Speaking ill of the living

When journalist Toby Shapshak first broke the news of Tshabalala-Msimang’s death over Twitter, there were very few condolences on the public timeline.

People tend to have long memories when it comes to hundreds of thousands of lives that could have been saved had Tshabalala-Msimang and the rest of the Mbeki-acolytes rolled out antiretrovirals (ARVs) instead of being drunk on denialism.

There is the matter of her legacy; a recipe for a good braai accompaniment. No doubt the beetroots, olive oil, garlic and lemons read like a meal on speed. However, it should also be noted that a lot of the media at the time did not adequately emphasise the link between a well-balanced diet and the efficacy of ARVs.

We all had our digs at Manto. Her reported drinking problems, controversial liver transplants and alleged kleptomania; these were enough for us to burn her effigies, stoking the flames with the newspaper accounts of a health minister who called time of death on the plot. Stephen Grootes has written an evenly-keeled piece on Manto’s passing in The Daily Maverick.

Now, I would like to speak ill of the living.

Granted, government’s response to the pandemic has since improved. On World Aids Day this year, President Zuma committed to improve access to HIV/AIDS testing and treatment, effective from April 2010. By March 31st of next year, the number of accredited ARV centres will expand to include all health institutions .

Policy changes include initiating treatment for children under the age of one year who test positive not being determinant on their level of CD cells. Patients with both TB and HIV will not have to wait until their CD4 count drops to 200 or less, as they will be treated with ARVs if their count is 350 or lower.

If President Zuma and his people make good, it is a positive turn for pregnant women with HIV. They will be eligible for treatment with CD4 counts of 350 (again, a departure from the CD4 count of 200 or less) or if they display symptoms regardless of their CD4 count. Those not falling into these categories will be put on treatment at fourteen weeks of pregnancy to protect the baby, a marked departure from starting treatment during the last term.

For now, however, access to treatment remains a challenge for the marginalised.

This could not have been more affirmed than at a recent meeting of jurists, civil society representatives and people living with HIV/AIDS, where executive director of the AIDS Law Project Mark Heywood read aloud from letters he’d received from people seeking recourse. While these come from South Africans, the cases are not unique and speak to a continent-wide issue.

[transcription]

“This is about a person who lives in an informal settlement in Johannesburg called Diepsloot, who was wrongfully arrested because he didn’t have papers and was suspected, by the police, of being an illegal migrant from Zimbabwe. This is his wife writing. He is in a prison or was in a prison until quite recently. ‘On the 4th of November I went there to visit him to give him some foodstuffs and hopefully get his hospital card so I could go collect his ARV medication. The policeman I found that day was very rude and refused to let Mr M give me his hospital card nor allow me to see him. He said Mr M had not reported that he was sick, and it was not important anyway. He refused my explanation. he actually said in that prison they don’t take prisoners to hospital for medication. I had to turn back with the foodstuff and try to return some other day. On the 16th of November I went back to Sun City [colloquial name for the correctional facility in Johannesburg South], I had foodstuff and ARV medication for him. The ARV medication was refused by police and they said to me I must consult with Sister X which I never did because I don’t even know who Sister X is. Therefore Mr M never got his medication.'”

[ends]

This is despite the existence of a clear court order about the duties of prison services to provide prisoners with access to antiretroviral treatment.

“I can tell you, with my hand on my heart, the situation facing prisoners with AIDS in South African prisons is no better today than it was three years ago [when the order was passed],” Heywood said.

That was just one story.

There are others Heywood tells; of a woman refused entry as a recruit to the Durban police because she disclosed her HIV status, a mother being charged by her baby’s father for attempted murder as he believes she transmitted the virus to the child through breastfeeding.

For as long as discrimination is perpetrated, as long as human rights are negated, the virus wins. We should put that on a t-shirt.

We know the spread of HIV/AIDS to be strongly linked to gender and class inequalities.

This virus highlights the differences between public and private health care systems.

It shows us up for what we are.

Our selective sympathy would not dare to go near homosexuals, sex-workers, prisoners.

In countries like Uganda where homosexuality is criminalised, the rate of HIV infection and transmission is increasing rapidly among homosexuals because the discrimination they face has become the root cause of their inability to access treatment.

Twenty-five years into the epidemic, Heywood says, and those who are at the most at risk of infection are not at the table of HIV/AIDS prevention because they remain criminalised, marginalised and fearful to the legal responses towards their lifestyles and their work.

So who do we slam?

If there’s one thing Tshabalala-Msimang’s death should bring, apart from the vigils for the hundreds of thousands she could have saved during her tenure, it should be for the millions who can still be saved if treatment is seen as an inalienable human right.

 

That word

The drive was atavistic.

Hunter-gatherer sensibilities trumped a millennium’s worth of progress as we engaged in a quiet war to secure, and deftly, the most well-vantaged space for our cars.

Parking lots bring out the moer in people.

And the ugly too.

We were all inching along; the tiresome stop-go-stop-go, mindless clutch control, memorising the grocery list by rote.

A woman in the oncoming lane had her indicators on to claim a spot where a family were busy packing up lots of groceries and what could have been a baby or its pram into the boot of their car.

The man behind her hooted.

She made spastic hand gestures towards her rear-view mirror.

The impatient man was either not versed in mad finger pokes or really didn’t consider her problems to be his.

He proceeded to somehow squeeze his bakkie into the gap between her car and the other parked ones.

This looked like it was going to blow all out. Best to move along now, I thought, nothing to see and all that.

Her window was wound down on the the drivers side and I heard her say it.

Quite clearly.

“Fucking k******.”

The shock stayed with me all the way to Pick N’ Pay and blog.

She could have called him an asshole or a fucker or a fucking asshole or some other more creatively-constructed epithet.

And he no doubt deserved some measure of profanity for forcing his vehicle past hers the way he did.

But she used that word. Why, that word?

Was she so angry at that man that she just reached inside and pulled out the most hateful thing she could think of?

Here’s what got me.

This was a young woman, somewhere in her 20’s. Probably around my age.

Hardly fed off of the boob of apartheid, right?

It isn’t that if she were older, it would be more easily computed. It’s just that I don’t want to accept that certain things are still being passed on.

Is my alarm just symptomatic of my naiveté?

What do you think?

Shift

Lately I’ve been thinking (oooh, I channeled some Henry Ate* there) that it won’t be such a bad thing if it happens that I never make it as a serious writer.

Yes, it’s been this dream; this full-on burning, for so long, that the acceptance of this possibility does feel a bit like cutting off a thumb.

Digitectomising (not a real word) aside, I will not stop writing. I just need a bit of space to figure out where I see myself ascending professionally. I’m hoping our time in Egypt will bear some revelation (Inshallah Ameen).

I’m rather rudderless right now. Stagnant qi and mosquito-brained.

The freedom that freelancing affords me, now seems to be the very thing that’s frazzling me. I’m a dabbler of note, a doyenne of nada.

I am loving the layout and typesetting gigs though, and am keen on upskilling that. I don’t quite know where the papercrafting is heading, but I have learnt that hobbies-turned-jobbies are not all about the glitz and glue-buzz.

Was it not reasonable for me to believe that by the time I reached this age, I would have had it all figured out?

*really lekker now-defunct South African band

Fascinating bit I hope I understood correctly from Arabic class: The words Binte (Daughter of) and Ibn (Son of) have at their root, the letters Baa and Noon. The arabic word transliterated as “Banaa” means “to build”, implying a notion that your progeny build you (and your legacy perhaps?).

allergic reactions

(A piece I started years ago and rounded off today)

Talk to me dammit, Say something, anything. Please. I can’t stand it when you get like this. Really, I can’t handle it. Why the hell aren’t you speaking? Come on, please. Please? I’m begging you. What did I do? Tell me. Come on, just tell me. Don’t look away from me. You can’t avoid facing me forever you know? I’m always going to be here. We’re not leaving this table until you say something. Continue reading allergic reactions

the way forward

Oft times when one encounters a brick wall, an overwhelming urge for capitulum to kiss clay with vigorous repetition presents itself.

In such an instance you would do well to be mindful of a caveat or two; a stubborn wall rarely commits to anything while living tissue tends to book the caterers.

Granny’s been over for a few days while Naeem observes Itikaaf. She would say, “Haha karakarwanu, ek kaan ma ti karilakwanu.*”

That’s a good bunch of sage to carry around as a taaweez**.

*Just say yes yes and take it out of one ear
**amulet/piece of scripture worn for ‘protection’

of fatwah and fitnah

This has been inside of me for too many years now.

Schismatics, asthmatics.

can’t breathe
When they’re telling me,
How I seethe
When they’re telling me,

Where to pray.
What to display.

Yes, yes,
I am oppressed.
Compressed
by your ignorance.

Don’t you see you’re all the same?
To cover me,
To uncover me,
for fuck sakes
let me be.

Forgive me
of profanity.
Dear Almighty,
Let it not be.

You’re dangerous man,
Coz they think you’re right,
And on the menu we
Have crooked rib tonight.

Mufti,
Is it permissible
for me
To sometimes
Maybe
You know
think freely?

As long as it is
Within the confines
Of your mind.

Don’t break my faith.
You won’t break my faith
You can’t break my faith.

I submit
I submit
I submit

God be with me,
I’ll be patient,
I have lived all my life,
For your judgment.