the internal rage fermenting inside... let's
just say I sigh too much these days in moments of ill temper. I sigh in concert
with a roll of my eyes skywards (a brain scan, as my parents have come to call
it). I find I need to give as much expression to my daily displeasure with so
many aspects of reality so as to give life and catharsis to my temper. My sighs
seem to escalate at around 7pm every evening when a summary of the country and
worlds news is visually broadcast to the nation. These everyday subtle, soft
explosions of air come in quick succession as the daily updates on the ANC,
that now obligatory function of our domestic journalism, muscles its way into
the news agenda. Deep breaths follow as I brace myself for an onslaught of mindlessness
political rhetoric from ANC apparatchiks. Most recently this was provided by
those party faithful in that almost forgotten province of the Free State. As
Ace Magashule, re-elected as commissar of the ANC in the province, assaulted
the greater intelligence of those watching the news with his 'victory' speech,
the sighs kept coming, erupting now into an almost staccato of respiratory
attacks. I scanned to the competing local TV news channel only to find an even
more dumbed down version of the coverage. Fists wave, threats exploding, rhetoric
belching, songs oozing... my sighs bleeding from my lungs along with my eyes, somersaulting
in my head. I tried to find focus, steeling myself for what may come next. And
then Jacob Zuma made an appearance. He did little to re-instill any logic in
these now drawn out news inserts. The sighs now arrested themselves in my mouth
and lungs, queuing to escape through my pursed lips. I awaited any sign of
(brain)life in the piffle he delivered. All I could discern was a slight air of
desperation around him, not all that visible, unless you take into account how
he seems to have aged quite deliberately and suddenly (at least to my observations)
of late. He too must've sent a few thousand sighs into the ether in recent months,
what with Julius Malema, a cabinet reshuffle and the axing of Bheki Cele. Sighs
of yearning for a simpler life, perhaps? Sighs of relief? Not necessarily given
the ever increasing calls for his head. The above-mentioned news broadcasts
eventually proceeded to actual news of worth and purpose, be it sullen and
disappointing (the very nature of South African current affairs). Schools in
Limpopo not receiving textbooks would have to do. Visuals of warehouses
bursting with undelivered learning material underscored the reporters’ voices.
My sighs now developed a slight retching reflex. As Basic Education minister,
Angie Motshekga, blunders through this latest scandal I detected a taste of
bile in my sighs, now clearly audible amid my concern. Of course no news
broadcast would be complete without some nattering on the ANCYL. My eyes glazed
over with a soothing numbness. Cue the sigh... of (that any news on the League
only enters bulletins as an almost 'Meanwhile, in other news...)? Is it a sigh
of grief? Of course not! A sigh of yearning for the League to rediscover some
intellect and logic? Never! It seems forever lost in the wake of Malema. I could
only conclude this latest volley of signs could be a sign of growing
indifference in a country caught up in the banality of the ANC's self-centeredness.
I sigh exhaustively these as almost every conversation I enter into lands up
choosing some aspect of the party's woes and/or ineptitude as the topic. I
exhale to sigh to find patience in having to deal with these issues, created
mostly through the party’s own devices, but never fully acknowledged as its own
doing. Sigh with me now (those of you sad enough to be reading this rant) in
grief, relief and yearning as we try to move on to something more worthy -
possibly an alcoholic beverage, pharmaceutical product even - to deal with the
last half of 2012, which will be littered and
Monday, May 28, 2012
Dear South Africa
Dear South Africa
I wish I could say I left your motherly arms with a heavy heart… but I can’t. As I sit, more than 14 000 kms away from you, awash in a foreign culture so strange and peculiar I should be flailing and wailing for a Black Label (which I do miss) the only emotion I can seek out from this maze of weird is relief.
Okay, let me not be a total twat for fear of being labelled a turncoat whingy whitey. I miss your abundant natural wonder, your myriad of cultures and wondrous diversity. I miss the pap and vleis, braais, beer quarts, red wine, sunshine, surfing, koekssusters, rugby, soccer. If I even had to hear the satanic blare of a vuvuzela I’d probably hunt the source down and hug him/her, that’s the extent of my nostalgia for you, as my home nation, the origin of me. But my beloved SA, when we parted you seemed tired, weary, haggard and disillusioned. That twinkle in your eyes seemed a fatigued flicker that spring in your step was more like a limp, you smiled, but I detected a grimace. You waved, then turned and hobbled off when you thought I wasn’t watching. I know why and feel, share and understand your pain, even as I sprint across the globe away from your motherland warmth seeking, not even the proverbial ‘greener pastures’, but a momentary escape from the stifling web of madness, stupidity, gluttony and desperation gripping your throat and those of your other kids.
I miss you, I really do! But I don’t miss your government – that array of buffoons (well, not all of them) that seem helpless in growing your beauty and potential effectively enough for you to be taken seriously by your mates abroad. At family dinners most pretend to love you. They stretch their arms to hug you, knives concealed in their sleeves and give you those European kiss-kisses, artificial and irritatingly upper-crust. Most of them say they love you, yet in the same breath they hurry out of the dining room to answer their iPhones, concocting and plotting vague deals to line their pockets and stomachs. They’ll insist they have your interests in mind, ‘Always trying to make you proud, Mama’. Well if pride is stealing, lying, back-stabbing then their style of love looks to me like politics, with all the garish trimmings.
I don’t miss your president, he of the many wives, children and dance moves. If only he could use his brain as well as he does his genitalia, maybe then you could be his true, one-and-only queen, the one worthy of his attention. Instead Mama Africa, you must take second… umm, third, no wait, four… nope, fifth best. I’m actually not sure anymore. But what I do know is that your best interests don’t seem to top his growing list of phoney beneficiaries and dubious pals all queuing for a piece of YOUR pie.
I don’t miss that strange, confused political movement which actually runs your home – the ANC. It’s become a mess, a complete mutant of what is used to be. It’s turned into this meat-eating monster that is cannibalising itself and scoffing down the rest of your kids for deserts. And it doesn’t even bother with chewing on the good bits first, like the arms and head. It seems to have gotten somewhat lost in its carnivorous avarice, consuming its anus first, eating with long teeth through the rectum and icky, pooey bits, where it has gotten stuck amid indigestion and tummy aches. Ag shame Ma, what a gastronomic malaise to endure.
I certainly don’t yearn for that once-was a warrior comrade, Julius Malema. In fact, let me stand and applaud the ruling partytjie for booting him into touch, at least for now. When I departed your bosom, Mom, I hoped the rest of my brethren could move on from that fattened, petulant moron. But alas, I took a furtive glimpse of a newspaper on the plane to my faraway self-inflicted destination of exile. And lo and behold, there his mug was, with his beret perched on his gleaming noggin, a Colgate smile and glam aviators finishing off his now trademark image of arrogance, wannabe-dictator-ness and quiet revenge.
Before you further label me a cowardly racist, Moeder (many a time I know in our mother/son spats you have uttered that, but I understand) let me assure I also won’t miss that strange grouping of obdurate twits who share my skin pigmentation. They don themselves in khaki, veldskoene, fly arcane-looking Nazi-ish symbols and bleat and belch our declarations of adulation and of loyalty to backward-thinking, mindless hate mongers, now departed, but not forgotten. Their insistence on a volkstaat’, their inability to think beyond 1994, their undying hatred of everything not like them leaves me, well, it leaves me chuckling, actually, as I comically pity these types.
Speaking of ‘these types’ before I fled your arms that former staatspresident of yours, FW De Klerk, also induced a mild retching reflex as I packed my bags. His clumsy defence of separate development (I believe you once called it Apartheid) on an international TV news network, almost made me find God again in a moment of disbelief. Oh, how I will never miss ‘these types’, who once dragged you into being a pariah and outcast.
God dank I’m leaving behind these poephols, the whole lot of them, black, white, coloured, orange, maroon, grey… the entire bunch who seem hell bent on slowly murdering you, Mom, killing your natural wealth, your self-grown beauty. If struck by faith again while holed up in this foreign land, I will kneel, clasp my hands together and quietly, reverently utter a prayer for you, only you, none of the above, who are quite possibly lost forever amid their greed, narrow-mindedness and power-gluttony.
Yours dearly and most sincerely
R
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
The Other, Other K-Word
The k-word. Reviled, feared, misunderstood (?). Don't get me wrong, I shudder and cringe when I hear the word. And being a whitey, I do still hear it being used liberally in pale-skinned circles... and among other shades of our fading rainbow nation. As a country which will still grapple with prejudices for generations to come, it's highly unlikely we will ever be able to effectively eradicate the k-word from our lexicon once and for all. We can pontificate, navel-gaze, debate, rage, spit, moan and threaten until our jaws ache over the sadly over-utilisation of this insult. The word will always weasel its way back into someone's mouth, no matter which decade or generation. From national rugby coaches to dim-witted models, it's just the brainless 'go-to word' for those unable to insult (if you really, really have to) others. So, let me lend my 10 cents to this never-ending discussion on the k-word.
While it's not going to disappear (along with the hundreds of years of oppression, repression and suppression which have brought South Africa to where it is today) maybe we can start training our minds to subtly substitute the k-word, as we know it, with another k-word, compliments of the Afrikaner nation. To me, it only makes sense that the one national grouping of our country which, for all intents and purposes, 'popularised' the use of the word 'kaffir', attaching immense hatred and stigma to it throughout Apartheid (and beyond), tries in a very small way to help usher it out of our national psyches.
The Afrikaans language has a very effective way of summing up ideas, expressing things and emotions, often employing humour and at times passion. There's an Afrikaans colloquialism, also beginning with a 'k', which is so often used, I believe it should be inducted into that ever-growing dictionary-cum-crucible of South African linguistics and language. 'Moenie kakpraat nie!' my Mom would often exclaim as I'd try to talk my way out of a sticky situation as an adolescent prone to, shall we say (or, shall I euphemise), making mistakes. Just say it out aloud - 'Kakpraat'. Your tongue seems to either descend to the bottom of your mouth or curl up as that sharp 'k' effortlessly shoots into the rest of the word. It's harsh on the ear, but not too entirely rude (depending on the context), unlike the proverbial, almost unspeakable k-word. in Fact, in my own personal use of 'kakpraat' I've only ever meant it in a joking way. I've yet to see a fist-fight erupt over the use of 'kakpraat'. Okay, granted some kakpraat could lead to fisty-cuffs, it's by far more diplomatic than belching out the word 'kaffir' in a moment of blind, moronic rage.
I have little doubt 'kakpraat' is a common word, which surely must be known across the colour lines. 'Kakpraat is lekker praat' my late Ouma would sometimes proclaim. Meaning, talking crap can often be enjoyable. Relatives of my Afrikaans wife speak of a 'kakpraat vuur', which directly translated means 'crap-talk fire'. This usually refers to a braai and the socialising and jovial conversation around the flames. Even the web site, Braai.com (I kid you not) makes a fleeting reference to this word and it's application to socialising and simply 'shooting the breeze'.
Not to say if we all spoke kak it would be so lekker. We have many unofficial poets of kakpraat (in the negative sense) in this country. Just look at parliamentarians. They talk kak all day and get nowhere.
But can I suggest to my Black compatriots, if/when confronted with those who belch out the dreaded k-word at them, be the better person (please don't think me blase), and simply retort 'Stop talking kak and rather kakpraat with me.' I'd understand if you may want to add a few choice curse words, but then you'd only be party to a mindless exchange of rage. It's better to praat the kak than to be part of the kak.
While it's not going to disappear (along with the hundreds of years of oppression, repression and suppression which have brought South Africa to where it is today) maybe we can start training our minds to subtly substitute the k-word, as we know it, with another k-word, compliments of the Afrikaner nation. To me, it only makes sense that the one national grouping of our country which, for all intents and purposes, 'popularised' the use of the word 'kaffir', attaching immense hatred and stigma to it throughout Apartheid (and beyond), tries in a very small way to help usher it out of our national psyches.
The Afrikaans language has a very effective way of summing up ideas, expressing things and emotions, often employing humour and at times passion. There's an Afrikaans colloquialism, also beginning with a 'k', which is so often used, I believe it should be inducted into that ever-growing dictionary-cum-crucible of South African linguistics and language. 'Moenie kakpraat nie!' my Mom would often exclaim as I'd try to talk my way out of a sticky situation as an adolescent prone to, shall we say (or, shall I euphemise), making mistakes. Just say it out aloud - 'Kakpraat'. Your tongue seems to either descend to the bottom of your mouth or curl up as that sharp 'k' effortlessly shoots into the rest of the word. It's harsh on the ear, but not too entirely rude (depending on the context), unlike the proverbial, almost unspeakable k-word. in Fact, in my own personal use of 'kakpraat' I've only ever meant it in a joking way. I've yet to see a fist-fight erupt over the use of 'kakpraat'. Okay, granted some kakpraat could lead to fisty-cuffs, it's by far more diplomatic than belching out the word 'kaffir' in a moment of blind, moronic rage.
I have little doubt 'kakpraat' is a common word, which surely must be known across the colour lines. 'Kakpraat is lekker praat' my late Ouma would sometimes proclaim. Meaning, talking crap can often be enjoyable. Relatives of my Afrikaans wife speak of a 'kakpraat vuur', which directly translated means 'crap-talk fire'. This usually refers to a braai and the socialising and jovial conversation around the flames. Even the web site, Braai.com (I kid you not) makes a fleeting reference to this word and it's application to socialising and simply 'shooting the breeze'.
Not to say if we all spoke kak it would be so lekker. We have many unofficial poets of kakpraat (in the negative sense) in this country. Just look at parliamentarians. They talk kak all day and get nowhere.
But can I suggest to my Black compatriots, if/when confronted with those who belch out the dreaded k-word at them, be the better person (please don't think me blase), and simply retort 'Stop talking kak and rather kakpraat with me.' I'd understand if you may want to add a few choice curse words, but then you'd only be party to a mindless exchange of rage. It's better to praat the kak than to be part of the kak.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Stuck in a Moment
It's like a really bad hangover. That fuzzy feeling, compounded by a shrunken, dehydrated brain, parched mouth, bad mood, beer breath and crusty eyes after a long, over-indulgent evening of imbibing. And here I'm only referring to how the remnants of the current ANCYL NEC, which is now a shivering, waning shadow of it's former arrogant self, must be feeling, almost on a daily basis. If most of them haven't starting hitting the bottle to cope with the league's seemingly never-ending woes, then I'd suggest they make a mad dash to the nearest shebeen for a dop or 12.
The Juju hangover seems to have been with us for months now. And it's not going away. As much as us sane folk may yearn for delirium tremens, the ANC's kindergarten class seems to be something which will unfortunately be with us for a while longer or until at least Luthuli House blinks. Don't hold your breath.
This obdurate insistence on keeping Chief Malema at the helm, even after his suspension, expulsion, sacking - call it what you want - stinks of desperation and lack of real political maturity.
The surviving league leaders (who themselves have started cannibalising each other. Ask Pule Mabe his opinion on this) can't seem to see past their egos and that of Malema. They keep insisting he's still in charge. The April 30th edition of the Cape Times read 'League Defies ANC'. More recently another headline was only slightly tweaked. 'Malema is still out boss - defiant ANCYL' it balked. I picture the newspaper sub-editor who penned the latter headline staring blankly at his/her computer, drool inching from the mouth, that glazed look of abject boredom in the eyes as a slow news day relented to yet another ANCYL story, which smelled, appeared, and sounded exactly like previous ones, except, of course with more sensational language and asinine details. Can league NEC members, those who haven't been purged or suspended, not find another president? Is it that difficult for them to see past the weighty (read:overweight) shadow cast by Malema? It's clearly a dire time for them. Their little minds can't search the ranks of the body for a replacement. There must surely be someone out there. The cult of Juju is so immense, stubborn and torpid it's left them so brainwashed and drained, I'd risk arguing, they've lost the steam to even try and move on. Like a weepy, wistful, love-lorn teenager, the NEC doodles Malema's name over and over in their textbooks, silly hearts and cupids abound as they muddle through memories of the good times with Jules at the helm. Like the time he waddled for 'economic freedom' or that now infamous 'bloody agent' occasion, when the firebrand was at the height of his notoriety. It's all gone now.
Is there even a thought of a rebound relationship? Could they flirt with a new leader? Court and woo someone, away from the glare of the Great Expelled One? The answer, at least at this stage, is sadly quite obvious - no. Given the effort plowed into fighting for his survival (and his vaingloriousness) they can't move on. Add to this the fact an elective conference looms, I predict even more mundane headlines shouting, mumbling and moaning about how the league will continue to battle it out, all in the name of Julius, as the organisation tries to stick it to the ANC.
The Juju hangover seems to have been with us for months now. And it's not going away. As much as us sane folk may yearn for delirium tremens, the ANC's kindergarten class seems to be something which will unfortunately be with us for a while longer or until at least Luthuli House blinks. Don't hold your breath.
This obdurate insistence on keeping Chief Malema at the helm, even after his suspension, expulsion, sacking - call it what you want - stinks of desperation and lack of real political maturity.
The surviving league leaders (who themselves have started cannibalising each other. Ask Pule Mabe his opinion on this) can't seem to see past their egos and that of Malema. They keep insisting he's still in charge. The April 30th edition of the Cape Times read 'League Defies ANC'. More recently another headline was only slightly tweaked. 'Malema is still out boss - defiant ANCYL' it balked. I picture the newspaper sub-editor who penned the latter headline staring blankly at his/her computer, drool inching from the mouth, that glazed look of abject boredom in the eyes as a slow news day relented to yet another ANCYL story, which smelled, appeared, and sounded exactly like previous ones, except, of course with more sensational language and asinine details. Can league NEC members, those who haven't been purged or suspended, not find another president? Is it that difficult for them to see past the weighty (read:overweight) shadow cast by Malema? It's clearly a dire time for them. Their little minds can't search the ranks of the body for a replacement. There must surely be someone out there. The cult of Juju is so immense, stubborn and torpid it's left them so brainwashed and drained, I'd risk arguing, they've lost the steam to even try and move on. Like a weepy, wistful, love-lorn teenager, the NEC doodles Malema's name over and over in their textbooks, silly hearts and cupids abound as they muddle through memories of the good times with Jules at the helm. Like the time he waddled for 'economic freedom' or that now infamous 'bloody agent' occasion, when the firebrand was at the height of his notoriety. It's all gone now.
Is there even a thought of a rebound relationship? Could they flirt with a new leader? Court and woo someone, away from the glare of the Great Expelled One? The answer, at least at this stage, is sadly quite obvious - no. Given the effort plowed into fighting for his survival (and his vaingloriousness) they can't move on. Add to this the fact an elective conference looms, I predict even more mundane headlines shouting, mumbling and moaning about how the league will continue to battle it out, all in the name of Julius, as the organisation tries to stick it to the ANC.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Sorry? What's That?!
No one likes to admit it when they are wrong. Most hate it even more at having to use those often-dreaded 5 letters - S-O-R--R-Y, when confronted with moments of regret. So, when in one week, not one, not two, but three high-profile political figures, possibly confronted with attacks of conscience or simply desperate for survival, resorted to apologies to dig themselves out of their deep holes, then you must know, either something is wrong, or right, with the universe.
DA leader and Western Cape premier, Helen Zille, did the unthinkable (at least in political circles) and admitted she erred in referring to learners streaming into the province from the battered Eastern Cape seeking education, as refugees. Indeed it was a gaffe of note and it took the Iron Lady weeks to suck up the courage and show her contriteness; on national television nogal! I almost choked on my tongue! Was this woman of steel really apologising... sincerely? Well, that's another question altogether. The fact she admitted she went too far is something for a politician, if you take into account the levels of arrogance we see in political leaders these days.
Floyd Shivambu, that now out-of-work ANCYL spin sangoma, also had to swallow generous doses of his ailing pride recently. He settled his long-standing hate speech case involving journo, Carien du Plessis, amid a tangible atmosphere of reluctance on his part. For this bigmouth to apologise unconditionally (even though you got the distinct sense he was doing it simply out of desperation) to a journalist, given the Leagues hatred of the media, is also no small feat. If I were du Plessis I'd include this Pyrrhic victory on my CV, that's how important it is for me, at least, to see any one of the merry bunch of wannabe ANCYL revolutionaries-cum-idiots show even an inkling of repentance.
Even the beret-donning, former league boss, Julius Malema, had to tuck his tail in between his legs. He reportedly begged for his ANC membership at Luthuli House after learning his expulsion is official and final. Oh to have been a fly on the wall, watching Jules grovel and plead, his usual belligerent attitude wounded beside him. As nasty as it sounds, I took great joy in this trio of political 'celebrities' having to show some humanity and display that they too are imperfect, like the rest of us, and are capable of making mistakes.
Should we see this as the latest political fad - showing some regret, uttering an apology, even putting on your best puppy dog face? Don't hold your breath. I'd love nothing more than President Jacob Zuma to address the country and admit he's wrong or he's failed in some areas of his leadership. Wouldn't it be pleasantly sobering to see more political leaders acknowledge, they too can err, often in a big way. I do fear, however, we may never see such displays of apologising for some time as entitlement, greed, wanton power lust and a detachment from reality seem to pervade South African politics, so much so these supposed holier-than-thou politicians have drifted away from reality into their worlds of selectivity and delusions.
DA leader and Western Cape premier, Helen Zille, did the unthinkable (at least in political circles) and admitted she erred in referring to learners streaming into the province from the battered Eastern Cape seeking education, as refugees. Indeed it was a gaffe of note and it took the Iron Lady weeks to suck up the courage and show her contriteness; on national television nogal! I almost choked on my tongue! Was this woman of steel really apologising... sincerely? Well, that's another question altogether. The fact she admitted she went too far is something for a politician, if you take into account the levels of arrogance we see in political leaders these days.
Floyd Shivambu, that now out-of-work ANCYL spin sangoma, also had to swallow generous doses of his ailing pride recently. He settled his long-standing hate speech case involving journo, Carien du Plessis, amid a tangible atmosphere of reluctance on his part. For this bigmouth to apologise unconditionally (even though you got the distinct sense he was doing it simply out of desperation) to a journalist, given the Leagues hatred of the media, is also no small feat. If I were du Plessis I'd include this Pyrrhic victory on my CV, that's how important it is for me, at least, to see any one of the merry bunch of wannabe ANCYL revolutionaries-cum-idiots show even an inkling of repentance.
Even the beret-donning, former league boss, Julius Malema, had to tuck his tail in between his legs. He reportedly begged for his ANC membership at Luthuli House after learning his expulsion is official and final. Oh to have been a fly on the wall, watching Jules grovel and plead, his usual belligerent attitude wounded beside him. As nasty as it sounds, I took great joy in this trio of political 'celebrities' having to show some humanity and display that they too are imperfect, like the rest of us, and are capable of making mistakes.
Should we see this as the latest political fad - showing some regret, uttering an apology, even putting on your best puppy dog face? Don't hold your breath. I'd love nothing more than President Jacob Zuma to address the country and admit he's wrong or he's failed in some areas of his leadership. Wouldn't it be pleasantly sobering to see more political leaders acknowledge, they too can err, often in a big way. I do fear, however, we may never see such displays of apologising for some time as entitlement, greed, wanton power lust and a detachment from reality seem to pervade South African politics, so much so these supposed holier-than-thou politicians have drifted away from reality into their worlds of selectivity and delusions.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Taping over my life
They rattle in their plastic encasings, fragile and unpredictable. They whir, warp, stretch and twist as easily as Cher's face. It's easy to see why cassette tapes longevity never quite reached the 21st Century. I recall many a time having to manually 'rewind' or 'forward' my cassette tapes with a pen or pencil, all the while carefully ensuring the 'tape' inside isn't condemned to an impossible knot of plastic fury making for consternated listening. The inaudible auditory deformations of sound that could emanate from a thoroughly abused tape left many a moron believing the devil was in the mood for making contact. This very fickle trait of the cassette helped pave the way for CDs and committed the once-loved tape to the annals of music history. But oh how I long for tapes, their many imperfections and seemingly endless nostalgia.
In 1962 Philips unveiled to the world the first compact cassette audio tape. Like cavemen discovering fire, I can only imagine the manic curiosity this rectangular invention incited. To this day I ask myself: How the hell do they put actual sound onto a magnetic piece of tape? My eyes rolled into the back of my head once as a mate tried to explain the mechanics of a cassette in high school. It was the music I was after, not convoluted explanations.
However, in my not-so-tender 30s I find my perplexion and curiously stimulated once again. My deep musical nostalgia has expanded from a now firmly galvanised passion for vinyl LPs to cassettes. My next mission - to find a functioning tape player. My aim - to re-ignite my somewhat mawkish musical desires for these beautifully imperfect devices.
Fast forward to mission accomplished. My wife's mother discovered her old CD/tape player (you gotta love moms) dating back to her teens and so this added to my desperate momentum to explore what would be a slice of my distant, dark, precarious almost completely forgotten adolescence. To my immense delight Nirvana's 'In Utero' whirred into action as I slipped the tape into the 'cradle' of the tape player, reintroducing my aging ears to a muffled, scratchy version of Kurt Cobain belting out 'Serve the Servants'. I was 15 again, enamored with mindless rage and rebellion, enthralled by all that was anti-establishment and boobs, of course. Once again I was sitting in my bedroom, my fortress against adulthood, memorising the lyrics to Pearl Jam's 'Jeremy', Rage Against the Machine's 'Freedom' and REM's 'Drive'. Play, stop, scribble, play, stop, scribble. Such haphazard transcribing led me astray with many a lyrics being contorted into incomprehension. The words 'A libido' in Nirvana's 'Smells like teen spirit' was construed as 'Allen Beedo'.
Mixed tapes were for the better part of the 1980s the equivalent of climbing a medieval castle's walls to reach your star-crossed lover, where soft words and sacharine emotions would be laid bare. Many a mixed tape, complete with soppy songs, cringe-worthy messages and drawings on the tape cover were given to girlfriends. Although I do believe at least a few girls I tried to woo in my teens were apparently rather taken aback at the inclusion of death metal outfit, Fear Factory, and industrial-meisters Ministry, on a few of my cassettes (listen carefully and romance can be heard in strange places). But through mixed tapes, awkward emotions could be given a voice, anger could be vented and imaginations awoken.
My late grandmother had a small yellow radio/tape player, one of only a handful of worldly possessions she still had in the last years of her life. My memory bank is littered with fond thoughts of my sister and I lying around the radio, colouring in, smacking each other amid constant teasing all the while listening aimlessly to tapes, as my Gran admonished us. That radio accompanied me through my teenage years and was later christened with tip ex, stickers and crudely-pasted pictures of Eddie Vedder and Jim Morrison.
It was via a roughly-handled tape I discovered Nine Inch Nails, The Sisters of Mercy and The Cure. An education in music, my tutor - the cassette tape.
When Radio 5 arrived on the frequencies of those of us condemned to the sticks and voids of small towns, so another chapter in my growing relationship with tapes and music was written. The other day, to my delighted amazement I came across legendary DJ Barney Simon's voice, urging me to 'Crack it up!' as Manic Street Preachers exploded onto the radio waves. I almost cried. My adolescence flushed back into my head. Simon may as well have narrated my youth as every single week night for over 5-years I couldn't tear myself from the radio. I was poised, blank tape loaded in the yellow radio. My finger stiff and alert, at the ready, lingering over the record button. Many a mixed tape were birthed through such crude means. During the great musical drought of the 1990s in South Africa, where the only bands and artists to found in music stores were 2 Unlimited and Ace of Base, I had only Radio 5 to save me.
In my re-discovery of tapes, I found myself toying with them, examining them, trying to decipher what I was thinking at the time when I scrawled 'Hatred is purity' on one such tape cover. Entire lives have been documented through music and the cassette tape. I doubt the same kind of sentimentality, as sickening as it can seem, will ever be properly replicated with CDs, as they were in the heady days of the tape. And that's why, as I placed the few tapes that have survived my childhood and life, back into storage, I found myself tenderly wrapping and enclosing them; a rudimentary means of preserving another music artifact. I hope to show the few I still have and which may survive to my future child. I expect a puzzled frown from the little sprog as I try to share this wistfulness. Future generations may not fully appreciate the tapes role in music, it's simple delight.
In 1962 Philips unveiled to the world the first compact cassette audio tape. Like cavemen discovering fire, I can only imagine the manic curiosity this rectangular invention incited. To this day I ask myself: How the hell do they put actual sound onto a magnetic piece of tape? My eyes rolled into the back of my head once as a mate tried to explain the mechanics of a cassette in high school. It was the music I was after, not convoluted explanations.
However, in my not-so-tender 30s I find my perplexion and curiously stimulated once again. My deep musical nostalgia has expanded from a now firmly galvanised passion for vinyl LPs to cassettes. My next mission - to find a functioning tape player. My aim - to re-ignite my somewhat mawkish musical desires for these beautifully imperfect devices.
Fast forward to mission accomplished. My wife's mother discovered her old CD/tape player (you gotta love moms) dating back to her teens and so this added to my desperate momentum to explore what would be a slice of my distant, dark, precarious almost completely forgotten adolescence. To my immense delight Nirvana's 'In Utero' whirred into action as I slipped the tape into the 'cradle' of the tape player, reintroducing my aging ears to a muffled, scratchy version of Kurt Cobain belting out 'Serve the Servants'. I was 15 again, enamored with mindless rage and rebellion, enthralled by all that was anti-establishment and boobs, of course. Once again I was sitting in my bedroom, my fortress against adulthood, memorising the lyrics to Pearl Jam's 'Jeremy', Rage Against the Machine's 'Freedom' and REM's 'Drive'. Play, stop, scribble, play, stop, scribble. Such haphazard transcribing led me astray with many a lyrics being contorted into incomprehension. The words 'A libido' in Nirvana's 'Smells like teen spirit' was construed as 'Allen Beedo'.
Mixed tapes were for the better part of the 1980s the equivalent of climbing a medieval castle's walls to reach your star-crossed lover, where soft words and sacharine emotions would be laid bare. Many a mixed tape, complete with soppy songs, cringe-worthy messages and drawings on the tape cover were given to girlfriends. Although I do believe at least a few girls I tried to woo in my teens were apparently rather taken aback at the inclusion of death metal outfit, Fear Factory, and industrial-meisters Ministry, on a few of my cassettes (listen carefully and romance can be heard in strange places). But through mixed tapes, awkward emotions could be given a voice, anger could be vented and imaginations awoken.
My late grandmother had a small yellow radio/tape player, one of only a handful of worldly possessions she still had in the last years of her life. My memory bank is littered with fond thoughts of my sister and I lying around the radio, colouring in, smacking each other amid constant teasing all the while listening aimlessly to tapes, as my Gran admonished us. That radio accompanied me through my teenage years and was later christened with tip ex, stickers and crudely-pasted pictures of Eddie Vedder and Jim Morrison.
It was via a roughly-handled tape I discovered Nine Inch Nails, The Sisters of Mercy and The Cure. An education in music, my tutor - the cassette tape.
When Radio 5 arrived on the frequencies of those of us condemned to the sticks and voids of small towns, so another chapter in my growing relationship with tapes and music was written. The other day, to my delighted amazement I came across legendary DJ Barney Simon's voice, urging me to 'Crack it up!' as Manic Street Preachers exploded onto the radio waves. I almost cried. My adolescence flushed back into my head. Simon may as well have narrated my youth as every single week night for over 5-years I couldn't tear myself from the radio. I was poised, blank tape loaded in the yellow radio. My finger stiff and alert, at the ready, lingering over the record button. Many a mixed tape were birthed through such crude means. During the great musical drought of the 1990s in South Africa, where the only bands and artists to found in music stores were 2 Unlimited and Ace of Base, I had only Radio 5 to save me.
In my re-discovery of tapes, I found myself toying with them, examining them, trying to decipher what I was thinking at the time when I scrawled 'Hatred is purity' on one such tape cover. Entire lives have been documented through music and the cassette tape. I doubt the same kind of sentimentality, as sickening as it can seem, will ever be properly replicated with CDs, as they were in the heady days of the tape. And that's why, as I placed the few tapes that have survived my childhood and life, back into storage, I found myself tenderly wrapping and enclosing them; a rudimentary means of preserving another music artifact. I hope to show the few I still have and which may survive to my future child. I expect a puzzled frown from the little sprog as I try to share this wistfulness. Future generations may not fully appreciate the tapes role in music, it's simple delight.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Hallelujah, Jules!
Whether Jesus ever did in fact come back from the dead is irrelevant in my heathen world. But read as a fairy tale (have I got the Bible-bashers frothing at the mouth yet?) and considering Julius Malema's apparent detachment from reality (it's over, get over it already) I dare to conflate this long-held tale of Jesus's betrayal, death and resurrection with this enfant terrible of the ANC's own woes.
As many of us have been indoctrinated through Christian scripture, the last supper is painted as the scene of great drama, where the fruit of immaculate conception dined with his followers, broke bread, drank some wine and singled out his betrayer . Makes me wonder - were there any 'last suppers' for Jules? Judging from his ever-growing boep I'm sure he's had many an indulgent dinner, complete with Johnny Walker purple (or which ever fucking colour whiskey is most obscenely over-priced these days), lobsters, sushi and naked women-plates. Surely the whinging, soon-to-be former ANCYL leader shared a meal with his ex-pal, Jacob Zuma. But did his little brain (Julius's) ever ponder the prospect his one time mentor, surrogate father and hero would politically 'off' him? In the dog-eat-comrade world of SA politics the possibility, at times certainty, of your mates stabbing you in the back should never be too far from politicians' minds. At one stage JZ and Jules must have shared at least a few candlelit dinners together, staring lovingly into each others eyes, sharing political ideas, trading insider secrets on how to cling to power, influence friends and make even more enemies. Were soft, romantic words shared as they played with their food and may've precariously sucked up the same strand of spaghetti, which brought their lips dangerously close to a kiss (Lady and the Cramps) ? Was there profound, orotund religious-speak, on par with JC's prophetic, 'I tell you the truth, one of you will betray me'?.
Surely Jules must've had a vision of his demise? Perhaps an angel, clad in an ANC t-shirt (made in China, of course) descended from Luthuli House and bestowed upon him a message from upon high, 'Thou time is almost up, Comrade'.
Jule's believes he's being crucified. And maybe he is. Who knows or even cares these days. He will very likely be 'put to death'. His spear of destiny, dislodged from the ANC's emblem, may render him politically dead. It may also martyr him, much like Jesus was. This could see him rise from the dead to walk the earth and sow panic and march towards economic freedom once again, with his disciples firmly behind him, their eyes glazed over. In the Bible of politics, resurrections are abundant. Even JZ pulled a Jesus and now leads a country.
As many of us have been indoctrinated through Christian scripture, the last supper is painted as the scene of great drama, where the fruit of immaculate conception dined with his followers, broke bread, drank some wine and singled out his betrayer . Makes me wonder - were there any 'last suppers' for Jules? Judging from his ever-growing boep I'm sure he's had many an indulgent dinner, complete with Johnny Walker purple (or which ever fucking colour whiskey is most obscenely over-priced these days), lobsters, sushi and naked women-plates. Surely the whinging, soon-to-be former ANCYL leader shared a meal with his ex-pal, Jacob Zuma. But did his little brain (Julius's) ever ponder the prospect his one time mentor, surrogate father and hero would politically 'off' him? In the dog-eat-comrade world of SA politics the possibility, at times certainty, of your mates stabbing you in the back should never be too far from politicians' minds. At one stage JZ and Jules must have shared at least a few candlelit dinners together, staring lovingly into each others eyes, sharing political ideas, trading insider secrets on how to cling to power, influence friends and make even more enemies. Were soft, romantic words shared as they played with their food and may've precariously sucked up the same strand of spaghetti, which brought their lips dangerously close to a kiss (Lady and the Cramps) ? Was there profound, orotund religious-speak, on par with JC's prophetic, 'I tell you the truth, one of you will betray me'?.
Surely Jules must've had a vision of his demise? Perhaps an angel, clad in an ANC t-shirt (made in China, of course) descended from Luthuli House and bestowed upon him a message from upon high, 'Thou time is almost up, Comrade'.
Jule's believes he's being crucified. And maybe he is. Who knows or even cares these days. He will very likely be 'put to death'. His spear of destiny, dislodged from the ANC's emblem, may render him politically dead. It may also martyr him, much like Jesus was. This could see him rise from the dead to walk the earth and sow panic and march towards economic freedom once again, with his disciples firmly behind him, their eyes glazed over. In the Bible of politics, resurrections are abundant. Even JZ pulled a Jesus and now leads a country.
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