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.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
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?
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Shades of black and the DA
It’s no great surprise that 16 or so years into the ‘new’ South Africa our national obsession with race still persists – and that when it comes to the ballot box race (along with struggle history) still matters. Race clearly informs the mud-slinging over the choice of the DA’s new black hope, Lindiwe Mazibuko. Is that a fair description? I think it is – if you look at the way she has been marketed and presented to the voting public by the DA. Think back to the election poster, and consider the argument that her election as parliamentary leader will help to free the DA from its image as a party that is closely associated with ‘white’ interests and the preservation of the status quo. The argument, which seems to be self-evident, is that if the DA is to grow, then it must appeal to more black South Africans. And the inference is that Mazibuko is the leader who will enable the DA to do these things. She commented after her win: “We are plotting our trajectory rapidly. This will make us a viable alternative to the ANC going forward.” She may well be a young, capable, intelligent, hard-working member of the DA– but this doesn’t explain her rapid rise through the ranks, or why she was preferred to other young, talented, hard-working MPs.
If she was selected partly or largely on the basis of her hoped-for appeal to black voters, and if we are to escape from our racial past, it seems reasonable to ask whether skin colour alone is a sufficient qualification. It should be obvious that, however powerful a signifier skin colour may have been, it is not credible or appropriate to judge a person’s electoral appeal simply on this basis. The electorate is not that stupid.
It was Verwoerd’s race-based thinking that sought to make skin colour the signifier of identity, culture and personal worth. To think that skin pigmentation can be the basis of any meaningful judgement about a person is to perpetuate that malign legacy. ‘Blackness’ was given memorable definition in this country by Steve Biko, one of the founders of Black Consciousness. In asserting the positive value of ‘blackness’ as an identity forged by the common experience of oppression, he was not falling into the Verwoerdian trap. He insisted that ‘being black is not a matter of pigmentation – being black is a reflection of a mental attitude.’ He provided an inclusive definition of ‘blackness’, and recognised that some black people actually aspired to ‘whiteness’ (he referred to such people as ‘non-whites’). Having a dark skin does not automatically make one an agent of transformation. Isn’t this both a matter of common sense and common observation?
In the new South Africa the material circumstances of some black people have changed. They may have grown up in a middle-class suburb; they may have received a privileged education in private schools or former Model-C schools, or they may have been educated outside the country. There is nothing wrong with this – but how appropriate would it be for these people to claim that they represent the interests of those who grow up in the townships or informal settlements, and who experience deprivation and poverty and frightening levels of crime. (It is a matter of fact that the material circumstances of many black people have not changed very much since the apartheid era.) Claims based purely on skin pigmentation are not credible, because they imply that class, education and cultural experience do not matter. This is why some commentators remark on Mazibuko’s accent, ask how fluent she is in isiZulu, and ask how at home she feels in a township. Some commentators (even some within the DA) ask whether her selection is not a case of ‘window-dressing’.
It is unfortunate (and may seem unfair) for Mazibuko to be subjected to this kind of critique – but it is not surprising or inappropriate – and it is not ‘Verwoerdian’. It goes with the territory; it is part of the process of political contestation in our fledgling democracy. Responses from DA leaders simply expose the sensitivity of these issues within the DA.
If she was selected partly or largely on the basis of her hoped-for appeal to black voters, and if we are to escape from our racial past, it seems reasonable to ask whether skin colour alone is a sufficient qualification. It should be obvious that, however powerful a signifier skin colour may have been, it is not credible or appropriate to judge a person’s electoral appeal simply on this basis. The electorate is not that stupid.
It was Verwoerd’s race-based thinking that sought to make skin colour the signifier of identity, culture and personal worth. To think that skin pigmentation can be the basis of any meaningful judgement about a person is to perpetuate that malign legacy. ‘Blackness’ was given memorable definition in this country by Steve Biko, one of the founders of Black Consciousness. In asserting the positive value of ‘blackness’ as an identity forged by the common experience of oppression, he was not falling into the Verwoerdian trap. He insisted that ‘being black is not a matter of pigmentation – being black is a reflection of a mental attitude.’ He provided an inclusive definition of ‘blackness’, and recognised that some black people actually aspired to ‘whiteness’ (he referred to such people as ‘non-whites’). Having a dark skin does not automatically make one an agent of transformation. Isn’t this both a matter of common sense and common observation?
In the new South Africa the material circumstances of some black people have changed. They may have grown up in a middle-class suburb; they may have received a privileged education in private schools or former Model-C schools, or they may have been educated outside the country. There is nothing wrong with this – but how appropriate would it be for these people to claim that they represent the interests of those who grow up in the townships or informal settlements, and who experience deprivation and poverty and frightening levels of crime. (It is a matter of fact that the material circumstances of many black people have not changed very much since the apartheid era.) Claims based purely on skin pigmentation are not credible, because they imply that class, education and cultural experience do not matter. This is why some commentators remark on Mazibuko’s accent, ask how fluent she is in isiZulu, and ask how at home she feels in a township. Some commentators (even some within the DA) ask whether her selection is not a case of ‘window-dressing’.
It is unfortunate (and may seem unfair) for Mazibuko to be subjected to this kind of critique – but it is not surprising or inappropriate – and it is not ‘Verwoerdian’. It goes with the territory; it is part of the process of political contestation in our fledgling democracy. Responses from DA leaders simply expose the sensitivity of these issues within the DA.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Fugard in Obs
It’s not every day that you can walk down the road and see a classic Fugard play being performed in a local church hall – and have Fugard himself conduct a Q and A session with the audience after the show! Fugard complimented the cast very warmly, saying the play was ‘written for them’.
Since productions that are a bit off the beaten track don’t seem to attract the attention of theatre critics, I would like to thank Caroline Calburn of TAAC for bringing this production to Obs. The cast – Bo Petersen, Malefane Mosuhli and Jeroen Kranenberg – gave performances of great integrity and conviction. And thanks to award-winning director Kim Kerfoot for bringing all this together. It made for a memorable evening. Unfortunately the run is due to end on Saturday, so some theatre-goers may miss out.
Finally, thanks to the Methodist Church in Observatory for making their hall available to the Theatre Arts Admin Collective, who in spite of running on a shoestring have managed to host some excellent plays. Without a venue, there would be no play. And by the way, Observatory is also now home to the Magnet Theatre, situated in Lower Main Road.
Since productions that are a bit off the beaten track don’t seem to attract the attention of theatre critics, I would like to thank Caroline Calburn of TAAC for bringing this production to Obs. The cast – Bo Petersen, Malefane Mosuhli and Jeroen Kranenberg – gave performances of great integrity and conviction. And thanks to award-winning director Kim Kerfoot for bringing all this together. It made for a memorable evening. Unfortunately the run is due to end on Saturday, so some theatre-goers may miss out.
Finally, thanks to the Methodist Church in Observatory for making their hall available to the Theatre Arts Admin Collective, who in spite of running on a shoestring have managed to host some excellent plays. Without a venue, there would be no play. And by the way, Observatory is also now home to the Magnet Theatre, situated in Lower Main Road.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
JM Coetzee in Texas
Isn’t it rather dismaying to learn that our (are we right to think of him as ‘our’?) foremost writer has sold his literary papers to the University of Texas in Austin?
Of course, Coetzee is free to choose what to do with his papers, and of course he belongs to the world, not just to South Africa, and yes, he did receive a doctorate from the U of Texas in 1965 – so this is not a criticism, just an expression of regret.
Whatever he has achieved in the world of letters, whatever awards he has won, Coetzee’s South African experience remains foundational. For better or for worse, South Africa (and more specifically the Western Cape) has made him the person and the writer that he is. His unique mode of oppositional writing was forged in the South African crucible. This is not to deny the influence of wider intellectual currents, and this is not to say that his writing must be viewed through an exclusively South African lens. But one does feel a sense of loss.
In the Harry Ransom Research Centre Coetzee will be rubbing shoulders with some very illustrious writers. And it will be very convenient for American and European scholars to have him on their doorstep, so to speak. And no doubt NELM would not have been able to compete with the $1.5 paid by the U of Texas. But one can’t help thinking that international scholars might have benefited from making the trek to the small, parochial Eastern Cape town of Grahamstown to study Coetzee’s manuscripts in some place less alien than Austin, Texas. (One can learn a lot about South Africa in Grahamstown, if one keeps one’s eyes open.) What a shot in the arm it would have been, for NELM, and for South African scholars and post-graduate students, to have these documents located more proximately.
Coetzee may well have had a relationship with the University of Texas, but for the thirty most productive and important years of his working life (as a writer and academic) he was employed by the University of Cape Town, which must have provided him with some kind of intellectual and creative space.
Clearly Coetzee had every right to make the choice he made. But one cannot help but wonder what it was that tipped the scales in favour of Austin, Texas.
Of course, Coetzee is free to choose what to do with his papers, and of course he belongs to the world, not just to South Africa, and yes, he did receive a doctorate from the U of Texas in 1965 – so this is not a criticism, just an expression of regret.
Whatever he has achieved in the world of letters, whatever awards he has won, Coetzee’s South African experience remains foundational. For better or for worse, South Africa (and more specifically the Western Cape) has made him the person and the writer that he is. His unique mode of oppositional writing was forged in the South African crucible. This is not to deny the influence of wider intellectual currents, and this is not to say that his writing must be viewed through an exclusively South African lens. But one does feel a sense of loss.
In the Harry Ransom Research Centre Coetzee will be rubbing shoulders with some very illustrious writers. And it will be very convenient for American and European scholars to have him on their doorstep, so to speak. And no doubt NELM would not have been able to compete with the $1.5 paid by the U of Texas. But one can’t help thinking that international scholars might have benefited from making the trek to the small, parochial Eastern Cape town of Grahamstown to study Coetzee’s manuscripts in some place less alien than Austin, Texas. (One can learn a lot about South Africa in Grahamstown, if one keeps one’s eyes open.) What a shot in the arm it would have been, for NELM, and for South African scholars and post-graduate students, to have these documents located more proximately.
Coetzee may well have had a relationship with the University of Texas, but for the thirty most productive and important years of his working life (as a writer and academic) he was employed by the University of Cape Town, which must have provided him with some kind of intellectual and creative space.
Clearly Coetzee had every right to make the choice he made. But one cannot help but wonder what it was that tipped the scales in favour of Austin, Texas.
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