One for Azazel: The paw-paw, the fan, and Eugene Terre’Blanche

“Therefore the tragic figure of our times is perhaps the one who takes the guilt on himself to validate our fear or hate,” said Dr Johns. — Etienne Leroux, Een vir Azazel

Six years ago I was Eugene Terre’Blanche. On stages throughout the country, I echoed those mad speeches that drove confused young men towards the extremes of right-wing hate with the “correct” combination of imagery, rhetoric, dramatic pause and thunderous rage. I also wrote the play, and as a result was branded either a racist or a communist, according to the narrow interpretations of journalists and Afrikaans festival-goers. The text, which was in the vein of the Hitler biopic Max, was neither, but I was happy to elicit a strong response. Today, I fear response, as I’m sure you do.

They probably won’t remember me, but I sincerely extend my condolences to his family.

We all realise this is just the beginning. Whether his death was politically motivated or because of a wage dispute doesn’t matter. Eugene Terre’Blanche, the most extreme symbol of right-wing extremism, is murdered in his sleep on the same weekend that Julius Malema once again, flaunting his disregard, sings “kill the boer” in Zimbabwe — just outside the legal jurisdiction of our courts, but very much within earshot of our nation (and is welcomed with open arms).

This is a strong enough scenario to make most shudder.

But there will be a lot more to it, of that you can be sure.

Before any confrontation, one should know your opponent. Whether it’s a boxing match, a academic debate, or a soccer match, knowing how your opponent thinks is the key to success. Cyril Ramaphosa understood this, and wiped the floor with Roelf Meyer at Codesa. The same goes for Nelson Mandela in any of the negotiations he turned in his favour during his long political career. In researching Mr Terre’Blanche, I think I also gained a fair bit of insight into his character, his always larger than life presence, his narcissism and his petty failures, the simplicity of a man of a horse, and the complexity of an actor on the stage of apartheid politics.

It seems polarisation and confrontation is the name of the South African game these days, so it’s best we get to know the playing field. Whether the battle is verbal or violent, it is coming. And as I favour the verbal variety, let me give some clues to any aspiring soldiers out there.

Until recently, I feared that Malema might be killed for his bloody remarks, and achieve an unjustified martyrdom. Now the tables have been turned. Eugene Terre’Blanche has escaped a quiet and obscure death. In life, he was larger than reality. Those who had not met him expected a giant of a man — he was actually rather short. And the real violence of the AWB was surpassed by the symbolic violence of uniform and display — balaclavaed marches, breaking into the World Trade Center, the hand-on-heart fervour of young men in khaki. In death, this will become even more true. Not least of all because of the timing of the murder.

Easter is a crucial time in any of the Christian denominations, and carries a very special meaning in Protestantism too. On this weekend, Christ died for the sins of the world, the scapegoat for all the wrongs humanity has committed. Not even the staunchest AWB member would cast Terre’Blanche in the same mould, but don’t underestimate the power of emotion in these times.

According to some, the concept of the scapegoat comes from a mistranslation of “Azazel” as “Ez ozel” in the King James Bible. “Azazel” being a goat-like fore-runner of Satan, “Ez ozel’ meaning “the goat that departs”. Leviticus describes how Aaron must cast lots on two goats — one being sacrificed to God, the other presented to God before being chased out into the desert, “to Azazel”. Of course, all these meanings carry a lot of weight in the South African situation. An even stronger text, to my taste, would be One for Azazel from Etienne Leroux’s Silberstein trilogy, which I would advise all those with one-dimensional images of Afrikanerdom to read.

The question is then: will Terre’Blanche serve as a sacrifice on the altar of political justice? Will this blood finally lead to some sort of forgiveness?

Hopefully, yes. Probably, not. In the first place, the sacrifice must not carry guilt itself, which disqualifies him. Furthermore, the blood of countless innocents has already been shed, and the violence in South Africa has long ceased to bear any relation to some twisted form of justice. But I am quite sure that some will read this murder as the end or beginning of an era.

What happens next? Simple. The violence increases. The other day I guessed that we would see right-wing terrorism attacks in South Africa within the next five years. Make it a year. That’s what happens on the extremes of frustrated minorities. And while our leader(s) keep displaying their inability to take control of polarising issues, it is once again up to ordinary South Africans to pick up the pieces. And here we can take courage. Because good South Africans have survived many decades of terrible leaders.

What do we do? We ignore the politicians. They lose their power when we stop listening to them. We avoid mass behaviour. We resist mobilisation. We drink beer, and disagree with each other. We don’t carry guns. We don’t support newspapers that want to keep us stupid. We don’t support politicians who want to keep us poor. We get off our asses and start making a difference — if they don’t know what effective transformation is, we start doing it ourselves (see Beer Adriaanse’s “Boer Maak ‘n Plan”). Most importantly, we don’t respond in the racially programmed ways that brought us to where we are. It is time for a new paradigm.

Societies can be judged by their reactions in times of crisis. And the paw-paw is speeding towards the fan. At the risk of sounding cheesy, we are the future we’ve been waiting for. Let’s bury the present.

At times like these I prefer to hear these sort of voices from Zimbabwe.

IF YOU DON’T STAY BITTER FOR TOO LONG
Charles Mungoshi

If you don’t stay bitter
and angry for too long

you might finally salvage
something useful
from the old country

a lazy half sleep summer afternoon
for instance, with the whoof-whoof
of grazing cattle in your ears
tails swishing, flicking flies away
or the smell of newly tamed soil
with birds hopping about
in the wake of the plough
in search of worms

or the pained look of your father
a look that took you all these years
and lots of places to understand
the bantering tone you used with your
grandmother and their old laugh
that said nothing matters but death

If you don’t stay bitter
and angry for too long

and have the courage to go back
you will discover that the autumn smoke
writes different more hopeful messages
in the high skies of the old country.

God is at the craps table again

On Wednesay, physicists at CERN fired up the big ol’ Hadron Collider and are now waiting for the magical appearance of the haloed Higgs Boson. This theoretical elementary particle has been dubbed by some “The God particle”, a name physicists despise because it overstates the importance of the Higgs Boson. Good to know that Big Daddy with the Dice is still respected in theoretical physics circles.

This nicknaming is the work of the four-tailed sulphur-spewing demons of the physics world: popularisers of science. They call the Higgs Boson the “God Particle” because it makes it sound revolutionary and revealing, something to be feared, and loved, and feared. By comparison, the idea of a little labourer particle accounting for the existence of all mass in the universe by its interaction with an invisible lattice field all around us just sounds so, well, boring.

Rumours are circulating that God is not too happy about the naming either. Some of my more connected friends have let me know that they recently heard a grumble in a thunderstorm that sounded almost exactly like “What, are you saying I’m fat?”

So, as I write, physicists are standing around waiting for Higgs Bosons to drop out of the Collider (I always picture them having a smoke, talking about football, maybe passing a Playboy around to check out the new centrefold). And while this is happening not more than a few hundred kilometres from me (although it might as well have been a million), I do share a concern with many other people.

To look for the Higgs Boson, physicists try to replicate conditions very shortly (10-33 seconds) after the Big Bang. To do this they collide two proton beams with each other, carrying an energy of up to 7 teraelectronvolts per particle. (That’s a lot of teraelectronvolt). Getting these two to hit each other has been likened to firing two needles at each other across the Atlantic Ocean, or getting your key into the front door after a night in the arms of the Russian Bear.

Now I’ve read all the CERN reassurances. These things happen naturally elsewhere in the universe (although that is not all that reassuring, considering that nuclear explosions happen all the time in stars), that the protons each have the energy of a mosquito, and that yes, tiny little black holes might be created, but really, they’re quite harmless, once you get to know them. That is not my point.

While I’m as keen as anyone to get some closure on the theological whodunnit, I do wonder whether it’s really such a good idea to replicate conditions of the Big Bang. You know, that day when nothing became something, and then it exploded? When time was created as a by-product, kind of like the sawdust of the universe? I’m not too scared of explosions 23km under the French-Swiss border. My concern is similar to the one I have before every weekend (although today it is a bit more intense): that logic will collapse and we will enter a universe of paradoxes.

I trust physicists. I think they are some of the most upright standing homo sapiens on the planet. But at the same time, they tend to burn toast. And they’re the people who use the “barn” as a unit of atomic measurement — because during the Second World War American physicists described their research as throwing rocks into a barn, to see which animals ran out. (Let’s see which animals run out this time). They taught me all kinds of wonderful things, like how a particle can be in two places at the same time, how you can look for hemorrhoids without a mirror if you approach the speed of light, and that glass is actually a liquid. All of these add to my discomfort at their comfort with the idea of creating a singularity.

I’m not saying that frustrated geniuses who struggle to get dates would want to destroy the logical order of the universe. But seeing as almost no one else can understand what it is they’re doing, who is keeping an eye on the toast? A singularity is an event where the laws of physics no longer apply. Where matter can become a hot fluid of gluons infinitely dense and small. Where light becomes trapped by gravity, we all become our own fathers and walk around saying “This sentence is false.” In this situation, God is not throwing dice — he is doing the hula with a lei around his neck while playing Russian Roulette with Van Hunks.

So the question becomes: Shouldn’t we first try these kind of experiments in another chapter of the multiverse? Outsource it to one of those poor universes and save a bit of cash? We could always try it later, when we’re bored, as a party trick for ourselves. You know, after the World Cup, or when Malema is no longer funny.

On the other hand, there’s something to be said for the self-inflicted apocalypse, if only on an aesthetic level. Bringing an end to it all, out the way we came in, a deus ex machina without the deus. Humanity as architect of our own downfall, all for the greater glory of knowledge and understanding, not for the stupid fire and virus ending we seem to be heading for at the moment. A tragic hero, not a fool. More Othello than Joost. I could live with that. Or die with that, as it were.

So I say go for it. Let’s give God a laugh, I think he deserves it after all the worry we’ve caused him. And I do love a surprise ending. Banana.

na.

Has the World Cup been stolen?

JOHANNESBURG — South Africans’ worst fears have been realised. The World Cup, transported to South Africa over the weekend, has been stolen.

This according to a Polish syndicate calling itself Federacja Czerwonych Rysi (Federation of the Red Lynx), who claim to have broken into IFA offices on Monday and stolen the 36cm gold trophy. Photographs sent to various press agencies seem to confirm this.

Rumours started circulating in soccer circles yesterday morning, when the trophy was not available for an official photo session with AMU, a local academy for promising young footballers. This morning the FCR claimed responsibility for the disappearance. An anonymous email (in Polish) stated:

“Your of trophy. I only return if Poland immediately great participation into 2010 hedgehog. Best in one easy groups.” (Translation: www.poltran.com)

Poland did not qualify for this year’s tournament.

Officials have vehemently denied the FCR claims. Spokesperson José de Santa Teresita el Niño Jesús Rodríguez de la Rocha, when asked whether the trophy had been stolen, replied:

“No.”

cupHowever, when a contingent of journalists asked to view the trophy yesterday, they were told that it was being polished, and not available for viewing. This morning, they were again told that the trophy was not available, as the Trophy Polishers Union was on strike.

“Is problem,” De Santa Teresita el Niño Jesús Rodríguez de la Rocha commented.

Who or what Federacja Czerwonych Rysi are, is not clear. The photographs show two young women dressed in black, carrying the trophy in a canvas bag. Apart from sunglasses, they make no attempt to conceal their identities. They have not responded to emails, and their chat status indicates “busy”. Facebook friend requests have also gone unanswered.

South Africans can take some consolation in the fact that the alleged theft is not unique. The first World Cup, known as the Jules Rimet trophy, was stolen in London a few months before the 1966 World Cup, and found again seven days later, by a dog named Pickles. step

In 1970, Brazil became the permanent owners of the trophy after winning it a third time. But in 1983, it was stolen from the headquarters of the Brazilian football federation, and never recovered. The current trophy, in use since 1974, contains 5kg of 18-carat gold.

Champion Tshabalala, spokesperson for the ministry of sport, dismissed the allegations as “racism, plain and simple”. Asked whether there were special contingencies in place should such a theft occur, he hesitated a moment before repeating “racism, pure and simple”. Further questioning revealed that this was in fact, his answering-machine message.

Independent crime expert Stoney Steenkamp, on the other hand, said:

“Hell, these days they’ll steal bloody anything. I tell you, my brother once caught one of them [CENSORED] and [CENSORED] that [CENSORED] until he [CENSORED]. That’s the way to solve crime, my bru.”

After being shown the photographs, he retracted his statement, and described the images as “not bad, hey”.

South Africa has one of the highest overall crime rates in the world, comparable only to states where the government has effectively collapsed, like the Netherlands and the UK (www.nationmaster.com). When it comes to violent crime, however, South Africa is sometimes referred to as the “Michael Phelps of the ranking system”. As a result, fears have been expressed over the safety of the hordes of football fans entering the country soon. But no-one had anticipated that the first victim would be the hallowed trophy itself.

Taking a leaf from the book of the legendary Tintin, this reporter has decided to take the responsibility of recovering the World Cup on himself.

Professor Fanie Olivier of the Department of Dutch and South African Studies at Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznan, has stated that he has no knowledge of Federacja Czerwonych Rysi, but that stranger things have happened, presumably referring to the theft of the Arbeit Macht Frei sign from Auschwitz last year.

Attempts to contact Pickles have proven unsuccessful.

I’ve seen the knipmes and the damage done

You know what I’m talking about. Just thinking about it is making your palms sweaty. Your mouth starts watering like the Pavlovian dog that you are. You need some of the good stuff, and you need it now. Just one, man, just one, and you’ll be OK, but somewhere inside you you know that you won’t, cos one is too many, and a thousand is not enough. The brown bitch has got you in her claws, and she’s just playing with you, watching your almost endearing attempts to resist her, your new year’s resolutions evaporating under her spell, your half-hearted attempts to “throw it all away” and be done with it for ever and ever, but she knows one day not too long from now you’ll find yourself on your knees, scraping slivers of the good stuff off the floor and desperately stuffing it into your mouth.

I know, because I’ve been there. I’ve wrestled the brown bitch. I chased the dragon. And now the dragon’s chasing me. I’m not proud of it.

Because of my habit, I’ve lived a nightmare of stomach pains, high blood pressure, financial difficulties, public humiliation, problem relationships, and, of course, typecasting. I’ve basically been thirsty for the last fifteen years. I’ve lied to friends and family. I’ve inflicted many wounds on my thumbs and fingers. And the worst of it all is, when I think now of all I’ve lost, it makes me just want to cut myself a few slices and stuff them in my mouth. Hell, I want to finish a whole kilo. That’s what it’s come to. That’s the reality. That’s my life.

I guess my problem started back in primary school. My dad would buy a kg or so before a rugby match on Saturdays and I would chew away at the stuff, hardly noticing when a try was scored or even when the final whistle blew. Innocent enough it seems now. If only I could see then what I see now. Blame the media, blame the sexy advertising, blame the socio-economic conditions in higher middle-class white suburbs, it doesn’t matter. I must take the responsibility. I must admit that I am powerless against it.

When did I realise I have a problem? Would you be surprised if I told you as recent as two months ago? Would you believe me? That’s right. Two months. I’d been living among you as a biltong addict, incognito, as regular as All-Bran. Look around you. Your wife, son, lover, grandmother. Do they slip out to “the bathroom” every now and again? Drinking water every fifteen minutes? Picking at their teeth? They could be a functioning biltong addict. And you wouldn’t even know.

I finally realised I had a problem when I was on my way back from South Africa to Poland recently. I had at least 2kg of the stuff in my possession. Of course I had to take it with me — but how? How much could I take legally? First I tried the naive, law-abiding route. Which led to the naive, law-abiding experience — waiting hours on the phone to discover that the people enforcing the rules don’t know too much about them. After many many minutes of nothing which Cell C magically converted into money, my best answer was “probably none”. It was in this desperate moment that I saw what I had become.

I was receiving the final “not sure” answer, after waiting another fifteen minutes on the phone (we don’t realise how much stress we carry over because we no longer have actual, old-school landline phones to slam down in the ears of bureaucrats), and in this moment of frustration, an excess of energy flowed into my cerebrum. This excess was transformed into a vision, a solution, a revelation (or, as this combination is more generally known, a “scheme”).

The vision was of myself, naked (well, not quite, unless you want to imagine it that way), strapping long fillets of biltong to my waist, my chest, my legs, my arms. Putting on a clean, “I-have-a-BMW-and-a-gym-card-and-too-much-to-risk-so-don’t-even-bother-to-search-me” shirt, nodding at myself in the mirror, and casually walking through the security checkpoint, carefully taking off my belt and any metal objects I might have on my person before passing through the metal detector.

My beloved steel-capped boots have often had me called over by airport security for a quick touchy-feely. As a result I’ve studied security operations at airports carefully. And I knew the only way they could catch me would be if I let the bells go off. Dogs they usually saved for sniffing the bags. Sure, occasionally they would bring them out. But when you’re living a lie, this is the sort of gamble you’re willing to take.

It could have worked. But what if it didn’t? What if, by some unfortunate turn of events, I got caught? I mean, getting caught with heroin, or marijuana, that’s OK. There’s a social precedent. It’s a standard procedure of shame. But the idea of being caught with biltong taped to my body presented a level of social awkwardness way beyond my meagre capacities. And so I decided against it. I told a friend about the idea though. Watching the expression on her face, I realised that I was addicted.

So. Step one. Realise that I have a problem. Admit it. My life has become unmanageable. I am powerless over my addiction. Done. And it seems so easy to kick it. When you leave all those old friends behind, sure. You avoid the street the butcher is on. In Poland, the stuff is very hard to come by in any case, which makes it easy to stay away from temptation.

And then you get invited to a party at the embassy. And you know it’s going to be there. You know what’s going to happen. You know you’ll hold out for an hour, and then surrender to her. But like watching an aeroplane flying into the building, you can’t do anything. A passenger in your own life.

You wake up and it’s three weeks later. Of course it happened. And of course, you’re on your knees again. This time not scratching for a last sliver of the stuff. No, this time it’s far worse. You have embraced the ex-pat stereotype. You have stolen fire from the gods. You have built a biltong maker.

You call it “celebrating your heritage’. Like all Afrikaners unsure how to do this, you google it. You find a design. Simple enough. You build the thing. You buy the meat. You salt it, spice it, hang it up. You turn on the fan. It emits a gentle, soothing hum in your wardrobe, which now smells of coriander and raw meat. You tell yourself you’ll just make a few fillets. Just to see if you can do it. You check it every five minutes, as if somehow the moment of perfection, when biltong becomes what God intended it to be, would have magically ticked by. You show it to your students, a proud African delicacy. One of them sees the emperor’s willy, which in this case is a piece of dead, raw animal. She says it’s disgusting, and she’s right. But that’s fine. It’s just more for you. And now, there’s always more.

And you keep walking, down that lonely, thirsty road which can only end in one place. The biltong maker is humming in your wardrobe, and as you type these words, it calls to you. Just one more. Just. One. More.