Home is where the heart. It seems as a society many of us have forgotten this cliched, yet pertinent adage. But what happens when the heart stops beating at home? Is the very moral fabric of home life being torn shreds? In the face of 5 children dying in the space of just under a month across the country, most of them at the hands of their parents, it seems the cynical belief and dark, misguided aphorism that child abuse is South Africa's top hobby, rings true to a degree.
In just under two weeks 4 babies were found dumped in Cape Town and Johannesburg. I emphasise - DUMPED - like garbage in drains and manholes.
When they're not being abandoned, their mothers allegedly poison them, as with the case of a 14-month old child and her 8-year-old sister. The sibling's mother, apparently distraught and at her wits end at not being paid maintenance by the children's father poisoned them. I imagine her explanation, clouded with tones of helplessness, to the relevant authorities would be "They're in a better place now". The 8-year-old survived. Her sister didn't. Her better place, which should've been in the safety of her home, became her mortuary.
The award for the father/beast of the month goes to a Western Cape man who's accused of flinging his 2-year-old daughter against a wall during an argument with her mother. It's apparently not the first time he's done this to her. Again, like garbage, the child is nothing but a thing, it's dignity and right to safety abused, not by some evil, violent stranger, but by her father.
I could spend the rest of this article analysing all the circumstances and issues behind this level of child abuse (read:hatred). But the severity of the issue may become lost in academia and statistics. Sure, with babies being abandoned we must take into account the desperate state of mind a mother must be in to resort to such heinous measures. Poverty, unwanted pregnancies, negligent parents, substance abuse, cultural taboos - these are all driving this scourge. But what's driving (or not driving) common sense and morality? In some corner of their minds they must have thought of other alternatives before simply callously dumping an infant in a drain. Unfortunately, the most desperate of measures seems to be the easiest and most convenient for these people, who themselves become victims anyway of their own actions.
We're often told by experts, in many ways the home is far more dangerous for children than the proverbial big, bad world. We've become a society either so desensitised by horrifying levels of child violence or many of us are losing the plot in ensuring homes get heart transplants so as to be restored as safe havens for youngsters. The heart at home has flat lined.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Hell hath no fury a believer's reading material scorned
What happens when business and religion collide? No, you certainly don't get a big bang. Nope, you don't get Ray McCauley in a designer suit. You get an unholy crucifixion of all things secular and independent-minded business.
A bunch of Christians, no doubt fundamentalist, put their scripture exercises aside to draft up a consumer boycott of Woolworths. The retail giant had decided to stop stocking Christian magazines (I was even aware there were any). Unlike most business decisions Woolies felt it should make this policy public. Sound the buzzer. bad move. You're out for being stupid. Instead of quietly enforcing what the retail chain claims was a long standing policy, it went and blurted it out in the media (they'll say it was leaked). The Bible-crunchers, seething and imbued with the courage of some thing called God, didn't hesitate. The threats, almost papal in tone, warned of protests, boycotts, which translate in religious language to a good old smiting and marathon prayer sessions to save the soul of our satanic consumerism. Woolworths hadn't only committed a PR boo boo, it incurred the wrath of omniscient powers,, according to these religious zealots.
Within hours the company capitulated and on the 8th day there were christian magazines once again gracing (disgracing?) it's shelves. Since when does big business kow-tow to fundamentalists? Since when would a retail giant not put up a fight. The fear of treading into the minefield of political incorrectness was taken to an embarrassing level by Woolworths. The company can sell booze all it wants, but God forbid it stop selling religious literature.No negotiations, no reasoning, no grandiose posturing so often employed by arrogant businesses. Nothing. It folded like a wet piece of paper and gave into to what probably amounts to a handful of Christians (given the fragmented nature of the religions denominations). Apparently magazine sales at account for less than a percent of Woolworths overall profits. So why then did it feel the need to buckle? Going up against the big G and his/her misguided masses is just clearly too brave a move, even for Woolworths to take.
A bunch of Christians, no doubt fundamentalist, put their scripture exercises aside to draft up a consumer boycott of Woolworths. The retail giant had decided to stop stocking Christian magazines (I was even aware there were any). Unlike most business decisions Woolies felt it should make this policy public. Sound the buzzer. bad move. You're out for being stupid. Instead of quietly enforcing what the retail chain claims was a long standing policy, it went and blurted it out in the media (they'll say it was leaked). The Bible-crunchers, seething and imbued with the courage of some thing called God, didn't hesitate. The threats, almost papal in tone, warned of protests, boycotts, which translate in religious language to a good old smiting and marathon prayer sessions to save the soul of our satanic consumerism. Woolworths hadn't only committed a PR boo boo, it incurred the wrath of omniscient powers,, according to these religious zealots.
Within hours the company capitulated and on the 8th day there were christian magazines once again gracing (disgracing?) it's shelves. Since when does big business kow-tow to fundamentalists? Since when would a retail giant not put up a fight. The fear of treading into the minefield of political incorrectness was taken to an embarrassing level by Woolworths. The company can sell booze all it wants, but God forbid it stop selling religious literature.No negotiations, no reasoning, no grandiose posturing so often employed by arrogant businesses. Nothing. It folded like a wet piece of paper and gave into to what probably amounts to a handful of Christians (given the fragmented nature of the religions denominations). Apparently magazine sales at account for less than a percent of Woolworths overall profits. So why then did it feel the need to buckle? Going up against the big G and his/her misguided masses is just clearly too brave a move, even for Woolworths to take.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Woof, nag, blah, zap, yelp!
The National Treehuggers and Vegan Association (hippies to the rest of you) spewed lentils recently in reaction to a consignment of electric dog collars being seized. No, these devices don't automatically take the animals for walks and clean up their excrement. They're electric because they shock nuisance dogs every time they bark. Shock, horror, the dread locked, shoeless masses gasped. Not being an overly zealous dog lover, I for one couldn't share in this horrified astonishment. If it means keeping those constant yappers quiet, then I'm all for it. Sure it may be seen as cruel, but they are effective in training animals. But there are animals out there among us, of the the two-legged homo-sapien persuasion, who I'd pay a lot of money to have fitted with these nifty little weapons of discipline and torture. Julius Malema is the obvious first test guinea pig (It's a no-brainer, I know, but come on, what fun it would be). 'Get out you bloody agent with your white tenden... (zzzzzzttt, zap!)HEITA EINA!' The collar strikes back, sending a few volts of electricity surgingthrough Jules' body starting with his tongue. Any further outbursts of a brainless, unnecessary nature will no doubt be diminished. Jules could even have a Breitling collar to match his R250 000 watch. Malema may need two kinds of collars, actually. One to shock him when his mouth runs away, the other will have leash attached to it. This may rein him in when he goes on one of his fact-finding field trips to nationalisaiton-loving countries.
Calling Blade Nzimande, we're ready for your collar fitting now. The Uber commie's recent attack on the media (apparently the print media is a threat to democracy) is oh so deserving of a shock collar. Where were these devilish devices when Nzimande did his best to justify his ministerial handbook-protected million rand Mercedes-Benz, compliments of us tax payers. A quick jolt of electricty may have sent a rush of real Marxism to his head to remind him of just what a contradiction he is. He could even have a custom made collar complete with a hammer and sickle. In fact, maybe all those in the ANC backing the media appeals tribunal should also get a collar. I read somewhere electricity can spark up brainpowers and possibly even lead to thinking, in the case of our ruling comrades
Speaking of animal cruelty, convicted rhino poachers should be given collars. Nothing says justice quite like a few thousand volts of electricity.
Those fat cats at Eskom responsible for the country's power woes could use a few electric collars. During each period of load shedding they'd receive sustained shocks. Oh, the beauty of irony.
Finally, parliamentarians should also have collars attached to them. As a grand form of civil oversight, all citizens would be able to control the collars with a remote. Each asinine utterance, the mindless heckling, waffling, blustering and abuse of languages and our rights could be met with glorious shocks from a bored, frustrated nation. Think about it, 'Honourable speaker, I'd like to... (zzzt, zap!)YELP!' Followed by silence. Now that's a point of order. The Parliamentary channel on DSTV would finally be worth watching.
Calling Blade Nzimande, we're ready for your collar fitting now. The Uber commie's recent attack on the media (apparently the print media is a threat to democracy) is oh so deserving of a shock collar. Where were these devilish devices when Nzimande did his best to justify his ministerial handbook-protected million rand Mercedes-Benz, compliments of us tax payers. A quick jolt of electricty may have sent a rush of real Marxism to his head to remind him of just what a contradiction he is. He could even have a custom made collar complete with a hammer and sickle. In fact, maybe all those in the ANC backing the media appeals tribunal should also get a collar. I read somewhere electricity can spark up brainpowers and possibly even lead to thinking, in the case of our ruling comrades
Speaking of animal cruelty, convicted rhino poachers should be given collars. Nothing says justice quite like a few thousand volts of electricity.
Those fat cats at Eskom responsible for the country's power woes could use a few electric collars. During each period of load shedding they'd receive sustained shocks. Oh, the beauty of irony.
Finally, parliamentarians should also have collars attached to them. As a grand form of civil oversight, all citizens would be able to control the collars with a remote. Each asinine utterance, the mindless heckling, waffling, blustering and abuse of languages and our rights could be met with glorious shocks from a bored, frustrated nation. Think about it, 'Honourable speaker, I'd like to... (zzzt, zap!)YELP!' Followed by silence. Now that's a point of order. The Parliamentary channel on DSTV would finally be worth watching.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The circus is in back in town
The ANC's travelling circus a.k.a. the Umwhini Wave or as it's members dubbed it, National General Council, has returned to Durban, the scene of it's leader, Her Zuma's monumental vindication (remember those pesky corruption and fraud charges?). The party means business, oh yes it does. In beamers, bullet-proof Hummers, Porches and a bus (or fifteen. The revolution hasn't been as kind to others as they have to the Tender Procurement League of the ruling party). They danced, cheered and shuffled there hefty bodies into meetings to conspire, delegate, cheat, gossip, lie, pretend, oh, and they also, may manage to actually get some business done (that's what the press releases will say). Then the man himself addressed the masses. he slammed the kindergarten league's bully boss (although not directly. God forbid this happen!) for his tantrums and general petulance. He then called for 'revolutionary discipline' whatever that means. He embarked on his usual arid, monosyllabic warnings against corruption, infighting and inbreeding (no cross-pollination with anyone resembling a white female Premier, thank you). El Presidente also dismissed claims (for the billionth time) the hallowed tripartite alliance is divided, against a backdrop of stifled giggles from COSATU and SACP leaders. If he keeps telling himself that, then maybe it'll come true on Planet ANC, that paralell world where the party is allowed to run riot... oh, wait, that's South Africa. Okay, my bad. Anyway, Comrade Zuma apparently got a rather muted welcome on the first day of the National General Council. What, no welcome choir complete with revolutionary hymns, such as that all time number one favourite Umshini wami? No bombastic roars for the prez? What has come of the party? Maybe we shouldn't read too much into that. Politics is a fickle harlot and the ANC has been known to shift allegiances to leaders almost as often as Patrica De Lille cheats political death. So, the grouping of fairweather comrades is mapping out the country's future... yet again. Nationalisation of mines, media regulation, combatting corruption, will all come up for debate or ridicule. These are only some of the issues which will be discussed (or simply mentioned in passing) and eventually glossed over and forgotten while steps are taken to implement the real ANC policies. In other words, Jules Malema will probably be allowed to pick and choose which mining house he wants to loot first. A sepcial caucus will be set up to construct a sepcialise muzzle for the media. A lot of networking will be done during 'policy meetings'. By networking, read, number swopping, tender contracts being signed and forlorn fashion tips being given out how about those specilaise designed ANC shoes?).Gwede Mantashe will be the one really shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Which caps will he wear more often? Will he be able to look around his trade unionist roots and his SACP chairmanship so as to adequately iron out the omniperesent tripartite problems? The quiet comrade and reluctant head-of-state, Kgalema Motlanthe, will nod furiously and contemplatively at everything being said. Will he say anything? Of course he will. Someone has to ask the tough questions Zuma can't or won't deal with. Will he be heard? Well, he is the second in charge, so maybe a few notes will be jotted down in the minutes. Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, the mother of the nation(and Jules' surrogate mama) is also in attendance, although that's really just for show. The other usual faces you can expect in the 'Who's Who/gossip pages' following the NGC are Tony 'luxury 4x4' Yengeni and Mr. Commie 2010 himself, Bladed Nzimande, who will rant and rave about the left being left out in the cold.
As for the comrade in exile, Thabo Mbeki, well, I actually don't know if he's bothered attending or if he's even been invited. I don't think COPE's top brass gave him permission to go. Plus, not even his VIP security detail can beat back the hordes of his fans in the party who'd swamp him. All two of them also probaly won't bother pitching up anyway.
I wait not-so-anxiously for the outcomes of this ANC pow-wow. Past experience has shown they are usually only good for two things - feeding us journos with stories during slow news periods and to keep the country and electorate guessing as to what actually the party and government are doing for them, apart from plot how to expand members bank balances.
As for the comrade in exile, Thabo Mbeki, well, I actually don't know if he's bothered attending or if he's even been invited. I don't think COPE's top brass gave him permission to go. Plus, not even his VIP security detail can beat back the hordes of his fans in the party who'd swamp him. All two of them also probaly won't bother pitching up anyway.
I wait not-so-anxiously for the outcomes of this ANC pow-wow. Past experience has shown they are usually only good for two things - feeding us journos with stories during slow news periods and to keep the country and electorate guessing as to what actually the party and government are doing for them, apart from plot how to expand members bank balances.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Paris - Up in smoke
The smog of cigarette smoke which greeted me outside a terminal at Charles De Gaulle International Airport was always to be expected. I'd heard how the French love their smoking. These areas at airports have been claimed by smokers desperate to in some way enforce their right to defile their bodies and the atmosphere around them. But once I'd arrived in Paris proper, the national stereotype of the French and their long-held relationship with these cancer inducing products (or as a not-so-beloved character from Guy Ritchie classic 'Rock 'n Rolla' called them, 'These little bastards'.) I can safely confirm, its more than just a stereotype. The French seem to invest as much passion into smoking as they do into being arrogant and refusing to speak English. The streets of the French capital are veritable gauntlets of cigarette smoke and butt. From early in the morning these little bastards (the cigarettes, not the people) can be seen dangling from lips and clutched between fingers. The habit doesn't keep office hours and I suspect, is even indulged inside the office. Anti-smoking laws, so eagerly embraced by other European countries, don't seem to be gaining any ground in France. It's almost as if, in true French arrogance, they are pulling the bird (with a cigarette firmly between their fingers) at the world, exclaiming amid hacking coughs and clouds of smoke, 'Screw you fascist pigs. We smoke 'coz we must' or something like that. Bars and restaurants are like minefields for zealous anti-smokers. I dare you to ask for the non-smoking area in a restaurant. They do exist, but to enquire about them is tantamount to asking Frenchman if you can sleep with his sister. Paris's cafe culture helped nurture and breed this delight in smoking. The city's pavements are lined with such cafes, populated with all kinds of tobacco-users. I watched two elderly ladies, enjoying a bottle of wine in Montmartre, their cigarette packets and lighters never too far from their gnarled hands. These two old birds gesticulated, laughed, coughed, smoked and quaffed wine as if that day was their last. Next to them your typical fashionable yuppie couple, deep in conversation, the smoking pouring from their mouths. Not far from them was a group of boisterous teenagers and, yes, most of them were revelling in the liberty of smoking. There's no time to execute the proper blow after inhaling in the city that never sleeps (or stops to properly extinguish cigarettes. Glimmering cigarette butts dot the pavements alongside dog poo. Anti-smoking legislation introduced in 2007 appears to be flagrantly ignored, as is the trend in other countries among tobacco-lovers, I suppose. The laws were met with outrage. Some believed they would be taking something away from that alluring national image of the chain-smoking French intellectual. 'Those were good times' remarked one French columnist.
But the laws, like they are here, are simply for show. I'm sure the lawmakers themselves slipped out for a quick smoke while putting the finishing touches to the legislation.
My snobby nostrils have never really taken to the noxious stench of smoking. Call me a twit, but I get annoyed at the very sight of someone smoking in an open place. I believe they are, in some way, robbing me of my right to 'clean' air. That's a desperate and rather weak argument, I know, but I'm sticking to it. While taking in the historical wonders of Paris, I'd rather not have someone puff a cancer stick next to me. It's annoying and rude. Then again, so are the French. While marvelling at the Eiffel Tower, a policeman standing near me lit up, his complete disinterest in his job and the hordes of tourists, as evident as the excited bewilderment which grips many seeing the tower for the first time.
The Metro (Paris's underground public transport system) is not even safe from the ubiquitous second hand smoke. Commuters puff away, possibly to stave off the boredom of their daily travelling.
So, my linger disenchantment with cigarette smoking followed me on holiday. Habits are hard to break. My time in Paris was as amazing, regardless. I'm not that petty that I'd allowed as how many cancer sticks one Parisian can get through in one sitting at a cafe.
As I entered Charles De Gaulle Airport to fly back home, I finally escaped the cloak of smoke. While sitting waiting to board a plane, I heard something which seemed almost foreign to me - Afrikaans. We're not in Kansas anymore. Fellow countrymen had now also converged, a not-so-nostalgic reminder of home. It wasn't the fact I was hearing one of our national languages again after many strictly English-free days. It was the words being uttered. A cantankerous, pot-bellied oaf bellowed in Afrikaans at a stewardess, "Praat a bietjie Afrikaans. Ons is siek van jou taal'. This pathetic, embaressing attempt at humour was met with giggles from fellow oafs. It was at that very moment my hatred for smoking diminished somewhat. It was replaced by a hatred for backward, myopic, intolerant and intolerable morons such as Frikkie (that's what I named him) who serve to remind travellers, like me, just how wonderful it is to briefly escape the likes of him, an unfortunate South African stereotype, much like the chain-smoking Frenchman.
But the laws, like they are here, are simply for show. I'm sure the lawmakers themselves slipped out for a quick smoke while putting the finishing touches to the legislation.
My snobby nostrils have never really taken to the noxious stench of smoking. Call me a twit, but I get annoyed at the very sight of someone smoking in an open place. I believe they are, in some way, robbing me of my right to 'clean' air. That's a desperate and rather weak argument, I know, but I'm sticking to it. While taking in the historical wonders of Paris, I'd rather not have someone puff a cancer stick next to me. It's annoying and rude. Then again, so are the French. While marvelling at the Eiffel Tower, a policeman standing near me lit up, his complete disinterest in his job and the hordes of tourists, as evident as the excited bewilderment which grips many seeing the tower for the first time.
The Metro (Paris's underground public transport system) is not even safe from the ubiquitous second hand smoke. Commuters puff away, possibly to stave off the boredom of their daily travelling.
So, my linger disenchantment with cigarette smoking followed me on holiday. Habits are hard to break. My time in Paris was as amazing, regardless. I'm not that petty that I'd allowed as how many cancer sticks one Parisian can get through in one sitting at a cafe.
As I entered Charles De Gaulle Airport to fly back home, I finally escaped the cloak of smoke. While sitting waiting to board a plane, I heard something which seemed almost foreign to me - Afrikaans. We're not in Kansas anymore. Fellow countrymen had now also converged, a not-so-nostalgic reminder of home. It wasn't the fact I was hearing one of our national languages again after many strictly English-free days. It was the words being uttered. A cantankerous, pot-bellied oaf bellowed in Afrikaans at a stewardess, "Praat a bietjie Afrikaans. Ons is siek van jou taal'. This pathetic, embaressing attempt at humour was met with giggles from fellow oafs. It was at that very moment my hatred for smoking diminished somewhat. It was replaced by a hatred for backward, myopic, intolerant and intolerable morons such as Frikkie (that's what I named him) who serve to remind travellers, like me, just how wonderful it is to briefly escape the likes of him, an unfortunate South African stereotype, much like the chain-smoking Frenchman.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
How are you?
I just don't want to be polite anymore. It's exhausting and often nonreciprocal anyway, so why bother? If one more person asks me how I am, that complete indifference dripping from every word being uttered, I'm going to punch them, followed by a cheerful reply of 'Much better now, thanks'.
The other day I tested the futility of these empty pleasantries. A cashier at a supermarket check-out dared to enquire about my well being, again, with no real interest in my state of mind (or her job). 'I'm actually not so well at the moment. I just lost my job. My girlfriend is leaving me and I have scabies. Oh, I forgot to mention, my dad is serving a time in jail and I have halitosis. But thanks for asking, love, it means a lot'. A reply like this would/should be met with genuine concern, be it perfunctory. But my new found cashier friend didn't so much as bat an eyelid or even take her enquiry any further (Damn. And here I was thinking we could become firm confidantes). You want to know why? She couldn't give a flying hoot about how I am, just like I couldn't care about her. All I want is to get away from the supermarket, her and the possibilty of others wanting to fake probing into the inner-depths of my life. So why ask? It's an ice-breaker, an opener to thawing out that iceberg between customers and service provider so as to ensure a smooth transaction. That's the only reasoning I can think of.
But this pointless social gesture extends to all human interactions. Work colleagues will ask day after day how you are. I was fine the previous day you asked the very same thing and the thousand weeks before that. They may choose colloquial derivatives to appear as if they are matey with you. Words and phrases are created like hiya, how you doing? Howzit? And my favourite, What's up? or Wazzup? (you can choose how many Z's you want to add depending on how super-cool, awesome you think you are). A recent survey (Oh, how I love surveys) conducted in the UK revealed common conversational pleasantries like 'Thank you' are dying out and being replaced by words like 'Ta' or 'Cheers'. How how I wish 'How are you?' could be substituted with more the more honest 'I don't know you and therefore don't care about how you are. So let's just get on with whatever we intend doing'. Short, sharp, maybe a bit rude, but it gets the day moving on and allows us to avoid the bullsh*t of human dynamics.
Some people do seem to care... briefly. With a seemingly genuine tone of concern they'll employ those three words (How are you? Not, I love you) in conversation thinking they are doing their civil duty and are being good humans (If there is such a thing). The danger here is, the person being addressed could just pounce on this enquiry with a verbal thesis on their lives, thinking you actually give a damn. This should/could be met with your eyes rolling back into your head, a frothing mouth full of foam and terrifying facial tics. That should secure a quick escape from these mind-numbing, unnecessary moments.
The other day I tested the futility of these empty pleasantries. A cashier at a supermarket check-out dared to enquire about my well being, again, with no real interest in my state of mind (or her job). 'I'm actually not so well at the moment. I just lost my job. My girlfriend is leaving me and I have scabies. Oh, I forgot to mention, my dad is serving a time in jail and I have halitosis. But thanks for asking, love, it means a lot'. A reply like this would/should be met with genuine concern, be it perfunctory. But my new found cashier friend didn't so much as bat an eyelid or even take her enquiry any further (Damn. And here I was thinking we could become firm confidantes). You want to know why? She couldn't give a flying hoot about how I am, just like I couldn't care about her. All I want is to get away from the supermarket, her and the possibilty of others wanting to fake probing into the inner-depths of my life. So why ask? It's an ice-breaker, an opener to thawing out that iceberg between customers and service provider so as to ensure a smooth transaction. That's the only reasoning I can think of.
But this pointless social gesture extends to all human interactions. Work colleagues will ask day after day how you are. I was fine the previous day you asked the very same thing and the thousand weeks before that. They may choose colloquial derivatives to appear as if they are matey with you. Words and phrases are created like hiya, how you doing? Howzit? And my favourite, What's up? or Wazzup? (you can choose how many Z's you want to add depending on how super-cool, awesome you think you are). A recent survey (Oh, how I love surveys) conducted in the UK revealed common conversational pleasantries like 'Thank you' are dying out and being replaced by words like 'Ta' or 'Cheers'. How how I wish 'How are you?' could be substituted with more the more honest 'I don't know you and therefore don't care about how you are. So let's just get on with whatever we intend doing'. Short, sharp, maybe a bit rude, but it gets the day moving on and allows us to avoid the bullsh*t of human dynamics.
Some people do seem to care... briefly. With a seemingly genuine tone of concern they'll employ those three words (How are you? Not, I love you) in conversation thinking they are doing their civil duty and are being good humans (If there is such a thing). The danger here is, the person being addressed could just pounce on this enquiry with a verbal thesis on their lives, thinking you actually give a damn. This should/could be met with your eyes rolling back into your head, a frothing mouth full of foam and terrifying facial tics. That should secure a quick escape from these mind-numbing, unnecessary moments.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Colour of Sport
Race, race race, we're obsessed with race (not the of the Comrades marathon persuasion, but more that of skin pigmentation). It's understandable it's a thorny issue which remains at the forefront of many South Africans minds, considering the country's ugly history of racial discrimination. and hatred. But I rarely hear whinging and complaining about racial matters from the mouths of real South Africans. Sure, they could be thinkig it and just not voicing their gripes, for whatever reason. In a rare moment of optimism, I choose to think maybe the great majority of this country's population are simply staying silent so as to promote a quiet reconciliation or subtle nation-building (you choose whatever catchphrase is popular this hour). Maybe we are looking inward to try and find answers to difficult questions regarding race, instead of shooting our mouths off and saying regrettably stupid things.
Speaking of stupid things, that great proponent of asinine racial comments, Butana Komphela, seems obsesssed with perpetuating racism. While some of his utterances are cringeworthy, they usually only amount to a good laugh at his expense. But what is worrying is the fact he's a relatively prominent (read: media-hungry) politician (more specifically, he's the chairperson of the sports portfolio committee in Parliament). Komphela can't seem to resist injecting racial hints into almost every aspect of sport. I realise sports isn't immune to everday debates on racial matters, but this man can turn anything on it's head to resemble an ugly, at times terrifying, spat regarding skin colouring. In arecent tirade in Parliament Komphela not only drew out his trusty race card (you see, he thinks everyone is playing poker. Little does he know, we're actually playing solitaire) he also added insult to injury by questioning why Leonard Chuene, he of the Caster Semenya gender testing lie fame, was suspended following that saga. The stupidity only started there. As he blustered his way through his verbal attack, he just had to add, 'The whole thing has become a racial issue' and the room went silent. If he's not trying to kill off that piece of living biltong which grazes over the national rugby team's jersey, he's using the dreaded k-word in driving home mindless messages on transformation in sport. Yet we see precious transformation in the mind of Komphela. Komphela sees colour where others see actual issues. He will superimpose race onto just about anything. Nothing is safe from his ignorant analysis. He'd ask if jukskei, that formerly hallowed sport of I believe they were called Boere games, has truly embraced transformation? What would he make of this strange activity made popular during them dark days of Apartheid by a bunch of narrow-minded, sexually repressed Calvinists. This sport is challenged in its absurdity by curling as one of the more, shall we say, pointless sports in recent history. Wherever brooms are involved with ice, this unholy union should be viewed with great suspicion. What would the little sporting watchdog tyrant say of this bizarre 'activity for pleasure' (I got that out of a thesaurus)? He'd probably find issue with the ice being too white and the players too pale. He'd accuse the founders of the game of being colonialist, imperialist, Westerners hell bent on imposing their dominance on an unsuspecting public. He'd find issue with the use of brooms. He'd probably say they are tools of the working class and their use in such a frenetic manner on ice symbolises oppression.... or something. Would he demand a parliamentary debate on the transformation in jukskei? Of course he would! He's been elected to provoke and annoy the public. In other words - needless make headlines, and test our patience. Much like another dimwitted agitator who's names sounds like - Hulius Dalema.
Speaking of stupid things, that great proponent of asinine racial comments, Butana Komphela, seems obsesssed with perpetuating racism. While some of his utterances are cringeworthy, they usually only amount to a good laugh at his expense. But what is worrying is the fact he's a relatively prominent (read: media-hungry) politician (more specifically, he's the chairperson of the sports portfolio committee in Parliament). Komphela can't seem to resist injecting racial hints into almost every aspect of sport. I realise sports isn't immune to everday debates on racial matters, but this man can turn anything on it's head to resemble an ugly, at times terrifying, spat regarding skin colouring. In arecent tirade in Parliament Komphela not only drew out his trusty race card (you see, he thinks everyone is playing poker. Little does he know, we're actually playing solitaire) he also added insult to injury by questioning why Leonard Chuene, he of the Caster Semenya gender testing lie fame, was suspended following that saga. The stupidity only started there. As he blustered his way through his verbal attack, he just had to add, 'The whole thing has become a racial issue' and the room went silent. If he's not trying to kill off that piece of living biltong which grazes over the national rugby team's jersey, he's using the dreaded k-word in driving home mindless messages on transformation in sport. Yet we see precious transformation in the mind of Komphela. Komphela sees colour where others see actual issues. He will superimpose race onto just about anything. Nothing is safe from his ignorant analysis. He'd ask if jukskei, that formerly hallowed sport of I believe they were called Boere games, has truly embraced transformation? What would he make of this strange activity made popular during them dark days of Apartheid by a bunch of narrow-minded, sexually repressed Calvinists. This sport is challenged in its absurdity by curling as one of the more, shall we say, pointless sports in recent history. Wherever brooms are involved with ice, this unholy union should be viewed with great suspicion. What would the little sporting watchdog tyrant say of this bizarre 'activity for pleasure' (I got that out of a thesaurus)? He'd probably find issue with the ice being too white and the players too pale. He'd accuse the founders of the game of being colonialist, imperialist, Westerners hell bent on imposing their dominance on an unsuspecting public. He'd find issue with the use of brooms. He'd probably say they are tools of the working class and their use in such a frenetic manner on ice symbolises oppression.... or something. Would he demand a parliamentary debate on the transformation in jukskei? Of course he would! He's been elected to provoke and annoy the public. In other words - needless make headlines, and test our patience. Much like another dimwitted agitator who's names sounds like - Hulius Dalema.
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