I hate to admit it. In fact, it is probably dangerous to admit it. But I am. I really am a Mandela dissident! I have to confess to being more than a bit bewildered by the "proclamation" of "Mandela Day". As I am by the extraordinary zeal that there is, in his universal and international adoration.
Now, let me say immediately that of course he is a wonderful human being. Of course he is! And I have no doubt that these musings of mine will be swept aside on the tide of popularism, but these are some of the things which alarm me:
Firstly, I have a real problem with political and national deification. Analysis later on almost always proves the greatest heroes to be flawed, in one way or another. Think of the Churchills; the Malans; the Smuts's; perhaps even the Gandhis and the Nehrus. Time exposes them and their flaws lie there in ridged profile against the sky, for all to see. And what becomes completely clear, with the benefit of hindsight, is how time and context bound each of them are.
Secondly, popular opinion is a very unreliable test of sainthood. Hitler, after all, was an exceedingly popular man.
Thirdly. Have we forgotten the Arms deal? I think, somewhere down the line, when all the euphoria and adulation has died down, this single deal, under Mandela's presidency, will prove to be the source of a great deal of the poison in South African society today.
Fourthly, despite occasional, weak appeals to the contrary, a cult of personality (benign though it might be) has been allowed to develop - not only within the ANC, but within the country as a whole. And that, to my mind is going to be our great undoing. It is anathema to the ANC - or at least it was, during Oliver Tambo's time. And the fact that it is allowed - (and now more than encouraged, it is virtually institutionalised) is, (or at least should be) a very worrying development.
The result has been to take the sting out of ANC policy - and replace it with warm fuzzy feelings, while the crooks can just get on with their business. And is it not extremely strange that Mandela - the man - can somehow be divorced from the ANC as an organisation, in some sectors of the popular mind? Because it is one thing to love Mandela and call him "Tata". It is quite another to accept that his vision for the country is an ANC vision, and always has been. On the other hand, the annual hullabaloo about Nelson Mandela seems to have absolutely no impact on the divisions and ructions within the ruling party. Everything just carries on as it has before, after brief pause of tearful adulation.
Fifthly, I do not believe that one can heal either the racism endemic in our society, or issues of economic disempowerment, by creating fantasy all the time. That, after all, is what the 2010 FIFA World Cup was all about. We all walked around in a fantasy - the fantasy was that we all love each other and that we are all happy together; the fantasy was that we can all walk around at night in big cities in fancy dress, without looking over one's shoulder all the time.
Mandela is another fantasy. He is the fantasy that we all love each other and respect each other and do good for each other. He is the fantasy that we are a major player on the world stage and that the world gives a fig about us. He is the fantasy that personal sacrifice and hardship will do good to everyone generally.
So we can love Mandela and underpay our workers. We can love Mandela and be an unconverted racist on every other matter. We can love Mandela and steal the state coffers blind. We can threaten and kill foreigners who come from other African countries and ignore the fact that Graca Machel comes from Mozambique. We can do it, because we can hoist the fantasy - and everyone will be so busy cheering and waving flags in an orgy of patriotism and fuzzy feeling that they don't see the wood for the economic trees.
Lastly, and in this regard, I don't think that Nelson Mandela can take very much credit for the fundamental task of changing the lot of the poor in this country. Yes, he got Oprah to build an elite school here, and other rich people to donate towards this hospital and that child clinic there. But the lot of the poor remains - to this day - mostly unchanged. That is Mandela's other legacy.
Showing posts with label 2010 FIFA World Cup. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2010 FIFA World Cup. Show all posts
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Why I hate flag-waving
When I was working as a priest in Manchester, England, there were one or two things I battled with in the realm of the Church of England, as the Established church. The Queen is the head of that church. That struck me as more than odd. And allied with that the national flag, the Union Jack, is every now and again brought into the sanctuary and left to stand there proudly. On nationalistic occasions, like Armistice Day and on other peculiar occasions, like when the Scouts and Girl Guides have a Sunday parade and when various military regiments, which are somehow attached to the church (in ways I could simply never fathom), come and celebrate this or that.
It made my skin crawl. I felt the hair standing out on the back of my neck. Because I looked at that flag, not as an insider, but as an outsider. I saw it, in my mind's eye, fluttering over God knows how many battlefields throughout the world, including many in my own country. I saw it as a symbol of colonial domination and power. I saw it as a symbol of a great deal of evil, to go with all the trumpeted benefits which it was supposed to bring throughout the Empire, when the Empire was viable. I could not pay it any honour. And I would not.
I can remember the first time I saw the new South African flag. It was flying late in that heady period betwixt the release of release of political prisoners and the inauguration of the new democratic state. It was flying, for no apparent reason, on a semi-famous landmark in Johannesburg - Gallagher's corner, in Orange Grove.
I slowed my car down to a crawl and savoured the moment. I wept, like everyone else, when the helicopters flew the new flag at the inauguration of our first democratic President. My heart skipped a beat, for a while after that, every time I saw it on a government building.
And now, the flag is, undoubtedly, a significant focus of unity, in the context of the 2010 FIFA World Cup. Faces are painted in its colours. Shirts and socks and hats and scarves. The commercial opportunities seem to be endless - and especially for those highly inventive Chinese, who make most of it.
But by identifying oneself so visibly as one thing, you are, almost by definition, identifying others as another thing. We celebrate being South African. And that does not include Zimbabweans, or Nigerians. It is explicit in its exclusions. There are those inside and there are those outside. That is just the way it is. That is the way it is designed to be. That is the function it serves.
And then we lose. And then the flag-painted Vuvuzelas go quiet. And fewer flags flutter on the cars. And fewer faces are painted. And a national gloom settles in, while others are raised high in victory.
That is the problem. Because flags inevitably make an "us" and a "them". That is what they do. That is what they are designed to do. And it is a short step away from "them" taking "our" jobs. "Them", the criminals and "us" the victims. "Them", who shouldn't be allowed into "our" country. That is what flags do. They engender nationalism. It starts off with a thing called "national pride" and if not extremely carefully controlled in a very sophisticated way, it ends up in xenophobic violence.
While I am happy to acknowledge the role our flag has played in enabling South Africans to find each other, then and now, I remain deeply suspicious and extremely wary. Because waving a flag does not make one patriotic. Criminals can wave flags and sing the national anthem with the rest of us. I see people speeding past me on the highway, talking on the cellphones on their ears, with numerous flags a-flutter on their cars. It is the way one lives, as a South African, that reveals one's true patriotism, not the flag one flies.
It made my skin crawl. I felt the hair standing out on the back of my neck. Because I looked at that flag, not as an insider, but as an outsider. I saw it, in my mind's eye, fluttering over God knows how many battlefields throughout the world, including many in my own country. I saw it as a symbol of colonial domination and power. I saw it as a symbol of a great deal of evil, to go with all the trumpeted benefits which it was supposed to bring throughout the Empire, when the Empire was viable. I could not pay it any honour. And I would not.
I can remember the first time I saw the new South African flag. It was flying late in that heady period betwixt the release of release of political prisoners and the inauguration of the new democratic state. It was flying, for no apparent reason, on a semi-famous landmark in Johannesburg - Gallagher's corner, in Orange Grove.
I slowed my car down to a crawl and savoured the moment. I wept, like everyone else, when the helicopters flew the new flag at the inauguration of our first democratic President. My heart skipped a beat, for a while after that, every time I saw it on a government building.
And now, the flag is, undoubtedly, a significant focus of unity, in the context of the 2010 FIFA World Cup. Faces are painted in its colours. Shirts and socks and hats and scarves. The commercial opportunities seem to be endless - and especially for those highly inventive Chinese, who make most of it.
But by identifying oneself so visibly as one thing, you are, almost by definition, identifying others as another thing. We celebrate being South African. And that does not include Zimbabweans, or Nigerians. It is explicit in its exclusions. There are those inside and there are those outside. That is just the way it is. That is the way it is designed to be. That is the function it serves.
And then we lose. And then the flag-painted Vuvuzelas go quiet. And fewer flags flutter on the cars. And fewer faces are painted. And a national gloom settles in, while others are raised high in victory.
That is the problem. Because flags inevitably make an "us" and a "them". That is what they do. That is what they are designed to do. And it is a short step away from "them" taking "our" jobs. "Them", the criminals and "us" the victims. "Them", who shouldn't be allowed into "our" country. That is what flags do. They engender nationalism. It starts off with a thing called "national pride" and if not extremely carefully controlled in a very sophisticated way, it ends up in xenophobic violence.
While I am happy to acknowledge the role our flag has played in enabling South Africans to find each other, then and now, I remain deeply suspicious and extremely wary. Because waving a flag does not make one patriotic. Criminals can wave flags and sing the national anthem with the rest of us. I see people speeding past me on the highway, talking on the cellphones on their ears, with numerous flags a-flutter on their cars. It is the way one lives, as a South African, that reveals one's true patriotism, not the flag one flies.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Patriotism, nationalism and the rest...
The country, at the moment, is going through a surge of patriotism. There are flags everywhere. Sometimes they are the right way up and sometimes not. Sometimes cars have socks over their rear-view mirrors. Sometimes they have flags on the aerial. Sometimes they have flags on the boot, the bonnet, the windows. And sometimes, on all of these.
What I find astonishing is that white people who, a year or two ago were sneering, and saying we would never be ready, and the crime rate, and bemoaning how boring soccer is in comparison to rugby, these are now festooning their cars with flags. And, don’t get me wrong, I don’t see anything essentially wrong with that.
Is it that there has been a sea-change in the way in which people are looking at their country? Are they displaying pride in the achievement of getting ready for the event? I hear discussions about the 2010 FIFA World Cup in the changerooms at the gym. Whereas before, white men would be dismissive and churlish about it, suddenly they are speaking authoritatively about it. They have opinions on who is going to win. They have all been to see something in the stadium – and they are impressed. They like this player, that team and this coach. It is a remarkable and noteworthy change.
Clearly, the sport of football will never be the same again in this country. Young children are bewitched by it – mine are, and I am not a soccer fan. The blue eyed boy of apartheid – rugby – is now joined by a fairly well resourced competitor. At the moment, there is only one game in town and its balls are round.
And it is true that when you watch television broadcasts of South Africans singing the national anthem, a lot of whites still do not know anything other than the English and Afrikaans parts of it, while a lot of blacks either do not know (or refuse to sing) the English and Afrikaans, or they refuse to sing it.
But generally, despite things like this, there is a general outpouring of patriotism.
Now, simultaneously with this experience, I have been having some – well, “discussions” would be too grand a term for these things – but let us say “interchanges” with a range of my friends on Facebook, about Israel and the recent international outrage which the Israeli government has committed with the “Freedom Flotilla”, leaving 9 people dead. Some of my harder core Jewish friends – maybe even Zionist friends – are infuriated that I should even think such a thing. Because to them it seems, Israel is not capable of doing wrong. It is only “them” - Muslims, Arabs and non-Jews who do terrible things to Israel.
It has frequently become extremely nasty indeed, these Facebook inter-changes. It happens whenever I, or anyone else associated with me, takes a negative view of Israel. And it has given me pause for some serious thought on the issue of patriotism.
Because, if I am honest, I have to say that I am deeply suspicious of patriotism, in any form and in any guise. When I see flags fluttering in the wind in numbers, I see Nazi Germany. I see the kind of fervour which that maniac Hitler was able to whip up and the way in which that entire nation, young and old, were enthralled. And I hate it with every fibre of my being. It is that kind of stuff which enables evil to be baptised good. And I cannot but see the same thing happening in Israel today. It is a strange and curious irony indeed.
I think, in the case of Israel, that the land has been deified. To the extent that it needs to be served unconditionally. To the extent that it has power to demand absolute loyalty and allegiance. To the extent that some people are prepared to defend it against any and all odds. To the near hysterical responses to even the mildest criticism. This is the behaviour of a worshipper – a devotee - not a citizen.
And it is this worship of the land that I fear so much. Here, the xenophobic attacks that have happened are usually based on gross ignorance; on lack of analysis and education; and on huge doses of selfishness and ingratitude. But what it finally based on? It is based on this thing called being “South African”. And that “being South African” can somehow be used to justify terror, murder, robbery, and that thing which the bible (in the story of Sodom) identifies as virtually unforgivable, inhospitality.
It is the same with Israel. It was the same in Nazi Germany. It was the same in apartheid South Africa. It is horrific.
What I find astonishing is that white people who, a year or two ago were sneering, and saying we would never be ready, and the crime rate, and bemoaning how boring soccer is in comparison to rugby, these are now festooning their cars with flags. And, don’t get me wrong, I don’t see anything essentially wrong with that.
Is it that there has been a sea-change in the way in which people are looking at their country? Are they displaying pride in the achievement of getting ready for the event? I hear discussions about the 2010 FIFA World Cup in the changerooms at the gym. Whereas before, white men would be dismissive and churlish about it, suddenly they are speaking authoritatively about it. They have opinions on who is going to win. They have all been to see something in the stadium – and they are impressed. They like this player, that team and this coach. It is a remarkable and noteworthy change.
Clearly, the sport of football will never be the same again in this country. Young children are bewitched by it – mine are, and I am not a soccer fan. The blue eyed boy of apartheid – rugby – is now joined by a fairly well resourced competitor. At the moment, there is only one game in town and its balls are round.
And it is true that when you watch television broadcasts of South Africans singing the national anthem, a lot of whites still do not know anything other than the English and Afrikaans parts of it, while a lot of blacks either do not know (or refuse to sing) the English and Afrikaans, or they refuse to sing it.
But generally, despite things like this, there is a general outpouring of patriotism.
Now, simultaneously with this experience, I have been having some – well, “discussions” would be too grand a term for these things – but let us say “interchanges” with a range of my friends on Facebook, about Israel and the recent international outrage which the Israeli government has committed with the “Freedom Flotilla”, leaving 9 people dead. Some of my harder core Jewish friends – maybe even Zionist friends – are infuriated that I should even think such a thing. Because to them it seems, Israel is not capable of doing wrong. It is only “them” - Muslims, Arabs and non-Jews who do terrible things to Israel.
It has frequently become extremely nasty indeed, these Facebook inter-changes. It happens whenever I, or anyone else associated with me, takes a negative view of Israel. And it has given me pause for some serious thought on the issue of patriotism.
Because, if I am honest, I have to say that I am deeply suspicious of patriotism, in any form and in any guise. When I see flags fluttering in the wind in numbers, I see Nazi Germany. I see the kind of fervour which that maniac Hitler was able to whip up and the way in which that entire nation, young and old, were enthralled. And I hate it with every fibre of my being. It is that kind of stuff which enables evil to be baptised good. And I cannot but see the same thing happening in Israel today. It is a strange and curious irony indeed.
I think, in the case of Israel, that the land has been deified. To the extent that it needs to be served unconditionally. To the extent that it has power to demand absolute loyalty and allegiance. To the extent that some people are prepared to defend it against any and all odds. To the near hysterical responses to even the mildest criticism. This is the behaviour of a worshipper – a devotee - not a citizen.
And it is this worship of the land that I fear so much. Here, the xenophobic attacks that have happened are usually based on gross ignorance; on lack of analysis and education; and on huge doses of selfishness and ingratitude. But what it finally based on? It is based on this thing called being “South African”. And that “being South African” can somehow be used to justify terror, murder, robbery, and that thing which the bible (in the story of Sodom) identifies as virtually unforgivable, inhospitality.
It is the same with Israel. It was the same in Nazi Germany. It was the same in apartheid South Africa. It is horrific.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Facebook and other vices
Driving manically around the Western Cape Province, as I am at the moment, in the vain attempt to get everything ready for the hoards which are supposed to be arriving from abroad for the 2010 FIFA World Cup, and the hoards which I know will be pitching up at Provincial Public Viewing Areas, I get to listen to quite a bit of radio.
And on one programme, there was an interview regarding the new privacy settings on Facebook. Apparently, there is an issue. There has been something of a revolt in the Facebook community and Facebook has responded to it by upping the ante in relation to privacy settings. As I understand things, it has something to do with who can see your profile. The person who was being interviewed said that he didn’t do much Facebooking, because he was rather old fashioned in relation to friendships. He didn’t want to have such a wide circle of friends able to read everything he said to all his other friends. And that got me thinking.
When I first encountered Facebook, introduced as I was by my internet connected partner, I was appalled by it. I was appalled by the level of inanity I encountered. There were people I was connected to (in one way or another) telling me what they had for lunch; what they thought of the weather; what they thought about random issues; what they liked at that particular moment, or not; what happened to them in the lift, and so on.
There were pictures of all sorts of things one would normally avoid, unless one were to be trapped in one of those “Oh, I must show you my pictures of my trip to Venice” moments. There were groups about this and groups about that. There were causes about this and causes about that. There was an unbelievably witless thing, which I never got to the bottom of called “Farmville”. There were suggestions about who I might like to befriend, even though I had never met them before. And so it went.
I wanted out immediately. To my horror, I discovered that it was impossible to delete one’s profile. You could sort of make it dormant, but never delete it. I made it dormant and felt extremely relieved. My partner smiled wistfully and just carried on with his Facebooking and Tweeting and all the other things he does on the internet.
It didn’t take long and I was back. Doing many of the things which had so repelled me in the first instance. There was (and is), to be sure, a kind of social voyeurism, which is satisfied by it. I have discovered the block button and have blocked all the wildly Evangelical Christians and irritating racists I had somehow managed to get entangled with. If I get a friend request from someone I have never heard of, with no explanation or context, I just ignore it. I seldom – very seldom - join causes, no matter how important they might seem. I automatically delete (or is the word “unfriend”) anyone with anything to do with Farmville. And I have to say, I am a whole lot happier about my association with Facebook. I did have one extremely unpleasant encounter, with someone I was not connected to and the incident warned me that this mechanism could be less than benign. But despite it, I have continued.
But I have to wonder, is the whole thing just simply narcissistic? I have a whole lot of friends who are not on Facebook, and when I think about it, they are my closest friends. Most of them are not on Facebook because they either don’t have the computer literacy, or because they have taken a deliberate decision not to be. And we service each other as we always have done. We occasionally call each other to catch up on news. Perhaps we email each other. We see each other for a meal. We go to each other’s houses and talk to each other.
And all the bits which happen between encounters are filtered. They are either ignored, or they are selected for updating. But they are seldom paraded in a completely unessential fashion. Let me give an instance in my own Facebook behaviour, which is perhaps questionable.
I often go onto Facebook and read about everyone else’s day. Then I think, “Well, what can I say?” Now my day, believe me, is seldom anything interesting enough to publish. “I sat in a meeting for most of the day, listening to people jabber on about boring things”. There is nothing interesting or even mildly curious about that. Why would you tell anyone about it?
So then I think, well why not put what I am listening to at the moment. So I put “is listening to … (some fairly obscure 20th century composer)’s … (equally obscure piece in a foreign language)…”. And I often get responses to that. By the one or two or three people on my list who either have actually heard that piece, or who have heard it and liked it and are glad that there is another person in the universe who likes it as well.
So why do it do it? Why do I tell EVERYONE connected to me what piece of music I am listening to? Isn’t that as bad as telling everyone my dream last night? Or the menu I am planning for my next dinner party, to which they are not invited?
Well, I don’t know, fully. I think there is an element of conceit in it. And curiosity – exploring the off-chance that there are others in the universe with a similar mien. I also think there is an element of neighbourliness. I suppose it all depends, psychologically, which element is dominant in one’s personality.
And on one programme, there was an interview regarding the new privacy settings on Facebook. Apparently, there is an issue. There has been something of a revolt in the Facebook community and Facebook has responded to it by upping the ante in relation to privacy settings. As I understand things, it has something to do with who can see your profile. The person who was being interviewed said that he didn’t do much Facebooking, because he was rather old fashioned in relation to friendships. He didn’t want to have such a wide circle of friends able to read everything he said to all his other friends. And that got me thinking.
When I first encountered Facebook, introduced as I was by my internet connected partner, I was appalled by it. I was appalled by the level of inanity I encountered. There were people I was connected to (in one way or another) telling me what they had for lunch; what they thought of the weather; what they thought about random issues; what they liked at that particular moment, or not; what happened to them in the lift, and so on.
There were pictures of all sorts of things one would normally avoid, unless one were to be trapped in one of those “Oh, I must show you my pictures of my trip to Venice” moments. There were groups about this and groups about that. There were causes about this and causes about that. There was an unbelievably witless thing, which I never got to the bottom of called “Farmville”. There were suggestions about who I might like to befriend, even though I had never met them before. And so it went.
I wanted out immediately. To my horror, I discovered that it was impossible to delete one’s profile. You could sort of make it dormant, but never delete it. I made it dormant and felt extremely relieved. My partner smiled wistfully and just carried on with his Facebooking and Tweeting and all the other things he does on the internet.
It didn’t take long and I was back. Doing many of the things which had so repelled me in the first instance. There was (and is), to be sure, a kind of social voyeurism, which is satisfied by it. I have discovered the block button and have blocked all the wildly Evangelical Christians and irritating racists I had somehow managed to get entangled with. If I get a friend request from someone I have never heard of, with no explanation or context, I just ignore it. I seldom – very seldom - join causes, no matter how important they might seem. I automatically delete (or is the word “unfriend”) anyone with anything to do with Farmville. And I have to say, I am a whole lot happier about my association with Facebook. I did have one extremely unpleasant encounter, with someone I was not connected to and the incident warned me that this mechanism could be less than benign. But despite it, I have continued.
But I have to wonder, is the whole thing just simply narcissistic? I have a whole lot of friends who are not on Facebook, and when I think about it, they are my closest friends. Most of them are not on Facebook because they either don’t have the computer literacy, or because they have taken a deliberate decision not to be. And we service each other as we always have done. We occasionally call each other to catch up on news. Perhaps we email each other. We see each other for a meal. We go to each other’s houses and talk to each other.
And all the bits which happen between encounters are filtered. They are either ignored, or they are selected for updating. But they are seldom paraded in a completely unessential fashion. Let me give an instance in my own Facebook behaviour, which is perhaps questionable.
I often go onto Facebook and read about everyone else’s day. Then I think, “Well, what can I say?” Now my day, believe me, is seldom anything interesting enough to publish. “I sat in a meeting for most of the day, listening to people jabber on about boring things”. There is nothing interesting or even mildly curious about that. Why would you tell anyone about it?
So then I think, well why not put what I am listening to at the moment. So I put “is listening to … (some fairly obscure 20th century composer)’s … (equally obscure piece in a foreign language)…”. And I often get responses to that. By the one or two or three people on my list who either have actually heard that piece, or who have heard it and liked it and are glad that there is another person in the universe who likes it as well.
So why do it do it? Why do I tell EVERYONE connected to me what piece of music I am listening to? Isn’t that as bad as telling everyone my dream last night? Or the menu I am planning for my next dinner party, to which they are not invited?
Well, I don’t know, fully. I think there is an element of conceit in it. And curiosity – exploring the off-chance that there are others in the universe with a similar mien. I also think there is an element of neighbourliness. I suppose it all depends, psychologically, which element is dominant in one’s personality.
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Third Reich and the 2010 FIFA World Cup
The other day, I was asked to do a presentation to the Western Cape Provincial Museum’s services, on how we have achieved legacy from the 2010 FIFA World Cup. It was in Stellenbosch. I battled to find the venue, which was part of the Stellenbosch Museum. And the reason I battled to find it, I discovered later, was that the sign had fallen down, and no-one had bothered to put it up again!
I thought I was pretty much on time – but discovered that the speaker before me was still in full flight, giving a talk on the way in which the Nazi’s had tried to use the 1936 Olympics to benefit Hitler and the Reich. It was sobering stuff indeed!
The presenter was illustrating her talk with various athletes, who had been sidelined or excluded, either because they were not Aryan enough, or because they were too dark. She spoke of a contestant from the United States, Jesse Owens, who was (what would now be called) African-American. He won four gold medals and became a nightmare for the Nazis, because he was besieged by autograph hunters and was cheered every time he entered the stadium. Rather than acknowledge him, as he had done for all other athletes, Hitler chose to leave the stadium early.
She told the story of Jewish athletes who were excluded from participation. She spoke of one young Jewish athlete, Helene Mayer, who was used for publicity (unbeknown to her) and because of extreme pressure from the USA on the Reich to include Jewish athletes in the German team. She was used as a kind of window-dressing. She was chosen, because she was “half Aryan” – and generally had physical features which the Nazis found vaguely acceptable. And so pleased was she to have been included in the German team, that, like everyone else, there she was lifting her arm in the Nazi salute.
The presenter spoke of how Berlin was “sanitized” before the games. How vagrants, the indigent, street people, the poor – were all gathered together and moved out of Berlin. What was presented to the world was life under the Reich as being something very close to paradise.
I could not help looking for parallels with what it is we are doing here. Every so often, one hears of plans to take street-people beggars and street-children elsewhere, so that the visitors from elsewhere will not be unduly bothered by them. I do not know of any actual plans to do that, I have to say. But the rumours persist.
And so, at the last Technical Steering Committee for the Province, I made the following suggestion: I said, in the light of the kind of Constitution we enjoy, and the kind of rights every citizen in this country holds under it, I would propose that we enable this category of citizen - the street-people, the homeless, the street-children - with a chance to “Touch the World Cup”. Because, it will be things like that – tokenistic though they may be, which will distinguish us, in the end from the kind of event which was held in 1936.
There is, at this moment, a “tour” beginning of the actual World Cup. It is made, I hear, of 18 carat gold. It has its own security crew. It travels the world under high security and individuals are allowed to be photographed next to it. It will be in Cape Town in a few days time. And the poor will love it and be pleased to be photographed next to it. It is Sepp Blatter’s “Let them eat cake!”
I want just one occasion, when they are not used for any other purpose, other than for them to be recognised as the people that they are. Just one occasion, amidst the hype and the money and the glitz and the show. And I want the Ambassadors of the participating countries to be there when they are.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
A crumb or two from FIFA's table
I thought it might be worth posting these pics of the Cape Town Stadium, done in wire beadwork. We have commissioned all of the 2010 stadia to be done in this way so that wire/beadworkers can get a tiny look-in on the World Cup. I think they are pretty good. The artist is Abraham Tapera, who is one of a group called Bead Nation.
Monday, December 14, 2009
2010 or D9?
This rather strange piece of art is what I encountered at the recent 2010 FIFA World Cup Final Draw, in the media centre at the Cape Town International Media Centre. It is entitled "Penalty" and it is by a South African artist called Keith Calder. Do you think he got the delivery boxes mixed up for District 9?
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Final Draw - Cairp Tahn goes soccer crazy
Long Street, in Cairp Tahn is normally a fairly quaint, very ordinary kind of street. It has lots of restaurants in it - some of which are rather questionable. But at night, Long Street is "The" place to be for the younger set. Awash, I suppose, with the normal kind of recreational drugs - I don't know this, I assume it. Parking is quite impossible to find and the blare of music of various genres assaults you at every turn.
The crowd is not really trendy - it is somewhat more downmarket. There is a lot of smoking of cigarrettes and a lot of wearing sunglasses at night. It seems quite a happy place, but one would be slightly concerned about one's teenage son or daughter.
When Long street is not pumping with the close to 17 000 people it gets on a Saturday night, it is just like anywhere else in Cairp Tahn. Enjoyable. Unreconstructed. Fairly laid back.
Long Street today, however, is the site of the Final Draw (for the 2010 FIFA World Cup - in case you live on a different planet) party. 75 000 people are expected. Screens have been erected, to ensure that people can watch which teams are drawn against which teams. The cordon of security around the International Convention Centre - which is where the draw will actually take place, is vice-like. I virtually had to give a DNA sample to get accreditation for this evenings event. Not that I will be going to the actual event, you understand - that is reserved for Kings, Presidents, Joseph Sepp Blatter, visitors from Mars. (Queens don't qualify).
So, "the people" will be revelling, blowing Vuvuzelas, singing, dancing and wearing soccer jerseys, until the early hours of the morning, in Long Street. I heard on various radio stations that everyone is duly excited. Even the stations which mostly white people listen to. This is unusual. Because white people in South Africa, mostly, do not have any clue about soccer. And white people in South Africa, mostly, can only see doom and gloom. To see white Capetonians wandering around in soccer jerseys, I want to tell you, is a fairly amazing sight.
So, this really is a moment for national unity. This really is a time to shine. And we will. Of that I have no doubt. I have no doubt at all.
One small point though - the three random young women in the photograph asked me, as soon as I had taken it - whether I had accommodation for 2010. Perhaps the sudden soccer enthusiasm may have been tinged with just a touch of lip-smacking at the wonderful prospect of easy money next year. Maybe. Just maybe.
Monday, November 30, 2009
An unintended encounter with Joseph Sepp Blatter
I was innocently sitting chatting to a long lost friend in the Sandton Convention Centre today, when there was a sudden and unexplained media scurry. I knew it was a media scurry, because everyone was fighting each other, using very large shoulder carried cameras as weapons. Behind them were hapless people holding furry things on poles. They were all pointing them, seemingly, into an empty circle which a burly group of bodyguards had made.
It was rough stuff. Elbows jabbed. Bodies were used as battering rams. Pencils were lunged into the spines of people in the front row. But I, for one, had no idea what the fuss was about. So I decided to join the throng. It was about thirty paces away that I managed to see the object of everyone’s interest. Why, it was Joseph Sepp Blatter himself!
It immediately brought back to me the Gospel story about Zaccheus, the tax collector, who climbed a sycamore tree in order to see Jesus. The ambiguity in the text is in the reason which is given as “because he was a little man”. The question of course, is who was the little man? Zaccheus or Jesus?
In the case of Sepp Blatter – it was Sepp Blatter. He is a little man. “Short”, is the word which comes immediately to mind. And he has a continuous smile playing about his lips – the kind of smile children produce when they have done a poo. Sepp Blatter is pleased with things. He is pleased with FIFA. He is pleased with “Johennesborg” and he is pleased with “Sous Afrika”. He is pleased with Soccerex. He is pleased with progress in the stadia. He is pleased with “Foootball” and he is pleased with “FuFusellaas”. I have no doubt he was also pleased with the throngs of dancing Zulus and the busloads of ululating women. Because he seems to be pleased with everything in sight.
I found myself wondering why Sepp Blatter’s hair never seems to grow, or his hairstyle change. I wondered why, after 35 years of work in “Fooootball”, he was still wanting to be reappointed for yet another term. Meanwhile, I heard people around me discussing in animated terms, his “legacy” – being, apparently that he brought the World Cup to Africa and took it back to Latin America.
I looked at the throngs crowing around him. I watched the vastly overweight women, whom I later discovered were local councillors, clattering about on shoes which really should not have been punished to the extent that they were, on heels far too high. They were guiding him around. Pointing out this to him, and that to him.
His comment on seeing the Cape Town stand was something like – “Ah - Cape Town”. And then he nodded and smiled that just-done-a-poo smile of his. He looked pleased again. And the media scurry moved on to something else for the tottering councillors to point out to him.
All I can say – all I can really say, is that it is a bloody strange world we live in. Nations may rise and fall. World poverty may be on the increase. Disease, drought and flood is taking whole swathes of our continent – but FIFA, it seems to me, will stand forever.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Roof wetting the Cape Town Stadium
Cape Town Stadium - and the view FIFA demanded
So, I get this invitation – very glossy, very smart - very welcome drinks; followed by light snacks; followed by speeches; followed by concert; followed by supper; followed by more concert. I sort of knew it was going to be “popular”, so I didn’t take the instruction to wear smart clothes terribly seriously.
Parking was a bit chaotic – we were asked, in the middle of the street (before being requested to do a U-turn away from the site which was shown on the invite for parking), whether or not we were VIPs. So security, I would say, was a bit of an issue!
The outside of the stadium, now almost complete, looks like a large Afro-chic hat. The inside looks very much, to me - well, like a stadium! There is a green patch of grass in the centre, seats and a great halo of open space above you. The one thing which caught my eye was the grey colour of the seats. There are lighter and darker shades – randomly spaced, giving the impression of Mother-of-pearl, or the inside of a shell, or something like that. Of course, the entire effect would be lost if the stadium was full – but I thought it was quite a clever, and classy touch. (For almost five billion Rand – the very least I would expect was a nice touch, here and there.)
The speeches were as one would expect – everyone praising everyone who had anything to do with the construction of the stadium. Endless clapping this or that thought about how wonderful, how unique, how special and how beautiful it all is. The Premier, Helen Zille gave a rabble-rousing speech, preceded by one that was, (how can one put this gently?) less engaging, by the Mayor of Cape Town, Dan Plato.
Then on to the concert. Now, before I say anything, let me say how much I genuinely admire Richard Cock, the conductor. He is an extremely humble man and one who certainly knows how to bring music to the people. I don’t think he is a great conductor – but he is a populist supreme - and a gentle one at that. He knows what buttons to press amongst the musically uneducated and he really manages to get real rapport with them. This is a good thing – but I do have some slight problem about the actual level of musicality he seems content to allow in his efforts to do so.
Nevertheless, we started with what he called the “FIFA theme”. Apparently this is a piece of music owned by FIFA. (I was somewhat surprised that he didn’t announce that for the period of the tournament – FIFA owned ALL music – but he didn’t. Note to FIFA – this is something you may have missed for Brazil...). Needless to say, the FIFA theme was awful. Dreary, tub-thumping crashes and bangs which sounded not unlike the theme from “Dallas”. Indeed, it could have been the theme from “Dallas”, because who would remember the theme from “Dallas”?
Then we had the “Twenty Tenors” – (Geddit? Twenty Tenors???). Well, we had twelve of them, because (due to the fact that the stadium costs have ballooned from 1.8 Billion to a mere 5 Billion, in the space of three years),apparently the budget for the roof wetting needed to be somewhat limited. The singing was mediocre. But, and here is something worth noting, at least the singers were mostly black! They stood in the sharpest of contrast to the Cape Town Philharmonic Orchestra, which was, not to put too fine a point on it, blindingly white.
And then, there was a group called the “Sterling Electric Quartet”. It consisted of four women playing an electric cello, violin, viola and flute. They wore dresses the size of serviettes and they seemed to be doing practise moves for the filming of the female part to the Karma Sutra. The audience loved them. Cameras flashed. Men approved. They can play – of that there is no doubt – but dear Lord! Why did they bother? It was a bit like watching porn with strangely shaped musical instruments.
My overall impression was one of sadness. Not at the kind of music the majority of the crowd seemed more than content to endure, but at the fact that this huge stadium can really only be used for three things: Soccer, Rugby and concerts. No Athletics. No cricket. Perhaps the occasional boxing match – who knows? Why? It has no athletics track because when the price was thought to be R1.8 billion, it was thought to be too much, so the size of the stadium was reduced to exclude an athletics track.
And sad, because I don’t buy the argument that the stadium is in the right place. Greenpoint Common is not a central point for Cape Town and nor is it, in my opinion, a developmental node. It will simply benefit the already rich of the area, who are mostly white. I have listened to all the arguments, over the years and I have to say, that I just don’t buy them. The reason why the stadium was put where it is, was quite simply, because that is where FIFA wanted it to be. And FIFA wanted it there for the view of Table Mountain.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Crafting the national team
Mpumemelo and Bliksem
As one of the opportunities (read "lean pickings") from the 2010 FIFA World Cup, crafters can make things which soccer tourists will buy. There is not a great deal of space, because FIFA has tied up the brand space so extraordinarily tightly, that really, one has to be a bit of a genius to navigate one's way to even the most megre profit out of the mega tournament.
For instance: you can't use the figures "2010" (or the word form) in relation to any or all of the following - the National flag; the words "World Cup"; or a soccer ball. Naturally the FIFA logo belongs to FIFA, and you would use it at your peril. We have heard of instances where a lollipop manufacturer made a wrapper in the form of a football, with the letters 2010 on it. FIFA sued. They have made it abundantly clear that they will tolerate absolutely no breach of the marks they have ownership over. If you could, in any way, reasonably infer that there is a relation to the tournament, they have ownership over it.
They own the words "Fan Fest" and "Fan Zone". They do not own the word "FanJol" because the Western Cape Provincial government has registered that name in its interest. (A "Jol" is a party, or a gathering where fun is happening. It is a Cape Flats word, which every South African understands. It is one of the few words in any language, which FIFA does not own!)
So, in our quest to find things which local people can benefit from, we commissioned this adult man sized wire figure, which we are calling Mpumelelo, which means "overcome" or "advance" in one of the local languages - isiXhosa, and his smaller (and as yet undressed) side-kick, Bliksem which is another local word, meaning "to anhialate", or "to destroy". It also has a playful meaning, because it is an extremely strong word - and one wouldn't necessarily take it very seriously if someone threatened to Bliksem you.
We are going to take these figures with us, to major events and to shopping malls and other public places. It is unlikely that a tourist is going to buy them - because they are pretty bulky. But they will point to the other amazing wire work talent which we have in this part of the world. Smaller figurines, dressed in the colours of all of thew participating teams; wire ear-rings, in the form of soccerballs; wire cups and saucers, with the word "CUP" in beads on the cup - (Sorry FIFA, you don't own cups!) and a host of other really imaginative items.
Hopefully, the football tourists, (who seem, from all the research, to be extremely single-minded, wanting to watch soccer, drink, eat and have a place to stay - and not much else) will be amazed by our wire crafting skills. And hopefully one or two of our wire crafters will be able to look back on the tournament and feel that they benefitted directly from it.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Old Pictures of Greenmarket Square - Cape Town
Greenmarket Square Slave Market, Cape TownRights to this picture are owned by The Western Cape Provincial Archive
Greenmarket Square, Cape TownRights to this picture are owned by the Western Cape Provincial Archive
Greenmarket Square
Rights to this picture are owned by the Western Cape Provincial Government
The Square was originally known as the Burgher Watch Square and was built on the corner of Short and Longmarket streets in 1696. It soon became a fruit and vegetable market, obviously from where the name derives and in 1961 it was declared a national monument tied to the history of slavery. Slaves used a tavern next to the Old Town House for drinking and gambling. There was also a fountain on the square from which slaves fetched water.
Important notices and proclamations were read from the balcony of the Town House, including the slave code, which read:
* Slaves must go barefoot and must carry passes.
* Any slave who stops in the street to talk to other slaves may be beaten.
* No meeting in bars, no buying of alcohol, no groups on public holidays.
* No gathering near church doors during a service.
* Any slave out after dark must carry a lantern.
* Curfew - slaves must be indoors by 22:00.
* No singing, whistling or noise at night.
* Not allowed to own and carry guns.
* Flogging and chaining for insulting a free man or making false accusations.
* Any slave who dares to strike a slave-holder must be put to death.
* Free black women are not allowed to be as well dressed as respectable burghers' wives and they must carry passes.
Greenmarket SquareRights to this picture are owned by the Western Cape Provincial Government
I work on Greenmarket Square. It is a really vibey cobbled square in the centre of the CBD, with good restaurants all around it and interesting looking buildings looking over it. The Square has a very long history, dating back to the slave trade, when slaves were bought and sold at the market, but for the most part, the square was the centre of trade in goods and supplies to the hundreds of ships that passed the Cape of Good Hope en route to the Indies.
The Square was originally known as the Burgher Watch Square and was built on the corner of Short and Longmarket streets in 1696. It soon became a fruit and vegetable market, obviously from where the name derives and in 1961 it was declared a national monument tied to the history of slavery. Slaves used a tavern next to the Old Town House for drinking and gambling. There was also a fountain on the square from which slaves fetched water.
Important notices and proclamations were read from the balcony of the Town House, including the slave code, which read:
* Slaves must go barefoot and must carry passes.
* Any slave who stops in the street to talk to other slaves may be beaten.
* No meeting in bars, no buying of alcohol, no groups on public holidays.
* No gathering near church doors during a service.
* Any slave out after dark must carry a lantern.
* Curfew - slaves must be indoors by 22:00.
* No singing, whistling or noise at night.
* Not allowed to own and carry guns.
* Flogging and chaining for insulting a free man or making false accusations.
* Any slave who dares to strike a slave-holder must be put to death.
* Free black women are not allowed to be as well dressed as respectable burghers' wives and they must carry passes.
Presently, in time for the 2010 FIFA World Cup, the Square is being fairly extensively upgraded.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
You can't eat a stadium
Whenever I turn on the radio, and the FIFA 2010 World Cup™ is being discussed, I am sure to hear someone with an opinion very similar to the title of this article.
At first glance, there is some validity to the concern. The argument goes, (or at least part of it) that one should not bother with luxuries and ‘nice-to-have’ items in our emerging economy. There are “too many poor people” they say. Their needs are for the basics, like housing, food, jobs, water and food. To expend 3 billion or more on a soccer stadium is almost like fiddling while Rome (or Cape Town, or Rustenburg!) is burning. It is, in fact, on the face of it, something quite close to obscene.
Well, it would be, if one took nothing else into consideration. Consider the journey we have come. There was a time, not too long ago, when there really was only one sport which was considered worth the government supporting. That sport was not football. It was Rugby. Rugby was the only game in town. And Rugby received billions from the government, in support. And so, if one stops to look around, it is not difficult to see that Rugby is fully resourced, and very well supported.
The fact that it is largely supported by whites is, of course, a consequence of the racializing of the game, which was something which was done quite consciously by the apartheid government, in its day. But it is very well resourced and very well supported, within an extremely narrow band. Broadening that band, is something which the game has not yet managed to achieve very well.
Soccer, on the other hand, has been up to this point, completely under-resourced. Even more than that, counter-racialised, scorned, belittled, ignored. But try as they might, it was never possible to obliterate. Soccer continued to be the game of choice for the masses of our people. And they played it on dusty streets, on sandy fields with makeshift goalposts, in schoolyards and even on slopes! Soccer, despite all the odds, continued to be the game which the majority enjoyed.
On a world scale, of course, soccer beats any other game hands down. Its popularity is vast and, as anyone who has had any dealings with the organisation will testify, FIFA operates more like a super government than a football organisation.
And so, given the opportunity of playing on this vast world canvas and to profile all the very best that Africa can offer, how could we have ignored the opportunity? How could we have folded our arms or sat on our hands when the chance to host the world’s biggest tournament came our way? And with it, the opportunity to leave a lasting legacy in all sorts of ways, but perhaps most visibly, in the mighty stadia which the tournament will leave behind for our people to enjoy forever?
In Cape Town, there are two stadia which are directly a result of the tournament. Greenpoint – the most visible and the most extravagant – and Philippi, in a "township" outside the City of Cape Town - much more modest, but no less important.
The former is almost a symbol of us coming of age as a nation. Of putting our money where our collective mouth is. Of standing up and being counted in the world of nations. That grand stadium will be used, going forward, in a hundred different ways, giving pleasure to millions of people, not only on the televisions of Europe, South America, Asia – but here, in this our home. It will be a source of pride for us all. It will be the platform for us all to stand on, in the glare of the spotlight, and be proud of being who we are and what we represent. It will be a wonderful and lasting legacy for the people of the Western Cape in 20, 40, 50 years to come. A legacy from this generation, to our children and to theirs, to mention nothing at all of the significant jobs it is creating and the food that is being placed on tables because of them.
And Philippi stadium? That too will gain from the fervour and spirit of 2010. Just because of the 2010 tournament, that stadium in the middle of an extremely poor area, will enable those children as well, to play and to excel.
Sure, they can’t eat it, but the trick for us as a nation is going to be to ensure that they eat well enough, going forward, to play in it, and to shine! We are building tomorrow. And as someone said, a long time ago, people can’t live on bread alone.
At first glance, there is some validity to the concern. The argument goes, (or at least part of it) that one should not bother with luxuries and ‘nice-to-have’ items in our emerging economy. There are “too many poor people” they say. Their needs are for the basics, like housing, food, jobs, water and food. To expend 3 billion or more on a soccer stadium is almost like fiddling while Rome (or Cape Town, or Rustenburg!) is burning. It is, in fact, on the face of it, something quite close to obscene.
Well, it would be, if one took nothing else into consideration. Consider the journey we have come. There was a time, not too long ago, when there really was only one sport which was considered worth the government supporting. That sport was not football. It was Rugby. Rugby was the only game in town. And Rugby received billions from the government, in support. And so, if one stops to look around, it is not difficult to see that Rugby is fully resourced, and very well supported.
The fact that it is largely supported by whites is, of course, a consequence of the racializing of the game, which was something which was done quite consciously by the apartheid government, in its day. But it is very well resourced and very well supported, within an extremely narrow band. Broadening that band, is something which the game has not yet managed to achieve very well.
Soccer, on the other hand, has been up to this point, completely under-resourced. Even more than that, counter-racialised, scorned, belittled, ignored. But try as they might, it was never possible to obliterate. Soccer continued to be the game of choice for the masses of our people. And they played it on dusty streets, on sandy fields with makeshift goalposts, in schoolyards and even on slopes! Soccer, despite all the odds, continued to be the game which the majority enjoyed.
On a world scale, of course, soccer beats any other game hands down. Its popularity is vast and, as anyone who has had any dealings with the organisation will testify, FIFA operates more like a super government than a football organisation.
And so, given the opportunity of playing on this vast world canvas and to profile all the very best that Africa can offer, how could we have ignored the opportunity? How could we have folded our arms or sat on our hands when the chance to host the world’s biggest tournament came our way? And with it, the opportunity to leave a lasting legacy in all sorts of ways, but perhaps most visibly, in the mighty stadia which the tournament will leave behind for our people to enjoy forever?
In Cape Town, there are two stadia which are directly a result of the tournament. Greenpoint – the most visible and the most extravagant – and Philippi, in a "township" outside the City of Cape Town - much more modest, but no less important.
The former is almost a symbol of us coming of age as a nation. Of putting our money where our collective mouth is. Of standing up and being counted in the world of nations. That grand stadium will be used, going forward, in a hundred different ways, giving pleasure to millions of people, not only on the televisions of Europe, South America, Asia – but here, in this our home. It will be a source of pride for us all. It will be the platform for us all to stand on, in the glare of the spotlight, and be proud of being who we are and what we represent. It will be a wonderful and lasting legacy for the people of the Western Cape in 20, 40, 50 years to come. A legacy from this generation, to our children and to theirs, to mention nothing at all of the significant jobs it is creating and the food that is being placed on tables because of them.
And Philippi stadium? That too will gain from the fervour and spirit of 2010. Just because of the 2010 tournament, that stadium in the middle of an extremely poor area, will enable those children as well, to play and to excel.
Sure, they can’t eat it, but the trick for us as a nation is going to be to ensure that they eat well enough, going forward, to play in it, and to shine! We are building tomorrow. And as someone said, a long time ago, people can’t live on bread alone.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Children at risk during the Soccer World Cup
The Soccer World Cup in 2010, is going to bring with it a range of (what do we call them these days?) … “challenges” to our already over-challenged society. Like on our roads, and infrastructure, challenges to our police services and our drug teams and our tourism operators. But consider this. All schools will be on holiday for the entire month. Most of the big matches are going to be played at night and, in my now fairly extensive experience of Fan Parks, kids will be either brought to these Fan Parks and dumped, or they will just arrive there and be there, completely unsupervised. That has got to be a rather large “challenge”.
More, there will be child predators on the loose in a way in which we have just not experienced before – so we are led to believe by the National Intelligence Agency. It is, apparently, a feature of major events such as this, the world over.
Several years ago, that eminently sensible director of Childline, Joan van Niekerk, was interviewed in television. She was asked, in a leading kind of way, whether she thought it would be a good idea to start a register of “known pedophiles” so that “these people could be exposed”? A night or two earlier, we were shown footage of a house in the UK (where such registers are kept), having been attacked by a crowd because the crowd wanted quick justice for someone who had been “named” on the register.
Joan van Niekerk said that all the research had shown that keeping a register of known offenders appeared to have no effect whatsoever on either the dissemination of child pornography or on instances of abuse. And surely, those are precisely the things one would want to have an effect on. But what the evidence (rather than the emotion) seems to show is that keeping such a register appears to have no effect at all, except in perpetuating the fondly held myth that this kind of “punishment” is an effective deterrent. The evidence does not back up the belief. But, I suppose, like with the generally held beliefs about capital punishment, the evidence shouldn't deter us, should it? I mean, who bothers about things like that?
The other points which she made were, to my mind, of real importance to the issue. She said that behind every instance of child porn, there is an abused child. A child who has been, perhaps, physically held down and forced into sex acts by people who exercise power over that child. A child who, most likely, will be damaged psychologically or alternatively, a child whose social circumstances are so awful that in order to survive, they have no alternative but to allow themselves to be abused in this way. It is a sad reality that it is often the very people who shout loudest about exposing and punishing pedophiles that care least about the condition of children in the broader society, abused or otherwise.
Another point which Joan van Niekerk made (and it is a well known one) was that it is frequently the case that child abusers were themselves victims of abuse, and so the terrible cycle perpetuates. This is not to condone their actions, for goodness sake, but it is to at least acknowledge some societal, and not simply individual responsibility for the whole thing. The cycle of abuse will continue in the kind of social conditions which encourage it and you won't stop it by putting a few people here and there on a register.
We need to ask ourselves, though, why there is such a big reaction when children get abused sexually? What about all the other forms of abuse we seem quite happy to live with, like poor education? And forced underage labour on our farms? And social conditions which force children into sex, just to eat? These seem to elicit considerably less rage and angst in South Africa. In fact they are frequently just ignored.
The 2010 soccer event is proving to provide something of a magnifying glass to some aspects of our rather damaged society. The risk posed to our children is one of them. But let us not suppose for one single moment, that the risk is primarily external, nor that it is an isolated risk. Children are raped and abused on a daily basis in our society. Children live in absolute poverty and have very poor access to anything like a good education. For some reason, these things seem to be of less concern to people.
More, there will be child predators on the loose in a way in which we have just not experienced before – so we are led to believe by the National Intelligence Agency. It is, apparently, a feature of major events such as this, the world over.
Several years ago, that eminently sensible director of Childline, Joan van Niekerk, was interviewed in television. She was asked, in a leading kind of way, whether she thought it would be a good idea to start a register of “known pedophiles” so that “these people could be exposed”? A night or two earlier, we were shown footage of a house in the UK (where such registers are kept), having been attacked by a crowd because the crowd wanted quick justice for someone who had been “named” on the register.
Joan van Niekerk said that all the research had shown that keeping a register of known offenders appeared to have no effect whatsoever on either the dissemination of child pornography or on instances of abuse. And surely, those are precisely the things one would want to have an effect on. But what the evidence (rather than the emotion) seems to show is that keeping such a register appears to have no effect at all, except in perpetuating the fondly held myth that this kind of “punishment” is an effective deterrent. The evidence does not back up the belief. But, I suppose, like with the generally held beliefs about capital punishment, the evidence shouldn't deter us, should it? I mean, who bothers about things like that?
The other points which she made were, to my mind, of real importance to the issue. She said that behind every instance of child porn, there is an abused child. A child who has been, perhaps, physically held down and forced into sex acts by people who exercise power over that child. A child who, most likely, will be damaged psychologically or alternatively, a child whose social circumstances are so awful that in order to survive, they have no alternative but to allow themselves to be abused in this way. It is a sad reality that it is often the very people who shout loudest about exposing and punishing pedophiles that care least about the condition of children in the broader society, abused or otherwise.
Another point which Joan van Niekerk made (and it is a well known one) was that it is frequently the case that child abusers were themselves victims of abuse, and so the terrible cycle perpetuates. This is not to condone their actions, for goodness sake, but it is to at least acknowledge some societal, and not simply individual responsibility for the whole thing. The cycle of abuse will continue in the kind of social conditions which encourage it and you won't stop it by putting a few people here and there on a register.
We need to ask ourselves, though, why there is such a big reaction when children get abused sexually? What about all the other forms of abuse we seem quite happy to live with, like poor education? And forced underage labour on our farms? And social conditions which force children into sex, just to eat? These seem to elicit considerably less rage and angst in South Africa. In fact they are frequently just ignored.
The 2010 soccer event is proving to provide something of a magnifying glass to some aspects of our rather damaged society. The risk posed to our children is one of them. But let us not suppose for one single moment, that the risk is primarily external, nor that it is an isolated risk. Children are raped and abused on a daily basis in our society. Children live in absolute poverty and have very poor access to anything like a good education. For some reason, these things seem to be of less concern to people.
Monday, July 13, 2009
A gentle lesson in humanity
I have just come back from Knysna, where the unit for which I work was sponsoring various 2010 related events, in the Knysna Oyster Festival. Now the Knysna Oyster Festival is, pretty much, a very white affair, with major events consisting of a half marathon and a cycle race. It was started to keep tourism going in Knysna during the winter months. And in that it has succeeded very well. The problem is, that tourism in Knysna has always been a very white thing - and so it remains - only now increased during the winter.
So, we sponsored a "Disabled Fun event" - so named, because the organisers of the festival wanted to brand it "where everyone is a winner". (Personally, I had qualms about the political correctness of the use of the word "disabled" - but then was informed that the organisers had been working with the "Disabled People's Association" - so who was I to complain?) And as it happens, the schmaltzy idea that "everyone is a winner" was the last thing on the contestants minds. They wanted to win - and that was that!
Around 250 people signed up for it (which I thought was really rather amazing!) and they came from all over the place. I was pleased to see that, like the other events we were sponsoring, (and unlike the Festival as a whole), the participants of this event were well mixed racially. They came in wheelchairs; they came in strange cycling machines, that you peddled with your arms; there were babies in specially designed prams; there were people on crutches; there were people without - and they all had various degrees of disability.
You could not fault the enthusiasm on the part of the participants - they ploughed into the streets and all seemed to finish long earlier than the organisers had anticipated. But what I loved most about the race, was the fact that the people of Knysna cheered them on. They waved - they clapped. It was a really magical moment.
Now, I hate to admit this, but let me do so, just in case there is anyone else out there who is like me. Well, here it is – I have always felt hugely uncomfortable by spasticity of any kind. I don’t know exactly what it is about cerebral palsy which makes me want to run. It is, perhaps, something about the strangeness, the unpredictability, the jerkiness? – no, I really have no idea.
I usually manage to mask it, as one does, I suppose. But I have marvelled at those who have no such problems. Mine seems to be something similar to an instinctive reaction – as one might have to falling – you find yourself in the reaction long before you have the time to think about it.
And it is certainly not anything I am proud of. I would love to be nonchalant and easy with people who are affected in this way. But I’m not. I tense up. I put on. I am not sincere. I tend to avoid, if I possibly can.
It is, of course, a conceit. And it is born, obviously, of some unresolved aspect of myself, which lies waiting to expose me when everything passionate and rational about me wants it not to. In an echo of the 1652 Anglican Book of Common prayer - I do the very thing I ought not to. The very thing I do not want to do.
I remember a year or two ago, a similar event, this time on the stage. It was under cover the anonymity of the theatre and the accompanying darkness, that I was alone with my reactions to cerebral palsy. And I was, I am pleased to say, taught a lesson I will never forget.
One of the performances was from the Filia School, a school in Goodwood, which describes itself as being “for the severely mentally handicapped”. I watched as the performers came onto the stage. One was pushed on to stage in a wheelchair, with a drum on his knees. The others all walked, some with difficulty, others apparently with ease. It took quite some time to get going, because the kids needed to find their right places, behind the right drums. Microphones needed to be in the correct hands. The keyboard was played by a teacher. And you could feel, in the audience, in that darkened auditorium, an odd sense of sympathy and wonder.
They started to play. It was extraordinary beyond my wildest imaginings. The boy in the wheelchair, beating his lap drum with sticks held in both hands, in time. The others beating African hide drums, held between their knees, with precision and with vigour. Some sang, some danced – they did it all well, much better than most of us in the audience. None of it was perfect. But all of it was utterly exultant.
Then, to end it all, and with much gesticulating from the others, a last member of the group was called on to stage. He came on. A boy of, perhaps, fifteen or sixteen years of age. The keyboard played the introduction, the backer drummers were playing their part. He lifted the microphone to his lips and sang, with an almost ethereal, haunting voice, “When Autumn leaves begin to fall”. His voice was so uncluttered with vibrato, so essential, so utterly pure, entirely transfixing. I wept. Not tears of sorrow, or pity. I cried for the sheer joy of the moment. For the sheer wonder of it all. I wish you could have heard it for yourself. Never before, (never!) had I been taught so sweet and so gentle a lesson, on what it means to be human.
For me, it is this kind of thing that the 2010 FIFA World Cup should be about. Yes, of course it is about soccer, and about able people performing extraordinary feats on the field. But if that is all it is about, we would have short changed ourselves and our people unforgivably. It is also about all of us who are never going to play in a world class team - "disabled" or not. It needs to be about celebrating our humanity, in all its diverse and wondrous forms.
So, we sponsored a "Disabled Fun event" - so named, because the organisers of the festival wanted to brand it "where everyone is a winner". (Personally, I had qualms about the political correctness of the use of the word "disabled" - but then was informed that the organisers had been working with the "Disabled People's Association" - so who was I to complain?) And as it happens, the schmaltzy idea that "everyone is a winner" was the last thing on the contestants minds. They wanted to win - and that was that!
Around 250 people signed up for it (which I thought was really rather amazing!) and they came from all over the place. I was pleased to see that, like the other events we were sponsoring, (and unlike the Festival as a whole), the participants of this event were well mixed racially. They came in wheelchairs; they came in strange cycling machines, that you peddled with your arms; there were babies in specially designed prams; there were people on crutches; there were people without - and they all had various degrees of disability.
You could not fault the enthusiasm on the part of the participants - they ploughed into the streets and all seemed to finish long earlier than the organisers had anticipated. But what I loved most about the race, was the fact that the people of Knysna cheered them on. They waved - they clapped. It was a really magical moment.
Now, I hate to admit this, but let me do so, just in case there is anyone else out there who is like me. Well, here it is – I have always felt hugely uncomfortable by spasticity of any kind. I don’t know exactly what it is about cerebral palsy which makes me want to run. It is, perhaps, something about the strangeness, the unpredictability, the jerkiness? – no, I really have no idea.
I usually manage to mask it, as one does, I suppose. But I have marvelled at those who have no such problems. Mine seems to be something similar to an instinctive reaction – as one might have to falling – you find yourself in the reaction long before you have the time to think about it.
And it is certainly not anything I am proud of. I would love to be nonchalant and easy with people who are affected in this way. But I’m not. I tense up. I put on. I am not sincere. I tend to avoid, if I possibly can.
It is, of course, a conceit. And it is born, obviously, of some unresolved aspect of myself, which lies waiting to expose me when everything passionate and rational about me wants it not to. In an echo of the 1652 Anglican Book of Common prayer - I do the very thing I ought not to. The very thing I do not want to do.
I remember a year or two ago, a similar event, this time on the stage. It was under cover the anonymity of the theatre and the accompanying darkness, that I was alone with my reactions to cerebral palsy. And I was, I am pleased to say, taught a lesson I will never forget.
One of the performances was from the Filia School, a school in Goodwood, which describes itself as being “for the severely mentally handicapped”. I watched as the performers came onto the stage. One was pushed on to stage in a wheelchair, with a drum on his knees. The others all walked, some with difficulty, others apparently with ease. It took quite some time to get going, because the kids needed to find their right places, behind the right drums. Microphones needed to be in the correct hands. The keyboard was played by a teacher. And you could feel, in the audience, in that darkened auditorium, an odd sense of sympathy and wonder.
They started to play. It was extraordinary beyond my wildest imaginings. The boy in the wheelchair, beating his lap drum with sticks held in both hands, in time. The others beating African hide drums, held between their knees, with precision and with vigour. Some sang, some danced – they did it all well, much better than most of us in the audience. None of it was perfect. But all of it was utterly exultant.
Then, to end it all, and with much gesticulating from the others, a last member of the group was called on to stage. He came on. A boy of, perhaps, fifteen or sixteen years of age. The keyboard played the introduction, the backer drummers were playing their part. He lifted the microphone to his lips and sang, with an almost ethereal, haunting voice, “When Autumn leaves begin to fall”. His voice was so uncluttered with vibrato, so essential, so utterly pure, entirely transfixing. I wept. Not tears of sorrow, or pity. I cried for the sheer joy of the moment. For the sheer wonder of it all. I wish you could have heard it for yourself. Never before, (never!) had I been taught so sweet and so gentle a lesson, on what it means to be human.
For me, it is this kind of thing that the 2010 FIFA World Cup should be about. Yes, of course it is about soccer, and about able people performing extraordinary feats on the field. But if that is all it is about, we would have short changed ourselves and our people unforgivably. It is also about all of us who are never going to play in a world class team - "disabled" or not. It needs to be about celebrating our humanity, in all its diverse and wondrous forms.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Low GI Hamburgers- vegetarian or otherwise
We went, last night, to the Five Flies Restaurant, in Keerom Street, in the city Centre. They have being doing this birthday celebration thing, where prices are taken back 10 years - so your whole 3 course meal costs under R100 - which is fairly amazing. (You need to book weeks in advance, and the restaurant is completely full).
The place has a slightly snooty reputation and, being opposite the High Court and near the financial district of Cape Town, is obviously well positioned.
The dishes were a little sparse, but adequate and the clientele the usual "Cairp Tahn" fare of 99.5% white and 0.5% coloured. Black Africans - 0%
The waitrons were ALL white, except for the Maitre D - who was black, but with a pronounced former model C (read white) school accent. In this day and age, I think this is utterly unacceptable. How is it possible that an institution like this, situated where it is, is staffed ONLY by white waitrons?
Likewise, I had tea the other day with an ex colleague from Gauteng, in a place called Bravura in Greenpoint. (It used to be Melissa's, but now seems to have changed hands). Again, exactly the same thing. ONLY white waitrons! I had brought along some hand painted Kelp Vuvuzelas to show my friend. She asked one of the waitors what he thought of them. He had never heard of a Vuvuzela, in the first place, and had no idea what they might be used for, in the second. My friend was so astonished that after the tea, she asked a second waiter whether he knew what a Vuvuzela was. He not only had never head of one, but couldn't even pronounce the word!
These are the kind of goons given preferential racial employment within spitting distance of the Greenpoint stadium - which is one of the venues where the 2010 FIFA World Cup is going to be played for the first time on African soil, in less then a year's time! This means, basically, that they have never opened a newspaper, and never even so much as glanced at a soccer match on television. Because, of course, in South Africa, Soccer is regarded as a black sport and Rugby a white sport and ne'er the twain shall meet.
The place has a slightly snooty reputation and, being opposite the High Court and near the financial district of Cape Town, is obviously well positioned.
The dishes were a little sparse, but adequate and the clientele the usual "Cairp Tahn" fare of 99.5% white and 0.5% coloured. Black Africans - 0%
The waitrons were ALL white, except for the Maitre D - who was black, but with a pronounced former model C (read white) school accent. In this day and age, I think this is utterly unacceptable. How is it possible that an institution like this, situated where it is, is staffed ONLY by white waitrons?
Likewise, I had tea the other day with an ex colleague from Gauteng, in a place called Bravura in Greenpoint. (It used to be Melissa's, but now seems to have changed hands). Again, exactly the same thing. ONLY white waitrons! I had brought along some hand painted Kelp Vuvuzelas to show my friend. She asked one of the waitors what he thought of them. He had never heard of a Vuvuzela, in the first place, and had no idea what they might be used for, in the second. My friend was so astonished that after the tea, she asked a second waiter whether he knew what a Vuvuzela was. He not only had never head of one, but couldn't even pronounce the word!
These are the kind of goons given preferential racial employment within spitting distance of the Greenpoint stadium - which is one of the venues where the 2010 FIFA World Cup is going to be played for the first time on African soil, in less then a year's time! This means, basically, that they have never opened a newspaper, and never even so much as glanced at a soccer match on television. Because, of course, in South Africa, Soccer is regarded as a black sport and Rugby a white sport and ne'er the twain shall meet.
Of course, there is a history to this all. The apartheid state funded and supported Rugby and tried to keep black people out of it. And soccer, which became the sport black people followed and played, was naturally completely inadequately resourced. But one would not expect the Greenpoint white waitron goons to know this. I would not be surprised if they had never heard of apartheid!
Several of the people at my table at Five Flies ordered the Lamb Hamburger, and were very pleased with it. The potato chips left a bit to be desired, but the Hamburger itself was very good.
Several of the people at my table at Five Flies ordered the Lamb Hamburger, and were very pleased with it. The potato chips left a bit to be desired, but the Hamburger itself was very good.
Here is a really good recipe for a low GI healthy hamburger patty (veg or otherwise). It's from the amazing Eating for sustained energy 1, by Gabi Steenkamp and Liesbet Delport - works really well and is fabulous. You need to do the BBQ sauce as well to get all the GI values right -The end product is really great!
Hamburger patties and BBQ sauce
1 x 410 g tin brown or sugar beans drained
1T vinegar
1T Worcester Sauce
½ t crushed garlic
200g ostrich mince or 1 cup dry soya mince reconstituted
1 medium onion finely chopped
1 slice brown bread crumbed
1 cup oat bran
1t beef stock powder
1t Marmite
2 t dried mixed herbs
1t dry parsley
Black pepper
1t salt
1 egg
BBQ sauce
1 onion, chopped
1 large apple, finely grated
¼ t crushed garlic
1 t olive oil
4T tomato sauce
1 tomato finely chopped
½ cup water
4t brown sugar
2t Worcester sauce
1t salt
2t mustard
Process together beans, vinegar, Worcester Sauce and garlic. Add mince, onion, herbs, breadcrumbs, oatbran, beef stock, pepper and egg and mix lightly to a firm consistency. Form into meatballs. Fry in olive oil at a fairly low heat.
BBQ sauce
Saute onion and garlic in the oil until transparent. Add the rest of the ingredients and simmer for 5 minutes
Hamburger patties and BBQ sauce
1 x 410 g tin brown or sugar beans drained
1T vinegar
1T Worcester Sauce
½ t crushed garlic
200g ostrich mince or 1 cup dry soya mince reconstituted
1 medium onion finely chopped
1 slice brown bread crumbed
1 cup oat bran
1t beef stock powder
1t Marmite
2 t dried mixed herbs
1t dry parsley
Black pepper
1t salt
1 egg
BBQ sauce
1 onion, chopped
1 large apple, finely grated
¼ t crushed garlic
1 t olive oil
4T tomato sauce
1 tomato finely chopped
½ cup water
4t brown sugar
2t Worcester sauce
1t salt
2t mustard
Process together beans, vinegar, Worcester Sauce and garlic. Add mince, onion, herbs, breadcrumbs, oatbran, beef stock, pepper and egg and mix lightly to a firm consistency. Form into meatballs. Fry in olive oil at a fairly low heat.
BBQ sauce
Saute onion and garlic in the oil until transparent. Add the rest of the ingredients and simmer for 5 minutes
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