Sizwe Banzi is Dead

This for those who may not know is the title of a play starring John Kani and Winston Ntshona, dating back to the 1980s. I get goose bumps from the thought of the sheer courage of those involved with this play back then during the repressive days of the National Party. Anyway, Stha and I were privileged to watch this amazing piece of theatre, performed by the original cast. The make up of the audience was interesting at the least. The old people among the audience were the most fascinating to watch; for instance they did not quite care about seat numbering and so on, they just sat where they thought would be best. I chuckled as I watched a young man walk up to his assigned seat only to find gogo happily sitting in it. The young man smiled coyly and asked gogo for her ticked and proceeded to go find gogo's seat - leaving gogo to sit in his. That was nice to see. Back to the performance.

The performance is entertaining, it causes you to laugh at things that - when you do a double take, you are not sure if you were supposed to laugh at in the first place. It is all in the delivery I guess. The story is not new nor is it different to the stories that can be told by any black perso who was an adult at the time of influx control and dompas (a type of an identity document black adults were required by law to carry, which was in turn used by the authorities to determine who was allowed to be in the metropolitan areas of South Africa). My own parents tell these stories. My father worked for a bakery which (given the technology of the time) meant that he started work too early for the curfew set for black people to be lawfully in white areas, which in turn meant that he required permission from the commissioner of bantu affairs to be allowed in the white area before 5am so that he could go to work. He tells me that the commissioner's office only issued these curfew permissions during lunch time on Fridays. Of course he also needed permission from his baas (literally translated "boss" but used as a title for every whiteman regardless of whether or not he employed you) to go to the commissioner's office. You can see how things can go wrong for my father and they have. This story and others like it, are always told with humour yet they always manage to get me upset.

My mother's story is no different. She too carried a pass-book. The story goes that while she was not paying attention, her eldest son, yours truly, then a baby, got hold of the wretched pass-book and sought to remove his mothers face from the book. The damage done to my mother's photograph caused one policeman to suspect my mother of foul play and wanted to arrest her with yours truly in her arms - so the story goes. Fortunately for my mother a certain man, I believe he was a taxi driver, threatened decency and common sense into the policeman. My mother tells this story like it is the funniest thing that happened to her. There are many other stories like that; of brothers who used the same pass-book and the cops were non the wiser and many others.

These are stories of survival, courage and cowardice all wrapped in one, with blurry boundaries.

The same evening that I saw this play, I got home to the umpteenth screening of the Pianist on television, a movie about the suffering of Jews at the hands of the Nazis told among others, through the "Pianist" and his family. Watching this Jewish family go through the realisation of their oppression and the brutality of the Nazis I realised that unlike Sizwe Banzi, they are not dead and they are not forgotten.

Of course white south africans had nothing to do with Sizwe Banzi's death, after all he died at the hands of one or more of his own. Our memory of the events of those years are not meant to feed resentment and revenge. Our memories should feed a commitment that never again shall a group of human beings, however we may classify or brand them, suffer the indignity we suffered. This is not a call for forgiveness neither is it a call to forget, it is a call to remember with dignity and to rise above the bigots.

I often wonder where this whole journey is going to end. All evidence show that it will never end. Take time to read the online version of "The Times" newspaper and see some of the comments made. The supremacy and anger is nothing short of astounding.

Of mini skirts and even "mini-er" minds

Let me start by thanking those that took part in the march (incidentally non-violent and without trashing or turning over dustbins), protesting the nothing less than vile behaviour of those men that took upon themselves the duty to "teach" women how to dress. Let me also appeal to the law-enforcement agencies to please do all that is in their power to bring those criminals to book.

I am reluctant to classify or describe the perpetrators of those ghastly acts as taxi drivers, they are to me a lot more than that. Quite often we gloss over endemic social ills by putting those social ills at the door of some amorphous group. In my mind these are South African men. Yes, these men who tore the clothes off their victim's body and proceeded to assault her in ways too ghastly to repeat. Yes, and those men that looked on while all of this was happening to their sister, they too are South African men. These are all South African men and for the rest of South African men, what happened at the Noord Street taxi rank that day as it happens daily elsewhere, was and is carried out in your name, against your sister, against your daughter, against your lover and against your wife. In the meantime you and other South African men watch and do nothing.

I am still in shock over what I heard from a spokesperson for the police: "such things have been happening to women at that taxi-rank over the last 8 years" (or words to that effect). The present victim is the first to lay a formal complaint. However many days after the formal complaint was filed with the police, we are yet to hear of an arrest. The inability of the police to make an arrest is notwithstanding that there is a definitive group of people among whom the suspects lurk. In case someone among the police is listening, the suspects are said to be among the taxi drivers who service the Noord Streets rank. It is also reported that there were a host of witnesses to the crime. I am no sleuth but I should think that a crime line dedicated to this incident could go a long way in the investigation.

There have also been other campaigns and gestures by men and women which all sought to focus some attention on the safety of women specifically and South Africans generally. One such gesture was the Marie Claire magazine campaign that involved certain of our celebrities stripping for a good cause. Once again, I applaud those who took part in that campaign. I specifically wish to thank Ntsiki Mazwai, yes she of the full monty celebrity. And yes, thanks to my wife I saw the much talked about photograph. Allow me to say to Ntsiki and the photographer: "a job well done". The photograph is a brilliant representation of what the campaign is all about. It says to me that she is here, she is doing this and everything else on her own terms, her way. Everyone else can celebrate the achievement with her or just grow up. My wife and I agree that there is a lot of growing up to be done yet among us Africans. We base this agreement on the conversations that have happened among Africans since the publication of that photograph. The general reaction from women is that the photograph is disgusting. The general reaction from men is that the photograph is not nice, not exciting - and that Ntsiki just looks angry, is not smiling. As my daughter would say "Duh!". Of course she looks angry, she is angry about the way we as men conduct ourselves towards her and women generally. I am too upset to carry on about the men save to say that "guys, women do not always take their clothes off for your entertainment and excitement". The question is as you are looking at that photograph, do you share her anger, frustration, helplessness? Your empathy with her pain will clothe her. And maybe if you look close enough, you may experience the beauty of the human, female form.

The women who commented on the photograph were as my wife put it, "unbelievably petty". The reaction to the photograph among women shocked me. The biggest shock was by a comment from a sister who said that Ntsiki needs a boob job. Now what does that have to do with what Ntsiki set out to do. Then there is reference to our culture and how it does not allow this nudity. Furthermore, what does her mother, her boyfriend think. These are statements made by women - validating the equally perverted positions of their brethren. Meanwhile Ntsiki is saying I am here for me with nothing to hide behind or from. We do not hear as her sisters, instead we inspect her as we would a linen suit. Dear sisters allow me to ask you this: "what on earth is it that you find so disgusting about yourselves, your bodies?" Why else would the reaction to Ntsiki be so sanctimonious and judgemental? Or is it a case of I wish I had the courage to do what she did?

The reactions to the Marie Claire campaign and to the march led by among other Redi Direko shows just how far we still have to go as a people. This and similar campaigns are nothing but a demand for each one of us to have a place in our beautifully plural society.

To my sisters, go on and look as beautiful and attractive as you would and as you choose. To my brothers, celebrate the beauty around you with respect and reverence. It is the greatest tribute you can pay to your mother, your sister, your lover and your daughter.