Race to the Top

Recent events in South Africa and Namibia have made it clear - again - that the spectre of strained race relations has not quite been exorcised. Given the history of those two countries, most find this state of affairs unsurprising. Despite the advent of democracy and terms like "Rainbow Nation" and "National Reconciliation", the white minority there has retained a lot of the privileges afforded them under the apartheid regime, causing considerable resentment from the black majority. Said resentment has certainly not been helped by recent pronouncements by people who can legitimately be described as white supremacists.

In light of the various responses to these incidents, the question of whether black people can be racist has once more arisen, and it doesn't look like a consensus will be arrived at this time either.

I suppose the answer hinges on one's understanding of the term. The broader definition of the word "racism" (prejudice based on race, or the expression thereof) makes things pretty straightforward. Anybody who harbours or expresses racial prejudice can be called a racist. Let's go home.

But wait.

While that definition stands, in practical terms it presupposes a context in which the things we call races all have equal standing, in which case races would amount to no more or less than bickering neighbours. We know this is not the case.

The history of race relations is one plagued by one-sided systemic oppression. Even without mentioning the ignominies of the slave trade, you have to be aware of the evils of the colonial era, with its exploitation of labour, extraction of resources, and its claiming of occupied land in the name of colonial powers. You have to be aware of the obstructionism, barely concealed behind such asinine slogans as "separate but equal", which seem to gloss over the fact that white people conveniently acquired for themselves the vastest, most fertile swaths of land, the richest mineral deposits, and kept access to the best education, while stetting the standards for the rest of the population.

Everything from the required "passes" to the ubiquitous use of derogatory epithets (kaffir, animals, monkeys) suggest another, more insidious nature to "racism", one that holds an element of power: the belief that one's race is objectively superior, thus granting individuals and institutions the mandate to oppress, restrict and subjugate the lesser ones.

Given all this, then, can black people be racist? As an egalitarian, I have long pondered this one. I believe all virtues and vices are potentially present in all human beings. More tangibly, we have, as black people, shown that we are capable of oppression along lines just as arbitrary as skin colour (see the history of Hutu-Tutsi relations for one example). So, being philosophically opposed to special pleading, I have to say yes, black people can and do display racist behaviour in accordance with the narrower definition of racism. Now let's go home.

Hang on!

Before this becomes a motive for false equivalences, I must stress that I do not believe that pushing back against racial oppression constitutes racism (or "reverse racism" [cue eye roll]), any more than I believe pushing back against an attacker constitutes aggression. The mounting resentment black people feel towards white people, as seen in South Africa and Namibia, is a reaction. That reaction can seem harsh, especially when you consider the fact that individual white people, who may be trying to do better, sometimes bear the brunt of our ire (comes with being the interface, guys; sorry). But you cannot claim it is unwarranted. Not when the vestiges of an unjust system are deliberately held in place. Not when we are consistently dehumanised. Not when "they" loudly wish we would conveniently stay out of sight, on our land. Not when even a formal acknowledgement of wrongdoing has not been issued.

There have been troubling, even vile statements by black people, most recently and most notably a call to give the white minorities the same treatment dished out to Jews during World War II. That is absolutely objectionable: reclaiming our humanity is not achieved by robbing others of theirs. It sucks that we, at this time, have to be the ones to keep this in mind. But keep it we must, because we know the unpleasantness - the sheer indignity - of being at the receiving end.

Hand Waving and Air Dancing

You see them everywhere these days. Images of them adorn billboards and banners all over the continent. Judging by their appearance, you would be forgiven for thinking they’d be right at home at a Dangote or Virgin executive meeting. Crisp suits with elegantly patterned ties and pocket squares, shiny shoes, sharp haircuts, manicured hands. They go to a lot of effort to convey an air of success. Judging by the crowds they attract, convey it they do.

They are Men of God, charismatic preachers who minister through signs and wonders after the spirit of the biblical book of Acts. They offer miraculous healing, they profess prophetic knowledge, and they promise prosperity… in exchange for a seed.

They are liars.

To clarify, this is not an attack on preachers in general. There are many who genuinely do live according to their beliefs. Disagree with them though I may, I have no cause to question their integrity. The specific crop of pastors I address here is another story. 

Shepherd Bushiri is one such pastor. According to his ministry’s official website, he has representations in seven African countries, namely his native Malawi, South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, Tanzania and Ethiopia (this last one jars a little, geographically speaking, but stranger things have happened).

I invite you to browse that site, paying close attention to the statement on the main page and comparing it to the blog post titled Why Some Get Healed and Others Not. See if you can also spot the glaring inconsistencies in The Story of the Dead Boy Coming Back to Life.

What brought Bushiri to my attention, though, is a couple of videos of him performing “miracles”. In the first, he claims to be able to capture images of the family of an audience member “in the spirit”… on an iPad. Because those could never have pictures stored in them. Hilariously, one unfortunate camera angle brings the whole house of cards down. You can slow things down to clearly see why.

The second video was of him walking on air. I won’t elaborate; just wear a mitten on your dominant hand (the facepalm will be brutal) and watch it.

While the videos Bushiri uploaded basically debunk themselves, others of his ilk have been exposed by third parties. Peter Popoff is a televangelist and a “faith healer” who claimed to be receiving direct revelation from God about various people attending his services. An investigation revealed he was actually receiving radio transmissions from his wife and associates backstage, who were reading from the audience’s prayer cards. After many denials, Popoff came clean and issued a heartfelt apology to his flagging following before retiring from the public eye... until recently.

Despite years of requests by different parties, Benny Hinn has been unwilling to provide independent verification of the many “healings” that take place at his crusades, nor has he been willing to address the multiple instances in which his staff were seen to deliberately prevent the seriously ill from making their way to the stage.

These are men and women with a massive, international following. They draw crowds wherever they go, because people long for rescue from their troubles, and they, the people, believe these preachers to have a direct line to the ultimate power in existence. No price is too high for them to gain divine favour. To them, the Man of God is never to be criticised or questioned, and anybody who dares think otherwise is obviously being used by the devil (see comments on the above videos).

But why would a man with a direct line to God resort to (rather bad) prestidigitation? What does it say about that man’s own faith in this God when he actively and deliberately lies to his congregants? If he happens to believe in the power he claims to serve, does he then think that power requires deception to win hearts? If not, I wonder what his actual goal is.

Never mind.

Clerics have every right to be rich. I’d even say I have no problem with them living off donations of their flock. My problem is with them taking advantage of people’s desperation by using deception to ensure compliance. That is the epitome of dishonesty. That is the height of faithlessness. And it has real, devastating consequences.

People have ignored medical advice in favour of faith healings, to tragic effect. Others have experienced financial setbacks because they believed that the way to a better life lay in giving to the church (read “to the pastor”), believing God would repay them a hundredfold, rather than actually having some sort of investment plan. Believers hoping to get a job or a spouse will typically stand while the Man of God prays over them, touching their foreheads and binding whatever evil spirit is held responsible for the bit of misery in question… but no word on how the believers can actually achieve those ends. If things don’t happen, it’s because the people didn’t pray earnestly enough, or because they doubted, or because their seed was insufficient. Never mind that they’re struggling to secure their children’s school fees. Never mind that their medication money helps pay for the “parsonage”. No, it can’t be that the man at the pulpit is full of crap; that would seriously hurt attendance and, more importantly, the bottom line.

So, just as the God they preach is blameless, and therefore all kinks are the doing of fallible mortals, these preachers are almost equally blameless when things don’t go according to the plans they lay out. They build themselves up as secondary messiahs, causing their flock to swear by them only, to believe every utterance, to eat grass on command and to literally be stepped on. That sort of dependency is the one thing keeping scrutiny and exposure at bay. And that is basically what I hope one day will vanish.

Anyone following a religious figure should embrace healthy scepticism. I don’t advocate turning your back on your faith; simply realise the person you follow is a mere human, with all the attending trappings, as suggested by the many scandals regularly peppering the press. Claims of the ability to tap into the supernatural should be met either with demands for testable evidence or with the entertained indifference we give stage magicians, who have the honesty of admitting they are fooling us.

One Year

In typical dream fashion, I find myself in the thick of a lecture I know has been going on for a while. The lecturer, a woman, has instructed us to collect something or other from the front. Having done so, I head for my seat, checking my phone and that’s when the commotion occurs.

A high-pitched yelp, a flash of light and a shutter sound all happen in a split second. A few people run away and I see one of my classmates clutching her chest.

“What happened?” the lecturer asks her.

“Someone pinched my boob!” the student replies. “They took a picture!”

Coolly, the lecturer turns toward me, still standing there, phone in hand.

“Was it you?” she asks.

“No, madam.” It is plain she doesn’t believe a word of it.

She grabs my phone, backs up a few steps and asks where the picture folder is. I tell her there are three different ones.

“This is what happens when you are a porn addict,” she says disdainfully.

I bristle inward but maintain a civil exterior. “Should you find any porn on my phone, you are free to keep it.”

She’s game. And since she says she needs witnesses, she somehow hooks up my phone to the projector.

“So do you often molest women and keep pictures as trophies?” she asks, navigating to the first picture folder. The students laugh. I say nothing.

The first picture appears on the huge canvas. It’s my mom and dad, holding hands.

She scrolls through the twenty or so family pictures, exits the folder without a comment and moves to the next.

The first picture in this one elicits a triumphant smile from the lecturer. It’s a picture of a woman wearing minimal clothing; just a training bra and body shorts. Her toned body glistens with a sheen of sweat. As the lecturer notices the dumbbells the woman holds in each hand, her smile wilts. She gives me a calculating look as she scrolls to the next picture. Fitness enthusiasts appear mid-workout one after the other. The male figures elicit sighs from the women in attendance, and vice versa. The various captions leave no doubt on the nature of the pictures.

Exiting the folder, the lecturer goes “So you want to look like one of them, huh? Just so you can land one of the ladies?”

“Please do not enter the last folder, madam.” I say, face blank.

The triumphant smile returns. The class jeers. “And why not?” she asks with the smugness and bloodlust of a gladiator asking his opponent why they should be spared.

“You may have already decided I am a despicable person, but opening the last folder will make you one in the eyes of everybody here.”

Whispers break out in the lecture hall. She gives me another look of disdain and opens the last folder.

I hold my breath and let my vision go out of focus. A deathly silence falls. I know the number and order of the pictures in the dream, because it is the same number and order in waking life.

A young girl, with short-cropped hair, large eyes and her tongue sticking out. She is clearly too thin. She looks right at the camera from her bed.

The same girl, seated on a chair. It’s obvious she is being held up only by the straps visible across her chest. Still, she smiles.

The same girl, sitting against her brother’s chest. Still smiling.

The same girl, lying on her back, perfectly still, perfectly straight, hands on her belly. Dressed in an ornate white dress, white stocking, white gloves, and white hat. Eyes closed. She is not sleeping.

The next three pictures depict the same scene from different angles.

The last picture is of a small coffin being lowered into the ground.

I wordlessly take my phone and return to my seat.

The dream jumps to the end of the lecture, as I get out and try to disappear. My lecturer intercepts me.

“I am sorry,” she says. “I did not know.”

I say nothing.

“I feel horrible,” she goes on. “How can I make it up to you?”

“Bring her back,” I say, walking away.

I wake up.

Goodbye, Little Sister

I was away when you were born. I was away when our mother brought you home. I was away for so long, too long, but I am glad I got to meet you.

I remember our introduction, and the way your big, bright eyes watched me. I remember your radiant smile at the words “Lovely, this is your other big brother.” I think that was the moment you captured me.

You were a nexus of positivity. Nobody could remain in your presence and stay miserable. I remember many an evening returning from an exhausting workday, just plopping down next to you, and you’d turn towards me and smile, and my heart would soar. How readily you smiled. How heartily you laughed, even when you were the one being made fun of.

You’d get excited at the idea of wearing shoes and of going on car rides, to the extent that everybody did their best to keep up a constant supply of both. Your sheer delight at being put behind the wheel, albeit of a parked car, is one of those pure things the fondest memories are made of.

Oh, and what cheek you had. What spirit. Should anybody stare at you too long, you would laboriously articulate “Look elsewhere” (I suspect your other brother is to thank for that one).  I really enjoyed the way you’d snap at anybody who came too close to your food, or bothered you when you were feeling cranky.

All in all, you did not have the mentality of one who is a prisoner of her own body. Your affliction waxed and waned, waxed and waned, and through your ordeal you kept fighting. You bore it all. The medication that tasted foul and left you in a daze for hours, the scans where you had to stay still and found it really, really hard to, the painful physiotherapy… This past couple of years, I’ve seen you shoulder a burden most adults balk at, and you’d been at it a while already. You were bravery given human form.

This past Saturday was the last time I got to say to you “See you later, little girl.” Even as I write these words, I can’t help but desperately hope your occasional 3 a.m. mad laughter from one of your dreams would wake me up from this bleak reality from which you are removed.

You were in our mother’s arms, surrounded by many who loved you, when you went.

I hope you knew. I hope you were aware of our love for you. Despite the times when our words couldn’t reach you, I hope you knew from our actions how much affection and admiration we all had for you. I hope you knew that you were a paragon of beauty to us. You lit our lives like a second sun.

At ease, little soldier. You fought valiantly. Nothing can harm you now.

Hanging out with her big bro,
Lovely Sandra Mankono
August 5th, 2004 - February 1st, 2014

Sins of the Father

As an avid consumer of popular entertainment, I have noticed an interesting trend in the way stories are packaged. Ancestry plays a critical role in almost every narrative, in that incidents tend to “keep it in the family.” Fair warning: the very nature of this post means I will break one of my religion’s most sacred tenets. In other words, there are spoilers ahead.

Final Fantasy is one of my favourite game series. Its original plots and novel cast for each instalment mean that even after 15 games, the same-old-stuff effect is minimal (well, XIII was horrible, but never mind that one). Even in those games, though, the protagonist almost always has to deal with the failures of his or her forbears. In FFVIII, Squall’s world faces destruction because 17 years or so earlier, his father failed to properly seal the sorceress Adel.

This is Adel. Yes, the game does state "sorceress".

In FFX, Tidus is forcibly sent to the future after his father failed to stop the cycle that turned a Summoner’s Final Aeon into Sin (I promise this is the sentence that will make the least sense today).

This isn’t limited to video games. Cinema and television have shown the same tendencies. Anakin Skywalker’s failure to resist the Dark Side plunged an entire galaxy into chaos. If you have not guessed who eventually had to fix that (you mean you didn’t already know?), your reading comprehension leaves a lot to be desired. In 24, Jack Bauer discovers the events of Day 5 and Day 6 were masterminded by his own father, and has to stop him. We find out Pirate Lord Jack Sparrow’s father is Keeper of the Pirate Code. We find out Olivia Pope’s father is the Spy to End All Spies, and that her mother was is an informant a terrorist.

I could go on for pages, but let’s just say I am willing to bet that a bloodline storyline will crop up in any media franchise that goes on long enough.

I hear this one is all about genealogies now.

Engrossed though I get in those stories, that particular plot device strikes me as a misguided way to raise the stakes while at the same time making things “personal.” Luke is not merely facing an Empire led by a pair of Sith Lords; he’s going against his own father! [Gasp] Now it’s serious.

While you might argue that I show very little faith in humans, I don’t think people really can make the distinction between fiction and reality anymore, what with the way we all picture ourselves as the main characters in our own grand adventure. Maybe a part of us really believes the sins of our fathers are ours to atone for. Maybe society actually expects us to. It seems an uncomfortable burden to bear, but we do derive a large part of our identity from our ancestry, so it is possible that perceived blemishes in our family trees would weigh on us, and that those behind the stories wish to convey that aspect of things.

Or maybe I am reading too much into it and the creators simply want to make the protagonist easier to relate to. I mean, which one of us isn’t plagued by self-doubt because one ancestor failed to toss a ring into a volcano?

Looking Past the Pain

I remember the year my studies were interrupted as the worst year of my life. Beyond the family crisis and subsequent estrangement with my father, I was jealous of my peers’ continuing academic journeys. Mostly, though, I had lost something I believed was a key to progress: structure. I went on to learn a lot on my own, but that path was riddled with hurdles.

The first obstacle I faced was my own nature: I am the kind of person who would rather secure conquered ground – sometimes unnecessarily – than attempt to conquer new territory. In school, you are explicitly told what you need to learn, and there are ways of finding out whether you do. Not so when you are on your own. Nobody is going to tell you there will be a data management test in a fortnight. Other hurdles were the ever-evolving nature of software engineering, and the fact that I could not keep up financially. Picture this: in 2006, I had no idea what Ruby on Rails was. Hell, I was only peripherally aware of PHP, one thing the company I now work for can’t do without (well, we could; we won’t). By the time I finally felt comfortable with one tool, I’d learn it was fading into obsolescence. It was frustrating, to say the least.

Nevertheless, it was all I had. There was no other option. I stayed the course, and learned. I am not an expert yet; that is still years off. But I am confident enough now. More importantly, I learned the value of discipline for myself, by myself. Frustrating, painful, why-do-I-even-bother discipline. Whatever skill you are going to master, whatever vice you are going to give up, whatever healthy habit you are going to adopt will come at that price. Talent and enthusiasm are great, but they each come with a risk. Talent is especially dangerous, in that it robs you of the incentive to work hard and of any sense of achievement when you do. Enthusiasm fizzles out fast, no matter what those frozen smiles on workout infomercials would have you believe. Also, the law of diminishing returns means that the same line of pep talks will only take you so far.

You need something else to keep you on track, something that will help you not lessen the pain but remember its purpose. Vision. Obsessive determination. Those will keep you going through the sleepless nights, the friends that feel deserted and desert you in return, the miles walked, the pennies pinched, the aching muscles, the self-denial. Incoming understatement: it is difficult. It is painful. But the good news is, the more you do it, the better you become, both at the goal you set and at staying the course.

Discipline (n): the continuous choice to suffer by taking action, in order to avoid greater suffering through regret.

Perfect Anniversary

As I am typing these words, I am still reeling from having experienced one hour and sixteen minutes of awesomeness. I’m actually considering bumping this post to somewhere near the head of my expanding cue of unpublished posts.

I have just watched The Day of the Doctor. It was sad. It was funny. It was scary. It was epic.

Now, how do you suppose I could do a review of something without any spoilers? Spoilers are, as I frequently remind people who are never actually listening, against my religion. I can’t. But I can talk about my experience.

Doctor Who first aired on November 23^rd 1963. The Day of the Doctor is a commemoration of the show’s 50-year anniversary. Personally, I am relatively new to the series.

It was recommended to me by a friend from Nevada with whom I share another passion. Actually, “recommended” is a bit of a misnomer. She just never shut up about it, to the point where, just to know what she was going on about, I had to find out. Knowing the series was old, and that finding traces of the original episodes would be akin to re-forging the One Ring, I asked her if there was another starting point. “Begin with the ninth Doctor,” she said. Unsurprisingly, that is the same advice I give to people who are interested in taking up Doctor Who.

And so it was that I found myself watching a young British lady get attacked by plastic mannequins before her in-extremis rescue by a man whose only utterance was “Run!” I haven’t shut up about it since. Ask Cindy.

The Doctor is an amazing individual. A Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, he is an explorer who travels through space and time in his T.A.R.D.I.S. (Time And Relative Dimensions In space), a “ship” that looks like a blue telephone box (a Police Box, actually) and is bigger, way bigger, on the inside. The former is due to the fact that the ship’s chameleon circuit, which allows the T.A.R.D.I.S. to blend with its surroundings, was damaged when the Doctor visited 1963 London. The latter is a common feature of Time Lord technology.

 

No, seriously, that thing is huge.

As a Time Lord, he has the ability to Regenerate (12 times) when his body fails: every cell in his body changes. This influences his appearance and personality. This is the plot device that allows different actors to portray the character and bring their own interpretation of the role to bear.

He reacts to every new thing he encounters with a sense of wonder, with no hint of judgement, which was what set the series apart in my eyes. Even when confronted with something that is actively trying to kill him, he will seek first to understand, and then to reason, again and again. His favourite tool is a sonic screwdriver, precisely because it, in his words, “Doesn’t kill, doesn’t wound, doesn’t maim.” However, despite this Gandhi-like approach to problem solving, the Doctor has routed armies, faced down invaders, tricked pseudo-deities and saved the universe(s) countless times.

Don’t let his pacific nature make you believe it’s all philosophy and no thrills. Far from it. Oh, far, far from it. Just like thinking of Friday the 13^th will make you think twice about camping, Doctor Who will make you think twice about mannequins, shadows, boxes, Christmas trees (heck, Christmas altogether), cracks in your walls, Wi-Fi and stone statues (hint: they’re only statues when you’re looking).

The Day of the Doctor was no exception. The hype had been building since the end of season seven, and even a part of me worried that the anniversary episode might not live up to expectations. I need not have worried. It was every bit as unexpected as I expected. I seriously don’t know how they keep doing that. But I can’t talk about it (for… religious reasons; see above). I can’t tell you about the lead up the reunion between two of the most beloved Doctors. I can’t tell you about the riveting climax, the tear-inducing resolution, or the mind-blowing implications. You’ll just have to watch it, if you want to know (yes, that was my plan all along; start with the 9^th Doctor, please).

What I can tell you about was the sense of awe and gratitude I felt at the very end. Technology has finally managed what had so far been impossible. All the faces of the Doctor, living and departed, present in the same moving shot. In a semicircle, facing outward, stood eleven of them. Matt Smith, the latest, and David Tennant before him. Then Christopher Eccleston, John Hurt, Paul McGann, Sylvester McCoy, Colin Baker, Peter Davison, Tom Baker, Jon Pertwee and Patrick Troughton. And, standing at the center of the semicircle, the man who started it all, William Hartnell, the First Doctor.