‘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?
Monday, March 26, 2012
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.
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