S'bu Zikode at Constitutional Court, May 14th 2009

Luckily work is so very busy, otherwise I’d get a free moment and be forced to dwell on the horrific fate of our friend S’bu and Raj’s Abahlali friends and colleagues.  Abahlali baseMjondolo is a shackdwellers movement in South Africa.  Our relationship with S’bu (who has lead the movement) has certainly broken any stereotypes I might have had about peoples movements, or people who live in shacks.  S’bu is a sophisticated thinker, a brilliant writer – and someone who’s been committed to the cause of the shackdwellers even after severe personal injury – he was picked up and beaten (quite randomly) by the Sydenham police last year.  Now, in this latest raid – apparently instigated by the ANC and supported by the police – they destroyed his house.  I’m hoping he, his wife and children are fine.  The settlement reports several deaths.  Although I speak of him, of course it’s the settlement that’s traumatized.  I think about a beautiful photograph in Raj’s upcoming book.  It’s a picture of Moses Mnewango pouring over council documents by candlelight in a shack, reading, studying, learning to support the fight to gain decent housing.  To move beyond the shack built on the slopes around a waste dump.  

I’ve been reading ‘The Lazarus Project’ by Alexsandaar Hemon.  Three stories intertwine – one from the turn of the 19th to 20th century, a jewish man, Lazarus, arrives at the door of a constable in Chicago and through a kind of misunderstanding is shot.  We learn about the context, the automatic slandering of the man as a ‘jewish anarchist’ and the targeting and harassment of his sister and broader community.  A second thread describes the horrors of the Bosnian/Serbian war, including the random killing of civilians and the more organized violence, as told by a photographer as he journeys back with the protagonist of the novel ‘to the homeland’, back to Sarajevo.  A sub-thread in the protagonists searching through records for the backstory to Lazarus reveals a pogrom in Moldovia.  The details of these take me back to 1984 in India.  And just when I finished the book I got a call from Raj about the Abahlali targeting and violence.  It’s very hard to wrap my head around how the proclivity to this kind of violence persists, how we can do such horrific things to each other. 

S’bu and Abahlali colleagues and friends are in the midst of a struggle.  There’s not much I can do.  Sign this petition if you know enough about the scenario that you feel comfortable in doing so.  The goal is to at least let the local ANC politicians and the police know that there’s a broad international community that knows what’s going down – they cannot keep perpetrating this violence and imagine they will go unnoticed.  It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Conversations overheard, statements delivered. Zimbabweans in South Africa, one finds out her study permit has been ‘lost’ by the university – her life is on hold as she frantically calls up office after office. Another is on the phone checking on the status of something, quickly moving from a polite enquiry to an emotional exchange – “you know I don’t want to be here, I’m just asking for information”, tears in his eyes as he slams down the phone. Someone stuck. And the handsome young man who came while we were here, and left while we were still here, back and forth from Zimbabwe, under the radar, fighting the fight. When he left, I said, lightly, as one might in my world, ‘hope it’s a good trip’. His response was determined. “It will”.

Immigrants, fighters, homeless and transient. All over the world, it’s the same, and yet another gulf that separates people – those that have and those that haven’t moved across boundaries in any way other than those predetermined, for the few predetermined.

And this is only middle-class strife. Sunpuppy (left) has found a home finally but still shakes when we take her out of the house (she was dognapped once), straining at the leash in the direction of the house of immigrants.

We will be hosting a party at Ike’s bookstore in Durban to celebrate our matrimonials in South Africa.

Ike’s is on the second floor of a two-story colonial building, with shelves of books all over, books laid out on tables, many old and rare, especially from/about countries and lands in Africa. It’s not packed with serpentine towers of books facing you at every step, like bookstores in Mumbai or Delhi, but has broad walkways and much mulling space between bookcases. There’s a little room off the main one, with a lovely old table and nicer bookshelves with some of the more precious finds. But the best part is stepping out of the large french doors onto the balcony that encircles the store. There, there’s ample room for a sofa, chairs, table – calling out for marrying the cocktail hour with a good sunset, conversation or perhaps that simplest of pleasures – reading a good book. Very civilized.

Ike’s is now owned by Vishnu Padayachee, professor and head of the school of development studies at the University of Kwazulu-Natal, influencer of South African national finance, and all around rennaissance man, with an ability to combine social analysis with a subject even dryer … cricket. He and his co-owner bought the bookstore from Ike when he was forced to sell it. In this way, they’ve done a national service, and given us a place for a party.

We all shared a drink on the balcony the first time I was in Durban, and indeed considered the option, even then, of hosting our reception at Ike’s. I was elated then – and am elated now – at the prospect.

More on Ike

The yellow and blue monstrosity is what was used during apartheid to terrorize protesters into submission (which, as we know, didn’t happen).

This particular photograph was taken a few days ago in Durban. As the class worrier notes, it’s an old school struggle – land, services, rights. The response from the government, also old school – terrorize the marchers into submission (which, as we know, didn’t happen).

(Thanks to the class worrier for the photograph and updates)

(from 1998, M&G, the seemingly innocuous start, 2005 Daily News on the protest (just some headlines); Tracking with the class worrier: March 2005, April 2005).