All the visual clichés I could not resist shooting just before sunrise at the Nizamiye Mosque Complex in Midrand. Search the hashtag #nizamiyesunrise on instagram or facebook for shots by others at the photo-meet.
Tag: eye on mzansi
Jo’burg Photowalk: CBD and surrounds
Jo’burg city is like an aging movie star who dropped out of the public eye decades ago and has now emerged from her reclusion, reinvented. Her waist may have thickened and the skin around the eyes more deeply etched, but her magic still shimmers in the right light, charm at-ready, her presence grand.
where from?
We shuffle in to the room, our tracks muddy from the stereotype milking; of course, it has to be the charous who are late.
Ushered to the side, we take our place holding up the wall and a roll-up banner announcing that this is the M&G Literary Festival.
When given chairs, I try to maneuver as discreetly as possible, contorting myself into that jig one does when holding back flatulence.
Still, I attract the attention of the woman in front of me and we exchange the type of smiles strangers do.
She asks me where I’m from.
I say that I’m a freelancer with an interest in literary writing.
No, no she wants to know where I’m from.
From here.
Ah, from here, she repeats after me.
All of this whispered, the Here silently expanding to include; 44 Stanley Avenue, the Hillbrow clinic where I was born, the West Rand where I grew up, the South where I now live.
An ironic exchange considering we are sitting in on a panel discussion entitled Being Here: South Africans in 2010.
Perhaps my turquoise scarf was a touch exotic or my eyeliner just a little too severe for non-desert climes.
I make conversation after the panel wraps up as I happen to know more than I should about foot-in-mouth disease and I don’t want her to feel leprous.
It turns out that she’s French and thought we may have been some strain of Algerian.
She’s not been here long enough to pot us as garden variety Jo’burg ‘slums.
During our time in Egypt, Naeem and I were pegged as Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Algerian and Egyptian until we opened our mouths and out tumbled strangled Fus-ha and English.
Where from, we’d get asked.
Gunoob Ifrikiyya (we’d latched on to the Egyptian way of making g-ers out of our j-ers).
The look was always a squashed up incredulity.
We weren’t black, how could we possibly be South African?
The tourist visa purveyors down at Mugammah, that bastion of bull-minded bureaucracy in downtown Cairo, made sure they got us down to writing country of origin as India despite the fact that both sets of our grandparents were born in South Africa.
It got me thinking, “How long do you have be here before you belong?”
My only links to India are a cooking tradition, a broken language, glass bangles and miniature fake marble versions of the Taj Mahal.
There’s a niece of my grandmother who still lives in the village in Gujarat and I must admit, sadly, the glass bangles will probably outlive that linkage.
My identity is stuffed into this bag of South African Indian-ness, which is different from any other Indian-ness you will encounter.
Add Muslim to that, and you have a full-on thesis (thankfully Kaye is onto that one).
We are biltong biryani with inkomazi for Eid.
We are here.
—
Shubnum’s novel Onion Tears touches on these issues of South African Indian identity.
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?
ror
On our way home
We are
creased commuters, squashed between mama and the silent man with the itch in his side. After-robot! Now we can nurse life back into a tingly leg.We are
drivers with our windows open and the radio up, we’ll chance metal against our temples because the air con’s broke and it’s a long wait at a dead robot at 5.30pm on a weekday.We are
the man selling sunglasses at the corner. And the one selling mangoes. And the one selling clothes hangers. And the one selling a massive neon bouncing ball.We are
the lady selling chances to numb your guilt.We are
the one giving her money, thinking her child seems too old to be carried. “Look, his legs dangle past her knee,” we mutter while fishing in the ashtray for the car-guard’s change.We are
taxi drivers, battered emperors of the tacky tarmac. Don’t be so insolent as to believe you have any right of way over us.We are
12 year olds at the roadside, wielding spark plugs for just one shot for glass to rain. Just one chance. One cellphone. This is the difference between today and tomorrow for me.We are
the people who shoot them. Thieving bastards deserve it. Damn, he looked older when he smashed my windscreen.
—-
You may have heard/read this in the news. Crime has made something ugly of us all, the victims and the perpetrators. See how the lines are blurring.
capsule mthatha (a really little pill)
(Blah photograph but I do like the Munsch-colours. We all begin in blood.)
smells like: damp wood.
tastes like: sweet veld grass.
sounds like: unhurried deliberation.
feels like: the place you would go, to listen to the wind.
16.06.1976
For Unknown 16/06/76
(after a visit to the Hector Pieterson Memorial in Soweto, June 16, 2005)
a frozen face
on a white wall.
open mouth
rigid arms
your eyes
are the eyes of your comrades
children
with weighted shoulders
and loud voices
muted by the captured moment.
but I hear it.
decibels of scaled anger
your suffering erupt,
holding out its arms to me.
am I worthy of embrace?
1976- not even a seeded thought
in the mind of a girl I call mother.
you are background
context to your time
framing the “struggle”
painting it with your essence
as bullets tattoo your fate.
A bricked acknowledgement
that you were felled on that day
now bedded on gravel
bordered by the crunching tourist tiptoes
echoing now-impotent jackboots
the granite speaks
of more bodies,
not nobodies
but somebodies
with names
and for others without
there is a brick
in a yard
on the gravel.