Does bad politics necessarily mean bad art?

I bought, some time ago, a Naxos CD of the music of one Geirr Tveitt – a Norwegian composer that I had never heard of before (being Naxos, one can afford to experiment a little!). I was immediately engrossed in this strange, melodic sound-world. The music cascades and overflows, tugs and pulls at you, before sweeping you away. There are hints of the wild rhythms of Bartok, some of the melancholy and ethereal reality of Debussy, snatches of Ravel. It is really fresh and wonderful music!

So, I started finding out what I could about him. Now, besides the fact that his house burnt down in 1970, destroying most of his manuscripts, it also seems as though he held some highly suspect views. Not outright Nazi, apparently, but tending very much in that direction. There are hints of anti-semitism in some of his writings and he displays, certainly, Nordic nationalism of a fairly extreme kind. And so, after the 2nd World War, his music was apparently generally ignored. Of course, the fire did little to enable the spread of it, either!

Now, I wonder, what does one make of this? If the composer is a fascist, does one not listen to his or her music? I know there are many Jews to this day, for instance, who will not listen to Wagner, because of his very extreme nationalistic and anti-semitic views. Personally I have never managed to fathom him, despite force-feeding myself every now and again.

In Wagner’s case, I have always been slightly aware of the history. As I say, it has not been particularly significant either way, because I am not crazy about him. But Shostakovitch is another matter entirely. Him, I am crazy about (besides one or two of his choral symphonies which I can’t seem to relate to no matter how hard I try!). Now, while there seems to be some doubt, and the action is passive rather than active – he seems to have completely caved in to Soviet demands to produce music which was not “Formalist” – basically meaning what the authorities (and in particular Stalin) didn’t like because it didn’t have enough of a tune.

The debate is on whether this was actually the case, or whether Shostakovitch just behaved tactically. But whatever the case, that is something very different from Wagner, who was an active proponent of anti-semitism and a nauseating German nationalist.

So the question is this. Can an active Nazi be a good artist? Can a Verwoerdian apartheid proponent be a wonderful musician? And at what point does one simply cut them out, because their views are so repugnant that they should not be allowed any platform to showcase them?
Perhaps an allied question would be, is there such a thing as pure art?

I am just asking – I have no clue as to what the answer might be.

During Apartheid, we had what was called a “cultural boycott”. It was extremely effective, in that it isolated South Africa from the rest of the world. Major artists were barred from performing here; our artists were barred from performing anywhere else. It worked, by and large. But that was a tactical thing. It did not mean that the artists themselves were necessarily bad, or to be avoided.

So, to get back to Tveitt. It is only now that his work is being reconsidered, apparently – in a context which is far removed from the ravages and exigencies of the 2nd World War. Is this just because of the way things were – or was he done an injustice as an artist? And should I be on the look out for anything which may smack of Nordic nationalism, and reject it?

Bacchus Cake

This is not, by any means, the easiest recipe in the world. It was originally created the French Chocolatier Robert Linxe. And OMG is the result fantastic!

You know when recipe books say that "a little effort" is required? Well - a little effort is required here. But don't be daunted. The result is really worth it. Dazzle those friends! Confound those enemies! All it takes is ... a little effort!

(PS, read the whole recipe from start to finish in one sitting - it really helps, I found.)

Bacchus Cake

4 eggs, separated
85g castor sugar
20g cocoa, sifted
25g flour
100 dark Couverture chocolate

Macaroon

6 egg whites
Pinch of salt
150g icing sugar
100g ground almonds
50g pistachios, roughly chopped

Tea and chocolate filling

60g raisins, roughly chopped
100ml Earl Grey tea
150ml Crème fraiche
60g butter, softened and chopped
370 dark Couverture chocolate, finely chopped

Marmalade Cream

90g orange marmalade
300 mascarpone

Preheat oven to 180˚ C. Line a 28 x 32 cm Swiss roll tin with baking paper. Using an electric mixer, whisk egg yolks and castor sugar until thick and pale. Add the cocoa and flour and then the chocolate as well as two tablespoons of hot water. Stir.

Whisk the egg whites to soft peaks and fold it into the chocolate mixture. Spoon the mixture into the tin and smooth the top. Bake 12 – 15 minutes. Leave to cool in the tin.

For the Macaroon:

Preheat oven to 180˚ C. Line a Swiss roll tin with baking paper. Using an electric mixer, whisk the egg whites, a pinch of salt and 50g icing sugar to stiff peaks. Then add the remaining sugar, almonds and pistachios and fold to combine. Spoon the mixture into the tin and smooth the top. Bake 20 minutes. Leave to cool in the tin.

For the filling:

Soak the raisins in the tea for 15 minutes. Drain. Bring the cream and butter to the boil, add the chocolate and stir until smooth. Cool to a spreading consistency.

For the marmalade cream:

Combine the ingredients in a bowl

To assemble:

Invert the cake and macaroon from the tins and remove the baking paper. Trim the edges and cut both the cake and the macaroon into three rectangles. Thinly spread some of the filling over one rectangle of the cake, scatter it with some of the raisins and top it with a macaroon rectangle and half the marmalade cream. Repeat the layers, finishing the cake. Spread the remaining filling over the top and sides of the last rectangle of cake. Refrigerate for one hour, or up to three days.

Tranny Jesus and Fur Coat Jesus

TOP: Bill Burch - Fur Coat Jesus - 2009

BOTTOM: Bill Burch - Transvestite Jesus, 2009

I have just found these amazing pix on a blog I follow – JesusInLove. The one is of a transvestite Jesus, while the other is a rather strange one, I think, if I understand it correctly, cocking a snoot in the direction of some feminists, as well as the more general swathe of patriarchists .

One of the readers of the blog describes them as “disturbing”. Personally, I am way past being disturbed by this kind of imagery – but I suppose I am probably fairly far out on a limb in this regard anyway. I suppose many, if not most religious people would find them “disturbing”, because they are certainly not the norm!

But the point is a relatively simple one – any and all pictures of Jesus are necessarily interpretive. What mainstream orthodox, so-called “Bible believing” Christians may see as the “right” kind of picture of Jesus, others will find offensive.

The really interesting point, though, is this: would a transvestite see this picture as appropriate. Is it remotely possible that he (in this instance) would have such a good and such a positive self-image, that Jesus himself could be represented in this way?

Similarly, would a feminist who resists and resents everything that high heels and fur coats represents, be able to see the trauma of being woman in this representation? Would the kind of woman who wears furs and high heels, but still considers herself to be a feminist be able to discern herself in this picture? Would a woman who is neither feminist, nor dressed in this way see herself there?

Or, is Jesus so fully and so comprehensively defined in patriarchal, hetero-normative terms, that nothing else is even remotely or conceptually (or even artistically possible? I fear that might be the truth.

Homo-erotic images of Jesus - The Judas Kiss

Top: Elizabeth Ohlson-Wallin - "Kiss of Judas". Middle: Giotto: "Kiss of Judas"; Bottom: Becki Jayne Harrelson: "Judas Kiss"

Three artists dealing with the same dramatic moment – the betrayal of Jesus by Judas, with a kiss. From the perspective of orthodox Christianity, this is a pivotal moment. It is grand operatic in its proportions. Here, one of Jesus closest followers, who broke bread and who shared wine with him, betrays him and this betrayal leads Jesus to his death.

Some commentators see the intention of Judas as being honourable. He had grown tired of Jesus’ apparent dithering about and wanted to force his hand. Jesus was, after all the Messiah. The role of the Messiah was to deliver the people of Israel. The Messiah had, at his command, legions of angels, the heavenly Host along with all the weaponry and power of the Almighty. The problem was that Jesus seemed to show an annoying reluctance to use these powers. Judas believed he could precipitate matters, by betraying Jesus into the hand of his enemies – thereby forcing him to act. Of course, he could just have been greedy, but the other is a real interpretation of his motivations.

Whatever it is, and whatever the motivation, it allows the homosexual community to take the image and foreground the homoerotic element in the moment. Here is Jesus - God made human - being kissed by another man. In the Gospel account, he does not reject the kiss. There is no record of him being revolted by it. Indeed, it would appear that the practise is commonplace – how else would it have the signal significance it is intended to have? Judas tells those who he is working with, “The one that I kiss is your man”.

Now, this kiss resonates powerfully throughout the history of the Church. It is the liturgical Filema – the Kiss of Peace, which is practised in the Eucharist as a symbol of the unity of Christians. That is the resonance it is supposed to have. And the fact that this sacred symbol of unity and togetherness can become the moment of the greatest betrayal, is precisely the point which is being made.

And that is why it is such a powerful symbol for use by LGBT Christians. Because at the point at which there is supposed to be the most obvious evidence of unity, of love, of peace – that is the place where LGBT Christians experience the most brutal pain and anguish of betrayal. It is at that point. Exactly at that point – the Eucharistic kiss. And the act of betrayal is experienced in the opposite direction, this time.

Music to my ears

The other day, I went, somewhat unwillingly to a concert at my child’s school. Now, the school, it needs to be said, is extremely well equipped musically. The school is, as a matter of fact, one of the reasons why we live were we do. When we moved to Cairp Tahn, a friend of mine who was already living here suggested – no, instructed – that we find a house in this area, because “this is where the schools are”.

In general, I have not regretted it. I find the school, and more particularly, the parents in the school, sometimes a little hard to stomach – but then I find most of the people who live in Cape Town a little hard to stomach. For a government school though, I wanna tell you – this place is extraordinarily well musically equipped.

So, I went to the concert. There was a good audience of proud (and wannabe proud) parents. The kids were enthusiastic, but not exceedingly talented – excepting a red-haired pianist called Daniel. But the availability of talent was never the issue. The fact is, there were children of all possible descriptions, playing one instrument or another. That was exhilarating.

The long suffering teachers provided accompaniment, or backing, or the technically demanding stuff. And the kids played along happily and willingly. The sound they made was sometimes excruciating – but it was tending towards musical. I was witnessing the start of what could be an unmatched journey, for each of the children – for the ones beating the marimbas; for the children on the recorders; for the singer on the stage behind the microphone and for the violinists. Each one of them could turn out into something really amazing. And for certain, each one of them will be listening to music in a different way to those who have never been trained at all.

Because, if you can read music, if you can understand the nuances of rise and fall, of crotchet and minim, of pianissimo and sforzando – you have gained entry into a whole different universe.

I was pointed in the direction of this morning, is a talk by percussionist Evelyn Glennie, (the link to which I provide below). She makes a very different, but related point. That one needs to listen to music emotionally – that one needs to feel it, and not just listen to it. It is a powerful point she is making. But I want to make the other one as well. There is a sense in which you can feel it all you want, but your understanding will be limited if you do not have access to its inner workings.

It is like appreciating – loving – a beautiful motor car, but not knowing how to change the tyre, or where to put in the fuel. You can live without that knowledge, I suppose – others could do it for you. But when you do have personal access to it, it makes the experience of “loving” the car so much more accessible. I, personally, lack that kind of access to fine art. I know what things appeal - but I have no idea why or how. I wander around art galleries is a happily ignorant state. It is like watching the patterns on a kaleidoscope. Fairly meaningless, but pretty - usually.

On the musical side of my life, I have a beautiful upright Gunther piano. It was made 118 years ago. It is fairly rare, in that it is a transposing piano, which has a sliding keyboard mechanism, which makes the hammers go up and down the strings, depending on the required pitch, without having to change key. It was built, I suppose, for accompanying singers, or choirs and it enables the pianist to play without needing to do transpositions into any other key.

My late partner, Brian, found it rotting in a warehouse in Cape Town, being rained on, many years ago. Even though he knew nothing about music, he did know a thing of beauty – and so he bought it for a minimal amount and had it railed up to Pietermaritzburg, where we had it fixed. It has taken many attempts to get it back into restored and reasonable shape. It took years to find just the right brass for it, and just the right surround. Joshua “bin Laden”, our youngest child, snapped off several of the ivories when he was a baby. The piano has survived all this and now it has pride of place in our lounge today.

It is not in tune at the moment, so I do not play it at the moment. But now it needs to be discovered, by at least one of the children. The joy of knowing music has already started to enrich their lives. It is something they will never lose, and never regret.

Schlepping up Lion's Head

Many years ago, when I was still living in Pietermaritzburg, a friend of mine forced me to go walking in the Drakensberg Mountains. Although I had lived within an hour's driving of them, for many years, I never ventured into them. I suppose the truth is, I didn’t know how to go about it nor did it seem especially interesting. Well, as I say, I was forced into it the first time. And a whole new universe opened up before me. I could not believe the silence; the smells; the taste of the icy water which gushes in those pristine rivers.

I was immediately hooked, being the compulsive personality that I am. I went every possible weekend. I got myself caught in vicious storms; I waded through the still smoking cinders of a massive fire that had blackened the earth as far as the eye could see; I stripped naked and swam in pools of the deepest blue you have ever seen; I encountered snakes and Kudu and Baboon; I watched wild Clivias flower and I felt the mulch of rotting leaves on the forest floor underfoot; I heard a myriad of birds; and I tasted the welcome sweetness of an apple at the top of a really hard climb as the wind whispered in the ears and played with my hair. And at night, the riotous swathes of stars, everywhere you look; the sound of the cicadas and the owl and the glow of a fire; the snow on the mountain tops.

And then I moved to Gauteng. Yes, you can find approximations there, but it is nothing of the same. And my visits to the mountains became fewer and fewer and the memory distant, but still vivid. Still really precious. But the point is, I stopped going.

When we arrived in Cairp Tahn, one could not fail to notice a sort of universal obsession with the Mountain. All directions are given in relation to it. You really can’t avoid it. The weather is determined by it. But we had never climbed it – well to be frank, I have up to this point, not been even vaguely fit enough to contemplate doing so. But after a wager I took with a friend of mine in Gauteng, that by April next year we will climb Table Mountain – and because of a fairly serious fitness regime that I have been on, we decided to do the Lion’s Head thing, as a family.

Well, firstly, you need to hike for 15 minutes or so, from where your car is parked to the start. I thought that bode fairly ill. But nonetheless. The kids, of course were delighted. And their energy is completely boundless. So they scampered up the first bit, leaving us huffing and breathing threats in the background.

The views, as anyone who has done the climb will know, are spectacular. Luckily, the day was affording – neither too hot nor too cold. The ocean blue, fringed with white. The wind a light breeze. But it is when you start to think, “Oh, this isn’t so bad, after all”, that suddenly things start to deteriorate. The climb becomes fairly steep. You stop looking at the passing runners with beautiful legs and concentrate fully on the task at hand – trying to look even vaguely elegant as you scramble and crawl and grip the rock with bleeding fingernails. Because it is not for sissies. (Look, I have to say, it doesn’t require ropes and pick-axes, but on starts to understand why these things might be necessary in similar circumstances!)

There are some completely sheer drops. And to help the climber, the Table Mountain National Park authorities have thoughtfully erected some vicious looking barbed wire fences just before the drop, so that if you do slip, you would first rip out substantial pieces of flesh before plummeting to your certain death.

The other thing which is completely alarming (and completely uncharacteristic of Cairp Tahn) is that everybody greets everyone, both on the way up and the way down. Even more strange, is that people are fairly polite! They say thank you, if you give way to them! They smile sweetly at your children! They engage in polite conversation! This is not the Cairp Tahn I know at all!

So there you are, struggling to look elegant as you manoeuvre your way along a cliff face, and a random, unfamiliar Capetonian is mouthing a courteous “Hello” to you! It is too much for my time-addled brain. Too much I tell you! Too much for one day!

Oh, and the flowers. Did I mention the flowers? They are there and they are gorgeous. Some of them bold and extravagant. Some of them shy and understated. In every possible shape and glorious form.

Now, one thing – and this is nothing strange in Cairp Tahn generally – I could not fail to notice that 99% of the people up that mountain were white. The same was true, it also needs to be said, in the Drakensberg. Indeed, when I would mention to some of my black friends that I was going to climb a mountain – they would look at me as though they thought I needed urgent medical attention. What is this? Is it culture? Is it the kind of exposure one has had in one’s growing up? Is it because no friend has taken one and forced one to go and experience it? I really don’t know.

So, all in all, despite the fact that I am battling to lift a teacup to my mouth in the aftermath, a wonderful time was had by all. It was free, it was healthy and it was firsthand experience of our inestimable and unbelievably wonderful heritage.

Kentucky Fried Chicken and rape

There is an ad on television at the moment which really bothers me. A woman, with flowing locks buys a Kentucky fried something-or-other. She walks away. Suddenly, behind here, the camera focuses on the jeaned legs and skeechered feet of someone following her. Hurried steps. She glances over her shoulder. Starts to walk a little faster. The feet behind her step on relentlessly, purposefully. She glances again, nervously now, and the feet keep coming. She clutches her jacket around her purse. She starts to half run now. The music starts to build the tension. She runs, ducks between two pillars, then launches at the man and kicks him between the legs. As he drops to the floor in agony, he groans “You dropped your purse”.

“Sorry!” she says, looking wildly apologetic

Now, the humour of the ad is supposed to be, that she made a big mistake. Ha, ha, very funny! Here was this guy trying to do a good turn, and look what he gets as a reward! That is what it is supposed to mean. And I suppose, in a normal society, there would be some humour in it. But this is not a normal society. This is a society with one of the highest rape rates in the world. This is a society which has been so damaged by the violence and dehumanisation of apartheid that we are all collaterally affected by it, even though it is some 16 years dead. The effects of apartheid cannot be simply wished away – the violence remains. It is there, just below the surface. It makes itself felt in violence of one sort or another. And especially, it makes itself felt in violence against women.

Here is what bothers me. On national television there is being beamed a scenario, where the woman over-reacts to the situation. Isn’t that typical? – is what the ad is saying. Isn’t that the way women always react? A perfectly innocent situation is interpreted as something sinister! The man is misunderstood!

I think this is a really dangerous message, masquerading as a joke. And the fact that KFC, one of the most popular and powerful brands in the country – particularly amongst working class people – is flighting it, is really worrying. Seriously worrying. I would say reprehensible.

Caster Semenya and Eudy Simelane

It is a strange thing - and I have just heard - that Eudy Simelane murdered and raped Banyana Banyana i.e national South African Women's soccer team) captain was probably intersex as well.

Now, the issue is this. By what curious logic is Caster Semenya lauded by the politicians? By what logic is she recognised and rightly sought to be protected against the bungling of the IAAF and other bodies which have so thoroughly trodden on her rights as a human being - but on the Eudy Simelane issue - on the same issue - there is a virtual, if not absolute silence?

Because there are rights here also. It is just that the one's rights were so thoroughly unprotected, that she is dead.

Pic: Eudy Simelane, Times online

Indian Stir Fry Vegetables with Monkfish

This is my favourite recipe of the moment. Monkfish, in my day, used to be cooked to hell and back and then smothered with a seafood dressing of mayonaise and tomato sauce and served up as "mock crayfish". (We did live, I have to say, in the Transvaal, you understand - where anything could be cooked smothered in a mixture of mayonaise and tomato sauce and served as "mock crayfish"!) But Monkfish is really good for this dish, because it is fairly tough. You can use prawns, if you like, or even calamari. But if they are frozen, they need to be defrosted and not overcooked.

You need either an electric wok, or one of those ordinary wok pans, which are much easier to manage and do a single or double meal very well.

This recipe is from my absolute fave cookery book of the moment -

Healthy Indian Cooking, by Shezad Husein and Manisha Kanani, Hermes House 2007

Indian Stir Fry Vegetables with Monkfish

2T Oil - use olive or canola
2 medium onions sliced ( I also like to use leeks)
1t garlic pulp
1t ground cumin
1t ground coriander
1t chilli powder
175g Monkfish cut into cubes
2 t fresh fenugreek leaves or 1t fenugreek (methi)
2 tomatoes, sliced into fairly slim wedges
1 courgette, sliced
salt
1t limejuice

Method

Heat the oil in a wok and fry the onions over a low heat until soft. Meanwhile mix together the garlic, cumin, coriander and chilli. Stir into the onions and cook for about 1 minute.

Add the fish and continue to stir for about 3 - 5 minutes until it is cooked through.

Lastly add the fenugreek, tomatoes, courgette and salt to taste and cook for a further 2 minutes. Sprinkle with lime juice just before serving.

20th Anniversary of the 1989 Cape Town Peace March

There was a slight whiff of self-congratulation in the air in St George’s Cathedral, this afternoon, when people, many of whom are greying at the temples and thickening around the waist, from all walks of life gathered to celebrate and commemorate the 1989 Peace March. That, I think, is what most depressed me about it all. The whiff of self-congratulation.

I mean, it was a wonderful (and I think necessary) event. I was not in the march. I was in the march in Pietermaritzburg on exactly the same day. And during our march, news filtered through that some 30 000 people were marching in Cape Town, and that the government had done nothing to stop them.

The government did nothing to stop the Pietermaritzburg march either. I remember it well. We had organised it under the banner of the “Standing for the Truth” Campaign – which was, by and large, a cover for the Mass Democratic Movement. If memory serves me correctly, there must have been 10 000 at least people on the Pietermaritzburg March. It started with an interfaith service in the Cathedral. And then leaders of the faith community strode into what was then Longmarket Street. They (and I with them) wore full clerical garb. I remember marching next to the Revd Victor Afrikander. We sang revolutionary songs; we shouted slogans; we raised our fists and chanted “Amandla!”It was heady stuff indeed.

I remember looking up at the offices above what was then Longmarket Street and seeing, far above us, framed by windows, white office workers watching us pass by. I remember the discipline of the marshals, who kept the massive crowd in order and off the pavements. I remember the sullen policemen (they were all men) in cars watching us, but doing nothing. I remember the security police from the balcony of their dreaded headquarters in Loop street, filming us as we stopped to deliver our memorandum to them.

I remember the huge hope we had. I remember our bravery and our sense of purpose. I remember our complete, racially non-divided sense of justice and of what needed to be done to achieve it. I remember all that.

Cheryl Carolis was one of the speakers at today’s event. I think she could be captivating even if she were drunk. She is, and always has been, one hell of a speaker. She said something which I found so extraordinarily pertinent. She spoke of the fact that since the age of 13, she gave her life to the struggle. She made up her mind, that early, that freedom was something she was prepared to die for. She says she thought that freedom was not something which would happen in her life time (neither did I, I must confess).

And then we had it. One day, De Klerk announced that the Movement was unbanned; the leaders were released and we marched triumphantly to freedom. It was just like that! It happened just like that. And then, somewhere down the line - beyond the euphoria, and the rainbow nation, and the South African miracle – unsettling things started happening. The strict codes of ethics which the liberation movements had maintained, started to blur a little; the high moral standards; the noble ideals; the unassailable standards – these started to wash away. At first imperceptibly, but then it became a definite trickle, then a stream, then a rivulet and eventually there was no more place to stand.

“And it happened on our watch”, said Cheryl Carolis. “On your watch and mine”. I felt my blood rise to my face in shame and recognition. Because it is true. We have let things go. We have not spoken out when we should have. We have kept silent, or muted our criticism. We have done so – all of us.

She also said, at another point in her speech, that she found it just a little bit insulting when the people who were so enthusiastically implementing apartheid, started telling “us” how to implement democracy. Yes, I agree. It is irritating. But is it necessarily invalid? After freedom, we were all free. Even the implementers of apartheid. That was the necessary consequence of freedom. And freedom doesn’t only apply to certain categories of people. It applies to everyone.

The thing is, all is not right here. (Neither is everything wrong – but I am not talking about those things). All is not right, and those of us who marched for freedom in 1989, should also be prepared to march, in whatever way may be required now, to protect that freedom which we won back then.

Caster Semenya and the intersex row

Pic: Sally Gross from Intersex South Africa

As I said when I commented before, Caster Semenya has unwittingly raised the debate about intersex in a way which we have never before experienced in this country. Because now we have the possible anomaly of an intersex person, who is a national hero (I use the word generically), who is black and who has been unbelievably badly treated by the media, the IAAF, and by every bigot in and out of town, the world over.

Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, as she usually manages to do, was in the right place, saying the right things. It is extraordinary to me how she manages to do this - and I say this with the utmost respect and admiration. Because few others of her ilk do the same. If there are flood victims, she is there. If some white shoots black kids on a farm somewhere, she is there. If someone like Caster Semenya is abused by the media after a stunning world championship, she is at the airport to greet her. I have always admired Madikizela-Mandela, despite her many flaws.

But South Africa as a whole, for the first time in history, has had to face the issue of intersex. The radio stations have been jammed with people expressing their opinions on the matter. You will hear it discussed in the lift. I just saw a long interview on the television with Sally Gross, who heads Intersex South Africa talking about the difficulties which intersex people have, the challenges they are faced with, the prevalence of the thing (she said that in South Africa it is as high as 1/500 – as opposed to a world average of 1/2000, which is still pretty high!)

I remember years ago, when I was a priest in rural Lesotho, having to trek for miles into the mountain to a really rural village to bury an extremely old woman. When we got to the village, we found it in trauma. The old lady had been someone everyone in the village had grown up with. Everyone knew her, and loved her. But when the body was washed before burial, it was discovered that she had male genitalia. The discovery traumatised the entire village.

And the same sort of thing is what has happened with Caster Semenya. The official report is still to be released, but bigots should take no comfort in that at all – because the findings seem to have been leaked. She is, in all likelihood, intersex. And sport, like religion, it would appear, does not have a category for anything other than the binary male/female formula. And the people are traumatised because of it.

One wonders why? If this is a condition which is as prevalent as it appears to be, then why is this all so much of a surprise? I note, in the newspapers, at the same time as this story is breaking, that there is another – saying that conservative churches in South Africa, with apparent close ties to the ruling African National Congress, are starting to lobby hard on getting rights guaranteed to Gay and Lesbian people, removed from the statute books, and presumably also, the Constitution.

I would ask them (but of course, they will not hear and nor will they answer intelligibly) just to pause for a moment or two before they rush headlong over the Gadarene cliff, to consider Caster Semenya. Who made her the way she is? Is it her parents fault perhaps? Is it God’s? Or is it just a feature of as yet uncelebrated human diversity?

The salutary point is that often, things are not quite what they might seem. And books should not be judged by covers. And the human species is hugely diverse.

Our Canadian Refugee

A friend of mine, whom I visited yesterday in Johannesburg wondered why on earth there was so much publicity, here, around Brandon Huntley – the 31 year old “crime refugee”, who has somehow managed the Refugee board in Canada to believe his ludicrous stories about being repeatedly and violently attacked by black South Africans. I think the reason is simple.

No-one is going to claim that there is no violence in our society. No-one is going to claim that there is no racism in our society. And no-one is immune from either of those. And, I suppose, there is no comparison between Canada and South Africa in that regard. But the issue is this. We have come through an extremely violent history. An extreme, one-sidedly racist, violent history. And that violent racism was honed to perfection, not by black people, but by whites. It cannot be a surprise – not even to Canadians – that there are consequences to that history.

And the thing is, the transfer of power from a violent, racist minority, to the remarkably democratic majority has been unbelievably peaceful. That has been the reality for white South Africans. By and large, white people are still living in luxury; they still have access to the best education; they still have jobs, and salaries and cars and bank accounts. That is the reality.

So, to base one’s claim on a fiction, is not only outrageous, it is profoundly disingenuous and extremely disturbing. That is why his case has evoked such anger. (Of course, those people who have actually been criminalised or attacked have come out in support – but they would be extremely unwise to see this man as their mouthpiece.)

After first trying to get citizenship through marriage, his next alternative was to paint himself as a victim. But he does so with no regard for anything but his own wellbeing and his own extremely selfish needs and wants.

There is an interesting article in today’s “Star” newspaper, where social historian Patric Tariq Mellet, who apparently shares common ancestry with Huntley, says that both he and Huntley descend from a woman of colour – Francina van der Kaap. She was great-great grandmother to both of them.

And so it is for most of us so called “white” South Africans. It is certainly the case for me and my family, and I tried to capture some of that sort of story in my recent novel. We all share a common history. We all share a common heritage. It is not something from which any of us can easily escape. Rather than trying to escape it, surely the challenge is to make our future safe and secure for everyone? Democracy, and the long struggle which that entailed, has made that future a real possibility.

My novel:
Remittance Man by Michael Worsnip, UKZN press, Pietermaritzburg, 2007

Gay images of Jesus

I love these three images, two of which are based on the famous "Consolator" of Carl Bloch (centre). I don't know where the Marilyn Monroe piece comes from, but the gay iconic spoof is from Elizabeth Ohlson-Wallin's "Ecce Homo" series.

The thing about the two alternative takes on the "Consolator", is that they both make exactly the same point. They foreground, and explicitly sexualise the adoration aspect of the painting. I suppose, in the heterosexual version, one may want to update the sexual iconography a bit, by substituting the head and body of Megan Fox, for instance. The gay one speaks a particular iconographic language of a particular, but very recognisable sub-culture.

Now, how come only certain options are available? How come the vocabulary and grammar of religious iconography has been so completely hi-jacked and owned by heterosexual imagists? Naturally, it has to do with the power of the majority. But how come, when the church talks of "listening" to gay people and "dialogue" with us, that our language, our grammar, our vocabulary is not up for discussion?

Trans-racial parenting

Pic - Getty Images

I have written quite about this in this blog before - so I was interested to read a satirical article recently on the site "Parent 24" by Sipho Yanana, entitled "My white son", where the author (black) contemplates adopting a white child - and how that child would be brought up. The article itself is really good - but the comments, or some of them at least, are fairly indicative of the state of intellectual play about this issue.

However, an interesting aside. Our childminder came home today, after a weekend of Zionist church services (which involves, she tells us, singing, praying, dancing and tea drinking - tea without milk or sugar - which is described as the "Tea of life"). She got a lift with a fellow Zionist, who is apparently also working for two white gay men who have adopted children. Except, in this case, the children which have been adopted were imported from Europe, and are white.

I remember having pause for thought, many years back, while I was living in the UK, when I heard that social services there would not allow adoptions trans racially. I wondered, for a moment, whether this might be racist. But thinking about it, I came to realise that, it probably is not. We do not, after all, live in a perfect world. And the needs of the child, of course, need to be paramount. I discovered, when we were going through our own adoption process, that even here in South Africa, social welfare will try, as much as possible to pair like with like. So, for instance, if there is a black child, black parents will be preferred. If there is an Indian child, a coloured child - these would be matched, as far as possible with their racial equivalents.

Of course, it isn't always possible - and then the default position is to match a child with loving, willing and able parents, rather than let the child languish in a home. And I think also, though it was never said, that if a child can be placed in a heterosexual home, that would be preferred to a same-sexed arrangement.

And the reason would be this - that it is just easier! It is much easier not to stick out like a sore thumb in public. It is much easier not to have to explain why you are a different colour from your parents. It is much easier to be in a "normal" environment, than one which is uncommon. That is why it would be preferred.

What do I think about that? I think it is probably correct. Does that mean that we should put an end to trans-racial adoptions, or adoptions by homosexuals - not at all! But I don't think we should be so naive as to ignore the problems, both potential and real.

The link to the article is

http://www.parent24.com/Content/Getting_pregnant/adoption/2151/2ee5d683100f4ac6b86695187a065fdf/31-08-2009%2011-08/My_white_son_

Football, Art and Religion

I attended the opening of an exhibition by Port Elizabeth artist, Duncan Stewart, at the Ron Belling art gallery, in the city. The exhibition was entitled “Football: a dialogue for Hope”.

From the invite, it was a bit difficult to know what to expect. On arrival, as I fought my way through the crowds to get in, I saw the Organising Committee’s Danny Jordaan and his wife, Roxanne, whom I knew from many years ago, as a theologian. It was really good to see her again. I remember the level of awe in which we all held her in the 1980s. Women theologians were, then, a rarity. Black women theologians were even rarer. Black women theologians who actually spoke to white theologians and didn’t have a rather large carrot up their rear ends, were probably singular – so I was pleased to see her again. And glad that she remembered me.

To my surprise, she was called upon to open the proceedings with a prayer. I listened closely to her careful choice of words. No “Lord”; no “father God”. Everything she said was deeply generic and inclusive.

Not so with the artist. The artist was clearly a vocal Christian of some description, who did not hesitate to tell us that he was, in some detail. He explained that this was the basis of his art and his exhibition. That is why he had entitled the exhibition “Dialogue for Hope”. He had a very strong feeling that “the Lord would be using the 2010 event to do wonderful things for South Africa”.

I raised the matter with Roxanne Jordaan. I said isn’t it a bit of a problem when there is such a heavy infusion of Christianity into an event such as this? She agreed. She explained that for that reason she had been careful to use as much inclusive language as possible in her prayer. She said that, of course, that is the place where this particular artist, whom she seemed to know fairly well, happens to be – so one should see it as that.

Now, I do wonder about this. Recently, I had the experience of a sponsor – a very large FIFA partner (which for the sake of momentary charity on my part will remain nameless) stood up on the state at a Public Viewing Area and asked the audience to please bow their heads. I thought I had heard wrong. But no, he ploughed on relentlessly. “Father God”, he continued, “We would just like to thank you for bringing us to this place, Lord, and blessing us so mightily”. At this point I was frantically calling the event organiser to shut him up and get him forcibly removed from the stage. But no, he continued – “And Jesus, I just wanna ask you to bless each and every person here tonight and to pour your Holy Spirit into their lives”. And so it continued and continued. He ended with the flourish of telling the assembled people of Plettenberg Bay that he loved each and every one of them and he prayed God would bless them powerfully. By the time I had reached the stage to physically drag him off it, if need be, he was gone.

The sheer arrogance of the man was astonishing. This was, after all, a government event. We are, thank God, a secular state. Nevertheless, he thought it appropriate to impose his peculiar form of Christian belief on the crowd, simply because he was in the kind of position of power that gave him access to the microphone.

Now I am not suggesting the same for Duncan Stewart, who seemed to me to be entirely sincere in what he was doing and entirely within his rights. The only point I am making, is that in these kinds of public spaces, there is a level of appropriateness which becomes extraordinarily difficult when a fairly overtly, and singular, religious position is brandished.

Stewart's work is fairly subtle in this regard. There are hints and flashes of Christian themes all over the place. For instance, the charcoal drawing he gave to Danny Jordaan as a gift was an aerial view of the Port Elizabeth stadium – but with a large plastic fork in the middle of it, making it look very much like an aluminium airline dinner server. The title of that work is “Feeding the Multitudes”.

Generally, Stewart’s art was not my taste. I find this kind of slightly sentimental, hidden allusion stuff, rather irritating. But there was one piece which, I have to say, blew me away. In the crush, I almost tripped over it – it was a bronze piece, lying in a corner of the staircase. No title. A street child, lying on a piece of cardboard. A discarded KFC box (I think it should have been MacDonalds, as a FIFA sponsor) and a crushed Coke can lying nearby. The child is asleep, and clutching a football. It is a brilliant piece. It is evocative. It is touching. It speaks to the very heart of the matter.

The rest, with titles like “Bafana Bafana 2040” were really, to my mind anyway, just a bit too sentimental and just a bit too obvious. But that one piece, will live with me forever. That is real art, to my mind. That is the essence of religion.

Poor, set-upon white boy gets asylum in Canada

At the same time that the End Conscription Campaign is celebrating its 25th anniversary, a South African man has been granted refugee status by Canada's immigration and refugee board, which apparently found "clear and convincing proof" he was persecuted for being white.

The Board’s panel chair, William Davis said in the decision that Brandon Huntley (31), "would stand out like a 'sore thumb' due to his colour in any part of the country". Davis found Huntley "was a victim because of his race rather than a victim of criminality". Davis said he found Huntley a credible witness as his story was consistent and "plausible". Lara Kaplan – another White South African (and the sister of his lawyer) whom he used as a witness, apparently enhanced and supported his claims that "persecution of white South Africans by African South Africans (is) a common event today in South Africa". Apparently Huntley also said he had been able to find employment only because of family connections. He was otherwise prohibited from finding work by the country's affirmative action policies.

Huntley, who grew up in Mowbray, said he had been attacked seven times and stabbed four times "by African South Africans" between 1991 and 2003. Huntley told the tribunal he had been called "a white dog" and "a settler" when attacked. He had not bothered to report any of the attacks to the police because "the majority of them are South Africans and he did not trust them".

I have to tell you, I find this exceedingly difficult to believe. Mowbray is hardly the Wild West. Mowbray is a fairly sedate, fairly quiet little middle class suburb, not 10 minutes from where I live. To get himself attacked by “African South Africans” seven times and stabbed 4 times, he must either have been utterly provocative, extraordinarily stupid, or he dealt in drugs. There can be no other explanation for it. Because I have lived 52 years in this country and never – not once – have I ever been attacked, assaulted, or called racist terms by any “African South African” – aka black. Furthermore, I have been working in a GOVERNMENT job, as a white South African, for the past 11 years. And in my present job, I am surrounded by white South Africans - far too many of them proportionately - who are also working in a government job.

Oh, there could be another possibility, of course. Brandon Huntley, (31) formerly of Mowbray, could also be a disgusting, self-serving liar. That is also a possibility. And, I want to say, a much stronger possibility than his being a poor little set-upon white boy, whom horrible racist blacks want to tear limb from limb and persecute.

I do sincerely hope that this opens the gates for other “non African, South Africans” (is that what they are calling themselves?) - aka white people, like Huntley to pack their bags and leave. Personally, I am deeply ashamed to be even vaguely racially associated with his ilk. He certainly does not speak for me. It’s just a crying pity that he speaks for so many other deluded, ungrateful, revolting leeches like himself. Canada is very welcome to have him. I hope he never returns here, for any reason. I hope he is never allowed to – but I know that won’t happen.

But the really disturbing thing about the whole matter is not that we have racist whites in South Africa - because that is the basis for all of this. What is really disturbing is the Canadians! What the hell are they thinking? And who are the idiots who sit on this board? And what does the Canadian government have to say about this complete and utter nonsense?