Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Failing Democracy
The two reports on the Insight page in the Cape Times of 2 August highlight the dire state of our democracy. Our MPs (who supposedly represent us) are remote and inaccessible, and seldom (If ever) hold report-back meetings in their constituencies. Why is this? Although your writers do not spell this out, this is because they are not directly elected by voters in constituencies -- hence the failure in accountability. They are elected on a party-list system, where what matters is their position on a party list. All power to the party, in other words!
MPs may in theory be assigned to constituencies, and perhaps they are supposed to open constituency offices -- but there is little incentive to take this seriously. At election time they don't even bother to campaign or hold meetings: the media just follow the party leaders around the country. All this is deeply disempowering to ordinary citizens: how many even know who their MP is, or if there is a constituency office? In short, the party-list system is good at providing proportional representation (and ensuring some representation for small parties ) -- but it is in practice very bad for democracy.
Some years ago van Zyl Slabbert chaired a Commission that produced a report and made some useful suggestions. Perhaps it needs to be dusted off and looked at again? But perhaps the ANC is quite content with things as they are? (If so, what a disastrous miscalculation!)
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
‘THIS IS WHAT HOPE LOOKS LIKE’:
REVIEW OF AHDAF SOUEIF’S CAIRO, MY CITY, OUR REVOLUTION
(London: Bloomsbury, 2012).
It’s not difficult to find a timeline or an article that gives an outline of the Egyptian revolution, but if you want to understand what animated hundreds of thousands of ordinary Egyptians to take to the streets and overthrow a brutal and corrupt regime, then this is a book to read. Ahdaf Soueif provides an insider’s eye-witness account of the 18 days in 2011 when people in their tens or hundreds of thousands occupied Tahrir Square, in the centre of her beloved Cairo, and collectively helped to turn the wheel of history.
For South African readers the book will evoke poignant memories of those far-off days in 1990 and 1994 when our own hopes for a peaceful, just and democratic future seemed about to be realised.
What was it that allowed the ‘soft’ revolutionaries of Tahrir to change their world?
This book helps to supply an answer (although it’s not couched in political science terms). It provides an engaged participant’s account of what is felt like to be in Cairo at that time. It is of coursea partisan account, but the author is a partisan for what is best in our common humanity; she subscribes to values that many readers will identify with. She pays generous tribute to the younger generation (the shabab) whose courage and optimism and self-belief were the driving force behind this remarkably peaceful revolution; she also honours the martyrs (the shuhada) who lost their lives in the struggle.
The book is divided into three sections. The first and third sections give a vivid account of the 18 days in 2011 that changed Egypt forever, starting with 25 January (the ‘Day of Revolt’), and culminating in the ‘Friday of Departure’ (11 February) which saw Mubarak’s resignation. The narrative explains the significance of Midan el-Tahrir (‘our Holy Grail for forty years’) and why it became the source of legitimacy. It describes an unfolding process that was partly organised, and partly spontaneous, driven by the demand for ‘bread’, ‘freedom’ and ‘social justice’. It was a largely leaderless revolution (or pro-democracy movement) that saw a coming together of people from all walks of life in Tahrir. The author’s son, Omar, says to her at one point, ‘Would you have imagined the revolution would look like this?’ Her narrative conveys something of the remarkableness of these events, and underlines their inclusive, non-violent nature.
Interwoven with the greater narrative is the story of her own ‘politically engaged’ extended family. This more personal narrative foregrounds her memories of her mother and father, of her familial homes, and of an earlier, pre-Mubarak Cairo. The young ‘third generation’ of her family are ‘more clever and cool and effective than we ever were (partly a result of their astute use of internet connectivity). ‘They are going to change the world. We follow them and pledge what’s left of our lives to their effort.’
As these events unfolded the author (who is also a well-known novelist – The Map of Love was shortlisted for the Booker prize in 1999) was much in demand by the international media as a commentator. Her narrative is characterised by a modesty and generosity: it is one person’s moving testimony to the events that changed her world (and our world, too!). The book is, in effect, part of her fight to preserve the revolution.
Her narrative concludes (on 31 October) with a recognition that the revolution has not yet succeeded, and that its gains are still threatened by the remnants of the old regime. Will the army (whose refusal to fire on the protestors was so crucial) in fact surrender power? It is (as she acknowledges) an unfinished story, but for Ahdaf Soueil, ‘optimism is a duty’: if the shahab had not believed change was possible, and occupied Tahrir, nothing would have happened!
Perhaps there are lessons that South Africans, living in our disappointing and fractious present, might do well to heed?
[Published in The Sunday Independent 27 May 2012]
Monday, March 26, 2012
"refugees" -- or what's in a tweet
‘Refugee’ – or what’s in a tweet?
The tweet that launched a storm of outrage? I don’t tweet, but this is apparently what Ms Zille said: “While E Cape education has collapsed, the W Cape has built 30 schools in [two] years to accommodate E Cape education refugees. Vuka!!” In attempt to understand the storm of outrage, I turned to the dictionary. This is what I found: “refugee: a person taking refuge, especially in a foreign country, from war or persecution or natural disaster”.
Here are some possible responses to /interpretations of the controversial tweet:
1. Strictly speaking, perhaps, people moving from the Eastern Cape to the Western Cape in search of better schooling are not “refugees” – and the Western Cape is not another country! However, this could be seen as exaggeration for dramatic effect (something to which politicians – and people generally¬ – are prone). It does appear that education in the Eastern Cape is in a parlous state: the provincial department of education was placed under the administration of the national government last year – surely an admission of failure? The Eastern Cape has the lowest Matric pass rate of any province, etc. Are these comments further evidence of Ms Zille’s (alleged) residual (or not-so-residual) racism?
2. Racist overtones? Does the term “refugee” carry a stigma, and reveal some kind of prejudice against “refugees”? Is this a form of “othering”? Is the implication that “refugees” do not belong here (in the Western Cape) or are not welcome here? Depending on the context, and on the speaker, this is a possible interpretation. How was Ms Zille using the term? Given the recent history of our country, was she at least being insensitive?
3. Sympathy and support? The term is also used by organisations (such as the Adonis
Musati Project, whose work I admire). Here is an extract from their website: “Many refugees eventually make their way to the southern-most tip of Africa. The majority of these refugees are from Zimbabwe, where since the year 2000 the situation has deteriorated to an unprecedented degree. . . .” Their project stems from compassion for and empathy with these refugees, and they offer practical forms of assistance. Clearly their use of the term is not informed by racism or prejudice! (And clearly, the people referred to here really are “refugees”.)
Conclusion: it really depends on how one views Helen Zille, and how caught up one is in the partisan, finger-pointing politics of the Western Cape (and South Africa). The term “refugee” is not necessarily offensive or pejorative; it depends on the speaker and the context. If one has prejudged Ms Ziile as racist, then one will find confirmation of one’s views in her recent tweet. If one is a DA supporter, and views her as a resolute and principled upholder of non-racism, then one may regard her tweet as expressing indignation at the shortcomings of the Eastern Cape Education Department, and sympathy for the plight of those who come to the Western Cape in search of a better education.
What is the real issue here? Amid all the finger-pointing and point -scoring, is anyone really listening? And does anyone really care about the predicament which young people in the Eastern Cape find themselves in? What steps are being taken, and by whom, to ensure that the doors of education are indeed opened for all South Africans? How unequal is our education system?
The tweet that launched a storm of outrage? I don’t tweet, but this is apparently what Ms Zille said: “While E Cape education has collapsed, the W Cape has built 30 schools in [two] years to accommodate E Cape education refugees. Vuka!!” In attempt to understand the storm of outrage, I turned to the dictionary. This is what I found: “refugee: a person taking refuge, especially in a foreign country, from war or persecution or natural disaster”.
Here are some possible responses to /interpretations of the controversial tweet:
1. Strictly speaking, perhaps, people moving from the Eastern Cape to the Western Cape in search of better schooling are not “refugees” – and the Western Cape is not another country! However, this could be seen as exaggeration for dramatic effect (something to which politicians – and people generally¬ – are prone). It does appear that education in the Eastern Cape is in a parlous state: the provincial department of education was placed under the administration of the national government last year – surely an admission of failure? The Eastern Cape has the lowest Matric pass rate of any province, etc. Are these comments further evidence of Ms Zille’s (alleged) residual (or not-so-residual) racism?
2. Racist overtones? Does the term “refugee” carry a stigma, and reveal some kind of prejudice against “refugees”? Is this a form of “othering”? Is the implication that “refugees” do not belong here (in the Western Cape) or are not welcome here? Depending on the context, and on the speaker, this is a possible interpretation. How was Ms Zille using the term? Given the recent history of our country, was she at least being insensitive?
3. Sympathy and support? The term is also used by organisations (such as the Adonis
Musati Project, whose work I admire). Here is an extract from their website: “Many refugees eventually make their way to the southern-most tip of Africa. The majority of these refugees are from Zimbabwe, where since the year 2000 the situation has deteriorated to an unprecedented degree. . . .” Their project stems from compassion for and empathy with these refugees, and they offer practical forms of assistance. Clearly their use of the term is not informed by racism or prejudice! (And clearly, the people referred to here really are “refugees”.)
Conclusion: it really depends on how one views Helen Zille, and how caught up one is in the partisan, finger-pointing politics of the Western Cape (and South Africa). The term “refugee” is not necessarily offensive or pejorative; it depends on the speaker and the context. If one has prejudged Ms Ziile as racist, then one will find confirmation of one’s views in her recent tweet. If one is a DA supporter, and views her as a resolute and principled upholder of non-racism, then one may regard her tweet as expressing indignation at the shortcomings of the Eastern Cape Education Department, and sympathy for the plight of those who come to the Western Cape in search of a better education.
What is the real issue here? Amid all the finger-pointing and point -scoring, is anyone really listening? And does anyone really care about the predicament which young people in the Eastern Cape find themselves in? What steps are being taken, and by whom, to ensure that the doors of education are indeed opened for all South Africans? How unequal is our education system?
Sunday, March 25, 2012
South African English – a ‘mixed masala’? [Book review]
REVIEW OF EISH BUT IS IT ENGLISH: CELEBRATING THE SOUTH AFRICAN VARIETY. Rajend Mesthrie with Jeanne Hromnik. Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2011.
Rob Gaylard
The sun may have set on the English empire, but the English language continues to spread and proliferate across the globe. This avowedly popular book examines its local, South African variety – or varieties, for it soon become apparent that there are in fact a number of South African Englishes. The book is in part a spin-off of John Orr’s well-known radio programme, ‘Word of Mouth’, on which Rajend Mesthrie was a frequent guest, giving his expert opinions (he is a professor of linguistics at UCT) in a relaxed and informal way. This book is the product of an unusual arrangement between the two co-authors: it is based on interviews with Mestrie, conducted and recorded by Cape Town freelance editor and writer, Jeanne Hromnik. One of her aims was to produce a book that retains some of the spontaneity and informality of the spoken word, and in this she has largely succeeded. Language impinges on our lives in a particularly intimate way, and few people will be indifferent to the controversies that swirl around the issues of language choice and language use in our country.
If there is a standard variety of South African English (although this book does not seek to privilege any particular variety) it is probably that spoken by ESSAs (English-speaking South Africans), many of whom trace their familial roots back to England). Although they constitute a minority of English speakers in this country, they often seem to feel that their English has normative value! Given our complex history and our multi-lingual, multi-ethnic society, English-language variation increases as one moves across or down the social spectrum. In this book particular attention is paid to the English spoken by South Africans of Indian descent and by black South Africans – although here again there are significant differences between English spoken by an older generation, and the language spoken by streetwise urban insiders and sophisticates. ‘Tsotsitaal’ has of course had a massive influence on the language spoken in the townships. Many black urban dwellers are fluent in several languages, hence their frequent use of code-switching – as is also evidenced by a number of local TV soaps.
The authors comment succinctly on such well-known features of South African English as our use of ‘robot’ (for ‘traffic lights’), on expressions such as ‘Ï’m coming now now’, on constructions such as ‘He threw me over the hedge with a stone’, and on sentences like ‘The people, they are tired of waiting for change’. I recall my perplexity at being told by a township friend that ‘so-and-so was late’ – when I knew very well that the person in question had been dead and buried for some time!
Occasionally one is reminded that a word one had taken for granted – like ‘bottlestore’ – is in fact peculiar to South African English. I was interested to see that the jury is still out on origin of some well-known terms like tsotsi and larney, and was intrigued to discover the rather obscure origins of ‘mealie’ (or mielie) and ‘bunny chow’. There was no mention of the widely used term shebeen. One supposes that terms from our apartheid past (like kwela kwela or dompas will gradually fall into disuse. I am still puzzled by the derivation of ‘velskoen’ – or is it ‘veldskoen’?
The authors pay handsome tribute to the pioneering efforts of the Branfords at Rhodes University who started the Dictionary Unit that produced four editions of A Dictionary of South African English. They also acknowledge the magisterial A Dictionary of English on Historical Principles, whose managing editor was Penny Silva (‘a greatly under-appreciated work of scholarship’). They make honourable mention the work done by lexicographers at Stellenbosch University on the Woordeboek van die Afrikaanse Taal (or WAT for short.)
This modest and accessible book will appeal to those with some interest in the way we express ourselves. In spite of the indignation captured in the title, it won’t give much comfort to the sticklers for ‘correctness’.’Like David Crystal (and other linguists) the authors prefer to use the notion of ‘appropriateness’ rather than ‘correctness’, and they avoid anything that sounds prescriptive.
Two minor suggestions: an index would have made the book even more user-friendly. And although this is a non –scholarly book, a glossary of selected terms, or a list of suggested readings, may have been helpful. After all, the book may actually quicken an interest in sociolinguistics in some readers.
Rob Gaylard
The sun may have set on the English empire, but the English language continues to spread and proliferate across the globe. This avowedly popular book examines its local, South African variety – or varieties, for it soon become apparent that there are in fact a number of South African Englishes. The book is in part a spin-off of John Orr’s well-known radio programme, ‘Word of Mouth’, on which Rajend Mesthrie was a frequent guest, giving his expert opinions (he is a professor of linguistics at UCT) in a relaxed and informal way. This book is the product of an unusual arrangement between the two co-authors: it is based on interviews with Mestrie, conducted and recorded by Cape Town freelance editor and writer, Jeanne Hromnik. One of her aims was to produce a book that retains some of the spontaneity and informality of the spoken word, and in this she has largely succeeded. Language impinges on our lives in a particularly intimate way, and few people will be indifferent to the controversies that swirl around the issues of language choice and language use in our country.
If there is a standard variety of South African English (although this book does not seek to privilege any particular variety) it is probably that spoken by ESSAs (English-speaking South Africans), many of whom trace their familial roots back to England). Although they constitute a minority of English speakers in this country, they often seem to feel that their English has normative value! Given our complex history and our multi-lingual, multi-ethnic society, English-language variation increases as one moves across or down the social spectrum. In this book particular attention is paid to the English spoken by South Africans of Indian descent and by black South Africans – although here again there are significant differences between English spoken by an older generation, and the language spoken by streetwise urban insiders and sophisticates. ‘Tsotsitaal’ has of course had a massive influence on the language spoken in the townships. Many black urban dwellers are fluent in several languages, hence their frequent use of code-switching – as is also evidenced by a number of local TV soaps.
The authors comment succinctly on such well-known features of South African English as our use of ‘robot’ (for ‘traffic lights’), on expressions such as ‘Ï’m coming now now’, on constructions such as ‘He threw me over the hedge with a stone’, and on sentences like ‘The people, they are tired of waiting for change’. I recall my perplexity at being told by a township friend that ‘so-and-so was late’ – when I knew very well that the person in question had been dead and buried for some time!
Occasionally one is reminded that a word one had taken for granted – like ‘bottlestore’ – is in fact peculiar to South African English. I was interested to see that the jury is still out on origin of some well-known terms like tsotsi and larney, and was intrigued to discover the rather obscure origins of ‘mealie’ (or mielie) and ‘bunny chow’. There was no mention of the widely used term shebeen. One supposes that terms from our apartheid past (like kwela kwela or dompas will gradually fall into disuse. I am still puzzled by the derivation of ‘velskoen’ – or is it ‘veldskoen’?
The authors pay handsome tribute to the pioneering efforts of the Branfords at Rhodes University who started the Dictionary Unit that produced four editions of A Dictionary of South African English. They also acknowledge the magisterial A Dictionary of English on Historical Principles, whose managing editor was Penny Silva (‘a greatly under-appreciated work of scholarship’). They make honourable mention the work done by lexicographers at Stellenbosch University on the Woordeboek van die Afrikaanse Taal (or WAT for short.)
This modest and accessible book will appeal to those with some interest in the way we express ourselves. In spite of the indignation captured in the title, it won’t give much comfort to the sticklers for ‘correctness’.’Like David Crystal (and other linguists) the authors prefer to use the notion of ‘appropriateness’ rather than ‘correctness’, and they avoid anything that sounds prescriptive.
Two minor suggestions: an index would have made the book even more user-friendly. And although this is a non –scholarly book, a glossary of selected terms, or a list of suggested readings, may have been helpful. After all, the book may actually quicken an interest in sociolinguistics in some readers.
Ninevah - a fable for our times [a book review]
INFECTING THE CITY: A REVIEW OF NINEVEH, by Henrietta Rose-Innes (Umuzi 2011)
Rob Gaylard
Henrietta Rose-Innes has constructed a subtle but compelling narrative which encourages us to explore Cape Town, the city we inhabit (and often take for granted). We humans are, increasingly, city dwellers, but what does it mean to live in a city? And how many ways are there of doing this? A city is, almost by definition, an imposition on the natural order. Are all cities doomed to decay and collapse? This novel is in fact a variation on an ancient theme, as the introductory quotations from Zephania and the Lament for Ur suggest.
The novel exposes us to a variety of perspectives, from the grand designs of Mr Brand, the property developer, to the differing positions of the members of the dysfunctional Grubb family (Katya, the protagonist/focaliser, her conformist sister Alma, her nephew Toby, and her anarchic father Len), to the views of the excluded outsiders, Derek (the vagrant who lives in a park – and moves into Katya’s garage), and Nosisi (the young woman who lives in an informal settlement just beyond the borders of Ninevah). There are also Reuben (a local) and Pascal (from the DRC), the outsiders who guard the gates of Nineveh and provide a shaky kind of security. Ultimately, the novel leads us to consider the claims of non-human life, the frogs and insects whose natural habitat is the swamp just beyond the walls of Nineveh, and which threaten to irrupt into its confines and render it uninhabitable. These are the “fellow residents” with whom Katya is keen to “open negotiations”.
The focus of our interest is Katya, who runs Painless Pest Relocations, and whose philosophy could be summed up as “live and let live”. Not for her Len’s more ruthless programme of pest eradication and extermination. Her approach is one of humane relocation, illustrated early on by her gentle and caring treatment of the colony of caterpillars that “infest” a tree in the Brand’s palatial suburban estate. By implication the novel questions the way we categorise other creatures (threatened species/ pest/ vermin) and impose our own order on nature. At first Katya seems the polar opposite of her more cynical, violent father, who scoffs at her attempts and defies social convention. Must he be shunned by his daughters – or should he be brought back into the family circle?
In a variety of ways, then, the novel explores the politics of inclusion and exclusion: the normative, exclusionary, repressive impulses are familiar from a local and global history of conquest and colonialism. Van Riebeeck’s hedge, the novel reminds us, was the earliest of these local attempts at exclusion. Katya’s house seems to be located in Observatory, and the Liesbeck River was once a frontier. The grandest attempt at exclusion is the construction of Nineveh, built on reclaimed land, and vaguely inspired by the Mesopotamian city (one our earliest historical cities). This version of Nineveh is, of course, an absurd and vulgar imitation, impossibly clean and sterile (“immaculate”) and mysteriously threatened with infestation by “the gogga” (which is, perhaps not coincidentally, a Khoi Kkoi word). Katya herself is briefly tempted by the cleanliness and security apparently offered by Nineveh (and Mr Brand) but deep down she knows better. The novel charts this recognition, and her apparent reconciliation with her disreputable father (who is, at a gut level, opposed to everything that Nineveh represents).
The novel concludes with an alternative, inclusive vision of the city, constituted as much by its informal settlements (which seem to grow organically) as by its more ordered suburbs. What price order, it asks. Buried in the subtext of the novel are hints of the ways in which we classify and seek to exclude other human beings (“vagrants”, “squatters”, “aliens” , “foreign nationals” ) – and the xenophobic and apartheid-era consequences of this mindset are still with us.
This is a thought-provoking, densely imagined work of fiction in which no detail is out of place. It is a seamless and unusual blend of different modes of writing – the comic, the gothic and the social realist. It will appeal to any reader willing to ask questions and probe beneath the surface of our familiar urban reality. The cracks that open up in our suburban walls are a reminder of how precarious the divide is between “inside” and “outside”.
Rose-Innes has previously published two novels, Shark’s Egg and The Rock Alphabet and 2010 saw the release of Homing, a collection of short stories. This latest novel will add to her growing reputation as one of our finest writers.
Rob Gaylard
Henrietta Rose-Innes has constructed a subtle but compelling narrative which encourages us to explore Cape Town, the city we inhabit (and often take for granted). We humans are, increasingly, city dwellers, but what does it mean to live in a city? And how many ways are there of doing this? A city is, almost by definition, an imposition on the natural order. Are all cities doomed to decay and collapse? This novel is in fact a variation on an ancient theme, as the introductory quotations from Zephania and the Lament for Ur suggest.
The novel exposes us to a variety of perspectives, from the grand designs of Mr Brand, the property developer, to the differing positions of the members of the dysfunctional Grubb family (Katya, the protagonist/focaliser, her conformist sister Alma, her nephew Toby, and her anarchic father Len), to the views of the excluded outsiders, Derek (the vagrant who lives in a park – and moves into Katya’s garage), and Nosisi (the young woman who lives in an informal settlement just beyond the borders of Ninevah). There are also Reuben (a local) and Pascal (from the DRC), the outsiders who guard the gates of Nineveh and provide a shaky kind of security. Ultimately, the novel leads us to consider the claims of non-human life, the frogs and insects whose natural habitat is the swamp just beyond the walls of Nineveh, and which threaten to irrupt into its confines and render it uninhabitable. These are the “fellow residents” with whom Katya is keen to “open negotiations”.
The focus of our interest is Katya, who runs Painless Pest Relocations, and whose philosophy could be summed up as “live and let live”. Not for her Len’s more ruthless programme of pest eradication and extermination. Her approach is one of humane relocation, illustrated early on by her gentle and caring treatment of the colony of caterpillars that “infest” a tree in the Brand’s palatial suburban estate. By implication the novel questions the way we categorise other creatures (threatened species/ pest/ vermin) and impose our own order on nature. At first Katya seems the polar opposite of her more cynical, violent father, who scoffs at her attempts and defies social convention. Must he be shunned by his daughters – or should he be brought back into the family circle?
In a variety of ways, then, the novel explores the politics of inclusion and exclusion: the normative, exclusionary, repressive impulses are familiar from a local and global history of conquest and colonialism. Van Riebeeck’s hedge, the novel reminds us, was the earliest of these local attempts at exclusion. Katya’s house seems to be located in Observatory, and the Liesbeck River was once a frontier. The grandest attempt at exclusion is the construction of Nineveh, built on reclaimed land, and vaguely inspired by the Mesopotamian city (one our earliest historical cities). This version of Nineveh is, of course, an absurd and vulgar imitation, impossibly clean and sterile (“immaculate”) and mysteriously threatened with infestation by “the gogga” (which is, perhaps not coincidentally, a Khoi Kkoi word). Katya herself is briefly tempted by the cleanliness and security apparently offered by Nineveh (and Mr Brand) but deep down she knows better. The novel charts this recognition, and her apparent reconciliation with her disreputable father (who is, at a gut level, opposed to everything that Nineveh represents).
The novel concludes with an alternative, inclusive vision of the city, constituted as much by its informal settlements (which seem to grow organically) as by its more ordered suburbs. What price order, it asks. Buried in the subtext of the novel are hints of the ways in which we classify and seek to exclude other human beings (“vagrants”, “squatters”, “aliens” , “foreign nationals” ) – and the xenophobic and apartheid-era consequences of this mindset are still with us.
This is a thought-provoking, densely imagined work of fiction in which no detail is out of place. It is a seamless and unusual blend of different modes of writing – the comic, the gothic and the social realist. It will appeal to any reader willing to ask questions and probe beneath the surface of our familiar urban reality. The cracks that open up in our suburban walls are a reminder of how precarious the divide is between “inside” and “outside”.
Rose-Innes has previously published two novels, Shark’s Egg and The Rock Alphabet and 2010 saw the release of Homing, a collection of short stories. This latest novel will add to her growing reputation as one of our finest writers.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
The Extraordinary Life and Times of David Kramer [Review]
A Review of David. Kramer: A Biography, by Dawid de Villiers and Mathilda Slabbert. Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2011. ISBN 978-0-624-04847
His modest protestations notwithstanding, David Kramer’s life has been anything but “ordinary” – and at last we have a book that does justice to this, David Kramer: a Biography by Dawid de Villiers and Mathilda Slabbert. Their “Preface’ makes clear what kind of book this is: not a tell-all celebrity biography, but a serious attempt to understand the enormous contribution Kramer has made over the years as a musician and solo performer and as a collaborator (with Taliep Pietersen and others).
This is not exactly an authorised biography: Kramer gave the two authors a free hand, but it is clear that a relationship of trust developed between the authors and Kramer, and that the book has benefitted enormously from the material that the Kramers (David and Renaye, and David’s brother John) made available. The result is a book that, while clearly sympathetic to its subject, retains academic objectivity and rigour. The focus is on Kramer’s work, and on the context of that work, rather than on his private life.
The authors provide a series of insightful and well-informed discussions, focussing primarily on the solo albums, beginning with Bakgat in 1980. This enables them to make sense of the trajectory of Kramer’s career, and provides a much-needed perspective on his cultural interventions over the years. These stem from his determination to focus on and give expression to what is local and indigenous and distinctively South African (or Western Cape). Kramer’s roots are of course, in the Karroo (Worcester), and what stood out immediately was his use of a non-standard colloquial Afrikaans and his own ‘blik’ style of music. Bakgat was immediately banned by the SABC. At the same time, however, Kramer was aware of how much was excluded by the official, white Afrikaans-speaking culture of the platteland dorps. Exclusion also shapes identity. This led to his ever-deepening engagement with the undocumented and largely unrecognised language, history and musical traditions of those most marginalised of people, the rural ‘coloured’ farm workers and communities of the Karoo, the West Coast and the Northern Cape. (It is probably not incidental that Kramer’s paternal grandfather was a Lithuanian refugee, Berel Karabelnik, aka Barnett Kramer, who started out in South Africa as an intinerant smous in the Van Rynsdorp area.) This interest culminated in Karoo Kitaar Blues and in the various versions of The Ballad of Koos Sas (a legendary outlaw figure – the “last Bushman” – who was tracked down and killed, and whose skull was put on display in the Montagu museum.)
One of the things which distinguishes Kramer’s music then, is his ability to transcend the limitations imposed by his platteland origins, and to empathise with and enter into dialogue those who have been marginalised by over 300 years of colonial and apartheid history. His creative partnership with Taliep Petersen, culminated in Ghoema, which explores and celebrates the rich musical history and traditions of the people of Cape Town, dating back to the era of slavery.
While the book doesn’t delve into the Kramer’s personal life, it does discuss the problems resulting from sudden commercial success (“Hak Hom Blokkies” was a number 1 hit in 1981, followed closely by “Royal Hotel”). Kramer came to be identified with a particular image or persona (which he had himself promoted) – the familiar image of the singer, wearing baggy trousers, velskoene and slicked-back hair, “almal se pel”. This was, of course, enhanced by a succession of iconic VW bus advertisements, flighted on TV for something like 13 years, which helped to make him a household name. However, his persona was threatening to take over and rule his creative life. His most overtly political LP of the 1980s, Baboondogs (with mostly English lyrics) was in part a response to these pressures. The psychic strain involved in managing the disparity between the public persona and the private David Kramer may have contributed to the debilitating depression that he suffered from for a number of years.
The book deals in a more summary way with the remarkably successful collaboration between Kramer and Taliep Petersen. District Six, the Musical touched a raw nerve by tapping into the collective trauma that resulted from the destruction of District Six, and subsequent shows (Fairyland, and Kat and the Kings) helped to retrieve the music and culture of the District for a contemporary audience. The latter is the only South African show to have played on both the West End and Broadway.
In the new millennium Kramer’s trips into remote rural areas and his work with hitherto unknown musicians, culminating in Karoo Kitaar Blues, helped to do for folk-roots music in South Africa what Alan and John Lomax had done for folk and blues music in America and elsewhere. Most of the musicians Kramer found died in the nine years between the original show in 1991 and the release of a DVD in 2000. Their lives and music were in effect rescued from oblivion by Kramer: we would otherwise never have heard of the likes of Tokas Lodewyk, Hannes Coetzee, Dawid van Rooi, Koos Lof, Siena and Jan Mouers, Helena Nuwegeld and Jan Willems.
It would be difficult to underestimate the significance of Kramer’s original work and “shape-shifting” versatility. The subversive charge of much of his music influenced a new, younger generation of Afrikaans musicians, who were part of the “Voëlvry” movement. The great merit of this book is that it gives Kramer’s work the serious attention that it deserves, without being ponderous or over-solemn. David Kramer: A BIography is readable and articulate, and is well-illustrated with photographs. It traces the evolution of Kramer’s preoccupation with place and identity and belonging from Bakgat to Huistoe. His exploration of what he calls “cultural borderlines” (in reaction to “the previous apartheid mindset”) has as much relevance now as it ever had.
If nothing else, the book will get readers dusting off their copies of Bakgat and revisiting the music that had such an impact in its time. One or two small suggestions: a David Kramer timeline at the beginning of the book would have been useful. And did the publishers consider the option of including a CD (Bakgat or Klassic Kramer) with the book?
His modest protestations notwithstanding, David Kramer’s life has been anything but “ordinary” – and at last we have a book that does justice to this, David Kramer: a Biography by Dawid de Villiers and Mathilda Slabbert. Their “Preface’ makes clear what kind of book this is: not a tell-all celebrity biography, but a serious attempt to understand the enormous contribution Kramer has made over the years as a musician and solo performer and as a collaborator (with Taliep Pietersen and others).
This is not exactly an authorised biography: Kramer gave the two authors a free hand, but it is clear that a relationship of trust developed between the authors and Kramer, and that the book has benefitted enormously from the material that the Kramers (David and Renaye, and David’s brother John) made available. The result is a book that, while clearly sympathetic to its subject, retains academic objectivity and rigour. The focus is on Kramer’s work, and on the context of that work, rather than on his private life.
The authors provide a series of insightful and well-informed discussions, focussing primarily on the solo albums, beginning with Bakgat in 1980. This enables them to make sense of the trajectory of Kramer’s career, and provides a much-needed perspective on his cultural interventions over the years. These stem from his determination to focus on and give expression to what is local and indigenous and distinctively South African (or Western Cape). Kramer’s roots are of course, in the Karroo (Worcester), and what stood out immediately was his use of a non-standard colloquial Afrikaans and his own ‘blik’ style of music. Bakgat was immediately banned by the SABC. At the same time, however, Kramer was aware of how much was excluded by the official, white Afrikaans-speaking culture of the platteland dorps. Exclusion also shapes identity. This led to his ever-deepening engagement with the undocumented and largely unrecognised language, history and musical traditions of those most marginalised of people, the rural ‘coloured’ farm workers and communities of the Karoo, the West Coast and the Northern Cape. (It is probably not incidental that Kramer’s paternal grandfather was a Lithuanian refugee, Berel Karabelnik, aka Barnett Kramer, who started out in South Africa as an intinerant smous in the Van Rynsdorp area.) This interest culminated in Karoo Kitaar Blues and in the various versions of The Ballad of Koos Sas (a legendary outlaw figure – the “last Bushman” – who was tracked down and killed, and whose skull was put on display in the Montagu museum.)
One of the things which distinguishes Kramer’s music then, is his ability to transcend the limitations imposed by his platteland origins, and to empathise with and enter into dialogue those who have been marginalised by over 300 years of colonial and apartheid history. His creative partnership with Taliep Petersen, culminated in Ghoema, which explores and celebrates the rich musical history and traditions of the people of Cape Town, dating back to the era of slavery.
While the book doesn’t delve into the Kramer’s personal life, it does discuss the problems resulting from sudden commercial success (“Hak Hom Blokkies” was a number 1 hit in 1981, followed closely by “Royal Hotel”). Kramer came to be identified with a particular image or persona (which he had himself promoted) – the familiar image of the singer, wearing baggy trousers, velskoene and slicked-back hair, “almal se pel”. This was, of course, enhanced by a succession of iconic VW bus advertisements, flighted on TV for something like 13 years, which helped to make him a household name. However, his persona was threatening to take over and rule his creative life. His most overtly political LP of the 1980s, Baboondogs (with mostly English lyrics) was in part a response to these pressures. The psychic strain involved in managing the disparity between the public persona and the private David Kramer may have contributed to the debilitating depression that he suffered from for a number of years.
The book deals in a more summary way with the remarkably successful collaboration between Kramer and Taliep Petersen. District Six, the Musical touched a raw nerve by tapping into the collective trauma that resulted from the destruction of District Six, and subsequent shows (Fairyland, and Kat and the Kings) helped to retrieve the music and culture of the District for a contemporary audience. The latter is the only South African show to have played on both the West End and Broadway.
In the new millennium Kramer’s trips into remote rural areas and his work with hitherto unknown musicians, culminating in Karoo Kitaar Blues, helped to do for folk-roots music in South Africa what Alan and John Lomax had done for folk and blues music in America and elsewhere. Most of the musicians Kramer found died in the nine years between the original show in 1991 and the release of a DVD in 2000. Their lives and music were in effect rescued from oblivion by Kramer: we would otherwise never have heard of the likes of Tokas Lodewyk, Hannes Coetzee, Dawid van Rooi, Koos Lof, Siena and Jan Mouers, Helena Nuwegeld and Jan Willems.
It would be difficult to underestimate the significance of Kramer’s original work and “shape-shifting” versatility. The subversive charge of much of his music influenced a new, younger generation of Afrikaans musicians, who were part of the “Voëlvry” movement. The great merit of this book is that it gives Kramer’s work the serious attention that it deserves, without being ponderous or over-solemn. David Kramer: A BIography is readable and articulate, and is well-illustrated with photographs. It traces the evolution of Kramer’s preoccupation with place and identity and belonging from Bakgat to Huistoe. His exploration of what he calls “cultural borderlines” (in reaction to “the previous apartheid mindset”) has as much relevance now as it ever had.
If nothing else, the book will get readers dusting off their copies of Bakgat and revisiting the music that had such an impact in its time. One or two small suggestions: a David Kramer timeline at the beginning of the book would have been useful. And did the publishers consider the option of including a CD (Bakgat or Klassic Kramer) with the book?
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Diepsloot
Inside Diepsloot: A Review of Anton Harber’s Diepsloot
Anton Harber: Diepsloot. Jeppestown: Jonathan Ball, 2011.ISBN
978-1-86842-421-4
What makes this book important? It gets behind the (often sensational and misleading) headlines and lifts the lid on what actually happens inside this informal settlement of +/- 200000 people, north of Johannesburg. (It borders on its near neighbour and polar opposite, the very upmarket suburb of Dainfern.) There are many more Diepsloots – it is one of about 1700 informal settlements around the country, all competing for attention. Such places are often the sites of “service delivery” protests and vigilante action. Rather like the canary in the mineshaft, they give us early warning of the stresses and strains that threaten our society, and our common future. The author, Weekly Mail founder and editor, Anton Harber, tells us: “I learned that if you want to understand where this country is headed, you need to listen to the people of Diepsloot.” And he does.
The book points to the often intractable difficulties that prevent progress and impede service delivery (among these, “the frog” – the Giant Bullfrog whose natural habitat is Diepsloot East, and which needs to be protected). There are multiple overlapping authorities, various processes that have to be followed – and no one seems sure where the money will come from. Even where there is the political will, this is a bureaucratic nightmare. The problem, in a nutshell, is this: the state is faced by multiple challenges in its attempts to regulate and introduce services to an area where people have simply moved in, built shacks, set up trading stands, and tapped into the Eskom electricity grid – without seeking permission from anyone to do so!
Interestingly, Diepsloot is a child of the “new” South Africa: it dates from 1995, when the “Zevenfontein squatters” took it upon themselves to move in. Subsequently (in 1996, and again in 2001) people were relocated from Alexandria. “The people of Diepsloot are “the cast-offs and refugees of other areas” – and about 30 000 new people arrive every year. Some 5000+ RDP houses have been built, some housing stands have been developed, and there is some bonded housing – but this is a drop in the sea of 3x2 metre shacks. Sanitation is inadequate: sewerage flows through the street or into the stream (the “sloot”) that runs through the centre of the settlement. Most people rely on informal trading to survive. Life is precarious, crime is rampant, and in the absence of effective policing or a working criminal justice system, people often take the law into their own hands.
In this “organised chaos” the authorities have limited purchase. The ANC representatives operate out of offices, talk the language of due process, and counsel patience. Closer to the grassroots are SANCO and the SACP and the Youth League: “We know the needs of the people. We feel the pressure because we are here on the ground”. These organisations have a tense relationship with the ANC. Local ANC leaders accuse SANCO of running a “mob-like organisation” that takes protection money, threatens foreigners (Diepsloot was the site of extreme Xenophobic violence in 2008), and sells access to land and shacks. Harber’s book provides a valuable insight into alliance politics on the ground, beyond the headlines. It reflects a variety of opinions, and gives space to all the “stakeholders” (as well as to the views of ordinary residents) and avoids over–simple judgements.
What one gets from Harber’s book, then, is a careful, well-researched and systematic study by an outsider who brings his skills as an investigative journalist and his personal integrity to bear. His overview is based on what he sees and hears in Diepsloot (he spent four months there, and interviewed hundreds of people), and its objectivity and fairness are obvious. This is of course still an outsider’s perspective: the book does not try to provide a hands-on street level account of daily life as experienced by the residents of Diepsloot. This is not a criticism, just a description of the kind of book this is – and it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
Harber chooses not to problematise the fact that he is white, and an outsider, but he can hardly be unaware of this. One or two black critics (e.g. Andile Mngxitama) have used this as a stick to beat him with, asking why “a white researcher would care to intrude into black spaces”. This kind of knee-jerk, half-baked response smacks of reverse racism: do we really want to create a new social and intellectual apartheid, where only “blacks” can write about “blacks”, and “whites” about “whites” – and where we keep to our own (racially defined) spaces?
Take the trouble to read the book (unlike Eric Miyeni, who criticises it without having read it), and arrive at your own judgement!
Anton Harber: Diepsloot. Jeppestown: Jonathan Ball, 2011.ISBN
978-1-86842-421-4
What makes this book important? It gets behind the (often sensational and misleading) headlines and lifts the lid on what actually happens inside this informal settlement of +/- 200000 people, north of Johannesburg. (It borders on its near neighbour and polar opposite, the very upmarket suburb of Dainfern.) There are many more Diepsloots – it is one of about 1700 informal settlements around the country, all competing for attention. Such places are often the sites of “service delivery” protests and vigilante action. Rather like the canary in the mineshaft, they give us early warning of the stresses and strains that threaten our society, and our common future. The author, Weekly Mail founder and editor, Anton Harber, tells us: “I learned that if you want to understand where this country is headed, you need to listen to the people of Diepsloot.” And he does.
The book points to the often intractable difficulties that prevent progress and impede service delivery (among these, “the frog” – the Giant Bullfrog whose natural habitat is Diepsloot East, and which needs to be protected). There are multiple overlapping authorities, various processes that have to be followed – and no one seems sure where the money will come from. Even where there is the political will, this is a bureaucratic nightmare. The problem, in a nutshell, is this: the state is faced by multiple challenges in its attempts to regulate and introduce services to an area where people have simply moved in, built shacks, set up trading stands, and tapped into the Eskom electricity grid – without seeking permission from anyone to do so!
Interestingly, Diepsloot is a child of the “new” South Africa: it dates from 1995, when the “Zevenfontein squatters” took it upon themselves to move in. Subsequently (in 1996, and again in 2001) people were relocated from Alexandria. “The people of Diepsloot are “the cast-offs and refugees of other areas” – and about 30 000 new people arrive every year. Some 5000+ RDP houses have been built, some housing stands have been developed, and there is some bonded housing – but this is a drop in the sea of 3x2 metre shacks. Sanitation is inadequate: sewerage flows through the street or into the stream (the “sloot”) that runs through the centre of the settlement. Most people rely on informal trading to survive. Life is precarious, crime is rampant, and in the absence of effective policing or a working criminal justice system, people often take the law into their own hands.
In this “organised chaos” the authorities have limited purchase. The ANC representatives operate out of offices, talk the language of due process, and counsel patience. Closer to the grassroots are SANCO and the SACP and the Youth League: “We know the needs of the people. We feel the pressure because we are here on the ground”. These organisations have a tense relationship with the ANC. Local ANC leaders accuse SANCO of running a “mob-like organisation” that takes protection money, threatens foreigners (Diepsloot was the site of extreme Xenophobic violence in 2008), and sells access to land and shacks. Harber’s book provides a valuable insight into alliance politics on the ground, beyond the headlines. It reflects a variety of opinions, and gives space to all the “stakeholders” (as well as to the views of ordinary residents) and avoids over–simple judgements.
What one gets from Harber’s book, then, is a careful, well-researched and systematic study by an outsider who brings his skills as an investigative journalist and his personal integrity to bear. His overview is based on what he sees and hears in Diepsloot (he spent four months there, and interviewed hundreds of people), and its objectivity and fairness are obvious. This is of course still an outsider’s perspective: the book does not try to provide a hands-on street level account of daily life as experienced by the residents of Diepsloot. This is not a criticism, just a description of the kind of book this is – and it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
Harber chooses not to problematise the fact that he is white, and an outsider, but he can hardly be unaware of this. One or two black critics (e.g. Andile Mngxitama) have used this as a stick to beat him with, asking why “a white researcher would care to intrude into black spaces”. This kind of knee-jerk, half-baked response smacks of reverse racism: do we really want to create a new social and intellectual apartheid, where only “blacks” can write about “blacks”, and “whites” about “whites” – and where we keep to our own (racially defined) spaces?
Take the trouble to read the book (unlike Eric Miyeni, who criticises it without having read it), and arrive at your own judgement!
Saturday, January 7, 2012
THE GREAT MATRIC PASS-RATE DECEPTION
Now That the initial hullaballoo and self-congratulation is over, it may be time to reflect on the Matric results, and particularly on the significance of the 70.2% national pass rate. Jonathan Jansen hits several nails on the head, and I borrow shamelessly from his article (“Matric razzmatazz conceals sad reality” – Weekend Argus, 7 January).
1. 52% of children who started in Grade 1 never made it to Matric. That is 539 102 young people. Where are they now?
2. “The requirement for passing is so low that pupils really have to put in a special effort to fail.” i.e. All that is needed to pass is 40% in a home language, 40% in two other subjects and 30% in three subjects! This is how low we set the bar!
3. There is great pressure on schools to only enter candidates who have a good chance of passing, and to advise students to select subjects that they are likely to pass (e.g. Maths Literacy rather than Maths). The Maths pass rate was 46%, and fewer students wrote Maths. In fact, the number of students enrolled for Matric declines each year.
4. Many Matriculants will find that they lack the skills or qualifications to find a job. Only a small proportion (24.3%) will qualify to enter university – and many of those will fail their first year.
The national obsession with Matric pass rates is counter-productive, and does not serve the real interests of our learners.
Is it not time for someone to say that the Emperor (in this case our Minister of Basic Education) has no clothes?
1. 52% of children who started in Grade 1 never made it to Matric. That is 539 102 young people. Where are they now?
2. “The requirement for passing is so low that pupils really have to put in a special effort to fail.” i.e. All that is needed to pass is 40% in a home language, 40% in two other subjects and 30% in three subjects! This is how low we set the bar!
3. There is great pressure on schools to only enter candidates who have a good chance of passing, and to advise students to select subjects that they are likely to pass (e.g. Maths Literacy rather than Maths). The Maths pass rate was 46%, and fewer students wrote Maths. In fact, the number of students enrolled for Matric declines each year.
4. Many Matriculants will find that they lack the skills or qualifications to find a job. Only a small proportion (24.3%) will qualify to enter university – and many of those will fail their first year.
The national obsession with Matric pass rates is counter-productive, and does not serve the real interests of our learners.
Is it not time for someone to say that the Emperor (in this case our Minister of Basic Education) has no clothes?
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