Almost Spring
We have been up since sparrow fart, and we have already had two (smallish) cups of strong coffee, and it is only 6.18 and it is still very dark, but I’ve Got That Feeling. I can smell the Jasmine.
I know that it is still going to rain, and be freezing and winter is far from over, but there is that pre-sunrise Jasmine morning air, and it holds such promise. I love this time. It is a proper in between time. In Cape Town it is before the wind starts time. It is before the end of the year time. It is possibility time. It is whales in the bay time.
Having my boet in Cape Town means we do some touristy stuff, and on Sunday afternoon we hit Camps Bay for sundowners. Yo, yo, yo it was a scene I tell you. I can’t remember when last I was skeefed like that as we tried to find our tiny table of trend. Big Friendly kept hinting that we should just do Vida E but my boet was determined and we did find a lekker spot at a place that looked like it should have been full but wasn’t. Who knows why. I wish I could remember its name. We were in luck because they were doing R25 cocktails. So there we were, with Big Friendly and a pink girly drink that went straight to his head, my boet and his glass of Whiskey Sour and me and a margarita. Watching the sun set. And eating what Big Friendly and my boet called cajones (coujons). Damn fine for a local.
Fiona Coyne
Word is flying around the internet about the death of Fiona Coyne, and the news has come as a huge, huge shock to her friends and colleagues in the industry. While she wasn’t a friend of mine, I definitely considered her a contemporary and she was exactly my age.
Fiona was queen of the bitchy one liner. She was an acid wit and a great playwright. She was Mrs Weakest Link South Africa. She also spent years doing my dream job, working with the Sheldrick foundation for orphaned elephants, in Kenya.
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.
Limmud – a really strange kettle of fish
I woke up this morning with Big Friendly’s cold which only adds to my totally altered state of reality. It is 1800 and I am in Stellenbosch, at a hotel, with more than just a few hundred Jewish people for a 48 hour conference, 100 presenters and 170 sessions. All these people (except for the people who work here, and you should see their faces!) are either Jewish or will be talking about something Jewish related or for Jews to hear. Mind-bending. It really is a huge, huge mix; religious, non-religious, right-wing, left-wing, spiritual, academic, philosophical, cultural, general and obscure.
I am presenting an improvisation workshop late tonight, and a talk tomorrow called The Reluctant Jew. I have also set myself the task of attending as much as I possibly can.
I didn’t do myself any favours by attending my first presentation; about the Turkish Flotilla that made that attempt to get supplies to Gaza. It was a presentation by a totally right-wing, Israeli military expert Jonathan Fine, who managed, in a carefully constructed preamble about fundamental religious terrorism, to persuade the already half-way there audience that the Israelis behaved beautifully and were threatened and did what anyone else would have done in that situation. It was beyond hideous and I was so enraged I couldn’t even speak. The hilarious part of this whole thing is that he didn’t know how to work his DVD and I was the only moegoe who got up to press play and to do sound levels! For the most blatant piece of pro-Israeli military propaganda ever made!
Next up was a quirky look at Jews in Venice during Shakespeare’s time and the justification for Antonio from The Merchant of Venice to be a Merano, a Jew who has converted to Christianity. It was presented by Stephen Finn. It was really quite absorbing, and properly interesting. I am so deeply connected to the play and I know all the textual references so it was really exciting to see them being re-interpreted. A lot of strange statements that Shylock and Antonio make can be so much better justified if this were indeed the case.
I am not used to this many Jewish people all at once, and I still don’t feel very comfortable. I hope I will find some like-minded thinkers here; but I won’t hold my breath; my nose is blocked and I might choke and swallow my own post-nasal drip!
Writing my life
I have been so caught up with writing other stuff that my blog has taken a bit of a back seat this last week. I have been busy with a couple of proposals, ideas for new things keep popping into my head (and I have to write them down, however obscure they are, in case they have some value or resonance later on) and I have been preparing a presentation that I am giving at the Limmud seminar this weekend.
The truth is, I love writing. I love words. I can’t always get them to do what they should, like Humpty Dumpy could by paying them at the end of the week, but I enjoy trying to get them to say how I feel and what I mean. I practice saying words and making up weird titles for things at gym on the stair master machine. I have taken to using my crappy cellphone as a dictaphone when I don’t have a pen and paper or Mac-a-tiny with me, like when I am walking the dogs. And I am practicing my writing. I think it’s good practice. But here is how Humpty Dumpty sees things. I will take my cue from him I think.
`I don’t know what you mean by “glory,”‘ Alice said.
Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. `Of course you don’t — till I tell you. I meant “there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!”‘
`But “glory” doesn’t mean “a nice knock-down argument,”‘ Alice objected.
`When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, `it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.’
`The question is,’ said Alice, `whether you can make words mean so many different things.’
`The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty, `which is to be master – - that’s all.’
Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again. `They’ve a temper, some of them — particularly verbs, they’re the proudest — adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs — however, I can manage the whole of them! Impenetrability! That’s what I say!’
`Would you tell me, please,’ said Alice `what that means?`
`Now you talk like a reasonable child,’ said Humpty Dumpty, looking very much pleased. `I meant by “impenetrability” that we’ve had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you’d mention what you mean to do next, as I suppose you don’t mean to stop here all the rest of your life.’
`That’s a great deal to make one word mean,’ Alice said in a thoughtful tone.
`When I make a word do a lot of work like that,’ said Humpty Dumpty, `I always pay it extra.’
`Oh!’ said Alice. She was too much puzzled to make any other remark.
`Ah, you should see `em come round me of a Saturday night,’ Humpty Dumpty went on, wagging his head gravely from side to side: `for to get their wages, you know.’
(Alice didn’t venture to ask what he paid them with; and so you see I can’t tell you.)
Desperate Dog. Please help!
Does anybody out there know what I can do? Any and all advice will be put into action immediately. In the alleyway behind our house there is a dog. She is owned by a man in the street behind us and has been placed in the alley as a guard dog. Although she has shelter, food, water and shade she has no contact with people or animals. That is her life. And she cries all the time.
I have had the SPCA inspector out here on at least three occasions, but because there is no sign of abuse or neglect on the dog there is nothing that they can do. DARG, TEARS and pro-life animal rescue can’t help at all; they are by law not allowed to have inspectors working for them because of their pro-life policy. Everybody has suggested that I wait for the municipal bylaws to change and then I can complain about a noise disturbance to the police. That is hardly the point. I am also feeling desperate in my helplessness. I have no access to the dog since our back door into the alley is sealed shut and our walls are very high. All I hear is her constant, sad crying. It is unbearable and heartbreaking. Please tell me what to do.
Oh, I forgot to add that this man who owns her is an absolutely aggressive, mean, nasty piece of work and is totally unapproachable. Everybody is scared of him. He has a reputation for being a gangster and for taking revenge on those who complain.
Hangover
I was delighted when I heard one of the Cape Town tourism people talk about an ‘afterglow’ instead of a hangover that Cape Town was experiencing after the mafifa World Cup. I loved the idea; it sounded positive and sustainable. But it seems the afterglow has turned into a hangover.
The WC month was nothing short of miraculous in many ways. South Africans were on their best behaviour. We all listened when Zuma asked us to behave! There wasn’t a peep from Mal-enema, embarrassing us with his usual uncontrolable spewage. Our politicians, in general, kept a low profile and were mostly polite for a change. On the ground, people made a brilliant effort to be friendly, engaging, hospitable and patriotic. Our TV screens were filled with colour, music and feel-good stories. Vuvuzelas were a global hit. Our cities looked magnificent and our stadia were commented on in glowing terms. Special courts dealt with crimes, special traffic cops managed congestion and we all seemed to follow all the rules so much better. We really put on a great, glamourous show while the world watched.
But now that the cameras are no longer on us we seem to be sliding into that murky, messy ‘nobody’s watching’ behaviour. We seem to be taking the WC out of the World Cup. The streets are grimy again. Taxis are driving in the yellow lane. Mal-enema is back. The DA is accusing, the foreigners are fleeing, civil servants are threatening to strike. You know; the usual. We are probably no different from most countries in the world.
But for that month…
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.
Prayer for Tolerance
On this last day of showing the world how beautiful
friendly and kind
Colourful and crazy
Generous and supporting
South Africans are, and can be.
On this last day
I am praying.
Hard and fervently I am praying
and making a call at the same time.
I am writing it and saying it.
I am praying and even begging
that not one person in this country does something
to somebody who isn’t originally from here.
Please. Let us all get ready to stop it from happening.
We are armed with good feeling.
We are padded with pride.
We are forewarned with reality.
Now, let us protect these lives,
from nations we loved when they were playing soccer.
-
Randomness
