I watched the BBC programme Newsnight where the Nobel Prize laureate, Toni Morrison, was being interviewed about her new book ‘A Mercy’.  The presenter asked Morrison if African Americans could be accused of being racist towards Barack Obama because of his alleged ‘white’ experience.  Morrison responded tactfully by saying ‘that African Americans were worried that Obama had no slaves in his family and senior members of the Civil Rights Movement begrudged the fact that he had not participated in the struggle.’  Morrison ended by saying that this was no longer a problem for her community and that they were proud of the fact that it was highly possible for Barack, an African American, to be the next President of the United States. 

 

But as I listened, I wondered why on earth should this be seen as racist??  The community can be accused of being resentful or bearing ill will or being wrongfully suspicious but not racist.  The Black community should be forgiven for wanting Barack to be pulled over as many times as they have by racist cops, just so that they can say he ‘qualifies’ but I don’t think that makes the community racist.  The Black community has the right to comment even if that comment(s) is misplaced or taken out of context.  Redefining and misinterpreting what the community thinks, is racist and if we don’t watch it, racism will lose its true meaning

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/feb/28/southafrica.race

 What do you think of this story?  As I’ve said elsewhere on this blog, that I used to live in South Africa and always thought it dangerous to argue with whites as they were not used to dealing with ‘uppity’ blacks and could retaliate in a way that would not happen in the UK or the States.  Friends of mine have been critical against the blacks who drank this ‘stew’ asking: are they that ‘docile’ that they should drink anything that looks suspicious?  My response was blacks in this part of the world have almost been close to what I would call being ‘sedated’ when it comes to their approach to white people. I remember at times when blacks were spoken to by a white person they would always lower their eyes and never look into the white person’s eyes direct. But this disgusting incident should tell us volumes that South Africa still has an incredible long way to go.

I can remember as a young child watching with family members, Mr. Manning on TV telling his jokes.  There would always be a silence that I could never understand. There were even cases where I would laugh but I learnt later, much to my own embarrassment that the jokes were based on me, and many other people like me!  I thought there was something wrong as he was popular and enjoyed by millions of people. Why couldn’t I see the funny side of Me?   Then I realised there wasn’t anything wrong after all I was able to enjoy comedians like Tommy Cooper, Morecombe and Wise, The Goodies etc.  So a sense of humour did exist!! 

But I thought jokes, humour was meant to be shared and to involve as well include, but Manning’s (and to a certain extent Jim Davidson) humour succeeded in excluding and offending sections of the community.   

Did Mr. Manning expect that I should be able to identify with his humour?  That he should see no reason why I shouldn’t ‘take it as a joke’?  I always felt that underneath all those jokes was his contempt and disdain for minorities and disabled people; and the fact that he was from a Jewish background, makes me wonder if, by picking on the black community, it was a way of divesting himself of his own inadequacies and inferiority complex.

Robert Suresh Roberts

I have read three quarters of the biography of Nobel laureate Nadine Gordimer titled No Cold Kitchen, and so far I find it an enjoyable read. I feel that Robert Suresh Roberts has a good writing style and yes, the book shifts from a documentary type to something of a tabloid, which I still think is OK. But I want to look at another possible reason why Gordimer may have objected to the book – something that was hinted at in an article on the topic I read in The Guardian (UK edition).

In the UK, there has been complaints from the Black (writing) community about an unprecedented number of black characters inhabiting today’s mainstream fiction best-seller lists, but few of them are created by black authors. So authors such as James Patterson, Maggie Gee, Alexander McCall Smith etc have been ‘attacked’ and Black writers are determined that they should be allowed to get in on their own act! Writers such as Doris Lessing and Nadine Gordimer are exempt from this because their writings are considered as ‘political’ writing and anyone who is looking to support the ‘cause’ must always be praised and respected. It was only when there was a fuss about Gordimer’s ‘July’s People’ being removed from reading lists/curriculum that the thinking here was that if that is what the Africans wanted then who are we to object?

But here you have a writer who happens to be Black, who seeks to write about a prestigious writer who happens to be White! My friends and I are thinking – here you have this incredible ironic situation of a White author who has made a reputation writing about Black people but totally reject or object to being written about by a Black author. If this is her objection then it is pure hypocrisy. As Suresh outlines in the final paragraph of My Problem is with you states quite clearly his relationship with Gordimer:-

“….worthwhile biography seeks intimacy without loyalty, proximity laced with dissent.”

One is tempted to think that Gordimer expected/wanted a biog that would make her personality as good and wholesome as her dedication to showing the truth about the ramifications of Apartheid in South Africa. Meeting a South African academic who had met Gordimer told me – Gordimer is a “good person but not a nice person”.  But are we looking for someone with all her incredible experiences to be totally pristine and gleaming and no warts??  That would be unrealistic. In the same way that given all what Winnie Mandela went through, she is certainly not faultless and neither is she looking for any approval or to be liked!  Gordimer should not be fearful or hypocritical and realize she has earned the right to be who she is. From the impressions I get from people I’ve spoken to in SA, she is truly respected.

            As someone who used to work for Harrods, I remember Mr. Al Fayed coming to the shop floor, always to greet the assistants, most mornings in the week.  But after I’d left, years later, I was dismayed when I learned that quite a few black people (and other people from different racial backgrounds) were taking Harrods to the race relations board because of discrimination, and how Al Fayed was so contemptuous of their complaints. I wasn’t able to understand his behaviour especially as his origins was Egyptian, and therefore African. This maybe me being naïve, but one would expect some kind of bond with your fellow brother.  But it looks as if he now understands, at a painful cost that other people can also decide whether or not, they bond with you.

I’m referring to his success last week of overturning the decision made by Baroness Butler-Sloss to hear the inquests on her own; and then later on, when Al Fayed is being interviewed by Sky News, he refers to certain members of the Royal family as “Nazi’s”, “bastards” and “donkey’s”. It makes me wonder if the inquiry is not just about Princess Diana and Dodi’s tragic death but also about being discriminated against and being rejected, which he’s not handling too well.  Although I am sorry for Mr. Al Fayed’s loss I can’t help but feel that through his naivety he thought that owning Harrods Ltd would have given him unlimited access to the inner sanctum of the Aristocracy and more importantly, that his millions somehow made him white! 

I hope for Al Fayed’s sake, that he is doing what he is doing for the right reasons, and not because he couldn’t make it into the right social circles.   

 

 

A question that is becoming more and more difficult to answer.  In last week’s British The Sunday Times, an article stated there are a growing number of ethnic minorities who consider them selves to be British, not English I should stress, but British. And in no way do they see it clashing with their own culture.  I guess it makes sense that the longer each generation is rooted in a country, the more likely they will be connected to that country. 

I am second generation born (of West Indian parentage) in the UK and have to admit, that my generation did not see themselves as Brits and found it difficult to apply any title or label.   But a lot of the younger generation see themselves, without any doubt, as British.  It’s also really strange seeing and hearing some of my own people talk about ‘too many foreigners’ coming into ‘our’ country and how ‘we’ must put a stop to this!  At times, I listen to our conversations and quietly laugh to myself at how things have changed since the 70s.

You detect traces of sympathy for the Anglo-Saxon because he/she is losing their identity more and more and don’t know where they belong; the nasty little old white lady, who we all had as a neighbour once upon a time, we want to say all is forgiven especially when you now have a ‘traveller’ or an East European living next door to you.  I am shocked that we have somehow forgotten how painful and humiliating those days were, and really surprised that we don’t have much time for anyone who goes to the UK to seek a new life – just like our parents did fifty years ago.

Integration has improved in the UK although from time to time, a Jade Goody will pop up to remind you that racism is still very much alive and kicking. But to answer the question – what is it to be British?  I wish I knew.  I haven’t got a clue but it’s good that the younger generation can come up with an immediate answer.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article1400803.ece

I sometimes think that maybe I am becoming more tolerant in my old age.  You know, take things with a pinch and accept that not every fight has to be a fight. But once upon a time, as a young teenager growing up in the London area, if a white person said something derogatory, or if I felt there was any hint of racism in their responses, or even felt the way they looked at me suggested racism, then I was on their case.  If I couldn’t handle it myself, then there were the big brothers, who held a respectable record of encounters with the law, who could always be relied to do something if there was a problem.  But thank God, it’s not like that anymore. 

Although each time I go to South Africa, I know I can be guaranteed of running into someone who will make it clear that I deserve to be spoken to in a dismissive and curt manner simply because of my colour.  Something like that happened two days after we were robbed.  Eddy and I had already been to the Embassy to complete the forms to cancel our passport, and were told that our travel certificates would be ready in a few days time.  The next thing we had to do was go to South African Airlines to report our stolen tickets and confirm our flights back home.  In the area where we were staying, we could not find a local travel agent to help us, especially with the complications of being robbed and for new tickets to be issued, so we decided to go Tambo International. 

We arrived at the airport, parked our car and made our way to the counter.  It was early in the afternoon when we got there, and I was struck at how desolate the place was considering it was an airport. We found the counter and there were five people waiting in the queue but it didn’t take long before we were attended to.  We explained our situation to the assistant and showed him the police report.  He read it quickly and sympathized at the same time.  He tapped something out on his keyboard, took down the information as it appeared on the computer, and then made a call.  Within the next minute or so, we were handed our ticket replacements in their gleaming new covers.   

Making our way back to the car park, this new, bizarre experience of being robbed forced us to look over our shoulders ever so often.  As we got closer to our car, it suddenly occurred to us that we had to pay for our parking ticket before we could leave.  So we went back to the hall to look for a pay machine and we located one outside the entrance door.  My husband removed lots of coins from his pocket and started sifting through, looking for Rand coins.  I helped him, taking some of the coins and picking out as many Rands as I could find.  Unbeknown to us, a man, elderly, white, and wearing glasses came up from behind.            

‘What’s the problem?’ He said           

‘No problem’, I replied. ‘We’re looking for some coins to make up ten Rand.            ‘Don’t you have ten Rand?’ I glared at him making sure my eyelids were fully stretched back.  ‘It’s not that we don’t have ten Rand, we are just trying to get the right amount.’ I continued to glare at him. He backed away and quietly allowed us to gather the right amount to put into the machine.  ‘There! Done!’  I said to him as we walked away with my husband smiling.  And we left without saying another word about it.   

Thinking about it, yes, racism was a regular feature in my life but with education and exposure, I realised that there were different ways to deal with things and that violence was and never is an option.  Especially when I realised that I had friends of different nationalities to help, whenever I found myself in difficulty.  But I also realise that it is not the same for everyone. 

When I am in South Africa and the topic of racism comes up, especially if I am in the company of white people, it seems as if it is an enigma to them as to why crime has gotten to the level it has?  Or wonder if there is a particular point in time when the anger will go away?  The uncivil comment about the ‘Ten Rand’ may have been said because the man was racist.  Whatever it was, I can dismiss it.  But imagine if I were to be living in Jo’burg and having to experience these subtle put downs, or insults all the time, why wouldn’t I be angry? And how am I to express my anger if I cannot articulate what I need to say?  

It even makes for uncomfortable thinking that I thought I was experiencing racism in England, when it was nothing compared to what I’ve seen and heard of Black people’s experiences in South Africa.   Yes, we were robbed by black people and there is no way I can make any excuses. Besides the humiliation of being robbed, I also feel embarrassed for the robbers and South Africa and although, luckily, no one was hurt I realised if these guys wanted to kill, they could have done it without any hesitation.   If there is one thing I will always remember about this incident, was the cold anger in their lifeless eyes and wondering (and still wondering) what sort of lives do they lead. 

The experience forces me to assess myself and to assess them: what I am able to do and have been able to accomplish and they, who may be destined to live a life of crime and poverty without ever being able to find out their true purpose. What I see, so far, they are dictated by anger and rage but I believe that somewhere deep, down, inside of them they perhaps still hope to receive the acceptance and respect they so much want from their former oppressors.

Experiences can be strange sometimes….

Here I was, in my house, in Johannesburg, South Africa and opposite me sat a white woman from Essex. I found her number in Yellow Pages because the TV set we brought from London could not pick up the signals and needed adjustment. After phoning various outlets her shop was the only one that could do it. When she heard my accent she asked what part of London was I from. And when I told her I was black, she couldn’t wait to meet me.

Rita was a large woman; shiny earrings dangled from her ears, purple eye make up stared out from under her brows and her high heels tramped noisily on the marble floor. She and her husband had been in the country for twenty-five years and owned an electrical shop in Orange Grove, central Johannesburg. Before talking about the business on hand, we talked or rather she reminisced about Britain and wanted to know how it looked, as she hadn’t been back in years. After some minutes, the conversation moved to the present day situation: South Africa – its people, her worries and fears. I offset this by telling her how excited I was to be here, in the continent of my forefathers. I suddenly realised I said this without thinking when I saw the look on her face.
But you’re not African!’ she exclaimed, ‘You’re British – as I am!’
It was said with some desperation and urgency. For that split second, images came flooding in my mind. Some years back when I was a student at Tottenham Tech, on my way home there would be times I would have to wait for a bus either in the pouring rain, the cold weather or the hot sun. I’d meet little old ladies whose conversations would always begin about the erratic nature of the British weather and then progress to explaining at length how they loved everybody and wasn’t prejudiced. Then they would spoil it all when they said how they wanted to go to my country and try some of that hot weather.
‘Don’t you want to go back?’
When I told them I’d had never been ‘back’ or that ‘back’ for me was a road somewhere in Edmonton, they’d totally disconnect and keep persisting with that ‘hot’ weather. But now, it looked as if fate was giving me a chance to play the part of the little old lady. Here was somebody trying to make sense of the New South Africa, but couldn’t. She knew that with the new order, Africans had won the right to be masters in their own land. Her understanding of this was vital if she, and people like her, were to survive. Grabbing at anything that resembled herself, even if it was black, was all she could do to keep afloat of what she understood as the unpredictable sea of change taking place.
‘You’re as British as I am!’ She repeated; making sure I fully heard what she was saying.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer, as I never thought that I would live to hear a Brit proclaim me as one of them. And now that one of them had I was numb. My life up to this point had been preoccupied in looking for my roots; seeking out an identity. I was too far-gone in my search to ever think about Britain again as the homeland, and Rita’s craving for some sort of connection or link made me feel that she had delivered this ‘British’ like it was a new pair of shoes that I was now entitled to; but all I felt I had received was a second hand pair, full of holes with the soles almost coming off.
She had another go. ‘You don’t understand. They’re on a different level. It’s difficult to talk to them. Y’know…. they are Africans… and the English…. the language. It’s not there…like yours’. I know we can talk…be friends. What’s it been like for you in London, then?’
I wondered how much should I tell her. I decided to lighten it a little with an edited version, as there was no point droning on about my negative experiences. She listened attentively while I recounted one or two encounters. She picked up on my anger and that confused her even more.
‘Is it really like that? Well it wasn’t like that when I left! My family and I lived next door to a West Indian family. A great laugh they were. They used to bake a Jamaican cake almost every week for us…or least I think it was Jamaican…or maybe they weren’t from Jamaica…’ Andrea Levy in her novel – Never Far from Nowhere relates how black people exist on the periphery in Britain. But listening to Rita, her feelings were the new political dispensation had placed her bang in the middle of nowhere, with only fear and apprehension as company. She talked about the possibilities of returning home to England, to Essex.
‘If I went home, I would have to get a council flat’ she said it with her eyes fixed on me making it sound like a statement, but really it was a question. ‘Do you think I would be able to get one?’
I told her I didn’t know but maybe she should get in touch with the British Embassy or one of the expatriate associations that were here in South Africa. I thought I was helping her but instead it left her even more anxious.
‘But a lot of us are leaving the country. And those ones leaving are all skilled, educated and I don’t have any qualifications. What would I do if I went back?’
Again I was speechless. What was I supposed to tell her? We sat in silence for a while. I offered her some tea but she declined and shifted her attention to the problems of the TV. When she had written down all the details she told me two men from the shop would come the following day and with that, she left. The two men, Zulu’s came the next day to take the set. We chatted for a while; dealing with questions about myself and their fascination of meeting a black person from overseas. Then they said they had to return quickly, as they didn’t want to annoy their ‘madam’. A week later the TV was returned, working and I never heard from Rita again.
I was sad for her but tried to understand my own responses. Rita held out a hand to me but I rejected it. Holding out my hand in the past where it had been repeatedly rejected was something I had grown accustomed to. After all it was normal. A relationship with a white person was done on a superficial level and that was what I was conditioned to do, something I did not realise until now.

This bizarre turn around of Rita desperate to be friends seemed abnormal, almost alien. Living in South Africa would provide me with many disturbing encounters like this.

Two Saturdays ago my husband and I left for Jo’burg. Why were we going there? In the particular country where we live in Africa, my husband, Eddy, had been to a few Doctors to assess the infection in his inner ear. He was not satisfied with the diagnosis. Not consistent, he said. So we decided to head to South Africa and see what the Doctors there had to say. Besides being confident that everything would be sorted, I looked forward in visiting one of my favourite places.
We arrived at Tambo International by 6:15am and were out of the airport with our luggage by 6:35am. Although the weather was fresh and warm, there was a strong indication it was going to be a hot day. A friend, Geoff, collected us, and we drove along the undulated roads as he skilfully took on the slightly sharp bends. I commented on the number of buildings that had emerged in the time we had been away. The conversation eventually moved into silence as Eddy and I enjoyed the smooth drive and the lush landscape.

It was a good thirty minutes before we arrived at Geoff’s house. He removed from his pocket a small remote, pressing a button for the electric gate which took its time to open, then pressed a second button on the same remote to open the garage. We drove in, resurrecting the chatter as we sought to catch up with all what each other had been doing, when I slid the car door open and felt a sudden stinging pain to my left cheek. A man stared down at me with glaring eyes. He was saying something to me but I could not work out what it was. I thought he was a beggar asking for money or he was lost and needed directions. He moved to the front of the car and started shouting at Eddy. Again, his words were lost on me. Not that he was speaking in another language, it was a case of not been able to make any sense. It was only when my eyes slowly travelled down his frame that I saw clutched in his hand a gun. I looked in front of me to Geoff. Through the window, I could see the arms of the attacker pointing a gun in the air, and then in one quick movement he cocked it. Geoff raised his hands up. The attacker lowered his arm to point the gun to Geoff’s head. He asked him to hand over his mobile and wallet. Geoff did what he was told.

We all remained calm as we watched helplessly our money, mobiles, handbag and suitcases being taken away. One of them came round to where I was in the back seat and shouted ‘Jewellery!’ I quickly removed my rings but they were not interested in my gold bangle or the gold watch. We all sat and within our minds prayed that they would leave without harming us. They snatched the bunch of house keys and wrestled with the remote. Once it was removed, they wrenched the car keys from the ignition and then pressed the button for the gate and once it had reached half way, they pressed it again for it to stop. The three men scurried out from the garden, got into a car with no number plates where there was another man at the wheel, then left. I sat in the car and felt my insides churning as if on slow speed of a Kenwood mixer. Eddy and Geoff got out quickly to see if anything had been dropped and to see if they could catch a glimpse of the car. Geoff took the bicycle that belonged to the gardener and headed to the police station. The time was 7:20am.

It was now slightly warmer and the street had not woken with the exception of domestic staff making their way to work. The neighbour, who lived opposite said good morning, then asked if everything was all right. We told him what had happened. He was shocked and there was fear in his eyes.
‘If they can do that to you guys, what does that mean for us whites?!’ He then said if they were anything he could do, we shouldn’t hesitate. Another neighbour drove passed, and I could see him looking on with curiosity through his rear window. He halted, then did a three point turn and drove to where we were standing. He asked the same question and we told what happened.
‘What?! Here?! When? Just now??’ He paused and looked about himself stunned. ‘My domestic has just come on duty, let me find out if she knows anything.’ He didn’t waste a second, then left.

We stood in the space where the half opened gate was supposed to cover. Eddy paced up and down with his hands buried deep in his pocket. I looked at him, wanting to say something but I was speechless. There was a part of my cheek that was raised and also felt quite sore. It was 7:50am when Geoff returned. He came with another vehicle and we went to the nearest police station to give a report. This took about forty five minutes and we were given affidavits.
For most of time, we shuffled from one place to the next, trying to sort our passports. The Embassy said they would move quickly to help and would be in touch. We then went to the airline company we flew with, to show them our affidavits and to confirm our seats. I did not feel safe staying at the house, so we went to Garden Court Hotel in Sandton and spent a few nights.

South Africa is a fantastic place, as we have done a number of ‘driving holidays’ from Jo’burg to Durban, or Jo’burg to Cape Town, which we have thoroughly enjoyed. Despite what has happened, seeing work already being started in certain places of the city for the new Underground they want to build in time for 2010, makes me feel excited for the place. But the government has to acknowledge that there is a problem. Otherwise lovers of the country will not be interested in going back there again.