Sunday brain hangover
Last night the true reason I came to the Limmud conference revealed itself. And, like with everything else with me, it happened in the most unusual, left-of-field, charming way.
After a formal session, my last of the evening, which was pretty much a list of Jews in South African theatre, I had a two hour chat with a man who had done my improvisation workshop. And I found out all about his extraordinary life, and he asked me questions about mine. It was a brilliant, liberating, enlightening chat in which we revealed ourselves in a completely relaxed, unthreatening and interested way. Thank you Vivian.
I came back to the room I have been sharing and the children who had kept me up with their shrieking, banging, laughing and shouting the night before were at it again. I was at the point of being totally enraged and doing the mad woman fish wife, hysterical banshee thing, but something made me change my mind, and I knocked on the door and offered the first teenager I saw an ultimatum. I told them that they had to make a choice; either to shoosh and let us sleep, or I was coming in to find out what all the hooha was about. They invited me in and I spent the next delightful, entertaining, informative and amazing hour being charmed by the Herzlia grade elevens! What a turn around for me. I have been particularly harsh in my criticism of Herzlia kids, even here at the conference, but this dozen hotel room of kids were amazing. It was an hour of genuine engagement that not only shifted my atitude, but also reminded me how I love young people and how they think, and how they do things. If this is the only amazing thing for me to come away with (and it absolutely isn’t) then my time here, at Limmud has been totally well spent and a real learning curve for me.
There is nothing I can do about the fact that there is no real coffee though. And I’ve only had 4 hours sleep. And there is a whole day’s worth of session I still need to try and get to. I have already completely missed the first one.
The next morning
The gods of scheduling have been particularly unkind with me. I ran an hour long improvisation workshop at 22.35 last night and I am presenting again at 0830 this morning! I am also sharing a room with a poor woman who thinks I am mostly demented. I had to drag my stuff into the bathroom in the pitch dark to get dressed and out of there!
I am trying to acclimatise to 475 Jewish people all in the same place at the same time. Last night there was a communal Shabbat supper. I must confess that being there without a partner was quite hard, especially since my partner was at home, in his non-Jewishness. I don’t feel so much like these are my people. I ended up having a very passionate discussion with a gorgeous, totally proud and passionate Zionist, a woman who is deeply in love with Israel. Truly surprising, and hard for me to bite my tongue.
Then I went to an interesting chat called Women in South African Jewish History: Conformists and Rebels. It was a slice of life view of Bertha Marks, a typical Victorian Jewess in South Africa, the conformist, and then a same sex couple, Roza Van Gelderen and Hilda Purwitsky, who passionately and energetically pioneered education in Cape Town, amongst other things. Very interesting. Then it was my turn. I did an improvisation workshop. It was so late that I was worried nobody would come, but there were about thirty participants and it was amazing.
Update: It’s now 1520 and I have not only done (and loved) my other presentation, I have also been to two more, and AWOLed into Stellenbosch for real coffee! My head is full. Even the casual encounters with people are so intense and diverse. I have just been talking to Julian Gordon about death, and I’ll go and listen to his presentation Where Angels Fear to Tread, about the body and soul split, I think. After that it’s The Jewish Atheist – A Contradiction?
I heard Gerald Potash tell stories of Boerejoode this morning, and an amazing lecture by Gilad Stern called “”Why is a Gattis called a Gattis?” Words that make us laugh, wink or cringe.” I am too naive to spot the real left from the sort-of left, and right with politics so from now on I am just going to avoid those. There is so much on offer. And it is still weird for me. But interesting weird. And controversial weird. And uncomfortable weird. But, slowly slowly I see that I do in fact have a tiny voice here, and I can be heard if I want to. Now that is the next step I need to take. I don’t need these people’s approval; but do I want it? And if I do, do I want it enough? The jury is still totally out on this one.
The Difference
There is a march against xenophobia on Sunday, at 10am, from the St George’s Cathedral along what used to be the fan walk during the World Cup. I think that if anyone is having doubts about how to put their 67 minutes of service into action this would be a good way.
The other day Ridi Direko was on the radio talking about xenophobia and a psychologist called in to explain how the term was being used incorrectly. Xenophobia is an irrational fear of foreigners. It is like other phobias; claustrophobia, arachnophobia, agoraphobia. What is important here is that it is one, irrational and two, a fear. What is happening in South Africa is outrageous, out of control, anger driven hatred against foreigners, that results in action which is racist. It is unrealistic to believe that all these South Africans are suffering from a phobia. Let’s call a spade a spade. They are racists who are acting out.
Why this is important is because I believe that they need to be dealt with as such. We have an extraordinary constitution that, in principle at least, protects every race, gender, colour, culture and nationality and outlaws any form of discrimination. This kind of racist attack needs to be responded to with haste and severity. There can be no excusing or tolerating or justifying or downplaying this kind of thing. We need to name and shame. We need to be vigilant, aware and absolutely clear. And anyone caught doing anything, from name calling, bullying and shouting, to any physical violence, must feel the full might of the law.
Let’s say what this thing is. And let us be clear that it is not acceptable.
Back to Reality World Cup
I’m sitting at OR Tambo airport in Jozi, waiting for my flight back to Cape Town and I confess I am feeling down. I guess it had to happen. After a four hour run in with SAA you can end up feeling like that, but that’s not it.
Let me rewind a bit. My brother wanted me to see the show that he and his partners produced, Beautiful Creatures, which finished its run at The Teatro at Montecasino today, so he bought me a ticket to come up for the weekend. Then my cousin asked me if I wanted to go with him to the Ghana Uruguay game at Soccer City on Friday night. It was a little miracle. I had fantasized about going to a game with little hope, since I myself had made no effort to get a ticket besides for wishing for one to land in my lap. Bingo. I was the luckiest person in the world.
I was delighted to arrive in Jozi. The energy at both Cape Town airport when I departed and OR Tambo when I arrived was electric. I love the mad Uruguayan supporters on the flight who took a poll for the game and were devastated that 90% of the passengers wanted Ghana to win. I was ecstatic to see, feel and be part of this magnificent achievement. I loved the great decorations on the side of the highway. I loved the millions of vuvuzelas. I loved hearing so many different foreign languages. I loved the transport, the security, the magnificent Soccer City. I loved the 90 000 fans that streamed in with face paint, tattoos and supporter colours. I cried with 90% of them when Ghana lost! I loved the Rea Via bus trip into the centre of town after the game in the middle of the night.
I loved the after-game hangover we aIl nursed at Melrose Arch the next morning where every person at every table was speaking about their heartache, and where every somebody in a Uruguayan short was ‘skeefed’.
I loved going to Montecasino yesterday to see Beautiful Creatures and be part of the total delight of every child (and parent). I loved the huge crowds that started arriving at the fan park to watch the Germany Argentina game. I loved the outdoor restaurant we sat at in Rosebank to watch it.
I have been unwavering in my pride and praise of one of South Arica’s greatest achievements, this, the 2010 world cup, in spite of hard-core Fifa. I have been touched by how friendly, interested, passionate and hospitable South Africans have been.
No doubt, the few incidents of reported crime have been disturbing, but the media’s take on it has been that the incidents have been random, opportunistic and isolated. Of course, there has been the great publicity of the special courts that were set up, and the swiftness of the justice they have meted out.
I have been sharing in the delight of the Gautrain which I caught today, the sight of people reclaiming the streets of South African cities on foot, and the good word and reputation that South Africa is basking in, even though Bafana Bafana didn’t make it through the first round. I have been lapping up every good article, review and conversation.
That is, until today, at OR Tambo airport, where, while having my tiff with SAA at the passenger services counter, I met a man who needed their help to leave the country and fast. He was an American tourist to South Africa, for the world cup, who, after last night’s game, had been woken up, beaten and robbed, whose sister these bastards had threatened to rape, all in the promised security of their up-market Sandton hotel accommodation. He was in total trauma and was trying to get SAA to help him, and his brother and sister go to family in Namibia.
I cannot begin to express my shame. I cannot begin to express my absolute helplessness. I cried. I cried for his physical hurt. I cried for his material loss. I cried for how he was going to need help and comfort from others, and not from us South Africans. I hurt for how long it would take him to recover, after only being here for four days. And I want somebody to pay, to make it better, to fix it.
I am in the air now, sitting amongst locals and tourists alike. And I am struggling to control the desire to shout out, “It’s all bullshit! We are fucked! This country is a mess! Go home! Quickly.” I know it’s not true, but meeting one victim in the flesh is a shocking reminder that he is one victim too many. And I know that most tourists will go home having had the best time of their lives, but it will have been a ‘there but for the grace of the gods’ time. And I’m sorry, that’s a bitter pill to swallow.
Bafana Babelas
Tears. Disappointment. Depression. I walked the dogs in an eerie silence that swept Cape Town this morning. There was criticism, anger, analysis, and that was just in the news headlines. Ag shame and askies Bafana Bafana! But really, SeffEffricans, what were we thinking? Bafana are only in this massive competition because we are the host nation! And I think that they have done extraordinarily brilliantly so far! We still love them. We still have umlungus blowing vuvuzelas. We still have a nation that has turned colour differences into a common acid yellow. We still have the eyes of the world trained on us as we prove that we can and will do it and it will be beautiful, even if we don’t win the game.
Last night’s game was a true test of how nasty, dirty and unfair this football can be, but let’s make sure that as supporters we don’t let our team down! Leaving the stadium because they were losing is a terrible show of sulking, and a lack of sticking power. We need to support them, win or lose! That’s our uniting lesson.
June 16
On June 16, 1976 I was eleven and in standard 4. We were living in the suburbs of Johannesburg when the the riots in Soweto, just to the South West (South Western Township) hit the news. My amazing father immediately explained what was happening and why, and he went into a rage when the ignorant, conservative, National Party parents wanted to organise patrols around our school to protect us from ‘die swart gevaar’. With every news report my father spoke to us about the truth of the striking children; how they were the same age as I was, how they were forced to study in Afrikaans, how terrible the conditions of their schools were, how totally different their lives were from our protected and privileged ones, and how they were fighting and dying for change. I have never been more lucky to have had that father.
On June 16, 1986 I was in my final year of studies at U.C.T. It was the year when things exploded again and Cape Town was the final city to be put under a ’state of emergency’. We attended UDF rallies led by Allan Boesak, marched the streets, held illegal meetings in Crossroads and Lavender Hill, hid secret pictures of Nelson Mandela and the ANC logo in our rooms, suffered the banning of plays and performances, watched friends be arrested and tortured and struggled to believe things could and would change.
On June 16 1996 I had been living in Cape Town for two and a half years, had voted in the first free and fair election in 1994 and was celebrating the second ever Youth Day, twenty years after Hector Pieterson died in his friend’s arms, and was frozen in an image that would be recognised everywhere in the world. Hector Pieterson, who died at the age of twelve.
On June the 16 2006 I had been married for two years and a month. On that Youth Day I was no longer a youth. One of my biggest concerns, as I used the public holiday to do my own stuff around the house, was that it felt like everyone was just hanging out; that nobody was remembering the why and how of Youth Day.
Today is June 16 2010, 34 years since the Soweto School Uprisings. We are celebrating the sixth day of the 2010 Fifa World Cup, here in South Africa. It is a fantastic way to celebrate Youth Day, as we all get behind our mostly young team Bafana Bafana, who play Uruguay this evening. Hosting the FWC here in South Africa has been nothing short of a miracle; in spite of the strikes, the transport problems, the hard-core dictatorship of Fifa and even the winter weather that has included snow, rain and plummeting temperatures. In spite of all that could, did and will go wrong, this global event has done so much to bring South Africans, and Africans together. I’m not expecting it to last forever. Our country’s problems are real and urgent. And sometimes what we all need is a reason to celebrate.
But every Youth Day I remember that Hector Pieterson was a only a year older than me when he died. He would have been 46 today.
The Week that Was
It’s Friday morning and I’m about to go and walk the old ladies, Bayla and Gally, try and get to the damngym (I have been making a bit of an effort this year) before rehearsals, then rehearse, then perform a TheatreSports gig at a pre-barmitzvah thing in somebody’s lounge tonight. And it looks like the weekend will be full of work stuff too. And Big Friendly and I are going for a romantic 2020 game at Newlands on Saturday night!
But I thought I would take a couple of lines to reflect on the week that was.
TheatreSports had good one, with that fab show on Tuesday night, and a really successful corporate performance yesterday. We performed for a company that I had first performed for 16 years ago. They were our first corporate client! Love it.
Rehearsals for my industrial theatre project are going really well. I have been working for the same client for five years now, creating plays, based on the same characters, that go on a country wide roadshow, and I love it. I love my team of actors, I enjoy the process which we have honed into something easy and painless, and it’s the one sure gig I have that pays the rent! it is also the one kind of theatre that I know reaches its target audience, who love it.
I am irritated with our Prez and the country in general. Come on guys, this guy was voted in with a completely public track record of sexual expediency and polygamy! It’s not new news. I’m just irritated that because he is the most important public servant, we taxpayers have to pay for this all. I am irritated that a red carpet was laid for the opening of parliament. I am irritated by the predictability and insincerity of our politicians, and the fact that their promises are totally empty and meaningless; a series of random placatory and warning words strung together and haltingly read out.
I am depressed that I seem to be enjoying pop music again, at my age. I catch myself with Lady Gaga as my earworm of the day. I am dancing to hip hop at my hip hop classes at the damngym!
I am delighted, and this should have been higher on the list, by the Proteas, who mafferated the Indians, on their home turf, by more than a total innings! I can’t wait for the next test to begin on Sunday.
Lots to reflect on, but it’s getting late and the dogs are milling about!
Julius and Caster disaster
My friend Tam quotes the genius Julius Mal Enema in her facebook status this morning. He was defending our brand new South African sports hero Caster Semenya. Apparently he said, “It is a racist issue. There are plenty of ugly white women but they don’t get gender tested.”
Way to go Mal Enema. That’s sure to comfort the poor, ugly, black girl.
I have to admit, while finding her really beautiful, I was shocked to hear Caster’s enormous and very manly voice on TV. Not that this means anything about anything. I am worried though that the SA bunch protest too much, and no amount of calling the issue a European racist one is going to settle the debate. Not that I have the answers, nor do I care. But I do think that the SA sports bunch need to be careful about how they ‘protect’ her in what seems to be a more damaging way.
The swearing in party
Call me a party-pooper but wouldn’t it be nice, for once, if a president in waiting said, “Hang on! Let’s do a virtual inauguration ceremony. Come to my office all camera crews and we’ll broadcast the thing globally. Foreign dignitaries, don’t use your country’s tax money on flights; rather let us donate it to a South African environmental awareness programme. We’ll use all the money we save on entertainment and put it towards the arts and culture of the land. All catering costs will be used instead on the schools’ failing feeding scheme. All personal clothing budgets that would have been spent can be donated, in my name, to the homeless. I’m on a roll here. Let the cars and blue light brigades and security staff and drivers all go out on that day and do community work; helping people get to clinics and schools. Oh wait, all the policemen and traffic cops that would have been at the event could also go out and do their real jobs of being in the community and policing and trafficking (oh no, we don’t want that usual bidniz!). Let the judges spend the day in backed up court rooms. Let the politicians stay in their offices and do a bit of work on that day.”
Then he could say, “You know what? Thinking about all that stuff makes me realise that being the president doesn’t make me the most important person in the land, it just means I have the most important job. Let’s get to work right away.”
Wouldn’t it be nice for once?
a Worker’s day Whine
It’s been a while since I had a big old moan, hey? Well, it’s a ridiculous 6.36am on what should be a normal Friday morning, but no, it is the third working day I have lost, in two weeks! And it just so happens to be the two weeks’ rehearsal period that I have had for my regular industrial theatre project that I create every year. Losing three full rehearsal days is a lot. It’s hard to find a rhythm. It’s hard for the cast to remember their lines. It makes everyone a bit nervy.
And it’s not like we ‘theatre practitioners’ exactly qualify for a ‘workers’ day’ holiday. It’s not as if we actually work every day of the year. In fact, mostly we are grateful for having any work that we can get. We can spend a lot of time waiting for work.
Which is why I find it so hilarious when actors get paid overtime on set. If anyone has actually spent time on a commercial or movie set you will know that while everyone runs around for most of the day, actors, usually dressed and made up, sit around, waiting. The actual doing is usually half an hour’s worth, mostly quickly at the end of the day, before failing light! And yet, actors qualify for overtime on set. Hilarious.
But I digress. My big moan is the silliness of this ‘whole workers’ day’ thing in the first place. And I’ll explain what I mean by way of an example. I’m like, it’s been such a hectic week, I’ll probably have a good chance of doing some much needed grocery shopping today. Picknpoo will be open of course. Yay. But, hang on. Who will be running the Picknpoo? Those very workers whose day I’m resting on, not so? In fact, I might want to go to the movies, in a shopping centre, whose shops will all be open, to sell stuff to me, a ‘resting worker’! Bollocks.
The whole May Day thing has ancient origins, with a seasonal cycle beginning. In Europe the 1st of May was officially the first day of Summer. But apparently , we are celebrating International Worker’s Day today.
Sex workers in SA will attend Workers’ Day rallies today. That’s good to know. I’m sure it will be a terrific place to network and pick up a few extra clients, for when it’s back to the grindstone tomorrow!
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Randomness
